Part 18

"Want!" he cried. "I want guns, gun-fodder, batteries, honesty. I want to sweep out all those German-spawned traitors at Petrograd. I want to clean out the ministries, put honest soldiers there instead of the breed of thieves and liars. Want, indeed! Russia wants everything. Everything! Where are my men? Where to God are the three thousand Cossacks I led from the Don? There! There!" He thrust his bare, muscular arms towards the west. "Carrion," he cried, with a half-stifled sob. "Not killed in fair fight. Never a one of them. But murdered; yes, murdered by a horde of thieves in Petrograd, who sent me promises for guns, empty words for muskets, champagne for shrapnel! Oh, think of it! The flower of the Don Troop, crying for the wherewithal to fight, beating off the Germans with sticks we tore from the trees, with never a musket, never a gas-mask, nothing but corruption and treachery, bought with German gold. Oh, my heart bursts with the burden of it! All my good Cossacks flung into the cannon's mouth, belching forth fire, whilst we had nothing, nothing!"

He broke off, tore up and down, muttering like a wounded lion.

"And they died like dogs! For this!" His arms swept the desolate landscape. "For rapine and retreat! For burning corn and ruined farmsteads! To leave the Lakes of Masuria; to leave the Vistula, the Dneiper, the Niemen and God knows what besides!"

He stopped, overcome with his emotion, strode back to the pump, let a stream of water flow over his grizzled head, gave a gigantic sigh and relapsed into silence. And thus they stayed together for some time. Ian did not even try to comfort him; what solace could he offer when he knew that those bitter words were all too true? The Cossack spoke first.

"A cigarette," he demanded.

Ian handed him the packet which Healy had brought up to the train. He took a couple, threw back the rest, and asked for matches. It was now almost dark and in the light of the little flame he scanned Ian's face.

"I remember you," he said when his cigarette was half smoked through. "You talked of shooting quail on the wing and wanted to shoot me."

"Not quite. But I was sore because you wouldn't have me."

"It was all so different then. Eh, God! What a fool I was to believe in that lying, thieving horde at Petrograd! Petrograd forsooth! They might as well have kept it Petersburg, for all the Germans that are in it still. Phew! I spit on these politicians!" And he did so.

"Russia is wide," said Ian.

"Wide and bungling! With a little order, a little honesty we should have been in Berlin long ago. God! How they ran from the Lakes of Masuria! How they scuttled like geese before our Cossack spears! And then our supplies gave out, and none were forthcoming, Oh, the Empire is a prey to a horde of thieves. Many defeats await us yet. By the way, you spoke of your country house and your lady mother and your forests, when in Warsaw. What of them?"

Briefly Ian told him.

"Ay. The same story everywhere. And I thought I'd be coming to you with German booty," he remarked sadly. "It made my heart bleed to see the fugitives. But you may be glad your womenfolk got safely away. And what will you do now?"

"Fight. Won't you take me in your regiment?"

"Regiment!" the other echoed bitterly, beating his chest "I am the regiment."

"Not all gone?"

"Killed, wounded, gassed, a few prisoners, and you have the lot."

"But you'll reconstruct?"

"Ay. That I will. If there's a Cossack left I'm game."

"Then let me be one of your new officers," pleaded Ian.

He was beginning to like this gruff, grizzled soldier. He did not want to volunteer in France, for that would mean going a long way from Vanda, and separating his mother from her. In his shy way he tried to convey his eagerness to join the Russian army, and the Colonel's manner softened.

"Eh, God. I think you'd make a good soldier. I can't say ay or nay. The matter lies with my superiors."

"But you can recommend me," he urged.

"I can and will. I haven't a card. Have you a scrap of paper?"

Ian searched and produced a card and pencil, also his electric torch. The Cossack wrote some lines and handed the card back.

"Now, headquarters will be in Rostov. It is a long journey. But do you go there and say I sent you. It's written on the card. We shall meet there within a fortnight, but I must go to that German cesspool first."

"So must I."

"Ah! Where will you lodge?"

