Song of the Legions

by Michael Large

  A man dressed in an immaculate blue uniform reclined at a table. He sat under a silk parasol, surrounded by a crowd of beautiful women, flitting around him like so many gorgeous butterflies. Any one of the women could have made a wife for a king. His Highness the Prince Jozef Poniatowski, for it could be no other, who was completely oblivious to their attentions (or at least affected to be so), sat drinking coffee and reading a newspaper.

  “There you are, Blumer!” Pepi exclaimed delightedly, and he stood and greeted each one of us by name, shook our hands, and bowed as if each of us, and not he, were royalty. This simple gesture disarmed us completely. “Take a seat, my dear boys!” He held up the newspaper. The writing was clumsy and smudged, for it was an underground paper, printed clandestinely on a press of wooden blocks in a backroom or cellar.

  THE SHARPER THE THISTLES,

  THE SWEETER THE VICTORY.

  The gist of it was this – the French had guillotined their King Louis, and Queen Marie Antoinette. Catherine the Empress, who saw Jacobins under every bed (and she saw many beds), needed no more provocation. Marie-Therese of Austria, the dead Queen's sister, cried revenge. Frederick of Prussia, third of the brigands, scented loot, and followed suit. All three declared war on France. So, while the cats were away, we mice could play.

  We had quickly taken our leave of Tulczyn. Felix, the arch-traitor, had been betrayed in turn by the Empress, who had given him nothing for his pains, not a brass zloty. Treacherous German that she was, she had torn the Constitution up, all right, but she had refused to restore any of Felix’s privileges – aye, and dismembered the country into the bargain. Thoroughly betrayed, Felix had gone off sulking to Vienna, and exile. There he sat and brooded alone in a vast empty palace, like a golden prison.

  Naturally all this war and treachery had caused chaos in Tulczyn. So my men and I had slipped away, guided by Madame. Then we rode straight to Krakow as the crow flies, there to rendezvous with our comrades. We had ridden the very same road I had travelled five years before, when I had joined the King’s cavalry.

  And our traitor King? Well, he was with the Russian garrison in Warsaw. It was as well for him that he was, for had he shown his face in Krakow, we should have given him a drumhead court martial, King or no, and put his crowned head on the end of a pike. Nobody loves a traitor, it is well said!

  But we all still loved Pepi. For the sins of the uncle are not to be visited on the nephew. The Prince clapped his hands and called ‘Champagne!’ and the champagne was brought, in buckets of ice. After a few glasses of that we were soon at our ease once more. We were warriors, not ragged vagabonds. We boasted, exaggerating our adventures beyond any shadow of the truth, and chasing the fine soft ladies around the chaise longues and gilt-topped tables. To our great surprise and delight, they seemed greatly pleased by our attentions.

  In ordinary times such grand and dainty dames would not have spat on us had our moustaches been afire. Pepi poured another glass of the sweet French liquor. The comrades were flying higher than the moon by now. One of Pepi's gilded ladies leaned on my shoulder and another clutched at my elbow. Their gentle, high voices were sweeter than the sirens singing to old Odysseus, tied to the mast of his ship.

  “He’s here!” the crowd roared, “The Commander!”

  Bowing to the ladies and doffing our czapkas, we took our leave. We formed up and marched across to the western side of the market square. There we took our place beside our Commander, and his officers, newly returned from exile. The Commander wore the national costume, a blue jacket, red trousers, and a white sukmana, with a peacock feather in his red czapka. He stood, surrounded by the blue and silver of the infantry and the green, black and gold of the artillerymen, at the centre of the market square. The banners of the guilds billowed in the spring breeze, beside placards proclaiming ‘Equality and Freedom’ and ‘For Krakow and the Motherland’!

  There the Commander took the solemn oath – the Act of Insurrection of the Citizens and Inhabitants of the Palatinate of Krakow –

  “I, Tadeusz Kosciuczko, swear before God and to the whole Polish nation, that I shall employ the authority vested in me for the integrity of the frontiers, for gaining national self-rule and for the foundation of general liberty, and not for private benefit. So help me, Lord God, and the innocent suffering of Thy Son!”

