Song of the Legions (38 page)

Birnbaum, being a dark and swarthy cove, favoured pale white blondes with blue eyes. Vice versa, I, with my pale freckly Irish skin, was attracted to dark-eyed Latin girls, who reminded me of the sharp cheeked Tartar girls of Podolia.

“Is your Sergeant really a Jew?” the Contessa asked, amazed, as Birnbaum charmed her lady-in-waiting.

“That he is,” I replied, “a fighting Jew, like King David himself!” Birnbaum proudly displayed the rope scars and told the story of his rescue, painting me in a most flattering light. I returned the favour by describing the Cossack he slew, and pointing to the great scimitar that he still carried at his side.

Overhead, the sky blazed a glorious blue. Luchina – for such was the Contessa’s name – told me of her homeland to the south of Italy, a place called Calabria.

“It is a fertile land of wine and olives. To the South, near the toe of the boot,” she said, wiggling her leg by way of a delightful, if gratuitous, explanation. Her calf was milk-white and shapely under her silk stockings.

“Intriguing,” I said, studying her map closely. As she described it, this Calabria sounded like Podolia by the sea. It was dirt-poor, rife with war and banditry, and ruled by petty chiefs and kroliks, of whom her elderly father was one. Peasants toiled in the hot sun, or shivered as the winds flayed their skins. Meanwhile Luchina sat on her plump backside in Rome, boasting about the vast estates she had never visited. She pouted prettily, and fanned away the sweat of the road from my brow.

“My dear father is old and infirm,” she said, fretting on her inheritance, “bad men and bandits roam my estates, and take my – forgive me, his – rents.” Gorgeous emeralds and diamonds glistered at her pale, heaving bosom. She fluttered her fan and lashes coquettishly. “There are so many bad men in Calabria,” she sighed, “what is a lady to do?”

“I am a bad man, too,” I grinned.

“Exactly!” she smiled a gioconda smile, and brushed my thigh with her fingers, “I need a
bad
man, not a milksop! Those rents do not collect themselves, you know,” she confided. Ah, me! Here was another Felix Potocki, in corset and stays! Another tempting siren voice to divert me from my quest. Although, it must be said, the Contessa Luchina’s offer was tied up in prettier ribbons than surly old Felix’s, with his shaking hands and bloodshot eyes. Still, Luchina’s eyes were every inch as black as her soul, and as bewitching as the Rusalka’s whirlpool.

“My house is on the Via Faustina,” she said, quite boldly, “be there tonight, after Church.”

It was not so much invitation as command!

We all spoke French together, for the ladies knew but two words of Polish – ‘
Dobra Pologna
!’ which they called out whenever they saw a Legionary. This new-found popularity was incomprehensible. We were the pariahs of Europe – outcasts, renegades, terrorists. There were two reasons for this. It transpired that this excited the Roman ladies. They adored bandits and desperadoes – what we call
bandyta
. There was a second reason – their disdain of the French.

“Atheists! Jacobins! Robbers! We fear to go to vespers,” said the Marquisa, “we fear the French, for they are looters and,” she crossed herself, “violators of virtuous women.”

“Then you, my dear, have nothing to worry about,” catted the Duchesa from behind her fan. We all fell about laughing, while the Marquisa burned hot as hell with fury.

“We had better be off to Church shortly,” the Marquisa fired back, “for it is sunset now, and you will scarce have time to confess all your sins before midnight.”

The sun was setting on the Eternal City as it had done untold times before. From Capitoline to Palatine, from the Colosseum to the Tarpeian Rock, seven shadows of seven hills fell over the filthy Tiber. The Tiber was foaming not with blood, but with the boiling effluent of Roman kitchens and sewers. No guns fired. Dogs barked. Music played. Wafting from the door of every cafe we heard the strains of the Song of the Legions, hastily improvised on harpsichord and accordion. Invader and occupied danced through a fog of vino. Godebski and I walked together to vespers through the bemused city, taking it in turns to carry Tanski’s drunken priest.

We took the giggling ladies – all prim and proper now behind their veils – into a beautiful tiny church, a true glory to God. We gave thanks to Him, and His Son, and to the Virgin. Gave thanks and praise even after all the wars, the treachery, the defeats, the deaths and suffering. Inside, in that blessed sanctuary of the Church, it was calm serenity. A haven of cool silence after the dusty hell of the road. Yet not for long.

“What the Devil is that?” I thought, rising from my pew. The Priest halted his Latin and turned from the altar.

There, at the back of the Church, were four or five leering French soldiers. I had not seen any Frenchmen until now. Les Crapauds, Les Bleus, Les Galles, our friends – allies – masters. All of them had bootlace moustaches, and their hair tied back with ribbons in long queues. They wore a blue uniform with a brilliant white front, tricolore cockades in their hats, and white gaiters. These were the Sans Culottes, Revolutionaries and Jacobins, in uniform. Stinking of drink, and stinking of trouble. Militants, atheists, persecutors of religion, the Scourge of God. Sweepings of the gutters of Paris. They spouted revolutionary slogans at us.

“Vive The Revolution!” they shouted. “Death to God!”

