Chapter XXII: The Surrender

It seemed perfectly natural that the first face to meet my waking senses should be that of Mecsey Sandor.

I was lying on a bed in a little room, rather bare of furniture, but scrupulously clean, and my trusty servant stood looking at me.

On seeing my open eyes, he placed himself at attention, made a rigid military salute, and said with all seriousness, "I am sorry to report, Captain Botskay, that the Russian officer left in my charge has been rescued by his friends."

At first I stared hard at him without understanding, then I broke into a hearty laugh that must have done me a world of good.

"Hang the Russian officer!" I exclaimed; "tell me where I am and how I came here."

"A few miles from Debreczin," Sandor answered gravely. "I found you in the town light-headed, charging a Russian battery that wasn't there."

"Where's our army?"

Sandor puckered his lips and blew; he could not have given a more significant answer.

"Then it's all over?"

"Thereabout, unless Dembinski can reach Arad. Bern's troops have been broken into little bits at Hermanstadt, and Dembinski has been chased out of Szegedin."

I groaned at this, and closed my eyes.

"General Klapka has done well, though," Mecsey continued in his stolid way.

I opened my eyes again, saying, "Klapka is shut up in Comorn."

"So the Austrians thought till the general taught them better. The day you were being beaten at Debreczin he came out of the fortress, smashed the Austrians, chased them to Presburg, took a thousand prisoners, thirty pieces of cannon, and enough ammunition to last him a year."

"Well done, Klapka!" I cried delightedly.

"Of course it won't make any difference in the end," said Mecsey composedly; and his words were like a douche of cold water.

"Go away, you rascal!" I cried. "But no; tell me first what became of Dembinski after he was driven from Szegedin."

"I don't know. Perhaps he's trying to join the general at Arad."

"If so, we still have a chance. Now help me to dress; we must find our way back to the army."

"Not to-day," replied Mecsey, "nor to-morrow. The next day, perhaps, if you're stronger. Just at present, twenty miles in the saddle would leave you weaker than a child."

This was perfectly true, and I let Mecsey have his own way.

So for three days longer I lay in my comfortable bed, waited on by Mecsey and the good woman of the house, whose husband and two sons were in Goergei's army--at least she hoped so.

Then, early in the morning of the fourth day, we set out to ride to Arad by a circuitous route, as the main road was barred by the Russians.

The people of the villages, who freely gave us food and shelter, were filled with strange rumours which totally contradicted one another.

At one place we heard that Kossuth was at Arad with Goergei; at the next it was believed he had fled into Turkey. Each man, I think, believed the report which best fitted in with his inclination.

At last we struck the trail of Goergei's army, and all our informants agreed that the fearful forced marches had told on the troops terribly.

They were short of provisions and forage; the men were half-starved, the horses like skeletons.

This we learned from the villagers, while I knew for certain there could be but a small supply of ammunition.

Then shock followed shock in quick succession. Dembinski, who had never tried to reach Arad at all, was totally defeated by the Austrians under the walls of Temesvar, which had held out against part of our forces for one hundred and seven days.

Following this came the news that Kossuth had resigned his office and fled, leaving Goergei to act as he thought proper.

"That's a good dodge," said Mecsey. "Our general's bound to surrender unless he wants all his men slaughtered; and then everybody will throw mud at him--call him a traitor, very likely."

I laughed at this prophecy, little dreaming how my heart would ache at its fulfilment.

Long afterwards Rakoczy told me that my servant was far from being alone in his foresight.

Many gallant officers thought the general should refuse to be made the figure-head, now that everything was in ruins; but Goergei was a true patriot. He thought of the welfare of his distracted country, and manfully threw himself into the breach.

He had sacrificed everything for his countrymen; now he was prepared to lose even their goodwill and esteem.

The chance had come too late. Paskewitch, with his two corps of veterans, was pressing on one side; General Luders barred the way into Transylvania; Goergei's old opponent, Schlick, at the head of the Austrian advanced guard, was hurrying from Temesvar to hem him in, and there was none to help.

