Song of the Legions

by Michael Large

  “Damn it all, we are nothing but armchair generals,” he snarled, “sitting here in a coffee shop, idling away the days, while the Frenchmen trounce our enemies for us! This Bonaparte has shown us how it is done – France will win all the glory.”

  It did rankle that we had been defeated, while Napoleon’s barefoot army had marched over the Alps and, in a matter of months, driven the Austrians out of Northern Italy. These same haughty Austrians who now lorded it over us, who made us take our coffee in German, and hoisted a filthy black buzzard where the White Eagle should be flying on the spires across the square.

  We glanced up and out of the window, and, sure enough, the carrion crow flapped on the flagpole in the spring breeze. The sun was high overhead, and we had dreamed and drunk much of the day away. Godebski threw down the newspaper, and I took it up. I carefully refolded it in the manner of one who has spent too long folding newspapers.

  The others took the opportunity to watch the local girls through the window as they promenaded down the street, which always cheered us up. The richer girls rode by in fine carriages. At that moment a particularly lovely pair of doves walked into the cafe. We stood and bowed and doffed our czapkas respectfully. As they retired to a suitable table in the corner, we cast curious glances after them. For in spite of our years in the saddle, and at the wars, and all our many casual liaisons, hurried amours, and brief affairs, women remained a mystery to us all. As strange and mysterious as the surface of the moon. An enigma to us all, except for Cyprian, of course.

  “Not all of the men fighting in Italy are French,” I said, at length. “It says here that good old Dabrowski fights alongside Bonaparte, commanding a ‘foreign legion’ of deserters.”

  “A foreign legion, indeed!” Godebski grinned, and slammed his fist on the table, scattering cakes, coffee cups, glasses and bottles. “The Austrian press is censored. Our very name is proscribed. That is no foreign legion, comrades – that is the Polish Legion! For Austria, Russia and Prussia – the Satanic Trinity – have sworn to suppress the very name of the Republic of Poland, as from the present, and forever. Thus they call our men ‘the Foreign Legion’! More drinks, there, barman! Let us drink to The Foreign Legion!” Godebski called, gleefully, his eyes gleaming red, and his cheeks flushed a livid scarlet. “By God, we have been shown ways to victory by this Bonaparte!”

  It was then that I realised he was entirely inebriated. With that, Godebski swept the bunch of flowers, vase and all, off the table, and presenting them to one of the two very lovely girls, importuned them both to dance. The older girl glared at him angrily, with a stare that could have frighted a horse.

  “Who on earth are you, Sir?” she said coldly.

  “Why, allow me to present my credentials, my sweet!” he said, “I am the famous outlaw, Captain Cyprian Godebski!” he cried, in a most charming manner. He bowed to the waist, one hand on his sword hilt, the other he extended in a graceful gesture almost brushing the boots of the blushing maidens.

  “Won’t you dance with me, ladies?” he asked, “for tomorrow the Austrians may have me dance upon the scaffold!”

  “If they did, you’d deserve it,” snorted the older girl, but hiding a smile behind her hand.

  “I will dance!” cried the younger, gladly. They set to a merry mazurka among the tables. Protesting that it was against her will, the older sister – who was very stern faced, but much the prettier by far – was conscripted into the dance. Soon she and her sister and the other three lads were lurching and spinning around the place. Tanski vaulted over a table heaving with a full hearty lunch, so low that he knocked the heads off the drinker’s beers, to howls of angry protest.

  For me, I took a place with the minstrels – for the place had a string quartet – seized a violin, and we struck up the mazurka, in double-quick time. Our old friend, the mazurka of the Third of May! Someone ought to put words to this melody, I thought to myself.

  Sierawski slumped down by my side after a few turns of this wild dance had thoroughly disordered the place. Upturned chairs and tables and broken crockery littered the floor. As Godebski swept by with one of the girls, he almost upturned another table, and I caught a carafe of wine and hugged it safe before it was shattered on the floor.

  “He seems to have forgotten Madame,” Sierawski said.

