The Boy Who Wanted Wings

by James Conroyd Martin

  A stillness descended on the troops, an unexpected and poignant moment of soul-searching.

  The king called now for ten volunteers from the hussars to fill the positions of absent men in the Prince Aleksander Company, so named for his infant son. At the required number of one hundred fifty, the unit would make the first sortie.

  Marek was one of the first to shout his intent, raising his lance point to the sky and waving it.

  Roman knew the battle tactic; it was typically Polish—send in a voluntary force to test the terrain and ascertain the enemy’s tactics and strength. On this mountainside there were specifics to be gleaned. How far did the grapevines stretch? To what extent were the stone fences impediments and likely hiding places? Had the enemy dug holes so that the horses would break their legs upon stumbling into them? How confidently and with what measure of force would the enemy react? He knew, too, that some of the volunteers would be sacrificed. They would not return.

  Lord Halicki had warned of this type of volunteer mission and had elicited a promise from his sons: should the hetman ever call for volunteers for such a venture, only one of them was to volunteer. He would not lose two sons on the same perilous mission.

  Later, Roman would question his own initial reticence but once Marek had spoken up, he turned to his brother. “Let me go, Marek. I’m the elder.”

  “So what?—I was the quicker to speak. The king nodded to me before he moved on toward the Sieniawski column.”

  “He won’t know the difference if we switch.”

  “But I will!”

  “Damn it, Marek! Then I’ll go with you.”

  “No you won’t! Father made us promise.”

  “He doesn’t have to know.”

  “Chrystus, he’s in there among the Sieniawski column somewhere. And he’ll know if neither of us comes back.”

  “I can run a lance better.”

  “Oh?” Marek spoke sarcastically. “Like when we were being considered for the Kwarciani and your horse stepped out of line. I do believe your lance faltered.”

  Roman felt the blood rushing to his head. He deserved the verbal cuffing. He had walked right into it. He glared at his brother.

  Marek knew he had bested him. He snuffed out a smirk and called for Aleksy to accompany him as retainer.

  “No,” Roman said, as if by instinct. “Take my retainer—take Ludwik.”

  Marek lifted his noseguard, his eyes questioning.

  “Aleksy will want to use his damn lance at the general charge,” Roman explained. “We have those extra pistols Ludwik can carry along with his sabre and war hammer.”

  Marek shrugged, as if to say he had won the better part of the argument so his brother could have his way in this. Roman surmised, however, that Marek suspected the truth: that he wanted control over the fate of the Tatar, whom he so hated.

  Marek turned to Aleksy, who had ridden forward. “Go tell Ludwik to get the two guns from my wagon and ride up with me. He’s about to see action.”

  “But, Lord Marek,” Aleksy said, “it’s my place to attend you, not—”

  “Do as you’re told,” Roman commanded.

  Aleksy looked from Roman to Marek. Marek nodded and Aleksy used the pressure of a knee to turn his horse and direct it through the lines of hussars and cavalry to the retainers, who rode or marched behind.

  Thirty

  “I heard the sound of their wings, like the roar of rushing waters, like the voice of the Almighty, like the tumult of an army.”

  —Ezekiel 1:24

  Aleksy watched as the one hundred and fifty hussars on their heavy Polish-Arabian combat horses mustered into position and a smaller number of retainers, mostly on standard cavalry steeds or steppe ponies, made ready to follow. He had thrown his arms around Ludwik before helping to hoist his armor-heavy body atop his steppe pony. His friend had been given only the most cursory lesson with the pistols. Along the route from Kraków, Marek had given them both tutorials in the use of the sabre and the fine-pointed war hammer meant to pierce the enemy’s helmet, but neither he nor Ludwik felt adept at them. That there was no bow to give Ludwik mattered not, for he had volunteered that his aim was cursed. “I’ll thrust and parry and cut with this rusty old sabre,” he told Aleksy, “and chop, too, when it’s called for. Don’t worry, Alek.”

