For my parents
 Masquerade Historical edition published September 1979 ISBN 0-373-74524-9 Originally published in 1974 by William Heinemann Ltd.
Copyright ©1979, 1974 by Dinah Dean. Philippine copyright 1979. Australian coypright 1979. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Worldwide Library, 220 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, M3B 3J5, Canada.
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Printed in Canada 

CHAPTER ONE

NAPOLEON'S Grande Armée invaded Russia on the 24th June, 1812, and, closely pursuing the retreating Russian First and Second Armies, reached Smolensk on the 4th August. The Russian artillery defended the ancient walls all day, giving their comrades time to withdraw, and then abandoned the city during the night, leaving the wounded to become prisoners of the French. 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 south-east, away from the line of the Russian retreat and the French advance, heading in an orderly and purposeful manner towards the post-road, some twenty miles to the south, which ran from Orsha eastwards to Kaluga.
The little procession of men and carts moved slowly on towards the buildings, the sounds of their progress muffled by the thick layer of dust, ankle-deep on the road. It occurred to Major Lev Orlov that the breeze he had longed for earlier would prove a mixed blessing if it ever arrived, unless it brought some rain to lay the dust.
He drew out his watch to confirm his feeling that the afternoon was well advanced and found that he had correctly estimated that they had been on the move for about three hours since the midday halt. Far enough, under the circumstances. This place would do for their overnight stay.
The buildings, as they drew near, proved to be a posting inn, consisting of a solid house set back from the road and forming an open square with a row of stables and a large barn. There was a pond to one side and a sheltering clump of trees behind the house. The place looked deserted, with no sign of life at all. There were no chickens in the yard or ducks on the pond. The stable doors hung open, as did the big doors of the barn and an abandoned cart lay with one wheel off by the roadside, partly blocking the highway.
Orlov turned into the yard and the carts followed, forming up in a row beside the barn. As Orlov sat his horse, waiting until they were all in position before beginning to reel off his orders, he was surprised by a sound from the house. He turned sharply as the door opened and a young woman came out on to the steps. He saw that she was fairly tall, with rich brown hair swept up beneath a coronet of plaits, and wearing a plain dark travelling dress. Her face was white and strained and seemed all eyes. Kusminsky, the surgeon, gave an exclamation, dismounted and walked quickly over to her and Orlov turned away to give the instructions which he had been preparing in his mind, wondering what the devil a lady was doing in this god-forsaken place.
In a few minutes, he had the men divided into groups and busily involved in various necessary activities, according to their abilities.
He decided swiftly that the men should sleep in the barn, which was well-filled with bales of hay. The badly hurt men were gently carried in and made comfortable, except for the boy with the crushed pelvis, who was still moaning. Orlov hesitated over him for a moment, then instructed that he be left where he was for the time being. The cook's squad went off to inspect the kitchen and the horses were being seen to.
At length, he was free to dismount from the grey, stiffly and with considerable relief. His back ached, his wounded arm hurt, his legs were sore with the chafing of his sweat-soaked clothing, and the unexpected appearance of what looked like a lady of quality was a little cloud of apprehension at the back of his pre-occupied mind.
He found Kusminsky and Captain Kolniev were both talking to her and he went over to them and stood silently looking at her. She appeared about twenty, clearly a lady, but thin in both body and face, pale, with big shadowed eyes and she looked tired and frightened.
Kusminsky turned and said, "This is Major Orlov who is in charge of the party. Major, Countess Barova has been left stranded here with her sick aunt. Everyone else has run away.”
Orlov started to think what a damned nuisance of a complication this was likely to be, met the girl's eyes and felt instead a wave of pity for her, an almost unwilling admiration for the way she kept her head up and her back straight. He cleared his throat, remembered his manners, swept off his helmet, bowed, and kissed the hand she held out to him, marring the effect by dropping his helmet as he did so. "Shall we go inside?" he said mildly.
The interior of the inn showed signs of the hurried departure of its normal occupants, but fortunately they seemed to have left most of the furniture. Orlov ushered the Countess into the small parlour which was simply furnished with a few upright chairs and a round table. The Countess sat down and put her folded hands on the table. Kolniev sat astride a chair with his arms along the back of it and Orlov remained standing. Kusminsky said gently, "I'm a surgeon. I'll go and see your aunt. Where is she?"
“In the first room at the top of the stairs," the Countess replied. "She hasn't moved since yesterday. I think she's . . ." She gave a small sob, clasped her hands together tightly and swallowed convulsively. Kusminsky went out and could be heard running up the stairs.
Orlov sat down facing the Countess and said quietly, "What happened? How do you come to be here?"
“My aunt lives — lived — on her estate near Orsha," she said. `I'm her companion. We heard that the French were coming and she decided to leave. She had the baggage packed into carts and all the house serfs were to come. We set out a week ago."
“Where were you heading?" asked Kolniev.
“I don't know." The Countess looked more distressed than ever. "It sounds ridiculous, I know, but my aunt never discussed anything with me, never told me what she intended. She is very . . . autocratic. . . ." Her voice died away. Orlov had a sudden vision of what the girl's life must have been like. He'd seen a good many like her — poor relations, dependent on the charity of a domineering old lady, made to fetch and carry, treated as a sort of superior servant. Years of long servility turned them into timid faded spinsters, shadows in dowdy clothes, ignored and slighted. He said suddenly, "I suppose you were the poor relation?”
She met his eyes. The look they exchanged conveyed to her that he understood what her position had been and to him now relieved she was at his understanding. She nodded and continued, "When we reached here, my aunt complained of feeling ill. That was three days ago. She stayed in bed and I tried to persuade the innkeeper to send for a doctor but he wouldn't do anything. He wanted us to go, to move on. Then, the night before last a man came here, stopped to rest his horse. He said the French were almost at Smolensk and everyone panicked. All the inn people harnessed their carts and carriages and went off in a wild scramble. My aunt's people were frightened and wanted to go too but my aunt was too ill. The steward went in to her and told her the French were coming, but she just lay there and didn't say anything. They took everything except what we had in our rooms and ran away after the innkeeper. I begged them not to go but they wouldn't listen." Tears began to run down her cheeks. She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped them away quickly, keeping a tight control on herself.
Orlov looked at her with the same curious mixture of pity and admiration he had felt earlier, trying to think of something to say. He had suffered much in the anxious, pain-filled hours since he led his little band of wounded out of what was left of Smolensk, but he was a soldier and inured to hardship; to this girl the sudden intrusion of war must have been a nightmare. He heard Kusminsky coming down the stairs and both he and the Countess stood up as the surgeon entered the room, as if anticipating his news.
“I'm sorry but I'm afraid she's dead," Kusminsky said gently.
The Countess made a little helpless gesture with her hands and the tears began to run down her cheeks again. Orlov brushed past the surgeon, knocking against the table in his haste and gathered her to him with his good arm round her thin, shaking shoulders. She hid her face against his white coat and sobbed bitterly while he stood quite still, his face woodenly expressionless and his grey eyes fixed on a point halfway up the opposite wall. Kusminsky looked at Kolniev, jerked his head, and the two of them quietly left the room.
“The pair of rats!" thought Orlov. "Fancy sneaking off and leaving me with this!" The top of the girl's head came to his chin and he absent-mindedly leaned his cheek against her soft hair. He seemed to be standing there for a long time, listening to the sobbing which shook her slender body and hearing the stir and bustle outside as the men went about their various chores. In fact it was only a few minutes before the Countess gently drew away from him, and sat down again at the table, wiping her eyes and making an effort to control herself.
“I'm sorry," she said, in a small broken voice. "I suppose I knew really, but it's so final to hear it put into words. Oh, God! What shall I do? I've nowhere to go, no one to turn to!" She sounded panic-stricken and Orlov quickly said in as matter-of-fact a voice as he could manage, "Oh, you'd better come with us, of course. We'll save you from the French.”
She looked at him, her eyes enormous and swimming with tears. "But where are you going?" she asked. "Surely you're going towards the fighting?"
“No," said Orlov. "We're a convoy of wounded, escaping from Smolensk. We're heading for Kaluga to begin with."
“Are all your men wounded?" She seemed to take in for the first time that his own arm was in a sling. Orlov was relieved to see that she had been side-tracked out of her panic.
“Yes," he replied. "All except Dr. Kusminsky and my servant. We're a pretty battered collection but we'll make shift to protect you if you care to come with us."
“You're very kind," she said. "You must have more than enough to worry about without . . . oh, but I've no money –nowhere to go."
“Haven't you any relations at all?" Orlov asked, still keeping his voice steady and deliberately speaking as if this were a normal conversation. She shook her head. "I found a little over a hundred roubles in my aunt's purse," she said, "but it's not mine and I don't know if I should take it . . . I've nothing else at all.”
Orlov thought for a moment. "Look, as an army officer, I have the power to requisition almost anything," he said. "I'll requisition the money on your behalf. When we get to Kaluga, I'll contact my lawyers and they can sort out your aunt's affairs. I expect she had a man of business somewhere"
“Yes, she dealt with a lawyer in Smolensk," the Countess replied.
“Well, that's all right then," said Orlov cheerfully, wondering what chance there was of ever sorting out the aunt's affairs, even if her lawyer, let alone his papers, had survived what had happened to Smolensk. "Meanwhile, there's nothing to be done except get ourselves safely to Kaluga, se we'll worry about the future when we get there."
“Yes, but –" She was still looking very distressed and anxious and Orlov suddenly found himself leaning across the table to cover her nervously clasped hands with his own sinewy, tanned one in a comforting squeeze. He heard his own voice say in tones of complete conviction, "Don't worry! I'll look after you.”
He looked straight into her wide brown eyes, shaken by the look of trust in them. It gave him a jolt like a kick in the stomach and he asked inconsequentially, "Can you drive a cart?" as he moved away from her.
She looked surprised. "Like the carts out there?" she asked. "Yes. At least, I've driven a farm cart at harvest time."
“Good," he said. "We're short of men fit enough to drive. It's a strain on a damaged arm to hold the reins for hours at a time, and most of the men were wounded about the arms and trunk — cavalry attack on infantry.”
She nodded and he wondered if she really understood. He also began to wonder how she would react to the ordeal ahead of her. Obviously, she must have led a pretty dull sort of life, living in the country with an old woman. How would she stand up to the rough conditions of the long journey? She seemed to have courage but was she likely to turn hysterical at the sight of blood, he wondered. He had a sudden impulse to test her.
“Would you change the dressing on my arm?" he asked abruptly. It was certainly very uncomfortable, he told himself, and needed changing.
“I thought the surgeon . . ." she began.
“He has enough to do," said Orlov curtly.
“Yes, of course. Are there any bandages?" She stood up, looking quite prepared to tackle the job.
“We were hoping to find some sheets here," Orlov replied. "We're very short of that sort of thing."
“There are plenty of sheets, but they're very coarse. I know. . . ." She hurried out of the room and Orlov heard her go up the stairs. In a few minutes she returned, looking pale but composed, with an armful of white garments which Orlov saw were lawn petticoats.
“My aunt's," she said. "They're soft and clean. She wouldn't have them starched." She began ripping one of them into strips, which she rolled into bandages. Orlov sat back in his chair and let himself relax. He felt utterly weary.
Presently there was a little pile of rolled bandages on the table. The Countess went out of the room, returning presently with a tray of things, including a jug, a bowl and a small stoneware jar. She put them on the table and turned to Orlov.
“Are you ready?" she asked.
Orlov unbuttoned his coat, removed his scarf-sling and unbuckled his sword-belt and his stock. The Countess helped him to take off his coat, which was difficult as he had put his injured arm in the sleeve and the bandages made it a tight fit.
She took it off the right arm first and then coaxed it off the left arm very gently, hardly hurting him at all. His shirt came off in the same way.
He sat down, supporting his arm on the table. The Countess looked at the faded scar on his chest and said conversationally, "You've been wounded before?"
“At Austerlitz," he replied. "A musket ball. This time it's only a sabre cut — much less of a problem.”
She began to unwind the bandages, which were filthy with the dust that had seeped into everything, sweat-stained and, after a couple of layers, blood-soaked. She made no comment, but unwound them gently and skilfully.
Eventually she reached the pad of dressing, which was firmly stuck to the wound. She dipped a piece of cloth in the jug and began to soak the dressing with warm water until the congealed blood softened and she could gently peel it away from his arm. He happened to be looking at her face as she did so and saw her turn very pale, her eyes widening and her lips parting in a gasp. He looked down at his arm quickly and saw the wound for the first time.
It was quite seven inches long, a great slash down the length of his upper arm, the edges roughly drawn together with a dozen sutures with the raw flesh gaping between. It was smeared with streaks and gobbets of blood, black and revolting, and it made him feel sick.
“I'm sorry!" he said. "Oh, God, I'm sorry. I didn't know it looked like that! Leave it. Put the towel over it and leave it until Kusminsky comes in.”
She gave a faint smile. "No, it's all right. It was just a shock to see how bad it is. You should be in hospital. I didn't realize you were so seriously hurt. It must be terribly painful.”
Orlov averted his face as she began to sponge away some of the sticky mess. She was very careful, but the whole arm had turned into a great mass of agony through being disturbed and he was bitterly regretting having asked her to see to it. Still, he supposed it had to be done and it was hardly likely that Kusminsky would have hurt him less.
She turned away to the table and Orlov glanced to see what she was doing. She had folded a piece of lawn into a pad to make a dressing and was smearing it with something from the stoneware pot.
“That looks like honey," he remarked.
“It is honey," she replied.
“Are you thinking of using me to bait a bear trap?" He was amused by the thought.
She smiled. "No, it will stop the cloth sticking to the wound and help it to heal," she said.
Orlov's eyebrows quirked up in their idiosyncratic way — he had never heard of that before. "Mind you cover it well, then. I've no wish to be pursued to Kaluga by every bee in Smolensk province!”
When she laid the dressing on his arm, it felt cool and soothing on the torn, inflamed flesh. He closed his eyes and tensed himself as she rebandaged his arm. She did it firmly but not too tight.
“You've bandaged someone before," he commented.
“My aunt had ulcerated legs. I've had quite a lot of practice.”
He looked at her, frowning at the thought of the life she must have had, tending an old, sick, probably bad-tempered woman. Her face was calm and compassionate, absorbed in her task. She finished putting on the bandage and picked up his waist-sash.
“This is no good for a sling," she said. "It's rough and too long. I've something better upstairs." She went out, taking the tray and the soiled bandages. Orlov put on his shirt. The new bandage was far less bulky and uncomfortable than the old one. He picked up his coat, but decided that he couldn't face the struggle to put it on and he was quite warm enough without it or the stiff, buckled stock. He dropped them and his sword and belt on a bench under the window.
The Countess came back with a dark red silk scarf which she made into a sling. It was soft against his neck and he smiled as he thanked her, his grim, pale face with its strong features relaxing into a much more pleasant expression.
There was a clatter in the hallway and Kolniev came in, his hat pushed back on his bandaged head at a rakish angle and his healthy face red and freshly shaved — he had obviously had a good wash.
“There's plenty of hot water in the kitchen," he said. "Supper's nearly ready and everything's sorted out. We'll have a much more comfortable time tonight than we did last night.”
Kusminsky came in close behind him, reporting all the men in reasonably good shape, except two. "The lad is in a fever and Grushchev, the Guard sergeant; physically, he's in pretty good condition, but I don't like it." He shook his head and was then diverted by the sight of Orlov's new sling.
“That's better!" He pulled Orlov's shirt open and saw that the bandage had been changed. He made a quick examination of it and said, "That's well done! Did you do it?" to the Countess.
“Yes." She looked pleased at his commendation. "How was the wound? Did it smell at all?"
“No. I noticed particularly. It's quite clean. No sign of suppuration.”
Kusminsky nodded approvingly. "Go and wash your dirty face!" he said to Orlov. Orlov went.
He found Josef in the kitchen. The servant helped him to wash himself thoroughly in the plentiful hot water and provided him with a clean shirt, washing the dirty one through. Orlov marvelled at the man's unperturbed efficiency and thought what a colourless, unnoticeable figure he was, a hovering shadow who seemed only to exist to anticipate his master's wishes.
When he returned to the parlour, he found the table set for a meal and two soldiers waiting to serve it. They produced a couple of bottles of wine with something of a flourish of pride, and the three officers and the Countess had a good, satisfying supper of beef stew with plenty of vegetables, and a sort of plum pudding. Orlov sent his compliments to the cook as if they were in a fashionable restaurant and the two orderlies went off grinning with pleasure.
As they sat round the table, pleasantly relaxed, finishing the wine, Kusminsky said hesitantly, "I've had a grave dug under the trees. I think the old lady should be buried tonight. . . ." His voice was gentle, unlike his normal sharp tones.
The Countess thanked him quietly. "I'd like a few minutes with her first, if I may," she said, and slipped out of the room.
As the men resumed their seats, Kusminsky said in his normal voice, "While she's gone, we'd better settle a few things concerning her. I assume you mean to take her with us?”
Orlov nodded. "We can hardly leave her."
“Then we'd better decide how to keep her safe," the surgeon said.
“If we're attacked . . ." Orlov began.
“No. I mean safe from our own men," interrupted Kusminsky.
“He's right," Kolniev put in. "My men are a pretty rough lot and none of them has had a woman for weeks. She's going to be a temptation to them.”
Orlov was silent.
“The practical solution," Kusminsky went on in businesslike manner, "is for one of us to take charge of her at night —that's when there's likely to be trouble. We've two tents. Two of us share one, the other man shares with the girl. That way, there'll be someone with her all night to protect her from the rest, without the need for anyone to stand sentry duty."
“Quin custodiet ipsos custodes?" asked Orlov with a crooked smile.
“That's between the man concerned and his conscience," the surgeon replied. "That's why I propose you for the job. Kolniev and I are both married. You're not. If your self-control proves insufficient, at least you can marry her afterwards.”
Orlov experienced an extraordinary sensation which felt like relief when surely it should have been apprehension or distaste or something. He opened his mouth to protest and then shut it again and shrugged. Once again the pain reminded him, too late, that he should have avoided the movement and he swore, briefly and fluently.
Kusminsky laughed. "You'll have to cure yourself of that Gallic habit," he said, as he had been saying since they began their hazardous journey. "Another problem. Who's going to conduct the funeral?”
Orlov looked at the other two in turn, and said in a resigned tone, "All right! I suppose I'm elected for that too."
“I'm sorry." Kolniev sounded worried. "I seem to be loading all the responsibility for everything on your shoulders."
“His shoulders are broad enough," cut in Kusminsky. "You're doing your share, lad. It's common sense to leave a particular job to the man best able to carry it out. Have you ever taken a burial service?"
“No," replied Kolniev nervously.
“Well, then!" Kusminsky had the air of a man who has proved his point. "Best leave it to the Major. Who organized the transport and the supplies? I bet the Major wouldn't have done as well as you on that little effort.”
Orlov gave him a sour look but refrained from pointing out that he had never taken a burial service either. He was quite well aware what the surgeon was doing.
The Countess re-entered the room and looked nervously from one to the other of them. Orlov smiled faintly at her, said, "Ready then?" and she nodded.
Kolniev went out to organize a burial party and Kusminsky to attend to the body. Orlov began to put on his uniform, feeling as if he could die on his feet from sheer weariness. He couldn't buckle his stock with one hand and turned to the Countess with a helpless gesture. She fastened it for him, standing on tip-toe to reach. She helped him on with his coat, sliding the sleeve carefully up his bandaged arm and doing up the double-breasted fastening for him, helped him with the sword-belt and finally tied his sash round his waist.
“You make an excellent batman," he said gravely, and she gave him a faint, fleeting smile. He stood still for a few minutes. The sounds outside the door of an awkward burden being brought down the stairs warned him that it would be best not to let the Countess go out there for a while.
“I suppose your aunt was Orthodox?" he asked, with a sudden doubt.
“Yes," said the Countess. Her eyes seemed drawn towards the door and she made an effort not to look that way. The tramp of feet passed the door and went down the front steps of the house into the forecourt. Orlov picked up his helmet, opened the door, offering her his arm. She had been holding a length of black lace and she now threw this over her head and face, took his arm, and went with him outside in the wake of her aunt's body. Orlov could feel her bracing herself, keeping her head up and looking straight before her but her hand trembled on his arm. He put himself to a great deal of pain to move his left hand across to touch hers reassuringly.
Kolniev had drawn up a dozen men in a kind of guard of honour, their muskets at the present. Two led the way carrying lanterns, for dusk was now falling, and another half-dozen carried the blanket-wrapped body on their shoulders. The little procession marched round to the back of the house, passing between it and the stables to where a grave had been dug under the trees. The body was lowered slowly into it on slings and Orlov stepped forward to stand at the graveside, wondering what to do with his helmet. Normally he would have held it in the curve of his left arm but after a second's hesitation he took it off and handed it to Josef behind him.
With his head bowed, he recited as much of the burial service as he could remember in his deepest, most sonorous voice, following it with the Twenty-third Psalm, which he was confident that he knew by heart, and then with the Lord's Prayer. As he spoke, he looked down at the blanket-wrapped body below him and wondered what the woman had been like. It seemed odd that he had not actually seen her. He noticed that the grave was very shallow and checked a grim speculation about the likelihood of wolves coming here in the winter.
Most of the men had gathered in the background and joined in the Psalm and the Lord's Prayer in a fine, rich bass recitation. After the final "Amen", Orlov bent and picked up a handful of sandy soil which he scattered in the grave. The Countess followed suit and Kolniev and Kusminsky after her. For a moment they all stood still, then Kolniev called the guard to attention and gave the order to move off. Orlov gave the Countess his arm and took her back towards the house.
At the corner, they were met by Platov, the sergeant. He was carrying a newly-made grave-marker, a wooden post with a triangle at the top. He saluted and said to Orlov, "With permission, Your Excellency, we've made this. If the lady is agreeable, we'd like to put it up."
“How kind you are!" the Countess said in an unsteady voice. "Thank you very much.”
The sergeant saluted again and Orlov led the Countess round to the front of the house. Going up the steps, he stumbled and she turned to him in alarm.
“Are you ill?" she asked, almost holding him up.
He pulled himself together with an effort. "No. I'm just tired, and a bit short of blood. I'm sorry if I alarmed you." He made himself walk steadily into the parlour and subsided into a chair with a sigh of relief. He felt better sitting down.
Kusminsky and Kolniev followed them in and Kusminsky said to the Countess, "I expect you'll be wanting to retire soon but I think we should talk for a few minutes first, if you'll bear with us."
“Of course," replied the Countess. She took off her veil and sat down at the table. There was a large candelabrum in the middle of it, made of well-polished brass, and Kolniev brought the tinder-box from its place on a shelf above the stove and lit the candles.
Kusminsky sat down and Kolniev once more put himself astride a back-to-front chair, giving Orlov the idea that the lanky young infantry captain might cherish a secret ambition to transfer to the cavalry. He jerked his mind back to more serious matters as he realized what Kusminsky was saying to the Countess in the voice he obviously reserved for patients, so much softer and more kindly than his normal tones.
“I'm sorry you're having such a distressing time," he was saying. "And I'm afraid what I have to tell you now will not be easy for you either but it's best to get it said and done with. Clearly, you will have to travel with us because you can't be left here all alone with the French possibly arriving any day. Unfortunately, our own men are just as likely to rape you as the French would.”
Orlov took a quick look at the girl's face. She was staring at Kusminsky with her eyes wide with shock but she seemed to jerk herself out of it. She looked down at her hands which were again clasped together on the table.
“Consequently," continued the surgeon, "we've decided that you will have to share a tent with one of us at night. Not tonight as we'll be staying here in the house and the men will be out in the barn, but most of the other nights on the journey. We've only two small tents, you see, neither big enough for more than two and in any case you will have to be closely guarded at night. I know it's a pretty dreadful prospect for a well-brought-up young lady to have to spend a couple of weeks sharing a small tent with a strange man but I assure you it will be a lot less of a hardship than what might — probably would —happen to you otherwise."
“Yes." Her voice was hardly more than a whisper. "Which . . ?" She gave a quick, frightened glance at each of their three faces.
“Captain Kolniev and I are both married," Kusminsky replied, "and we don't think our wives would understand the situation." He managed to inject a gleam of humour into it. "So we've elected Major Orlov, unless you have any objection.”
The Countess looked Orlov straight in the face, her eyes huge and questioning in her white face. His clear grey eyes returned her look frankly and steadily, without flinching in the slightest. After a long moment she replied, "No, I've no objection," in an expressionless voice, looking down at her hands again.
There was an awkward silence. Kusminsky looked as if he would like to say something further but couldn't think of anything and Kolniev studied the back of his hand, his neck very red. Orlov wondered if he should make some sort of speech of reassurance but there didn't seem much point in telling the girl that he would neither rape nor seduce her  either she wouldn't believe him and it would be an embarrassing waste of time, or she was already resigned to expecting that he would. Perhaps she was prepared to trust him, in which case there was no need to say anything. Anyway, he was too tired to make the effort to think of anything now. He closed his eyes and let himself drift.
When he opened them again, the Countess had gone and Kusminsky was looking at the wound on Kolniev's head. It was a nasty cut, running diagonally from his right eyebrow up into the left side of his hairline and Orlov felt guilty that he had assumed from Kolniev's healthy appearance and considerable energy that he was not much hurt.
“That looks nasty," he said, his voice sounding thick and rusty.
Kusminsky looked round at him. "Yes," he said briefly. "It's giving him quite a headache."
“It's better now," said Kolniev. "It just throbs a bit, that's all."
“You've got a thick skull," said Kusminsky kindly. "Like all infantry captains. They're all thick-headed."
“Thank you!" said Kolniev with a grin.
“Any man who joins the army is thick-headed." Orlov sounded bitter. His feeling of home-sickness and absolute disenchantment with the glories of war had descended on him and he sat brooding over it while Kusminsky rebandaged the captain's head.
“She took it well," observed Kolniev thoughtfully.
“Very well," said Kusminsky. "She's a plucky young lady. Most women would have been raving lunatics after nearly two days all alone with a dying woman and the French likely to arrive at any minute. I expected a fainting fit at least when I told her the aunt was dead. On top of that, she dressed the Major's wound, and that's no sight for a delicately nurtured female! What on earth possessed you to ask her?"
“I didn't know what it looked like." Orlov sounded ashamed. "It made me feel sick. God knows how she felt!"
“Well, she didn't scream, or fall down in a dead faint," said Kusminsky. "And the way she took the latest blow — well, I expected screaming hysteria but she hardly turned a hair. Mind you, I've no doubt she's crying now and wishing she could die. Orlov. . . ." He broke off abruptly and seemed to be casting round in his mind for suitable words. "I admire her courage. Don't — hurt her." He looked anxiously at Orlov with an intensity of feeling in his foxy face which said far more than words.
“I shan't do anything to her," Orlov replied quietly, making up his mind as he said it that he would keep his word, whatever it cost him. The others looked at him with a mixture of respect and approval on their faces but even as he saw it, Orlov felt the world begin to spin and sway round him again and he was barely conscious as the other two helped him upstairs and put him to bed.
He was six feet tall and a fair weight to manhandle and Kusminsky was glad of Kolniev's sturdy help in getting him up the stairs. They stripped off his clothes and put him on the bed in the room opposite the one in which the old lady had died. He stirred and moaned a little then lay still on his back, the candlelight throwing his well-cut features into sharp relief. The straight black brows were drawn together in a frown which sent their ends shooting up on either side of the bridge of his nose.
“Funny way his eyebrows go," commented Kolniev. "Makes him look puzzled."
“Or bad-tempered," replied Kusminsky. "Not that he's either very often. He's a remarkably brave man, or perhaps pigheaded."
“General Raevsky said he's as stubborn as a mule," said Kolniev reverently. He admired the dashing artillery commander very much.
“It takes one to recognize another," observed the surgeon. "I'll tell you one thing, though. If that girl was my daughter, I'd be glad it was Orlov with her and not a good many other men I could name. Present company excepted, of course," he added, with a friendly grin.
Kolniev returned it. "No offence," he said. "I agree. I've got a daughter — she's only six — but, well, I know what you mean.”
They went out, leaving the candle burning on the table in case Orlov woke in the night in the unfamiliar room. Although it was still early, they found most of the men were already asleep and soon turned in themselves, in one of the downstairs rooms which contained two beds.
Silence fell over the inn, except for the quiet movements of the horses in the stables and on the picket lines under the trees and the moaning of the young boy. The moon rose and a white mist began to appear in the dips in the ground. An owl hooted among the trees and glided away across the open ground beyond the road.
Orlov began to move restlessly, moaning a little, and gave a strangled cry. Quietly, a door on the upper floor was opened and the Countess appeared, a big shawl wrapped tightly round her shoulders, her long, thick hair hanging down her back in a plait. She crept along the landing and paused in the open doorway of Orlov's room and looked in. The candle flickered slightly and she moved slowly across to stand by the bed, looking down at the sleeping man.
She studied his face carefully and he suddenly opened his eyes and looked at her with a puzzled frown. It cleared: he smiled faintly, and whispered, "Hallo."
“Hallo," she replied, still looking at his face as if she was searching for something in it.
“You needn't be afraid of me," he said quietly. "I was very well brought up. Anyway, if you hit me hard on my left arm, I'll probably faint." He said it half-jokingly in the hope that it would reassure her.
“I'm sure it won't be necessary," she replied politely. "Are you in pain?”
He moved restlessly. "I'm too hot, and this pillow's too high." He was feverish and his arm hurt, and it made him fractious.
There were two blankets and a thick quilt over him. The Countess caught hold of the top layers to pull them back. Orlov grabbed at them, and said, "Be careful! I'm stark naked apart from my bandages!”
The Countess carefully peeled off the quilt and the top blanket and folded them across the foot of the bed. "I'll leave them where you can pull them up if you feel cold," she said. She removed one of the two pillows, supporting his head while she did so and he settled back with a sigh.
“That's better," he said. "Thank you. You're a very good nurse.”
She tightened her lips in a little grimace and he knew she must have had a good deal of experience nursing her aunt. "Are you all right now?" she asked.
“Yes, thank you. You should try to sleep," he said. "It will be a long day tomorrow.”
She bade him goodnight and went out as quietly as she had come. He closed his eyes, sighed, and fell asleep.

