Against a Crimson Sky

by James Conroyd Martin

  The truth was, Anna could scarcely believe her own nerve. She could not help but wonder, though, if it was possible for Aleksandr to intercede with Austria on behalf of the lost estates. She remembered that before the meal Anusia’s mother-in-law had joked about asking the tsar outright for all of Poland back, then noting in a whisper that one didn’t ask for something a monarch had not already deigned to grant before the asking.

  The tsar finally wearied of reciting Russia’s virtues without inciting more than a raised eyebrow from Anna. He fell silent and used his fork to put his mouth to better use. Soon another topic at the table took his attention.

  During the course of the evening—to every patriot’s disappointment—Aleksandr only alluded in the vaguest way to his purpose regarding Poland. But in the reception room the after-supper wines prompted his bolder and flirtatious generals to ask the women what trifles in the way of fashions and perfumes they might wish from Paris, so presumptuous were they that their victories would one day soon take them to the heart of Napoléon’s power.

  “Now, aren’t you glad you came?” Zofia asked on the return trip to Praga. “Remember, you’re the one who has always loved politics.”

  Anna had been listening passively to the clattering of the wheels on the cobblestones. “I wish to know only those politics that pertain to my country.”

  “Anna, I do appreciate your bringing up my estate at Halicz. What nerve—sometimes you surprise me.”

  Anna shrugged. “Do you think it will come to pass—that Aleksandr will declare himself King of Poland?”

  Zofia gave her characteristic flick of her wrist. “Not if Napoléon finds his way into Warsaw first. He undoubtedly has similar intentions.”

  “Ah—so we will be a prize fish over which they’ll contend—the East and the West!” Anna spoke with a sharp edge. “Why can’t monarchs be content with what they have? Why must they always meddle with Poland?”

  “It’s their way, I suspect.”

  “What did you think of Aleksandr?” Anna asked.

  Zofia smiled, then winced. “ He’s nice enough looking, but a bit too—too elegant—for my taste. And fidgety rather than frisky, if you know what I mean. I like a leader to be, well, more in command. He was kind enough to you, though.”

  “Those who seem always kind may not be kind always.”

  Zofia laughed. “Too true!—Now, Napoléon Bonaparte—there’s an emperor I want to meet.”

  “Why is that?” Anna asked. “What intrigues you about him—his new title?”

  Zofia shook her head. “His power, cousin,” she pronounced in a languishing drawl. “His power.”

  Late into the night, Anna sat in a chair before a window that looked out on Piwna Street. The room had once been Paweł’s bedchamber. For the second time that night Anna took stock of the Warsaw years. At the time Zofia’s invitation to come live in Warsaw had been extended, Anna had inwardly laughed. The idea of once again living with her cousin seemed ludicrous. They were too much at odds.

  But her mind had changed in a moment that very day as her carriage came into Sochaczew on the return trip to her estate. They were stopped by Prussian guards, and Anna found herself once again in Lord Doliński’s clock-filled office.

  While he made no overt move toward her, something had changed in his demeanor. She sensed something had shifted in the balance of power, and she was learning to trust impulses of this kind. Did he doubt Jan would ever return? Did he no longer care if the Brotherhood got wind of any action taken against the mother of a possible candidate for the monarchy? Whatever it was, she drew in the scent of imminent danger, especially when he hinted he might send a carriage for her, as before.

  It was in that room and at that moment that she made her decision to leave Sochaczew. The next day was spent in preparation. In the dead of night, she hurried Barbara and Katarzyna into the carriage where the sheep dog, placed there by Jacob, happily waited, tongue slobbering over each one entering.

  Anna made certain that the driver knew what country roads to take so as to avoid the main district of Sochaczew. Emma offered to come along, maintaining her position as the children’s governess, but Anna would not hear of separating her from her husband, who had the estate to manage. At the last moment, Lutisha came huffing out of the house with a pitiful valise. “You’ll not leave me behind, Lady Anna. Please allow me. I’m old now but not without value. And I would die sooner in an empty house.” She was in her seventies now, her frame less corpulent and a bit bent, and although she moved slower, she seldom stopped moving. Anna nodded and motioned her forward, tears filling her eyes. She was family. Soon there were tears all around as the goodbyes were made, no one forecasting that four years would pass—and still no end in sight.

