On the dangers of making camp in a disorganized fashion –
An unexpected relief – The sorry situation of the gentry –
A visit from the friar foretells salvation –
Major Plut draws a storm upon himself from excessive flirtatiousness –
A pistol shot gives the signal for battle –
Sprinkler’s exploits, Maciek’s exploits and perils –
Watering Can saves Soplicowo by a stratagem –
Cavalry reinforcements, attack on the infantry – Tadeusz’s exploits –
Duel between the commanders, cut short by treachery –
The Warden tips the scales of the fight by a decisive maneuver –
Gerwazy’s bloody exploits –
The Chamberlain a magnanimous victor
They snored so soundly that they didn’t stir
When dozens bearing lanterns entered there
And fell on them, like spiders of the type
Called “harvestmen” on flies sunk deep in sleep.
One buzzes, and at once a stern foe hooks him
With all its multitude of legs, and chokes him.
The gentry slept more torpidly than flies;
No one buzzed; lifeless, they failed to rise
Though powerful hands had grabbed each of the men
And tied them round the waist like sheaves of grain.
Watering Can alone (for miles around
A stronger head for drink could not be found—
The man would quaff two casks of honey-mead
Before he slurred his speech or got weak-kneed)—
Though he’d dined long, and slumbered heavily,
Still gave a sign of life. Opening one eye
He discerned—ghosts!: two monstrous visages,
Each with a mustache, looming over his.
They puffed; their mustache hairs tickled him lightly
While their four arms like wings wrapped round him tightly.
Wanting to cross himself in fear, he tried
But his right arm seemed pinned against his side.
His left—the same! The ghosts, he saw appalled,
Had bound him closely as a swaddling child.
He snapped his eye shut, even more afraid,
And lay there—breathless—motionless—half dead!
Sprinkler, though, wanted to fight back. Too late!
His own sash held him, looped round and pulled tight.
He jerked and twisted with such vigorousness
That he fell on those asleep, and rolled across
Their chests and heads like a fish tossed on the shore,
His strong lungs issuing a bearlike roar:
“We’ve been betrayed!” The others, woken, bayed
In single-voiced response: “Help! We’re betrayed!”
This cry rolled down the Mirror Room and crept
To where Gerwazy, Count, and jockeys slept.
Gerwazy woke, and tried to move—no use.
Bound hand and foot to his own sword, he was.
Across the room were fellows bearing arms,
In low black helmets and green uniforms.
One, in an officer’s sash, pointed his sword,
Ordering his henchmen with a whispered word:
“Tie them all, now!”
The jockeys lay around
Roped up like sheep. The Count sat there, not bound,
But swordless, watched at bayonet-point by a pair
Of men. Gerwazy realized who they were:
Russians!
The Steward often had been roped
In such a manner; yet always he’d escaped.
He knew a special way to break a knot;
He trusted in himself; his strength was great.
Closing his eyes, he mimicked slumber; then,
Arms and legs extended, chest sucked in,
He made his body thin as possible.
All at once he tensed, made himself full,
Turning from long and thin to short and thick—
It looked like the contractions of a snake.
The cords went taut, and creaked—but did not snap!
The Steward, in shame and fear, turned round, curled up
And, hiding his angry face deep as he could,
Lay there, eyes closed, numb as a block of wood.
Suddenly drum rolls came—first here and there,
Then ever louder, denser in the air.
At this the officer had the Count and all
His jockeys, under guard, locked in the hall;
The rest were led outside—a second platoon
Stood there. In vain did Sprinkler flail and frown.
The staff, and many gentry, armed, stood there.
Podhajskis, Birbaszes, Hreczechas all were here,
And Biergels—the Judge’s kith and kin they were.
They’d come to help—the more because these men
Had long clashed, too, with the Dobrzyński clan.
But who had summoned the Russian garrison?
Who’d managed to round the neighbors up so soon?
Jankiel? Or the Assessor? Guesses flew
But, then or later, no one really knew.
The blood-red sun now rose, its border dull,
Stripped of its rays, it seemed. Half visible,
Half hidden behind black clouds, it had the air
Of a red-hot horseshoe in a blacksmith’s fire.
The wind swelled, bringing clouds out of the east
As ragged and dense as icebergs. As they passed
They strewed cold raindrops; then, behind the rain
The wind blew in to dry the land again.
