Against a Crimson Sky

by James Conroyd Martin

  Around and around. And yet again—as if their interest was only to madden their quarry.

  Jan’s arms moved with lightning speed, his saber slicing into the arm of one, then glancing off the shoulder of the next. His left hand was reaching for his carbine.

  Now—unseen—came the blow to his own neck, and the world of men, weapons, horses, and hooves revolved, swirling about him. He heard his carbine strike the ground.

  Something else—something heavier—struck the ground then. It took some moments for him to realize that it was his own body.

  He opened his eyes to find himself in the middle of—no, at the bottom of—a whirlwind. Amidst the smoke, swish of swords, and cries of men, the Cossack horses danced around him, their instinct keeping him safe for the moment.

  Stunned and immobilized, he waited for a Cossack deathblow. Men and horses spun about him. In the east he could see the first crimson rays. His last dawn. Light went to dark and light again.

  And, finally—dark.

  3 May 1807

  “Listen to me, Anna,” Zofia said. “There’s nothing for you to worry about. The siege at Gdańsk still goes on. That you haven’t heard from Jan means nothing. The man probably doesn’t have time to put a crust of bread to his mouth, much less a quill to paper.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “I am right! And just how does one get letters out of a war zone, may I ask?”

  Anna shrugged and affected a smile.

  Zofia changed the subject. “Now, this is really something, Ania, when we stand here ready to go and our girls are still at their toilette! What do you think?”

  Anna laughed and called up to Barbara.

  “What can they be doing?” Zofia asked. “Choosing bonnets? Ah, if only my Izabel had a sense of style.”

  In a few minutes, Barbara and Izabel came down the stairs, arm in arm. The foursome moved out into Piwna Street and fell into the flow of people moving toward the Market Square. It was a bright and sunny spring day. Because of the obvious symbolism, the third of May had been chosen for the presentation of the colors to representatives of the three Polish legions. The Third of May Constitution of 1791 had brought democratic reform into the heart of Europe and hope into the hearts of so many Poles. But it had been short lived. The Commonwealth’s neighbors would not tolerate the seeds of democracy being sown so near their feudal lands.

  The little group came into the crowded square. “Hold hands, you two,” Anna said to the girls, “and don’t let go, or lose sight of us.”

  “Look,” Zofia said, “there are the academy cadets!”

  Anna craned her neck, straining to see across the square. The many military cadets were given a place of honor near the dais that had been erected. They formed a semi-circle about the platform, three or four boys deep. Her eyes searched the clean and alert young faces for her boys.

  “There they are!” Zofia cried. “In that little wing off to the right.”

  Anna and the girls sighted them, too, and waved. Anna thought—or imagined—Jan Michał’s brown eyes taking notice. Of course, he dared not exhibit any behavior that wasn’t military. He stood like a wooden soldier, his little brother at his side.

  Jan Michał. Today was his fifteenth birthday. He had been born on the first anniversary of the signing of the Constitution. It was a sign, people had told her then. A good sign.

  The Archbishop of Warsaw stepped up to the simple altar upon the dais and began the celebratory Mass. A hush descended on the audience almost as if God himself had waved his hand for silence. The mingling of God and patriotism, Anna thought, makes for an iron will. It came to her then that it was that combination that made for the Poles’ love of glory.

  As the Mass progressed, her mind went back to the events at Sochaczew a few weeks before. She felt blessed and thankful that her two sons were here this day. That they both had lived through that terrible experience.

  But she had her worries and guilt, too. For the second time in her life she had killed someone. However deserving Doliński may have been of his fate, she still could not shake the sight of his dying right before her eyes—and those of young Tadek. She could only wonder how soldiers coped with the killing they were forced to do.

  They had left the Doliński manor house that night without looking back. Anna had wanted to go to the authorities, but Zofia pulled her aside. It would be too hard of a thing to explain and to prove, she told her. There would be questions and hearings and accusations—and no way to avoid bringing in the boys. What would that do to their futures? And what of the secret role of the Brotherhood? Was that to be exposed? At what expense? No witnesses had been present that night, Zofia pointed out. Doliński himself had seen to it that his servants were absent. Only he and the peasant who helped him were there, and they could no longer tell the tale.

