Pan Michael: An Historical Novel of Poland, the Ukraine, and Turkey

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

Both Poles and Tartars understood this. About four o’clock in the morning two pashas came to Hussein,—Yanish Pasha and Kiaya Pasha, the leader of the janissaries, an old warrior of renown and experience. The faces of both were full of anxiety and care.

“Lord!” said Kiaya, first, “if my ‘lambs’ stand in this way till daylight, neither bullets nor swords will be needed against them.”

“Lord!” said Yanish Pasha, “my spahis will freeze, and will not fight in the morning.”

Hussein twisted his beard, foreseeing defeat for his army and destruction to himself. But what was he to do? Were he to let his men break ranks for even a minute, or let them kindle fires to warm themselves with hot food, the attack would begin immediately. As it was, the trumpets were sounded at intervals near the ramparts, as if the cavalry were just ready to move.

Kiaya and Yanish Pasha saw only one escape from disaster,—that was, not to wait for the attack, but to strike with all force on the enemy. It was nothing that he was in readiness; for though ready to attack, he did not expect attack himself. Perhaps they might drive him out of the intrenchments; in the worst event defeat was likely in a night battle, in the battle of the morrow it was certain.

But Hussein did not venture to follow the advice of the old warriors.

“How!” said he; “you have furrowed the camp-ground with ditches, seeing in them the one safeguard against that hellish cavalry,—that was your advice and your precaution; now you say something different.”

He did not give that order. He merely gave an order to fire from cannon, to which Pan Kantski answered with great effect instantly. The rain became colder and colder, and cut more and more cruelly; the wind roared, howled, went through clothing and skin, and froze the blood in men’s veins. So passed that long November night, in which the strength of the warriors of Islam was failing, and despair, with a foreboding of defeat, seized hold of their hearts.

At the very dawn Yanish Pasha went once more to Hussein with advice to withdraw in order of battle to the bridge on the Dniester and begin there the game of war cautiously. “For,” said he, “if the troops do not withstand the onrush of the cavalry, they will withdraw to the opposite bank, and the river will give them protection.” Kiaya, the leader of the janissaries, was of another opinion, however. He thought it too late for Yanish’s advice, and moreover he feared lest a panic might seize the whole army immediately, if the order were given to withdraw. “The spahis with the aid of the irregular janissaries must sustain the first shock of the enemy’s cavalry, even if all are to perish in doing so. By that time the janissaries will come to their aid, and when the first impetus of the unbelievers is stopped, perhaps God may send victory.”

Thus advised, Kiaya and Hussein followed. Mounted multitudes of Turks pushed forward; the janissaries, regular and irregular, were disposed behind them, around the tents of Hussein. Their deep ranks presented a splendid and fear-inspiring spectacle. The white-bearded Kiaya, “Lion of God,” who till that time had led only to victory, flew past their close ranks, strengthening them, raising their courage, reminding them of past battles and their own unbroken preponderance. To them also, battle was sweeter than that idle waiting in storm and in rain, in wind which was piercing them to the bone; hence, though they could barely grasp the muskets and spears in their stiffened hands, they were still cheered by the thought that they would warm them in battle. With far less desire did the spahis await the attack, because on them was to fall its first fury, because among them were many inhabitants of Asia Minor and of Egypt, who, exceedingly sensitive to cold, were only half living after that night. The horses also suffered not a little, and though covered with splendid caparisons, they stood with heads toward the earth, puffing rolls of steam from their nostrils. The men with blue faces and dull eyes did not even think of victory. They were thinking only that death would be better than torment like that in which the last night had been passed by them, but best of all would be flight to their distant homes, beneath the hot rays of the sun.