Flight From the Eagle Page 6

  'Yes.' Her voice was hardly more than a whisper. 'Which... ?' She gave a quick, frightened glance at each of I heir three faces.

  'Captain Kolniev and I are both married,' Kusminsky replied, 'and we don't think our wives would understand the situation.' He managed to inject a gleam of humor into it. 'So we've elected Major Orlov, unless you have any objection.'

  The Countess looked Orlov’s straight in the face, her eyes huge and questioning in her white face. His clear grey eyes returned her look frankly and steadily, without flinching in the slightest. After a long moment she replied, 'No, I've no objection,' in an expressionless voice, looking down at her hands again.

  There was an awkward silence. Kusminsky looked as if he would like to say something further but couldn't think of anything and Kolniev studied the back of his hand, his neck very red. Orlov wondered if he should make some sort of speech of reassurance but there didn't seem much point in telling the girl that he would neither rape nor seduce her either she wouldn't believe him and it would be an embarrassing waste of time, or she was already resigned to expecting that he would. Perhaps she was prepared to trust him, in which case there was no need to say anything. Anyway, he was too tired to make the effort to think of anything now. He closed his eyes and let himself drift.

  When he opened them again, the Countess had gone and Kusminsky was looking at the wound on Kolniev's head. It was a nasty cut, running diagonally from his right eyebrow up into the left side of his hairline and Orlov felt guilty that he had assumed from Kolniev's healthy appearance and considerable energy that he was not much hurt.

  'That looks nasty,' he said, his voice sounding thick and rusty.

  Kusminsky looked round at him. 'Yes,' he said briefly. 'It's giving him quite a headache.'

  'It's better now,' said Kolniev. 'It just throbs a bit, that's all.'

  'You've got a thick skull,' said Kusminsky kindly. 'Like all infantry captains. They're all thick-headed.'

  'Thank youl' said Kolniev with a grin.

  'Any man who joins the army is thick-headed.' Orlov sounded bitter. His feeling of home sickness and absolute disenchantment with the glories of war had returned and he sat brooding over it while Kusminsky rebandaged the captain's head.

  'She took it well’ observed Kolniev thoughtfully.

  'Very well,' said Kusminsky. 'She's a plucky young lady. Most women would have been raving lunatics after nearly two days all alone with a dying woman and the French likely to arrive at any minute. I expected a fainting fit at least when I told her the aunt was dead. On top of that, she dressed the Major's wound, and that's no sight for a delicately nurtured female! What on earth possessed you to ask her?'

  'I didn't know what it looked like.' Orlov sounded ashamed. 'It made me feel sick. God knows how she felt!'

  'Well, she didn't scream, or fall down in a dead faint,' said Kusminsky. 'And the way she took the latest blow—well, I expected screaming hysteria but she hardly turned a hair. Mind you, I've no doubt she's crying now and wishing she could die. Orlov----' He broke off abruptly and seemed to be casting round in his mind for suitable words. 'I admire her courage. Don't—hurt her.' He looked anxiously at Orlov with an intensity of feeling in his foxy face which said far more than words.

  'I shan't do anything to her,' Orlov replied quietly, making up his mind as he said it that he would keep his word, whatever it cost him. The others looked at him with a mixture of respect and approval on their faces but even as he saw it, Orlov felt the world begin to spin and sway round him again and he was barely conscious as the other two helped him upstairs and put him to bed.

  He was a fair weight to manhandle and Kusminsky was glad of Kolniev's sturdy help in getting him up the stairs. They stripped off his clothes and put him on the bed in the room opposite the one in which the old lady had died. He stirred and moaned a little then lay still on his back, the candlelight throwing his well-cut features into sharp relief. The straight black brows were drawn together in a frown which sent their ends shooting up on either side of the bridge of his nose.

  'Funny way his eyebrows go,' commented Kolniev. 'Makes him look puzzled.'

  'Or bad-tempered,' replied Kusminsky. 'Not that he's cither very often. He's a remarkably brave man, or perhaps pigheaded.'

  'General Raevsky said he's as stubborn as a mule,' said Kolniev reverently. He admired the dashing artillery commander very much.

