by Dinah Dean
'No, nor a goblin.' She smiled at the thought and realized that she was no longer afraid of him.
'Fairy princess?' he enquired, and suddenly woke up properly. 'What the devil? Oh, I'm sorry—I couldn't think where I was for a minute. What's wrong?'
'You were tossing about and groaning.'
'Did I wake you? I'm sorry. I seem to get a bit feverish at nights. Don't take any notice—it doesn't signify anything.'
She wiped his face with the damp towel again, and he thanked her. 'Will you be all right now?' she asked.
'Yes, thank you,' he replied. 'I'm sorry I disturbed you. Go back to sleep—there's two or three hours yet.'
She went back to her bed and wormed her way into it. After a minute or two, she said softly, 'Major Orlov.'
'Yes?'
'I'm—I'm not frightened of you,' she said, in a small timid voice.
Orlov was silent for a moment. Then he replied, 'Oh, good. I'm glad.' He couldn't think of anything else to say and lay trying to find something suitable for so long that he realized that there was no point, and drifted off to sleep instead.
When he opened his eyes again, it was broad daylight and men were moving about among the carts. The fire was burning brightly in its long trench, with half a dozen large cooking pots steaming over it. There was a busy purposeful bustle and Orlov lay watching it with a sense of pleasure. He saw
Josef coming and propped himself on his elbow as the servant ducked to enter the tent. He was carrying two steaming mugs, and he gave one to Orlov and took the other across and put it beside the Countess as if the situation was nothing out of the ordinary. Orlov sipped gratefully at the tea.
'I have procured a small quantity of hot water,' said Josef in his prim voice, 'and if Your Excellency would care to sit on this box outside when you are ready, I will shave you. The tent will then be free for the use of the Countess.'
Orlov acquiesced and drank his tea while Josef gathered up the box, his shaving equipment, coat and shirt, belt, sword and all the other necessary oddments and took them outside. Then he put down his cup, unwound himself from his bedding and said 'Good morning' politely.
'Good morning,' replied a sleepy voice, and Orlov looked across at the bundle on the other side of the tent. 'Wake up, dormouse, and drink your tea,' he said, his voice full of amusement.
He went outside and savoured the air. It was full of the scent of woodsmoke, an appetizing whiff of coffee, and the general pleasant early morning country smell compounded of dew-wet grass, flowers, decayed wood and damp stone. What a pity that the blue sky apparent in the strip above the load promised another scorching furnace of a day. The tree-lops were moving in a fitful breeze, and he hoped that the forest would continue to shelter them for a long time to come.
Josef came back with a pail and a can, both full of steaming water. He put the pail inside the tent for the Countess to wash, and proceeded to shave Orlov with the contents of the can. Orlov closed his eyes and enjoyed the luxury of being shaved. In fact, he rarely shaved himself as Josef did it much better, but he always enjoyed the luxury, even if it was an accustomed one.
Kusminsky came out of his tent as Josef finished and crossed over to him with his quick, jerky stride. 'I'll have a look at that arm while you're stripped,' he said. His skilful fingers removed the bandages with practised dexterity, hardly moving the arm, which nevertheless began to ache tiresomely. When Kusminsky reached the dressing, he removed it with a sudden sharp tug and was clearly surprised how easily it came off. 'What on earth is this?' he asked, looking at the substance spread on it.
'Honey,' replied Orlov. 'Countess Barova thought my disposition in need of sweetening.'
'Good Lord! Old-fashioned remedies,' said Kusminsky. 'Well, I don't suppose it'll do much harm, apart from attracting bees and bears.' He peered at the wound and sniffed it, his long nose twitching a little. Orlov turned his head away.
'Healing nicely,' pronounced the surgeon. 'Now, if you can just avoid knocking it, lying on it, falling off your horse on it, left-handed swordplay and any other violent activity likely to cause it to break open again, I think you might possibly hope to recover. Good thing that fellow slashed down and not across.'
Orlov looked at him enquiringly.
