Song of the Legions (21 page)

Then we were gone. I never saw her again.

We rode across the boundary stones into what was now called Austrian Galicia. This was the Hapsburgs’ slice of the cake. God knows how the pious Marie-Therese explained this brigandry to her confessor. The Austrians shared our religion, unlike the Prussians and Russians. Consequently, unlike them, they rarely molested our worship or violated our holy places.

We rode north, for Krakow. Sierawski rode on my right, Tanski on my left. Sierawski’s eyes and cheeks were hollow from a long winter of hunger. Tanski’s jaw was set grimly, his eyes blank and shining with hatred. It was fortunate for Tanski that he was born and lived in days when we were at war with all the world. For his natural humour was such that nothing suited him better. Both rode in silence.

“What happened to you two? You look as if you’ve been paroled from Hell, comrades!”

Sierawski said nothing. Tanski spat into the grass. We rode on, through twisting forgotten paths and quiet woods to avoid the Austrian patrols. This was not especially difficult. Of all our enemies, the Austrians were the most negligent by far. Night was falling as we forded the Vistula and slipped around Krakow. It cost us all the money in Magda’s purse, which was all the money we had, to bribe the sentries. At first, Sierawski’s spirits grew at the sight of his beloved city. Even in the darkness we could see the dreaming spires, the twinkling lights of the houses, the dark hump of the Wawel Castle, like a sleeping dragon.

An Austrian flag flew there above our slumbering kings. In the taverns, coarse folk laughed and drank, their noisome din carrying to us across the water. We rode on. Behind us the red sun sank into the Vistula and drowned there, like Queen Wanda, who killed herself rather than marry a German prince. A whole night passed in this way. Sierawski, who knew this country, led us on, on a road he called the Eagles’ Nest Trail. As Krakow dwindled behind us, so did Sierawski’s spirits.

The Eagles’ Nest Trail runs from a valley at the south, like a bottleneck, all the way north to the great monastery at Czestochowa. Krakow forms the cork of this upturned bottle, and a verdant valley the neck. This bottleneck is the Pradnik valley, a land studded with outcrops of limestone, like opals adorning a woman’s green gown. For all its natural beauty, this is bandit country. Perched on rocky outcrops are the ruined castles that give this trail its name – Eagles’ Nest. Once these were the strongholds of lords and kings, but since the Swedish Wars they had long since been ruined and were now fallen into the hands of bandits.

Vultures, not eagles, nested here.

This land brought the Swedish Wars to mind, and our great general from those old days, Czarniecki, of whom I had read. Finding himself outmatched by invaders, his small army waged a war of ambush, of hit and run, in places such as these. In the morning we stopped to rest the horses. Sierawski took a long pull of vodka with his breakfast as the sun rose, for his city was vanished and invisible behind us.

“Enough of that,” I snapped, “we have a long ride ahead.”

Sierawski ignored me and continued to drink.

“Tanski,” I said, my nerves now somewhat frayed, “we must water the horses. We have no remounts so we must take good care of them.”

“Damn your eyes, Blumer, and water your own stinking nag,” Tanski said, dropping from his horse like a sack of hay thrown from a loft. There he sprawled in the grass and lay as if shot. His horse began to crop the wet grass, still wearing its saddle and tack. I hobbled my horse and undid the bridle of Tanski’s grey mare, cursing, for it had fouled the bit with a chewed cud of grass.

“You lazy swine,” I chided him, “your beautiful horse could have choked.”

At this, Tanski stood up. “I’ve had it with you ordering me about. You aren’t even a cavalry lieutenant, Warrant Officer Blumer! You water the horses! I’m in charge here!”

“You couldn’t take charge of a shithouse! What has become of you, comrade?” I asked him, aghast.

“I’ll tell you what has become of me,” he snarled, “I’ve watched my mother and father die, and my home burn. My uncle hid me in a grain cellar full of rats. Every day the Cossacks came, killing, raping and looting with impunity,” he shouted. “while you – you’ve been drinking and living it up with a strumpet! In a bloody convent!”

“I grieve your loss, Sir,” I said, “but don’t refer to the lady so. She’s a brave girl, and she hid me as your good uncle hid you, while I recovered from my wound.”

“I’ll call her whatever I damn well please,” he shouted, “she’s probably rutting with the Russians right this minute! What was your injury, anyway, comrade? Shot in the arse while running away?”

He was striking distance from me now.

“Another word and you die, Kasimir,” I said, softly.

Tanksi stepped forward and knocked off my czapka.

“Draw your sword, then,” he sneered, “you snivelling Irish coward.”

This was sheer madness, of course. A mist of rage had descended on us. Impotent, angry, and defeated, we turned our teeth at each other’s throats. All around us the spider was weaving his web, the threads drawing ever tighter. He spun his silken ropes like a hangman’s noose.