  After Doliński’s death, Anna, Zofia, and the boys had gone to the school commandant, who—no doubt for Tadeusz’ sake—suggested, as did Zofia, Anna not go to authorities. He spoke to the boys himself, praising their mother’s actions and exacting from them strict silence. They were to tell no one. “Not Father?” Tadeusz asked. “No one,” the commandant said. The boys had sworn by the school code, and she knew they would not break their oath.

  So none of those present told anyone. In recent days, little articles had run in Warsaw’s Monitor about the strange death of the starosta in Sochaczew. The peasant found dead at the site had yet to be identified.

  Suddenly Anna realized it was time for the benediction. At this point the standards for the three legions—stitched by Polish women—were marched into the square and up to the dais, where ancient custom dictated that the dignitaries there drive a nail into the staffs so as to show their unswerving loyalty to the cause. The archbishop and other men of stature did so first.

  Then the General-in-chief, Prince Poniatowski, spoke eloquently of Poland’s past, present, and future, conjuring up for his listeners a country large in heart and soul and honor. After moving many to tears with his words, he spoke of the mothers, wives, and sisters who had sent or would send loved ones off to war, many never to return. “These women,” he exclaimed in stentorian tones, “Poland recognizes today by asking them to come forward and drive nails themselves into the standards!”

  An audible gasp went up from the audience. This was not customary. And then the line formed, folding and winding and looping about many times over, moving slower than the communion line, but just as sacredly quiet. Basia turned and looked up at Anna as if to say, Me too? Anna nodded to both Basia and Iza, directing them to the line. She and Zofia followed.

  As the line moved, she watched Prince Poniatowski on the dais. She had always admired him, but now she took him to her heart. He was handsome, brave, forward-looking, and compassionate. And he was the nephew of the former king. Did it not stand to reason he was a fine choice for king, should the throne be restored?

  Why, then, did the Brotherhood choose to support a boy candidate? It was true that King Stanisław—under the auspices of Russia’s Catherine—had raised Anna from countess to princess. Anna didn’t think of it often, and when she did, the thought never failed to effect in her a little jolt. And it was true that the Grońska bloodline could be traced to King Jan Sobieski. But she saw little chance of Tadeusz’ being elected king. She wished the Brotherhood had not conceived the notion. It was no boon to her family.

  This addition to the ceremony made by Prince Poniatowski added another hour to the presentation of the colors that had already gone more than two. And yet no one seemed to care. The day would stand in everyone’s memory. When the few at the tail of the snaking line had driven their nails, the archbishop offered his final prayer, the sounds of sniffling and a few sobs swept the square.

  A strong tenor voice sang out:

  “Poland has not perished yet,

  So long as we still live.”

  Spontaneously, the crowd joined in with the words of the Józef Wybicki song, filling the Market Squ
are with hope that seemed tangible.

  Then the crowd began dispersing, the academy cadets filing out of the square, two by two. Anna took one long final look at her sons. Sadness coursed through her. The students’ activities for the day had been planned by the academy. Jan Michał was not to be released for his birthday.

  Fifteen. Where were the years going? How few were left before Michał would be called to march? Before he would want to march? And then Tadeusz?

  Anna wished now that she had birthed only girls.

  Zofia steered the little group toward Piwna Street. She felt strangely serene after the ceremony. Perhaps I should attend Mass more often, she thought, laughing to herself.

  At the corner leading to their street, she caught sight of a soldier who seemed to be staring. No, he was staring as they passed. Zofia averted her eyes. Oh, she wasn’t above flirting with a young officer, but she wasn’t about to encourage an infantryman in the public street. Still, there had been something about his look. She turned back. He was still gazing intently. The corners of his fine mouth moved up to form the faintest smile. A knowing smile. Did he know her?

  She turned away again, her nose lifted. She would not give him the satisfaction of another glance.

  “What is it?” Anna asked.

