Running my hands over every inch of horseflesh, I found to my immense relief that he was scratched and filthy, and lousy with vermin, but otherwise whole and intact. His muscles were knotted from toe to tail, but the ligaments and bones of his legs rang true as a bell, and I rejoiced again.
By now, Muszka was stripping the grass from the earth with his long yellow teeth and so I ran the curry comb through the matted hair of his coat, pausing to cut out the worst knots with a pocket knife. I sluiced his sides with water, and the steam rose freely from his flanks, mouth, and nostrils like a smoking dragon. Throughout, I continued to talk to him in the most friendly and affectionate tones.
By the time I had finished, Muszka had forgiven all, capering about me like a colt, nuzzling at me with his great head, the huge brown eyes blinking with the kindest and most sincere goodwill. After draping a thick blanket over him, I found the remnant of a sugar lump in my saddlebag and he devoured it in the happiest and most contented fashion, all of his ill-uses and suffering at my heavy hands by now quite forgotten. At last the horse stretched himself on the ground to rest, and I did the same. Horses are the same as men. They can happily abide even the worst treatment as long as one speaks to them in sincere and soothing tones. If only women were so easy to please, then a man’s life should be a bed of roses, rather than a crown of thorns.
Then, and only then, these labours ended, I allowed the men to finish their rations. We ate every scrap of mouldy bread and dried meat that remained in our saddlebags and we drained the last of the wine. I fell asleep with my head on Muszka’s warm belly and my sword in my hand.
The next day I had the whole troop stand to morning inspection, la diane, as if we had been in the courtyard of the Poniatowski Palace, not skulking on the frozen steppe. Tanski rode up and, saluting smartly, presented the troop for inspection. Returning his salute, I passed up and down the line, as fastidious and petty as any blueblood officer. In the midst of the line was a boy with his arm shot away to the elbow, bound up with twisted strips of filthy cloth. Green pus ran from the bandage and the flesh stank of mortification. He should be lucky to live to see another day.
The headcount – one hundred horse. About a dozen carried injuries of various stripes, but all were able to ride. I took an inventory. We retained our arms but we had no food and little ammunition – hardly any musket balls and a few grains of powder. Sierawski was in a melancholy humour.
“My dear Blumer, I do so regret that your first command, and your first parade, should be in such circumstances as these,” he said.
“Nonsense, my dear Sierawski,” I replied. “We are alive. We have our honour, and our arms, with which to prosecute this war, and drive these invaders from our lands and our homes.”
“For the love of Christ, Blumer!” Sierawski seized my horse’s reins. “Are you blind? Are you mad? Can’t you see that this war is lost?”
For a moment my temper flashed. Then we grinned at one another.
“True,” I admitted, “this war is lost. But we have youth and strength to win another one, comrade,” I replied, “and another still after that, if we must.”
At this, Tanski rode back from the picket, brandishing his field glasses.
“Comrades, I have dire news to report.”
Through the glass, I observed a pillar of dust on the horizon. Cavalry.
“Do we run?” Tanski asked. I shook my head as I looked at the exhausted and decimated brigade.
“Too late!” I replied. “We are run to earth, comrade. We shall sell our lives as dearly as possible.”
At my order, the men formed up, the trees at their backs. The enemy would have to come up this low rise at us, and we could receive them at the charge, face to face. We were, as ever, outmatched by any number to one. Still, on the bright side, they had no cannon or infantry, so we could meet them in the field like men, and not be cut down like dogs.
“Grey bastards,” spat a young sergeant, his face lined, his beard streaked with dust.
“Hold your fire!” I shouted. The men laughed, in spite of themselves, for we had scarcely a grain of powder to fire those scant few bullets we had. Yet they mistook me. I had observed that the riders wore Polish blue, not Russian grey. They were grey with the dust of the road. They were either our men or they were Targowican traitors.
The cavalry stopped at a good distance. There were several hundreds of them, far too many for us to defeat. A band of riders detached themselves from the rest and this small delegation advanced toward us under cover of a white flag across the open field.
It was somewhat tense. We had suffered so grievously from treachery in this war. We trusted no one. All around, the hackles rose on my men like angry dogs. Swords were drawn and muskets run out, and lances lowered for the charge. For Pilawa crosses glinted on those uniforms, like daggers, in the harsh dawn light. These were Podolian troops of the Targowica Confederation. Felix Potocki’s men. They held a white flag on a lance.
“Hold your fire! No man to fire but on my orders!” I roared, brandishing my sword.
“Damn those treacherous Targowica bastards to hell!” Tanski hissed, levelling his lance at the riders. “It’s a trick, Blumer!”
“Sir, that is a flag of truce. If anyone dishonours it, I will kill him myself.”
Reluctantly, Tanski relented. The lead officer rode a black horse of great beauty and was equipped with fine and expensive weapons. He and his mount were caked in the grey dust of the road. He rode with a band of bodyguards. He was a huge bear of a man, in his forties, with a genial, round face. It could only be one man.
