James had forgotten his friend Pyotr’s grip of the game. He gave him a look of candid appreciation. Poinatowski said, ‘No great mind required to see that coming, I assure you … James.’
‘Exactly. But you have explained a matter that had been troubling me.’ Because it let him see the chain of cause and effect all too clearly now; Dorothea and her flip, from believing the Austrians to be a benign influence, to her desperation that a Stuart candidacy be true. Courland.
‘You know, Pyotr, I think your people’s way is better. No thinking or explaining needed. If we are told to fight, we fight. Trying to unravel all this politicking is making my head nip.’
14
The Battle of Westerplatte
Poinatowski found his colonel sitting at his folding campaign desk, inside his tent. He’d been called there from the mess tent where all the other officers had gathered after the day’s drilling. James gestured for him to sit, and handed him what looked like a folded letter.
‘Our orders,’ said James. ‘For tomorrow. It is a great honour. We lead out the army.’
Poinatowski read the half dozen lines of precise penmanship, and coughed apologetically. ‘I believe you may be putting a false gloss on matters, excellency, when you talk of an honour.’ They were talking military matters now, and there were formalities to be observed. ‘It is merely how it is done. No honour there, I fear, excellency.’
‘Quite, captain. I was being ironic. That is a thing we do in my country when confronted by the likes of that.’
He gestured at the letter.
‘You refer to the precious little explanation, or detail it contains, I venture? But then that is how it is done, also.’
James reached for a bottle of brandy, one of the cases gifted to him by Capitaine Perouse, and poured large measures into two glass before carrying them to where a map was unrolled on a larger version of his own desk. Poinatowski followed, collecting his glass on the way. Both men stood gazing down at the terrain they were to fight over the next day. The map was more an impression than a military cartographer’s precise document, but it was good enough to show all they needed to see of the corridor running east from Weichselmünde fortress, between the Mottlau river and the Baltic.
‘We lead, in column of march, down this road through the open fields north of the Mottlau,’ James drew his finger along what was really more a cartoon of a road, than something they might take scale or measurement from. Then he added, ‘What happens here, d’you think?’ And his finger this time jabbed at row upon row of tiny, thinly drawn, rolling lines and tufts to the north of the road, representing a serried run of scrubby sand dunes that ran inland from the sea. ‘All of it broken ground, and soft going too. No use for cavalry in formation, and hard going for infantry. Bad ground. But how bad? We have not reconnoitred it. So my flank is to just hang in the air?’
Poinatowski didn’t answer.
‘All the orders say is that we are simply to march forth, until “such time as it becomes apparent a halt must be called, and deployment begun.” What on earth am I to understand by that, pray tell?’
Poinatowski went back and sat down. He finished his brandy in a gulp, and gestured to the bottle. ‘May I, excellency?’
James felt his jaw drop at the presumption; but then he was never done encouraging such familiarity in his friend. He smiled to himself at his own bumptiousness as he too stepped back over to his desk and flopped onto his camp seat. ‘Fill mine up too while you’re at it, captain. You look as if you are about to tell me something I won’t like.’
‘Ask you something, rather, excellency.’
James gestured for him to go ahead.
‘No-one doubts you are a soldier of considerable experience, excellency,’ said Poinatowski, carefully picking his words. ‘The evidence has been for all to see these past months. But there is a question I must ask.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Pyotr!’ But James already knew what question he was about to be asked, and his irritation stemmed from a churning stomach.
Here he was again, having to face down that dread he refused to name again. Like he had before his first charge in anger. He knew how to do it, but those orders he’d just opened spoke of something to be dealt with of a far greater magnitude than he’d faced before; a beast wholly unknown to him, and potentially un-manning. He knew he was being asked again to put it to the touch, but the stakes seemed so much higher this time. He found himself idly wondering how many times a scholar might be so challenged in his lifetime.
Poinatowski asked his question, ‘How many battles … have you fought in, excellency? Not skirmishes … actual set-piece battles, where field armies meet … battalion against battalion … ?’
Poinatowski was about to say more, but realised he’d probably said too much; not sure how wise it had been to point out that his colonel might lack experience.
James could see from Poinatowski’s face that he too had a gift for already knowing the answer to questions he’d just asked.
But he could also see his junior officer wasn’t asking the question out of contempt, or even fear, or doubt. He just wanted to have matters straight, so their discussion could continue. He liked Poinatowski even more for that; risking his colonel’s ire to achieve a better understanding; when the man could just have let James hang in his ignorance, and be damned. A petulant response from him would ruin everything now, whereas good grace would take them forward.