  19

  November 1806

  General Dąbrowski’s promise to Jan that the peace of Luneville would not last and that the French would move against Austria and other coalition members took good time to play out. Napoléon Bonaparte had been too busy in Paris bullying the French senate into declaring him Emperor of France. Even the pope was present at the ceremony the previous year to give his benediction. Jan wondered what Machiavellian undercurrents made that possible. The French people acquiesced but were less enthusiastic about a revived monarchy than was the growing army that regarded him an idol.

  Then came the new emperor’s preoccupation with a planned invasion of Britain, an attempt that dragged on for two years. When a series of misadventures ended disastrously as the French-Spanish armada met with the English at Trafalgar, Napoléon’s dream-vision of the tri-color flying in London dissolved like a sugar cube in hot English tea. So as he turned his attention to the continent, the legionnaires took heart that Poland—too long the wallflower—would be given the attention she deserved. Her old enemies, the Austrians and Russians were now aligned with the English against the French upstart while Prussia claimed neutrality.

  Jan and Paweł caught their first glimpse of the emperor when he arrived in Lombardy and had himself crowned Emperor of Italy in a ceremony of great pomp.

  “So much for a new egalitarian order,” Jan said at its conclusion.

  Paweł chuckled. “The mapmakers will have their work cut out for them. Boundaries are going to be shifting time and again, like wiggling snakes on a hot stove.”

  Jan didn’t laugh. It was said the emperor had a kingdom planned for each of his many brothers. He bristled at the thought. Poland would not suffer such degradation, he told himself. Not Poland. And then came the bitter thought that to the rest of the world Poland did not exist.

  Leaving the legionnaires behind, the French moved on Austria, quickly taking Vienna. While the neutral Prussians dithered about joining the enemy coalition, Napoléon—with his growing Grande Armée of three hundred fifty thousand—met the Austrian-Russian forces at Austerlitz, a hamlet east of Brunn in Bohemia. Like every other Polish legionnaire in Lombardy, Jan and Paweł were held spellbound by the story of Napoléon’s military prowess that sent the Austrian and Russian monarchs in full retreat. Removing his forces to Poland with great dexterity, Aleksandr even sent the French emperor a letter of congratulations. Jan recalled Anna’s letter of months before detailing the Potocki party and the arrogant presumption of Aleksandr’s generals in promising Parisian tokens to the Polish women. He chuckled to himself, wondering if they dared even stop there on their return route—or rout—tails between their legs.

  “The little Corsican is lucky,” he would tell Paweł, more out of mischief than conviction. “It’s mere luck!”

  “His brilliance is in his choice of generals,” Paweł would say. “They’re young! Their commissions are based on merit, Jan, merit. They’re not the doddering old fools his enemies have for generals, men who have by chance or cowardice stayed alive—or the pink-faced young noblemen still wet behind their ears.” And he would continue in that vein until Jan raised his hand in surrender.

  The map of Europe did change. Jan had to admit Paweł had been right
about that. After Austerlitz, the emperor destroyed the Holy Roman Empire by fusing a number of central states and principalities into what he called the Confederation of the Rhine, with its seat at Frankfort. Jan took comfort that Poland’s longtime enemies—Prussia, Austria, and Russia—would never come to terms with France while its vassal state—the Confederation—sat like a watchdog among them. And as long as Poland was tied to France, there was a chance for the phoenix to fly.

  Prussia did take to the field and for a time fought alone but was outfoxed by Napoléon at every turn. The French occupied Berlin and went on to claim great victories at the twin battles of Jena and Auerstädt. The occupation of three fourths of Prussia and decimation of her army did not bring full surrender, however. Queen Louise insisted the fight would go on and—with a band of partisans—took to the east to join Aleksandr.

