Song of the Legions

by Michael Large

  “Damn it!” Tanski cursed, “what a bloody shambles!”

  “Business as usual, then,” I sneered. We set about our work, knocking heads together, saddling horses, and loading up our pack animals. We ran through our familiar routine – loading up our possessions onto the back of our horses. I had only three horses remaining. The others had been lost, stolen, or eaten. Onto these good beasts I loaded my trusty English musket (which I still had), several cartridge belts (courtesy of our French patrons) my blankets, my victuals, a few bottles of wine, and my small bundle of precious books. All of the silver piastres were gone, of course. The whole exercise took a shake of a mare’s tail.

  Soon we were in the saddle and away, and the Devil take the hindmost. Tanski rode ahead with the flag. At our heels we heard the clap of shots, like hammers being struck against stone. We could easily guess that in the hills and forests beyond our camp, outside Bukowina, Denisko’s doomed legion was fighting its first – and last – battle.

  Sure enough, there were the Austrian dragoons, streaming out of the tree line and chasing after us. They were riding down our stragglers, smoke rising over the plumes of their hats, having discharged their pistols. Dragoons are light cavalry, fast, and without armour. We cursed, because they could chase us all the way to the gates of Rome without breaking sweat.

  “God Almighty!” Sierawski cried, “we are riding north! What madness is this? Are we going back to Poland?”

  We had no time to ponder this, for the dragoons were hard on our heels. Serbs from the Bukowina garrison. A subject people of the Austrian Empire. Hard men, dirty fighters, but poor stuff to be running from, truth be told. Denisko should have been hanged for this negligence! I thought, but as the dragoons charged us, it was our necks on the gallows, not his.

  Naturally our Polish horses were better than their Balkan carthorses. But laden as we were with gear, the dragoons kept pace with us. Try as we might, we could not outstrip them. Mile after mile we rode north, on the south side of a filthy river that dragged its way through Bukowina. We thundered straight through a fly blown village and the peasants watched us as if spectating at a horse race.

  It was bleak country, this, to my eye, ragged and wild. The roads were so rough as to make our Polish mud-tracks look like ancient Roman highways. Our horses, though, after months in pasture, were fresh, and flew over the boggy ground that kissed the feathers of their hooves with great sucking gasps.

  By now one of the Serbian lads was close enough to touch my pack-horse’s tail, close enough that its hooves were throwing mud in his eye. His sword was drawn, and he was reaching out to cut the line – he meant to steal my horse! It occurred to me to cut the beast loose, like a sacrificial goat. With booty, these boys might well give up, satisfied. A cavalryman earns little enough, when he is paid at all. A good Polish horse, pack, and tack, would bring a year’s wages, and make the taker cock of the barrack room, to boot.

  I had, you will gather, conceived a great hatred of the Austrians over the years. It pained me greatly to do this. Nevertheless I released the pack horse. The Serbs fell on it like a bunch of jackals, clubbing at each other with the flats of their sabres. The poor animal was torn to pieces in the struggle for possession. They entirely forgot about us. Before I had even drawn my pistol, my own swift horse carried me away over the hills, and we were gone.

  Some miles on, we forded the river at a place where it turns sharply to the east. We rode north, along a narrow corridor of open land through a wood. Walled in by trees on both sides, it was a perfect place for an ambush. Thankfully the Austrians were far behind us. We snatched a few moments to rest and water our exhausted beasts.

  “Damn it,” I said softly, “my wine was aboard the horse I lost! A shame, because we need a drink now as never before.”

  “Why? Where the hell are we going?” Tanski demanded.

  “At the end of this bottleneck is the Dniester River,” I told him, laughing bitterly.

  “What?” Sierawski cried, sinking to his knees. Birnbaum wailed, gnashing his teeth and tearing his hair. Tanski roared with rage like a caged lion.

  “The Dniester? But that means...”