  Aleksy did worry. “It should be me that’s going with Marek.”

  Ignoring the comment, Ludwik waved his double-edged sabre and sang a little ditty they had learned from the cavalry:

  Hungarians cut directly,

  Muscovites cleave from above,

  Turks whip roundabout,

  And Poles slash criss-cross!

  Aleksy did not join in. He could see that the Turkish forces directly in front of them were thick and colorful as an old forest in autumn plumage. Intelligence came back that the reinforcement Sipâhis and Janissaries that were arriving now to face the Polish armies after the Tatar betrayal and retreat had come from the Grand Vizier’s right wing. This was good news on two counts: The Duke of Lorraine’s Imperial column would have an easier time of it in their descent to the plain on which all would be decided. It also meant that the Grand Vizier had not pulled men from the tunnels and ramparts facing Vienna’s walls. His forces were still divided into two armies.

  However, for the hundred and fifty men being placed in a square formation now and staring into untold numbers of the enemy, the wheel of fortune seemed to be turning a different way—a darker way.

  With a voice that could rival the strength of a trumpet, a King’s Guard called for silence.

  The volunteers raised their lance points to the sky and sang the centuries-old Polish hymn “Bogurodzica,” “Mother of God.” By the second verse all the Polish forces behind them had joined in.

  Virgin, Mother of God, God-famed Maryja!

  Ask Thy Son, our Lord, God-named Maryja,

  To have mercy upon us and hand it over to us!

  Kyrie eleison!

  Son of God, for Thy Baptist’s sake,

  Hear the voices, fulfill the pleas we make!

  Listen to the prayer we say,

  For what we ask, give us today:

  Life on earth free of vice;

  After life: paradise!

  Kyrie eleison!

  The thrill of hearing the three Polish armies sing out in their deeply masculine voices in the open air under the blue vault of heaven made for a wondrous experience Aleksy took in and stored away. A chill ran along his spine and the skin on his arms went to gooseflesh. He could only imagine what fear this fervent hymn was reaping in the hearts of the enemy below.

  But there was no time for imaginings or thought. Two unarmored trumpeters in blue żupans and matching caps bordered with sheepskin rode forward and took up positions on either side of the volunteer company. Twin blasts from the trumpets now cleaved the air, compelling Aleksy’s spine to stiffen.

  “Secure your hats!” This order was for those men without helmets. The volunteer hussars sat tall in their saddles, armor and mail glinting in the sunlight.

  “Draw together knee-to-knee!”

  “Sabres on sword knots!” This command was for the lancers so that their sabres, attached to their left wrists, would be easily drawn once their lances had been used and discarded.

  “Draw sabres!” Those without lances, like Ludwik, drew blades and the scraping of scabbards momentarily broke the silence.

  “Dalej!” March on!

  The hundred and fifty moved forward at a quick trot. When they came to within the prescribed one hundred paces of the enemy, they halted. The sound of the final order was shouted out and carried on the air back to the silent, breathless watchers, King Jan Sobieski among them: “Złożcie kopie!” Lower your Lances!

  Aleksy looked to
the front of the square and watched as the lances—with black and gold husaria pennants, each with a white eagle flying near the point—were lowered and for leverage and support were tucked into the toks, the boots attached to the saddle. Here they would stay until impact. In his mind Aleksy was rehearsing his own first charge. He recalled Szymon’s directive to aim at the approaching enemy’s spleen. The thought at the time had made little impact on him, but now he was close to carrying out the directive against a human being. Today he would know the cost of war, the cost of bravery.

  The order to charge was unheard to those watching from a distance, but it had come, clearly, for the lancers were galloping across the field now, holding their lances parallel to the horses’ heads, their speed accelerating by the moment. Aleksy watched carefully as they thundered away, noting that the formation loosened a bit, no longer stirrup to stirrup so as to facilitate movement, or even change direction slightly if necessary. A small retinue of retainers followed.

