For there was Poinatowski and his reserve squadron, being chased in disorder by a formed regiment of Russian dragoons, the Russians’ dark grey coats advancing in neat line before pausing to discharge another rolling wave of lighter grey powder smoke; then on they trotted, walking down the tumbling, collapsing rabble that was all that was left of his Dzików dragoons.
James could see what had happened. When the Russian battalion marched out to enfilade James’ and his regiment’s other two squadrons, Poinatowski had formed his reserve in line and moved them up to threaten this Russian battalion’s flank.
Even from his disadvantaged view over the flat terrain, James could see that it should have been an inspired move, leaving the Russian commander only one alternative; to wheel his battalion 90 degrees away from James to meet the new threat to his own flank. Poinatowski wouldn’t even have to charge, just maintain position in order to force the Russian into such an exhausting manoeuvre, and pin him there with carbine fire.
But the Russian colonel or major or whoever he was, had not obliged Poinatowski, just as he hadn’t obliged James. The Russian had formed square and continued to advance, forcing Poinatowski to close him, dismembering his squadron formation into half-troops to cover each front and ensure the square remained shut tight. And that was where the regiment of Russian dragoons had entered the fight, catching Poinatowski’s men in their penny packets. And now they were trying to carry out a fighting withdrawal, like the rest of this flank of Estaing de Sailland’s army, to the Weichselmünde fortress and the mouth of the Mottlau river.
They had been beaten. James had no idea what had befallen Estaing de Sailland’s other flank, but right now it was plain to see it did not matter; because his army had been split in two. The battle was over, and Peter Lacy had won.
The sun was low over the flat of the Westerplatte by then, a large rust orb dipping slowly down through the vast corona of powder haze, quite separate from the lingering banks of smoke proper; it filled the entire sky to the south. There was no rumble of guns anymore, what fire there was, was random.
When James looked back on the chaos, he held no coherent memory of those last hours, just a jumble of impressions. He found it better not to pay attention to the carnage, or to wonder what would befall the wounded and the maimed. He shut out their moans.
And then he found Casimir, filthy from smoke, but otherwise unmarked, his big round eyes just this side of hysterical laughter, but still in control of himself. And the colour party too, although nearly all were wounded, he was certain of that from the blood that slathered them. James also sported a fair amount of blood on his own coat and breeches, and clotted in his hair – for his hat was gone. None of the blood, however, was his. Just spatter. All that was left of other men’s lives.
He led their small party from the field, collecting the odd Dzików stray as they went, from among the many, many strays.
Nobody intruded on their flight. The Russians who had just defeated them here, on this flank, were obviously too spent for hot pursuit. So, as his Estelle rocked him with her steady pace, James’ mind was left to its clutter of thoughts.
He felt physically and morally stupefied. No words came that seemed appropriate to what had just happened. It felt as if a great rent had been torn in the fabric of human society, and that they had all collectively stepped through into a world where the worst of man was permitted. For a moment, he glimpsed a future him, sitting down to write to Davy Hume, to try to tell him of the day. But when he looked at the page, he could conjure no words to put there. No language to describe his experiences had made it back through the rent. No words to make the transition and still hold their meaning.
He remembered Poinatowski before the battle. It was only the previous evening; even that seemed so far from credible. What had he said? ‘There is nothing I can tell you now that can ever really prepare you.’ How right he’d been.
And then there had been the image that he would remember forever; the sight that, when he finally comprehended it, stuck. That smacked him back to the here and now with something akin to a physical blow. It was the skyline above the Weichselmünde fortress. It had come clear into their view as they marched numbly towards it, but there was not a ship’s mast to be seen. A forest of rigging had clogged the Mottlau there only this morning. Now it was gone. The French squadron had sailed.
James never remembered entering the fortress, fighting his way through the chaos there. Civilians, commissary men, Count Plélo’s diplomatic entourage. He only remembered finding one of the fortress’ Polish gunner officers – sitting, methodically drinking the local eau de vie – who was only too happy to describe the precipitous departure of the French ships. ‘There’s a Russian fleet in the offing,’ he said. ‘So they didn’t like to hang about.’
And suddenly James was seeing again that venerable old Scotsman sitting at Lacy’s table; Admiral Thomas Watson of the Imperial Russian Navy. He wondered if the old gent would remember him, if he would be happy to offer him a drink, now. Probably, he thought. No. Not probably. Almost certainly. Theirs was the world he now inhabited. And that realisation told him it was time to absent himself. He had entered a contract, and discharged his duties under it to the best of
