Song of the Legions Read online

  My father, the Count Peter Blumer, was named after the self-same tyrant that my grandfather served. His career was even more disgraceful. For my father served in Felix Potocki's private army. By his ruthless conduct and rapacious greed, he quickly rose to a high rank, becoming the chief rent-collector for the Potocki clan.

  By treaty, the Austrians had ruled Podolia, this land they had stolen from Poland, for the past fourteen years. But it was Felix Potocki, not the Hapsburgs, that ruled our roost. Podolia was after all far enough away from Vienna for them not to care what went on, so long as they were paid their dues.

  Felix was Our Lord Brother. He was a krolik, a petty king or warlord, and the head of the powerful Potocki family. Their emblem, the Pilawa cross, a double cross, was everywhere. It hung from the door of his castles and palaces, from our door, on the uniforms of Felix’s soldiers, and above my father’s heart. Felix had a formidable private army. Naturally it had its own officer corps, in which my father was numbered as a general. My father commanded regiments of Cossack and Tartar mercenaries, whose primary duty was to police – that is, terrorise – the peasants.

  A magnate, a great landowner, and the richest man in Europe, Felix owned so many castles and palaces across Poland, Austria and France that he scarcely had time to remember them all. He had a magnificent palace in Warsaw that stood right beside the King’s own palace (and was bigger than it, to boot) that he rarely ever visited. On Felix’s rent roll were hundreds of towns, cities, farms and villages. He was so fabulously wealthy that it was rumoured he was an alchemist, and had discovered the secret of turning lead into gold. Of course this was nonsense. The source of this vast wealth was very simple to anyone with eyes to see – my father and his Cossacks were the very devil at collecting those rents!

  Felix himself was a cultured and learned man of letters, a pious God-fearing man, a patron of the arts, a philanthropist, always doing great charitable works, a senator, and a politician. In short – a scoundrel!

  At fourteen I was old enough to decide my fate for myself – so long as my father approved of my decision, of course. Although I wished to be a soldier, I preferred to enlist in a military academy, for the sake of my education, rather than to serve Felix. My father, much to my surprise, declared this an admirable choice.

  Now it was time to cut me loose from my mother’s apron strings. I had grown into a great bull-necked youth, with scarcely more sense than a horse, and as great a thirst for drink and mounting. I could bend two iron horseshoes in my great fists. My bulky frame cast a black shadow over the old wooden house. I stomped around the house like a golem, or a wild beast. I could ride, and shoot, and handle a sword.

  For all that, I was apt at book learning, and a keen scholar. Raised a true gentleman, I spoke French like a Frenchman and Latin like a priest. From my grandfather I learned every English oath and curse. At my father’s insistence I spoke tolerable German. I had read the Greek poets and the French philosophers, and I always ate fish on a Friday.

  “God bless you, Ignatius, my son,” my mother said, holding my hand, on which I wore the ring with the cross of rubies. The red stones shone in the white morning sunlight. She embraced me for the last time. Then I took my leave of the world of women.

  My father and grandfather were waiting for me outside, in the shadow of the stone tower. They were mapping out my career.

  “Only the cavalry is fit for a gentleman,” my father was saying, “I’ll not have my boy foot-slogging like a peasant – how would that look?”

  “Nonsense!” roared my old grandfather. He spoke Polish badly, but his Russian was good, and the languages are enough of a kin that the speaker of one may be understood by the speaker of another. “The cavalry is good for nothing but parades and chasing women!” my grandfather spat. “Isn’t that right, Ignatius? Haven’t I told you that a thousand times? Join the artillery! Guns are the future! Guns and firepower! Not piddling wooden lances!” My grandfather, of course, was in the artillery.

  “Yes, grandfather,” I replied, “you have told me so on no less than ten thousand occasions. The cavalry swan about all day in their fancy uniforms, drinking champagne, and going to balls with ladies tarted up to the nines. The real hard work is done by the artillerymen, salt of the earth, up to their necks in muck and bullets. Your wise words have made a deep impression, sir.”