Another raincloud followed; in this way
Wetness and chill were interspersed all day.
Meanwhile, the Major had his men go fetch
The piled-up planks. With axes now, in each
They chopped a half-moon hole, through which they passed
The prisoners’ legs; below, they were held fast
By a second plank that they attached beneath.
The wood clamped on their legs like canine teeth.
Their hands were tied behind their backs as well
And, so as to further worsen their ordeal,
The Major removed their caps, stripped żupans, cloaks,
Kontuszes, taratatkas off their backs
And left them in the stocks, all in a row,
Teeth chattering in the cold and wet—since now
Increasingly the rain was lashing down.
Wholly in vain did Sprinkler flail and frown.
To no avail the Judge adjoined his prayers
To Telimena’s pleas and Zosia’s tears
To treat the prisoners with more compassion.
True, Captain Nikita Rykov—though a Russian,
A decent fellow—softened; but so what,
He still must needs defer to Major Plut!
This Major was a Pole by birth who came
From Dzierowicze (Płutowicz his name),
But who had Russified—a thorough cur
Like most converted Poles who served the Tsar.
Plut stood outside, pipe glowing, hand on hip.
When someone bowed to him, he curled his lip;
Addressed, to show his anger he replied
With billows of smoke, then strutted back inside.
The Judge now spoke with Rykov calmingly,
And he and the Assessor sought a way
To settle things outside the law’s remit
And—more—keep the authorities out of it.
So Captain Rykov said to Major Plut:
“Sir! Why keep all these prisoners we’ve got?
So they can all be tried? They’ll suffer greatly,
While you, sir, will not benefit even slightly.
You know, we ought to simply work things out.
The Judge will make it worth your while, no doubt.
We’ll say we merely came to call—that way
Wolf fed, and goats saved, as the Russians say.
They say: All’s possible, if done with care.
And too: Roast your own meat at the Tsar’s fire.
Harmony’s better than disharmony.
Tie the knot well, and wet each end, they say.
Who’ll know, if nobody reports this mission?
God gave us hands for taking, says the Russian.”
At this the Major rose, nostrils a-flare.
“Have you gone mad? Our duty’s to the Tsar,
And duty’s duty, Rykov, you dunderhead.
Let prisoners go? In wartime? Are you mad?
Never! I’ll teach these Polaks to rebel—
This gentry scum! I know you all too well,
Dobrzyńskis! Let them soak, their whole damn squad.”
(Eyeing them through the window, he guffawed.)
“That one who’s in an overcoat—Hey there,
Take off his coat!—at the masked ball last year
He crossed me. He began it, with a shout
As I was dancing—‘Throw that swindler out!’
I’d been accused of misappropriating
Regiment funds—it was humiliating.
He didn’t care, though—as I dance, he’s jeering
‘Thief!’ right behind me, with the gentry cheering.
They did me wrong, that lot. But now who’s sneering?
‘The shoe’ll be on the other foot one day,’
I said. And see, Dobrzyński—now you’ll pay!”
Then he whispered in the Judge’s ear:
“If you want this affair to disappear,
A thousand roubles cash per head will do it—
Though not a penny less—and welcome to it.”
The Judge tried haggling with him, but no luck—
The Major paced the room, puffing out smoke
The way that fireworks do before they burn.
The women followed, pleading and crying in turn.
“Major, if you arrest them, what’s the good?
The Judge cajoled. “There’s been no loss of blood,
No wounds, no battle. They ate my hens and geese
So the law says that they’ll pay damages.
As far as the Count’s concerned, I’ll not bring suit—
All this was just a neighborly dispute.”
“D’you know the Yellow Book?” the Major said.
“What yellow book is that?” the Judge replied.
“One better than your lawbooks,” answered Plut.
“All it contains is: noose; Siberia; knout.
The book of martial law—that’s now imposed
In Lithuania; your courts won’t be used.
By army law, mischief of such a cast
Will mean Siberian labor, at the least.”
The Judge said: “I’ll appeal to the governor.”
Said Plut: “Make it the Tsar for all I care.
See, when the Tsar endorses a ukase
He often has the sentence levied twice.
Appeal, dear Judge; and maybe if you do
I’ll find something to use against you too.
Jankiel, a spy we’ve long been looking at—
He visits you, he keeps your inn. For that
I could arrest you all, right now, right here.”
