Flight From the Eagle Read online

  'I'll be glad when it gets a bit cooler, anyway,' he said. 'This heat drains everyone of energy and makes everything seem worse than it really is. Thank God that bridge is still there! Hauling this lot down that bank and up the other side in this heat would kill us all. I'm glad you're looking better, Major—it's been all wrong these last couple of days, not seeing you riding along at the front. It makes us all feel like lost sheep.'

  Orlov's demon sense of responsibility immediately forced him to say that he intended to ride that afternoon and Kolniev looked worried.

  'Are you sure?' he asked anxiously. 'I didn't mean ... shouldn't you wait another day?'

  'No use arguing with him,' Kusminsky said gloomily, his eyes still closed. 'General Raevsky's a good judge of character,' he added obscurely.

  Countess Barova looked at Orlov imploringly and opened her mouth as if to speak. Then she closed it again and looked away. Orlov spoke to her as much as to anyone. 'It's no worse than jolting along in an unsprung cart,' he said. 'That grey has a very smooth action and he doesn't bounce in and out of every pothole in the road.'

  There was no further argument and all four of them drowsed for half an hour or so in the shade until Orlov reluctantly decided that they had better start on the afternoon's travelling. He made the carts cross the bridge one by one, just in case the wooden structure was less strong than it looked. The fact that it was still there was encouraging— presumably the French were not expected here just yet.

  The heat seemed to have affected even his grey horse for he ambled along in an unusually docile fashion, twitching his ears at the ever-present black flies. Everyone had followed Kusminsky's advice and taken off their uniform coats and stocks and the men were dressed in a motley collection of shirts, some filthy and ragged, others almost as clean as Orlov's, which looked reasonably white when they started (thanks to Josef's laundry activities), but was grey with dust and clinging wetly to his body before they had been moving half an hour. It was so long since he had worn his helmet that he was not even sure where it was.

  He occupied himself for a time in calculating how far away the French would be, assuming that they had left Smolensk sometime after the 6th of August, two days after the Russians had left the city—surely they couldn't have moved before that? If Bonaparte's men were advancing unopposed, they could be—where, by now?

  In the end, he decided that unless he had more information to go on, it simply wasn't possible to calculate. The only safe thing to do was to assume that it was possible that the French were level with them (or even ahead) on the Moscow road, and that an enemy foraging party could come across them at any time all the way to Kaluga. It wasn't a very cheerful conclusion, but more sensible than allowing himself to relax prematurely.

  Relax! That was a joke! Why on earth had he been fool enough to say he would ride? Granted that the cart did jolt appallingly and jar his arm, it was not much worse than the movement of the horse and he hadn't really felt it much all the morning—but then he had passed the morning in talking about himself! Poor Sparrow! She must have spent a great deal of her life listening to other people talking about themselves. She was very good at pretending to be interested.

  He wondered if she was finding the heat too trying and turned aside to make his tour of the carts in order to find out. When the line had passed him, he rode with Kusminsky for a few minutes and the surgeon said sourly, 'Regretting your decision to ride yet?' Orlov gave him a wan smile and didn't reply.

  'I think it would be advisable to stop early today,' Kusminsky continued more seriously. 'I'm finding this weather very trying so it must be misery for some of the men. We don't want anyone collapsing from heat exhaustion.'

  Orlov nodded. 'I'll ride up the line and see how they're getting on and then look out for a camp site.' He kicked his horse to a faster pace to catch up with the rearmost cart.

  As he progressed up the line, he was surprised how many of the men said they were glad to see him back in his place. 'Didn't seem right, Your Excellency, not seeing you up front there on your big grey,' was the general verdict. Orlov was touched and also concerned to see how white and exhausted some of them looked.

  When he reached the second cart, he found that Sergeant Platov and the corporal were both asleep—genuinely this time. Countess Barova looked unusually dishevelled and her head drooped wearily. He rode close alongside and said, 'Sparrow?' in a gentle, enquiring voice.