CHAPTER TWO

EARLY next morning, Kolniev crossed the courtyard to the barn, where the men were stirring and moving about their morning duties. He sent four of them to inspect the cart lying out in the road where the innkeepers had abandoned it. He then went with Sergeant Platov to check the supplies of food and fodder in the carts and directed a couple of corporals to supervise the gathering together of all the stores in the inn, including the bedding.
By the time he re-entered the inn, the two orderlies were laying the table for breakfast, the Countess had come downstairs and Kusminsky was returning from his morning inspection. There was no sign of Orlov, and Kusminsky, after a quick glance into the parlour and a brief "Good morning" ran up the stairs to the major's room.
He found Josef there, shaving his master, who was half-dressed, and Orlov greeted him with a shame-faced, "I'm sorry! I seem to have over-slept."
“Good," replied Kusminsky, feeling his head and sniffing his bandaged arm. "The more sleep you get, the better. Have you finished with this room? The men will be collecting the bedding after breakfast."
“Yes," replied Orlov. "Pity there aren't more mattresses. They'd make a big difference to some of the fellows in the carts."
“There are a dozen and some of the men have made a few more with sacks and hay. They'll all be eaten by the horses eventually, I expect." He prodded the palliasse on Orlov's bed. "They're damned hard, anyway.”
Orlov struggled into his coat with Josef's help, stood patiently while the various belts, sash, sword and so on were attached to his person and then followed Kusminsky down the stairs, which had a disconcerting way of pitching about under his feet. He still felt very weak and as the surgeon reached the parlour door, he stopped him with his hand on the knob by saying in an urgent voice, "Kusminsky, tell me something."
“What?" The surgeon looked up at him.
“Shouldn't I be picking up a bit by now? I still feel washed out and unsure of my balance. It's not much of a wound, surely, to knock me up like this?"
“Knock you up! You damned nearly bled to death — you'd an artery cut through. Kolniev saved your life by putting a tourniquet on you, but we didn't think you'd make it when they brought you into the hospital. You should be in a proper bed with careful nursing for a month at least, not riding around the countryside on this pleasure-jaunt after four days! By rights, you should be lying around in a high fever and raging delirium and you will be before long if you're not careful! Rest all you can and admit you're a sick man!”
Orlov grinned and said, "I shall die of inanition in a minute! Is there any breakfast?" He followed Kusminsky into the parlour where Kolniev and Countess Barova were already at the table. The Countess was making the best she could of a dish of "sergeant", a kind of porridge of meal, and Kolniev was sturdily working his way through a quantity of ham.
Orlov greeted them both with a polite "Good morning" and he and Kusminsky sat down to eat. They were both rather silent, Kusminsky because he was busy eating and Orlov because he felt a kind of embarrassment in the presence of the Countess. He avoided looking at her and it was left to Kolniev to enquire how much luggage she had.
“I've a trunk," she replied. "A medium-sized one. Is it too much?"
“No," replied Kolniev. "I expected more. What about your aunt's things? I don't suppose there's much point in taking her clothes, but if she had anything of value . . ."
“She has — had — a jewel-case." Countess Barova looked anxious. "What should I do? It might be thought that I was stealing it .. ."
“Bring it," said Orlov decisively. "No point in leaving it for someone else to steal. We'll all witness that you're taking it for safe-keeping. What's in it?"
“I don't know," she replied. "I've never seen inside it. I'll fetch it." She had finished her meal and went out of the room before the men could get to their feet. She returned in a few minutes with the case, a fair-sized one, and a bunch of keys.
Orlov took the case and the keys from her, turned the lock at the second attempt and opened the case. It contained a number of old-fashioned brooches and necklaces and a small tiara, all set with quite good stones of various sorts. He made a list in his notebook, signed it, passed it to Kolniev and Kusminsky for their signatures, tore out the page and dropped it into the case which he relocked and returned to the Countess with the keys. "There you are," he said. "Put it in your trunk and don't mention that you have it to any of the men. They're mostly thieves as well." He refrained from saying what they were as well as thieves and he smiled as he said, it, but he caught the eye of the Countess as he spoke, then looked away as if he were embarrassed.
“How are we for supplies?" he asked Kolniev after a short pause.
“Pretty well," replied the Captain. "There's enough food for about eight days and oats and hay for a week, if we're careful. I should think we'll be able to get more by then if the Cossacks haven't got out of hand and destroyed everything from here to the Urals."
“Matvei Platov won't let them go as mad as that," replied Orlov, referring to the Supreme Hetman of the Don Cossacks. "They're not an undisciplined rabble, you know, whatever they look like in action. They're as much in hand as the Imperial Guard in their own way. Can we carry all that lot?”
“That's the problem," replied Kolniev. "The hay is so bulky. I've set some men to repair the cart out on the road there — it should carry most of it. They've found some spare axles in the barn so I've had them loaded, tied under a couple of the carts. They'll help to stiffen them as well as being there if we need them. We've found cheese, bacon, flour, all the usual stuff in the storeroom. The innkeeper's folk didn't stop to take much with them.”
Orlov nodded. "It seems I'm the only lazy slugabed in the party."
“Rubbish!" said Kolniev. "You ought to be in bed all the time, Lev Petrovitch, not riding at all." He said Orlov's name in a self-conscious way, aware that it was a presumption for a mere Line captain to address a Staff major thus, but Orlov smiled at him in a friendly manner and went on to outline his plans for the day's march.
“I think we should press on as we did yesterday," he said. "Always providing the men can stand it. We'll start as soon as we can and keep going for about four hours then rest for two and have some food during the middle part of the day. If we then go on for another three hours it will leave plenty of time to make ourselves comfortable for the night. It's not nearly the usual army rate but it should take us twenty miles with any luck and I think that's far enough in a day, under the circumstances."
“How fast will the French advance?" asked Kolniev.
“If they advance," Orlov said. "They may stay in Smolensk. I think they will certainly have halted there for a few days to get their breath back. They've lost a hell of a lot of men and horses, dropped out from exhaustion, since they crossed the Niemen. Those hail storms last month took their toll and the heat since hasn't helped them. Remember, too, that the Cossacks have made sure they go short of fodder and water and food too, for the French are used to living off the country — they've no proper supply train. Of course, they'll send out foraging parties and they'll be our main danger, I think. Less so as we move on out of range and that's why I think we should cover at least twenty miles a day for a few days at least."
“But if they move on from Smolensk, won't they be catching up with us all the time?" Kolniev asked.
“No, not really. Remember, they won't be moving very fast — our army won't exactly let them gallop all the way! — and another thing, they'll follow the post road to Moscow and that runs to the north-east, whereas we're going a little south of east so we're on a diverging course." He made a few lines on the cloth with his thumbnail to illustrate the point. "Of course, if Bonaparte has any sense, he'll stay where he is or go back, and if Barclay gives way to pressure, there'll be a battle which will delay things at least. I wish we had some way of knowing what they're all doing."
“Only delay things?" Kolniev pounced on the phrase.
“Patriotism aside," Orlov replied matter-of-factly, "one must admit that the Russian army doesn't have a resounding list of victories to its credit where Bonaparte's army is concerned. Austerlitz, Eylau, Friedland . ." He shrugged, forgetting once again, and swore, luridly, but in German which made Kolniev and Kusminsky laugh.
“Oh, well done!" cried Kusminsky. "Admirable! I call that really quick-witted.”
The Countess looked at them, half-amused and half-puzzled, and Kolniev kindly explained to her, "You see, he has a habit of shrugging his shoulders and it hurts his arm and makes him swear. Because you're here, he swore in German so you wouldn't understand.”
Countess Barova smiled and when Orlov said ruefully, "She wouldn't have understood those words if I'd said them in Russian, I hope!" she actually laughed and Orlov looked at her with a sudden interest, for her laugh was very clear and musical, like bells, and he felt that somehow it was a rare and pleasant sound. He was glad she had a sense of humour. He felt grimly afraid she was going to need it in the next few days.
They had all finished their meal by now and dispersed about their various tasks. Orlov noticed that Kolniev paused to collect the half-burned candles from the. brass candelabrum and said, "That's another thing — were there candles here?"
“Yes," replied Kolniev. "A good store, and a few lanterns as well. We've collected them all. Do we set fire to the place when we leave?" He asked the question nervously, knowing the answer but clearly not much liking the idea. Orlov replied "Yes" rather curtly. He didn't care for it either and, typically, when the carts were drawn up in line on the road ready to start the day's journey, it was Orlov himself who went round with a torch made of tarred rope and set fire to the heaps of inflammables placed strategically around the buildings — curtains, straw, anything that would burn well in the timber buildings.
When he was sure that the whole place was well alight, he mounted his horse, grim-faced, waved his good arm as an order to start and rode a few paces ahead of the first cart, staring between his horse's cars and feeling sick with everything — war, the French, the dusty road, himself. Behind him, the carts creaked and jolted along, their wheels and the horses' hooves muffled by the thick dust on the road, which stretched ahead until it vanished into a belt of forest a mile or so away. The trees planted by the roadside looked tired and dusty and the sun, already powerful, was shining into his face, making him screw up his eyes. Every now and again a little dry breeze stirred and blew the dust up in swirling eddies so that before long his white uniform was grey with it, his face felt stiff with it, and his mouth and nose were full of fine grit. He took a mouthful of warm, unrefreshing water from the canteen hanging from his saddle and tried to think of something pleasant which would take his mind off his discomfort.
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 she 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 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 on to 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. 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. 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 stirred up by the carts hung in the air and realized that he had the best position at the head of the column – for those 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?
A turn in the road suddenly brought into view a sight which made 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 fire going, drawing water, preparing food. Orlov dismounted and let Josef take his horse, and the ridiculous helmet that now swung 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 stiffness 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 lifetime, Your Excellency I don't  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 favour 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 adream-haunted sleep, lull 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 arid his mouth was set in a stern, thin-lipped line, with noticeable tension in the muscles at its corners.
Her eyes widened sudenly 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 frightened 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 on to 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.
After a while, Kusminsky came up alongside him and said cheerfully, "Thinking of working in a circus?"
“Damned horse," replied Orlov. "Stuffed full of oats and hellbent on making life difficult."
“Let him have his head for a bit," Kusminsky advised. "No! Don't!" he amended hastily. "You'll probably come off. Change mounts with me and I'll let him run a bit.”
Orlov dismounted and the grey promptly tried to kick him. He hung on to the reins and dodged out of the way while Kusminsky got down and took the horse from him. Orlov held the surgeon's placid chestnut and watched him ride off down the road at a furious gallop.
He returned presently with the horse much more quiet and amenable, and found Orlov walking along the grass verge, leading the chestnut and looking white and exhausted.
“Are you hurt?" he asked, looking closely at the Major's face as he dismounted.
“No," replied Orlov shortly. "Thank you." He remounted the grey with an obvious effort which he equally obviously tried to disguise.
“For God's sake, man!" Kusminsky said. "Will you give in and admit you're not fit to ride?”
Orlov gave him an icy glance. "I'm perfectly fit," he said coldly, and kicked the grey into a walk. Kusminsky watched him with a mixture of exasperation and admiration and resumed his place at the back of the column.
The grey was much quieter and Orlov jogged along in a daze of misery. He had jarred his arm painfully when the horse had tried to kick him, and he felt sickened by the whole situation –literally so as a spasm of nausea made him wonder if he was going to vomit. It passed off after a few minutes, and he relapsed into a torpor, trying not to think about anything at all in the present, but directing his mind to his home in Ryazan, trying to recall, room by room, the furniture, the pictures and ornaments. He was surprised how clearly he could visualize most of it, particularly the entrance hall, and he wondered if it was still the same or if his widowed sister had changed it all in his absence.
“I'll ask her when I write," he thought. "Hell and damnation! Why didn't I write to her from Smolensk before we left? Danilov would have seen a letter off for me. She'll be worrying, thinking the French have got me, or that I'm dead. Poor Tatia! It's time she was married again and raising some children. Time I went home and did something about it all. I've left her to run the estates all these years, never giving a thought to whether she's happy or not. I wonder if there's anyone she wants to marry? Her husband wasn't much good to her – she didn't even like him much. I wonder why Father was so set on her having him. Well, she can choose for herself now. She's a wealthy widow, reasonably pretty and still quite young." He reckoned up how old she was with an effort, and eventually had to start again from the fact that she was eight years his junior, therefore was now twenty-four.
“Married and widowed at seventeen!" he thought. "Poor Tatia!" He remembered his dull, middle-aged brother-in-law, maimed in an encounter with Murat's cavalry at Austerlitz and dying soon after. He realized that he couldn't even recall his face.
He then started on a round of his friends and relations, seeing how well he could recall their features and the tones of their voices. It was interesting to find that, apart from his long-dead mother, there were very few women who remained at all clearly in his memory. There was a plump little Princess who had fluttered her eyelashes at him at a ball in Petersburg last winter and occupied his attention for a week or two, and a black-eyed beauty who had captured his heart years ago, before he joined the army even, but had been unattainably betrothed to one of his friends. That little dancer from the Opera – he couldn't remember her name. He couldn't remember her face either, he realized on reflection: he was confusing her with another – several others.
What about Danilov's sister? He had seriously thought of marrying her a couple of years ago, before he went off to the Turkish campaign with Kutuzov. More than three years now, he supposed. Anyway he couldn't remember her at all – was she dark or fair? Just as well he hadn't married her.
Nevertheless, time he did marry. Thirty-two, and not even betrothed yet. "If I marry this year," he thought, "I'll be in my mid-fifties when my eldest son comes of age! Surely the war can't go on much longer? The French have been fighting–how long now? Twenty years? Surely no country can stand a war that long. It must end soon. End! For all I know, Bonaparte could go on marching through Russia from Smolensk to Moscow, and then on to Petersburg and from there to Sevastopol! We could be fighting him for another twenty years! How old is he? Forty-odd? Kutuzov's nearly seventy. Another thirty years of Bonaparte!”
He was suddenly aware that Kusminsky was riding at his elbow and he turned to look at him.
“Sorry," he said. "I was thinking."
“Nothing very cheerful, from the look of you. What was making you scowl like that?"
“I'd just worked out that we could go on fighting Bonaparte for another thirty years. Wouldn't it make you scowl?"
“God forbid!" exclaimed the surgeon. "Surely someone will put a bullet through his head before that!"
“Surely," replied Orlov grimly. "But it won't necessarily kill him, you know. Kutuzov has been shot through the head twice and it doesn't seem to have prevented him from going on with his military career."
“Ah, but Mikhail Ilarionovitch is a Russian!" said Kusminsky with fine chauvinism. "One bullet through the head should do for a mere Italian!"
“Let it be soon!" said Orlov. He glanced up at the sky and drew out his watch. To his surprise, it was five o'clock.
“There appears to be a clearing just ahead," said Kusminsky, anticipating his thoughts. "And a convenient stream as well. How fortuitous!"
“Indeed," replied Orlov. "Most providential," he said in the same spirit.

CHAPTER THREE

THE clearing proved a suitable camp-site for the night and Orlov gave a succession of clear, logical instructions for making camp with the ease of long practice. He forced himself to fight down his fatigue long enough to see that everything was proceeding properly, knowing that the pattern set tonight would be the precedent for every night as long as the journey lasted.
When everything was going on to his satisfaction, sheer perversity made him go over to the little group of men whose leg injuries prevented them from walking about, and he stood talking to them for a few minutes as they lay industriously turning the sheets from the inn into piles of neatly rolled bandages. After that, there was a shaky cart-wheel to look at and a few queries about the horses to answer.
By the time he had finished, the camp was settling into a routine of preparation for the evening meal and he saw that the two tents had been set up a little distance away, between the stream and a clump of bushes. Kolniev's green coat was hanging from the corner pole of one so Orlov made for the other, but was intercepted by Josef just as he was about to enter.
“The Countess is refreshing herself in the tent," Josef informed him. "If Your Excellency will come over here . . ." He led Orlov past the tent to the bushes behind it and helped him off with his clothes. There were a number of wet garments hanging to dry on the bushes and Orlov said lightly:
“Are you running a laundry?"
“A change of linen is a minor but important addition to the comfort of the situation," replied Josef primly.
“Indeed," said Orlov gravely. "I'm much indebted to you for your forethought and ingenuity in the matter." Josef acknowledged his appreciation with a slight bow and gave Orlov's clothes a violent shaking to rid them of some of the dust. His master noticed that there were several shirts on the bushes and deduced that Josef had taken the other officers under his wing.
Not only the officers, he realised, seeing that some of the garments had a little discreet lace trimming on them.
Josef indicated a couple of buckets of water and Orlov washed himself one-handedly, sluicing off the dust and sweat of the journey, and towelling himself briskly afterwards. "We seem to be well provided with towels," he remarked.
“There were a number at the inn," replied Josef, handing him clean linen and helping him to dress. "There seemed little point in leaving them for the French." His tone implied that he doubted if the French washed very frequently, if at all.
Orlov emerged from his alfresco dressing room feeling a little less tired and a great deal more cheerful, and found his companions equally refreshed by plentiful applications of water and a change of linen.
“God bless your Josef," said Kolniev in heartfelt tones. Supper was served as the sun was declining and by the end of it, the strip of sky visible above the road was filled with crimson glory. The meal was the usual stewed meat and vegetables, mostly cabbage and dried peas, but the thick meaty gravy made it appetizing and at least it was plentiful and sustaining. The Countess, sitting very straight on the hard ground in contrast to the lounging men, did not appear to have much appetite and Kolviev, noticing this, apologized for the quality of the food.
“It's good by army standards," he said. "But I'm afraid you don't much care for it. I expect you're used to daintier fare.”
“It's very good," she replied. "It's just that I don't feel very hungry. I'm sorry.”
Kusminsky looked at her thoughtfully, got up, and went over to the tent he shared with Kolniev, coming back with a bottle of wine. "We could all do with something to hearten us," he said. "There was enough decent stuff in the inn to give us a bottle for dinner each night until we get to Kaluga. Not much between four of us, but a glassful is better than nothing." In fact, it was a good cupful, enough to make them all feel a bit more hearty. The Countess made an effort to eat her plateful of food and had a little more colour in her cheeks by the end of the meal.
Before it became completely dark, Kusminsky went to make his rounds, changing a few dressings and checking the progress of his patients. Orlov joined him and Kusminsky, surprisingly, made no protest and didn't urge him to rest, but drew him into conversation with the men.
They spent quite a long time beside the boy wan the crushed pelvis, Petrushka. He seemed sufficiently conscious to understand when they spoke to him, but he replied slowly and after a long pause. He said he was not in pain any more.
“Where do you come from?" Orlov asked him gently. "From Yaroslavl."
“Are your parents there?"
“Yes." The boy looked into Orlov's face. "Please, sir, would you tell them?"
“Of course."
“Would you write to them?"
“What would you like me to say?" Orlov drew out his notebook and pencil and the boy slowly dictated a few messages to his mother, his sister, his little brother and his father. At length, his voice faded away, and Kusminsky, who had been holding a lantern for Orlov to see to write by, shone it on the boy's face for a moment and felt his pulse.
“He's asleep. I think he'll last another day or so, but it's only a matter of time. It's good of you to trouble with him."
“Trouble!" Orlov scowled. "It's not much to do for the boy, is it?”
Kusminsky recognized the frown as one of concern and frustration at not being able to help the boy, and reminded himself that Orlov had never seen the lad until a few days ago.
“He's not your responsibility," he said quietly.
“It was my horse, wasn't it?" Orlov sounded helplessly angry.
“But not your fault." Kusminsky put a hand on his shoulder. "You'll never make a general — you care too much about the men."
“I don't damned well want to be a general," replied Orlov. "I want to go home, and grow cabbages or something. I'm sick of blood and killing and burning places. I've done nothing but destroy for the last eight years. It's time I found a decent occupation.”
Kusminsky patted his shoulder sympathetically. "Well, start off with a decent night's sleep," he advised.
Orlov wished him goodnight, and walked slowly over to the tent. As he ducked through the entrance flap, there was a little gasp and he straightened up inside to see that it was lit by a candle lantern standing on a box by one of the supporting poles. Two or three boxes and his own and the Countess' trunks were ranged down the middle and two piles of bedding were lying on the ground, one on the far side, one by the entrance. The Countess was sitting on one of the boxes plaiting her long, thick hair. She had taken off her dress, and was wearing a long petticoat which left her shoulders and arms bare. Her eyes were enormous in her small white face.
Orlov hastily averted his gaze and stripped off his coat and shirt. He sat down on his blankets and struggled out of his boots, remarking in a cheerful, conversational voice, "I was thinking this afternoon that the idiot who designed this uniform ought to be made to wear it, particularly the helmet! Did you ever see anything so ridiculous? I can't walk through a normal door with it on and if I lean forward, ten to one the thing falls off. And the rest of the outfit! Who in their right mind would dress a soldier in white? It shows every mark, not to mention the bloodstains! I suppose they thought the Chevalier Guard would be kept for strictly ceremonial uses, not given grubby occupations like fighting battles and riding around the provinces. They let us wear grey trousers on active duty, but they're not much better." He thought perhaps he shouldn't have mentioned trousers to a lady, and glanced over his shoulder at her. She had finished plaiting her hair and was sitting looking down at her clasped hands, her knuckles shining white.
“Do you think you'll be reasonably comfortable?" he asked. "I don't suppose you've slept in a tent before." She shook her head. "Nor on the ground," he added. "Shall I show you how to fold your blankets?"
“Please." It was hardly more than a whisper.
Orlov sorted out the little pile of bedding. There was a palliasse — only a sack of hay, but better than nothing.
“The important thing is to have plenty underneath you," he rambled on. "Otherwise the cold and damp strikes up from the ground. You pull the palliasse down on top of the bit of canvas, and sort of interleave the blankets like this." He laid the things in place, clumsily with only one hand. "Then you fold them over you in opposite directions — here, come and lie down and I'll show you.”
She moved forward hesitantly and he glanced up at her. The thick plait was hanging in front of her shoulder, curving round her white neck and dropping down over her small, shapely breast. She stepped out of her shoes, gave a little sob, and lay down on the blankets with a quick, nervous movement, smoothing down her long skirt decorously round her ankles.
“That's it," said Orlov, carefully not looking at her. "Now you fold them over like this." He swiftly cocooned her in the rough blankets. "Then tuck them in so they won't pull loose, fold them under your feet, so – and there you are. Will you be warm enough? It gets very cold at night." He looked round and saw his cloak lying in the top of his open trunk. He fetched it and spread it over her, tucking the collar round her chin.
“But you'll need it yourself," she protested.
“I have a greatcoat as well," he assured her. "Actually, I'm supposed to wear it, but I prefer a cloak. No one bothers on active service, so I keep the coat for parades." He felt that he was talking far too much and in a ridiculously stilted manner, but at least she no longer looked completely petrified with fright.
He clambered awkwardly to his feet and returning to his own side of the tent, drew his sword and stuck it in the ground just inside the flap where he could grab it in a hurry. Then he wound up his watch, hung it on the nail Josef had banged into the tentpole for the purpose and arranged his own bed. No palliasse for him, he noted – clearly only the woman and the badly wounded qualified for such luxury. On the other hand, it was encouraging that Kusminsky apparently no longer counted him among the delicate.
An eddy of cold air across his bare back made him root in his trunk for his greatcoat which he spread on top of his blankets when he had wound himself up in them.
“All right?" he asked.
“Yes, thank you."
“Goodnight then. Try to sleep, and don't worry. No one can get at you while I'm here."
“No. Thank you. Goodnight," she replied.
Orlov blew out the candle and lay on his side, looking out of the tent opening, across the clearing. A few patches of cold moonlight penetrated the trees and dappled the ground, and a patchy red glow showed where the cooking fire was damped down with turves. The carts were drawn up in a semi-circle and the men were sleeping in and under them. The horses moved about quietly on the picket line, and the stream burbled and chattered a few yards away. There was still a light in the other tent and Qrlov assumed that Kusminsky would probably keep it alight all night, in case he was called out.
The familiar, dragging weariness nagged at his body and he felt the sensation of unreality that warned of a feverish spell – it seemed to come on him at night. He closed his eyes and tried to make his body relax, to forget the jolting motion of his horse, the aching in his arm, the nearness of the woman a few feet away. "Girl," he told himself. "Think of her as a girl, not a woman. She's hardly more than a child. You don't care for thin little girls. You like plump, pink and white, voluptuous creatures, not skinny little hen-sparrows." It didn't seem to help much, but sheer fatigue made him fall into a restless sleep.
Later in the night, the restlessness became more pronounced. He began to toss, his head moving from side to side, and occasionally he moaned softly. The Countess sat up and looked across at him. A faint greyness was beginning to appear outside and it was possible to distinguish the shapes of things. She thought it must be near dawn.
Orlov gave a groan which sounded quite agonized and the Countess wriggled out of her blankets and moved quietly across to kneel beside him. He was asleep, or unconscious, but his forehead was burning with a dry heat and he seemed very distressed. She remembered that there was a pail of water and a towel outside the tent, and creeping out, dipped a corner of the towel in the water and returned with it to wipe Orlov's face very gently. He stopped tossing about and lay still and after a few moments, he said in a vague, dreamy voice, "That's very pleasant. Where am I?"
“In the forest."
“Forest? Enchanted forest. Trolls and goblins." Her words had somehow become confused with the things he had been thinking about during the morning. "You're not a troll?"
“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 road promised another scorching furnace of a day. The treetops 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 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 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 that 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 – burning!" 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 moment 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 Kolniev.
“I'm a Moscow man," said Kusminsky, leading the conversation on to 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 baptized 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 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.
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 thinlipped 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 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 treetops, 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 approaching 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 signalled 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.
She was crouching behind her cart, her lower lip caught between her small, even white teeth. He walked over and knelt beside her, speaking in a very quiet voice, hardly more than a whisper. "I don't wish to appear melodramatic, but if things go wrong and later on you feel it has become necessary. . . ." He put one of the pistols into her hand. She looked at it and then at his face.
“Be careful with it!" he warned. "It's cocked. A small squeeze on the trigger here will fire it." He indicated. "Put the end of the barrel in your mouth and pull the trigger. I promise it will be very quick and very certain – I doubt if you'll feel anything.”
She looked him straight in the eyes and he forced himself to smile. "I'm being ridiculously over-cautious," he said. "I don't expect they're French at all, but just in case anything goes dreadfully wrong – I wouldn't die easy, thinking you couldn't escape. . . .”
To his amazement, she returned his smile and thanked him as if he had handed her a dropped glove. Only the look in her eyes gave any indication of her real feelings. He touched her cheek gently on a sudden impulse and then said, "Get right under the cart and stay there until I tell you to come out.”
She obeyed, clutching the large pistol in one small hand and Orlov turned away to flatten himself against the cart nearest the road. They waited.
The faint jingling grew steadily nearer. The sounds of men talking quietly, as if they were tired, was too indistinct to tell what language they were speaking. Suddenly, one voice rang out louder, "Eh, ma foil Pourquoi pas?”
Kolniev, who had materialized beside him, grabbed Orlov's arm — his right one, fortunately — but Orlov shook his head. It struck him that the accent of the voice was not very good and most Russian aristocrats habitually spoke French (he did himself) — a cavalry officer certainly would.
One of the men lying on his front behind the bushes nearer the road turned his head and mouthed "Green!" Orlov shook his head again. Several French cavalry regiments wore green.
Suddenly he realized that one of the riders was humming and he gave a grin and strode forward, down the lane and into the road. The tune was a lullaby his own nurse used to sing to him, centuries ago in his childhood.
The Captain of the hussar squadron drew up in some surprise at the sight of a solitary white-clad figure suddenly appearing in the road and clapped his hand to his sabre. Orlov raised his hand, but as it held a pistol and his helmet was still hanging on his saddle, he executed more of a hail than a salute.
“Good morning," he said politely.
“Er, good morning, sir." The hussar was a young fellow, very dashing in his fur-lined pelisse heavily ornamented with frogs and gold braid, a tall white plume in his high shako, and a flourishing yellow moustache on his upper lip. He accepted the apparition of a bare-headed Staff officer in a dusty uniform in the middle of a forest, a pistol in one hand and the other arm in a silk sling as if it were a fairly commonplace occurrence. Orlov imagined that it would grow into a fine tale after a few dinners. Briefly, he explained his presence and asked the hussar where he was taking his men.
“Smolensk," he replied. "We're a half-squadron of the Alexandria's from the depot at Kaluga under orders to report to General Barclay at Smolensk, First West Army."
“The Second West Army left Smolensk four days ago," Orlov informed him. "The First followed the next day and the French will be in the city now, if they haven't moved on yet.”
The hussar was shocked by the news. "Good God! What happened? Has there been a battle?"
“Running fight," replied Orlov. "They're not exactly advancing unopposed. I'd estimate General Bagration will bein Dorogobuzh by now. You'd better take this side road and head north from here."
“Smolensk gone!" The hussar seemed utterly shaken. "Good Lord! There's nothing else before Moscow — they won't fall back to Moscow, surely?"
“I'm not in Their Excellencies' confidence," replied Orlov. "Not at this distance, anyway. My advice to you is to go north."
“Yes, sir. Thank you." The hussar pulled himself together, and signalling to his men to follow, he turned off into the side track. Orlov walked beside him and the hussar advanced slowly, taking in the camouflaged carts.
“You were expecting someone else?" he enquired.
“We weren't sure of your identity," Orlov replied. "We're in no state to fight, as you see. There are only two men unwounded in the whole party. We thought you might be an enemy foraging party, so we hid."
“How much warning did you get?"
“About fifteen minutes. You were making rather a lot of noise. If we had been French, you'd all be dead by now, I fancy." He felt he was being a little unfair — in fact the hussars had been making very little noise but if it made them extra careful, it might save a few lives.
The hussar Captain took the point. "Anything we can do to help you?" he asked.
“I don't think so," Orlov replied after a moment's thought. "If you find yourself at Barclay's headquarters, I'd be obliged if you'd ask for Major Danilov and tell him you've seen me. My name is Orlov.”
The hussar produced his notebook and wrote down the names. "I'll make a point of it," he promised. "I'll wish you the best of luck too, if I may.”
Orlov reciprocated the good wishes, and the hussar Captain saluted and led his men off up the track in single file, harness and spurs jingling gaily and sabretaches swinging.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE men began clearing the branches and bracken off the carts and Kolniev sent a man to tell the party with the horses to return. Orlov leaned against the side of one of the carts and closed his eyes for a moment. He could hear water running behind him and saw when he looked round that a little stream ran alongside the track. He walked round the cart, steadying himself by holding on to it, and dropped on his knees by the water, tucking the pistol into his sash and scooping up water with his hand to wet his lips and his face. He felt dizzy and sick.
A quiet voice, almost in his ear, said, "May I come out yet?" and he looked round to find the Countess regarding him, on her hands and knees under the cart, the pistol still held in one hand. He stammered an apology and she crawled out and knelt beside him, producing a handkerchief of unusually practical size for a lady, which she dipped in the water and began to bathe his face.
“I've no doubt you had rather a lot on your mind," she said in answer to his apology. "What on earth made you go galloping off like that? Dr. Kusminsky was furious and you were gone such a long time — over half an hour. I was afraid at every turn in the road we'd come on you lying in the ditch."
“There isn't a ditch," Orlov pointed out. He was surprised to hear her make such a long speech, particularly as it sounded as if she were scolding him. She bathed his face again and then suddenly seemed to become aware that she still held his pistol in her other hand. She held it out to him and he took it and uncocked it.
“I'm glad you didn't need it," he said, conscious of the inadequacy of the statement.
“If they had been French . . ." she swallowed nervously. "We wouldn't have had a chance, would we?"
“They possibly wouldn't have seen us. If they had, well — a half-squadron would just about equal us in numbers. We'd have the slight advantage of surprise and the bigger one of a sheltered position with the carts. On the other hand, we're mostly at least partially incapacitated. To be honest, no, not much chance, but we'd have taken some of them with us."
“If I did as you said with that — it would kill me?" She pointed to the pistol.
“It would blow the back of your head off," he assured her. "No doubt at all — it's the surest way I know. If ever I had to kill myself, it's the way I'd choose.”
She nodded. Orlov wondered if she was going to be sick, or faint, but she merely dipped her handkerchief in the stream and bathed his face again. He suffered it patiently, although he was beginning to feel a bit damp.
Fortunately, he was saved from drowning by the appearance of Kolniev and Kusminsky, who seemed to have been looking for him. Kolniev said diffidently, "It's just after noon. Shall we. . . ?"
“We may as well stop here, then," Orlov took him up. "I could do with a rest after all that excitement."
“No doubt you will claim that your horse ran away with you?" Kusminsky sounded coldly annoyed. He knelt by Orlov, stripped off his coat and shirt and partly unwound his bandages. Orlov set his teeth, but once Kusminsky was sure that there was no bleeding, he replaced the bandages, pushed Orlov into a prostrate position, rolled up his coat and put it under his head, and said sharply, "Lie still!" and to the Countess, "Don't let him sit up! Sit on his stomach if he tries." She nodded.
Orlov closed his eyes and allowed himself to feel terrible. He decided that he hated horses and never wanted to ride again. After a few minutes, he became aware that something other than his arm was hurting — there was a small sharp nagging pain in his back. He tried to sit up, but the Countess put one small hand on his chest and pushed him back.
“But there's something digging in my back!" he protested. She slid one hand under him and he directed it until she withdrew it holding a stone. "It's a very small one," she said.
“It felt like the Caucasus!" he replied, and closed his eyes again. It was very pleasant, apart from his arm, to lie still under the trees and listen to the water flowing and the sounds of people working — he was quite sorry when the other two returned with food and coffee and helped him to sit propped against the wheel of the cart. He wondered if his bare chest embarrassed the Countess, but she seemed quite unperturbed and was nibbling her chunk of hard bread with a good appetite.
“Extraordinary woman!" he thought. "I'm sure Tatia would have had the vapours half-a-dozen times this morning and I've always thought she was about the most sensible woman I know. This little sparrow seems to thrive on dreadful adventures! I wonder what Tatia would do if I suggested that she might have to choose between blowing the top off her own head with a pistol ball or being raped by the French!" He tried to visualize his attractive, intellectual sister in such a predicament, but it was all too unlikely. He chewed the hard bread and washed it down with some more of the Governor's good coffee and wished the cheese were a little less rancid.
“This is rotten cheese." Kolniev echoed his thoughts. "There's some better in the stores, but I thought we should eat this before it becomes impossible."
“I think some cheese starts off dreadful and gets steadily worse," Orlov said viciously.
“Acid-tongued, aren't we!" said Kusminsky. "Galloping about on our big horse when we've been told not to and then being sarcastic to our friends when we've hurt ourself. After our friends have been so restrained and kind-hearted too and never once said I told you so!”
Orlov flushed. "All right! I'm a fool!" he said. "I'm a fool in twenty-four different directions. I'm sorry.”
There was an awkward pause. Kolniev looked acutely embarrassed and Kusminsky clearly wished he hadn't said anything. Countess Barova said quietly, "But they might have been French."
“Yes," said Kusminsky, in his more gentle, bedside voice. "And if they had been, we'd have a chance of still being alive and free in spite of them, thanks to you galloping on your big horse and using your not inconsiderable intelligence. Only, for God's sake, don't do it again! If that wound breaks open, I dread to think what might happen! I don't want to have the job of taking your arm off and you know Kolniev doesn't fancy conducting a burial service."
“I'll be more careful," Orlov promised. He closed his eyes again, hoping he might fall asleep, and he drifted into a half-dream full of enormous horses galloping endlessly over rolling meadows of lush grass, pursued by nightmare riders in French cuirassier uniforms, with white, bleached skull faces and skeleton hands grasping heavy sabres which slashed and flashed fire in his face. One of them seemed to gain on him, looming over him and blotting out the sky until there was only the ghastly, eyeless face bearing down on him and the great cutting blade sweeping down with agonizing slowness to cut off his arm. "No!" he cried. "Not my arm — don't cut it off!"
“I'm not going to!" said Kusminsky's sharp voice, breaking through the dream. Orlov opened his eyes and found the surgeon kneeling beside him, his tawny eyes fixed anxiously on his face. Someone was holding his right hand in a curiously comforting grip and the spokes of the cartwheel were digging into his back. He felt cramped and dazed, returning Kusminsky's gaze with a puzzled look, which gradually faded as he became properly conscious of his whereabouts.
“I was dreaming," he said self-consciously. "I'm sorry." Kusminsky nodded and moved away. Kolniev was curled up in his usual ungainly manner, fast asleep, and Orlov realized that the Countess was holding his own hand. He regarded it thoughtfully and wondered if perhaps it was more the case that he was holding her hand. It was interesting to compare them —his own large and brown, despite the fact that he normally wore gloves, and hers small and white and fragile, with long tapering fingers. He lifted it to his lips and then released it, closed his eyes and drifted into a doze.
When he awoke again, the horses were being put to the carts, and there was the usual stir of purposeful activity. Josef appeared and helped him on with his clothes. Orlov thought he seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time putting on his shirt and coat, but perhaps he was just more conscious of the business because it hurt. He considered giving in to Kusminsky and riding on the box of Josef's cart, but he really believed it would be more uncomfortable than riding and anyway, it would be an admission of weakness.
Josef picked up the pistols, which were still lying on the ground, checked that they were not cocked and carried them off to replace them in the saddle holsters with an expression of distaste on his face — he did not care for firearms. He returned leading the grey and Orlov heaved himself into the saddle and started off down the rutted track, the carts bumping behind him, and swung out into the main road, scowling irritably at the ever present clouds of little black flies.
The long sultry afternoon crawled along and he divided it up into sections to help pass the time. Amazing how dull a journey like this could be, between crises. An hour to daydream of home, an hour to ride alongside the carts, an hour to do complicated sums in his head about sacks of oats, wheels of cheese and handfuls of raisins, knowing full well that Kolniev would have done it all much more efficiently already.
“Keep an eye open for a good camp site," he told himself eventually. "Some grass, as well as water, to eke out the hay," and before long he found one, and the day's travel came to an end.
The routine of making camp went very smoothly – there were enough veterans in the group to see that the essential jobs were well done, despite the difficulties of damaged arms and legs. The three officers fitted their responsibilities together with an ease which might have been envied by a regimental staff with a couple of year's experience of working as a team; Kolniev seeing to the commissariat, Kusminsky to the wounded and Orlov exercising a general supervision which dealt with each problem as it arose, competently and quietly, and left him time to go down the picket line afterwards, inspecting the horses' feet. He picked up a hundred and twenty hooves, one after another, making himself go on down the line long after his good arm ached and his back felt like breaking, with his customary stubborn refusal to give up until the job was completed. Most of them were in remarkably good condition, and he gave a few brisk orders about the doubtful cases. None of them was really bad, but it seemed sensible to keep them in as good a state as possible – they could not afford the problem of lame horses as well as lame men.
As he straightened up for the last time at the end of the line, he looked up at the sky, a large patch of which was visible over the clearing in which they were camped. There were long streaks of crimson and gold cloud flaming across in great ribbons and streamers, and Orlov stood appreciating its beauty for a few minutes before returning to the prosaic consideration that tomorrow looked like being another long, hot, uncomfortable day.
Josef was waiting behind the tents with water and clean linen and Orlov made a point of thanking him for his trouble, but Josef's prim face was unmoved and he merely remarked that he regretted the impossibility of ironing the garments. Orlov thought he rather overdid it – after seven years of war in a variety of uncomfortable places, he had probably worn more unironed shirts than ironed ones.
“One would wish to maintain a reasonable standard," Josef observed impersonally, which made Orlov wonder it the man had become a thought-reader as well as a laundryman, cart-driver and (with a sudden memory of something he had noticed unconsciously during the morning's excitement) a musketeer.
“When did you learn to handle a musket?" he asked.
“One acquires a variety of skills in the military life, Your Excellency," Josef replied with unruffled solemnity. Orlov had to admit that he was right.
While he waited for supper, Orlov stood talking quietly to Kusminsky, asking him how long he thought the men could go on without a day's rest. The surgeon shrugged. "In theory, they should nearly all have collapsed the first night out from Smolensk," he said. "In practice – well, it depends. One or two shouldn't really be moved at all but, apart from the boy, who is beyond . . . Frankly, I don't know. Obviously, I'm watching for signs of exhaustion, but it's difficult to judge. For example, you and Grushchev should be in about equally bad condition, but he's in better shape than you, I think, although you are far more active and he just sits about all the time. He worries me, but that's another matter. All I can advise is, push on for another day or so, and then lay up for a bit if you think we can risk the delay. Obviously, the more distance there is between us and the French the better, but you'll have worked that out for yourself."
“Any other problems? What about Countess Barova?"
“Comparatively speaking, she's no problem," Kusminsky replied. "Like most women, she has far greater powers of endurance than a man would credit. She may be a problem from your purely personal point of view, if only because you've assumed responsibility for her – or had it thrust on you. As far as the men are concerned, she's become a sort of extension of you, judging from the way they talk. They're well aware that she's 'quality', not just an officer's whore. She's 'the Major's lady' and I think they would die to defend her in much the same spirit in which you nearly died to defend them. She's a sort of talisman – if she's driving that cart and putting up with the heat and the dust, then they're ashamed to complain about their own discomforts. She helps to keep them going, in a way, though not to the extent that you do.”
Orlov looked at him with a startled puzzlement and he went on, "Yes, you needn't look so surprised! You mean a lot to these men. You're one of those Lords of Creation, the aristoc‑ raw start officer, who descends from the Olympus of Headquarters with the orders that mean life or death, misery or relief to them and then rides off again — but you didn't ride off. You stayed and fought for them, took on a horde of French single-handed. Oh, I know it was one of those lunatic things we do without a thought in our heads about why! And then, you didn't ride off and leave them in Smolensk, either, you helped them escape. They know how badly you're hurt, but they see you go on doing the duty you've voluntarily taken on yourself, driving yourself to keep going. As long as they see you there in front of them, they feel safe — somebody cares about them. Certainly, Kolniev looks after them and they give him his due, but he's their officer — he has a duty to them. You don't, but you've taken them on and well, they love you for it.”
His sharp, impersonal voice sounded completely matter-of-fact as he said all this and he was obviously sincere. Orlov looked at him in blank astonishment, too startled to be embarrassed, and after a pause, Kusminsky said in exactly the same tore of voice, "What about the horses?”
Orlov's cavalry training snapped him into an automatic reaction to the familiar question and he delivered a succinct report on the condition of the horses without a second thought. "In fact," he concluded, "they're in better condition than the men. They have four good legs apiece and are eating at least as well as normal, with rather less work to do. That grey's got more life in him than my charger has — had --and he cost me a small fortune.”
Kolniev called them to come for supper and they found that they had the luxury of a dining table tonight. In fact, it was four boxes pushed together and they still had to sit on the ground, but it gave a semblance of civilized living. The meal was the usual thick stew of meat and vegetables, mostly roots and dried peas, with some sort of doughcake and honey for a sweet. Kusminsky produced another bottle of wine from his store and there was more of the excellent coffee which Kolniev had rescued from Smolensk. There were four candles on the table, which gave quite an air of festivity.
Halfway through the meal, Orlov noticed that the Countess had changed her dress. The fresh one was just as plain and unflattering as the other, in the same sort of serviceable, hardwearing, dowdy material, but it was dark green and he was sure she had been wearing dark red before. Perhaps he was mistaken — it was difficult to be sure of colours in the poorlight, but he ventured on a safe compliment and said,	that colour is very becoming to you," and she smiled and looked quite pleased.
After the meal Orlov rooted in his trunk for writing materials, retiring with them and a lantern to sit on the box of one of the carts, and wrote a fairly lengthy letter to his lawyer in Ryazan. It had occurred to him during the day that if he died or was killed on this journey, the Countess would be left with only her aunt's hundred roubles and no one in the world to turn to for help. His two fellow-officers were not likely to have either the money or the connections to do much for her, and in any case, she was his responsibility — he didn't think to ask himself why this was — he simply accepted it as a fact.
The letter took a great deal of thought before it was completed to his satisfaction. He felt that he should give some account of the circumstances of his acquaintance with the Countess, for fear that otherwise the lawyers would make assumptions about their relationship — not that it mattered to him as he would be dead if they ever read the letter, but for her sake. He set out various instructions for providing her with enough to live on in reasonable comfort, but didn't like to make it too much, partly because a large settlement on a comparative stranger would lead everyone to assume the very things he was trying to prevent them assuming, and partly because he had a strong suspicion that she would simply refuse to accept it. He wrote a short note to Tatia as well, telling her why he had in effect willed a part of his estate to a young woman he had known for . . . Good Lord! was it only fifty hours? The reason he gave was simply that he had found her destitute and promised to look after her but it still didn't occur to him that this was not much of a reason.
By the time he had finished the two letters and sealed them into a packet with the lawyer's address on the outside, it was quite late and everyone else had turned in. He went to his tent, wondering if Countess Barova was asleep. The lantern was still burning and he saw by its light that her eyes were open, although she was lying down, snugly wrapped in her blankets.
He placed the letter beside her and said casually as he started to undress, "If I don't survive this journey for any reason, take that to my lawyer in Ryazan — the direction is written on the outside. He'll see that you're provided for. Put it somewhere safe, preferably on your person.”
She sat up and held the letter in her hands for a moment, then said, "Why? You're very kind, but I've no claim on your generosity. Why should you provide for me?"
“I said I'd look after you," he replied. "If I'm killed, or die, you'll be left with no one. This is a sort of insurance, to see that there is someone to look after you and help you if I can't."
“But I must provide for myself. I must find some means of earning my own living. I can't accept money from you."
“After this journey, I've no doubt it will be a few days at least before you're in much of a state to start seeking employment," he said. "And what will you do, in a strange town, where you're not known to anyone, without any references?"
“I shall find something." Her voice betrayed her frightened knowledge that this was unlikely.
Orlov sat down and began to wrestle with his boots. It was difficult to get them off with one hand. He spoke harshly with deliberate intent and rather overdid it. "What will you do? Set up as a prostitute? Sell yourself into slavery to another autocratic old lady with ulcerated legs? Spend your life looking after another woman's spoiled brats?”
She gave a little gasp, almost a sob, and then replied with pathetic dignity, "I've no doubt I shall find a respectable occupation. I wouldn't have thought there was very much difference between being . . . the first thing you said, and being a Kept Woman. You're very kind, but I can't let you provide for me! I can't live on your charity! It would be wrong, I've no claim on you!"
“Kept woman!" Orlov exclaimed, losing his temper. "The whole point of this arrangement is that it only applies if I die before I've managed to see you settled! I'm not proposing to keep you – I wouldn't insult you with such an idea! It's simply that I want to be sure that you'll be safe, secure and happy! Certainly, find a situation and be independent, but let me help you find something both respectable and congenial. All I ask is that if I die, you will take that letter to the address written on it and let my lawyers sort out your problems."
“But why should you be burdened with my troubles?" she was still worried.
Orlov pulled his blankets round him and replied sharply, "Because I choose to be! I'm an Orlov and I do as I damned well please!" He followed it with, "Anyway, while you're under my command, you will kindly obey my orders! Now lie down and go to sleep," and blew out the candle.
As he wriggled about trying to get comfortable, he was smitten with the guilty feeling that he had been quite unneccessarily harsh with her, and he said softly, "Goodnight, Sparrow!" in as gentle and affectionate a tone as he could muster.
There was a tiny pause, then she replied in a voice entirely devoid of expression, "Goodnight, Your Excellency." it was a second or two before Orlov realized that he had been given a very neat little set-down and he smiled to himself in the darkness with a guilty feeling that he had thoroughly deserved it. In fact, he had an unpleasant suspicion that he really deserved something a great deal worse, but he was too tired to think about it. Much too tired. . . .
Some time later, he drifted out of his exhausted sleep, vaguely conscious that something was wrong. His arm ached, nagging at him like toothache, but it did that all the time. He felt cold and realized that the temperature had dropped sharply. He thought he had probably been having one of his feverish spells and the combination of that and the increasing cold had woken him.
He sat up and groped for this heavy greatcoat and woke up completely as he discovered that he had been so busy bullying the Countess that he had forgotten to get it out or to give her his cloak. The moon gave enough light to make out roughly where things were and he began to unwind himself from his blankets, trying not to make any noise which might wake his companion. Silently, he crept over to his trunk and drew out the coat and cloak, tossed the coat on to his own bed and turned to move the few steps across to the dark shape on the far end of the row of boxes. As he turned, he heard a tiny sound and suddenly realized that it was a similar sound which had really woken him – a small muffled sob.
“What's the matter?" he asked.
She gave a louder sob which was partly an exclamation and said, "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"
“No. I was cold. Why are you crying?"
“I'm sorry . . . oh, please forgive me! I didn't mean to be rude and ungrateful . . . you've been so kind to me . . . more kind than anyone ever was before . . . and I was silly and rude. I am grateful, truly, and I didn't really think you meant to insult me! I wouldn't be a . . . a . . ." (she couldn't bring herself to say the word). "And you talked about being killed as if you expected . . . and I was so rude to you!" It all came out in a jumbled rush, her voice broken with sobs which she was clearly trying to control.
Orlov's first reaction was to go to her, but he checked himself sharply. If he took her in his arms as his instincts wanted him to, she might very well misinterpret his intentions. Anyway, if he did go to her now, anything might happen – he wasn't made of stone!
He stood still, stooping awkwardly under the low roof of the tent, and said gently, "It was my fault. I was very unkind to speak to you like that – I deserved a good hard set-down. I said a number of things which were wrong and downright cruel and I'm very sorry for it. I've never for one moment thought that you might turn prostitute and I deserve a flogging for even saying the word to you. I'm sorry if I upset you, talking about being killed. I suppose I've lived with the idea for so long that I'm used to it. I was only trying to be practical. Please don't cry – you make me feel such a brute. I'm sorry, Sparrow."
“Why do you call me Sparrow?" she asked, much more calmly.
“You remind me of one," he replied. "I'm sorry if you don't like it."
“I d-don't mind.”
There was silence for a moment, and then he said, still very gently, "Are you cold? I forgot to give you the cloak. Would you like it?"
“Y-yes please.”
He knelt beside her and spread the thick cloak over her, tucking it round her clumsily with his one hand and then gently stroked her soft hair.
“Will you forgive me?"
“Yes." She gave a little hiccup. "Will you forgive me?"
“I was never offended," he replied, touching her cheek briefly. He would have liked to kiss her, but didn't dare and went back to his blankets quickly, shivering in the cold air. It was a long time before he could get to sleep again and he lay still with his eyes closed, trying to calm himself down, amazed at the extent to which the girl's tears had moved him. He felt a contempt for himself for being the cause of them which exceeded anything he had ever experienced before, even during the most introspective and self-critical periods of his life. In addition, his arm ached and he was still cold.
Josef's arrival in the morning dragged him out of a restless, shallow sleep and he got up and went outside without a word, still feeling ashamed. He answered Josef's polite enquiries after his health morosely and sat silent while he was shaved, his black brows drawn together in a way which conveyed to his servant that his master had passed a bad night.
At breakfast, he remained silent and the other men apparently assumed that his arm was troubling him. The Countess was also silent and rather pale and serious-looking. Kusminsky looked at her with some concern and asked if she felt quite well.
“Yes, thank you," she replied. "I didn't sleep very well."
“It was very cold in the night," said Kolniev sympathetically. "And I expect you find the ground very hard. I'm sorry we've so few blankets. Two each is hardly enough."
“Major Orlov gave me his cloak," she said. "It's very warm – I was all right with that.”
This merely deferred the problem by one stage as far as Kolniev was concerned. "But the Major would need it . . ." he began.
“I have a greatcoat," said Orlov briefly. He finished his breakfast and went over to the cart where the boy Petrushka was lying and spoke to the men with him. They said there was no change in him and Orlov stood looking at him for a moment. He was a small lad who had once been sturdy, with a blunt, wide-mouthed peasant face, very brown and freckled, but now his cheeks had fallen in and there was a sickly pallor under the tan. His eyes were half-closed, unseeing, and he was breathing in a harsh uneven way as if he might stop at any minute.
“Why did he join the army?" Orlov asked.
The men fidgeted and looked at each other. One of them said, "He was caught poaching. His master gave him the choice – the knout or the army. He chose the army.”
Orlov turned on his heel and walked away scowling. How old was the boy? Eighteen, nineteen? Perhaps less. Offered the choice between a flogging and death, he chose death – for what? A few rabbits? He went to the picket line and industriously inspected all the horses' hooves again to the obvious puzzlement of the men in charge of them. By the time he had reached the end of the line, the animals at the other end were being led away to their carts, and he was able to mount his horse and start off along the road without the necessity of forcing himself to speak civilly to anyone, apart from a word of thanks to Josef for leading the grey to him.
 He spent the morning hating himself, the landowning nobility to which he belonged, the octopus-like monster of the army, which took men and broke their bodies for the sake of a few yards of ground or a battery of guns, the hideousness of war which killed boys and maimed men and uprooted people from their secure little lives and tossed them about like twigs in a mountain stream. Nothing seemed to pierce the black cloud of depression which engulfed him. The beauty of the dew-spangled flowers and spiders' webs, the grandeur of the forest, the golden glory of the morning, all failed to make any impression on him at all.
After more than two hours of travelling, Kusminsky rode up alongside him and said in a professional manner, "Are your bandages uncomfortable?”
Orlov roused himself and replied, "No, they're quite comfortable, thank you."
“Arm painful?" Kusminsky pressed on.
“Not bad – much as usual."
“Something annoying you?”
Orlov looked at him and said, "I'm sorry. I'm out of humour with myself this morning. It's no one's fault but my own."
“Aren't you going to ride with the carts today?" Kusminsky asked. "The men are wondering – they think you're angry with them.”
Orlov felt more disgusted with himself than ever, and he pulled over to the side of the road to begin the little ceremony which appeared already to have become an expected part of the daily routine.
Josef s cart creaked past and he exchanged a few words with its passengers, then felt a sudden spasm of – what? Fear? Surely not. Embarrassment? Not that either. He looked down at the sandy dust round his horse's hooves, then raised his head again to look straight into Countess Barova's face as she drew level with him, his pale face with its black brows and clear grey eyes a picture of perplexity. She gave him a friendly smile and Sergeant Platov asked him if his horse was behaving any better this morning.
Orlov answered him, asked how his shoulder felt, and then turned his attention to the next cart and so on down the line until they had all passed. He began his slow progress back up the line, restraining himself from hurrying, wondering what he could say to her when he reached the second cart. He felt extraordinarily ill-at-ease, quite incomprehensibly so for a man used to talking to all kinds of people, from a serf to the Czar himself.
It wasn't the first time he'd made a woman cry (not that he was proud of the fact – it was always an unpleasant business, but they usually seemed to dissolve into tears at some point in even the mildest affaire, if only at the ending of it). It wasn't even as if he had done anything very terrible! Admittedly, he'd spoken to her rather harshly, but it was for her own good, trying to help her and part of it had been because she had misunderstood him – he hadn't intended accusing her of being a whore or even envisaged the possibility. He'd only meant to make her realize. . . . "Listen to me!" he thought. "I only meant . . . It was for her own good! All the classic excuses of a man in the wrong!”
Sergeant Grushchev was riding in the next cart he came to, and he made a point of speaking to the man. The sergeant's reply was almost surly in tone and Orlov felt it could be considered even near-insolent. He looked thoughtfully at him and noted who were the men riding with him. It might be as well to have a word with them after, if he could do so without the fellow hearing.
Eventually, he reached the second cart and walked his horse alongside it. He took care to keep his tone of voice light and friendly and said, "It's very hot again today, isn't it? Quite incredible to think it was so cold in the night. I'm afraid we're having the worst of it in both respects." In his own ears, he sounded artificial and patronizing.
The Countess smiled pleasantly, putting up one hand to adjust the scarf which covered her hair and replied quite naturally, "I was very glad of your cloak – it was really very cold."
“The weather seems to be more extraordinary than usual this year," Orlov kept to the theme, feeling that they had skated very neatly over the difficulty of referring, however obliquely, to the events of the night. "I hear that the enemy lost ten thousand horses from the heat between the Niemen and Vilna, and another ten thousand from the cold between Vilna and Vitebsk. We have a curious climate!”
Sergeant Platov had a reminiscence to offer of some freakish weather conditions in Finland, and Orlov listened to him with a courteous show of interest, but found that by turning his head towards the sergeant he could comfortably observe Countess Barova's profile as she looked along the backs of her horses. He wondered why he had thought she was plain — her profile was really quite pleasing. Not exactly pretty, perhaps, but well-proportioned. It would make a charming silhouette.