  “Russia! Don’t worry, comrades,” I laughed, “I’m sure our

  beloved Slav brothers, our kind liberators, will welcome us warmly!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  WE FORD THE DNIESTER, JULY 1797

  “God,” Sierawski said, “is an engineer, however you look at it. He is the creator of the universe, according to the Priests, and the divine watchmaker, according to the Atheist French philosophers.”

  This was a favourite theme of his. We were riding point, the other fellows in our group bringing up the rear. My musket did not leave my hand.

  “Take the horse, for example,” he continued, “what a marvel! A sublime engine of propulsion! A ton of muscle perched on four needles! So delicate, so precise. Yet the creature is strong enough to endure all manner of hardships,” he patted his animal’s neck. “They have character, too, for they are loyal, faithful, and brave. Unlike women, they never complain. Is this not the Supreme Being’s gift, to have provided us with such a blessed companion?”

  “My dear Sierawski,” I said, “at last you see why only the cavalry is fit for a gentleman!”

  As we rode, the trees narrowed, and thinned, to a gentle grassy slope, which led down to a greasy brown bank, terminating in a shallow valley, and there, a ford.

  “These brave steeds of ours have carried us halfway across Europe, through endless forests, and over mighty rivers.”

  Below us lay the latest of the many rivers we had to cross. The mighty Dniester was boiling like an angry cauldron, running swifter than even our swift steeds. Summer sun shone on these swirling silver waters. Waves cut the surface like green sabres. It was as if the Rusalka’s hands were reaching up at us from the depths. We peered at it doubtfully. It might as well have been the river Styx, the boundary of the underworld. Beyond it lay Hades itself – Russia! It was not an enticing prospect.

  “Those fellows have made it,” Sierawski said dubiously, and indeed they had. For the riders before us had forded the torrent and now stood on the other side, their horses shaking themselves off like dogs, before pressing onwards.

  “Let’s go, comrade!” Sierawski grinned, relieved, raising his whip and spurs. “We can’t wait here for the ferryman!”

  “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread. Hold hard, comrade,” I said, sweeping the other bank with my telescope. There I saw a line of dragon’s teeth glinting on the horizon.

  “Damn it, what now, Blumer?”

  “Why, it’s the ferryman – waiting to take us to Siberia!” I said, as we dropped from our horses and took shelter. The bank on the other side was lower, and from our vantage point, we could spy them out. Horrorstruck, we watched as they emerged from the trees, at a slow walk, sabres drawn. There, from an ensign’s flag, flew the double-headed black eagle, on its familiar yellow banner. We took count.

  “Thirty-six horse!” Sierawski whistled. “Russian cuirassiers.” We could see that they were massive men, on huge horses. The horses were magnificent, heavy, gigantic beasts, their black bodies gleaming like ebony. From the tips of their tails to the feathers of their hooves, every inch of them was parade-ground immaculate. The riders were dressed all in black, except for their silver breastplates, which now gleamed quite distinctly, flashing like the waters of the Dniester. We admired them enormously, they were a stupendous sight. We watched, spellbound, holding our breaths, as the Russians let our men pass by unmolested. Our men rode on, unharmed, and in ignorance of the sword that had hung on a thread over their very heads.

  “I don’t understand! Why did they not fall on those other fellows of ours?” Sierawski hissed, tugging at my sleeve. “They must have seen them! But they just let them go, like a stockman counting cattle! What are those Russian bastards waiting for?”

  “They’re waiting for us,” I answered.

  I had recogni
sed him at once through the telescope. Down below, at the head of the cavalry, the cavalry’s captain had taken off his black feather plumed Russian helmet, lined with bear’s fur, to drink from his water flask. As he tilted his head, we saw the unmistakable shock of blond hair, gleaming in the summer sun like a golden halo.

  Our dear friend Szymon Korczak.

  When he rode down the slope, Sierawski was, as he so often did, singing a Krakowiak at the top of his voice. I have never understood a word of this childish rhyme, but I have heard him sing it so often, that I can remember it word for word.