“I’ll not be called a coward, by God, not by any man, Sir,” I said, and we drew our sabres, and took guard.

“Ahem,” Sierawski coughed. He was sitting on a tree stump, loading his antiquated gun with powder and birdshot.

“I hate to interrupt your duel, comrades, but we have been followed since Krakow.”

“Now he tells us!” we exclaimed, lowering our sabres.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Sierawski shrugged. At last, he cracked a smile! I never thought it would bring me joy to see his crooked yellow teeth, but such it did. We dragged our protesting horses to their knees and lay down behind them, putting the poor beasts betwixt us and the bullets that were liable to come whistling at us forthwith. I still had my grandfather’s brass telescope, and I pressed it to my eye. The road behind us was long and plain and clear. On the horizon, apparitions danced in the glass. Horsemen, riding us down like the very Devil.

“Rzewuski’s lackeys,” I said, “seven of them.” Dropping the telescope, I took my musket from the saddle holster, and began to prime it.

“Don’t shoot until you can see their moustaches, comrades,” I said, and we all grinned.

Rzewuski’s men had caught up with us in the shadow of an immense rock that stood amidst a canopy of trees. It stretched against the blue sky like the stone pillar of a long-vanished temple. This was the famous stone named Hercules’ Club. Now they were close, bearing down on us, the thundering hoof beats of their mounts throwing up clods of earth and echoing through the ground. They were Poles, in Rzewuski’s service – that is, Russian service. They were dressed in black zupans that streamed behind them in the wind, and fur kolpaks on their heads. Sabres gleamed in the sunlight. Bandits or brigands, hired killers, but not soldiers, these. Some had pistols and they fired wildly, from too great a range to make the shots count. Wisps of smoke flew up and were snatched away on the wind. They closed with us. Man pulls the trigger, but God guides the bullet. My musket found the range and a man was plucked from his saddle.

“A hit! A palpable hit!” I cried, surprised and delighted, for I am a poor shot.

“Bloody assassins,” Tanski hissed, and discharged his gun. A horse came crashing down but the rider rolled away, unhurt.

“Good shot, comrade!” we called.

“Damnation!” Tanski cursed, drawing his pistols, “I missed! I was aiming for the man, not his poor beast!”

Sierawski could do little more than make a noise with his hopeless firearm, but we had raised plenty of sound and fury between us, and knocked down a man and a horse, and it was more than enough to stop them in their tracks. The man I had shot with my musket was lying on the ground, screaming, clutching at his stomach – a killing shot. This traitor would suffer a long and agonising death, unless he was put out of his misery first. The rest of them fell back, lay down and cowered behind their horses, as we did. Here and there a shot was fired at us, but to no real purpose, as if to save face.

At the head of this band of cutthroats was a tall and handsome man in black, with a shock of blond hair on his head. He was rallying his men. Clearly their leader, he was made of sterner stuff than them. We were close enough now for me to see the Russian eagle on his chest, and the double-cross on his arm. It was Szymon Korczak.

“Shoot the blond man!” I roared. As you know by now, a pistol is rarely any use at anything but point-blank range. We carried four pistols between us, and we fired four shots at them. They scattered like bugs, burying their noses in the dirt, and hiding behind rocks and under stones.

“Let’s go,” I ordered, and we released our horses’ necks, and sprang onto their backs, Tanski leading his grey mare by the mane, for I had of course removed the bridle. As we rode by, Tanski leaned out of the saddle and snatched the loose bridle up from the ground without his horse even breaking stride. That boy had a terrible temper but by God, he could ride. Sierawski rode ahead, for only he knew where we were going.

Lastly, I reluctantly turned to go. I burned to know if we had hit the blond man. Cursing, I saw him coolly stand up from behind his horse, a pistol in hand. Szymon stalked towards the wounded man, who was screaming pitiably. As I caracoled my horse and rode on, I heard a single shot, and the screaming ceased.

“What do you mean, we’re going the wrong way?” I demanded. Sierawski shrugged and took a pull at his water bottle, for it was a hot May morning.

“All you said was find a place to ambush them,” he replied. “You didn’t say it had to be on the way there.”

“Hell’s teeth! We need to be going north east to Pulawy!” Tanski shouted angrily, chewing a hunk of stale bread. “Instead, we are going north west, to Czestochowa!”

“By Mary and all the Saints!” I exclaimed, and sat down heavily on a log. My leg hurt as if the Devil was sinking his fangs into it. Cursing, I stood up again and began to saddle my horse. It hurt as badly at rest as at work.

