The Boy Who Wanted Wings

by James Conroyd Martin

  “It’s the smoke, Egidiusz,” Aleksy said teasingly, knowing he hated the name, no doubt because only Aleksy’s mother called him that—and in an impersonal way. He shot a conspiratorial wink at Ludwik as they approached him, chests heaving. Breathing at this height was difficult enough, but it was made more so because the thin air was wreathed with acrid smoke from cannon fire and the mines the Turks were employing in the tunnels they had burrowed in the earth leading to the city walls of Vienna.

  As if on cue, a gusty mountain wind took away the cloud of smoke that had been obfuscating the valley below, affording now an eagle’s eye view. The three took in the sight. To his left Aleksy saw the mighty River Danube, looping its way like a great liquid belt around the northern perimeter of Vienna. From the near center of the walled city rose one significant building: St. Stephen’s Cathedral. The layout of the city walls brought to Aleksy’s mind the image of a star, but one with triple—or more—the number of protruding points. It sat stolidly on the plain, its well-designed defense against assault making it seemingly inviolable.

  A great explosion occurred at that moment. “Look there!” Ludwik said, pointing to smoke that was billowing up from the ground near one of the bastions the Turks were attempting to destroy so that they could have better access to one of the gates they were attempting to breach.

  Behind two bastions, thick walls, and sealed gates sat Hofburg Palace, focus of the siege. Had its size and magnificence lured Kara Mustafa to that location? Aleksy wondered. Was the Grand Vizier imagining the wealth that was likely housed in its many wings and estimated two thousand rooms? Was he salivating at the gold, silver, jewels, art—and Christian slaves—that he would bring back to the Sultan?

  Aleksy’s companions on his right had been silent for what seemed a long time. He turned his head toward them and read amazement, horror, and fear upon their faces. Idzi’s square jaw had fallen slack. He realized at once that their lines of vision, unlike his, had started from the right and moved left. Aleksy’s eyes shifted now to the area of the valley in front of the city walls. A tremor started at his middle and sent a strong shockwave through him. He let out an involuntary gasp. As other soldiers moved out onto the outlook and along the ridge in both directions forming a phalanx of lookouts many men deep, Aleksy heard other gasps—and then curses, profanity, and oaths to the saints and to the devil.

  Below him, the Ottoman encampment on the plain unfolded, providing a spectacle of colorful tents, animals that included horses, buffalo, the camels Piotr had mentioned, and a great tapestry of Ottomans—one hundred and forty thousand, someone guessed—some working siege guns that were ripping at the city walls and gates of Vienna, causing the earth to shake and smoke and flames to flare up into the sky. Some of those moving about like ants or working within the tunnel system below ground were Christian slaves who must be praying for their release. Closer to the Wienerwald were a myriad of Tatars—loyal to the Sultan—guarding the length of the foot of the Kahlenberg.

  Roman pushed his way to the front, and in so doing came between Aleksy and Ludwik. “Just look at that mob of Tatars,” he grumbled. “Maybe some relation to you among them, huh, Aleksy?”

  Aleksy felt his spine stiffen but said nothing.

  “Well,” Roman announced, his chest inflating with resolve, “here is what we’ve come to do at last. We’ll mow them down on the morrow.”

  Roman’s comment had cut into Aleksy. Those were his people down there. They were related by blood and ancestry but not by circumstance and experience. He was strangely discomfited by the realization that he was to assist in mortal combat against men of his heritage.

  Ludwik, who had observed the exchange, came around to Aleksy’s other side, nudging Idzi aside. “Remember,” he whispered, “the Lithuanians have the Lipka on the king’s side—all Tatars loyal to the Commonwealth, my friend.”

  The reminder tempered the vexation Roman meant to incite, and Aleksy was grateful for the comradeship of Ludwik.

  Aleksy had no more time to dissect his feelings on fighting his own people, for as he tilted his head downward, his line of vision moved away from the main of the Grand Vizier’s camp and passed over little valleys and villages and came upon—with no little sense of fear and dread—the terrain that would have to be traversed in the morning. “Holy Chrystus!” he blurted.

