Song of the Legions (17 page)

We scrambled out of the back door and into the fresh air. We gulped it down like vodka and coughed like invalids. This was the house’s stable-yard.

“Horses!” Godebski shouted. “We’re saved!”

“A horse! A horse!” I cried, “The Republic for a horse!” and Cyprian and I fell into fits of giggles. For the horses were long gone, leaving behind only the evil savour of horse piss lingering in rotted straw. In front of us the ruined house folded up like a burning haystack, and collapsed in upon itself. I laughed, and took a bite of the ham. It tasted glorious. Sierawski and his men were reloading their pistols and muskets.

“Are you too grand to reload, Lieutenant Blumer?” Sierawski shouted, as he struggled to load an unfamiliar Prussian gun. “Or will you have your butler do it for you?”

“I have no bullets, Comrade Engineer,” I shrugged, “and no musket either, come to that.”

“Here!” Sierawski snapped, flinging me my own musket that he had somehow salvaged from the carnage. “You should take better care of that thing.”

All around us we heard the Prussians gathering like wolves. We reloaded – a slow, clumsy process. At any moment I expected the Prussians to throw themselves upon us. That stable block should have been our execution yard. There were only five of us remaining.

“We are surrounded,” Godebski said. “Gentlemen, it has been a privilege. Those of you who survive the first charge have my permission to surrender, with honour.”

“For my part I intend to do the honourable thing and die,” I said. I had finished the ham and it is very easy to be brave on a full stomach.

“Excuse me, Captain Godebski,” Sierawski butted in, “these are my men! It is up to me to give the orders.”

“What, these are your men, Lieutenant? Both of them?” Cyprian sneered, pointing at the last two surviving engineers. “Very well, then, what are your orders? How will you deploy your vast battalion, Lieutenant Sierawski? Shall we flank the Prussians, then?”

“Since when were you made a lieutenant?” I demanded of Sierawski, greatly piqued that I no longer outranked him. We began to bicker amongst ourselves.

Then we heard the chorus of angels. Bugles rang. God be praised.“My dear Sirs,” Sierawski said, “the tables are turned. It is our foe who is surrounded, and not us. It is our cavalry.”

At that, two figures came thundering into the courtyard, elated with victory. One was a tall general with a moustache and tight, curly yellow hair, like a sheep. The second was our old friend, Tanski.

“Warrant Officer Tanski!” I cried, “So good of you to make it!”

“Lieutenant Tanski, of the cavalry, if you please,” said Tanski, astride his shining grey mare, pirouetting and caracoling, twirling his lance like a wand. I cursed, silently.

“Who is this?” said the general.

“General Zayonczek, this is Lieutenant Blumer, of the
infantry
,” Tanski said, grinning from ear to ear. I could have cut his throat!

General Zayonczek’s troop of cavalry had encircled the Prussians during the fight in the house, taking a few prisoner, and chasing off the rest. We searched the prisoners and relieved them of their guns. Not five minutes ago they had been trying with all their might to kill us. Now they were sullen and angry, for the tables were turned.

“This one’s an officer,” I said, regarding a tall, haughty Von Something, his face a patchwork of duelling scars, his barrel chest beribboned, his handmade boots gleaming like mirrors, except at the knees, where they were brown with fresh mud. He had a small rash of gashes over his forehead that he was allowing, ostentatiously, to spill red dewdrops of blood over his face and uniform, and to collect on his shirt and handkerchief. It was not much – the thump I had fetched Tanski on the Third of May was far worse, and he had slept it off by morning. The Prussian officer had been caught hiding under a privet hedge, while his men died bravely in droves.

“Your name, Sir?” I asked politely, for the forms had to be observed. Inside I was itching to give him a few good swipes across the jaw.

“I am Colonel Hermann Von Boyen,” he replied sullenly. We could converse, this Prussian and I, for we both spoke French, as all gentlemen did in those days. Obviously I took his pistol from him. This he gave up without demur. It was an excellent pistol, too, with a carved handle and a barrel chased in German silver. I sold it later for a bottle of vodka. But the Prussian Colonel’s wallet, watch, decorations, medals, and other effects were of course sacrosanct. Indeed, captured officers did not have to give up their swords, so long as they gave their word to behave themselves.

All nations – even the Prussians – abided by the Rules of War. Only Russia did not.

“You may retain your sword upon your parole of good conduct until the war is over, or you are released,” I said, according to the custom.

“You have my word,” he said sullenly, through gritted teeth, as he was led off with the other prisoners.

“You there – Blumer!” came a shout in a thick Podolian accent. It was the curly-haired General Zayonczek. He swung himself off his horse and strode over to me. He was chewing the stub of a cigar.

“Podolian, aren’t you?” the General asked, for he was a Podolian, too. “I might have known! I’ve heard good reports about you, soldier. They say you held these Prussian dogs off single handed.”

I began to protest. “No, Sir, humbly report, you are misinformed – ”

“Silence!” Zayonczek laughed. “So modest! Don’t worry, I’ll write a proper report of this little affair. We Podolians should stick together.”
Then he winked. This was temptation! Comrades must stick together too, I thought. I threw my shoulders back, shouldered my gun, and clicked my heels.

“No Sir, I humbly report,” I bellowed, so everyone could hear it, “CAPTAIN GODEBSKI and LIEUTENANT SIERAWSKI repulsed the attack! SIR!”

Zayonczek shook his head in disgust. “Have it your way, lad,” he said, drawing on his cigar, and blowing smoke in my face.

He pointed at the Prussian prisoners. “Dabrowski,” he mouthed his rival’s name with distaste, “wants to interrogate a few of these dogs. Speaks their language, you know. If you can call that vile babble a language. He used to serve with these Germans, in the Saxon army – he was Rottmeister Dabrowski in those days, did you know? Doesn’t like to brag about it now, though. Dabrowski speaks German better than the mother tongue. I have to have all his despatches translated into proper Polish.”

