Mor Jokai

Of late Mr. Gerzson Satrakovics had invented for himself a peculiar sort of pastime.

He had renounced bear hounds and grey hounds and all other kinds of dogs, he did not care a jot when partridge shooting began, but he hung up his gun on a nail and began regularly visiting one after another the session courts of the counties of Arad, Biehar and Temes, in all of which he was a justice of the peace, and moving resolutions.

The object of these resolutions was to induce the three counties to endeavour with their united strength, and in conjunction with the Transylvanian counties of Hunyad, FehÉr and Zarand, to extirpate the robber bands that had so long been terrorizing the whole district. He compiled lists of the atrocities perpetrated in the various localities and connected them all with the name of one particular robber, the notorious "Fatia Negra." He produced convincing proofs of the existence of a combination extending from the depths of the dungeons to the summits of the mountains which was held together by the magic influence of this one man and he left no stone unturned to bring him to book.

He, naturally, became quite a laughing stock for his pains, and his acquaintances could not for the life of them understand what had come to the man.

"Why, old fellow!" said Count Kengyelesy to him one day, after he had been indulging in an unusually fiery philippic at Quarter Sessions, "why, old fellow, what sort of venom have you swallowed that makes you perorate so savagely against this worthy Fatia Negra. If anybody has cause to complain against him it is I, for he relieved me of 1,000 ducats on the high road, and so cleverly did the rascal manage it, that I cannot find it in my heart to bear him any ill-will. But what have you got to do with him I should like to know? What is all this cock and bull story you keep on spouting out concerning organized robber bands and mysterious chieftains? Is it your ambition, my friend, to become public prosecutor?"

"Yes, it is, and public prosecutor I will be, too. I want six counties to place their armed constabulary at my beck and call, and if they do, I'll wager that I'll so purify all these Alpine regions that the robbers will not have a single lurking hole left."

"Rubbish! Don't make a fool of yourself. Besides, they say that Fatia Negra has flown to America."

"Newspaper lies. He is here, I know he is."

"And suppose he is, what harm can he do? This band has been cut off to the very last man. They have all been sentenced heavily, the older men to twenty years penal servitude, the younger men to penal servitude for life. I had it from HÁtszegi himself who was the president of the mixed commission that tried them, and signed the judgment himself. The whole fraternity is now sitting in chains in the trenches of Gyula FehÉrvÁr and we have seen the last of it."

"What guarantee have you of that?"

"What guarantee?—why the security of the whole region ever since. Why, everyone there can now sleep with open doors and if you yourself were to lie dead drunk in the public thoroughfare you would not have your money stolen from your pocket any more."

Squire Gerzson protested vehemently against the assumption that he was in the habit of sprawling tipsily on the king's high road.

"I'll tell you," said he, "why everything is so secure just now. The confiscated gold of Fatia Negra is still at Gyula FehÉrvÁr, as a forfeit to the crown, and, sooner or later, must be sent to Vienna. Fatia Negra is not dead, his robber band has not been captured and does not sit in irons at Gyula FehÉrvÁr, and the present tranquillity and imagined security suit their plans nicely. The band now pretends to have vanished, but just you wait till the gold is sent under convoy from Gyula FehÉrvÁr to Vienna—and you will see some fun."

"How do you know that?"

"I know it sir, because I know that this man, this brazen faced, iron-fisted man is not such a chicken-hearted creature as to allow a half-million or so to be snatched from him without stirring every nerve and muscle to try and win it back again. For I know that hitherto he has always triumphed over the power of the law and has always escaped from the most dangerous ambushes."

"Well, all I can say is that I do not understand what you have to do with this worthy man."

---

The falsely coined gold pieces deposited at Gyula FehÉrvÁr, had, after the trial was over, to be sent to Hungary to be recoined. The precious consignment filled two post-wagons and was of the estimated value of a million and a half. Four and twenty Uhlans were told off to escort it. This was a more than sufficient protection for the most costly treasure at ordinary times. Moreover, in Hungary, cavalry has always inspired the mob with terror. During the disturbances at the time of the cholera outbreak, two squadrons of Hussars were easily able to quell the whole riot. It was impossible to calculate how many robbers and peasants the four and twenty Uhlans were capable of coping with. So, at least, the county magistrates believed.

