Flight From the Eagle Read online

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was obvious during the next day that most of the little company welcomed a day of staying in one place. They were all tired after the strenuous activity of the river crossing, Orlov most of all. His muscles were stiff and aching and his right shoulder quite badly bruised from using it to push the carts up the ramp.

  Kusminsky snapped at him for overtaxing himself and sounded so bad-tempered that Orlov had a sudden pang of conscience about him. He had not once stopped to consider the strain this journey must be on the surgeon with more than sixty wounded men in his sole charge, some of them seriously injured, and he could imagine that to a man of feeling, as Kusminsky obviously was, the death of a patient, however hopeless the case, must be a bitter blow.

  The first duty of the morning, once they had breakfasted, was to bury Petrushka, and Orlov did his best to make the simple ceremony as dignified and meaningful as he could. Everyone attended, the men who were unable to move themselves being carried to the graveside in one of the carts. The countess stood with the officers, wearing the black lace veil she had produced for her aunt's funeral, which now seemed so long ago.

  Kolniev had chosen the place for the grave and Orlov was struck once more by the Captain's intelligent and thoughtful approach to his duties. He had chosen a quiet place on the edge of the forest in the middle of a triangle formed by three young oak trees, overhung by a canopy of honeysuckle which filled the sultry, still air with a heady perfume.

  As he stood with his head bent in a final private prayer, Orlov thought that the scent of honeysuckle would now always have a special poignancy from its association with the memory of the dead boy.

  Afterwards, Kolniev set the table men to work unloading all the carts and sorting their contents so that he could check the state of their supplies and pack the carts to better advantage. Orlov took the opportunity to have new axles put on two of them from the spares they had acquired at the inn. He did a good deal of the work himself, aided by Sergeant Platov and a couple of men who said they had been carpenters in civil life. Orlov noted that the four of them had only five un-bandaged arms between them, but Platov's shoulder was now healing well and the other two were not badly wounded, at least in their upper limbs—one of them had an ugly gash in his leg and had made himself a crutch.

  By the midday break, they had finished one cart and started on the next and Orlov was glad to rest on the grass beside the Countess for a while and let his aching muscles relax. She had sewn a number of buttons onto Kolniev's shirts, patched one for Kusminsky and was now darning stockings. 'I can't match the wool,' she said. 'I've only grey. Do you think it matters?'

  'Personally,' replied Orlov, 'I would prefer stockings absolutely covered with multicolored darns to stockings full of uncomfortable holes. It's very much a matter of taste.'

  She laughed. 'These are yours.'

  Orlov sat up with a jerk. 'Mine? What on earth is Josef thinking of?'

  'Josef is helping Dr Kusminsky. It seemed more sensible as he's stronger than I am and some of the men have to be lifted about.'

  Orlov subsided. 'It's very kind of you, but...' he began, but she cut in swiftly, 'No. Don't say it, please! We've already had one conversation that revolved round those words. Your stockings need darning and I have wool and a needle—that's all there is to be said.'

  He was silent for a moment, then said 'Thank you' and smiled at her. She returned the smile and went on darning.

  The orderlies brought their food and coffee and were closely followed by Kolniev and Kusminsky. The Captain's face was red with his exertions and his bandage had come off, revealing the half-healed cut on his forehead. Kusminsky bandaged it before he would let Kolniev eat and then sat down with a sharp puff of breath. He looked hot and tired.

  'How are the patients?' asked Orlov.

  'Impatient, on the whole,' he replied. 'It's largely your fault—they see you hard at work and they must do the same. Even the stretcher cases are propped up and mending harness. I've put fresh dressings on more than half and I'll do the rest this afternoon—including you!' he added menacingly.

  Orlov pulled a face and ate his hard bread. The arm was a little less painful today, but he would rather not have it dis-1111 bed. 'What about Grushchev?' he asked.

  Kusminsky shook his head. 'He wouldn't speak to me this morning—wouldn't let me see his stump, either. He just mined his head away and walked off. I'm pretty sure he's doing well physically, but his mental state—to be honest, I'm worried. I've seen this sort of thing before, when a man's had a bad time. Sometimes they go quite—well—peculiar.'

