July 1831, Zamosc, Poland
Having ridden several miles northeast of the Zamość Fortress, Jerzy Lesiak and two other soldiers were reconnoitering the area for sign of enemy movement.
“We’ll ride to that ridge,” Lieutenant Albin Klimek called and the three rode on, taking the long, gently sloping way, Klimek in the lead with Jerzy and a cadet, Kazimierz, flanking him. A perfect lookout point. It was an easy order, Jerzy thought, a predictable one. And one he would have given—had he been born into the szlachta, been educated as one of the minor nobility and completed studies at the Officer Cadets School. Had that been the case, he would not have left the army years before and he might be a general this day, not taking the lead from a twenty-five-year-old lieutenant.
Once, in the advance on Russia, he had saved the life of an aide-de-camp of Napoleon. Word had gotten to the little Corsican himself and Napoleon made a point of congratulating him in public and was about to promote him to major. It took Jerzy’s poor French and a good deal of crudely spontaneous sign language for Jerzy to convey to l‘Emperor that he could not read and write—French or Polish—and, as such, was unsuited for promotion.
Jerzy shrugged off these inequities. They seldom bothered him anymore. Fate goes as it must. On the battlefield he was equal to every man at his side. But there were other differences having to do with his birth that stung as deeply today as in the past. Were it not for his birth, he might have married the young woman he had drawn from the river so many years ago. Zofia . . . she had been his for such a short time. Were it not for his birth, he would have been the father to Iza he had wanted to be. And there might have been other children, too.
The three soldiers came to the top of the ridge and looked out over the prairie below that extended less than a mile, ending at the cusp of a thick birch forest. It was a perfect summer day, the trees standing like bleached sentinels against the cloudless sky, the thick grasses below dotted with wildflowers of white, yellow, and blue, bending and stirring gracefully with the wind. On such a day Jerzy wondered how it was that country fought country, man fought man.
It seemed that the three simultaneously sighted the figure on horseback.
“One of ours,” Lieutenant Klimek whispered.
Unless, Jerzy thought, not without sarcasm, the Russians were now wearing czapkas and blue uniforms trimmed with crimson.
“What does he think he’s doing?” Klimek hissed.
“Scouting,” Kazimierz said.
Jerzy was remarking to himself that the cadet had more sense than Klimek when something about the figure caught his attention. He watched him closely. It was an officer—and one whose posture betrayed the fact that he was not so very young. As if sensing their presence, or hearing Klimek’s rambling complaints—rising in volume—that he had no business scouting out his area, the officer looked up, caught sight of them and gave a little wave. He then directed his horse closer to the forest.
“The old fool!” Klimek muttered.
“He knows the area, lieutenant,” Jerzy said.
“You know him?”
“I do. He’s Major Jan Stelnicki.”
“Well, he may have done his last reconnoitering, Jerzy. Look there!”
Jerzy looked due north and fell silent.
“Cossacks!” the cadet cried.
There were five of them coming over the horizon, all robed in white, their massive warhorses leaving behind them not a wake of dust, but a path of beaten grasses and flying clods of earth.
“Jan!” Jerzy called out the alarm.
Jan turned in his saddle and took notice. The Cossack warriors had seen him and were bearing down on him like hounds on a hare.
“His Polish Arabian can outrun those monster destriers,” Klimek said, “but he best get moving.”
Jerzy’s worst fear was realized as he watched Jan turn his horse—to face his attackers.
The cadet’s mouth fell slack. “He’s going to take them on!”
“He’s a dead man!” Klimek said.
“Sweet Jesus in Heaven!” Jerzy cried. Jan was well into his sixties. What was he thinking—to stand his ground, mad as Don Quixote?
Jerzy gave rein to his horse, giving spur so hard it surely drew blood. He ignored Klimek’s order to halt. He was flying down the ridge now, couldn’t stop if he wanted to, dirt and stones flying, praying not for himself but for the stability of his own Polish Arabian’s legs on the rocky, nearly vertical cliff.
Jan had used just the pressure of his knees to direct the well-trained horse’s turnabout because his hands were already busy with weapons. He drew himself up in the saddle now, his mind filling with a sense of destiny coming for him, destiny coupled with a sense of déjà vu, for many years before he had given good fight to just such a gang of Cossacks, the same white robes, the same massive warhorses heaving and snorting. He well knew the difference between that time and this. Even then he had been no match against their numbers despite being young and strong and determined.
“God’s teeth!” Jan cursed aloud as he watched one of the Cossacks pull away from the others, his dark stallion’s hoofs loudly pounding the plains. He wanted to be first to engage Jan, and his guttural warrior whoop made it evident that—in contrast to that other meeting—there would be no prisoners taken this time.
If only he had his lance at point, he would make short work of the angry zealot. But the lance rest was empty. What good were lances on a reconnaissance mission?
“Come, Jadwiga,” Jan whispered, withdrawing his longtime sword from her scabbard. “By God, be true as ever, Jadwiga.” His hand on her handle, he felt the old war-joy pumping through his heart now, returning to his veins. Youth was gone, strength diminished, but determination—determination abounded.
