Flight From the Eagle (13 page)

Josef's arrival in the morning dragged him out of a restless, shallow sleep and he got up and went outside without a word, still feeling ashamed. He answered Josef's polite enquiries after his health morosely and sat silent while he was shaved, his black brows drawn together in a way which conveyed to his servant that his master had passed a bad night.

At breakfast, he remained silent and the other men apparently assumed that his arm was troubling him. The Countess was also silent and rather pale and serious-looking. Kusminsky looked at her with some concern and asked if she felt quite well.

'Yes, thank you,' she replied. 'I didn't sleep very well.'

'It was very cold in the night,' said Kolniev sympathetically. 'And I expect you find the ground very hard. I'm sorry we've so few blankets. Two each is hardly enough.'

'Major Orlov gave me his cloak,' she said. 'It's very warm —I was all right with that.'

This merely deferred the problem by one stage as far as Kolniev was concerned. 'But the Major would need it ...' he began.

'I have a greatcoat,' said Orlov briefly. He finished his break-l.isi and went over to the cart where the boy Petrushka was lying and spoke to the men with him. They said there was no
c
hange in him and Orlov stood
looking at him for a moment. H
e was a small lad who had onc
e been sturdy, with a blunt, w
ide-mouthed peasant face, very brown and freckled, but now his cheeks had fallen in and there was a sickly pallor under the tan. His eyes were half-closed, unseeing, and he was breathing in a harsh uneven way as if he might stop at any minute.

'Why did he join the army?' Orlov asked.

The men fidgeted and looke
d at each other. One of them ·sa
id. 'He was caught poaching. His master gave him the choic
e, t
he knout or the army. He chose the army.'

Orlov turned on his heel and walked away scowling. How
old
was the boy? Eighteen, nineteen? Perhaps less. Offered the
c
hoice between a flogging and death, he chose death—for what? A few rabbits?

He went to the picket line and industriously inspected all the horses' hooves again to the obvious puzzlement of the men in charge of them. By the time he had reached the end of the line, the animals at the other end were being led away to their carts, and he was able to mount his horse and start off along the road without the necessity of forcing himself to speak civilly to anyone, apart from a word of thanks to Josef for leading the grey to him.

He spent the morning hating himself, the landowning nobility to which he belonged, the octopus-like monster of the army, which took men and broke their bodies for the sake of a few yards of ground or
a battery of guns, the hi
deousness of war which killed boys and maimed men and uprooted people from their secure little lives and tossed them about like twigs in a mountain stream.

Nothing seemed to pierce the black cloud of depression which engulfed him. The beauty of the dew-spangled flowers and spiders' webs, the grandeur of the forest, the golden glory of the morning, all failed to make any impression on him at all.

After more than two hours of travelling, Kusminsky rode up alongside him and said in a professional manner, 'Are your bandages uncomfortable?'

Orlov roused himself and replied, 'No, they're quite comfortable, thank you.'

'Arm painful?' Kusminsky pressed on. 'Not bad—much as usual.' 'Something annoyed you?'

Orlov looked at him and said, 'I'm sorry. I'm out of
humor
with myself this morning. It's no one's fault but my own.'

'Aren't you going to ride with the carts today?' Kusminsky asked. 'The men are wondering—they think you're angry with them.'

Orlov felt more disgusted with himself than ever, and he pulled over to the side of the road to begin the little ceremony which appeared already to have become an expected part of the daily routine.

Josef's cart creaked past and he exchanged a few words with its passengers, then felt a sudden spasm of—what? Fear? Surely not. Embarrassment? Not that either. He looked down at the sandy dust round his horse's hooves, then raised his head again to look straight into Countess Barova's face as she drew level with him, his pale face with its black brows and clear grey eyes a picture of perplexity. She gave him a friendly smile and Sergeant Platov asked him if his horse was behaving any better this morning.

Orlov answered him, asked how his shoulder felt, and then turned his attention to the next cart and so on down the li
ne until they had all passed. H
e began his slow progress back up the line, restraining himself from hurrying, wondering what he could say to her when he reached the second cart.

He felt extraordinarily ill-at-ease, quite incomprehensibly so for a man used to talking to all kinds of people, from a serf to the Czar himself. It wasn't the first time he'd made a woman cry (not that he was proud of the fact—it was always an unpleasant business, but they usually seemed to dissolve into tears at some point in even the mildest affaire, if only at the ending of it). It wasn't even as if he had done anything very terrible!