  By then everyone had seen it. He caught his breath as he surveyed the land directly below. There was no gentle sloping to allow the hussars to orderly and grandly descend, the mere sight of the lances and eagles’ wings sending fear into the hearts of the infidel. Below them was an impossible checkerboard of woods, vineyards, cliffs, brooks, and gullies, crosscut by hedges or stone walls. It would be no easier for the infantry or artillery, either—or retainers, such as Ludwik and himself. Only much farther down did the landscape start to level onto what would be the fighting plain.

  But for a brief blast of a whistle from Idzi, the sight brought upon the wide throng of men an eerie silence—.

  Later, Piotr would say that when the king saw the descent ahead of them, his face went scarlet and he swore a blue streak.

  The men now turned their backs to the harrowing sight below and took to their tasks of making camp, polishing weapons, and doing what needed doing on the night before a major battle.

  “Aleksy!” Roman called.

  Aleksy, Ludwik, and Idzi halted and turned toward Roman.

  “They call the next mountain over there Sauberg because there are sows that run wild. Have you ever killed a wild pig, Tatar?”

  Aleksy nodded.

  “Good. Then take Ludwik and go pick off one or two. We’ll stage a pig roast up here tonight and go into battle with full bellies. Now go. Put that bow of yours to work again. It’s been idle long enough.”

  “I’ll go, too,” Idzi said.

  “The devil you will!” Roman countered. “Back to our wagons, dwarf! I’ve got work enough for you.”

  It took no time at all to find traces of wild boars. Sauberg was populated with a forest of oak trees and the boars feasted on the plentiful acorns. Finding one to shoot was another matter. Deep into the night, two hours passed with no sign. “Their sense of smell is vital to their self-preservation,” Aleksy whispered to Ludwik. “They’re very much aware of our presence up and down the Kahlenberg.”

  “So they’ve taken to hiding?”

  “No doubt.” Aleksy stopped abruptly. “Look there!” He pointed to an area where the shrubbery had been crushed and lay in a heap. “That’s a nest, it is. And it took a huge sow to make it.”

  “How big?”

  “Some can weigh two hundred pounds.”

  Just then they heard an unidentifiable noise some distance away. “Come on,” Aleksy whispered, a finger to his lips. He took the ash arrow he had despaired of using and nocked it to the bow cord. They continued up the mountain, stopped, listened, and moved on. They were nearly at the top when they realized they were hearing voices, human voices. They were unable to discern the language. Friend or foe?

  They moved carefully, softly, fearfully. Aleksy had to hold his balance with just his feet for his hands were occupied with his bow, the arrow still nocked.

  They came to a little overhang and knelt down. They realized they had come to a perch higher than the men who were speaking in hushed tones. Aleksy peered down into the dark and he could make out a nest, but it was no sow’s bed. Three men in Turkish garb with dark turbans had made a nest of their own. This was an outpost of the enemy. One held a telescope to his eye, searching the area below them, undoubtedly observing the Poles putting the finishing touches on pitching camp.

  Aleksy sensed Ludwik’s body go tense next to him. His friend had good reason to worry. After all, Aleksy was known as the marksman with the bow; Ludwik had brought a dagger to gut the pig, nothing more. The weapon was useless in this situation
: one needed close contact to work with a dagger. Nonetheless, he withdrew it now and looked to Aleksy as if to say, This is your call. Make the move.

  Aleksy ruled out attempting to take the Turks prisoners though the vision of proudly presenting them to the king played momentarily in his head. No, there was but one path. He had worried over his first kill. And now the moment was here. He trembled. It was here and there were three of them. Three! God’s bones! If he could not do this quickly and with his best accuracy, his life and Ludwik’s would be forfeit.

