'How are you, old fellow, and where is God Almighty leading you?'
Meanwhile to the accompaniment of the train rumbling along the rails, the well-known song rang out: —
'Flirt with us, soldiers! dears!'
Cried the girls of Sandomierz.
And soon Bartek and his comrades caught up the refrain: —
Gaily forth the answer burst:
'Bless you, dears! but dinner first!'
As many as had gone out from Pognębin in sorrow were now filled with enthusiasm and spirit. A train which had arrived from France with the first batch of wounded, damped this feeling of cheerfulness, however. It stopped at Deutz, and waited a long time to allow the trains hurrying to the seat of war to go by. The men were marched across the bridge en route for Cologne. Bartek ran forward with several others to look at the sick and wounded. Some lay in closed, others in open carriages, and these could be seen well. At the first glance our hero's heart was again in his mouth.
'Come here, Wojtek,' he cried in terror. 'See how many of our countrymen the Frenchmen have done for!'
It was indeed a sight! Pale, exhausted faces, some darkened by gunpowder or by pain, or stained with blood. To the sounds of universal rejoicing these men only responded by groans. Some were cursing the war, the French and the Germans. Parched lips called every moment for water, eyes rolled in delirium. Here and there, amongst the wounded, were the rigid faces of the dead, in some cases peaceful, with blue lines round their eyes, in others contorted through the death struggle, with terrifying eyes and grinning teeth. Bartek saw the bloody fruits of war for the first time, and once more confusion reigned in his mind. He seemed quite stupefied, as, standing in the crowd, with his mouth open, he was elbowed from every side, and pomelled on the neck by the police. He sought Wojtek's eyes, nudged him, and said,
'Wojtek, may Heaven preserve us! It's horrible!'
'It will be just the same with you.'
'Jesu! Mary! That human beings should murder one another like this! When a fellow kills another the police take him off to the magistrate and prison!'
'Well, but now whoever kills most human beings is to be praised. What were you thinking of, Blockhead: did you think you would use gunpowder as in the manœuvres, and would shoot at targets instead of people?'
Here the difference between theory and practice certainly stood out clearly. Notwithstanding that our friend Bartek was a soldier, had attended manœuvres and drill, had practised rifle shooting, had known that the object of war was to kill people, now, when he saw blood flowing, and all the misery of war, it made him feel so sick and miserable he could hardly keep himself upright. He was impressed anew with respect for the French; this diminished, however, when they arrived at Cologne from Deutz. At the Central Station they saw prisoners for the first time. Surrounding them was a number of soldiers and people, who gazed at them with interest, but without hostility. Bartek elbowed his way through the crowd, and, looking into the carriage, was amazed.
A troop of French infantry in ragged cloaks, small, dirty, and emaciated, were packed into the carriages like a cask of herrings. Many of them stretched out their hands for the trifling gifts presented to them by the crowd, if the sentinels did not prevent them. Judging from what he had heard from Wojtek, Bartek had had a wholly different impression of the French, and this took his breath away. He looked to see if Wojtek were anywhere about, and found him standing close by.
'What did you say?' asked Bartek. 'By all the Saints! I shouldn't be more surprised if I had lost my head!'
'They must have been starved somehow,' answered Wojtek, equally disillusioned.
'What are they jabbering?'
'It's certainly not Polish.'
Reassured by this impression, Bartek walked on past the carriages. 'Miserable wretches!' he said, when he had finished his review of the Regulars.
But the last carriages contained Zouaves, and these gave Bartek food for further reflection. From the fact that they sat huddled together in the carriages, it was impossible to discover whether each man were equal to two or three ordinary men; but, through the window, he saw the long, martial beards, and grave faces of veteran soldiers with dark complexions and alarmingly shining eyes. Again Bartek's heart leapt to his mouth.
'These are the worst of all,' he whispered low, as if afraid they might hear him.
'You have not yet seen those who have not let themselves be taken prisoner,' replied Wojtek.
'Heaven preserve us!'
'Now do you understand?'
Having finished looking at the Zouaves, they walked on. At the last carriage Bartek suddenly started back as if he had touched fire.
'Oh, Wojtek, Lord help us!'
There was the dark – nearly black – face of a Turco at the open window, rolling his eyes so that the whites showed. He must have been wounded, for his face was contorted with pain.
'But what's the matter?' asked Wojtek.
'That must be the Evil One, it's not a soldier. Lord have mercy on my sins!'
'Look at his teeth!'
'May he go to perdition! I shan't look at him any longer.'
Bartek was silent, then asked after a moment:
'Wojtek?'
'Yes?'
'Mightn't it be a good thing to cross oneself before anyone like that?'
'The heathen don't understand anything about the holy truth.'
The signal was given for taking their seats. In a few moments the train was moving. When it grew dusk Bartek continually saw before him the Turco's dark face with the terrible white of his eyes. From the feeling which at the moment animated this Pognębin soldier, it would not have been possible to foretell his future deeds.
CHAPTER IV
The particular share he took at first in the pitched battle of Gravelotte, merely convinced Bartek of this fact, – that in war there is plenty to look at, but nothing to do. For at the commencement he and his regiment were told to order arms and wait at the bottom of a hill covered by a vineyard. The guns were booming in the distance, squadrons of cavalry charged past near at hand with a clatter which shook the earth; then the flags passed, then Cuirassiers with drawn swords. The shells on the hill flew hissing across the blue sky in the form of small white clouds, then smoke filled the air and hid the horizon. The battle seemed like a storm which passes through a district without lasting long anywhere.
After the first hours, unusual activity was displayed round Bartek's regiment. Other regiments began to be massed round his, and in the spaces between them, the guns, drawn by plunging horses, rushed along, and, hastily unlimbered, were pointed towards the hill. The whole valley became full of troops. Commands were now thundered from all sides, the Aides-de-Camps rushed about wildly, and the private soldiers said to one another:
'Ah! it will be our turn now! It's coming!' or enquired uneasily of one another,
'Isn't it yet time to start?'
'Surely it must be!'
The question of life and death was now beginning to hang in the balance. Something in the smoke, which hid the horizon, burst close at hand with a terrible explosion. The deep roar of the cannon and the crack of the rifle firing was heard ever nearer; it was like an indistinct sound coming from a distance, – then the mitrailleuse became audible. Suddenly the guns, placed in position, boomed forth until the earth and air trembled together. The shells whistled frightfully through Bartek's company. Watching they saw something