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Authors: Michael Large
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them.
“What do we do, Sir?” a soldier shouted.
“I told you! We hold the line, damn it!” I roared, brandishing my pistol. I remember that I felt oddly calm and happy, almost exhilarated, in that moment. By some miracle, the right wing held. More than that, it began a counter-charge, utterly decimating the Cossacks and the Russian cavalry.
It was General Zayonczek – he had rallied them. Zayonczek, my fellow son of the black earth, came hurtling back and forth, laughing like the wrath of God. A Podolian is worth ten ordinary soldiers, by God! The men began to recover their courage, and forget their fear. Thus is a battle fought, with the heart and mind swinging wildly from fear to bravery, and sometimes back again.
At that point, with the men starting to take heart, Pepi came ambling past us, as if on a summer stroll in the country. He was on foot, at the head of those of the Potocki regiment who were still alive, and two more battalions from other regiments. We cheered them to the heavens. The infantrymen were powder-blacked, covered in mud, bloodied, in tatters. How we envied them! Fools that we were!
Pepi was conversing with Zayonczek, who leaned over from his saddle to take his orders. The Prince was on foot, and armed with musket and bayonet, like an infantryman, as was his wont. Pepi was fond of quoting our enemy, Suvarov, who held to the dictum ‘the bullet is a fool, but the bayonet is a fine fellow!’ The army loved Pepi for many reasons, but not least because he would regularly dismount from his horse, roll up the silk sleeves of his gilded tunic, and wade into the trenches with the bayonet alongside the common soldiers.
Scurrying behind Pepi were two liveried servants, carrying some sort of collapsible bed or table. It was Pepi's harpsichord. As the cannon balls fizzed overhead and buried their noses in the Zielence mud, Pepi's servants unfolded his music box and a camping stool. Smiling serenely beneath his moustaches, the Prince settled before the instrument and, quite extempore, proceeded to perform a short recital of the marvellous, nameless, jaunty mazurka that we had heard on the Third of May. A great cheer rang out across our ranks as he concluded, and he stood to a round of applause. Behind him, a crew of artillerymen was desperately dragging a cannon into position.
“Ah!” Pepi cried with delight, “here is the percussion! Play well, boys, and don't miss a note!”
We could see Zayonczek haranguing Pepi as he played upon his keyboard. There was no love lost between the two of them. After a short and bad-tempered conference, Pepi reluctantly put up his instrument and the two generals made their way over to our line.
“Comrades,” Pepi addressed us genially, “the right wing has held, after a small affair with the Cossacks, who have now been put to their heels.” This brought a huge cheer of relief. A weight lifted from all our hearts. Pepi grinned and held up a hand. “However, the Ekaterinoslav Grenadiers are now on their way to meet us, instead. These Podolian fellows and I shall receive them warmly.”
Grenadiers, as you will know, are the elite of the infantry. As one, our brigade begged and pleaded with him to let us run them down. We had not fired a shot or drawn a sword all day, and it was now late, so late, in the early evening. Pepi declined. “Thank you, comrades, but no. You are my reserve, and will await further orders.”
It was more than we could stand. It felt like a gloved slap. Heartbroken, humiliated, we sat on our horses, cursing, fuming like caned schoolboys.
On came the Russian grenadiers, giant men, splendid in their blue and grey uniforms and bulbous fur hats. Rays of evening sun glinted off their shouldered muskets as they marched towards us in perfect order. As they marched up the slope, Pepi and his sharpshooters began to fire on them. At every shot a grenadier seemed to fall to the ragged crash of rifle
“What do we do, Sir?” a soldier shouted.
“I told you! We hold the line, damn it!” I roared, brandishing my pistol. I remember that I felt oddly calm and happy, almost exhilarated, in that moment. By some miracle, the right wing held. More than that, it began a counter-charge, utterly decimating the Cossacks and the Russian cavalry.
It was General Zayonczek – he had rallied them. Zayonczek, my fellow son of the black earth, came hurtling back and forth, laughing like the wrath of God. A Podolian is worth ten ordinary soldiers, by God! The men began to recover their courage, and forget their fear. Thus is a battle fought, with the heart and mind swinging wildly from fear to bravery, and sometimes back again.
At that point, with the men starting to take heart, Pepi came ambling past us, as if on a summer stroll in the country. He was on foot, at the head of those of the Potocki regiment who were still alive, and two more battalions from other regiments. We cheered them to the heavens. The infantrymen were powder-blacked, covered in mud, bloodied, in tatters. How we envied them! Fools that we were!
Pepi was conversing with Zayonczek, who leaned over from his saddle to take his orders. The Prince was on foot, and armed with musket and bayonet, like an infantryman, as was his wont. Pepi was fond of quoting our enemy, Suvarov, who held to the dictum ‘the bullet is a fool, but the bayonet is a fine fellow!’ The army loved Pepi for many reasons, but not least because he would regularly dismount from his horse, roll up the silk sleeves of his gilded tunic, and wade into the trenches with the bayonet alongside the common soldiers.
Scurrying behind Pepi were two liveried servants, carrying some sort of collapsible bed or table. It was Pepi's harpsichord. As the cannon balls fizzed overhead and buried their noses in the Zielence mud, Pepi's servants unfolded his music box and a camping stool. Smiling serenely beneath his moustaches, the Prince settled before the instrument and, quite extempore, proceeded to perform a short recital of the marvellous, nameless, jaunty mazurka that we had heard on the Third of May. A great cheer rang out across our ranks as he concluded, and he stood to a round of applause. Behind him, a crew of artillerymen was desperately dragging a cannon into position.
“Ah!” Pepi cried with delight, “here is the percussion! Play well, boys, and don't miss a note!”
We could see Zayonczek haranguing Pepi as he played upon his keyboard. There was no love lost between the two of them. After a short and bad-tempered conference, Pepi reluctantly put up his instrument and the two generals made their way over to our line.
“Comrades,” Pepi addressed us genially, “the right wing has held, after a small affair with the Cossacks, who have now been put to their heels.” This brought a huge cheer of relief. A weight lifted from all our hearts. Pepi grinned and held up a hand. “However, the Ekaterinoslav Grenadiers are now on their way to meet us, instead. These Podolian fellows and I shall receive them warmly.”
Grenadiers, as you will know, are the elite of the infantry. As one, our brigade begged and pleaded with him to let us run them down. We had not fired a shot or drawn a sword all day, and it was now late, so late, in the early evening. Pepi declined. “Thank you, comrades, but no. You are my reserve, and will await further orders.”
It was more than we could stand. It felt like a gloved slap. Heartbroken, humiliated, we sat on our horses, cursing, fuming like caned schoolboys.
On came the Russian grenadiers, giant men, splendid in their blue and grey uniforms and bulbous fur hats. Rays of evening sun glinted off their shouldered muskets as they marched towards us in perfect order. As they marched up the slope, Pepi and his sharpshooters began to fire on them. At every shot a grenadier seemed to fall to the ragged crash of rifle
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