Flight From the Eagle

by Dinah Dean

  The Countess was sitting at the improvised table opposite Kolniev, who was talking with a great deal of enthusiasm about going bear-hunting with his uncle. He broke off for a second to bid Orlov, 'Good morning,' and then went on, 'It was a sort of little closed carriage, you see, with holes in the sides to poke the guns through and when it was in position, we had to shut ourselves inside with a small pig. It was a jolly tight squeeze too, for my uncle is a big man and I'm not all that small.

  Then he prodded the pig with his toe and made it squeal to attract the bear, you see, and when the bear came, the pig smelt it and was scared, squealing like a regiment of porkers and wetting all over the floor of the carriage. The bear growled and clawed at the sides and set the carriage rocking about all over the place. My uncle shouted and fell on top of the pig and couldn't get up again.'

  'What did you do?' The Countess sounded fascinated.

  'I put my fingers in my ears and wished myself at home,' Kolniev replied cheerfully. 'Anyway, between the three of them, they attracted the attention of some huntsmen who came to see what all the noise was about and they frightened the bear away. Uncle was furious and then the door jammed and we had an awful job getting out, with Uncle roaring and the pig having hysterics and making the most fearful stench. In the end, the huntsmen broke the door open and we all fell out on the grass, when the pig bit my uncle and ran away!'

  They both collapsed into helpless laughter but Orlov felt so wretched that he could only manage a faint smile. After a few minutes, the Countess looked across at him, the laughter fading from her face and stared with a slight frown into his troubled grey eyes. Before she could say anything, Kusminsky came in and she gave Orlov a shy smile before turning to greet the surgeon.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Kusminsky looked tired and anxious, as if he had not slept very well. Orlov glanced at his narrow foxy face with a sinking feeling in his guts, killing the faint spark of hope aroused by Countess Barova's smile and adding a dreadful apprehension to the leaden weight of guilt and misery he was already suffering.

  The surgeon sat down to his breakfast and said nothing beyond a few polite remarks until he had finished eating. Then he poured himself some more coffee and said, 'I take it we're not moving on today?'

  'There's no sign of the rain letting up,' Kolniev said. 'Is it safe to stay here another day?'

  Orlov got out his map which he carried in the wallet on his belt and spread it out on the table between himself and Kolniev. 'We're here,' he said, pointing with his finger. 'They may still be here,' pointing to Smolensk, 'or there,' he ran his finger diagonally along the Moscow road to Viazma. 'If it's there, then they're sixty miles away and I don't think they'll be riding that far in this weather. In any case, I don't believe they could have got as far as Viazma yet.'

  'So we stay here today?' Kusminsky asked again.

  'Yes,' Orlov replied. Then, after a pause while he poured himself more coffee, 'When do you want to start?'

  Kusminsky sighed, and looked across at him. 'Yes, I'm sorry, but you're right. It's black this morning and I daren't risk leaving it any longer. Will straight away after breakfast suit you? It will take some time.'

  'Corporal Adraksin?' asked the Countess. 'Oh, poor man! Shall I help you?' Her voice was unsteady.

  'No!' Orlov almost bellowed. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout at you. No ... you most certainly won't help!' He sounded rude and abrupt but his expression made it clear that he was sickened by the thought of a woman being involved in the operation—any woman, but particularly this one. Kusminsky didn't ask Orlov if he was willing to help, probably assuming that it had been arranged the previous evening.

  Orlov recollected that he hadn't actually agreed, only protested. He took a breath and opened his mouth to make his carefully prepared admission that he lacked the courage to help the surgeon, and then, as he had expected, found himself quite unable to speak and the breath was expelled in a faint sigh. He drank his coffee and stood up.

  'Now?' asked Kusminsky.

  Orlov nodded and followed the surgeon out of the room and downstairs to the dairy in the middle of which stood a large table made of a slab of slate, and a sink with a pump over it. The room, being a dairy, was naturally cold, but Kusminsky had arranged for a-fire to be lit on the stone floor in one corner, and although it was rapidly blackening the White-washed wall, it was also making the room warmer.