  They had indeed!

  “Good lad!” beamed my grandfather. Both my father and grandfather, laden with ill-gotten gold, and being of a fierce and mercenary disposition, envisaged my honourable (and lucrative) future in the profession of arms, following in their family footsteps. As I set out to serve my military apprenticeship, they spared no expense, procuring the finest horses and weapons that money could buy. Thus they furnished me with my sturdy horse, first among a gentleman's possessions, and a string of remounts. Hanging from my belt was a hussar sabre, and in the breast pocket of my kontusz were a good German compass, a gold watch, and a snuff box, also in gold.

  My father and grandfather made me display my swordsmanship. We fought two bouts of parry and counter, and I disarmed them both, one after another. They roared with delight, clapped me on the back, and poured bison-grass vodka down my throat. After we had downed this vodka, my grandfather produced his old guns – a pair of good English pistols, and a great piece of iron taller than I was.

  “This is Brown Bess,” said my grandfather, “the only true female you shall ever meet.”

  These English muskets were greatly prized as the finest to be had anywhere in the world. Gleefully I turned it over in my hands. The great barrel was Sheffield steel, engraved with the maker’s name. It had a silver fore-sight, brass-lined touch holes, a bevelled lock with safety-catch, iron mounts, and a horn-tipped ramrod. The walnut stock was figured with a deep red feather grain at the butt, which held a small spring-loaded box for storing greased linen patches and tools – the wad cutter, powder flask, and capper.

  “Fire it,” the old man ordered. I drew a bead on a chicken clucking harmlessly in the yard. My eyes spun with vodka. I pulled the trigger. My head rang with the awful bang. Brown Bess kicked my shoulder like a mule. I staggered and nearly fell. The hen vanished in a puff of feathers. My father clapped me on the back again, laughed, and cheered.

  “Here, my boy,” my father said, giving me a hefty purse of gold, “spend this as soon as you can, make a good splash, and send me word for more. I’ll not have those Austrian bastards look down their noses at an honest Blumer. Watch yourself in Vienna – it’s a damned expensive place. Borrow not from the Jews. Be disciplined. Obey orders. If you must fight a duel, make sure it is over cards, and not a woman.”

  “Thank you for your good advice, sir,” I replied. Unfortunately, whilst I wholeheartedly concurred in all this, affirming that nothing would please me better than a life of sword and saddle, and gladly accepting these good gifts, I had entirely neglected to inform my honoured and beloved kinsmen of which army I had decided to join.

  Naturally, they assumed that I would join the army of the House of Hapsburg. Podolia was after all a part of the Austrian empire. In those days Austria had the largest army in the whole world, greater even than the army of Russia. Austria’s hussars were the finest to be had anywhere, not least because of the number of Polish mercenaries and conscripts in their ranks.

  “Fine prospects, and a great deal of money, await an officer of the Imperial Army,” my father pronounced, and I swear there were tears of joy springing from his money-purse.

  “I have no doubt that what you say is true, father,” I replied to the old man. I had not spoken a word of a lie.

  “Serve your lawful sovereign, boy,” my father snivelled, “make us proud.”

  “Have no fear, I will faithfully serve my lawful sovereign, sir,” I replied, as I swung myself unsteadily onto my horse.

  My kin waved me a fond farewell from the farm, on a warm sunny day, and I rode westward, for Krakow. At Krakow, the road turns south for Vienna.

  Podol
ia is a naked ocean of wilderness, half-tame, half-wild, under an endless sky. Painted cornfields spread out like a jewelled tapestry – golden fields of wheat, and silver fields of rye. Over the years, our people had slowly begun to tame this wilderness, to make it a garden of man. We bred fine horses, cattle and sheep. We grew tobacco, potatoes, hemp and flax. The forests sang with bee hives. Here were a million Poles, slaves under a Hapsburg flag, serfs of a lackey of Moscow.

