October 1812
Anna sat with Anusia Potocki and Maria Walewska in the reception room of Charlotte Sic’s rented town house. They had come an hour earlier from their volunteer duties at the hospital to visit the French princess and to support Zofia, who would not leave her bedside. After a short visit to the princess’ chamber, they took up vigil in the reception room below. A servant made her way about the room, lighting tapers against the increasing darkness. The painted porcelain Gdańsk clock on the mantel ticked loudly.
The three friends, acutely affected by the sight of Charlotte and her labor to draw breath, sat in silence for what seemed a long while. Anna noticed that hers were not the only eyes to move toward the ceiling, as if the drama being played out in the upstairs bedchamber might be visible.
“Maria,” Anusia asked, “was there by chance a letter for you in the packet containing the emperor’s latest Paris bulletin?”
Contrary to the present mood in the room, Napoléon’s fall Bulletins de la Grande Armée—passing into Warsaw and the temporary care of Abbé Pradt, then on to Paris—had been filled with the telling of splendid results. The Grande Armée pursued the Russians, stalking the enemy who retreated, evaded, fought only when cornered, and retreated yet again. Smolensk had been a marvelous victory, the emperor boasted. And now Moscow itself had been won. Warsaw received the magnificent bulletins of the emperor with great fanfare. Anna, however, was one of the few to question—if only to herself—a cake with so much icing.
Maria took good time in answering. “I did have a letter,” she finally said, shrugging sadly. “He avoided the subject of my going to Moscow.”
“Ah,” Anna said. “He must have a reason, Maria. Perhaps he doesn’t expect to be there long.”
“Perhaps,” Maria said with a sigh.
“Although,” Anusia said, “my father-in-law believes the emperor has no choice—that with winter all but upon them, they’ll have to stay.” As if suddenly realizing her observation did not lighten Maria’s mood, she added, “I’m certain that by the next bulletin we’ll have an indication of what he’s going to do. If he’s to stay, I know he’ll send for you.”
Maria braved a smile and Anna agreed, knowing that Maria longed for a repeat of the happy winter she had spent with Napoléon at Schloss Finkenstein. How difficult it must be for a mistress who truly loves a married man, she thought. There was no question that Maria Walewska loved Napoléon Bonaparte.—But did he love her?
For Anna and Jan, the latest mail packet from Moscow had been more reassuring. As usual, Paweł had been able to include in it a letter, this one detailing Anna and Jan’s sons’ safe installation in a little village outside Moscow. To hear Paweł tell it, they thrived in the Grande Armée. And her fears regarding the possible danger to Tadeusz from King Jerome were allayed a bit when she read that upon finally joining the French forces, Napoléon took away Jerome’s command of the right wing of the French army, placing him instead under the command of General Davout. So incensed was the young self-proclaimed genius-king that he resigned in protest and returned to Westphalia.
Anna read and reread Paweł’s letter, wondering if he—like Napoléon—painted a picture of the march with a brush dipped in colors that did not reflect reality. She found herself accepting his brief reports much like Warsaw accepted the bulletins of the emperor—with great celebration. And a greater wish that the news was true.
A noise on the stairs was heard now, then soft voices in the hall and the door closing on the doctor. Zofia came into the reception room. “Thank you so much for staying,” she said to the three, her face a white mask. No one needed to be told what had just occurred. The French princess who had cheated the guillotine years ago had died.
“It was peaceful?” Anna asked.
Zofia nodded, walking to a window and staring out into the twilight. “I asked Char if she was afraid, and she said the oddest thing, Anna. She said that when you think of yesterday without regret and tomorrow without fear, you are near contentment.”
When Zofia turned back to face Anna and Anusia, Anna realized there were transparent pearls in her cousin’s eyes. A rare thing, she noted.
The days in Moscow ticked by like the slow-moving second hand of a watch. It seemed clear to everyone that Aleksandr was passing on his turn in the game: he was not about to sue for peace terms. Speculation as to what Napoléon would do ran rampant among his officers and soldiers. Some envisioned him taking action soon by seeking out Kutusov for a decisive win, then marching to Kiev and the Ukraine, where the weather was better. Others thought he should retreat to Smolensk, but that meant a fifty-day journey with an army woefully under-clothed for the sub-zero winter blasts of the steppes. The surviving horses lacked frost nails for their hooves. Staying in Moscow had its proponents because there was adequate shelter and a good six months’ supply of food. But that decision ran a serious risk: Would the Russians not gather up confidence and amass an army for a winter engagement? And the French could not hope for reinforcements now until spring.
