Song of the Legions (9 page)

“It's not a retreat, but a strategic withdrawal, as they say,” the Commander said wryly. “Be not alarmed, comrades, but a second Russian army approaches from the rear. They have crossed through neutral Austrian territory to get behind us.”

The Commander primed the taper on the powder barrel with one of the fuses from his hat. He had a lit cigar in his mouth and with this he lit a hand grenade which he pitched over his shoulder at the advancing Russians, without a backward glance.

Our horses were tied to a post near the opposite foot of that same hill, the hill that we were now relinquishing to our foes. None of our comrades had lingered, they had all ridden off, in accordance with the Commander's strict orders, which, in the circumstances, were naturally obeyed to the letter. We mounted our horses and set our spurs hard at their flanks. The horses ran like devils, their ears set along the sides of their heads, eyes bulging, foaming at their bits, sweat running down their flanks.

At a good distance we paused and the Commander vaulted from his horse, cautioning us to do the same. He wrapped the reins twice around his fist and set his hat over the beast's eyes. Our abandoned and forsaken battlement was seething with curious Russians by now, hunting for trophies and souvenirs. They probed at the trenches and dugouts with bayonets and sabrepoints, like a dunghill of curious ants.

“Let God have mercy on their souls!” the Commander said. The trench that we had lately vacated detonated in a great eruption of earth and noise. It was as if a meteorite had struck. My ears rang and my horse reared wildly – had I still been in the saddle, I should have been thrown a furlong up in the air. As it was, I found myself on my knees, with the Commander hauling me to my feet. His lips were moving, but all that I could hear was a great rushing noise in my ears, as if I were standing under a waterfall.

No doubt inured to this concussion by a lifetime of such explosions, the Commander set me on my horse again and we rode off after the rest of the army. The Russian regiments around us were closing in, like the drawing of a noose, and it would not pay to tarry here, with naught but a mountain of corpses behind us.

Presently, my ears ceased ringing, and I regained my wits. The Russians had left four thousand dead on that hill and their General had them buried post haste to conceal their number. Yet they could easily afford such a butcher's bill. The Commander informed us that about a hundred of our men had fallen, but, alas, we could ill afford even that. We would lose more in the days to come, from illness, injury, and desertion.

However, for all that it appeared that by the Commander's prudent orders, we had ridden out of the trap in good time, and we would ride back to Warsaw. Our corps was tired and battered, but it was still a formidable body of men.

“At Warsaw we rendezvous with the rest of the army, commanded by Poniatowski, and make our stand together there,” the Commander informed us tersely, as we broke our march to hurriedly scavenge fodder for our horses.

The Russians had crossed into neutral Austrian territory to get behind us. We had been forced to retreat so that we would not be surrounded. In the smoking dusk our army rode back bloodied but unbeaten, with our muskets across our saddles, and our dusty standards furled. We were not like victors but a harried rearguard retreating across the plains, horses staggering, men slumped asleep in their saddles, pistols in hand, as the caissons and the wagons rattled in the ruts of the ruined roads.

The unhappy day revealed the same flat barren countryside all about and the smoke from the fires of the night before stood thin and windless to the east. There was nowhere to hide beneath that cold unmerciful sky, nothing for it but to ride on to Warsaw. And the silver circle of the summer moon peered down, the winking eye of evil old Pan Twardowski who sat above us drooling and cackling at our fate.

The grey dust of the enemy who were to hound us to the gates of the city of Warsaw seemed ever closer. We shambled on through the driving horizontal rain, and the vicious unrelenting Siberian winds, lashing our exhausted horses on. Swarms of Cossack riders were gathering at our rear like ravenous buzzing horseflies, settling on any stragglers. They were an endless and constant irritation, and did not allow us occasion for a single moment's respite. If challenged by our men in numbers, they would always fall back, wary as wolves, cowardly as jackals. They were always waiting behind the next rise or the last lonely copse of hanging trees.

Midmorning we watered at a shallow ford that had already been walked through by our horses and pack animals, the riders dismounting to drink from their czapkas and then riding on again down the dry bed of the stream and clattering over the earth, the plains running to the horizon, thickly grassed and grown with barley and corn. At dusk we sent riders west to Warsaw for news of Poniatowski.

At this ford the Commander set an ambuscade for the Cossack riders and we sat in the reed beds waiting for them with our czapkas doffed and our weapons wrapped in our cloaks lest the metal winking in the last rays of the evening sun betray us. We baited our trap with a string of hobbled horses and we did not wait long for the fish to bite, for the Cossacks greatly esteemed and coveted our fine Polish steeds.