"I don't know yet. But they'll tell you at the Orsov Palace."

"So you know Vera Petrovna? She is a powerful friend to have. You can get a softer bed to lie on than campaigning with me if you ask her."

"I don't want to sit in some office. I want to fight. I hope to meet a man named von Senborn face to face and give him back a little of what he's done to me and my property."

"You're the right stuff. But how war's changed you! You were as plump as one of your own quails a year aback. And sleek as a maid. If we don't meet in Petrograd do you seek me out in Rostov. I have to get a seat on this cattle-train. Many of my children are there."

He hurried into his clothes, rammed the cap well on to his head and went off. They parted the best of friends. Scarcely had his tall, lithe figure disappeared into the summer night when Ostap hurried on to the platform. He had looted a deserted house and they ate heartily of ham, bread, butter and cold veal. He brought a bottle of light Polish beer, too; but Ian would not touch it, saying his head ached. Ostap was much interested in hearing about his talk with the Cossack colonel and asked to see the card. He read it eagerly and looked up, saying with respect in his voice:

"But it is my Colonel, Irmal Platov, of the family that produced the famous Cossack general. They say he will be head of the Pan-Cossack League one day. Where did he go? It will cheer him to know that one officer at least is alive and sound."

Ian pointed to the train, which was now getting up steam, and he was off like a shot. Ian put back his card, reflected that it was a lucky chance to have met this man, whom the Cossacks evidently respected highly. He went back to the station building. It was high time to find out definitely whether or no there would be another train before the Russians left the place. Martin, he ascertained, was still fast asleep on the floor of the engine which had brought them from the camp and nobody disturbed him.

In the ticket-office he met the horse-dealer who was running hither and thither in a great state of excitement, calling Ian's name at the top of his voice.

"What are you yelling about?" he asked. "Has the train come?"

"Oh, thank God, you're here! I feared you had started."

"What is it?"

"One of your friends wants you. He is sick to death. Not a moment have we to lose."

"Who?"

"I know not. But hurry!"

They made their way out of the disorderly, miserable town, which knew all the vicissitudes of warfare, and into squalid suburbs, where only Jews, and the poorest at that, could live. With many puzzling thoughts Ian asked his guide whither they were going and who of his friends lived in this unsavory quarter.

"I know nothing," answered he. "It is a friend. He wanted to send one of our people to Ruvno. But the messenger knew you had left Ruvno. But at the hospital none had the heart to tell him the truth. Just now I happened to see this messenger and tell him my Lord Count was here. So I sought you for a long while."

"Haven't you any idea who is this friend?"

"A gentleman. He sent out a hundred roubles to the messenger, I know."

He did not add that he was the messenger and the hundred roubles now lay in his pocket-book. After a quarter of an hour's brisk walking he led the way to a field. Ian could see the dim outline of a tent.

"A military hospital?" he asked.

"Yes." Hermann stopped. "Here I leave you. I fear the cholera." And he was gone.

Cholera. Ian hesitated. Which of his friends was dying of that loathsome pest? Roman? The thought tore his heart. Joseph? Oh, he hoped not. He hastily prayed it might not be a man at all dear to him. Yet he could think of nobody, friend or foe, whom he wished to watch dying of cholera.

Troubled thus, he made his way up to the tent. No sentry guarded the entry. That was unnecessary; all shunned the place. It was very quiet after the bustle and babel of the station. He heard no voices. The only sign of living man was a faint streak of light that came between the canvas and the ground.

He held up the flap and went in.

It was a large tent and there were many beds in it Some stood vacant, others held shrouded, still masses of contorted humanity. Others again, most ghastly of all, were occupied by men of all ages and many races. Two bearers were carrying out a burden through another entrance, at the far end. He looked around in an agony of disgust and suspense. A nurse and doctor were bending over one couch. He learned afterwards that the medical staff had drawn lots to decide which of them should go with the retreating army and which remain behind with those too ill to be moved and enter captivity with them. It seemed to him that these two lingered a long time. Then he heard the doctor say:

"He'll live. The worst is over."

