“Stupid as a cuckold, you mean. . . . And she . . . has she . . . delivered the goods?”
Charlotte nodded.
“The little fool!” Zofia hissed.
“He wants to bring her to Paris.”
Zofia felt her temples throbbing. “Ah, the Caesar-Cleopatra scenario. I wonder how Josephine will take to that.”
“I’m sorry, Zofia. I really am.”
“For what?” Zofia gave a little wave. “I won’t have you or anyone pity me. A cholera on them both!”
“It’s hard, I know. When I met you, I still had remnants of my beauty. But no more, no more. Only my diamonds sparkle as they did in those wonderful days in Paris before the rising of the scum.”
Zofia tilted her head at her friend. “So you think I have only remnants of my looks left?”
“No, no, child! You are still very beautiful. But you’ll be thirty-four this year, yes?”
“Yes, thank you for reminding me.”
“And Maria is eighteen.”
“And a twit.”
“A patriotic twit. She’s to be Napoléon’s ‘Polish conquest.’”
“It makes me ill, Charlotte. I was to be his conquest.”
Charlotte reached across, placing her hand on Zofia’s. “No, Napoléon Bonaparte was your conquest, Zofia.—And that’s what made all the difference.”
Zofia thought for a long moment, then gazed at her long-time friend as if for the first time. She was right: her own aggressiveness had done her in. Her own hunger. It seemed she had been short-changing Charlotte’s intelligence for years.
“You still have the love of Paweł,” Charlotte said. “Why, I haven’t a notion.”
“I do have that. And do you know what? I can’t figure it, either.”
“Will you still go tonight?”
Zofia shrugged. “And see the twit?” She thought for a long moment. Did she really want to stay home? Her back straightened. “Dog’s Blood!—Why shouldn’t I go? There will be other men there besides the illustrious Caesar and his nubile whore.” She laughed then. “Taller men and men who take more than five minutes to make love to a woman!”
Napoléon Bonaparte, so they said, somehow deluded himself into thinking his affair with the married Lady Maria Walewska went unnoticed in the nation formerly known as the Commonwealth, but by early February and far removed from Warsaw, Paweł caught wind of the French emperor’s Polish conquest.
Napoléon had had to tear himself away from his newest passion to join his forces assembling near Eylau. The Russians, it seemed, were impervious to winter’s wrath.
No Polish forces were included in the French formations; nonetheless, because of his knowledge of the terrain, Paweł—and a dozen of his squadron—had been attached in a special assignment to Prince Murat’s forces. And it was at Eylau that Paweł would learn that Napoléon Bonaparte was not wholly invincible.
The Russian General Beningsen had initiated the winter action in the Polish lakeland region that drew Napoléon from the warmth of the bedchamber to the theater of war. Napoléon’s initial decisions, solid as they seemed, were thwarted by mishaps, intercepted orders, and the hostile eastern Prussian lands rife with snow, frigid cold, and quicksand. A game of cat and mouse with Beningsen ensued for four long days, nightfall alone bringing down the curtain on the fighting.
Then, on 7 February, a skirmish evolved into battle at 2 p.m. and continued for eight hours, the flash of artillery holding back the dark. The night temperatures dropped to thirty degrees below zero, so few of the combined four thousand French casualties survived the field. The battle raged the next morning despite constant snowstorms. One French corps ran against the pelting snow straight into a Russian seventy-gun battery and was cut to ribbons. When an opening occurred in the French line, Bennigsen took full advantage and six thousand Russians overran Eylau. For one precarious moment, disaster was a mere heartbeat away because Napoléon had been issuing orders from the town’s bell tower when the town was taken—and were it not for his heroic personal guards, he would have been taken, as well.
Riding with Prince Murat, Paweł witnessed the most telling event of the day. At a little before noon, the Murat cavalry crashed into the Russian center, commandeering the Russian guns, and at last turning back the enemy. And yet fighting continued until ten at night. The snowy landscape, lighted by the moon, was laden with corpses as far as one could see. Tens of thousands. It was a sight Paweł would never forget.