The steel coruscated in the sunlight, so Jan knew the Cossack would be prepared. But his plan was for Jadwiga to dance with the second arrival, for he kept his loaded carbine out of sight, a sudden surprise for the most impetuous of the suitors. As for the third, fourth, and fifth Cossack callers . . . who could say?
About halfway down the perilously steep incline, Jerzy heard another horse behind him. Somehow he knew at once it was Kazimierz and not Klimek.
But the day was not through with providing surprises. By the time Jerzy’s horse stumbled onto the prairie grass, he could hear not one, but two, horses thumping down behind him. Klimek was not allowing them to go into battle alone. Later, Jerzy would ruminate over the truth that it often takes circumstances—or fate—to coerce some men to heroism. So it was for Klimek— a reluctant hero who fell under a Cossack’s sword that day.
Warsaw
Anna awoke in a sweat. She could not believe she had fallen asleep. She had come home tired after a long morning shift at the hospital that began at 4 A.M. After the significant loss at Ostrołęka, the main body of the Polish army had retreated to Praga, just across the river, so that all the hospitals were overflowing with men, Polish soldiers and Russian prisoners. Sitting up at the side of the bed, she gave a slight shake of her head. Her intention had been merely to lie down and rest her eyes. Focusing on the window facing the street, she saw that the afternoon sun was still strong outside. The clock on the mantel told her she had lost a full hour.
She had dreamt of Jan again, that first fateful meeting in the meadow at Halicz replaying in her mind. How handsome he had been—and how incorrigible in his teasing of her. A smile forced itself upon her—until she remembered that something had jarred her awake. What was it? She listened carefully. The house was silent as a well. Was it in the dream, some sense of unease? Anna found herself second guessing her part in allowing him to go off to war yet again—and at his age. However, she came to the conclusion, as always, that she would not have kept him home. Was he safe there at Zamość?
There had been little good news of late. Anna went to the window. These days the faces passing the town house to and from St. Martin’s were always serious, so serious. Women prayed while the men too old to go off and fight argued in the streets and squares about the tactics employed by certain inept Polish generals. News had come that General Diebitsch had died of the cholera the month before so that was a topic of great concern. No one knew what to make of it. Who would the Russians send next and what difference would the replacement make? And the rumor that cholera was spreading among both armies rang like an alarm bell through the city and especially in the hospitals.
Viktor sat at the great oak Rozniecki desk, the secret door open across the room, the peacocks painting ajar in case some danger of exposure arose. Larissa had been buried in the grounds in the rear of the mansion and posed no threat, but what if she had spoken of him to someone? What if someone came looking for her? It paid to be cautious.
He wondered if he was being cautious enough regarding Bartosz. Oh, the man had played his part well enough in the matter of Larissa, but he seemed increasingly hard to read. Viktor had thought he sensed for the moment—when the servant had come back from marketing with the news of the drubbing the Poles had taken at Ostrołęka—a fleeting resentment in his dark eyes against the Russian he was sheltering. Did this man who for years had abetted a notorious Polish traitor still harbor a sense of patriotism?
Viktor pushed aside the Polish journals. The Monitor had resumed its publication and depending on its availability Bartosz would bring copies home. A more militant journal, New Poland, had been introduced, too. Certain important details were to be found in these, but Viktor trusted Bartosz’s reports more. The word of the people on the street and in the squares made for a truer picture of events than newspapers that were likely tools of propaganda.
Viktor looked down at his own journal, an old account book of Rozniecki’s that had detailed—he imagined—a thorough record of the swindler’s doings. Viktor had torn out the used pages and, ignoring the vertical lines meant for numerical figuring, he regularly sketched in Bartosz’ nearly daily briefings, enumerating the events on the field and in the capital that had occurred since Ostrołęka, nearly all in favor of the Russians. At each recitation Viktor watched every muscle and line in Bartosz’ face, listened to every tonal shift in his delivery, analyzed each word choice. No, there was nothing more to indict the man. In fact, he recounted the Polish setbacks with an extraordinary indifference.
And the setbacks for the Poles were many.
Recently, word had come that Prussia was no longer pretending neutrality, that its government was openly aiding Russian troops. But Lithuania was a more important story. Early on in the insurrection, Lithuania had voiced its enthusiastic desire to join the Poles, yet the Polish military leaders dallied at the offer for so long that Russia had been given the time to entrench their forces in that part of the Commonwealth.
Too bad for the Poles, Viktor had written in the journal. Things in the city, too, were becoming more and more chaotic. The various factions in the Sejm had become polarized. A bill to distribute land to peasants and soldiers in return for service infuriated the conservatives. The Patriotic Society exerted a strong influence, calling for the freedom of serfs and a more concentrated war plan. Russia had replaced Diebitsch with General Ivan Paszkiewicz, who was each day enlarging and strengthening his stance, currently in the northern Vistula valley. Word coming back from the warfront had Sejm members calling for replacing General Skrzynecki, whose epithet The Delayer was heard daily in the Sejm. Not even Prince Adam Czartoryski escaped tongue lashings for his months spent on vain attempts to recruit other nations to Poland’s side. Unrest was decidedly heating up. Viktor would wait for the boil.