  'It takes one to recognize another,' observed the surgeon. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, though. If that girl was my daughter, I'd be glad it was Orlov with her and not a good many other men I could name. Present company excepted, of course,' he added, with a friendly grin.

  Kolniev returned it. 'No offence,' he said. 'I agree. I've got a daughter—she's only six—but, well, I know what you mean.'

  They went out, leaving the candle burning on the table in case Orlov woke in the night in the unfamiliar room. Although it was still early, they found most of the men were already asleep and soon turned in themselves, in one of the downstairs rooms which contained two beds.

  Silence fell over the inn, except for the quiet movements of the horses in the stables and on the picket lines under the trees and the moaning of the young boy. The moon rose and a white mist began to appear in the dips in the ground. An owl hooted among the trees and glided away across the open ground beyond the road.

  Orlov began to move restlessly, moaning a little, and gave a strangled cry. Quietly, a door on the upper floor was opened and the Countess appeared, a big shawl wrapped tightly round her shoulders, her long, thick hair hanging down her back in a plait. She crept along the landing and paused in the open doorway of Orlov's room and looked in. The candle flickered slightly and she moved slowly across to stand by the bed, looking down at the sleeping man.

  She studied his face carefully and he suddenly opened his eyes and looked at her with a puzzled frown. It cleared: he smiled faintly, and whispered, 'Hallo.'

  'Hallo,' she replied, still looking at his face as if she was searching for something in it.

  'You needn't be afraid of me,' he said quietly. 'I was very well brought up. Anyway, if you hit me hard on my left arm, I'll probably faint.' He said it half-jokingly in the hope that it would reassure her.

  ‘I’m sure it won't be necessary,' she replied politely. 'Are you in pain?'

  He moved restlessly. ‘I’m too hot, and this pillow's too high.' He was feverish and his arm hurt, and it made him fractious.

  There were two blankets and a thick quilt over him. The Countess caught hold of the top layers to pull them back. Orlov grabbed at them, and said, 'Be careful! I'm stark naked apart from my bandages!'

  The Countess carefully peeled off the quilt and the top blanket and folded them across the foot of the bed. ‘I’ll leave them where you can pull them up if you feel cold,' she said. She removed one of the two pillows, supporting his head while she did so and he settled back with a sigh.

  'That's better,' he said. 'Thank you. You're a very good nurse.'

  She tightened her lips in a little grimace and he knew she must have had a good deal of experience nursing her aunt. 'Are you all right now?' she asked.

  'Yes, thank you. You should try to sleep,' he said. 'It will be a long day tomorrow.'

  She bade him goodnight and went out as quietly as she had come. He closed his eyes, sighed, and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Early next morning, Kolniev crossed the courtyard to the barn, where the men were stirring and moving about their morning duties. He sent four of them to inspect the cart lying out in the road where the innkeepers had abandoned it. He then went with Sergeant Platov to check the supplies of I nod and fodder in the carts and directed a couple of corporals to supervise the gathering together of all the stores in the inn, including the bedding.

  By the time he re-entered the inn, the two orderlies were laying the table for breakfast, the Countess had come downstairs and Kusminsky was returning from his morning induction. There was no sign of Orlov, and Kus
minsky, after a quick glance into the parlor and a brief 'Good morning' ran up the stairs to the major's room.

  He found Josef there, shaving his master, who was half-dressed, and Orlov greeted him with a shame-faced, 'I'm sorry! I seem to have over-slept.'

  ‘Good,' replied Kusminsky, feeling his head and sniffing the bandaged arm. 'The more sleep you get, the better. Have you finished with this room? The men will be collecting the bedding after breakfast.'

  'Yes,' replied Orlov. 'Pity there aren't more mattresses. They'd make a big difference to some of the fellows in the carts.'

  "There are a dozen and some of the men have made a few more with sacks and hay. They'll all be eaten by the horses eventually, I expect.' He prodded the palliasse on Orlov's bed. 'They're damned hard, anyway.'

  Orlov struggled into his coat with Josef's help, stood patiently while the various belts, sash, sword and so on were attached to his person and then followed Kusminsky down the stairs, which had a disconcerting way of pitching about under his feet. He still felt very weak and as the surgeon reached the parlour door, he stopped him with his hand on the knob by saying in an urgent voice, 'Kusminsky, tell me something.'

