Folk-Tales of Napoleon | Page 5

and finally drew near to Napoleonder himself.
"Your time has come!" they cry to him. "Surrender!"
But the villain sits there on his horse, rolling his goggle-eyes like an
owl, and grinning.
"Wait a minute," he says coolly. "Don't be in too big a hurry. A tale is
short in telling, but the deed is long a-doing."
Then he pronounces his conjuring-word, "Bonaparty"--six hundred and
sixty-six, the number of the Beast.

Instantly there is a great rushing sound, and the earth is shaken as if by
an earthquake. Our soldiers look--and drop their hands. In all parts of
the field appear threatening battalions, with bayonets shining in the sun,
torn flags waving over terrible hats of fur, and tramp! tramp! tramp! on
come the thousands of phantom men, with faces yellow as camomile,
and empty holes under their bushy eyebrows.
Alexander, the Blessed Tsar, was stricken with terror. Terror-stricken
were all his generals and field-marshals. Terror-stricken also was the
whole Russian army. Shaking with fear, they wavered at the advance of
the dead, gave way suddenly in a panic, and finally fled in whatever
direction their eyes happened to look.
The brigand Napoleonder sat on his horse, holding his sides with
laughter, and shouted: "Aha! My old men are not to your taste! I
thought so! This isn't like playing knuckle-bones with children and old
women! Well, then, my honorable Messrs. Dead Men, I have never yet
felt pity for any one, and you needn't show mercy to my enemies. Deal
with them after your own fashion."
"As long as it is so," replied the corpse-soldiers, "we are your faithful
servants always."
Our men fled from Kulikova-field to Pultava-field; from Pultava-field
to the famous still-water Don; and from the peaceful Don to the field of
Borodino, under the very walls of Mother Moscow. And as our men
came to these fields, one after another, they turned their faces again and
again toward Napoleonder, and fought him with such fierceness that the
brigand himself was delighted with them "God save us!" he exclaimed,
"what soldiers these Russians are! I have not seen such men in any
other country."
But, in spite of the bravery of our troops, we were unable to stop
Napoleonder's march; because we had no word with which to meet his
word. In every battle we pound him, and drive him back, and get him in
a slip-noose; but just as we are going to draw it tight and catch him, the
filthy, idolatrous thief bethinks himself and shouts "Bonaparty!" Then
the dead men crawl out of their graves in full uniform, set their teeth,
fix their eyes upon their officers, and charge! And where they pass the
grass withers and the stones crack. And our men are so terrified by
these unclean bodies that they can't fight against them at all. As soon as
they hear that accursed word "Bonaparty," and see the big fur hats and

the yellow faces of the dead men, they throw down their guns and rush
into the woods to hide.
"Say what you will, Alexander Blagoslovenni," they cry, "for corpses
we are not prepared."
Alexander the Blessed reproached his men, and said: "Wait a little,
brothers, before you run away. Let's exert ourselves a little more. Dog
that he is, he can't beat us always. God has set a limit for him
somewhere. To-day is his, to-morrow may be his, but after a while the
luck perhaps will turn."
Then he went to the old hermit-monks in the caves of Kiev and on the
island of Valaam, and bowed himself at the feet of all the
archimandrites and metropolitans, saying: "Pray for us, holy fathers,
and beseech the Lord God to turn away his wrath; because we haven't
strength enough to defend you from this Napoleonder."
Then the old hermit-monks and the archimandrites and the
metropolitans all prayed, with tears in their eyes, to the Lord God, and
prostrated themselves until their knees were all black and blue and
there were big bumps on their foreheads. With tearful eyes, the whole
Russian people, too, from the Tsar to the last beggar, prayed God for
mercy and help. And they took the sacred ikon of the Holy Mother of
God of Smolensk, the pleader for the grief-stricken, and carried it to the
famous field of Borodino, and, bowing down before it, with tearful
eyes, they cried: "O Most Holy Mother of God, thou art our life and our
hope! Have mercy on us, and intercede for us soon."
And down the dark face of the ikon, from under the setting of pearls in
the silver frame, trickled big tears. And all the army and all God's
people saw the sacred ikon crying. It was a terrible thing to see, but it
was comforting.
Then