Song of the Legions

by Michael Large

“Yet they mourn the odious Catherine as if she was a dead saint.” I reflected.

  “That vile woman,” Wybicki said bitterly. “What a way to die!”

  “Nonsense! It’s what she would have wanted!” I laughed, and we drank the first of many toasts, “To horses! Let us have our cavalry soon!” I said, downing the vodka at one gulp.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  ALL ROADS LEAD TO ROME, FIRST OF MAY 1798, FIRST BATTALION, SECOND LEGION

  We were on the march, at last!

  “How do you know this road leads to Rome, Lieutenant Blumer?”

  “Because all roads lead to Rome, Sergeant Birnbaum,” I replied with a grin.

  We had rank, and money in our pockets, and we were at war! We were happy. May is the month of roses in Italy, when travellers begin to flock to see the sites – the Colosseum, the Catacombs, the Forum – and the signoras. It was said that their skin was finer than the marble of the statues. Well, we would see for ourselves. Here was the nation of Poland, ten thousand men under arms, and another ten thousand camp followers, taking the grand tour!

  Although both Birnbaum and I still had our horses, we slogged on foot. It would hardly do to ride while the men walked. Instead we piled our warhorses with baggage, and made pack-mules of them, much to their disgust. We were all in the infantry now. I had never thought to sink so low again. The infantry! The ignominy! For the Legions had no cavalry to speak of – yet. It could have been worse. It could have been the artillery, or God forbid, the engineers.

  We marched in the shade of olive trees where we could, and in blazing golden sunlight where we could not. The soil here was a scorched umber in colour. The pitiless Italian sun heated it like a clay oven. We marched past rugged hillsides and groves of olive and cypress. We marched past vineyards and terraces. White farmhouses gave way to smart marble villas.

  After another few days march, the road was lined on both sides by a gigantic cemetery. Thousands of graves, as far as the eye could see. A calvary of crosses, urns, reliquaries, and weeping angels. This necropolis must have contained all the tombs of antiquity, and it took us a full day and a night to march through it. I did not ask my men to stop, for they would not have done. Not for all their arrears of pay in solid gold. We tarried not in these shadows of Hades, this land of the dead. We quickened our step, and sang Wybicki’s song. The Song of the Legions –

  “Poland has not died

  As long as we live

  Our lands, that the invaders have taken,

  We, with our sabres, will retrieve!

  March, march, Dabrowski,

  From Italy to Poland!

  We’ll reclaim our nation

  Under thy command!”

  On the other side of the cemetery, the men marched on, drowsy with heat and red wine from their canteens. Waves of heat shimmered and rippled from the road. At every mile post the villas became larger, more opulent, and more magnificent. Villas gave way to mansions, mansions to palaces. Above us hung a sky of pure amethyst. Light and beauty burned our hungry eyes.

  Well, if we had not earned a rest, we had one anyway. Many leagues from the cemetery, and beside a water trough, I ordered the men to sit in the shade. We watched as our horses drank the water. I always had them drink first, as a matter of course. This was a precaution, in case of poison, or bad water. As the horses showed no ill-effects I had the men fill their skins, and drink their fills.

  Then we sat in the shade of an ancient olive tree, and smoked. It was an ancient, gnarled old trunk, the branches like cannon barrels, the base as thick as a house. As venerable a tree as any of those silent sentinels we sat under in the heart of the forests of Poland. Julius Caesar might have marched past this very tree, on his campaigns, two millennia ago.

  The men took off their czapkas and rested. These were worn by all of the infantry, but with different colours for rank and regiment. Beneath, we all cut our hair in the style a la Kosciuszko – long hair to the middle of the collar, for both officers and the rank and file.

  We officers wore epaulettes on the left shoulder with the traditional Polish insignia. Thus I wore a badge of rank in the same style as I had at Raclawice, for I was an infantry Lieutenant again. On the right shoulder was another epaulette with a strap in the Italian colours of red, white, and green. The white band of this strap bore embroidered on it the words “Gli uomini liberi sono fratelli – All free men are brothers.”

  Any man of ability could become an officer, not only the rich and noble, as long as he could read and write. Dabrowski was trying to build a new nation, where a man might rise by merit, not birth. Naturally some of the szlachta, those officers from our old nobility, had mutinied against this already. Dabrowski had put down their revolt with some force.

  We sat and smoked. Birnbaum, and some of my other men, as was their wont, began to talk politics. For we were men of principle, volunteers, not conscripts or mercenaries.

  “Lieutenant,” Birnbaum said snidely, “begging your pardon, but why are we at war with the Pope? As a Jew, I have no personal qualms about it. If the Pope wants a bayonet, then by my beard he can have it! But you boys are all good Catholics, are you not?”

  “We are at war with the Pope because he badmouthed Bonaparte,” I said flippantly, and the men fell about with laughter. As it was, I was not far from the truth.

  “So what if he did? What’s that to us Poles?” someone piped up.

  “The Pope is a Hapsburg puppet!” came another.

  “An arrogant Austrian arsehole!” someone snarled.

  “The Tsar kisses his ring!” came a final lewd shout.

