Flight From the Eagle Read online

  He edged the horse down the ramp, murmuring gently to calm him, and the grey moved slowly down and across the river, more nervy than ever at the unaccustomed weight on his back. As they mounted the far side, half Orlov's mind was concentrating on the horse, but the other half was preoccupied with the pleasure of the girl's body against his own and he was surprised into a flush of embarrassment when the men gave him a cheer. He looked round at the circle of grinning faces and covered his confusion by announcing that they would make camp where they were and stay over the next day to overhaul the carts, letting the horses graze the plentiful grass. This was met with another cheer.

  As the men scattered about their camp-making tasks, Orlov carefully lowered the Countess to the ground before dismounting himself. Kusminsky called to her to help him see to one of the men who was still lashed firmly to his cart and she gave Orlov a quick smile before turning to go. He went round giving the men a word of praise and thanks and sent Josef off to see if there was a good pool anywhere in the river, deep enough to bathe in.

  Kolniev drew his attention to one of the wheels of the cart they had picked up at the inn. 'It's the wheel that was off,' he said. 'The rim is badly worn and I don't think it will last much longer.' Orlov scratched his head over it, but obviously it needed a new iron tyre and that was a job for a wheelwright or blacksmith. The only thing to do was to go on using it until it either collapsed, or they found an inhabited village.

  Josef returned to report a good large pool a couple of hundred yards down the river and Orlov told the men they could go there and bathe, as long as they didn't get their bandages wet. For the next hour, little groups of men went off dusty-haired and grimy-faced and came back damp-haired and clean. Kolniev went too and returned with the last group of men to tell Orlov that it was a good pool, deep enough for a swim.

  When all the odd jobs were done and the horses staked out and peacefully grazing, Orlov took a towel and clean linen and went down to the pool, following the path of trodden grass and pushing through the alders where the others had been before him. The water had cleared and looked cool, green and inviting, sheltered by a thick leafy screen which almost met overhead. He stripped off his clothes, struggling as usual with his boots and lowered himself into the water, holding onto an overhanging branch.

  The first cold shock made him gasp and he stood chest-deep, awkwardly holding his injured arm clear of the surface. The river flowed gently round him, washing away the sweat and dust, brushing his legs with strands of weed. He ducked as much of himself as he could without wetting his bandages and washed his hair clear of the gritty road dust.

  Climbing out was difficult with only one hand, but he managed it by holding onto the jutting branch, slipping a bit on the muddy bank. He rubbed himself briskly with the rough towel and dressed after giving his clothes a good shake, turning his coat back from dust-grey to grubby white. There was a fallen tree lying on the bank which made a convenient seat while he tugged his boots on again.

  He strolled back to the camp feeling clean and refreshed, his body glowing healthily from the cold water and rough towelling. The Countess was sitting on a box in the shade, her normally shiny brown hair dulled with the dust. She looked hot and tired. After a moment's hesitation, he went over to her and said, 'Would you like to bathe?'

  She looked up at him, her face lighting up and said, 'Oh, do you think I could? It would be wonderful!'

  'I'll stand guard for you,' he offered.

  She hurried to fetch the things she would need and he walked with her across the meadow to the pool, holding the branches aside for her and showing her how she could get down into the water. Then he sat down on the fallen tree with his broad back turned squarely to the river and the small mossy-floored area which would serve her as a dressing room, and tried to ignore the small sounds of her movements behind him.

  He found himself fighting a desperate battle to control his imagination, to think about something else. He told himself that he didn't care for thin women—no, not thin. Thin sounded fiat and angular and awkward, and she was graceful, had curves in the right places—gentle curves, but shapely—slender would be a better word. After all, his arm had fitted comfortably into the curve of her waist, and ... With an effort he tried to work out a way of repairing that cartwheel without the facilities of a forge. A pity these men were all infantry. If they'd been cavalry there might have been a farrier among them.

  He stared at the toes of his boots, which he had thrust out into a patch of sun and watched them steam a little as they dried out after the wetting they had sustained while he was wading in the river. Behind him, there were sounds of splashing, a sharp gasp, and more splashing.