  Here was the whole nation, or so it seemed, crowded together in one market square, and in arms. The Commander led us into the Cathedral, the Church of the Holy Virgin, with its bugler in the tower. It was a sombre, gothic church. Serried ranks of warriors processed solemnly through the doors with their lances, swords, and guns held up before them like holy banners. We passed over the threshold, tucking our czapkas under our arms, and making the sign of the cross in the air before us. Though plain and austere without, the church was richly ornamented within. All around were golden scrolls and scallop shells, red, black and golden seals, golden crosses starred with beams of light, mermaids, roses, and fleurs-de-lis. Stone columns of gold and black marble soared up to the heavens, glittering like spears. High above our bare heads the vault of the ceiling was blue as the Virgin's veil, studded with gold bosses. Thickets of guttering candles cast a golden glow over the gilded tombs and monuments of the saints and martyrs and kings.

  We took our turn in line and knelt before the magnificent wooden altar. The priests blessed our sabres, lances, and guns. Rosary beads clicked against the hilts of swords. Holy water splashed our faces, mingling with the sweat. Above our heads the censer swung on black chains, and clouds of incense swirled through the air. Beside the altar and the host, the chalice gleamed like a silver sword. The bell was rung and we averted our eyes. We ate the body and drank the blood of Christ. The Lord Be With You.

  A spectral company of angels and bearded apostles stood in fine array on that great wooden triptych. It seemed that their crooks and staves were golden lances, with fluttering golden pennants, that this heavenly army was rallying to defend our souls, as our temporal army rallied to defend our sacred soil, our families, and our language.

  At last we found ourselves out in the square. It was cold dusk, with the Hejnal resounding once more, our heads dazzled with wine and eternity.

  “Soldiers!”

  It was the Commander. He was riding a white horse, with the feathers still flying in his cap. With him were Pepi and Dabrowski – who were now General Poniatowski and Lieutenant-General Dabrowski, at the Commander’s order. Beside the three generals was an unruly mob of peasants armed with scythes.

  “Orders, gentlemen,” said the old lion, calmly. He pointed at Cyprian.

  “Captain Godebski – Warsaw remains in Russian hands. You know what to do.”

  Godebski saluted, and departed.

  “Comrade engineer – you will remain here and fortify Krakow.”

  Sierawski beamed with delight. “I will defend it to the death, Commander!”

  “Blow it sky-high if you must,” the Commander shrugged. Sierawski's face fell in horror.

  “Next, Tanski – the best lancer in all Poland, so they say. Well, comrade, you have a chance to live up to your reputation. You will take Blumer's horsemen here and join Dabrowski's cavalry corps.”

  My cavalry brigade was gone! I was incensed. Then I saw the peasants, and I began to apprehend the extent of my misfortune. Well, as they say, one minute you're riding the horse, and the next minute, you're under it.

  “Lieutenant Blumer – this is your new command. The First People’s Brigade. If anyone can keep these peasants under control, it’s you, son. You're wasted in the cavalry. Cavalry wins battles, but the infantry wins wars!” the Commander said to me. It had almost been worth leaving the cavalry to hear him say that. Almost. Lieutenant Blumer!

  A promotion, and a command, by God. If you could call it that. But at what cost! I was now in the infantry. I cast a wary eye over my new brigade of irregular soldiers – that is, armed peasants.

  “They're not exactly the grenadiers, Commander, but they w
ill do,” I replied.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE SCYTHEMEN, RACLAWICE, 4 APRIL 1794

  It was a glorious morning. Our army was at Prayer on the redoubt. We sang the Bogurodzica, our battle hymn –

  “Oh Mother of God, Oh Virgin,

  Mary, blessed by God,

  Your Son, our Lord,

  Mary, chosen Mother,

  Return to us, bestow upon us.

  May the Lord have mercy.

  For the sake of thy Baptist, oh Son of God,

  Hear our voices, fulfil mankind's thoughts.

  Hear the prayer which we offer

  And grant us what we ask of him –

  A prosperous stay on earth

  And paradise in the hereafter.

