Song of the Legions (29 page)

“Where the hell are we?” Tanski demanded.

“This is Romania, a dominion of the Turkish Empire,” I told them. Of course, there was absolutely no sign by which to tell where we were, or who the ruler was. In every direction the trees were exactly the same, regardless of which sovereign they belonged to.

“How I miss Krakow!” Sierawski moaned, “the girls and the taverns! Hell and devils, I even miss lousy Lwow and pissing Podolia.”

“There’s no girls and taverns here, comrade,” I laughed, “only bears and trees!”

Row upon row of trees, an army of them, brigades and divisions, marching for a thousand miles. It was January, and these trees wore a uniform of winter white, crowned with snowy czapkas. Shafts of sunlight through the trees cast shadows like long black lances on the snowy carpet of the forest floor. The grand army of trees even had its own company of musicians. The birds sang like heaven’s own orchestra. They called
la diane
at dawn and played all day and long into the night.

Up and down the mountains these trees ranged. At night, as the trunks swayed in the night breeze, and snow shook from their boughs, it seemed they were marching, swaying in step. If only we could have recruited those stout fellows, with their hearts of oak, to lay siege to Vienna, Berlin, and Muscovy, to burn out the vile nests of the black eagles, cuckoo birds and vultures that they are.

“What about Szymon?” Tanski asked at last, after some days immersed in the forest. Dear Szymon! We had quite forgotten him, what with our other troubles. For we were caught between the Austrians and starvation.

“He will follow us even here, and to the ends of the earth,” I replied, “but hunger is our enemy now, comrades, not that upstart boy.”

We had ridden for day after day until our bellies hung inside out. Now we would have to pierce new holes in our belts. At the foot of the Carpathians we forded an angry stream, the white waters gushing like the River Nile over Pharaoh’s chariots. We had no Moses to part the waters, and one of the Beardlings was carried off to his death, and drowned. Thus the Austrians had hounded the poor fellow to his death. We were but five.

Until then, we had kept pace with the last of the Little Negro’s rearguard. Now, we had lost track of them. Swallowed by the forest, we wandered blind and lost in this wooden labyrinth. Our progress was now measured in days, not miles. In this measureless wilderness there were no roads. Paths meandered crazily as if God had scratched them there in a drunken fit. A gentle incline would, without warning, terminate in a ghastly vertical cliff, obliging us to retrace our steps. Agonising days were wasted in such fruitless effort. Of nights we sat shivering amongst the tall trees and the dead trunks, lying like fallen soldiers, listening to the reveille of howling wolves.

One morning, yet again, we had followed a path that terminated in a dead end. We stood atop a huge rocky escarpment, falling off on both sides like a vast
glacis
. We were in desperate straits, trapped, lost, and starving. Still, had we but known it, compared to the months ahead, we would consider our time in Romania a sojourn in paradise.

“Do you still have your compass?” Tanski demanded.

“I do,” I told him, passing it to him for the hundredth time, “but in this uncharted vastness without maps, this empire of nothing, inhabited by bears and werewolves, what meaning has left or right, east or west? Or up or down, come to that? Face it, Tanski, we are lost. Put your faith in God, and be patient.”

Tanski frowned. Then he tried another tack. “Do you have the telescope?” he demanded of Sierawski, who shrugged and passed it to him. Undeterred, Tanski clambered atop a great heap of fallen trees, lying side by side in mossy slumbers, and began to survey the horizon. It was a hazardous climb, for the wood of these trunks was shiny and slick with ice. Still, on he climbed, undaunted. The man was a whipcord of angry energy. In a trice he reached the top. From there we could see him peering through the telescope.

“I see it!” Tanski cried, triumphant, nearly falling from his precarious nest. We swarmed up the trunks after him, and crowded around, jubilant, peering one by one through the eyepiece. In the distance, we spied the fires of the Little Negro’s camp, and, among the tiny pillars of smoke, the red and white flying from the spear of a lance.

“God is Great, and Allah be Praised!” we joyfully blasphemed. When in Rome – or even when in Romania – do as the Romans do. The Little Negro sat in splendour in a vast Turkish tent, filled with wooden crates and saddlebags stamped with French insignia. It was like the cave of Ali Baba and the forty thieves. There were uniforms, boots, guns, powder and shot, sides of beef and lamb, but no pork of course, and bottles of wine. We sat down on a woven rug decorated with splendid patterns and broke our fast.

Guided by the invisible hand of Madame L, several thousand men had now crossed into the safety of the Ottoman Empire. We patriots had no intention of taking the Tsarina’s thirty pieces of silver, or the long walk to Siberia. Far better the ride to exile, sword in hand.

