Flight From the Eagle Page 8

  After a while, Kusminsky came up alongside him and said cheerfully, 'Thinking of working in a circus?'

  'Damned horse,' replied Orlov. 'Stuffed full of oats and hellbent on making life difficult.'

  'Let him have his head for a bit,' Kusminsky advised. 'No! Don't!' he amended hastily. 'You'll probably come off. Change mounts with me and I'll let him run a bit.'

  Orlov dismounted and the grey promptly tried to kick him. He hung onto the reins and dodged out of the way while Kusminsky got down and took the horse from him. Orlov held the surgeon's placid chestnut and watched him ride off down the road at a furious gallop.

  He returned presently with the horse much more quiet and amenable, and found Orlov walking along the grass verge, leading the chestnut and looking white and exhausted.

  'Are you hurt?' he asked, looking closely at the Major's face as he dismounted.

  'No,' replied Orlov shortly. 'Thank you.' He remounted the grey with an obvious effort which he equally obviously tried to disguise.

  'For God's sake, man!' Kusminsky said. 'Will you give in and admit you're not fit to ride?'

  Orlov gave him an icy glance. 'I'm perfectly fit,' he said coldly, and kicked the grey into a walk. Kusminsky watched him with a mixture of exasperation and admiration and resumed his place at the back of the column.

  The grey was much quieter and Orlov jogged along in a daze of misery. He had jarred his arm painfully when the horse had tried to kick him, and he felt sickened by the whole situation—literally so as a spasm of nausea made him wonder if he was going to vomit. It passed off after a few minutes, and he relapsed into torpor, trying not to think about anything at all in the present, but directing his mind to his home in Ryazan, trying to recall, room by room, the furniture, the pictures and ornaments. He was surprised how clearly he could visualize most of it, particularly the entrance hall, and he wondered if it was still the same or if his widowed sister had changed it all in his absence.

  'I'll ask her when I write,' he thought. 'Hell and damnation! Why didn't I write to her from Smolensk before we left? Danilov would have seen a letter off for me. She'll be worrying, thinking the French have got me, or that I'm dead. Poor Tatia! It's time she was married again and raising some children. Time I went home and did something about it all. I've left her to run the estates all these years, never giving a thought to whether she's happy or not. I wonder if there's anyone she wants to marry? Her husband wasn't much good to her—she didn't even like him much. I wonder why Father was so set on her having him. Well, she can choose for herself now. She's a wealthy widow, reasonably pretty and still quite young.'

  He reckoned up how old she was with an effort, and eventually had to start again from the fact that she was eight years his junior, therefore was now twenty-four. 'Married and widowed at seventeen!' he thought. 'Poor Tatia!' He remembered his dull, middle-aged brother-in-law, maimed in an encounter with Murat's cavalry at Austerlitz and dying soon after. He realized that he couldn't even recall his face.

  He then started on a round of his friends and relations, seeing how well he could recall their features and the tones of their voices. It was interesting to find that, apart from his long-dead mother, there were very few women who remained at all clearly in his memory. There was a plump little Princess who had fluttered her eyelashes at him at a ball in Petersburg last winter and occupied his attention for a week or two, and a black-eyed beauty who had captured his heart years ago, before he joined the army even, but had been un-attainably betrothed to one of his friends.

  That little dancer from the Opera—he couldn't remember her name. He couldn't remember her face either, he realized on reflection: he was confusing her with another—several others. What about Danilov's sister? He had seriously thought of marrying her a couple of years ago, before he went off to the Turkish campaign with Kutuzov. More than three years now, he supposed. Anyway he couldn't remember her at all—was she dark or fair? Just as well he hadn't married her.

  Nevertheless, time he did marry. Thirty-two, and not even betrothed yet. 'If I marry this year,' he thought, ‘I’ll be in my mid fifties when my eldest son comes of age! Surely the war can’t go on much longer? The French have been fighting— how long now? Twenty years? Surely no country can stand a war that long. It must end soon. End! For all I know, Bonaparte could go on marching through Russia from Smolensk to Moscow, and then on to Petersburg and from there to Sevastopol! We could be fighting him for another twenty years! I low old is he? Forty-odd? Kutuzov's nearly seventy. Another thirty years of Bonaparte!'

