Flight From the Eagle Read online

  'He was,' replied Kolniev, not particularly subdued by finding himself in such exalted company. 'Unfortunately, he wouldn't stay there. He's stubborn.'

  Raevsky laughed. 'Yes, I've met him before!' he said. 'Stubborn as a mule!'

  'Who is?' enquired a pleasant, quiet voice from the inner doorway. The speaker, General Barclay, came out into the room, his long, sensitive scholar's face completely calm, showing no sign of the violent argument which had just been raging in his office or of the intolerable strain he was under. He had to attempt to control an army broken up into widely separated segments, commanded by other generals, some senior to himself, most of whom disliked him and disagreed with his entire policy. And all this while under continuous attack by what must be the largest and most confident army in all history.

  He paused by Danilov's desk to give him some papers, handling them awkwardly with his one arm. 'See that these orders are copied and sent out at once,' he said, speaking German, as was his habit. 'The First West Army will march to the east tonight in accordance with my earlier orders. You will confirm that they are to move in two columns in order to mislead the enemy concerning the direction of march. There are individual instructions for particular officers in addition to the general order.'

  His voice was mild and conversational and if Danilov had not heard the arguments which had raged all day over this very decision to withdraw from Smolensk, he might have assumed that the orders were concerned only with trivialities for all that Barclay's manner betrayed. Danilov hurried off to instruct his subordinates, sorting out the papers as he went.

  Barclay crossed to Orlov's side of the room and regarded him with a calm, enquiring look. 'Lev Petrovitch, you are badly hurt,' he said kindly. 'Why are you on duty?'

  Orlov pushed aside Kolniev's restraining hand and rose unsteadily to his feet. He was still dizzy and his surroundings had a curious remoteness, but he could sense the animosity and near insubordination of Raevsky and the others towards Barclay. They had been clustered round him, but at Barclay's approach they drew back and began to filter out of the door as if they felt unable to remain in the same room as the commander. Barclay took no notice. He had listened to their arguments, ignored their insults, made his decision and given his orders. He now stood looking at Orlov with the air of a university professor chiding a favorite student for working too hard.

  'I thought you might need me.' Orlov tried to put some indication of his loyalty and admiration into his voice.

  Barclay gave him a long, searching look, noticing the extreme pallor of his face, the more marked because of the contrast with his black hair, the lines of pain round his mouth, and the dark shadows under his grey eyes. He shook his head with a faint smile.

  'My dear boy, you're likely to die on your feet,' he replied. 'We have a difficult time ahead of us, as you must realize. The retreat cannot go on indefinitely. At some point we must stand and fight, and you are in no condition for the rigors of retreat or the strain of battle. Go back to the hospital and obey the surgeons. I shall not forget that you tried to return to duty and when the opportunity arises for an exchange of prisoners, you shall be among the first.'

  'Prisoners!' Kolniev jerked out. Barclay glanced at him, and then met Orlov's steady gaze.

  'You mean to abandon the wounded.' Orlov made a statement rather than asked a question.

  Barclay held his gaze. 'We have to move fast on an unobstructed road,' he said evenly. 'If any of the wounded are able to remove themselves from the city, they are free to do so as long as they do not obstruct the passage of the army.'

  He turned away to go back to the inner office but paused in the doorway to add, 'They could, for example, move on a parallel course to the south of the postroad, or head in the direction of the camp at Kaluga. You understand, Lev Petrovitch, that I appreciate your attempt to resume your duties, but I do not consider you fit and I order you to take sick leave—what you choose to do with it is your own affair. God be with you.' He went into his office and closed the door behind him.

  Orlov sat down and eased his arm into a more comfortable position. 'Transport?' he said.

  'I know where there are a dozen carts belonging to my company and I think I can find extra horses too,' Kolniev said. 'Smolensk was my home—there's none of my family left here now, but I still have a few contacts.'

  'Go and find them, then,' Orlov said. 'Where would be a good place to gather the carts and load them?'

