At last it was accomplished, and the valet, mounting behind his master, clasped him round his waist.
The anguish caused to his shattered foot by the movement of the horse brought Karl to his senses; but he was incapable of anything; he had dropped both his sword and pistol, and his head sank on to the breast of the young man behind him.
In this manner did the Swedish cavaliers, fighting off the fierce Muscovite attack every inch of the way, escort their unhappy master.
They had not reached their objective, the baggage camp (the other Swedish camps being already in the hands of the Muscovites), when Karl’s horse was killed under him; one of the officers with him, Colonel Gierta, though sorely wounded himself, gave the King his mount, and again with infinite difficulty Karl was helped into the saddle.
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.
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.”
“And the Prince of Wurtemberg and General Rehnsköld?” he asked.
“They also are prisoners,” said Poniatowski mournfully.
“Prisoners of the Russians!” he exclaimed. “Let us rather be prisoners of the Turks!”