The Warsaw Conspiracy

by James Conroyd Martin

  The prince turned, his face questioning.

  “Forgive me, but you said—when you arrived, that is—you said you were asking me to take this mission to the Grand Duke for two reasons. And—well, did I somehow miss hearing the second?”

  “Oh, Good God, no, Michał! I had been saving the best for last. You know the fruit to the feast, as they say. And then I forgot altogether!” The prince moved back into the room so that he completed a circle of curious faces.

  “A young man by the name of Ludwik Nabielak came to see me and others of the Administrative Council early this morning. This young cadet was in charge of those who attacked the Grand Duke’s palace last night. He had a report to make. And he wanted to put to rest rumors that the cadets had planned an assassination rather than an abduction.”

  Michał felt his heart thumping in his chest. Dared he hope . . . “Did he—did he have news of Józef?”

  The prince nodded. “He was last seen alive, Michał. There is hope.”

  “God’s bones! Where was he seen?”

  “On a westbound avenue. On a horse, his hands tied in back. He was a prisoner in the company of the Grand Duke himself as his forces made their way toward the barriers of Mokotów, where the Konstantin and some 8,000 men are now encamped in the fields beyond.”

  19

  Mokotów, Warsaw

  JÓZEF AWOKE TO A JOSTLING and several light slaps across his face. “Up, cadet, up!”

  More humiliation, Józef thought. So much for the glory of rebellion against Russia. So much for the plan to abduct Grand Duke Konstantin. And the questioning: upon arriving at the Mokotów barriers, he had been questioned for hours as to the motives of the rebel leaders and, more especially, the intent concerning the Grand Duke. Józef was able to speak truthfully: he knew nothing of the leaders’ plans other than his own part in it. Further, he could in good conscience deny that their objective was assassination, this in spite of being dealt head and body blows. Over and over, he told them they were merely to abduct the Grand Duke. His interrogators did not believe him. He may very well have looked guilty, too, for—at Viktor Baklanov’s urging—he had thought of killing Konstantin.

  “Come along, get up,” the soldier said, nudging him. Through his foggy and sluggish brain came the realization that the soldier’s voice was a Polish voice. Józef’s first thought was that he was being freed, that the Polish forces had overcome the Grand Duke’s forces.

  The soldier pulled at Józef’s upper body so that he sat cross-legged on the hard ground. His hands remained bound. The night before, he had been thrown to the floor of the tent even before it had been fully erected. Somehow, despite the cold of the night and discomfort of his bonds, he had fallen asleep.

  Unconscious was a better descriptor, he thought. For how long? A few hours? Outside, the sun was high enough to throw silhouettes of soldiers against the tent sides. Guards for his little portable prison? Freedom might be elusive.

  “Hurry him up!” A second soldier at the opening flap called in an accent unmistakably Russian. Only now did Józef realize that both soldiers wore red uniforms. Freedom fully dissipated.

  “I’m going to cut your bonds,” the Pole told Józef. “Do nothing stupid.”

  “There are still Poles like you loyal to the Grand Duke?” Józef asked.

  “Of course. You cadets truly went astray. Fools—did you think you could succeed at something like this?”

  Józef’s mouth went dry. “The rebellion has been put down?”

  “Nearly so.”

  This could not be true, Józef thought. “Or so you’ve been told.”

  The soldier shrugged. “No reason to believe otherwise. The city will be locked down in no time and the Grand Duke will be back at his comfortable little palace.”

  “And me?”

  After freeing Józef’s hands, the soldier pulled him to his feet, bringing them face to face. “I would not trade places with you, cadet.” His breath was sour. “Not for the prettiest whore in Warsaw. Oh, the Grand Duke has taken a special interest in you. You’ll likely hang, my boy.”

  Józef had no time to react, for he was being pushed from the tent. Upon exiting, he was bookended by the Russian and the Pole. He blinked, realizing a detail of four additional soldiers stood ready as an escort detail. “Where am I being taken?”

  “To the firing squad,” the Russian soldier said matter-of-factly. “Move along.”

  So much for my military career of distinction, Józef thought, fighting off fear. His hand moved into his jacket in search of Emilia’s miniature. It was gone. He had lost it. He grew dizzy.

