A World to Win

by Mary Lancaster

  I smiled into his shoulder. “The revolution?”

  “The revolution,” he agreed, “and you.” Suddenly his mouth was on mine in wild, urgent passion, and with joy I yielded.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  April turned into May, and the mood of triumph and optimism continued at Vanora, even after the news had come about Dragos.

  Ioan Dragos, the Romanian Deputy whom I had met in Debrecen, had been Kossuth’s chosen commissioner of peace to Avram Iancu. How their talks would have turned out, we shall never know, for although they negotiated in Abrud under a cease-fire agreement, the Hungarians had broken the truce and stormed the town in the grandiose hope of capturing Iancu himself.

  I was appalled. “Did they succeed?” I demanded, even as I searched Lajos’s eyes for the answer.

  He shook his head tiredly. “No. Not that it matters much, the Romanians repelled them. But then Iancu’s men decided that Dragos was part of the plot, and executed him without bothering to ask questions.”

  “Oh no...” I felt both distressed and frustrated by this unexpected turn in events. A man I knew, a good man, was dead, his life snuffed out by the hysterical unreasonableness of this war; and by that one foolish, treacherous act, the Hungarian soldiers who had broken into Abrud had undone all Lajos’s work, all Kossuth’s and Dragos’s, and doomed the two races to further pointless conflict and suffering.

  I put my arms around Lajos, cradling his head on my breast. There was nothing I could say to comfort him. Later, perhaps, he would try again.

  * * * *

  In the meantime, General Görgey, instead of chasing the main Austrian army back to Vienna, was ignoring it and concentrating the best part of his own army on reducing the fortress on Buda Hill.

  Colonel Drényi and Lajos were united in contempt for this madness. Military strategy not being one of my best subjects, I could see nothing wrong in trying to eject the Austrians from the Castle.

  However, Drényi fumed. “The whole country is under our control, save a few puny little fortresses like Buda, which would have to surrender anyhow when they are completely cut off from Austria and the Austrian army is all but annihilated!”

  “Avram Iancu,” I pointed out, “is completely isolated too.”

  “Iancu is mad,” Drényi said firmly. I looked enquiringly at Lajos.

  “He has lunatic tendencies,” Lajos allowed. “Otherwise called stubbornness, or heroism. But the Colonel is right. What Görgey should be doing is wiping the floor with the fleeing army, following it back to Vienna, where at least, we would be in a position to negotiate for an honourable peace.”

  “The April Laws and return to the Monarchy,” Drényi nodded. Lajos smiled fleetingly.

  “Well — the April Laws,” he conceded pointedly, “as a start,” and Drényi regarded him with affectionate amusement.

  “Damned radical — your pardon, Madame!”

  Then, shortly after Castle Hill finally fell, Lajos had a very furtive-sounding letter from the radical Deputy László Madarász. I could not make head or tail of it.

  I looked enquiringly at Lajos, who said, between gulps of coffee, “I think he wants me to help overthrow the Government.”

  “He what?”

  “Not just the two of us, you understand. I imagine ‘our military friend’ must be General Perczel. As far as I can understand it, he seems to want Perczel to occupy Debrecen with his troops while the radicals seize power.”

  I stared at him, feeling suddenly haunted. “Oh, Lajos, you wouldn’t consider it, would you?”

  “It won’t happen,” Lajos said flatly. “Perczel knows we don’t have the support now for a move like that. If we were going to do it, we should have done it last September when revolution was still in the air. Now, I suspect people are just weary of strife.” He took the letter from me and threw it in the fire. For a moment he stared into the flames. “Still,” he said slowly, “I can see his point. Kossuth and Görgey are making a mess of this between them...”

  * * * *

  After we had almost grasped success, disaster seemed to fall upon us very quickly, step by step, leap by leap. At first it was simply faint, gnawing unease, because soldiers and civilians alike were tired of the war; but then we heard what Lajos had always feared since he had encountered Russian troops at Nagyzseben in March. At the invitation of the Emperor, a massive Russian army was marching on Hungary; and in Transylvania, tragedy was no longer creeping, but galloping with terrifying speed.

