Flight From the Eagle (8 page)

As Kusminsky came level with him, he stopped and said to Orlov in a low voice, 'I don't think the boy Petya is going to last much longer. There was very little hope for him from the start.'

Orlov rubbed his chin, leaving a dirty smear, and sighed. 'I thought last night he looked pretty bad. Do you think we've killed him, bringing him with us?'

'No,' Kusminsky shook his head, sounding very definite. 'He would have died of French neglect and I think it's given hi
m
in a sort of contentment, b
eing with his friends and knowi
ng that he was making an effor
t to get away. He's not really s
uffering—barely conscious most of the time.'

'What about the Guard serge
ant?' Orlov looked at the man w
ho was in the last cart. He was still sitting slumped against the side with his head down. Kusminsky shook his head. 'Physically, he should be all right—the stump is clean and healing. Mentally—I don't know. He hardly speaks,
just stares at
the ground all the time, as
if he's in a dream. Could be sh
ock, but he should be out of it by now.'

‘
I'll have a word with
him when we stop at midday,' p
romised Orlov. He kicked his horse into movement and rode back towards the head of the procession, overtaking the carts one by one. When he caught up with the second one, he rode
alongside
it for a few minutes, and
said to the Countess, 'Are you
managing?' in an awkward, stilted voice.

She gave him a small, strained smile and replied, 'Yes,
tha
nk you. They're very docile horses—they just follow the
cart in front. Sergeant Platov has made me very comfortable.'

Orlov saw that a couple of cushions had been lashed onto the hard box of the cart and wished he had thought of that himself. He appreciated the way she had made a point of seeing that Platov got the credit for his trouble. 'I'm sorry about the sun and the dust,' he said. 'It's very unpleasant for you.'

'I don't hold you responsible for the weather, or the state of the road.' She gave him a more natural smile. 'I'm sure you'd improve them if you could.'

Orlov made her a little bow and, being unable to think of anything else to say, rode on to take his usual place at the head of the party. He eased the thick chin-strap of his helmet, which was making a replica of itself in sweat in the dust on his face, and tugged irritably at his stock. Already his shirt was soaked—he could feel clammy trickles of sweat inside his clothes, and the sun was only halfway up the sky.

He looked hopefully ahead at the slowly approaching darkness of the forest and cursed as a dozen specks of dust blew into his eyes, which promptly began to stream. Wiping at them with the soft silk of his sling, he tried to estimate the passage of time and decided that it was going extremely slowly.

A glance at his watch confirmed that it was barely half-past nine and he resolved not to look at it again for fear it would start to go backwards. Perhaps if he bent his head forward—he tried it, but his helmet promptly slipped over his eyes, its height making it top-heavy. Whoever designed this uniform ought to be made to wear it for twenty years, to be spent riding endlessly up and down the worst roads in Russia in never-ending summer heat, preferably with both arms hacked off at the elbows and nothing to drink.

Orlov amused himself for some time devising suitable tortures for the people responsible for the various unnecessary discomforts which plagued a soldier's life, and was quite surprised to find himself suddenly riding out of the scorching glare of the morning sun into the relative chill of the forest.

The chill was, however, only comparative. The air between the trees was unmoving, heavy, with an almost tangible oppressive weight. Here, there was no breeze to stir the dust, but neither was there any movement in the air and he felt as
if he
would suffocate. Looking back, he saw that the dust lined up by the carts hung in the air and realized that he had the best position at the head of the colu
mn—for those I be
hind, the gritty haze would be as bad as ever.

T
here was no sound in the forest, no stir of life of any
sort:
the
occasional snap of a branch or
the distant splash of water soun
ded unnaturally loud. No wonder children's stories were
f
ull of enchanted forests with strange creatures. Surely every forest was a place of eerie
magic, where anything might happen
? Orlov wondered vaguely what was the matter with him
-
he'd be looking round tree trunks, sword in hand, for trolls
and
goblins in a minute! He supposed his wound was making him lightheaded again. It was certainly making him devilish tired with its constant aching.

He looked up at the narrow
strip
of sky above the line of t
he road, noticing how intense a
blue it was, with a few clouds m
oving too fast to do any goo
d. His helmet fell back, and he to
ok it off in a fit of exasp
eration
and hung it on
his saddle. His thick rumpled ha
ir stuck to his forehead and felt damp with sweat when he
ran
his fingers through it.

A turn in the road suddenly brought into view a sight which Blade him check his horse involuntarily. He recovered almost
im
mediately and rode on, looking about him with a grim face. A large area of the forest ha
d been cleared where a small vi
llage had stood. Its blackened remains lay stark under the brassy sky, and the nearer t
rees of the surrounding forest w
ere scorched and dying with the heat of the fire.

Nothing living remained. Every w
ooden house, every barn and
shed, was a smoking ruin. Even the well-sweep was char
co
al. The remains of the winter's store of hay and grain lay in black ruin in the gutted barns and the bloated body of a dead cow floated in the village pond.

O
rlov looked round with a sense of sick, desolate misery, Which turned to frustrated anger. There was nothing to be
done
,
no point in stopping. Clearly, the Cossacks had per
form
ed their job thoroughly and efficiently, and presumably
the people had been safely removed. He rode on, staring between his horse's ears, and told himself that he shoul
d be us
ed to this sort of thing by now.

After what felt like a very long time, he drew out his
watch, and was surprised to find that it was just after noon. He began to look out for a good stopping place, and soon saw one, where a little stream came out of the forest and crossed under the road by a small stone bridge. The trees had been cut back on either side to form a clearing and he called the column to a halt there.