  And his mother—who had so fought against his entering the military—what would she think? Hadn’t she made enough sacrifices for Poland? He thought of breaking free and making a run for it, but to be shot in the back would be a worse fate than bravely climbing some hastily made gallows.

  They had walked some fifty paces when the Pole turned to him and seemed to read the pain on his face. “Don’t worry, cadet” he said. “Konstantin is notoriously indecisive and slow to act. We’re to take you to him. It’s probably just a little reprieve, but you might create a good story for him. I hear he can sometimes be quite gullible.—Maybe you’ll need to take a piss first?”

  At Mokotów, Michał waited impatiently for the Grand Duke to return from his personal tent where he was drawing up a proclamation that he and the two council members sitting across from him at the collapsible wooden table would carry back to the city proper. Joachim Lelewell—sharp nose and droopy eyes offset by the new windswept fashion of hair—sat like the quiet academician that he was, while Prince Franciszek Drucki-Lubecki—moon-faced with three main strands of hair tortured up from the sides and back and pasted across the shining dome of a head—fidgeted on the uncomfortable folding stool, pulling now and then at the high collar that provided no evidence of a neck. While not an official member of the party, Jerzy waited outside the tent.

  The presentation the Prince and Lelewell had made to the Grand Duke had been concise and well thought out. Michał had made small contributions previous to their audience, but Czartoryski’s intention of Michał’s acting as arbiter had not quite played out. With serious faces and an occasional nervous smile, the two council members asked the Grand Duke his intentions. Did he mean to attack the city? Had he requested help from the garrison at Lithuania? Or did he mean to depart?

  Their argument: to attack would bring down untold violence, for the Polish army had already come over to the side of the people, except for the several companies of grenadiers of the footguard and a regiment of chasseurs of the guard that remained with the Grand Duke. The nation—which the Grand Duke claimed to love—would suffer, as would he and his army. On the other hand, should he choose to depart for Russia, the insurrection would end and he would not only be allowed to do so peaceably, but he would also be provided with first rate accommodations along the way. Peaceful negotiations between Poland and Russia could then follow.

  Before leaving the tent for his own, the Grand Duke had turned about, his face flushing. “You must be honest with me, gentleman. Was it not my assassination that the rebel cadets intended? My death!”

  Both the prince and Lelewell faltered at first in their denials. Michał kept his powder dry until their rather overwrought assurances that death was not the aim, based on mere opinion or gossip, played out to little effect.

  “Your Royal Highness,” Michał said, catching Konstantin’s attention before he could exit the tent.

  The Grand Duke turned to Michał, his expression one of curiosity.

  Michał spoke now of what he had heard directly from a cadet and with all the conviction he could muster: “I can tell you that the leaders of the cadets cautioned them that your life was not to be endangered. They told the cadets that Poles do not kill princes. And that is the case. That is our history.”

  The Grand Duke paused then, his small beadlike eyes boring into Michał. He was giving Michał’s statement a weighti
er consideration than he had afforded to those of the other two.

  The shadow of an odd—perhaps ironic—smile played on Konstantin’s thin lips. “There was,” he said, “one young fellow who did give it some consideration.” And without speaking further, he turned and took his leave.

  He was taking good time, Michał thought now, shifting in his seat and continuing to fight off his exhaustion. The Grand Duke had left them a good hour before without an indication of his answer. Of what was to come. That was the trait of indecisive men, Michał thought, you never know where they stand—or for how long.

  And then there was Michał’s personal concern: Józef. The conference with the Grand Duke had not as yet afforded mention of his brother. Michał knew he could not leave the tent without asking about him. Was he safe? Was he here? What was to be done with him? Might the Grand Duke listen to a plea for his life? How was Michał to bring up the subject? And how might the volatile Konstantin react?

  Michał suddenly recalled the young fellow the Grand Duke had spoken of, the cadet who had come close to killing one of Russia’s grand dukes. Had he meant Jozef? Was that the reason for the odd smile?

  And then the most treacherous thought dared come to the fore: What if Józef had already been dealt with? What if . . .

  The tent flap was thrown open now and the Grand Duke entered, a formal proclamation in his hand. Michał realized Konstantin had no real facial profile; his face, while puffy, was the flattest Michał had ever seen. The military coat, however, with its overpowering epaulettes, medals, and gold buttons cascading down a stomach long enhanced by his love of Polish dumplings and pastry distracted one from his visage.

