Table of Contents
SONG OF THE LEGIONS
MAP
AUTHOR’S NOTE
PROLOGUE
ITALY, THE THIRD OF MAY, 1798
CHAPTER ONE
PODOLIA, 1779
CHAPTER TWO
PODOLIA, 1787
CHAPTER THREE
THE THIRD OF MAY, 1791
CHAPTER FOUR
THE MAZURKA
CHAPTER FIVE
THE CRIMSON ONES
CHAPTER SIX
THE FEAST OF OUR LADY, AND THE PODOLIAN POPE
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE BATTLE OF ZIELENCE, 17 JUNE 1792
CHAPTER EIGHT
DUBIENKA, 17 JULY 1792
CHAPTER NINE
THE ROAD TO WARSAW, AUGUST 1792
CHAPTER TEN
MARKUSZEM, 26 AUGUST 1792
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PODOLIA, SEPTEMBER 1793
CHAPTER TWELVE
TULCZYN, PODOLIA, OCTOBER 1793
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE ABYSS OF DESPAIR
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE BISON, NEW YEAR 1793
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE UPRISING, KRAKOW, 24 MARCH 1794
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE SCYTHEMEN, RACLAWICE, 4 APRIL 1794
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WARSAW, 7 SEPTEMBER 1794
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
WOLA, 8 SEPTEMBER 1794
CHAPTER NINETEEN
GENERAL ZAYONCZEK AND GENERAL DABROWSKI
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE OFFICERS’ WIVES, AND MADAME’S FURY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FINIS POLONIAE, OCTOBER 1794
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A SPLENDID STACK OF FIREWOOD, NOVEMBER 1794
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CALVARY, EASTER 1795
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE EAGLES’ NEST TRAIL
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SIERAWSKI’S ELEPHANT
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE HANGED MAN
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
PULAWY
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
WIGILIA (CHRISTMAS EVE) 1795
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
WOLVES, MUSHROOMS, AND WITCHES, JANUARY 1796
CHAPTER-THIRTY
LWOW, FEBRUARY 1796
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
WOMEN’S FASHIONS, LWOW,JULY 1796
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
WE LEAVE LWOW, AUGUST 1796
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
DENISKO’S CAMP, APRIL 1797
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
WE FORD THE DNIESTER, JULY 1797
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE VOID
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
GALATZ, SEPTEMBER 1797
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
THE CRAB BOAT
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CITY OF THE WORLD’S DESIRE, CONSTANTINOPLE, OCTOBER 1797
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
HE WHO SWINGS CANNOT DROWN
CHAPTER FORTY
TWO DEATHS, MILAN, 13 FEBRUARY 1798
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
ALL ROADS LEAD TO ROME, FIRST OF MAY 1798, FIRST BATTALION, SECOND LEGION
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
ROME!
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
THE INVASION!
HISTORICAL NOTES
GENERAL DABROWSKI’S LEGION
HISTORICAL NOTES YEAR BY YEAR
CHRONOLOGY
GLOSSARY
NOTE ON PRONOUNCING POLISH WORDS
BIBLIOGRAPHY
SONG OF THE LEGIONS
MICHAEL LARGE
SONG OF THE LEGIONS
BAYONET BOOKS LIMITED
www.songofthelegions.co.uk
Copyright © Michael Large 2011
Michael Large asserts the moral right to be identified
as the author of this work in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This historical novel is a work of fiction. Except in the case of historical fact, the names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination or they are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or places, is entirely coincidental.
A catalogue of this book is available from the British Library.
Condition of Sale.
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Front cover image and map by Michael Large
For My Wife Joanne
MAP
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Historical notes, a chronology, a glossary, and a short note on pronouncing Polish words, can be found at the back of this book.
I have used the shortest and simplest English versions possible for all Polish names and words.
A full guide to the Polish names and words used in this book, their alternative spellings, and to Polish pronunciation, can be found on the author’s website www.songofthelegions.com.
PROLOGUE
ITALY, THE THIRD OF MAY, 1798
We were marching on Rome, for General Napoleon Bonaparte. We were Poles, in the French army. We fought alongside our French allies – or masters. Our flag was the White Eagle. We fought against the Black Eagles – Prussia, Austria, and Russia, the Satanic Trinity.
We were the Polish Legion – a wandering nation of twenty thousand men, women, and children. Betrayed by our King, our country destroyed, we fought on. Our enemies called us the Foreign Legion. They would not even speak the name of our Motherland, for the shame of their crime.
If they would not speak our name, then we would sing it. So we sang as we marched through Italy. We sang the Song of the Legions –
“Poland is not dead, as long as we live,
Our lands, that the invaders have taken,
We with our sabres will retrieve!”