  His left hand held tightly to the well-used thick center of the bow. He had made ten or twelve bows since Szymon pronounced him a brilliant bowyer some ten years before. This one was the best of the lot, fashioned as it was from the best yew woods in Poland. He had become an expert at creating the arrows, too, perfectly straight they were, with meticulously glued goose feathers at the ends to guide the steel arrowheads to the target.

  This was the first time, however, he found himself taking aim at a man. His mouth went dry. He knew how to bring down a great stag at a run, a rabbit hidden in a thicket, or a pheasant in flight, but this was different. This is war, he told himself, taking in the three turbaned targets. He touched the cross that hung from his neck. He recalled Lord Halicki saying, “Remember—it’s the cross that will prevail in Europe, not the infidels’ crescent.”

  This is why I am here! Pulling back on the cord, Aleksy shifted slightly so that his feet were placed shoulder width apart, but in so doing, he dislodged a small stone which slid down the incline, making the slightest noise. Aleksy’s heart paused, only to pick up moments later and begin to pound. His breath held.

  The three had heard the sound. They turned in Aleksy’s direction, faces upturned.

  It was not a matter of aiming; Aleksy had learned how to concentrate and think his arrow to the target. He drew to the ear and loosed. The arrow flew true. One Turk cried out and pointed, but it was the one who had a pistol at the ready who took the first arrow—right to the heart.

  Aleksy immediately nocked another to the cord, and within seconds of loosing, the crier went down, silenced at the throat.

  Quick as lightning one more arrow went to the cord. At that moment Aleksy picked up on a noise behind them so that instead of loosing it on the third Turk who was clambering over the front of their outpost in an effort to escape, he instinctively turned quickly around, ready to loose.

  It was nothing more than a fraction of a second in which the brain sent the message to his hand that saved the life of Roman Halicki.

  “What—are you going to kill me, Tatar?” he grunted. “Where’s our supper?”

  It was Piotr who brought the news of the escaped spy to the king. He returned to assure Aleksy the king was thankful for what action he had taken. The Turkish spy mattered little, for another abandoned outpost had been found. Kara Mustafa knew by now from multiple sources that the Kahlenberg was a hive of enemy activity. “So be it,” the king had said. “Let him stew over it. He’ll have a bigger surprise when he sees me coming down at him.”

  If Roman felt any remorse for the blunder that botched Aleksy’s third shot, he gave no evidence of it.

  Supper was a modest mess of rations.

  Piotr brought other news, too. The queen’s safe arrival at Kraków had been confirmed, bringing much comfort to the king. Relief washed through Aleksy like the first rays of sun. This news surely meant his Krystyna was safe, as well. A great weight was lifted from him. Now he could accompany the Halicki brothers into battle with a clear mind knowing that she was protected. And knowing that, he could die content just having crossed her path. No, just having loved her. Aleksy looked up into the night sky and gave thanks.

  Not long into the night, after the rain temporarily abated, King Jan III Sobieski witnessed rockets flare up into the dark sky from St. Stephen’s Cathedral, clearly a clarion call to the relieving army and no doubt a last recourse, a final hope for those within the walls who must have been imagining the rape, death, and slavery that would follow a break in the wall.

  The king had rockets at the ready and, one after another, several were sent flaming high into the sky above Kahlenberg. In minutes these were answered with three fiery flares from St. Stephen’s.

  Alone, the king walked out to the overlook. He raised his eyeglass to Vienna and to the tower of St. Stephen’s. His vision was no longer perfect, but he saw movement there, shadows in the night. He imagined a group of men leaning out over the tower’s parapet—the commandant of Vienna, Rütiger von Starhemberg, among them—staring up at the Kahlenberg, cautiously excited by the rockets that promised relief and the masses of soldiers camped there. Their liberation was at hand if only God would allow it.

  The night quieted for those on the Kahlenberg, but cannon roar coming from within and without the city walls was incessant, punctuated by occasional explosions of mines within the tunnels the Turks were digging. Later, he would learn that countermining was going on, as well. Some of his men were able to sleep, but the king remained at the outlook, the mantle of responsibility heavy on his shoulders.