On the twelfth of August he wrote a letter to the Russian general, offering to capitulate, and laid it before his chief officers, who sorrowfully acknowledged that nothing else could be done, unless they were willing to fight a battle which would be only a massacre.

These details were told me later by Rakoczy, for at the time of their happening I was riding with Mecsey over villanous by-roads to Arad, and only arrived on the morning of the thirteenth of August, the date fixed for the surrender.

Mecsey urged me to turn back at once; but although I could do no good, I determined to proceed to Vilagos, where the laying down of arms was to take place.

As it chanced, a robe which Mecsey had procured completely hid my uniform, and I was wearing a kalpag--a round fur cap ornamented by a white heron's plume.

Crowds of peasants swarmed in the country roads, while people of higher degree rode on horseback or in light latticed-side wagons to witness the mournful spectacle.

And it was mournful in the extreme.

To a high-spirited nation this blow was almost worse than death.

Hardly a word was spoken among all the sad company. Women wept, strong men bowed their heads and shuffled along like felons. Even I, who loved Goergei, felt a spasm of indignation that he had not chosen to sacrifice his country rather than consent to such humiliation.

Yet the sight of his broken army showed he could have done nothing else.

Ragged, shoeless, half-starved, without ammunition, exhausted by hundreds of miles of terrible marching, hemmed in on all sides by the victorious enemy, what could these brave fellows have done?

There was only one answer, which came from a woman--hardly more than a girl, in fact--who stood near me.

"They should have died!" she cried passionately. "I have a brother and a sweetheart over there, and I would willingly have lost them to spare our country such disgrace."

A murmur of applause arose from the bystanders, and when one--an old man who had seen many years and much sorrow--ventured to object, I thought the crowd would have torn him in pieces.

The disputes, the endless squabbles, the different aims of the insurgents, the bitter enmity between the national party and the republicans, were all forgotten in this sad hour.

"O land of the Magyars! land of the Magyars! that it should ever come to this!" cried another woman in heart-breaking accents. "I would give husband, father, brother, sons, everything to wipe out this eternal shame from my native land!"

"And cry your eyes out for them afterwards!" exclaimed Mecsey roughly. "What good will twenty thousand dead men do Hungary? Let them live, woman, and bide their time. The turn of the black and yellow dogs will come."

This plain talk would have provoked disorder; but just then our attention was distracted by the sight of Goergei riding alone to meet the Russian general.

He was simply dressed, the only bit of colour being the collar of gold braid attached to his brown blouse. His heavy riding-boots reached above the knee, and he wore a round black hat, with a waving white feather.

The staff followed, conspicuous in short green attilas, with heavy gold trimmings, and with herons' plumes in their hats.

The Russian leader, similarly accompanied, advanced from his lines, and we watched the two generals exchange hand-clasps.

I sat my horse and gazed spellbound while they talked, pitying the chivalrous Goergei from my heart.

Meanwhile, the Hungarian troops were still marching to their appointed places, while the Russian army stood in two long lines on the plain of Vilagos.

The conference between the leaders ceased; they returned to their posts, and we waited impatiently for the end.

At length all was ready. The Magyars were drawn up in two lines opposite their Muscovite foes--the infantry in the first, with the cavalry on the wings; the artillery in the second.

Once again Goergei and his staff rode to the front, where the Russian generals met them.

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The two leaders saluted, and then along the whole line sounded the beating of drums.

My eyes ached, my brain grew dizzy, my heart throbbed violently as I strained forward, eagerly watching.

That rolling of drums was the death-knell of all our hopes.

At its signal the Russians presented arms, proudly but not vaingloriously, and then--

There was a low wail, a cry of despair from the spectators, an outburst of grief such as I had never heard, shall never hear again.

Strong men shook with grief, women sobbed as if their hearts were broken, as our gallant infantry laid their useless weapons on the ground, the cavalry on their saddles.

As for me, I crouched low, hiding my face in my horse's mane.

I have known much of happiness since then, but no joy has ever effaced the impression made on that sorrowful day.

Even now, as I sit dreaming many years after the event, the picture rises before me fresh as ever.