The men had already settled down to a routine. They moved swiftly, as far as their wounds allowed, unharnessing and rubbing down the horses, getting a lire going, drawing water, preparing food. Orlov dismounted and let Josef take his horse, the ridiculous helmet still swinging from the saddle. He remembered his manners and went across to the Countess, but Kusminsky had already lifted her down from her cart. She was talking to him with some animation, moving up and down to rid herself of the stiffness of sitting for so long.

Orlov turned away and went down to the stream to splash his face with water. Josef came with a bucket and emptied it over his head as he knelt on the bank and handed him a towel to dry his face and hair, which was not made any more orderly by the treatment. Orlov refilled the bucket, took a second towel from Josef, and carried them both to the Countess, splashing his boots and trousers in the process.

She thanked him gravely and knelt to wash her face. Orlov tried to think of something to say. He felt extraordinarily awkward and ill-at-ease, quite unlike his usual easy, urbane self. An officer of the Chevalier Guard was not normally tongue-tied in the presence of a woman, particularly a little thin, plain, provincial creature like this one! Orlov, who had flirted gracefully with a Grand Duchess a few weeks previously in Vilna, stood amazed at himself. Eventually he mumbled something indistinct and went off to talk to the Guard sergeant as he had promised Kusminsky.

He found the man sitting in the back of a cart, clumsily rolling a strip of sheet into some semblance of a bandage. As Orlov approached he rose and saluted, then stood staring woodenly into space over the top of Orlov's head. He was a great giant of a man, a good six or seven inches taller than Orlov's near six feet and Orlov told him to sit down again, more to put himself at less of a disadvantage than for the man's comfort.

'How are you?' he asked. 'Are you finding the journey
v
ery trying?'

The man looked at him blankly. 'Journey? No. It's not much of a hardship, sir. We're
used to hard marching in the Gu
ard. I've been a soldier twen
ty years—I don't mind this. It’s
easy, riding in a cart.' He sounded dull, apathetic, barely interested.

Looking at him, Orlov wond
ered how much of it was the fell
ow's normal manner. The men of the Imperial Guard were picked more for their height and
appearance than for their intell
ectual qualities. Still, the man had made sergeant—he
couldn’t
be as bovine as he appeared.

'Twenty years!' he said, with a proper appearance of interest.
‘
That's a good length of service.'

'Yes, twenty years with never
a bad mark,' said the man, with
a sudden flicker of expressi
on on his face. 'It's a life-tim
e, Your Excellency. I don't know any other life. What shall I do now, with one arm? I'll have to leave the army, won't I?'

Orlov suddenly understood wha
t was wrong with him. 'Not nec
essarily,' he said gently. 'There'll be something for a man
with
a good record and your length of service—they won't
just
throw you on the scrap-heap.'

Grushchev looked Orlov in the eyes for the first time. 'The
sc
rap-heap—yes, that's all I'm fit for now!' he said bitterly.
‘
Damned surgeons with their saws! Hack it off if it's a bit damaged! Never mind if it turns a man into a useless hulk!'

'Nonsense!' said Orlov sharpl
y. 'The surgeons saved your life
and you're very far from a useless hulk. I'll remind you that General Barclay himself lost an arm not long ago. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, man! I said you're
not
on the
scrap
-heap, and I meant it. There's a lot of useful service in you yet.'

Grushchev pulled himself together with an effort. 'Yes, Your Excellency. I'm sorry. It's a shock, after all these years, suddenly finding it might all be over. Will you speak for me, sir?' His eyes were fixed on Orlov's face with the look of a hopeful dog.

'Of course,' replied Orlov. 'And your conduct on this journey could help, you know. The fact that you volunteered is
in
your
favor
and if you pull your weight, it'll prove that
you're still useful. I'll give you a good word in my report, don't worry.'

The man thanked him and saluted smartly, drawing himself to his full height, but when Orlov glanced back a few minutes later, he had sunk down into a drooping huddle again and Orlov felt both irritated and sorry.

He also felt extremely tired again and was glad to sink to the ground against a tree by the stream with his two fellow officers and the Countess. The hard bread and cheese seemed dry and tasteless and he choked it down with an effort. There was a good big jug of strong coffee, which revived him a little, but he made no effort to join in the conversation and presently fell into an uneasy doze, vaguely conscious that Kusminsky and Kolniev seemed to be having a pleasant chat with the Countess, whose gentle voice had a peculiarly soothing quality.

She seemed to be making quite long speeches, as if the two men had gained her confidence and overcome some of her shyness. Their voices drifted further and further away, the darkness and silence of the forest closed in on him and he fell into a dream-haunted sleep, full of pain and loneliness.

Kusminsky, who had been keeping an unobtrusive eye on him, shifted him into a more comfortable position and slipped a folded cloak behind his head and shoulders for a pillow. When he and Kolniev went away to look at the wounded and the horses respectively, the Countess remained by the sleeping man, occasionally wafting away a curious insect and removing a spider which ran down his collar before it could embark on a journey across his neck.

She looked at his face in a considering, interested way and wondered about him. He was strongly built, athletic-looking, with a good breadth of shoulder and depth of chest, well set-off by the uniform. His hands were brown, rather sinewy, with square palms and long fingers with short-cut nails, and were unadorned except for a plain gold ring on the little finger of his left hand, which was half-hidden in the silk sling.