by Dinah Dean
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 off,' 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, tell me at once. It's important.' His 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 by yourself—you're in as bad a state 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.
When he judged that an hour had passed, Orlov stood up again and looked around him, putting on his crested helmet. Kusminsky suddenly opened his eyes and sat up, drew out his watch, and said: 'Time to move.'
Kolniev stirred, yawned and stretched, blinked owlishly round him, then let out a shout which started up a general stir of movement in the camp. The fire had burnt low and the embers were soon doused and covered with a layer of earth. The horses were harnessed, the cooking gear stowed in the carts, the men climbed into their places and the line formed ready to move off.
Josef led up the big grey and held it while Orlov hauled himself into the saddle. It was an effort, but he managed it .ii the first attempt and shook his head when Kolniev suggested diffidently that he might go in one of the carts. He rode slowly along the waiting line of carts and horses and looked them over carefully. They were all good stout carts, well looked after, solidly built for the army, and not likely to collapse under the strain of a long journey, but equally not likely to provide a comfortable ride for injured men.
The horses were mostly the sturdy little draught animals favoured by the Russian artillery, capable of pulling a field-gun clear through a snow drift. The harness was good reliable stuff, most of it nearly new. Kolniev was clearly a man who took good care of his equipment as well as his men.
Any problem could arise from the condition of the men. Some of them looked exhausted still, despite their rest, and there were not enough of them with two good arms to drive all the carts. The third in the line had a driver who was dearly in considerable pain from a wrist injury and Orlov called Josef over. 'You can drive this cart,' he said. 'It's ridiculous for a man with two good arms to ride when we haven't enough drivers.'
'I'll drive too,' volunteered Kolniev. 'Stupid of me not to think of that before.' Both he and Josef took over a cart each from drivers who were obviously relieved not to have to face hours of jerking strain on damaged limbs. Kusminsky also Offered to drive, but Orlov said, 'No. You've more than enough to do. You should be riding in one of the carts.' He grinned impishly as he said it, and raised a laugh from the men at the sly humour of throwing back the surgeon's repeated words to himself.
As they set off, Orlov said more seriously to Kusminsky, 'If this heat lasts, I think we should move in two spells, fairly early in the morning and later in the afternoon, and take a longish break in the middle of the day. Today is different, Of course. We must move on, but if we can get to the post road without too much strain, I think that will have to be far enough for the day.'
Kusminsky nodded. ‘I’ll tell you if I think the men are being pressed too hard,' he said. 'You'll have to decide the priorities.'
Orlov and Kusminsky led the procession along a rough track which ran straight through the birch forest in a fairly south-easterly direction. The shade of the trees saved them from the direct burning heat of the sun, but the airless, sultry atmosphere was oppressive. They were soon wiping trickles of sweat from their faces and brushing at the clouds of irritating little black flies which swarmed around every man and horse. Orlov's neck was chafed by his buckled stock and the rough sash he was using as a sling and the thick cloth of his white coat felt like a blanket.
By the end of the first half-hour, his shirt was soaked with sweat, the thick bandages seemed to drag painfully at his arm, his boots had shrunk on his feet and his whole body felt sticky, unbearably hot and thoroughly wretched. His helmet kept slipping about and the chinstrap worried him. He was tempted to take ofE the helmet and his stock—his coat too, but he supposed that he had better attempt to maintain some semblance of proper military order in his appearance.
To take his mind off his discomfort, he drew aside from the track and let the carts pass him. He exchanged a few words with each driver as they passed, enquiring if they were comfortable and trying to find a cheerful remark or a joke for each. They all seemed reasonably cheerful. The poor lad with the crushed pelvis was moaning in delirium, and the Guard sergeant was slumped against the side of the cart with his chin on his chest, but he could have been asleep. The carts were jolting painfully over the ruts of the rough track and the flies and the heat were obviously trying to men and horses, but Orlov felt that things could be a great deal worse.
When the last cart had passed, he looked back along the track and listened. There was no sound at all. The whole world seemed to be stupefied into silence by the heat. It seemed strange not to hear the bark and rattle of musketry and the dull boom of cannon, the drumming of hooves or the steady tramp of marching feet, all the sounds which had filled Orlov's life during the past few weeks. Now all he could hear were the creak and rumble of the carts and the muted voices of the men talking among themselves.
