Song of the Legions (14 page)

“Orders, gentlemen,” said the old lion, calmly. He pointed at Cyprian.

“Captain Godebski – Warsaw remains in Russian hands. You know what to do.”

Godebski saluted, and departed.

“Comrade engineer – you will remain here and fortify Krakow.”

Sierawski beamed with delight. “I will defend it to the death, Commander!”

“Blow it sky-high if you must,” the Commander shrugged. Sierawski's face fell in horror.

“Next, Tanski – the best lancer in all Poland, so they say. Well, comrade, you have a chance to live up to your reputation. You will take Blumer's horsemen here and join Dabrowski's cavalry corps.”

My cavalry brigade was gone! I was incensed. Then I saw the peasants, and I began to apprehend the extent of my misfortune. Well, as they say, one minute you're riding the horse, and the next minute, you're under it.

“Lieutenant Blumer – this is your new command. The First People’s Brigade. If anyone can keep these peasants under control, it’s you, son. You're wasted in the cavalry. Cavalry wins battles, but the infantry wins wars!” the Commander said to me. It had almost been worth leaving the cavalry to hear him say that.
Almost.
Lieutenant Blumer!

A promotion, and a command, by God. If you could call it that. But at what cost! I was now in the
infantry
. I cast a wary eye over my new brigade of irregular soldiers – that is, armed peasants.

“They're not exactly the grenadiers, Commander, but they will do,” I replied.

It was a glorious morning. Our army was at Prayer on the redoubt. We sang the Bogurodzica, our battle hymn –

“Oh Mother of God, Oh Virgin,

Mary, blessed by God,

Your Son, our Lord,

Mary, chosen Mother,

Return to us, bestow upon us.

May the Lord have mercy.

For the sake of thy Baptist, oh Son of God,

Hear our voices, fulfil mankind's thoughts.

Hear the prayer which we offer

And grant us what we ask of him –

A prosperous stay on earth

And paradise in the hereafter.

May the Lord have mercy.

Amen!
”

The Commander had chosen his ground well. We had marched south a few miles from Krakow to meet the first Russian army that was sent against us. Here, at the redoubt at Raclawice, we met them as they came at us from the east.

All across the field, ranks of soldiers and peasant volunteers knelt in the wet grass, jewelled with the morning dew. We crossed ourselves, and then we stood. The peasants put their red caps back on their heads and shouldered their war-scythes – scythes with the blades pointed up – and pikes. This rabble of a few hundred peasants (my rabble) were mostly dressed in the sukmana, and the traditional garb of Lesser Poland. Under their white overcoats they wore their Sunday best, as if they were going to Church.

The raddled old village Hetman shambled over and doffed his red cap from his bald head. His belt was on the last hole and his ample gut hung over his trousers, bulging out his kontusz. Neither he nor any of my men had swords, let alone firearms, only scythes and pikes. Many were barefoot.

I saluted the Hetman crisply, my back ramrod-straight. This parody of military discipline was entirely ridiculous, but my new peasant soldiers were greatly impressed by it. There had been a great deal of work to be done, in a short space of time. I had drilled them until their feet bled, and then we had marched out of Krakow alongside the Commander's regulars a week later. Three years ago I was a cadet. Now I was a veteran, a leader of men.

My ragged brigade had many shortcomings, but we had plenty of camp followers. Swarms of women followed the army to cook and fuss over us, like surrogate mothers – and, in some cases, substitute wives. Lambs lying down with wolves. One of them was the daughter of this sly old Hetman. She had set her cap at me, poor deluded creature. To these poor peasants, a lieutenant was a great man. Not a great lord, true, but a lord nonetheless – and a lord who, judging by his threadbare socks and empty pockets, was within the grasp of their matchmaking womenfolk. To be idolised made a curious change from being sneered at.

The old Hetman hawked on the trampled grass and studied the results intently, as if reading the outcome of the battle in his spittle. This done, he blew his nose on the sleeve of his sukmana and grinned up through a gap-toothed mouth. The old goat must have had prodigious loins. A third of my brigade seemed to be composed of his sons, and many of our camp wenches seemed to be his daughters. Tanski reckoned he had his crafty eye on me for a son-in-law.

I was caught between this prospect and the Russians. With any luck I would be dead by the end of the day, and that would be that. In the midst of these thoughts, our scouts came scurrying back to our lines. One of the old Hetman’s infinite brood made his report to me.

“How many Russians?” I asked. He held up four fingers and grinned. Four thousand.

“The same as us, then – a fair fight!” I lied, loudly and confidently. My falsehood had the desired result. He and the men cackled with glee and drew their fingers across their throats, brandishing their wicked-looking scythes.

Of course it would not be a fair fight – it never was. I’ve never had a fair fight to this day, not in twenty years of soldiering. We had come to regard being outnumbered by anything less than three to one as a luxury. Yet this was to be the closest to a fair match I had ever known. Four thousand Russian regulars were coming. Our Commander had indeed gathered about four thousand men to stand against them, but only half of these were regular soldiers. The rest were peasant volunteers, like my men. These had been divided into People's Brigades, like mine.

