Song of the Legions

by Michael Large

  “Bad shots,” he muttered, shaking his head.

  Muskets were poor things in those days, all sound and fury, signifying nothing. Guns were hopelessly inaccurate in my day. Even at short range, bullets flew hither and yon, like sparrows. They rarely came anywhere near their mark, except at point-blank range. If the muskets fired at all, that is, for misfires and half-cocks were common. This was why the infantry gathered together for a volley, for by that means at least some of the bullets should hit, by the law of averages.

  My men roared like caged beasts, but still they held their line. With slow, deliberate care, not once taking my eyes from the Russian lieutenant, I drew my sword, and brought it chopping down over my head. Steel is surer than lead, comrade!

  We charged across that hallowed ground at Raclawice, bearing down on our foes like the wrath of God. In the front rank, the grey-coated dogs were in disarray, frantically trying to reload. A musket is in excess of five feet long. Reloading is slow and cumbersome. First they had to clear their barrel of spent powder, then pour in fresh powder from their flasks, and finally the wad and the bullet. All this with tired, shaking hands, in the teeth of the wind, and with a mob of baying, armed peasants hurtling down the slope at you!

  My scythemen tore into the dogs with great violence, as their pent-up fury exploded. Our foes did not run but stood and were butchered to a man. I saw the proud lieutenant cut to ribbons, his head struck clean from his shoulders. It rolled across the ground like a drum, eyes wide open. Scythes clashed against swords and bayonets. Screams rent the air. Dust and smoke rose up from the trampled soil. Guns discharged, haphazardly. On came the scythemen, yelling, wild, swinging their weapons, to and fro, and the Russian conscripts falling, clutching great wounds, calling on God, Mother –

  “Onwards! On to the cannon!” came the cry. For these infantry were not our object. They merely stood between us and it. We surged for the cannon, our flag fluttering before us. My Hetman reached the cannon first, and laid his cap across the barrel.

  “Mine!” he roared at the astonished gunners, who were cowering behind the gun carriage. A grey figure with an axe confronted him. I shot the Russian in the head at point-blank range – the only range you can trust a pistol at. His blood splashed my face and he crumpled to the soil. Moments later, the old Hetman and two of his cronies dragged a terrified Russian artilleryman from under the cannon’s wheel. I watched as they cut him apart like a side of mutton, but I said nothing. Fortunes of war.

  The men leapt jubilantly onto the cannon and planted a flag in the ground. All around was a scene of utter carnage. Upturned carts and caissons, disembowelled horses rolling around in their own entrails, dead men strewn about with severed limbs. Abandoned weapons, clothes, hats, medals, badges, blankets, and any number of discarded items were lying in the grass. All around and down the slope the Russian dogs were running. With grim satisfaction, we watched them. They were tossing aside their muskets, hats, knapsacks, sabres, and even their greatcoats as they did so.

  But where was our cavalry? Where was our pursuit? We, the victors, were as exhausted as the enemy. As the scythemen cheered, wild with bloodlust, all that I could think was – can we afford another such victory?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  WARSAW, 7 SEPTEMBER 1794

  My little regiment, decimated in a dozen skirmishes, disbanded of its own accord. Most of the peasant volunteers were dead. The pitiful few who remained I sent home to the harvest. Madame L heard of this, God knows how, and she sent for me to stand as her guard dog. She said it would keep me out of trouble.

  Thus I found myself in Warsaw, in September in the Year of Our Lord 1794. Our many enemies soon caught up with us. We were besieged from the west by the Prussians, and from the east by the Russians. Cannon bombarded us throughout the day. Barricades were raised across the streets. The citizens huddled in cellars and churches. It was the middle of the night, and beyond the city a thousand enemy campfires burned in the darkness. September was bleak. The crescent moon hung like a sabre over our heads.

  Madame, as a Castellan, or Military Governor, supplied us with guns, bullets, food, shelter, and pay. She had spies everywhere, and she gave orders. Her grand mansion house was a fortress and a barracks. I had a nice perch on one of the lower floors, in a hallway. I had a plump leather armchair and there I sat, all day long, my gun across my knees, watching the street below. From this vantage point I could see everyone who came and went from Madame’s house. There were some fine comings and goings, too, for the wives of many of the senior officers were billeted in the upper floors.

  That night, stones skittered against the shutters. I cautiously peered out, keeping my face hidden in the shadows. Down in the street below, a poet proclaimed his love to a lady, and paid court to her. Warsaw was under siege, but in turn the suitor laid siege to his inamorata. A lot of this sort of thing went on at Madame’s house. The war had changed much, but not everything. I listened as the latest besotted fool recited poetry beneath the window.

  “Night, and in a serene sky

  the moon was incandescent amidst the fainter stars,

  When you, about to flout the name of the great Gods,

  Were swearing your solemn oath...”

  “Bravo, Cyprian!” I clapped, leaning out of the window. It was my dear friend, the poet. “Much better than your usual drivel. Why, that was almost as good as Horace’s poem, Epode Number Fifteen.”