  “One man from Krakow

  Had seven horses.

  But after he went to war

  Only one of them was left.

  He was at war for seven years

  He didn’t draw his sword

  So his sword went rusty

  From no war!

  I’m a Krakowiak

  With a Krakowian nature

  Anyone who gets in my way

  I’ll jump on him!”

  Sierawski rode carelessly down the bank, swigging from a vodka bottle, and singing at the top of his voice. It echoed down the valley, even over the tumultuous roar of the Dniester. His rusty sword swung carelessly from his hand, and he swished at the flies with it. His head was bare, his shirt open, and he carried no firearms and led no packhorses. The cuirassiers saw – and heard – him at once. He sang on –

  “Vistula, my Vistula

  Sky blue river

  Krakow bows down to you

  And Warsaw bows down to you.”

  “That lad really is a mensch,” Birnbaum whispered, for that was the Yiddish term for a ‘meszczyzna’, a man.

  “He’s a hero,” Tanski agreed.

  “He’s mad!” I averred, quietly.

  From our hiding place, we sighted down the barrels of our muskets. We had proposed drawing lots to be the decoy, but Sierawski was having none of it – it was his plan, and he would not ask another man to do what he would not do himself.

  The rest of us had doubled down a rocky bank nearby that led to the ford. Our horses hooves were hastily muffled with rags, their snouts gagged, their eyes blindfolded. There was but one ford, but there were, fortunately, two paths down to it on the Austrian side. We made our way down the second, hidden path. In a wooded copse at the foot of the slope we huddled, still on the Austrian side of the Dniester. The cuirassiers, being on the Russian side, thought that they had the trap closed tight.

  We watched as the Russian cavalry watched Sierawski. The sergeant was angry. It seemed that he was piqued to have waited here for a straggler and a drunk, while dozens of other riders had escaped. Szymon silenced him and bawled orders. At this, about twenty of the cuirassiers advanced down the bank, rolling like a great black dragon. Szymon and the rest stayed behind, champing at the bit.

  Sierawski halted at the water’s edge and let his horse drink. As it did, so did he. He swigged from a bottle of vodka that was full of water. Sierawski swung crazily in the saddle, grabbed at the pommel to steady himself, and dropped the bottle into the waves, where it was snatched away by the river. The cuirassiers were laughing at him now, and calling out. They began to wade their horses into the foam.

  “Not yet,” I said to the boys, whose fingers were whitening on their triggers. Now the horsemen moved close enough for us to make out their shouts, quite distinct above the roar of the water.

  “Halt! You there, boy!” the sergeant bellowed. Downstream, Sierawski began to curse at the cuirassiers.

  “Russian dogs!” he roared, “heretics! Sons of bitches!”

  “Easy, lad!” came back the sergeant, in a calm voice, seeking to reel in his fish, “no need for that!”

  “Kiss my arse!” Sierawski threw back. “You bloody Russian bastards! Sons of bitches! Murdering, thieving, illiterate, ignorant, lying, pig-fucking pagan shits!”

  This oration very quickly taxed the sergeant’s patience. He ordered his men on through the bubbling waters.

  “I spit on your whore of a mother!” Sierawski screamed at him. The sergeant, angered, drew his pistol, and his men followed suit.

  “Come along quietly, son. We have orders to take you alive.”

  “Take me alive! That’s a laugh!” Sierawski shouted, “I’ll kill the fucking lot of you!” he bawled, riding his horse back and forth, up and down the bank, and brandishing his sword. A chorus of jeers came from the cuirassiers, who by now were up to their horses’ shoulders in foam. A few of them, though, began to look doubtful, for the water here was darker than it was elsewhere. They fired off their pistols at him, one by one, as if shooting at a squirrel.