“Hell’s bells! It’s the Rottmeister himself! It’s Brigadier Dabrowski!” Tanski exclaimed, but did not sheath his sword. This was a derogatory nickname in the ranks for the Brigadier, who had a Polish father and a Saxon mother. Dabrowski was educated in Leipzig, and started his career in the Saxon cavalry. There he attained the rank of Rottmeister, which is German for Captain. When the war drew near, he had come back to Poland, and been appointed one of our cavalry chiefs. Dabrowski had written our new cavalry manual, and he had trained our regiment for months. From the time he had spent among Germans, he sometimes mangled his Polish. To avoid this, he often spoke French with us.
Dabrowski saluted and bowed. With his courtly manners, and brave as a lion, he was more like a knight of olden days than a commanding officer. He was a fine officer, a good provider for his men, scrupulously honest, and no fool.
“Good morning, Tanski,” Dabrowski saluted smartly. “Comrade Blumer – I assume that you command these men?”
“Warrant Officer Blumer,” I corrected, but without taking my hand from my sword, nor my eyes off his. “You assume correctly, Sir. For my part, I assume from your colours that you command these Targowica scum yonder?"
Dabrowski nodded his great wise head sadly. “Indeed, Blumer, sad to say you are correct. I am cooperating with the Targowican military commission, since the war was lost. If I might enquire – where are your colours, Sir?”
I seized the red and white pennant on Tanski’s lance that was fluttering close by.
“These are our colours!” I roared. “For shame, Sir! You led us! You trained us! You stood with us at Zielence – has it come to this? The Devil take you – say your piece and begone, and then we can go to it, pell mell. No surrender, no quarter asked or given.”
Now this was a grievous insult. Little brothers did not speak so to their betters. It was possible that the Brigadier might demand satisfaction on the field of honour. Fortunately, Dabrowski did not take the point. He had too much wisdom. He listened to my outburst in silence, amiably enough, and nodded again. He gazed evenly at the line of cavalry, the pistols, muskets and lances aimed at his heart. Then he nodded towards the one-armed boy.
“A word, perhaps, Blumer?” Dabrowski asked, and we dismounted. We walked a little way and he placed his huge arm around my shoulders. I was a big man, but Dabrowski was a giant. He was a true Pole, and a cunning old fox. All at once I felt
ashamed to have taken him for a traitor.
“My surgeon will attend to your wounded men, Blumer. After all, you will require every man you can muster to defeat us in battle,” he smiled. “A fine affair it shall be too, Pole fighting against Pole, brother against brother, countryman against countryman, and the Russians the winners in absentia.”
“I am sorry, Brigadier,” I said. “I spoke in haste. Please accept my apologies.”
Dabrowski smiled again and clapped me on the shoulder. We laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. Then we took a pipe of Dabrowski’s tobacco (for I had none remaining) and he drank the last of my vodka.
“He who turns and runs away, lives to fight another day,” Dabrowski said gently. “This war is lost, Blumer. Here in Podolia we can hide, lick our wounds, and prepare for the next one. I am hiding as many men as I can in this fashion – and better to hide here than in Siberia, don’t you agree?”
“You are right,” I agreed. “We must hide. But where?”
We looked at the serried ranks of Potocki cavalry, then at my own little line of Polish horse, then back again, and then I grinned at Dabrowski. The one armed boy would see another sunrise yet. Indeed, all of us would.
“As every peasant knows,” Dabrowski said, “the best place to hide a tree is in a forest.”
Thus we rode through the heart of the badlands, with an honour guard, all pretending to be traitors.
“Are these our allies, or our gaolers?” Tanski pondered.
“We have our weapons, our horses, and our lives,” I said curtly, “be content.”
Naturally, none of us could be content. We rode with our hands on our swords and our eyes screwed to the back of our heads. We had holstered our useless firearms, for we did not have enough powder to light a pipe, let alone fight a battle.
“What were the terms of your truce with Dabrowski?” Tanski demanded, wheeling his horse in front of mine. My horse Muszka pulled up short, his red eyes rolling, and bared his awful yellow teeth at Tanski's mare, in anger at having his path blocked.
“With the war's end, the Brigadier has joined the Targowicans, to organise the army. He is protecting us from being rounded up and sent to Siberia. Therefore, we are Felix Potocki’s men now, in name, at least. When a suitable opportunity presents itself, we shall rejoin our own army.”
“The Devil! So we are Targowicans, then?” Sierawski spat, enraged.
“In name only, Comrade,” I said firmly.
“God's wounds, Blumer! In name or not, this is the worst disgrace conceivable to man!” Sierawski said, appalled.
“There is actually a worse disgrace,” I replied, grimly.
“Worse?” Tanski roared. Heads turned. “How could it possibly be any worse?”
“Felix Potocki,” I said slowly, staring into their angry eyes, “has, according to Dabrowski, been made a General in the Russian Army. Consequently you, I, and all the men here, are now Russian soldiers.”
Nobody spoke. The wind howled.
“You mean to tell me, Blumer,” Tanski said, “that we are hiding from the Russian Army in the Russian Army?”
“Aye,” I replied, “that's about the size of it,” I shrugged. “If it be any consolation, the pay is better.”
