Part 5 (1/2)

His letters were now full of contempt for the French. 'They run away like hares in every battle,' he wrote to Magda, and he wrote the truth. But the siege did not prove to his taste. He had to dig or to lie in the trenches round Paris for whole days, listening to the roar of the guns, and often getting soaked through. Besides, he missed his old regiment. In the one to which he had been transferred as a volunteer, he was surrounded by Germans. He knew some German, having already learnt a little at the factory, but only about five in ten words; now he quickly began to grow familiar with it. The regiment nicknamed him 'the Polish dog,' however, and it was only his decorations and his terrifying fists which s.h.i.+elded him from disagreeable jokes. Nevertheless, he earned the respect of his new comrades, and began little by little to make friends with them. Since he covered the whole regiment with glory, they ultimately came to look upon him as one of themselves. Bartek would always have considered himself insulted if anyone called him German, but in thinking of himself in distinction to the French he called himself 'ein Deutscher.' To himself he appeared entirely distinct, but at the same time he did not wish to pa.s.s for worse than others. An incident occurred, nevertheless, which might have given him plenty to reflect upon, had reflection come more easily to this hero's mind. Some Companies of his regiment had been sent out against some volunteer sharpshooters, and laid an ambush for them, into which they fell. But the detachment was composed of veteran soldiers, the remains of some of the foreign regiments, and this time Bartek did not see the dark caps running away after the first shots. They defended themselves stubbornly when surrounded, and rushed forward to force their way through the encircling Prussian soldiery. They fought so desperately that half of them cut their way through, and knowing the fate that awaited captured sharpshooters, few allowed themselves to be taken alive. The Company in which Bartek was serving therefore only took two prisoners. These were lodged overnight in a forester's house, and the next day they were to be shot. A small guard of soldiers stood outside the door, but Bartek was stationed in the room under the open window with the prisoners, who were bound.

One of the prisoners was a man no longer young, with a grey moustache, and a face expressing indifference to everything; the other appeared to be about twenty-two years of age. With his fair moustache yet scarcely showing, his face was more like a woman's that a soldier's.

'Well, this is the end of it,' the young man said after a while, 'a bullet through your head--and it's all over!'

Bartek shuddered until the rifle in his hand rattled; the youth talked Polish.

'It is all the same to me,' the second answered in a gruff voice, 'as I live, all the same! I have lived so long, I have had enough.'

Bartek's heart beat quicker and quicker under his uniform.

'Listen, then,' the older man continued, 'there is no help for it. If you are afraid, think about something else, or go to sleep. Enjoy what you can. As G.o.d loves me, I don't care!'

'My mother will grieve for me,' the youth replied low; and, evidently wis.h.i.+ng to suppress his emotion, or else to deceive himself, he began to whistle. He suddenly interrupted this, and cried in a voice of deep despair, 'I did not even say good-bye!'

'Then did you run away from home?'

'Yes. I thought the Germans would be beaten, so there would be better things coming for Poland.'

'And I thought the same. But now--'

Waving his hand, the old man finished speaking in a low voice, and his last words were overpowered by the roar of the wind. The night was dark. Clouds of fine rain swept past from time to time; the wood close by was black as a pall. The gale whistled round the corners of the room, and howled in the chimney like a dog. The lamp, placed high above the window to prevent the wind from extinguis.h.i.+ng it, threw a flood of bright light into the room. But Bartek, who was standing close to it under the window, was plunged in darkness.

And it was perhaps better the prisoners should not see his face, for strange things were taking place in this peasant's mind. At first he had been filled with astonishment, and had stared hard at the prisoners, trying to understand what they were saying. So these men had set out to beat the Germans to benefit Poland, and he had beaten the French, in order that Poland might benefit! And to-morrow these two men would be shot! How was that? What was a poor fellow to think about it? But if only he could hint it to them, if only he could tell them that he was their man, that he pitied them! He felt a sudden catch in his throat. What could he do for them? Could he rescue them?

Then _he_ would be shot! Good G.o.d! what was happening to him? He was so overcome by pity that he could not remain in the room.

A strange intense longing suddenly came upon him till he seemed somewhere far off at Pognebin. Pity, hitherto an unknown guest in his soldier's heart, cried to him from the depth of his soul: 'Bartek, save them, they are your brothers!' and his heart, torn as never before, cried out for home, for Magda, for Pognebin. He had had enough of the French, enough of this war, and of battles! The voice sounded clearer and clearer: 'Bartek, save them!' Confound this war!

The woods showed dark through the open window, moaning like the Pognebin pines, and even in that moan something called out, 'Bartek, save them!'

What could he do? Should he escape to the wood with them, or what? All his Prussian discipline recoiled in aversion at the thought. In the Name of the Father and the Son! He need but cross himself at it!

He,--a soldier, and desert? Never!

All the while the wood was moaning more loudly, the wind whistling more mournfully.

The elder prisoner suddenly whispered, 'That wind--like the Spring at home.'

'Leave me in peace!' the young man said in a Pognebin voice.

After a moment, however, he repeated several times:

'At home, at home, at home! G.o.d! G.o.d!'

Deep sighs mingled with the listening wind, and the prisoners lay silent once more.

Bartek began to tremble feverishly. There is nothing so bad for a man as to be unable to tell what is amiss with him. It seemed to Bartek as if he had stolen something, and were afraid of being taken in charge.

He had a clear conscience, nothing threatened him, but he was certainly terribly afraid of something. Indeed, his legs were trembling, his rifle had grown dreadfully heavy, and something--like bitter sobs--was choking him. Were these for Magda, or for Pognebin?

For both, but also for that younger prisoner whom it was impossible to help.