CHAPTER FIVE

WHEN the old sergeant's story meandered to an end, Orlov asked him if he had served in the Turkish campaign and they found that they had both been in the same skirmish in a village whose name neither could remember. The corporal, not to be outdone, also claimed brotherhood in arms with Orlov by saying he had been at Austerlitz, but Platov effectively silenced him by saying that he had been in Italy with Suvorov. At this point, Orlov felt that he had been with this cart for too long and he rode on to the next, with a pleasant word to the Countess as he went.
When he resumed his usual position at the head of the procession, he realized that the road was going steadily and fairly rapidly downhill, not enough to require any braking on the carts, but a great deal more and for a longer stretch than on any part of the road before. He conjured up a mental picture of his map and realized that they must be descending into the valley of the river Ugra.
He tried to visualize what sort of a river it would be — not one of these narrow torrents in a deep gorge, he thought. More likely something wider and less fast-flowing, with a reasonably wide valley floor. A good place for the midday halt, probably. As this was a post road the bridge should be able to carry the carts without much trouble, though perhaps it would be a wise precaution to send them across one at a time. Bridges in this part of Russia were not exactly miracles of engineering — some of them were little more than a couple of planks, like the one he had been sent to destroy just beyond Drissa.
Destroy! With a sudden jolt he realized that he had been assuming that the bridge was still there. The hussars hadn't mentioned it, but that young captain didn't strike him as a particularly intelligent man — he might not have thought of it. After all, a half-squadron of hussars could ford a river without much trouble. He rode at his usual unhurried pace, restraining his impulse to gallop ahead and find out what was in store for them.
Kusminsky appeared beside him, and said, "Well now! Have you made it up?"
“Made what up?"
“Thought perhaps you'd fallen out. You don't look very cheerful. Want to tell Uncle Vassily all about it?"
“Is Uncle Vassily any good at bridge-building?" Orlov asked drily, ignoring the rest of Kusminsky's banter. "We're approaching a river."
“There'll be a bridge," Kusminsky said. "It's a post road. This isn't completely beyond the bounds of civilization, you know, even if it isn't Petersburg – or Ryazan," he added slyly. "We have bridges and other luxuries here too."
“Have or had? There was an inn by the roadside, some way back, remember?”
Realization dawned on the surgeon. "Oh, God, the Cossacks! There's a thought! They'd like a bit of bridge-burning.”
Orlov considered pointing out that the Cossacks were not destroying the countryside for amusement, but the memory of some of the wilder ones he had known gave him second thoughts and he kept silent.
“Before Disaster strikes and Nemesis arises," said Kusminsky. "Seriously, Orlov, is everything all right? You look pretty wretched this morning.”
Orlov looked stonily ahead. "We had a disagreement," he said. "I offered to help and she misunderstood. I lost my temper. It was my fault. I've apologized and it's all over now." The words came out in short, painful phrases and Kusminsky pulled his long nose thoughtfully and said, "Tricky business, offering to help anyone – always liable to be misinterpreted, especially when it's a woman. Glad it's all right. What about the bridge, though?"
“Wait and . . ." Orlov shrugged as he said it and was consequently unable to finish the phrase. When he had recovered, Kusminsky said hard-heartedly, "You'll learn not to do it eventually, if the arm hasn't healed first!”
A few minutes later, the road levelled out, the trees fell away on each side, giving way to a belt of meadowland, and the river came into sight. The road ran as straight as an arrow to the bank which was clear of undergrowth for several yards on either side, although further along in both directions it was thickly screened with clumps of alders and willows. On the far side of the river, the road resumed, running across a couple of hundred yards of rough grassland, with a few large trees and small clumps of bushes, before it plunged into the dark forest beyond. In between, the remains of the bridge were still smouldering.
Kusminsky swore softly, but Orlov merely bit his lip for a moment, riding on without either checking or increasing his horse's pace until he came to the bank. Then he stopped and looked thoughtfully at the blackening timbers. Clearly, the supporting struts had been fired and the flames had spread to the timber roadway, which had partly burnt before falling into the river. Orlov estimated the distance between the banks as being about fifty feet, with no great depth of water, thanks to more than three weeks' drought. Below the bridge, patches of the stony bed were visible.
He rode slowly along the bank, looking at its height above the bed. A few yards below the bridge, it sloped fairly steeply for a few feet and there was a corresponding rough ramp on the other side. Orlov thought there might once have been a ford there before the bridge was built, but it had been disused for a very long time, and the spring floods had washed away most of the cartway on each side. It might be possible, with careful braking as the carts went down into the water, perhaps six horses to a cart and some pushing and heaving as well.
Kicking his reluctant grey and talking encouragingly to him, Orlov rode down into the river. The ramp had several holes in it, but there were plenty of stones about for patching. The big horse waded out into midstream, moving cautiously, his ears flicking back to catch his rider's voice and forward again to take another step, the whites of his eyes showing. Orlov leaned over and peered at the river bed. It seemed firm, possibly paved under the mud and stones and there were no holes of any size. The grey began to scramble up the ramp on the far side, reaching the top of the bank with a final heave of his powerful hindquarters. Orlov looked back and saw that all eyes were on him. He raised his hand in a small flourish, smiled briefly, and set the grey down the slope to cross back again.
Kolniev had come to stand by Kusminsky's horse and as they awaited Orlov's return, he looked at the ramps and the river-bed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. As Orlov reached the bank, the captain pushed his hat on to the back of his head and raised his eyebrows. "Possible?"
“Possible," confirmed Orlov. "Damned inconvenient.”
Kusminsky drew out his watch, but before he could speak, Orlov glanced at the sun, which was now blazing down from directly overhead, burning through the cloth of his coat and said, "About half-past noon?"
“Twenty past," replied Kusminsky.
“Your watch is slow," Orlov replied positively. "Food and rest first. An afternoon of hot and hard work after.”
Kolniev went back to the carts, which jolted off the road and formed a circle under and round a clump of trees, which gave a pool of shade halfway between the forest and the river. Orlov dismounted and led his horse over to join them, apparently moving unhurriedly, but with his long legs covering the ground rapidly. He timed his arrival very neatly, giving his reins to Josef as he passed the first cart and holding out his hand to the Countess just as she was about to climb down from the box of the second. She took his hand, jumped down as he steadied her and they walked side by side down to the river bank, where he pointed out to her where the ford had been.
She looked at the ruin of the bridge, and said, "Will the French come as far as this, do you think?”
Orlov remembered this time not to shrug. "The Moscow road is fifty miles to the north. If they're desperate enough, they might come this far foraging. If they go to Moscow, they might come back this way. Probably will – the main road area will be devastated and they can't hope to return by it – no food, no water, no shelter."
“I'm sorry I'm so ignorant," she said, "You're very patient explaining things to me."
“I haven't the faintest idea how to knit, and you'd find' me a remarkably stupid pupil at jam-making," Orlov replied. He was still speaking to her in the gentle manner he had used when he apologized to her during the night, quite unlike his normal authoritative, confident tones.
“I don't suppose you've had much opportunity to learn," she said, and Orlov knew she had taken his meaning.
Josef approached, discreetly clattering the two buckets he carried and filled them with water from the river. Orlov wondered if the Cossacks had left any dead horses in the stream as well as burning the bridge, but he kept the thought to himself and gratefully doused his head in one of the buckets. The Countess washed her face and hands in the other as neatly as a cat, then Orlov escorted her back towards the cart, with the absurd feeling that they might almost be strolling along the Nevsky Prospekt.
The feeling lasted only a few seconds and then the demands of reality engulfed them both. The Countess went to help Kusminsky and Orlov was called into consultation with Kolniev and Sergeant Platov over the best method of harnessing two or three pairs of horses in tandem and the most effective way of securing tail-ropes to the carts.
Kusminsky came when the meal was ready and insisted that this conversation must cease. "A proper rest for everyone and that includes officers arid N.C.Os. No further activity until two o'clock." Orlov submitted, ate his food and drank his coffee obediently, keeping the conversation on general matters such as the course of the river in front of them. "It's a pity there's not more water," he said lightly. "We could convert the carts to boats and float down to Kaluga."	 Kolniev looked interested. "I thought Kaluga was on the Oka," he said. "Is this a tributary?”
Orlov nodded. "I could leave you all in Kaluga and then float on down to Ryazan. It would be nice to finish my sick leave at home."
“Finish it!" Kusminsky snorted. "I wouldn't say you'd exactly started it yet."
“Do you live in the town?" the Countess asked.
“No," Orlov replied. "I've an estate a few miles outside it, but the river flows along the boundary of my land. I can see it from the upstairs windows."
“That would be your main estate, I suppose?" The slight edge in Kusminsky's voice warned Orlov that social prejudice was rearing its head again and he merely replied, "Yes" and went on to talk about the time when he had gone off to explore the river in a leaky boat when he was seven and frightened everyone by his disappearance, until he was found marooned on an island five miles downstream, the bottom having fallen out of the boat with devastating suddenness.
“You haven't changed," commented Kolniev cheekily. "You're still going on lunatic expeditions.”
Orlov laughed. "You didn't have to come with me!”
“What, do you think I'd let you take my men off like that without anyone to look after them?" Kolniev exclaimed in mock horror.
The three men kept up a bantering exchange for a while to Countess Barova's amusement, and then settled down to rest  in accordance with Kusminsky's instructions. Orlov closed his eyes and worked out in his head a complete plan for getting the carts across the river.
At two o'clock, Kolniev unrolled himself from his usual huddle, Orlov opened his eyes, and with mutual accord they both got up and held a rapid conference. Orlov outlined his plan, Kolniev made one or two useful suggestions, and they called up the men they needed and set to work.
The spare half-dozen horses had been used in pairs in rotation on the journey and both officers had a fairly good idea of the reliability and power of each pair. The most reliable were to be used as lead horses for each team of six and the best drivers were also to be used as the carts would cross one by one. While Orlov dealt with sorting out the teams and drivers and had the first three carts made ready, Kolniev took half the active men down to the river and set them to work patching the holes in the ramps and practically remaking part of the nearer one which had washed away. They collected stones and packed them into the gaps, stamping them well in with their heavy boots. There was no need to attempt a permanent repair, just enough to facilitate the passage of the thirteen carts. (It was only at this point that either Orlov or Kolniev realized that there were thirteen and both wondered if it had any significance, but dismissed the idea with a fine military intolerance of superstition.) Kusminsky was concerned about the effect that the crossing might have on some of the more badly wounded men who would have to remain in the carts because they couldn't walk. He had Petrushka carried over on a stretcher, but it took six men to carry the boy smoothly over the tricky ramp sections and on the whole, the surgeon thought it would be better to tie the rest in, with plenty of palliasses round them for padding. He spent some time seeing to this with the help of the Countess, whose slight body pushed and pulled at mattresses with his help and instructions until all were as comfortable and secure as possible.
One by one, the carts were eased down into the river, men leaning back on the ropes (some of them one-handed) to stop them running down too fast on the horses' legs. One by one, the teams were coaxed across the river bed, and then began the sweating, straining business of getting the loaded vehicle up the far ramp, with men slipping and swearing as they knocked or jarred wounded limbs and shoulders. Orlov was every‑  where, directing their efforts', leading the horses, adding his weight to the tail-rope or his strength to the heaving and pushing, working harder than anyone.
At last, the thirteenth cart lurched up on to the bank and was drawn away to where the others were lined up, their horses already picketed and tearing at the thick grass. Orlov waded back across the river to fetch his own horse which was standing quietly under a tree, and realized that the Couness was sitting patiently nearby, out of the way and forgotten by everyone.
Wiping his face on his shirtsleeve, Orlov caught up the grey's bridle, mounted, and rode over to her. She stood up as he stopped beside her, and said, "Put your foot on my right foot: now step up on it." As she did so, he reached down and put his right arm round her and continued the upward movement until she could twist round and sit sideways on the horse in front of him. She was facing towards his right, and for a moment he wondered how he could hold her securely with his right arm without it pressing against her breast. He hesitated a full second too long before realizing that it couldn't be done, then clasped her firmly round the waist, hoping she wouldn't misunderstand.
He edged the horse down the ramp, murmuring gently to calm him, and the grey moved slowly down and across the river, more nervy than ever at the unaccustomed weight on his back. As they mounted the far side, half Orlov's mind was concentrating on the horse, but the other half was preoccupied with the pleasure of the girl's body against his own and he was surprised into a flush of embarrassment when the men gave him a cheer. He looked round at the circle of grinning faces and covered his confusion by announcing that they would make camp where they were and stay over the next day to overhaul the carts, letting the horses graze the plentiful grass. This was met with another cheer.
As the men scattered about their camp-making tasks, Orlov carefully lowered the Countess to the ground before dismounting himself. Kusminsky called to her to help him see to one of the men who was still lashed firmly to his cart and she gave Orlov a quick smile before turning to go. He went round giving the men a word of praise and thanks and sent Josef off to see if there was a good pool anywhere in the river, deep enough to bathe in.
Kolniev drew his attention to one of the wheels of the cart they had picked up at the inn. "It's the wheel that was off," he   said. "The rim is badly worn and I don't think it will last much longer." Orlov scratched his head over it, but obviously it needed a new iron tyre and that was a job for a wheelwright or blacksmith. The only thing to do was to go on using it until it either collapsed, or they found an inhabited village.
Josef returned to report a good large pool a couple of hundred yards down the river and Orlov told the men they could go there and bathe, as long as they didn't get their bandages wet. For the next hour, little groups of men went off dusty-haired and grimy-faced and came back damp-haired and clean. Kolniev went too and returned with the last group of men to tell Orlov that it was a good pool, deep enough for a swim.
When all the odd jobs were done and the horses staked out and peacefully grazing, Orlov took a towel and clean linen and went down to the pool, following the path of trodden grass and pushing through the alders where the others had been before him. The water had cleared and looked cool, green and inviting, sheltered by a thick leafy screen which almost met overhead. He stripped off his clothes, struggling as usual with his boots and lowered himself into the water, holding onto an overhanging branch. The first cold shock made him gasp and he stood chest-deep, awkwardly holding his injured arm clear of the surface. The river flowed gently round him, washing away the sweat and dust, brushing his legs with strands of weed. He ducked as much of himself as he could without wetting his bandages and washed his hair clear of the gritty road dust.
Climbing out was difficult with only one hand, but he managed it by holding on to the juffing branch, slipping a bit on the muddy bank. He rubbed himself briskly with the rough towel and dressed after giving his clothes a good shake, turning his coat back from dust-grey to grubby white. There was a fallen tree lying on the bank which made a convenient seat while he tugged his boots on again.
He strolled back to the camp feeling clean and refreshed, his body glowing healthily from the cold water and rough towelling. The Countess was sitting on a box in the shade, her normally shiny brown hair dulled with the dust. She looked hot and tired. After a moment's hesitation, he went over to her and said, "Would you like to bathe?”
She looked up at him, her face lighting up and said, "Oh, do you think I could? It would be wonderful!”
“I'll stand guard for you," he offered.
She hurried to fetch the things she would need and he walked with her across the meadow to the pool, holding the branches aside for her and showing her how she could get down into the water. Then he sat down on the fallen tree with his broad back turned squarely to the river and the small mossy-floored area which would serve her as a dressing room, and tried to ignore the small sounds of her movements behind him.
He found himself fighting a desperate battle to control his imagination, to think about something else. He told himself that he didn't care for thin women – no, not thin. Thin sounded flat and angular and awkward, and she was graceful, had curves in the right places – gentle curves, but shapely –slender would be a better word. After all, his arm had fitted comfortably into the curve of her waist and . . . With an effort he tried to work out a way of repairing that cartwheel without the facilities of a forge. A pity these men were all infantry. If they'd been cavalry there might have been a farrier among them.
He stared at the toes of his boots, which he had thrust out into a patch of sun and watched them steam a little as they dried out after the wetting they had sustained while he was wading in the river. Behind him, there were sounds of splashing, a sharp gasp, and more splashing.
“I should have warned you that it's rather cold!" he said. "Rather cold! It's icy," she replied. "How good it feels, though.”
He watched a butterfly fluttering about in the patch of sunlight near his feet and wondered about Sergeant Grushchev. Something about the fellow was vaguely worrying, something not quite right but he couldn't put a finger on what it was. Something in his voice, his manner, his whole attitude. A pity the man was from another regiment: Kolniev's encyclopaedic knowledge of his own men didn't include anything on that one. Good officer, Kolniev. He must make sure that he put some strong recommendations about him in his report on this – this what? Adventure? Escapade? Well, in one sense perhaps – they were certainly escaping from the French.
The sounds behind him indicated that the Countess was scrambling out of the water – no, not scrambling, too undignified. She'd be more graceful. Rising from the water, like that painting of Venus he'd seen in Florence, or a water-sprite. He forced his mind to concentrate on trying to remember whether a water-sprite was a dryad or a naiad. Her hair must be as long as the goddess' in the picture, but straighter.
“I shall be a nervous wreck by the time we get to Kaluga," he thought and set to work to name all the countries in Europe, with their capitals and principal rivers, which kept his mind busy until the Countess came from behind him and sat on the log at a discreet distance, fully dressed, but with her long hair hanging damply down her back.
She rubbed vigorously at it with her towel, and then began to comb it out.
“Do you mind if I sit here to do my hair?" she asked. "It's a pleasure to watch," he replied. "You have such beautiful hair.”
She gave him a look of mingled astonishment and pleasure and then looked down, her cheeks flushed. Orlov had always believed that as women spent so much time and trouble in making themselves attractive for the benefit of men, the least a man could do was to show his appreciation, and the compliment had come quite unthinkingly and naturally to his lips but the reaction was so unusual . . . an inexperienced girl might blush at a compliment, but not look so surprised at such an obvious one. Surely any woman with beautiful hair would know it was beautiful?
“Not if no one has ever told her it is!" He had a sudden remembrance of the colourless, faceless, shadowy figures who hovered in the background in the homes of his various elderly aunts and female cousins, unnoticed and unconsidered except for their taken-for-granted usefulness in fetching and carrying. When had he ever bothered to look at one of them to see if she had any attractions? When had he ever thought to pay a compliment to someone's companion?
With his conscience pricking, he added, "And your eyes are lovely, too.”
She murmured "Thank you" and continued to comb her hair, letting it fall forward to curtain her face. Orlov took a strand and let it slide slowly through his fingers, enjoying the soft silkiness of it.
“It's a pity fashion decrees that you must wear it up," he said. "But I suppose it would be a nuisance to you, blowing about loose."
“I shan't be able to put it up soon," she replied. "People keep borrowing my hairpins to clean out bits of their muskets or their pipes, or to mend something, and if they bring them back at all, they're all bent out of shape. I soon shan't have enough left." She seemed to have regained her composure.
Orlov was saved from making a reply which would undoubtedly have thrown her back into blushing confusion by the sound of approaching footsteps, and Josef -came pushing through the branches.
“Your pardon, Your Excellency," he said. "Dr. Kusminsky would be obliged if you would join him. It's Private Petrushka.”
Orlov started up with a quick "Excuse me!" to the Countess and an instruction to Josef to escort her back to camp when she was ready. He ran back to the camp, slowing to a more dignified but ground-covering walk as he neared it. .
The boy was lying on a stretcher under a large tree with Kusminsky and Sergeant Platov kneeling beside him. Platov stood up and moved away a little as Orlov approached and Kusminsky looked up and said, "He has been asking for you. I don't think it will be long now.”
Orlov knelt beside the boy, who turned his head to peer up into his face. "The Major? Is it the Major?" he asked, his voice very weak. "Please, will you ask the Major . . . ?"
“It is the Major," Orlov replied very gently. "What is it, Petrushka?”
The boy's hand rose, groping, and Orlov took it and held it. "I just wanted to ask you . . ." the boy whispered. "I'm frightened, sir. Will it be all right . . . ?"
“Yes," said Orlov. "There's nothing to be afraid of. You'll go to sleep and when you wake up, there'll be no more pain and unhappiness, nothing to fear." His voice sounded confident and reassuring.
“Sir?" The boy's voice was growing fainter and Orlov had to bend over him to hear. "Thank you. Will you stay with me?' I'm sorry . . ."
“Of course I'll stay," Orlov replied. "Just close your eyes and rest. I'll be here.”
Petrushka's eyes closed and he lay still and quiet. Orlov shifted into a more comfortable position and went on holding the boy's hand. It was rough with calloused patches on the palms and broken, blackened nails, which to Orlov made it a pitiful contrast with his own smooth-skinned, well manicured hand. He looked across at Kusminsky who shook his head. There was a long pause, during which the sounds of the camp seemed muted and somehow remote. The sun was beginning to drop and the shadows were lengthening into grotesque shapes; a bee was humming, the insistent sound coming nearer and then moving further away; a horse whinnied, and another answered; the sultry afternoon seemed breathlessly suffocating.
Petrushka's hand stirred slightly and his eyes opened again, but they looked blind and he stared blankly past Orlov's head. "Sir?"
“Yes, I'm here."
“It's getting so dark, I couldn't see you. Sir, I hope you'll be happy, very happy — both of you. . . ." he was silent again and he turned to look into Orlov's face, a look of strain about his eyes, murmuring so faintly that Orlov could hardly hear, "My mother . . . you'll tell . . . you'll write?"
“I'll write to her and go and see her when I can," Orlov promised. His voice was gentle and full of compassion. The boy sighed and his lips moved soundlessly, his eyes closed and Kusminsky, who was holding his other wrist, looked sharply at his face for a long moment, then took the boy's hand from Orlov, folded it with the other one over the boy's breast and gently drew the blanket up over his face.
Orlov sat still, letting his head droop slackly, and Kusminsky said softly, "He's well out of it." Orlov didn't move and after a minute the surgeon added, "You gave him the courage to go easily — there was nothing more you could have done.”
Orlov nodded, got up and walked away, abstracted and without looking where he was going. When he reached the river bank, he sat down and stared at nothing in particular for a long time, his mind blank and his eyes unseeing. After a while, he picked up a handful of pebbles and began lobbing them one by one into the river. The water was dark-looking, streaked with oily crimson where the sunset banners were reflected on its rippled surface. He felt utterly weary and desperately homesick.
“I must resign and go home," he thought. "As soon as the French are out of Russia, I must get out. I want peace and something worth-while out of life, something constructive. I'm sick of death and destruction — I want a home, a wife and children." He tried to picture what it would be like to have children — a son like a small edition of himself and a daughter with big brown eyes like her mother.
He went on throwing stone after stone into the river and presently Kolniev came up behind him and said, "You'll have built a dam across there by the time we leave if you go on like that.”
Orlov jerked out of his reverie and scrambled to his feet. "The boy died," he said abruptly.
“Yes, Kusminsky told me. There was no chance for him from the start." Kolniev was silent for a minute, then ran his hand through his hair and said, "I came to fetch you for supper — it's been ready for some time.”
The two officers walked across to join Kusminsky and the Countess. Orlov made an effort to be normally cheerful during the meal, but everyone seemed subdued and thoughtful, and they sat talking quietly after supper in a serious vein, largely about the ways in which the condition of the serfs could be changed for the better. Kusminsky listened to Orlov and Kolniev for some time without saying anything until Kolniev asked his opinion of the possibility of any major change in the situation — did he think that all the serfs could be freed at a blow, by Imperial decree? The surgeon replied curtly, "I don't own anyone. I think serfdom and slavery are monstrous institutions."
“I think we're agreed on that," Orlov said. "The point is, though, how can these institutions be abolished? This is the real world — we can't change it by calling up a fairy to wave her magic wand."
“And some people think that's reason enough to do nothing at all." Kusminsky sounded bitter and angry. "I don't choose to discuss the matter with either of you. I'm sorry, but I like and admire you both as men and I prefer not to spoil our friendship by dragging in unpleasant matters arising from your family backgrounds.”
There was an awkward silence and then the Countess said in her calm, soft voice, "It will be pleasant to stay in one place tomorrow. I expect there will be quite a lot of things to be done to the carts.”
- "Yes," replied Kolniev. "I want to alter the loading of some of them. They'll run better if the loads are properly balanced and there are a few repairs needed to."
“Talking of repairs," the Countess said. "I have sewing thread and needles with me. If anyone needs any clothing repaired, I'd be happy to see to it for them.”
Kolniev took up her offer with gratitude. "All the buttons fall off my shirts as soon as I look at them," he said ruefully.
Orlov remarked that his buttons would never dare to fall off, Josef wouldn't let them, and a little more light-hearted conversation ensued until it was time to retire. As they stood up, Kusminsky said awkwardly, "I'd like to apologize. I'm afraid I must have sounded very rude."
“Not at all," replied Kolniev and shook hands with him. Orlov followed suit, then strolled off to check that all the horses were securely tethered, both because he thought it necessary and to give Countess Barova a little privacy before he went to the tent.
The horses were all secure and he strolled back through the camp in the moonlight, pausing for a few words with two or three men who were still sitting round the damped-down fire, taking their turn at keeping watch. He detoured round the carts to occupy a few more minutes and exchanged goodnights with the men settling down to sleep.
When he entered the tent, Countess Barova was sitting up in her bed tying the end of her long plait. He saw that she had laid out his blankets and put his greatcoat handy for him and he thanked her and said, "It's surprising how difficult it is to hold blankets and all manner of simple jobs like that with only one hand.”
As he was pulling off his boots, she lay down and said, "I'm sorry about the boy. He was very young to die like that." Orlov wondered why she had waited until he got to the boot stage of undressing before she spoke and decided that it was probably because it took her a certain length of time to screw up her courage to say something, which happened to coincide with the time it took him to take off sword, belt, sash, coat and shirt. Perhaps tomorrow he would change the order and start with his boots and see if he was right.
“Yes," he replied. "Very young. He should never have been in the army at all."
“Did he volunteer?"
“He was sent by his master as a punishment for poaching. Not many serfs ever get the chance to volunteer for anything. I don't wonder Kusminsky feels so strongly about it."
“How many serfs do you own?" she asked. Orlov looked at her, wondering if she was implying something. The light was too dim to show her expression and her voice gave no indication of anything but a mild curiosity, but he had a strong suspicion that she had a well-practised skill in the art of diplomacy. Some of her innocent questions and remarks could convey a great deal more than she actually said.
“I don't own any serfs," he replied. "I rent land to free peasants and employ free servants.”
There was a little silence and he hoped he hadn't given the impression that he was snubbing her. Then she said, "I'm glad, but I thought . . . I know it's legal to free serfs now, but I thought it wasn't really approved.”
Orlov smiled. "I don't much care if it's approved or not. If I choose to free my serfs, I'll free them."
“You're an Orlov, and you'll do as you please!" she quoted laughingly.
He flushed. "I'm also arrogant, clumsy and a bully," he said. "It will be a long time before I forgive myself for that.”
“I was joking — I'm sorry.”
He knelt beside her and spread his cloak over her, giving her a wry smile. "I know — it doesn't matter," he said. "I'm suffering from a tender conscience. Don't be sorry — I'd rather you teased me about my foolishness than let it hurt you.”
Again he was tempted to kiss her, and again he removed himself hastily as far from her as the limits of the small tent allowed, rolled himself in his blankets and politely wished her goodnight.