With eyes open or shut, I see as in reality the pyramids of muskets; the cannon drawn close together, and without gunners; the dismounted cavalry, with their swords on the pommels of their saddles; the loved flags and standards, that had fluttered so proudly on many battlefields, lying in the dust.

I see the glorious red, white, and green stripes dirty and in rags, and think of the one that wraps all that remains of my gallant brother. I see the thousands of brave men who have fought and bled for Hungary, now disarmed and impotent, but still undaunted even in that hour of bitterness.

Then again the rolling of drums pierces my ears, and I see the breaking of the ranks as the men, under strong escorts, are marched off to their various destinations.

I hear, too, the first whisper, which afterwards swelled into a loud roar, that Goergei is a traitor, and has sold his country to the Russians. My ears burn like fire, and I blush for my countrymen.

It is not given to us to probe the secrets of the human heart, and I was absent from my general in the latter days; but I had marched with him, toiled with him, fought at his side, seen him go again and again to almost certain death, in order to rally his failing soldiers, and I judge a man by his actions.

But my dreams run away with me. I must return to that sorrowful evening of August 13, when Mecsey, plucking at my sleeve, brought me back to real life.

"It's all over," he said brusquely; "and now that the prey is secured, the Austrian jackal will come to pick the bones."

"The Austrians will not dare," I began; but he stopped me with a mirthless laugh.

"Goergei has saved the army at the expense of the officers," he said. "There will be a fine feast of death before long."

These words added to my misery, for I thought of my light-hearted friend Rakoczy, and wondered if he would be counted amongst the victims.

I expressed my fears to Mecsey, who promptly proposed that we should discover where the colonel had been taken.

This, however, was more easily said than done, as we soon found.

Russian troops in charge of their prisoners were marching in all directions, and it was impossible to scan them all.

We went about hither and thither, asking questions of the crowd to little purpose; but at length we had the good fortune to meet with a number of soldiers belonging to the 9th Honveds, who had slipped from the ranks at the very moment of surrender.

They were all looking miserable and dejected; but one, catching sight of me, ran up eagerly.

"From the colonel, sir," he cried joyfully; "though neither of us ever expected I should have the luck to meet you."

He took a folded paper from his pocket, and I pounced on it quickly. Here, no doubt, was the very information we sought; but in this I was disappointed.

The dear, unselfish fellow, indifferent to his own fate, had used the last moments of his freedom to send me a warning.

"Look out for yourself," the note ran; "your name alone will get you into trouble. Give Gyula [that was my home] a wide berth till the wolves are gorged.--J.R."

Not a word either of hope or fear for himself; all his cares were for me.

That was just like "John the Joyous," and my eyes were dim as I placed the paper in my pocket.

The faded characters, barely legible now, meet my eyes as I write; for that scrap of soiled paper remains one of my most sacred treasures, and it lies in a little golden casket on my desk.

"Have you found him, captain?"

The speaker was Mecsey, and when I shook my head sadly he immediately began to question the soldiers.

Here, again, we were at fault. No one really knew where the colonel was, some asserting he had been taken to Gros-Wardein with Goergei, others saying he had gone south with his regiment to Nagy Kikinda.

We spent another hour in questioning various men who had escaped from Vilagos, but could gain no news of the colonel, though several stated positively that the 9th Honveds had marched southward under a strong escort.

Then I held council with Mecsey, and we decided to separate, he to reconnoitre Gros-Wardein, while I followed my old regiment. At the end of a week we were to meet again at Arad, by which time it was likely that one of us would have discovered my missing friend.

"Good-bye, captain," said Mecsey, grasping the hand I held out to him, "and take the colonel's advice. It's easier to get into an Austrian prison than out of one."

"All right, my trusty fellow; I shall keep my eyes open, though I'm not tall enough for the Austrians to cut down."

So we parted, guessing little of the events which would happen before we met again.

Night was fast closing in by now, and in the darkness I missed the bridge over the Maros River, which made me lose nearly two hours, and prevented me from striking the trail of the 9th Honveds.

