Flight From the Eagle (15 page)

Petrushka's hand stirred slightly and his eyes opened again, but they looked blind and he stared blankly past Orlov's head.

'Sir?'

'Yes, I'm here.'

'It's getting so dark. I couldn't see you. Sir, I hope you'll be
happy, very happy—both of you----' He was silent again and
he turned to look into Orlov's face, a look of strain about his eyes, murmuring so faintly that Orlov could hardly hear, 'My mother ... you'll tell... you'll write?'

'I'll write to her and go and see her when I can,' Orlov promised. His voice was gentle and full of compassion. The boy sighed and his lips moved soundlessly, his eyes closed and Kusminsky, who was holding his other wrist, looked sharply at his face for a long moment, then took the boy's
h
and from Orlov, folded it with the other one over the boy's breast and gently drew the blanket up over his face.

Orlov sat still, letting his head droop slackly and Kusminsky said softly, 'He's well out of it.' Orlov didn't move and after a minute the surgeon added, 'You gave him the courage to go easily—there was nothing more you could have done.'

Orlov nodded, got up and walked away, abstracted and without looking where he was going. When he reached the river bank, he sat down and s
tared at nothing in particular f
or a long time, his mind blank and his eyes unseeing.

After a while, he picked up a handful of pebbles and began lobbing I hem one by one into the river.
The water was dark-looking, strea
ked with oily crimson where the sunset banners were reflected on its rippled surface. He felt utterly weary and
desperately homesick. 'I must resign and go home,' he thought. 'As soon as the French are out of Russia, I must get out. I want peace and something worth-while out of life, something constructive. I'm sick of death and destruction—I want a home, a wife and children.' He tried to picture what it would be like to have children—a son like a small edition of himself and a daughter with big brown eyes like her mother.

He went on throwing stone after stone into the river and presently Kolniev came up behind him and said, 'You'll have built a dam across there by the time we leave if you go on like that.'

Orlov jerked out of his reverie and scrambled to his feet. 'The boy died,' he said abruptly.

'Yes, Kusminsky told me. There was no chance for him from the start.' Kolniev was silent for a minute, then ran his hand through his hair and said, 'I came to fetch you for supper—it's been ready for some time.'

The two officers walked across to join Kusminsky and the Countess. Orlov made an effort to be normally cheerful during the meal, but everyone seemed subdued and thoughtful, and they sat talking quietly after supper in a serious vein, largely about the ways in which the condition of the serfs could be changed for the better.

Kusminsky listened to Orlov and Kolniev for some time without saying anything until Kolniev asked his opinion of the possibility of any major change in the situation—did he think that all the serfs could be freed at a blow, by Imperial decree? The surgeon replied curtly, 'I don't own anyone. I think serfdom and slavery are monstrous institutions.'

'I think we're agreed on that,' Orlov said. 'The point is, though, how can these institutions be abolished? This is the real world—we can't change it by calling up a fairy to wave her magic wand.'

'And some people think that's reason enough to do nothing at all.' Kusminsky sounded bitter and angry. 'I don't choose to discuss the matter with either of you. I'm sorry, but I like and admire you both as men and I prefer not to spoil our friendship by dragging in unpleasant matters arising from your family backgrounds.'

There was an awkward silence and then the Countess said
in
her calm, soft voice, 'It will be pleasant to stay in one place tomorrow. I expect there will be quite a lot of things to Di 1 lone to the carts.'

'Yes,' replied Kolniev. 'I want to alter the loading of some
of
them. They'll run better if
the loads arc properly balanced. And
there are a few repairs needed too.'

'Talking of repairs,' the Countess said. '
I have sewing threa
d and needles with me.
If anyone needs any clothing re
paired, I'd be happy to see to it for them.'

Kolniev took up her offer with gratitude. 'All the buttons fall off my shirts as soon as I look at them,' he said ruefully.

Orlov remarked that his buttons would never dare to fall oil, Josef wouldn't let them, and a little more light-hearted conversation ensued until it was time to retire. As they stood up, Kusminsky said awkwardly, 'I'd like to apologize. I'm afraid I must have sounded very rude.'

'Not at all,' replied Kolniev and shook hands with him. Orlov followed suit, then strolled off to check that all the horses were securely tethered, both because he thought it necessary and to give Countess Barova a little privacy before he went to the tent.

The horses were all secure and he strolled back through the camp in the moonlight, pausing for a few words with two or three men who were still sitting round the damped-down fire, taking their turn at keeping watch. He detoured round the carts to occupy a few more minutes and exchanged goodnights with the men settling down to sleep.