Viktor wrote now in the journal. Things are in a ferment here in Warsaw, becoming more chaotic with each day. I know that if I bide my time, when the Russian takeover occurs, I will find a way to ingratiate myself to those in charge, perhaps to Paszkiewicz himself. And so I wait. One day, too, I will have to make a decision about Bartosz.
So absorbed was Viktor in his journal that he failed to hear the front door or approaching footsteps until they were very close by. Startled, he closed the book and shoved it into the side desk drawer. When he looked up, he tried to mask the relief he felt when he saw it was merely Bartosz returning from Market Square.
“I took you by surprise,” Bartosz said through the open door.
“What? No, not at all.” Viktor attempted a smile, wondering if Bartosz had seen the book, then setting aside the concern. Why, he doubted the man could even read Russian.
“Come in, Bartosz. What news bring you today? Anything?” The servant’s eyes were wide, uncharacteristically so. “Come and sit.”
Bartosz drew up a chair to the front of the desk. He had a strange sort of look of amazement on his face. “The capital is abuzz with the news.”
“Tell me, damn it!” That Bartosz failed to address him as “sir” or “my lord” was a constant source of irritation.
“It’s the Grand Duke Konstantin.”
“What about him?”
“He’s dead.”
“What? How? Surely not on the field? The Poles?”
“Oh, no. It was the cholera. Died very quick-like in Minsk a couple of days ago.”
Viktor realized now that Bartosz was taking the measure of his reaction to the tsar’s brother’s death as a guide to his own reaction. “Just desserts,” Viktor said and he meant it. “He handled the crisis of his life here at Warsaw like a fool. He should have attacked the city at once, not shrink away into the night, as he did. The insurrection could have been put down in a heartbeat. What is of concern, however, is that cholera is on the rise. Is that the case?”
Bartosz nodded. “In both armies.”
“A level field, as they say.—There’s something else. I can see it on your face. What is it?”
“Well, my lord, a marvel of sorts—have you heard of the Russian Count Orloff?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of him.” Viktor was deliberately cryptic.
“He was visiting the Grand Duke after having been to Prussia on a mission from the tsar meant to secure even more overt help for Russia’s war effort. What’s unusual is that the story goes that the Grand Duke died suddenly the day after Count Orloff departed.”
“So?”
“The very day after!” Bartosz cried. “People are naturally suspicious.”
“Of a plot? It’s the cholera, for God’s sake. If anything it’s God’s plot.” Viktor could not help but wish that Konstantin’s death had come earlier—at the hands of Józef. Russia would have struck at Poland immediately and with decision. And I would not be in hiding.
“But back in June,” Bartosz was saying, “Count Orloff was sent to meet with General Diebitsch.”
“Yes?”
“The general died the day after Orloff left. Again, unexpectedly.”
“Ah, so the gossips have a conspiracy theory, one that traces back to St. Petersburg?”
Bartosz was paling. “They say it’s a poison that done it.”
“Do they indeed? One as clever as yours? What did you call it?”
“Belladonna.”
“Ah, well the truth will out, I expect.” Viktor wished he had bitten his tongue or uttered gibberish rather than bring up the subject of Larissa, for Bartosz’ wrinkled forehead and downturned mouth advertised his divided sensitivity at having participated in the killing of a woman.
After Bartosz managed an awkward exit, Viktor considered the coincidence of the deaths of a general and a grand duke. He knew, more than did Bartosz, that conspiracy was commonplace in St. Petersburg. Would Tsar Nicholas wish Diebitsch dead? He could have merely had him recalled. As for Grand Duke Konstantin, would the tsar have his own brother murdered? Murders within families were not unheard of in Russia, but Konstantin’s position had so devolved as to leave him without a power base, and therefore of little threat, so Viktor deemed murder as unlikely. No doubt there were other men who might wish Diebitsch and Konstantin dead. For one, he could imagine his own superior Nikolai Novosiltsev as harboring grudges—and he was more than capable of treason. Where was he since he had fled Warsaw?
Viktor’s thoughts came back to Count Orloff. Viktor knew quite a few things about the man, things he had kept from Bartosz. The count’s title Harbinger of Death was well known to the Russian people. It was an inheritance from his father, as well as from his grandfather. The latter had become an intimate of Empress Catherine through his part in poisoning and strangling of her husband Peter, while Orloff’s father had played a role in the undoing of Paul, the current tsar’s father. Harbinger of death—it was a family business, Viktor thought and laughed aloud. In light of his own miserable existence of late, it was at least something he could laugh at.
The memory of Bartosz’ face and demeanor, however, cut short his humor. Here was a man who seemed to have the poisoning of Larissa weighing on his conscience. And Viktor, who considered himself an expert in interrogation, now knew that—in the event of an inquiry into the missing Larissa—Bartosz would not withstand even the most rudimentary questioning. More importantly, might this delayed regret over the poisoning presage a similar reaction regarding Barosz’ divided political loyalty?