  The Russians came through the Borgo Pass in huge numbers. A large detachment marched on Vanora, and only then, with the choice of death or retreat, did I finally contemplate the possibility of disaster.

  In the bed-chamber I had shared with Lajos since April, I lay alone, face down with my hands over my ears to blot out the awful, shattering noise of the guns. For once, I let the clouds of fantasy and wishful thinking roll back, and forced myself to face the consequences of defeat. If Lajos were captured, the Austrians would hang him. Killed or captured, there was no way out for him, not from this...

  Whatever happened now, it seemed to me on that cold, comfortless dawn that my happiness was over.

  Of course, there was a way out, at least in the short term. Bem came back to Transylvania; and orders reached Drényi to abandon Vanora and join him. At dead of night, we left the fortress in the hands of a few volunteers and wounded men, who would surrender it in the morning, and crept off into the darkness.

  I found I was silently, unstoppably weeping. Once I discovered Lajos beside me in the darkness. As if he knew, he reached out and touched my face.

  “Sweetheart, don’t cry,” he whispered. “Don’t cry. We’ll come about again; we always do. Don’t cry...”

  I couldn’t tell him then that I was weeping for him. At best, his dream was in ruins.

  * * * *

  Meeting up with Bem and the men retreating from the Borgo Pass, we turned back upon the enemy, and when I heard that we had retaken the Pass, I knew a moment of jubilation. Lajos had been right — we would come about again! I didn’t know now if I was laughing or crying; in the end I had the energy for neither, for it was a trap, and our men limped back into camp wounded and dispirited, carrying their dead comrades and wearing the unmistakable signs of defeat.

  Lajos too came back, with a bloody cloth tied around his arm. He was limping, but more from tiredness than anything else; tiredness and the thought of the retreat to come.

  Even now, I can’t think of those ghastly days without wanting to weep in fury and pity. Our army suffered defeat after defeat, and the Russians gradually over-ran the country. They were aided, of course, by the Romanian rebels, who now renewed their fight with a vengeance. It seemed as if everything was tumbling down around us. I went through it in a daze made up of noise and horror, living with the roaring of the guns as if it were as normal as bird song.

  I grew inured to the sight of the carts carrying the wounded back for treatment in steady streams. I helped Doctor Tedényi, when he would let me — it was the only way I could be useful in this carnage — but all too often now he sent me away again with his peculiar, curt kindness. He said I looked too ill myself; but I wasn’t ill — I was only concerned for Lajos.

  Then, one day when we had a moment’s respite from the unwavering pattern of retreat, fight, retreat, and Lajos and I had a few precious hours to spend together, General Bem sent for him. I almost wept with frustration, for I badly needed that time with him. However, I had learned something during my months with the army. I forced myself to smile; I even passed him his coat, while my heart ached for the weariness and grief behind his eyes.

  He was back surprisingly quickly, and my spirits suddenly lifted again, for the spring was back in his step and there was a new light in his eyes that might have been hope.

  “Is there news?” I said at once. “What is it? Have the Russians been beaten in Hungary?”

  He grimaced. “No one will fight the Russians in Hungary. Our armies retreat and
manoeuvre to avoid them. They only want to fight the Austrians. No; Bem told me something quite different — Kossuth has authorized contact with the Romanians.”

  I felt my eyes widen. “You mean he will give them the autonomy they asked for? At last?”

  “It would be criminal if he didn’t,” Lajos said intensely. “It’s the only thing that can save us now. If the Romanians rise and help us throw the Russians out of Transylvania, then at least we will have a chance...”

  “But did Bem send for you just to tell you this?”

  Lajos sank down onto the makeshift bed, and lay full length upon it, the back of one hand across his forehead while he gazed at me.

  “No. There is a Colonel called Simonffy, in charge of some Hungarian troops in the Apuseni Mountains. He managed to contact Iancu.”

  A tiny jolt of hope went through me. “Then Iancu too is willing?” I said, almost breathlessly.

  “He must be. He shouldn’t have been able to hold out beyond April, yet he’s still there, quite cut off. He probably doesn’t even know about the Russians. The thing is, he wouldn’t commit himself to Simonffy: he wants to speak to me.”