CHAPTER SIX

 IT was obvious during the next day that most of the little company welcomed a day of staying in one place. They were all tired after the strenuous activity of the river crossing, Orlov most of all. His muscles were stiff and aching and his right shoulder quite badly bruised from using it to push the carts up the ramp. Kusminsky snapped at him for overtaxing himself and sounded so bad-tempered that Orlov had a sudden pang of conscience about him. He had not once stopped to consider the strain this journey must be on the surgeon with more than sixty wounded men in his sole charge, some of them seriously injured, and he could imagine that to a man of feeling, as Kusminsky obviously was, the death of a patient, however hopeless the case, must be a bitter blow.
The first duty of the morning, once they had breakfasted, was to bury Petrushka, and Orlov did his best to make the simple ceremony as dignified and meaningful as he could. Everyone attended, the men who were unable to move themselves being carried to the graveside in one of the carts. The Countess stood with the officers, wearing the black lace veil she had produced for her aunt's funeral, which now seemed so long ago.
Kolniev had chosen the place for the grave and Orlov was struck once more by the Captain's intelligent and thoughtful approach to his duties. He had chosen a quiet place on the edge of the forest in the middle of a triangle formed by three young oak trees, overhung by a canopy of honeysuckle which filled the sultry, still air with a heady perfume. As he stood with his head bent in a final private prayer, Orlov thought that the scent of honeysuckle would now always have a special poignancy from its association with the memory of the dead boy.
Afterwards, Kolniev set the able men to work unloading all the carts and sorting their contents so that he could check the state of their supplies and pack the carts to better advantage. Orlov took the opportunity to have new axles put on two of them from the spares they had acquired at the inn. He did a good deal of the work himself, aided by Sergeant Platov and a couple of men who said they had been carpenters in civil life. Orlov noted that the four of them had only five unbandaged arms between them, but Platov's shoulder was now healing well and the other two were not badly wounded, at least in their upper limbs — one of them had an ugly gash in his leg and had made himself a crutch.
By the midday break, they had finished one cart and started on the next and Orlov was glad to rest on the grass beside the Countess for a while and let his aching muscles relax. She had sewn a number of buttons on to Kolniev's shirts, patched one for Kusminsky and was now darning stockings. "I can't match the wool," she said. "I've only grey. Do you think it matters?"
“Personally," replied Orlov, "I would prefer stockings absolutely covered with multicoloured darns to stockings full of uncomfortable holes. It's very much a maffer of taste.”
She laughed. "These are yours.”
Orlov sat up with a jerk. "Mine? What on earth is Josef thinking of?"
“Josef is helping Dr. Kusminsky. It seemed more sensible as he's stronger than I am and some of the men have to be lifted about.”
Orlov subsided. "It's very kind of you, but . . ." he began, but she cut in swiftly, "No. Don't say it, please! We've already had one conversation that revolved round those words. Your stockings need darning and I have wool and a needle — that's all there is to be said.”
He was silent for a moment, then said "Thank you" and smiled at her. She returned the smile and went on darning.
The orderlies brought their food and coffee and were closely followed by Kolniev and Kusminsky. The Captain's face was red with his exertions and his bandage had come off, revealing the half-healed cut on his forehead. Kusminsky rebandaged it before he would let Kolniev eat and then sat down with a sharp puff of breath. He looked hot and tired.
“How are the patients?" asked Orlov.
“Impatient, on the whole," he replied. "It's largely your fault — they see you hard at work and they must do the same. Even the stretcher cases are propped up and mending harness. I've put fresh dressings on more than half and I'll do the rest this afternoon — including you!" he added menacingly.
Orlov pulled a face and ate his hard bread. The arm was a little less painful today, but he would rather not have it disturbed. "What about Grushchev?" he asked.
Kusminsky shook his head. "He wouldn't speak to me this morning – wouldn't let me see his stump, either. He just turned his head away and walked off. I'm pretty sure he's doing well physically, but his mental state – to be honest, I'm worried. I've seen this sort of thing before, when a man's had a bad time. Sometimes they go quite – well – peculiar.”
Orlov exchanged a look with him. He had seen men go mad with shock too and he realized that Kusminsky was trying to avoid alarming the Countess. "It's odd that he won't speak to you," he said. "Does he speak to anyone else?"
“He answered when I spoke to him, but very reluctantly," put in Kolniev. "I've heard him talking to some of the men, but not in the last couple of days. He just sits silent all the time."
“I think we had better watch out for him," said Orlov.
There was little conversation during the rest of the break. The heat was more oppressive than ever and Orlov said sleepily, "We could do with a good thunderstorm to clear the air .a bit." As he spoke, he happened to be looking at the Countess and he saw that her eyes widened with fear at his words, but she didn't say anything.
“You don't like thunder?" he asked.
She looked embarrassed. "It's very silly, I know, but really it terrifies me – it always has. My aunt used to say it was childish and I mustn't give in to it and truly, I do try, but it's no use. Every time there's a storm, I'm really frightened out of my wits."
“Nothing to be ashamed of," said Kusminsky. "Everyone's frightened of something. I know a man who's twice won the St. George's Cross, but a spider running across his hand would make him yell with terror. I can't stand being in a small enclosed space – I was shut in a cupboard once as a child and nearly went mad with fright. Even the Major's afraid of something – aren't you?" he shot at Orlov, who at once said cheerfully that he was afraid of a number of  things and then realized that this had quite failed to comfort the Countess – he had spoken too lightly.
“To be honest," he said, very soberly, "I have a real terror of mutilation – the thought of losing a limb or having my face scarred makes me feel literally sick." He felt uncomfortable at revealing his private fear like this and covered it by adding, "I expect it's mostly vanity.”
Kolniev's sunburned face went a brighter shade of red and he nobly admitted, "I'm afraid of falling off a horse. I did when I was ten, caught my foot in the stirrup and was dragged. It's put me off riding ever since.”
The Countess smiled gratefully at them and said, "Thank you for telling me. It makes me feel less ashamed of myself.”
Silence descended on the little group as they each relaxed in their individual ways. Countess Barova continued to darn. Orlov watched her from under his long black lashes. Kolniev slept curled up like a puppy, Kusminsky neatly and cat-like.
During the afternoon, the various jobs were finished one by one and the men went off to bathe, returning to sit in the shade, talking and smoking. Some of them sang softly, others played cards.
Later, Orlov sent Josef to see that the pool was cleared of bathers, then he took the Countess there and sat on his tree trunk, gloomily sympathizing with St. Anthony while she splashed about in the water.
As she was dressing, she said, "I've never bathed in a river before."
“I'm afraid you're having to do a great many things you've never done before," Orlov replied. "I must say that I admire the way you stand up to it all – it must be very hard and frightening for you.”
She had finished dressing and came to sit on the tree trunk.
“It's all very bewildering and strange," she said. "But at the same time it's somehow exciting. I've had such an uneventful life – the greatest excitement we ever had at my aunt's was when the bull got loose once and broke into her garden."
“How did you get him out?" asked Orlov.
“Just took hold of the rope that was tied to the ring in his nose and led him through the gate," she replied. "He was quite tame really. The exciting part was when my aunt's visitors had the vapours and screamed."
“Do you ever scream and have the vapours?"
“No, of course not. Nothing ever happened to me that merited such an extravagant reaction!”
Orlov roared with laughter. When he had recovered, he said, "Shall I walk back with you, or will you wait while I bathe?"
“I'll sit here. It's cool and peaceful.”
He retired to the mossy bank behind her, stripped and slid down into the water. She continued to talk to him, and said, "Isn't it strange that there should be quite a deep pool here, but so little water just a short distance away by the bridge?"
“The bed of the river is much lower here. I should think the pool was made – scooped out for some reason. Perhaps there was a mill here at one time or it might have been used for washing horses – it's about the right depth."  He started to pull himself out on to the bank, slipped and fell back into the river, soaking his bandages. "It's a good thing Kusminsky is going to change my dressing," he said. "This one is all wet now." He took a more secure hold on the overhanging branch and pulled himself out safely this time. He towelled himself and dressed without bothering to put on his shirt. He had taken his coat off after the burial service.
They strolled back together across the grass and found Kusminsky still bandaging. Orlov confessed that he had fallen in the river, and the surgeon took off the wet bandage and looked at the wound.
“It's beginning to heal," he said, "but you must still be very careful. It wouldn't take much to reopen it and it could bleed very badly again." He put on a fresh bandage and went to attend to a man with a broken leg who was lying by one of the carts a few feet away.
Orlov slipped his arms into his shirtsleeves and sat on the ground, leaning against a tree and making himself relax until the pain gradually died down to its usual level. He saw the tall figure of Sergeant Grushchev come out of the forest and walk across towards the wide circle of carts. Orlov's attention was caught by something odd in the man's appearance. He was walking very slowly, almost shambling, quite unlike his normal erect, military bearing but there was an air of purpose about him as well, as if he had a particular object in view. His eyes were fixed on something, not Orlov himself, but something beyond him and as he approached, Orlov saw that they were dilated and staring. He turned his head to see what the man was looking at and realized that it must be the liffle group round the man with the broken leg. Josef was just turning to go and fetch something for the surgeon, who was kneeling by the stretcher saying something to Josef, with his back towards the approaching sergeant.
Orlov scrambled to his feet and stepped forward to intercept Grushchev who tried to brush past him, but he caught hold ofthe man's sleeve and said, "Just a minute, Grushchev. How are you today? How's your arm?”
The sergeant stopped dead, tore his gaze from the surgeon and glared down into Orlov's face. "What arm?" he snarled. "I haven't got an arm. I'm only a peasant — I don't get my arm treated and sewn up, not like little Staff officers in their pretty uniforms! Nobody troubles about me. That swine cut my arm off. He's only got time to bother with saving yours. We're left to live or die as best we can. Officers!" He spat. "Get out of my way!”
Orlov stood his ground and said, "You're talking nonsense! What do you mean to do?"
“Do? Kill him!" The giant sergeant lunged forward and Orlov stepped in his way and blocked him. Grushchev uttered a roar of rage and literally threw Orlov aside. He was flung hard against the tree, his injured arm taking the full force of the collision. He gave a sharp cry at the pain of it and for a long moment, it seemed as if he was looking at a tableau vivant framed in a thick red mist. Grushchev lumbered forward towards Kusminsky, who had turned his head at Orlov's cry and was apparently frozen in position, still kneeling with his back half turned to the sergeant. Other men were coming from all directions, but none was near enough to stop Grushchev before he reached Kusminsky.
Fighting off the waves of red mist and nausea which were flooding over him, Orlov hurled himself at the sergeant with all his strength. He was again flung aside and landed face down on the grass, a limp, sprawled figure with an ominous red stain spreading across his left shirtsleeve.
Kusminsky rose and ran towards him, ignoring the sergeant, who had to check in his rush and change direction and before he could reach, the surgeon a dozen men came running to seize him. He was knocked to the ground, winded and apparently unconscious.
Attracted by the noise, Kolniev came out from behind the cart he had been working on, took one look at the scene and ran to where Kusminsky was bent over the still, white-clad figure. "Oh, God!" he said. "Not the Major! What happened?"
“Not sure. Wasn't looking," Kusminsky replied, rapidly stripping off the blood-soaked shirt and bandages and using a long strip to make a tourniquet. He tightened it and took the dressing off the wound. Three of the sutures were broken and the wound was gaping and seeping blood, but even as they  looked, the tourniquet began to take effect and the flow decreased.
Kusminsky let out his breath in a long sigh. Sergeant Platov came over and said to Kolniev, "With your permission, sir?" Kolniev looked up and nodded and Platov continued, "I think the sergeant was intending to harm the doctor, and the Major tried to stop him." Kusminsky looked up sharply and said, "That's it, is it! Of course — he wouldn't speak to me."
“I don't understand," Kolniev said. His eyes were fixed on Orlov's white face with a look of sick dread.
“Resentment," Kusminsky replied. "I took his arm off. Fellow's been brooding over it. I'm a fool. I should have realized what was wrong." He looked around for his instrument case and found that the Countess had quietly appeared at his side with it. The surgeon took it and got out the things he needed to restitch the wound. Countess Barova knelt by Orlov's feet out of the way and gazed at his face, her own nearly as white as his. She did not speak.
Kusminsky worked in silence and gradually everyone who could walk gathered round at a respectful distance and watched with deep concern. Their attention was so much on what the doctor was doing that they were caught unawares when Grushchev suddenly rolled over, scrambled to his feet and ran off into the forest. Kolniev gave a shout and started after him, but stopped after a few steps and directed half-a dozen men to go instead. He was clearly more concerned about Orlov.
After a few minutes, Kusminsky slackened the tourniquet and watched the blood seeping from the wound. He tightened it again and sat back on his heels watching Orlov's face, his own quite expressionless. The Countess gave a tiny choking sob.
At last one of the soldiers blurted out the question none of them had dared ask. "Will he . . .? Is he going to . . .?" but he couldn't finish.
“I don't know," said `Kusminsky flatly. "If the bleeding stops he'll probably be all right. If not, he'll die. You may as well go back to what you were doing — you can't do anything for him.”
Kolniev invented a number of jobs on the spur of the moment to keep the men busy and went away to organize them. The Countess and the surgeon remained with Orlov. Kusminsky glanced at her but she said "Please don't send me away", so he said nothing and returned his attention to his patient.
For nearly two hours he watched the wound, alternately slackening and tightening the tourniquet until he was sure that the bleeding had stopped. Then he bound up the wound and called over a stretcher party to carry Orlov to his tent where he covered him well with blankets. The Countess accompanied him and remained unobtrusively as close to Orlov as she could without obstructing the surgeon.
“Well," he said. "Now it's a matter of waiting. He'll have to be watched, I think. Someone should be with him all the time for a bit."
“I'll sit with him," she said.
“Very well," Kusminsky replied. "I must finish seeing to my patients. You stay here now and I'll send Josef to relieve you at suppertime. If there's any change in him, call me at once." He went out of the tent and the Countess sat down on the ground beside the still figure on the stretcher, her eyes on his face, and remained there until the gathering dusk brought Josef to take her place.
Going out to join the others for supper, calm and self-possessed, she put up a good pretence of eating. Kolniev was irritable with frustration because Grushchev had not been found and he could do nothing for Orlov. Kusminsky looked utterly weary and hardly spoke until they were drinking their coffee. Then he said, "About tonight — are you a heavy sleeper?"
“No," replied the Countess. "I sleep rather lightly. It takes very little to wake me."
“Then I suggest we retire in the normal way but that you sleep close to the stretcher, if you've no objection. If there is any change in the Major's condition you must call me, but I don't somehow think that there will be. Until he turns feverish, he'll probably just lie there. To be honest, I don't think any of us can afford to go without sleep at present and there isn't much point in anyone staying awake unnecessarily.”
The others deferred to his judgement and soon afterwards the Countess returned to the tent taking over from Josef, who said he intended to remain nearby. The Countess promised to call him if there was any change in his master. Orlov had not stirred. He was lying on his back, breathing lightly, his thick black hair and eyebrows stark against his white face, and his heavily bandaged arm lying outside the blankets.
The Countess pulled her own bedding across to Orlov's side of the tent, took off her dress and unpinned her hair. She sat watching his face while she combed and replaited it, then wriggled into her blankets and lay down, leaving the little lantern still alight.
She slept badly, dozing off and then waking again to sit up and listen to Orlov's breathing. There was no change in him at all and twice, wondering if he were still alive, she had to get up and slide her small hand inside his blankets to feel whether his heart was still beating.
In the morning, Kusminsky came to look at him and said he thought he would probably pull through. "Unless . . ." he added. "Unfortunately, there are too many unlesses . . . gangrene, blood-poisoning, another knock to start the bleeding again. Still, he's a pretty tough man. I don't think he'll be all that easy to kill off.”
The Countess gave him a wan smile and allowed Josef to take her place while she went to have her breakfast.
Kolniev was worried about continuing the journey. "I think we ought to go on," he said. "We're still too near the French line of march if they're going on towards Moscow. I wish we knew where they are! Do you think the Major can travel?”
Kusminsky shrugged. "As long as he's not thrown about. Lash his stretcher down in a cart, tie him on to it and he should be all right. I expect he'll turn feverish soon, so someone should be with him.”
After a moment's reflection, Kolniev suggested that the cart the Countess normally drove would be the best one and he thought that now Sergeant Platov's shoulder was so much better, he might drive and leave the Countess free to be with Orlov.
She agreed and Kolniev went to have part of the cart's load shifted. When he returned, he said, "We can't go just yet. Some of the men have just found Grushchev. He's hanged himself."
“Just as well," replied Kusminsky. "The fellow's stark mad, I think. Anyway, he'd have been sentenced to death if he stood trial."
“I don't think the Major would have liked the idea of a trial and he'd have liked the sentence even less," said Kolniev. "Anyway, we'll have to bury him and that'll take a little time. No ceremony – the men won't have it, they're too angry about what he did.”
The Countess said nothing but returned to the tent, sitting by Orlov until the stretcher-bearers came to carry him to the cart. Kolniev saw to the business of tying the stretcher securely and the Countess made herself comfortable beside him. The procession formed up and jolted slowly across the grass and back on to the road.
The big grey was tied on behind one of the carts with the other spare horses and Sergeant Platov turned round on the box of the cart to look down at Orlov's still figure on the stretcher. He said, "It don't seem right, not to see him up there on that grey, riding along in front. It don't seem right at all." The corporal sitting beside him nodded agreement and they drove along in gloomy silence.
Towards the end of the morning, with the sun nearly at its hottest and the dust hanging thick in the still air, Orlov made a faint sound and moved his head. The Countess bent over him and felt his forehead. It was dry and burning and he moved his head fretfully, moaning.
The Countess called Kusminsky who rode up beside the cart and looked over the side at his patient. "Is his head hot?" he asked.
“Yes, but he's not sweating."
“He'll start getting restless soon. Don't let him thresh about. If he does, we'll have to tie him down or he'll move that arm, and it's best kept still." Kusminsky remained beside the cart, glancing frequently at Orlov, who continued to move his head restlessly from time to time and make small moaning sounds.
At the midday break the cart stood in the shade and they made no attempt to move him. The Countess asked Josef for a bucket of water, bathed Orlov's hot face and smoothed his thick curls, which promptly sprang back into their usual disorder. Kolniev brought her some food and remained to eat his own, perched on the side of the cart, looking hot, tired and anxious. He asked the Countess how she was and she replied, "I'm a little stiff and dusty. Would you mind staying with him while I wash and walk about a little?”
She went across to the stream which had been the reason for their choice of stopping place and washed her face, but returned to the cart straight away, remaining there quietly by the stretcher until it was time to go on.
As the day wore on, Orlov's fever increased a little and he became restless, but did not attempt to move any more than his head. The Countess drowsed beside him, bathing his face from time to time and in between, held his right hand under the cover of the blanket which Kusminsky thought he should have over him, despite the heat. During the afternoon, they passed through an area of open country where there was another village, empty and burned as the first one had been. The black ruin had a depressing effect on the party's spirits, already low, and they went on into another belt of forest in a despondent silence.
Camp for the night was made in the area of cleared rand where a minor road crossed the one they were on. When the tents were up, Orlov was carried to his, still on the stretcher and still unconscious, feverish and deathly pale. Kusminsky went to him and, checking the condition of his arm, began to look a fraction more cheerful.
When he had gone, Josef brought a bucket of water for the Countess and she retired with it to the part of the tent furthest from the entrance, hung up Orlov's cloak as a curtain and washed and changed her clothes. She paused to listen every time Orlov moaned and knelt beside him afterwards, stroking his hair until Kolniev came to keep watch while she had her supper.
About half-an-hour later, he came over to the "dining table" and said, "I've left Josef with the Major. He's much more restless and I think he wants something."
“Any idea what?" asked Kusminsky.
“It's not very clear. He keeps muttering something," Kolniev said, looking worried. "That's why I called Josef, to see if he could guess. I thought he might have some idea what it might be, but he can't understand either. We both thought it sounded like 'sparrow', but that doesn't make sense.”
The Countess got up and ran to the tent. When Kolniev and Kusminsky arrived a few seconds later, she was kneeling on the ground beside the stretcher and Orlov was lying quiet and still.
“Well!" said Kusminsky. "It looks as if he got his 'sparrow', whatever it is. Did you know what he meant?" She simply replied "Yes" without offering any explanation.
Later, when everyone retired, she again slept close to the stretcher. She was woken at the very first glimmer of dawn by Orlov's restless tossing and muttering. She knelt beside him, keeping on his right side for fear of knocking his arm and whispered, "It's all right – oh, please be still!”
Hls forehead was still very hot. She stroked his hair, murmuring to him soothingly, and gradually he grew quieter. She pulled one of her blankets round her shoulders and sat watching his face until presently she dropped into a light sleep.
She woke with a start to find that the daylight was growing stronger and that Orlov was lying with his eyes open, looking at her. She leant over him and he put his right arm round her, drawing her down until she was lying with her head on his shoulder. He laid his cheek against her hair and sighed.
“Major Orlov?" she whispered.
“Dear Sparrow!" he replied. "It's getting light, isn't it?”
“Yes, it's nearly sunrise. How are you?”
. He was silent for a moment and then said, "Did the wound open again?"
“Yes. Do you remember what happened?"
“It was Grushchev – he wanted to kill Kusminsky. I remember trying to stop him. What happened then?”
“He threw you against a tree, you went after him and then he knocked you down. The others caught him. Dr. Kusminsky is quite safe.”
He rubbed his face against her hair, then said, "What about Grushchev?"
“He – he hanged himself.”
Orlov sighed again. She felt him relax, his breathing becoming more regular. After a while she carefully released herself from his encircling arm and sat up. He was sleeping naturally and when she felt his forehead, it was quite cool. She saw that the chalky pallor of his face had changed to a slightly more healthy look.
He slept until the time came to put him on the cart again for the day's journey. The movement woke him, but when they had finished tying the stretcher securely in position, he turned a little on his right side and fell asleep again. Kusminsky had a look at the arm just before they started off and was actually whistling through his teeth as he mounted his horse.
The weather seemed to be even hotter, the dust more irritating and gritty than ever. For part of the morning, they were moving across open country, with fields full of green oats and rye. There was no sign of life anywhere, except when once, in the distance, they saw a little group of about half-a-dozen serfs who watched them for a while and then ran off into the forest. The sun beat down on the awnings, and a tiny fitful breeze blew the dust about but failed to give any impression of coolness.
Just after midday, they reached the village to which the fields belonged and found it completely deserted, but not yet set on fire. They stopped there for their usual break and Kolniev sent men to search the little wooden hovels, the barns and outhouses. They found very little of any use. The serfs seemed to have taken everything portable of value or use with them and the barns contained hardly anything except a few handfuls of hay and some poor quality oats.
Orlov woke up while they were resting and lay still for a time, looking round in a puzzled way. He felt utterly exhausted and it was quite five minutes before he could manage to sit up, holding on to the side of the cart. The sight of the deserted village gave him a feeling of disorientation – he felt sure he'd never seen it before – but then he saw the Countess and Kolniev sitting on the ground behind the cart, talking, and he realized that he must have been unconscious while the party had moved on without his knowledge.
He started to speak and found that his voice was husky. He had to clear his throat and start again. At the sound, the two of them got up and came to him and the Countess got into the cart, gently pushing him back to lean against a sack which she pushed behind him to prop him up.
“How are you?" asked Kolniev.
Orlov frowned and tried to remember what had happened to him and suddenly recollection flooded back. "Just a bit weak," he replied. "How long have I been out of action?"
“About thirty-six hours," Kolniev informed him. "Do you remember what happened?”
Orlov thought for a moment. "Yes, it was Grushchev," he replied. "Did you say he hanged himself?" he asked the Countess, who inexplicably blushed. He puzzled over this. He could remember her voice telling him that the sergeant had hanged himself, but there didn't seem to be anything in that to make her colour up.
His thoughts were interrupted by Josef arriving with a bowl of broth and after an initial argument, which he lost, he leaned contentedly against the sack while the Countess spooned the food neatly into his mouth. It was all very pleasant, in a way. The pain in his arm was still there, of course, but he was getting used to it and could almost forget it if he didn't move the arm."—What's in the sack?" he asked.
“Oats." Her whole attention seemed to be on the task of getting the next spoonful of broth into him without spilling any and he watched her face thoughtfully, his black brows quirking up in a puzzled frown. Why had she blushed?
He continued to wonder from time to time all the rest of the day, whenever he was not asleep, listening to people talking or answering their enquiries about his welfare. The cart rolled along with an occasional jolt and a continual rhythmic creaking. The atmosphere seemed to grow more and more sultry and Orlov kept drifting into a doze, waking again to lie watching the shadows of the trees on the awning above his head, the horses drawing the car behind or the Countess sitting beside him.
Halfway through the afternoon, Kusminsky appeared alongside the cart and looked in at him. "How are you now?" he asked. "Don't tell me – perfectly all right, of course. You realize you've lost a lot more blood and broken half your stitches? You're a damned nuisance, Major Orlov, and I'd wash my hands of you entirely if I didn't have a strong suspicion that you saved my life. I'm very grateful to you.”
Orlov realized that the surgeon's hectoring tone covered a great deal of feeling and replied in the same vein, "I'd no wish to see you murdered – I might have to do all the bandaging myself if we lost you. How bad have I been?" The last question was quite serious, and so was Kusminsky's reply.
“Not as bad as I feared. I managed to stop the bleeding pretty quickly, and you didn't have a very bad fever – only about twelve hours, and not too much tossing about. There was one bad spell last night, when you kept asking for something – Kolniev was with you and he couldn't make out what it was. Luckily, Countess Barova seemed to understand, and by the time I arrived, you were quiet again."
“What was it?" asked Orlov. "I don't remember any of this."
“Sounded like 'sparrow'," said Kusminsky. "What do you think it was?”
Orlov dared not look at the Countess or reply to Kusminsky's question. Instead, he began to sit up and complained that he was uncomfortable. In the resulting confusion of injunctions to keep still and attempts to make him more easy, Kusminsky appeared not to notice the oversight.
When Orlov's position had been arranged to his satisfaction, Kusminsky instructed him not to try to do too much too soon. "Not that you'll take any notice," he added. "You always do as you damned well please!" He snorted, and rode off in disgust as both the Countess and Orlov burst out laughing.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THEY made camp for the night in yet another glade in the interminable forest. Orlov watched the smooth routine with a curious sense of timelessness, feeling as if the whole business was some kind of a dream, an eternity of moving along the same dusty road to the same camp ground in endless repetition, totally removed from real life.
The stretcher-bearers came to carry him to his tent but he refused indignantly to allow them to do so. Despite their protests, he hauled himself on to his feet and let them help him down out of the cart. Then he walked slowly across to the tent and sat down rather suddenly on a box outside it.
There was an exclamation from inside. The Countess opened the flap and looked out at him, holding her dress in front of her. She was clearly in the middle of washing and changing her clothes and Orlov apologized for disturbing her.
“Did you walk from the cart?" she asked.
Orlov admitted that he had, and she said anxiously, "Oh, do be careful! You've been very ill, you know, feverish, and quite delirious."
“So I gather. What else did I say?"
“N-nothing," the Countess stammered, blushing again. "What did I do, then?" His voice was suddenly sharp with anxiety. She met his eyes and saw the urgency in them. "Nothing very much. You put your arm round me, that's all," she replied.
“I'm sorry.”
She smiled. "It was nothing," she assured him and retired inside the tent as Josef arrived with a bucket of water for Orlov to wash off the dust.
He rested for a while after he had washed and changed, put on his coat against the evening chill (he had been in shirtsleeves all day), then walked slowly across to the "dining table," which was set up under a nearby tree. Kusminsky watched him and refrained from comment, but Kolniev met him half‑way and insisted on giving him an arm to lean on. Orlov sat down gingerly and leant against the tree trunk.
“What progress have we made?" he asked.
“We're about halfway," Kolniev replied. He took the map out of his pocket and showed Orlov where he thought they were. The Countess came over and asked to see, so Orlov spread the map out on the ground and pointed out the course of the road, showing her the various points at which they had stopped. "You see," he said, tracing the Moscow road with his finger, "we're gradually moving away from it, out of range of the French advance – if they are advancing.”
She looked at the map, bending close to Orlov, and followed the line of the road they were on to Kaluga, and then moved her finger on to Ryazan. "Is that where your sister is?" she asked.
Orlov peered closely at the map in the fading light and showed her the exact location of his home, just outside Ryazan. "There," he said, "unless she's run off with a handsome hussar officer."
“Do you think she might?" The Countess sounded both alarmed and intrigued.
“Well, she's an Orlov too!" he said slyly, and they both laughed.
After the meal, Orlov felt so tired that he was glad to accept the support of Kolniev's arm again back to the tent where he turned in and fell asleep almost immediately. When the Countess came a short while later, she spread his greatcoat over the top of his blankets and touched the unruly mop of curls which was the only part of him visible. He did not stir.
A good night's sleep, after the amount of rest he had been able to take the day before, did a great deal to restore his energy. He found in the morning that he could walk about without much difficulty, although standing up after sitting or lying still made him feel dizzy. During breakfast he considered the possibility of riding, but he could see the big grey over in the picket line prancing about in a lively fashion and common sense told him that another day of riding in the cart would do him more good than trying to control an over-energetic mount. Despite his dislike of giving in to his own weakness, and the knowledge that the jolting progress of the vehicle was uncomfortable, somehow the prospect of sitting in the cart seemed curiously attractive.
“You'll go ln the cart today," said Kusminsky, echoing his thoughts in a flat statement that brooked no contradiction. He looked surprised when Orlov meekly agreed and regarded him with some anxiety. "How do you feel?" he asked.
Orlov gave him a smile of bland innocence. "Amenable and lazy," he replied and laughed at the expression of suspicious disbelief on the surgeon's face.
Kolniev seemed a little distracted when he appeared and Orlov asked him what was wrong. "We're running a bit short of supplies," he replied. "Not desperately so yet, but we've only enough for a couple of days at the present rate. I've cut the horses' rations a little – I think we were over-feeding them. It would help if we could camp where there's some grass again. We're low on meat and fresh vegetables, though I suppose we could live on cheese and hard bread and dried peas until we get to Kaluga."
“Not much of an invalid diet," commented Kusminsky. "We really need plenty of good nourishing broth, though the men seem to be thriving on what they're getting and I don't suppose a few more days on short commons will hurt.”
All through the meal, Orlov had been conscious that Countess Barova was very quiet and when the other two had gone off to see to their responsibilities in preparation for the day's journey, he turned to her and scrutinized her face with some anxiety. She was sitting in her usual straight-backed manner, but her head drooped a little and she looked very pale and tired, with dark smudges under her eyes. He felt a pang of concern for her – poor little Sparrow! She looked worn out and unhappy.
She looked up suddenly and met his gaze. "What is it?" she asked, puzzled.
“I was about to ask you the same thing," he replied and suddenly understood why she looked so tired. "I'm afraid you haven't had much sleep these last few nights. Have I been a great nuisance?"
“It was all right last night but the two nights you were ill, I was too worried to sleep. Oh, you weren't a nuisance!”
She looked so distressed that Orlov moved closer to her and took hold of her clasped hands in what he intended to be a comforting grip, but he underestimated his returning strength and she winced slightly. What with concern about her appearance and annoyance at his clumsiness, he was suddenly reduced to a state of self-conscious uncertainty such as he had not experienced since his first love affair. He wondered what  on earth his friends would think if they could see him now–the gallant, urbane, self-possessed Major Orlov, reduced to blushing incompetence by a thin, plain, provincial little innocent without an ounce of coquetry in her slender body! With a wry smile, he pulled himself together and made her a charming and very sincere little speech of thanks for her kindness in nursing him.
She bent her head to look down at his hand, still clasping hers, and her colour rose a little. Orlov went on talking to her, gently and very kindly, praising her courage and endurance in standing up to the hardships and tribulations of the journey. Eventually she looked up at him, and he saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. He broke off in mid-sentence, and regarded her with some perplexity. "Don't cry, Sparrow," he said. "Everything will be all right." He leaned towards her and would have kissed her, but Kusminsky suddenly said drily from behind him, "Are you accompanying us today, or waiting here for Bonaparte?”
Orlov scrambled to his feet too quickly and had to cling to Kusminsky for support during the resulting spell of dizziness. By the time it had passed and the surgeon had made a few acid comments about his slowness to learn what he could and could not do, the Countess had recovered her normal air of quiet composure and resumed her old place on the box of the second cart. Sergeant Platov made way for her with relief, as two days' driving had made his injured shoulder ache.
The sergeant and the corporal stood beside the cart, clearly waiting for Orlov to say whether he intended to ride inside it and to help him up if he did. By the time he reached the vehicle, he too had recovered his normal self-possession, and hauled himself up on the box beside the Countess in the matter-of-fact manner which usually served to take him wherever he wanted to be without exciting comment. It seemed to work this time as well. The two NCOs climbed into the back of the cart, the Countess gave him a little smile, and the procession bounced across the grass on to the road and started the day's journey.
This section of the road seemed to be in a particularly bad state of repair and the thickness of the dust made it difficult to see and avoid all but the largest of the potholes and projecting stones on the surface. The consequent jolting made lt necessary for Orlov to hold on to the bar which ran along the front of the cart and made a rather uncomfortable back-rest for the  driver. He was sufficiently self-critical to be aware that there was no real necessity for him to extend his right arm along it so that if the Countess leaned back he would in effect be sitting with his arm round her. She did not lean back – clearly her aunt had been particular in the matter of deportment – or was she perhaps embarrassed by his nearness? He twisted a little sideways so that he could see her face without being too obvious about it, but she was gazing straight ahead between her horses' heads and presented him with a charming but unreadable profile.
What did she think of him? Sometimes she seemed afraid of him, but at other times she seemed quite easy and friendly, even snubbing him gently once or twice. She was quite unlike any other woman he had known. He knew a number of ladies –wives and sisters of his friends mostly – with whom he indulged in a little harmless mild flirtation from time to time, and there were a few others who were ladies in the sense of having social position but whose moral attitudes made them available for a more intimate relationship.
He prided himself to some extent on the fact that he had never seduced a woman. He had always found plenty of amusement offered by bored society ladies with complaisant husbands without any need to make much effort himself, or to upset anyone in the process, apart from the conventional tears at the ending of a liaison (and they usually dried pretty quickly if the parting gift was a handsome one).
There were, of course, other ladies in his world to whom he was conventionally polite. Usually they were of plain appearance and narrow ldeas of virtue. There were also the colourless, unnoticeable ones like the shadowy background figures of companions, among whom he supposed the Countess would have found her place had he met her under normal conditions–or would she? Surely there was a great deal more about her than that? Even in those first few minutes when she appeared on the steps of the inn, he had noticed her eyes and hair, despite his preoccupation with his responsibilities and the pain of his wound. Surely under any circumstances, even in the shadow of a domineering old lady in some provincial backwater, he would have noticed her?
“I expect I'm becoming disgracefully sunburnt." Her voice cut across his thoughts and he realized with a start that he had been staring at her face for some time and she had clearly become self-conscious about it.