  'There's a courtyard at the back of the Archive building.' Kolniev picked up a piece of paper and drew a quick sketch map. 'We'll need food and blankets.'

  'Come back to the hospital with me,' Orlov said. 'We'll get your men together and tell them what we propose to do. Those of them who can move about can help collect stuff together.' He stood up cautiously, this time without any ill-effect.

  Danilov came back into the room, very occupied with his fistful of papers, but he listened while Orlov told him briefly what he and Kolniev were planning. He raised his eyebrows and looked doubtfully at Orlov's arm, but made no comment, merely remarking: 'Your servant's here with your baggage —do you want it?' and picked up a map from his desk which he handed over silently.

  Orlov took it with a word of thanks and said: 'That's good —I could do with a clean shirt.' He was surprised that Danilov and Kolniev both laughed at this until he caught sight of himself in a mirror in the corridor outside and saw what a nightmare figure he looked in his blood-soaked coat.

  Outside in the street, the noise seemed to have diminished a little. Dusk had fallen, but the whole city was bathed in the lurid glow of hundreds of fires which raged unchecked through the wooden houses. Whole streets were blazing and in some areas where the fire had passed, nothing was left but the black skeletons of trees in what had been gardens, and the cracked stone of the few solid walls among the charcoal that was all that remained of the wooden buildings.

  Among the wreckage, the stone churches and public buildings still stood largely untouched, except where a shell had scored a direct hit and blown down part of a wall. The streets were littered with wreckage and bodies still but there was hardly anything living, man or beast, to be seen. Those civilians who had not fled the city were huddled together in the churches.

  The wounded soldiers were in the comparative safety of the public buildings round the main square, and the rest of the rearguard which remained to hold the city were on the thirty-foot walls and in the many towers, so solidly built that even years of neglect and the weight of the French bombardment had hardly begun to destroy them. The guns were still firing, with a continuous heavy rumble from the cannon, punctuated by the sharper explosion of the shells lobbed over the walls by the French howitzers.

  So much of the city had been razed that even from the central area it was possible to look across the ruins to the walls, where Raevsky's gunners could be seen moving about in an orderly, purposeful manner, keeping up a rate and accuracy of fire which far excelled that of the French.

  Kolniev and Orlov made their way back to the Archive building without talking, partly because the devastation shocked them into silence, and partly because both of them were thinking hard and fast. In any case, their minds seemed to be well in accord about what they intended to do.

  Orlov's servant Josef followed them pulling a little handcart which he had produced from somewhere, with Orlov's baggage on it. He normally travelled with a minimum of accoutrements, and the 'baggage' was in fact only one stout leather-bound trunk, which carried his spare clothing and other necessities.

  In the Archive building, they gathered together the remnants of Kolniev's company. There were fifty-eight of them, all wounded, but mostly about the head, arms and trunk as they had been attacked by cavalry. This also meant that the wounds were cuts and gashes rather than the fearful funnel-shaped mutilations caused by musket balls. About a dozen men were unable to stand, mostly because of broken legs or ankles, and one man was more seriously injured by the death agonies of a horse which had fallen on hi
m—Orlov's own horse, he later discovered.

  The men listened quietly as Kolniev explained to them that the army would withdraw from Smolensk that night. 'It has been decided,' he said, 'that the army cannot be burdened and slowed down by the mass of wounded men who are in the city, many of whom will only die if they are moved. The wounded will be left here and will become prisoners when the French enter the city tomorrow.' His voice gave no indication, Orlov noticed, of his own feelings about the lightness or wrongness of the decision—he simply reported it.

  'There is no reason,' he continued, 'why any of the wounded who can move should stay to await the French. As long as we don't hamper the army, we are free to try to escape, so we propose to take as many of you who care to come and get away to the south-east tonight. I'm not ordering anyone to come, just inviting you. Each of you knows how he feels— if you are not fit to travel, don't feel bound to make the attempt. You'll be risking your life and endangering the rest of us. I'm going out now to find more horses for our carts and we'll take all the food and stuff we can carry. I think most of us will stand a good chance of surviving. Any questions?'

