Chapter XV

Towards dawn a shell fell near the house. It was followed by another, and yet another, but these were nearer the village. Ian went out, to try and see if he ought to send his household into the cellars. At the front door he found von Senborn, struggling with complicated locks and bolts. He said he was going out to reconnoiter. Ian let him go alone, having no wish for his company. He knew that the Russians were in telephone communication with Lipniki at any rate, if not with the more distant centers they had occupied during the last few days.

As the sun rose and the household began to stir, Martin, the faithful old butler, being first on the scene, a couple of maids following, von Senborn came back. He took no notice of Ian except to ask where the baron's window was. It happened to be over the spot where they stood. Von Senborn aroused his friend with a shout. In the fullness of time a shock-head appeared at the window.

"Come down," von Senborn cried in his native tongue. "The Russians have made a stand."

"Where?" asked the baron sleepily.

"God knows. They are shelling Lipniki like the devil. Our losses are already heavy. I'm going back to the telephone."

He strode off. The shock-head disappeared. Ian went to his bath; and the whole village soon knew that the Germans in Lipniki were having a very bad time of it, whilst their friends in Ruvno were breaking their heads to know what to make out of the Russian awakening. Where had those fools found ammunition? Where were they firing from? Who was spying for them? There were no Russian aeroplanes about, yet the news from Lipniki grew worse and worse.

This development made the Prussians very sullen, but the household could barely hide their joy. Later on, news came in that the Russians, retreating beyond Kosczielna, had found more ammunition and were using it with good effect. Firing seemed pretty near all that day. Ian and the others hoped it would send these men off to help their friends; but not a bit of it. More Prussians came up and settled themselves just outside the village. The house was full of officers, and it was worth something to see their disappointment when they found out that all the wine had been drunk, all the lace looted and all the plate sent to Moscow.

As a matter of fact, this new phase was Ruvno's undoing. If the Russians had not been firing on Lipniki it would probably have escaped the worst of its troubles. As it was, von Senborn worked his vengeance upon the innocent household.

On the second day von Senborn sent for Ian just as he was going out to the fields. The squire found him and a couple more standing on that hillock where the pine copse used to be and where Ian had spent many nights at the beginning of the war, watching the shells hit his property. The trees went months ago, opening up a very good view of the neighborhood country, denuded of timber. Indeed, the war had now taken every good tree Ruvno ever possessed. They were using their field-glasses as he joined them; he could see they were upset.

"Count," von Senborn began, "there must be a Russian observatory in the neighborhood, between this and Kosczielna, or even here, within reach of the Russian retreating army. It is either a tower or other elevated building, or else an underground one. It might be hidden in such a place as this." He stamped his foot on the ground. "Where is it?"

"There are no towers left in the neighborhood, except that belonging to the village church. As to an underground observatory, I never heard of one in the neighborhood, which is fiat as a pancake," he returned.

Von Senborn gave him one of his arrogant looks, which Ian returned with interest.

"Your escape from shooting is so recent that I need hardly remind you it would be better to tell the truth at once," said the Prussian.

"Life, bad as it is, is too dear to me for me to run needless risks," retorted the other. "If you don't believe me, I can't help it."

He only seemed half convinced, but walked off. Ian did not go to the fields, but hung about to watch them. They evidently suspected that he, or somebody on his land was signaling to the Russians. They searched every inch of the hillock for a possible inlet to a hidden observatory and then inspected the house and outbuildings from top to bottom, turning over hay and straw till Ian heartily wished them all at the devil. After that they tried the village. He saw some of them on the church tower from, where he had signaled for help last winter with Minnie and Martin to help, on the night his stores were looted....