The days-long battle ended in a standstill with the French leaving the fields of Eylau to the Russians. It would take more than an emperor’s word to burnish the engagement as victory of any kind. Prince Murat released Paweł with commendations for the extraordinary work of his squadron of lancers. Paweł made his way back to accept further orders from General Dąbrowski. He had lost four good men.
The true winner, it seemed, was General Winter.
A few days later Paweł learned the emperor had moved his headquarters to East Prussia. Much later, critics—and there were many—would say that as a result of the battle at Eylau, Napoléon’s military prowess suffered a lasting loss of surety. In any case, Maria Walewska—my petite Marie, Napoléon called her—joined him at Schloss Finkenstein to console him, and their tryst continued in style.
Jan Stelnicki joked with Lucjan as the servant packed the portmanteau. Lucjan was true and loyal but no replacement for the camaraderie he had shared with his friend Paweł.
The cavalry were preparing to move out. A few days earlier, General Dąbrowski had apprised the officers of the orders. A siege of the Prussian-held city Gdańsk was the ultimate objective. The infantry had already moved out of Poznań with orders to neutralize any and all villages and towns along the Gdańsk Road. The mud-laden roads hampered travel so that the days passed slowly. Agonizingly so. Rumor had it that Napoléon Bonaparte—still snug at Schloss Finkenstein with his Polish conquest—claimed to have discovered in Poland a new obstacle to his brilliant war strategies: mud.
The cavalry followed in the infantry’s wake through Gasawa, Bydgoszcz, Świecie, catching up to the infantry at Gniew and then moving past Cieplo. They expected significant opposition at Tczew and so halted not far away, the officers gathering around Dąbrowski as he laid out his plan of attack on the Prussian-held town. It would be executed in the early morning.
The men settled in for the night. The homes in the suburbs of the town were owned by Poles who saw to it that the forces were well fed. Planks were brought out so that men could avoid sleeping in the mud. In the morning, Jan’s squadron preceded an infantry battalion, moving past the suburban houses toward the houses nearest the Vistula Gate. Dawn brought into focus mounted Prussian Hussars on the heights. Marksmanship on horseback was a dicey thing, and few shots of either side found their marks. Jan halted his horse, took careful aim with his carbine, and felled one of the Prussian hussars who were now disappearing behind the suburban houses to wait their chance.
Jan’s men moved into position on either side of the gates, drawing fire while the infantry and grenadiers made for the gate. The houses nearest the wall were occupied by Prussian foot soldiers, and a volley spat out now from what seemed every door and window. Its effect on the Poles was deadly, wounding a number of the infantry, killing an officer, and sending the unit into disarray, with many fleeing. House-to-house fighting was the worst kind of warfare.
Jan saw a young friend of his, Lieutenant Dezydery Chlapowski, stand up next to the body of his fallen comrade and rally his men. “Stay for the cannon!” he called. “Don’t fall back now! For Poland!” The young man had a true Polish heart! His effort was well rewarded, for within minutes, a French squadron could be seen rolling their cannon up the street that led to the gate.
The rallying troops, the lumbering cannon, and the approach of an additional battalion had its effect: a second Prussian volley did not materialize. Instead, the Prussian infantry, covered by their few hussars, retreated, running pell-mell into the walled town and slamming shu
t the gate.
Fire was exchanged while the cannon were being set up and a number of men fell, French and Polish. It took three shots from the cannon for the gate to collapse. Buoyed by this success, the infantry, accompanied by Jan’s lancers, burst into Tcew. A second battalion had been sent to the Mill Gate and additional cavalry to the Gdańsk Gate, which was, Dąbrowski had said, a likely escape route. The enemy fell into a full rout, and within an hour the Prussian commander, General Roth, surrendered in a church where he had found sanctuary. With him were eight hundred men. A number of Prussians had attempted to escape across the delicate ice of the River Vistula, but few escaped drowning.
Jan came through it all physically unscathed, but the price had been high. One hundred fifty Poles had been lost, a half dozen from his own squadron. And it was only after the battle that he learned that General Dąbrowski himself had been wounded.
So when they moved out of Tcew, it was with General Kosinski in command.
