Song of the Legions (32 page)

It took us another month to reach Galatz. I reckoned the time by Twardowski’s face, which waxed and waned, and curved into a silver crescent, in honour of our Turkish hosts. We were armed, and strong in numbers, so the roving bands of Tartar raiders and the bandits let us be. But word of our coming would have spread.

After emerging from the void we crossed Moldavia, where we encountered naught but marshes, gypsies, and carrion birds. When we reached the River Prul we followed it south. Three rivers drain into this Turkish sinkhole – the Prul, the Siret, and the mighty Danube. The Danube is the Austrians’ sewer, of course, which endeared it not to us. Still, the prospect of sailing to Italy on the Austrians’ own waterway was quite poetic.

Galatz had been burned down by the Russians in the Turkish War of 1789, eight years before. Judging by the state of the place, it may as well have been yesterday. Even the Danube shared this state of dilapidation, for it ran brown and reeking here, not shining blue and emerald. But there were boats in Galatz, just as I had promised the lads.

Boats! Hundreds of vessels of every kind and every size, from tiny fishing canoes to vast three-masted merchantmen bristling with cannon. We marvelled at the huge ships as they drifted lazily along the vast, placid river, dozens of them, one after another. We had to find but one. Still, none of us had any experience of anything larger than the grain-rafts of the Baltic grain trade to Danzig.

“I’m fairly certain we can’t row and punt our way to Constantinople,” Sierawski said, doubtfully. “We need something with sails.”

“Thank God we have an expert engineer with us!” I sneered at him. “Four years of training were not wasted, I see.”

Galatz harbour was a filthy and degenerate hole. Toothless old men tried to sell us their young daughters. When we refused, they tapped their hooked noses knowingly, cackled, and brought out their sons, instead. We tried to shoo these scoundrels away but nevertheless a crowd of them gathered. A veritable swarm of bawds, pimps, pederasts, water-sellers, cut-purses and hawkers. They trailed in our wake like the gulls trailed after the boats.

“Damn it all,” I cursed, “this commotion will bring out the Janissaries.” Well, speak of the Devil, and he will appear. Sure enough, a party of evil-looking brigands came out to greet us. Splendid-looking devils, mark you.

The Janissaries – the Turkish Army. Bronze-skinned Arab fellows of fierce aspect, with drooping moustaches, pointed beards, and betel-stained teeth, riding magnificent horses or stink-spitting camels. Their finery was splendid to behold. Some wore flowing robes of white, green, or gold, embroidered with bright colours in exquisite geometric patterns. Others wore armour – spiked bronze helmets, breastplates, and chain mail, like fish-scales.

All their weapons had jewelled hilts and scabbards of exquisite workmanship and beauty. They were armed with great scimitars, up to half a man’s length, and curved daggers, ancient firelock muskets with intricately carved stocks, or spears with silk tassels. Amongst the number of this exotic, fantastical host were massive bare-chested Nubian warriors wielding axes and half-pikes. They looked like executioners from the tale of the Arabian Nights.

Most incredible of all, the Janissaries brought with them two docile elephants trailing a huge antique brass cannon, of the vintage of the siege of Vienna in 1683. This amazing sight, fearsome as it was, filled my heart with joy. I felt like applauding.

“Blumer can talk to them,” Sierawski hissed, “Podolians are practically Turks anyhow.”

“I will, then,” I said, “damn your eyes. Keep calm, lads,” I called out to my comrades, “this is the Turks’ land. Their ways are no doubt strange to us.”

I raised a white handkerchief on a lance, and rode forward, alone. It was a tense moment – our men shouldered their arms and raised their lances as a mark of respect. But we would charge or volley if the need arose. Our hearts were beating a triple-march. I flew a flag of truce and so the Janissaries did likewise. We breathed again. Two men, a petty official, a vizier or suchlike, and a great barrel-chested Janissary officer of fifty years rode forward on white Arab chargers from the Turkish lines. Their harnesses shone and jingled with gold rings. Our men watched in disgust as the Janissaries dispersed the crowd with whips, and we politely ignored the resultant chaos.

It was the old Janissary who took charge. He wore a jewelled eye-patch and his long beard ran to grey. He wheeled his horse and grinned grotesquely with a gap-toothed smile. He began to leer and bawl a challenge at us. At me, I realised. The Vizier translated into French, for we had fewer words of Turkish than the old Janissary had teeth in his jaw.

“The Austrians say Poland is dead. The Russians say Poles are weak,” he declaimed. “What are you, Poles? Are you the strong sons of Sobieski, or bastard catamites of the Bullock?” The old Janissary made a set of obscene gestures with his hands that could be universally translated. I turned back to Tanski and Sierawski.

“Whatever happens, don’t fire on them, and don’t draw blood. We are strangers here – they will have the whole country on us. More than that, we need their help. Wait here, and be calm. I will show this old fool who is strong and who is a milksop.”

With that, I got off my horse, and the old Janissary did the same. His men cheered him to the echo, while jeering at me. Our little legion of fifty men did the opposite, beating their lances on the ground, and waving their pennants, which made the Arab horses buck and shy in fright.

Between the two sets of troops was a set of stone water troughs and a smithy. The blacksmith had wisely run for cover. His furnace roared untended. Beside it were a set of iron horseshoes, fresh-forged, glowing white- and red-hot. I unbuckled my sword and guns and cast them aside.

The Janissary grinned and followed suit, and began flexing his arms and cracking his knuckles. His arms were huge and brawny, with thick sinews like whipcords. Although his skin had been burnished dark as teak by the burning Turkish sun, he was a white man by blood. I guessed that he was a Greek, or a Serb, or even a Cossack. For the Janissaries conscripted slaves from all across their vast empire, and not only Turks.

