Flight From the Eagle (14 page)

Kusminsky was concerned about the effect that the crossing might have on some of the more badly wounded men who would have to remain in the carts because they couldn't walk. He had Petrushka carried over on a stretcher, but it took six men to carry the boy smoothly over the tricky ramp sections and on the whole, the surgeon thought it would be better to tie the rest in, with plenty of palliasses round them for padding. He spent some time seeing to this with the help of the Countess, whose slight body pushed and pulled at mattresses with his help and instructions until all were as comfortable and secure as possible.

The first cart was drawn up to the edge of the river bank with six horses harnessed in pairs to pull it, and a dozen men hanging onto the tail-ropes at the back to brake it as it descended into the river. Orlov was at the heads of the lead horses
and he coaxed them step by step down into the water and across the river bed. Fortunately, the water only reached to an inch from the top of his hessians, so he was saved the squelching misery of boots full of water.

At the far side, the two pairs of horses were up on the bank before the cart began to ascend the ramp. The tail-rope men took their ropes up onto the bank to help pull the cart up and the driver stood up to exhort his team to great effort. The horses leant into their harness and slowly the cart lurched up the ramp, with Orlov and half-a-dozen others heaving at it with their shoulders against the back, their feet scrabbling for purchase.

At last, with a final lurching jolt, the cart bumped off the ramp onto the far bank, so suddenly that Orlov fell over. A dozen hands went out to help him up and a chorus of voices asked if he had hurt himself. In reality, the slightest jar hurt his arm, but he lied valiantly, and turned to go back across the river for the next cart, stripping off his coat to work in his shirtsleeves.

One by one, the carts were eased down into the river, men leaning back on the ropes (some of them one-handed) to stop them running down too fast on the horses' legs. One by one, the teams were coaxed across the river bed, and then began the sweating, straining business of getting the loaded vehicle up the far ramp, with men slipping and swearing as they knocked or jarred wounded limbs and shoulders. Orlov was everywhere, directing their efforts, leading the horses, adding his weight to the tail-rope or his strength to the heaving and pushing, working harder than anyone.

At last, the thirteenth cart lurched up onto the bank and was drawn away to where the others were lined up, their horses already picketed and tearing at the thick grass. Orlov waded back across the river to fetch his own horse which was standing quietly under a tree, and realized that the Countess was sitting patiently nearby, out of the way and forgotten by everyone.

Wiping his face on his shirtsleeve, Orlov caught up the grey's bridle, mounted, and rode over to her. She stood up as he stopped beside her and said, 'Put your foot on my right foot: now step up on it.' As she did so, he reached down and
put his right arm round her and continued the upward movement until she could twist round and sit sideways on the horse in front of him. She was facing towards his right and for a moment he wondered how he could hold her securely with his right arm without it pressing against her breast. He hesitated a full second too long before realizing that it couldn't be done, then clasped her firmly round the waist, hoping she wouldn't misunderstand.

He edged the horse down the ramp, murmuring gently to calm him, and the grey moved slowly down and across the river, more nervy than ever at the unaccustomed weight on his back. As they mounted the far side, half Orlov's mind was concentrating on the horse, but the other half was preoccupied with the pleasure of the girl's body against his own and he was surprised into a flush of embarrassment when the men gave him a cheer. He looked round at the circle of grinning faces and covered his confusion by announcing that they would make camp where they were and stay over the next day to overhaul the carts, letting the horses graze the plentiful grass. This was met with another cheer.

As the men scattered about their camp-making tasks, Orlov carefully lowered the Countess to the ground before dismounting himself. Kusminsky called to her to help him see to one of the men who was still lashed firmly to his cart and she gave Orlov a quick smile before turning to go. He went round giving the men a word of praise and thanks and sent Josef off to see if there was a good pool anywhere in the river, deep enough to bathe in.

Kolniev drew his attention to one of the wheels of the cart they had picked up at the inn. 'It's the wheel that was off,' he said. 'The rim is badly worn and I don't think it will last much longer.' Orlov scratched his head over it, but obviously it needed a new iron tyre and that was a job for a wheelwright or blacksmith. The only thing to do was to go on using it until it either collapsed, or they found an inhabited village.