  “Plenty more fish in the river,” I grinned, and we agreed this was all for the best, for the further we were from that lethal lady, the less likely our necks were to be stretched.

  “A thousand pardons, My Lord Brother!” Godebski was saying to a large gentleman, for he had knocked over his table. It was a Polish nobleman, of great size and girth, wearing a sable cloak and a sabre. The nobleman was sitting at a table with four hatchet-faced jockeys. By the expression on his face – for he had the look of a bull about to charge – he was not pleased. He seemed like a good trencherman, and fond of his food. The spilled cabbage stew on his breeches was, alas, Cyprian’s fault.

  “A thousand pardons,” Cyprian repeated, merrily, “won’t you take a drink with me, my dear sir? We are celebrating General Bonaparte’s latest victory over the Austrian scoundrels.”

  The other fellow almost exploded like a cannon of rage. He dashed his glass to the floor in a fury. “Go to the Devil! Bonaparte is a French Jacobin dog,” he spat, reaching for his sword hilt, and his lackeys formed up in a phalanx behind him. “My son is in the Austrian hussars. The Empress Marie-Therese is our sovereign. You are a traitor, and you talk treason!”

  There was a hush.

  “A traitor, am I?” Cyprian smiled thinly. “If my honour is to be impugned, with both ladies and gentlemen present, then I think perhaps we should settle this outside?”

  “Good! After you!” grunted the great beast.

  “Oh no! After you!” Cyprian insisted, bowing. His adversary – a man who was used to being obeyed, and going first, assented. As he walked by, Cyprian grabbed him by the seat of his breeches, hoisted them, set his shoulders, and hurled him bodily. They both did meet in the street, although they did not fight their duel. For although Cyprian later departed through the door, he had thrown his opponent out through the window. Unfortunately for him, we were on the second floor of the café!

  At this, the nobleman’s lackeys were in uproar. The whole place was in chaos. Waiters, musicians and patrons ran to and fro, pell mell, cowering under tables, and running out of the doors. Tanski and Sierawski, grinning, grabbed the two screaming ladies and held them tight – for their own protection, no doubt.

  “Our Master!” the angry lackeys screamed. “You’ll pay for this, brigands!” They leapt to their feet. Hands went to sabres. I placed my gun under the table, for I had no intention of this becoming a massacre, and waded in to meet them. The first of them made for Cyprian, to exact revenge, and came charging across the room. He was a stout fellow, but short, so I swatted him over the head with my chair. The chair shattered in my hands, and the man uttered a single surprised cry before tumbling to the floor with a crash. Then someone gave me a good swipe across the jaw, which stung somewhat, and I felt blood on my nose.

  “Why, you little weasel!” I exclaimed to the second bodyguard, rocking on my feet, but not falling. There was a peach of a look on his scabby little face, a joy to behold, as he realised that he had tweaked a wolf by the tail, for he was no match for me. So he drew his sword, but I did not. I disdained to honour a man such as this with my blade. Stepping inside his clumsy lunge, I caught him a good left-and-right, to pay him back for the slap he had fetched me, cracking the bones in his nose and jaw. This sent him staggering across the room, over the bar, and into a stack of bottles. A dozen bottles broke, showering the room with wine, champagne, and shards of broken glass. Corks popped like gunshots. The little weasel lay amongst the wreckage, insensible, unmoving, covered in blood, and dead for aught I cared.

  The other two lackeys held back. They had witnessed this fight with some trepidation. Terror-struck, they fled. I walked over to the bar. Amongst the wr
eckage was a single unbroken goblet of red wine. Picking it up, I drained it at a draught. “By God, this is thirsty work, comrades!” I bellowed to the others, for my blood was up. Tanski and Sierawski also in their cups, and quite drunk, were in fits of laughter, rolling around in the wreckage of the café.

  “That was well done, Blumer,” Godebski declared, making his way unsteadily through the carnage. “Is there any more drink?”

