Song of the Legions

by Michael Large

  “Then we need to scare them off,” I replied simply.

  “But that will give the game away,” Tanski cursed, “and we are outmatched, five to three. Damn it all!”

  “Being outmatched is nothing new,” I said negligently. “We can still have our fight. Kasimir – run behind the church. Jan – get yourself behind the elephant.”

  “Now look here,” said Tanski, pulling rank again, “I’m in charge here!”

  I ground my teeth with anger.

  “Do as I say, Kasimir,” I said. “For you both need to run, to make your marks in time. I cannot run, I am as slow as a snail on this damn leg. Go!”

  Tanski assented. With that they were away, fast as hares, and not a moment too soon, for the crowd was breasting the rise and would soon be upon us.

  My blond friend was talking to the priest, and to a number of young ladies and some old babcias, who were riding in a two-horse carriage. He talked calmly and politely, but I could see him casting around for us, as if he had indeed smelt the ambush. As he rode, he was obliged to screw his eyes up against the sun, which was shining in his face. Around him, his hired killers were scowling and sweating in the midday heat.

  One could see the unease in the faces of the wary townsfolk, their hands clutching their children and their rosaries, and their jittery horses, afrighted at their masters’ fear. I felt a great pang of regret, for this had been the sweetest of hiding places, and we could have swatted the whole bunch of them like so many flies before they could have returned a single shot at us.

  With that, after a brief whispered prayer, I stepped out of the hollow, into the open, and discharged a shot into the air. My shot frighted the birds from the trees and echoed through the valley. Polish guns had a voice still.

  There was plenty of time to sit on a tree stump and carefully reload my musket and watch the scene unfold. Down below, the townsfolk imagined they were about to be set upon by the Cossacks, as so many other villages had been. They fled in terror. Carts upturned, horses reared, men shouted, ladies screamed, children shrieked, and dogs barked. Every rank of person, from the highest to the lowest, ran scrambling for cover in unseemly haste. Nor was there any differentiation between the sexes, for husbands elbowed their wives and mothers aside in a mad dash for ditch, hedge, wall, or tree to shelter behind.

  Amid the dust thrown up by all this confusion I observed my blond friend. He remained admirably calm throughout. He and his men kept their horses reined tight in at the bit and under good control. After a few moments the avalanche of villagers had swept away, leaving behind a few pathetic remnants – hats tumbling in the dirt, spilled baskets of eggs, a child’s doll. One of the blond man’s party shooed away a loose horse with his whip, and then all was quiet again.

  Now the field was clear for the combatants, although our element of surprise was forfeit. The blond man, Szymon Korczak, saw me straight away, as I had intended. Pointing me out to his fellows, he gave a great beam of delight and satisfaction, and then he doffed his cap to me.

  “Ho there, Blumer!” he called good naturedly. “We are here to take you back to Podolia in chains! Hetman Rzewuski has ordered that you ride the whole way backwards, as befits a traitor, an outlaw, and a renegade. There, the flesh will be flayed from your back with the knout, and then you are to be broken on the wheel, drawn between four horses, and finally, as you beg for mercy, hanged like a dog!”

  Evidently there was to be no trial. Sighting down the slope, I could see all five of them, bunched together from when the villagers had charged past in their headlong flight. It reminded one of stalking pigeons, lining them up to knock down two or three with one round of birdshot. In a moment, surely the same thought would occur to my antagonists.

  “A Happy Easter to you too, you Targowica bastards!” I replied, raising my czapka, and then raising my musket. By now, I reckoned, my comrades would have enough time to be in position. I could see Szymon’s crafty eyes judging the distance between us and the strength of the wind. His men carried pistols, which by now they all had in hand, and were training on my person. Despite the distance, for I knew them to be well out of range, it was an uncomfortable feeling.

  “Where are your comrades, my dear Blumer?” Szymon called, casting around the horizon for Tanski and Sierawski, of whom there was no sign. Emboldened, he and his men began to walk their horses towards me, slowly, to close the range, before they charged. Good, I thought.