“Oh, Tatia will soon rid you of that," he replied. "She has an infallible recipe which restores her complexion to perfection in time for the Petersburg season, however much she rides and walks about the country all summer."
“But your sister is in Ryazan. Surely we are going to Kaluga?”
Orlov suddenly realized that he was assuming that he would send the Countess to his sister, but he had no idea when the assumption had been made.
“I thought you might go and stay with her for a while," he said. "Just until we've put Bonaparte back across the Niemen and I can come home and sort out your affairs."
“But that will be months!" she protested. "I can't just descend on a total stranger and stay indefinitely! It would be a terrible imposition – I'm sure she wouldn't like it at all – and what would people think? You can't wish me on your sister without any reason at all. What would her husband say?"
“Nothing. She's a widow. Tatia lives in my house while I'm away. She prefers it. We're very similar; we always like and dislike the same people. As for what people think – there'll be any number of folk uprooted by this invasion and going to live with friends or relations in other parts of Russia. You'll just be one of them. Tatia will be glad of your company because you're not the spineless, obsequious shadow that most companions seem to be."
“My aunt says – said – that I'm rebellious and difficult," she informed him. "I'm sure you mean to be very kind, but how can you just send me to your sister without even asking her and expect her to keep me, perhaps for months? I can't live on charity. . . .”
Orlov smiled at her with a touch of mischief in his face. "I think we've had this argument before and if you recollect, it resulted in my becoming exceedingly ill-tempered and arrogant. I'm afraid that it's not the slightest use arguing with me once I've madé up my mind. I've a very stubborn and self-willed disposition and you'll undoubtedly end up by making me say a great many things I shall bitterly regret afterwards if you persist in thwarting me. In any case, you certainly won't be living on anyone's charity! Tatia is a much nicer person than I am, but she'll make you work very hard and do all manner of horrid things, I've no doubt, just like her cruel and domineering brother.”
She opened her mouth in what was obviously going to be a vehement protest, but his eyebrows rose in a quizzically warning look and he continued, "Don't you dare deny it! Who made you bandage a very hideous wound, and drive a farmcart like a peasant girl, and darn stockings, and sleep on the hard ground in a nasty draughty tent and – and – a number of other distasteful and unsuitable things?" He had suddenly become aware that the passengers in the cart were sitting close behind them, ostensibly and rather too obviously asleep. Orlov wondered what they would make of the conversation.
Countess Barova still looked troubled. "Oh, please don't be angry!”
Orlov saw that she was quite upset at the thought. He put his arm round her shoulders and gave her a brotherly hug – at least, he told himself defensively, it was meant to be brotherly, even if he did rather spoil the effect by kissing her neck just below her left ear; it was only quite a small kiss, and the two men behind them had their eyes shut. She neither pulled away nor leaned towards him, and he was struck by the thought that although she was clearly inexperienced in dealing with men, her natural dignity seemed to equip her to handle most situations, and she emerged from this one without having either encouraged over-familiarity or discouraged genuine friendliness.
“I wasn't really angry before," he said. "That night I was tired and irritable, annoyed with myself for being clumsy. I don't really mean to order you about and I'm sorry if I seem to do so. I suppose I've had too many years of giving orders to others, and it's become second nature – and after all, I am an Orlov!"
“Have you always been able to do as you please?" she asked, quite seriously and with what sounded like a touch of wistfulness.
 He answered her equally seriously, "To be honest, no! I find that I'm forever being forced into doing things I don't wish to do at all because I feel obliged to do them. Does that sound stupid? This journey's a good example. All I wanted to do when we started was to crawl into a quiet hole somewhere and be ill and miserable in peace, but instead of that, I felt under some peculiar obligation to collect these men together and take them out of the way of the French – and do you know why? For the utterly ridiculous reason that I happened to be with them during the attack in which we were wounded. Does it make any sort of sense?”
She looked at him curiously for a moment and then said, "I expect you were the sort of little boy who filled the house with fledglings fallen out of nests, jackdaws with broken wings and lame hedgehogs."
“I've never met a lame hedgehog," he assured her gravely. "It was a fox with a broken leg.”
She began to smile. "I expect I'm the lame hedgehog," she said, and when he replied, "Is that why you prickle up when I try to help you?" they both laughed.
“Am I very prickly?" She was suddenly serious again. "No. In fact, I don't think you can be a hedgehog. I think you ruffle up your feathers a little, like an indignant sparrow.”
“Sparrows are very dull little birds," she said.
“Have you ever really looked at one? They're charming, dainty little creatures with pretty markings, and a great deal of pluck. I've seen three or four of them mob a cat as bravely as you please. They're not in the least dull." He was not flirting with her but speaking quite sincerely.
“Now, Kusminsky's a rook," he continued the train of thought. "Wise, kind and cynical."
“One can't be kind and cynical!" she objected.
“He is!" Orlov was quite unabashed. "And Kolniev's a starling: brash, efficient and somehow both smart and untidy!”
She laughed. "And what are you?"
“I'm a robin," he replied. "Cocky, confident, domineering, bold as brass! When I'm out of the army, I shall always wear a scarlet waistcoat – my tailor shall make them by the dozen!"
“I think you're she hesitated, looking into the far distance with a curiously sad expression on her face. "You're an eagle!" she finished, dropping her eyes to a point midway between the horses she was driving.
Orlov was rather taken aback and sat silent for some time while he digested this statement. At length, the Countess asked him in a normal, polite conversational tone if his sister had been widowed very long. Orlov told her about his dull, middle-aged brother-in-law, who had died so tragically only a few months after the marriage and her questions led him on to talk about his sister, their childhood, and their home. He was surprised when Kolniev gave a shout which caused Josef to turn the leading cart off the road into a wide, grassy clearing where there was room for all the carts. He saw that they had- - reached another river, this time one which flowed through a steep-sided ravine lined with trees and bushes. The bridge, thank God! was intact. He realized with a start that he had spent the whole morning talking to the Countess without noticing the heat, the dust, the constant nagging ache in his arm or the jolting of the cart.
He handed her down from the box after jumping down himself with a carelessness which cost him the usual spell of dizziness but it passed more quickly this time, and he strode off with Kolniev to look at the bridge with a great deal more vigour than he had shown for some time. The Countess watched him go with a look on her face which made Kusminsky bite his lip as he caught sight of it while he was swinging himself down from his saddle.
When he had given his horse into the charge of one of the men, he strolled over to the Countess and said gently, "He wouldn't hurt you intentionally, I'm sure. He's a good man, but he's attractive to women I should imagine and rather takes their interest for granted. Will you help me with some of the dressings? I'd like to look at some of them while the cooks are getting the water boiling.”
Countess Barova made no comment on the first part of his speech and went with him to attend to some of his patients with her usual air of calm composure. Orlov joined them in a few moments to ask Kusminsky how the men were progressing. The surgeon asked him to wait a minute while he finished what he was doing, then he would give a full report. While he waited, Orlov noticed that Countess Barova's smooth coronet of plaits had slipped a little and he said, "Are you running very short of hairpins?”
She put her hand to her hair and said, "Yes, I am! If I lose one more, I shall have to stop putting it up." She looked hot and tired. Orlov noticed for the first time that day how hot and oppressive the atmosphere had become – even more sultry than on previous days, and they had been bad enough.
“I think we're in for . . ." he began, and quickly altered what he had been about to say to "a hot afternoon", remembering her fear of thunderstorms.
“Now then!" said Kusminsky, in his incisive voice. "Thank you for your help, Countess. I expect you'll be glad of a chance to wash off the dust before we eat." The Countess smiled and went away while Kusminsky strolled away from the carts and the men with Orlov following. When they were out of earshot of the others, he gave a brisk run-through of the condition and progress of his patients, finishing, "Apart from the pig-headed ones like you, they're doing as they're told and healing pretty well. I'm not particularly anxious about anyone and, barring accidents and infections, I think they'll all survive."
“You're a damned good doctor!" said Orlov.
“Hm. I can strap up a broken leg and let nature take its course," the surgeon replied. "I doubt if I could do much about a broken heart.”
Orlov gave him a puzzled look, and Kusminsky sighed. "My charming assistant is not one of your Petersburg princesses," he said. "Neither is she an opera-dancer or anything like that."
“I know that," said Orlov stiffly.
“I dare say you're fairly well acquainted with the first two at least? A man in your position is bound to be. I merely observe that the Countess is . . . otherwise. I suppose you're aware that you're very attractive to women?”
Orlov frowned and looked put out.
Kusminsky sighed again and said, "I'm hot, dusty, tired and short-tempered. Perhaps I should go and stand on my head in the river for a while." With that, he walked away towards the steep bank, leaving Orlov scowling after him and feeling vaguely ashamed of himself.
Josef roused him from his abstraction by coughing discreetly and indicating the bucket of water and towel he had brought. His master asked him with an assumption of jocularity if he was enjoying the journey. Josef allowed himself an expressive glance which conveyed a great deal more than his restrained, "It has a certain novelty," and raised a genuine smile of amusement from Orlov.
The quality of the cheese served with the hard bread and coffee for the midday refreshment did not seem to have improved and Kolniev said disgustedly, "It was a mistake eating the poor stuff first. This was quite decent cheese when we started, but the heat has ruined it."
“I wonder it hasn't melted altogether," Kusminsky observed, mopping his face with a large handkerchief. "I don't know when I've been so hot. I wish to God we could have a storm to clear the air a bit.”
Countess Barova said nothing but Orlov almost felt her stiffen, although she was sitting on the far side of the table of boxes. He looked across at her and met her eyes with his steady gaze, trying to convey sympathy and understanding, and after a moment she relaxed, looking down with a little colour in her pale cheeks. Neither of the others noticed and Kolniev rambled on about an extraordinarily hot summer he remembered in his childhood, which Kusminsky dismissed as tepid compared with the oven-like heat of the present. The two of them fell into a mock-ferocious wrangling which amused them both a great deal.
This eventually died away after Kusminsky suddenly changed his tone, saying that Kolniev was too young to remember what real summers were like and settled himself down for one of his catnaps. Kolniev threw an acorn at him, missed, and then rolled over on to his stomach, propping his chin on his folded arms.
“I'll be glad when it gets a bit cooler, anyway," he said. "This heat drains everyone of energy and makes everything seem worse than it really is. Thank God that bridge is still there! Hauling this lot down that bank and up the other side in this heat would kill us all. I'm glad you're looking better, Major – it's been all wrong these last couple of days, not seeing you riding along at the front. It makes us all feel like lost sheep.”
Orlov's demon sense of responsibility immediately forced him to say that he intended to ride that afternoon and Kolniev looked worried.
“Are you sure?" he asked anxiously. "I didn't mean .. . shouldn't you wait another day?"
“No use arguing with him," Kusminsky said gloomily, his eyes still closed. "General Raevsky's a good judge of character," he added obscurely.
Countess Barova looked at Orlov imploringly and opened her mouth as if to speak. Then she closed it again and looked away. Orlov spoke to her as much as to anyone. "It's no worse than jolting along in an unsprung cart," he said. "That grey has a very smooth action and he doesn't bounce in and out of every pothole in the road.”
There was no further argument and all four of them drowsed for half an hour or so in the shade until Orlov reluctantly decided that they had better start on the afternoon's travelling. He made the carts cross the bridge one by one, just in case the wooden structure was less strong than it looked. The fact that it was still there was encouraging – presumably the French were not expected here just yet.
The heat seemed to have affected even his grey horse for he ambled along in an unusually docile fashion, twitching his ears at the ever-present black flies. Everyone had followed Kusminsky's advice and taken off their uniform coats and stocks and the men were dressed in a motely collection of shirts, some filthy and ragged, others almost as clean as Orlov's, which looked reasonably white when they started (thanks to Josef s laundry activities), but was grey with dust and clinging wetly to his body before they had been moving half an hour. It was so long since he had worn his helmet that he was not even sure where it was.
He occupied himself for a time in calculating how far away the French would be, assuming that they had left Smolensk sometime after the 6th of August, two days after the Russians had left the city – surely they couldn't have moved before that? If Bonaparte's men were advancing unopposed, they could be – where, by now? In the end, he decided that unless he had more information to go on, it simply wasn't possible to calculate. The only safe thing to do was to assume that it was possible that the French were level with them (or even ahead) on the Moscow road, and that an enemy foraging party could come across them at any time all the way to Kaluga. It wasn't a very cheerful conclusion, but more sensible than allowing himself to relax prematurely.
Relax! That was a joke! Why on earth had he been fool enough to say he would ride? Granted that the cart did jolt appallingly and jar his arm, it was not much worse than the movement of the horse and he hadn't really felt it much all the morning – but then he had passed the morning in talking about himself! Poor Sparrow! She must have spent a great deal of her life listening to other people talking about themselves. She was very good at pretending to be interested.
He wondered if she was finding the heat too trying and turned aside to make his tour of the carts in order to find out. When the line had passed him, he rode with Kusminsky for a few minutes and the surgeon said sourly, "Regretting your decision to ride yet?" Orlov gave him a wan smile and didn't reply.
“I think it would be advisable to stop early today," Kusminsky continued more seriously. "I'm finding this weather very trying so it must be misery for some of the men. We don't want anyone collapsing from heat exhaustion.”
Orlov nodded. "I'll ride up the line and see how they're getting on and then look out for a camp site." He kicked his horse to a faster pace to catch up with the rearmost cart.
As he progressed up the line, he was surprised how many of the men said they were glad to see him back in his place. "Didn't seem right, Your Excellency, not seeing you up front there on your big grey," was the general verdict. Orlov was touched and also concerned to see how white and exhausted some of them looked.
When he reached the second cart, he found that Sergeant Platov and the corporal were both asleep – genuinely this time. Countess Barova looked unusually dishevelled and her head drooped wearily. He rode close alongside and said, "Sparrow?" in a gentle, enquiring voice.
She looked at him, startled, and he saw that her face was quite white under its coating of dust and there were streaks in the dirt on her cheeks as if she had been crying. He looked at her, frowning with concern, and she dropped her eyes under his scrutiny, turning her face away. "I – it's so hot," she said in an unsteady voice.
Orlov leaned over and prodded Sergeant Platov awake. "Take over driving this cart," he said. "Can't you see that the Countess is tired out?" He sounded furious and Platov scrambled awkwardly on to the box, apologizing profusely and looking quite frightened. The Countess surrendered the reins to him and shifted along the box out of his way. Orlov rode close up alongside and reached across, put his arm round her and lifted her over to sit in front of him on the horse in the same position as when he carried her across the river. He nearly unseated himself in the process but once he had her safely, he held her close, not worrying this time about where his arm was pressing. She leaned against him with her face hidden in the frill of his shirt.
He urged his horse forward and resumed his place at the head of the procession of carts, passing Josef s vehicle with no more than "We'll be stopping soon" because he wanted to remove himself from the curious looks and sharp ears of the men. Once he was well ahead again, he bent his head and tried to see Countess Barova's face, but it was still hidden.
“What is it, pet?" he asked. "Are you ill?”
She lifted her head and moved a tiny fraction away from him. "No," she replied. "It's nothing. It's just so hot and .. . and . . . oh, nothing.”

“You mustn't let those two great idle men bully you into driving all the time," he said, frowning with concern.
“They don't bully me!" she protested. "Sergeant Platov's shoulder hurts him when he tries to drive, and the corporal can't sit on the box properly with his wounded foot. They're very kind really."
“So kind that they let you sit there and cry with fatigue without even noticing?" Orlov still sounded angry.
She made a hopeless little gesture with one hand and did not reply. Orlov pulled her close against him almost roughly and rode along in silence, still scowling. He saw, looking ahead, that the arch of trees over the road framed a view of open country as the belt of forest they had travelled through all day came to an end. In a few minutes, they emerged from the shade of the trees into the full glare of the sun and ahead stretched an expanse of meadowland, with large fields of rye or oats further away and another belt of forest black beyond them. The road went on through a village about a mile ahead, but there was no sign of life in it or its surroundings, no smoke from the little wooden houses, no animals or people in the fields.
Orlov twisted in the saddle to shout to the men behind him and turned off to the left, where a brook came out of the forest and ran downhill through the gentle slope of grass towards the village. "We'll stop here," he said to the Countess. "I, for one, can't face a scorching out there on a day like this. Anyway, it's quite two hours since we started and that's long enough in this weather.”
She sighed and he let go of the reins, allowing the grey to amble along towards the water, and put his hand under her chin, tilting her face up so that he could look at it properly. He inspected it minutely, seeing the little lines of strain round her eyes, the dark smudges under them, the paleness of her cheeks and lips, tear-stains and the slight tremble of her mouth. "Oh, Sparrow! You look terrible!" he said and her eyes filled with tears. He found himself kissing her lips very gently before he realized what he was doing. The next moment the creaking of protesting timbers behind him warned him that the carts were coming up. He took a firm grip round her waist to lower her to the ground, telling her very severely to go and rest in the shade and not allow anyone to give her anything to do. To his surprise, she smiled a little as he said it.
As he dismounted, Kolniev came up, mopping his red face, which was liberally streaked with dirt. "Thank God for that!” he said, pushing his bandage crooked. "I thought I'd melt if we had to cross that furnace today!" He gestured towards the open country.
“We'll have to cross it tomorrow," Orlov warned him. "We shouldn't hang about too much in case of trouble. I wish I knew when (and if) the French left Smolensk.”
Kolniev frowned. "I'm afraid I tend to forget about them," he admitted. "There seems to be so much to think about when we camp and on the road I go off into a sort of trance, what with the heat and the dust. I almost forget why we're here and where we're going at times. It feels as if we've been driving along this road all our lives.”
Orlov admitted that he felt the same sometimes. "Just imagine what it would be like if we were condemned to go on doing it for ever!" he said.