'The cut goes right down to the bone. If it went across, it would have severed vessels, muscles, nerves, the lot. You'd have lost the use of the arm—probably have had it off. As it is, the artery was cut but the nerves and muscles hardly damaged.'
'Feels like it!' Orlov said bitterly.
Kusminsky was putting on a fresh dressing and bandages, darting an occasional glance at Orlov's face as he did so. The Major was still very pale. 'How did you sleep?' he asked.
'Pretty well,' Orlov replied. 'I think I was feverish in the night. Countess Barova said I was tossing about and groaning just before dawn. It woke her.'
Kusminsky grinned and was about to make a ribald comment, but changed his mind and contented himself with another warning to Orlov not to overtax himself.
A number of the men had finished their early morning duties, and were now gathering for breakfast. Half a dozen were standing a few yards away, watching Kusminsky with interest. Orlov felt rather like a mountebank show, being bandaged up in public, but he supposed that it had the advantage of restraining him from making a fuss when it hurt. One of the men called out something joking about his wound, and Orlov laughed and made a friendly reply.
Kolniev had come over from the horse lines and he said to Orlov, 'You never cease to amaze me. I thought all the Chevalier Guard officers wore corsets and never spoke to anyone below their own rank.'
'Oh, you malign us,' Orlov replied gravely. 'I never wear corsets on active service and I have been known to speak civilly to a mere ensign occasionally.'
Kolniev looked at his hard, lithe body and laughed. 'I suppose all the dancing at State balls keeps you in condition.'
'That, and running away from amorous ladies of fashion,' Orlov agreed. 'One takes a remarkable amount of exercise during the Season.'
By the time Josef had finished arranging Orlov's uniform to his satisfaction, the Countess had emerged from the tent, her shining hair swept up under its coronet of plaits and her pale face quietly composed. Kolniev wished her 'Good morning' and made a conventional enquiry as to whether she had slept well, but broke off awkwardly in the middle of it. She flushed slightly, but said in a firm, clear voice, 'I slept very well, thank you.'
'Good,' said Kusminsky briskly. 'Now come and breakfast very well. You'll soon be an old campaigner.'
One of the cooks had summoned up sufficient ingenuity to stir some raisins into the otherwise rather tasteless 'sergeant'. There was more of the ham, both cold and fried, and a quantity of very good coffee. Orlov commented on its quality and Kolniev admitted with some embarrassment that it rightly belonged to the Governor of Smolensk.
'Just as well that you requisitioned it, then,' said Orlov comfortingly. 'It would have been a little too well roasted if we'd left it!'
'Roasted?' There was a note of surprise in Countess Barova's voice, intermingled with a sort of dawning horror as if she suspected what Orlov meant but could not believe it.
'Smolensk was burning when we left,' he said bluntly.
Her eyes became bigger and her face whiter than ever. 'Smolensk—burningl' she said. 'But how—did you set it on fire? A whole city... ?'
'Not personally,' Orlov replied. 'They only let me burn little things, like barns and stables.' His voice betrayed some of the sick, helpless distaste he felt at the memory of firing the inn. 'Actually, the French bombarded the place with explosive shells. Most of the houses were wooden, and what with no rain for a couple of weeks and a gusty wind ... and our army blew up the magazine.'
She sat silent for a few minutes, and Orlov took a quick look at her face and saw that her eyes were full of tears. Presently she wiped them away and said in a small, tightly-controlled voice, 'I was born in Smolensk.'
'So was I,' said Ko
lniev.
‘I'm a Moscow man,' said Kusminsky, leading the conversation onto less emotional ground. 'Where were you born, Major?'
'I don't know,' replied Orlov, unexpectedly. 'I think it was at Ryazan, but it appears that I was baptised at Petersburg, so I may have been born there.'
'It would have been a long way for a young baby,' said Kusminsky. 'Perhaps you were born with a predilection for difficult and trying journeys.'
'No doubt there was an excellent doctor to watch over my welfare, even in those days,' replied Orlov with polished courtesy and felt, for once, that he had slightly the advantage in the encounter.