  Orlov exchanged a look with him. He had seen men go mad with shock too and he realized that Kusminsky was trying to avoid alarming the Countess. 'It's odd that he won't speak to you,' he said. 'Does he speak to anyone else?'

  'He answered when I spoke to him, but very reluctantly,' put in Kolniev. 'I've heard him talking to some of the men, but not in the last couple of days. He just sits silent all the time.'

  'I think we had better watch out for him,' said Orlov.

  There was little conversation during the rest of the break. The heat was more oppressive than ever and Orlov said sleepily, 'We could do with a good thunderstorm to clear the air a bit.' As he spoke, he happened to be looking at the Countess and he saw that her eyes widened with fear at his words, but she didn't say anything.

  'You don't like thunder?' he asked.

  She looked embarrassed. 'It's very silly, I know, but really it terrifies me—it always has. My aunt used to say it was childish and I mustn't give in to it and truly, I do try, but it's no use. Every time there's a storm, I'm really frightened out of my wits.'

  'Nothing to be ashamed of,' said Kusminsky. 'Everyone's frightened of something. I know a man who's twice won the St George's Cross, but a spider running across his hand would make him yell with terror. I can't stand being in a small enclosed space—I was shut in a cupboard once as a child and nearly went mad with fright. Even the Major's afraid of something—aren't you?' he shot at Orlov, who at" once said cheerfully that he was afraid of a number of things and then realized that this had quite failed to comfort the Countess— he had spoken too lightly.

  'To be honest,' he said, very soberly, 'I have a real terror of mutilation—the thought of losing a limb or having my face scarred makes me feel literally sick.' He felt uncomfortable at revealing His private fear like this and covered it by adding, 'I expect it's mostly vanity.'

  Kolniev's sunburned face went a brighter shade of red and he nobly admitted, 'I'm afraid of falling off a horse. I did when I was ten, caught my foot in the stirrup and was dragged. Its put me off riding ever since.'

  The Countess smiled gratefully at them and said, 'Thank you for telling me. It makes me feel less ashamed of myself.'

  Silence descended on the little group as they each relaxed in their individual ways. Countess Barova continued to darn. Orlov watched her from under his long black lashes. Kolniev slept curled up like a puppy, Kusminsky neatly and catlike.

  During the afternoon, the various jobs were finished one by one and the men went off to bathe, returning to sit in the shade, talking and smoking. Some of them sang softly, others played cards.

  Later, Orlov sent Josef to see that the pool was cleared of bathers, then he took the Countess there and sat on his tree trunk, gloomily sympathizing with St Anthony while she splashed about in the water.

  As she was dressing, she said, 'I've never bathed in a river before.'

  'I'm afraid you're having to do a great many things you've never done before,' Orlov replied. 'I must say that I admire the way you stand up to it all—it must be very hard and frightening for you.'

  She had finished dressing and came to sit on the tree trunk.

  'It's all very bewildering and strange,' she said. 'But at the same time it's somehow exciting. I've had such an uneventful life—the greatest excitement we ever had at my aunt's was when the bull got loose once and broke into her garden.'

  '
How did you get him out?' asked Orlov.

  'Just took hold of the rope that was tied to the ring in his nose and led him through the gate,' she replied. 'He was quite lame really. The exciting part was when my aunt's visitors had the vapors and screamed.'

  'Do you ever scream and have the vapors?'

  'No, of course not. Nothing ever happened to me that merited such an extravagant reaction!'

  Orlov roared with laughter. When he had recovered, he said, 'Shall I walk back with you, or will you wait while I bathe?'

  ‘I’ll sit here. It's cool and peaceful.'

  He retired to the mossy bank behind her, stripped and slid down into the water. She continued to talk to him, and said, 'Isn't it strange that there should be quite a deep pool here, but so little water just a short distance away by the bridge?'

  'The bed of the river is much lower here. I should think i he pool was made—scooped out for some reason. Perhaps i here was a mill here at one time or it might have been used for washing horses—it's about the right depth.'

