Colonel Sorociński

Colonel Sorociński awoke at the crack of dawn. It was actually the sound of a running horse that woke him. He placed his bare feet on the cold wooden floor. He braced his hands on the leather coverings and, head bowed, stared at the dirty boards. Sorociński was ready for action immediately after waking. It wasn't exactly a unique trait in a soldier eager for a taste of life, but the colonel had possessed it since childhood. Snuggled into warm sheets heated overnight, he would jump up and run to the stables to check on his first horse, a gift from his father. He was often surprised when, after several sleepless nights, he managed to snatch a few hours of sleep, rising suddenly and, as if he'd had a full night's sleep, setting about his duties.

Now, despite his usual beginning, there was a hint of anger in the colonel's demeanor. When a basin of water was handed to him for washing, he leaned over it, stared at his reflection with a somewhat absent gaze, frowned, and as if to drive away the intrusive thoughts, began to wash his face, ignoring the increasingly damp floor. He wet his hair, splashing it quickly over his arms and broad chest. He straightened and looked around the room. His gaze ran over the dark brown walls, which were almost empty except for a painting of the Virgin Mary gazing sorrowfully at the world, two crossed axes, and a flimsy wolf pelt. He looked out the window, where soldiers were seen busy with their business. He could hear the sergeant's orders, the neighing of a horse, and the sounds of weapons being cleaned. The weather was fine, the wind gently caressed the leaves of the trees, and the sun was just emerging from the forest.

Sorociński turned from the window and roared,

"Run to me!"

A young man burst into the room and stood before the colonel, looking him in the eye.

"I'm listening, Colonel.

" "Follow me!"

They went outside. Sorociński walked quickly toward the crane. The soldiers who saw him saluted, but the crane ignored them, not even looking at them for a moment. He stopped at the watering hole and, without looking at the soldier, said,

"Grab a bucket and pour."

The boy, accustomed to following orders, grabbed the bucket and filled it with water. He hesitated for a moment, however. The colonel, standing with his hands on the edge of the watering hole, glared at him furiously and yelled,

"What are you waiting for? Pour!"

The boy jumped up and, not wanting to incur the colonel's wrath, took a swing and splashed icy water over his head and torso.

"Give me! Give me! Give me!" he shouted, and each time a stream of water drenched Sorociński.

The soldiers looked at each other in surprise. They had no idea what had happened, that the colonel was ordering water poured over his head. However, they knew there was no point in getting in his way, as he often lost his temper when angry. It was also rare to see him in such a state; he was usually calm and, even in battle, could keep his emotions in check like no one else. Now, he was even more fearful.

"Enough!" he said. He strapped on his saber, tucked his baton into his belt, put on his żupan, and ordered his horse to be led.

"Colonel. Will there be any orders?" asked the sergeant, who, seeing what was happening, decided to act.

"Wait!" said the colonel, mounted his horse, and rode off.

The manor buildings flashed before his eyes; he didn't spare his horse. He had a good gelding who had proven himself many times. He flew through the village like a storm, clods of earth falling from under his hooves. The dog yelped, and here and there a peasant peeked out, seeing someone rushing at breakneck speed. The sergeant took off his cap as he saw the colonel depart, stroked his mustache, and a look of concern and fear was visible on his bearded, weather-worn face. He was silent for a moment, then called to the soldier…

Images and thoughts flashed through Sorociński's mind as quickly as the world flashing before his eyes. The wind roared in his ears, and tears welled up in his eyes from the rush. But he seemed oblivious. One thing occupied him now. He asked himself one question.

The image of the girl loomed before him. He saw her black hair, her brown eyes. Those eyes he had so often gazed into, and which were so kind to him. He was already certain that she was the one for him. He spared no effort. He didn't force himself on her, though; he wouldn't do that for anything. And if she had told him right away, "Go away," he would have understood. But she led him on. She gave him hope. Was she so good at pretending? There were times when she wouldn't withdraw her hand when he extended it. She laughed sincerely when, as they danced, he held her tightly in his lap. She accepted his jokes with a smile, and she wasn't shy either. Maybe he wasn't convincing enough, maybe he didn't show her his feelings enough, maybe not in the right way. He hadn't confessed his love to her, after all. But whatever, a blind man would have seen it. They were very happy together. He'd seen how she looked at him, how her eyes smiled at him, how cheerful she was in his company. So why had she stopped answering his letters? Maybe the point was that he was constantly traveling.