  He was suddenly aware that Kusminsky was riding at his elbow and he turned to look at him.

  ‘Sorry,' he said. 'I was thinking.'

  'Nothing very cheerful, from the look of you. What was making you scowl like that?'

  'I'd just worked out that we could go on fighting Bonaparte I'H another thirty years. Wouldn't it make you scowl?'

  'God forbid!' exclaimed the surgeon. 'Surely someone will put a bullet through his head before that!'

  'Surely,' replied Orlov grimly. 'But it won't necessarily kill him, you know. Kutuzov has been shot through the head iu ice and it doesn't seem to have prevented him from going on with his military career.'

  'Ah, but Mikhail Ilarionovitch is a Russian!' said Kusminsky with fine chauvinism. 'One bullet through the head should do for a mere Italian!'

  'Let it be soon!' said Orlov. He glanced up at the sky and drew out his watch. To his surprise, it was five o'clock.

  'There appears to be a clearing just ahead,' said Kusminsky, anticipating his thoughts. 'And a convenient stream as well. How fortuitous!'

  'Indeed,' replied Orlov. 'Most providential,' he said in the same spirit.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The clearing proved a suitable camp-site for the night and Orlov gave a succession of clear, logical instructions for making camp with the ease of long practice. He forced himself to fight down his fatigue long enough to see that everything was proceeding properly, knowing that the pattern set tonight would be the precedent for every night as long as "the journey lasted.

  When everything was going on to his satisfaction, sheer perversity made him go over to the little group of men whose leg injuries prevented them from walking about, and he stood talking to them for a few minutes as they lay industriously turning the sheets from the inn into piles of neatly rolled bandages. After that, there was a shaky cart-wheel to look at and a few queries about the horses to answer.

  By the time he had finished, the camp was settling into a routine of preparation for the evening meal and he saw that the two tents had been set up a little distance away, between the stream and a clump of bushes. Kolniev's green coat was hanging from the corner pole of one so Orlov made for the other, but was intercepted by Josef just as he was about to enter.

  'The Countess is refreshing herself in the tent,' Josef informed him. 'If Your Excellency will come over here—' He led Orlov past the tent to the bushes behind it and helped him off with his clothes. There were a number of wet garments hanging to dry on the bushes and Orlov said lightly:

  'Are you running a laundry?'

  'A change of linen is a minor but important addition to the comfort of the situation,' replied Josef primly.

  'Indeed,' said Orlov gravely. 'I'm much indebted to you for your forethought and ingenuity in the matter.' Josef acknowledged his appreciation with a slight bow and gave Orlov's clothes a violent shaking to rid them of some of the dust. 11 is master noticed that there were several shirts on the bushes and deduced that Josef had taken the other officers under his wing. Not only the officers, he realized, seeing that some of ! he garments had a little discreet lace trimming on them.

  Josef indicated a couple of buckets of water and Orlov washed himself one-handedly, sluicing off the dust and sweat of the journey, and towelling himself briskly afterwards. 'We seem to be well provided with towels,' he remarked.

  'There were a number at the inn,' replied Josef, handing him clean linen and helping him to dres
s. 'There seemed little point in leaving them for the French.' His tone implied that he doubted if the French washed very frequently, if at all.

  Orlov emerged from his alfresco dressing room feeling a little less tired and a great deal more cheerful, and found his companions equally refreshed by plentiful applications of water and a change of linen.

  'God bless your Josef,' said Kolniev in heartfelt tones.

  Supper was served as the sun was declining and by the end of it, the strip of sky visible above the road was filled with crimson glory. The meal was the usual stewed meat and vegetables, mostly cabbage and dried peas, but the thick meaty gravy made it appetizing and at least it was plentiful and sustaining. The Countess, sitting very straight on the hard ground in contrast to the lounging men, did not appear to have much appetite and Kolniev, noticing this, apologized for the quality of the food.

  'It's good by army standards,' he said. 'But I'm afraid you don't much care for it. I expect you're used to daintier fare.'

  'It's very good,' she replied. 'It's just that I don't feel very hungry. I'm sorry.'

