Song of the Legions Read Free Page A

took my leave of the world of women.
     
    My father and grandfatherwere waiting for me outside, in the shadow of the stone tower. They were mapping out my career.
     
    “Only the cavalry is fit for a gentleman,” my father was saying, “I’ll not have my boy foot-slogging like a peasant – how would that look?”
     
    “Nonsense!” roared my old grandfather. He spoke Polish badly, but his Russian was good, and the languages are enough of a kin that the speaker of one may be understood by the speaker of another. “The cavalry is good for nothing but parades and chasing women!” my grandfather spat. “Isn’t that right, Ignatius? Haven’t I told you that a thousand times? Join the artillery! Guns are the future! Guns and firepower! Not piddling wooden lances!” My grandfather, of course, was in the artillery.
     
    “Yes, grandfather,” I replied, “you have told me so on no less than ten thousand occasions. The cavalry swan about all day in their fancy uniforms, drinking champagne, and going to balls with ladies tarted up to the nines. The real hard work is done by the artillerymen, salt of the earth, up to their necks in muck and bullets. Your wise words have made a deep impression, sir.”
     
    They had indeed!
     
    “Good lad!” beamed my grandfather. Both my father and grandfather, laden with ill-gotten gold, and being of a fierce and mercenary disposition, envisaged my honourable (and lucrative) future in the profession of arms, following in their family footsteps. As I set out to serve my military apprenticeship, they spared no expense, procuring the finest horses and weapons that money could buy. Thus they furnished me with my sturdy horse, first among a gentleman's possessions, and a string of remounts. Hanging from my belt was a hussar sabre, and in the breast pocket of my kontusz were a good German compass, a gold watch, and a snuff box, also in gold.
     
    My father and grandfather made me display my swordsmanship. We fought two bouts of parry and counter, and I disarmed them both, one after another. They roared with delight, clapped me on the back, and poured bison-grass vodka down my throat. After we had downed this vodka, my grandfather produced his old guns – a pair of good English pistols, and a great piece of iron taller than I was.
     
    “This is Brown Bess,” said my grandfather, “the only true female you shall ever meet.”
     
    These English muskets were greatly prized as the finest to be had anywhere in the world. Gleefully I turned it over in my hands. The great barrel was Sheffield steel, engraved with the maker’s name. It had a silver fore-sight, brass-lined touch holes, a bevelled lock with safety-catch, iron mounts, and a horn-tipped ramrod. The walnut stock was figured with a deep red feather grain at the butt, which held a small spring-loaded box for storing greased linen patches and tools – the wad cutter, powder flask, and capper.
     
    “Fire it,” the old man ordered. I drew a bead on a chicken clucking harmlessly in the yard. My eyes spun with vodka. I pulled the trigger. My head rang with the awful bang. Brown Bess kicked my shoulder like a mule. I staggered and nearly fell. The hen vanished in a puff of feathers. My father clapped me on the back again, laughed, and cheered.
     
    “Here, my boy,” my father said, giving me a hefty purse of gold, “spend this as soon as you can, make a good splash, and send me word for more. I’ll not have those Austrian bastards look down their noses at an honest Blumer. Watch yourself in Vienna – it’s a damned expensive place. Borrow not from the Jews. Be disciplined. Obey orders. If you must fight a duel, make sure it is over cards, and not a woman.”
     
    “Thank you for your good advice, sir,” I replied. Unfortunately, whilst I wholeheartedly concurred in all this, affirming that nothing would please me better than a life of sword and saddle, and gladly accepting these good gifts, I had entirely neglected to inform my