When he entered the tent, Countess Barova was sitting up in her bed tying the end of her long plait. He saw that she had laid out his blankets and put his greatcoat handy for him and he thanked her and said, 'It's surprising how difficult it is to fold blankets and all manner of simple jobs like that with only one hand.'

As he was pulling off his boots, she lay down and said, 'I'm sorry about the boy. He was very young to die like that.' Orlov wondered why she had waited until he got to the boot stage of undressing before she spoke and decided that it was probably because it took her a certain length of time to screw up her courage to say something, which happened to coincide with the time it took him to take off sword, belt, sash, coat
and shirt. Perhaps tomorrow he would change the order and start with his boots and see if he was right.

'Yes,' he replied. 'Very young. He should never have been in the army at all.'

'Did he volunteer?'

'He was sent by his master as a punishment for poaching. Not many serfs ever get the chance to volunteer for anything. I don't wonder Kusminsky feels so strongly about it.'

'How many serfs do you own?' she asked. Orlov looked at her, wondering if she was implying something. The light was too dim to show her expression and her voice gave no indication of anything but a mild curiosity, but he had a strong suspicion that she had a well-practised skill in the art of diplomacy. Some of her innocent questions and remarks could convey a great deal more than she actually said.

'I don't own any serfs,' he replied. 'I rent land to free peasants and employ free servants.'

There was a little silence and he hoped he hadn't given the impression that he was snubbing her. Then she said, 'I'm glad, but I thought ... I know it's legal to free serfs now, but I thought it wasn't really approved.'

Orlov smiled. 'I don't much care if it's approved or not. If I choose to free my serfs, I'll free them.'

'You're an Orlov, and you'll do as you please!' she quoted laughingly.

He flushed. 'I'm also arrogant, clumsy and a bully,' he said. 'It will be a long time before I forgive myself for that.' 'I was joking—I'm sorry.'

He knelt beside her and spread his cloak over her, giving her a wry smile. 'I know—it doesn't matter,' he said. 'I'm suffering from a tender conscience. Don't be sorry—I'd rather you teased me about my foolishness than let it hurt you.'

Again he was tempted to kiss her, and again he removed himself hastily as far from her as the limits of the small tent allowed, rolled himself in his blankets and politely wished her goodnight.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was obvious during the next day that most of the little company welcomed a day of staying in one place. They were all tired after the strenuous ac
tivity of the river crossing, O
rlov most of all. His muscles were stiff and aching and his right shoulder quite badly bru
ised from using it to push the c
arts up the ramp.

Kusminsky snapped at him for overtaxing himself and sounded so ba
d-tempered that Orlov had a sud
den pang of conscience about him. He had not once stopped to consider the strain this journey must be on the surgeon with more than sixty wounded men in his sole charge, some of them seriously injured, and he could imagine that to a man of feeling, as Kusminsky obviously was, the death of a patient, however hopeless the case, must be a bitter blow.

The first duty of the morning, once they had breakfasted, was to bury Petrushka, and Orlov did his best to make the simple ceremony as dignified and meaningful as he could. Everyone attended, the men who were unable to move themselves being carried to the grav
eside in one of the carts. The c
ountess stood with the officers, wearing the black lace veil she had produced for her aunt's funeral, which now seemed so long ago.

Kolniev had chosen the pla
ce for the grave and Orlov was s
truck once more by the Captain's intelligent and thoughtful approach to his duties. He had chosen a quiet place on the edge of the forest in the middle of a triangle formed by three young oak trees, overhung by a canopy of honeysuckle
which filled the sultry, still air with a heady perfume.

As he stood with his head bent in a final private prayer, Orlov thought that the scent of honeysuckle would now always have a special poignancy from its association with the memory of the dead boy.

Afterwards, Kolniev set the
t
able men to work unloading all the carts and sorting their contents so that he could check the state of their supplies and pack the carts to better advantage. Orlov took the opportunity to have new axles put on two of them from the spares they had acquired at the inn. He did a good deal of the work himself, aided by Sergeant Platov and a couple of men who said they had been carpenters in civil life. Orlov noted that the four of them had only five un-bandaged arms between them, but Platov's shoulder was now healing well and the other two were not badly wounded, at least in their upper limbs—one of them had an ugly gash in his leg and had made himself a crutch.

By the midday break, they had finished one cart and started on the next and Orlov was glad to rest on the grass beside the Countess for a while and let his aching muscles relax. She had sewn a number of buttons onto Kolniev's shirts, patched one for Kusminsky and was now darning stockings. 'I can't match the wool,' she said. 'I've only grey. Do you think it matters?'