  'What?' The surgeon looked up at him.

  'Shouldn't I be picking up a bit by now? I still feel washed out and unsure of my balance. It's not much of a wound, surely, to knock me up like this?'

  'Knock you up! You damned nearly bled to death—you'd an artery cut through. Kolniev saved your life by putting a tourniquet on you but we didn't think you'd make it when they brought you into the hospital. You should be in a proper bed with careful nursing for a month at least, not riding around the countryside on this pleasure-jaunt after four days! By rights, you should be lying around in a high fever and raging delirium and you will be before long if you're not careful! Rest all you can and admit you're a sick man!'

  Orlov grinned and said, 'I shall die of inanition in a minute! Is there any breakfast?' He followed Kusminsky into the parlor where Kolniev and Countess Barova were already at the table. The Countess was making the best she could of a dish of 'sergeant', a kind of porridge of meal, and Kolniev was sturdily working his way through a quantity of ham.

  Orlov greeted them both with a polite 'Good morning' and he and Kusminsky sat down to eat. They were both rather silent, Kusminsky because he was busy eating and Orlov because he felt a kind of embarrassment in the presence of the Countess. He avoided looking at her and it was left to Kolniev to enquire how much luggage she had.

  'I've a trunk,' she replied. 'A medium-sized one. Is it too much?'

  'No,' replied Kolniev. 'I expected more. What about your aunt's things? I don't suppose there's much point in taking her clothes but if she had anything of value----'

  'She has—had—a jewel-case.' Countess Barova looked anxious. 'What should I do? It might be thought that I was stealing it....'

  'Bring it,' said Orlov decisively. 'No point in leaving it for someone else to steal. We'll all witness that you're taking it for safe-keeping. What's in it?'

  'I don't know,' she replied. 'I've never seen inside it. I'll fetch it.' She had finished her meal and went out of the room before the men could get to their feet. She returned in a few minutes with the case, a fair-sized one, and a bunch of keys.

  Orlov took the case and the keys from her, turned the lock ii i he second attempt and opened the case. It contained a number of old-fashioned brooches and necklaces and a small tiara, all set with quite good stones of various sorts. He made a list in his notebook, signed it, passed it to Kolniev and Kusminsky for their signatures, tore out the page and dropped it into the case which he relocked and returned to the Countess with the keys.

  'There you are,' he said. 'Put it in your trunk and don't mention that you have it to any of the men. They're mostly thieves as well.' He refrained from saying what they were as well as thieves and he smiled as he said it. But he caught the eye of the Countess as he spoke, then looked away as if he Were embarrassed.

  'How are we for supplies?' he asked Kolniev after a short pause.

  'Pretty well,' replied the Captain. 'There's enough food for about eight days and oats and hay for a week, if we're careful. I should think we'll be able to get more by then if the Cos-lacks haven't got out of hand and destroyed everything from here to the Urals.'

  'Matvei Platov won't let them go as mad as that,' replied Orlov, referring to the Supreme Hetman of the Don Cos-lacks. 'They're not an undisciplined rabble, you know, whatever they look like in action. They're as much in hand as the Imperial Guard in their own way. Can we carry all that lot?'

  'That's the problem,' replied Kolniev. 'The hay is so bulky. I've set some men to repair the cart out on the road there— it should carry most of it. They've found some spare axles in the barn so I've had them loaded, tied under a couple of the carts. They'll help to stiffen them as well as being there if we need them. We've found cheese, bacon, flour, all the usual stuff in the storeroom. The innkeeper's folk didn't stop to take much with them.'

  Orlov nodded. 'It seems I'm the only lazy slugabed in the party.'

  'Rubbish!' said Kolniev. 'You ought to be in bed all the time, Lev Petrovitch, not riding at all.' He said Orlov's name in a self-conscious way, aware that it was a presumption for a mere Line captain to address a Staff major thus, but Orlov smiled at him in a friendly manner and went on to outline his plans for the day's march.