  She looked at him, startled, and he saw that her face was quite white under its coating of dust and there were streaks in the dirt on her cheeks as if she had been crying. He looked at her, frowning with concern, and she dropped her eyes under his scrutiny, turning her face away. 'I—it's so hot,' she said in an unsteady voice.

  Orlov leaned over and prodded Sergeant Platov awake. 'Take over driving this cart,' he said. 'Can't, you see that the Countess is tired out?' He sounded furious and Platov scrambled awkwardly onto the box, apologizing profusely and looking quite frightened. The Countess surrendered the reins to him and shifted along the box out of his way.

  Orlov rode close up alongside and reached across, put his arm round her and lifted her over to sit in front of him on the horse in the same position as when he carried her across the river. He nearly unseated himself in the process but once he had her safely, he held her close, not worrying this time about where his arm was pressing. She leaned against him with her face hidden in the frill of his shirt.

  He urged his horse forward and resumed his place at the head of the procession of carts, passing Josef's vehicle with no more than 'We'll be stopping soon' because he wanted to remove himself from the curious looks and sharp ears of the men. Once he was well ahead again, he bent his head and tried to see Countess Barova's face, but it was still hidden. 'What is it, pet?' he asked. 'Are you ill?'

  She lifted her head and moved a tiny fraction away from him. 'No,' she replied. 'It's nothing. It's just so hot and ... and ... oh, nothing.'

  'You mustn't let those two great idle men bully you into driving all the time,' he said, frowning with concern.

  'They don't bully me!' she protested. 'Sergeant Platov's shoulder hurts him when he tries to drive, and the corporal can't sit on the box properly with his wounded foot. They're very kind really.'

  'So kind that they let you sit there and cry with fatigue without even noticing?' Orlov still sounded angry.

  She made a hopeless little gesture with one hand and did not reply. Orlov pulled her close against him almost roughly and rode along in silence, still scowling. He saw, looking ahead, that the arch of trees over the road framed a view of open country as the belt of forest they had travelled through all day came to an end.

  In a few minutes, they emerged from the shade of the trees into, the full glare of the sun and ahead stretched an expanse of meadowland, with large fields of rye or oats further away and another belt of forest black beyond them. The road went on through a village about a mile ahead, but there was no sign of life in it or its surroundings, no smoke from the little wooden houses, no animals or people in the fields.

  Orlov twisted in the saddle to shout to the men behind him and turned off to the left, where a brook came out of the forest and ran downhill through the gentle slope of grass towards the village. 'We'll stop here,' he said to the Countess. 'I, for one, can't face a scorching out there on a day like this. Anyway, it's quite two hours since we started and that's long enough in this weather.'

  She sighed and he let go of the reins, allowing the grey to amble along towards the water and put his hand under her chin, tilting her face up so that he could look at it properly. He inspected it minutely, seeing the little lines of strain round her eyes, the dark smudges under them, the paleness of her cheeks and lips, tear-stains and the slight tremble of her mouth. 'Oh, Sparrow! You look terrible!' he said and her eyes filled with tears.

  He found himself kissing her lips very gently before he realized what he was doing. The next moment the creaking of protesting timbers behind him warned him that t
he carts were coming up. He took a firm grip round her waist to lower her to the ground, telling her very severely to go and rest in the shade and not allow anyone to give her anything to do. To his surprise, she smiled a little as he said it.

  As he dismounted, Kolniev came up, mopping his red face, which was liberally streaked with dirt. 'Thank God for that!' he said, pushing his bandage crooked. 'I thought I'd melt if we had to cross that furnace today!' He gestured towards the open country.

  'We'll have to cross it tomorrow,' Orlov warned him. 'We shouldn't hang about too much in case of trouble. I wish I knew when (and if) the French left Smolensk.'

  Kolniev frowned. ‘I’m afraid I tend to forget about them,' he admitted. 'There seems to be so much to think about when we camp and on the road I go off into a sort of trance, what with the heat and the dust. I almost forget why we're here and where we're going at times. It feels as if we've been driving along this road all our lives.'