Tanski and Sierawski exchanged amazed glances.
“I swear to God, I would shoot you if I had any bullets left, Blumer, you mad dog,” Sierawski shook his head, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
As you may surmise, when the men did eventually find out, they were disgusted. Many harsh words and a few punches were exchanged, but by then there was nothing to be done about it. For their part, Dabrowski’s lads eyed us with the same sullen and angry expressions that we reserved for them. Occasionally, one of us recognised old comrades from past battles, and we fell to bemoaning our fate together.
At noon we broke camp and Dabrowski had us retrace our old hoofprints. He had hunted us down and gathered us into his fold, like lost sheep. Whether we would end up put out to pasture, or skinned for the butcher’s block, remained unknown. On the low horizon we rode back past the hanging copse of trees that we had passed two days hence. A murder of carrion crows wheeled and danced in the branches, fat as buzzing bluebottles. Something ill had befallen.
We three broke away from the rest, without orders, without words, beating our horses’ hooves across the desolate rutted road. Under the hanging trees we found the raven and the redhead, their bodies swinging from the maiden boughs, their tiny feet circling as they turned and twisted at the end of a length of hempen cord. Their hands were tied behind their backs and their heads hung forward, like nuns at prayer. Shortly, Dabrowski arrived with his bodyguard. We stared at the ghastly gallows, as the wind blew russet leaves struck with dewdrops and blood about the broken bodies.
“This is Felix Potocki’s doing,” he cursed, and wept. We cut down the girls and we washed their bodies with the last of our drinking water. We had no choice but to bury them at that desolate unconsecrated copse, wrapped in our tattered flags. We sang the hymns and psalms, and gently tamped down the earth with our hands. We swore vengeance over the graves. Then we rode on, to Tulczyn.
CHAPTER TWELVE
TULCZYN, PODOLIA, OCTOBER 1793
Tulczyn Palace was the Potocki clan’s ancestral stronghold. The old mouldering castle had been razed by the Cossacks, decades before, during their great rebellion, when they had massacred thousands of Poles, Jew and Gentile alike, here. Felix’s father had the new Palace rebuilt on the same site. It was a modern fancy house, such as the Kings of France lived in – imposing buildings, like Greek temples. Three of these huge edifices had been erected here, on three sides around a gigantic courtyard. New and elegant as it was, it stood on the graveyard of a massacre, on pyramids of unquiet bones.
This new Tulczyn had no need of fortifications. It was a palace, not a castle. Felix felt so secure that he had no need of walls or ditches. This was his kingdom. His word was law, and he had the power of life and death over every man, woman and child in Podolia. Including us. We rode past a stretch of ground where workmen toiled with rocks and soil.
“Felix is building a park for his mistress, who is now his second wife,” I told my comrades, for this was common gossip in Podolia.
“Whatever happened to Felix’s first wife, then, Blumer?” Tanski asked sarcastically.
“Felix gave her a Podolian Divorce,” I replied.
“Which means what?” Sierawski asked suspiciously.
“He threw her down a well!” I replied, for it was the truth. With that we rode into the stables, and dismounted. There was a magnificent ménage next to the courtyard, a place for training horses, as grand as one would find in Vienna or Madrid. It would have pleased me to have seen it, but I was given no time to tarry. Armed guards, dressed in Potocki's blue livery decorated with the Pilawa cross, ordered me peremptorily away from my fellows.
Vexed by this turn of events, I took stock, unsure whether to flee or fight. No one had tried to search or disarm me. I still had my sword and pistols, albeit neither of them was loaded, for we had long since run out of ammunition. So I girded up my loins, stuck out my chest, and marched into Tulczyn behind the guards. I was conveyed to a great study in the very largest and grandest of the three great palace buildings.
The sumptuousness of this room exceeded the Wawel, the Sejm, and Madame L’s salon all put together. At the centre was an enormous fireplace, with a gilt and bronze mounted mantelpiece, which alone must have cost thousands of ducats. A stack of logs burned in the fire, casting a diabolical red glow over the face of Felix Potocki, the great krolik, who sat, wreathed in smoke, stoking the flames with a gold-handled iron poker in the shape of the Pilawa cross.
“Gosc w dom, Bog w dom – when a guest enters the house, God enters also. Good day, my young lord brother.” He did not deign to get up.
“You do me honour, My Lord,” I said, stiffly, in a surly fashion, and made a half-hearted bow. For my mother had taught me good manners with a leath
er strap, and I would not disgrace her here, before this loathsome man.
Felix Potocki had a long face like a horse, with curly grey hair greased and pomaded back from his forehead. He wore lace cuffs at his wrists and a lace ruff at his neck, like a fashionable dandy. A man of average height and build, or less, and scrawny in the shoulders and legs, I towered above him. With his feeble stature and dressed in those milksop’s clothes, he could not have looked less the Warlord of Podolia. Yet such he was. For when Felix glanced up at me, he had the eyes of a wild beast – they were deep-ringed black pits, bloodshot and sunken. He was a man to be feared, after all. When he spoke, he was full of false kindness and concern, as if to a small and disobedient boy.
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