“And when they have won will they remember?” asked one of the two smaller men, throwing a brown and leathery crust into the river.
“If they are given anything worth remembering they will not forget it. You may rely on that. They know what each gives—whether freely or with a niggard hand—and each shall be paid back in his own coin. They give freely enough themselves. It is always so with the aristocrats; but they expect an equal generosity in others, which is only right!”
The men sat in a row facing the slow river. They were toil-worn and stained; their clothing was in rags. But beneath their sandy hair more than one pair of eyes gleamed from time to time with a sudden anger, with an intelligence made for higher things than spade and oar. As they sat there they were like the notes of a piano, and Kosmaroff played the instrument with a sure touch that brought the fullest vibration out of each chord. He was a born leader; an organizer not untouched perchance by that light of genius which enables some to organize the souls of men.
Nor was he only a man of words, as so many patriots are. He was that dangerous product, a Pole born in Siberia. He had served in a Cossack regiment. The son of convict No. 2704, he was the mere offspring of a number—a thing not worth accounting. In his regiment no one noticed him much, and none cared when he disappeared from it. And now here he was back in Poland, with a Russian name for daily use and another name hidden in his heart that had blazed all over Poland once. Here he was, a raftsman plying between Krakow and Warsaw, those two hotbeds of Polish patriotism—a mere piece of human driftwood on the river. He had made the usual grand tour of Russia’s deadliest enemies. He had been to Siberia and Paris and London. He might have lived abroad, as he said, in the sunshine; but he preferred Poland and its gray skies, manual labor, and the bread that tastes of dampness. For he believed that a kingdom which stood in the forefront for eight centuries cannot die. There are others who cherish the same belief.
“This time,” he went on, after a pause, “I have news for you. We are a little nearer. It is our object to be ready, and then to wait patiently until some event in Europe gives us our opportunity. Last time they acted at the wrong moment. This time we shall not do that, but we shall nevertheless act with decision when the moment arrives. We are a step nearer to readiness, and we owe it to Prince Martin Bukaty again. He is never slow to put his head in the noose, and laughs with the rope around his neck. And he has succeeded again, for he has the luck. We have five thousand rifles in Poland—”
He paused and looked down the line of grimy faces, noting that some lighted up and others drooped. The fat little man with the beady eyes blinked as he stared resolutely across the river.
“In Warsaw!” he added, significantly. “So, if there are any who think that the cause is a dead one, they had better say so now—and take the consequences.” He concluded rather grimly, with his one-sided smile.
No one seemed disposed to avail himself of this invitation.
“And there is ammunition enough,” continued Kosmaroff, “to close the account of every Muscovite in Warsaw!”
His voice vibrated as he spoke, with the cold and steady hatred of the conquered; but on his face there only rested the twisted smile.
“I tell you this,” he went on, “because I am likely to go to Krakow before long, and so that you may know what is expected of you. Certain events may be taken beforehand as a sure signal for assembly—such as the death of either emperor, of the King of Prussia, or of Bismarck, the declaration of war by any of the great powers. There is always something seething on the Indian frontier, and one day the English will awake. The Warsaw papers will not have the news; but the Czas and the other Krakow journals will tell you soon enough, and you can all see the Galician papers when you want to, despite their censors and their police!”
A contemptuous laugh from the fat man confirmed this statement. This was his department. In many men cunning takes the place of courage.
At this moment the steam-whistle of the ironworks farther up the river boomed out across the plain. The bells of the city churches broke out into a clanging unanimity as to the time of day, and all the workers stirred reluctantly. The dinner-hour was over.
Kosmaroff rose to his feet and stretched himself—a long, lithe, wiry figure.
“Come,” he said. “We must go back to work.”
He glanced from face to face, and any looking with understanding at his narrow countenance, his steady, dark eyes, and clean-cut nose must have realized that they stood in the presence of that rare and indefinable creation—a strong man.
X
A Warning
It is a matter of history that the division of Poland into three saved many families from complete ruin. For some suffered confiscation in the kingdom of Poland and saved their property in Galicia; others, again in Posen had estates in Masovia, which even Russian justice could not lay hands upon—that gay justice of , which declared that, in protesting against the want of faith of their conquerors, the Poles had broken faith. The Austrian government had sympathized with the discontent of those Poles who had fallen under Russian sway, while in Breslau it