  May the Lord have mercy.

  Amen!”

  The Commander had chosen his ground well. We had marched south a few miles from Krakow to meet the first Russian army that was sent against us. Here, at the redoubt at Raclawice, we met them as they came at us from the east.

  All across the field, ranks of soldiers and peasant volunteers knelt in the wet grass, jewelled with the morning dew. We crossed ourselves, and then we stood. The peasants put their red caps back on their heads and shouldered their war-scythes – scythes with the blades pointed up – and pikes. This rabble of a few hundred peasants (my rabble) were mostly dressed in the sukmana, and the traditional garb of Lesser Poland. Under their white overcoats they wore their Sunday best, as if they were going to Church.

  The raddled old village Hetman shambled over and doffed his red cap from his bald head. His belt was on the last hole and his ample gut hung over his trousers, bulging out his kontusz. Neither he nor any of my men had swords, let alone firearms, only scythes and pikes. Many were barefoot.

  I saluted the Hetman crisply, my back ramrod-straight. This parody of military discipline was entirely ridiculous, but my new peasant soldiers were greatly impressed by it. There had been a great deal of work to be done, in a short space of time. I had drilled them until their feet bled, and then we had marched out of Krakow alongside the Commander's regulars a week later. Three years ago I was a cadet. Now I was a veteran, a leader of men.

  My ragged brigade had many shortcomings, but we had plenty of camp followers. Swarms of women followed the army to cook and fuss over us, like surrogate mothers – and, in some cases, substitute wives. Lambs lying down with wolves. One of them was the daughter of this sly old Hetman. She had set her cap at me, poor deluded creature. To these poor peasants, a lieutenant was a great man. Not a great lord, true, but a lord nonetheless – and a lord who, judging by his threadbare socks and empty pockets, was within the grasp of their matchmaking womenfolk. To be idolised made a curious change from being sneered at.

  The old Hetman hawked on the trampled grass and studied the results intently, as if reading the outcome of the battle in his spittle. This done, he blew his nose on the sleeve of his sukmana and grinned up through a gap-toothed mouth. The old goat must have had prodigious loins. A third of my brigade seemed to be composed of his sons, and many of our camp wenches seemed to be his daughters. Tanski reckoned he had his crafty eye on me for a son-in-law.

  I was caught between this prospect and the Russians. With any luck I would be dead by the end of the day, and that would be that. In the midst of these thoughts, our scouts came scurrying back to our lines. One of the old Hetman’s infinite brood made his report to me.

  “How many Russians?” I asked. He held up four fingers and grinned. Four thousand.

  “The same as us, then – a fair fight!” I lied, loudly and confidently. My falsehood had the desired result. He and the men cackled with glee and drew their fingers across their throats, brandishing their wicked-looking scythes.

  Of course it would not be a fair fight – it never was. I’ve never had a fair fight to this day, not in twenty years of soldiering. We had come to regard being outnumbered by anything less than three to one as a luxury. Yet this was to be the closest to a fair match I had ever known. Four thousand Russian regulars were coming. Our Commander had indeed gathered about four thousand men to stand against them, but only half of these were regular soldiers. The rest were peasant volunteers, like my men. These had been divided into People's Brigades, like mine.

  My brigade was about two hundred peasants strong, but the numbers changed hour by hour. For every volunteer who came in, a deserter or a malingerer snuck out.

  As for the Russians, here came their four thousand regulars, row upon row. They came marching up the hill in perfect order. Their great bulbous hats, shaped like tulip petals, were bobbing on their heads in unison. Above them flew the golden banner of the two-headed black eagle. Behind them, a row of black cannon, spitting smoke and flame like dragons.

  “Here they come!” I called. Already my front rank was beginning to range forward, and lose their shape. I had to constantly walk back and forth up and down the rank, cuffing and collaring the men back in line. “Keep in line!”

  Tanski came hurtling by on his charger, leading a string of lancers. My heart filled with pride and jealousy at the sight.