24
Princess Charlotte Sic’s sleigh stopped in front of Paweł’s town house at midnight. Anna and Zofia were handed down by Charlotte’s driver amidst the hard falling snow. The three friends had spent the evening at the Potockis’ and were still in good humor. “Farewell!” Charlotte called as the sleigh pulled away. It was the only vehicle on Piwna Street.
“Farewell!” Anna called.
Zofia had already proceeded toward the front door. As Anna turned to follow suit, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Another sleigh was pulling out of the adjacent alleyway. It did so in almost total silence because the street’s thick layer of newly fallen snow muffled the hooves of its horses and hiss of blades. Anna blinked at the strange sight. Two men sat in the front. The driver was on the far side of Anna’s view. The passenger turned for a moment in Anna’s direction, either to glance down the street for traffic—or because he sensed Anna’s presence. For the briefest of moments his face was bared by the moon and reflecting snow. He immediately turned away, and in moments the sleigh was moving quickly away, as if into the vortex of the snowstorm.
Anna thought she recognized the face. Was it possible? Could it have been? Her mouth went dry as she tried to call to Zofia. She couldn’t speak.
“What is it, Anna? Hurry in! You’ll catch your death out there.”
“Zofia!—Did you see?”
“See what?”
“That sleigh!”
“What sleigh?” Zofia descended the few stairs to Anna. “Charlotte’s sleigh?”
“No, there was another.”
Zofia glanced in either direction. “I don’t see another. Just a sheet of snow. Come in the house now.”
The sighting had been most peculiar, and Anna felt sick to her stomach. Had she imagined seeing Doliński? “Zofia, it came out of the alley leading to the coach house.”
“Paweł’s coach house? That seems unlikely, Anna. Come in now.”
In the downstairs hallway, the sense of urgency did not relent. Without removing her wrap, Anna rushed the stairs.
“Where are you going?”
“To Basia’s room! You must check on Iza.”
“But—why?”
Anna paused and turned. “Just do as I say!” she screamed, then made her way to the second floor. Her heart beat frantically against her chest as she pushed open the door to Barbara’s bedchamber. It was completely dark. And cold—no one had seen to the hearth before bedtime. She moved into the room. “Basia?” she whispered. “Basia?” She fumbled for the candle on the bedside table. Her hands trembling, she lighted it. “Basia?”
“Mother?” The sleepy voice sent relief flooding into Anna’s body. Barbara sat up in bed. “Oh, Mother, I fell asleep.”
Anna sat on the side of her daughter’s bed. “That’s as it should be. It’s very late.”
“But I wanted to stay awake for you to come home!” Barbara seemed suddenly fully awake, her voice effervescent.
“Why, dearest?” Anna’s hand sought out Basia’s.
“Because they’re home!”
“Who’s home?” The terrible sick feeling returned.
“The boys, Mother. The boys have come home!” Barbara withdrew her hand and flew from the bed. “Let me go get them. I’ll bet they’re not yet asleep!”
“No, Basia!” But the girl was already out of the room and heading for the stairway to the third floor. Anna took the candle and followed. On the landing, she nearly collided with Zofia, who was just coming up from the first floor, candle in hand.
“Izabel is sound asleep downstairs. What’s all the commotion up here?”
“Basia says the boys have come home!”
“Did you expect them?”
“No!” Anna knew at her core that something was amiss. Before she and Zofia could turn to mount the stairs to the third floor, Basia’s scream rang out, long and loud, and then came a refrain of several more, staccato and piercing. Anna looked at Zofia and saw her own fear reflected there. Shielding their candles, the two rushed up the stairs.
On the third level, ahead in the shadows, Anna could make out Basia’s crouching body and a form lying prone on the floor. The girl was crying hysterically.
Fear rose up, clutching Anna at the throat. She moved closer. Then both she and Zofia saw it. Barbara knelt weeping over the body of their sheep dog, Borys. A crimson sash lay nearby the lifeless dog. Anna took no time to examine the dog or console her Basia. She moved to the boys’ room. Why was it Basia’s screams had brought neither of them out? She opened the door and peered into darkness. As she walked in, her candle shed light on Jan Michał’s bed. He seemed to be in it—with the covers pulled over his face.