  Rumor had it that the French people wanted Napoléon to fall back, that a continuing war, its cost and casualties, was quite unpopular in France. Instead, he followed his own drumming pulse and continued east. Anxious for allies, he set his sights on Poland.

  The news buoyed Jan and Paweł. They sensed their days of defending a foreign kingdom—mostly inactive now— were numbered. Poland was coming into the equation.

  They were right. Early in November Dąbrowski entered their quarters with the news. Jan and Paweł were to accompany him to Poznań to prepare for the entry of Napoléon Bonaparte into the city.

  Anna stood at the window of her bedchamber’s anteroom, the room that served as her reception room since Paweł’s second floor was given over to her and Barbara. She was watching for the crowd to disperse from St. Martin’s early morning Mass.

  The city was profoundly quiet. Only days before it had teemed with the reverberation of marching boots upon the cobblestones as the Russians retreated from Napoléon, allowing a brief respite for Warsaw’s citizens. Anna wished she could see what had become of Aleksandr’s strutting sycophants—surely those that survived moved back toward the steppes with less swagger than they had demonstrated on their way west.

  Her eyes darted from person to person as the faithful below bundled themselves up and made their sorties into the cold, winter wind. It was but a Tuesday, and yet Barbara had insisted on attending Mass. What a little saint she was becoming at the tender age of nine! She had taken the sacraments of Holy Communion and Confirmation so very seriously and now took advantage of their close proximity to the church by attending Mass almost daily. The present for her recent name day that she liked the most was a little pamphlet on her feast day saint. And she was already looking forward to her twelfth birthday when she would attend convent school.

  Anna smiled to herself, recalling how Jan’s faith was in a God found in nature. Would he be surprised by a daughter so devoted to church and ceremony?

  Anna caught sight of Basia now, descending the stairs, the purple wool greatcoat well-fastened. The wind pulled back the white veil from her head now, whipping the blond hair into a motion that from a distance made it look like a glowing halo.

  Ignoring the errant veil, Barbara leaned into the wind and began navigating the few hundred paces to the house. She moved along on the opposite side of the street and drew very near to where she would cross over. Anna was just about ready to go downstairs to open the door when she saw a man step out of an entryway and detain her daughter. As if he had been waiting for her.

  Barbara looked surprised at first, but then she smiled at something he said. The man pointed across to the house and asked her something. Barbara nodded. Another question. This time she shook her head. He continued to talk to her.

  Anna drew as close to the window as possible and wiped at the frost, an alarm ringing in her head all the while. She stared, a sick rising within her. Much of the man was covered by his hat and coat, but the nose and moustache—and something about his manner—revealed his identity. Her hand went to her heart. Good God! Doliniski!

  Anna turned and made for the stairs. One hand grasping the folds of her skirt, the other the banister, she fairly flew down the long flight. Rushing to the door, she pulled it open, certain that her worst fear would be realized—that her daughter would have vanished.

  “Mother!” Barbara stood in the doorway, momentarily stunned by Anna’s breathless intensity.

  Anna looked from her daughter to the vacant entryway across the street—and back again.

  “What is it, Mother?”

  Anna reached out to her daughter’s arm, drew her into the house, cast another glance across the street, and closed the door.

  Anna found herself going to the window several times during the course of the day to assure herself Doliński was no longer there. In the evening she was still very much unnerved. Since coming to Warsaw she had put the man out of her mind, as if he didn’t exist. But now he had brought himself into her life again. Barbara had confirmed that the man did indeed have a gravel-like voice. Why was he stalking her family? Why?

  Was it in connection to Tadeusz? Anna had never given any real credence to the notion that her son might actually take the throne of Poland, even if it were restored. It was just that—a notion—and far out of her family’s star. In truth, she did not wish for it to happen. In her short life she had seen too many tragedies befall monarchs. It made quite a list, she thought now: Louis and Marie Antoinette, Catherine’s husband Peter and son Paul, and, of course, Stanisław. The doorstep of the palace is slippery.