  “That’s all true, no doubt,” I said, “but we have our own score to settle, remember? Those of us who were at the Third of May have not forgotten this Pope[6]. He condemned the Constitution in ’91, and he blessed the Targowica traitors in ’92! Damn it, he even blessed the Russian invasion, and the great whore herself! Now he can join her – in Hell!”

  “The Pope will pay!” roared the men, good naturedly. They were convinced, or at least satisfied, and marched off with renewed vigour.

  “Is any of that true?” Birnbaum asked, with a mixture of shock and admiration.

  “True enough,” I replied. “Besides, it will be good to be on the winning side for once.”

  As we marched, I remembered what Wybicki had told us. ‘There are two Legions now,’ Wybicki had said proudly, ‘for we now have so many men. Most are deserters or prisoners of war from the Austrian army, sent to us by Bonaparte.’

  At first, we were delighted to discover that we had two Legions. Then we discovered that the Second Legion – our legion – was the least fashionable of the two, by a considerable margin. The Second Legion was sneered at as ‘the Algerians’ by the First. Most of the men of the Second Legion had taken the hard road through the Turkish Empire that we had. But the gentlemen of quality had ridden their carriages through France, and taken their ease in Paris along the way. Glamorous émigrés with beautiful wives wearing sable cloaks, and money in Paris. These nobles had fought in the First Legion, alongside Napoleon Bonaparte, in his glorious and victorious war against the Austrians.

  We, the men of the Second Legion, had been defeated, caught up in Denisko’s catastrophe. You will recall that Denisko had pitted two hundred men against eight thousand Austrians, all for the worthless hole called Bukowina. Two hundred men missing or dead! It could have been worse – it could have been the entire Second Legion. A bad business, Wybicki had said.

  A cloud of dust. A rider approached. Speak of the Devil!

  “Look sharp if you value your necks!” I roared. “It’s the Head of the Courts’ Martial!”

  This trick worked better than any amount of cursing or cajoling. By the time he arrived, my men were on their feet, in a perfect column, not one of their white buttons out of place, and marching fifteen paces to the minute. Amongst his many other duties, Wybicki was responsible for our code of military discipline. For we were a regular army, not a rabble of mercenaries. Th
ieves, deserters and rapists were all shot. After a fair trial, naturally, over a drumhead.

  “Hold my horse, there, Blumer, I’m an old man!” Wybicki said to me gleefully, “by God! It’s good to get out of that damned office at last! What beautiful country this is!”

  Wybicki was covered in the dust of the road, but his face glowed with elation as he wiped the sweat off it with the braided cuff of his general’s uniform. The General dismounted, and we walked side by side, next to the men as they marched along the quiet Roman road, echoing with their boot-heels.

  Quite suddenly, and in spite of their fear of the Court Martial, my men cheered at the sight of Wybicki. They knew him as a true patriot, and they loved him for his song. Wybicki had forged this weapon for us, a weapon of words – the Song of the Legions. It was the song of the New Poland, rising like a salamander from the ashes.

  “Would you care to take the salute, Sir?” I asked, for he seemed quite affected by it.

  “I will!” said the old general, wiping at his eyes with a handkerchief, “this damned dust!” he cursed, “it makes my eyes water,” he lied. “I’m an old man, you know, Blumer!” We grinned, for he was weeping with joy.

  My men marched past, in perfect order, arms at the slope, bayonets fixed. I drew my sword – it flashed in the sun – eyes right! Salute! – and Wybicki watched them. Our uniform was as close as we could make it to the traditional Polish uniform. The French had tried to dress us up in their colours. We were very sensitive to such impositions, and resisted them vigorously. We were Polish soldiers, not French mercenaries.

  On our heads, to keep off the sun, we wore the czapka, with bright feather plumes, and cockades of red and white. The uniform was a dark blue jacket, piped with the battalion colour, which in our case was black. This jacket had red turnbacks, a white collar, and green cuffs. The breeches were dark blue, skin tight, with no stripes. As for our trappings, everyone wore a tricolored belt, with red, white and blue stripes – French colours. A bullet pouch, of standard French issue, was hung from a white belt that was hooked over the left shoulder. Our haversacks too were standard French issue. In fact, everything from boot-heel to bayonet was French issue, albeit we were paid in Italian solidi, and not French francs. Bonaparte meant the Italians to foot the bill for their own liberation.

  We stood for a moment as the men marched by under our strange new flag – an Italian Tricolor with a silver Polish Eagle perched atop it. The French, famously, had silver eagles on their standards. Our Legions had the same, but with our distinctive crowned eagle on it. Emblazoned on the Tricolore Flag were the strange words ‘The Second Auxiliary Polish Legion of the Cisalpine Republic’.

  “Forgive me for asking, Sir,” I asked, “but the men were wondering, what the Hell is the Cisalpine Republic? None of us has even heard of it. And more to the point, why are we not simply in the French army?”

  Wybicki shrugged. “By French law, Bonaparte is forbidden from raising foreign troops for the French army. So he got around this prohibition by inventing a whole new country – the Cisalpine Republic – from territory captured (or rather liberated) from the Austrians, in October last year. He’s a better lawyer than I am!”