  There was a shuffle of movement and whispering among the men, then one grizzled sergeant said: 'Where are we to head for, sir?'

  'At first to the south-east, both away from the French and away from our own army's line of march along the Moscow road. There's another good road about twenty-five miles south of here which runs from Orsha to Kaluga. We'll pick that up and follow it—how far depends on how far our army retreats and what happens, but we should expect to go to Kaluga where there's a hospital and barracks.'

  The sergeant nodded, satisfied. Again there was a whispered consultation among the men, and again the sergeant asked the question. 'Is the Major coming with us?'

  'Yes,' replied Orlov. He looked the sergeant straight in the eyes, his own gaze unwavering. They considered each other for a long moment, and then the sergeant said, 'With respect, sir, we're glad of that. I've not known many Staff officers who would have done what you did.'

  Orlov wondered how he had earned this extraordinary testimonial and wished he could remember exactly what had happened in the few minutes before he was wounded— obviously he must have done something peculiarly lunatic to have made such an impression on a veteran sergeant. He permitted himself a faint smile in acknowledgement and then saw that the foxy surgeon had joined the group and was standing listening.

  'Would the surgeon also care to accompany us?' he asked politely.

  'Kusminsky,' the surgeon identified himself. 'Yes. If you're removing my patients and taking them off into the wilds, I'd better come too. God knows what you'll do to them otherwise !'

  There seemed to be no further questions, and it was clear from the men's faces that all of them intended to come on this desperate expedition rather than fall into the hands of the French. Orlov wondered soberly if any of them realized what sort of an ordeal they were volunteering to endure—he wondered how many would die and how he would end up himself.

  At the moment, only the nervous excitement of the possibility of evading imprisonment was keeping him on his feet at all. He felt unutterably weary and there would be no chance of rest for hours yet. Somehow he must not only stay on his feet, but be prepared to deal with any number of emergencies, perhaps even help the group fight its way out of the city if the French breached the walls, or had outflanked the position to the south. Kolniev was giving clear and precise orders to groups of three or four men, sending them off to search for the various things they would need—the lad clearly had a flair for organization, thank goodness. Orlov had nothing to do for the moment and he felt an overwhelming revulsion against the whole project.

  'I can't face it!' he thought. 'I'm too tired. I'm hurt. I can't get on a horse and ride for miles—I'll die if I have to go another inch. I must sleep. I needn't go—the French will treat me well, with my rank.' He looked round with a feeling of panic and found Kusminsky was staring at him with a puzzled, curious look on his face. Orlov met his tawny eyes and made himself return their stare, and gradually his feeling of terrifying inadequacy faded and was replaced by a kind of fatalistic resignation. He had no choice but to keep going, to take part in this adventure—to lead it in fact.

  He knew that he had never had any choice. He had made the decision without being aware of it at the moment he realized that Barclay meant to retreat without taking the wounded, and his own question to the General had committed him. His rank didn't merely entitle him to privileged treatment by the enemy—it bound him to the task of trying to save the men who could expect no help at all if they became prisoners.

  He shook himself out of the reverie into which he had fallen and realized that the men were dispersing to carry out Kolniev's instructions. He started to ask what he should do, but Kolniev shook his head. 'You stay here for the moment,' he said. 'I'm going to see about the horses. One of us should be here in case there are any difficulties. Get some rest, and change your shirt! Sir!' he added as an afterthought. He grinned and went off with Kusminsky.

  Orlov sat down on one of the tables which had been used as a bed by a man who was now dragging himself purposefully on one of the various errands. The only men left were those who were unable to walk. Josef came out of the shadows and began to strip off Orlov's stained uniform, his face a mask of disapproval. Orlov relaxed and let himself fall into a half-doze, vaguely conscious of Josef's ministrations and the pain in his arm, but too tired to care.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Barclay's First West Army began moving off before midnight, carrying with it the famous icon of Our Lady of Smolensk, and almost the whole contents of the arsenal. Nearly all the civilian population had fled, and the town was empty except for the refugees huddling in the churches and the hundreds of dead and wounded in the ruins and the public buildings. Raevsky's brigade remained at the guns to cover the retreat and complete the destruction of the bridges over the Dnieper.