They jeered the priest. Their coarse shouts echoed off the Church walls. They hooted at the ladies, made lewd gestures, and grabbed at their crotches. They drank the holy water and spat in the font. They broke the collection boxes and crawled drunkenly across the marble floors after the spinning coins. Then a thin Frenchman stuck his bayonet in the eye of the Virgin.

At that point that my fist connected with his jaw, spilling teeth and blood. He went down hard. The other lads were close at my heels, fists and feet flying. The next Frenchman was a big man, as big as myself, and so I picked up the fallen soldier, and flung him bodily at the head of his comrade. The fight was over quickly enough. Outside, we heard the whistles of the gendarmes, the military police. The beaten Frenchmen lay on the church floor, bloodied and groaning. The big fellow raised his head to get up, and so, I am ashamed to say, I gave him an angry kick with my boot. The black Madonna on the wall gazed down at me reproachfully.

“Moja wina, moja wina, moja bardzo wielka wina!

My sin, my sin, my very grievous sin!”

“I’m sorry, Mother,” I said, as we ran, “forgive me!”

When we entered Rome we were admired and lauded – but soon we found it completely empty, with deserted streets, shuttered houses, and the inhabitants closeted away in hiding. They were afraid. French malice had inspired this fear, for the Romans had been told by the French that the Poles were a race of savage barbarians, of a cruel and fierce nature.

The French themselves were unconcerned by the ill-will they had created. They marched off to Civitavecchia, a port that lay close to Rome. This they did with a vast amount of fuss, for they were setting out on an expedition – to invade England, it was said. Thankfully we were not to accompany them on this insane adventure, for Dabrowski had wisely kept us out of it.

To rule Rome, Dabrowski had to convince the citizens of our true conduct and character. We had to show that we were better than the French, more decent and honourable. So Tanski, in the First Legion, with his pet cardinal, was hobnobbing with priests and bishops – and their sisters and mistresses – and having a high old time. As the priests were so powerful, a great deal of money and effort was spent on entertaining them. He was making friends. It was said that Tanski was being groomed for a cavalry division, as soon as we had one, that is.

Cyprian Godebski was at first enraged to discover that
Major
Elias Tremo was his commanding officer. Yet this was only a temporary state of affairs. For Tremo was soon to be transferred. General Dabrowski wanted us to have a cavalry regiment, and his man Tremo was to organise it. With Tremo gone from the infantry, the way would be clear for Cyprian to take over our division. So Cyprian awaited the happy day when his rival would be out of the way and he would be promoted. Meantime he merrily penned his own operetta, using the rehearsals as a pretence to chase the lady sopranos.

Even Sierawski was destined for higher things. The brass considered him a genius, a prodigy. They had made him adjutant to a major, no less, and were grooming him, also, for a division. His skills as an engineer were greatly in demand, and highly esteemed. Whilst, on the contrary, we had no shortage of junior cavalrymen with bad disciplinary records.

As for myself, then, I was the odd man out. Stuck in the infantry, and under suspicion after the affray at the church. My old friend Wybicki summoned me to his office.

“The French are furious,” he said darkly, disappointment writ all over his face. “I have promised to investigate for them, to keep the French gendarmes out of this. You’d best take a few days leave, Blumer,” Wybicki said, furious. “Dismissed!”

Of course, he was too polite to say anything, but I had let him down, and the whole Legion, too. I had behaved like a
pistolet
– a stupid hothead. I had behaved exactly as the rumours said we Poles did – like a fierce, savage barbarian.

Luchina, though, was greatly taken with savagery. She had a cannibal heart and wild lust for blood. Well, any stable in a storm. Disheartened, and chastened, I frequented the Via Faustina. Her house there was as large as a small palace – a palazzo, she called it – and inside it shone as gaudy as a heaven fashioned by magpies. A boudoir of pink, green and gold. Every wall glittered with decadent mosaics. Forests of crystal glass and gilt furniture glowed and sparkled amongst guttering candles. For a few deluded days, lying under cracked ceilings with faded painted angels, I tarried with that wicked little painted devil. There, in the Via Faustina, I discovered that Luchina’s jewel’s were paste.

“Hell’s bells,” I cursed, pulling on my boots, and glancing at the clock, for it was gone midnight, “who calls?”

“It is my husband!” Luchina cried, delighted, letting the bedclothes fall from her uncorseted bosom. Down in the hallway below all was chaos. A carriage arrived. Dogs barked. Servants ran hither and thither. Doors slammed. Boots marched up the stairs.

“You must challenge him!” she demanded, flashing her ivory teeth, thrusting my sabre into my hands. In the moonlight, one could see the pocks and blemishes on her powdered skin. I had no stomach for this painted harlot any longer, and had rather take my chances with the military police.

“Upon my soul!” I laughed, “what, end a man’s life, for the sake of a strumpet! What do you take me for, madam – an assassin?”

“Damn you, treacherous seducer!” Luchina cried, eyes dark as daggers. She screamed, and hurled a stiletto at me. It wedged in a window frame. I bowed, pulled on my kontusz, and strolled out to the balcony. Outside, the moon glowed. Pan Twardowski laughing at me again, the son of a bitch.