  He started to pull himself out onto the bank, slipped and fell back into the river, soaking his bandages. 'It's a good thing Kusminsky is going to change my dressing,' he said. "This one is all wet now.' He took a more secure hold on the overhanging branch and pulled himself out safely this time. He towelled himself and dressed without bothering to put on his shirt. He had taken his coat off after the burial service.

  They strolled back together across the grass and found Kusminsky still bandaging. Orlov confessed that he had fallen in the river, and the surgeon took off the wet bandage and looked at the wound.

  'It's beginning to heal,' he said, 'but you must still be very careful. It wouldn't take much to reopen it and it could bleed very badly again.' He put on a fresh bandage and went to attend to a man with a broken leg who was lying by one of the carts a few feet away.

  Orlov slipped his arms into his shirtsleeves and sat on the ground, leaning against a tree and making himself relax until the pain gradually died down to its usual level. He saw the tall figure of Sergeant Grushchev come out of the forest and walk across towards the wide circle of carts.

  Orlov's attention was caught by something odd in the man's appearance. He was walking very slowly, almost shambling, quite unlike his normal erect, military bearing but there was an air of purpose about him as well, as if he had a particular object in view. His eyes were fixed on something, not Orlov himself, but something beyond him and as he approached, Orlov saw that they were dilated and staring.

  He turned his head to see what the man was looking at and realized that it must be the little group round the man with the broken leg. Josef was just turning to go and fetch something for the surgeon, who was kneeling by the stretcher saying something to Josef, with his back towards the approaching sergeant.

  Orlov scrambled to his feet and stepped forward to intercept Grushchev who tried to brush past him, but he caught hold of the man's sleeve and said, 'Just a minute, Grushchev. How are you today? How's your arm?'

  The sergeant stopped dead, tore his gaze from the surgeon and glared down into Orlov's face. 'What arm?' he snarled. 'I haven't got an arm. I'm only a peasant—I don't get my arm treated and sewn up, not like little Staff officers in their pretty uniforms! Nobody troubles about me. That swine cut my arm off. He's only got time to bother with saving yours. We're left to live or die as best we can. Officers!' He spat. 'Get out of my way!'

  Orlov stood his ground and said, 'You're talking nonsense! What do you mean to do?'

  'Do? Kill him!' The giant sergeant lunged forward and Orlov stepped in his way and blocked him. Grushchev uttered a roar of rage and literally threw Orlov aside. He was flung hard against the tree, his injured arm taking the full force of the collision. He gave a sharp cry at the pain of it and for a long moment, it seemed as if he was looking at a tableau vivant framed in a thick red mist. Grushchev lumbered forward towards Kusminsky, who had turned his head at Orlov's cry and was apparently frozen in position, still kneeling with his back half turned to the sergeant. Other men were coming from all directions, but none was near enough to stop Grushchev before he reached Kusminsky.

  Fighting off the waves of red mist and nausea which were flooding over him, Orlov hurled himself at the sergeant with all his strength. He was again flung aside and landed face down on the grass, a limp, sprawled figure with an ominous red stain spreading across his left shirtsleeve.

  Kusminsky rose and ran towards him, ignoring the sergeant, who had to check in his rush and change direction and before he could reach the surgeon a dozen men came running to seize him. He was knocked to the ground, winded and apparently unconscious.

  Attracted by the noise Kolniev came out from behind the cart he had been working on, took one look at the scene and ran to where Kusminsky was bent over the still, white-clad figure. 'Oh, God!' he said. 'Not the Major! What happened?'

  'Not sure. Wasn't looking,' Kusminsky replied, rapidly stripping off the blood-soaked shirt and bandages and using a long strip to make a tourniquet. He tightened it and took the dressing off the wound. Three of the sutures were broken and the wound was gaping and seeping blood, but even as they looked, the tourniquet began to take effect and the flow decreased.

  Kusminsky let out his breath in a long sigh. Sergeant Platov came over and said to Kolniev, 'With your permission, sir?' Kolniev looked up and nodded and Platov continued, 'I think the sergeant was intending to harm the doctor, and the Major tried to stop him.' Kusminsky looked up sharply and said, 'That's it, is it! Of course—he wouldn't speak to me.'

