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

the meditations of the colonel became strengthened into a fixed purpose. Next day he would strike Hmelnitski and grind him in the dust. Over his body he would go to wealth and dignities. He would be the instrument of punishment in the hands of the Commonwealth, its defender, in the future its dignitary and senator. After victory over the Zaporojians and the Tartars they would refuse him nothing.

Still, they had not given him the starostaship of Lita. When he remembered this, Krechovski clenched his fists. They had not given him this, in spite of the powerful influence of his protectors the Pototskis, in spite of his military services, simply because he was a new man and his rival drew his origin from princes. In that Commonwealth it was not enough to be a noble, it was necessary to wait till that nobility was covered with must like old wine, till it was rusty like iron.

Hmelnitski alone could introduce a new order of things, to which the king himself would become favorable; but the unfortunate man had preferred to beat out his brains against the walls of Kudák.

The colonel gradually grew calm. They had refused him the starostaship⁠—what of that? They would strive all the more to recompense him, especially after his victory⁠—after quenching the rebellion, after freeing the Ukraine from civil war, yes, the whole Commonwealth! They would refuse him nothing; then he would not need even the Pototskis.

His drowsy head inclined upon his breast, and he fell asleep, dreaming of starostaships, of dignities, of grants from the king and the Diet.

When he woke it was daybreak. In the boats all were still sleeping. In the distance the waters of the Dnieper were gleaming in a pale, fugitive light. Around them reigned absolute stillness. It was the stillness that roused him. The cannon of Kudák had ceased to roar.

“What is that?” thought Krechovski. “The first attack is repulsed, or maybe Kudák is taken?”

But that was unlikely. No; the beaten Cossacks were lying somewhere at a distance from the fortress, licking their wounds, and the one-eyed Grodzitski was looking at them through the porthole, aiming his guns anew. Tomorrow they would repeat the storm, and again break their teeth. The day had now come. Krechovski roused the men in his own boat, and sent a boat for Flick. Flick came at once.

“Colonel,” said Krechovski, “if the castellan does not come before evening, and if the storm is repeated during the night, we will move to the relief of the fortress.”

“My men are ready,” answered Flick.

“Issue powder and balls to them.”

“I have done so.”

“We land during the night and go by the steppe in the greatest quiet. We will come upon them with a surprise.”

“Gut! sehr gut! But mightn’t we go on a little in the boats? It is twenty miles to the fortress⁠—rather far for infantry.”

“The infantry will mount Cossack horses.”

“Gut! sehr gut!”

“Let the men lie quietly in the reeds, not go on shore; make no noise, kindle no fires, for smoke would betray us. We must not be revealed.”

“There is such a fog that the smoke will not be seen.”

Indeed the river, the inlet overgrown with reeds, in which the boats were hidden, and the steppe were covered as far as the eye could see with a white, impenetrable fog. But it was only the beginning of day; so the fog might rise and uncover the expanse of the steppe.

Flick departed. The men in the boats woke gradually. Krechovski’s commands to keep quiet and take the morning meal without tumult were made known. No person going along the shore or sailing in the middle of the river would have even imagined that in the adjoining thicket several thousand men were hidden. The horses were fed from the hand, so that they should not neigh. The boats, covered with fog, lay tied up in the reeds. Here and there only passed a small two-oared boat carrying biscuits and commands; with this exception, the silence of the grave reigned everywhere.

Suddenly in the reeds, rushes, and shore-grass all around the inlet were heard strange and very numerous voices, calling⁠—

“Pugú! pugú!”

Then quiet. “Pugú! pugú!”

And again silence, as if those voices, calling on the banks, waited for an answer.

But there was no answer. The calling sounded a third time, but more quickly and impatiently.

“Pugú! pugú!”

This time from the side of the boats was heard in the middle of the fog the voice of Krechovski⁠—

“But who is there?”

“A Cossack from the meadows.”

The hearts of the Cossacks hidden in the boats beat unquietly. That mysterious call was well known to them. In that manner the Zaporojiana made themselves known to one another in their winter quarters; in that way in time of war they asked to conference their brothers, the registered and town Cossacks, among whom were many belonging in secret to the Brotherhood.

The voice of Krechovski was heard again; “What do you want?”

“Bogdan Hmelnitski, the Zaporojian hetman, announces that his cannon are turned on the Poles.”

“Inform the Zaporojian hetman that ours are turned to the shore.”

“Pugú! Pugú!”

“What more do you want?”

“Bogdan Hmelnitski, the Zaporojian hetman, invites his friend Colonel Krechovski to a conference.”

“Let him give hostages.”

“Ten kuren atamans.”

“Agreed.”

That moment the shores of the inlet bloomed with Zaporojians as if with flowers; they stood up from the grass in which they had been hidden. From the steppe approached their cavalry and artillery, tens and hundreds of their banners, flags, and bunchuks. They marched with singing and beating of kettledrums. All this was rather like a joyful greeting than a collision of hostile forces.

The Cossacks on the river answered with shouts. Meanwhile boats came up bringing the kuren atamans. Krechovski entered one of the boats and went to the shore. There a horse was given him, and he was conducted immediately to Hmelnitski.

Seeing him, Hmelnitski removed his cap, and then greeted him cordially.

“Colonel,” said he, “my old friend and comrade!