Paweł could understand why the emperor vacillated. While he wished Napoléon would pause in his novel reading—for this is what seemed to occupy most of his days—Paweł was glad it was not his decision to make. Even now, in these dark and portentous days, he felt Poland could be the key to success for Napoléon. If only he would declare Poland free and independent, then send the Poniatowski Fifth Corps southeast to Minsk in support of the two Polish forces there that were supporting the Austrians in the southern French flank. Combined, Poniatowski, Dąbrowski, and Bronikowski would muster a real Austrian offense against Russia’s Third Army of the West and the Russian Army of the Danube. And the thousands of Poles back home who had doubted Napoléon would engender a new wave of recruits. If only…
But Paweł guessed that Napoléon judged such a declaration of independence for Poland too great an incitement to Russia. Aleksandr did not like the idea of a free people living under a democratic constitution on his western border any better than Catherine had. And Napoléon seemed to hold out hope that he could still make his peace with the tsar. It was a delusion, Paweł thought.
Lines of communication with the French detachment in Smolensk began to break down as Russian partisans there rose up in great numbers, committing such atrocities that demoralized French soldiers came to fear capture far more than death in battle. The interception of Napoléon’s dispatches containing his Bulletins de la Grande Armée became routine. In light of political problems in Paris, Napoléon at last made up his mind on 17 October: The order came down that French forces were to evacuate Moscow in two days, retreating to the River Niemen.
The next day, as Paweł directed his Young Guard in the collecting of supplies and packing in Voronov, word came that General Murat was under full attack at the nearby village of Winkovo. Poniatowski mobilized the Fifth Corps and came to his rescue, but not without twenty-five hundred allied casualties. It was an unhappy omen for the retreat. At three in the morning, Paweł knocked and entered the quarters of Jan Michał and Tadeusz, afraid what he might find. He had seen Jan Michał in the midst of the battle, holding his own—but nowhere had he seen Tadeusz. The room was dimly lighted by two tapers, and it took some moments for his eyes to adjust. Cooking oil permeated the little hut. Two forms stood over the third, which lay on one of the cots.
“Major!”
Paweł sighed in relief to see it was Tadeusz saluting him. His eyes then moved to the young woman, who was cleansing a shoulder wound Jan Michał had incurred.
The patient tried to rise from the cot. Nadzia pushed him down, uttering a sharp word, so he settled for saluting from the prone position, apologizing profusely.
“That’s all right,” Paweł said, moving closer. “How bad is it?”
“A flesh wound,” Jan Michał said. “Nothing at all.”
“It’s to the bone,” Nadzia contradicted.
“That’s because I’m all bone. Mama always said so—no flesh. It’s nothing, I tell you.”
“Lie still,” Nadzia said.
Tadeusz laughed. “Isn’t she something, Major?”
Paweł nodded, then addressed Nadzia. “You’ve cauterized wounds before, I can see.”
Nadzia gave a little shrug as if it was nothing.
Paweł addressed Michał: “The convoy of wounded has left already, but perhaps we can catch you up to them.”
“No, Major—please! I’ll be able to ride. I will!”
“We’ll see about that.”
“But, Major— ”
“Ah, no arguments tonight, Michał. We’ll see how you are tomorrow. I do have some news.”
“We trounced them!” Tadeusz cried. “What could be better news? Ran off their main guard like they were a handful of drunken Cossacks!”
“Not without taking our lumps, as Jan Michał here demonstrates. Remember that, Tadeusz. In war everyone loses. And don’t ever underestimate Cossacks!””
“Yes, Major.”
“The news is that the Young Guard is to stay behind with Marshal Mortier long enough to explode the Kremlin and its arsenal. There are sixty thousand Russian muskets there that we’re not going to leave behind to be used against us later.”
“Good lord!” Tadeusz, punctuating it with a whistle. “The Kremlin—what fun that will be!”
“It’s a duty, Tadek.”
“Yes, sir.—Duty and pleasure.”
“Once that’s done, the Young Guard will catch up and ride rearguard.”
Picking up the wash basin, Nadzia moved toward the little kitchen area to tend to her baby. Her face was a dark mask. Paweł could see that she had been crying recently, and he became immediately suspicious. “Michał,” Paweł asked, “you have not—become involved?” He cast a sidelong glance at Nadzia.
“No,” Jan Michał said. “Nothing like that!”
Paweł turned a questioning look to Tadeusz. “And you, Tadek?”
“No,” he said, tossing off a laugh. “Too old for me and married besides!”
“What are the tears for, then?”
“She’s afraid,” Tadeusz said.
“Terrified is more like it, Major,” Jan Michał said. “She feels safe with us, and she’s convinced that she and her baby will be killed once we leave, if not by the Cossacks or the Russian soldiers, then by the returning villagers who thought her an outsider before—before all this.”
