“Yes. ’Tis settled between me and Gregory and the others. And when he returns, we shall set the village in order, with him at our head. Ye shall see.”
“It is high time. Things here are getting loose, as a wheel when the linchpin has dropped off.”
They were now at the hut, where several people had already gathered in the porch—somewhat under a score of farmers ready to start, along with the best of the farmhands. Yet (as previously, and for the forest expedition) all the villagers had declared that they would go … to a man!
“Our Voyt ought to come with us,” someone observed, stripping the bark off a stick.
“The Head Official,” another answered, “has summoned him to the District Office; and the scrivener says he will be ordered to call a meeting and get a school voted by Lipka and Modlitsa.”
“He may call a meeting, but we’ll vote no school!” laughed Klemba.
“We should have at once so much more per acre to pay in taxes. Just as in Vola.”
“Surely,” the Soltys admitted; “but when the Head Official gives an order, we have to obey.”
“What orders have we to take from him? Let him order his gendarmes not to join with the thieves to rob us!”
“Gregory, you are growing saucy,” said the Soltys severely. “Men’s tongues have ere now taken them farther away than they wished to go!”
“Ye shall not put me down. I know our rights, and fear no Head Official. Only you poor ignorant sheep shake from head to foot before every Jack in office.”
He spoke so loud that they were shocked at his rashness, and more than one felt his flesh creep. Klemba went on to say:
“But truly, such a school is of no use to us! For two years my boy Adam went to the school in Vola. The teacher got three bushels of potatoes a year from me, and eggs and butter from my wife besides at Yuletide and Easter. And what has come of it all? He can neither read a Polish prayerbook nor say his A.B.C. in Russian! Whereas my younger ones, whom Roch taught last winter, can both make out writing, and read the books our gentry read.”
“Then,” said Gregory, “let us engage Roch to teach our children.”
Here the Soltys stepped a little aside from the group, and said, lowering his voice:
“Roch would be the best, I know, and he has taught my boys; but it cannot be. The police have found out something, and they are on his trail. The Superintendent saw me in the office, and inquired diligently about him—said he was sure that Roch taught the children, and distributed Polish books and newspapers to the folk.—We must tell him to take good heed.”
“That’s a bad business,” said old Ploshka. “He’s a good religious man; but the whole village may come to great harm through him. … Yes, measures must be taken—and quickly.”
“What, man!” said Gregory in an indignant whisper; “are ye such a coward as to think of betraying him?”
“Should he stir up the people against the Government to the destruction of us all, we ought all to do so. You are young; but I recollect well what took place in the war of the gentry, and how we peasants were cudgelled formerly for the least thing we did. With them we have naught in common.”
“Ah, ye would fain become Voyt! And ye are no more good than a boot with a hole in it!”
They said no more, for Roch then came out of the cabin, looked round at the people, crossed himself, and cried:
“It is time!—On, in the name of the Lord!”
He stepped forward, and behind him surged the mass of peasants in the middle of the road, with a few women and children after them.
The heat of the day was over, the bells were just pealing for Vespers, and the sun was rolling forestward. It was fine bright weather, and the skyline showed so clear that the remotest villages were made out distinctly.
To keep up their spirits, some of the men were striking the ground with their oaken cudgels; some spat in their palms, and put on an indomitable mien as they marched along.
The women went no farther than the mill, while the men went on slowly up the slope, their feet raising puffs of dust.
They trudged on in silence, with proud hard faces and eyes glittering defiantly.
Their ranks moved as solemnly as in a procession, and if anyone began talking, the stern looks of the others silenced him soon. It was no time for conversation then: each man withdrew within himself to find courage and strength there for what was coming.
At the cross and the village landmarks they stopped awhile to rest. But they were still silent, gazing out upon the landscape: on the huts of Lipka, scarce visible amongst their orchards; on the gilt cupola of the village church; on the vast expanse of green, green fields. And, as they listened to the shepherds’ pipes playing far away and drank in the sweet peace and joy of springtime all around, many of them felt a dull sinking of heart, and looked out towards Podlesie with painful misgivings.
“Come!” Roch cried to stir them up; “we are not here to trifle the time away!” For he saw in his men clear signs of weakening resolve.
They turned and made straight for the farm-buildings. Their way led them through lands overgrown with weeds, miserable rye-fields, blue with cornflowers, patches of late-sown oats, all yellow with flowers of gold, land where the thin wheat crop was quite scarlet with wild poppies, and plots where the potatoes were hardly above ground yet. Gross carelessness and neglect were seen at every step.
“A Jew could not have tilled the land worse! It is an eyesore!” growled one of the men.
“The worst farmhand would have done better work.”
“This one, though a great owner, has had no respect for the sacred land which is his!”
“No, he treats it as one that only milks and