A feeling of intense anxiety came over him, as if instinct was foretelling fresh disaster more terrible than anything which had yet fallen. The firing from the Russians went on and he could see von Senborn and his fellow officers were not only disturbed but very suspicious. By the way Kosczielna lay it was clear that the Russians, retreating on Warsaw, could easily shell it if their fire was directed by anybody on a high spot in Ruvno, since on the level it was above all the other villages by a hundred feet. They questioned every man, woman and child in the village, trying to find out if there was some vantage ground from which the Russians could have their attack directed. Ian kept as far away from von Senborn and his friends as he could, not wanting him to think he spied on their movements. The experience of the day before had taught him a lesson. All the same, he was determined to follow their movements as far as possible, if only to be on his guard; and he managed it fairly well, for some of them were always coming and going between the house and the village, where they had put up a telephone with their friends at Kosczielna. These were having a bad time of it and had lost heavily. Before long he heard one trooper say to another who was watering horses:

"We'll have work again soon. All ours in that place near by have been put out of action."

"Liar," said the man's comrade, with that courtesy so characteristic of the race.

"True as gospel. I was by the major when the news came. He's mad, too."

"What's going to happen?" said the man at the trough.

"We're falling back from that place."

"What place, idiot?"

"That begins with a kay and ends in a curse."

The man was evidently right, for a lull came now as though the retreating force had completed its tasks in Kosczielna. The day wore on. The women, though obsessed with the same sense of coming disaster, bore up splendidly. But at about four in the afternoon, when the firing began again and two shells burst, one on the site of the windmill, the other at the end of the village, where Szmul used to live, Ian sent them and the women and children from the village into the cellars.

The Russians stopped firing at six o'clock and the women came up from the cellars. The little family had supper in the dining-room as quietly as in times of peace. None of the Prussians came to table. They had just received a supply of fresh provisions by motor-lorry and sent the Countess some, with a message that there was beer too, if she liked. They refused the beer, but ate the food. They could not afford to be proud, for supplies, except for cereals, had quite given out. Being cut off from Russia, the land of plenty, and the refugees they had fed, put them in this unenviable position. There was no chance of buying things in the neighborhood, as bare of supplies as if it had seen ten years' war. Vanda, noticing that her aunt had no appetite, laughingly remarked that she had better eat a good meal, for who knew where the next would come from. Little did they think how true her jest would prove to be.

They had finished and were sitting out in the ruins of the rose garden when the firing suddenly began again and so violently that Ian insisted upon the women taking to the cellar. Then he ran to the sacristy, calling to Father Constantine to keep under the broad archway leading from the chapel. He heard an answering voice, no more. He wanted to see what was happening with the Germans, so ran to the hillock, which seemed safe so far. Indeed, all the firing was on the other side, towards the village.

This new attack made fearful havoc amongst the Prussians who had taken up their quarters beyond the church. They had been making merry over the beer when it began, and though not a shell dropped within five hundred yards of the house the human target was hit so well that even to Ian's civilian eyes it was clear that the Russians knew exactly where to aim. The earth didn't shake; it rocked; beasts and men were belched up in an eruption of earth and smoke, to come down again in pieces. Those who could got away and began running towards the house; but they must have left three-fourths of their force behind, literally blown to bits.

Von Senborn, who happened to be near the house when the attack began, was saved. But Ian could not help admiring the way the surviving officers rallied their handful of men and brought them up from the village. Even as they made for the cover of trenches in the garden the shells had them. Then, either because their ammunition had run out or else because their mysterious signaler could not work in the dusk--for night was falling--there was sudden calm. Ian sighed to think what destruction the Russians could work if only they had enough guns and gun-fodder. Oh, the pity of it.

When things had quieted down, von Senborn turned to his men.

"We are going to blow up that church tower," he said, wiping the sweat from his face.

A haggard subaltern explained that they had already searched every nook and corner of tower and church several times.

"We'll blow it up," he repeated. Then he turned to Ian, every muscle of his face drawn with nervous tension, his voice hoarse as a crow's.

"Hark ye, Count. If I find that signaler I'll hold you responsible."

"As for those two Cossacks," he retorted. The Prussian muttered something inaudible and turned on his heel.