  'I should have warned you that it's rather cold!' he said.

  'Rather cold! It's icy,' she replied. 'How good it feels, though.'

  He watched a butterfly fluttering about in the patch of sunlight near his feet and wondered about Sergeant Grushchev. Something about the fellow was vaguely worrying, something not quite right but he couldn't put a finger on what it was. Something in his voice, his manner, his whole attitude.

  A pity the man was from another regiment: Kolniev's encyclopaedic knowledge of his own men didn't include anything on that one. Good officer, Kolniev. He must make sure that he put some strong recommendations about him in his report on this—this what? Adventure? Escapade? Well, in one sense perhaps—they were certainly escaping from the French.

  The sounds behind him indicated that the Countess was scrambling out of the water—no, not scrambling, too undignified. She'd be more graceful. Rising from the water, like that painting of Venus he'd seen in Florence, or a water-sprite. He forced his mind to concentrate on trying to remember whether a water-sprite was a dryad or a naiad. Her hair must be as long as the goddess' in the picture, but straighter.

  'I shall be a nervous wreck by the time we get to Kaluga,' he thought and set to work to name all the countries in Europe, with their capitals and principal rivers, which kept his mind busy until the Countess came from behind him and sat on the log at a discreet distance, fully dressed, but with her long hair hanging damply down her back.

  She rubbed vigorously at it with her towel, and then began to comb it out.

  'Do you mind if I sit here to do my hair?' she asked.

  'It's a pleasure to watch,' he replied. 'You have such beautiful hair.'

  She gave him a look of mingled astonishment and pleasure and then looked down, her cheeks flushed. Orlov had always believed that as women spent so much time and trouble in making themselves attractive for the benefit of men, the least a man could do was to show his appreciation, and the compliment had come quite unthinkingly and naturally to his lips but the reaction was so unusual ... an inexperienced girl might blush at a compliment, but not look so surprised at such an obvious one. Surely any woman with beautiful hair would know it was beautiful?

  'Not if no one has ever told her it is!' He had a sudden remembrance of the colourless, faceless, shadowy figures who hovered in the background in the homes of his various elderly aunts and female cousins, unnoticed and unconsidered except for their taken-for-granted usefulness in fetching and carrying. When had he ever bothered to look at one of them to see if she had any attractions? When had he ever thought to pay a compliment to someone's companion?

  With his conscience pricking, he added, 'And your eyes are lovely, too.'

  She murmured 'Thank you' and continued to comb her hair, letting it fall forward to curtain her face. Orlov took a strand and let it slide slowly through his fingers, enjoying the soft silkiness of it.

  'It's a pity fashion decrees that you must wear it up,' he said. 'But I suppose it would be a nuisance to you, blowing about loose.'

  'I shan't be able to put it up soon,' she replied. 'People keep borrowing my hairpins to clean out bits of their muskets or their pipes, or to mend something and if they bring them back at all, they're all bent out of shape. I soon shan't have enough left.' She seemed to have regained her composure.<
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  Orlov was saved from making a reply which would undoubtedly have thrown her back into blushing confusion by the sound of approaching footsteps and Josef came pushing through the branches.

  'Your pardon, Your Excellency,' he said. 'Dr Kusminsky would be obliged if you would join him. It's Private Petrushka.'

  Orlov started up with a quick 'Excuse me!' to the Countess and an instruction to Josef to escort her back to the camp when she was ready. He ran back to the camp, slowing to a more dignified but ground-covering walk as he neared it.

  The boy was lying on a stretcher under a large tree with Kusminsky and Sergeant Platov kneeling beside him. Platov stood up and moved away a little as Orlov approached and Kusminsky looked up and said, 'He has been asking for you. I don't think it will be long now.'

  Orlov knelt beside the boy, who turned his head to peer up into his face. 'The Major? Is it the Major?' he asked, his voice very weak. 'Please, will you ask the Major...?'

  'It is the Major,' Orlov replied very gently. 'What is it, Petrushka?'