Despite the bundles of equipment and chests of money, it was a shambolic place. There was
no single uniform. Many men wore the pattern of the national cavalry, like us. Others wore navy blue trousers, and red jackets, and a diverse mix of headgear – czapkas, sheepskin hats, desperado hats, and others. There were men from all over Poland and Lithuania – from Danzig, Warsaw, Krakow, Lwow, Vilnius, Podolia, Poznan, and anywhere you cared to name, from greater or lesser Poland, and beyond.

Besides these, there were those who were not Poles, but who made common cause with us – Jews, loyal Cossacks, Serbian partisans and rebels from Russia. There were all manner of men – cavalry, artillery, infantry, refugees, volunteers, politicians, and priests. There were peasants and there were princelings – for was not the Little Negro himself the son of a princess? – and everything in between. It was as noisy and chaotic as the market in Krakow.

“The Turks and the French have given us shelter and aid, at long last,” said Lieutenant-Colonel Jablonowski – alias the Little Negro. “Unfortunately the French cannot spare any troops, for they are sorely pressed in their war with the Austrians, and as far as I can tell they want us to fight them on their behalf.”

“Sir,” I said facetiously, “with the greatest of respect, and I am but a simple soldier, but I had envisaged that in a Polish-French alliance, the French would be helping
us
, not the other way around.” Tanski kicked my shin to quiet me.

The Little Negro smiled. “Quite true, Blumer. But still there are two thousand men under arms out here in the forest – a formidable force. Welcome to the Legion of the Danube, comrades.”

Our band was the latest and alas, it seemed, the last, to take this road. For Madame’s secret organisation had been paralysed. Her conspirators had been betrayed. Rounded up for the dungeons and gulags, or shot out of hand. A warrant had been issued for Cyprian Godebski’s arrest, and there was a price on his head, but our friend’s own fate was unknown.

We were fed with chunks of lamb in a hot spicy sauce, and boiled rice. After we had eaten our fill, we wiped our mouths on our sleeves, sat back, and belched contentedly. Although we felt like kings at the time, we spent the night in agony, crouched over the latrines. After months of living off the land, our hungry bellies could not cope with this rich food.

“Good health, men! Wine from our Turkish friends, although I am told they do not drink it themselves,” said the Little Negro, as we drained a glass or two together. This place he told us was called Jassy. It was the dirtiest of all the fly-blown one-horse towns in Europe, but after our time in the forests, it felt like a palm-thronged oasis in the middle of a desert, with crystal waters, sherbet, and dancing girls. Oh, woeful days. For this would prove to be another mirage.

“Our Turkish friends?” Birnbaum said suspiciously. The Turks have always been Poland’s enemies, since long before Sobieski’s time.

“The Turks have a saying, ‘My enemy’s enemy is my friend,’” said the Little Negro, tossing back a glass of the wine. “They will help us if it will hurt the Russians and the Austrians.”

“They are not to be trusted,” I said, for we lived close enough to them in Podolia to know their treacherous ways.

“Perhaps. What do you think of the wine?” the Little Negro asked.

“Dry as sticks and sawdust,” Tanski grinned.

“Not fit for a Russian to swill,” Sierawski grinned.

“It’s bloody delicious,” I grinned, and it was all three, for we had not drunk a drop for months, “for beggars can’t be choosers.”

“That,” said the little Negro, clapping me on the shoulder, “is exactly why we are stuck with these treacherous Turks, and the fornicating French. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

At the back of the tent were crates marked with the French cockade. The Little Negro sat up from his rug, for we all squatted on the floor, in the Turkish style. He groaned, and flexed his legs, for his wounds pained him greatly. Besides that, he was greatly troubled by the gout.

“How are you boys for supplies?” he asked. We snapped like hungry dogs, for we had nothing but the clothes we stood up in. Our bare arses hung from our threadbare pants, and the soles of our boots were worn paper thin.

“Open that trunk, would you?” he asked Sierawski, who fairly demolished the wood in his eagerness. Inside we found a cache of uniforms. Delighted, we grabbed clean, fresh clothes, and pulled them on. Amongst the clothes were Polish czapkas and French cockades.

“The latest French fashions?” I inquired.

The Little Negro nodded, and laughed. “Why, yes! Two French generals have inspected this camp already, and the French admiral shipped these supplies over the Black Sea. We have some friends after all, Blumer! Now, boys, about your back pay,” he added, lifting the lid on a strongbox. It was full to the brim with silver coins. We gasped.

“I can’t give you much, I’m afraid,” he said, apologetically, handing us fifty piastres each, which he said was ten months’ pay, reckoned at five piastres a month. This was far less than our due, but we were so amazed and delighted we could have kissed his ugly black noggin. For we had given up every penny of our arrears for lost many years ago. This pay seemed to us not the pittance it was, but a miracle. To us, these small purses contained the untold riches of Croesus and Midas.

