Flight From the Eagle (3 page)

'At first to the south-east, both away from the French and away from our own army's line of march along the Moscow
road. There's another good road about twenty-five miles south of here which runs from Orsha to Kaluga. We'll pick that up and follow it—how far depends on how far our army retreats and what happens, but we should expect to go to Kaluga where there's a hospital and barracks.'

The sergeant nodded, satisfied. Again there was a whispered consultation among the men, and again the sergeant asked the question. 'Is the Major coming with us?'

'Yes,' replied Orlov. He looked the sergeant straight in the eyes, his own gaze unwavering. They considered each other for a long moment, and then the sergeant said, 'With respect, sir, we're glad of that. I've not known many Staff officers who would have done what you did.'

Orlov wondered how he had earned this extraordinary testimonial and wished he could remember exactly what had happened in the few minutes before he was wounded— obviously he must have done something peculiarly lunatic to have made such an impression on a veteran sergeant. He permitted himself a faint smile in acknowledgement and then saw that the foxy surgeon had joined the group and was standing listening.

'Would the surgeon also care to accompany us?' he asked politely.

'Kusminsky,' the surgeon identified himself. 'Yes. If you're removing my patients and taking them off into the wilds, I'd better come too. God knows what you'll do to them otherwise !'

There seemed to be no further questions, and it was clear from the men's faces that all of them intended to come on this desperate expedition rather than fall into the hands of the French. Orlov wondered soberly if any of them realized what sort of an ordeal they were volunteering to endure—he wondered how many would die and how he would end up himself.

At the moment, only the nervous excitement of the possibility of evading imprisonment was keeping him on his feet at all. He felt un
utterably weary and there would
be no chance of rest for hours yet. Somehow he must not only stay on his feet, but be prepared to deal with any number of emergencies, perhaps even help the group fight its way out of the city if the French breached the walls, or had outflanked
the position to the south. Kolniev was giving clear and precise orders to groups of three or four men, sending them off to search for the various things they would need—the lad clearly had a flair for organization, thank goodness. Orlov had nothing to do for the moment and he felt an overwhelming revulsion against the whole project.

'I can't face it!' he thought. 'I'm too tired. I'm hurt. I can't get on a horse and ride for miles—I'll die if I have to go another inch. I must sleep. I needn't go—the French will treat me well, with my rank.' He looked round with a feeling of panic and found Kusminsky was staring at him with a puzzled, curious look on his face. Orlov met his tawny eyes and made himself return their stare, and gradually his feeling of terrifying inadequacy faded and was replaced by a kind of fatalistic resignation. He had no choice but to keep going, to take part in this adventure—to lead it in fact.

He knew that he had never had any choice. He had made the decision without being aware of it at the moment he realized that Barclay meant to retreat without taking the wounded, and his own question to the General had committed him. His rank didn't merely entitle him to privileged treatment by the enemy—it bound him to the task of trying to save the men who could expect no help at all if they became prisoners.

He shook himself out of the reverie into which he had fallen and realized that the men were dispersing to carry out Kolniev's instructions. He started to ask what he should do, but Kolniev shook his head. 'You stay here for the moment,' he said. 'I'm going to see about the horses. One of us should be here in case there are any difficulties. Get some rest, and change your shirt! Sir!' he added as an afterthought. He grinned and went off with Kusminsky.

Orlov sat down on one of the tables which had been used as a bed by a man who was now dragging himself purposefully on one of the various errands. The only men left were those who were unable to walk. Josef came out of the shadows and began to strip off Orlov's stained uniform, his face a mask of disapproval. Orlov relaxed and let himself fall into a half-
doze
, vaguely conscious of Josef's ministrations and the pain in his arm, but too tired to care.

