Against a Crimson Sky Read online

  Table of Contents

  Also by James Conroyd Martin

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Poland 1794

  Part One

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  Part Two

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  Part Three

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  Part Four

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  Part Five

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  Epilogue

  3 May 1814

  Author’s Note

  Reading Group Guide Questions

  Connect with the Author

  Against a Crimson Sky

  Against a Crimson Sky

  JAMES CONROYD MARTIN

  Against a Crimson Sky

  Copyright © 2006 by James Conroyd Martin. All rights reserved.

  First Kindle Edition 2014

  Chief editor Mary Rita Perkins Mitchell

  Cover and interior design by Streetlightgraphics.com

  Cover art:

  Lady Hamilton as Circe

  By George Romney c. 1782

  Tate Gelleries UK

  Garde Imperiale ~ Chevau-légers Polonais 1807-1814

  Mounted Officers of Napoleon’s Polish Imperial Guard

  Watercolor

  By Lucien Rousselot

  Anne S.K. Brown Military Collection, Brown University Library

  Title page:

  Polish Eagle, drawing

  By Kenneth Mitchell

  Map design:

  Paul J. Pugliese

  Interior art:

  Wycinanki (vih-chee-nahn-kee), Polish folk papercuts

  By Frances Drwal

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  For Scott, Barbara, John, Rick, Faye, Bob, and Jeanie

  Also by James Conroyd Martin

  Push Not the River Book One

  The Warsaw Conspiracy Book Three

  Acknowledgments

  This novel and its predecessor would not have been possible without the help and encouragement of my friend, John A. Stelnicki, whose ancestor’s diary provided the basis for Push Not the River. I offer sincere thanks to Sally Kim, Thomas Dunne, and Sally Richardson of St. Martin’s Press for their enthusiasm for the two projects. Guiding me through the novels with his justly celebrated expertise has been my agent Al Zuckerman.

  For exceptional editing skills, I thank longtime friend Mary Rita Mitchell, as well as Pam Sourelis and Carolyn Chu. The late Frances Dwral’s folk papercuts (wycinanki) add visual charm to the words. For help on things Polish and otherwise, Donald Kaminski and Edward Kaminski’s support and suggestions have been invaluable. A host of people have aided me in my quest in ways too numerous to mention. Some of these are Piers Anthony, Francie Arenson, Marilyn Bricks, Ken and Penny Brown, Judi Free, Scott Hagensee, Gary Holtey, Patrick Keefe, Kevin Kelly, Jan Lorys, Sr. Mary Paul McCaughey O.P., Mike McCaughey, Ken Mitchell, Kitty Mitchell, Tom Rusnak, John Rzak, Angela Turley, and members of the Green Door Studio, Chicago, 2003-04.

  Glossary

  dog’s blood—damn; damn it

  kołacz (kaw-watch)—bread made for the wedding celebration

  Marzanna—the Polish Goddess Death, depicted in white and carrying a scythe

  “Napoleoni Magni Caesari et Victori”—“To Napoléon, the Great Caesar and Victor!”

  Opłatek—an unconsecrated bread wafer usually shared among those participating in wigilia meal; while sharing the wafer, each participant forgives past transgressions and wishes everyone health, luck, wealth, and after death, a crown ion heaven.

  owczarek nizinny—the lowland sheepdog

  Shepherds’ Watch—Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve

  starosta—the local magistrate

  szłachta (shlach-ta)—the gentry; officially of equal status, in actuality their wealth and holdings often varied greatly

  Szkoła Rycerska—The school of knighthood, a military school founded by King Stanisław

  Third of May Constitution—Ratified in 1791, the first written constitution in Europe initiating democratic reform; overthrown in 1794 when certain disgruntled Polish magnates invited Catherine of Russia in to protect their interests; Poland’s final partition occurred in 1795 with Russia, Prussia, and Austria dividing the spoils

  wigilia—the Christmas Eve meal and celebration; it is valued more highly than Christmas Day.

  Name Pronunciation Key

  Halicz = Hah-leech

  Jan = Yahn

  Jósef = Yú-zef

  Kościuszko = Kawsh-chew-shkaw

  Kraków = Krah-koof

  Michał = Mee-how

  Paweł = Pah-vel

  Sochaczew = Saw-hah-cheff

  Stanisław = Stan-neess-wahf

  Wilanów = Vee-lahn-ooff

  Prologue

  Whom the Gods Love

  Die Young

  —Polish Proverb

  Poland 1794

  2 November All Souls Day

  Swollen with recent rains, the river heaved and churned, flowing rapidly away from Warsaw, its burden of bodies propelled carelessly along, like so much flotsam.

  A partially clad woman clung to something as the current took her. A log? A piece of planking from the broken bridge? Delirious from the fall, she was certain she was dying—or had died. Her faith—or the hazy filaments of a childhood belief that she conjured now—suggested she might expect to ascend into heaven as if on wings. Or plummet to a hell she had thought little about.