Upon receiving this bounty, we roundly congratulated the Little Negro at once upon his appointment as head of this Legion. He was a fine fellow, and a first-rate soldier. We esteemed him enormously. To our dismay, he demurred.

“I am not in command here. That honour belongs to Brigadier Denisko,” said Jablonowski. His brow furrowed. This boded ill. One day, the Little Negro did command one of our Legions, and a damned good leader he was, too. Sadly for all of us, and for the many brave lads who died, it was not Denisko’s ill-starred legion.

“Is this Denisko a good officer, Sir?” I asked, cautiously.

“Depends how you reckon it,” the Little Negro scowled. “On the strength of the zoldu he pays himself, Denisko considers himself worth his weight in gold, for he pays himself five hundred piastres a month.”

“One hundred times ours!” I whistled. “That’s his pay, then, but what’s his worth?”

A few months later, in late June, we awoke to the familiar sound of gunfire, shaking the summer birds loose from the trees. All had gone badly wrong. This was how.

Denisko was a worthless fool, the camp a shambles, and his strategy insane. Our funds had dried up. Rumours flew. It was said that fifty million piastres had disappeared into Denisko’s pocket. At the same time, hundreds of Poles were escaping to Turkey. Many of them passed through our camp. From there they were taking ship to join Dabrowski’s Legion in Italy. The Little Negro was all for following them to Constantinople. By June half of the men in our camp had already struck their tents and gone. In disgust, the Little Negro went to Bucharest, seeking orders from the French Ambassador there.

“To Arms! He who loves the Fatherland, will not go to

Turkey!” Denisko proclaimed. About two hundred men remained stubbornly with him. The other eight hundred of us had decided that enough was enough. It was a bloodless mutiny, but it was a mutiny all the same. We were at arms all right, for we were at daggers drawn with each other. Denisko’s men cursed us for cowards, and we cursed them for fools.

The Austrians, naturally enough, had got wind of Denisko’s legion. They gathered eight thousand troops to do away with us, and they made no secret of it, in the hope that we might simply quit their empire and cause our trouble elsewhere. So we were vastly outnumbered, as usual.
Denisko, who clearly could not read a map, or count, had nevertheless decided to seize the insignificant border town of Bukowina with his two hundred men – in the teeth of these eight thousand Austrian soldiers. Why Bukowina, for the love of God? The place had no military value at all. Perhaps Denisko kept a mistress there!

“Here they are!” Sierawski called. It was a year almost to the day since they had chased us out of Lwow, and here were those damned Austrians again.

“How many?” Birnbaum asked, as we bundled up our belongings.

“How should I know?” Sierawski shouted, hauling at his horse’s girth, as the animal bucked and snorted. All around us was chaos and pandemonium. Loose horses and oxen hurtled about. Three men were striking a huge Arab tent, the canvas painted with red and green stripes. It swirled in the wind like a genie struggling out of a bottle. A rider careered into it, and both man and mount crashed to the ground.

“Damn it!” Tanski cursed, “what a bloody shambles!”

“Business as usual, then,” I sneered. We set about our work, knocking heads together, saddling horses, and loading up our pack animals. We ran through our familiar routine – loading up our possessions onto the back of our horses. I had only three horses remaining. The others had been lost, stolen, or eaten. Onto these good beasts I loaded my trusty English musket (which I still had), several cartridge belts (courtesy of our French patrons) my blankets, my victuals, a few bottles of wine, and my small bundle of precious books. All of the silver piastres were gone, of course. The whole exercise took a shake of a mare’s tail.

Soon we were in the saddle and away, and the Devil take the hindmost. Tanski rode ahead with the flag. At our heels we heard the clap of shots, like hammers being struck against stone. We could easily guess that in the hills and forests beyond our camp, outside Bukowina, Denisko’s doomed legion was fighting its first – and last – battle.

Sure enough, there were the Austrian dragoons, streaming out of the tree line and chasing after us. They were riding down our stragglers, smoke rising over the plumes of their hats, having discharged their pistols. Dragoons are light cavalry, fast, and without armour. We cursed, because they could chase us all the way to the gates of Rome without breaking sweat.

“God Almighty!” Sierawski cried, “we are riding north! What madness is this? Are we going back to Poland?”

We had no time to ponder this, for the dragoons were hard on our heels. Serbs from the Bukowina garrison. A subject people of the Austrian Empire. Hard men, dirty fighters, but poor stuff to be running from, truth be told. Denisko should have been hanged for this negligence! I thought, but as the dragoons charged us, it was our necks on the gallows, not his.

Naturally our Polish horses were better than their Balkan carthorses. But laden as we were with gear, the dragoons kept pace with us. Try as we might, we could not outstrip them. Mile after mile we rode north, on the south side of a filthy river that dragged its way through Bukowina. We thundered straight through a fly blown village and the peasants watched us as if spectating at a horse race.