Admittedly, he'd spoken to her rather harshly, but it was for her own good, trying to help her and part of it had been because she had misunderstood him—he hadn't intended accusing her of being a whore or even envisaged the possibility. He'd only meant to make her realize— 'Listen to
me!' he thought. 'I only meant ... It was for her own good! All the classic excuses of a man in the wrong!'

Sergeant Grushchev was
riding in the next cart he came
to, and he made a point of speaking to the man. The sergeant's reply was almost surly in tone and Orlov felt it could be considered even near-insolent. He looked thoughtfully at him and noted who were the men riding with him. It might be as well to have a word with them after, if he could do so without the fellow hearing.

Eventually, he reached the second cart and walked his horse alongside it. He took care to keep his tone of voice light and friendly and said, 'It's very hot again today, isn't it? Quite incredible to think it was so cold in the night. I'm afraid we're having the worst of it in both respects.' In his own ears, he sounded artificial and patronizing.

The Countess smiled pleasantly, putting up one hand to adjust the scarf which covered her hair and replied quite naturally, 'I was very glad of your cloak—it was really very cold.'

'The weather seems to be more extraordinary than usual 1 his year,' Orlov kept to the theme, feeling that they had skated very neatly over the difficulty of referring, however obliquely, to the events of the night. 'I hear that the enemy lost ten thousand horses from the heat between the Niemen and Vilna, and another ten thousand from the cold between Vilna and Vitebsk. We have a curious climate!'

Sergeant Platov had a reminiscence to offer of some freakish weather conditions in Finland, and Orlov listened to him with a courteous show of interest, but found that by turning his head towards the sergeant he could comfortably observe Countess Barova's profile as she looked along the backs of her
horses. He wondered why he had thought she was plain_

her profile was really quite pleasing. Not exactly pretty, perhaps, but well-proportioned. It would make a charming silhouette.

CHAPTER SEVEN

When the old sergeant's story meandered to an end, Orlov asked him if he had served in the Turkish campaign and they found that they had both been in the same skirmish in a village whose name neither could remember. The corporal, not to be outdone, also claimed brotherhood in arms with Orlov by saying he had been at Austerlitz, but Platov effectively silenced him by saying that
he
had been in Italy with Suvorov. At this point, Orlov felt that he had been with this cart for too long and he rode on to the next, with a pleasant word to the Countess as he went.

When he resumed his usual position at the head of the procession, he realized that the road was going steadily and fairly rapidly downhill, not enough to require any braking on the carts, but a great deal more and for a longer stretch than on any part of the road before. He conjured up a mental picture of his map and realized that they must be descending into the valley of the river Ugra.

He tried to visualize what sort of a river it would be—not one of those narrow torrents in a deep gorge, he thought. More likely something wider and less fast-flowing, with a reasonably wide valley-floor. A good place for the midday halt, probably. As this was a post road the bridge should be able to carry the carts without much trouble, though perhaps it would be a wise precaution to send them across one at a time. Bridges in this part of Russia were not exactly miracles of engineering—some of them were little more than a couple
of planks, like that one he had been sent to destroy just beyond Drissa.

Destroy! With a sudden jolt he realized that he had been assuming that the bridge was still there. The hussars hadn't mentioned it, but that young captain didn't strike him as a particularly intelligent man—he might not have thought of it. After all, a half-squadron of hussars could ford a river without much trouble. He rode at his usual unhurried pace, restraining his impulse to gallop ahead and find out what was in store for them.

Kusminsky appeared beside him, and said, 'Well now! Have you made it up?'

'Made what up?'

'Thought perhaps you'd fallen out. You don't look very cheerful. Want to tell Uncle Vassily all about it?'

'Is Uncle Vassily any good at bridge-building?' Orlov asked drily, ignoring the rest of Kusminsky's banter. 'We're approaching a river.'

'There'll be a bridge,' Kusminsky said. 'It's a post road. This isn't completely beyond the bounds of civilization, you know, even if it isn't Petersburg—or Ryazan,' he added slyly. 'We have bridges and other such luxuries here too.'

'Have or had? There
was
an inn by the roadside some way back, remember?'

Realization dawned on the surgeon. 'Oh, God, the Cossacks! There's a thought! They'd like a bit of bridge-burning.'

Orlov considered pointing out that the Cossacks were not destroying the countryside for amusement, but the memory of some of the wilder ones he had known gave him second thoughts and he kept silent.