  But she was being carried now in an undulating line—like a weightless twig—through the drumming rush of water. The sparkling interplay of the afternoon sunshine on the water was deceiving, for the river was brutally cold.

  The woman’s mind inexplicably fastened onto the mythical river that was thought to usher one to the Greek Underworld. Her cousin had told her about it—the river Acheron, was it? She dared not open her eyes.

  What was she to expect in the Underworld? There would be the fee for the ferry boat operator. Did she have any coins? She thought not, and without a coin he would not bring her across. Everyone knew that. Might she use her charms on him? Were charms of her kind taken as legal tender in the Underworld? She had her doubts.

  Her heart felt the icy fingers of the river upon it. How was she to account for her life? The things she had done?

  The frigid, pulsating water seemed to run faster now—like her fear—rushing her to her fate.

  The ancient Poles had believed that those who died by drowning were doomed to become water spirits, forever residing in the waters where they had met death. She imagined Marzanna, Goddess Death, waiting for her at the river’s end, dressed in white and carrying her scythe.

  The woman pushe
d the Polish deity from her mind. At the age of twenty, she had run out of time. So?—what of it? She had often proclaimed that the years of her youth were ducats to be spent. Wishing she had lived a better life was useless. Just as well, she thought—she had never been one for apologies. Or regrets.

  She was cold, cold to the bone. She took in a mouthful of water and coughed. Despite the urge, she knew not to move a hand to her face. To do so would cause her to lose her grip, and the river would draw her to its bottom. Her arms and hands were frozen in position, locked onto the object they were holding . . . holding.

  And if God was the Christian God of her parents’ beliefs, she wondered, would he forgive her?

  With the numbing cold, she felt darkness descending—and the angry resignation that death was imminent. It was as certain as the fall of night’s curtain. . . . Dog’s Blood! How had she come to such an ignominious end?

  The villagers who had hurried down to the river’s edge stared in horror at the cargo the River Vistula was carrying past them. Those transfixed with wide eyes were mostly women, their men having gone off to fight with Kościuszko against the invading forces. An old man gawked much like the others—in silence—as the flotilla of human bodies moved steadily along. Sometimes a corpse became enmeshed in the weeds and foliage at the bank of the river, but the force of other bodies following a similar fateful journey goaded it once again on its way—or the water’s strong current drew it down.

  In disbelief, the old man turned toward Warsaw; the city was a great distance away, twenty miles upriver, but he could see an eerie, orange glow and above that, thick, black smoke rising high into the air. Had the capital fallen to the Russians? God help us all, he prayed. Then aloud: “God and the Black Madonna!”

  The man’s grandson had braved the sight, going close to the shore.

  The old man called him back. This was no sight for a sixteen-year-old, even one already wounded in the patriots’ cause. The boy seemed not to hear.

  “Jerzy, come back!” he called again.

  His grandson turned, a queer look on his face, and waved him forward.

  Without questioning, the old man obeyed.

  When he came to the shore, his eyes widened at the sight that held Jerzy spellbound. A raven-haired woman clung to what looked like planking that had become caught in the thick reeds and tubers at the river’s side. Her skirt was red as blood, and she was naked above the waist. She was both young and beautiful . . . something about her told him she must certainly be noble.

  The old man saw now what Jerzy had seen. Little bubbles at her mouth. Damn! The woman was gasping for breath. She was alive!

  The peasant understood what his grandson meant to do and moved closer to assist.

  Jerzy immediately stepped into the water, reaching for the woman with one arm while the other linked him to his grandfather and to the river’s bank.

  Jerzy tugged at one of the woman’s arms, trying to force her to let go of what had held her afloat. Her skin was a grayish blue. “Let go! Let go!” he cried.

  She remained insensible to his directions. The mouth seemed to twist and tighten. Her talonlike hands held fast.

  The current spun her body now, pulling her, whipping her legs and lower body out toward the river’s middle, as if the river had mighty hands that would not allow her to be rescued.

  Jerzy held on, persisting in loosening her grip, pulling back one finger, then another. At last her hand came free and came to clasp his as he pulled her to him. Her other hand willingly released that which had held her afloat the long distance from Warsaw, and as the old man aided his grandson in pulling the woman to safety, he saw that she had set free the red uniformed body of a Russian soldier, its mustachioed face blue and bloated beneath the waters.

  Part One

  The Doorstep of the Palace

  Is Slippery.

  —-Polish Proverb

  1

  Warsaw 1794

  The West Gate

  13 December

  Her heart contracting in fear, Anna returned the ice blue gaze of the Russian soldier who stared up through the open doorway of the covered carriage—and she thought she could do murder.

  Here was a man with power, the power to keep her from the home she had not seen in three years, from the child who had been sent to safety there two months before, and from the man who should have been her husband in ’91 had it not been for fate and the interference of others. . . .

