The little troop, fighting through ten Muscovite regiments, at length brought the King to the baggage of the Swedish army.
The Russians were hotly pursuing them, and Poniatowski saw that a moment’s delay might be fatal.
Among the baggage was the only carriage in the Swedish army, that of Count Piper.
The King was helped into this and the Pole, who by tacit consent had taken command of this band of fugitives, ordered a retreat with all haste towards the Dnieper.
He and the valet, Frederic, entered the carriage with the King, and supported him, as best they could, against the jolting on the rough roads.
Karl had not spoken a word since Poniatowski had conducted him from the field of battle; he now sat up, drew out his handkerchief, and wiped the sweat and dirt from his face, at the same time glancing at the blood that was soaking from his reopened wound on to the cushions and floor of the carriage.
“Where is Count Piper?” he asked.
His voice and face were calm, but the ghastly hue of his usually fresh and glowing face told of his intense suffering.
“Sire,” replied Poniatowski, “Count Piper is taken, with all the ministers. He came out to look for your Majesty, and wandered into the counterscarp of Poltava where they were taken prisoners by the garrison.”
Karl gave not the least sign of emotion.