Josef returned to report a good large pool a couple of hundred yards down the river and Orlov told the men they could go there and bathe, as long as they didn't get their bandages wet. For the next hour, little groups of men went off dusty-haired and grimy-faced and came back damp-haired and clean. Kolniev went too and returned with the last group of men to tell Orlov that it was a good pool, deep enough for a swim.

When all the odd jobs were done and the horses staked out and peacefully grazing, Orlov took a towel and clean linen and went down to the pool, following the path of trodden grass and pushing through the alders where the others had been before him. The water had cleared and looked cool, green and inviting, sheltered by a thick leafy screen which almost met overhead. He stripped off his clothes, struggling as usual with his boots and lowered himself into the water, holding onto an overhanging branch.

The first cold shock made him gasp and he stood chest-deep, awkwardly holding his injured arm clear of the surface. The river flowed gently round him, washing away the sweat and dust, brushing his legs with strands of weed. He ducked as much of himself as he could without wetting his bandages and washed his hair clear of the gritty road dust.

Climbing out was difficult with only one hand, but he managed it by holding onto the jutting branch, slipping a bit on the muddy bank. He rubbed himself briskly with the rough towel and dressed after giving his clothes a good shake, turning his coat back from dust-grey to grubby white. There was a fallen tree lying on the bank which made a convenient seat while he tugged his boots on again.

He strolled back to the camp feeling clean and refreshed, his body glowing healthily from the cold water and rough towelling. The Countess was sitting on a box in the shade, her normally shiny brown hair dulled with the dust. She looked hot and tired. After a moment's hesitation, he went over to her and said, 'Would you like to bathe?'

She looked up at him, her
face lighting up and said, 'Oh,
do you think I could? It would be wonderful!'

'I'll stand guard for you,' he offered.

She hurried to fetch the things she would need and he walked with her across the meadow to the pool, holding the branches aside for her and showing her how she could get down into the water. Then he sat down on the fallen tree with his broad back turned squarely to the river and the
small mossy-floored area which would serve her as a dressing room, and tried to ignore the small sounds of her movements behind him.

He found himself fighting a desperate battle to control his imagination, to think about something else. He told himself that he didn't care for thin women—no, not thin. Thin sounded fiat and angular and awkward, and she was graceful, had curves in the right places—gentle curves, but shapely—slender would be a better word. After all, his arm had fitted comfortably into the curve of her waist, and ... With an effort he tried to work out a way of repairing that cartwheel without the facilities of a forge. A pity these men were all infantry. If they'd been cavalry there might have been a farrier among them.

He stared at the toes of his boots, which he had thrust out into a patch of sun and watched them steam a little as they dried out after the wetting they had sustained while he was wading in the river. Behind him, there were sounds of splashing, a sharp gasp, and more splashing.

'I should have warned you that it's rather cold!' he said.

'Rather cold! It's
icy,'
she replied. 'How good it feels, though.'

He watched a butterfly fluttering about in the patch of sunlight near his feet and wondered about Sergeant Grushchev. Something about the fellow was vaguely worrying, something not quite right but he couldn't put a finger on what it was. Something in his voice, his manner, his whole attitude.

A pity the man was from another regiment: Kolniev's encyclopaedic knowledge of his own men didn't include anything on that one. Good officer, Kolniev. He must make sure that he put some strong recommendations about him in his report on this—this what? Adventure? Escapade? Well, in one sense perhaps—they were certainly escaping from the French.

The sounds behind him indicated that the Countess was scrambling out of the water—no, not scrambling, too undignified. She'd be more graceful. Rising from the water, like that painting of Venus he'd seen in Florence, or a water-sprite. He forced his mind to concentrate on trying to remember whether a water-sprite was a dryad or a naiad. Her hair must be as long as the goddess' in the picture, but straighter.