The general spat and pointed out the insolent Prussian Colonel and his men. “Get these scum out of my sight, before I do something I regret. Take them to Dabrowski, he can sit and drink schnapps with them for all I care. Dabrowski’s man can show you the way.”

He nodded at Tanski, who was, of course, Dabrowski’s man. Zayonczek leant over close, and began to whisper conspiratorially. Smoke from his cigar billowed in my face.

“You want to watch that Tanski. He says he’s your friend, but he’s the one galloping for that German-loving Targowica traitor Dabrowski, and you’re the one eating dirt and bullets in the trenches.”

We stared at the line of prisoners. Insolent invaders in their pristine blue uniforms. We, by contrast, stood in our ragged and dishevelled clothes. But for our guns, a passing observer would have thought them the victors, and we the vanquished.

“If it were up to me,” Zayonczek said, staring at the Prussians, “I’d put the fucking lot of them up against a wall.”

“Amen to that, General,” I replied, “but rules are rules. We are not Russians.”

“True,” he said. He spat out his cigar, and ground it out under his boot-heel, in the trampled dirt of the Field of Electors. As he mounted his horse, he called out to me over his shoulder. “Always room in my cavalry division for a good Podolian lad like you. Think about it.”

General Dabrowski’s great round face lit up as we herded the Prussian prisoners into the yard. He was surrounded by his jubilant dragoons. They too were leading lines of Prussian prisoners and were flushed with victory. Dabrowski’s cavalry had lifted the siege from the north.

“Hermann!” Dabrowski bellowed, good naturedly, when he saw my prisoner. Dabrowski was a huge man. He towered over the Prussian Colonel and wrapped him a friendly bear hug with his massive arms. To our consternation they began to converse in German. They talked a good while. Dabrowski pointed, with exaggerated concern, at the Colonel’s pathetic scratches, and the Colonel mimed musket shots, and they laughed, and clapped each other on the back. They were evidently old chums.

Dabrowski’s dragoons took our other prisoners from us and we slumped onto our backsides in a corner of the yard, amongst the straw and trestles and upturned barrels. The place was flush with so many prisoners, no one took much notice of our small haul. It was like bringing grain to Grodno. We drank water to sluice the smoke from our parched throats and broke out the cards for a hand of whist.

After some time Dabrowski ambled over. He was in high spirits. Dabrowski was always a good provider for his men and there were canteens of vodka and knapsacks of bread and cheese for us. Disconcertingly, he called the Prussian Colonel over to join us. By now the Colonel’s wounds (such as they were) had been dressed. His head had been ostentatiously swathed in yards of pristine white bandages, so that he had the appearance of a Turk in a turban.

“Colonel Von Boyen and I studied together at the cavalry school in Dresden,” Dabrowski explained. We squirmed uneasily in our seats, with our unwanted Prussian guest, as if a spider sat among us. I cut the cards. We began to play a hand.

“Where are your famous Warsaw girls?” the Prussian asked Dabrowski.

“Hiding in the cellars from your ugly German face!” Dabrowski roared, good-naturedly. The Prussian Colonel laughed and poured himself a vodka. He coughed violently.

“I’d better get used to this vodka,” he sneered, “I expect to be here awhile.”

“Why? What happened to General Goetz’s regiment, my dear Hermann?” Dabrowski asked

“Put to their heels, Henryk!” Hermann – the Prussian Colonel – laughed, and began to gobble every crumb of bread, sausage and cheese that he could lay his hands on, his bandaged head bobbing up and down.

“You don’t seem too concerned,” Dabrowski said gently.

“They’ll be back soon enough, my dear Henryk. The Kaiser has ten regiments to the west to reinforce us. Your health, Sirs!” he raised his vodka in a mocking toast. “After the war,” he said slyly, “there will be good commissions in the Kaiser’s army. Plenty of marks.
Die
Gelt
. Think on it.”

Dabrowski slapped his cards down heavily. The table overturned. Hermann jumped.

“Do not mock us, Hermann. We are not traitors. The Good Lord may have dealt us a poor hand in this game,” Dabrowski said, “but we’ll take no cards from the bottom of the deck, and we’ll play it out to the bitter end.”

We all looked at him with deep respect.

“You have won, General,” I said. Dabrowski had won the hand, and he gathered in his spoils. Abruptly, Elias Tremo came hurtling into the courtyard, on an exhausted horse lathered with sweat. He and Godebski exchanged a sullen stare, but no words passed. Tremo vaulted from his horse and spoke in hushed tones to Dabrowski. Our game broke up and we left the Prussian Colonel to play with a few of his fellow prisoners.

“Blumer,” Dabrowski took me aside, “A message from Madame. Take your three comrades and go to her. She has need of you.”

“At once, General,” I saluted. I confess I was uneasy, because in truth I should never have gone with Godebski to Wola in the first place. If her message contained any reprimand, Dabrowski did not mention it.

“Wait a moment,” Dabrowski beamed craftily, “be sure to tell Madame the dispositions of the enemy forces. General Goetz has five Prussian regiments to the north. The King of Prussia has ten regiments to the west, with six batteries of cannon. To the south, the Russians under General Fersen have thirteen regiments, and five batteries. We await Suvarov’s army from the east. That intelligence may be useful.”

“How the hell do you know that...?” I asked, nonplussed. Dabrowski was a crafty old fox. He grinned.

“Hermann Von Boyen is easy to flatter, and he has a big mouth. He told me everything. Remember that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, lad!” he said, clapping me on my shoulder, and sending us on our way.