Tales by Polish Authors . Коллектив авторов
the French in the enclosure as quickly as possible, and caught sight of three standing together near the flags. They were Turcos. Would Bartek retreat? No, indeed; he could have seized the horns of Lucifer himself now! He ran towards them at once, and they fell on him with a shout; two bayonets, like two deadly stings, had actually touched his chest already, but Bartek lowered his bayonet. A dreadful cry followed, – a groan, and two dark bodies lay writhing convulsively on the ground.
At that moment the third, who carried the flag, ran up to help his two comrades. Like a Fury, Bartek leapt on him with his whole strength. The firing flashed and roared in the distance, while Bartek's hoarse roar rang out through the smoke:
'Go to Hell!'
And again the rifle in his hand described a fearful semi-circle, again groans responded to his thrusts. The Turcos retreated in terror at the sight of this furious giant, but either Bartek misunderstood, or they shouted out something in Arabic, for it seemed to him that their thick lips distinctly uttered the cry: 'Magda! Magda!'
'Magda will give it you!' howled Bartek, and with one leap he was in the enemy's midst.
Happily at that moment some of his comrades ran up to his assistance. A hand to hand fight now took place in the enclosure of the vineyard. There was the crack of rifles at close quarters, and the hot breath of the combatants sounded through their nostrils. Bartek raged like a storm. Blinded by smoke, streaming with blood, more like a wild beast than a man, and regardless of everything, he mowed down men at each blow, broke rifles, cracked heads. His hands moved with the terrible swiftness of a machine sowing destruction. He attacked the Ensign, and seized him by the throat with an iron grip. The Ensign's eyes turned upwards, his face swelled, his throat rattled, and his hands let the pole fall.
'Hurrah!' cried Bartek, and, lifting the flag, he waved it in the air.
This was the flag raised aloft and drooping, which Steinmetz had seen from below.
But he could only see it for half a second, for in the next – Bartek had trampled it to shreds. Meanwhile his comrades were already rushing on ahead.
Bartek remained alone for a moment. He tore off the flag, hid it in his breast pocket, and, having seized the pole in both hands, rushed after his comrades.
A crowd of Turcos, shouting in a barbarous tongue, now fled towards the gun placed on the summit of the hill, the Macki after them, shouting, pursuing, striking with butt-end and bayonet.
The Zouaves, who were stationed by the guns, received the first men with rifle fire.
'Hurrah!' shouted Bartek.
The men ran up to the guns, and a fresh struggle took place round these. At that moment the second Polish regiment came to the aid of the first. The flag pole in Bartek's powerful hands was now changed into a kind of infernal flail. Each stroke dealt by it opened a free passage through the close lines of the French. The Zouaves and Turcos began to be seized with panic, and they fled from the place where Bartek was fighting. Within a few moments Bartek was sitting astride the gun, as he might his Pognębin mare.
But scarcely had the soldiers had time to see him on this, when he was already on the second, after killing another Ensign who was standing by it with the flag.
'Hurrah, Bartek!' repeatedly exclaimed the soldiers.
The victory was complete. All the ammunition was captured. The infantry fled, and after being surrounded by Prussian reinforcements on the other side of the hill, laid down their arms.
Bartek captured yet a third flag during the pursuit.
It was worth seeing him, when exhausted, covered with blood, and blowing like a blacksmith's bellows, he now descended the hill together with the rest, bearing the three flags on his shoulder. The French? Why, what had not he alone done to them! By his side went Wojtek, scratched and scarred, so he turned to him and said:
'What did you say? Why, they are miserable wretches; there isn't a scrap of strength in their bones! They have just scratched you and me like kittens, and that's all. But how I have bled them you can see by the ground!'
'Who would have known that you could be so brave!' replied Wojtek, who had watched Bartek's deeds, and began to look at him in quite a different light.
But who has not heard of these deeds? History, all the regiment and the greater number of the officers. Everybody now looked with astonishment at this country giant with the flaxen moustache and goggle eyes. The Major himself said to him, 'Ah, you confounded Pole!' and pulled his ear, making Bartek grin to his back teeth with pleasure. When the regiment stood once more at the foot of the hill, the Major pointed him out to the Colonel, and the Colonel to Steinmetz himself.
The latter noticed the flags, and ordered that they should be taken charge of; then he began to look at Bartek. Our friend Bartek again stood as straight as a fiddle string, presenting arms, and the old General looked at him and shook his head with pleasure. Finally he began to say something to the Colonel; the words 'non-commissioned officer' were plainly audible.
'Too stupid, Your Excellency!' answered the Major.
'Let us try,' said His Excellency, and turning his horse, he approached Bartek.
Bartek himself scarcely knew what was happening to him: it was a thing unknown in the Prussian Army for the General to talk to a Private! His Excellency was the more easily able to do this, because he knew Polish. Moreover this Private had captured three flags and two guns.
'Where do you come from?' enquired the General.
'From Pognębin,' answered Bartek.
'Good. Your name?'
'Bartek Słowik.'
'Mensch,' explained the Major.
'Mens!' Bartek tried to repeat.
'Do you know why you are fighting the French?'
'I know, Your Excellency.'
'Tell me.'
Bartek began to stammer, 'Because, because – ' Then on a sudden Wojtek's words fortunately came into his mind, and he burst out with them quickly, so as not to get confused: 'Because they are Germans too, only worse villains!'
His Excellency's face began to twitch as if he felt inclined to burst out laughing. After a moment, however, His Excellency turned to the Major, and said:
'You are right, Sir.'
Our friend Bartek, satisfied with himself, remained standing as straight as a fiddle string.
'Who won the battle to-day?' the General asked again.
'I, Your Excellency,' Bartek answered without hesitation.
His Excellency's face again began to twitch.
'Right, very right, it was you! And here you have your reward.'
Here the old soldier unpinned the iron cross from his own breast, stooped and pinned it on to Bartek. The General's good humour was reflected in a perfectly natural way on the faces of the Colonel, the Majors, the Captains, down to the non-commissioned officers. After the General's departure the Colonel for his own part presented Bartek with ten thalers, the Major with five, and so on. Everyone repeated to him smilingly that he had won the battle, with the result that Bartek was in the seventh heaven.
It was a strange thing: the only person who was not really satisfied with our hero was Wojtek.
In the evening, when they were both sitting round the fire, and when Bartek's distinguished face was bulging as much with pea sausage as the sausage itself, Wojtek ejaculated in a tone of resignation:
'Oh Bartek, what a blockhead you are, because – '
'But why?' said Bartek, between his bites of sausage.
'Why, man, didn't you tell the General that the French are Germans?'
'You said so yourself.'
'And what of that? – '
Wojtek began to stammer a little – 'Well, though they may be Germans, you needn't have told him so, because it's always unpleasant – '
'But I said it about the French, not about