  Kusminsky unpacked his tools from his battered leather bag and surprised Orlov by dipping them into a bucket of boiling water which was carefully wedged on the edge of the fire. Then he laid them in a row on a marble topped shelf which would normally have held cream-pans and briskly told Orlov their names. 'You pass them to me when I ask you,' he s.iid. 'Now, there's hot water here. Wash your hands thoroughly.'

  There was another bucket standing in the stone ink. Orlov stripped off his coat, rolled up his shirt sleeves 11 id washed both his hands, taking the left one out of the sling. Kusminsky opened his mouth to say something and then shut it again.

  'Why so much washing?' Orlov asked.

  'I think things heal better if they're kept clean,' Kusminsky replied. 'The hotter the better—that's why I put the tools in boiling water. I don't know if it really does any good, but it seems to me that I have more success if I do it than if I don't. Perhaps it's just supersition.'

  He called to someone along the corridor and in a few minutes two stretcher bearers carried Adraksin in. The Corporal was clutching a bottle of wine about two-thirds empty and was very drunk. He flourished the bottle at Orlov and hiccuped, 'Mornin' Exshellenshy. Glad you've come shir, ver' goovyou.' He closed his eyes and fell back limply and Kusminsky had him lifted onto the table, stripped off his trousers and began to unwind the bandage round his foot.

  'Now, quickly,' he said. 'Put on that leather apron—no point in soiling your clothes. Stand there—that's right. Keep quiet and do as I tell you. I want to do as much as I can before he comes round.'

  Orlov tried to make his senses go numb for the next hour, fighting down wave after wave of nausea, striving to keep his hands from trembling and dropping the tools he passed in answer to Kusminsky's barked requests. He wanted to clap his hands over his ears to shut out the hideous grating sound of the saw on bone, or over his eyes so as not to see the dreadful swollen black thing that had been a foot and the raw gaping flesh. He thought he had never been in such an extreme state of utter misery before, what with the dreadful things he was having to watch and his torturing sense of guilt about the Countess which nagged away somewhere in another part of his mind.

  'Will that noise never stop?' he thought. 'Will she ever speak to me again? What shall I do if he wakes up and starts screaming? Oh, God! I'm going to be sick!' He could feel cold trickles of sweat between his shoulder-blades and they reminded him of the touch of Countess Barova's cold hands on his bare back. Kusminsky's voice was coming from a great distance and he had to concentrate to understand what the surgeon was saying. There seemed to be a patchy mist between him and the dreadful thing on the slate slab and he shook his head sharply to clear it away.

  'You can't faint now,' Kusminsky remarked dispassionately. 'It isn't convenient. Hold the leg steady a moment—it keeps shifting about.' Orlov clamped his hand round the corporal's shin and held on grimly while Kusminsky severed the last fraction of bone. He cleaned away the fine dust and pulled the ends of the flesh down over the stump. Orlov turned his face away, pretending to look at Adraksin. The man, still unconscious, had a faint, foolish smile on his lips. He stirred slightly and Kusminsky worked furiously to finish.

  At length, he straightened up and sighed. 'That's the best I can do,' he said. 'Wash yourself clean and then go and get some fresh air. You've done as well as I hoped you would and I'm very grateful to you.'

  Orlov gave him a glassy look, tore off the leather apron and washed his hands and arms under the pump, which an orderly worked for him. Then he plunged his head under as well and scrubbed himself with a rough towel. Kusminsky w
as bandaging Adraksin's stump when Orlov caught sight of the discarded foot, still lying on the slate slab. He grabbed his coat and ran outside.

  Blindly, he found his way to the back of the big barn and was violently sick in the long grass. He crouched for a while, gasping for breath and shivering, letting the cold rain run down his face until his shirt was soaked and clinging to him. He stood up and looked around for somewhere to hide, unable to face up to meeting anyone until he had regained control of himself.