CHAPTER TWO

Barclay's First West Army began moving off before midnight, carrying with it the famous icon of Our Lady of Smolensk, and almost the whole contents of the arsenal. Nearly all the civilian population had fled, and the town was empty except for the refugees huddling in the churches and the hundreds of dead and wounded in the ruins and the public buildings. Raevsky's brigade remained at the guns to cover the retreat and complete the destruction of the bridges over the Dnieper.

The night was a particularly dark one away from the lurid light of the burning city and in the confusion no one noticed the dozen horse-drawn carts which left just after midnight, keeping south of the river and swinging away to the southeast in an orderly and purposeful manner once they were clear of Junot's men in the southern suburbs.

Kolniev had managed to find a pair of good horses for each cart, as well as several spares for anyone who preferred jolting on horseback to jolting in the carts. There was a surprisingly large quantity of food, cooking utensils, candles, rope, cartridges, sheets of canvas, a couple of tents, and miscellaneous useful equipment. They were short of bedding and bandages and Orlov worried about this, but decided that they would have to rely on requisitioning all the available sheets and blankets in the first village they came to—if the Cossacks hadn't already fired the place.

He was riding on a large grey horse at the head of the little procession, accompanied by Kolniev. Kusminsky was at
the rear. Josef had shaved Orlov as well as changing his clothes and he felt better for it, but he was still so weak that the elfort of staying in the saddle occupied almost the whole of his attention.

He tried to clear his mind and plan ahead but pain and weakness made him faint and he kept lapsing into a nightmare of noise, darkness, flame and awful fatigue when he could only hold onto his saddle as well as the reins with his right hand and jolt along, slumped and barely conscious, until his mind cleared again for a few minutes. It was like living in a dream and he was no longer sure what was real and what was not.

The sky appeared to be full of lurid smoky light, with writhing yellow dragons snaking between the stars; the rumble of thunder or guns shook the ground beneath his horse's hooves. This rumbling became confused with the creaking and grinding of the carts on the rough track and the weird light seemed at times to turn the carts into strange juggernauts, the horses into fire-breathing monsters, striking sparks from the ground as they passed. Sometimes, the horse he was riding appeared to grow enormous and he looked down from a dizzy height at the ground passing miles below, and felt sick with terror that he might fall.

Once, a terrible reverberating concussion shook him into full consciousness with a cry of mingled pain and fear and Kolniev reached across to steady him with a hand on his shoulder. The little caravan had come to a halt and men and horses had turned to look back towards Smolensk, the men in the carts raising themselves to see the huge column of blazing fire which stretched up into the sky. Orlov stared with the rest, delirium and nightmare banished for the moment by the awesomeness of the sight and the Shockwave of a great explosion.

'They've blown the magazine!' shouted Kolniev. 'God! Look at it! The French won't find much of Smolensk left to occupy!' Kusminsky laughed, a harsh barking noise. 'Let's hope some of Bonaparte's pigs went up with it!' he growled.

'God help Smolensk!' said Orlov. It was the first time he had spoken for more than two hours and his voice was hoarse and cracked. Kusminsky edged his horse up close and peered at his face. 'You should ride in one of the carts,' he said
briskly. 'Yes, I know you won't, you stubborn devil I Here, drink this.'

He put a steadying arm across Orlov's shoulders, held a flask to his lips and expertly tipped a couple of table-spoonsful of neat brandy down his throat. Orlov gasped and coughed, but after a few moments, felt more alive and warmer. He hadn't realized how cold he was. 'Is my cloak ... ?' he began.

'Cloak? Are you cold?' Kusminsky felt his forehead and pulse.

'No ... yes ... I was, but I'm warmer now----' Orlov felt
the world slipping away again as Josef came forward with his cloak and draped it carefully round him, tying the strings under his chin. Orlov roused himself to thank him, then lapsed into semi-delirium again.

Kusminsky shook his head, but said nothing, and the little collection of horsemen and carts jolted into movement again, climbing steadily away from the burning city and the river streaked with reflected fire like bloodstains, making away towards the south-east and the long road to Kaluga.

