by Dinah Dean
Instead, he suddenly remembered Countess Barova, which certainly jerked his mind from his physical sufferings but only to prick his conscience. He had not given her a thought since he last saw her in the inn-parlour!
'Don't worry—I'll look after you,' he quoted to himself bitterly. 'For all I know, we've left her behind in the burning building. Fine guardian of the weak and helpless I am! St George would be proud of me!' He twisted round in his saddle and looked back over the line of carts. It was moving along in a dust-cloud and he felt sorry for the drivers. The passengers were luckier, with the canvas awnings to protect them from the worst of the sun and dust. He saw that Kusminsky was riding near the back but at the side of the road to keep out of the dust-cloud.
Then he saw Countess Barova. She was driving the second cart, sitting on the box with her thin shoulders held very straight and a scarf tied over her head and the lower part of her face. She seemed to be managing the horses quite well. Orlov was relieved to see that Kolniev had given her a good placid pair and one of the smaller carts, with only two soldiers riding on it. One of them was Sergeant Platov who could be relied on to use his common sense in an emergency and keep an eye on the Countess.
Orlov drew off to the side of the road and let the carts file past him, trying to make a cheerful remark or a friendly enquiry to the men in each one. He addressed himself to Sergeant Platov on the second cart, confining his attentions to the Countess to a brief, searching glance at her face, which he acknowledged with a slight inclination of her head.
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 him in a sort of contentment, being with his friends and knowing that he was making an effort to get away. He's not really suffering—barely conscious most of the time.'
'What about the Guard sergeant?' Orlov looked at the man who 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 shock, but he should be out of it by now.'
‘I'll have a word with him when we stop at midday,' promised 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, thank 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 column—for those I behind, the gritty haze would be as bad as ever.
There 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 sounded unnaturally loud. No wonder children's stories were full 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 the road, noticing how intense a blue it was, with a few clouds moving too fast to do any good. His helmet fell back, and he took it off in a fit of exasperation and hung it on his saddle. His thick rumpled hair 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 immediately and rode on, looking about him with a grim face. A large area of the forest had been cleared where a small village had stood. Its blackened remains lay stark under the brassy sky, and the nearer trees of the surrounding forest were scorched and dying with the heat of the fire.
Nothing living remained. Every wooden house, every barn and shed, was a smoking ruin. Even the well-sweep was charcoal. 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.
Orlov 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 performed 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 should be used 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 s
tiffness 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 very 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 Guard. I've been a soldier twenty years—I don't mind this. It’s easy, riding in a cart.' He sounded dull, apathetic, barely interested.
Looking at him, Orlov wondered how much of it was the fellow's normal manner. The men of the Imperial Guard were picked more for their height and appearance than for their intellectual 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 expression on his face. 'It's a life-time, 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 what was wrong with him. 'Not necessarily,' 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 scrap-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 sharply. '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.
His features were regular and clear-cut, with black, strongly marked eyebrows with that curious upturn at the inner corners and long thick black eyelashes, which looked oddly feminine and out of place on such a masculine face. He was tanned, but very pale under it and his mouth was set in a stern thin-lipped line, with noticeable tension in the muscles at its corners.
Her eyes widened suddenly in an expression of fear and filled with tears, but she blinked them away, twisting her hands together and looking hopelessly round the little camp. Most of the men were lying down, resting. Kolniev was inspecting the feet of the horses and Kusminsky was bandaging a man's leg. It was very quiet.
The sun declined almost imperceptibly below the tops of the trees, but the breathless heat seemed if anything to intensify. First Kolniev and then Kusminsky returned to the two figures under the tree and sat down silently. Kolniev curled up in an ungainly, snoring bundle and the surgeon stretched out neatly and dropped into one of his cat-like dozes. Countess Barova drowsed, her mind running squirrel-like over and over the same questions, and finding very little cause for hope.
At two o'clock, Kusminsky sat up, consulted his watch, which obligingly confirmed his expectations, and rose to his feet. Kolniev stirred, grunted and sat up, stretching and yawning, Orlov reluctantly opened his eyes to find himself looking straight into those of the Countess. They stared at one another for a long second and he understood the frightening question in her brown eyes. He tried to put some sort of reassurance into his own gaze, forcing his face to relax into a slight smile. Her mouth trembled and she looked away. He suspected that she had found no comfort in his face. ‘Probably thought I had a lecherous look and a wolfish grin,' he thought, wryly.
With an effort, he dragged himself to his feet and allowed the world to settle down after its expected acrobatics. Kolniev passed him a mug of strong coffee which he gulped down, watching the men harnessing the horses and moving the carts into line on the road.
'Are you going to drive again?' he asked the Countess, without looking at her.
Yes,' she replied. 'It's quite easy—I don't mind it at all.' She walked across to her cart and Orlov followed a little too quickly, determined to hand her up before one of the others could beat him to it. He must somehow establish a normal relationship with her before she became so frightened that the sight of him sent her into a fit. 'Normal!' he thought. 'My God! This is normal?' He held out his hand and she rested hers on it briefly as she climbed nimbly onto the box and gathered up the reins.
There was, momentarily, no one else in the immediate vicinity, and he said in a low, urgent voice, 'Countess, please don't be so frightened of me! I swear I won't hurt you.'
She looked down at his upturned
face, arrested by his intense, anxious expression and again her lips trembled. 'It's not you—it's—oh—just everything! Suddenly losing everything familiar, finding myself alone in the world with nothing, and nowhere to go.' She gave a little sob, then straightened her shoulders and raised her chin, looking straight in front of her. 'I'm sorry—I'm just being foolish. I'll be all right.'
Sergeant Platov was scrambling into the back of the cart, hampered by his injured shoulder, and a corporal with a bandaged leg and a rough wooden crutch was giving him a lift from behind. Josef was approaching with the big grey horse, which was plunging about restlessly, and Orlov went over to him.
'What's up with him?' he asked.
Josef looked down his nose in his usual solemn fashion. 'I fancy he's feeling the effect of better feeding than he's accustomed to, Your Excellency,' he said with dignity. Orlov reflected that this was probably true—oats, being less bulky than hay, formed a major part of the horses' rations, and the beasts were probably eating a great deal better than they normally did. He got his foot into the stirrup and had to hop a few steps as the horse pranced about, before he could get into the saddle. As he passed the Countess, he deliberately grinned at her in his most engaging manner, and was rewarded with a faint, fleeting smile.
The afternoon was even more tedious than the morning had been. The grey was full of energy and would have been the better for a good gallop across country, and Orlov found his right arm beginning to ache from the effort of holding him in. He considered letting him have his head for a bit, but the thought of jolting his injured arm along in a gallop was not at all attractive and he thought it likely that it would take very little to make him fall off the damned beast. His imagination blanched at the thought of a fall on the hard, dry ground and he continued to keep the horse reined down to a walk, despite its prancing and curvetting.