Instantly Ian lost his shyness and hastened to them,

"Who is it?" he asked in French, true to the habit of a lifetime which bade him address a Russian in the international language.

The nurse turned and made room for him at the bedside.

"Do you know him?"

A glance at the patient was enough.

"No," he answered.

The doctor hurried away. The woman, attending to the sick man, asked Ian whom he sought.

"I don't know. A Jew brought me. Said a man here wanted somebody from Ruvno. I am from Ruvno."

"Ah! I remember now. One moment." Swiftly she completed her task and turned towards the north end of the tent. He followed her to a far corner, till she stopped before a bed which held one of the shrouded forms.

"Too late!" he cried.

She gave him a look of sympathy.

"He died a few minutes ago."

Unable to utter a word, he signed to her. Gently, she turned back the sheet. He stepped forward; all hatred, all bitterness, slipped from him like a cloak. Joseph was no more. He could marry Vanda.

This was his uppermost thought; his next, as he gazed at that familiar, yet transformed face, a deep relief that Roman had not suffered that death. Then came remorse for the speed of his thoughts towards marrying her this man had loved, and sharp pain that Destiny had taken him in such a way. He wanted Joseph to die fighting, as young men should in war-time, in the open, falling to God's good earth, whence they come, mingling their life's blood with the fountain of all life. That livid, emaciated face, with evil stains on the once healthy cheeks was a reproach to modernity, a seal upon the Cossack's cry of "murdered!"

For a long time he gazed and many an emotion rose and swelled in his heart; scenes of boyhood sprang up again; memories of the chase, of the life they once trod together, as dead for him now as was Joseph himself. And whilst he breathed a prayer for the dead which Father Constantine had taught them all, he thanked God that he had resisted the call of passion a few nights ago, when he sat and watched the summer moon, so sure it lighted Joseph's body on the battlefield. Now, at least, he could look on his remains without remorse for evil action.

The nurse had gone; but two orderlies came up.

"We must bury him," one of them said in the Russian of Moscow.

As Ian looked up they noticed his eyes were dimmed with tears unshed.

"Is there a Catholic priest about?"

The men looked at one another.

"In the town perhaps--not here."

"I'll bring one."

"We cannot wait till you go so far. We have strict orders to bury each poor victim at once. What will you? The infection is deadly and we are working day and night."

"I'll be back before you close the coffin."

"Coffin! There are none left."

Ian passed the one nearest him a fifty-rouble note.

"I know the town. Wait for me." And he hurried out.

He was desperately anxious to give Joseph Christian burial. He felt he must; it might atone for his fault of feeling that great load off his heart now he knew Vanda would be his. Then he remembered the Cossack colonel's card. He had promised to fight, had insisted on being drafted into a hard-fighting regiment. But that was an hour ago. That was when thoughts of Vanda were pain, and he did not so much mind if he got killed. Now, he hated the idea of it. If he got killed soon he would be no more married to her than Joseph had been. He rebelled. Why should he go and get killed? Russia had plenty of men. He had lost enough in the war already without losing the last chance of happiness. Russia had turned him away once and he was not in duty bound to apply again. Besides, he could do war-work without putting on a Cossack coat; could volunteer for a mission abroad; for instance say to the Pope, who only knew what the Germans and their friends told him...

As he stumbled over the road, choked with the debris of a retreating army, he felt particularly fitted to tell the Pope what Poland was enduring. He had an uncle in Rome, a younger brother of his father, created a cardinal during the pontificate of Pius the Tenth. So he could gain the Pope's ear far more easily than many other people. Rome, he argued, had no more faithful children than the Poles, who have suffered much persecution for their faith. And it was high time the Holy Father knew the truth about the Germans. He, Ian, would tell him. Yes; he could serve his country's cause, and the Allies' just as well in Rome as in Colonel Platov's regiment. Rome would be a good place for his mother to live in. If he joined the army she would have to stop in Russia, to be near him. In Rome, they could all live quietly and comfortable together--he, Vanda, his mother. After all, it was fair to them to look after them; and his mother had only him now. And the Allies had millions of men. Russia wanted guns, which he could not make, and organization, which he could not give her.

