CHAPTER I

Nearly four years after the battle of Poltava on a cold clear day of early spring the Pasha, who was governor of the Turkish province of Bender, turned sadly away, followed by his suite, from three stone houses, strange in structure and design, that stood near the village of Varnitza, near the banks of the Dniester.

These houses had been recently built by the King of Sweden, whose camp in Bender had been threatened by floods.

One was occupied by the King himself, one by his friend Grothusen, and the third by his ministers, and these plain buildings looking so incongruous in the eastern landscape, had become an eyesore and a terror to the Porte.

Ever since Karl had flung himself on the mercy of the Turks, sooner than fall into the hands of Peter, intrigue and counter-intrigue had distracted the Ottoman government.

Count Poniatowski, able, subtle, and tireless, had used every art to persuade the Sultan to take up arms for the defeated King, and the Muscovites had done their best to check him at every turn.

Viziers had risen and fallen, plots had become complicated and bitter, war had been declared on Russia, peace made, war declared again, then peace once more, and finally the Sultan had wearied of his guest, and every effort was made to induce Karl to return to his own country.

After long and involved negotiations Karl had consented to go if his expenses were paid; more than the sum asked for had been sent him thankfully by Ahmed II, but Karl, after receiving the money, had again refused to depart, alleging that he suspected a plot to deliver him into the hands of his enemies.

Even Eastern hospitality was now exhausted, and on Karl’s cool demand for more money an order came from the Sultan that if he would not go willingly he was to be moved from Turkish territory by force.

It was this order that the Governor of Bender, grieved to his courteous soul by the turn of events, had just delivered to Karl, without making the least impression.

Four years of what was in truth but an honorable captivity, of idleness and exile, had by no means lowered the lofty spirit or softened the hard obstinacy of the King of Sweden. Through all the ramifications of the intrigues of which the Porte was the center, his one purpose had remained clear and unshaken.

He wanted an army to lead against Peter, and latterly he wanted the punishment of Mahomet Baltadgi, the vizier who had let the Czar escape with the easy terms of the Peace of Pruth.

While Ismail Pasha was galloping, a thing unusual in a Turk, away from Varnitza with the news of the King’s obstinacy to the Khan of the Tartars who, conjointly with him, had received the Sultan’s orders, he met M. Fabrice, the envoy of the Duke of Holstein, who had his residence with Karl, and reined up his sweating steed.

“What news, Ismail Pasha?” asked M. Fabrice anxiously.

The Turk’s expression was mingled grief and indignation; he knew that this affair might cost him his place and perhaps his life, since he had given the twelve hundred pieces to the Swedes trusting to their honor to depart.

“Your King will not listen to reason,” he replied, “and we shall see strange things.”

M. Fabrice rode on through the sunny afternoon and, by the time he reached the camp at Varnitza, found that the Governor was carrying out already the instructions brought him that day by the Sultan’s grand equerry. The guard of janissaries that had attended Karl during his exile had been removed, the supply of provisions stopped, and all the followers of the King told that if they wished for food they must leave the Swedes and go to the town of Bender.

Consequently, M. Fabrice met a stream of Poles and Cossacks, hastening from the village of Varnitza, and the huts and tents they had raised round the King’s house, to put themselves under the protection of the Porte.

The heart of M. Fabrice sank; long and weary had been the exile, bitter the hope deferred, the suspense, the waiting, fatiguing, the long idleness to those used to an active life, deadening this suspension of all part in the affairs of Europe, and he for one could not understand why Karl should have preferred to prolong such a life sooner than take his part in the politics of the world, nor how he could have so long permitted himself to be misled by the chimera of Turkish assistance.

Sadly he went to the King’s house; the domestics were depressed, the Swedish soldiers eyed with gloomy contempt the departing crowd of Russians and Poles, as if they regretted the good food that these people, so worthless in the hour of need, had for so long consumed.

The King had just risen from the table, and it was in his ante-chamber that M. Fabrice found him.

Poniatowski was still at Constantinople, endeavoring to serve Karl by his endless intrigues among the ministers and favorites of the Sultan, but the rest of Karl’s few faithful friends were with him, as if they all took counsel together.

There was M. Grothusen and the Baron Görtz who between them had taken the place of Count Piper, now miserably dead in Russia, General Hord, and General Dahldorf, and Colonel Gierta, who had saved Karl’s life at Poltava, and several other officers and ministers together with the King’s chaplain, and another Lutheran priest.

The house, contrary to the King’s tastes, was furnished magnificently, to impress the Turks who were not apt to respect a monarch entirely without pomp, and this room was richly hung with silken tapestry, covered with Persian carpets, and filled with Eastern and European furniture of costly material and pattern.