  There was a small door in the back wall of the barn which creaked open when he pushed it. Inside, a straw stack had been built halfway across to partition off this part of the barn from the rest. It was dark and dry, with a musty smell of old straw and tarred wood. He groped about and found a ledge cut in the wall of straw and sat down on it, pulling on his coat and shivering uncontrollably, not so much from cold as from reaction. For a time he sat still, his mind quite numb and empty, listening to the faint rustle of the straw and the stealthy movements of the horses at the far end of the barn.

  The door creaked open and closed again and he looked up to see who was there, hoping Kusminsky had not come after him. He could only make out a vague shape and he was surprised to hear Countess Barova's voice say, 'Where are you?'

  'Here,' he replied, stretching out his hand. She moved closer, suddenly found his hand and took hold of it, and he drew her towards him.

  'Are you all right?' she asked.

  'I don't think I've ever been so wretched in my life,' he replied soberly. 'I must have been out of my mind last night and this morning to behave as I did.'

  'Dr Kusminsky said he thought the operation turned your stomach,' she said. 'He told me to bring you some brandy. Sergeant Platov said you were in here, he saw you come in.'

  'I don't want any brandy,' Orlov said. 'I've just been sick —I don't think my stomach could take it. Thank you for bringing it.' She was still holding his hand and he tightened his grip on her. 'Sparrow, do you hate me?'

  'Of course not,' she replied. 'Perhaps you should have a hot drink. You're shivering. Are you feverish?' She felt his forehead with her cold little hand and he gave a strangled sob of misery and frustration, at which she moved her hand over his tangled wet curls and gently pulled his head against her shoulder.

  'It's all right,' she said soothingly. 'Corporal Adraksin has come round. He's quite cheerful and Dr Kusminsky says you were a marvellous help to him. There's nothing to worry about. It's all over—you did it and now you must forget about it.'

  Orlov wanted desperately to put his arms round her and cry his heart out against her breast, but he fought hard against it while she stroked his hair and talked comfortingly to him about the corporal and about the way Kusminsky had praised him, as if she were coaxing an unhappy child. Orlov suddenly realized that she understood how he had felt about helping with the operation.

  'You mustn't worry so much about things, dearest,' she went on. 'You'll make yourself ill again. I'm sure you must have a fever—you're shivering so.'

  He made an effort to pull himself together, encouraged by the endearment to put one arm round her waist although he told himself that it didn't necessarily mean anything—he'd often called people—women—'dearest' without it having any great significance—aunts, his old nurse, Tatia—almost anyone he was fond of. Perhaps it meant that she wasn't as disgusted with him as he deserved.

  Would she have come to find him and comfort him and called him 'dearest' if his behaviour had offended her? He wondered if it would make matters worse if he apologized and he stayed where he was while he thought about it. The shivering gradually died away and with it went a great deal of the feeling of hopelessness.

  'Sparrow,' he said at last, gently drawing away from her. 'You mustn't feel that you're obliged to put up with me mauling you about. I've behaved badly several times and I'm very sorry for it. I wonder you haven't been really angry with me. I don't mean to treat you like a ...'

  He couldn't think of a usable term and abandoned the sentence. 'I don't mean you any disrespect but it's very tempting for a normal man being so close to anyone as attractive and kissable as you. I'll try to leave you alone ... I wouldn't blame you if you slapped my face.'

  'Very well,' she replied, as if they were discussing the weather or something equally indifferent. 'If I find your attentions distressing, I'll tell you but I don't think I've behaved very well, either. Will you come into the house and t ry to eat some luncheon? It must be time for it by now.'

  In confirmation of her words, they heard Kolniev's parade-ground bellow outside. 'Major Orlov! Where are you?'

  Orlov gave an answering shout and helped the Countess to scramble over the stacked straw into the main part of the barn, where most of the carts were lined up along one side and some of the horses on the other.

  'What a huge barn!' the Countess commented as Orlov led her towards the big doors at the end, warily keeping himself between her and the hind legs of the horses. Kolniev was standing in the gap of one of the half-open doors and he waved a hand in greeting as he saw them.