When the next band of Cossacks forded the stream we met them with a resounding volley. They fell to their deaths in those same waters. They wore ragged dirty garments and filthy beards to their waists. They were armed with immense lances such as our forefathers used to fight against the Teutonic Knights in olden days, with wheel-lock muskets, and with bows and arrows. Their bodies bobbed in the water like corks. We saw the lice and vermin jumping from them in search of new and warmer habitations.

But no sooner had we dispatched these fellows, with the fresh gunsmoke still palling in the air, than another band of Cossacks appeared, greater still in number. This new warparty veered off, disdaining the gauntlet we had thrown for them. They did not come near us but rode down upon a small village or hamlet that lay nearby. We all knew what lay in store for the poor peasants of that village, for the men would all be slain, and the women raped and then slain. A few hotheads rode out after the Cossacks, and we knew they would not return.

The Commander angrily cuffed to the ground a lieutenant of the cavalry who asked for permission to pursue the Cossacks with his squadron. The lieutenant took up his czapka and set it back on his head, wiped the dirt from his tunic, and sat his horse with tears running down his face. We rode off after the rest of the army, toward Warsaw, abandoning the already burning village to its fate.

On the road to Warsaw we met our comrades, Poniatowski's men. Our hearts rejoiced at the sight of the vanguard riding forward to meet us, the red and white swallow-tailed pennants on their lances dancing in the dusk. We were all angry, and we had all had enough of the Commander's fighting retreat.

“We've licked these bastards twice, so why do we run?” Tanski roared. “Now Pepi is here we shall stand and fight these barbarians! We shall win or die!”

Our spirits soared and we drained the last vodka in our canteens. At the sight of Pepi's horse we roared “Long live Poniatowski!”

The Commander, saluting, ran to embrace his fellow general. But at the sight of our beloved Prince, our hearts sank. Pepi's face ran with tears of sorrow and disgrace. Neither death nor defeat could have moved the Prince to such a state of despair. Something far worse had befallen us. A tremor ran through the army.

“My dear General Poniatowski,” the Commander began. “What ails you? It is a fine day, is it not? Old Poland yet lives. Her armies are undefeated in the field. With our two forces united, we are outnumbered by a mere three to one by the Russians. I'll take those odds, by God!”

Pepi saluted. “My dear Lord Brother, I bring orders from the King. To avoid further bloodshed, His Majesty has joined the Targowica Confederation and abolished the Constitution. Go back to your homes, comrades. The war is over.”

The Commander shook his head in angry disbelief. “The Bullock jests, does he not? This is treachery, by God!” and he spat from the saddle, in front of the Prince. A dead hush descended, broken only by the fluttering of flags and the nervous sighs of the horses. The Commander gripped his sword. Very clearly and evenly, the anger boiling in his voice, he said, “I'll serve this King no more. He is a coward and a traitor, and this is high treason.” With that, Tadeusz Kosciuszko tore his general's epaulettes from his shoulders, and hurled his general's baton and all of his insignia of rank into the dust, and rode off.

The Prince slumped in the saddle, alone, crestfallen, desolate. What foreign force from without could not achieve, treachery from within had brought about. A house divided against itself cannot stand. Before our very eyes the regiments drifted away, as the summer snows melt before the rays of the sun. Officers broke their swords in rage. Some took their own lives from the shame. Soldiers threw away their muskets and burned or buried their colours. Only a few hundred die-hards like us remained. A horseshoe of angry riders rallied around our tattered standards on the deserted plain. All the while the enemy grew nearer.

“God’s nails!” Tanski railed, “The King wants to spare our blood, does he? I say it's our own blood to spill! We are all free men in this army. We have no conscripts or slaves here, as the Russians do! It's my right and my duty to die for the Motherland! A pox on the Bullock, and long live the Republic!” he cried, drawing his sword.

“We are in a fine pickle here, boys,” Sierawski spat, “We are damned if we do, and damned if we don't. For if we ride on, we disobey our King, but if we surrender, we betray our oath and our country,” he said. Then Sierawski shrugged, and he too drew his sword. “Well, the hell with it, to betray a traitor is no treason, and, more to the point, I'm damned if I'll run a step further from these blasted barbarians, who could not even read a constitution, let alone write themselves one. An oath is an oath!”

They eyed me expectantly.

“What say you, O'Blumer the Irishman?”