  “Ho! It's Blumer the schoolmaster!” he called, and the insult stung. Then, in spite of myself, and in spite of the bullets and cannonballs that by now were whistling overhead, I had to laugh. For I did indeed look like a teacher struggling with a class of unruly pupils. “Are you teaching these villagers the mazurka, Blumer?” Tanski smirked.

  With the most perfect timing, the Hetman's daughter darted out from the ranks. She was a pale, green-eyed creature, willow-thin, and clutching some gift for me. Her father, crafty as ever, let her go – he had plenty of other daughters should she be cut down by a bullet, after all.

  Agatha (for such was the lass’s name) gazed with awe at Tanski, on his horse, with his lance and pennant. She curtsied as if to a knight. Tanski doffed his czapka and bowed from the saddle. I could see her affections were wavering. Even though I had no great attachment to her, jealousy burned.

  “Agatha,” I said, with exquisite pleasure, “this is Warrant Officer Tanski. Salute when you address a Lieutenant, Tanski.” Tanski blushed to his boots, and I delighted in his discomfort. He saluted, reluctantly, and said “Yes – Sir” through gritted teeth. Music to my ears! Bullets and bayonets were quite forgotten. Ears turning crimson, he wheeled away with his squadron towards the Russians.

  Lead whipped over our heads. Eerie chants and drums followed the bullets on the wind.

  “Get out of here, sweetheart,” I spoke, softly for once. My throat was hoarse from bellowing orders. She pressed a bundle into my hand, and ran. I never saw her again. It was a loaf of bread, wrapped in a scarf. I wound the scarf around my arm. If I could not ride to war on my steed, like a knight, then I should at least wear a lady's favours, like one. Before us was our foe. Endless grey-clad ranks of Russian soldiers. Black eagles glittered on gold flags. Behind me I felt the men’s hackles rise. I heard their furious shouts as they beat their war-scythes on the ground. The old Hetman was at my elbow, begging me to charge. I sent him packing, before stalking up and down the line, pistol in hand.

  “Stand your ground!” This was the order. It was simple. Beneath our feet, the ground slid down in a gentle slope towards the Russians. A gentle slope, until a man tried to run up it with musket in hand and a heavy knapsack on his back, that is. Our Commander had chosen this position well. Behind us, higher still, rose our redoubt.

  At the foot of the slope I saw a Russian lieutenant – my opposite number, I presumed. With deliberate care the Russian conscripts drew up to face us, like partners at a dance. As a professional, I envied him his disciplined rank of surly slaves. Leading my men was like saddling cows. But as a man, my heart swelled with pride at the thought that I led free men, volunteers.

  Respectfully, I doffed my cap to this Russian. I had not yet drawn my sword. Our eyes met. We were but a hundred yards away from each other. He sneered as he ordered his men to line up for the volley. He fully expected tha
t we would break when they opened up, and scatter like a flock of birds.

  I walked up and down the line again. My fear was not that the men would run. I saw their high temper, their murderous rage. They would not run, not today, not from all the devils in hell. No – I feared they would charge too soon. That would be a disaster. We had to charge after the Russians had fired, otherwise we would run into a hail of lead.

  “Will you fire first, Lachy?” he called, sardonically, knowing full well that we had no muskets. All around him, his men were busy with ramrods and powder flasks.

  “After you, Sir!” I bawled back, for I never forget my manners.

  “Damn it, my lord!” yelled the old Hetman, brandishing his scythe. “Do we charge?”

  “NOT YET! Stand your ground!” I roared at him. “Fire, damn you!” I implored the Russians, for I could hold this tide back no longer. Then at last, at long last, the Russians fired up the slope. The sky exploded with a great clatter of bangs, like hammers clashing on stone. A cloud of grey smoke hung over the grey jackets, like a pall of incense over orthodox monks. Bullets plucked at my hat and coat without touching me. All around, men were falling, cursing, weeping. Yet not so many. Perhaps only a dozen. Even of those few, some regained their feet. Cursing in panic, they ransacked their clothes to find the wound. A stain like wine was stretching over the old Hetman’s white sukmana. He appeared oblivious.