They didn't see each other often. But he wanted to, he could. It wasn't always so easy, though. Sometimes they parted in anger. He lost his nerve, and he had to restrain himself to avoid an outburst. After his departure, he often spent the entire day fencing with anyone he could just for sport. They drifted apart, and they rarely exchanged letters. Eventually, even his desire diminished. Military service took up a lot of his time. He met other noblewomen, and often had the opportunity to find solace in the arms of another. At first, he held back. He didn't want to. But over time, it passed. Not this one, not another. But he still loved her no less than at the beginning. Now, he didn't even think about her for months. He abandoned the matter completely after what he saw and heard.

When he sent a letter, having once had the opportunity to visit her in Kiev, she replied that she didn't have time. It was better not to come. That prevailed. He gave up on her. He became furious, and while riding through Kiev, he clashed with a nobleman. When the man tried to draw his saber, he struck him in the chest with his sword, drawing blood from his mouth and falling to the pavement. Tonight he dreamed of her, and the dream was so real that he felt her presence beside him, felt her hand in his, and her eyes fixed on his. And anger seized him, both at her and at himself, for everything that had happened to them, and for what was supposed to happen but never did.

Such thoughts tormented Sorociński. The wind provided solace, the horse's steady pace slowly burned away his anger. The forest passed before his eyes. The horse's flanks were covered with foam. So he reined in and stood. He looked up at the sky, where clouds were slowly rolling across it, kites circling in search of prey.

Suddenly he heard the sound of horses running, from the direction he had come. The thought flashed through his mind that the sergeant had probably sent men after him. But when he saw the horsemen, he dismissed it immediately. Cossacks were approaching him. There were four of them. They were black, dressed simply: salwar kameez, and some shirts. They had probably ventured into the forest, separating themselves from the main unit to attack and rob someone. There was another possibility. Perhaps they had been sent to quietly scout the area, and a larger unit could follow. Their crests bounced in time with the horse's run. When they saw him, they drew their sabers, the light reflecting off them. Sorociński drew his saber, rolled up his żupan's sleeve, spurred his horse, and rode towards them.

The first, fiery Cossack overtook his remaining companions. As he approached for a bowshot, Sorociński drew his weapon from its holster, aimed, and fired. The Cossack fell from his horse with a smashed head. The colonel accelerated. Three more remained. He saw one draw his weapon. So he ducked behind his horse. He heard a bang and a whistle. His ears buzzed, and for a moment he was dazed. He straightened up quickly, deflected the first Cossack's blow, passed him, and before the second could fire, he struck him in the head. Blood poured from his head, and he fell to the forest floor. Two remained. He couldn't avoid the third shot.

The bullet struck his left hand. Blood began to soak into his red żupan. Sorociński seemed oblivious. He rode up to the shooter, who already had his saber in hand. They clashed. Metal clanged against metal. The colonel's face was covered with sweat, quick cuts surrounded the Cossack, who barely parried them. The passed Cossack reached the colonel. The colonel withdrew his horse to keep the attackers in front of him. His left arm was bent at the elbow. He gathered himself and charged one after the other, behind the first. He struck once with his body, once with his point. The Cossack struggled to parry, retreating desperately, death staring him in the face. Sorociński pressed his horse against him. He parried the desperate attack and body right in the head, correcting it before he fell. Only

one remained. The Cossack wheezed, twisted his lips, and attacked. Again, saber clashed with saber. The colonel pressed forward, feeling his strength begin to fail him. He didn't strike hard. Seeing this, the Cossack accelerated, surrounding the colonel with a circle of blows. The colonel parried them calmly. He paled and felt his arm weaken. He parried another cut and struck with his point. He hit him in the eye. The Cossack opened his mouth, moaning softly. He slowly lay down on his horse and fell.

Breathing heavily, the colonel looked at the Cossack corpses. He tied a scarf around his arm above the wound, clenched his teeth, and, not quite understanding what was happening, his vision darkened. The edge of the forest tilted before him. He fell from his horse. He fell on his back. He opened his eyes, looked at the sky and the rustling trees. His eyelids grew heavier and heavier. He struggled with them for a moment, then finally closed his eyes. Surprised at his rapid loss of strength, he raised his good hand to his head and felt something sticky. A Cossack must have hit him.

He lay there, and memories of the dream returned to him. But there was no anger left. It had vanished. Looking at the sky, at the slowly moving clouds, he finally reconciled himself to what had happened. He held no grudge against her, and he was no longer resenting her. He was still silently wishing her happiness when he heard the horses running. Someone pulled on the reins, making the horse's spleen throb, the earth trembled, and a figure leaned over the colonel. He opened his eyes and recognized the sergeant. The sergeant said something to him. He wanted to respond, but even though he opened his mouth, no sound emerged.