  At Krakow, I rode north – for Warsaw.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE THIRD OF MAY, 1791

  Such a day! It was dawn, on The Third of May, the Feast of Our Lady, in the Year of Our Lord, Seventeen Ninety-One. Old Poland was on her last legs – again. Surrounded by enemies without, and honeycombed with traitors within. We few boys had rallied to her tattered flag. We were the King’s cavalry, waiting for orders.

  We were in the courtyard of the Poniatowski Palace in Warsaw. It reeked of horses and leather. The air sang with hoof beats ringing on flagstones. Sunlight shone on the red walls and roofs of the city, picking out the white spires and domes on the horizon. Our grand old city was red and white, just as Canaletto painted it, the same colours as our flag.

  The front rank of riders lowered their lances. Red and white swallow-tailed pennants fluttered in the breeze, and lines of steel spearpoints glittered in the morning sun. We cut a great dash. I sat on my old brown stallion, wearing my crisp new cavalry uniform of blue jacket and red trousers, with shiny silver epaulettes and buttons, and a red fur-lined czapka, our square sided cavalry cap, on my head. My comrades and I were newly enlisted that very day, having graduated as officer cadets together, and we were as happy as priests in a nunnery. As much as we loved the cavalry, we had less respect for its commander-in-chief, His Majesty the King. A herald announced His arrival.

  “Stanislaus-August Poniatowski, by the Grace of God and the Will of the People, Elected King of the Republic of Poland and Grand Duke of Lithuania, Ruthenia, Prussia, Mazowia, Samogita, Kiev, Wolyn, Podolia, Podlasie, Livonia, Smolensk, Sever and Czernihov...” Et cetera!

  This was Stanislaus-August, not a Pole but a Saxon – that is, almost as bad as a German, if anything can be. Amongst his subjects he was called ‘the Bullock,’ so named for his emblem, a red calf, on his coat of arms. Lamentably, he is known to history as the Last King of Poland. Poor, foolish Poniatowski! An empty, windy creature, redolent of macassar, with a soft stomach and a head full of French books and nonsense.

  The Bullock was the cast-off lover of Catherine, Tsarina of Russia, Satan’s illegitimate daughter, herself. She had forced us to elect him as our king – at gunpoint – as a payment for services rendered, after terminating their carnal affair. That tells you how much our throne was worth in those grim days!

  The Tsarina considered him her puppet. And so did we, until that day. On that day, the greatest of his life – and ours – he was in high spirits. Our Saxon King and his nephew, the General, passed down the line, talking amiably to the cadets whose names, and whose parents, they knew. These were well-heeled boys from rich clans and noble families – Dabrowskis, Czartoryskis, Sulkowskis, Jablonowskis, Tarnowskis, Zamoyskis, or any number of other illustrious families, whose names invariably ended in ski.

  Our General, the King's nephew, was Prince Joseph Poniatowski. He was known by his nickname, Pepi. Pepi was a tall, slim cavalier, a charmer, with a magnificent set of moustaches and a killing gleam in his eyes. We all adored Pepi. Many thought that the wrong Poniatowski sat on our throne. By birth and by blood, Pepi was a mixture of Austrian, Saxon and Czech. Even his nickname, ‘Pepi’, came from the Czech abbreviation of his Christian name, Jozef. Pepi had served the Austrians in the Turkish Wars, with great distinction, and been showered with honours by the Hapsburgs. But when his uncle came to our throne, he had joined him. Since then, by some strange alchemy, Pepi had become a truer Pole than any of us.

  When the pair of them reached me, the King eyed me suspiciously through his monocle, noticing my red hair, and my pale skin. “What is your name, soldier?” He demanded.

  “Ignatius Alexander Blumer, Majesty,” I replied, and saluted. The King's eyes widened.

  “ ‘Blumer’? ” he exclaimed, appalled, for I was clearly not one of his bluebloods. “Is that an Irish name?”

  “It is a POLISH name, Majesty!” I retorted, angrily.

  The King glanced sideways at Pepi. “What an impudent fellow! I don't like the cut of his saddle.”