CHAPTER EIGHT

 A little while later the three officers and Countess Barova gravitated together under a large oak tree near the stream. From its shade, they could look out over the rather leisurely activity of the camp where the cooks were languidly beginning to prepare the evening meal even though it was still afternoon. Most of the men had finished their particular duties for the time being and were stretched out in the shade of the carts or the trees on the edge of the forest. Beyond the two tents, which were pitched under another large tree, Josef could be seen washing linen in the stream.
The more distant prospect was of the fields and the village and still there was no sign of life anywhere. Just within the far belt of woodland could be seen the roof of a large house, probably the home of the local landowner, but again there was no smoke rising, no sound or sign of activity.
The sky above the trees had a leaden hue, more ominous than the brassy blue which had predominated for so many days and Orlov, looking at it, wondered how soon the storm it presaged would arrive. He glanced covertly at the Countess and wondered if she had noticed the storm clouds — they were not really more than a distant threat so far.
He saw that she looked a little less near to collapse after washing and tidying herself and that her hair was now hanging in a thick plait down her back. "Has your last hairpin been commandeered?" he asked.
She smiled. "Yes, I'm afraid so."
“Very useful things," commented Kolniev. "I'd no idea how many jobs they could be used for.”
Orlov lapsed into a sleepy reverie, going back over the old problem of what the French were doing. He suddenly gave a grin of amusement.
“What's funny?" asked Kusminsky, interested.
“I was just thinking," he replied. "Bonaparte may have had a more successful military career than I have, but my French accent is better than his.”
“Have you heard him speak?" asked Kolniev.
“Yes. I was at Tilsit when he met the Czar. He has an atrocious Italian accent."
“At Tilsit! Then you've seen the Czar?" The Countess sounded very impressed. Orlov looked at her with surprise. "Dozens of times," he replied and it occurred to him that she probably had no idea of the significance of his white, silver and red-braided uniform.
“The Major is an officer of the Chevalier Guard, and a Staff officer as well," Kolniev explained earnestly, in a respectful tone. The Countess looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I didn't know," she almost whispered.
“No reason why you should," Orlov replied.
“And what does His Majesty call you?" asked Kusminsky in his most provocative manner. Orlov refused to let it ruffle him, and replied equably, "It depends what sort of mood he's in. If he's feeling affable, it's Lev Petrovitch; if he's bad-tempered, it's Major Er; and if he's being brisk and efficient, it's plain Orlov." Kusminsky laughed.
“Are you very important?" the Countess asked, looking anxious and subdued. Orlov puzzled over the question, even as he answered it.
“No, not very. I was born with a few undeserved advantages, but they tend to make me what Kusminsky would call a parasite on the body politic."
“I'd say no such thing!" Kusminsky protested. "I wouldn't dream of using such a stupid expression! You make me sound like a damned Jacobin!"
“Aren't you?" asked Orlov, with an innocent expression and the surgeon snorted.
Kolniev embarked on a long and very earnest explanation of the position and duties of a Staff officer and of the Chevalier Guard, to which the Countess listened with every appearance of interest. Kusminsky clearly found it boring, and insisted on changing the dressing on Orlov's arm in spite of his protests. By the time it had been done and the arm had settled down sufficiently to be bearable, supper was ready.
After the meal, Orlov persuaded the Countess to go to bed and she seemed somehow grateful for his concern. When she had gone, he asked Kusminsky if he thought her strength was being overtaxed. "She looks so white and tired and unhappy," he said.
“What do you expect?" asked Kusminsky. "She's been  uprooted from a very quiet, dull life; she's lost her home; her only relative has died, suddenly, in very difficult circumstances and she was left with the dead body and no one to help her — all the servants had run off with the French on the doorstep. She's helped me dress wounds that probably turn her sick; she's spent a week in the company of rough soldiers, with no other woman for companionship; she's no privacy, her modesty outraged in all directions; and she has no idea what is to become of her -- no money, no home, no one to turn to. On top of that, there's the heat and the strain of the journey, quite apart from whatever emotional upheavals she's experiencing. What the hell do you expect her to look like? The latest Paris fashion plate?”
Orlov let the tirade pass and when Kusminsky had subsided, he said quietly, "I only wondered if perhaps it was asking too much for her to drive a cart. She seems rather frail."
“Frail, fiddlesticks!" replied Kusminsky crabbily. "She's all right physically, apart from being tired. If she becomes ill, it'll be because she's worried and unhappy and you may well concern yourself about that!" He went off muttering something about going to bed early and disappeared into his tent.
“He's tired," Kolniev said. "He doesn't mean to be bad-tempered."
“We'd be in a bad state without him," Orlov replied. He changed the subject by asking Kolniev about the supply situation and they spent some time discussing it, then both decided to turn in as the heat made them feel as drained of energy as anyone.
It was still extremely sultry and nightfall had not brought much of a drop in the temperature. The atmosphere was so still and heavy that Orlov felt that the storm could not be long coming.
When he entered the tent, he found that the Countess was fast asleep so he made his own preparations for the night as quickly and quietly as he could. He lay down on top of his bedding, for it was far too hot to have even a single blanket over him. When he had blown out the candle, he lay for some time looking out through the tent door across the open country and thought he could see the distant flicker of sheet lightning.
Later in the night, he was woken by a flash of white light and a distant rumble which he thought at first was cannon fire. He sat up, still confused and half asleep. He realized that it was thunder approaching rapidly and felt chilly. He stood up, feeling for a blanket, which he draped round him rather awkwardly, and was about to lie down again when a second flash of lighting showed him that the Countess was sitting up, her hands over her face. The flash was quickly over, but it left him with a vivid impression of her terror and in the darkness which followed, while the thunder rumbled and crashed nearer still, he stumbled over and knelt beside her, putting his arm round her shoulders.
She turned to him, hiding her face against his shoulder. He was still desperately sleepy and after a second's hesitation, he hitched the blanket round to enfold her as well as himself, lying down with her in the circle of his good arm. She shrank against him as the thunder boomed again and the first heavy drops of rain began to patter on the canvas and the leaves of the trees.
The crashing thunder became almost continuous and the lightning came in a series of blinding flashes, each of which seemed to make her press more closely against him, trembling with fear. He held her as close as he could and after a few minutes he felt her hand on his chest, apparently trying to cling to him, but it slid across his bare skin without finding anything to grip, and eventually came to rest under him.
The storm roared overhead and gradually passed further away, continuing to rumble and flash in the near distance for a considerable time. Orlov kept thinking that he ought to return to his own side of the tent but each time he made up his mind to do so, there was another roar, still quite close. After a time, he realized that the tense body of the Countess had relaxed and the soft stir of her breath on his skin had become regular. There seemed little point in waking her if she had fallen asleep, so he lay still, soon drifting off to sleep himself.
When he became conscious again, he was at first aware of the sound of rain and felt warm and comfortable. As long as he could remember, he had enjoyed the feeling of being snug in a comfortable bed while the rain poured down outside. He gave a luxurious squirm at the thought of it, then gradually became more aware of where he was. It was light, but still very early. The rain was falling steadily on the tent. Despite the hardness of the ground he felt pleasantly comfortable, largely due to the fact that the slender body of Countess Barova was still pressed closely against him, with her head on his shoulder and her soft, heavy plait of hair lying across his chest.
 He lay still, wondering what on earth he should do and was forced to smile to himself. This was certainly the first time he had ever found himself in bed with a woman and had to wonder what he should do about it! But then, none of the others had been like this one. He was sure that he was the first man who had ever held her like this and it made him feel a protective tenderness for her.
She stirred and wriggled even closer to him, her arm tightening round his waist in a little hug. Then she woke properly and started up, her eyes wide with shock.
“There was a thunderstorm," Orlov said in his most matter-of-fact tone. "By the time it passed, you were asleep and I fell asleep too." As he spoke, he withdrew his arm, removed himself neatly to his own side of the tent and rolled himself in his remaining blanket. "It's all right," he assured her. "Nothing happened.”
She was silent for a few minutes, and then said in a choking voice, "Whatever must you think of me. . ."
“I think you were very frightened. What else could I do? Turn over and go to sleep again, leaving you to die of fright? Forget about it.”
She lay down and was quiet and Orlov listened to the rain for a while, then said conversationally, "It looks as if we're in for a wet day. Be careful not to touch the tent when you get up or the wet will come through." She murmured something, then there was a long, awkward silence.
Orlov huddled under his blanket, watching the rain through the door of the tent and thinking about her. He had a curious feeling in the pit of his stomach as if something momentous were happening to him, something of very great importance but he wasn't sure what it was. How could he convince her that he didn't think badly of her? He knew very well that it wasn't because she had been afraid that she sounded so ashamed – it was because she had clung to him, going to sleep in his arms and she was afraid he would think. . . . He said, in a voice which sounded to him quite unlike his own, very gentle and sincere, "If you really want to know what I think of you – I admire and respect you more than any other woman I've ever known.”
She gave a gasp. After that, there didn't seem anything else he could say so he closed his eyes and dropped into a doze until it was time to get up.
When Josef arrived, he suggested that his master should be shaved and dressed under an awning which had been put up between a couple of nearby trees. Orlov went out, clutching his clothes and accoutrements and then turned back to advise the Countess to wear his cloak. She thanked him gravely and he stood for a moment, awkwardly bent over, his greatcoat and other things dragging on his good arm and cold rivulets running down his bare back, looking anxiously at her. After a moment, she smiled and said, "You'll get wet". He returned the smile and ran off through the pouring rain to the improvised shelter.
The orderlies produced some more boxes as the ground was too wet to sit on and presently Kolniev and Kusminsky joined Orlov. They sat in a row, gloomily contemplating the rain.
“Looks as if it could go on for ever," observed Kolniev.
“Better than yesterday's heat," Orlov replied.
“We'll have to find shelter," Kusminsky said. "We're not a normal army on the march, we're a moving hospital. If these men get soaked, there'll be fever and inflammation of the lungs to add to our troubles. Most of them haven't adequate clothing and the awnings won't keep them dry. I suggest that after breakfast one of you goes over to the big house there to see if we can lay up in it or its barns until the weather improves.”
They both agreed and rose to their feet as the Countess arrived. She was wearing Orlov's voluminous black cloak which was so long on her that it touched the ground and she had to hold it bunched up a little. Orlov stood smiling down at her and said, "It goes round you twice," pulling the edge over and round her to demonstrate and took her plait of hair, winding it round her white throat. Kusminsky observed the look on his face, caught Kolniev's eye, and winked.
“Bad storm last night," he said. "Did it worry you very much, Countess?”
She blushed and looked acutely embarrassed. Orlov cut in quickly, "She was scared half to death, so don't remind her of it!" and the subject was not mentioned again.
Breakfast was a good sustaining meal of hot "sergeant" with the last of the ham and plenty of coffee. "How much of this did you acquire?" Orlov asked.
“Two large sacks, and the Governor's coffee-mill," Kolniev replied without even looking guilty. He had his large bony hands wrapped tightly round his tin cup and had turned the collar of his greatcoat up around his ears – it was quite cold this morning after the heat of the past few days.
 The Countess sat silently on a box, the big cloak swathed round her, and Orlov thought she looked small, frail and cold. He dragged his own box nearer to hers, sat down, wishing he had a spare arm to put round her. In any case, he told himself, what right had he to assume that she would welcome the familiarity? Just became she had clung to him a couple of times when she was afraid or unhappy, it didn't necessarily mean that she wanted him pawing her about, particularly in public.
He wondered how many of the men had seen him kiss her the afternoon before and what had they thought. Come to think of it, what would most of them expect went on in their tent at night? Did she realize that they probably all thought that she was his mistress? He sat brooding over his coffee with a black scowl on his face, wondering if she knew. Probably not — she was surely pretty ignorant about men. What would she feel if she found out? He worried about this but realized that it was no use hoping that she would remain unenlightened —sooner or later, someone would say something. Perhaps they had already. Maybe that was why she seemed very unhappy sometimes.
Kolniev's voice penetrated his thoughts and he looked up to find the other three looking at him curiously. Obviously, Kolniev had spoken to him before and not received an answer.
“I'm sorry — what did you say?" he asked.
“I said, will you ride over to the house with me?" Kolniev repeated. "We can go by way of the village and see if we can find shelter or food.”
Orlov agreed and called Josef to bring horses. The two men mounted and rode off down the road towards the village. The rain was falling straight down, blotting out the distance and reducing the landscape to a flat, grey monotone. It drummed on Orlov's helmet, running round his chinstrap and dripping from the peak in front of his eyes, but the curved back steered the drops there outside his collar. He was luckier than Kolniev, whose shako directed a steady stream down the back of his neck and made him curse at intervals.
“No sign of life," Kolniev commented as they neared the village. "Wonder why it hasn't been burned."
“I shouldn't think the Cossacks have been here yet," Orlov replied. "It's a long way from the Moscow road and a long way from Smolensk. It's more likely that the owner has gone to one of his other estates further from the war area and taken all the serfs with him."
“Poor souls! They'll have a hard winter." Kolniev looked across the fields. "All their crops are still standing."
“They'd have lost them anyway if the French pass this way and a great deal more besides. At least going will have saved their lives and their womenfolk."
“To starve next winter?" Kolniev sounded bitter.
“If the owner cared enough to take them away, perhaps he'll care enough to feed them," Orlov reasoned.
Kolniev's shrug appeared to indicate that he had little faith in the philanthropy of landlords.
When they reached the village, it became clear that it had been evacuated in an orderly way. Nothing movable was left at all, apart from the stacks of firewood. Most of the houses had been left with their doors unbarred, perhaps in the hope that the enemy would not be too destructive if they didn't have to smash anything to gain access. After a few minutes of looking through doors into empty huts and bare sheds and barns, the two officers rode on towards the house, which was quite hidden in the trees.
It was approached by a gravel drive, which left the road just inside the forest about a mile beyond the village, passing between two tall stone pillars crowned with heraldic griffins or dragons, with a large pair of ornate and rusty gates which did not appear to have been closed for many years. The drive was well-raked and weeded, however, and the bushes and trees were clipped back on either side beyond a wide margin of grass which looked as if it had been cut at least within the last fortnight.
The two riders followed the curve of the drive for half-a-mile, until it opened out into a forecourt bordered by flower-beds before a fairly large house, well-built in the style of the middle of the previous century, with a colonnade along part of the front. Orlov dismounted and tied his horse to a convenient stone balustrade, climbed the half-dozen steps to the large double front door and knocked on it with the hilt of his sword. There was no reply and no sign of life.
Kolniev tied his horse alongside Orlov's and joined him in the porch as the Major twisted the large doorknob and pushed. The door swung open and they went in. The inner door was also unlocked and beyond was a large, marble-floored entrance hall with a fine staircase on the left leading up to a gallery running round the hall at first-floor level. To the right, a plaster-decorated archway framed a room with a painted ceiling, lit by large windows, with a conservatory visible beyond it. Straight ahead, a passage led through another arch to a swing door, which would probably give access to the domestic regions. There was no furniture, and marks on the walls showed where pictures had hung. Even the curtains and portieres had been removed.
Kolniev, with admirable single-mindedness, made for the swing-door and disappeared in search of the store-rooms. Orlov took off his wet greatcoat and hung it on a statue of a Nubian maiden which decorated the newel post of the staircase. Then he strolled into the salon, looking about him at the marks which showed that the room had been hung with pictures and well-filled with furniture. The conservatory was still filled with plants and a small trickle of water ran from a wall fountain in a tiny mossy grotto. There was some well-made wooden furniture and a big marble sarcophagus. It would probably be a pleasant place to sit in normal circumstances, but many of the plants were drooping or dead, and the continual sound of the rain on the glass panels and the grey light gave it a dismal aspect. Orlov felt glad to close the door on it and return to the entrance hall.
Kolniev came back soon after and said cheerfully that the store-rooms were full of food. "They don't seem to have taken much with them," he said. "There's a barn at the back. I'll go and have a quick look in it before we go back for the others." He strode off energetically and Orlov climbed the stairs, listening to the silence of the house.
The first-floor rooms were quite impressive in size and decoration but rather old-fashioned. Here too, the furnishings had gone, but upper floors were a mixture, some rooms stripped bare, others containing a few items of shabby furniture which had clearly not been considered worth removing. One room rather caught Orlov's fancy and he returned to it when he had completed his brief tour, merely glancing into each of the other rooms in turn. It was a charming room, with deep pink silk-covered walls and garlands of white-painted plaster flowers. It had a pretty fireplace with an ornately carved frame of pinkish marble putti and flowers and looked as if it had been fairly recently redecorated. He imagined it furnished with dainty white or gilt furniture, perhaps with flowered chintz hangings, and white muslin bed-curtains — a charming setting for a young bride.
He drummed his fingers on the windowsill and his hand brushed against a small white porcelain box, about four inches square, decorated with a spray of painted roses. It must have been overlooked when everything else was taken from the room. Curious, he lifted the lid and found that it was full of hairpins — there must have been twenty or thirty of them. With a smile which would have surprised some of his friends by its tenderness, he scooped them up and stowed them carefully away in the leather wallet on his cross-belt.
Below the window, he saw Kolniev cross from the barn to the terrace, hurrying through the rain with his sword swinging under his long coat like a grotesque tail. There was a jaunty spring to his step and as Orlov went downstairs to meet him, he felt his own spirits rising a little.
“The barn's full of oats and hay!" Kolniev bellowed as he entered the house, obviously thinking that Orlov was still upstairs somewhere. "Oh, sorry! I didn't know you'd come down." He stood dripping a large puddle on the marble floor, his red face beaming with delight. "There's enough food to last a whole regiment all the way to anywhere. Do you think we'd be justified in taking some? Enough for our needs, not all of it."
“Certainly," replied Orlov. "I'll leave receipts pinned up somewhere prominent so if the French and the Cossacks don't burn the place and the owner returns, he'll be able to collect payment. I should think we might as well have everyone in the house as we'll only be here a short time. The cooks can use the kitchens and we can light fires in some of the rooms. That's a good stack of firewood by the barn, isn't it?"
“Enough for a whole winter, I should think. Are you coming back to camp, or will you wait here?"
“I'll come back," Orlov decided. "I quite like riding in the rain when there's the prospect of a dry house and a good fire at the end of it. It's a pleasant change after the last few days!" He struggled into his heavy greatcoat, which had dripped itself free of some of its load of water, and they went out to get the horses, mounting them under the colonnade to avoid getting the saddles wet.
The rain was still pouring down in a steady, unrelenting torrent which made a continuous, monotonous background of sound. Orlov's hands were cold and he wondered what had become of the gloves which were part of his uniform. He had no recollection of seeing them since before he was wounded, so presumably he had lost them then. He rubbed his left hand  with his right and took a surreptitious look at his nails, remembering the warning Kusminsky had given him what seemed like half a lifetime ago. They were perfectly normal in colour but in need of paring and cleaning and he felt a little digusted with them — he was rather fastidious about such matters.
“Nice house?" asked Kolniev conversationally.
“Not bad," Orlov replied. "Needs modernizing and redecorating but it's quite a comfortable little place.”
Kolniev, who thought it a large house, wondered what Orlov's home must be like if this one seemed small to him.
When they emerged from the forest and started to cross the belt of agricultural land around the village, Orlov looked around to see if there was any sign of improvement in the weather, but the sky was uniformly heavy and the rain poured down, flattening the green crops in the fields and reducing visibility to a bare half-mile. The horses trotted along easily, manes and forelocks flopping wetly with their movement, and Kolniev thrust a large and rather grubby handkerchief down the back of his neck where the high collar of his uniform was rubbing his wet neck sore. "Glad we're not travelling in this," he said. "God! — what 'a wonderful thought! We're going to spend a night in a real house, with four walls and a roof!"
“Don't you care for living in a tent?" Orlov enquired, smiling.
“It's damned draughty and the ground always has hard bits sticking out where my bones come — and Kusminsky snores half the night or else wakes me up to complain that I'm snoring. You're damned lucky you don't have to share with him. I wouldn't mind wagering. . . ." His voice died away suddenly and his face became redder than ever.
Orlov's smile faded, but he replied with an assumed air of unconcern, "My companion doesn't snore, or wake me to complain that I do, thank goodness, but you're right about the ground — it must be the hardest in Russia!”
Kolniev, glad to change the subject, launched into a monologue on the relative hardness of the ground in various places where he had camped during his military career, which lasted as far as the village. They both fell silent as they rode through it. There was something depressing about the sight of the empty, silent houses, the lack of busy housewives, playing children, hens and ducks, men and animals which must normally have filled the place with noisy life.

“I wonder where they've gone," Kolniev looked around him. "I wonder if they'll ever come back."
“I should think so. It looks like good land — they'll be eager to return as soon as it's safe."
“If the French marched on Ryazan, would you take all your people away?" Kolniev asked.
“Yes, if they wanted to come. I'd take them to one of the other estates, feed them and house them somehow until it was safe to return and buy supplies to tide them through the winter. One couldn't leave them to the mercy of Bonaparte."
“If they wanted to come?" Kolniev questioned in surprise. "Wouldn't you just order them?"
“They're all free," Orlov replied. "I can't order them to do anything.”
Kolniev was stunned by this, but he soon recovered and asked a great many questions about the process of freeing serfs and its relative advantages and disadvantages. Orlov was delighted to expound on the matter—it was one of his favourite subjects.
When they reached the camp, Orlov could see that the wounded men were not up to standing a soaking. There was an air of dejection about them, unlike their usual brave spirit, and a few were rolled up in their blankets, lying under the carts. Kusminsky came to meet them, and said in a low voice, "I hope you've found shelter. Half the men will be really ill by tomorrow if we don't get them under cover.”
Kolniev told him about the house, speaking out loudly about the stack of firewood and the store-rooms full of food and there was a perceptible lightening of spirits as the men prepared to move.
Orlov gave the bridle of his horse and his helmet to Josef as he passed him and went over to the Countess, who was sitting on a box under the awning, busily patching a shirt. He dropped on his knees in front of her, groping inside his coat for his wallet and drew out the bundle of hairpins, which he placed carefully in one of her small hands. He knelt looking up at her face, his grey eyes alight with laughter and triumph at her expression of delight when she saw what he had brought her.
“Oh, how kind of you to remember!" she exclaimed and smiled into his eyes. For a long second they looked at one another and then she bent forward, put her arms round his neck and held his head close against her breast. His good arm  slid round her, and her sewing dropped unheeded to the ground, the reel of thread rolling away into a puddle.
For a full minute, Orlov pressed his face against the curve of her breasts, his nostrils filled with the faint scent of lavender. He closed his eyes and felt the world whirling round him while he was somehow alone with her in a still, silent place, suspended in time and space. Then his surroundings crowded back to him and he felt as if a hundred curious eyes were riveted on his broad back. Hastily, he drew away from her and scrambled to his feet, hearing himself say, "I thought you'd be pleased," in a horribly mundane tone of smug satisfaction. He glanced round quickly and found that no one was taking the slightest notice – they were all too busy – and he regretted breaking the embrace so soon.
The Countess bent to retrieve her sewing, her cheeks a little flushed, and he picked up the soggy reel of thread and gave it to her. She held it between finger and thumb and pulled a little face.
Orlov said, "There'll be a fire to dry it by soon. We've found a big house with proper fireplaces and enough firewood for months, as well as food and fodder."
“An empty house? But why is there food there, then?"
“The owners have taken the furniture and left the food. We'll have bacon and cheese and a bottle of wine, even if there's no table to eat it off, and you'll have the prettiest bedroom, even if there's no bed in it!"
“I must pack my things!" She pulled the big collar of his cloak over her head, gathered up the trailing skirts and ran through the rain to the tent. Orlov sat down on the box and watched her go, still smiling and breathing in the scent of lavender until Kusminsky came over, swearing at the rain, and shook a spray of water from his cocked hat all over him.
“I suppose you're soaked?" he asked grumpily. "Half the men will be running a fever by tonight. How's your arm?"
“Fine," Orlov replied. He had almost forgotten about it and he realized that it must be a great deal better – it had not really hurt him all the morning apart from the usual dull ache which he hardly noticed. Kusminsky felt his forehead and peered thoughtfully into his eyes.
“You look as if you're enjoying yourself," he said accusingly. "Riding about in a deluge when you should be in hospital. How's a poor devil of a surgeon supposed to heal the sick when they go driving and riding all over Russia getting  heat exhaustion, then soaked to the skin, breaking their wounds open and raising a fever?" He went off muttering crossly while Orlov laughed unsympathetically and went to look over the horses as they were being harnessed.
Soon everything was packed and ready, the carts lined up, and Kusminsky warned the men to keep under the awnings and out of the wet as much as possible.
The Countess was standing by the second cart but before she could climb on to it, Orlov mounted his big grey and walked him over to her. "Will you ride with me?" he asked, leaning down towards her. She looked up at him, smiling, and he bent low in the saddle to grasp her waist and lift her as she stepped up on his foot. She flew up to sit in front of him so lightly that he said with a grin, "We're becoming quite expert at this. When I've both arms available, we'll have some very comfortable rides.”
He wedged her securely against his body with his right arm, holding the reins in the same hand and hoped that the grey would remain as docile as he had been all the morning, as he wasn't sure that he could hold the girl and control the horse at the same time if the grey became restless. The big horse ambled to the head of the procession and they moved off through the rain towards the distant house.

CHAPTER NINE

THE rain continued to fall down endlessly, forming miniature rivers in the dust of the road and streaming off the awnings of the carts, soaking the drivers and turning the horses into a bedraggled collection of head-drooping nags. Despite the miserable trickles running down their necks and the generally sodden, cold atmosphere, the men seemed cheerful at the prospect of spending a few hours under a roof and relieved at their reprieve from the unbearable heat of the past days. They began to sing as the procession jolted down the slight hill towards the village, a cheerful song of a successful lover with a reasonably respectable lyric in deference to the Countess.
Kolniev joined in from his place on the box of one of the carts, bellowing away with obvious enjoyment, slightly off-key, and Orlov joined in the first chorus in a pleasant baritone. It was a simple tune with an enormous number of verses and the Countess started to hum the tune after a few choruses. Orlov interrupted himself in the middle to say to her, "Are you happier today?”
She smiled. "I wasn't really unhappy — just very hot and tired, and — oh — frightened, I suppose." A trickle of rainwater ran down her nose and Orlov pulled out a clean handkerchief and wiped it away, but she was obviously getting very wet and he said, "I suppose it would have been more sensible for you to have gone in one of the carts."
“I'd rather be with you," she replied, obviously without thinking, for she blushed crimson when she realized what she had said. Orlov only laughed and gave her a clumsy hug with his over-employed right arm.
As they approached the village, the unnatural emptiness and desolation of the place made the singing die away and the men fell silent, looking about them in an uneasy manner. The Countess said, "Is there no one left here at all? Where can they have gone?"
“I expect the owner took them away," Orlov replied. "It's uncanny, isn't it? I've seen dozens of places destroyed by  battle, burned and sacked, but a place just left empty seems curiously menacing.”
After leaving the village, the road ran uphill again towards the edge of the forest and the carts slowed down as the horses felt the gradient. It was not at all steep, but the beasts seemed determined to make the most of it and the drivers shouted and slapped their reins to encourage them as they panted and plodded along with the carts groaning behind them. They eventually followed Orlov into the dripping blackness of the forest and then swung off between the dilapidated gateposts on to the gravel drive of the house.
As they entered into the open forecourt, the Countess twisted round a little to see it and exclaimed, "Oh, what a shame to have to go away and leave such a fine house to the French!"
“You had to do the same," Orlov sounded a little surprised. "My aunt's house wasn't as grand as this," she said. "It was very plain, with no garden at the front.”
Orlov set her down on the steps and dismounted, leaving the grey with Josef. He ushered her into the house with his arm protectively round her shoulders and noticed with well-concealed amusement that she seemed very impressed by the shabby grandeur of the old-fashioned interior, gazing around her wide-eyed at the high-ceilinged entrance hall and the fine sweep of the staircase as he led her up to the second floor and flung open the door of the pink and white bedroom.
“There!" he said. "How do you like that?”
She went into the room, looking around at the rose silk on the walls, the white swags of plaster flowers and ribbons, the pretty marble fireplace. "Oh, it's the prettiest room I've ever seen!" she exclaimed. "I wonder what the furniture was like."
“White and gold, I should think, with white draperies. Is it prettier than your room in your aunt's house?" He asked the question quite sincerely, but it was clear from her face that she thought he was joking and not very kindly at that. After an awkward pause, he asked, "What was your room like?"
“All the rooms were the same. The walls were white-washed and the floors were plain deal boards scrubbed white and the furniture was made by the estate carpenter. Very plain and serviceable. My aunt didn't approve of fripperies."
“And would you prefer a room like this?" Orlov asked. "You shall have one just like this at Ryazan. I'll write to Tatia  and tell her exactly how it's to be." He said it lightly, half joking, half serious and was puzzled by the look on her face. It was a curious mixture of laughter and something else which looked peculiarly like grief, but before he could say anything, Josef appeared in the doorway with an armful of blankets, followed by four men carrying various objects, including Countess Barova's little trunk.
“Is this the room Your Excellency has selected?" he asked Orlov and advanced into it, assuming his master's reply. He instructed the men where to set down their burdens and sent them off to fetch various other specified things. "Charming!" he said, glancing round, and went to investigate the fireplace to see if it would be practicable to light a fire.
As he emerged from peering up the chimney, he remarked to a point somewhere midway between his master and the Countess, "I noticed a number of hip-baths hanging in the outhouse where the horses are stabled. I have instructed that they be taken to the dairy which is next to the kitchen, and I will have one conveyed up here for Mademoiselle's use. There is a large range in the kitchen and ample hot water will soon be available."
“Excellent man!" exclaimed Orlov. "Not only clean linen but hot baths as well!" He left the Countess to take off her wet things, surrendering his own dripping coat to Josef and went downstairs to see how the men were faring, Gradually everything was sorted out: the men seffled comfortably; the horses rubbed down and stabled; the momentous decision made as to whether the officers should dine in the dining room or in a small salon on the first floor; and Kolniev's and Kusminsky's bedrooms selected. The water was heated, and Josef called them to the dairy to take their baths.
As the servant helped him to dry and dress himself afterwards, Orlov asked him if the Countess was all right. "Very comfortable, sir," Josef replied. "I have lit the fire in the lady's room and taken up a plentiful supply of wood. Her bath was the first to be prepared.”
Orlov thanked him for looking after her. "My pleasure, Your Excellency. It is always a great satisfaction to be of service to a real lady of quality." Despite his expressionless face and voice, he manged to convey that he considered the Countess infinitely superior to any other female he had come across while he was in Orlov's service, which amused his master a great deal.

“You approve of my companion in this adventure, then, Josef?"
“A fortuitously happy accident, sir," he replied gravely.
Luncheon was served on a rough trestle table with boxes for seats in the small salon which was stripped of all its furniture and draperies, and looked decidedly shabby with its pale green paint flaking in places and square patches showing where pictures had hung. The rain streamed down the big sash windows which revealed a prospect of grey wet garden, backed by black forest, but there was a cheerful fire crackling in the grate of the prettily-tiled fireplace, there was plenty of hot, meaty soup, good cheese, hard bread, little wizened, waxy apples and a couple of bottles of red wine. All four of them felt pleasantly warm, clean and comfortable with a proper roof and four walls about them for the first time for more than a week and the inclement weather safely shut out for a while.
The Countess had put on another dress which Orlov was sure he hadn't seen before. It was dark grey and as plain and dowdy as her others. Remembering that her aunt "didn't approve of fripperies", he wondered if she had ever had an attractive dress – something colourful, silk perhaps, or an embroidered muslin, lace-trimmed and low-cut – he hastily switched his attention to her hair, which was once more swept up into a smooth coronet. He enquired if the hairpins had proved satisfactory and was rewarded with a radiant smile. "Why did I ever think she was plain?" he thought.
After luncheon, they sat for some time finishing the wine and drinking coffee, enjoying the comparative comfort of their surroundings, then Kusminsky asked the Countess to assist him in a grand rebandaging session which occupied them for the whole afternoon. Kolniev and Orlov went to work out how much of the food in the store-rooms they needed to take to keep them supplied for the rest of the journey and whether they would be able to get it all packed into the carts, plus a quantity of the oats and hay in the barns.
“How long do we need to calculate for?" Kolniev asked, peering into a large barrel which appeared to be half-full of dried peas.
“At the rate we've been moving, three days," Orlov replied. "Say five to be on the safe side. If it takes longer, we'll have to find another house full of food. I'm sure that by then we'll be back in an inhabited region.”
Kolniev produced a notebook and a stubby pencil and began  working out quantities. "You're very good at the commissariat arrangements," Orlov said. "They should put you in charge of the Quartermaster General's department. We might find ourselves with the right amounts of the right things instead of all the riflemen getting musket balls and the infantry being issued with cavalry boots all the time.”
Kolniev worked out what they should take, interrupting himself from time to time to see if the various commodities he thought of were there in sufficient quantities. Orlov poked about among a number of crocks and preserving jars in a large closet and found pickled cucumbers and beetroots, preserved fruit, pickled eggs and a number of other desirable delicacies. Then, while Kolniev had their selection carried out to the big barn where the carts had been put under cover, he copied out the list on a sheet of paper, making out a receipt for it all to leave for the owner of the house. When he had finished, he pinned it up in a prominent place on the store-room wall, adding a few words of thanks. Then he went to see how Kusminsky was getting on.
The surgeon had turned the entrance hall into a dressing station and was working his way through the assorted collection of wounds, dealing with the men as they became available between their various jobs such as loading things for Kolniev, carrying firewood, seeing to the horses, helping the cooks and all the other things which had to be done.
Josef had found some sheets, left behind by the owners, in a large press in one of the attics and half-a-dozen men with damaged legs were comfortably propped up on their stretchers round the fire, converting them into neatly rolled bandages.
When Orlov appeared, Kusminsky looked up from the stump of an amputated arm which he was dealing with and said sharply, "Get your coat and shirt off. I'll see to your arm next.”
Orlov opened his mouth to protest that he didn't need seeing to, but the Countess came over to help him and he submitted without a word. She helped him out of the garments and then carefully undid his bandages. When she reached the dressing, Orlov said, "You needn't . . ."
“It's all right," she said gently. "I've seen worse than yours." She eased the pad off the wound almost painlessly while Orlov was trying to phrase his regrets that she should have to see such unpleasant sights.
Kusminsky came over, drying his hands on a large piece of sheeting. Orlov had noticed that the surgeon seemed to wash his hands a great many times, particularly between patients, and wondered why he was so fastidious. He was about to ask when the surgeon tugged briskly at the sutures in his wound and the pain put the question out of his mind. He gasped and closed his eyes, biting his lips to prevent himself crying out, his right hand gripping convulsively at whatever came within his grasp. When the world returned to an even keel, he found he was clutching Countess Barova's wrist in what must have been a painfully crushing grip, but she made no complaint and didn't attempt to release herself until he let go himself.
He apologized, but she merely smiled and handed Kusminsky a fresh dressing which he placed over the wound and bandaged firmly. "Doing well now," he said. "If you'll just be sensible for a few more days, I think it will do quite nicely. The stitches can come out in another week." Orlov didn't relish the thought.
He remained sitting quietly on the stairs for some time after Kusminsky had finished with him and he had gone through the tedious business of putting on his uniform again. It was not so much the shirt and coat which gave him trouble as the sash and sword belt and that ridiculous stock, which in fact he left off as he couldn't do it up with one hand and everyone seemed too busy to be asked for help. His arm ached and he felt very tired, a reminder that he was only two days out of a fever and not yet back to his normal strength. It was pleasant just to sit there, leaning against the banisters, listening to the rain still falling outside and the busy sounds inside the house, and watching Kusminsky moving among his patients, inspecting wounds, bandaging, giving a word of warning or encouragement carefully calculated to cheer the fainthearted or restrain the over-eager.
Kolniev came through from the back regions at about five o'clock, followed by two orderlies with a samovar and a tray of tea-things, and they adjourned to the conservatory for tea in a very civilized manner. The Captain set up the samovar on the large marble slab which Orlov thought looked like a tombstone. Kusminsky drew up four little wooden chairs, and they sat round sipping glasses of tea.
Kusminsky gave a sudden snort of laughter. "Of all the ridiculous things in this ridiculous escapade! Sitting around drinking tea in someone's conservatory on a wet summer afternoon! Too provincial for words!”

“Just like home!" the Countess said, with a tight little smile which didn't look very amused.
“Did your aunt have a conservatory?" Orlov found her aunt curiously interesting and wondered what she had been like -had she been kind to the girl?
“Yes," the Countess replied. "She was quite interested in gardening."
“Didn't she consider that flowers were frippery?"
“Oh, she didn't grow flowers. Only vegetables and fruit," the Countess replied solemnly.
By suppertime, Kolniev reported that he had managed to stow all the supplies in the carts, still leaving room for the men's personal gear, and Kusminsky had completed his inspection of his patients. Orlov helped him with the last few and at the end, Kusminsky drew him aside and said, "Corporal Adraksin's foot is not very satisfactory.”
Orlov had to think for a moment to be sure which man he meant and then he realized that it was the corporal who was Sergeant Platov's shadow. "How bad is it?" he asked.
“It's infected," Kusminsky replied wearily. "Not much as yet - it doesn't hurt him, but if it gets any worse, it will have to come off.”
Fighting down a wave of nausea at the thought, Orlov asked in an almost normal voice, "When will you know?"
“In the morning," Kusminsky replied. "If it has to be done, I shall have to do it as soon as possible. If we stay here, during the day. If we move on, as soon as we camp. I hope I shan't have to do it at all, but if I do, I shall need you to help me.”
Orlov looked at him in speechless horror for a moment, then stammered, "But I've never - I've only one hand. . . ."
“I need one reliable extra hand, that's all," replied Kusminsky. "It's more for the sake of the man - it'll give him confidence to know that you're there. I'll tell you what to do-nothing difficult, mostly just holding things. I notice you don't ask why you. Half the reason is concerned with the patient's confidence and the other half is that I want someone who won't faint or panic in the middle of the operation." He grinned at the expression on Orlov's face. "You won't, you know! You think you will, but you're the one man I'd be willing to stake my reputation on! You'll be as calm and unruffled in appearance as if you were taking tea with your maiden aunt, whatever you feel like inside!”
 Orlov wished he shared the surgeon's confidence and found his appetite for supper much diminished. However, he sat down to the meal and pulled himself together, dismissing future possibilities from his mind, and managed to behave normally.
After the meal they sat round the fire talking for some time, Kolniev smoking his pipe, Kusminsky lying on the floor with his feet up on a box, the Countess darning and Orlov fidgeting with the hilt of his sword. Eventually, the Countess stuck her needle into the reel of thread, excused herself and went upstairs; Kusminsky kicked over his box and got up in one fluid movement, and Kolniev knocked out his pipe.
“Do we move tomorrow?" he asked.
“Depends on the weather," Orlov replied, "If it rains, no; if it's fine, yes, probably.”
Kolniev gave an immense yawn, stretched and wandered off to bed. Kusminsky said, "Don't worry about Adraksin. It'll probably be all right," and followed him up the stairs.
To give the Countess a little time to herself, Orlov went on a tour of inspection. He found most of the men asleep, lying in a large fan-shape round the fires in the big salon and the servants' hall, wrapped in their blankets and greatcoats. It was surprising how much colder it had become after the recent heatwave and Orlov shivered a little as he looked round the stables, sprinting from one building to another through the light drizzle which had replaced the heavier rain.
He re-entered the house, climbed the stairs and hesitated outside the door of the pink room for a moment before tapping on it and entering. The room was lit only by the leaping flames of the fire which blazed in the grate. The Countess was sitting in her petticoat on her pile of bedding at one side of the hearth, combing her long, thick hair. Orlov's blankets were piled neatly on the other side and a tidy stack of firewood stood ready for use. The whole scene looked a little odd with an orderly row of two trunks, his own and Countess Barova's, standing in the middle of the floor and not a stick of furniture in the room.
“They might have left us a bed," he said without thinking and then hastily amended it to "two beds" which made matters worse. He hung his sword by its belt from the neck of one of the little plump putti carved on the marble overmantel and the Countess laughed. "He looks so surprised!" she said.
“As well he might!" Orlov replied. He sat down beside her, buried his face in her hair and put his right arm round her, his hand cupping her breast. Her hair smelled fresh and clean and he kissed her neck through its silky strands, working his way round to her throat, then downward to where he could just see the valley between her breasts in the modest neckline of her petticoat bodice. She stiffened slightly and he made himself release her, got up, and went over to lean against the fireplace, half-turned away from her. "I'm sorry," he said.
She looked as if she might dissolve into tears. "You've been so kind to me . . ." she began.

