Flight From the Eagle (6 page)

He sat down, supporting his arm on the table. The Countess looked at the faded scar on his chest and said conversationally, 'You've been wounded before?'

'At Austerlitz,' he replied. 'A musket ball. This time it's only a sabre cut—much less of a problem.'

She began to unwind the bandages, which were filthy with the dust that had seeped into everything, sweat-stained and, after a couple of layers, blood-soaked. She made no comment, but unwound them gently and
skillfully
.

Eventually she reached the pad of dressing, which was firmly stuck to the wound. She dipped a piece of cloth in the jug and began to soak the dressing with warm water until the congealed blood softened and she could gently peel it away from his arm. He happened to be looking at her face as she did so and saw her turn very pale, her eyes widening and her lips parting in a gasp. He looked down at his arm quickly and saw the wound for the first time.

It was quite seven inches long, a great slash down the length of his upper arm, the edges roughly drawn together with a dozen sutures with the raw flesh gaping between. It was smeared with streaks and gobbets of blood, black and revolting and it made him feel sick.

'I'm sorry!' he said. 'Oh, God, I'm sorry. I didn't know it looked like that! Leave it. Put the towel over it and leave it until Kusminsky comes in.'

She gave a faint smile. 'No, it's all right. It was just a shock to see how bad it is. You should be in hospital. I didn't realize you were so seriously hurt. It must be terribly painful.'

Orlov averted his face as she began to sponge away some of the sticky mess. She was very careful, but the whole arm had turned into a great mass of agony through being disturbed and he was bitterly regretting having asked her to see to it.

Still, he supposed it had to be done and it was hardly likely that Kusminsky would have hurt him less.

She turned away to the table and Orlov glanced to see what she was doing. She had folded a piece of lawn into a pad to make a dressing and was smearing it with something from the stoneware pot.

'That looks like honey,' he remarked.

'It is honey,' she replied.

'Are you thinking of using me to bait a bear trap?' He was amused by the thought.

She smiled. 'No, it will stop the cloth sticking to the wound and help it to heal,' she said.

Orlov's eyebrows quirked up in their idiosyncratic way— he had never heard of that before. 'Mind you cover it well, then. I've no wish to be pursued to Kaluga by every bee in Smolensk province!'

When she laid the dressing on his arm, it felt cool and soothing on the torn, inflamed flesh. He closed his eyes and tensed himself as she rebandaged his arm. She did it firmly but not too tight.

'You've bandaged someone before,' he commented.

'My aunt had ulcerated legs. I've had quite a lot of practice.'

He looked at her, frowning at the thought of the life she must have had, tending an old, sick, probably bad-tempered woman. Her face was calm and compassionate, absorbed in her task. She finished putting on the bandage and picked up his waist-sash.

'This is no good for a sling,' she said. 'It's rough and too long. I've something better upstairs.' She went out, taking the tray and the soiled bandages. Orlov put on his shirt. The new bandage was far less bulky and uncomfortable than the old one. He picked up his coat, but decided that he couldn't face the struggle to put it on and he was quite warm enough without it or the stiff, buckled stock. He dropped them and his sword and belt on a bench under the window.

The Countess came back with a dark red, silk scarf which she made into a sling. It was soft against his neck and he smiled as he thanked her, his grim, pale face with its strong features relaxing into a much more pleasant expression.

There was a clatter in the hallway and Kolniev came in, his
hat pushed back on his bandaged head at a rakish angle and his healthy face red and freshly shaved—he had obviously had a good wash.

'There's plenty of hot water in the kitchen,' he said. 'Supper's nearly ready and everything's sorted out. We'll have a much more comfortable time tonight than we did last night.'

Kusminsky came in close behind him, reporting all the men in reasonably good shape, except two. "The lad is in a fever and Grushchev, the Guard sergeant; physically, he's in pretty good condition, but I don't like it.' He shook his head and was then diverted by the sight of Orlov's new sling.

'That's better!' He pulled Orlov's shirt open and saw that the bandage had been changed. He made a quick examination of it and said, 'That's well done! Did you do it?' to the Countess.

'Yes.' She looked pleased at his commendation.

'How was the wound? Did it smell at all?'

'No. I noticed particularly. It's quite clean. No sign of suppuration.'

Kusminsky nodded approvingly. 'Go and wash your dirty face!' he said to Orlov. Orlov went.

He found Josef in the kitchen. The servant helped him to wash himself thoroughly in the plentiful hot water and provided him with a clean shirt, washing the dirty one through. Orlov marvelled at the man's unperturbed efficiency and thought what a
colorless
, unnoticeable figure he was, a hovering shadow who seemed only to exist to anticipate his master's wishes.

When he returned to the
parlor
, he found the table set for a meal and two soldiers waiting to serve it. They produced a couple of bottles of wine with something of a flourish of pride, and the three officers and the Countess had a good, satisfying supper of beef stew with plenty of vegetables, and a sort of plum pudding. Orlov sent his compliments to the cook as if they were in a fashionable restaurant and the two orderlies went off grinning with pleasure.

As they sat round the table, pleasantly relaxed, finishing the wi
ne, Kusminsky said hesitantly, ‘I’
ve had a grave dug under the trees. I think the old l
ady should be buried tonight…
' His voice was gentle, unlike his normal sharp tones.

The Co
untess thanked him quietly. ‘I’
d like a few minutes with her first, if I may,' she said, and slipped out of the room.

As the men resumed their seats, Kusminsky said in his
normal voice, 'While she's gone
.
..we
'd better settle a few things c
oncerning her. I assume you mean to take her with us?'