  The boy's hand rose, groping, and Orlov took it and held it.

  'I just wanted to ask you...' the boy whispered. 'I'm frightened, sir. Will it be all right...?'

  'Yes,' said Orlov. 'There's nothing to be afraid of. You'll go to sleep and when you wake up, there'll be no more pain and unhappiness, nothing to fear.' His voice sounded confident and reassuring.

  'Sir?' The boy's voice was growing fainter and Orlov had to bend over him to hear. 'Thank you. Will you stay with me? I'm sorry----'

  'Of course I'll stay,' Orlov replied. 'Just close your eyes and rest. I'll be here.'

  Petrushka's eyes closed and he lay still and quiet. Orlov shifted into a more comfortable position and went on holding the boy's hand. It was rough with calloused patches on i lie palms and broken, blackened nails, which to Orlov made it a pitiful contrast with his own smooth-skinned, well manicured hand. He looked across at Kusminsky who shook his head. There was a long pause, during which the sounds of the Camp seemed muted and somehow remote. The sun was beginning to drop and the shadows were lengthening into grotesque shapes; a bee was humming, the insistent sound coming nearer and then moving further away; a horse whinnied and another answered; the sultry afternoon seemed breathless, suffocating.

  Petrushka's hand stirred slightly and his eyes opened again, but they looked blind and he stared blankly past Orlov's head.

  'Sir?'

  'Yes, I'm here.'

  'It's getting so dark. I couldn't see you. Sir, I hope you'll be happy, very happy—both of you----' He was silent again and he turned to look into Orlov's face, a look of strain about his eyes, murmuring so faintly that Orlov could hardly hear, 'My mother ... you'll tell... you'll write?'

  'I'll write to her and go and see her when I can,' Orlov promised. His voice was gentle and full of compassion. The boy sighed and his lips moved soundlessly, his eyes closed and Kusminsky, who was holding his other wrist, looked sharply at his face for a long moment, then took the boy's hand from Orlov, folded it with the other one over the boy's breast and gently drew the blanket up over his face.

  Orlov sat still, letting his head droop slackly and Kusminsky said softly, 'He's well out of it.' Orlov didn't move and after a minute the surgeon added, 'You gave him the courage to go easily—there was nothing more you could have done.'

  Orlov nodded, got up and walked away, abstracted and without looking where he was going. When he reached the river bank, he sat down and stared at nothing in particular for a long time, his mind blank and his eyes unseeing.

  After a while, he picked up a handful of pebbles and began lobbing I hem one by one into the river. The water was dark-looking, streaked with oily crimson where the sunset banners were reflected on its rippled surface. He felt utterly weary and desperately homesick. 'I must resign and go home,' he thought. 'As soon as the French are out of Russia, I must get out. I want peace and something worth-while out of life, something constructive. I'm sick of death and destruction—I want a home, a wife and children.' He tried to picture what it would be like to have children—a son like a small edition of himself and a daughter with big brown eyes like her mother.

  He went on throwing stone after stone into the river and presently Kolniev came up behind him and said, 'You'll have built a dam across there by the time we leave if you go on like that.'

  Orlov jerked out of his reverie and scrambled to his feet. 'The boy died,' he said abruptly.

  'Yes, Kusminsky told me. There was no chance for him from the start.' Kolniev was silent for a minute, then ran his hand through his hair and said, 'I came to fetch you for supper—it's been ready for some time.'

  The two officers walked across to join Kusminsky and the Countess. Orlov made an effort to be normally cheerful during the meal, but everyone seemed subdued and thoughtful, and they sat talking quietly after supper in a serious vein, largely about the ways in which the condition of the serfs could be changed for the better.

  Kusminsky listened to Orlov and Kolniev for some time without saying anything until Kolniev asked his opinion of the possibility of any major change in the situation—did he think that all the serfs could be freed at a blow, by Imperial decree? The surgeon replied curtly, 'I don't own anyone. I think serfdom and slavery are monstrous institutions.'