  If only her family could be reunited—that would be enough for her.

  The Brotherhood was educating her child with an eye to his becoming king. She had obeyed Doliński and kept the secret, even from Jan—not only because of his threats, but because she never believed such a thing could happen. That morning Doliński had asked Barbara her name, where she lived, and with whom. He had complimented her on her hair and eyes, too. The thought that he was attracted to her chilled Anna to the marrow. “He was a very nice gentleman,” Barbara had said, curious over Anna’s concern.

  “He’s not a nice gentleman, Barbara Anna!” Anna’s hands grasped hold of Barbara’s upper arms and shook her. “He’s not, do you hear? And you are not to talk to him—or any stranger again. If there is no one to go to Mass with you, then you’re not to go. Is that understood?”

  “Yes,” Barbara said, her green eyes round with wonder.

  After Barbara left, Anna was once again drawn to the window. What did it all mean? Anna wondered, staring down into the street, cursing her husband’s absence.

  Jan was not surprised by the friendliness of the crowd as the Polish forces under Dąbrowski entered Poznań, one of Poland’s great cities. Those who turned out seemed as like-minded as he in hoping Poland would be raised. French squadrons had arrived two days before, and preparations were well underway for the arrival of the emperor.

  The Polish forces were billeted in the inns, homes, and outbuildings of a single neighborhood. Jan and Paweł found themselves toasting each other in a particularly nice inn where they had been allotted commodious lodging.

  Paweł looked about the vaulted dining hall. “Ten to one when the city really starts filling up, our rooms go to some brass.”

  Jan lifted his glass of vodka. “Let’s toast it while we can, then!”

  “You’re right,” Paweł said, lifting his glass. “In war, you live for the moment. As if each day is your last. To life!”

  “Sto lat!”

  Paweł laughed. “Lucky the soldier who does live to be 100.” They drank down the mediocre vodka, and Paweł called the girl over to refill their glasses.

  A few days later, they rode a good distance out of the city. Coming to a bluff, they sighted the arrival of the French infantry. It hardly looked like an army at all. To avoid the thick mud of the roads, the men held to no formation but crossed the fields haphazardly as they searched out dry paths, their muskets held in no particular way, their greatcoats of every imaginable color painting the landscape like a craziquilt.

  As they came within sight
of Poznań, however, their drums commenced and the scene was transformed. Within moments coats were removed to reveal uniforms, and the men fell into formation, muskets in proper position, and the bicornes on their heads perfectly straightened. Jan and Paweł marveled at the sight. The two rode back to the city in time to see the infantry’s arrival in the Market Square. These men who had been trudging the roads for days stacked their weapons and began cleaning the mud from their shoes. Camaraderie was loud, friendly, and full of fun.

  “It’s as if they’ve just marched in a parade,” Jan marveled.

  Paweł shook his head. “Good God, what spirit, down to a man!”

  “I won’t be too quick to trade in my horse for an extra pair of boots, but I can see now why it is the infantry that wins the battles. The cavalry works the infantry to their advantage and often claims the credit, but here’s a sight that reminds one where the glory truly belongs.”

  When Emperor Napoléon Bonaparte himself crossed the old Polish western borders, General Dąbrowski and his legionnaires were sent out to greet him. The Polish force had already camped for the night when Napoléon’s retinue arrived. Napoléon assigned the legionnaires to ride both before and after the carriage, a clear indication of his faith in Dąbrowski. The general, sitting straight in his saddle, rode parallel to the carriage, and when the mud made the going painfully slow, he and Napoléon would converse through the carriage window.

  The nighttime arrival into Poznań precluded a grand entry. The emperor’s entourage was billeted at a Jesuit mission, where the legionnaires stayed as well, four to a room. For three days the emperor employed a contingent of the Polish legionnaires—including Jan and Paweł—to ride with him on exploratory missions. In the evenings, the two friends returned to their more capacious and comfortable rooms at the inn.