  'Food's ready,' he said. 'Kusminsky says I've to bring you in and we'll make you eat even if we have to tie you down and force it down your throat. He's a hard-hearted bastard—I wouldn't have any appetite after helping him in the butcher's shop.' He hastily apologized to the Countess for his infelicitous language and added, 'I don't know what my wife would say if she heard me talk like that. Last time I said "damn" in her hearing, she nearly reduced me to ashes.'

  'Little woman?' Orlov enquired, interested.

  'Tiny. About five feet nothing tall. How did you know?' Kolniev fell into step with them and looked puzzled.

  'The small ones are always the worst,' Orlov replied. 'That's why I prefer taller women, about up to my chin.' He glanced at the Countess, whose plaited hair came exactly to his chin, caught a glimpse of a smile and suddenly felt much happier. Thank God, she had a sense of humour! It must have given her trouble when she lived with her aunt, though. The old lady didn't sound as if she would have had much appreciation of the funnier side of life.

  They went straight to the small salon where Kusminsky was already sitting at the table writing in a large notebook, which appeared to be well over half-full of closely written notes of some sort.

  'Writing your memoirs?' Orlov asked as he sat down opposite the surgeon.

  'In a manner of speaking,' Kusminsky replied, giving Orlov a searching look. 'I keep notes on my cases in the hope that I might be able to publish something one day. This notebook is a medical account of our journey. I usually write it up at night but there seems to be a little spare time today.'

  Kusminsky was right about there being time to spare. They sat for a long time over their coffee, chatting idly about a variety of subjects, mostly their childhood memories. There seemed to be a common desire to avoid talking about the future or the journey. During the afternoon, the Countess produced her roll of sewing materials and industriously darned, patched and sewed on buttons. Kolniev smoked his pipe and made a fair copy of his list of supplies. Kusminsky went on writing his notes and Orlov wrote a long letter to his sister, telling her what had happened to him since he last wrote to her—was it really only three weeks ago?

  He skimmed fairly lightly over the matter of his wound— no point in alarming her unnecessarily—and gave a plainly factual account of his meeting with Countess Barova, mentioning very little about her except that she was quite alone in the world and that she had nursed him while he was suffering the effects of his struggle with Sergeant Grushchev. He told Tatia the admirable resilience she had shown under the gruelling conditions of the journey, driving a cart, helping the surgeon and bearing all the trials and difficulties without complaint.

  At this point, he paused and thought very carefully what he should write next. After trying out various phrases in his mind, he went on writing slowly, with frequent hesitations over his selection of words. 'I decided very early on that I must make myself to some extent responsible
for the lady's welfare as she is quite alone in the world, without any means of support. This is difficult as she is quite respectable' (he underlined the word, knowing that Tatia would understand his meaning) 'and opposed to accepting charity.

  However, I have persuaded her to allow me to arrange for her to stay will) you at Ryazan, or wherever else you go, until I can come home and sort things out for her, which is not likely to be until after the present military situation is resolved. As far as she knows at the moment, this is merely a gesture of friendship, but it is quite possible that the situation may have changed by the time we reach Kaluga—indeed, I hope very much that it will.

  I find myself increasingly drawn to her in a thousand different ways and I begin to hope that she may have some affection for me, although to what extent ihis is merely the result of the circumstances in which we find ourselves, it is impossible to say (on her side, that is—I have no doubts about myself!). However, dear Tatia, be prepared to find that when she arrives, it may be in any guise from family friend to your future sister-in-law. I beg you, whichever it is, be kind to her, for she is infinitely precious to me and will always be so, no matter what the outcome may be—which is my pompous way of telling you that your brother is head over heels in love!'

  Putting his feelings down on paper did much to clarify them in his own mind and as he wrote the last phrase, he felt a sudden relaxation, almost a wave of relief and contentment, as if he had found the perfect answer to a difficult problem. At least he now knew what he wanted and having a goal to aim for seemed encouraging, even if he had no idea whether he would ever be able to achieve it.