My brigade was about two hundred peasants strong, but the numbers changed hour by hour. For every volunteer who came in, a deserter or a malingerer snuck out.

As for the Russians, here came their four thousand regulars, row upon row. They came marching up the hill in perfect order. Their great bulbous hats, shaped like tulip petals, were bobbing on their heads in unison. Above them flew the golden banner of the two-headed black eagle. Behind them, a row of black cannon, spitting smoke and flame like dragons.

“Here they come!” I called. Already my front rank was beginning to range forward, and lose their shape. I had to constantly walk back and forth up and down the rank, cuffing and collaring the men back in line. “Keep in line!”

Tanski came hurtling by on his charger, leading a string of lancers. My heart filled with pride and jealousy at the sight.

“Ho! It's Blumer the schoolmaster!” he called, and the insult stung. Then, in spite of myself, and in spite of the bullets and cannonballs that by now were whistling overhead, I had to laugh. For I did indeed look like a teacher struggling with a class of unruly pupils. “Are you teaching these villagers the mazurka, Blumer?” Tanski smirked.

With the most perfect timing, the Hetman's daughter darted out from the ranks. She was a pale, green-eyed creature, willow-thin, and clutching some gift for me. Her father, crafty as ever, let her go – he had plenty of other daughters should she be cut down by a bullet, after all.

Agatha (for such was the lass’s name) gazed with awe at Tanski, on his horse, with his lance and pennant. She curtsied as if to a knight. Tanski doffed his czapka and bowed from the saddle. I could see her affections were wavering. Even though I had no great attachment to her, jealousy burned.

“Agatha,” I said, with exquisite pleasure, “this is Warrant Officer Tanski. Salute when you address a Lieutenant, Tanski.” Tanski blushed to his boots, and I delighted in his discomfort. He saluted, reluctantly, and said “Yes – Sir” through gritted teeth. Music to my ears! Bullets and bayonets were quite forgotten. Ears turning crimson, he wheeled away with his squadron towards the Russians.

Lead whipped over our heads. Eerie chants and drums followed the bullets on the wind.

“Get out of here, sweetheart,” I spoke, softly for once. My throat was hoarse from bellowing orders. She pressed a bundle into my hand, and ran. I never saw her again. It was a loaf of bread, wrapped in a scarf. I wound the scarf around my arm. If I could not ride to war on my steed, like a knight, then I should at least wear a lady's favours, like one. Before us was our foe. Endless grey-clad ranks of Russian soldiers. Black eagles glittered on gold flags. Behind me I felt the men’s hackles rise. I heard their furious shouts as they beat their war-scythes on the ground. The old Hetman was at my elbow, begging me to charge. I sent him packing, before stalking up and down the line, pistol in hand.

“Stand your ground!” This was the order. It was simple. Beneath our feet, the ground slid down in a gentle slope towards the Russians. A gentle slope, until a man tried to run up it with musket in hand and a heavy knapsack on his back, that is. Our Commander had chosen this position well. Behind us, higher still, rose our redoubt.

At the foot of the slope I saw a Russian lieutenant – my opposite number, I presumed. With deliberate care the Russian conscripts drew up to face us, like partners at a dance. As a professional, I envied him his disciplined rank of surly slaves. Leading my men was like saddling cows. But as a man, my heart swelled with pride at the thought that I led free men, volunteers.

Respectfully, I doffed my cap to this Russian. I had not yet drawn my sword. Our eyes met. We were but a hundred yards away from each other. He sneered as he ordered his men to line up for the volley. He fully expected that we would break when they opened up, and scatter like a flock of birds.

I walked up and down the line again. My fear was not that the men would run. I saw their high temper, their murderous rage. They would not run, not today, not from all the devils in hell. No – I feared they would charge
too soon
. That would be a disaster. We had to charge after the Russians had fired, otherwise we would run into a hail of lead.

“Will you fire first, Lachy?” he called, sardonically, knowing full well that we had no muskets. All around him, his men were busy with ramrods and powder flasks.

“After you, Sir!” I bawled back, for I never forget my manners.

“Damn it, my lord!” yelled the old Hetman, brandishing his scythe. “Do we charge?”

“NOT YET! Stand your ground!” I roared at him. “Fire, damn you!” I implored the Russians, for I could hold this tide back no longer. Then at last, at long last, the Russians fired up the slope. The sky exploded with a great clatter of bangs, like hammers clashing on stone. A cloud of grey smoke hung over the grey jackets, like a pall of incense over orthodox monks. Bullets plucked at my hat and coat without touching me. All around, men were falling, cursing, weeping. Yet not so many. Perhaps only a dozen. Even of those few, some regained their feet. Cursing in panic, they ransacked their clothes to find the wound. A stain like wine was stretching over the old Hetman’s white sukmana. He appeared oblivious.

“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 –