The camp was broken up with commendable speed and efficiency, and Orlov took the trouble to say so, which brightened the morning of many of the men. He took a quick look at the dying boy, who had now lapsed into a coma, and enquired courteously if the men had spent a comfortable night. If a reference he overheard to the Countess as 'the Major's lady' caused him any embarrassment, he gave no sign of it.
When he mounted his big grey, he found the horse was again very frisky and difficult to hold in as they set off on their creaking, jolting procession along the dusty, road. Orlov rode at the front as usual, tall in the saddle of the big horse, his broad shoulders and the proud set of his curly head above the white coat with its red collar and silver lace giving the men a comforting sense of being under a good leader.
There had been a heavy dew in the night, and it left a lingering coolness under the thick trees which was very welcome in the breathless oppressiveness of the day. The dew had not, however, settled the thick dust of the road, which muffled the plod of the horses' feet and rose in a cloud to infiltrate its gritty discomfort over faces and hands, inside clothing, into hair, mouth and eyes.
Orlov spared a thought for the army on the Moscow road, marching for full six-hour stretches from first light to darkness, with thousands of them stirring up the dust into suffocating clouds. Not much water available for them, after the drought—every pool and well would be drunk down to the mud before half of them had passed. At least he was in a privileged position, riding at the head of the column, out of the worst of the dust, and there was plenty of water. Apart from the discomfort of being wounded, they were on a comparatively luxurious journey— if only this damned horse would behave itself!
The grey was progressing in a series of little bounds, which jarred Orlov's arm painfully and he was tempted to let him have his head. Another curious bound with a sort of twist in the middle sharply jerked his whole body and hurt so much that he could only grit his teeth and hold on.
The horse apparently grew tired of the amusement and calmed down, and Orlov considered thoughtfully how much difference it made to his riding to have only one arm available. He had always considered himself a good rider, but clearly he relied too much on his hands and arms—it was something he would have to get to work on when the opportunity arose.
After about an hour, he made his usual pause by the side of the road and watched the carts go by, checking that each one was keeping position and moving along properly and that its driver and passengers were comfortable. Josef was driving the first, his prim face unusually sunburned. He gave Orlov a thin-lipped smile as he passed. The Countess had turned her head to talk to Sergeant Platov, and did not see him.
When the last cart had passed, he rode alongside Kusminsky for a few words of general conversation and then began to overtake the carts, riding with each one for a while, and talking to the men. They seemed cheerful, although most of them showed signs of pain and fatigue. Orlov didn't think they looked any worse than they had the day before, apart from Petrushka, who was gradually growing weaker, and Sergeant Grushchev, who was again in an indifferent slumped heap, leaning against the side of the seventh cart, his head jerking slackly with every jolt. When Orlov spoke to him, he made no effort to reply but just lifted his head and looked blankly at him.
Eventually, Orlov reached the second cart and dropped into place alongside it. The Countess gave him a friendly smile and replied to his questions very civilly, venturing on a remark of her own about the weather: 'It's not quite as hot as it was yesterday morning.'
Orlov agreed gravely, but added, 'I'm afraid it will be by noon, though. This is only the effect of the heavy dew and the thickness of the trees. Is the dust worrying you?'
'No more than it worries anyone else,' she replied. 'How are you this morning? You seemed very uncomfortable during the night.'
Sergeant Platov and the corporal were both listening with great interest and Orlov hoped desperately that he hadn't flushed. 'I tend to be a little feverish at night,' he replied. 'I believe it's quite normal after losing blood. Do you find you become feverish during the night?' he asked Platov, drawing him into the conversation.
Platov gave a rather rambling account of his experiences of feeling feverish after various wounds in carefully identified campaigns and went on to enlarge on the experiences of some of his friends as well while both Orlov and the Countess listened with apparently close interest. By the time the sergeant had finished, Orlov thought he should move on to avoid appearing to spend longer with this cart than with the others.
After talking to Josef's passengers for a while, he returned to his position at the head of the column and reflected that his horse had been much better behaved while he rode with the carts. Probably he was used to having a partner beside him if he was normally a cart or carriage horse. 'It's lonely in a position of command!' he told the grey, half-jokingly and the horse turned his ears to and fro at the sound of his voice.
