Song of the Legions (7 page)

A horseman's backside is in more or less constant contact with his horse, except at the gallop, and it is through the horseman's body – especially the backside – that the horse takes his orders. As is well known, unfortunately, the body communicates fear to the outside world through the medium of a man's backside, which is a treacherous trumpet indeed.

Any man who has seen a battlefield will see the men in constant procession behind trees and bushes, hastily responding to the call of nature. Honour dictates that one cannot admit to fear. So one blames over-indulgence in drink, or the local food, for the unruly actions of one’s bowels. No one is fooled, but the pretence suffices. Honour is satisfied.

Pepi was holding our raw, untried brigade in reserve. There was nothing to be done but stand and watch the ebb and flow of our men, soldiers and cavalry going to and fro, dancing in step to the music of the battle, back and forth, and to listen for what news we could.

At first, a stream of our recruits ran past us, in flight, broken by panic under the Russian artillery fire. We stood our horses to one side to let them pass. When they reached the rear, some would rally and return, shamefaced, to the fray – others would not.

From our rear, hurrying past in the opposite direction, came the Potocki regiment, shoring up the breach, and leading a counter-attack. Irony of ironies, this infantry regiment of four hundred men had been gifted to the nation by none other than Felix Potocki himself – who else! That was in happier times, years ago when he dreamed of becoming the King. The man knew how to play off both sides all right.

A grand regiment they were too – naturally, since they were all Podolians! We Podolians could ride and shoot. We were tough border people, strong of body, simple of brain. We did what we were told and went to our deaths happily and without complaint. We therefore made excellent soldiers.

How treacherous was that war, then, setting kin against kin! These brave Podolians were led by Felix Potocki’s own nephew, the infamous Jan Nepomucen Potocki. Another raving Jacobin, rabidly for the Constitution, he was a captain in the engineers, and a right queer fish, according to Sierawski. Still, here he was, and good for him. We glimpsed him that morning, through the smoke on that blasted hill, charging forward with his men.

My good Podolian countrymen threw back the Russians and gave them a sound beating – and gave the nation yet more cause to rue Felix Potocki's treachery. Oh for a few thousand more of us! Four hundred men was a mere cobweb against a deluge. The Russians immediately retorted with an infantry charge, securing the village of Zielence, which was on our flank.

Our brigade had not even drawn a sword yet. A rumour spread that Pepi had ordered cavalry to eject the Russians from the village – and so he had, but it was not our brigade. The honour fell to others. We stood by, bitterly cursing our luck, as another squadron flew by us – only to fly back again, leaving the village in flames, and the Russians also withdrawing from it, but in good order.

It was a stalemate, with the armies locked together like two wrestlers trying their strength.

When the Russian assault finally came, it came on the right. A massive bombardment fell on our elite cavalry. Simultaneously they were charged by massed ranks of Cossack horsemen. Our view of this was obscured by the hills and the pall of powder smoke. We heard all the evil sounds – the crack of gunshots, the random, disembodied shouts, the rattle of drums, and the call of the bloody trumpets. We heard first the barrage, then the hideous cries of dying men and the shrieks of stricken horses. Then, finally, we heard the Cossacks, and their bestial war cries –

“
Pole-Jew-Dog – Die!

Die, Lachy, Die!
”

‘Lachy’ is a derogatory Russian and Cossack term for Pole. This particular ‘song’ dated from the massacres at Uman, in the great Cossack rebellion in the last century.

“The Cossacks are splendid looking fellows, but they write very poor songs,” I said, to try to steady my platoon's nerves. Inside my stomach churned like a milk pail, but I kept my face impassive and lit my pipe with a steady hand. Men are like horses. You must show them you are not afraid, and they will think you are made of iron.

Next we heard hoof beats and trumpets – shouts – and saw gallopers haring to and fro, carrying messages. A cannonball trundled past us, taking with it the leg of an unfortunate horse.

“Our right wing is retreating!” came a shout.

“We have no orders!” some laggards yelled. “Give us orders!” came shouts from all around, and pathetic cries of “Run! Save yourselves! Every man for himself!”

“Here’s the order!” I roared, drawing my pistol, “the first man to run, dies!” I caracoled my horse, and trained my gun on my wavering comrades.

“Here we stand, here we die!” I roared, my voice hoarse but calm. “We hold the line! They shall not pass!”

The platoon, who knew that I was a man of my word, held. Still, it was pandemonium everywhere else, as we saw a line of our cavalry streaming past us in full flight.

“Bastards! Cowards! Traitors!” we jeered, shaking our fists at them.

“What do we do, Sir?” a soldier shouted.

“I told you! We hold the line, damn it!” I roared, brandishing my pistol. I remember that I felt oddly calm and happy, almost exhilarated, in that moment. By some miracle, the right wing held. More than that, it began a counter-charge, utterly decimating the Cossacks and the Russian cavalry.

It was General Zayonczek – he had rallied them. Zayonczek, my fellow son of the black earth, came hurtling back and forth, laughing like the wrath of God. A Podolian is worth ten ordinary soldiers, by God! The men began to recover their courage, and forget their fear. Thus is a battle fought, with the heart and mind swinging wildly from fear to bravery, and sometimes back again.

At that point, with the men starting to take heart, Pepi came ambling past us, as if on a summer stroll in the country. He was on foot, at the head of those of the Potocki regiment who were still alive, and two more battalions from other regiments. We cheered them to the heavens. The infantrymen were powder-blacked, covered in mud, bloodied, in tatters. How we envied them! Fools that we were!

