Polonaise (51 page)

Nothing. No sound. No movement. It was past midnight now, and he and his horse had been travelling for almost twenty-four hours. Sheer exhaustion made up his mind for him. He settled his horse for the night in the noisome lean-to that passed for the headman's stable, ate the last of the food he had so casually taken from the feast at Zakret, wrapped himself in his cloak and fell asleep on filthy straw.

Sunshine slanted on his face. But it was not this that had waked him. Outside, someone was whistling Dombrowski's March, very low – a whisper of a whistle. He peered through what passed for a window and saw a boy walking down the village street, looking nervously, eagerly, this way and that, whistling as he went. He was in the usual rags of a serf; his haggard face showed the tracks of tears.

‘Here!' Jan opened the door. ‘I'm here!'

He might not know the boy, but the boy knew him. ‘Lord Jan!' None of Miriam's serfs had ever managed the name Warrington. ‘Thanks be to the Virgin and all her angels. She said you'd come today.'

‘She?'

‘The lady.'

‘She's safe?'

‘Safe?' The boy hurried to join Jan in the hut and close the door. ‘With the Russian wolves on one side, and the French on the other! But, yes, she is alive. With Them. I'm to take you to her.'

‘Thank God!' He bent to pick up his cloak.

‘No, no. Not now. Not till dark. The French are everywhere. Foraging, marauding, murdering. They killed my father.' He
spat. ‘He was telling them we were their friends, offering to share everything with them. And they shot him. Just like that. They've no friends now. Not among us.'

‘But the lady, Miriam, what happened to her?' Recognising the boy's sick exhaustion, he pulled him down to sit beside him on his cloak, a friendly arm around him. ‘I am so sorry about your father. There will be a vengeance, I am sure of it.'

‘So long as I live, no Frenchman is safe. I swear it!' Having said this, the boy took a deep breath, as if he felt better. ‘As to the lady, may the Virgin care for her, even if she is a Jewess! If it was not for her, we'd none of us be alive today. First it was the Russians, see? They came at dawn, demanding every horse in the stables. Why? the lady asked. What was the need? They belonged to the Princess. He spat at her, the Russian officer, said he did not take questions from Jews. Said she was lucky they were in such haste. She asked again, why the haste? He struck her, lord, with his whip, across the face. She'll bear the scar until she dies. “That's how I answer you scum of Jews,” he said. They took every horse and pony, all the food they could find. But they were in great haste. I speak Russian,' he said proudly. ‘The lady's sons were my friends, they taught me. You know about them, lord.'

‘Yes, I know.' Did he remember often enough?

‘And I'm just a boy. I pretended to help with the animals. At least it made it better for the horses, having a friendly hand on the bridle, and nothing would have made any difference. I listened to what they said to each other. The French are across the Niemen. The Russian army is retreating, on the Tsar's orders.'

‘Retreating?' He could not believe it.

‘That's what they said. That's what they did. My cousin watched them go back to the other side of the valley, the way to Vilno. He told the lady. That's when the trouble started.'

‘More trouble?'

‘There's been no end to it. When the Russians had gone, the lady stood there, blood streaming down her face, said it would be the Princess's wish that the French be welcomed as friends. Gave her orders for it. She even had French flags, the tricolor, that she and the other women had made in secret;
said they were to be hung at the great gate. She would receive the French there, she said.'

'Brave!'