Anna leaned over and pulled back the bedclothes. What she saw made her gasp. Michał had been tied with a sash and cravats. His mouth had been gagged so tightly that he could scarcely breathe. “Jan Michał!” she cried.
By now Zofia had come into the room. She moved toward the other bed, lighting that area of the room as she went. Anna started at once to remove Michał’s gag, but she looked up as Zofia’s candle lighted the area around Tadeusz’ bed. It was empty.
“Dog’s blood!” Zofia cried.
In less than an hour, Anna and Zofia bundled themselves into the open sleigh that Jan Michał had hitched. “Make for the western gate, Michał. Fast as you dare!”
“I shall,” he called back from the driver’s seat.
His story had spilled out with his tears. A note had come to the academy, ostensibly from Anna, hinting at some family tragedy and requesting the boys’ presence at home. Arriving home, they had been greeted by Barbara and Izabel. Not long after they had gone to their bedchamber, taking the sheep dog with them, Borys began scratching at the door, as if wanting to get out. Assuming that he preferred sleeping near Basia, as had become his custom, Michał opened the door and shooed him out. A minute later, he heard a low growl and the sounds of scuffling. He went to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the hall. At that moment something hard came down on his head. He went out like a snuffed candle.
When he came to, he was bound and gagged in his bed, the covers reaching up over his head. He lay very still, listening intently to sounds in the room. He could hear Tadeusz’ muffled voice in protest. There were two men in the room, he realized. They spoke Prussian. While Prussian was not his best subject, Jan Michał did manage to understand them. They had been instructed to bring Tadeusz to some Prussian town Jan Michał had not heard of. The one who seemed to be working for the other kept asking about payment, but he was told to keep quiet.
Are we to bring clothes for him? the underling asked. No, he was told, the boy would be needing no changes of clothes where he was going. The intimation had been clear to Jan Michał, and then, upon the retelling, to Anna and Zofia. Tadeusz had been kidnapped and would likely be killed in Prussia upon his delivery.
Zofia had gone white. “Why on earth would anyone wish harm to sweet little Tadeusz?”
Anna could see that her question stood
for Jan Michał’s thoughts, as well. “There are reasons, Zofia, but for now we must search him out.”
“How?” Jan Michał asked, wiping away the last of his tears.
“Tell me, Michał,” Anna asked, “did either of them use the other’s name?” When he said no, she asked, “Did one of them have a rough, raspy voice?”
“Yes! Mother, he did! The one who was the boss. Like gravel it was!”
It was as Anna had thought when she saw the sleigh move noiselessly out from the alleyway leading to the coach house. It had been Doliński’s face she caught just for a second in the light of the moon. Her fear for Basia had proved wrong. He had been after Tadeusz. Her son was a captive in that sleigh and at the mercy of Doliński!
Anna remembered Paweł’s warning and concluded that Doliński must somehow be connected to the Polish member of the Brotherhood who had infiltrated the group on behalf of some Prussian interest. Or—perhaps he was the spy himself!
They passed out of Warsaw’s western gate. “We’ll have to make a decision soon, Mother,” Jan Michał called back. “Which way now?”
Anna leaned forward. “Take the Sochaczew Road, Michał!” What am I doing? Anna asked herself. What? Flying through the night in a sleigh—two women and a fourteen-year-old boy—chasing down a criminal who could easily kill them all without a wrinkle to his conscience? She sat back again the cushion. What have I gotten us into?
But there had been no time to tell authorities, authorities that would likely find her story incredible. No time to seek help from the Brotherhood, even though they were likely to believe her because of their interest in Tadeusz. No time. She had to act. Tadeusz’s life was at stake.
Iza had been as distraught as Basia over the dog’s death, but she collected herself and brought Basia downstairs to stay with her the remainder of the night. Neither Michał nor Zofia would be left behind. Or could be! Anna knew she needed them. Before leaving, Michał took down from the wall the saber that had belonged to Anna’s ancestor who had used it when King Jan Sobieski stood against the Turks at Vienna, and for his service had been ennobled. Zofia and Anna each took a pistol. Only Anna had ever fired one—once, a long time ago.
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