  With the resounding salvo “Jezus, Maryja,” the square smashed into the awaiting Turks and the lances did their work, impaling a good number of the Sipâhis. The watching Poles cheered, for the attack bred chaos in the Turkish ranks. Bodies of the Sipâhi fell from their mounts and Janissaries on foot were trampled before their sabres could strike. The Janissaries carried bows, too, recurve bows that Aleksy had only heard about until now, but in close quarter fighting, pistols, muskets, double-edged sabres, and war hammers were the weapons of choice. For an archer like Aleksy, this was a worrisome situation.

  There seemed to be space opening up ahead and the hussars forged on. The sounds of gunfire, metal clanging on armor and thudding on wooden shields blended with the crack and splintering of lances, many with the weight of Ottoman bodies.

  Were these Turks preparing to turn tail, much like the Tatars had? Eyes focused and spine rigid in his saddle, Aleksy hoped that the case, but for a single square of hussars, no matter the fierceness, to incite such fear seemed unlikely—unless it was the unnerving presence of all the Christian forces standing together and stretching from the bottom of the Kahlenberg at the River Danube the five miles to the Polish columns at the southeastern end.

  Now, however, came the reversal of fortune as the Turks formed up and a triple line of Sipâhi closed the opening that the Polish square had carved out. How would Marek, Ludwik, and the other courageous volunteers find it possible to extricate themselves from this enclosure? The war whoops and screams of Allah rose to a deafening fever pitch, sending a chill down Aleksy’s spine.

  He thought he would be sick. He drew in breath and fought the tears that brimmed in his eyes. Three lines ahead he saw Roman turn his head, that part of his face not hidden by the nose and cheek guards of his helmet had gone ashen gray.

  Roman watched, listening to the rising crescendos of pistol fire, the cracking of lances, and the shrill cries of “Allah! Allah! Allah!”

  The Poles—his brother Marek among them—were being set upon as if by wolves baying at the sky and shrieking for blood. The thought brought him up short. He recalled the time he and Marek were heading back to camp from their manor house. Marek had challenged him to a race, but Roman was occupied with other thoughts and allowed him to go on ahead. In the forest that night he had heard the shrieks of a wolf pack and was consumed with fear and guilt that he had allowed his little brother to go to his death. As it turned out, Marek had taken a different direction and he suddenly appeared in perfect health.

  Roman’s heart thumped. He knew in his soul that Marek would not suddenly appear today. He would not come smashing through that line of Sipâhis. This time the wolves would triumph.

  On that previous occasion in the forest, when he had thought the worst, his biggest concern had been what he would tell his mother and step-father. Now, after the long and grueling journey to the Kahlenberg and to the siege at Vienna, he had no such thought. His single-minded concern was for Marek. They had bonded on this mission so that if Marek was lost, he would deeply grieve for the half-brother who had become a true brother.

  “Dogs’ blood!” he cursed under his breath. “Harm a hair upon his head and you will pay. I will make you pay!”

  Aleksy was relieved to see another unit of hussars ordered into the melee so as to effect the retreat of the first. He saw two hussars struck from their horses, but the Sipâhi line opened, allowing for the retreat of a good many of the volunteers. Nearly seventy-five, he guessed. One was immediately shot dead, but the others made it back. As they went to rejoin their company, Aleksy scanned the group for Marek—to no avail.

  He waited, breathless, longing to see Marek and Ludwik escape through the breaking in the line, wishing for it, imagining it, praying for it.

  Half of the party was lost. Just those seventy-five survived. A few were escorted to the king so as to relay information about the lay of the land and strength of the enemy. No retainers came back. Ludwik was gone, one of the first men sacrificed. Marek, rest his soul, had volunteered for the mission. But Ludwik, a poor farmer and no soldier, had not. Aleksy held his tears at bay.

  Such was his introduction to war.

  God’s teeth! What had come of this mission? Why had the king ordered it? Why were men allowed to die with their compatriots looking on? He could not understand it.

