Against a Crimson Sky

by James Conroyd Martin

  “No, Jacob,” Anna said, standing.

  “Emma can go with you. Katarzyna will look after the little ones.”

  “No, Jacob, I will go alone. I’m going up to change. Tell the driver that I’ll be out presently.”

  Lord Doliński stood waiting for Anna at the threshold of his office. “Good day, Lady Stelnicka. The roads were not too slushy, I hope.”

  Anna nodded. “The ride was smooth enough, Lord Doliński.”

  “Come in, Lady Stelnicka. I have a new clock—would you care to see it?”

  Anna nodded and followed him over to the mantle where it had been given a place of honor in the center. It was an elaborate affair of dark wood, brass, and glass. Beneath the white face with its black Roman numerals were little doors, one on the right, one on the left. “It’s English,” he said.

  Reaching up, he moved the minute hand forward a half hour to 3 p.m. Immediately bells began to chime, more raucous that melodious, and the figure of a peasant emerged, his legs in a running pose, mouth open and fear painted on his face. As the mechanism moved him forward in fits and jerks, the likeness of a peasant woman appeared, anger on her face, an oversized spoon in her raised hand. The two circled the front of the timepiece, retreating then into the workings of the clock—only to repeat their dance for two more revolutions. Doliński laughed, turning to Anna. “Isn’t it marvelous?” He moved the minute hand back.

  “Indeed,” Anna said. “It would be more marvelous if she caught up to him.”

  “Ha, ha, you are a wit today, I can see, Lady Stelnicka.” When Anna gave no reply, he motioned for her to sit. With the desk between them, the starosta seemed to study Anna. “You are especially beautiful today, Lady Anna, as well as witty, may I say? Only a smile could make you radiant.”

  “I have no reason to smile.”

  “I see—what with your husband away, and so many new widows in the making. Who can blame you? But I’m sure Lord Stelnicki will return safely.”

  “So am I.”

  “Of course—ever the hopeful wife at home. Until he does return, I am at your service.”

  Anna sat, silently watching him. She knew desire when she saw it. Her fear increased, moment by moment. But it was as if he were reading her, as well. “You needn’t be afraid of me, Lady Anna.”

  “Just what is it you wish, Lord Doliński?”

  “I have been instructed to look after you—and little Tadeusz.”

  “What? Instructed by whom?”

  “That must remain a secret. I will just say that there is an interested party—a group of people who wish no harm to befall you.”

  “And what does Tadeusz have to do with this?”

  “I will come to that. Think for a moment, Lady Anna, if you will—you were granted the title of princess by Catherine through our king.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “When we met in ’94, we inspected your papers right here in this office.”

  “There was no mention of that in those papers.”

  “No? Well, I guess I learned of it in other ways. It wasn’t to be a state secret, was it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then, back to the reason for my—concern—for you. As a princess, a son of yours is a possible candidate for the throne of Poland.”

  “What are you talking about? There is no throne of Poland. The last king of Poland has died recently, in case you have been out of touch.”

  Doliński smiled. “There are those working to restore the monarchy.”

  “And they have Tadeusz in mind?” Anna thought the man crazy.

  “They do.”

  “He’s a mere child!”

  Doliński shrugged.

  “But there are the king’s own sons.”

  “Bastards.”

  “There are magnate families aplenty that would welcome the opportunity—the Poniatowskis, the Czartoryskis, the Potockis—any number!”

  “And each family with its own agenda, it own greed, and its own abuses.”

  “And my family?”

  “You and Stelnicki are of the szlachta, like me. Your ambitions are more earthbound.”

  “What you mean to say is that we can be manipulated.”

  He shrugged. “If you wish to burnish it with that term.” He smiled, the wolfish eyes moving over her. “But I shall warn them that you have pluck.”

  “The Brotherhood!—Is that whom you mean? It is, isn’t it?”

  Doliński’s lips thinned into the facsimile of a smile.

  “Why my younger son?” Anna pressed. “He’s three years old, for God’s sake!”