  Orlov admitted that he felt the same sometimes. 'Just imagine what it would be like if we were condemned to go on doing it forever!' he said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A little while later the three officers and Countess Barova gravitated together under a large oak tree near the stream. From its shade, they could look out over the rather leisurely activity of the camp where the cooks were languidly beginning to prepare the evening meal even though it was still afternoon. Most of the men had finished their particular duties for the time being and were stretched out in the shade of the carts or the trees on the edge of the forest. Beyond the two tents, which were pitched under another large tree, Josef could be seen washing linen in the stream.

  The more distant prospect was of the fields and the village and still there was no sign of life anywhere. Just within the far belt of woodland could be seen the roof of a large house, probably the home of the local landowner, but again there was no smoke rising, no sound or sign of activity.

  The sky above the trees had a leaden hue, more ominous than the brassy blue which had predominated for so many days and Orlov, looking at it, wondered how soon the storm it presaged would arrive. He glanced covertly at the Countess and wondered if she had noticed the storm clouds—they were not really more than a distant threat so far.

  He saw that she looked a little less near to collapse after washing and tidying herself and that her hair was now hanging in a thick plait down her back. 'Has your last hairpin been commandeered?' he asked.

  She smiled. 'Yes, I'm afraid so.'

  'Very useful things,' commented Kolniev. 'I'd no idea how many jobs they could be used for.'

  Orlov lapsed into a sleepy reverie, going back over the old problem of what the French were doing. He suddenly gave a grin of amusement.

  'What's funny?' asked Kusminsky, interested.

  'I was just thinking,' he replied. 'Bonaparte may have had a more successful military career than I have, but my French accent is better than his.'

  'Have you heard him speak?' asked Kolniev.

  'Yes. I was at Tilsit when he met the Czar. He has an atrocious Italian accent.'

  'At Tilsit! Then you've seen the Czar?' The Countess sounded very impressed. Orlov looked at her with surprise. 'Dozens of times,' he replied and it occurred to him that she probably had no idea of the significance of his white, silver and red-braided uniform.

  'The Major is an officer of the Chevalier Guard, and a Staff officer as well,' Kolniev explained earnestly, in a respectful tone. The Countess looked embarrassed. 'I'm sorry. I didn't know,' she almost whispered.

  'No reason why you should,' Orlov replied.

  'And what does His Majesty call you?' asked Kusminsky in his most provocative manner. Orlov refused to let it ruffle him, and replied equably, 'It depends what sort of mood he's in. If he's feeling affable, it's Lev Petrovitch; if he's bad-tempered, it's Major Er; and if he's being brisk and efficient, it's plain Orlov.' Kusminsky laughed.

  'Are you very important?' the Countess asked, looking anxious and subdued. Orlov puzzled over the question, even as he answered it.

  'No, not very. I was born with a few undeserved advantages, but they tend to make me what Kusminsky would call a parasite on the body politic'

  'I'd say no such thing!' Kusminsky protested. 'I wouldn't dream of using such a stupid expression! You make me sound like a damned Jacobin!'

  'Aren't you?' asked Orlov, with an innocent expression and the surgeon snorted.

  Kolniev embarked on a long and very earnest explanation of the position and duties of a Staff officer and of the Chevalier Guard, to which the Countess listened with every appearance of interest. Kusminsky clearly found it boring, and insisted on changing the dressing on Orlov's arm in spite of his protests. By the time it had been done and the arm had settled down sufficiently to be bearable, supper was ready.

  After the meal, Orlov persuaded the Countess to go to bed and she seemed somehow grateful for his concern. When she had gone, he asked Kusminsky if he thought her strength was being overtaxed. 'She looks so white and tired and unhappy,' he said.