  'I think we're agreed on that,' Orlov said. 'The point is, though, how can these institutions be abolished? This is the real world—we can't change it by calling up a fairy to wave her magic wand.'

  'And some people think that's reason enough to do nothing at all.' Kusminsky sounded bitter and angry. 'I don't choose to discuss the matter with either of you. I'm sorry, but I like and admire you both as men and I prefer not to spoil our friendship by dragging in unpleasant matters arising from your family backgrounds.'

  There was an awkward silence and then the Countess said in her calm, soft voice, 'It will be pleasant to stay in one place tomorrow. I expect there will be quite a lot of things to Di 1 lone to the carts.'

  'Yes,' replied Kolniev. 'I want to alter the loading of some of them. They'll run better if the loads arc properly balanced. And there are a few repairs needed too.'

  'Talking of repairs,' the Countess said. 'I have sewing thread and needles with me. If anyone needs any clothing repaired, I'd be happy to see to it for them.'

  Kolniev took up her offer with gratitude. 'All the buttons fall off my shirts as soon as I look at them,' he said ruefully.

  Orlov remarked that his buttons would never dare to fall oil, Josef wouldn't let them, and a little more light-hearted conversation ensued until it was time to retire. As they stood up, Kusminsky said awkwardly, 'I'd like to apologize. I'm afraid I must have sounded very rude.'

  'Not at all,' replied Kolniev and shook hands with him. Orlov followed suit, then strolled off to check that all the horses were securely tethered, both because he thought it necessary and to give Countess Barova a little privacy before he went to the tent.

  The horses were all secure and he strolled back through the camp in the moonlight, pausing for a few words with two or three men who were still sitting round the damped-down fire, taking their turn at keeping watch. He detoured round the carts to occupy a few more minutes and exchanged goodnights with the men settling down to sleep.

  When he entered the tent, Countess Barova was sitting up in her bed tying the end of her long plait. He saw that she had laid out his blankets and put his greatcoat handy for him and he thanked her and said, 'It's surprising how difficult it is to fold blankets and all manner of simple jobs like that with only one hand.'

  As he was pulling off his boots, she lay down and said, 'I'm sorry about the boy. He was very young to die like that.' Orlov wondered why she had waited until he got to the boot stage of undressing before she spoke and decided that it was probably because it took her a certain length of time to screw up her courage to say something, which happened to coincide with the time it took him to take off sword, belt, sash, coat and shirt. Perhaps tomorrow he would
change the order and start with his boots and see if he was right.

  'Yes,' he replied. 'Very young. He should never have been in the army at all.'

  'Did he volunteer?'

  'He was sent by his master as a punishment for poaching. Not many serfs ever get the chance to volunteer for anything. I don't wonder Kusminsky feels so strongly about it.'

  'How many serfs do you own?' she asked. Orlov looked at her, wondering if she was implying something. The light was too dim to show her expression and her voice gave no indication of anything but a mild curiosity, but he had a strong suspicion that she had a well-practised skill in the art of diplomacy. Some of her innocent questions and remarks could convey a great deal more than she actually said.

  'I don't own any serfs,' he replied. 'I rent land to free peasants and employ free servants.'

  There was a little silence and he hoped he hadn't given the impression that he was snubbing her. Then she said, 'I'm glad, but I thought ... I know it's legal to free serfs now, but I thought it wasn't really approved.'

  Orlov smiled. 'I don't much care if it's approved or not. If I choose to free my serfs, I'll free them.'

  'You're an Orlov, and you'll do as you please!' she quoted laughingly.

  He flushed. 'I'm also arrogant, clumsy and a bully,' he said. 'It will be a long time before I forgive myself for that.' 'I was joking—I'm sorry.'

  He knelt beside her and spread his cloak over her, giving her a wry smile. 'I know—it doesn't matter,' he said. 'I'm suffering from a tender conscience. Don't be sorry—I'd rather you teased me about my foolishness than let it hurt you.'

  Again he was tempted to kiss her, and again he removed himself hastily as far from her as the limits of the small tent allowed, rolled himself in his blankets and politely wished her goodnight.