'Personally,' replied Orlov, 'I would prefer stockings absolutely covered with
multicolored
darns to stockings full of uncomfortable holes. It's very much a matter of taste.'

She laughed. 'These are yours.'

Orlov sat up with a jerk. 'Mine? What on earth is Josef thinking of?'

'Josef is helping Dr Kusminsky. It seemed more sensible as he's stronger than I am and some of the men have to be lifted about.'

Orlov subsided. 'It's very kind of you, but...' he began, but she cut in swiftly, 'No. Don't say it, please! We've already had one conversation that revolved round those words. Your stockings need darning and I have wool and a needle—that's all there is to be said.'

He was silent for a moment, then said 'Thank you' and smiled at her. She returned the smile and went on darning.

The orderlies brought
their food and coffee and were c
losely followed by Kolniev and Kusminsky. The Captain's face was red with his exertions and his bandage had come off, revealing the half-healed cut on his forehead. Kusminsky bandaged it before he would let
Kolniev eat and then sat down
with a sharp puff of breath. He looked hot and tired.

'How are the patients?' asked Orlov.

'Impatient, on the whole,' he replied. 'It's largely your fault—they see you hard at work and they must do the same. Even the stretcher cases are propped up and mending harness. I've put fresh dressings on more than half and I'll do the rest this afternoon—including you
!
' he added menacingly.

Orlov pulled a face and ate
his hard bread. The arm was a l
i
t
tle less painful today, but he would rather not have it dis-1111 bed. 'What about Grushchev?' he asked.

Kusminsky shook his head. 'He wouldn't speak to me this morning—wouldn't let me see his stump, either. He just mined his head away and walked off. I'm pretty sure he's doing well physically, but his mental state—to be honest, I'm worried. I've seen this sort of thing before, when a man's had a bad time. Sometimes they go quite—well—peculiar.'

Orlov exchanged a look with him. He had seen men go mad with shock too and he realized that Kusminsky was trying to avoid alarming the Countess. 'It's odd that he won't speak to you,' he said. 'Does he speak to anyone else?'

'He answered when I spoke to him, but very reluctantly,' put in Kolniev. 'I've heard him talking to some of the men, but not in the last couple of days. He just sits silent all the time.'

'I think we had better watch out for him,' said Orlov.

There was little conversation during the rest of the break. The heat was more oppressive than ever and Orlov said sleepily, 'We could do with a good thunderstorm to clear the air a bit.' As he spoke, he happened to be looking at the Countess and he saw that her eyes widened with fear at his words, but she didn't say anything.

'You don't like thunder?' he asked.

She looked embarrassed. 'It's very silly, I know, but really it terrifies me—it always has. My aunt used to say it was childish and I mustn't give in to it and truly, I do try, but it's
no use. Every time there's a storm, I'm really frightened out of my wits.'

'Nothing to be ashamed of,' said Kusminsky. 'Everyone's frightened of something. I know a man who's twice won the St George's Cross, but a spider running across his hand would make him yell with terror. I can't stand being in a small enclosed space—I was shut in a cupboard once as a child and nearly went mad with fright. Even the Major's afraid of something—aren't you?' he shot at Orlov, who at" once said cheerfully that he was afraid of a number of things and then realized that this had quite failed to comfort the Countess— he had spoken too lightly.

'To be honest,' he said, very soberly, 'I have a real terror of mutilation—the thought of losing a limb or having my face scarred makes me feel literally sick.' He felt uncomfortable at revealing His private fear like this and covered it by adding, 'I expect it's mostly vanity.'

Kolniev's sunburned face went a brighter shade of red and he nobly admitted, 'I'm afraid of falling off a horse. I did when I was ten, caught my foot in the stirrup and was dragged.
It
s put me off riding ever since.'

The Countess smiled gratefully at them and said, 'Thank you for telling me. It makes me feel less ashamed of myself.'

Silence descended on the little group as they each relaxed in their individual ways. Countess Barova continued to darn. Orlov watched her from under his long black lashes. Kolniev slept curled up like a puppy, Kusminsky neatly and catlike.

During the afternoon, the various jobs were finished one by one and the men went off to bathe, returning to sit in the shade, talking and smoking. Some of them sang softly, others played cards.

Later, Orlov sent Josef to see that the pool was cleared of bathers, then he took the Countess there and sat on his tree trunk, gloomily sympathizing with St Anthony while she splashed about in the water.