Orlov nodded. 'We can hardly leave her.'

'Then we'd better decide how
to keep her safe,' the surgeon s
aid.

'If we're attacked...' Orlov began.

.'No. I mean safe from our own men,' interrupted Kusminsky.

'He's right,' Kolniev put in
. 'My men are a pretty rough lot
and none of them has had a wo
man for weeks. She's going to b
e a temptation to them.'

Orlov was silent.

'The practical solution,' Kusminsky went on in businesslike manner, 'is for one of us to take charge of her at night-that's when there's likely to be trouble. We've two tents.
One
of us share one, the other man
shares with the girl. That way,
there'll be someone with her all night to protect her from the rest, without the need for anyone to stand sentry duty.'

'Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?' asked Orlov with a crooked smile.

'That's between the man c
oncerned and his conscience,' t
he surgeon replied. 'That's why I propose you for the job. Kolniev and I are both married. You're not. If your self-control proves insufficient, at least you can marry her afterwards.'

Orlov experienced an extraordinary sensation which felt like relief when surely it should have been apprehension or
distaste
or something. He opened his mouth to protest and 1 hen shut it again and shrugged. Once again the pain reminded him, too late, that he should have avoided the movement and he swore, briefly and fluently.

Kusminsky laughed. 'You'll
have to cure yourself of that G
allic habit,' he said. 'Anot
her problem. Who's going to con
duct the funeral?'

Orlov looked at the other two in turn, and said in a resigned lone, 'All right! I suppose I'm elected for that too.'

‘
I'm sorry.' Kolniev sounded worried. 'I seem to be loading all the responsibility for everything on your shoulders.'

'His shoulders are broad enough,' cut in Kusminsky. 'You're doing your share, lad. It's common sense to leave a particular job to the man best able to carry it out. Have you ever taken a burial service?'

'No,' replied Kolniev nervously.

'Well, then!' Kusminsky had the air of a man who has proved his point. 'Best leave it to the Major. Who organized the transport and the supplies? I bet the Major wouldn't have done as well as you on that little effort.'

Orlov gave him a sour look but refrained from pointing out that he had never taken a burial service either. He was quite well aware what the surgeon was doing.

The Countess re-entered the room and looked nervously from one to the other of them. Orlov smiled faintly at her, said, 'Ready then?' and she nodded.

Kolniev went out to organize a burial party and Kusminsky to attend to the body. Orlov began to put on his uniform, feeling as if he could die on his feet from sheer weariness. He couldn't buckle his stock with one hand and turned to the Countess with a helpless gesture. She fastened it for him, standing on tip-toe to reach. She helped him on with his coat, sliding the sleeve- carefully up his bandaged arm and doing up the double-breasted fastening for him, helped him with the sword-belt and finally tied his sash ro
und his waist.
'You make an excellent batman,' he said gravely, and she gave him a faint, fleeting smile. He stood still for a few minutes. The sounds outside the door of an awkward burden being brought down the stairs warned him that it would be best not to let the Countess go out there for a while.

'I suppose your aunt was Orthodox?' he asked, with a sudden doubt.

'Yes,' said the Countess. Her eyes seemed drawn towards the door and she made an effort not to look that way. The tramp of feet passed the door and went down the front steps of the house into the forecourt. Orlov picked up his helmet, opened the door, offering her his arm. She had been holding a length of black lace and she now threw this over her head and face, took his arm, and went with him outside in the wake of
her aunt's body. Orlov could feel her bracing herself, keeping her head up and looking stra
ight before her but her hand tr
embled on his arm. He put himself to a great deal of pain to move his left hand across to touch hers reassuringly.

Kolniev had drawn up a dozen men in a kind of guard of
honor
, their muskets at the present. Two led the way carrying lanterns, for dusk was now f
alling, and another half-dozen c
arried the blanket-wrapped body on their shoulders. The little procession marched round to the back of the house, passing between it and the stables to where a grave had been dug under the trees. The body
was lowered slowly into it on s
lings and Orlov stepped forward to stand at the graveside, wondering what to do with his helmet. Normally he would have held it in the curve of his left arm but after a second's hesitation he took it off and handed it to Josef behind him.

With his head bowed, he recited as much of the burial service as he could remember in his deepest, most sonorous voice, following, it with the
Twenty-third Psalm, which he was
as confident that he knew by heart, and then with the Lord's Prayer. As he spoke, he looked down at the blanket-wrapped body below him and wondered what the woman had been like. 11 seemed odd that he had not actually seen her. He noticed that the grave was very shallow and checked a grim speculation about the likelihood of wolves coming here in the winter.

Most of the men had
gathered in the background and j
oined in the Psalm and the Lord's Prayer in a fine, rich bass recitation. After the final 'Amen', Orlov bent and picked up a handful of sandy soil which h
e scattered in the grave. The C
ountess followed suit and Kolniev and Kusminsky after her. For a moment they all stood still, then Kolniev called the guard to attention and gave the
order to move off. Orlov gave t
he Countess his arm and took her back towards the house.

At the corner, they were met by Platov, the sergeant who had been spokesman back i
n the hospital in Smolensk. He was
carrying a newly-made grave-marker, a wooden post with 1 triangle at the top. He saluted and said to Orlov, 'With permission, Your Excellency, we've made this. If the lady is agreeable, we'd like to put it up.'

'How kind you are!' the Countess said in an unsteady voice. 'Thank you very much.'

The sergeant saluted again and Orlov led the Countess round to the front of the house. Going up the steps, he stumbled and she turned to him in alarm.

'Are you ill?' she asked, almost holding him up.