  “Instead of Jan Michał? Did you really need to ask, Lady Anna?” The man harrumphed. “Jan Michał is your son by your cousin. Walter, wasn’t it? Rape, too, or so you told people. Anyway, you killed him for it. So you see, Jan Michał would hardly be the better candidate.”

  Anna had the strange sensation she was falling into some great abyss. How did this man know these things? She drew herself up. “And if Jan and I were to refuse?”

  “That could prove most unwise for you both. In point of fact, however, you are forbidden to tell your husband of my group’s interest. Not by writing. Not by spoken word, should he return.”

  “This is an outrage! Why?”

  “A precaution. If not for your own self, think about your husband and your children’s safety. Your tongue could put them all in jeopardy.”

  Anna paused at this blatant threat. “What now, then, Lord Doliński?”

  “Nothing for the immediate year or so. There will be instructions down the line regarding his schooling. At some point, he will have to go to a boarding school.”

  “No! I won’t have it!” Anna stood.

  “You will have it, Lady Stelnicka.” The starosta slowly got to his feet and moved around to the front of the desk. “Resign yourself. Besides, how terrible would it be to be the mother of a king?”

  “Is that all for today, Lord Doliński?”

  “It would seem so.” He stood very close to her now.

  Anna held her ground although she felt the blood draining from her face.

  “I like your fire, Anna,” he said, lifting the knuckles of his closed hand and very lightly brushing her cheek.

  Anna stepped back.

  “Don’t worry—my job is to protect, Lady Stelnicka.”

  Anna felt the slightest twitch at her upper lip, and she saw at once that he noticed it, too.

  “My, my, there’s fear beneath the fire, isn’t there? Why, I would wager that when my carriage arrived at your manor house you ran for your rosary!”

  “I did not!” Anna effected an exit without further words. As the carriage moved out of Market Square, she pushed her hand into the full skirts of her dress searching for something. She had not run for her rosary earlier in the day. She had gone upstairs for the pistol she kept in a locked wardrobe—the pistol she had used to kill Walter. Anna held it now, wishing—God forgive me—for the first time since that day that she could kill again.

  13

  June 1799

  Jan had only the light of the campfire to aid him in cleaning and salving the wound in Paweł’s shoulder. The Lombardy sky was moonless and dark but for a scattering of stars. The night had gone quiet.

  “How deep is it?” Paweł asked.

  “Not deep. You’ll live to die tomorrow.”

  Paweł grimaced in pain. “You were right, Jan.”

  “About what?”

  “The Treaty of Camp Formio—it didn’t last long.”

  “Anna’s tulips at Sochaczew last longer.”

  Paweł managed a little laugh and fell silent, his eyes closing.

  Jan thought how he and Paweł had seen action—serious action—but none that brought them to Polish lands. They stood with France to maintain control of Lombardy. It was a formidable job by now, for those allied against them were England, Austria, Russia, Turkey, and Naples.

  That morning, 17 June, Dąbrowski’s Polish Legion, o
ne of seven divisions led by General Macdonald, had moved down from the Appenines onto the Lombardy plains to contest the encroachment of Russo-Austrian forces. The French-Polish numbered thirty-nine thousand and the enemy—in two groups—was estimated at twenty-five thousand Austrians, thirty-five thousand Russians. Battle lines against the Austrians were drawn on the western bank of the River Tidone.

  The French forces fell upon the Austrians. As the battle progressed, two French divisions ran low on ammunition, and the threat of full encirclement became real. The third, Dąbrowski’s, moved in, extending the flank and routing the Austrians. Dąbrowski directed the cavalry and lancers—with Jan and Paweł fighting stirrup by stirrup—toward Castel San Giovanni. Success seemed well within reach when Russian regiments of cavalry descended in huge numbers. The French dragoons—in a panic now—were slaughtered, and Polish chasseurs, formed into a square, were cut down by Cossack lances that outreached their bayonets.

  Dąbrowski was unable to come to their aid, for an Austrian regiment cut his battalion off from the rest of his division. The general called for a retreat into the mountains. Jan and Paweł, chefs d’escadrons, reluctantly passed the order on to the men of their squadron. The rest of the French troops were forced behind the River Tidone, and the enemy chose not to pursue them, for it was long after dark. Macdonald collected his forces, withdrawing farther—and made camp beyond the eastern shore of the shallow River Trebbia, leaving the field between the two rivers unoccupied. They counted at least 600 dead—and more wounded or captured.