He reached the house of a priest he knew and very few words sufficed to tell him what had happened; then they hastened back together.

They buried Joseph in a field set apart as a cemetery in connection with the cholera tent. Ian gave the priest money and instructions for a Cross to be put over the grave. Then he sought the nurse. On hearing who he was she took him to a clerk, who gave him the things they had found in Joseph's pockets: a photograph of Vanda, a packet of her letters, and some money. When it was all over and he had parted from the priest he made his way back to the station. It was nearly ten o'clock. He found that the horse-dealer was right after all. A train, the last one, stood ready to start for Warsaw. The inside was packed with wounded men, the roof with refugees, some of whom were wounded, too. He heard Ostap's voice calling for him and shouted back that he was coming.

"Be quick!" he shouted. "We're on the roof. Third coach from the engine. It's all we can do to keep sitting room for you. Climb up, for these Jews are great pushers."

"Where are my peasants?"

"Here, thank God!" said a voice.

"All?"

"All. Safe and sound. Get up, my Lord Count, for the train is starting already."

Ian clambered up and squeezed himself in between the blacksmith and Ostap, who indignantly asked where he had been hiding.

"We searched high and low. If not for this blacksmith, who sat as broad as he could, we'd never have been able to keep your place." He did not tell them where he had been. Heart and head were filled with new emotions, and a new struggle. The idea of going to Rome fascinated him. He found so much in its favor, so little to say against it. Only that Cossack colonel would ever know he had drawn back. None shared his plans. And the soldier would forget him.

He was no longer the man who urged Platov to take him at the beginning of the war; then, he could not realize the love that had grown with each month of strife and anxiety, till it now overwhelmed every other feeling. Destiny led him to the tent wherein he found a promise of happiness. And a loud voice within cried not to give it up.

It was an endless journey and very uncomfortable. They were perpetually stopping to make way for other trains, filled with troops, whole and wounded. From time to time some of the little party got down to stretch their legs, one keeping the place for another with that ready comradeship which war's vicissitudes breed between men of vastly different race and caste. Jew elbowed Gentile; patrician drank with outcast in their flight before the stupendous Hun. It seemed to Ian that all the trains in Russia passed them; troops in open trucks, who made an infernal noise with their _balalaikas_ and their voices. He wondered sadly that they could abandon Poland to her fate with such light hearts ... and then remembered that they were Russians, brave as lions, but mentally children yet; so the direction in which they traveled was no affair of theirs.

He thought of his ruined home and the many other ruined homes they passed and wondered where their late owners were, that cool, starry night. Some, he knew, lay quiet and still by the wayside, for he had seen such in his flight. Some, like Father Constantine, had found rest in a soldier's graveyard before friends left them, to seek a new life in exile. And, as his memory dwelt on the last year, as he passed farm after farm alight with the fires of destruction, the weakness born of the sudden knowledge that Vanda was free left him. He knew he could not go to Rome; knew he would not have a quiet hour if he chose the easier road; that every devastated home, every orphan in his native land would ring a terrible chorus of reproach into his soul. Roman's words of that evening at the "_Oaza_," came back:

"There is no love without sacrifice."

How little he had known of love then; how much now! He wondered at the craven Ian who had planned a safe journey to Rome whilst his native land was bleeding. There was nothing for him but to fight. Oh, he would marry Vanda, and perhaps live through the war. Then they would return to a free Poland and a free Ruvno, to build and plant afresh for their children, freed from bondage and all persecution. In the trenches, on the battlefield, he would have that lodestar. Now, he knew not how he ever could have imagined the war without himself in it.

These thoughts ran through his mind, accompanied by visions of burning houses, huddled, hungry refugees, suffering, struggling humanity. Through all was the joy of knowing Vanda would be his--and over all came Ostap's voice as he held forth to others on the roof.

"Yes; we spit upon life. So we shall win, in the end. And our children will be freed."

And the Cossack's words gave him comfort.

THE END