Paweł wished that he could deny the likely fate—but he could not. Nadzia was in a precarious and dangerous situation. He watched her now as she lifted her baby from his crudely made crib.
“She wants to go with us,” Tadeusz chimed.
“To Poland?”
Jan Michał nodded.
“What about her husband?”
“She doubts he’s even alive. She’s thinking about her baby, Major.”
Paweł thought. “Perhaps we can place her in one of the camp followers’ vehicles. Her nursing or cooking skills should come in handy.” Both boys brightened at the suggestion. “Now,” Paweł asked with a wink, “are you going to offer me a vodka, or not?” It was only after a second drink that Paweł revealed his other news. “I won’t be leading the Young Guard with you tomorrow,” he said.
The boys looked stunned.
“I’ve been assigned to the advance guard as Napoléon makes his getaway.” Paweł could tell the news had a profound effect on the boys, but they both quickly donned masks of acceptance. This was the way of the army. “You’ll be riding under Major Mortier.”
Jan Michał stoically nodded as Tadeusz said, “Yes, sir.”
The subject was dropped and the façade of nonchalance continued, and after a third drink Paweł left the hut. Walking back to his quarters, he worried that he had failed Jan and Anna. He had tried to hold on to his present duty, but Poniatowski told him Napoléon himself had made some positive comment when he saw Paweł’s name on the proposed list, recalling the days in Poznań when Paweł and Jan had taken him on day trips into the country. The man’s memory was remarkable.
Both Michał and Tadek had grown into fine, self-sufficient soldiers, he told himself. He had taught and they had learned fast. He had tried to capitalize on Michał’s strategy prowess—to great success—and to curb Tadek’s impulsiveness—to considerable improvement. But he could not play guardian angel to them throughout their military careers. In fighting for a chance at independence for the Commonwealth, they were following through on Jan and Anna’s dreams started twenty years before. They would prove worthy of the challenge. The day had come to let fly the unhooded falcons—and it had come at the behest of the emperor himself.
God grant them both glory in battle and long life!
“No news is good news!” Abbé Pradt kept repeating as his arriving guests asked if he had reports from the front. “We are here to dance—to enjoy!”
“Again, the man has nothing to say,” Anusia Potocka whispered to Anna as they waited their turn in the reception line.
“And he says it,” Anna replied. “You have to give him that.”
“Why do we show up at his doings?”
“In the hope that some news will have come through.”
“I know, I know. Oh, Anna, you and Jan must be beside yourselves with worry.”
The archbishop’s splendid receptions had continued without interruption despite the fact that no dispatch had come through Warsaw for weeks. Was Napoléon now sending his bulletins on directly to Paris? Or were the dispatches not making it through the lines? Most believed the latter true. Rumors of tortured and murdered messengers abounded.
Anna and Anusia moved forward. “What is this?” the abbé asked in mock horror. “Lady Potocka, you have worn black to my soirée! Is this a wake, I ask you? A funeral?”
Anusia smiled tightly. “It is my favorite dress.”
“Ah,” he said, “at least your diamonds redeem you.” He turned his attention to Anna. “The green of your gown is dark, too, Anna. Although it shimmers beautifully.”
Anna curtsied. She had grown to thoroughly dislike the little archbishop.
“Is Maria with you?” the abbé asked.
“No,” Anna said. “She’s a bit under the weather.”
“Spending too many hours at the hospital, I’ll wager. As both of you do, I hear.”
“Don’t rely on hearsay, Your Eminence,” Anna said, emboldened by the man’s insouciance. “Come see for yourself.” Anna and Anusia broke free of the abbé, whose smile soured slightly, and he went on to the next in line.
“Good for you, Anna!” Anusia whispered. “It wouldn’t hurt him to bring a little of his false enthusiasm to the men in the hospitals. Let’s sit here. Do you think anyone will dance tonight?”
“I doubt it—unless they transport some of the hospital’s ambulatory patients. Besides, no one is in the mood to dance.” A darkness had come to Warsaw, blanketing it like a pall of black crepe. The hospitals had filled with men who had been wounded at Wilno, at Smolensk, at Borodino. They were the bravest of the brave during the day but cried out in their sleep, sobbing for the many more wounded and stragglers left behind. To hear them tell it, more men died of disease than in battle. And groups of marauding Russian peasants had risen up, not Cossacks but common people incensed with the disruption of armies—and no doubt nourished by the generations of abuse on the part of their own government. Victims were murdered in gruesome ways. Eyes were gouged out. Men were dropped into vats of boiling water or repeatedly propelled to the ground with such force that no part of their spines were unbroken.