The soldiers were commanded by a lieutenant, the post-wagons were under the charge of an official accountant and a comptroller. All the postillions were provided with pistols and it was strictly ordered that the wagons were not to travel on the high-road after six o'clock. There was no lack of precaution, anyhow!

Now when the post wagons had reached the celebrated Bridge of Piski,[45] lo, there and then, face to face, four and twenty horsemen came, riding towards them from the opposite side of the bridge and the five and twentieth was Fatia Negra.

[45] It was here that a small band of Hungarians under Czsez and Kureny held a whole Austrian army at bay on Feb. 9, 1849.—Tr.

All the four and twenty had black crape wound round their faces, their clothes had the lining turned outwards and they were well provided with swords, csÁkÁnys[46] and muskets. Fatia Negra himself rode a vigorous black stallion and held in his hand a broad, naked sword.

The horse of the Uhlan lieutenant took fright at the sight of the black faces and began to rear, it was as much as his rider could do to prevent him from springing over the parapet of the bridge.

Fatia Negra and his band halted in the centre of the bridge and did not budge from the spot.

The lieutenant was a brave soldier, who never lost his presence of mind; he tightened the reins of his plunging horse and turning towards Black-Mask, exclaimed: "Who are you, what do you want, and why do you block up the bridge?"

A deep, thundrous manly voice replied to him from afar: "I am Fatia Negra. The treasure which you have with you is mine,—it has been stolen from me. I now want to have it back again. I have brought hither a man to every man of yours, we are as strong as you. I meet you openly in the light of day. Give me back my gold or you shall have a taste of my iron."

The lieutenant, who was one of the best swordsmen and one of the bravest heroes in the regiment, did not think twice about accepting the challenge, but put spurs to his steed and fell upon the adventurer who awaited him in the middle of the bridge.

He encountered a terrible antagonist. Fatia Negra warded every blow and countered instantly; the young officer was thrown into confusion by the superior dexterity of his opponent, and it was only a soldier's sense of honour that induced him to continue an attack which was bound to end fatally for himself: practised fencers always know at once whether they can vanquish their antagonist or not. At the same time it was really surprising that Fatia Negra did not immediately take advantage of his strength and skill. He seemed to be sparing his enemy, nay, he even retreated before him step by step.

Meanwhile the melÉe on the bridge had become general. The lancers hastened to the assistance of their leader, the black masks slashed away at them with their csÁkÁnys, and soon there were very few among the combatants who had not received a lance thrust or a csÁkÁny blow. The adventurers were forced by the lancers to the opposite end of the bridge, when the miller, who lived in the mill beside the bridge, thrust his head out of the window and shouted: "Take care, soldiers! the beams of the bridge have been sawn through!"

Was this the fact? Was it the plan of the adventurers to entice the horses on to the bridge in order that it might break down beneath their weight?—or was the miller also an accomplice and only shouted this because the soldiers were gaining the upperhand? In either case the warning cry had a magical effect upon the pursuers, for they immediately turned back in alarm and strove to reach their own end of the bridge again.

And now they perceived what a two fold trap the cunning adventurers had set for them, for whilst the lancers had been fighting with the mounted robbers, a large band of footpads armed with firearms had surrounded the post wagons in their rear, disarmed the postillions and were now engaged in attempting to overturn the wagons into the ditch by the roadside.

The lancers dashed towards the wagons and freed them in a moment from the hands of the mob which, on their appearance, dispersed among the brushwood by the roadside from whence they began firing.

Not far from the bridge was a csÁrdÁ, and there the cavalry and the post-wagons sought a refuge. And indeed they needed it. The number of the footpads armed with guns was about a couple of hundred; they enfiladed the whole road and, more than that, it was easy to perceive that some of the tall roadside poplars had been sawn through beforehand so that they might be made to fall down and thus make it impossible for the post wagons across the road behind the backs of the soldiers, to force their way through.