However, I found the bridge at last, and, crossing to the other side, pursued my way at hap-hazard as long as my horse could keep going; then I sat down by the roadside and waited for the morning.

At sunrise I started again, leading the animal by its bridle, until a lucky chance brought me to a village.

It was a small place, containing not more than twenty houses at the outside; but it boasted an inn, where I might haply procure food for myself and horse.

Four men dressed in peasants' clothes, but having a distinctly military bearing, sat on the "word-bearer"--the bench placed against the wall of most Hungarian country houses--gossiping. At sight of my uniform (for I had unfastened my mantle) they sprang to their feet and approached me with bare heads.

My suspicions were at once verified, and I exclaimed, "You have done well, my lads. A free Magyar is worth more than an imprisoned one. Only, should the Austrians pass through, slouch your shoulders and stoop a little; you bear the marks of the drill-sergeant too plainly."

They smiled at one another, and one taking my horse led it through the courtyard into the stable behind the inn.

Another spoke my name, and though I could not remember their features, they claimed to belong to the old regiment.

He who had attended to my horse was the keeper of the inn, which he now respectfully invited me to enter.

Bidding the others come too, I questioned them concerning their colonel, while the hostess prepared a meal.

Fate was, perhaps, against me, for they could tell little beyond what I already knew.

The 9th Honveds had passed through in the night without a halt, and all the country round was covered with our disarmed troops marching to prison in charge of their Russian captors.

All this they told me eagerly; but as to Colonel Rakoczy they could tell nothing.

Naturally I was much disappointed; but comforting myself with the thought that I was at least on the track of the regiment, I made a hearty breakfast, took a look at my horse, and having sent the men to act as sentries, lay down for a couple of hours' sleep.

At the end of that time my host wakened me, and I rose, greatly refreshed by the brief rest.

My horse, too, was all the better for its food and grooming; and I mounted quite gaily, having first thanked the keeper of the inn for his kindness.

"Take care you don't run against the Austrians, captain," the man answered. "From what I hear, their cavalry can't be far off."

"All right, my good fellow; though they aren't likely to interfere with me."

The innkeeper shook his head. He had little faith in the mercy of the Austrians.

The other men now came to say a word in parting, and then I rode slowly past the little gabled, whitewashed houses, and so again into the open country.

It was a glorious day, and under other circumstances I should have enjoyed the ride immensely; but my good spirits sank at thought of Goergei's surrender, and of John Rakoczy's personal danger.

Everywhere the people whom I met or overtook were ready to answer my questions; but the day ended without my having seen any sign of the 9th Honveds.

From time to time, however, it was told me that the Russians were in the neighbourhood; so towards night I went warily, not wishing to be taken prisoner.

Between nine and ten o'clock I entered the street of another village, and pulled up at the inn--the only house that showed a light.

A huge hound lying in the courtyard barked violently, the noise bringing out several men, who eyed me with suspicion.

Inquiring in sharp tones for the landlord, I ordered him to take my horse to the stables, and without paying any attention to the others entered the kitchen of the inn.

The men followed closely, and by the light of the candles I was able to see the kind of company I had got amongst.

There were six of them altogether, each wearing a cuirass and armed with a pair of pistols; while the room was littered with sharp lances and loaded hatchets.

The fellows stood looking at me with broad grins, as if amused at my surprise; while I, on the other hand, had more than a passing doubt as to what might be the upshot of this adventure.

It would be rather a melancholy end to my campaigning if I were knocked on the head by these "poor lads," as the country folk called the bandits, whose profession my new companions evidently followed.

Thinking the sight of my uniform might inspire respect, I unfastened my mantle carelessly; and, as I had half expected, the men at once assumed a respectful bearing.

"An officer of the staff who has escaped from the Russians!" cried one. "We must tell the chief."

"Where is he?" I asked.

"At supper in the inner room, my master."

"Then tell him Captain Botskay will be pleased to bear him company."

The man knocked at the door separating the kitchen from the next apartment, held a conversation with some one inside, and returned to say that Batori Gabor would be happy to give me greeting.