Ian followed them down to the church. It stood a little aloof from the village, nearest the house, yet almost half-way between the two. It had not suffered from the day's bombardment any more than the house. The scene of horror where the Russian shells had done their work was beyond description. Though by now fairly hardened to the abominations of war, the things Ian saw and heard through the twilight of that summer evening made him very sick. The surviving Germans were too busy looking for the signaler to worry about the wounded who howled, groaned and shouted with pain. It was a pandemonium of anguish. One man, mutilated beyond all semblance of God's image, implored him to end his misery ... as Ian stood there hesitating a trooper shot him.

"He was my good friend," he explained, and burst into tears. But he soon controlled himself and a few minutes later Ian saw him carrying out von Senborn's orders, apparently unmoved by his ordeal. Indeed, again he could not help admiring these brutes when it came to the pure fighting part of their work. It was in the intervals and with the unarmed that they were so cowardly, such bullies. Once it was a question of fight they bungled nothing and left nothing to chance. Perhaps their passion for perfection in detail made them doubly furious at the trick a handful of Russians who had found some ammunition played on them that evening. Von Senborn was determined to solve the mystery.

"We must not blow the tower to bits," Ian heard him say to the haggard subaltern. "We must do the work in such a way that we make a rift in the tower and can explore it ourselves." Then, aloud to his men: "Now, you are going to avenge your dead comrades."

They were willing enough, but found they must go to fetch some explosives which they had stored near the house. It took them some few minutes to get there. The time seemed very long to Ian, listening to and watching that human charnel house near by. He wanted to get home, away from it all. Yet some mysterious force kept him there. Later, he thanked God for it....

Once more, Russian wit was to forestall Teutonic thoroughness. Before the men told off to the stores got back a shell whizzed past, struck the tower at a tangent. Ian was thrown to the ground and half buried. It took him some time to get clear. Sore, dazed, yet alive and with, apparently, no bones broken, he managed to regain his feet. Then he sat down, for his legs were like cotton wool.

The moon was rising now and lit up a hundred details of the desolation around. He could see von Senborn, sitting down, holding his head and swearing. Several dead bodies were near that had not been there before. Other men were perched on what seemed a hillock, born out of nothing since that shell burst. They were very excited, and he languidly wondered what they found to be excited about, when he felt so indifferent. He heard them quite plainly, without wanting to.

"It's a captain," said one.

"And an engineer," put in another.

"No--a sapper. Look at his collar."

"Look at this," cried somebody else, and the tone of his voice made Ian look, too. He was holding up a Russian drinking bottle.

"And food--look--a loaf of black bread. _Gott in Himmel_, he was a tough one."

Von Senborn stopped swearing and asked Ian if he was alive.

"Yes," he answered.

"Then go and see what they've got there. I can't move till I've had something," he groaned loudly.

"Can't I help you?"

"Only that." And he lay back, yelling for the surgeon.

Ian went up to what he had supposed was a hillock and found it to be a heap of stones and debris--the remains of the church tower. Only the top part had fallen; the rest loomed up, jagged and broken.

Several of the Germans squatted round a body, so limp that every bone of it must have been smashed.

"A Russian, sir," said the man who held the water-bottle. "He fell with the tower."

They rifled the dead man's pockets, turning over his broken body with as scant care as if it had been a lump of beef. They contained little; an old man's photograph; one of a girl with a broad face and small eyes, and a slip of paper. Nothing more.

Von Senborn joined them, staggering but alert. He took the slip of paper and glanced at it by the light of an electric torch. Then he handed it to the haggard subaltern.

"Russian. Read it."

The boy took the slip and pored over it for some minutes, either because the torch burnt dull or because he had not much knowledge of the language. They had left the body, which lay in shadow. Ian looked at that young, tired face without recognizing in it any of the sappers who were in Ruvno during the Russian retreat. Later on, he heard from a peasant that the Russians, when last in Ruvno, kept everybody away from the church and that at night they made noises, as with picks and spades.

"Go on," urged von Senborn impatiently. "I thought you spoke Russian like a native."

"It is hastily written," explained the other. "And therefore indistinct. But I think I have the meaning now."

"Well, for Hell's sake let me have it, too."