“My plan was to skirt around Krakow and follow the Vistula north, perhaps catch a boat or steal a raft,” Sierawski said mournfully, “but those boys behind us have spoiled everything.”

“Damn it all,” I cursed, studying the map. “We shall have to go the long way round, following the River Pilica, then. There is nothing else for it,” I said. “Trust three Poles to do everything the hard way!”

We set off again.

“Have we any food for lunch?” Tanski grumbled.

“No,” I shook my head, “you ate the last of the bread, you greedy bastard.”

“Here is the church,” Sierawski said. “This is the spot.”

“An ambush at a church!” I spat, and shook my head. “Delightful! We’re getting as bad as them. Still, I commend your cunning – they won’t expect this.”

“Fool! This is not the spot for the ambush!” Sierawski shook his head. “This is the spot for lunch! The priest will find us something to eat – I know him.”

We dismounted and stood guard while Sierawski disappeared into the church. We heard the sound of a door being forced. He returned some time later with a basket full of apples, bread, hard-boiled painted eggs, and a bottle of communion wine.

“This priest is very generous,” I said sceptically.

“He wasn’t home,” Sierawski admitted, shredding the brightly-painted shell from an egg and wolfing it down. “So I borrowed these.”

“Body of Christ!” Tanski intoned, tearing the bread.

“Blood of Christ!” I laughed, swigging straight from the bottle. “The Lord be with you, comrades!”

“And also with you, Father Blumer!” Tanski and I laughed together, at long last, and his black cloud seemed to lift a little, until I could see the good heart of my old friend, like the sun through a storm. Sierawski, however, was still silent, but for the odd grunt and a few words. He ate as if he had never eaten before and feared never to do so again. It was as if the evil spider still hung over him.

“What the hell is that?” Tanski pointed out a green stone monument that stood by the wooden Church.

“It appears to be an elephant, comrade,” I said, finishing the communion wine with a long glassy whistle, and tossing the bottle into the weeds.

“Why, so it is,” Sierawski put in, the most animated we had seen him for days. His gloomy eyes brightened and he sprang to his feet. “It’s my elephant!”

We were astonished to see him run like a schoolboy to this strange obelisk. He reached it in a trice, and to our further amazement he patted the pachyderm upon the tusk and trunk, petting it as if it were his dog.

“This,” said Sierawski proudly, “is my elephant! The very one on my coat of arms! My lucky elephant!” He pulled a scrap of cloth from his pocket and showed it to us. It was his coat of arms. We had always wondered at this strange family emblem. Tears filled his eyes, but he was grinning.

“I never thought to see it again!” he wiped his eyes on his sleeve and drew his sword, pointing left and right. “I’ve changed my mind – this is where we’ll make our ambush, boys. We’ll cut them down as they pass between the church and the elephant. There is a hollow over there. You can’t see it from the road, not until it’s too late. I hid there many times as a boy, for my cousin lives hereabouts, and we used to visit in the summer. I used to leap out and fire my catapult at the girls. The priest would birch my backside whenever he caught me.”

Without another word we went about our business with a will. We hid our horses in the woods and tethered them to a tree. We covered our tracks by sweeping them over with branches, and collected up all our mess, right down to the bottle I had carelessly tossed aside. After that, we lay down on the wet grass, still slick with morning dew, and hid. Sierawski’s hollow was a shallow dip scooped out of the ground, and a perfect natural foxhole.

The day wore on. The sun lengthened and began to sweat the communion wine out of us. Our eyes and ears strained at the empty horizon for horsemen and hoof beats.

“Where have you been, Sierawski?” I asked, both to break the tension, and from genuine concern for my morose comrade. Sierawski took a sip of his half-empty water bottle, and told us.

“After I saw you boys last, at Wola, I returned to the engineers. We fought on until Kosciuszko was taken prisoner. In November, we were ordered to go to Russia, and be enlisted into their army. Many of our regiments were conscripted in this way. We engineers were first. All armies are short of engineers, particularly the Russians. We are prized above all other soldiers for our skills.”

“Enough of this idle boasting!” Tanski hissed peevishly, peering through my telescope, for we had but one, “anyone can dig a bloody hole.”

“Ignore him, Sierawski – please continue,” I said, softly. For Sierawski was like a skittish horse, and needed coaxing, not beating.

“Our General sent me to another General to talk some of his men into going to some place called Wysogrod, where we were to be housed in barracks and sworn into Russian service. Now these men were loyal sorts and not disposed to obey this treacherous command. So I was given a letter of passage, some men, and these despicable orders, which I abhorred with as great distaste as the lads I was to give them to. These angry men were as like to shoot the messenger as not, so the crafty generals sent me as their special envoy.”

“They sent you on a suicide mission,” I said.