  'I think we should press on as we did yesterday,' he said. 'Always providing the men can stand it. We'll start as soon as we can and keep going for about four hours then rest for two and have some food during the middle part of the day. If we then go on for another three hours it will leave plenty of time to make ourselves comfortable for the night. It's not nearly the usual army rate but it should take us twenty miles with any luck and I think that's far enough in a day, under the circumstances.'

  'How fast will the French advance?' asked Kolniev. 'If they advance,' Orlov said. 'They may stay in Smolensk. I think they will certainly have halted there for a few days to get their breath back. They've lost a hell of a lot of men and horses, dropped out from exhaustion, since they crossed the Niemen. Those hail storms last month took their toll and the heat since hasn't helped them.

  Remember, too, that the Cossacks have made sure they go short of fodder and water and food too, for the French are used to living off the country— they've no proper supply train. I doubt if they'll be ready to move in less than a week, though they'll not be able to stay too long as there's no food in the area. Of course, they'll send out foraging parties and they'll be our main danger, I think. Less so as we move on out of range and that's why I think we should cover at least twenty miles a day for a few days at least.'

  'But if they move on from Smolensk, won't they be catching up with us all the time?' Kolniev asked.

  'No, not really. Remember, they won't be moving very last—our army won't exactly let them gallop all the way! — and another thing, they'll follow the post road to Moscow and I hat runs to the north-east, whereas we're going a little south of east so we're on a diverging course.' He made a few lines on the cloth with his thumbnail to illustrate the point. 'Of course, if Bonaparte has any sense, he'll stay where he is or go back, and if Barclay gives way to pressure, there'll be a battle which will delay things at least. I wish we had some way of knowing what they're all doing.'

  'Only delay things?' Kolniev pounced on the phrase.

  'Patriotism aside,' Orlov replied matter-of-factly, 'one must admit that the Russian army doesn't have a resounding list of victories to its credit where Bonaparte's army is concerned. Austerlitz, Elyau, Friedland…' He shrugged, forgetting once again, and swore, luridly, but in German which made Kolniev and Kusminsky laugh.

  'Oh, well done!' cried Kusminsky. 'Admirable! I call that really quick-witted.'

  The Countess looked at them, half-amused and half-puzzled, and Kolniev kindly explained to her, 'You see, he has a habit of shrugging his shoulders and it hurts his arm and makes him swear. Because you'
re here, he swore in German so you wouldn't understand.'

  Countess Barova smiled and when Orlov said ruefully, 'She wouldn't have understood those words if I'd said them in Russian, I hope!' she actually laughed and Orlov looked at her with a sudden interest, for her laugh was very clear and musical, like bells, and he felt that somehow it was a rare and pleasant sound. He was glad she had a sense of humor. He felt grimly afraid she was going to need it in the next few days.

  They had all finished their meal by now and dispersed about their various tasks. Orlov noticed that Kolniev paused to collect the half-burned candles from the brass candelabrum and said, 'That's another thing—were there candles here?'

  'Yes,' replied Kolniev. 'A good store, and a few lanterns as well. We've collected them all. Do we set fire to the place when we leave?' He asked the question nervously, knowing the answer but clearly not much liking the idea. Orlov replied 'Yes' rather curtly. He didn't care for it either and, typically, when the carts were drawn up in line on the road ready to start the day's journey, it was Orlov himself who went round with a torch made of tarred rope and set fire to the heaps of inflammables placed strategically around the buildings—curtains, straw, anything that would burn well in the timber buildings.

  When he was sure that the whole place was well alight, he mounted his horse, grim-faced, waved his good arm as an order to start and rode a few paces ahead of the first cart, staring between his horse's ears and feeling sick with everything—war, the French, the dusty road, himself. Behind him, the carts creaked and jolted along, their wheels and the horses' hooves muffled by the thick dust on the road, which stretched ahead until it vanished into a belt of forest a mile or so away.

  The trees planted by the roadside looked tired and dusty and the sun, already powerful, was shining into his face, making him screw up his eyes. Every now and again a little dry breeze stirred and blew the dust up in swirling eddies so that before long his white uniform was grey with it, his face felt stiff with it, and his mouth and nose were full of fine grit. He took a mouthful of warm, unrefreshing water from the canteen hanging from his saddle and tried to think of something pleasant which would take his mind off his discomfort.