  “Nothing—nothing at all.”

  They moved on another ten or twelve paces. The house was coming into view. She fought not to look again. They were nearly home. She thought of Lot’s wife who had been told not to turn around. His wife’s unhappy fate had no effect on Zofia. Her head turned about as if it had a power of its own.

  The handsome soldier still stood at the corner, watching. But he had removed his czapka. The late afternoon sun glinted in the white-blond hair. The blue eyes danced.

  Dog’s blood! Zofia felt her heart start to race. Is it possible?

  He smiled at her recognition.

  Before entering the house, Zofia placed her fan into the sleeve of her little jacket. “Oh, I must go back, Anna. I’ve left my fan in the square.”

  “You have a dozen more, Zofia. You’ll never find it.”

  “I know just where I placed it. It was Mother’s, and I don’t want to lose it.”

  “Let me go back with you, then.”

  Zofia was already moving away. “No, you go in with the girls. I’ll be back in no time.” Anna called something to her, but Zofia couldn’t decipher it amidst the noise of the crowd. She pushed against the current of those exiting the square, moving quickly toward the corner. How many years now? she asked herself. How many?

  Jerzy, she thought. Jerzy!

  Paweł arrived in Warsaw two days after the presentation of the colors. Zofia sat at the breakfast table regaling him with the details of the singular event.

  “I’m sad to have missed it,” he said. “Had I known, I might have arranged to arrive earlier.—Is Anna at home?”

  “No—Jan, where have you been, and how is it you can move about without your squadron?”

  “My men are attached at the moment to Napoléon. I’m in Warsaw—on a mission.”

  “And where is the great Emperor Napoléon?” Zofia asked flippantly. “He’s not at the siege of Gdańsk?”

  “No, but he’s running daily communications there with his General Lefebure. You can be certain he’s in charge from afar.”

  “But where is he? Or is that a state secret?”

  Paweł laughed. “No, he’s at Schloss Finkenstein in East Prussia. Has been since the first of April.—Where is Anna?”

  Zofia ignored the question. “Does he have a young woman with him?”

  Paweł nodded, smiling. “He brought her in at night in a covered coach. Very few have actually seen her, and we’re not supposed to know anything about her.”

  “Ha!” Zofia scoffed. “All of Poland must know by now! So much for Napoléon’s secrecy! It’s Maria Walewska, isn’t it—his petite Marie?”

  “Why—yes. Do you know her?”

  “I’ve met her.”

  “I take it you don’t like her?”

  “She’s a fool!” Zofia cried. “You know she’s married and has a young child. It’s all a bit much for a girl of eighteen.”

  “To be consorting with the man who imagines himself the Emperor of Europe?”

  “Does he? Have you seen her?”

  Before he could answer, Anna came into the room. Remembering his mission, Paweł stood, pulse racing, and went to kiss her.

  “This is quite a surprise, Paweł.” Her smile was wide and genuine. “It’s good to see you.”

  “And you, Anna!” he stammered. “I hear I missed an amazing ceremony on Sunday.”

  “You did!—But what brings you here now?”

  “He’s on a mission,” Zofia said.

  Paweł felt faint. He attempted a smile—or at least a passive expression—while he searched for the right words. He would prefer the battlefield to this.

  “What is it?” Anna asked.

  Paweł had not meant to blurt it out in the first few moments of seeing her, but he felt the words coming, tripping up through his throat as if he had no control over them.

  “I wanted to be the one to tell you, Anna.”

  “Tell me?” Anna’s face went white and to his right he heard a little gasp from Zofia. “Oh my God!” she cried. “It’s Jan, isn’t it?”

  Paweł drew in a breath.

  “Say something, Paweł.” Zofia ordered. “Tell us!”

  “Word reached me,” Paweł managed, “that—that Jan is missing.”

  “Missing?” Anna whispered. “Missing?” she repeated, swaying slightly. Zofia was at her side at once and assisted her in sitting. “At Gdańsk?” Anna asked.

  “Yes.” Paweł said.