  “Come up here and I’ll tell you, you cowardly son of a bitch,” I laughed, staring through my sights at the blond mane of hair. It was still somewhat of a range and I doubted the bullet would carry true, for as you know I am a poor shot.

  “Very well then!” declared Szymon, and one could not doubt the cruel resolve in his traitor’s heart. His men, I noticed, seemed far less sure of themselves.

  “There are five of us, and only one of you,” he chided.

  “I will be happy simply to hit you alone, my lord brother,” I replied, and this gave him pause for thought. Man pulls the trigger, but God guides the bullet. I squeezed the trigger, and the gun kicked like a mule.

  Damnation! A miss!

  “Unlucky, Sir!” Szymon called, “now it is our turn.”

  He and his men began to fire at me with their pistols. All around me the earth tore up with bullets and the bumblebees flew past my ears, plucked at my coat, and lifted off my hat. Miraculously, I was unhurt. They, too, were poor shots. Tossing my musket aside, I drew my pistols.

  “Now we have you!” called Szymon. With that they drew sabres, spurred their horses, and made to charge. They closed the gap alarmingly quickly. In a few moments more they should have charged me down into my grave. Before they could do so, Tanski and Sierawski leapt from their hiding places, crying ‘ambush!’ and firing their guns.

  This was all too much for the Targowicans, and they broke and ran, as fast as their horses could carry them. From the corner of my eye I saw a horseman tumbling dead from his mount. Then Szymon was upon me, brandishing his flashing sabre, for he was made of sterner stuff than his hired killers. His horse cast a great black shadow, blocking out the sun. At the last minute I discharged my pistol.

  The horse reared and fell, with an awful scream, bucking and kicking, breaking its legs as it thrashed in agony. I cannot abide killing horses, and the sight was sickening. Killing men, however, no longer troubled my conscience. There he lay, my blond persecutor, his horse shot from under him. It now lay athwart, and he trapped beneath.

  “Bless my soul, Szymon,” I chuckled as I stumped slowly over, my leg dragging like an anchor, as I traversed the mound of bloody and mangled animal. “One minute you’re on the horse, the next minute you’re under it!”

  My adversary was not finished. Nimble as a ferret, Szymon somehow slipped out from under the dead horse and away. I was at arm’s length. I extended my second pistol to administer the coup de grace, for I had bloody murder and revenge in mind. At the last second, Szymon twisted desperately aside. The flash from my gun set light to his sable coat. The fine fur flared. He ran for the church, ablaze, and dropped his sword.

  I trudged after him, grim as the golem. I stopped to pick up his fallen sword, and tramped on. Szymon pushed open the church door and fell over the threshold. His clothes were burning and tongues of flame licked at him hungrily, and he rolled desperately in the nave to smother them. No sooner had he put out the fire than I was upon him, sword at his throat. I stared down at him with contempt. His eyes were full of fear. My persecutor was unarmed, worn out, filthy, dejected, his burned clothes in rags. In short, he was thoroughly defeated.

  “You were braver when it was five to one,” I remarked, tossing his sword onto the flagstones. “Here, pick this up, and we’ll finish this in the churchyard – I shall bury you where you die, or you me.”

  With one final terrified cry, he shrank back. “Sanctuary!” he cried, throwing up his hands before the altar. It was a pretty little church. Up above the altar, Christ and Mary had gazed down. Th
eir sad faces quite took the murder out of my soul. My anger was quite gone, melted away like snow in a kettle.

  “Why didn’t you kill him?” Tanski asked, crossing himself as he stepped over the threshold.

  “Rules are rules,” I said simply, “he has sanctuary.” I took a red cord from beside the altar, and proceeded to tie our prisoner’s hands roughly behind his back and drag him out of the church into the spring sunshine.