“Precisely! When I rounded up these boys, they all still had their horses and their guns, and they were in a high old dudgeon, as you may imagine, with the Partition and all. So I proceeded to lead their mutiny myself, otherwise they’d have hung me from a tree anyway. We killed the guards and ran for it.”

Sierawski took his turn peering through the telescope. “The steppe is a cruel old place, and I think we lost as many to the cold and hunger as to the Cossacks. We had hollow bellies and tight belts, I can tell you. It was a harsh Christmas, comrades. We sang our hymns out there in the Russian dark with a few mean fires burning and it felt as if we were at the end of the earth. We were free men, true, but we were still in Siberia, only without the leg irons. I told the boys enough was enough, and we rode down from the hills into a little place called Cycanow.”

Sierawski passed me the telescope and took out a silver hip flask of vodka with a Russian eagle on it.

“The locals weren’t too pleased to see us in Cycanow, for it is a Russian town. They don’t get much by way of news there, so we told them that Old Poland had won the war, and it was the White Eagle, not the Black Janus, that was flying over the Kremlin now, as it had done in the days of Stefan Bathory
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, and so they had better behave themselves. Then we hoisted our tattered flag over their little town, and it was the last free town in Poland, except for the small fact that it was in Russia, and we bivouacked there.

“Well, in double-quick time the village hetman and the priest came to visit me. The hetman was a great fat old boy with his beard to his knees and his belt on the last hole, and the priest was the same, other than that his beard was longer, and he was even fatter, so that he needed an altar boy to carry his belly for him in a wheelbarrow. I shook my whip at them and told them that I was the Governor now, and the right royal representative of the Polish King, and they had better keep on the right side of me, or else, and they stood there quaking to their boots.

“At that the hetman fell to the floor and grabbed my knees, and wept, and said I could take their cattle, and their vodka, and that he would even give me his three daughters, on condition they could keep their religion. For he had been told all the usual lies about us in that regard.”

As you will know, the Russians tell their serfs, falsely, that we Poles oblige all our citizens to take the Catholic Communion. This calumny has taken a deep root in the mind of their peasants. Nothing could be further from the truth – we hold that any man or woman in Poland is perfectly free to practise their own superstitions, however foolish, for there will then be all the more room in heaven for we true believers when the day of judgment comes. These same gullible peasants chose to overlook (or perhaps agreed with) the gross persecution of Jews, Catholics, and Uniates by the Tsars.

“Well,” Sierawski continued, “I said that sounded like a fair deal to me, and we spat on our hands and shook on it, and I said that he had better look lively about the vodka and the rest.”

“God Almighty!” we whistled. “Only you, Sierawski, could do that.”

“You might say I engineered the situation to my advantage,” Sierawski said, twirling his moustaches. “It was all going very well, for a while, until the Russian Army turned up. Then it was all a bit of a fiasco, in the end, to tell you the truth. Lots of shooting and shouting, and cannon firing, and such, most unfortunate. Well, two of the hetman’s daughters came at me with carving knives, and I had to take my exit through a bedroom window sharpish. It’s pretty bracing out there on the steppe in December when you’re wearing nothing but your boots and your sword, I can tell you. So I took some clothes off a scarecrow and cut up a horse blanket for a coat, helping myself to the horse while I was at it. Then I reckoned west by the sun and rode.

“A troop of uhlans caught me near Grodno, or Nowogrod, or some other damn place. They asked me if what I was wearing was the Polish fashion nowadays and I said no, these were French clothes from Paris. Thank God it wasn’t the Cossacks so they saw the funny side. Their Colonel was a Polish lad in Russian service and I told him this story over a few vodkas. He offered me a commission in his uhlans on the spot, as he needed an engineer, but I said no, it wasn’t for me, so he gave me back my sword and my horse and let me go. And that was it. Please pass me the bread, comrade? Damn it, I’m hungry.”

He shrugged and passed me the telescope. Tanski and I shook our heads in wonderment. We had completely forgotten our ambush, the road, or what we were doing here.

Then a bell tolled.

“What the hell!” I peered through the telescope. “Your priest is back, Sierawski. What day is it today?”

“It’s the Third of May,” said Tanski.

“They are saying mass to celebrate,” we whispered, our throats dry. We sighted down the barrels of our muskets at a line of horse-drawn carts and riders. Behind them came a long procession of peasants, men and women, with children and dogs straggling behind them. There were perhaps three dozen people in all, innocent country folks. Everyone was in their Sunday best – the men in bright red kontusz cloaks and fur zupans, the women in pink or lavender, or yellow kontusz, with slit sleeves rolled back and over the shoulder. Some wore more modern dresses in the French fashion. The men wore fur caps or czapkas. The peasant women wore bonnets, or turbans adorned with heron’s feathers.