Pepi was conversing with Zayonczek, who leaned over from his saddle to take his orders. The Prince was on foot, and armed with musket and bayonet, like an infantryman, as was his wont. Pepi was fond of quoting our enemy, Suvarov, who held to the dictum ‘the bullet is a fool, but the bayonet is a fine fellow!’ The army loved Pepi for many reasons, but not least because he would regularly dismount from his horse, roll up the silk sleeves of his gilded tunic, and wade into the trenches with the bayonet alongside the common soldiers.

Scurrying behind Pepi were two liveried servants, carrying some sort of collapsible bed or table. It was Pepi's harpsichord. As the cannon balls fizzed overhead and buried their noses in the Zielence mud, Pepi's servants unfolded his music box and a camping stool. Smiling serenely beneath his moustaches, the Prince settled before the instrument and, quite extempore, proceeded to perform a short recital of the marvellous, nameless, jaunty mazurka that we had heard on the Third of May. A great cheer rang out across our ranks as he concluded, and he stood to a round of applause. Behind him, a crew of artillerymen was desperately dragging a cannon into position.

“Ah!” Pepi cried with delight, “here is the percussion! Play well, boys, and don't miss a note!”

We could see Zayonczek haranguing Pepi as he played upon his keyboard. There was no love lost between the two of them. After a short and bad-tempered conference, Pepi reluctantly put up his instrument and the two generals made their way over to our line.

“Comrades,” Pepi addressed us genially, “the right wing has held, after a small affair with the Cossacks, who have now been put to their heels.” This brought a huge cheer of relief. A weight lifted from all our hearts. Pepi grinned and held up a hand. “However, the Ekaterinoslav Grenadiers are now on their way to meet us, instead. These Podolian fellows and I shall receive them warmly.”

Grenadiers, as you will know, are the elite of the infantry. As one, our brigade begged and pleaded with him to let us run them down. We had not fired a shot or drawn a sword all day, and it was now late, so late, in the early evening. Pepi declined. “Thank you, comrades, but no. You are my reserve, and will await further orders.”

It was more than we could stand. It felt like a gloved slap. Heartbroken, humiliated, we sat on our horses, cursing, fuming like caned schoolboys.

On came the Russian grenadiers, giant men, splendid in their blue and grey uniforms and bulbous fur hats. Rays of evening sun glinted off their shouldered muskets as they marched towards us in perfect order. As they marched up the slope, Pepi and his sharpshooters began to fire on them. At every shot a grenadier seemed to fall to the ragged crash of rifle fire. On they came, these brave fellows, the men in the second rank stepping over their dead comrades.

By now, our cannon had found its range, too. It scythed down ranks of these splendid grenadiers, and their advance collapsed, decimated.

Despite them being our mortal enemies, I felt a stirring of pity for them, and I felt pride at the wonderful spectacle of arms they presented, even as the bullets tore through their breasts. I thought of my Irish grandfather, a mercenary, who wore that same Russian uniform.

Finally it was our turn. General Zayonczek, boiling with impatience, rode up to our ranks. It was a warm day but he was wrapped in a thick fur over his uniform. Tanski, who had never seen him up close before, later remarked that this General should have had a sheep, rather than a pig, on his coat of arms, for the General's thick, curly blond hair was cut close to his scalp, like a ram's fleece. He had bushy blond cavalry moustaches to match it. Zayonczek was not one to mince words:

“Szarza!
Charge!” he called, chopping down his flashing sabre. The front rank lowered their lances, the swallow-tailed pennants fluttering in the breeze. Then we hurled ourselves forward in a mad charge, a wave of furious cavalry emitting blood-curdling screams, spearpoints and brandished sabres glinting in the sun – szarza! Szarza!

We wielded those slim chivalric ashwood lances and wore a fine uniform – tight red trousers, a blue jacket with red or yellow facings, depending upon one's regiment, silver epaulettes, and a fur-trimmed red czapka. The front rank was a charging mass of beautiful Polish steeds, the descendants of the Arab chargers our Sarmatian forefathers brought with them from Persia.

It was a spectacle indeed, green grass beneath blue sky. Before us were the Russians on their stout, sturdy steeds, gaudily caparisoned, snorting, neighing, and prancing gracefully beneath their grim faced grey riders. The enemy cavalry were clad in varied grey costumes and greatcoats, with gleaming silver and gold cuirasses, many wearing bearskin hats decked with eagle feathers, others in helmets and wolfskins. They were armed with sabres and pistols.

Our lances were slim and graceful weapons, twelve feet long. The lance was difficult to wield but deadly in a skilled hand, and it could be handled almost as dexterously as a sabre. It was feather light, cut from ashwood, impregnated with linseed oil and tar, with a metal heel, and a red and white silk swallow-tailed pennant behind the steel spearhead.

The front rank held their lances between the looped forefinger and the middle finger of the right hand, before raising them high above their heads to deliver a powerful thrust at the enemy – this was called ‘
par le moulinet’
.

The sabres of the enemy cavalry met the lances of our first rank. The enemy may as well have been wielding dandelions as sabres. Our lances tore them apart, a flying wall of deadly spears. Many of the Russian horses had broken and run before us. They were transfixed and terrified by the fluttering swallow-tailed pennons on our lances, which were not merely for decoration, but terrorised the simple minds of the beasts. It was an unbelievable chaos – horses and cavalrymen falling together, felled like trees, men with their clothes on fire, set alight by the blazing wads from muskets and pistols, men impaled on lances like suckling pigs.