All of this had been bought out of the Turkish bounty, which had been generously lavished on Karl until these disputes about his departure arose, and only lately withdrawn; Karl was now subsisting on borrowing the money his reckless munificence had enriched his friends with, and raising loans at 50 per cent from Jew and English bankers in Constantinople.

Karl was seated in an ebony chair with sapphire-blue velvet cushions; his own dress was unchanged; he was booted, spurred, wore a black taffeta cravat, and no peruke but his own hair, now close-cropped and scanty on the forehead.

He had never altered the stern austerity of his life, nor his rigorous exercises, and was in perfect health and superb strength.

He was now thirty-two years of age, and his noble face, unlined, and fresh and clear in color, still had the look of extreme youth; his figure was heavier but yet active and graceful, he had hardly reached the flower of his strength, and began to show the magnificent proportions of a Viking, deep-chested, long-limbed, strong, without being coarse, and powerful, without being clumsy.

Adversity had given him neither a sense of humor, gentleness, nor gaiety, yet in some way he was more attractive than he had been, and the uncomplaining fortitude with which he had endured his cruel fortune inspired a noble pity in the hearts of brave men.

Not by a hair-breadth had he deviated from the code of pride, of honor, and endurance that he had followed when North Europe trembled at his feet, nor in any way faltered from the serenity that had been his when his conquests had dazzled mankind.

Nor was his obstinacy, a less admirable virtue, in any way abated, as his present attitude showed.

M. Fabrice found that the generals and ministers were engaged in persuading the King to abandon the design of opposing to the utmost the wishes of the Sultan.

Karl’s blue eyes, that had more fire than formerly, glanced at once at the new-comer.

“Ah, M. Fabrice,” he said, “have you come to join your prayers to those of these gentlemen who want me to run away?”

The envoy from Holstein did not know what to say; despite what he had heard from Ismail Pasha, and his knowledge of the character of Karl, he could hardly believe that the King meant to make an armed resistance with 300 men against 26,000, which was the number of the Tartars and Turks in Bender.

“God knows,” broke out Councilor Müllern, with tears in his eyes. “Your Majesty does not need to prove your courage to the world, and it would be a nobler part to submit.”

“Submit! submit!” repeated the King angrily. “You tire me with words!”

General Hord, who had fought by Karl’s side at Poltava, and who was still maimed as a result of his wounds, now addressed the King.

“Sire,” he asked, “will you condemn to a miserable death, at the hands of the infidel, these poor Swedes, the remnant of your victories?”

“I know, by those victories, that you know how to obey,” replied the King sternly. “Till now you have done your duty, General Hord--continue to do it to-day.”

M. Fabrice now found his voice.

“Sire,” he said, “I was with the Khan, and on leaving him met Ismail Pasha; from what I learnt it is but too true that they have received orders from the Porte that every Swede who resists is to be slain, even to your Majesty!”

“Have you seen this order?” demanded the King quietly.

“Yes,” replied M. Fabrice, “the Khan showed it to me.”

“Well,” said Karl, “tell them from me that I give another order--and that is that no Swede leaves Bender.”

M. Fabrice was in despair; he glanced at the sad faces of Karl’s faithful friends who had suffered such pains and hardships for him, and he felt it was unendurable that all should end in a useless death.

He fell on his knees, grasping the skirts of the King’s coat.

“For the sake of these others, sire, who are all that are left to you, out of so many who have perished for your sake----”

“Get up, M. Fabrice,” said Karl kindly, “and return to your lodging. There is no need for you to remain to share my fortune.”

M. Fabrice sprang to his feet, angry and agitated.

“This obstinacy is not worthy, sire. You have no right to fling away so many lives for a whim!”

Karl only smiled; he was not easily angry with M. Fabrice.

Holstein-Gottorp had always been specially under his protection, nor had he ever forgotten the young Duke for whose sake he had first gone to war and who had been killed at his side.

It was his nature to be most tenaciously faithful to any cause or friendship he had once undertaken, and he had never faltered in his resolve to uphold the rights of his brother-in-law; he intended to make the little orphan Duke, his elder sister’s son, his heir, and to that end kept M. Fabrice near him, and gave him as much of his confidence as he accorded to any man.

Therefore he endured calmly the reproaches, the anger, and the pleadings of the excited envoy who was listened to with approval by the others, yet they, who had tried the like arguments in vain, had little hope from the eloquence of M. Fabrice.

All, as the listeners had foreseen, was useless.

“Return to your Turks,” smiled the King. “If they attack me, I shall know how to defend myself.”