This fine song was written by Jozef, the lawyer. I knew Jozef. I first met him twenty years ago, when he was hiding in my mother’s barn. I was but six years old...
CHAPTER ONE
PODOLIA, 1779
I was born in The Year of Our Lord 1773, one year after the First Partition of Poland. Our enemies had cut great swathes from the Republic, devouring it leaf by leaf, like an artichoke. Russia stole land to the East, Prussia stole land to West, and Austria stole land to the South. Our land – Podolia.
Podolia, land of the black earth, lies in the southern wilderness betwixt Muscovy and Tartary. It is a poor, savage place, riven by war and banditry, where water is drunk more often than coffee or vodka. We are a tough border people, proud, and nobody’s fools. This Polish land, now an Austrian province, was ruled by a treacherous Pole named Felix Potocki, a scoundrel in the pay of Russia. A fine state of affairs!
None grieved the dishonour of the Partition more keenly than my mother. Our milksop king would not fight. Had my mother worn the Polish crown, it would have been a different story indeed, I can tell you. My mother A
ngela was a pious and learned lady, the brightest and the most beautiful in the whole province. She had the wisdom of Solomon and the strength of Sobieski. As a young maiden, she was the darling and delight of her parents.
Those same parents, though of the noblest line, were poor as the meanest serfs. They wore wooden swords and pulled their ploughs by hand. They lived in a walled village with other penniless nobles, locking themselves away like lepers. The pride of their nobility was their only possession, and they guarded it jealousy. Their wretched hovels were distinguished only from the peasants’ huts by wooden porches, proudly displaying mildewed coats of arms. In those sad days, there were hundreds of such places in Poland.
Even there my mother shone like a diamond in a pile of ashes. And the gleam of a diamond will always attract magpies. How my parents came to be wed I know not, for they never spoke of it. My father had a strong sabre arm, and pocketfuls of gold, and the rest can be imagined. It was not a good match. Our house was unhappy, for it was a house divided against itself. A house divided against itself cannot stand.
My father’s home was no peasant hut. It was a grand nobleman's mansion, the most splendid stack of firewood you ever saw. It was single-storied, in the baroque style, with a grand colonnade flanking the massive iron-bound door. From walnut floor to oak beams, every last splinter of that damned house was wood, aye, all save the glass in the windows.
Beyond the vast entrance hall lay the library, where I studied at my mother’s knee, the trophy room and the armoury, where I played among muskets and the stuffed heads of wild beasts, and the dining hall, where I ate prodigiously and grew at an alarming rate. I quickly grew to be a tyrant and a bully, the terror of the other children. For all that, I was good at my studies, a quick learner. My mother was strict, and fear of the strap made me study hard and master my books.
“He’s an able scholar and a strong hand. We’ll make a general of him,” crowed my proud father. My mother, scowling, said nothing.
Close by my father’s house there was a stone bastion for defence, a gun tower with loopholes for muskets and cannon. We often had good cause to take shelter in that tower, for my father was notorious – he was Felix Potocki’s henchman. Tulczyn, Felix’s stronghold, was only a few days ride from our village. It was a dread place, dreary amid the black steppes, built on pyramids of unquiet bones.
Throughout my childhood my father was generally absent. My ageing grandfather, who also lived in the house, spent his days out hunting, or in his cups. Thus my mother ran the estate herself, controlling servants and serfs with an iron hand.
One day I came running in from childish play. I was six years old. My footsteps clattered across the yellow walnut floor. That fine polished floor, burnished to a glorious sheen by the servants, shone gold as honey. I must have marched my toy soldiers across that battlefield to victory a hundred times.
My mother was in the library, which had ceilings with coffers of gilded wood, decorated with intricate carvings. After she had settled the many affairs of the estate, she would attend to my studies, or tell me a story. That day, as the evening shadows drew in, and my books had been set aside, she told me the story of Pan Twardowski, which was my favourite.
You will know the story, for both the Germans and the English call it Faust. Pan Twardowski was a great nobleman. He made a pact with the Devil to give him wealth and power, in exchange for his immortal soul. Twardowski signed in blood, as is usual with these satanic pacts. However, as a Polish nobleman, he was not in the habit of ever paying his bills, whether they be to Jews, innkeepers, or the Devil himself. So Twardowski included a special clause in the pact, whereby the Devil could only take his soul to Hell if he visited Rome. Then Twardowski swore he would never go there.
Using the Devil's magic, Twardowski became rich. He built splendid castles and held sumptuous revels. One night he summoned the spirits of the dead, using the Devil’s magic mirror. Word spread until he was notorious throughout the land. All the while the Devil bided his time.