The soldiers had, indeed, no reason to fear that the rabble, nine-tenths of which had no professional knowledge of the art of war, would boldly storm the csÁrdÁ, for in such a case the soldiers would know how to defend themselves vigourously, well provided as they were with carbines; but they were well aware of one thing, to wit, that if they allowed themselves to be surprised after nightfall they were lost, for the robbers could then set fire to the house over their heads and burn them alive.

For their lives they cared nothing; it is a soldier's business to die; but how to save the enormous sum of money intrusted to them—that was the problem. Four and twenty horsemen in a solid mass might, with a desperate effort, cut their way through a mob, despite every obstacle, but to take the heavy wagons along with them was impossible, for the road in front was barred by the mob; the bridge and the road behind by the felled poplars.

Fortunately, the officer in command had read the history of Napoleon's Russian campaign and he recollected how the guard on one occasion had saved the military chest from the Cossacks when the wagon, from want of horses, had to be left behind. He now applied his knowledge practically.

The ducats were taken out of the post-wagons and distributed among the soldiers; knapsacks, cartridge-boxes, belts and shakos were filled with the treasure; not a cent was left in the wagons, yet they nailed down the chests inside them carefully that it might take all the longer to break them open. Then they mounted the postilions and the civilians on the spare horses, hastily threw open the gates and the whole band rushed into the courtyard.

A sharp volley poured in upon them from every side; some of them were wounded, but none mortally, for their assailants either fired from afar or aimed badly. And this was well, for every dead man among them would have been worth 100,000 guldens.

Fatia Negra and his horsemen stood close at hand with their loaded muskets pointed in their hands, but they did not fire.

"Let the lancers run if they like!" cried Fatia Negra. "Give all your attention to the wagons!"

The cavalry soon escaped from the mob of sharpshooters, leaped over the barriers and began galloping rapidly back to SzÉb safe and sound. And they had need to haste, for it was easy to foresee that as soon as the cry of victory behind their backs had changed into a cry of fury, it would be a sign that Fatia Negra's band was rushing after them.

And, indeed, scarce a quarter of an hour had elapsed, when they could perceive clouds of dust whirling up behind them which proved that the audacious adventurers, after discovering the fraud, were actually in pursuit.

What unheard of audacity! In broad daylight, on the King's highway, within the borders of a highly civilized, well-organized state, a troop of adventurers dares to attack an equal number of trained soldiers. Gold must have turned the heads of the men who had the audacity to do such a thing! Yet they did it.

The soldiers saw the cloud of dust behind their backs gradually draw nearer, the neutral ground between gradually diminished, the fellows were capitally mounted, there could be no doubt of that.

The lieutenant ordered his men to halt and face the foolhardy bandits. He arranged them two deep and spread them out so that they extended right across the road. He himself stood in the centre a little in advance of the rest; the civilians were in the rear.

Presently single shapes were discernible through the approaching cloud of dust. The robbers were galloping along in no regular order with intervals of from ten to twenty yards between each one of them.

More than a thousand yards in front of his comrades galloped Fatia Negra. His splendid English thoroughbred, as if it would outstrip the blast which whirled the dust aloft, flew along with him and seemed to share the blind fury of his master who waved his flashing sword above his horse's head and bellowed at his opponents from afar like a wild beast.

"We'll seize the fellow before his companions come up," said the lieutenant to his men. "Cut him down from his horse and capture him alive."

"Hurrah!" roared the lonely horseman, now only a yard off. "Hurrah!"—the next moment he was in the midst of them.

And now began a contest which, had it been recorded in the chronicles of the Crusades, would have been regarded as an act of heroism that only awaited immortality from a poet great enough to sing it. Fatia Negra, alone and surrounded, fought single-handed in the midst of the hostile band. His light sword flashing in his hand like lightning, never stayed to parry but attacked incessantly. Handless swords and headless shakos flew around him in the air and whithersoever his horse turned its head, an empty space gaped before him, every antagonist retreating before him. So close was the melÉe that the soldiers stood in each other's way and could not use their firearms for fear of shooting their comrades. The lieutenant was the only man who did not avoid him. Like a true soldier who considers wounds an honour, he did not trouble himself to recollect that his adversary was superior to him both in strength and skill, but strove incessantly to urge his horse towards him. Twice he struck the fellow but he did not seem to feel the blow. Once he dealt him a skilful thrust in the side, but the sword bent nearly double without entering his body. "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Fatia Negra—he must have put on a coat of mail beneath his jacket—and the same instant he countered so savagely that if the lieutenant had not dodged his head, he must have lost it. As it was the sword pierced through his shako and out poured the gold pieces by thousands on to the highroad.