  “Then what are we going to do with this damn traitor?” Tanski said, snapping at my heels, and loading his gun. We were indeed presented with a problem. He was a traitor, and he meant to murder us, but he had claimed sanctuary. So we could not kill him, and we dare not turn him loose, but we had no means of taking him with us.

  “You’re the senior officer, aren’t you?” I said to Tanski, coldly, “you decide.”

  Tanski pulled a glum expression as we walked out of the church, a strange band of celebrants. We might have been three centurions with Christ – albeit this prisoner was a Judas.

  “I have the answer. Here’s a good tree and a stout rope!” Sierawski chuckled, gleefully, “there are three of us – enough for a drumhead court martial! We can try and hang this traitor lawfully by the rules of war!” he cackled, capering around the worried prisoner with a noose. “Then both honour and justice are satisfied. And this bastard of a traitor will be dead, too.”

  “I’m no traitor!” our prisoner protested, “I am Captain Szymon Korczak, of Podolia, and I am a serving officer in the Russian army! Shoot me by all means, but you can’t hang me! It would be quite improper.”

  “Hang him – the damned traitor!” Sierawski roared, “A Podolian in the Russian army indeed! He’s Felix’s man, a Targowica turncoat! A Russian running dog! I vote him guilty of treason. Let’s hang him and be done with it!”

  “I also vote him guilty of treason,” Tanski said coldly, raising his pistol. “It is your vote, Blumer, and the casting vote. We must be unanimous, for this is a capital offence, and two votes to one will not do it. Quickly, now – let’s hang him as a traitor and a coward, as he deserves.”

  “Untie my hands and you’ll see how much of a coward I am!” blondie protested, with the false bravado of a chained dog, safe in his master’s yard. Then he gazed at me, I who had been his terror a few moments ago, and who now presented his only salvation. A drowning man cares not the quality of the rope – a drowning man will clutch even at a razor blade.

  With that, I cut the cord that bound his hands, and he fell silent, and took to rubbing his wrists and biting his lips.

  “Veto,” I said quietly. “I will not allow it – nie pozwalam. Captain Korczak is a prisoner of war.”

  Tanski and Sierawski howled at me with anger and rage. For a moment I thought they would turn their swords on me. Then our prisoner began to laugh.

  “There is no war, Blumer!” the blond Captain said sourly, “It is you men who are the outlaws and traitors. The war is over, and you lost. Poland is dead!”

  “Poland is not dead,” I replied, “as long as we live.”

  Outside, two dead Targowicans that we had dispatched lay in the dirt, as if asleep. The wind ruffled the grass and their hair. By now, the peasants of the congregation had drifted back. They gathered, at a wary distance, to watch this strange trial unfold.

  “One of us could fight a duel with him,” Sierawski ventured, for he had not given up, like a dog that will not give up a bone.

  “What cause have you to fight a duel, Sir?” Szymon said smugly. “Have I not been courteous in the face of your insults?”

  “We cannot kill him,” I said firmly, before my comrades could reply, “because if we do, the Targowicans will hang many of these good people hereabouts in reprisal.” I pointed at the curious villagers, who had cautiously gathered, and watched us from a distance. There was a silence, as Tanski and Sierawski considered this bitter news, and Szymon exulted in his lucky escape.

  “Then he gets away with nothing,” Tanski seethed.

  “Not quite,” I replied. Drawing Szymon’s sabre, I broke it over my knee, and flung it on the ground. Then I struck him a heavy blow with the back of my hand and he fell at my feet, quite crushed, for I am a big man, strong as an ox, and the stronger man by far. His proud face blushed crimson red at this disgrace, for to have his sword broken thus is the worst dishonour that can befall a gentleman.

  “You have cause for a duel now, you treacherous coward, when we meet again. You and I have fought twice, and I have vanquished you twice,” I said, “the third time, I will kill you, for you couldn’t hit my arse with a handful of buckwheat, let alone a sword.”

  Szymon Korczak lay whining on the floor.