“Arrest me?” said the Judge. “How dare you, sir?
Without an order?” Words intensified
Until new visitors pulled up outside.
It was a strange, massed coming. In the lead,
Page-like, there was a huge black ram whose head
Bore four horns—one set curling round each ear
Like hoops, and hung with bells, the other pair
Protruding from its forehead and adorned
With brass balls tinkling as it walked. Behind
There followed oxen, goats, sheep in a flock,
And, last, four wagons loaded chock-a-block.
It was the monk arriving, so they guessed.
The Judge, knowing his duties as a host,
Stood at the door to greet him. Robak rode
In front, his face half-hidden in his hood.
They knew him, though—as he drove past he turned
And signaled to the captives with his hand.
The second driver they could recognize
As well—Maciej the Twig, in peasant guise.
The gentry gave a shout on seeing him.
Maciej said: “Fools!” and waved to silence them.
The Prussian came third, his jacket worn and bare;
Mickiewicz and Mr. Zan brought up the rear.
Meanwhile the Podhajskis, Isajewiczes,
Birbaszes, Wilbiks, Biergels, and Kotwiczes
Saw the Dobrzyńskis under close arrest
And found that their anger slowly evanesced—
For Polish gentry, terribly conflictive
And scrappy as they are, are not vindictive.
They ran to ask old Maciej for advice.
He brought them round the wagons in one place
And had them wait.
The monk then went inside.
Though dressed the same, he was transmogrified—
They barely knew him. Normally so serious
And gloomy, now he almost seemed delirious—
Face shining like a jolly friar, head high,
Before he spoke he laughed and laughed:
“Oh my!
Ha ha! Oh, excellent—first rate, I say!
Major, Captain—others hunt by day,
But you by night. The take was good, I see!
These gentry—pluck ’em, skin ’em ruthlessly!
Put bridles on ’em—they’re a vicious crew.
Major, you bagged the Count—kudos to you!
Fat little rich boy—make that aristo
Pay you three hundred ducats to let him go!
And give my priory three groszes too,
Through me—I always say a prayer for you.
As priest, I think a lot about your soul!
Death, when it comes, takes officers as well.
Baka was right to say death strikes its blow
At high and low—the priest is not released,
Cassock, nor hood, nor uniform is spared;
By earl, and churl, and laird, death’s bounty’s shared.
Yes, death is like a mother, he avers;
Like onions being sliced, she’ll bring you tears.
Child drowsing, youth carousing—all are hers.
Major! Today we live, tomorrow we rot.
Our daily food and drink is all we’ve got!
It’s time for breakfast, Judge, it seems to me.
Please join me, won’t you—all the company.
Major, some chops? Lieutenant, what would you say
If a nice bowl of punch should come our way?”
“Father, you’re right,” the two men said. “Let’s sit
And drink to the Judge’s welfare while we eat!”
The manor’s residents could make no sense
Of Robak’s smiles and strange exuberance.
The Judge gave orders to the kitchen; soon
Punchbowl and sugar, bottles and chops came in.
Rykov and Plut each went to work so greedily—
Devouring food, washing it down so needily—
That twenty-three chops were gone in half an hour
And the huge bowl of punch was now half lower.
Plut, sprawling in his chair, well-fed and blithe,
Lit his pipe with a banknote, wiped his mouth
With a corner of his napkin, and, eyes glued
On the womenfolk: “My beauties!” he avowed,
“I’m partial to you as to dessert, by God!
I swear by my major’s epaulettes it’s true:
After some chops the best thing one can do
Is talk with ladies beautiful as you!
“How ’bout we play some cards! Half-twelve? Or whist?
Or dance a few mazurkas! Dammit, we must—
In all my Jaeger regiment I’m the best!”
He neared the ladies, bowing as he spoke,
Scattering, now compliments, now smoke.
“A dance!” said the monk. “After a glass or two
I sometimes hoist my tunic, priest or no,
For a mazurka! Yet we’re here, at ease
And drinking, while outside your jaegers freeze.
Judge, give a cask of vodka for those men.
Major, let your good soldiers join the fun!”
“Fine,” said the Major, “Just as you prefer.”
“Judge, make it rectified spirit,” breathed the friar.
So, while the officers drank merrily,
Outside as well the men went on a spree.
Rykov was silent as he drank his share.
Plut, though, paid suit to all the ladies there;
His urge to dance was growing uncontained.