‘She's a lion! But, there are some among our people have never liked being ruled by a woman, and a Jewess at that. Kin of the old steward the Prince sent to Siberia years ago. They said it was every man for himself now. With the war begun, you see, they had only to join the army, shave their beards, be free men if they survived. When the lady spoke of their duty to the Princess and the little Prince they just laughed. It began to look very ugly. We were all out in the courtyard, shouting at each other, her friends gathering around the lady – not many men, but we'd have died for her. That was when the French came. They were upon us before we knew. No flags! No welcome!' He was shivering convulsively, and Jan pulled out his flask and gave him a few precious drops of brandy. ‘That's good!' He wiped his mouth with a filthy hand, tears trickling down his cheeks. ‘It would have made no difference. They were savages. Hungry savages. The lady tried to speak to them, in French, tell them we were friends – as she had planned – that the Russians had taken the horses. That made them angrier still. They wanted food, forage for their horses, drink, of course. We did what we were told. Except my father. After they killed him we obeyed. What else? Rushed about, fetching what the Russians had missed. There was plenty; they'd been in such haste. They ate like pigs, those French, in the courtyard, as if they'd not had food for days. And drank. Some fool showed them where the cellar was; the lady had pretended there was nothing but small beer. Her face was bleeding all the time, blood soaking into the front of her gown. She took no notice. Served them. Went on trying to talk to them in French. There was one, a sergeant, I think: the boss.' The boy was crying freely now. ‘He listened to her for a while; sitting on the mounting-block, at his ease; she stood by him, speaking, pleading, the blood still flowing. Lord, he laughed. He threw away his tankard, stood up, tore her dress off her. There, in the yard, in front of us all. It was like a signal. The lady had tried to keep the other women close to her. My mother was there, my little sisters. Some of our men tried to protect them, and were struck
down. I'm a coward, like the others. I hid my eyes and listened to them scream.'

Jan was shaking too. He drank, silent and deep, from the flask and passed it to the boy. ‘But they're alive?'

‘By God's goodness. There was commotion at the gate, suddenly; another party of Frenchmen rode in. A real officer, medals and a sash. He shouted something. Furious. It all stopped. Just like that. The lady got up from the ground, very slowly, as if it hurt her to move, mother-naked. I'm sorry!'

‘No. I have to know. She's alive.'

‘Oh, yes. The officer said something, wrapped her in his cloak. The other men were letting our women go. They're all alive. For what it's worth. My mother won't speak. My sisters won't stop crying.'

‘Life is worth a great deal,' said Jan, working it out, slowly, in anguish, for himself. ‘You must tell your mother and sisters that. So then what happened?'

‘They all rode away, taking everything: food, forage, all kinds of treasures from the palace. We had hardly time to speak, to think, to try to imagine what to say to them, to each other, while the women were indoors, finding clothes to cover their nakedness. I noticed it first!' He was proud of this, and it helped him. ‘The smell of fire! As they were going, the first Frenchmen must have set it, angry at being denied their pleasure. It was everywhere. And all the palace wood-built. There was not a hope, not a chance. That was when the lady came out, wrapped in furs, as if she would never be warm again, the blood running more slowly from her face, and took charge. No hope of fighting the fire, she said. We would all come here, to the village. But when we got here, it was empty. The French had been here too. They had all fled, and who can blame them? At least they didn't bother to fire it. While we were standing, wondering what to do, one of Them came out of the forest, masked and cloaked. You know about Them, lord?'

‘Yes, I know.'

‘So did the lady. He had come for her. She talked to him a little, then turned to us. There was a safe place, she said, in the forest, for those who wanted to come, but the life would
be hard. She was so white that the wound across her face looked like … looked like … Was there a saint, lord, who got such a wound? She had a duty, she said, to tell us, that if we came, we would be throwing in our lot with the French: “The ones who are true friends of Poland. Like those who rescued us.” We must not judge all Frenchmen by a few villains, she said. But any of us who did not wish to come were free to go our own ways. She promised us this, on the Princess Ovinska's authority. Of course I went with her, and my mother and sisters. Most of the women, some of the men. I'll take you to them tonight.' His voice was dwindling as he gave way to shock and exhaustion. ‘Were there saints, who were raped and saved their people? If she is not a saint, she is most certainly a hero. I think we'd all be dead, were it not for her.' And then, more sleepily still, ‘The Frenchman who saved us knew her, I think.'

He slept all day while Jan sat beside him, cold to the heart. At first he just sat, absorbing the full horror of it, but then, gradually, made himself think. He would need his own mind crystal clear if he was to persuade Miriam that they still had a future together. Making himself face it all, he saw that his own presence at Vinsk would almost certainly have made no difference. Except that he would be dead. The French soldiers who had savaged Vinsk must have been entirely out of control. What had happened to Napoleon's Grand Army, his disciplined, devoted troops? And what would happen to them if they moved on into Russian Poland like this, undisciplined, ravaging, making themselves hated? How many Poles would go on supporting them? He was facing not just the personal disaster of what had happened to Miriam, but the collapse of all his hopes, of all he had been working for.