'I shall be a nervous wreck by the time we get to Kaluga,' he thought and set to work to name all the countries in Europe, with their capitals and principal rivers, which kept his mind busy until the Countess came from behind him and sat on the log at a discreet distance, fully dressed, but with her long hair hanging damply down her back.

She rubbed vigorously at it with her towel, and then began to comb it out.

'Do you mind if I sit here to do my hair?' she asked.

'It's a pleasure to watch,' he replied. 'You have such beautiful hair.'

She gave him a look of mingled astonishment and pleasure and then looked down, her cheeks flushed. Orlov had always believed that as women spent so much time and trouble in making themselves attractive for the benefit of men, the least a man could do was to show his appreciation, and the compliment had come quite unthinkingly and naturally to his lips but the reaction was so unusual ... an inexperienced girl might blush at a compliment, but not look so surprised at such an obvious one. Surely any woman with beautiful hair would know it was beautiful?

'Not if no one has ever told her it is!' He had a sudden remembrance of the colourless, faceless, shadowy figures who hovered in the background in the homes of his various elderly aunts and female cousins, unnoticed and unconsidered except for their taken-for-granted usefulness in fetching and carrying. When had he ever bothered to look at one of them to see if she had any attractions? When had he ever thought to pay a compliment to someone's companion?

With his conscience pricking, he added, 'And your eyes are lovely, too.'

She murmured 'Thank you' and continued to comb her hair, letting it fall forward to curtain her face. Orlov took a strand and let it slide slowly through his fingers, enjoying the soft silkiness of it.

'It's a pity fashion decrees that you must wear it up,' he said. 'But I suppose it would be a nuisance to you, blowing about loose.'

'I shan't be able to put it up soon,' she replied. 'People keep borrowing my hairpins to clean out bits of their muskets or their pipes, or to mend something and if they bring them back at all, they're all bent out of shape. I soon shan't have enough left.' She seemed to have regained her composure.

Orlov was saved from making a reply which would undoubtedly have thrown her back into blushing confusion by the sound of approaching footsteps and Josef came pushing through the branches.

'Your pardon, Your Excellency,' he said. 'Dr Kusminsky would be obliged if you would join him. It's Private Petrushka.'

Orlov started up with a quick 'Excuse me!' to the Countess and an instruction to Josef to escort her back to the camp when she was ready. He ran back to the camp, slowing to a more dignified but ground-covering walk as he neared it.

The boy was lying on a stretcher under a large tree with Kusminsky and Sergeant Platov kneeling beside him. Platov stood up and moved away a little as Orlov approached and Kusminsky looked up and said, 'He has been asking for you. I don't think it will be long now.'

Orlov knelt beside the boy, who turned his head to peer up into his face. 'The Major? Is it the Major?' he asked, his voice very weak.
'Please, will you ask the Major...
?'

'It is the Major,' Orlov replied very gently. 'What is it, Petrushka?'

The boy's hand rose, groping, and Orlov took it and held
it.

'I just wanted to ask you
...' the boy whispered. 'I'm frightene
d, sir. Will it be all right...
?'

'Yes,' said Orlov. 'There's nothing to be afraid of. You'll go to sleep and when you wake up, there'll be no more pain and unhappiness, nothing to fear.' His voice sounded confident and reassuring.

'Sir?' The boy's voice was growing fainter and Orlov had to bend over him to hear. 'Thank you. Will you stay with me? I'm sorry----'

'Of course I'll stay,' Orlov replied. 'Just close your eyes and rest. I'll be here.'

Petrushka's eyes closed and he lay still and quiet. Orlov shifted into a more comfortable position and went on holding the boy's hand. It was rough with calloused patches on i lie palms and broken, blacken
ed nails, which to Orlov made it
a pitiful contrast with his own smooth-skinned,
well manicu
red hand. He looked across at Kusminsky who shook his head. There was a long pause, during which the sounds of the Camp seemed muted and somehow remote. The sun was beginning to drop and the shadows were lengthening into grotesque shapes; a bee was humming,
the insistent sound c
oming nearer and then
moving further away; a horse w
hinnied and another answered; the sultry afternoon seemed breathless, suffocating.