With Fire and Sword by Henryk Sienkiewicz (big ebook reader .txt) 📕

There was a stir as if a whirlwind had moved the human mass, and then a sudden murmur. The words “Troops are coming!” flew like an arrow from one end of the rampart to the other. The soldiers began to crowd and push, gathering in groups. Murmurs rose and fell; still all hands rested above the eyes; all eyes were turned, strained with effort, into the distance; hearts were throbbing; and all, holding the breath in their breasts, were suspended between hope and fear. Then something began to sway, and swayed still more definitely, and rose out of the distance, and approached still nearer, and became still more distinctly visible, till at last the banners, flags, and bunchuks appeared, later a forest of streamers. The eyes doubted no longer⁠—it was an army. Then one gigantic shout rose from the breasts of all, a shout of inconceivable joy⁠—

“Yeremi! Yeremi! Yeremi!”

The oldest soldiers were simply seized with frenzy. Some threw themselves from the ramparts, waded through the ditch, and hurried on foot through the water-covered plain to the advancing regiments; others rushed to their horses; some laughed; others wept, placing their hands together and crying: “Our father is coming⁠—our savior, our chief!” It might have seemed that the siege was raised, Hmelnitski finished, and the victory won.

Meanwhile the regiments of the prince had drawn so near that the banners could be distinguished. In advance came, as usual, the light regiments of the prince’s Tartars, the Cossacks, and the Wallachians, after them Makhnitski’s foreign infantry, then the cannon of Vershul, the dragoons, and the heavy hussar regiments. The rays of the sun reflected on their armor and on the points of their upraised lances. All marched in unusual splendor, as if the halo of victory were around them.

Skshetuski, standing with Pan Longin on the ramparts, recognized from afar his own squadron, which he had left in Zamost, and his faded cheeks colored a little; he drew several deep breaths, as if he had thrown some great weight from his breast, and his eyes grew glad; for days of superhuman toil were near him too, as well as heroic struggles which heal the heart better than all, and hurl down painful memories deeper and deeper somewhere into the bottom of the soul.

The regiments continued to approach, and barely a thousand yards separated them from the camp. The officers too had hurried up in order to witness the entrance of the prince; the three commanders also, and with them Pan Pshiyemski, Pan Konyetspolski, Pan Marek Sobieski, starosta of Krasnostav, Pan Korf, and all the other officers, as well of Polish as foreign command. All shared in the universal joy; and especially Lantskoronski, one of the commanders, who was more a knight than a general, but enamoured of military glory. He stretched his baton in the direction from which Yeremi was coming, and called in a voice so loud that all heard him⁠—

“There is our supreme chief, and I am the first to give him my command and my office.”

The regiments of the prince began to enter the camp. They were three thousand men in all; but the courage of the garrison increased by a hundred thousand, for they were the victors from Pogrébische, Nyemiroff, Makhnovka, and Konstantinoff. Then acquaintances and friends greeted one another. After the light regiments Vershul’s artillery came in at last with difficulty, bringing twelve cannon. The prince, who had sent his regiments from Old Zbaraj, entered after sunset. All that was living assembled to greet him. The soldiers, taking lamps, candles, torches, bits of pitch-pine, surrounded the prince’s steed and barred his advance. The horse was caught by the bridle, so that the warriors might sate their eyes with the sight of the hero; they kissed his garments, and almost bore him away on their shoulders. The excitement rose to that degree that not only soldiers of his own regiments but of foreign companies declared they would serve three months without pay. The throng became denser each moment, so that he was unable to move a step. He sat then on his white steed, surrounded by the soldiery as a shepherd by his flocks, and there was no end to shouts and applause. The evening was calm and clear, thousands of stars glittered in the dark sky, and then appeared favorable omens. Just as Lantskoronski approached the prince to deliver the baton into his hand, one of the stars, torn away from the sky and drawing after it a stream of light, fell with a noise, and was quenched in the direction of Konstantinoff, from which Hmelnitski had to come. “That is Hmelnitski’s star!” shouted the soldiers. “A miracle! a miracle!” “An evident sign!” “Vivat Yeremi victor!” repeated a thousand voices. Then Lantskoronski approached and gave a sign with his hand that he wanted to speak. Immediately there was silence, and he said⁠—

“The king gave me this baton, but into your more worthy hands do I yield it, wishing to be first to obey your orders.”

“And we are with him,” repeated two other commanders.

Three batons were extended to the prince; but he drew back his hand, saying, “It was not I that gave them, and I will not receive them.”

“Let there be a fourth with the three,” said Firlei.

“Vivat Vishnyevetski! vivat the commanders!” shouted the knights. “We will die together!”

At that moment the prince’s steed raised his head, shook his purple-stained mane, and neighed mightily, so that all the horses in the camp answered him in one voice.

This too was considered prophetic of victory. The soldiers had fire in their eyes; their hearts were hot with thirst for battle; the quiver of eagerness ran through their bodies. The officers shared the universal ecstasy. Prince Ostrorog wept and prayed. Lantskoronski and the starosta of Krasnostav began first to wave their sabres, encouraging the soldiers, who, running to the edge of the rampart and stretching out their hands in the darkness, shouted in the direction from which they expected