  The sight below gave reason for trepidation, of course. No doubt, Grand Vizier Kara Mustafa and his men had watched the fiery communication between city and camp. He would be making preparations.

  And yet the king saw cause for optimism. At Tulln he had told several nervous generals, “We shall conquer him easily.” It was not just bravado. He knew wars were often won by the missteps of leaders. Tulln was just fifteen miles from the Turkish camp and yet Mustafa had done nothing to prevent the raising of a bridge over the River Danube by allied forces there, affording his enemy access to the mountain range upon which they now perched, ready for the coming battle. More than that, it took twenty-four hours for the king’s men to assemble on the other side of the bridge, easy pickings for a Turkish leader with a military brain. Mustafa had missed a golden opportunity. Having beaten Turkish forces with his husaria several times, the king knew that his hussars were feared equally by the Janissary infantry, the mounted Sipâhis, and their most exalted leaders, such as Kara Mustafa himself. He could only conclude, then, that Mustafa did not believe Sobieski and his husaria would come to the relief of Vienna. It would prove a fatal error, he told himself. I am here. We are here, Mustafa, an unpleasant surprise for you. Perhaps some good had come from the delays in marching to and from Kraków, for which he and his forces had been well criticized.

  And then, too, his battle plan that placed Lorraine’s Imperial and Saxon forces on the left flank and the rest of the Imperial Army, reinforced by Franconians and Bavarians, in the center meant that the Polish armies had been delayed by the roughest and most precipitous terrain of the southeast Kahlenberg. In addition to the forces he led, he placed great faith in those of Adam Sieniawski and Stanisław Jabłonowski, each of whom he had named hetman, the highest rank of military commander after the monarch. The conjoined Polish forces had arrived at night, he mused, so his men had less time to prepare, and yet their arrival under cover of night was fortuitous because the Turks would have noted all the Imperial allied activity along the center and northeast of the ridge and would not prepare for the significant charge that would come from the southeast face of the mountain—the Poles with the husaria in the vanguard.

  The king continued his assessment. That the two bastions upon which the Turks were focused fronted the Hofburg Palace clarified the Grand Vizier’s intentions. He was waiting for surrender and the relinquishing of all the booty that the palace and other buildings housed, as well as the slaves he would conduct back to the sultan. He demurred at the prospect of a full and general assault that would lose much of the riches to destruction and to the greedy plunder of his own men. And dead slaves brought no coin. Avarice won the day. But would it be a winning gamble? Based on the grim intelligence reports of spies from the city detailing the injuries, deaths, widespread dysentery—and despair�
��he had received over the past ten days, the king was certain that a general assault would have given over the fortress of Vienna to Turkish forces. A missed opportunity for Mustafa, he thought.

  Much of the morrow’s outcome, the king conjectured, would depend on how Kara Mustafa conducts himself as a military leader. To his knowledge no Eastern general had ever had to contend with assaulting a fortress while fending off a significant relieving force. The king and all of the allied generals along the Kahlenberg did have this experience. This was, then, Christianity’s less-than-secret advantage.

  King Sobieski left the outlook now, going off to his tent to write what could possibly be, he knew, his last letter to his Marysieńka.

  Upon returning from yet another trip to the overlook, Aleksy came upon Idzi and Ludwik removing large grain sacks from the Halicki wagon that had been driven by Jacek. “What are you doing?” he asked. “What’s in those? It sounds like enough pots and pans for a regiment.”

  He pitched in to help, and when the contents had all been laid out, the three stood agape at armor that—even in the tree-filtered light of the moon—showed itself fully in need of polishing. Ludwik scratched his head. “This isn’t the Halicki armor we’ve been polishing with vinegar and sand for these past weeks.”

  “No, and it’s in need of just that,” Aleksy said.

  “Then what’s it for?” Idzi asked. “When we were tossing things out of the wagon to lighten it on the climb up, Marek wouldn’t let me near the bags.”