He dropped his pipe, grabbed Telimena’s hand.
She pulled away; with reeling deference
He spun around, asked Zosia for a dance.
“Rykov!” he shouted. “Put that pipe away!
You play the balalaika well. So play—
A mazurka!—see, right here there’s a guitar.
I’m Major: I’ll be in the leading pair.”
Rykov checked that the instrument was in tune,
While Plut asked Telimena once again.
“My word as Major, miss—if it’s not true
Then I’m no Russian; if I’m lying to you
Then I’m a bastard! Any officer
Will tell you—any army man will swear—
In the 2nd Army, 9th Corps, 2nd Foot
Division, 50th Jaegers—Major Plut
Is the best mazurka dancer! Come now, miss!
That’s enough of all this skittishness!
Or you’ll be facing army punishment…”
He snatched her hand once more, managed to plant
On her white shoulder a loud juicy kiss—
And then Tadeusz slapped him in the face.
Slap and kiss resounded close together
Like words in sequence, one after the other.
Dumbstruck, and pale, and thoroughly enraged,
Plut yelled: “Revolt!,” unsheathed his sword, and charged.
But Robak pulled a pistol from his sleeve.
“Shoot, young Tadeusz!” he exclaimed. “Be brave!”
Tadeusz grabbed the gun, took aim, and shot.
He missed, but Plut was deafened and black with soot.
Rykov seized the guitar. “Revolt!” he cried.
He ran at Tadeusz; but from the other side
The Warden swung his arm; his dagger swished
Between the heads, and hit before it flashed.
It smashed right through the base of the guitar.
Rykov dodged, and so lived; but, filled with fear,
He shouted: “Jaegers! It’s revolt!” He swore,
Drew his sword, and fought towards the door.
Yet now massed gentry swarmed into the room
Through the windows, armed with swords, Twig leading them.
In the doorway Plut and Rykov called their men.
The closest three of them came at a run.
Three gleaming bayonets, accompanied
By three lowered black helmets, marched inside.
Maciej lurked by the entranceway, Twig raised,
Like a cat that’s hunting rats, alert and poised.
The old man slashed; three heads might have gone down,
But, whether he couldn’t see, or struck too soon,
Their helmets, not their necks, were hit, and fell.
Twig clanged against each bayonet like a bell,
And Maciej drove the Russians from the house.
Outside, things were still more tumultuous.
Soplica allies were vying zealously
To smash the stocks and set the Dobrzyńskis free.
Soldiers ran up; their sergeant, seeing what’s what,
Jabbed at Podhajski with his bayonet,
Wounded two more, shot at one, by the stock
Where Sprinkler sat; the gentry now pulled back.
Sprinkler had freed his hands and meant to fight.
He stood, he made a fist; with all his might
He swung it downward on the sergeant’s back.
The man’s face crashed against his musket lock.
The gun clicked, but misfired, its powder wet
With blood. The sergeant collapsed at Sprinkler’s feet.
Snatching the musket by its barrel, the latter,
As if the thing were filled with holy water,
Whirled it about. At once two privates fell;
He whacked a corporal on the head as well.
The rest, alarmed to see this spinning roof
Hoisted above the gentry’s heads, backed off.
The stocks were smashed, the ropes cut; liberated,
The gentry rushed to where the wagons waited
And took out rapier, broadsword, ax, scythe, gun.
Two blunderbusses were found by Watering Can,
With shot. He loaded both of them together,
Took one himself, and handed Simp the other.
More soldiers joined the fray; they were so close
The gentry couldn’t swing their swords across,
The soldiers couldn’t shoot; and so they fought
Close up, steel ringing—gave as good as they got.
Bayonet on saber, scythe on sword-hilt hissed
And snapped; shoulder struck shoulder, fist met fist.
Rykov, though, with a group of soldiers ran
To the fences by the barn; he told his men
To quit the mêlée—since guns could not be used
They’d be brought down with fists. Rykov, displeased
That he too couldn’t shoot—in the confusion
Nobody could distinguish Pole from Russian—
Called “Stroysya!” (which is how they say “Fall in!”),
But no one heard the order in the din.
Maciej, too old for fighting hand to hand,
Stepped back, en route clearing the battleground
On both sides. Here, with his saber tip he clipped
A bayonet, as a candlewick is snipped.