  Jan knew the morning would bring more bloodshed. “Where is our Napoléon now?” Jan asked, fully unaware he had muttered it aloud.

  “On campaign in Egypt.—You know as well as I.”

  “Off playing Caesar, you mean.—I’m almost finished with the bandaging. Then you can sleep.”

  Paweł scowled. “He’ll return when he gets wind of these changes.”

  “Maybe,” Jan said with a chuckle. “Maybe not if he’s found his Cleopatra.”

  “Listen to you—and not a scratch on you!—Ouch!”

  “Sorry.—Sometimes I wonder what we’re doing here, Paweł.”

  “You miss Anna.”

  “Here. Swallow down this brandy. It’ll help you sleep.”

  Jan extinguished the lantern and lay down upon his mat. He tried to remember how old his daughter was. The daughter he had yet to see. She would be two in the fall.

  Soon Paweł’s steady breathing indicated he had fallen asleep. Jan could not turn the thoughts out of his head. Word had circulated through the camp that the Russian general across the river was Catherine’s old war horse Aleksandr Suvorov. The thought stung worse than any wound he had suffered. This was the red devil that had come down on Praga in ’94, slaying twelve thousand in his path, mostly innocent citizens. He had been the one to deal the death blow to the nation. Jan would give anything to be the one to confront him on the field—to deal his death blow. The thought ricocheted. Had he come to taking killing too lightly?

  It was a long time before Jan could give himself up to sleep.

  Against Jan’s advice, Paweł was mounted and ready the next morning.

  Suvorov’s troops formed on the other side of the River Trebbia at nine in the morning. The battle lasted three days. At one point Dąbrowski found his forces attacked on three sides. After a valiant effort, he called for a withdrawal and in its execution was hit again by Austro-Russian cavalry. His third battalion was all but slaughtered, its standard and fifteen officers captured. Jan and Paweł, despite staying close to the general, were unable to keep him from suffering a light wound to his thigh. Impervious to the bleeding and pain, he stayed mounted and—together with his officers, lancers, and infantry survivors—slashed and cut his way through the enemy line. In the end, the French forces were overcome and Dąbrowski moved his division out and regrouped.

  On 20 June, the extended battle at an end, Dąbrowski’s division was named rearguard for the entire army as it moved toward Castel Arquato. They suffered several engagements in the process, and Dąbrowski would have been captured were it not for the increasing prowess of Jan and Paweł’s lancer squadron. The tattered Polish company, standards waving, sang Józef Wybicki’s song as they entered Castel Arquato.

  Poland has not perished yet

  So long as we still live.

  That which alien force has seized

  We at swordpoint shall retrieve

  March, march Dąbrowski!

  From Italy to Poland!

  Let us now rejoin the nation

  Under thy command.

  Months followed, with regular skirmishes on a lesser scale. The legion remained at Castel Arquato.

  On an overcast afternoon, Paweł burst into the little outbuilding that he shared with Jan. The open door became for the moment a valve allowing into the single room—with its little stove, two cots, two chairs, and a small table—a great gust of November air that lifted and blew to the floor several papers from the table on which Jan was writing. The modest flame in the stove flared up momentarily.

  “Sorry!” Paweł said. “Did the post rider come through? Did you get the letter from Anna you were looking for?”

  “No, but I got a long letter from Kościuszko. A real dissertation. He’s in Paris.”

  “Really!—Well, don’t keep me waiting, man! What does he say?”

  “I’m not sure you want to hear. His thoughts may knock Napoléon off that little pedestal you’ve set up for him—It seems Napoléon went to see him unannounced.”

  “Ah, the little general meeting the little corporal!” Paweł exclaimed.

  “Your little corporal did everything but beg for his support.”

  “And?”

  “Kościuszko didn’t commit.”

  “Well, that makes sense, I suppose,” Paweł said in defense of the hero. “He probably has spies from Russia, Austria, and Prussia nipping at his heels. He’s got to watch himself.”