  'What do you expect?' asked Kusminsky. 'She's been uprooted from a very quiet, dull life; she's lost her home; her only relative has died, suddenly, in very difficult circumstances and she was left with the dead body and no one to help her—all the servants had run off with the French on the doorstep. She's helped me dress wounds that probably turn her sick; she's spent a week in the company of rough soldiers, with no other woman for companionship; she's no privacy, her modesty outraged in all directions; and she has no idea what is to become of her—no money, no home, no one to turn to. On top of that, there's the heat and the strain of the journey, quite apart from whatever emotional upheavals she's experiencing. What the hell do you expect her to look like? The latest Paris fashion plate?'

  Orlov let the tirade pass and when Kusminsky had subsided, he said quietly, 'I only wondered if perhaps it was asking too much for her to drive a cart. She seems rather frail.'

  'Frail, fiddlesticks!' replied Kusminsky crabbily. 'She's all right physically, apart from being tired. If she becomes ill, it'll be because she's worried and unhappy and you may well concern yourself about that!' He went off muttering something about going to bed early and disappeared into his tent.

  'He's tired,' Kolniev said. 'He doesn't mean to be bad-tempered.'

  'We'd be in a bad state without him,' Orlov replied. He changed the subject by asking Kolniev about the supply situation and they spent some time discussing it, then both decided to turn in as the heat made them feel as drained of energy as anyone.

  It was still extremely sultry and nightfall had not brought much of a drop in the temperature. The atmosphere was so still and heavy that Orlov felt that the storm could not be long coming.

  When he entered the tent, he found that the Countess was fast asleep so he made his own preparations for the night as quickly and quietly as he could. He lay down on top of his bedding, for it was far too hot to have even a single blanket over him. When he had blown out the candle, he lay for some time looking out through the tent door across the open country and thought he could see the distant flicker of sheet lightning.

  Later in the night, he was woken by a flash of white light and a distant rumble which he thought at first was cannon fire. He sat up, still confused and half asleep. He realized that it was thunder approaching rapidly and felt chilly. He stood up, feeling for a blanket, which he draped round him rather awkwardly, and was about to lie down again when a second flash of lightning showed him that the Countess was sitting up, her hands over her face. The flash was quickly over, but it -left him with a vivid impression of her terror and in the darkness which followed, while the thunder rumbled and crashed nearer still, he stumbled over and knelt beside her, putting his arm round her shoulders.

  She turned to him, hiding her face against his shoulder. He was still desperately sleepy and after a second's hesitation, he hitched the blanket round to enfold her as well as himself, lying down with her in the circle of his good arm. She shra
nk against him as the thunder boomed again and the first heavy drops of rain began to patter on the canvas and the leaves of the trees.

  The crashing thunder became almost continuous and the lightning came in a series of blinding flashes, each of which seemed to make her press more closely against him, trembling with fear. He held her as close as he could and after a few minutes he felt her hand on his chest, apparently trying to cling to him, but it slid across his bare skin without finding anything to grip, and eventually came to rest under him.

  The storm roared overhead and gradually passed further away, continuing to rumble and flash in the near distance for a considerable time. Orlov kept thinking that he ought to return to his own side of the tent but each time he made up his mind to do so, there was another roar, still quite close. After a time, he realized that the tense body of the Countess had relaxed and the soft stir of her breath on his skin had become regular. There seemed little point in waking her if she had fallen asleep, so he lay still, soon drifting off to sleep himself.

  When he became conscious again, he was at first aware of the sound of rain and felt warm and comfortable. As long as he could remember, he had enjoyed the feeling of being snug in a comfortable bed while the rain poured down outside. He gave a luxurious squirm at the thought of it, then gradually became more aware of where he was. It was light, but still very early. The rain was falling steadily on the tent.

  Despite the hardness of the ground, he felt pleasantly comfortable, largely due to the fact that the slender body of Countess Barova was still pressed closely against him, with her head on his shoulder and her soft, heavy plait of hair lying across his chest. He lay still, wondering what on earth he should do and was forced to smile to himself. This was certainly the first time he had ever found himself in bed with a woman and had to wonder what he should do about it! But then, none of the others had been like this one. He was sure that he was the first man who had ever held her like this and it made him feel a protective tenderness for her.