  “It’s a siege, Paweł, isn’t it?” Zofia asked, a slight tremble in her voice. “How does one go missing in a siege?”

  Paweł kept his gaze on Anna as he spoke. “At night the enemy runs sorties out of the forts there. One night he disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” Anna muttered.

  “On a particular night, ten or twelve days ago, a large group of Cossacks overcame the rear detail of his squadron.”

  “Cossacks!” Zofia gasped, her hand going to her mouth. “My God!”

  Anna cast a confused look at Zofia, then turned to Paweł, her face questioning. “Is it better he died?”

  “They do have a reputation, Anna. But they don’t usually kill their prisoners.—You’re not to lose hope.”

  “Jan,” Anna whispered. “My Jan, a prisoner.” She looked dazed. “Cossacks . . . ”

  Zofia rose, went to the buffet, poured out a little glass of vodka and brought it to her cousin. Anna’s glazed green eyes looked up at Zofia, then at Paweł. Lifting her hand, Anna took the glass and drank down its contents.

  Paweł watched the beautiful Zofia at her vanity, but his heart was still heavy for his missing friend and for the news he had had to deliver to Anna.

  “So you knew all along about this scheme of the Brotherhood?” Zofia unclasped her necklace, glancing through the mirror to where Paweł lay on the bed, fully clothed. “And you told no one?”

  “I was instructed to tell no one.—Not even Jan.”

  “But why would they choose Tadeusz?” Zofia began to brush her hair, and the flames of the tapers on her vanity danced with her movements.

  “They wanted someone they could form from the earliest age.—Does it upset you?”

  “No—although it’s strange to think of a child of Anna’s as king.”

  “You’re jealous.”

  Zofia swung around on her stool. “No, why should I be jealous? Anna is family.—Besides, Izabel and I would find our places at a court of a King Tadeusz.”

  Paweł laughed with mock malevolence. “Already plotting, my dear?”

  “No, it’s only natural for the mind to wander.—Are you going to sleep in your uniform? You’re not in the field now, you know.” Zofia turned back to the mirror.

  As Pawe�
� rose and began to undress, he saw her watching him through the mirror.

  “Tell me, Paweł, do you think there’s a chance the Brotherhood will prevail?”

  “Off the record, I think not. Everything seems to go Napoléon’s way, sooner or later. Poland’s future will be in his hands, not in the Brotherhood’s.”

  “Nor in Russia’s?”

  “No.”

  “So—you think he will be Emperor of Europe?”

  “If he has anything to say about it, he will. But it remains to be seen. He stumbled a bit at Eylau, and I think that sowed in him a little insecurity, but he may very well put that behind him.”

  “And we’ll be at his mercy, won’t we, bowing and scraping at his throne—despite all the Polish blood being shed in the French cause?”

  “It’s in the Polish cause, too.”

  “Now, that’s what remains to be seen! Just watch, we’ll find ourselves with a French king. Napoléon, the High and Mighty!”

  Paweł said nothing. She had struck upon a strong possibility.

  Neither spoke for a while. Paweł climbed into bed. Zofia stood, her back to him. Her mood seemed to have undergone a transformation. “What are Jan’s chances, Paweł?”

  Paweł pulled himself up in bed. He felt his throat closing. “I—I don’t count him out, Zofia. The man has strength and determination.”

  “Cossacks don’t murder their prisoners?”

  “Sometimes, maybe. But often not—at least in an overt way. Most die as a result of the conditions they’re exposed to.”

  “I shouldn’t make Anna too hopeful, then.”

  “I don’t know. She should hope. She should pray.”

  ‘I don’t believe in prayer, Paweł,” Zofia said, allowing her chemise to fall to the floor. “I wish I did.”

  Paweł studied her in the flickering light of several tapers. She had such a beautiful body, he thought. So beautiful. Zofia didn’t move for the longest time. “Zofia?” He saw now that her back was shaking slightly. At a second urging, she snuffed the tapers and came to him, slipping beneath the counterpane. He took her into the crook of his arm and touched her cheek. “You’re crying.”