  Cyprian glared up. The moonlight reflected on his balding temples. He had a dog-eared copy of Horace’s Epodes in his hand, which he tried guiltily to conceal behind his back.

  “Damn it! I’ve been serenading a great hairy-arsed Podolian!” he griped angrily. “No matter! Have you any vodka, Blumer? I’m bloody freezing!”

  I ordered the servants to unbar the door. From my perch at the top of the stairs I watched as Godebski squeezed through the gate. As soon as he was within, the anxious servants threw the bolts and barred the door with heavy timbers. We embraced, for we had not seen each other since that glorious day in Krakow in the Market Square. To chase the cold away I produced a bottle of true water, and we drank. Our pistols lay beside it on the table.

  “What are you doing here?” Cyprian demanded. “You’re not after her too, are you?” he said suspiciously, for he was ever on the alert for rivals for his beloved’s affections – real or imaginary. I merely laughed.

  “Not a chance! She’s as vicious as a she-wolf! No, you are welcome to her, comrade. I am but Madame’s sentry. What about you? Are you here to woo the dread lady?”

  Godebski grinned, “Why, yes, I am Madame’s man, too, my heart and soul! I have the misfortune to be in love with my superior officer! I carry out her orders. It is all cloak and dagger.”

  “I’ll wager there is more dagger than cloak where Madame is involved,” I said.

  “She is a formidable lady,” Godebski agreed. “You should have seen her during the Warsaw Uprising, back in April. By God, she was in her element – the goddess of wrath!” He sat back in my chair, put his feet on the table, and lit his pipe. “Easter week was full of rumours of what the Russian garrison were going to do. It was feared they would murder the people while they were at prayer.”

  “Let me guess,” I said, “Madame decided to act first.”

  “Indeed she did!” Godebski laughed. “Thus, on Easter Thursday[3] our men, and the city mob, led by the Guild of Slaughterers, took the Russians by surprise. Their spikes and axes lent a fine professional air to the business, I can tell you. We massacred every one of them we could lay our hands on.”

  “God rest their souls,” I said facetiously, crossing myself. “Still, the Russians have a lot of people, I suppose, they won’t miss ’em. What then?”

  “Then we rounded up all the traitors we could find and hanged them on the spot. Your friend Bishop Massalski was dancing from a lamp post, the last time I saw him.”

  “Sto lat! Cheers!” We drank to a job well done.

  “So you see, Madame dr
ove the Russians from the capital,” Godebski concluded. “But no sooner were we rid of them, than the accursed Prussians had laid siege to Warsaw, from the other side!”

  “Now the Russians are back, as well,” I observed.

  “Aren’t they always?” Godebski said, grimacing. Then he cast around him, as if Madame might be hiding in a cupboard.

  “You must know everything that goes on in this house,” Godebski said craftily. “Is she here, then?” he asked, eagerly. I shook my head.

  “No, she is not. She is away with one of her, ah, officers,” I said, and I coughed, trying to be as delicate as I could. Godebski’s face fell. He buried his head in his hands.

  “It’s that infernal Tremo, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said softly, placing a hand on my friend’s shoulder. “She’s infatuated with him. Why, she’s even knitted him a pair of socks.”

  “Damn it!” Cyprian slammed his glass onto the table and flew into a rage. “She knitted him socks? A woman of her breeding, knitting socks for a lousy cook’s son! Damn that infernal, confounded –” and here he said a great many more things, which I shall not repeat, pertaining to poor Elias Tremo and his ladylove. The gist of them, you will gather, was prejudicial and slanderous in the extreme. After a few moments, he pulled himself together.

  “Look here, Blumer,” he said, leaping up, “young Sierawski is in the trenches in Wola, and he needs some grenades. Could you lend me a dozen or so? I might as well get myself killed and be done with it!”

  “Madame has some in the cellar. Follow me, Captain!”

  We set off unsteadily down the stairs, having finished the vodka. Madame always provided plenty of vodka, so her men always fought like starving wolves. At the foot of the stairs were crates of bullets, and beside them, muskets stacked in a tripod. We passed by them and along a corridor to a drawing room.

  “Quiet, here, comrade – this is our hospital. Don’t trip up on any buckets,” I admonished him. We tiptoed through a wood-panelled room with parquet floors. All around were sleeping bodies, huddled on the floor, lying on and underneath the tables. Injured men lay swathed in bandages, fitfully asleep. Some were missing arms or legs. Here and there were buckets for the large and small needs of the patients, who were too ill to venture out to the latrines. A lady nurse glared at us and we whispered our apologies and hurried by.

  “It takes a lot of organising, this war business,” I reflected. “Madame arms us, and feeds us, and she even heals us. I’ve learned more about war from that woman than I ever did at the academy.”

  “Yes,” Godebski mused. “It’s like the theatre – all the hard work goes on behind the scenes. All we poor actors can do is speak our lines and play our parts.”

  “And take our exit when the curtain falls,” I agreed.

  We set off down into the cellar. I took Godebski’s pipe from him and placed it on a sideboard, and then opened the heavy oak door.