Part of Orlov's mind seemed to be quite clear and aware of what was happening for at least part of the time, but it was all somehow remote as if he could see and hear it going on in another world. He remembered talking to Kolniev's men in the hospital, checking their reports as they came in from foraging in the wreckage of the town. He recalled how eager they were, how anxious to remain free, and that a few men from other regiments had begged to be allowed to join them. One was a sergeant of the Imperial Guard, with his right arm amputated at the elbow, who had made Orlov feel ashamed at the amount of fuss he thought himself to be making over his own comparatively minor wound.

The confusion in his recollections began when they had left the city and his increasing fatigue and rising temperature had begun to play havoc with his consciousness. For a while, perhaps due to the brandy, he seemed to have gained some control over his ability to think, if not over his physical condition. He began to try to work out when they could expect to reach the road.

The country was hilly, with patches of woodland interspersed with open grassland and occasional areas of growing
crops. Kolniev was taking them over rough tracks, steering by the stars, and was either avoiding villages and houses or, more likely, there weren't any on this route—Orlov recalled that settlements in this area were very widely scattered. They would have to stop around dawn to rest the horses and eat themselves. No point in pressing on too fast and exhausting everyone, especially as Kusminsky and Josef were the only uninjured men among them—obviously they couldn't hope to move at the usual army rate of six hours' marching and four hours' rest. They would have to move for shorter periods once they were well clear of possible pursuit. Best go as far as they could tonight to avoid any risk of getting caught up with either of the armies. How far was the road? Twenty... thirty miles?

All this passed through his mind in a clear and logical way, he thought, and he felt quite pleased with himself for managing to overcome his previous semi-conscious state. The trouble was, it was so tiring ... he must just let his eyes close and his mind wander before he worked out when they would reach ... reach ... reach what? The road. What road? So tired----

He opened his eyes again suddenly and was surprised to find himself sitting on the ground, leaning against a tree trunk on the edge of a clearing in the forest. It was almost full daylight and a fire was burning under a couple of big cooking pots in the middle of the open space. The carts were drawn up in a neat row and the horses had been picketed and were being fed and watered by a motley squad of men with bandaged heads and arms and tattered green uniforms.

Kusminsky was standing by the nearest cart talking to two men who were lying in it, both sounding quite lively and cheerful. One of them drew the surgeon's attention to Orlov, who was trying to drag himself to his feet, holding onto the tree. Kusminsky hurried over and pushed him down again, gently but firmly and knelt beside him. 'Keep still!' he said. 'If you don't rest now, you'll have to travel in one of the carts when we move on.'

Orlov leant back against the tree, closed his eyes and listened to the stir of activity round him. It was all very busy and well-organized, with a minimum of fuss and very
few words of command. 'Kolniev knows his job,' he thought. 'Yes, of course he does. He didn't abandon his transport when his men were all killed and wounded and he rounded up the extra horses and supplies in record time. Anyway, the men know him—they must have confidence in him to come on this hare-brained expedition.' Somewhere, beyond and above the bustle of the camp, a lark was singing, clear and sweet, as remote and beautiful as home. Orlov fell asleep.

When he woke, the sun was shining in a brassy sky with the same relentless heat that had plagued the armies and exhausted the horses for the past month. He yawned and untied his cloak, pushing it back off his shoulders and sitting up with a little more vigour than he had felt for some time. He grinned at the surprised look on Kolniev's face as he glanced up from the bowl of stew he was eating, sitting on a box a few feet away.

'Hallo!' he said. 'Have you come back to us?'

I'm sorry.' Orlov felt guilty. 'I've not been much use so far, have I? Where are we now?'

'We've come about sixteen miles,' Kolniev replied. He waved to someone over by the fire. Orlov looked and saw that it was Josef, who was coming over with a steaming bowl in his hands. Orlov realized that he was hungry. At first, Josef seemed to think that he should feed his master, but after a struggle, he put the bowl on the ground and left Orlov to manage for himself. The stew was thick with meat and vegetables and tasted very good.

