Read Online Song of the Legions by Michael Large - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Large
Ads: Link
Irony of ironies, this infantry regiment of four hundred men had been gifted to the nation by none other than Felix Potocki himself – who else! That was in happier times, years ago when he dreamed of becoming the King. The man knew how to play off both sides all right.
A grand regiment they were too – naturally, since they were all Podolians! We Podolians could ride and shoot. We were tough border people, strong of body, simple of brain. We did what we were told and went to our deaths happily and without complaint. We therefore made excellent soldiers.
How treacherous was that war, then, setting kin against kin! These brave Podolians were led by Felix Potocki’s own nephew, the infamous Jan Nepomucen Potocki. Another raving Jacobin, rabidly for the Constitution, he was a captain in the engineers, and a right queer fish, according to Sierawski. Still, here he was, and good for him. We glimpsed him that morning, through the smoke on that blasted hill, charging forward with his men.
My good Podolian countrymen threw back the Russians and gave them a sound beating – and gave the nation yet more cause to rue Felix Potocki's treachery. Oh for a few thousand more of us! Four hundred men was a mere cobweb against a deluge. The Russians immediately retorted with an infantry charge, securing the village of Zielence, which was on our flank.
Our brigade had not even drawn a sword yet. A rumour spread that Pepi had ordered cavalry to eject the Russians from the village – and so he had, but it was not our brigade. The honour fell to others. We stood by, bitterly cursing our luck, as another squadron flew by us – only to fly back again, leaving the village in flames, and the Russians also withdrawing from it, but in good order.
It was a stalemate, with the armies locked together like two wrestlers trying their strength.
When the Russian assault finally came, it came on the right. A massive bombardment fell on our elite cavalry. Simultaneously they were charged by massed ranks of Cossack horsemen. Our view of this was obscured by the hills and the pall of powder smoke. We heard all the evil sounds – the crack of gunshots, the random, disembodied shouts, the rattle of drums, and the call of the bloody trumpets. We heard first the barrage, then the hideous cries of dying men and the shrieks of stricken horses. Then, finally, we heard the Cossacks, and their bestial war cries –
“ Pole-Jew-Dog – Die!
Die, Lachy, Die! ”
‘Lachy’ is a derogatory Russian and Cossack term for Pole. This particular ‘song’ dated from the massacres at Uman, in the great Cossack rebellion in the last century.
“The Cossacks are splendid looking fellows, but they write very poor songs,” I said, to try to steady my platoon's nerves. Inside my stomach churned like a milk pail, but I kept my face impassive and lit my pipe with a steady hand. Men are like horses. You must show them you are not afraid, and they will think you are made of iron.
Next we heard hoof beats and trumpets – shouts – and saw gallopers haring to and fro, carrying messages. A cannonball trundled past us, taking with it the leg of an unfortunate horse.
“Our right wing is retreating!” came a shout.
“We have no orders!” some laggards yelled. “Give us orders!” came shouts from all around, and pathetic cries of “Run! Save yourselves! Every man for himself!”
“Here’s the order!” I roared, drawing my pistol, “the first man to run, dies!” I caracoled my horse, and trained my gun on my wavering comrades.
“Here we stand, here we die!” I roared, my voice hoarse but calm. “We hold the line! They shall not pass!”
The platoon, who knew that I was a man of my word, held. Still, it was pandemonium everywhere else, as we saw a line of our cavalry streaming past us in full flight.
“Bastards! Cowards! Traitors!” we jeered, shaking our fists at
A grand regiment they were too – naturally, since they were all Podolians! We Podolians could ride and shoot. We were tough border people, strong of body, simple of brain. We did what we were told and went to our deaths happily and without complaint. We therefore made excellent soldiers.
How treacherous was that war, then, setting kin against kin! These brave Podolians were led by Felix Potocki’s own nephew, the infamous Jan Nepomucen Potocki. Another raving Jacobin, rabidly for the Constitution, he was a captain in the engineers, and a right queer fish, according to Sierawski. Still, here he was, and good for him. We glimpsed him that morning, through the smoke on that blasted hill, charging forward with his men.
My good Podolian countrymen threw back the Russians and gave them a sound beating – and gave the nation yet more cause to rue Felix Potocki's treachery. Oh for a few thousand more of us! Four hundred men was a mere cobweb against a deluge. The Russians immediately retorted with an infantry charge, securing the village of Zielence, which was on our flank.
Our brigade had not even drawn a sword yet. A rumour spread that Pepi had ordered cavalry to eject the Russians from the village – and so he had, but it was not our brigade. The honour fell to others. We stood by, bitterly cursing our luck, as another squadron flew by us – only to fly back again, leaving the village in flames, and the Russians also withdrawing from it, but in good order.
It was a stalemate, with the armies locked together like two wrestlers trying their strength.
When the Russian assault finally came, it came on the right. A massive bombardment fell on our elite cavalry. Simultaneously they were charged by massed ranks of Cossack horsemen. Our view of this was obscured by the hills and the pall of powder smoke. We heard all the evil sounds – the crack of gunshots, the random, disembodied shouts, the rattle of drums, and the call of the bloody trumpets. We heard first the barrage, then the hideous cries of dying men and the shrieks of stricken horses. Then, finally, we heard the Cossacks, and their bestial war cries –
“ Pole-Jew-Dog – Die!
Die, Lachy, Die! ”
‘Lachy’ is a derogatory Russian and Cossack term for Pole. This particular ‘song’ dated from the massacres at Uman, in the great Cossack rebellion in the last century.
“The Cossacks are splendid looking fellows, but they write very poor songs,” I said, to try to steady my platoon's nerves. Inside my stomach churned like a milk pail, but I kept my face impassive and lit my pipe with a steady hand. Men are like horses. You must show them you are not afraid, and they will think you are made of iron.
Next we heard hoof beats and trumpets – shouts – and saw gallopers haring to and fro, carrying messages. A cannonball trundled past us, taking with it the leg of an unfortunate horse.
“Our right wing is retreating!” came a shout.
“We have no orders!” some laggards yelled. “Give us orders!” came shouts from all around, and pathetic cries of “Run! Save yourselves! Every man for himself!”
“Here’s the order!” I roared, drawing my pistol, “the first man to run, dies!” I caracoled my horse, and trained my gun on my wavering comrades.
“Here we stand, here we die!” I roared, my voice hoarse but calm. “We hold the line! They shall not pass!”
The platoon, who knew that I was a man of my word, held. Still, it was pandemonium everywhere else, as we saw a line of our cavalry streaming past us in full flight.
“Bastards! Cowards! Traitors!” we jeered, shaking our fists at
Similar Books