  Kusminsky looked at her thoughtfully, got up, and went over to the tent he shared with Kolniev, coming back with a bottle of wine. 'We could all do with something to hearten us,' he said. 'There was enough decent stuff in the inn to give us a bottle for dinner each night until we get to Kaluga. Not much between four of us, but a glassful is better than nothing.' In fact, it was a good cupful, enough to make them all feel a bit more hearty. The Countess made an effort to eat her plateful of food and had a little more color in her cheeks by the end of the meal.

  Before it became completely dark, Kusminsky went to make his rounds, changing a few dressings and checking the progress of his patients. Orlov joined him and Kusminsky, surprisingly, made no protest and didn't urge him to rest, but drew him into conversation with the men.

  They spent quite a long time beside the boy with the crushed pelvis, Petrushka. He seemed sufficiently conscious to understand when they spoke to him, but he replied slowly and after a long pause. He said he was not in pain any more.

  'Where do you come from?' Orlov asked him gently.

  'From Yaroslavl.'

  'Are your parents there?'

  'Yes.' The boy looked into Orlov's face. 'Please sir, would you tell them?' 'Of course.'

  'Would you write to them?'

  'What would you like me to say?' Orlov drew out his notebook and pencil and the boy slowly dictated a few messages to his mother, his sister, his little brother and his father. At length, his voice faded away, and Kusminsky, who had been holding a lantern for Orlov to see to write by, shone it on the boy's face for a moment and felt his pulse.

  'He's asleep. I think he'll last another day or so, but it's only a matter of time. It's good of you to trouble with him.'

  'Trouble!' Orlov scowled. 'It's not much to do for the boy, is it?'

  Kusminsky recognized the frown as one of concern and frustration at not being able to help the boy, and reminded himself that Orlov had never seen the lad until a few days ago.

  'He's not your responsibility,' he said quietly.

  'It was my horse, wasn't it?' Orlov sounded helplessly angry.

  'But not your fault.' Kusminsky put a hand on his shoulder.

  "You'll never make a general—you care too much about the men.'

  ‘I don't damned well want to be a general,' replied Orlov. 'I want to go home, and grow cabbages or something. I'm sick of blood and killing and burning places. I've done nothing but destroy for the last eight years. It's time I found a decent occupation!

  Kusminsky patted his shoulder sympathetically. 'Well, start off with a decent night's sleep,' he advised.

  Orlov wished him goodnight, and walked slowly over to the tent. As he ducked through the entrance flap, there was a little gasp and he straightened up inside to see that it was lit by a candle lantern standing on a box by one of the supporting poles. Two or three boxes and his own and the Countess' trunks were ranged down the middle and two piles of bedding were lying on the ground, one on the far side, one by the entrance. The Countess was sitting on one of the boxes plaiting her long, thick hair. She had taken off her dress, and was wearing a long petticoat which left her shoulders and arms bare. Her eyes were enormous in her small white face.

  Orlov hastily averted his gaze and stripped off his coat and shirt. He sat down on his blankets and struggled out of his boots, remarking in a cheerful, conversational voice, 'I was thinking this afternoon that the idiot who designed this uniform ought to be made to wear it, particularly the helmet! Did you ever see anything so ridiculous? I can't walk through a normal door with it on and if I lean forward, ten to one the thing falls off.

  And the rest of the outfit! Who in their right mind would dress a soldier in white? It shows every mark, not to mention the bloodstains! I suppose they thought the Chevalier Guard would be kept for strictly ceremonial uses, not given grubby occupations like fighting battles and riding around the provinces. They let us wear grey trousers on active duty, but they're not much better.'

  He thought perhaps lie shouldn't have mentioned trousers to a lady, and glanced over his shoulder at her. She had finished plaiting her hair and was sitting looking down at her clasped hands, her knuckles shining white.

  'Do you think you'll be reasonably comfortable?' he asked. 'I don't suppose you've slept in a tent before.' She shook her head. 'Nor on the ground,' he added. 'Shall I show you how to fold your blankets?'

  'Please.' It was hardly more than a whisper.