  The soldier’s beadlike, wolfish eyes moved over her, and Anna instantly felt a shiver travel up from the base of her spine—until she had to fend off a trembling at her shoulders. She would not be cowed. Her back stiffened as she steeled her nerves.

  “What is your destination?” he demanded in broken Polish for the second time.

  “Sochaczew.” She kept her voice steady. “To my family home.” Her reply came in Polish. She would not let him know she could speak his tongue.

  “Papers!”

  His brusqueness did not surprise Anna. Nothing since the fall of Warsaw into Russian hands surprised her anymore. “Here,” she said, handing him the parchment Paweł had given her.

  She tried not to watch as he officiously perused the documents. Her upper teeth tore at her lower lip as she silently cursed him—and a fate that had brought thousands of such interlopers into Poland, catapulting them into positions of power.

  The open door allowed for the coach interior to go cold as a vault. But Anna had more serious concerns and a chill that ran deeper. What if she was denied egress from the city? What if he saw fit to take her into custody? What if –?

  “Your purpose in Sochaczew?” he barked, failing to address her properly. The man was impudent. She knew that if he could read, he had to be aware of her title.

  “My mother is near death.”

  His eyes narrowed as if to assess her veracity. “Too bad.”

  It was a lie, of course, but Anna felt confident that he could have no way of knowing both of her parents had died in ’91. She neither flinched nor turned away her gaze. The ruddiness of his face—that not hidden by a great black moustache—was enlivened by the red of his uniform.

  “And when will you return to Warsaw?”

  “I am not certain. Such things are hard to predict.”

  “Of course,” he said, without a trace of empathy. “And this?” He nodded toward the passenger opposite Anna, as if she were a parcel.

  “Lutisha, my servant.”

  He looked from one to the other. “Any weapons to declare?”

  “No.”

  “Certain?”

  Were they to be searched? Her pulse quickened at the possibility. “I am quite certain, Captain.” Anna smiled nicely. She knew well the soldier’s uniform was that of a lieutenant. It couldn’t hurt to inflate his stature a bit.

  He did not correct her. “Very well.” Without further questions, he handed the document back to Anna and slammed the door. “Move on!” he called to Anna’s driver.

  The carriage lurched and rumbled forward, passing through the city’s western gate. The fingers of her right hand moved over the folds of her dress, lightly tracing the object stowed in a hidden pocket—her pistol.

  Anna smiled at the wide-eyed Lutisha—so faithful a servant—hoping to reassure her, but her own heart continued to race. The swine! The filthy swine! She had won the little battle with the Russian soldier but cursed him nonetheless. He, with the assumed power he held over her, had put fear into her heart, and she was tired to death of being fearful.

  As the carriage moved away from the city, Anna took herself to task, for it was fear that had made her draw closed the leather window curtains at the outset of their journey. In leaving Paweł’s town house on Piwna Street, they had passed through the Outer Courtyard of the Royal Castle, and Anna could not bear to look at the palace, knowing as she did, that Poland’s monarchy was most likely at an end. Even less did she want to see across the River Vistula to the once vibrant suburb of Praga, now in charred ruins
, her aunt’s pristine white town house on the bluff burnt to cinders. She smiled tightly at Lutisha’s puzzlement and gave no explanation for shutting out the light.

  The cobblestones now gave way to the hard earth of winter, and the carriage started to bounce and roll through the countryside at a moderate clip.

  Anna’s fear ebbed. The journey—barring the unforeseen—would take less than a day. They should arrive at her estate in time for supper. She would be home. She felt lucky, indeed, for her family estate remained intact, but she felt a foreign sort of guilt, too, because Jan had lost his estate at Uście Zeilone and Zofia had lost both the family estate at Halicz and the town house in Praga, all to the invading Russians.

  Anna and Lutisha sat in silence and semi-darkness for half an hour.

  “May I open my curtain, madame?” Lutisha asked at last.

  “What? Oh, yes, of course.” The briefest of knowing looks on Lutisha’s face told Anna she had misjudged her, that the servant knew exactly why Anna had closed it.

  Anna opened her own curtain now, too. The sun was shining brightly for a cold December day. She sat at the small window, her eyes on the passing flat expanses of whitened fields, patches of birch and evergreen forests, an occasional manor house—and myriad cottages and huts where people tended to their animals, living their lives as their ancestors had done. Each blink of the eye produced a new living portrait. She wondered at the sights, for they gave no clue to what Poland had endured, no clue to what had befallen her country. The sights touched a place in her heart, a sad place, because she knew that this was merely the appearance of things, for the peasants’ losses were as heart-rending as those of any other patriot. A close examination of the passing scenes revealed many more women than men at their tasks. A multitude of their men had willingly taken up scythes at the call of Tadeusz Kościuszko. Many of them had been slain by the allied powers of Austria, Prussia, and Russia. They would not be returning to their modest homes.