Orlov plodded on, considering the condition of the men he had been talking to. He thought some of them looked as if they would be the better for a day's rest, and he pondered the advisability of laying over for twenty-four hours. On the whole, he thought they were still too near Smolensk.
If the French sent out foraging parties, they were still within range of them. A cavalry squadron could cover the distance they had travelled in little more than a normal day's march. At the rate Murat's men travelled, probably a good deal less. Better press on for another day or two, unless Kusminsky advised a rest.
He looked up at the sky and estimated that the morning was about two-thirds gone—talking to the men certainly helped the time to pass. Even at five minutes a cart, it took an hour to move along the whole line. Inconsequentially, he wondered at what point during the night he had changed from an intimidating, lustful monster to a person with whom one might safely discuss the weather, and what had brought the change about—an interesting problem.
The grey began prancing about again and Orlov, on a sudden impulse, kicked him into a trot, which rapidly increased until he was flying along the road at a full gallop, leaving the carts far behind. In some ways it was pleasant, the wind cool on his face, and the easy rhythmic motion of the horse between his thighs exhilarating, but it hurt his arm a great deal. His stubborn disposition made him go on until the pain became unbearable which was, of course, far too long, and when he finally reined in the horse, he drooped in his saddle, fighting off waves of nausea and dizziness. The horse stood still, blowing gently and nuzzling at the scanty grass by the roadside.
Presently, Orlov's head stopped spinning and he called himself several kinds of fool, easing his arm in the silk sling, which had slipped during his gallop. He sat still, listening to the silence of the forest, which was not really silence at all. There was a continual gentle stir of sound, always muted and seeming to come from somewhere just out of sight.
Orlov identified the faint sound of the light wind in the tree-tops, the busy murmur of running water, the rustle of an animal in the undergrowth. What sort of animal? A large one moving quietly, or a small one being careless? He listened more carefully and heard a faint jingling.
'What the devil can that be?' he thought. 'Sounds like metal. What creature could make that sound?' He strained his ears, and sudden realization had him off the saddle, kneeling with his ear to the ground. A large body of horses was ap
proaching along the road ahead of him, the sound of their hooves muffled by the thick dust.
Quickly, he remounted, turned his horse and galloped back the way he had come. Presumably, he thought, if he couldn't hear their horses' hooves, they couldn't hear his. What were they? French or Russian? No sense in waiting to find out—best assume they were French. He noticed that the fine dry dust didn't hold the marks of his passage—there would be no tell-tale prints to warn a sharp-eyed enemy.
He was surprised how far ahead of the carts he had come and heartened by it—the longer they had to hide the better. The pain in his arm was now excruciating and he let out a gasp when a bend in the road caused the grey to take an uneven stride and prayed that he wouldn't faint. Ahead, he caught sight of the leading cart and just to his own right, a side track leading off at an angle from the main road. He reined the grey to a slithering halt and urgently signaled to Josef to turn his cart into the narrow opening.
As the line of carts followed their leader into the rutted lane, he quickly told the men what he had in mind. 'A large party of riders coming—possibly French. Get the carts into these bushes. Unharness quickly—lead the horses out of earshot, up the lane. Cut bracken and branches—cover the carts.'
Swiftly, urgently, the carts were crammed into the side of the track, screened by its angle from the main road. Camouflage rendered them almost invisible and the horses rapidly disappeared into the woods further away from the road, where any whinnying would be less likely to be heard. Josef took the grey and Orlov grabbed his pistols from the saddle holsters as he went.
The men were crouching among the carts and Orlov quietly told them to check their muskets. 'No one is to fire unless I give the word,' he warned. 'We're not an ambush— we simply don't want to be seen. If they're French, let them go by—hold your breath and pray.' He was checking the loading of his pistols as he spoke. He stuck one in his sash and held the other in his right hand. No chance of being able to fire left-handed—his injured arm was on fire with pain and had no strength at all. He recollected with satisfaction that they were excellent weapons, never known to misfire. Then he remembered something else and looked round for the Countess.