M. Fabrice had not the heart to reply, and in the little silence that followed the King’s speech, Jeffreys, the English minister, entered the chamber.

He advanced and kissed the King’s hand with the air of one bringing good news; he also had been trying his good offices with the Khan, and had obtained this favor--that an express should be sent to Adrianople, where the Sultan then was, to demand if in reality extreme measures were to be taken against the King of Sweden, and in the meanwhile permission to allow provisions to be sent to the King.

Karl received this very coldly.

“You are a voluntary mediator, sir,” he said. “I ask for no favor at the hands of the Sultan.”

“Nor did I, sire,” replied the Englishman. “But it is possible that the Porte may repent of the delayed severity of these orders, and in any case this gives your Majesty time to leave with dignity.”

“M. Jeffreys,” remarked the King, with freezing coldness, “as you leave my house you will see my entrenchments.”

“Can it be possible----” began the minister.

“Sir,” interrupted the King, “more things are possible than you may dream of. I do not want your mediation. Nor do I want the provisions of the Turks. What I need I can pay for.”

The Englishman, who, in common with every man present, had lent the King money and knew the difficulty Poniatowski had in raising forced loans in Constantinople, thought this pride as ill-timed as the King’s obstinacy, but he knew that it was in keeping with Karl’s character, and that he did not speak out of flaunting vanity but from that superb disregard of money that he had always possessed; gold and human life, worldly dignities, and common prudence had alike been always too utterly disregarded by the King of Sweden.

“I will mingle no more in the affairs of a monarch so inflexible,” said the Englishman, with a slight smile, as he prepared to retire.

“A wise resolution, M. Jeffreys,” replied the King gravely.

The clergy now essayed to attempt what ministers and soldiers had alike failed to effect.

Karl’s chaplain, coming forward, addressed him in stern tones.

“Has your Majesty considered how long and generously these Turks have succored you? What Christianity is it that so rudely returns such generosity? Have you considered your poor subjects who yet hope, after these weary years of wandering and of exile, to see their homes?”

In this the chaplain was seconded by some other pastors who threw themselves on their knees before the King.

Karl started to his feet; though the discipline of the Lutheran religion was peculiarly suited to his temperament, and the observance of its rules had always been a factor in his success, still there was little of the fanatic in him, and his long sojourn in Turkey had induced a considerable indifference towards Christianity in the heart of one who had always admired pagan virtues and pagan heroes.

He therefore viewed with real anger the interference of these pastors whose appearance at the conference he had hitherto hardly noticed.

His face flushed, and his blue eyes darkened ominously.

On the heads of the clergy broke all the anger the other remonstrants had failed to provoke.

“I keep you,” he said, with cutting anger, “to say prayers, and not to give me advice.”

With that and a general glance of contempt for the entire company he left the chamber, and the only man who dared follow him was Baron Görtz, a man of a spirit akin to his own.

“I wish Poniatowski was here--he might do something,” remarked Grothusen despondently.

“Not an angel of God could do anything,” said the chaplain, who, in common with the other clergy, found himself in the ridiculous position of rising from his knees in front of an empty chair.

“He will be massacred!” cried General Hord in despair.

“We shall all be massacred,” said Müllern. “How long do you think 300 men will resist 26,000?”

“I know,” put in Colonel Gierta, “that the King will suffer the roof to be pulled over his head sooner than surrender.”

“The Sultan may grant a respite,” suggested M. Fabrice.

But Grothusen shook his head.

“His patience has been too greatly tried--and the vizier dare not risk our presence here long.”

“But Poniatowski may do something,” urged Müllern, who had much confidence in the tireless and resourceful Pole.

The words had hardly left his lips before several shots rang out, and all started to their feet, thinking this the signal for an attack on the house.

But immediately after, Neumann, the King’s surgeon, entered.

“The King is having all the Arab chargers given him by the Sultan shot,” he announced, “and the carcases flung to the Tartar troops.”

The Swedes were silent.

In their hearts they knew there was no excuse for Karl’s behavior, and that reason, right, and justice were all on the side of the Sultan, who had from the first been forbearing, chivalrous, and generous to a stranger whom he neither liked nor understood, and who had been the cause of much annoyance to him and of many distractions in his court. Yet they all loved Karl, who till the days of his exile had awakened little affection in any heart, and who now exhibited few lovable qualities.

But his unyielding determination, his iron inflexibility, his austere life, his high ideals of heroic virtues had inspired a feeling that was almost reverence in the hearts of those who had shared his dreary exile.

And in this bitter pass to which his obstinacy had brought them it was not of themselves they thought, but of the King--it was his peril, not their own, that forced the tears to their eyes.