By My Sword Alone by David Black (ebook reader ink TXT) 📕

‘So we stand and fight, excellency,’ he said.

‘We stand and fight, Pyotr,’ said James, ‘but time to tinker a little with exactly where we stand, and how we fight, eh?’

Another uhlan came galloping in from the dunes. Brief, breathless words were exchanged with Poinatowski, who turned to inform James. ‘Cavalry too, excellency,’ he said. ‘Advancing from the east in column.’

‘Tell Beart to order the dragoons to dismount and stand by their bridles. Then he is to assemble all the officers by the colours. I will join you there, Captain Poinatowski,’ said James, snapping his telescope shut. ‘But now, I am going to inform the grenadiers’ colonel of my intentions, which is only polite, as I’m sure you’ll agree.’

And with that, James spurred Estelle, and was off.

*

The small clutch of Dzików officers began replacing their tricornes and walking back to their mounts. The sound of battle to the east was still in their ears, unchanged, but now the smell of powder had reached them, despite the listless day.

They had waited until Colonel Lindsay had returned from the grenadiers’ lines, and listened as he, grim of countenance, had then issued his orders.

They were to stand by their mounts so the advancing Russians would not see them there, sitting tall in their saddles behind the vulnerably thin line of Polish grenadiers. And yes, there was more waiting to be endured, but it would not be long now. Control your mounts and hold your lines, he had told them; do not let the cohesion of the squadron fall apart into rabble. When the moment to re-mount arrives, you will have to move fast, for it will be in your swift and diligent response to orders that the battle will likely be decided.

Colonel Lindsay’s language had been clear and concise, spelling out everything they had to do; then he spelled out exactly what would unfold – and when had he ever been wrong? The blood was thrilling through their veins now.

Beart walked his horse out to the front of the first squadron to lead it; the second squadron formed the line behind him. Poinatowski was walking his to the command position at the front of the third, well to the rear; it would form James’ reserve. Meanwhile James and Casimir, and his bugler, had remounted and were galloping off, way beyond the left-most platoon of the grenadiers’ line. For James wanted to see if the Russians were going to do what he wanted them to; he wanted to be there to see how they would commit their infantry. And when they did, he would gallop to the French artillery battery nestling on the first rise of grass-tufted dune, and tell them his plan.

*

The first Russian regiment had all but fully deployed; three lines deep and facing the Polish grenadiers like a mirror, at maybe a 400-pace distance. James had watched as they came peeling off their column of march as though they were dealt onto the field by some giant, invisible croupier; their half-platoon frontages coming off the column at an angle in choreographed step, into single line and then pacing out so that on the order, ‘Right turn!’ they would face the enemy. Poinatowski had been on the button when he described modern battles a courtly gavotte.

Their drums had fallen silent, but he could still hear the steady beat of the other regiment of Russian fusiliers, still on the move. The first regiment had fulfilled his wishes; he was crossing his fingers the second would do the same. As for the Russian cavalry, he’d worry about them later.

He waited, aware of Casimir fidgeting behind him. The boy was a tense bundle of energy. He found himself absently wondering what was going through the lad’s head.

No great feat; it was easy to guess what Casimir would be thinking – or rather, would be feeling – in every fibre of his body. There would be a burning conviction, that his country’s future likely depended on this battle today. That he was here to fight for his king and for Poland; to place his life on the line for things he believed in.

How like that young James Lindsay of long ago he was; who had stood on the field of Glenshiel, eager for glory in the cause of his own king and his own country. God, there had been a fire in his belly on that day. He couldn’t imagine Casimir feeling any different now.

And then he wondered whether Casimir was going to experience all the disappointment and disillusion he had when his day was over. Whether, in the end, Casimir would come to see that he had been practised upon, his youth and faith just chips to be played, the way James had. Were all the Casimirs on this field today being practised upon? Was there any point in this fight, and could Stanislas and his rule be defended? Or was this all just small part in a whole other game, being played for stakes entirely different to the ones these Poles were betting on?

He didn’t really need to ask those questions; he knew the answers already. The Poles here might be fighting for their idea of Poland, but none of the other contenders on this field gave a fig for it, or for Poland’s fate. Russia, Austria, France, Saxony, and beyond this horizon, all the others with an interest in the outcome, each with reasons too labyrinthine and arcane to list; Sweden, their neighbour Prussia, remarkably silent in this war so far, and across the German sea, remote Hanoverian Britain.

And James Francis Edward Stuart, in his fading palazzo in Rome, and Maria Clementina, his scheming, manipulative, Polish queen-in-waiting. It was all about spheres of influence and scoring points in their great pan-European power play, and nothing to do with idealism of the Casimirs of this world. Poor, sad, deluded