  Time passed slowly now. Aleksy guessed conferences among the Christian leaders were going on or messages were being exchanged. The Duke of Lorraine’s Imperial left, as well as the center flanks that included Imperial, Bavarian, and Franconian forces, were now aligned with the three Polish armies of the left flank. No doubt the leaders were laying out the plan of attack. Men and horses waited in the hot sun.

  The Christian forces faced one hundred and forty thousand Ottomans. Another twenty thousand continued to assail the walls of Vienna in the hope that the city would fall and be taken this day, assuring an Ottoman victory. Against the hundred and forty thousand, the hussars numbered three thousand with another fifteen thousand Polish, Saxon, and Austrian cavalry. Infantry and retainers brought the Christian forces past the eighty thousand count. Among the Poles, no one complained about the numbers—it was not the Polish Way. He had heard the army motto more than once this day: “First we kill the enemy, then we count them!”

  “Idzi!” Aleksy called, withdrawing from his hidden pocket the pink ribbon Krystyna had given him. Idzi hurried over. “Take this,” he said, dropping it to his friend, “and tie it around my wrist.”

  Idzi gaped at it, the intuitive blue eyes widening, then casting a look of shared confidence even though he had not seen it before. “Best keep it hidden under your gauntlet, Alek. You wouldn’t want Roman to see it.”

  Aleksy grunted and offered his left arm. “Hardly a time and place for him to make a scene, no?”

  Time. Looking to the western sky, Aleksy gauged sunset as just two hours away, and yet the blistering heat of the afternoon seemed not to lessen. The sense of readiness permeated the air, a nervous readiness. The warhorses sensed it, neighing, snorting, stamping—and readying. The hussar blocks—arranged in Sobieski’s favored checkerboard pattern—tightened. While dragoons flanked the hussars, the cavalry stood behind both, and behind the cavalry came the mounted retainers and, finally, the infantry and retainers on foot.

  Idzi handed Aleksy his lance.

  Aleksy held the weapon vertically, his right hand slippery with sweat, his mind astir. Since he was not a hussar, the national colors of red and white, rather than the black and gold of the elite corps, were attached to the lance’s end, near the point. When he created the lance, so long ago it seemed, lovingly fashioning it with a boy’s dreams of glory on the field, had he truly thought he might one day be preparing to actually use it? Had he imagined then the long and grueling march, the discomforts of camp, the heat, the blood of foe and friend, and the longing for home—and for Krystyna? His back straightened at the thought of her.


  The sweet thought of the girl in yellow was short-lived, for the Poles were once again singing the battle hymn “Bogurodzica.” It resounded on the Kahlenberg Mountain all about him, insistent and yet silvery, as if he were in the midst of an army of angels. He cleared his voice and joined in. No gooseflesh this time. Just tense readiness. He was no longer a boy.

  At the conclusion of the song, Polish kettle drums and then trumpets drowned out the distant but relentless drums and piercing war cries of the Ottomans.

  The drums and trumpets ceased. Aleksy’s heart seemed to lose a beat. He reached up and touched the gold cross about his neck.

  Then came the orders he had heard before.

  “Secure your hats!”

  “Draw together knee-to-knee!”

  “Sabres on sword knots!” Aleksy had a sabre in a wooden scabbard, but he had his bow strapped to his back, as well. He determined that each situation in which he found himself would dictate the use of one over the other. And then there was his war hammer, too, strapped to the saddle.

  “Draw sabres!” He held to his lance, listening to the rasping release of countless blades from their scabbards.

  “Dalej!” March on!

  The drum Aleksy heard now—and felt—was the beating of his own heart. The hussars fronted some six or seven thousand horsemen. The Turks most certainly must be recalling the consummate courage that the hundred and fifty volunteer hussars had shown in crashing into numbers far greater than their own. Are they trembling? Aleksy wondered.

  The hussar squares moved first at a light trot. The light cavalry followed and behind these, the retainers on horseback. Aleksy was one of the few retainers with a lance. The infantry and various retainers lagged behind.