There, he cut and thrust with all his might,
And thus withdrew alertly from the fight.
An old gefreiter, though—a bayonet ace
Who trained recruits—came at him pace for pace.
The Russian braced himself; he gripped his gun,
His right hand on the lock, the other one
Clutching the barrel. He pivoted about,
Now squatting down, now rising like a shot.
His left arm dropped; the right one jabbed his weapon
Like a serpent’s fangs seen when its mouth is open,
Then pulled it back and propped it on his knee.
Thus he advanced on Maciej steadily.
Old Maciej gauged his rival’s expertise.
His left hand slipped his glasses on his nose;
His sword was at his chest, gripped in the right.
Retiring, he kept the Russian in his sight.
Maciej now staggered as if drunkenly.
His foe ran forward, sure of victory.
To better strike at the retreating man
He rose full height as he jabbed out his gun.
The forceful movement, and the weapon’s weight,
Caused him to lean forward quite a bit.
With sword-hilt, Maciej hooked the musket where
Bayonet met barrel, flipped it in the air,
Slashed the man’s arm with a great downward slice
Then, swinging back up, he cut across his face.
The best close fighter of the Russian forces
Fell thus, with his four medals and three crosses.
Meanwhile the gentry’s left wing by the stocks
Was close to winning. Sprinkler doled out knocks
Where all could see him. Razor too fought there;
One slashed at bellies, one smashed heads. The pair,
Like the device contrived in Germany—
Threshing machine it’s called, though equally
It cuts the chaff, having both blade and flail
So that it threshes, winnows, cuts as well—
Worked side by side in harassing the foe,
Sprinkler from above, Razor below.
But Sprinkler left a certain win, and zoomed
To the right wing, where a new danger loomed
For Maciej—in vengeance for the man he’d slain
An ensign charged, bearing a long spontoon
(A kind of spear-cum-ax from times bygone,
Found only in the navy presently
But still in use then by the infantry).
Each time the youthful ensign’s deft attack
Was parried by his rival, he’d fall back.
Old Maciej, finding that he was too slow,
Covered himself but could not wound his foe.
The ensign had already made him bleed;
Now the spontoon rose over Maciej’s head.
Sprinkler, too far to make it, stopped half way
And hurled his cudgel at the ensign’s thigh.
Bone crunched; the ensign dropped his poleax, reeled;
Sprinkler and the massed gentry took the field.
The Russians from the left charged in a mob;
A roiling battle formed round Sprinkler’s club.
From saving Maciej, Sprinkler was unarmed.
It nearly cost his life, for he was stormed
By two big brawny Muscovites; the pair
With four strong sets of fingers grabbed his hair.
Heels dug in hard, they hauled like sailors tugging
At the resilient cordage of the rigging.
Sprinkler in vain lashed blindly out behind;
He tottered—then saw Gerwazy, sword in hand,
Close by him. “Jackknife! Lord above!” he roared.
The Steward heard his distress; hoisting his sword,
He turned around and sliced its slim steel blade
Between the Russians’ hands and Sprinkler’s head.
They backed away with ghastly cries; one hand,
However, tangled in the hair, remained,
Dangling and spouting blood. In just this way
A hawk, one talon fastened in its prey—
A hare—will latch the other to a tree;
The hare, though, in its struggle to be free,
Will rip the bird apart; one claw will stay
In the bark; the bloodied other’s borne away.
Freed, Sprinkler sought his club—stretched out his hand,
Called for it as he cast his eyes around,
Swinging his fists meanwhile, feet planted wide,
Prudently sticking by Gerwazy’s side.
Then, in the middle of the fray he spied
His son, Simp, right hand leveling his gun
And dragging behind him with the other one
A massive six-foot length of wood, engrafted
With flints and knobs (Sprinkler alone could lift it).
Seeing his precious club, he was so glad
He grabbed it, kissed it, swung it overhead
And right away he colored it with blood.
What he did then, what triumphs he achieved,
The muse can’t sing—she wouldn’t be believed,
Like the pauper woman on Ostra Brama’s tower
In Vilna, seeing the Russan brigadier
Deyov lead in his Cossack regiments
And open up the Gate, when all at once
One Czarnobacki, a lone citizen,
Killed Deyov, and drove the Cossacks from the town.
Anyway, it was as Rykov had foreseen:
Fighting so close, his soldiers could not win.