  “I think the bar is closed,” I said, staring at my shattered reflection in the broken mirror. Shards of glass fell tinkling from the wall. Bottles rolled across the floor. The rugs and carpets were sodden with spilled wine. A strong wind blew in through the plate glass window that was shattered from top to bottom, with a hole in it the size of a door. Even the chandelier swung crazily from the ceiling, for we had somehow contrived to destroy it in the brawl, I know not how.

  We said our goodbyes to the ladies and paid for the bill, and the damages, with a promissory note, to be drawn against our arrears of army pay. I collected my gun from under the table and then gathered up my drunken, rowdy companions. We set off into the breezy afternoon, with a fine sun blazing in the sky. Outside, Godebski stared up at the Austrian flag with hate-filled eyes.

  “Blumer – cut down that fucking blackbird before the garrison arrives,” he snarled.

  “Yes, Sir!” I grinned, drawing my sword.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  WE LEAVE LWOW, AUGUST 1796

  We left Lwow on a black dark night for unknown shores, our mouths filled with the taste of our mothers’ tears. Not long after we had retired to bed, the girl who kept the tavern burst into our rooms. We didn’t know whether to reach for our pantaloons or our pistols.

  “Fly! Fly!” she shrieked, “you are betrayed!”

  At this, we heard the crack of muskets. Sierawski stuck his head out of the window, but he was too crafty to return fire and give away our position. Besides, it was so dark one couldn’t have hit the side of a barn with a handful of grain.

  “Our friends from Tulczyn?” I asked, wearily, burying my head under the pillows.

  “No,” Sierawski replied, shaking his head. “I hear German. It’s the Austrians.”

  “Have we not enough enemies in this cursed world!” I lamented. In truth we had not exactly ingratiated ourselves during our sojourn in Lwow. The incident at the café had been the final straw. Downstairs, Cyprian was drinking coffee and eating bread and jam. His gun lay on the table beside him.

  “You look terrible,” he said, offering me the coffee.

  “Thanks!” I laughed, wishing myself back under the warm blankets, but the gunfire sounded closer at hand now.

  “Nobody has shot at us for six months,” Sierawski said jovially, stuffing his bag with food, “it couldn’t last.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, rubbing my eyes until I saw stars, and splashing water on my face, “I was beginning to miss it!”

  Tanski scowled and stalked out to the stables. We always kept a few horses saddled. Hunted as we were, such a day would always come. We had little enough by way of baggage – rusty sabres, guns, a handful of bullets, a knapsack, a saddlebag or two. Besides this I had my bundle of books, Sierawski had his engineers tools, and Tanski had the flag. Tanski vaulted onto his horse theatrically and caracoled it, flashy as always. His hands were empty.

  A line of horsemen were already hurtling away into the distance. We watched as the night swallowed them up. Our comrades were heading east, and we with them.

  “The flag, you damned fool!” I roared at Tanski, as soon as I had sat my horse. “Where is it?”

  “It’s here, Blumer,” Godebski replied, walking across the flagstones. He tossed the flag to Tanski, who caught it, and unfurled it. It fluttered in the breeze, antique talisman of our long dead king, Sobieski. A hundred years ago Sobieski had chased the Turks out of Austria. Now the ingrate Austrians were chasing us out of Lwow, out of our own country, and into exile beyond.

  A crack of shots, like the crash of cymbals, rent the air. Austrian bugles sounded – mere minutes away.

  “The bloody trumpets of war!” Godebski laughed, checking his pistols and grenades, and slinging a musket across his back.

  “This is madness! They’ll arrest you,” I protested, “they’ll put you in a dungeon with Zayonczek! They’ll kill you!”

  Godebski shook his head. “No they won’t. Good luck, boys,” said the poet, saluting, “follow the Little Negro, he’ll see you right. See you in Italy.”

  “Good hunting, Captain,” I cried, clasping my friend’s hand. “See you in Italy.”

  “See you in Italy, Blumer!” Cyprian smiled, tossing a grenade up in the air like an apple. Turning on his heel, he walked back into the inn, whistling the mysterious mazurka of the Third of May. Then he was gone.