  A dozen pistol balls cut up the stones on the river bank by Sierawski’s horse’s hooves. It shied and almost reared, but he held it. Then we saw him ride up to the water’s edge and gaze down. At that spot, the water was as black as night. From our vantage point up on the hill the black spot glared up at us like the eye of the Devil himself. Down by the river’s edge it was nigh-on invisible.

  “Missed, you syphilitic bastards!” he shouted, triumphant, before riding back again.

  Beneath that spot, the river must have been a fathom deep. Sierawski, with his engineer’s eye, had spied out this gift from God – or Satan. A treacherous hole. So fearsome it rendered Charybdis and Scylla, the sea monsters and whirlpools of antiquity, about as dangerous as a chamber pot. Beneath that spot dwelt the Rusalka, the witch of the waters of the forest.

  “Put up your sword, and surrender!” the sergeant shouted, oblivious to the peril. But by now his horse was up to its neck, and the water was around his waist, and he had to hold his pistol above his head. Again he shouted, but now it seemed that the torrent was rising, and his words were snatched away by it.

  Sierawski said nothing but pulled a hidden gun from his saddlebag. It was the same ancient fowling piece that Magda had given him, back at Kalwaria Zebrydowski. He had kept it in good order. He had cleaned, oiled, and renovated every part of it by the dim light of campfires and candlelit cellars, until his eyes were red and sore. It had ridden with him, this harbinger of this sergeant’s death, for all of these hundreds of miles.

  Sierawski rode his horse right up to its knees in the water and fired at the sergeant’s horse, quite cold bloodedly. With a terrible scream it collapsed. Both beast and rider were swept away and drowned in the blink of an eye, dragged away by the cold hands of the Rusalka into her icy embrace.

  Immediately after that we burst forth from hiding, and gave a volley to the rest of them. Struggling as they were up to their waists in the freezing, raging waters of the Dniester, they panicked. Horses reared and plunged, and whinnied in terror. Riders screamed pitiably as they were swept away, and dragged under by their heavy armour. Tonight the Rusalka would have many suitors.

  We forded the river easily, further upstream in the proper spot, where a sandbar ran barely a yard under the water. One could cross there hardly wetting the tops of one’s boots. I slipped my musket back into its saddle holster, and drew my pistols. My comrades drew pistols or raised their lances.

  There were about fifty of us, and we wound across the river like a snake. Szymon’s men stood dumbfounded, having lost half of their comrades at a stroke. Across the river, Sierawski calmly reloaded his gun before trotting his horse along the bank, and carefully crossing at the proper place, behind us.

  “There’s many that go out for wool and find themselves shorn, Szymon!” Tanski shouted.

  “We have a rope here for you, Szymon!” I called, “for he that swings cannot drown!”

  Tanski led the line, and we formed up in three ranks, the first armed with lances. They couched their spears like winged knights, the pennants hissing and fluttering in the breeze. Along this narrow bank there was no room to manouevre, and it would be a brutal and bloody charge. Cuirassiers they may have been, heavier and stronger than us. But we had them three to one, and we had our lances. So they turned and ran, back to their Russian masters, with their tails between t
heir legs.

  We rode on, south and then east. As we rode we clapped Sierawski on the back, and pressed gifts of tobacco and vodka on him. This drowning of the cuirassiers was a great moment of ingenuity and courage. Had he been a princeling, or the son of a karmazym, with a father who wore scarlet boots, they’d have written songs about him. Why, he would have had a score of medals for it. As it was, the affair made him our hero. His fame quickly went to his head – of course.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THE VOID

  About fifty of us made it across the ford. We followed the Dniester east for a week, doubled back, recrossed it, and headed south, across immense steppes and almost inaccessible citadels of stone. There we sought sanctuary in the great sweep of wasteland that curves like a dagger down into the Ottoman realms. It was as desolate as the surface of the moon. Below our horses’ hooves grew not grass but stones. Innumerable stones! The debris from gigantic cities not yet made – or perhaps long since destroyed.