After scrambling down the curtain-ropes and vines I met Birnbaum in a nearby inn, where our horses were stabled. As we were leaving, we ran full pelt into a figure with dark curly hair and moustaches, swathed in billowing smoke and cloak, silhouetted against the eerie glow of the fire, like a cameo of Satan. We thought it was the Devil come to collect our souls, so I prayed to the Virgin, and Birnbaum called on Jehovah, but it was worse than that –

“General Zayonczek!” we said, saluting. After a few brief seconds, I recovered my senses.

“What a surprise! That is, a pleasant surprise! We thought you dead, Sir! How the Devil did you escape?” I asked, nonplussed.

“My wife pulled some strings and got me out of that stinking Austrian gaol,” Zayonczek replied. Zayonczek’s wife was of course the beautiful ice-maiden who we had escorted out of Warsaw, before it was taken. She was wealthy and well-connected. She had freed her husband, by hook or by crook.

“So here I am!” Zayonczek said, “and here you are too – in the nick of time! Well, get your horses, and let’s be on our way, comrades!”

We collected our horses and then we lost ourselves in the backstreets. Scant moments later, as we rode out onto the highway, we became sensible of a great commotion, a vast noise of hooves in the darkness, and then a great body of horsemen were upon us. Zayonczek’s men.

“A strong wife,” Zayonczek boasted, gloating about his gorgeous spouse, “is the greatest treasure a man can have.”

“I’ve not had much luck with women recently,” I admitted.

“Well, you must get yourself a wife, lad. We shall get you one when we conquer England!” Zayonczek laughed.

“Indeed, Sir,” I replied, having not the faintest idea what this wild lunatic was raving about. England? I glanced at the stars. We were riding north. North to Civitavecchia. The port. Hills and forests whirled by, dark shapes on the horizon, black trees on a low sky, silhouetted in silver by the light of Twardowski’s moon. Behind me were gendarmes and a vengeful medusa. Ahead of me was the devil-knew-what. By my side, was, well, a madman!

“I’m glad you could make it, Blumer,” said Zayonczek, “I need good Podolian lads, especially those with English blood, and the English tongue.”

“I have Irish blood, Sir,” I averred, “but I speak the language tolerably well.” Still I was in ignorance.

“Better yet, boy!” Zayonczek declared, greatly delighted. “That will be invaluable. The English oppress the Irish as the Russians oppress us Poles. We will find many Irish allies in England! This morning we set sail with General Bonaparte – for the invasion!”

“By the Blessed Virgin!” I whispered, appalled. “I thought Dabrowski had kept us out of this – ahem – splendid plan?” I asked, horrified. Dabrowski had fought like a lion to keep us Poles out of this mad adventure, which would do nothing to free our Motherland.

“Well,” Zayonczek replied, “I had a word with Bonaparte, who is a most splendid fellow. My battalion have been made into honorary Frenchmen, and transferred out of the Legion, for this campaign. Dabrowski can go hang, the miserable cowardly fool!”

God help us! I thought. Birnbaum and I had been taken from Dabrowski’s wise leadership, into the arms of this ambitious and unscrupulous lunatic! But there was nothing to be done. By now we were at the port, surrounded by Zayonczek’s men.

“Damnedest thing,” Za
yon
czek said as we boarded the ship, “have you heard what happened to Felix Potocki?” And he told me the story. Felix had been cast aside by the Russians, for they had no further use for him. Then he discovered his new young wife taken in adultery with his own brother. Humiliated for all the world to see, Felix eked out his days, alone, in an empty palace in Vienna. Nobody loves a traitor.

As we boarded the ship, I thought of the faithful friends and comrades that we had left behind in Italy. Proud Tanski, wily Sierawski, brave Godebski. I thought of Madame, back in Poland, carrying on the struggle, her life in danger at every moment. For seven long years she had guided us and kept us safe through the disasters that had befallen our sad land. A deluge of fire and sword, the plague of the barbarian Suvarov.

From that glorious day on the Third of May, when the Bullock had signed our great Constitution, we had been through the torments of the damned. Our nation was hurled into a tomb of destruction. Waves of invaders had annihilated our armies, imprisoned our leaders, burned down our homes, and stolen our treasures. We had fought desperate battles and escaped the slaughter of Praga. Betrayed by our King, our nation destroyed, we were forgotten by the world. Our very name was forbidden to be spoken. Yet still Dabrowski and the Legion fought on, against impossible odds.

Poland was not dead, as long as we lived!

Later, as the other men puked at the ship’s rail, I stared up at the moon. I reckoned the direction we were sailing in by my compass, and the moonlight. England was north, but we were sailing south. We were sailing t
o Egypt.

Twardowski was still up there on the moon, laughing fit to burst. He, and Felix too, had made their bargains, and look how it served them! We of the Legion had made our bargain, too, for good or ill. For seven long dark years we had prayed for a saviour. Bonaparte had answered our call.

But was he sent to us by God – or the Devil?

KONIEC

(THE END)