“But it wouldn't be very kind to seduce you," he finished for her. He hesitated for a moment and then decided that as the subject had been raised, he might as well take the opportunity. "I don't want to distress you," he said gently, "but do you realize that probably all the men think that I have done so —seduced you, I mean — already?"
“Not all of them," she replied with surprising calmness. "Only one or two, I believe."
“They haven't said anything to you?" Orlov was appalled.
“No. I overheard some of them talking. They didn't know I was there. None of them has ever said anything at all — improper or suggestive to me."
“What did you hear?" Orlov asked sharply.
She looked at him for a moment but before he could apologize and withdraw the question she said, "It was last night, just after dark. I went to get something from the cart and some of them were sitting on the other side of it, talking. I heard one of them say that it was good to see you riding in front on your grey horse again and another said 'He's a good horseman to stay in the saddle, the state he's been in', and then someone laughed and said, 'He gets plenty of practice! He rides the grey gelding all day and the brown mare all night!' “
Orlov made a faint noise and pressed his forehead against the pink marble in front of him, hiding his scarlet face. She looked at him again for a second and then continued without a tremor, "Some of the others laughed and one of them said, `He's a pretty fine stallion himself. I should think he gives her more pleasure than she's ever had before!' I don't think I can repeat the next part, for it was quite obscene. Then Sergeant Platov told them to be quiet. 'You know very well you're talking nonsense,' he said. 'The Major can recognize a lady of quality even if you can't, and he won't have laid a finger on her.
 He's not the sort of man to take advantage of a lady in difficulties!' Nearly all of them agreed with him and the two who were joking about you had to be quiet.”
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire and then Orlov said in an unsteady voice, "Oh, God! I'm so sorry — I don't know what to say!"
“It's not your fault," she assured him.
“But to think that you had the embarrassment of hearing anything like that!" Orlov was clearly very distressed.
She gave a little sigh and then said, "I've heard far worse from my aunt at times, so I'm afraid I'm not as shocked as I ought to be. Some of the things she said about ,me were far more humiliating than anything I've experienced since I met you."
“Was she very unkind to you?" Orlov asked anxiously.
She thought about the question before answering. "She gave me a home and looked after me, but she didn't like me. I was grateful but I had no real affection for her and sometimes she irritated me terribly. When I made her angry, she said I was pert and rebellious, or else spineless and subservient and she'd go on and on criticizing me — my manner, my voice, my . . . my anatomy until she made me cry. She always said I'd never get a husband. I don't think she meant to be unkind and she never struck me. It's just that I upset her and I think her legs were very painful sometimes.”
Orlov sat down beside her again, his arm going round her shoulders in a fairly brotherly way as he earnestly told her that her aunt was quite wrong. She laid her head on his shoulder, her soft hair brushing his cheek and he was about to go into details of why her aunt was wrong when he caught sight of a black mark on her left wrist — her hands were lying in her lap, one of them still holding her comb. He picked up her hand to look more closely at the mark, saw that it was a bruise and pressed his lips to it.
“How did you do that?" he asked. To his surprise, she hid her face against his shoulder and he suddenly realized that he must have done it himself when Kusminsky had hurt his arm and he had gripped her. He began to apologize, but she lifted her face and smiled at him, shaking her head so he kissed her lips instead, gently at first but then harder, pressing her close to him, crushing his mouth down on hers, forcing her lips open. For a wild, dizzy moment, he fought to regain control of himself and then tore himself away from her and retired,  shaking, to his own pile of bedding on the far side of the fireplace.
“Perhaps I'd better move outside the door," he said in an unhappy voice.
She made no reply for a few moments but busied herself with plaiting her hair. Then she said in a very matter-of-fact manner, "It would be very cold and draughty there and the floor is tiled with marble, I think.”
Orlov gave a snort of mingled amusement and self-disgust. "It would serve me right to lie on cold marble all night!" he said. "I must try to remember that I'm not the sort of man to take advantage of a lady in difficulties — I'll have it engraved on my tombstone, I think! If I promise to behave, do you think I might be allowed to stay?”
The Countess was wrapping herself up in her blankets with apparent composure and she merely replied in a calm, social sort of manner, "I should think so. Goodnight," and then lay down to sleep.
Orlov struggled out of his boots and outer clothing in silence and lay awake for some time thinking about her with a great deal of admiration for her self-possession. He wondered what sort of turmoil and confusion it covered. Revulsion? Fear? She had stiffened when he kissed her throat but not immediately, only when his lips moved lower, and then she had only stiffened, not pulled away. Several times now she had leaned against him when he put his arm round her as if she found his nearness comforting, but that didn't mean very much — he could remember leaning against his dog in that companionable way when he was a boy and something had made him feel lonely and unhappy. She had actually hugged him when he gave her the hairpins, but Tatia sometimes hugged him when he did something which pleased her.
He shifted about uncomfortably. The floor felt very hard and unyielding and he seemed to have a bruise on his right hip which made lying on that side hurt a little. Flat on his back wasn't very easy either. The floor grew lumps and bumps which pressed into his shoulder-blades and there seemed to be a bruise on his right buttock as well. Where on earth had he collected all these bruises? Presumably when Grushchev knocked him over and he hadn't noticed them before because they had been swallowed up by the pain of his arm.
The thought of Grushchev gave him a sick feeling of failure as if he were in some way to blame for the man's breakdown.
Certainly, he should have realized sooner what was wrong. His own dread of mutilation should have given him insight. He began to blame himself for the sergeant's suicide as well, but common sense intervened and told him that he could hardly have prevented it when he was unconscious himself.
Of course, the thought of the Guard sergeant inevitably led him to the possibility of having to help Kusminsky amputate Corporal Adraksin's foot and he fought down a wave of hysterical terror at the pictures his imagination conjured up. He knew he couldn't do it — he would break down, scream, cry, vomit, make a complete fool of himself. He'd do Adraksin no good at all, only make matters worse for him.
He decided to tell Kusminsky that he couldn't help him and started to string together the words he would use. But even as he did so, he realized that he would never find the courage to say them, to admit to the surgeon that he was too yellow-gutted to face something Kusminsky had to do over and over again in the course of a campaign. Oh, God! The number of things he'd had to do in his life because he was too scared to admit he was too scared to do them! Why was it so much harder to admit to being a coward than to do the things one was so afraid of?
Obviously, there was no point in working himself into a cold sweat at the thought of tomorrow when Kusminsky had said it was only a possibility. Better think about something pleasant to take his mind off his physical and mental miseries and try to get some sleep. He let his mind drift to the pleasant thought of the room he would have decorated for Sparrow. Silk-lined walls, like this one, but in a darker shade of pink than this — a deep rose, perhaps, or crimson. Not very unusual, he thought, but she'd never had a pretty room. Light wood furniture rather than white, but dainty with slender, graceful lines, like her body, and maybe delicate flowered muslin for the bed-hangings.
And silk for her; silk dresses which would cling to her form and rustle, in rich colours to set off her hair and her eyes, with preffy muslins for the summer in pale, clear colours like her pale, clear skin. Jewels. Diamonds to flash in her lovely hair and a necklace of rubies to clasp her white neck and curve down to the swell of her blue-veined breasts. He let his imagination run riot, picturing her dressed for a ball, for a picnic, for the Opera, for a State banquet and always himself beside her in the sober elegance which would be a perfect foil for her.
Surprisingly, despite the physical longing some of his imaginings aroused, he was gradually lulled to sleep, slipping into oblivion on the half-formed thought that he could only give her the pretty room, the dresses and jewels and take her to a State banquet if . . . the implications were too shattering to allow his mind to complete the sentence.
The noise Josef made raking out the ashes and relighting the fire woke him in the morning and he lay blinking sleepily at the pink putti, deciding that he didn't really care much for them —more white flowers in garlands would be better, with perhaps an overmantel mirror. Josef glanced at him and remarked in tones of ill-disguised satisfaction that the rain which had stopped during the night, had now started again. Orlov struggled out of his blankets and went over to the window to see, rubbing his hand through his tousled hair and yawning as he stumbled across the room, still only half-awake.
The Countess was before him, sitting sideways on the wide window-sill, already clad in her dull grey dress with her hair pinned up in its coronet. She smiled up into his sleepy, unshaven face and said, "You're still asleep!”
He leaned against the window frame and looked at the grey, wet world outside. "That's not worth waking up for!" He gestured at it and yawned again.
“You're very late this morning," she told him severely. "I've been up for ages, listening to your snoring."
“I don't snore!" he protested. "Josef, do I snore?”
The manservant paused in the act of folding Orlov's blankets and said solemnly, "I am not in the habit of listening to matters which do not concern me."
“That means that you do snore but he doesn't like to say so," the Countess said mischievously. Orlov seized her by the shoulders and rubbed his bristly cheek against her face, making her gasp and squirm away but he pressed after her until she had her back against the window casing and could retreat no further.
“Do you notice anything interesting?" he asked, still with his cheek against hers and speaking quietly into her ear. "Several things," she replied.
“Is one of them the fact that I'm holding you with both hands? I seem to be recovering the use of my left hand, so beware!"
“Be careful!" she said anxiously. "Dr. Kusminsky said you must still take care." Orlov's reply was to slide both arms round her and hold her tightly against his bare chest. To his surprise, she made to attempt to pull away but after a moment, he felt her arms go round his waist and her cold hands pressed his back.
“Another interesting thing," she said with a fair degree of calmness, but slightly breathlessly, "is the size of the audience we seem to have collected.”
Startled, Orlov looked out of the window and saw that at least a dozen men were standing in the doorway of the barn watching with every appearance of interest. Horrified, he curbed his immediate impulse to let go and move away from her which he thought would make them both look ridiculous and instead went on holding her, gently rubbing his cheek against her hair while he considered the situation. At length he said "Sparrow!”
She lifted her head from his shoulder and tilted it back to look up at him. "I'm sorry I'm not shaved," he said and kissed her full on the mouth. A faint cheer came to him from outside and he moved away from the window with his arm still round her. "I'm sorry about that, too," he continued, "but I couldn't think of anything else that wouldn't have looked guilty or furtive.”
She made no reply, kept her head down and went over to her trunk, putting some things back into it, then spent a few minutes rearranging its contents, her face hidden from him. Orlov stood looking at her back with an expression of helpless misery on his face until Josef broke the awkward silence by asking his master if he wished to be shaved before the water got cold. Orlov turned to answer him and the Countess rose and went out of the room, her face averted.
When he was ready, Orlov went down to breakfast in the small salon, feeling bitterly ashamed of himself. Only a bare twenty-four hours before he had resolved that he wouldn't trouble the Countess with familiarities, particularly in public, yet since then he had knelt at her feet and put his arm round her in front of the whole camp; carried her before him on his horse for about three miles, holding her as close as he could; had gripped her wrist so hard he'd bruised it; fondled her breast and kissed her so hard he must have hurt her, quite apart from her feelings of shock and outrage; and now he had behaved really appallingly, rubbing his face against hers, embracing her when he was half naked and then deliberately kissing her in front of men he knew to be watching. He came to  a halt outside the door of the salon and had to brace himself and make a real effort before he could open it and go in.
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 outselves 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 TEN

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 said. "Now, there's hot water here. Wash your hands thoroughly." There was another bucket standing in the stone sink. Orlov stripped off his coat, rolled up his shirt sleeves and 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 superstition." 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 on to 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 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.
“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.
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 was 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 uncontrollable, 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 try to eat some luncheon? It must be time for it by now.”
In conformation 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 of 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 with 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 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 this 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.
He read the whole letter through again from the beginning and then added another page of instructions to his sister and his lawyers concerning the provisions he wanted made for the Countess plus various business matters concerning his estates. He ended with a promise that he would resign from the army as  soon as he heard that Bonaparte was back across the Niemen.
When it was finished, the letter made quite a bulky little package which he sealed and addressed carefully, wondering when he would get a chance to send it. Probably not until they reached Kaluga and then he hoped it would be necessary to rewrite the part about Countess Barova. He paused in his thoughts and framed the words carefully, savouring them and their implications, for perhaps by then he would know what chance he had of marrying her. How extraordinarily right and satisfying the phrase was! "Marrying her," he thought again. He'd thought about marrying before, even once or twice in connection with an actual, possible, particular woman but it was now obvious to him why he had never gone beyond the idea. What a lot of time he'd wasted! He sighed, stowing the letter away in his wallet and stared absentmindedly out of the window.
“I wondered when you were going to notice," Kusminsky's voice broke into his thoughts. He looked blank for a moment and then realized what the surgeon meant. The rain had stopped and a watery sun was struggling through the clouds which were breaking up rapidly, with blue sky appearing in great patches even as he looked. He got up and went to the window, feeling the sun gaining in strength and warming his face. The stone flags of the terrace below were beginning to steam and men were popping out like rabbits from their burrows, from the house and the barns, shouting cheerfully to each other and savouring the returning warmth.
“They'll all be complaining of the heat again in a minute," said Kusminsky sourly. "You'll see. It'll be as hot and dusty and miserable as ever by this time tomorrow!" He went out, banging the door behind him and rattling down the stairs.
Orlov turned to the Countess. "Shall we take a turn in the garden?" he enquired politely and offered her his arm. She rose, gave him a slight curtsey and went with him down to the formal garden. They strolled about in a civilized manner on the gravel walks, avoiding the puddles and enjoying the fresh smell of wet soil and the sharply sweet scent of the roses.
In the middle of the geometric arrangement of flower-beds, there was a raised platform of white marble surmounted by a sundial and surrounded by a low clipped hedge of lavender, broken only by a couple of steps up to the platform. After they had walked round the limited area of the garden, they gravitated towards this centre and stood looking at the sundial,  which was now able to perform its proper function. Orlov prosaically checked his watch by it and found it to be wrong.
“I've always had a great desire to own a sundial," the Countess said, tracing the engraving on the bronze dial with one finger. "Not something useful and portable like a watch, you understand, but something large and quite impracticable during the greater part of the year. I'm afraid my aunt was right in thinking me a vain and foolish creature."
“On the contrary," Orlov smiled down at her. "As a large and impracticable object myself, I think you show admirable good sense!" The lavender hedge, drying rapidly in the sun, sent up a perfume which was almost tangible in its intensity, like an invisible wall round the little island on which they stood. "I've never realized that the scent of lavender could be so heady," he said inconsequentially.
“It's a very unexciting and unheady scent, considered suitable for young girls and respectable old maids," she replied with a trace of bitterness. "My aunt said that all other perfumes are sinful and dangerous. Are they?" she added, with genuine interest.
“Some of them," Orlov replied with equally genuine seriousness. "Some perfumes have an extremely stirring effect on the senses and I suppose that if a woman uses them deliberately to obtain that effect on a man, it could be called wicked. It would certainly be dangerous for the man or if an innocent girl used one of them without realizing what sort of message it conveyed to the men around her."
“I suppose there are some that are – well – in between? A liffle more exciting than lavender water, without being – not respectable?"
“Many," Orlov replied. "Pleasant, mildly exciting, perfectly respectable.”
The Countess sighed. "My aunt seemed to believe that everything must be at extremes, somehow. Respectable dresses had to be high-necked, long-sleeved, dull in colour and fabric. Low necks, bare arms, bright colours and soft fabrics were all wicked and depraved. I'm wrong to talk of her like this. She was good to me in her way, but I can't help feeling that she was very narrow in her outlook. Surely it's possible to have a little fun and colour in life without being a complete wanton?"
“My sister has an interesting and amusing life, with plenty of gaiety and colour and she's a pillar of respectability!" Orlov assured her. "She dresses very elegantly and enjoys the attentions of at least half-a-dozen men who are earnestly engaged in trying to gain her affections – with honourable intent, I assure you, or they'd have me to deal with! I expect she'll marry one of them eventually but meanwhile she enjoys flirting with them; she goes to parties, balls, masquerades, the theatre, uses gallons of the less extreme varieties of perfume, all without the slightest hint of depravity.”
The Countess considered this information and then said in a hesitant and subdued voice, "Do you enjoy flirting too?”
Orlov looked down on her bent head and felt that he was beginning to understand her. "Flirting's a very enjoyable pastime when there's nothing better to do," he said, "and quite harmless if it remains merely a pastime on both sides. It's a different matter if it goes too far or if one of the people involved takes it seriously. I try to make sure that no one is hurt by my amusements. I don't pursue where I'm not encouraged, I don't seduce the innocent and I don't flirt with inexperienced girls who might think me serious.”
She looked up at him, studying his face with an anxious, questioning air and he met her gaze with his clear grey eyes, which did so much to inspire other people's confidence in him. "I wouldn't flirt with you" he added bluntly.
The sun was beginning to decline towards the horizon, turning the remaining streaks of cloud a vivid red and it may have been the reflection from them that gave her cheeks a becoming flush. Orlov pulled a few stalks of lavender and crushed them between his fingers. "Your aunt was wrong about lavender," he said with a smile. "It's as dangerous as any perfume I've ever smelled!" He threaded a few stems through her coronet of plaits and laughed at the spiky crown which resulted. "Queen Sparrow!" he said.
“Czarina, if you please!" she replied in a superior tone. "You can't expect a Russian to be content with being a mere queen!”
Orlov felt a happy sense of comradeship with her. How good to find a woman who could share his own occasional fits of nonsensical humour! He dropped on his knees and kissed the hem of his skirt, laughing up at her. "Your pardon, Majesty! I mistook you for a little Sparrow, but now I see you're really a bird of paradise!"
“And I mistook you for an eagle but now I see you are really a peacock!" she replied. Orlov stood up, protesting. "Indeed I'm not. If I can't be a robin, then you'll have to allow me to be an eagle for that was your choice for me! A good Russian eagle!"
“Very well then," she replied with a sudden smile of pure mischief. "A good Russian eagle with two heads and a cross expression!" and she ran away across the garden, laughing at him over her shoulder.
“Two cross expressions!" Orlov called after her, and stood watching as she crossed the terrace and entered the house.
He followed at a more sedate pace, musing on the changes of mood he had experienced during the day, and encountered Kusminsky in the hall. The surgeon gave him another of his searching looks and said, "Feeling better?"
“Yes," Orlov replied. "How's Adraksin?"
“Oh, he'll do," Kusminsky said. "He's a cheerful, resilient soul and now he's talking of being discharged unfit and going home to sit by the fire and watch everyone else working. His family is quite prosperous so it doesn't worry him. I'm sorry I had to drag you into the proceedings – very unpleasant for a man of your sensibility.”
Orlov thought the surgeon was making fun of him, but he seemed quite serious. "I suppose we can expect to continue our Odyssey tomorrow?" the doctor asked.
“It looks like it." Orlov glanced out at the sunset which was in full glory. "Will Adraksin be fit to travel?"
“No one's fit to travel," Kusminsky pointed out. "But we've managed pretty well so far. He's in no worse a state than you were the night we started, or four days ago, and he has enough sense to lie still and not go riding around on a damned great carthorse."
“He's not a carthorse!" Orlov protested. He had grown quite fond of the grey.
“I expect you're half a horse yourself, being an Orlov," Kusminsky mocked, referring to the famous Russian breed of horses. Orlov could see that a number of more or less obscene jokes were likely to arise from this and, remembering the soldiers' comments reported to him by Countess Barova, he hastily changed the subject by asking Kusminsky if he could leave off his sling.
“No, keep it on for a few more days," the surgeon advised. "Use the arm a little if you want to, but rest it pretty frequently. Don't put any strain on those stitches just yet." Kolniev, whose large frame seemed to require frequent refreshment, leaned over the balustrade to tell them that supper was nearly ready and Orlov went upstairs, shouting for Josef, who appeared in the doorway of the pink and white bedroom with a clean shirt over his arm and an expression of pained resignation on his face. He had obviously been waiting some time for his master to appear.
At supper, Kolniev asked what would happen when they reached Kaluga. Orlov had hardly given the matter any thought so far, but he said he expected they would be able to find beds in the military hospital for most of the men. The others could go into the barracks or on to the camp which was being built up at Tarutino.
“What will you do?" Kolniev asked.
“Report back to headquarters, wherever that may be by then," Orlov replied. "I have a modest feeling that the army can't manage without me." He grinned at himself.
“You should take sick leave," Kusminsky said in the tones of one who doesn't expect to meet agreement. Orlov shrugged and winced. It didn't hurt nearly as much, but it was enough to remind him. Kusminsky laughed.
“I thought we'd cured you of that," he said. "Where did you learn that ridiculously Gallic habit? France?"
“Italy, actually," Orlov replied. "I lived in Florence for a year."
“Studying art and the language?" Kusminsky was half-sarcastic, half-interested.
“Yes, and fencing," Orlov replied equably. "Any excuse to live in a country with warm winters."
“Is it warm?" Kolniev asked.
“Warmer than Petersburg. Damp, very smelly and they all talk Italian." Orlov didn't sound very thrilled with Florence. "But isn't it beautiful?" the Countess asked.
“No more beautiful than Petersburg," Orlov replied. "After all, our city was built by Italian architects and they profited from the mistakes they made in their own cities."
“I haven't even seen Petersburg." The Countess sounded almost ashamed of her untravelled state, and Orlov smiled to himself at the thought of the pleasure they would find in visiting the great cities of Europe together – always provided, of course, that he could persuade her to marry him. The smile faded abruptly and was replaced by an anxious frown which she appeared to have noticed, for she looked at him enquiringly and he hastily summoned up an encouraging smile and  made a non-committal remark to the effect that she would have plenty of time to travel when the war was over.
After supper, Kusminsky asked Orlov to come on his rounds with him whlle Kolniev checked the carts to see that everything was in order for the morning. Kolniev muttered something about having done so already but he went off with a lantern, leaving the other two in the entrance hall, where Corporal Adraksin had been laid by the fire on a pile of palliasses, roughly screened from the draught by a couple of tattered blankets.
Orlov knelt beside the man and asked him gently how he felt. The corporal was quite conscious and only very slightly feverish. He thanked Orlov for his enquiries, saying he felt quite well and sounding almost cheerful, considering. "It was good of you to help the doctor, sir," he said. "It must have turned your stomach something cruel – I wouldn't have fancied it.”
There were several other men whom the surgeon seemed to think would benefit from a few words from the major, although Orlov couldn't think why. He obligingly followed Kusminsky's progress through the two big rooms being used as dormitories and tried to make the appropriate enquiries and encouraging remarks, feeling rather embarrassed by the thanks he received for doing so. All the men seemed very cheerful and several remarked that they were looking forward to pressing on towards Kaluga in the morning, so presumably the rest had done them all good.
When Kusminsky finally released him it was time to turn in and he climbed the stairs slowly, his mind reverting to the problem which he had not been able to think about at supper–what he should do about asking the Countess to marry him, and what chance he stood of being accepted if he did? If he let her go on from Kaluga without saying anything, the whole position would be difficult. It might be thought odd that a young woman, quite unconnected to the family, should stay indefinitely in his home with his sister, even if he was not there himself. She might meet and fall in love with someone else, or find herself a position as a governess and simply disappear. The thought of losing her by default, so to speak, was unbearable.
On the other hand, if he said anything to her before he sent her to Ryazan, this also raised problems. She might agree to marry him out of gratitude or think he was offering for the sake of her reputation – a dozen misunderstandings might arise. The biggest problem would be that if she accepted him, she would feel bound to marry him and he daren't tie her like that while he was still in the army. He couldn't possibly resign while the French were still in Russia. Obviously he must go back to duty and if he were maimed – killed wouldn't matter in this connection – but if he were maimed, perhaps revoltingly or in some way that made him incapable of being a proper husband and she felt bound to marry him – it was all too dreadful to contemplate. Anyway, did she like him enough to accept him in the first place?
He found he was standing outside the door of the pink and white room, his mind churning round in impossibly involved convulutions, peppered with "ifs". He sighed, tapped at the door, and went in.
The room was again lit only by the leaping flames of a good fire and their various belongings were set out as they had been the night before, looking just as incongruous now as they had then. The Countess was securing the end of her plait with a piece of ribbon and greeted him with a smile before snuggling down into her blankets. Orlov returned the smile and then tried to avoid looking at her, determined not to repeat his inexcusable behaviour of the night before.
As he tugged at his boots, he decided to say something and began rather obliquely, "I wrote a long letter to my sister this afternoon."
“How will you send it to her?" the Countess asked, sounding interested in the problem.
“Oh, from Kaluga, if we don't meet any of our army on the way. If I send it as soon as we arrive, she'll get it before you reach Ryazan. It'll take a couple of days to arrange your journey, quite apart from the fact that you'll need a rest before you go on – it's another couple of hundred miles."
“Is the letter to warn her about me?"
“Tell, not warn!" he protested. "I think you'll like Tatia. She's very pleasant and good-hearted." He wondered how to introduce the next stage of what he wanted to say and to his relief, she gave him the opening he needed by asking, "Do you think she will marry again?"
“I'm sure she will. She was only seventeen before – it was arranged by our father, and she hardly knew the man. They were only married a few weeks before he went off on the Austerlitz campaign – hardly time to get to know him. He was  very badly wounded, mutilated and hideously disfigured. It was dreadful for Tatia, though she's never said anything about it. For a woman to be tied to a fearful wreck of a man like that–he died after a few weeks, fortunately for both of them. She's been quite recovered from it for some time now.”
He was silent for a moment, having reached another tricky point and before he could start to negotiate lt, the Countess said, "But if she'd loved him, surely she would rather have had him whatever he looked like, unless he was suffering very much."
“She didn't love him and he was suffering very badly," Orlov replied flatly. "It would have been better if he'd been killed outright – being married to what remains of a man after injuries like that turns marriage into some sort of hideous torture." He fidgeted with the spur on one of his boots, and then went on abruptly, "I can't honourably leave the army while the French are in Russia. I'll have to wait until they're back across the Niemen. After that – well, I've intended for some time to resign and settle down at home. Meanwhile, when we reach Kaluga, I shall have to return to duty and take my chance like any other soldier. I may be killed or left like my brother-in-law. . . ." He didn't go on, feeling that he had said enough if she understood him and if she didn't, well, probably there was no point in saying more.
After a moment she said, "I see.”
He gave a little sigh. "I'd be – grateful – if you would stay with Tatia until I can resign and come home."
“Yes," she replied quietly. "I'll wait, if that's what you wish."
“Good, that's exactly what I wish," he sald briskly. "Now, tomorrow, I think Adraksin had better go in one of the other carts. Kolniev's, probably."
“He's a much better driver than I am," she commented.
“I wasn't implying any criticism of your driving. I just don't want you to have to spend the day listening to the ravings of a man in delirium or even to the sounds of him dying," Orlov said harshly. "God knows, there's little enough I can do for your comfort but I'm not an insensible brute!”
To his surprise, she replied in a voice which was clearly between tears and laugher, "I didn't imagine that you were!" He lay awake for some time, watching the shadows leaping on the wall and wondering what she really thought of him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE morning was bright and sunny, with a cloudless sky and a slight breeze. It was still fairly fresh after the rain, and the dust had solidified into a sort of damp sand through which the wheels of the carts cut with little difficulty. The awnings flapped in the breeze and the men sang cheerfully as they lurched down the drive and back onto the road.
Corporal Adraksin and Sergeant Platov had transferred to Kolniev's cart and four men had changed over with them, sitting perched on the sacks and bundles behind the Countess. She was driving in her usual place, second in the line, her head swathed in her scarf which framed a face turning brown and freckled by the sun. Orlov thought that she looked much healthier and somehow better than when he first saw her and he puzzled over the difference as he swung along on the big grey through the thick forest. Obviously, her experiences during the past fortnight might be expected to make some change in her, but it was rather unexpected that she should look — what? more alive? happier? Certainly less thin-cheeked and wretched. He searched for the right word and eventually decided that he meant more beautiful. He could distinctly remember thinking she was plain when he saw her outside the inn that day and he gave a wry grin as he recognized that a good many things had changed since then!
The grey ambled along reasonably sedately, giving only an occasional kick and Orlov had little difficulty in controlling him. He felt much better himself and looked about him, whistling tunefully as he rode along. It was pleasantly shady under the trees, but the sky was already assuming that hard, brassy look which threatened a return of the suffocating heat which had plagued them before the storm.
By mid-morning, they had passed through the forest and were crossing rolling grassland again. It stretched away for several miles ahead and the next patch of forest was only visible as a dark shadow in the distance. The road was running  through a long, shallow valley, limiting the view to right or left to a bare mile.
One of the drivers gave a sudden cry of alarm. Orlov turned sharply in the saddle and saw the man pointing to the north and as he followed the line of his outflung arm, he saw a bunch of horsemen on the skyline, galloping rapidly towards them. He shouted "Halt!" superfluously as the carts were already stopping and the men were staring apprehensively at the approaching riders. Orlov screwed up his eyes and stood in his stirrups, taking in as much detail as his reasonably keen vision allowed. There were about a hundred of them, riding in no sort of order.
Kolniev came running and stood looking up at him anxiously. He kept his voice low and controlled, but failed to conceal his excitement.
“French? There are a hundred at least.”
Orlov walked his horse unobtrusively alongside the line of carts with his back to them so that he could watch the newcomers and talk to Kolniev, but he was mainly intent on putting himself near to Countess Barova, just in case. "Why do you think they're French?" he asked, sounding cool and interested.
“Blue uniforms."
“Look at their hats and their scraggy little horses. No formation. French cavalry never ride like that. They're Cossacks." He rode forward a few paces from the road and flung up his right arm in greeting. The Cossacks came thundering down the slope and drew up sharply when they were almost among the carts, making the draught horses plunge about. Kolniev ran to help the Countess who was having trouble controlling her pair.
The Hetman brought his pony level with Orlov and saluted him with a flourish before introducing himself. "Major Orlov?" he enquired. "I was informed at Headquarters that I might come across you on this road.”
Orlov introduced Kusrninsky, who had ridden up from his place at the back and Kolniev, who had returned to stand with one hand on the neck of the grey, his red face upturned to the mounted men around him. The Hetman's eyes suddenly lighted on the Countess, who was directly behind Orlov, and he made a comment of such coarseness that Orlov was filled with cold fury, the more so as the fellow also ran his eyes over her body far too appreciatively for decency.