  'I don't understand,' Kolniev said. His eyes were fixed on Orlov's white face with a look of sick dread.

  'Resentment,' Kusminsky replied. 'I took his arm off. Fellow's been brooding over it. I'm a fool. I should have realized what was wrong.' He looked around for his instrument case and found that the Countess had quietly appeared at his side with it. The surgeon took it and got out the things he needed to restitch the wound. Countess Barova knelt by Orlov's feet out of the way and gazed at his face, her own nearly as white as his. She did not speak.

  Kusminsky worked in silence and gradually everyone who could walk gathered round at a respectful distance and watched with deep concern. Their attention was so much on what the doctor was doing that they were caught unawares when Grushchev suddenly rolled over, scrambled to his feet and ran off into the forest. Kolniev gave a shout and started after him, but stopped after a few steps and directed half-a-dozen men to go instead. He was clearly more concerned about Orlov.

  After a few minutes, Kusminsky slackened the tourniquet and watched the blood seeping from the wound. He tightened it again and sat back on his heels watching Orlov's face, his own quite expressionless. The Countess gave a tiny choking sob.

  At last one of the soldiers blurted out the question none of them had dared ask. 'Will he...? Is he going to...?' but he couldn't finish.

  'I don't know,' said Kusminsky flatly. 'If the bleeding stops he'll probably be all right. If not, he'll die. You may as well go back to what you were doing—you can't do anything for him.'

  Kolniev invented a number of jobs on the spur of the moment to keep the men busy and went away to organize them. The Countess and the surgeon remained with Orlov. Kusminsky glanced at her but she said 'Please don't send me away' so he said nothing and returned his attention to his patient.

  For nearly two hours he watched the wound, alternately slackening and tightening the tourniquet until he was sure that the bleeding had stopped. Then he bound up the wound and called over a stretcher party to carry Orlov to his tent where he covered him well with blankets. The Countess accompanied him and remained unobtrusively as close to Orlov as she could without obstructing the surgeon.

  'Well,' he said. 'Now it's a matter of waiting. He'll have to be watched, I think. Someone should be with him all the time for a bit.’

  ‘I’ll sit with him,' she said.

  Very well,' Kusminsky replied. 'I must finish seeing to my patients. You stay
here now and I'll send Josef to relieve you at suppertime. If there's any change in him, call me at once.' He went out of the tent and the Countess sat down on the ground beside the still figure on the stretcher, her eyes on his lace, and remained there until the gathering dusk brought Josef to take her place.

  Going out to join the others for supper, calm and self-possessed, she put up a good pretence of eating. Kolniev was irritable with frustration because Grushchev had not been found and he could do nothing for Orlov. Kusminsky looked utterly weary and hardly spoke until they were drinking I heir coffee. Then he said, 'About tonight—are you a heavy sleeper?'

  'No,' replied the Countess. 'I sleep rather lightly. It takes very little to wake me.'

  "Then I suggest we retire in the normal way but that you sleep close to the stretcher, if you've no objection. If there is any change in the Major's condition you must call me, but I don't somehow think that there will be. Until he turns feverish, he'll probably just lie there. To be honest, I don't think any of us can afford to go without sleep at present and there isn't much point in anyone staying awake unnecessarily.'

  The others deferred to his judgement and soon afterwards the Countess returned to the tent taking over from Josef, who said he intended to remain nearby. The Countess promised to call him if there was any change in his master. Orlov had not stirred. He was lying on his back, breathing lightly, his thick black hair and eyebrows stark against his white face, and his heavily bandaged arm lying outside the blankets.

  The Countess pulled her own bedding across to Orlov's side of the tent, took off her dress and unpinned her hair. She sat watching his face while she combed and replaited it, then wriggled into her blankets and lay down, leaving the little lantern still alight.

  She slept badly, dozing off and then waking again to sit up and listen to Orlov's breathing. There was no change in him at all and twice, wondering if he were still alive, she had to get up and slide her small hand inside his blankets to feel whether his heart was still beating.