Twenty-three dead were strewn across the ground;
Thirty-odd wounded men lay there and moaned.
Many had fled in this or that direction;
Some sought the house and the womenfolk’s protection.
The gentry, uttering whoops of victory,
Went drinking, or despoiled their enemy.
Robak alone took no part in their glee.
He himself hadn’t fought (monks never can)
But, knowing certain things, he’d coached the men,
Advising, moving about, with voice or hand
Encouraging, or giving a command;
Now he was calling for the group en masse
To strike at Rykov, clinching their success.
Meanwhile, by messenger he sent a word
To Rykov: if he surrendered he’d be spared,
Whereas, if they so much as hesitated,
He’d have them surrounded and annihilated.
Rykov, though, asked no quarter. Making a stand
With half his men, he shouted the command:
“To arms!” Guns clattered all along the line,
Loaded already, waiting for the sign.
“Aim!”—All the barrels glinted, gun by gun.
“Fire singly!” Each gun thundered, one by one.
One gun was being fired, one aimed, one loaded;
Bullets were whizzing, locks clicked, ramrods thudded.
The line looked like a thousand-legged beast
Whose limbs all moved at once, and never ceased.
The men were worse than tipsy, it was true.
Their aim was poor; they wounded but a few,
Killed fewer—although two Maciejs had been harmed,
And one of the Barteks fell. The gentry, armed
With a few harquebuses, rarely fired back.
They wanted to take their swords to the attack.
Their elders stayed them though—the bullets whirred,
Dispersing danger; soon they’d clear the yard.
Even the manor’s windows had been hit.
The Judge had told Tadeusz to stay put
And mind the ladies; yet, hearing the din,
He ran out, followed by the Chamberlain,
Whom Tomasz had brought his saber in the end.
The Chamberlain hurried over, took command
And charged, sword raised; the gentry followed suit.
The Russians let them, then began to shoot.
Isajewicz, Wilbik fell; Razor was struck.
Old Maciej and the friar flanked the pack.
The gentry paused, then started to withdraw;
Zeal cooling, they glanced about. The Russians saw.
Rykov imagined one last strike—a stunner
To drive the gentry off, and take the manor.
“Fix bayonets!” he called. “Attack formation!
Forward!” Heads down, guns bristling in profusion,
The line moved, its momentum gathering.
In vain the gentry stopped, fired from each wing—
The line crossed half the courtyard undefied.
Sword pointing at the house door, Rykov cried:
“Give in, Judge! Or I’ll have your manor burned!”
“Do, and you’ll fry as well!” the Judge returned.
O Soplicowo Manor! If even now
Your white walls gleam beneath a linden bough;
If the surrounding gentry still are able
To gather round the Judge’s genial table,
No doubt they often drink to Watering Can—
If not for him, the place would long be gone!
He’d shown few signs of courage up till now.
Though the first rescued from the stocks, and though
He’d quickly found his cherished blunderbuss,
With shot, inside the cart, nevertheless
He wouldn’t fight—to trust himself, he’d say,
He needed sustenance. He made his way
Toward the vat of spirit, cupped his palm
And drank; once he was fortified and warm
He straightened his cap, picked up his Watering Can,
Rammed home a cartridge, swiftly primed the pan,
And eyed the battleground. He saw a flow
Of bayonets driving the gentry to and fro.
He dived beneath this wave, and dodged and veered
Through the tall grass in the middle of the yard
To the nettle patch; here he took up position
And waved to Simp to join him in his mission.
Simp stood by the doorway with his gun
For his beloved Zosia was within.
She’d spurned him, true, but Simp still loved her madly
And, to protect her, he’d have perished gladly.
The Russians reached the nettles—and right then
Watering Can fired. The muzzle of his gun
Spat out a dozen balls; Simp loosed twelve more,
Bringing confusion to the Russian corps.
Stunned by this trap, their line collapsed; confounded,
They pulled back. Sprinkler finished off the wounded.
The barn was far; fearing a long retreat,
Rykov ran to the fence, planted his feet
And stopped the soldiers in their disarray.
He formed them once again, but differently:
He made a triangle, sharp end at the head,
Sides propped against the fence. Good thing he did:
Down from the castle cavalry now sped.
The Russians had had the Count there under guard.