  The Grand Duke came to the table, sat on his stool, one higher than theirs, and read it aloud like some schoolmaster. In it he said he did not intend to attack Warsaw, and if he did deem it necessary at some point, he would give the city forty-eight hours notice. He denied that he had sent for the Russian force garrisoned in Lithuania. Moreover, he would write to his brother the tsar—and King of Poland—asking for amnesty for those involved in the uprising. Lastly, he suggested the exchange of prisoners.

  Michał watched the reactions of Prince Drucki-Lubecki and Lelewell. No nods. No smiles. They saw the same problems with this treaty as did he: the Grand Duke did not say he would withdraw; further, he seemed to allow for a future attack on the city, a two-day warning notwithstanding.

  Lelewell seemed the least pleased and was about to speak when the Grand Duke rose, motioned the others to also rise, and made a point of handing the proclamation to Lelewell. Clearly, the meeting was at an end. The two council members, their faces drawn down in disappointment, read the signs and prepared to leave the tent.

  Michał felt the blood rising to his face. He had to say something. By now he was certain that Prince Adam had sent him along with the other two for the primary reason of making a plea for Józef. If only he was not too late to do so.

  “Your Royal Highness,” Michał said, “if I may have a further moment of your time?”

  “Yes—Michał is it not?”

  “Yes. You . . . you noted that you are in favor of amnesty.”

  A royal nod.

  “And you are in favor of exchanging prisoners. Yes?”

  “Did I not just read to you the proclamation, Michał? Did I not say these things?”

  Michał’s heart beat erratically. He was certain he had angered the Grand Duke. He fought for words that would assuage a volatile disposition. “Your Royal Highness, I was only . . . that is, it was my intention—”

  The Grand Duke raised his hand, silencing Michał at once.

  Here was failure, Michał knew. The Grand Duke was about to leave. This was the end of the meeting. He would not be allowed another word.

  Instead, however, Konstantin’s head lowered, his fleshy neck folding into ripples, his eyes somehow dancing, somehow laughing. “My dear Lord Stelnicki, did you not realize that when I heard your name at the start of the meeting I would guess why you had come. You are related to one of the abductors, yes? The cadet Józef Stelnicki, yes?”

  Stunned, Michał nodded. “Yes, your highness.”

  “He is your son, yes?”

  Michał shook his head. “Brother.”

  “Ah, younger by many years.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you are here to plead for his life?”

  Michał drew in a deep, deep breath. “Yes.”

  December 1830, Warsaw

  VIKTOR PACED ACROSS THE HUGE reception room of the mansion, the lame foot dragging and scraping on the oak boards. He had ventured to slip out of the hidden room. Staying there for any length of time was enough to drive one insane. Besides, he needed physical exercise. Just the walking felt good. The room had saved his life on at least two occasions when deputies from the rebel government had called, checking and double-checking that General Rozniecki was not in residence. No neck like a traitor’s neck, Viktor thought.

  Viktor promised himself he would dare to explore the city one day soon, if only to catch a fleeting sight of Barbara and the boys. He would chance it. Not today, however; since mid-morning he had been aware of much noise and hubbub in the quarter, this despite the cold and the previous night’s heavy snow.

  He was losing track of days. When Bartosz returned he would ask him to find a calendar. How long have I been here? he wondered, stopping for a moment. Three weeks? Damn—more! Nearly four. Christmas had just passed—what was it, three days ago? Caroling had gone on at all hours of the day and night. What had these Poles to celebrate? Didn’t they realize the hammer would fall in short order?

  Through a slight vertical opening where the curtain panels met, Viktor saw that it was snowing again. Bartosz was out marketing. Remarkably, the city had come back to a normal sort of life within a few days of the insurrection. A Polish National Guard had been established, giving protection to the bank and the treasury, as well as establishing order throughout Warsaw. Shops were open and business was being conducted. Well, let the fool Poles be lulled into a state of ordinariness and contentment. They will pay handsomely one day soon. The sooner the better.