  “Why, it’s as dark as Hades down there!” Godebski complained. “Have you no lamp?”

  “That cellar is no place for a naked flame,” I replied. “One spark would blow this whole house to kingdom come.”

  We set off, cautiously, down the steps, fumbling at the banister. There was not a single light in the whole cellar. The glow from the open doorway cast a faint luminescence. At the foot of the stairs one could dimly perceive dozens of heavy wooden boxes. Gunpowder. We struggled in the stygian gloom, bumping into each other, tripping over, and barking our shins on the crates. At last, we found the grenades. With difficulty, we dragged them back towards the stairs.

  “By God, this is thirsty work,” I grumbled. I paused by the foot of the stairs to purloin another bottle of vodka. For this was the wine cellar, after all, and there was still some good liquor to be had down there. Even so, this powder magazine was not a place to tarry, and we heaved the box of bombs up the stairs as fast as we dared. With great relief, we shut the heavy door behind us, barred it, and put down the box in the hallway. There we pried it open and peered at the grenades, which were packed in straw. They were little metal balls, shiny and black. A few dozen of them were nestled amongst the straw, as innocent as hen’s eggs or Christmas baubles.

  “What a pretty bunch of little pisanki,” I said, with a shudder. “Here,” I said to Cyprian, passing him a leather saddlebag. “We can carry these bloody things in these satchels.”

  “We?” Cyprian asked, surprised. “But what about your sentry post? What about Madame’s orders?”

  “The hell with Madame,” I growled, hefting one of the bags of grenades onto my shoulder. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

  “Are you sure?” Cyprian stared at me doubtfully.

  “Don’t be such a milksop, Cyprian!” I said, “Madame can look after herself. Anyway, I told you, she’s quite safe – she’s with Elias Tremo. He’s a bloody captain now, did you know?”

  “To hell with her!” Cyprian agreed, angrily. “Let’s go!”

  A clock on the wall chimed. It was four in the morning. Cyprian picked up his czapka and his pistols, dusted down his book of poems, and stuffed it into his knapsack. Then he too hefted the other saddlebag full of grenades onto his shoulders. The servants unlocked the gate, and we were off.

  “I was bored to death in that house, sitting on my arse,” I told Cyprian. “A moonlit walk to Wola will be delightful.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  WOLA, 8 SEPTEMBER 1794

  The walk to Wola was frightful. We had drunk plenty of vodka as usual, but the cold September wind wrung us sober all too quickly, and we struggled under our deadly burden through the deserted streets. I was beginning to think better of my bravado.

  “I don’t care much for this,” I grumbled. “One spark, and there won’t be anything left of us to bury. I prefer cold steel, myself, to these infernal devices.”

  I have never been fond of grenades. These crude bombs are metal flasks full of bullets, nails, scrap iron and gunpowder, with a fuse dangling like a ribbon from the top. Godebski grinned. Horrified, I watched him take out his pipe and flint.

  “Stop grumbling and have a smoke!” Cyprian grinned.

  “Damn it, Cyprian!” I snapped. He laughed and put away his tobacco. Despite the gloom, the moonlight lit up his lugubrious features. Much as I admired my dear friend, he was hardly an Adonis. His head was too large, for one thing. His receding, greying hair, which he fancied made him look distinguished, simply made him look old. His huge ears stuck out like saucepans. His big, fleshy lips spoke of passions too earthly for our chaste Polish ladies. Still, he had the heart of a lion, and he was a gentleman. I pitied him his plight, which was so hopeless as to make our impossible war seem a fair fight. For Madame had chosen the dashing young Captain Elias Tremo, who was aide-de-camp to General Dabrowski, and a man with a future. And that was that. Godebski was outgunned.

  “I never stood a chance against that boy Tremo,” Godebski admitted. “Madame L is a good Catholic. Very devout. She won’t have anything to do with me, because I am divorced from my wife. I’m an outcast, my friend. No decent woman will have me.”

  I commiserated with him. “Plenty more fish in the river, old boy. Anyway, I shouldn’t trouble yourself about decent women. We’ll get you a French girl instead!”

  I heard Godebski’s mind ticking like the clock in Madame’s hallway.

  “What a fine idea, comrade! I may take you at your word!” Godebski rubbed his hands with glee and perked up immensely.

  “Now then, come on, boy – let’s chase these Prussian scoundrels back to Valmy Ridge, and then take our pick of the Parisiennes!”

  Dawn was breaking as we reached Wola. Paris itself is a mere thousand miles further west, beyond Valmy Ridge, where the fanatical French Revolutionary army had kicked the Prussians arses up in the air for them, back in 1792.

  “Here we are,” Godebski exclaimed, “the Field of the Electors.”

  “Devil take this accursed place,” I spat. The Field of the
Electors was in Wola, a large and fashionable suburb at the west end of Warsaw. For the last three hundred years Poland had chosen Her Kings here. At our last election, Catherine of Russia had foisted her chosen candidate upon us – the Bullock. His election had been won with gold and lead, for where bribes fail, bullets prevail. Thus we had been saddled with our traitor king, and set on our road to ruin.