At first he made to wrestle with me, but I shook my head. For I knew he would put his thumb in my eye, his elbow in my groin, or suchlike chicanery, and I would not brook it. Besides, if he did not maim me, I might kill him, and either way it would end badly.

“A trial of strength,” I said, picking up a horseshoe in a pair of tongs, and plunging them into the water trough. A great hiss of steam blazed forth. I tossed a second into the cauldron, a third, and so on until six of them lay at the bottom of the water. The Janissary eyed me, warily. Taking off my coat, I fished the horseshoes out of the water, and laid them on the anvil.

Intrigued, the Janissary made for me to continue. Thus I picked up the first horseshoe in my bare hands, and with a grunt, bent it straight between my hands. My adversary nodded, and grinned his ragged smile, for now he understood the contest. Negligently picking up a horseshoe, he bent it straight, and cast it aside.

Now the game was on. I smiled, for I had him. So I picked up two horseshoes. I held them up to my men, and then to the Janissaries. I clinked them against each other, like a conjuror. I struck them against the anvil and drew sparks. Chimes rang out across the dockside. Our men began to cheer and stamp at my back, and waved their lances. Before me, the Janissaries waved their arms and let out wild yelps like dogs and eerie, ululating cries. My adversary watched me with a keen eye, wary, but still confident.

I put the two horseshoes together, doubling the thickness. Tensing my arms, I set my strength against the two horseshoes. Sweat burst out of my temples. My head throbbed and my sinews groaned. Then I felt the metal give, and they bent, straight as an arrow. A hush fell, and then my fellow Poles cheered me to the rafters.

Angered, and sorely afraid that he was outmatched, the old Janissary set his gap toothed jaw, and strained his hands against the metal. Great cords of sinew stuck out on his neck and arms, thick as ship's ropes. A river of sweat ran down his brawny back. His massive arms shook with the effort. Suddenly blood ran from his nose, for he must have burst a blood-vessel with the effort. Wiping his dripping nose on his hairy arm, he raised the straightened horseshoes in triumph.

“A draw!” he roared, in Russian.

“A draw!” echoed the Vizier, greatly perturbed, for he clearly feared the wrath of this burly brute.

“Like Hell,” I shook my head. “Not yet,
friend
.”

Then I bent the doubled horseshoes back again, into a ‘U’.

Our little legion cheered this to the rafters, and had there been any glass in the windows of those rude houses, why it would have been broken loose. The docks shook to their stones. With a grunt, the Janissary hawked a bloody gob of spit on the ground, and tossed his unbent horseshoes into the river, conceding defeat. His sunburned chest still heaved, for he had not yet recovered. Blood bubbled from his nose. A lackey passed him a silk kerchief. This he tore into strips, and stuffed them up his nostrils. Squaring his shoulders, he made for me. I myself was quite calm. I set my feet and chest against his blow. It never came. Instead, he held out a hand.

“I am Hassan,” he said, “General of the Janissaries. I am a strong man, Allah be praised,” he said, with some grudging admiration, “but you are stronger! Strong as a lion!”

“I am Blumer,” I told him.

We shook hands. We exchanged signs, to knuckle and thumb. He was a brother Freemason. Then he held my hand aloft to his troops, and they all cheered, before doing the same to our Polish ranks. To my great surprise, he spoke fluent Russian, so we were able to converse freely. For he was indeed a Cossack, sold by his mother to the Janissaries at the age of five, and converted to the Muslim faith.

“Welcome!” he grinned, throwing his arms around me, “for my enemy’s enemy is my friend!” We salaamed and bowed, and then embraced. He crushed me against his great chest as hard as he could, in a bear hug. Beneath his sweet perfume he smelt as rank as a bear, and sweat ran freely down his back. When he spoke, he held his face up to mine, and he roared, and flecked my face with spittle and stale fumes of garlic, cloves, tobacco, and coffee. I could not flinch, for to do so would show weakness, and so I stood there, subjected to this torrent, and I pretended it was raining.

“I know there is a price on your heads,” he whispered into my ear, like a lover, “but you are safe here, effendi. I have been waiting here for you. I have an arrangement with your General Dabrowski.”

One of Dabrowski’s men, Rymkiewicz, and the French Ambassador, Du Bayet, had bribed this unscrupulous brigand to escort us, and others, to Constantinople. A ship of the Turkish navy was paid to take us. I was indeed stronger than Hassan, so I bore this vile embrace with a smile, and then hugged him back stronger, until his ribs cracked, and he gasped for air. I released him, and we sat on the stone bench, laughing. Then he clapped his hands. In the blink of an eye his slaves pitched a green tent there in the dusty earth beside the harbour.

“Come, Blumer!” he said, motioning the tent, “take a sherbet with me.” His manner had served to put me ill at ease, for the Turks were infamous for their perversions. I was heartily glad of Tanski, Sierawski and Birnbaum and half a dozen legionnaires beside me in the tent. I had no idea what depredations this strange Hassan intended.

We sat cross-legged, after the custom of that nation, on a Persian rug, under a silk awning hung with carpets. Opposite us Hassan sat with the Vizier, and a dozen bodyguards armed with halberds and arquebuses. This rank of splendid looking fellows stood scowling at us, impassive as statues. Half a dozen slaves in golden collars ran back and forth with coffee and sherbet. It was deliciously cooling, and we swilled away the dust and sweat of the road.