  There were no more bugles thereafter, only gunshots. A heavy moon hung overhead, with a big gleaming belly. Pan Twardowski was mocking us. The old sorcerer was lighting up the fields, like a ballroom is lit up with candles, with an eerie silvery glow. We rode hard for the tree line. As we did, a line of Austrian cavalry made to cut us off, swinging like a stable door on a hinge. It was a quite beautifully executed manoeuvre, for which they were to be commended, and moreover carried out at night. I watched it all with a professional eye – I felt strangely detached and unafraid. It was as if I were watching an opera.

  I quite forgot my sickness, and my mind was lucid and clear. Austria was the third deadly enemy to be reckoned with. She was slow, but she was implacable. Like a giant mill, her wheels ground slowly – but they ground small. These, her cavalry, were excellent, the very best in the world. Strong men on heavy steeds, cuirassiers with gleaming metal breastplates and great plumed metal helmets, like Roman centurions. Moonlight glinted on the steel, shining like quicksilver in the dark. This heavy armour, magnificent in aspect, weighed them down mightily. Thus, we were faster.

  We six – for the three Beardlings still rode with us – we too were horsemen, down to our boots. We dug in our spurs until the rowels ran with our horses’ blood. The ground and the heavens hammered in a wild tattoo, the roaring wind stinging tears from our eyes. Our horses, sensing the danger, set their ears against the sides of their heads and foamed at the mouth. It was good ground, thank the Lord God. Not one of their hooves found a furrow or a rabbit hole to fall into.

  As the noose closed, we shrank to a single file, and spurred our horses until their flanks ran red. Shots sounded, the reports snatched away on the wind, sounding like cloth-wrapped hammers beating on stones. Tanski lowered the flag like a lance.

  We split their line like threading the eye of a needle, and then a cloud passed across the moon, thank God. Darkness at last veiled the earth, and we vanished.

  We spent an ill-starred Christmas out on the steppe. The wind howled down as if the very devils of Siberia were calling us home to their gulags. I was huddled in the shelter, wrapped in a blanket. The blanket was as cold as iron, and seemed to have been drenched with icy water. Dusk had fallen, and the moment the evening star appeared, we sat down for supper – for it was Wigilia again. Reluctantly I stuck my head out of the shelter, which was a rough stockade of piled branches. One end of the shelter was propped up with Sobieski’s antique standard, the old soldier pressed into service yet again.

  “Sierawski! Birnbaum!” I called, “Get your bloody arses in here! Merry Christmas!”

  Tanski and I huddled over a battered pot that sat on a heap of mouldering grass. It gave off few flames and little heat, but vast clouds of acrid, evil-smelling smoke. The smoke stung our eyes and chafed my throat. I coughed until there were silver stars in front of my eyes and Tanski clapped me on the back. We had some old dry beetroot, and were boiling it up with snow to make a broth that could perhaps be called borsch.

  “Fish!” Sierawski cried triumphantly, as he came into the tent. “Fish!” for as you know, no good Catholic eats meat on Christmas Eve.

  “You should see the net and line Sierawski rigged up,” Bi
rnbaum enthused, “the boy’s a genius, the greatest engineer of our time!”

  “Spare us the engineering claptrap!” Tanski shouted. He had fallen out with Sierawski. “If the honoured Lieutenant Sierawski were any sort of real engineer, he’d magic us up a balloon, so we could float to Italy!”

  “God’s blood,” I roared, staring at the fish. “Is that your bait or your catch? It’s tiny!”

  “Piss off and catch you own, then,” Sierawski retorted, “you pair of tits!” He clutched two small pike in his hands. They were dangling from hooks and still bloodied where their heads had been beaten in with a rock.

  “I already did, comrade,” I replied, pointing to a fat, ugly carp I had caught earlier that day. My fish sat among the embers, its eyes already swelling up white, and red blood congealed around its gills.

  “Touché,” Sierawski admitted, and we set his catch beside ours. Here we had another fine allegory of Poland, I shivered, for we had both pike and carp, and both of them hanging from the gallows! I kept this pretty thought to myself.