'How long did it take to cover that distance?' Orlov asked after a few mouthfuls.

'Nearly five hours. I'm not sure how fast we should try to go or how long to keep going between rests. If we're too slow, the French may come on us and we're in no state to fight, but if we go too fast, some of the men may not stand up to it. Kusminsky says some of them are very weak.' He didn't say that Orlov was one of them, but Orlov was well aware that he had not been in any fit state to travel during the night.

'How did I get here?' he asked. 'I don't remember anything after the magazine went up.'

Kolniev laughed. 'You're the first man I've met who could
go to sleep on horseback without
falling of
f,' he said. 'I rode close to you, but you only needed steadying a bit. At least—I thought you were asleep, but Kusminsky says you were probably unconscious.'

Kusminsky himself appeared from behind one of the carts and came over to them. He gave Orlov one of his searching, sharp-eyed looks, and felt his forehead. He grunted and put his fingers on Orlov's left wrist. 'How does that hand feel?' he asked.

'The hand is all right.' Orlov sounded surprised. 'Any feeling of numbness—pins and needles?' 'No. Why?'

'I've had to bandage that arm very tightly to stop the bleeding. It may cut the circulation to the lower arm and hand and that could be dangerous. Keep an eye on it—if the hand feels numb or the nails look blue, tel
l me at once. It's important.' H
is tawny eyes met Orlov's clear grey ones in a look which conveyed his meaning—Orlov had seen men die of gangrene and needed no further warning.

'What state are the men in?' he asked.

'Not bad on the whole.' Kusminsky sat down, produced an apple from his pocket and took a bite. 'The boy with the (rushed pelvis is bad, but he's as comfortable as he's ever likely to be, and he wanted to come. The Guard sergeant worries me—he's like you, won't admit he's not fit, but there's something almost frantic about his insistence that he's well. All of them are suffering from shock and loss of blood and could do with several days' complete rest in bed, but no one is in imminent danger. Give them all another hour's rest, then press on at a moderate pace for about four hours and I think we'll manage. Judge b
y yourself—you're in as bad a st
ate as any but the worst.' He finished his apple, lay flat on his back and immediately fell asleep like a cat. Orlov envied him.

Kolniev's head had fallen forward and he began to snore gently. Orlov looked around him, leant back against the tree and relaxed. The camp was very quiet and still with all the men presumably resting while they had the opportunity. He could hear a bee humming and some of the horses were moving about among the trees, cropping what there was of
the grass.

Somewhere behind him was the gentle sound of running water. He felt thirsty—the stew had been rather salty. Cautiously, he rose to his feet, holding onto the tree until he was sure he would not fall over, and then walked slowly towards the sound of the water. It was only a few yards away, a small stream running over a pebbly bed, bordered with ferns and flowers.

He knelt beside it and scooped up handfuls of water to drink and then to trickle over his face and hair. It was icy cold and refreshing in the sticky, oppressive heat which seemed to weigh down the unstirring air between the trees. It was quiet and peaceful by the stream. He sat watching a yellow butterfly hovering over some white flowers growing near the water and thought how sick he was of war and death and moving about. How good it would be to go home and spend his time managing his estates and sitting quietly in his own house in the evenings. If only the war would end soon.

'I must be growing old,' he thought, with a grin at his own sentimental yearning for home. He stood up, forgetting to be careful, and nearly fainted from the appalling dizziness the movement brought. He looked carefully at his left hand, inspecting the fingernails in a patch of sunlight, and acknowledged his own fear of losing his arm, of being maimed. There was no sign of the telltale blueness. He walked slowly back to the camp and sat down against the tree again, letting himself relax. He didn't feel very sleepy and his arm hurt too much to let him doze. Kolniev and Kusminsky were still asleep.