In those hours there was not a moment of rest nor cessation; breasts half-suffocated with smoke, every moment new flocks of cannonballs; and amid the confusion shrill voices in various parts of the fortress, the church, and the cloister, were crying—
“It is on fire! water, water!”
“To the roof with barefooted men! more cloth!”
“Aim the cannon higher!—higher!—aim at the centre of the buildings—fire!”
About noon the work of death increased still more. It might seem that, if the smoke were to roll away, the Swedes would see only a pile of balls and bombs in place of the cloister. A cloud of lime, struck from the walls by the cannon, rose up, and mingling with the smoke, hid the light. Priests went out with relics to exorcise these clouds, lest they might hinder defence. The thunders of cannon were interrupted, but were as frequent as the breath gulps of a panting dragon.
Suddenly on a tower, newly built after a fire of the previous year, trumpets began to sound forth the glorious music of a church hymn. That music flowed down through the air and was heard round about, was heard everywhere, as far as the batteries of the Swedes. The sound of the trumpets was accompanied by the voices of people, and amidst the bellowing and whistling, amidst the shouts, the rattle and thunder of muskets, were heard the words—
“Mother of God, Virgin,
Glorified by God Mary!”
Here a number of bombs burst; the cracking of rafters and beams, and then the shout: “Water!” struck the ear, and again the song flowed on in calmness.
“From Thy Son the Lord
Send down to us, win for us,
A time of bread, a time of plenty.”
Kmita, who was standing on the wall at the cannon, opposite the village of Chenstohova, in which Miller’s quarters were, and whence the greatest fire came, pushed away a less accurate cannoneer to begin work himself; and worked so well that soon, though it was in and the day cold, he threw off his fox-skin coat, threw off his vest, and toiled in his trousers and shirt.
The hearts grew in people unacquainted with war, at sight of this soldier blood and bone, to whom all that was passing—that bellowing of cannon, those flocks of balls, that destruction and death—seemed as ordinary an element as fire to a salamander.
His brow was wrinkled, there was fire in his eyes, a flush on his cheeks, and a species of wild joy in his face. Every moment he bent to the cannon, altogether occupied with the aiming, altogether given to the battle, thinking of naught else; he aimed, lowered, raised, at last cried, “Fire!” and when Soroka touched the match, he ran to the opening and called out from time to time—
“One by the side of the other!”
His eagle eyes penetrated through smoke and dust, and when among the buildings he saw somewhere a dense mass of caps or helmets, straightway he crushed it with an accurate shot, as if with a thunderbolt. At times he burst out into laughter when he had caused greater or less destruction. The balls flew over him and at his side—he did not look at anything; suddenly, after a shot he sprang to the opening, fixed his eyes in the distance, and cried—
“The gun is dismounted! Only three pieces are playing there now!”
He did not rest until midday. Sweat was pouring from him, his shirt was steaming; his face was blackened with soot, and his eyes glittering. Pyotr Charnyetski himself wondered at his aim, and said to him repeatedly—
“War is nothing new to you; that is clear at a glance. Where have you learned it so well?”
At three o’clock in the afternoon a second Swedish gun was silent, dismounted by Kmita’s accurate aim. They drew out the remaining guns from the intrenchments about an hour later. Evidently the Swedes saw that the position was untenable.
Kmita drew a deep breath.
“Rest!” said Charnyetski to him.
“Well! I wish to eat something. Soroka, give me what you have at hand.”
The old sergeant bestirred himself quickly. He brought some gorailka in a tin cup and some dried fish. Kmita began to eat eagerly, raising his eyes from time to time and looking at the bombs flying over at no great distance, just as if he were looking at crows. But still they flew in considerable number, not from Chenstohova, but from the opposite side; namely, all those which passed over the cloister and the church.
“They have poor gunners, they point too high,” said Pan Andrei, without ceasing to eat; “see, they all go over us, and they are aimed at us.”
A young monk heard these words—a boy of seventeen years, who had just entered his novitiate. He was the first always to bring balls for loading, and he did not leave his place though every vein in him was trembling from fear, for he saw war for the first time. Kmita made an indescribable impression on him by his calmness, and hearing his words he took refuge near him with an involuntary movement as if wishing to seek protection and safety under the wings of that strength.
“Can they reach us from that side?” asked he.
“Why not?” answered Kmita. “And why, my dear brother, are you afraid?”
“I thought,” answered the trembling youth, “that war was terrible; but I did not think it was so terrible.”
“Not every bullet kills, or there would not be men in the world, there would not be mothers enough to give birth to them.”
“I have the greatest fear of those fiery balls, those bombs. Why do they burst with such noise? Mother of God, save us! and they wound people so terribly.”
“I will explain to you, and you will discover by experience, young father. That ball is iron,