  I went slowly towards him, sitting on the edge of the bed to search his eyes.

  “You will tell him,” I said finally. “You will tell Iancu about the Russians.”

  “Iancu knows I will tell him the truth — that’s why he asked for me.”

  “But Lajos, he won’t negotiate if he knows he will be relieved at last!” I touched his face, as if trying to smooth away the deep lines etched around his eyes and forehead. “When will you go?” I asked calmly.

  “Tomorrow.”

  I looked away.

  “I don’t suppose I can come?” I said hopelessly.

  “I don’t see why not. It can’t be more dangerous than facing the Russian onslaught every day.”

  I closed my eyes with thankfulness. I moved, and lay down beside him on the narrow bed, treasuring his nearness, his warmth, the almost physical pleasure his mere presence always brought me. These days, I let myself feel these things with every intense fibre of my being; for each time he left me, I had to face the prospect of losing him forever.

  * * * *

  In the morning, we rode westwards for the Apuseni Mountains and what I knew full well was our last hope. There were reminders of the war all around us — burned villages, scarred landscapes, wary peasants, fortified buildings, marching soldiers; and yet somehow, we became light-hearted — not forgetful of the danger, but careless of it. The late June sun shone down upon us as we rode, warming my skin with new-born hope and faith in the future.

  Now, with that in my heart, I was able to say, “What will happen, Lajos, if we lose?”

  He shrugged. “Everything will be as before the revolution, I suppose, only worse.”

  “But what will happen to you?”

  “Me? I shall escape,” Lajos said flippantly, “probably disguised as an opera dancer.”

  “That should confuse the enemy.” I glanced at him from under my lashes. “But perhaps it won’t be necessary. Perhaps, when General Haynau executed those Hungarian officers for treason, he was just making an example of them, to frighten us.” If so, he had succeeded dramatically.

  Lajos met my gaze. Unusually now, I could not read his eyes. Then they cleared, and he said quietly, “Katie, they planned the gallows for me long before I put on this uniform. For people like Petöfi and Táncsics and me, there can be no clemency, no choice.”

  I had known that too, but to hear him say it suddenly made my throat hurt unbearably. I swallowed and stared between my horse’s ears, feeling his gaze still on my face.

  “No,” he said at last, his voice carefully light once more, “it has to be escape.”

  Bravely, I tried to play the game. “Escape to where?” I asked, and he appeared to consider.

  “London, I think. All political exiles go to London, or Paris.”

  “And may I come?” I asked casually. “Or would I be a burden to a political exile?”

  He smiled at that, a quick, spontaneous smile. “A burden? You? Haven’t I told you, you are my only joy and comfort? I should find it very hard to leave you behind! And yet...”

  My heart twisted. Carefully, I stared expressionlessly at the road ahead.

  “And yet... I can give you little enough here, Katie, if we win. In exile, I would have nothing. I couldn’t ask you to share nothing.”

  The pain died away into calmness. I turned my head and looked at him. “You don’t need to ask, Lajos.”

  He met my gaze as I spoke, and some sort of deeper, wordless communication passed between us. At last his lips quirked upwards in the familiar half-smile I loved so well.

  “Do you know, I hoped you would say that? It’s settled then. We shall go to London together, and I shall give music lessons. The violin, I think.”

  “You don’t play,” I pointed out, then added doubtfully, “Do you?”

  “I shall learn. I feel it’s the thing to do as a poor exile. You will have to take in washing, of course, and sewing...”

  “Oh, not sewing, Lajos. I hate sewing,” I objected, for I found I could play easily now.

  “You must sew,” he said firmly, “to keep me in gin.”

  Laughter bubbled up at that, but then a serious thought suddenly interrupted the nonsense. “What if we become separated?”

  “Then I shall meet you in London. You’ll find me quite easily: I’ll be the only Hungarian giving and receiving violin lessons in the same room.”

  * * * *

  Perhaps it was significant that we talked so much of exile on that journey; yet at the time I was only aware of the optimism that let us laugh. Iancu and Lajos were friends, natural allies. Surely it was inevitable that in the end they should unite their peoples in the last stand against tyranny.