  The night was a particularly dark one away from the lurid light of the burning city and in the confusion no one noticed the dozen horse-drawn carts which left just after midnight, keeping south of the river and swinging away to the southeast in an orderly and purposeful manner once they were clear of Junot's men in the southern suburbs.

  Kolniev had managed to find a pair of good horses for each cart, as well as several spares for anyone who preferred jolting on horseback to jolting in the carts. There was a surprisingly large quantity of food, cooking utensils, candles, rope, cartridges, sheets of canvas, a couple of tents, and miscellaneous useful equipment. They were short of bedding and bandages and Orlov worried about this, but decided that they would have to rely on requisitioning all the available sheets and blankets in the first village they came to—if the Cossacks hadn't already fired the place.

  He was riding on a large grey horse at the head of the little procession, accompanied by Kolniev. Kusminsky was at the rear. Josef had shaved Orlov as well as changing his clothes and he felt better for it, but he was still so weak that the elfort of staying in the saddle occupied almost the whole of his attention.

  He tried to clear his mind and plan ahead but pain and weakness made him faint and he kept lapsing into a nightmare of noise, darkness, flame and awful fatigue when he could only hold onto his saddle as well as the reins with his right hand and jolt along, slumped and barely conscious, until his mind cleared again for a few minutes. It was like living in a dream and he was no longer sure what was real and what was not.

  The sky appeared to be full of lurid smoky light, with writhing yellow dragons snaking between the stars; the rumble of thunder or guns shook the ground beneath his horse's hooves. This rumbling became confused with the creaking and grinding of the carts on the rough track and the weird light seemed at times to turn the carts into strange juggernauts, the horses into fire-breathing monsters, striking sparks from the ground as they passed. Sometimes, the horse he was riding appeared to grow enormous and he looked down from a dizzy height at the ground
passing miles below, and felt sick with terror that he might fall.

  Once, a terrible reverberating concussion shook him into full consciousness with a cry of mingled pain and fear and Kolniev reached across to steady him with a hand on his shoulder. The little caravan had come to a halt and men and horses had turned to look back towards Smolensk, the men in the carts raising themselves to see the huge column of blazing fire which stretched up into the sky. Orlov stared with the rest, delirium and nightmare banished for the moment by the awesomeness of the sight and the Shockwave of a great explosion.

  'They've blown the magazine!' shouted Kolniev. 'God! Look at it! The French won't find much of Smolensk left to occupy!' Kusminsky laughed, a harsh barking noise. 'Let's hope some of Bonaparte's pigs went up with it!' he growled.

  'God help Smolensk!' said Orlov. It was the first time he had spoken for more than two hours and his voice was hoarse and cracked. Kusminsky edged his horse up close and peered at his face. 'You should ride in one of the carts,' he said briskly. 'Yes, I know you won't, you stubborn devil I Here, drink this.'

  He put a steadying arm across Orlov's shoulders, held a flask to his lips and expertly tipped a couple of table-spoonsful of neat brandy down his throat. Orlov gasped and coughed, but after a few moments, felt more alive and warmer. He hadn't realized how cold he was. 'Is my cloak ... ?' he began.

  'Cloak? Are you cold?' Kusminsky felt his forehead and pulse.

  'No ... yes ... I was, but I'm warmer now----' Orlov felt the world slipping away again as Josef came forward with his cloak and draped it carefully round him, tying the strings under his chin. Orlov roused himself to thank him, then lapsed into semi-delirium again.

  Kusminsky shook his head, but said nothing, and the little collection of horsemen and carts jolted into movement again, climbing steadily away from the burning city and the river streaked with reflected fire like bloodstains, making away towards the south-east and the long road to Kaluga.