  “On the contrary, uncle,” Pepi grinned, and winked at me, “young Blumerowski here is perfect for what we need.”

  Perfect for what? I wondered! I had not been chosen for the cavalry for my name. I was chosen because I was six feet and two inches tall in my stockinged feet, broad as an ox, with a neck like a bull. I was armed from head to foot with sabre, pistols, and my English musket. In short, I was a fearsome sight! I was indeed perfect – perfect for dirty work.

  There was a silence, broken only by the snorts of the horses. The King was going to speak. We craned our necks to listen. Stanislaus-August was nervous. He reddened to his boots, fiddled with his cuffs, coughed, and then began to talk. His speech was, as always, on his pet subject, the Constitution that he had written – or at least put his name to, no doubt having had some lackeys do the actual scribbling. This Constitution would reform our archaic laws, he told us. It would give the King the power he needed, and give the Citizens the rights they wanted. Above all, it would strengthen the army.

  When the King had finished, Pepi spoke. “As you all know, the final vote is due to be held on the fifth of May,” Pepi said, “but with something this important, why wait?”

  We all laughed. Our swords were going to do the voting. The King made a sour face, for he had no stomach for the rough side of this business. Pepi drew his sabre, with a rasp of steel and a flash of silver in the sunlight, and he cried – “For the Motherland!” – and we cheered him to the echo.

  Pepi caracoled his horse, and spurred it out of the courtyard. It was a fine Polish charger, pure white, caparisoned in silver and gold. We followed him, on our own, lesser, steeds, hard on his heels, hooves clattering. As we swept out through the gates, we passed by one of Felix Potocki’s many palaces. It stood opposite the King’s Palace, less than a pistol shot away across the street. The Pilawa cross – the double cross, Felix’s emblem – hung above the wrought iron gate. It reminded me of home, the home I had not seen in four years.

  Pepi, ever the gentleman, tipped his czapka to Felix’s guards as they gawped at us through the iron railings. I was right behind him.

  “Is Felix there?” the King asked his nephew.

  “No,” Pepi replied. “Our Lord Brother Felix is in Moscow, with the Empress.”

  The King laughed, delighted. “What a shame! He’ll miss the vote!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE MAZURKA

  “The Bullock is right – anyone can get in the cavalry nowadays!” taunted the next man, a tall, dark haired, slim lad, who spoke with a drawling Warsavian accent. “It’s full of country hicks from the provinces!” he teased me, loudly. This was my comrade Kasimir Tanski.

  This lancer rode a dappled grey horse, a mare, with a glossy grey coat like pearl satin. She danced lightly on her feet. My own stallion had taken a distinct shine to her. He, by contrast, was a huge, clumsy brute, with shaggy fur more like buffalo hide than horse hair. Nevertheless, my stallion let out a great amorous bellow, bared his awful yellow teeth, and lurched towards the mare. She, alarmed, bared her own white teeth and sank them into his neck.

  Kicking and bucking wildly, the two horses clashed. It was all I could do to keep my foolish beast in hand, and I dug the rowels of my spurs mercilessly into his flanks. He let out another great bellow, and the mare released her grip and pranced away sideways, spitting and hissing like a wildcat.

  “Damn this crazy mare!” Tanski exclaimed. “A thousand apologies, comrade!”

  Everyone in the army called each other ‘comrade’, w
hilst the nobles, in those days, referred to each other as ‘My Lord Brother’. By our ancient laws, every nobleman was equal – ‘My Lord Brother’ – but the greatest of the gentry were the grand magnates. When I say the greatest, naturally I mean the richest. The greatest of these magnates was of course Felix Potocki, warlord of Podolia. As my Irish kin were foreign nobles, (and therefore not real gentry) I was an anomaly. So ‘comrade’ suited me well enough.

  Tanski could not help but smile as he regarded my horse’s grotesque appearance, the shaggy brown and orange hair, huge red eyes like a bear’s, a mangy mane streaked with silver, and horrible stained and rotten teeth. The beautiful mare stared at him with contempt.