Someone started up a song and one by one the others joined in until most of them were singing. It was the sort of melancholy, longing-for-home song which soldiers liked, particularly Russian ones, and it echoed the feeling of heart-weary homesickness which Orlov had felt earlier, sitting by the little stream. He felt a lump in I he back of his throat and a wave of nostalgia for the home he had seen only two or three times in the past eight years. I le scrubbed irritably at his face with a grubby handkerchief, wondering what on earth was the matter with him. He kicked Ins horse into motion and rode after the carts, ramming his helmet down hard on his mop of curly hair and scowling Inociously, his black brows turning up at a sharper angle ih an ever.
After two hours, the trees thinned out suddenly, and the Country became open and grassy, rising in a long hill to the skyline a couple of miles ahead. Nothing was stirring in the shimmering heat haze and the sun shone out of a brilliant, cloudless sky. Orlov called a halt.
'We'll rest in the shade for an hour,' he said. 'Let the horses cool off a bit before we start on that stretch.' He headed the thought of long hours in that baking heat and wished there was a breath of wind to stir the air a little.
Kusminsky went round the carts, checking his patients. Kolniev had half a dozen of the fitter ones drag out a pile of folded canvas sheets from among the miscellaneous collection of equipment, and set them to work rigging awnings over the carts to keep off the worst of the sun.
Orlov dismounted stiffly and leant against his horse until 1 lie usual spell of dizziness passed. His arm ached in a bone-gnawing fashion which was both tiring and depressing. He pulled himself together, took off his helmet and hung it on his saddle and went over to the cart which carried the boy with the crushed pelvis. He was clearly in a bad way and Orlov wondered if he should have been left behind in Smolensk.
'It wouldn't make any difference,' Kusminsky said quietly, having come up behind him. 'He wanted to come. He's better cared for here than he would have been with the French, and he's with his friends.' He didn't say so, but Orlov gathered that there was very little hope for the lad. He turned away with a shrug, and wondered how many more times it would take before the resulting pain cured him of the habit.
A ration of hard bread and a chunk of cheese was issued, with a handful of raisins for each man, and they sat about in groups wherever they could find a patch of shade. The three officers sat together under a tree and Kolniev produced a pipe and tobacco to set up a cloud of smoke to keep off the insects. Kusminsky suddenly said, in his sharp, rather edgy voice, 'I suppose you're related to the famous Orlovs?'
Orlov turned over the piece of bread he was eating, and looked at it carefully while he
considered the implications of the question. 'If you mean the notorious Orlovs,' he replied, 'yes, we're distantly related, but we consider ourselves to be the relatively poor, but respectable branch of the family.'
He detected in the tone, as well as in the wording of Kusminsky's question, a certain resentment of his presumed social position. He thought Kusminsky probably came from a merchant family and Kolniev from the provincial nobility. In either case, his name, with its implication of high social standing, and his Staff officer status were likely to count heavily against him and the success or failure of the journey ahead of them could well depend on the extent to which he could overcome their prejudices.
'I thought all the Orlovs were fabulously rich and important,' said Kolniev in his naively outspoken way.
'Only since cousin Grigor Grigorievitch caught the fancy of the Empress Ekaterina,' replied Orlov, with a deliberate air of careless irreverence. 'Before that, we were just a provincial family from Novgorod, like anyone else. There's nothing very grand about rising to importance via the bedchamber. I'd rather belong to a family with a more creditable claim to glory.'
The others made no reply to this, but after a few minutes Kusminsky said in a slightly more friendly tone, 'I'd better take a look at your bandages, I think.' He helped Orlov take off his coat and shirt, then made him bend and stretch the arm a few times after scrutinizing the hand and lower arm very carefully.
It hurt a great deal but Orlov gritted his teeth and bore it with no obvious sign of distress. Kusminsky noticed the sweat on his forehead and the tight muscles of his face and decided not to untie the bandages. He helped Orlov dress again and arranged his arm in a more comfortable position in the sash which he was still using as a sling. 'That's not very good,' he observed. 'It's too rough—it's chafing your neck.' Orlov was quite well aware of this.