  As we talked, the men finished their march past, and we fell in step behind them.

  “I have never heard of a general who created nations and provinces out of thin air,” I said, “not since the days of Julius Caesar. Plenty of generals destroy them, mark you, but none build them! General Bonaparte! A man of destiny indeed, as celebrated in your fine song.”

  “Oh, yes, my song!” Wybicki said bashfully. “Tell me – do your men like it?”

  “Why, the men are hungry for this song of yours!” I replied. “We shall have it this instant, General!”

  So I gave the order and we sang it, loudly and passionately, for its author to hear it. It was, of course, sung to the tune of the wonderful, mysterious mazurka of the Third of May. What else? For a fond moment, we imagined it was seven years ago, marching through Warsaw with the Bullock, and Pepi, and the Commander, and Dabrowski. We were cheering with the crowds outside the red walls of the Royal Castle. Dancing with the girls around King Sigismund’s statute, in a sea of red and white, and kisses, and cheering. Tears of joy, flowing like blood. Dabrowski had given us hope. Good old Dabrowski!

  “Poland has not died

  As long as we live

  Our lands, that the invaders have taken,

  We, with our sabres, will retrieve!

  March, march, Dabrowski,

  From Italy to Poland!

  We’ll reclaim our nation

  Under thy command!

  Like Czarniecki to Poznan

  Returning across the sea

  To free our fatherland from chains

  Fighting with the Swedes

  March, march, Dabrowski...

  Across the Vistula and Warta

  And Poles we shall be

  We've been shown by Bonaparte

  Ways to victory!

  March, march, Dabrowski...

  Germans, Muscovites will not rest

  When, backsword in hand

  Peace will be our watchword

  And the motherland will be ours!

  March, march, Dabrowski...

  Father, in tears

  Says to his Basia

  Just listen, our people

  Are beating the drums!

  March, march, Dabrowski...

  All cry out as one

  Enough of this slavery

  We've got scythes from Raclawice

  And God will give us The Commander!”

  “We’ll sing it louder still for Dabrowski himself,” we shouted, “In Rome!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  ROME!

  Such a day! The Third of May, 1798. At one in the afternoon, to be precise, Dabrowski’s Legion marched into Rome. It was a fine, sunny day, and curious people lined the streets. First came the drummers, then the orchestra, then the artillery, and finally the infantry. My company was fortunate to be there. As you will have expected, the honour of taking Rome fell almost exclusively to the bluebloods of the First Legion.

  We entered Rome through the Porta del Popolo – the Gate of the People – near the Piazza del Popolo. We entered the Eternal City unopposed. This was storybook war, as played out by old men in armchairs, and boys with lead soldiers on tabletops. Rose petals, not bloody rags, were trampled beneath our feet. The air was alive with scarlet and white flags and blossoms. There were no dead bodies or screaming horses. Only pomp, victory, and girls.

  Along the length of the Via Del Corso to Santa Maria we scoured the balconies and rooftops for riflemen. We needn’t have concerned ourselves. The only powder expended that day was on squibs and fireworks. The Pope’s men had broken and run at San Leo. So our suspicious gazes turned to gleeful, lusty stares.

  From the window of every villa we were watched, and we drew amorous fire. We returned it! At every window, Italian beauties. Roman ladies dressed in white flowing gowns, drawn low over the bosom, and tight in beneath it, for such was the fashion of the day. Some few peered coquettishly from behind wooden shutters, or fluttering fans. For the most part, they sat quite brazenly at balcony and terrace, sipping noonday wine, or biting into apples. These Roman wenches gazed down at us with greedy eyes. We watched them appraising us as if we were beasts at market, or gladiators at some slave-auction of bygone days.

  We called ciao bella, belissima, at the tops of our voices, and they called back, ciao, and Dobra Pologna! Favours, silk scarves, and love-notes rained down on our heads. There was precious little decorum, and no modesty in their conduct, which was brazen, unchristian, and quite immoral. Thank God! It was, in short, a splendid and glorious day! We vied to see who could score the highest in roses, billet-doux, and wisps of chiffon. I swear that I saw one lady throw her silk undergarments to a captain of grenadiers. We strutted like kings.

  Military discipline that had held through slaughter and steel, and every
imaginable disaster and privation, broke down after a few moments of this amorous onslaught. On that day I determined to take one of these Italian beauties – preferably a Contessa – to be my wife. This I did, eight years later. But that is another story.

  Dabrowski’s column halted on the Capitoline Hill, at a monumental staircase, like a huge glacis. Atop this great Jacob’s Ladder sat the grim face of the Church of Santa Maria. It resembled a bastion as much as it did a church, with its high, thick stone walls, and tiny loophole windows. This fortress of God was built to commemorate the victims of the plague. Had the Pope chosen to defend it, why, he could have inflicted a new plague of casualties on us – but he did not. The Pope’s spirit was well and truly broken, and he feared to spill the blood of the populace by enraging us. Thus our conquest proceeded in a stately fashion, like a society ball.