I cast a glance at the band of angry patriots that remained. “That's
Blumerowski
to you, comrades,” I replied. “Well, here we are, vastly outnumbered, the army in pieces, betrayed by our King, our glorious Constitution trampled underfoot, without any hope of any foreign aid whatever. In short, without a dog's chance in hell. Against such odds, even Hercules is an arsehole. Why, I say we fight on, of course!”

When a Pole has made up his mind, nothing can shift him. “If we are to fight on,” I added, for I always had an eye for the details, even then, “we shall need both a general, and a new king. And we will find both our new king and our general sitting there yonder.”

I referred, of course, to Prince Poniatowski, who was sitting sulking, like Achilles in his tent, not ten yards away. As one man, our eyes were transfixed upon our Prince. He was bareheaded and his silk cravat, in red-and-white, hung crumpled at his breast. From it hung that hunk of silver that his uncle had awarded him, the Medal of the Virtuti Militari.

Pepi rode with a retinue of the greatest worthies in the land – crimson ones, princelings and lords from the noblest families in the Republic. They were dripping with money. Every pistol had an ivory handle, every sword a gold hilt. Many of them wore full-length sable kontusz coats, in the old style. But gold will bend before iron, as the corn bends beneath the scythe. These great lords of old Poland stood helpless and crestfallen. They were as broken and bereft as we of the ordinary soldiery. We watched them as they gathered around the heartbroken Prince like anxious parents around an invalid child.

So Pepi’s servants brought him his tiny harpsichord. The Prince was wont to play this in times of great joy, which were rare enough, or, as was more common with us, in times of great sorrow. At Zielence he had played it as the Russian cannonballs rained down on our heads. Now he sat before the harpsichord, for all the world as forlorn as the Wandering Jew himself. Tears ran down his cheeks and fell on to the ivory notes of the keyboard.

Abruptly, the silence was broken as Pepi struck up our mazurka. In that moment we recalled that glorious Third of May in Warsaw, marching along to the Royal Castle with the crowds cheering and the pipes playing and the sun shining, and all the girls gazing at us adoringly, and the citizens doffing their caps respectfully. One and all we soldiers took this for a sign from the Almighty. We elbowed aside the venerable noble lords and courtiers who surrounded our Prince.

“Away with you, grandad,” Sierawski snapped at a balding nobleman, “this is no time for handwringing like an old woman! Old Poland is on her last legs – again!”

“Show some respect, young man! I am the High Chamberlain of Lithuania!”

“I don't care if you're the Lord Mayor of Krakow himself!” Sierawski bawled, shoving the Chamberlain roughly aside. “Make way there old man!”

Pepi raised an eyebrow at me, but carried on playing.

“Good day to you, comrade. I see that you have something in mind for me. What do your men aim to do? Raise me up on a shield like a Roman Emperor?”

“These are your men, Majesty, not mine,” I retorted bluntly, “and, if I read my history aright, you would not be the first Polish King to be elected on the battlefield by his troops, after the incumbent was found wanting.”

At this, Pepi became angered. “I bid you, my good comrade, to remember that Stanislaus-August is our lawful King. He is more to me than a mere uncle. As you all know, upon the death of my father, I had the honour to be adopted by the King, as His ward – His son. Since that day, more than twenty years ago, I have lived in my uncle's household, and I have been the happy recipient of such love, affection and care, that His Majesty could not have been a better father to me than if I had been his own natural son.”

No one heeded him. The spark caught root and blazed into a fire. A hubbub arose. The rabble of soldiers, invigorated with new hope, beat their lances on the ground and began loosing joy-shots in the air. Up went the cry –

“Long Live King Jozef! King Jozef of Poland!”

Oh, such sweet sorrow to have heard those words, and I should have given my very soul to have seen it come to pass. It was not to be, and it was never to be.

The assembled worthies fell to earnest debating. At last, after some politicking, they inclined to the view of the soldiers, and joined in the general acclamation. Even the old High Chamberlain was persuaded. Pepi ceased playing and gently closed the lid of his harpsichord. He waved his hands for quiet, and finding none, he mounted his horse. Standing upright in the saddle, he demanded silence. It was denied him.

He cried out, unheard, above the chaos and the din – “What would you have me do, Sirs? Depose my own uncle? Impossible!”

But we would have none of it, and bore him aloft like a trophy, in spite of his vehement protests, our reluctant king. For, is it not the truth, and a wise proverb, that only the man who does not want to be a king, is truly fit to be one?