When they ran off, he mounted up his men
And led them toward the gunfire sounding then,
Sword raised above his head. As they drew near,
Suddenly Rykov cried: “Platoon one, fire!”
A fiery streak went skipping from lock to lock:
Three hundred balls sped from the barrels’ black.
Three men were hurt; one died. The Count’s horse fell;
He tumbled off. The Steward with a yell
Ran forward, seeing the Russians’ sights applied
To the last Horeszko (though on the distaff side).
Robak was closer; he pulled the young Count out.
But, leading him to safety, he was shot.
He ordered the gentry to spread out, not fritter
What bullets they still had—to take aim better,
Find wall or fence or well to shelter them.
The Count and his men he told to bide their time.
Grasping the monk’s intentions to the full,
Tadeusz stood, screened by the wooden well
And, being sober and an expert shot
(He’d hit a tossed-up penny just like that)
He caused great grief. He aimed at senior men—
With his first shot he killed a sergeant, then
Two more, one with each barrel. He drew a bead
On shoulder straps, or on the men who led
Inside the triangle. Rykov fumed and roared,
Stomped his feet, bit the handgrip of his sword.
“Major!” he called. “What now? If this goes on
Soon our entire command will all be gone!”
So Plut called to Tadeusz furiously:
“You should be ashamed to hide behind a tree,
Young man! Come out, fight like a gentleman,
A soldier.” Tadeusz shouted back: “Explain,
Major, if you are such a fearless knight
Why hide behind your soldiers out of sight?
Let’s leave the yard—I’m not afraid of you.
I slapped your face, I’ll gladly fight you too!
Why so much bloodshed? This is our dispute,
Us two; let sword or pistol sort it out.
Choose your arms: from howitzer to pin.
Or else be killed like wolves inside their den.”
With this he loosed a shot, and aimed so well
That the lieutenant next to Rykov fell.
“Major,” said Rykov softly, “go and fight.
Avenge his insult to you—put it right.
If someone else should kill the man, your name—
You follow, sir—will always bear the shame.
That fellow there, he needs to be lured out
And stopped—with sword if not with rifle shot.
‘Bullets for pullets—only steel is real,’
Suvorov used to say. Sir, fight the duel,
Or we’ll all die—see, he’s taking aim again!”
“Dear Rykov,” responded Plut, “since you’re so keen
On swordsmanship, you fight the duel, my friend.
Or let’s find a lieutenant we can send.
After all, I’m commanding officer,
I can’t desert my men—that much is clear.”
So Rykov stepped boldly out with the command
“Cease fire!,” sword raised, and white kerchief in hand.
He asked Tadeusz which weapon he preferred.
After some talk, they settled on the sword.
Yet before a sword for Tadeusz could be brought
The Count came, armed, and the duel came to nought.
“Mr. Soplica! With respect,” he called,
“You challenged the Major, whereas I’ve long held
A grudge against the Captain, who invaded
My castle” (“Say, ‘our castle,’” the Steward persuaded).
“Him and his band of thieves—I knew the man—
They tied my jockeys up,” the Count went on.
“I’ll punish him as I did the banditry
At Rocca Birbante, down in Sicily.”
The shooting stopped, a silence fell. Each side
Watched curiously as their commanders vied.
The Count and Rykov stood there sideways on,
Right hand and eye defying the other man.
Each with his left hand quickly doffed his hat
And bowed politely (an act of honor, that—
Before the killing had to come the greeting).
The swords already crashed and clashed in meeting;
The knights, foot raised and right knee bent, were dancing
Back and forth, now retreating, now advancing.
But Plut, seeing Tadeusz out in front,
Was speaking softly with Gefreiter Gont,
Considered the regiment’s best shot of all.
“Gont,” said the Major, “if you can put a ball
Beneath the fifth rib of that villain there,
Four silver rubles will be yours, you hear?”
Gont cocked his gun and gripped the lock, concealed
Behind the cloaks his loyal comrades held.
He fired not at the heart but at the head,
And hit—but got Tadeusz’s hat instead.
Tadeusz spun around; now Sprinkler struck
At Rykov; the gentry, yelling: “It’s a trick!,”
Attacked. Tadeusz screened Rykov, who then ran
And, barely making it, rejoined his men.
Once more Dobrzyńskis and Lithuanians warred;
Now though, despite their former disaccord,
They fought like brothers, spurring one another.