  Outside, the tumult seemed to be gaining in intensity. He could hear a group running past the mansion. He dared not draw back the curtains. Where is that idiot servant? What did this disturbance mean?

  At last, Viktor folded himself into an armchair near the bay window, throwing his feet up on the window seat, ever so carefully using his boots to part the curtains where they met, just enough so that he might see Bartosz ascend the stairs of the portico upon his return.

  He sighed. No, to give the devil his due: Bartosz was not an idiot, and that was precisely the reason why Viktor did not quite trust him yet. Oh, Bartosz had handled the deputies of the interim government quite professionally, effectively brushing them off with nothing more that a cursory look at the room with the peacocks tapestry, the tapestry behind which Viktor had sweated a good deal. And in these past few weeks he had been his lifeline to the happenings in the city, gleaning and dispensing a wealth of information.

  First, a surprise: the Poles had been able to take control of most of the city as well as Praga. A hastily-formed provisional government made some demands of Grand Duke Konstantin while he was encamped in the fields of Mokotów. When he did not say he was leaving—or that he would not attack the city, the dissatisfied Poles sent another deputation making it clear that they would attack him if he did not withdraw from Poland. Here, in Viktor’s opinion, they made a blunder that would cost them: they gave Konstantin not only permission to leave, but also assured him safe passage to Russia, and fancy lodgings along the way into the bargain. Such stupidity. But as if not to be outdone, the Grand Duke provided his own one-two punch of idiocy. He did not attack the city at a critical moment—before order and organization settled in—when he would have triumphed. And then, before leaving Mokotów on 3 December, he cut loose any of his Polish soldiers who wished to leave and return to the city. Up to that
point, their Polish generals had been deliberately misleading them, assuring them that the insurgency was small and in collapse. Upon hearing Konstantin decree their freedom to choose, the Poles’ cries of “Liberty” went up in one voice as his six companies of grenadiers of the foot guard moved out of the fields, and an entire regiment of chasseurs of the guard left him with a royal view of horses’ asses. No Pole remained with him, not even his closest aide. Did the imbecile think that they would not now take up arms against him? Viktor conjectured that Konstantin’s Polish wife and his immersion into Polish culture had proven his Achilles heel. Grand Duke Konstantin was a disgrace to Russia. If only Józef had killed him.

  The Sejm opened its session on 18 December. The new government was to be called The National Government of the Kingdom of Poland. Lithuanian Prince Radziwill was named Generalissimo of the Army. Particularly irritating to Viktor was the news that the person Michał had entertained in Sochaczew back in May—Prince Adam Czartoryski—was nominated president of the national government. Viktor had spit outright when he heard that. The Third Department should have taken care of him long ago.

  The Sejm proposed that Tsar Nicholas would remain King of Poland while ambassadors were sent to St Petersburg requesting that the tsar withdraw all Russian troops from the kingdom, that the Constitution be observed to the letter and, like his predecessor Aleksander had promised, that all the old Commonwealth provinces now designated part of Russia should be liberated and allowed to partake in the Constitution. Simple enough, Viktor snickered, picking at his overlong fingernails. The ambassadors were to invite Nicholas to Warsaw for the opening of the Sejm. He laughed aloud, thinking that this was the apple in their apple cake, a cake that the tsar would smear in their faces. Or so Viktor hoped. He prayed for the tsar to loose all hell on the Poles. Successful arbitration would do nothing for his future. But in a defeated Poland, Viktor would rise like a phoenix.

  General Józef Chlopicki was named Dictator by the Poles, replacing the provisional government. Viktor knew he was well respected, worshipped even, for he had entered the army at fourteen and fought heroically under Kościuszko in 1794, as well with the French campaigns in Italy under Dąbrowski, in the Spain Campaign, and in Russia under Napoleon. In 1814 Tsar Aleksander had made him a general in the newly-formed Polish Army under the auspices of Russia, but Chlopicki somehow displeased the moody Konstantin who took away his commission. Now, to hear Bartosz tell it, though, the people’s confidence in the aging hero’s dictatorship was already eroding, for the augmentation of the army was slow and inconsistent, and as a result, fortifications were being ignored. More in the way of barricades and mines was being done by volunteer citizens than by any orders from Dictator Chlopicki. This was good news indeed to Viktor. The more divided the Poles, the better.