“After cheating his fate for twenty years,” my mother said, “Twardowski stumbled blind drunk into an inn – an inn called ‘Rome’. For there are hundreds of inns of this name in our Poland. Waiting with the other drinkers at the next table was the Devil, and all his hideous demons. With a great bloodcurdling cry, the Devil pounced. Grabbing Twardowski in his bloody claws, he dragged him off to Hell, to be damned. Halfway to Hell, in the depths of his despair, Twardowski prayed to the Blessed Virgin Mary for deliverance. He glowed red hot, like a burning coal, and the Devil dropped him, with a great howl!
“So Twardowski fell a thousand leagues, twisting over and over in the void, and landed with a dusty thump on the Moon. There he lives still, to this very day. His only companion on that cold and lonely sphere is a spider. Every so often, Twardowski lets the spider descend to Earth on a silken thread, to bring news from the lost world below.”
That day, I piped up – “Mamusia – that man in the barn, is he Pan Twardowski, fallen to earth?”
My mother’s face was all consternation. It was as if a thunderclap had fallen over the spring sky. “What man in the barn, Ignatius?” she said, taking my hand in a grip of iron.
“Why, I saw him today,” I said, “a gentleman from the city, with fine clothes – and a sword!”
“Have you told anyone, Ignatius, my son?” she said, her voice urgent but calm.
That fine gentleman with his silver hair had made a deep impression on me. I had been hunting for mischief amongst the bales of straw, chasing the chickens with my dogs, when I found him.
“Hello, young sir,” the gentleman had said, tipping his hat, and looking up from his book. Although surprised, I was unafraid. I spoke with this fellow, who seemed to me as old as Methuselah, but as gentle as a lamb. He bade me bring him a red apple, and in exchange had given me a zloty, and told me to go directly to my Mama, and no other. I had given my word as a gentleman to do as much.
I was accustomed to such strange comings and goings as these. My mother led a secret life. She held clandestine meetings in our house, under my father’s very nose. All my young days I had been dimly aware of it. Now, on this warm, intoxicating summer’s evening, I finally spoke of it to her.
“I have not told a soul, Mamusia,” I said, truly, “upon my word as a gentleman!” I said, proudly.
“Good boy,” my mother replied, and smiled, for she regarded danger with contempt. In this nest of traitors, my mother was a true patriot. She was an agent of the Confederates of Bar. The Confederates were a band of brave men who had fought on against the Russian invaders long after our own King had surrendered. These rebels had their base in Podolia. The man I had met was one of their soldiers. My mother gave them food, shelter, money – and guns.
On her finger, my mother always wore a diamond ring decorated with a cross of rubies. We sat alone together in the library. The rubies caught my eye, for they were shining as red as blood in the flickering light of the fire.
“Mamusia,” I said, “that silver-haired gentleman wears such a ring as yours. What does it mean?”
“It is a ring of mourning for the brave men who died for our freedom,” she said.
“May I wear it, Mamusia?” I asked, eagerly.
She shook her head. “No. Only those who fight for our freedom can wear a ring such as this,” she said. “Brave men like the gentleman in the barn. Some day, not in my lifetime, but perhaps in yours, Poland will be free. Do you want to fight for freedom, my son?” my mother said.
“I do!” I said, without hesitation.
“Do you swear it?”
“I swear it,” I said, enthralled by the power of her voice. She drew me towards her, caressed me, and placed the ring on my finger.
“Now run along, my little soldier. But not a word. Don't tell a soul.”
CHAPTER TWO
PODOLIA, 1787
At fourteen, I was bound for the profession of arms. My father’s family were all soldiers. O'Bloomer, my warlike Irish
forbear, was a colonel in the English army. Upon his discharge, being a younger son with no estate to inherit, and having drunk and gambled away all his army pay, he followed the profession of arms to Russia. Mother Russia, in spite of her naturally peaceful and pacific nature, is constantly having to fight endless wars. These are always provoked by, and always entirely the fault of, the tiny nations that border Her vast lands. Mercenaries therefore being in great demand in Moscow, my grandfather became Peter the Great's artillery instructor, and in due course became rich.
Eventually the old mercenary retired and settled down in Poland. When asked why he had not stayed on in Russia, he would indignantly reply that only a fool would do such a thing, to live under a tyrant, when he could live in liberty! Poland was a democracy, where a man could say and do as he pleased. A man need not fear the dungeon, the knout, nor the gulag. This was my grandfather, the old hypocrite. Compared to my father, however, the man was a paragon of virtue.
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