As she was dressing, she said, 'I've never bathed in a river before.'

'I'm afraid you're having to do a great many things you've never done before,' Orlov replied. 'I must say that I admire
t
he way you stand up to it all—it must be very hard and frightening for you.'

She had finished dressing and came to sit on the tree trunk.

'It's all very bewildering and strange,' she said. 'But at the same time it's somehow exciting. I've had such an uneventful life—the greatest excitement we ever had at my aunt's was when the bull got loose once and broke into her garden.'

'How did you get him out?' asked Orlov.

'Just took hold of the rope that was tied to the ring in his nose and led him through the gate,' she replied. 'He was quite lame really. The exciting part was when my aunt's visitors had the
vapors
and screamed.'

'Do you ever scream and have the
vapors
?'

'No, of course not. Nothing ever happened to me that merited such an extravagant reaction!'

Orlov roared with laughter. When he had recovered, he said, 'Shall I walk back with you, or will you wait while I bathe?'

‘I’l
l sit here. It's cool and peaceful.'

He retired to the mossy bank behind her, stripped and slid down into the water. She continued to talk to him, and said, 'Isn't it strange that there should be quite a deep pool here, but so little water jus
t a short distance away by the b
ridge?'

'The bed of the river is much lower here. I should think i he pool was made—scooped out for some reason. Perhaps i here was a mill here at one t
ime or it might have been used f
or washing horses—it's about the right depth.'

He started to pull himsel
f
out onto the bank, slipped and fell back into the river, soak
ing his bandages. 'It's a good t
hing Kusminsky is going to change my dressing,' he said. "This one is all wet now.' He took a more secure hold on the overhanging branch and pulled himself out safely this time. He towelled himself and dressed without bothering to put on his shirt. He had taken his coat off after the burial service.

They strolled back together across the grass and found Kusminsky still bandaging. Orlov confessed that he had fallen in the river, and the surgeon took off the wet bandage and looked at the wound.

'It's beginning to heal,' he said, 'but you must still be very
careful. It wouldn't take much to reopen it and it could bleed very badly again.' He put on a fresh bandage and went to attend to a man with a broken leg who was lying by one of the carts a few feet away.

Orlov slipped his arms into his shirtsleeves and sat on the ground, leaning against a tree and making himself relax until the pain gradually died down to its usual level. He saw the tall figure of Sergeant Grushchev come out of the forest and walk across towards the wide circle of carts.

Orlov's attention was caught by something odd in the man's appearance. He was walking very slowly, almost shambling, quite unlike his normal erect, military bearing but there was an air of purpose about him as well, as if he had a particular object in view. His eyes were fixed on something, not Orlov himself, but something beyond him and as he approached, Orlov saw that they were dilated and staring.

He turned his head to see what the man was looking at and realized that it must be the little group round the man with the broken leg. Josef was just turning to go and fetch something for the surgeon, who was kneeling by the stretcher saying something to Josef, with his back towards the approaching sergeant.

Orlov scrambled to his feet and stepped forward to intercept Grushchev who tried to brush past him, but he caught hold of the man's sleeve and said, 'Just a minute, Grushchev. How are you today? How's your arm?'

The sergeant stopped dead, tore his gaze from the surgeon and glared down into Orlov's face. 'What arm?' he snarled. 'I haven't got an arm. I'm only a peasant—I don't get my arm treated and sewn up, not like little Staff officers in their pretty uniforms! Nobody troubles about me. That swine cut my arm off. He's only got time to bother with saving yours. We're left to live or die as best we can. Officers!' He spat. 'Get out of my way!'

Orlov stood his ground and said, 'You're talking nonsense! What do you mean to do?'

'Do? Kill him!' The giant sergeant lunged forward and Orlov stepped in his way and blocked him. Grushchev uttered a roar of rage and literally threw Orlov aside. He was flung hard against the tree, his injured arm taking the full force of the collision. He gave a sharp cry at the pain of it and for
a
long moment, it seemed as if he was looking at a
tableau vivant
framed in a thick red mist. Grushchev lumbered forward towards Kusminsky, who had turned his head a
t Orlov's cry
and was apparently frozen in
position, still kneeling with hi
s back half turned to the s
ergeant. Other men were coming fr
om all directions, but none was
near enough to stop Grushchev
before he reached Kusminsky.

Fighting
off the waves of
red mist and nausea which were fl
ooding over him, Orlov hurled himself at the sergeant with all his strength. He was again flung aside and landed face down on the grass, a limp, sprawled figure with an ominous red stain spreading across his left shirtsleeve.