Seeing Podhajski working up a lather,
His long scythe slashing through the Russian lines,
Dobrzyńskis cried: “Go, Lithuanians!”
“Long live our brothers the Podhajskis!” sounded.
And the Skołubas, seeing brave Razor wounded
Yet brandishing his sword, were heard to call:
“Up with the Maciejs, long live every Pole!”
Cheering each other, they charged the enemy.
Robak and Maciej checked them—fruitlessly.
When this full-on attack began, the Warden
Moved from the battleground into the garden.
Cautious Protazy followed, listening intently
To the commands the Warden murmured faintly.
There in the garden, very near the fence
Where Rykov’s wedge now faced the Poles’ advance,
A large old cheese shed stood; its open walls
Were made of beams lashed lattice-wise, like grilles.
Inside gleamed numerous white rounds of cheese,
While outside, sprigs of herbs dried in the breeze.
Sage, holy thistle, thyme—right here, you see,
The Warden’s wife had her home pharmacy.
Up top, the shed was six yards wide in all;
It rested on a single thick oak pole
Like a stork’s nest. The pole was half decayed
Because of which it slanted to one side,
Threatening collapse. The Judge’s friends declared
That he should pull it down, but he preferred,
He said, repair or renovation
In cases such as these, to demolition—
And put the job off till another time;
He had two props built in the interim.
Thus braced, but rickety, the cheese shed leaned
Right by the fence where Rykov made his stand.
Warden and Bailiff crept toward the shed,
Each armed with an enormous spearlike rod.
Through the tall flax the cook followed along,
The cook’s boy too—diminutive but strong.
They hooked the rods in the pillar’s rotten top,
Braced themselves, and with all their might pushed up
Like raftsmen stuck on shallows in their craft
Pushing against the bank to free the raft.
The pole snapped; the shed swayed; cheeses and wood
Came crashing on the Russians where they stood.
Soldiers were hurt, crushed, killed; where ranks had been,
Wood, bodies, snow-white cheeses now lay strewn,
Spattered with blood and brains. The triangle shattered;
The Sprinkler raged there now, the Razor glittered,
The Twig lashed; the massed gentry stormed ahead.
The Count sent horsemen after those who fled.
Only eight soldiers still were in the fight,
Led by a sergeant. The Steward came in sight;
Nine barrels boldly aimed right at his head.
The Steward charged them, whirling Jackknife’s blade.
Seeing this, Robak ran up too, outstripped him
And tumbling over by Gerwazy, tripped him.
Both men went down just as the Russians fired.
The volley crashed; at once Gerwazy stirred,
Jumped in the smoke, and smashed two soldiers’ heads.
They ran; aching to rip them both to shreds,
The Steward chased them both across the yard.
They slipped into the barn; pursuing hard,
Gerwazy followed. Inside there was no light
And yet, unseen, the Steward kept up the fight:
Blows thick and fast were heard; a scream; a groan;
Then silence, and the Steward emerged alone,
Sword dripping blood.
The gentry had the field;
They chased the fleeing jaegers, hacked, impaled.
Rykov, alone now, shouted he’d fight on,
He’d not surrender. But the Chamberlain,
Sword raised, approached and solemnly explained:
“Captain! Your honor, sir, will not be stained
By clemency. Manful yet luckless knight,
You’ve shown your courage. Cease the useless fight,
Lay down your sword before we make you, sir;
You’ve life and honor. You are my prisoner!”
Such dignity left Rykov overpowered.
He bowed, and yielded up his unsheathed sword
Blood-spattered to the hilt. “Ah, if I’d had
One single cannon, brother Poles,” he said.
“Suvorov was right: ‘Friend Rykov, never plan on
A fight against the Poles without your cannon!’
Our men were tipsy—the Major let them drink!
The Major went too far today, I think!
He’ll answer to the Tsar—he had command.
As for me, Chamberlain, I’ll be your friend.
Yes indeed! As the Russian saying goes:
The more you’re friends, the more you’ll come to blows.
Good boozers make good bruisers. One thing though—
Please stop mistreating all my soldiers so.”
At this the Chamberlain, sword held high, declared
Via the Bailiff: all were to be spared.
Wounds were then dressed, bodies were borne away,
The men, disarmed, placed in captivity.
Plut was long sought. In a nettle patch he’d lain
Like a dead man; he only emerged again
When he could see the conflict was expended.