'Before Disaster strikes and Nemesis arises,' said Kusminsky. 'Seriously, Orlov, is everything all right? You looked pretty wretched this morning.'

Orlov looked stonily ahead. 'We had a disagreement,' he said. 'I offered to help her and she misunderstood. I lost my temper. It was my fault. I've apologized and it's all over now.'

The words came out in short, painful phrases and Kusminsky pulled his long nose thoughtfully and said, 'Tricky business, offering to help anyone—always liable to be misinterpreted,
especially when it's a woman. Glad it's all right. What about the bridge, though?'

'Wait and...' Orlov shrugged as he said it and was consequently unable to finish the phrase. When he had recovered, Kusminsky said hard-heartedly, 'You'll learn not to do it eventually, if the arm hasn't healed first!'

A few minutes later, the road levelled out, the trees fell away on each side, giving way to a belt of meadowland, and the river came into sight. The road ran as straight as an arrow to the bank which was clear of undergrowth for several yards on either side, although further along in both directions it was thickly screened with clumps of alders and willows. On the far side of the river, the road resumed, running across a couple of hundred yards of rough grassland with a few large trees and small clumps of bushes, before it plunged into the dark forest beyond. In between, the remains of the bridge were still smouldering.

Kusminsky swore softly, but Orlov merely bit his lip for a moment, riding on without either checking or increasing his horse's pace until he came to the bank. Then he stopped and looked thoughtfully at the blackened timbers. Clearly, the supporting struts had been fired and the flames had spread to the timber roadway, which had partly burned before falling into the river. Orlov estimated the distance between the banks as being about fifty feet, with no great depth of water, thanks to more than three weeks' drought. Below the bridge, patches of the stony bed were visible.

He rode slowly along the bank, looking at its height above the bed. A few yards below the bridge, it sloped fairly steeply for a few feet and there was a corresponding rough ramp on the other side. Orlov thought there might once have been a ford there before the bridge was built, but it had been disused for a very long time, and the spring floods had washed away most of the cartway on each side. It might be possible, with careful braking as the carts went down into the water, perhaps six horses to a cart and some pushing and heaving as well.

Kicking the reluctant grey and talking encouragingly to him, Orlov rode down into the river. The ramp had several holes in it, but there were plenty of stones about for patching.

T
he big horse waded out into midstream, moving cautiously, his ears flicking back to catch his rider's voice and forward again to take another step, the whites of his eyes showing. Orlov leaned over and peered at the river bed. It seemed firm, possibly paved under the mud and stones and there were no holes of any size. The grey began to scramble up the ramp on the far side, reaching the top of the bank with a final heave of his powerful hindquarters. Orlov looked back across the river to the line of carts drawn up on the road and saw that all eyes were on him. He raised his hand in a small flourish, smiled briefly, and set the grey down the slope to cross back again.

Kolniev had come to stand by Kusminsky's horse and as they awaited Orlov's return, he looked at the ramps and the river-bed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. As Orlov reached the bank, the captain pushed his hat onto the back of his head and raised his eyebrows. 'Possible?'

'Possible,' confirmed Orlov. 'Damned inconvenient.'

Kusminsky drew out his watch, but before he could speak, Orlov glanced at the sun, which was now blazing down from directly overhead, burning through the cloth of his coat and said, 'About half-past noon?'

'Twenty past,' replied Kusminsky.

'Your watch is slow,' Orlov replied positively. 'Food and rest first. An afternoon of hot and hard work after.'

Kolniev went back to the carts, which jolted off the road and formed a circle under and round a clump of trees, which gave a pool of shade halfway between the forest and the river. Orlov dismounted and led his horse over to join them, apparently moving unhurriedly, but with his long legs covering the ground rapidly. He timed his arrival very neatly, giving his reins to Josef as he passed the first cart and holding out his hand to the Countess just as she was about to climb down from the box of the second. She took his hand, jumped down as he steadied her and they walked side by side down to the river bank, where he pointed out to her where the ford had been.

She looked at the ruin of the bridge and said, 'Will the French come as far as this, do you think?'

Orlov remembered this time not to shrug. 'The Moscow
road is about fifty miles to the north. If they're desperate enough, they might come this far foraging. If they go to Moscow, they might come back this way. Probably will—the main road area will be devastated and they can't hope to return by it—no food, no water, no shelter.'

'Is everything destroyed?' she asked. 'Will they go to Moscow? But if they do, won't they have won? Why will they come back?'