  Orlov sorted out the little pile of bedding. There was a palliasse—only a sack of hay, but better than nothing.

  'The important thing is to have plenty underneath you,' he rambled on. 'Otherwise the cold and damp strikes up from the ground. You put the palliasse down on top of the bit of canvas, and sort of interleave the blankets like this.' He laid the things in place, clumsily with only one hand. 'Then you fold them over you in opposite directions—here, come and lie down and I'll show you.'

  She moved forward hesitantly and he glanced up at her. The thick plait was hanging in front of her shoulder, curving round her white neck and dropping down over her small, shapely breast. She stepped out of her shoes, gave a little sob, and lay down on the blankets with a quick, nervous movement, smoothing down her long skirt decorously round her ankles.

  'That's it,' said Orlov, carefully not looking at her. 'Now you fold them over like this.' He swiftly cocooned her in the rough blankets. 'Then tuck them in so they won't pull loose, fold them under your feet, so—and there you are. Will you be warm enough? It gets very cold at night.' He looked round and saw his cloak lying in the top of his open trunk. He fetched it and spread it over her, tucking the collar round her chin.

  'But you'll need it yourself,' she protested.

  'I have a greatcoat as well,' he assured her. 'Actually, I'm supposed to wear it, but I prefer a cloak. No one bothers on active service, so I keep the coat for parades.' He felt that he was talking far too much and in a ridiculously stilted manner but at least she no longer looked completely petrified with fright.

  He clambered awkwardly to his feet and returning to his own side of the tent, drew his sword and stuck it in the ground just inside the flap where he could grab it in a hurry. Then he wound up his watch, hung it on the nail Josef had banged into the tentpole for the purpose and arranged his own bed. No palliasse for him, he noted—clearly only the woman and the badly wounded qualified for such luxury. On the other hand, it was encouraging that Kusminsky apparently no longer counted him among the delicate.

  An eddy of cold air across his bare back made him root in his trunk for his greatcoat which he spread on top of his blankets when he had wound himself up in them.

  'All right?' he asked.

  'Yes, thank you.'

  'Goodnight then. Try to sleep, and don't worry. No one can get at you while I'm here.'

  'No. Thank you. Goodnight,' she replied.

  Orlov blew out the candle and lay on
his side, looking out of the tent opening, across the clearing. A few patches of cold moonlight penetrated the trees and dappled the ground, and a patchy red glow showed where the cooking fire was damped down with turves. The carts were drawn up in a semi-circle nid the men were sleeping in and under them. The horses moved about quietly on the picket line, and the stream Inn bled and chattered a few yards away. There was still a light in the other tent and Orlov assumed that Kusminsky would probably keep it alight all night, in case he was called out.

  The familiar, dragging weariness nagged at his body and he felt the sensation of unreality that warned of a feverish spell—it seemed to come on him at night. He closed his eyes and tried to make his body relax, to forget the jolting motion of his horse, the aching in his arm, the nearness of the woman a few feet away. 'Girl,' he told himself. 'Think of her as a girl, not a woman. She's hardly more than a child. You don't care for thin little girls. You like plump, pink and white, voluptuous creatures, not skinny little hen-sparrows.' It didn't seem to help much, but sheer fatigue made him fall into a restless sleep.

  Later in the night, the restlessness became more pronounced. He began to toss, his head moving from side to side, and occasionally he moaned softly. The Countess sat up and looked across at him. A faint greyness was beginning to appear outside and it was possible to distinguish the shapes of things. She thought it must be near dawn.

  Orlov gave a groan which sounded quite agonized and the Countess wriggled out of her blankets and moved quietly across to kneel beside him. He was asleep, or unconscious, but his forehead was burning with a dry heat and he seemed very distressed. She remembered that there was a pail of water and a towel outside the tent, and creeping out, dipped a corner of the towel in the water and returned with it to wipe Orlov's face very gently. He stopped tossing about and lay still and after a few moments, he said in a vague, dreamy voice, 'That's very pleasant. Where am I?'

  'In the forest.'

  'Forest? Enchanted forest. Trolls and goblins.' Her words had somehow become confused with the things he had been thinking about during the morning. 'You're not a troll?'