  “Now, Tanski, Sierawski, tie his hands, blindfold him, and set him backwards on his horse, and let him ride where he will, the Devil take him!” I said.

  When this was done, to the great merriment of the watching peasants, I said to Tanski –

  “You are in charge now, comrade, for I am sick of it. You wanted command – now you have it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THE HANGED MAN

  As we rode on, we shared a full pipe every day. We had guns and supplies to spare now, that we had appropriated from the Targowicans. A week ago they had been hunting us, today we smoked their tobacco, drank their wine, and rode their horses. There are many that go out for wool and find themselves shorn.

  We rode for a week into the Eagles’ Nest Trail and did not seen another living human soul. We struck camp at the foot of a great rocky crag, where there was the ancient ruin of a small castle. Now there were only broken stones, lying like bleached bones on the green sward. We slept with our guns beside us under our blankets, like wives. There we lay up, like wolves with their bellies full of mutton, and their eyes full of fear of the hunters. It was a good stronghold, affording a tremendous vantage point. We could see the countryside for miles around. We sat around a blazing fire, one ear to the ground and two eyes to the horizon, waiting for hoof beats and horsemen.

  After a further week had passed, there was still no pursuit. My leg began to heal and we breathed a little easier. Tanski took his new responsibility very seriously. One might have thought he commanded a whole regiment, not two forlorn fugitives. He spent his days hunting on horseback – spearing wild sheep, rabbits and pigs with his lance, or blasting game birds from the sky with Sierawski’s ancient fowling gun. This gun had proved far more of a boon than we ever imagined, and we thanked Magda for it every night, as we tucked into the spitted flesh, roasted on the hillside amongst the ancient, fire-blackened stones of the dead fortress.

  Of nights the fire threw our crazy shadows onto the jagged and tumbled walls. Out here only the wind whistled and whined and moaned. It seemed that even our enemies had forsaken us, disdaining to chase us into this badland, despising our blood feud as a mere nothing. Were we naught but outlaws? We talked of our many failures, the chances our generals had spurned, the comrades we had lost. We talked of our successes, which boiled down to only this – that we were still alive, and free. Sierawski and I have always been thoughtful sorts. We set ourselves to thinking about how we had recently beaten the Targowicans, though outnumbered by two to one. We talked this over for some time, pondering the reasons for this. For we should really have been head down over a saddle by now on our way back to Tulczyn.

  “A disciplined body of men will always beat a rabble,” I said, thinking of the histories of war I had read, for I had read everyone from Caesar to Czarniecki. “We are veteran soldiers, and they were jockeys, thugs for hire, good only for murdering peasants and Jews.”

  “Szymon is a soldier,” Sierawski reminded me, unconvinced. “Perhaps it was our despicable and underhanded tactics of ambush, hit and run!”

  “Perhaps,” I laughed. “Cowards and backstabbers tend to win battles. He who turns and runs away, lives to fight another day – that was the Roman maxim, and they won a few wars, didn’t they?” I drained a cup of our captured vodka to ward off the c
old. “We Poles are too stubborn and brave. We should learn from the Cossacks, who hit and run. That was what Czarniecki did in the Swedish Wars, a hundred years ago,” I concluded. Czarniecki had been the Polish general a hundred years ago, in wars we had fought concurrently with Swedes, Germans, Russians, Austrians, and Turks. Namely, unequal invasions by perfidious foreigners!

  “Czarniecki fought the Swedes on this very ground,” Sierawski said, pointing around us at the towering crags and hills, “in barren, godforsaken places like this. Fought them and won.”

  Why didn’t the Commander let us fight like Czarniecki, we argued – like partisans? But Ko[cuiszko had said it must be regular war, or nothing! So then we fell to bickering, as we always did, as to why we had lost the war.

  “Not enough money,” Sierawski said. “Not enough guns, not enough cannon, not enough men.”

  “Treachery and cowardice,” Tanski spat, “damned Felix, and the damned king,”