Orlov smiled down at her and answered her questions in order. 'Our instructions are to leave nothing for the enemy. As our army retreats, it destroys everything it can't take with it. Yes, they will go to Moscow unless they are stopped—and I don't think they can be. No, they won't win by taking Moscow, or Petersburg, or Kiev or every other city in Russia. They can only win if the people surrender, and I really mean the people, not just the Czar and the government and the army. They will have to come back. They can't stay in a city surrounded by their enemies, hundreds of miles from their base, without supplies and reinforcements, and how long dare Bonaparte stay away from Paris? Six months? No more, or he'll find his Empire dissolved when he does return.'

'I'm sorry I'm so ignorant,' she said. 'You're very patient explaining things to me.'

'I haven't the faintest idea how to knit and you'd find me a remarkably stupid pupil at jam-making,' Orlov replied. He was still speaking to her in the gentle manner he had used when he apologized to her during the night, quite unlike his normal authoritative, confident tones.

'I don't suppose you've had much opportunity to learn,' she said, and Orlov knew she had taken his meaning.

Josef approached, discreetly clattering the two buckets he carried and filled them with water from the river. Orlov wondered if the Cossacks had left any dead horses in the stream as well as burning the bridge, but he kept the thought to himself and gratefully doused his head in one of the buckets. The Countess washed her face and hands in the other as neatly as a cat, then Orlov escorted her back towards the carts, with the absurd feeling that they might almost be strolling along the Nevsky Prospekt.

The feeling lasted only a few seconds and then the demands
of reality engulfed them both. The Countess went to help Kusminsky and Orlov was called into consultatio
n with Kol
niev and Sergeant Platov over the best method of harnessing two or three pairs of horses in tandem and the most effective way of securing tail-ropes to the carts.

Kusminsky came when the meal was ready and insisted that this conversation must cease. 'A proper rest for everyone and that includes officers and N.C.Os
. No further activity until two
o'clock.' Orlov submitted, ate his food and drank his coffee obediently, keeping the conversation on general matters such as the course of the river in front of them. 'It's a pity there's not more water,' he said lightly. 'We could convert the carts to boats and float down to Kaluga.'

Kolniev looked interested. 'I thought Kaluga was on the Oka,' he said. 'Is this a tributary?'

Orlov nodded. 'I could leave you all in Kaluga and then float on down to Ryazan. It would be nice to finish my sick leave at home.'

'Finish it!' Kusminsky snorted. 'I wouldn't say you'd exactly started it yet.'

'Do you live in the town?' the Countess asked.

'No,' Orlov replied. 'I've an estate a few miles outside it, but the river flows along the boundary of my land. I can see it from the upstairs windows.'

'That would be your main estate, I suppose?' The slight edge in Kusminsky's voice warned Orlov that social prejudice was rearing its head again and he merely replied, 'Yes' and went on to talk about the time when he had gone off to explore the river in a leaky boat when he was seven and frightened everyone by his disappearance, until he was found marooned on an island five miles downstream, the bottom having fallen out of the boat with devastating suddenness.

'You haven't changed,' commented Kolniev cheekily. 'You're still going on lunatic expeditions.'

Orlov laughed. 'You didn't have to come with me!'

'What, do you think I'd let you take my men off like that without anyone to look after them?' Kolniev exclaimed in mock horror.

The three men kept up a bantering exchange for a while to Countess Barova's amusement, and then settled down to
rest in accordance with Kusminsky's instructions. Orlov closed his eyes and worked out in his head a complete plan for getting the carts across the river.

At two o'clock, Kolniev unrolled himself from his usual huddle, Orlov opened his eyes, and with mutual accord they both got up and held a rapid conference. Orlov outlined his plan, Kolniev made one or two useful suggestions, and they called up the men they needed and set to work.

The spare half-dozen horses had been used in pairs in rotation on the journey and both officers had a fairly good idea of the reliability and power of each pair. The most reliable were to be used as lead horses for each team of six and the best drivers were also to be used as the carts would cross one by one.

While Orlov dealt with sorting out the teams and drivers and had the first three carts made ready, Kolniev took half the active men down to the river and set them to work patching the holes in the ramps and practically remaking part of the nearer one which had washed away. They collected stones and packed them into the gaps, stamping them well in with their heavy boots. There was no need to attempt a permanent repair, just enough to facilitate the passage of the thirteen carts. (It was only at this point that
either
Orlov or Kolniev realized that there were thirteen and both wondered if it had any significance, but dismissed the idea with a fine military intolerance of superstition.)