Old Matthew straight discerned his foeman’s skill,
And with his left hand placed his spectacles
Upon his nose, the right against his breast
Sustained the handle of the Rod; he drew
Back, the Gefreiter’s motions with his eyes
Pursuing. He himself upon his legs
Went sloping, as though drunken. The Gefreiter
More quickly runs, and sure of victory,
To reach the easier his retreating foe,
He rose, and all his right arm far outstretched,
The rifle forward pushing, so he made
Himself the stronger by the force of pushing,
And weapon’s weight, until he forward bent.
And Matthew thither, where the bayonet
He saw inserted in the barrel, placed
His Rod beneath, and upwards smote the weapon;
Then dropping presently his Rod, he slashed
The Russian on the hand; once, and again
With backward stroke he cleft in twain his jaw.
Thus the Gefreiter fell, chief fencing-master
Among the Muscovites, and cavalier
With crosses three, and medals four. Meanwhile,
Around the stocks the nobles’ left-hand wing
Already were near victory. There fought
The Sprinkler, seen from far, the Razor moved
Among the Muscovites; one cut them through
The middle of the body, on the head
The other smote them, like to that machine
Which German masters have invented, called
A thrasher; but it is at the same time
A straw-cutter, possessing flails and knives,
It chops up straw and beats out grain at once.
Thus do the Sprinkler and the Baptist work
In common, slaying foes, one from above,
And from below the other. But the Baptist
Now casts aside his certain victory.
He rushes to the left wing, where fresh danger
Is threatening Matthew. The Gefreiter’s death
Avenging, with a long spontoon comes on
An ensign. A spontoon at once is spear
And axe, neglected, or only used
On board the fleet; but at that time it served
The infantry. The ensign, a young man,
Moved round with skill; oft as his foeman thrust
Aside his weapon, back he drew, and Matthew
Could not the young man overtake, and thus,
Or wounding or not wounding, he must fain
Defend himself. Now with the pike the ensign
Had given him a light wound; now on high
His battle-axe upraising, he prepared
To deal the blow. The Baptist could not run
Up to the spot, but stood half-way and whirled
His weapon round, and underneath the feet
He threw it of the foe. He broke a bone;
The spontoon from his hand the ensign dropped;
He tottered; on him falls the Baptist; him
A crowd of nobles follow, and upon
The nobles rush the Muscovites confused
From the left wing. War now began around
The Sprinkler. For the Baptist, who in helping
Matthew had lost his sword, well-nigh had paid
This service with his own life. For on him
There fell two powerful Russians from behind,
And all at once the fourfold hands were tangled
Among his hair; fast planted on their feet,
They pulled as tight as springy ropes, fast bound
Unto a barge’s mast. In vain the Baptist
Dealt blind strokes backwards; he was failing fast.
But presently he saw that near to him
Gervasy combated; he shouted loud,
“Jesus, Maria! Penknife!” By the shout
Knowing the Baptist’s trouble, turned the Klucznik,
And the blade lowered of the flexile steel,
Between the Baptist’s head and Russians’ hands.
They drew back, uttering loudly piercing cries.
But one hand, stronger tangled in the hair,
Remained there hanging, dripping streams of blood.
Thus a young eagle, who has struck one claw
Into a hare to hold the quarry fast
While clinging with the other to a tree,
Struggling to liberate himself, half tears
In twain the spreading eagle; in the wood
Remains the right claw, but the left, all bleeding,
Is borne off by the hare into the plains.
The Baptist being free, turns round his eyes,
Stretches his hands, and for a weapon seeks,
Calls for a weapon. Meanwhile with his fist
He threatens, standing strong in act to walk,
Himself protecting by Gervasy’s side,
Till in the crush he views his son the Bustard.
The Bustard with his right hand points his gun,
The left behind him drags a six-foot tree,
All armed with flints, and knobs, and hardened knots,230
No hand could lift it but the Baptist’s own.
Soon as his well-loved arm the Baptist viewed,
His Sprinkler, swift he seized it, kissed it, sprang
With joy; he whirled it round his head, at once
In blood imbrued. What deeds he after did,
Or what defeat around him spread, ’twere vain
To sing; for none would credit give the Muse,
As none to that poor woman credit gave,
In Wilna, who, while standing on the height
Above the Ostra gate, beheld how Dejow,
The Russian leader, with a Cossack regiment
Entering, already open forced the gate;
And now one burgher, Czarnobacki named,
Slew Dejow, and annihilated all
The Cossack regiment.231 ’Tis enough that thus
It happened even as Rykow had foreseen;
The Jägers in the crowd succumbed unto
The strength of their antagonists. On earth
Of slain lay twenty-three; some thirty groaned
With wounds all covered; many fled and hid
Within the orchard, ’mid the hops, beside
The river; some into the house had rushed
Beneath the vantage of the women there.
With shout of joy the conquering nobles rushed—
These to the wine-casks, these to strip the spoils
From off their foes. Robak alone did not
The triumphs of the nobles share; though he
Himself had fought not hitherto the canons
Forbid a priest to fight—he as a man
Of great experience gave counsels, viewed
The field of battle round from different sides;
With glance, with beckoning of hand, he gave
Fresh courage to the combatants, and guided
Their movements. And he now unto them called
To join themselves to him, to strike on Rykow,
To make the victory complete. Meanwhile
He through an envoy signified to Rykow,
That if he would lay down his arms he should
Preserve his life; but if he still delay
To give his sword up, Robak will command
To hem the remnant in, and cut them down.
In no wise Captain Rykow quarter asked.
The half-battalion gathering round himself,
He cried, “Make ready!” Presently the file
Their rifles grasped, the weapons crashed, but they
Were loaded long before. He cried, “Present!”
In long file gleamed the guns; he cried out, “Fire
In turn!” one after other thundered loud.
While one takes aim, one loads, another grasps
The rifle in his hand. Resounds the hiss
Of bullets, click of locks, the ramrod’s crash;
The whole file like a moving reptile seems,
A thousand glittering feet together moving.
’Tis true that all the