In a way, it made everything easier. Towards evening, he sighed, allowed himself one tiny sip of brandy, and went out quietly to forage for food. The boy would be hungry when he woke. They shared raw beet leaves and a crust of mouldy bread and started as soon as the moon rose, Jan leading his tired horse. There seemed nothing left to say, except, ‘How far?'

‘Two hours, if we don't lose the way.' The boy's name was Michael. ‘I was named after the lady's older son. He'd be a
man now. The poor lady … Will she kill herself, do you think?'

‘No!' Explosively. After that, they were silent for a long while as they penetrated more and more deeply into the forest.

At last, Michael paused at the top of a slight rise. ‘Nearly there,' he said. ‘Wait here, till I come back.' And went ahead, whistling, very softly, Dombrowski's March.

It must have been a castle once, when Lithuania was rich and free, and its owner had been affluent and foresighted enough to build it of imported stone. Its walls bulked huge in the moonlight and when they had passed through a narrow entrance they found themselves in what felt like a thriving village. It was good to hear sounds of life again: a child cried, a dog barked, they could smell meat cooking. And strangely now, for the first time after all the day's anguish, Jan felt his eyes fill with tears. He turned, put a hand on Michael's shoulder. ‘Don't forget,' he said, ‘it's life that matters.'

‘Thank you, Lord Jan. Here is your way.' He flung open a door. ‘I must go to my mother.'

Firelight, the smell of food stronger than ever, guttering tallow candles, and a tall man waiting quietly to greet him. ‘Mr. Warrington,' he took a step forward, holding out a hand, speaking English with a French accent, ‘I am more sorry than I can say.'

‘Genet?' He could not believe it.

‘Yes. I've been Talleyrand's liaison with the Brotherhood since Erfurt. We've worked together, you and I, all this time.'

‘You and I and Miriam. How is she? Where is she?'

‘Asleep. I made her take laudanum. Nothing she and you could have said to each other tonight would have done any good. If it is any comfort to you, the sergeant who allowed the attack on Vinsk has been shot. You must understand that I meant to get there first, I hope you can forgive me.'

‘Can she?'

‘Yes. She's … she's a great lady, Mr. Warrington. She should have been a Princess.'

‘The boy, Michael, thinks she's a saint. Will she marry me, do you think, Genet?'

‘That's what you want? I'm glad. I can't say more than that I hope so. Anything I can do … But, forgive me, my time is
short. I have to be back in camp by morning. I need to know what you mean to do. So that I can give the Brotherhood their instructions. This is their Vilno headquarters. You'll not try to see anything, learn anything?'

‘I most certainly will not. What I want to do, Genet, is simple. I want to marry Miriam and take her home to America. There, nobody need know anything of this, except that she is a heroine. We've been lovers – I'm sure you know this – for years. If there is a child, it will be mine. And I shall love it, because it will be hers. Anyway, it may be mine. So … it is only to persuade her.'

‘I hope you can. We'll be sorry to lose you.'

‘I'd be sorry to go if I did not think our cause lost already. What's happened to the French army, Genet? How could what happened this morning have happened? What hope for Poland?'

‘None, I think. That's why I'm not even trying to persuade you to stay. When he crossed the Nieman, Napoleon told his troops they were entering hostile territory, entering Russia. That explains what happened at Vinsk. So much for the hopes of Polish Lithuania. I think, now, that I'm glad my master Talleyrand is not in charge at Warsaw. I'm afraid it's going to be one long heartbreak, with gallant Polish blood still shed in vain.'

‘And you?'

‘I'm in the army now. This is my last appearance as a member of the Brotherhood. Tomorrow I march with my regiment on Vilno, on … Who knows? Petersburg? Moscow? To the end of the world? It feels a little like that. But first I will tell the Brotherhood to see you and Miriam safe on your way to Warsaw and so to Paris and your United States.'