  This time, I was not present when they met. On Colonel Simonffy’s recommendation, I was left in a run-down but respectable inn with Zrinyi to guard me while Lajos, under a temporary cease-fire, went to negotiate.

  When he left me, I gave way to the nausea which had been haunting me, and was vilely sick. Anxiety was praying upon me in physical ways; no wonder Doctor Tedényi was reluctant to let me near his patients.

  I know what happened at the meeting, because Lajos told me. They met in the open this time, and on horse-back, while their people watched from a wary distance. Though he looked for Alex among Iancu’s followers, there was no sign of him, and Lajos found himself hoping that Alex had chosen to stay away. The alternative was unthinkable.

  Lajos was shocked by the change in Iancu: continuous privation and hardship had made him gaunt and ill-looking; but his carriage was still erect and his eyes still shone with life, however grimly.

  “I’m glad you’re still alive,” was his greeting; and Lajos responded frankly, “I’m astonished that you are. I don’t know how you have held out here for so long.”

  “Between you and me, Lajos, I shall be glad to end it. One way or another. What is it you want?”

  “Alliance. Against the Russians and the Austrians.”

  Iancu’s eyes lightened. His smile was slightly twisted. “I wondered if you would mention the Russians. Now, you need us.”

  “We have always needed you. It’s Hungary’s tragedy — and yours — that she hasn’t always known it. Are you prepared to do it?”

  “If it happens quickly, Lajos, I’ll try. I can’t wait for long, though, not with the Russians coming. And I’ll need what time there is to convince my people — you can’t turn loyalties on and off like a tap...”

  “I know.”

  “Will Kossuth agree to autonomy?”

  Lajos hesitated.

  “I don’t know,” he said truthfully. “I can’t believe he’d be foolish enough not to now.”

  Iancu drew his hand tiredly across his eyes. “I can’t do it without guarantees, Lajos. We’ve come too far to give up for less.”

  “I know.” He met the other ma
n’s gaze without secrecy. “It’s all gone wrong, Iancu. We should have been allies in this. Perhaps we started it all too early, before people were ready, before the country was capable...”

  “Perhaps we can still salvage something. Third time lucky.” Iancu reached out across the space between them, and Lajos leaned forward and gripped the Romanian’s hand. He thought a sigh of relief came from both sides, so loud that the whisper of it reached the two negotiators.

  “Put it in writing,” said Lajos, “for Simonffy and Kossuth.”

  Iancu nodded. Their hands parted reluctantly; and as Lajos straightened in the saddle, he had to tear his eyes away from Iancu’s. He could think of nothing to say except, “Good luck,” and then they both smiled at the woeful inadequacy of the words. Lajos wheeled his horse and rode back to the Hungarians.

  “I had the oddest certainty that I wouldn’t see him again,” Lajos said to me later, when he had come back to the inn. “I’m not sure I care to leave such fatuous last words between us — and yet what else is there but luck now?”

  In the morning, I was sick again, but I hid it from Lajos, for I didn’t want to add my illness to his troubles. We rode eastwards to rejoin Drényi and the slow retreat, and as the day went on, I felt better.

  A week later, word reached us that Kossuth had again refused to grant Romanian autonomy.

  “There is nothing left,” Lajos said; and nothing so far had frightened me so much as the defeat in his resigned, quiet voice. “There is nothing else left.”

  “There is always a miracle,” I said with forced lightness. “An act of God.”

  He looked at me, unsmiling. “I don’t believe in God.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Now, when I think about the month which followed Lajos’s wasted interview with Avram Iancu, I’m sure everyone was just going through the motions. Nobody believed any more that we could win.

  Lajos grew more and more silent and grim. The light-heartedness of our journey to the western mountains vanished completely. Only with his men did he preserve the front of optimism and enthusiasm; and yet he wouldn’t give up. Wherever we were, he deliberately sought contact with Romanian units, regular and irregular, trying to establish the alliance so nearly made with Iancu. He was supported in his efforts by both Drényi and Bem, and in the end, when it became obvious that the Hungarians were hopelessly outnumbered, Bem revived the spirit of adventure by leading us into Wallachia to try to recruit the Romanians there.