"You cannot take me alive," he read in his hard North German. "I have chosen how I shall die. When I have written this I mean to signal to my friends to shell the tower, before your men come back to mine it. And we, too, shall return, driving you to the very streets of Berlin. And Europe's wrongs shall be avenged. We Russians are slow; but neither stupid nor discouraged, as you pretend." He stopped and looked up.

"That all?" asked von Senborn.

"All." He returned the paper to his superior.

"_Ja, ja,_" said a voice. "I see it now. He had himself bricked up in that tower, to signal and cover the retreat. He was no coward."

Nobody spoke. The incident had impressed them all. The man who gets himself bricked up with enough food to last till he is found out, is a hero. Von Senborn, having his head seen to by a surgeon, talked it over. Ian kept in the shadow, not wanting to be seen. Dazed though he felt from the last shell, he knew that this discovery would spring back upon him and his dear ones.

"How did he signal?" the surgeon asked.

"God knows."

"That Polish Count knew of this," murmured the haggard lieutenant, little thinking Ian was within earshot.

"Yes," said von Senborn savagely. "I'll swear to that. But I'll be even with him. Be quick, Surgeon, there's work to do yet."

"Serve him right to shoot him after all," put in the surgeon. Von Senborn laughed angrily.

"Shooting's too good." He lowered his voice. Strain his ears as he might, Ian only caught two words. But they were enough. He waited to hear no more.

He ran as fast as sore legs would carry him up to the house. Outside, not a soul. All the women and children, besides several men, were in the cellars.

"Get out at once," he shouted. "Run as hard as you can, along the Warsaw road."

"What is the matter?" asked the Countess.

"A Russian bricked up in the church tower. They are coming to blow us up, shutting you in first. Run as far from the house as possible."

When he saw them on their way he left them, then ran for an ax and made for the sacristy. There was no guard now, all the Germans being down by the church and village. He soon had the door in, to find Father Constantine walking up and down, saying his prayers. Ian hastily said what had happened and urged him to join the others on the Warsaw road. But the old man was in no hurry.

"They may not do it," he said. "I expect they'll go to sleep and wake up in a better mood."

"If you don't go I'll carry you," cried the squire angrily. "And that will prevent me warning the people hanging about."

Then he dragged his chaplain from the room. But the priest insisted on taking a little malachite crucifix which hung over the cupboard. It was the only thing they saved out of all Ruvno's beautiful things.

Then Ian warned as many of the peasants as he could find, though the shelling had already frightened most of them out of the village and on to the road. Baranski, whom he met, helped him.

Terrible was the confusion and alarm that followed, the calling of mothers to children, the cries of frightened babies, the curses of old men. Every second of that awful night was burnt in Ian's brain; he did not forget it whilst he lived. In quite a short time the Warsaw road was filled with panic-stricken peasants. Some of them had snatched up a table, a chair, a kettle or a pillow. Those who had any left panted along with a sack of potatoes or buckwheat. A few were fortunate enough to possess a horse. He tried to get a couple of his--farm horses were all he had left--but the Germans were around the yard before he could get back. So quick were they that he had not time to take a thing for the women. The peasants, being nearer the road, were more fortunate in this way. Even as Ian left the village he could see soldiers hovering round the house, evidently shutting the doors, lest their victims escape! A wounded Prussian cursed him and Baranski as they hustled some children on to the highway.

"You'll starve and die on the way," he shouted. "Decent Germans, not Polish swine, will have this place."

His words ended in a yell. Ian did not look round, but Baranski silenced him with a stick.

"He won't people Ruvno, thank God," he cried.

They took the road, destitute as any of those hordes they had pitied and tried to succor during the terrible days of the Russian retreat.

Near where the windmill used to be Ian found his mother, Vanda, Minnie, the Father and all those who had been in the cellar. Here he rallied his people, giving the backward ones time to get up. But many laggards were yet to come when the earth rocked under them; there was a dull rumbling in its bowels.

"Mother of God!" shrieked somebody. They all looked towards the house....

Ruvno, their home for centuries, where every stone was a friend, rose towards the moonlit sky in a volcano of smoke, flame and rubbish.

Courage failed Ian. He fell down in the road and sobbed like a child.