  “That’s true, no doubt, but not the reason. Kościuszko found Napoléon arrogant and opportunistic.”

  Paweł shrugged. “It’s how he got where he is. Maybe that’s what it takes.”

  “Look at Kościuszko, Paweł—have you ever run across a more sincere person, one more interested in the lives of the many?”

  “You’re right, Jan. But look at his current position—not an enviable one. It’s one of impotence. A man who can’t return to his homeland.”

  “Touché. But I haven’t given you the biggest news about your Napoléon. You know, the leader who foresaw a new egalitarian order for the common man in Europe? I imagine the whole camp will be full of it later today.”

  “What?”

  “Within a week of his visit to Kościuszko, he staged a coup in Paris. He forced the Directory to resign and has set up a neat little triumvirate of which he’s First Consul of France.”

  Paweł took some moments for this to sink in. He sighed finally. “Such Ambition.”

  “‘Ambition, thy name is Caesar!’—Isn’t that how it goes?”

  “Something like that.—But, Jan, we’ve been robbed of our homeland. If a man comes along and says to you he can restore it to you, what choice do you have?”

  “You’re right, my friend, no choice. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  “Just wait, you’ll see! The ambitious little corporal will help us take back Poland.—There was no letter for me?”

  “No.”

  Paweł stood and walked over to his cot. “Time for forty winks,” he said, lying down.” He closed his eyes, but he somehow sensed Jan watching him.

  “You don’t like her, Jan.”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s to the point. That’s why you’ve never talked about her, asked about her.”

  “She made things difficult for Anna and me—before you knew her.”

  “How?” Paweł opened his eyes and pulled himself into a sitting position on the side of the cot. “I’d like to know.”

/>   Jan looked over at Paweł, a grim expression on his face. Paweł’s own unflinching expression commanded a response. “Before Anna went to live with Zofia and her parents,” Jan began, “Zofia got it into her head that a marriage to me would keep her from having to marry the man her parents had chosen. When Anna happened on the scene and Zofia saw that we were falling in love, she became obsessed.”

  “And?”

  “And she did things to separate us, Paweł. Her interference led to Anna’s being attacked—and then to having her married off to Grawlinski. And you know how that ended.”

  Paweł thought a long time. “But she saved Anna’s life at Praga.”

  “That she did.”

  A few more minutes went by. “You think me a fool, Jan?”

  “No, Paweł, no friend of mine is a fool.”

  Paweł sighed. “Oh, I know Zofia’s not staying home every night caring for little Iza.—But a flying fish cannot stay in the air forever, you know.” Paweł straightened his shoulders. “I know her better than you might think.—Do you know she carves?”

  “Carves! Carves what?”

  “Figures, little wooden figures made of linden wood.”

  “You must have a fever, man! You’re talking through your head.”

  “No, really! Once I came home from—oh, I don’t recall now, but it was late. Zofia had gone out. When I checked her room, I found a trunk open near her vanity. In it were carving tools and all these little figures, most of them rather crude, but a few weren’t bad.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned!”

  Paweł chuckled. “Me, too.”

  “What did she say about them?”

  “I never told her I found them. I closed the trunk—actually it was her dowry chest—and she just didn’t know. I suspect one of the peasants who took her in taught her.”

  Jan smiled. “Did she carve one of you?”

  Paweł laughed, shaking his head. “Nor you—unless it was that thin ugly one with the crooked nose!”

  Jan laughed, too, and threw his czapka at Paweł.

  It came back to Paweł later that night how he had almost let out the secret that he belonged to the Brotherhood. The night he discovered the carvings he had been returning from a meeting. Had he let it slip, Jan would have been full of questions. It had been a close call. Paweł had been sworn to secrecy under pain of death, and even though the Brotherhood was quite capable of eliminating traitors of any kind, it wasn’t that fear that kept him from speaking of it to his friend. It was that the Brotherhood had plans—possible plans, they said—for Jan’s son Tadeusz. Paweł hadn’t a clue as to how Jan would react should he find out—but he instinctively knew the revelation could be dangerous to everyone involved.