At the sight of the shower of gold pieces, Fatia Negra roared like a demon. What he had done hitherto was a mere joke—now the battle began in grim earnest.

"Down with your heads, down with your headpieces!" he thundered, and with the fury of a lion he flung himself on his opponents, everyone of whom wore on his head the dangerous magnet which irresistibly attracted his flashing sword.

He himself was invulnerable. Neither sword nor lance could penetrate his shirt of mail. And meanwhile his companions were rapidly galloping up. Now another shako flew into the air and the horse's hoofs trampled the falling ducats in the mud.

"Shoot down his horse!" cried the voice of the post-office functionary from the rear, and the same instant three pistol shots resounded. At the third, which struck him full in the chest, the animal reared high in the air. Fatia Negra, perceiving the danger, and before the horse had time to fall and crush him, leaped from the saddle on to the ground.

And now he attacked the enemy on foot. He was blind now. He saw nothing before him but blood and ducats—he was drunk with both.

All at once he observed that he was alone, and, fighting the air—he no longer felt the contact of swords, or skulls or human bodies. After the officer had been wounded, the post-office functionary took the command and concluded it advisable not to await the arrival of the whole robber band. It was his duty to save the money. He ordered the soldiers to turn back and make the best of their way to SzÁszvÁr, the money that had been already spilt was given up for lost. It was of no use for mere men to attempt to grapple with such a devil incarnate as Fatia Negra.

"After them, after them!—Give me a horse!" roared Fatia Negra to his comrades as they came galloping up, whereupon they all leaped from their nags, not so much indeed for the sake of giving him a mount as for the sake of grabbing the scattered heaps of ducats.

"Let that alone; it won't run away" cried the adventurer. "The bulk of it is galloping in front of us—follow me!"

And at that, without waiting their decision, he seized one of the horses, swung himself into the saddle and dashed after the lancers. Nobody followed him. The robbers were wise enough to perceive that if they left lying here these thousands of ducats, actually won, in order to run after ten times as many which they had still to catch, (not to mention the broken heads which they were sure to get into the bargain), the loafing members of the confraternity who were following behind them on foot, would pocket the booty nicely at their ease, so they stayed where they were, with the comfortable persuasion that Fatia Negra would be sure to turn back when he perceived he was alone.

He, however, never gave them a thought, but putting spurs to his horse, pursued the soldiers. In vain. He had no longer a blood horse beneath him and was unable to overtake the bearers of the lost treasure. Nor did they halt again to give him anything to do. Looking back from time to time, they saw how a single horseman was galloping after them, with his sword blade firmly gripped between his teeth, and a shuddering recollection of the old nursery tales of nether-world monsters came over them.

The solitary horseman pursued them right up to the toll-house of SzÁszvÁr, and even when he gave up the pursuit the toll-man saw him for a long time trotting round about the outskirts of the town shaking his fist and shouting imprecations. Once or twice he drew near enough to fire his pistols through the doors and windows of the toll-house, and so great was the spell of terror surrounding the person of the terrible adventurer that nobody ventured outside the city wall to try and capture him; nay, the burgesses even remained under arms in the streets all night guarding the principal entrances for fear lest Fatia Negra and his band might take it into their heads to formally besiege the place, and, had it only depended upon his will to do so, he would assuredly have made the attempt.

But it never came to that. On returning to the place of combat Fatia Negra found his horsemen still searching in the mud and darkness for the lost ducats, and made an attempt to reorganize his band, which did, indeed, do a little maurauding on its own account; but when the news reached him, through one of his paid spies, that four hundred infantry with a cannon had reached SzÁszvÁr from Szeb—the very word "a connon" had such an effect upon the robbers that they scattered in every direction as if a tempest had dispersed them. Next morning there was not a trace of them anywhere.