When the famous Napoléon bulletins ceased, all of Warsaw and all of Poland held a great collective breath. And as fear for fathers, brothers, and sons—as well as for a free Poland—set in, rumors and speculation became rife. The Polish imagination knew no bounds. No news was not good news, Anna thought, listening to the strains of a polonaise. In his last letter to Maria, Napoléon told her that he would not have her there at Moscow. Anna thought this only gave credence to the widely-held belief that the French were in retreat. That some terrible defeat loomed.
Zofia approached them now. She wore a lovely berry-red satin gown, cut low at the bosom. “Hello, Anna. Anusia, it’s good to see you. I haven’t been to one of Pradt’s receptions in the longest time.” After an exchange of greetings, Zofia sat and the three watched as a young woman was escorted to the floor by an octogenarian. They were the only couple to attempt the mazurka.
“Pradt pushed them out there at gunpoint, no doubt,” Anusia whispered.
“Pradt!” Zofia hissed. “The man has a piss-pot on his shoulders!”
Anusia laughed, nodding at the odd couple on the dance floor. “I’ll wager the goat doesn’t manage to stay vertical the length of the dance.”
“Shush!” Anna rasped. “That’s Maria’s husband.”
“Former husband,” Zofia corrected.
“Indeed, by God, you’re right, Anna!” Anusia cried, her hand going to her mouth. “Just look at him—and those spindly legs!”
It was not long before Zofia grew restless. She made her goodbyes to everyone—with the omission of Abbé Pradt—and left.
“This is the first I’ve seen Zofia since the funeral, Anna,” Anusia said. “She’s taking Charlotte’s death very hard. Not a real laugh or even a genuine smile tonight.”
“It’s more than that, Anusia.” The words were scarcely out of Anna’s mouth before she regretted them. She had learned over the years to consider content before speaking, but she still occasionally failed at doing so.
“What?” Anusia was already pressing. “What is it? Do tell!”
“You must swear secrecy, Anusia. If Zofia wants you to know, she’ll tell you.” When Anusia duly swore, Anna said, “She went to the reading of Charlotte’s will today.”
Anusia gasped. “Oh! She didn’t get the diamonds?”
Anna shook her head. “Nor the chateau near Paris.”
“What did she get?”
“Nothing.”
Anusia was dumbstruck. “Nothing?—Precious lord, I thought Charlotte had no one in the world but Zofia.”
Anna would bait her friend no longer. “She had a granddaughter of sorts.”
Anusia caught on immediately and drew in a great breath. “Izabel!”
Anna nodded. “Iza received—everything.”
“Everything?” Anusia’s mouth formed a perfect circle. Catching her breath, she said, “Well, at least it’s in the family. But Zofia must feel as if she’s been stabbed.”
“For now, she does.—And you might say the knife was double edged.”
“What do you mean?” Anusia asked.
“The answer to that lies in the why of Charlotte’s bequest.”
“I’m listening.”
“Zofia has had every intention of marrying Iza off to Prince Adam Czartoryski.”
“But he’s old enough to be her father—and didn’t she try to get him to the altar herself?”
“She did, years ago,” Anna answered, “and although the prince has been an inveterate bachelor, he, like most men of some stature and ego, wish to bring children into the world. That, coupled with Iza’s beauty—the dark hair and light coloring and eyes—would most likely have turned his head.”
“All right, assuming that’s so, what was Charlotte’s intention?”
“Can’t you guess? She didn’t want Zofia deciding Iza’s future. Now, with her own fortune from Charlotte, Iza need not be bullied into an arranged marriage.”
“Ah! I see!” Anusia let out a great sigh. “A sleight of hand by Charlotte—and orchestrated from her grave no less. Everyone always thought Zofia the clever one! She must be angry as a hornet.”
“It’ll pass—I hope,” Anna said. “She should know the dangers of arranged marriages.”
Anusia shrugged. “Mine was an arranged marriage, and it didn’t turn out badly.”
“Well, my first one was, too, and it turned out very badly!—Now, you’re not to allude to your knowledge of this, Anusia.”
“I know.—I have a secret I’m bound to tell you now, too.—Once, when Zofia was well into her cups, she told me how she had never quite gotten over King Stanisław’s elevating you to princess. After all, she had had a little fling with his Royal Highness, as you must know. I suspect her machinations with Czartoryski were partly because of her jealousy of you. Had he married her, she would have been a princess, too! There! Now we are even. One secret for another. Don’t you think it’s time to leave?”
“I do.” Anna stood, choosing not to tell her friend that her secret about Zofia was no secret.