“The lady is betrothed to me," he said, in a loud, clear, ice-cold voice which carried the whole length of the line of carts. He felt the stir of interest which ran through the men behind him and wished desperately that he could see Countess Barova's face.
The Hetman apologized very handsomely, both to Orlov and to the Countess, making her a pretty speech and kissing her hand. She appeared perfectly composed and accepted his apology with gracious inclination of her head worthy of a Czarina.
With the social niceties disposed of, the Hetman asked a variety of questions about their journey, the state of the men, their supplies, the carts, the horses and whether they had seen anything of the enemy anywhere.
Orlov gave a brief account of their journey which sounded downright dull when recounted to anyone who hadn't taken part in it. He reported that the last bridge was still standing and the last village unburned. The Hetman nodded. "Plenty of time," he said. "We're warning the people to leave, but not firing anything about here yet. The French left Smolensk three days ago. They won't be in this locality for a while yet.”
This was good news to Orlov as it removed his greatest worry — that they might have to fight the French with men who were already wounded. He enquired what other news there was and the Hetman replied gaily that Kutuzov was said to be on his way from Petersburg to take over as commander-in-chief, and the army had withdrawn beyond Viazma to wait for him. There was no news of any intent to give battle yet. "But Papa Kutuzov will arrange things," the Hetman concluded with a wink.
He asked if he could do anything for them and Orlov remembered his letter. He pulled it out and asked the Hetman to have it sent by the army post from Headquarters. "Who told you to look out for us?" he asked. "Was it Major Danilov?"
“No, it was General Barclay de Tolly himself!" replied the Hetman. "Most concerned, he was. Oh, he said I should tell you that he's sent instructions to Kaluga for your men to be looked after.”
The Cossacks left soon after with shouted good wishes for success on both sides, and Orlov's little company plodded on its way. The freshness left by the rain was disappearing rapidly as the sun blazed out of a cloudless sky, and the midday break was more than welcome. They found a large clump of trees by  the roadside, with a tiny stream rising from a spring among them and trickling along by the road. The carts lurched over to form a line in the shade.
Orlov dismounted and stood giving the necessary orders for 'a few minutes. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that the Count( had gone to wash her face and hands at the spring, and then sat down on a fallen tree trunk a little distance from the main centre of activity. As soon as he could, he walked over to her, tugging at the gold ring on the little finger of his left hand. He sat down beside her on the log.
He held out the ring to her on the palm of his hand. She looked at it, gave a quick, searching glance at his face and then held out her right hand. He slid the ring on to the third finger, which it fitted quite well, and then lifted the hand to his lips, watching her face as he did so. Her expression was unreadable.
“Thank you," she said in a small, quiet voice. There was a great deal Orlov wanted to say but already a dozen things were clamouring for his attention. "May I talk to you later?" he asked anxiously.
She nodded and smiled up at him, a small nervous smile. "Don't worry," she said. "I know how much you have to do now." She dropped her eyes and sat still, the fingers of her left hand touching the ring caressingly. He turned away reluctantly and joined Kusminsky at Adraksin's side.
Kusminsky seemed quite satisfied with the man's state but he was obviously in a fever and Orlov thought he looked dreadful. The surgeon was busy with him and Orlov didn't linger as Kolniev was calling for him to look at the axle on one of the carts.
It was showing signs of giving way and Orlov agreed that it should be replaced when they camped for the night. As they straightened up from inspecting it, Kolniev looked round at the men resting under the trees and said in a hesitant voice, quite unlike his usual hearty tones, "I'm very glad about you and the Countess.”
Orlov looked at him doubtfully, but the Captain's cheerful red face was full of frank goodwill. "Thank you," he replied rather stiffly.
“Mind you," went on Kolniev. "It wasn't exactly a surprise. It's been pretty obvious right from the start that you hit it off very well. Anyway, my congratulations." Orlov shook his proffered hand, too surprised by Kolniev's assumptions and their implications to make any reply.
 The meal was the usual one of hard bread (fairly fresh as the cooks had baked it during the two days they had stayed in the house), cheese and a thick bortsch made from cabbages cut in the garden before they left. Conversation centred round the news gathered from the Cossacks and soon died as they settled down to rest for an hour in the noonday heat.
During the afternoon march, Kusminsky rode up alongside Orlov and stayed with him for a while, commenting crossly on the heat, "Nearly as bad as ever." After a little desultory conversation, the surgeon said, "That was an interesting announcement you made this morning.”
Orlov felt his colour rising. "After what the Hetman called her, what else could I do?" he demanded.
“Only after what the Hetman said?" Kusminsky asked slyly.
“What the devil do you mean by that?" Orlov's voice was cold and edgy.
“Clearly your 'irritability is due to physical frustration," Kusminsky said, grinning. "I didn't mean what you thought I meant — I'm sure you've been a perfect gentleman, in the best tradition of the Chevalier Guard. What I actually meant was that I don't think the protection of her reputation is the only reason you can find for marrying the girl."
“I didn't realize that my feelings were so clearly apparent to the world." Orlov tried to pass it off lightly. "Will you tell me something seriously? Could you see how she looked when I said it?”
Kusminsky thought, looking back in his mind. "When the Hetman looked at her and made his classic remark, she turned her face away and I think she blushed," he replied. "But when you said that she was betrothed to you, she turned to look at you, went quite pale and then looked as proud as a queen."
“Surprised?"
“For a second, no more. It was news to her too, then? You mean you hadn't actually asked her to marry you?"
“I still haven't, blast it!" Orlov replied ruefully, and Kusminsky laughed.
“You know," he said reflectively, "for one ghastly moment, I thought you were going to challenge the Hetman!"
“Do you think I should have done?" Orlov asked anxiously. "I thought, under the circumstances, that he made a pardonable mistake, and he apologized very handsomely."
“I'm damned glad you didn't!" said Kusminsky.
“It would have been all right," Orlov's voice was a little frosty. "I shoot right-handed, and I'm as good a shot as any damned Cossack!"
“I'm sure you are," Kusminsky assured him. "The trouble is, as the only surgeon available, I couldn't offer to second you. I don't approve of duelling, anyway."
“As a matter of fact, neither do I," Orlov admitted. "Stupid way to settle an argument.”
Soon after this, Orlov made his tour of inspection, dropping out to let the carts pass him, and then riding up the line, talking to the men. He admitted to himself that it was as much for an opportunity to talk to the Countess as to encourage the men. He curbed his impatience and moved slowly up the line until he reached the second cart.
There was no chance for more than the most general observations about the weather, as one of the soldiers was driving while the Countess took a rest. The other three men were wide awake and Orlov had to be content with looking at her face and exchanging smiles with her, while he remarked that it was as hot as ever and she replied that at least the dust had not yet started to blow about very much.
Towards the end of the afternoon they stopped at the edge of the next area of forest which was much more open than most they had passed through. The trees were quite widely spaced with patches of grass between them and a few stands of bracken, which the men cut for bedding.
There was still no opportunity to talk privately to the Countess as Orlov felt obliged to help Kolniev and a couple of the men unload the cart with the weak axle and replace it with one of the spares they had brought from the inn. "I knew we'd want them," said Kolniev in tones of satisfaction at being proved right. Orlov wished he had been wrong, as the cart was heavy and it hurt his arm helping to lift the end of it.
After that, there was barely time to wash before supper. The light was failing by this time and the water Josef threw over his body was icy cold. Orlov danced about shivering and towelling himself briskly before putting on his clothes and Josef chose this inconvenient moment to remark in his most impersonal manner, "May one offer felicitations, Your Excellency?”
Orlov replied. "Thank you," without succeeding in keeping the surprise out of his voice and was even more surprised when Josef added, "Most gratifying! An excellent outcome in every way!”
 After supper, Kusminsky wanted him to help in changing the bandages on three particularly bad wounds — a messy, unpleasant business, in which Orlov's part was mainly to keep up a flow of conversation to distract the men's attention from what the surgeon was doing. He was touched and embarrassed when a number of the men approached him as an official delegation to offer their respectful congratulations on his betrothal.
By the time he went to the tent, the camp was quiet and the Countess had retired some time before. He stripped off his coat and shirt in the dim light of the lantern, glancing occasionally towards the dark shape on the far side of the tent in the hope that she was not yet asleep.
It was, of course, just as he was engaged in the usual struggle with his boots, that she spoke. ("Why do we always have our most important conversations while I'm taking my boots off?" he wondered.) "Major Orlov?" she said quietly.
“Yes?"
“Why did you say we are betrothed?"
“You know why," he replied. "You heard what the Hetman said."
“Yes, but it wasn't true. There's no reason for you to pretend to be betrothed to me."
“I'm not pretending and there's a very good reason," he replied gently. "There has been ever since the night of the thunderstorm."
“But you didn't . . . you couldn't . . . not without me knowing . . .!"
“No, I didn't," he assured her. "That wasn't the reason. I meant that I've known since that night that I want to marry you. As far as I'm concerned, we're really betrothed. I hold myself bound to marry you. This isn't the way I would have wished to go about it, but my hand was forced by the Hetman. I suggest we regard ourselves as betrothed for the present .. . it gives me the right to assume responsibility for your safety and welfare and to make some sort of provision for you as soon as I can contact my lawyers. It means that I can send you to stay with Tatia with perfect respectability and you can stay with her until all this business is over without anyone thinking it odd. Then, when I can come home and sort everything out, if you decide that you don't want to marry me, we can simply break the engagement."
“But I couldn't . . ." she began.
“But you could," he said, still gently but very firmly. "I tried to tell you last- night that I might be badly wounded and that would automatically release you as far as I'm concerned. In any case, I've no intention of letting you marry me unless you really want to, for love, not gratitude or anything like that." He was sitting on the ground with one boot in his hand and he put it down beside the other and lined them up neatly side by side before he asked the question which was vitally important to him.
“Is the idea of marrying me distasteful to you?" It came out in a raw, nervous voice, not at all as he would have liked.
“No." There was something convincing in the sincerity of the one word of her answer.
He got up, crossed the tent and knelt beside her. "Is the arrangement all right, then?"
“Yes. Thank you." She was sitting up and he put his arms round her and kissed her mouth very gently. She returned the kiss and leaned against him, touching his face with the tips of her fingers.
“What shall I call you?" she asked.
“Lev. It tends not to have a diminutive.”
She laughed. "No, it wouldn't. My name is Irina."
“Peace!" he exclaimed. "How extraordinary! I was longing for peace the day I met you!" He kissed her again, keeping a curb on himself for fear of losing his self-control and abruptly told her so in case she should think him half-hearted about the betrothal.
“Yes, I understand," she said softly. He gave her a last kiss and then returned to his own side of the tent, bidding her "goodnight". With sudden realization, he amended it to "Goodnight, Irina" and then added "Darling".
“Goodnight, Lev," she replied.
He blew out the candle and pulled his blankets round him, looking out across the camp, which was dappled with patches of silvery moonlight and areas of black shadow, the fire glowing red in the middle. The nearby stream chattered over the stones and the horses moved gently, snorting and pulling at their hay over in the picket lines. He gave a sigh of contentment and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, it was daylight and the carts and the boles of the trees were wreathed in white mist which swirled about the moving figures of men going about their early morning chores. He scrambled out of his bedding and ducked through the opening of the tent, shivering and yawning as he looked up at the sky, already bright with sunlight.
By the time breakfast was ready, the mist was melting away from the trees, leaving the bracken and leaves and the awnings of the carts dripping with dew. There was no wind and already the long ribbon of the road was baking and shimmering in the growing strength of the sun.
Orlov stood by the improvised dining table, talking to Kolniev and cautiously stretched himself, spreading his arms above his head until the muscles cracked. It hurt his arm but it was nothing compared with the pleasure of feeling his muscles move and flex. "Big cat," commented Kusminsky, coming up behind him. "You look like a great panther. Don't do that again for another week.”
Orlov turned to say something rude but saw the Countess coming and went forward to greet her instead, putting his hands on her shoulders and kissing her cheek in a very proprietary manner. She smiled happily at him and the others and they sat down to eat.
The morning was very hot after the last of the mist had cleared but the men talked, sang and whistled cheerfully as they jolted on their way, greeting the shade of the next band of forest with a cheer. There was a slightly festive air about them. They felt safe and nearly at the end of their journey after the meeting with the Cossacks. The woodland was again the open, broad-leaved variety and the sun dappled the road with patches of black shadow and dazzling brightness which was trying to the eyes and gave Orlov a headache. It was a relief to stop at midday and bathe his head with cool water and then lie in the shade with his eyes shut, particularly as Countess Irina sympathized with him, stroking his hair in a very soothing manner.
His little idyll was shattered by Kolniev remarking in a gloomy voice that the weak wheel on the cart they had found at the inn was about to collapse at any moment. Orlov opened his eyes, refrained from cursing with commendable self-restraint, and went to have a look at it. There was nothing to be done. It was quite beyond repair by now, the iron tyre quite worn through and the wood shredded away all round the rim. "Pity it couldn't have lasted one more day," he commented and called together the men who rode in that particular cart.
There were six, including the driver, and Orlov asked how many of them could ride a horse. "I mean, how many of you are capable of staying on a horse now, not how many have ever actually ridden." Fortunately, they were all prepared to try and with the two horses belonging to the cart and the spares normally tied on behind some of the others, there were plenty of mounts. Orlov told them to improvise saddles and left them in a huddle with various pieces of blanket, rope, canvas and anything else which occurred to them. Kolniev was already sorting out the essentials from the useless cart and fitting them into the remaining twelve.
“God knows how they'll manage!" Orlov commented to Kusminsky while they were eating. "They all claim they can ride but they've no saddles, apart from the two Josef and Kolniev used when we started out."
“Oh, you're not prepared to ride bareback and let one of them have yours?" Kusminsky asked and Orlov scowled thoughtfully. "Well, I suppose I could," he replied seriously. "But I'm not sure that I could manage on that grey. He's a bit tricky."
“You won't try!" Kusminsky told him. "I was joking, you great idiot!" Orlov was secretly relieved. He had come to the conclusion that he was not as good a rider as he had thought — not with one arm out of action, at any rate.
During the afternoon they passed through a village which was still inhabited and quite a crowd of peasants turned out to see them pass. It was a poor little place, just a huddle of wooden shacks dominated by the well-sweep, dirty and decrepit with a few scrawny hens squawking under the horses' feet. The inhabitants shouted a few comments and questions which the soldiers answered, but they were not particularly friendly.
The country became more broken with occasional streams meandering across the line of the road in little gorges only ten or so feet deep, but they would have been formidable barriers for the carts if the bridges had gone. Fortunately, they were all still there and so too was the one over a much larger river which they reached at the end of the afternoon.
There was an open area at the far side, big enough for a camp, and Orlov led the way across the bridge and off the road w it with relief. He made it his first job to enquire how the new riders had fared. He had checked on them several times during the afternoon and had been amused by the curious postures some of them had adopted. He found now that they were only complaining of stiffness, nothing worse.
“We should get to Kaluga tomorrow," he told them encouragingly and was surprised at his own reaction to the words, it was such a mixture of relief and regret. Relief at the thought of getting the party to safety, to a place where they could be properly looked after and he could shed responsibility for them, and regret at the ending of a strange, dream-like interlude in his life. Even more regret that it would mean parting with Sparrow — Irina — the nickname came more easily than her real name. Extraordinary to think that he had reached the point of becoming betrothed to her before he found out her name!
There was something of a scramble going on among the men to get their duties done so that they could bathe in the river before the sun went below the level of the trees. It rapidly grew chilly after that and midges appeared with the coming of evening. Orlov could see nothing requiring his immediate attention so he took a towel and clean linen and went to find himself a private pool. The men were going downstream so he went up, above the bridge.
He found a pleasantly secluded place, well-screened with bushes, but at the bottom of a steep bank which required a climb to get down to the water. He was not much worried about privacy for himself but wanted a place to bring Irina afterwards, so he hurried, simply throwing off his clothes, plunging into the water and getting out again as soon as he had rinsed away the dust and sweat of the day. The water was cold and even though his teeth chattered as he towelled himself dry and pulled his clothes on again, he felt better for it.
Scrambling up the bank was difficult with one arm and he found himself using the left one to steady himself without much pain. Once at the top, he hurried back to the camp to fetch Irina who had no trouble climbing down, despite her long skirts. Orlov was pleased to see how agile and neat-footed she was — she would probably be a good dancer, he thought.
He sat down on the top of the bank, gazing steadfastly downstream, feeling quite proud of himself for managing not to look down towards the screening bushes at the water's edge until Irina was climbing up towards him again, clutching her damp towel with her hair streaming down her back. He stretched out a hand and pulled her up to sit beside him, laughing and gasping.
“Oh, it was so cold!" she exclaimed. He twisted round to watch her comb and plait her hair and after a few minutes she sighed and said, "I wonder if I'll ever be able to bathe in a river again."
“Of course," he replied. "The river at home is actually in the garden. There's a fine pool there. We'll often bathe and I'll teach you to swim."
“I can't believe you really want to marry me," she said soberly. "I keep wondering if I'll wake up and find it's all a dream.”
Orlov put his arm round her and squeezed her until she gasped. "Shall I pinch you as well? No, I've a better idea." He undid the back fastening of the high collar of her dress, turned back one corner and gently bit her neck. "There — are you awake?"
“Yes!" she said. "Oh, Lev — I'm more awake than I've ever been in my life!" She turned towards him and he gathered her into his arms.
“Of course I want to marry you, Sparrow," he said. "If it weren't for this damned war, I'd go find a priest the minute we arrive in Kaluga. Don't have any doubts about me. I love you and if I come back in a fit state, I'll carry you off to the church before you know where you are!"
“But it might seem different then, when you see me again and realize how dull and ordinary I am." She sounded so forlorn that Orlov suddenly realized how much her aunt must have undermined her self-confidence.
“I'm not a boy," he said. "I've been in and out of love enough times to know the difference between a passing attraction and a permanent commitment, so stop filling your mind with doubts and kiss me — it's time we went back for supper.”
As he said the words, he wondered what she would do. Would she be too shy or would she give him a sisterly kiss on the brow, a semi-comical one on the end of his nose or a chaste peck on the cheek? To his surprise and delight, she put her arms round his neck and kissed him full on the mouth, warmly, and with her lips parted in a way which he knew she must have learned from him. It was a very creditable kiss for a beginner and he returned it with enthusiasm.
They walked back to the camp with their arms entwined, only separating when they reached the bridge and came within sight of the others. The daylight was fading and the site was lit by the fire in a trench and the glow-worm light of a couple of dozen candle-lanterns hanging on carts or convenient branches. Kolniev had obviously decided to use all the Ian‑  terns as they no longer needed to be careful to conserve their candles.
Supper was in line with this policy too, with most of their remaining bacon in the vegetable stew, and a duff richly filled with currants and raisins. The cooks seemed to have put in just about everything that would not be needed tomorrow.
Conversation turned naturally to two topics, the past fortnight and their future plans. It was clear that for all four of them, this journey would be a source of memories for many years to come and most of them would be pleasant, despite the hardships. Kolniev was the first to talk about the future, and he appeared to be worried he might be thought of only as a captain who had lost his company.
“What gives you that idea?" Orlov asked.
“Well, half my men were killed in that attack and almost all the rest wounded. As far as the War Ministry returns go, that wipes out my company. I shouldn't think it will look very good on my record."
“On the other hand," Orlov pointed out, "you saved the surviving half of your company from capture by the enemy, transported them two hundred miles and lost only two in the process – and one of those wasn't yours, anyway. That should look pretty good on your record." Kolniev looked more cheerful and began to speculate about the possibility of getting leave and going to see his wife.
Kusminsky sighed. "I'd like to go home for good, but I don't see how I can while the war's still on. There are never enough surgeons, unfortunately, not like majors and captains. Ten a penny!" Orlov and Kolniev both leaned over and pushed him at the same time and he fell over backwards.
“There, you see," he said, getting up and sitting on his box again. "I'm in bad company with these rude, rough soldiers. This is no place for a gentleman!”
While they were laughing, one of the men came running from the bridge gasping, "Sir! Sir!"
“What is it?" asked Orlov getting up, still with his cup of coffee in his hand.
“Grigor Pavlovitch has fallen down the bank by the bridge! He's hurt and can't move!”
Orlov swore briefly, set down his cup and walked towards the bridge, his long legs carrying him very quickly, but without any appearance of haste. Kusminsky went after him, trotting to keep up and Kolniev also got up, hesitated for a  moment and then said to Countess Irina, "Will you be all right?"
“Yes," she replied. "I'll sit here and sew on some more -buttons, unless I can help in any way?”
Kolniev smiled, shook his head, and ran after the others. 

CHAPTER TWELVE

HE caught up with them before they reached the bridge where there were already a dozen men staring down the bank at two more men with a lantern who were bending over a third, lying half in the water. Orlov went down the steep bank with something between a stride and a slide, pushed the two helpers out of the way and knelt by the injured man. Kusminsky saw Josef coming with his bag of instruments and another lantern and took them from him with a quick "Good man!"
“The Countess sent me with them," Josef replied but Kusminsky was already scrambling down the bank. He arrived beside Orlov with a splash and examined Grigor swiftly.
“Stunned and broken leg," was his verdict. "Fetch some wood for splints," he called to the men at the top. "Josef, you know the sort – two good pieces, about eighteen inches long." With Orlov's help, he straightened the man and got the fracture lined up. It was in the lower leg and a clean spiral break across both bones. By the time Josef returned with suitable splints, it was ready to be strapped.
While he was working on the leg, Kusminsky said to Orlov, "Get out of the water before you take a chill and put your mind to work on the problem of getting him up the bank.”
Orlov did as he was told, despite the fact that the water barely reached the tops of his boots, took one of the lanterns and shone it on the slope above them. After careful scrutiny, he found a place by the bridge which was worn smooth by rain draining off the road above and he called to the men at the top to bring a stretcher and ropes.
Returning to Kusminsky he said, "If we strap him on to a stretcher, we can just pull him up head first. I'll climb beside him to stop the stretcher jarring or catching on anything and it should be fairly easy – it's only about twelve feet.”
Kusminsky gave a grunt of agreement and Orlov scrambled up the bank to tell Kolniev what he proposed to do. Then he went down again, keeping well to one side to avoid kicking loose stones down on the surgeon or his patient. The stretcher was carefully lowered after him and the two men already at the bottom helped Orlov and Kusminsky to put Grigor on it and fasten him securely. It was a tricky business as there was no level surface and the stretcher had to be balanced on some rocks projecting above the water. The injured man was heavy and much too stunned and shaken to help. Orlov found himself floundering about in the water, using both arms to haul and steady the inert form and hurting himself considerably in the final stages of lifting.
Eventually, the man was strapped on to the stretcher and carried along a few feet to the bridge. A shout from Orlov brought ropes snaking down in the dim light and the stretcher was held braced against the structure of the bridge while he tied the ropes tightly to the handles at the head end. The unwieldy burden was carefully turned and tilted until it lay almost upright on the slope. Kolniev leaning over the edge at a perilous angle to direct the men holding the ropes as they took the weight. Then began the slow, tedious business of hauling it up.
It was not the weight which caused the trouble so much as the ground the stretcher had to travel over. The slope looked smooth enough but there were dozens of small projecting stones and in the darkness it was difficult to see where in particular one was snagging the stretcher. Orlov climbed with it, calling instructions to Kolniev and dodged from side to side, feeling underneath to ease it past a snag or to remove an offending stone, catching and bruising his hands and trying to spare his left arm which was aching a great deal by now.
When it reached the top, it was quite a simple matter to ease the stretcher over the edge on to level ground. Orlov was at the foot, giving it the necessary lift to change its direction. He felt the weight go from his hands as the job was completed, just at the moment when his precarious foothold gave way and he slid face-down to the bottom of the slope, clutching at the earth with his hands and failing to find anything to grasp. He landed in the river with a splash which soaked him up to his chest, scrambling to his feet and floundered out of the water swearing lustily. When he reached the top of the bank, he found Kolniev roaring with laughter, Kusminsky choking and the men trying to maintain respectfully straight faces and failing lamentably.
“I told you to get out of the water," Kusminsky gasped, not plunge in up to your neck! Have you hurt yourself?" He suddenly sobered, held up a lantern and peered at Orlov's face.
“Not much," he replied. "I didn't knock my arm, anyway. I think I'm just wet and a bit scraped." He held out his hands but Kusminsky gave them only a cursory glance. "Only grazes," he said. "You've cut your face, but it's nothing much. Wash it well and leave it. You'll heal.”
He turned away to see to the injured Grigor Pavlovitch and Orlov went off to his tent, shivering in his wet clothes in the chill night air. Dealing with Grigor had taken longer than he realized and Countess Irina had already gone to bed.
She sat up as Orlov entered the tent, started to ask about the accident and then saw the trickle of blood on his face.
“Oh, Lev! You're hurt!" She got up and went to him, her eyes huge with concern and then realized that he was soaking wet. "And you're dripping too! Do take your wet things off and then I'll see to your face.”
Orlov stripped off his boots, coat and shirt and modestly retired outside to change the rest of his garments for the dry ones he pulled out of his trunk. Then he returned and sat on the ground while Irina cleaned his face and inspected the cut, telling her briefly what had happened.
She was kneeling beside him and he noticed that there was a fine gold chain round her neck, disappearing inside the bodice of her petticoat. He reached out one finger and lifted the chain, pulling out a tiny icon in coloured enamel on gold.
“St. Irina?" he asked.
“Yes. I wondered . . . I wanted to give it to you. I haven't anything else and I would like to give you something, to remind you of me . . ." Her voice tailed off as if she was afraid he might laugh or be impatient with her sentimental idea.
He caressed her cheek with gentle fingers and smiled. "I don't need anything to remind me of you, you're too firmly in my heart," he said. "But I'd like to have it, just because it's yours.”
She unfastened the chain and put it round his neck, carefully securing the catch. He bent his head forward to help her to reach and kissed the place where the little icon had rested between her breasts which was just level with his face. Then he put his arms round her, pulled her across his lap and kissed her gently, stroking her hair and murmuring endearments and thanks for her gift.
 After a while, she said softly, "You mustn't get chilled. You're quite cold and shivering." He gave her a last kiss, refrained from mentioning that he was trembling as much as shivering and released her reluctantly, suddenly realizing that this would be the last night they would spend together until they could do so properly after their marriage. But he said nothing about that either.
She insisted on tucking him up in his blankets, spreading his heavy greatcoat over him and kissing him goodnight before retiring to her own place and blowing out the candle. Orlov lay awake for a long time, his body cold and aching, and was vaguely aware as he eventually fell asleep of the sound and smell of the first drops of rain falling on the dry dust of the road and the canopy of leaves overhead.
By morning, the rain had stopped, leaving the air fresh and chilly and the trees dripping under a dismal grey sky. While Josef shaved him, Orlov asked after Grigor Pavlovitch and Josef said in a faintly disgusted tone, "The fellow moaned and groaned all night — most disturbing!" He clearly felt that people should suffer in silence.
Orlov dressed himself properly in full uniform, thinking that it would not do to ride into Kaluga minus his stock and helmet in the casual fashion he had fallen into during the past few days. The grey sky looked sufficiently foreboding for him to tell Josef to strap his greatcoat on to his saddle ready to put on when the rain started again.
During the morning's travelling, they passed through another village, a larger, more prosperous one this time, and one or two idlers outside the alehouse gave them a cheer as they went by which Orlov acknowledged with a salute as it sounded genuine. There was a certain amount of other traffic on the road, mainly supply wagons going into Kaluga which drew over to the side of the road to make way for the army in a properly respectful manner.
The rain held off until the end of the morning but cut short their midday break, which was taken at the roadside near the entrance gates of a country mansion. Everyone seemed anxious to press on to the end of the journey now and when a steady drizzle began to fall, they simply packed up and moved on with a mutual accord which required no orders. Orlov put on his greatcoat and then rode alongside Countess Irina's cart for a while. She was well wrapped up in his big cloak and smiled at him as they exchanged a few words, but Orlov thought she  looked a little depressed. He wanted to say something to cheer her, but four soldiers in her cart, all listening intently, it was impossible to say anything but the purely conventional.
He returned to the head of the procession as the view ahead opened out and revealed the town of Kaluga, outspread in the river valley below. With their goal in sight, the drivers almost unconsciously stirred the horses to a faster pace. By mid afternoon, Orlov led the creaking line of carts in at the city gate and through the wet streets, deserted in the steady rain, to the hospital building.
There they were engulfed in the business of arrival, with the authorities, who seemed to be expecting them, taking over from the officers, sending the stretcher cases to the places prepared for them, and passing those who were fit on to the barracks, where they were also expected. Orlov detected the efficiency of his friend Danilov in this and was not surprised to see that the orders on the barrack commandant's desk were in Danilov's writing over General Barclay's signature.
Once their arrival had been properly reported and Kolniev was busy fitting his men into the accommodation set aside for them, Orlov told Josef to take his belongings to the room allocated to him, while he found somewhere for Countess Irina to lodge.
He found her sitting on a bench under the archway by the commandant's office, the collar of the cloak pulled over her bent head to hide her face, looking lost and disconsolate. "Come, Sparrow," he said. "We'll go to the Governor's house and see what he recommends as a good place for you to stay." He put his arm round her and took her over to his waiting horse, mounted, and swung her up in front of him in the usual way. She leaned up close against him and he rubbed his cheek affectionately against her hair with a few murmured endearments. "We'll ask the Governor's wife to help him find a maid for you as well," he said.
“I've never had a maid," she said.
'You'll need one if you're to stay at an inn and for when you travel to Ryazan — some respectable, sensible girl to look after you.”
The Governor's house, an imposing stone edifice in this mainly wooden town, was in the main square. When Orlov sent in his name and rank, the Governor himself came down to receive him, a large elderly gentleman, whose uniform coat strained over his prominent stomach.
 “My dear Major! Delighted to see you safe. We've been expecting you with some anxiety, you know." He shook Orlov's hand and looked enquiringly at the Countess. Orlov explained that she was betrothed to him and that he wanted to ask the Governor's help in arranging for her safety and comfort.
The Governor kissed her hand with a flourish, exclaiming with concern at finding her so wet from the rain. He took their dripping outdoor clothes and ushered them into his study, exclaiming still more when Orlov revealed that the Countess had actually travelled with his little convoy of wounded men. He rang for a servant to bring them tea and excused himself. while he went to fetch his wife.
While he was gone, Orlov prowled restlessly round the sombre, book-lined study with its heavy dark furniture and commented, "He seems a kindly sort of fellow." Irina sat by the fire, her damp skirt steaming, and looked down at her folded hands in her lap, trying not to shiver. Orlov looked at her a couple of times between peering at the titles of the Governor's books, then he knelt beside her and took her cold hands between his own and rubbed them to try to warm them. She smiled at him, but she looked very pale and strained. "Don't be afraid, Sparrow," he said. "I won't abandon you. I'll not be far away.”
The door opened and the Governor ushered in a tall, angular lady with grey hair under her lace cap and sharp black eyes. set in a kindly wrinkled face. Without waiting for formalities, she swept forward with a rustle of silk, ignoring Orlov who had risen hastily to his feet and seized Irina's hand, exclaiming, "My poor dear girl! You must be exhausted! What a dreadful ordeal! You must stay with me until your betrothed can make provision for you!”
Irina stammered her thanks and seemed bewildered and a little scared. She looked up quickly at Orlov, who stepped forward and gracefully thanked the Governor's wife, exerting his very considerable charm and explaining that he meant to send the Countess to his sister in Ryazan.
“It's very difficult," he said. "You see, she has lost her home and her only relative and there is no one to look after her but me. I am tied here for the present by my duties and must return to Headquarters as soon as I can. I hoped we might trespass on your kindness to help me find a good, reliable maid who would accompany the Countess to Ryazan and some‑  where comfortable for her to stay and rest for a few days while I arrange for a carriage to take her to my sister."
“Why, she must stay with us!" the Governor's wife repeated. "Poor child, she must be quite worn out! I promise you, Major, I shall take very good care of her and make her very comfortable. I have just the girl for a maid – she was nurse to my daughter's children but they are all in the schoolroom now and don't need her. You may leave everything to me with a quiet mind, I assure you. Now, have you any baggage, my dear?"
“I have a trunk," Irina looked up at Orlov again and he put a comforting hand on her shoulder saying, "It's at the barracks. I'll send Josef round with it. I can't tell you, Madame, how grateful I am to you. Irina is very precious to me. I'm deeply obliged to you for your kind offer.”
Irina also thanked her, and the Governor's wife kissed her cheek, exclaiming, "Nonsense! Now, dear child, you shall take off these wet clothes and go to bed at once and I shall make you a posset to help you sleep. Say goodbye to the Major – he shall come and dine with us tomorrow evening, and you'll see him then.”
Irina obediently turned towards Orlov, giving him a ghost of a mischievous smile, as she held out her hand to him. He took the hand, but kissed her lips in a slightly formal manner, wishing her a good night's rest as she went away with the Governor's wife.
The Governor invited Orlov to take a glass of wine, and plied him with questions about the journey and answered Orlov's enquiries about the course of the war as far as he was able. He had little to add to the news Orlov had gleaned from the Cossack Hetman; no battle had been fought since Smolensk; the Russian army had made a fighting retreat to somewhere around Tsarevo, and was awaiting the arrival of Kutuzov, now Commander-in-chief. Barclay had reverted to command of the First Army, with Bagration still commanding the Second.
“You'll be putting in a report?" the Governor asked as Orlov made his excuses and stood up to go.
“Indeed," Orlov replied. "There are several points I shall have to clarify and some recommendations I would like to make. If you'll excuse me now, I'd like to return to the barracks and see that the men are well-housed. I must say, I was impressed by the way everything was ready for us. It was a  great relief to be expected like that. I was dreading the thought of trying to persuade the hospital and barrack commandants to take us in, but they welcomed us most handsomely."
“You've friends at Headquarters to thank for that!" the Governor replied cheerfully. "Very explicit instructions were sent. Now, you'll be sure to dine with us tomorrow night? We keep reasonable hours, so we'll expect you before six?”
Orlov thanked him and sent further messages of thanks to his wife for her kindness as the Governor escorted him to the door and saw him on his way back to the barracks. The rain was still falling steadily and the grey walked along with his head drooping. Orlov felt little better himself despite his relief at finding a safe haven for Irina. He gave a melancholy sneeze as he dismounted at the barracks and a groom led his horse away. The building was bleak, stark and uncomfortable. It was cold, but at least it was clean and dry. Orlov found his own room and sent Josef round to the Governor's house with Irina's trunk before sitting down at the table to open the pile of letters which awaited him, sent on by Danilov, presumably. As Josef bumped his way out of the door with the trunk, he remarked impersonally that it was not wise to sit about in wet clothing and Orlov obediently changed out of his rain-soaked uniform before lying down on his bed to read his letters.
There was a lengthy report from his lawyers about the affairs of his estates which he skimmed through quickly and set aside for more detailed study later once he was sure that all was well. A couple of scented missives written on coloured paper he threw straight into the fire unopened with a feeling of shame at the recollection of past amusements.
Next, he found a long letter from Tatia, full of news about the people at Ryazan and about her own summer activities. She ended with an appeal to him to return home soon, adding, "I hope and trust that once the French are sent packing you will be ready to leave that horrid Army and come back to your proper place. It's time you were married and raising a family, an idea which has an appeal for me also." He wondered what Tatia would say when she received his letter about Irina – it must be well on its way to her by now.
He left until last an official-looking screed which turned out to be his orders from Headquarters. He was instructed to remain at Kaluga to oversee the welfare of the men he had brought from Smolensk until the doctors either pronounced  them fit for duty or discharged them unfit for further service. He was then to advise the military governors of Kaluga and Tula provinces on the training of their militiamen and supervise the collection of cavalry remounts in the area until further notice. There was also a request for a full report on his activities since he left Smolensk.
While he was reading all this through again, a thump on the door heralded the arrival of Kolniev, come to fetch him to dinner in the officer's mess. Orlov told him about the Governor's wife's adoption of Countess Irina and Kolniev expressed relief and pleasure that she should be comfortably settled for a while. "She's such a dear, plucky little thing," he said. "I'm glad there's someone to make a bit of fuss over her, especially as it looks as if you'll be busy.”
After dinner, Orlov spent a couple of hours writing a long letter to his lawyers about the affairs of Irina's aunt and about the settlement he wanted to make on his future wife. There were also a number of matters concerning his estate which needed his decision. Then he wrote to his sister, telling her the latest developments with a great many more instructions and requests concerning Irina. After that, he began his report but his head ached and he felt cold, so he abandoned it after the first two sentences and went to bed, where he lay awake listening to the rain and worrying about Irina – was she happy and comfortable? Was the Governor's wife really being kind to her? At length, he admitted to himself that he was wakeful because he missed her and promptly drifted off to sleep.
He was very busy all the next day, which was again dismal and wet, and began by visiting the men in hospital where he found Kusminsky arguing with the Commandant about the accommodation provided for the men. They had been put together in two large wards when they first arrived but now the Commandant wanted them redistributed among the other patients according to their rank. Kusminsky was attempting to obtain his consent to keeping them all together.
As soon as Orlov arrived, Kusminsky appealed to him for support, which Orlov immediately gave, producing his orders to oversee the welfare of the men and insisting that they must be kept together if he was able to do so. He won his point and the men were left where they were, rather apart from the rest of the inmates.
“Thank God for that!" Kusminsky said as they left the  Commandant's office. "There are all kinds of unpleasant things in the other wards, and most of them are filthy. I've asked Kolniev to send some of the fitter men in the barracks over here to scrub out the rooms we've been given, so at least they'll be clean. I'm very grateful to you for your support, Major.”
Orlov made a dismissive gesture. "I'll always support you –I think you know what you're doing.”
Kusminsky asked after Countess Irina and Orlov told him about their call at the Governor's house. The surgeon said rather hesitantly, "You'll go and see her?"
“Of course," replied Orlov. "I'm dining there tonight. Why?" he added, knowing Kusminsky well enough to realize that there was more to the question than idle curiosity. "I just wondered if you realize how much she depends on your kindness," the surgeon replied. "I should imagine that aunt of hers destroyed any confidence she might have had in her own ability to attract a man. She'll be terrified that you'll lose interest in her now we're back to our comparatively normal lives. I don't imagine you've ever known what it's like to suffer from unrequited love – you're the sort of man who attracts all the female admiration he can cope with. She knows that and she'll be comparing herself with every woman she meets and thinking them all more beautiful, more clever than herself. If you really do care for her, you'll have to give her a hell of a lot of reassurance before she'll be really sure of you.”
“But surely she'll realize that I wouldn't have asked her to marry me if I didn't care for her?"
“She'll wonder why you asked her . . . pity? Your overgrown sense of responsibility? The belief that you've compromised her? Passing attraction, arising from the peculiar circumstances of the past couple of weeks? Why did you ask her? Don't tell me, tell her!”
Orlov gave a faint smile and said gruffly, "I don't mind telling you. It's because she's a part of me. I don't feel complete without her any more."
“That's it!" Kusminsky exclaimed. "Tell her that – it's exactly right!”
They spent most of the morning discussing the condition of the men and concocting the medical side of Orlov's report and then visited the patients in the wards. Orlov had a hurried luncheon with Kusminsky, then went to the Paymaster's office to arrange a fairly large draft of money for his own use,  for the expenses of Irina's journey and something for her to spend on any clothes she might need.
The Paymaster was a garrulous soul and like everyone else in Kaluga, anxious for news of the war and interested in Orlov's own adventures, so it was some time before he could get away. When he did, he hurried into the town to buy some things he needed for himself and, on an impulse, purchased a pretty crystal flask of perfume for Irina – something light, flowery and respectable but without a trace of lavender in it. He had it sent round to her straight away and went back to the barracks where he sent Josef to enquire where a good carriage and horses could be hired for Irina's journey to Ryazan and tentatively raised the idea of Josef going with her. To his relief, the servant was quite agreeable. Orlov knew he had only to order him to escort her but he much preferred a willing volunteer to a pressed man.
Kolniev was waiting for him, anxious for advice about the disposal of the horses and carts and Orlov told him to offer them to the Quartermaster, who was probably chronically short of transport. "I'll keep the grey," he added. "I've grown used to his peculiarities and I need a mount.”
The Captain had one or two more problems to raise and when they were dealt with, Orlov went to his room to write his report. He was very wet again and surprisingly tired. As he stripped off his wet uniform, he thought he might just get into bed for a few minutes to get warm before he started to write.
He was awakened by Josef s return from the town and found that he now only had time to put on his full-dress uniform ready to dine with the Governor. Josef had shaken out the creases in the clothes, normally kept at the very bottom of his trunk and had pressed them well. He produced a clean, well-ironed shirt and soon had Orlov looking fit to grace the galleries of the Winter Palace. As it was still raining, he had also taken the precaution of hiring a carriage for his master.
To Orlov's dismay, he found himself the guest of honour at a sizeable banquet with everyone very anxious to meet him and hear his opinion on a variety of matters from whether Smolensk should have been abandoned to whether Prince Murat was as handsome as he was supposed to be. He seemed to spend an inordinately long time shaking the hands of stout patriotic gentlemen and kissing the hands of their stout patriotic wives and pretty patriotic daughters and it took all his  patience and charm to answer their questions in an affable and tactful manner when his sole aim was to hurry to Irina as quickly as possible.
He reached her eventually and had to compromise between a suitable greeting for a public meeting between an affianced couple and the embrace he would have liked to give her, with the thoroughly unsatisfactory result that his kiss was a little too warm for propriety but not nearly as warm as he wanted to make it. He held her by her thin shoulders and scrutinized her face. She looked much less tired and strained, her eyes glowing with delight at seeing him. She was dressed in a green silk gown which didn't fit very well as it had clearly been made for a plumper woman but it was modestly low-cut and rustled and clung quite satisfactorily. He could say quite truthfully, "I think you look beautiful!”
She coloured and smiled, saying, "Thank you for your present. It was very good of you to remember," and that was the limit of the private conversation they were allowed to have until almost the end of the evening.
The dinner was a good one, well-cooked and served and not too ambitious, but Orlov found the conversation very trying as he was bombarded with questions the whole time and hadn't even the consolation of being able to see Irina as all the ladies were seated together at the far end of the table in the normal provincial way. She was cut off from him by about twenty other people.
When the ladies withdrew, the Governor invited the men to sample wine and cigars in his study and there were more questions for Orlov which soon led to an argument between some of the guests about Barclay de Tolly's ability as a general. Orlov had heard it so many times before from serving officers who at least had some idea what they were talking about that he found it very tedious.
Eventually, he rebelled and asked the Governor point-blank if he might have a few words with Countess Irina as he wished to tell her the arrangements he was making for her journey to Ryazan. The Governor was most understanding. "My dear boy!" he said. "Of course! Come. We'll go seek her out.”
He accompanied Orlov to the salon where the Major was able to draw Irina aside to a sofa in an alcove and talk to her fairly privately. He told her about the carriage and Josef s offer to escort her to Ryazan.
“Have you seen your new maid yet?" he asked.

“Yes. Her name is Masha and she's very pleasant and willing. The only thing is . I've taken her on, but I didn't know what to do about paying her. Madame advised me what she should have and it seems very reasonable, but I didn't like to say that I would have to ask you . . ." She broke off, embarrassed and Orlov was annoyed with himself for not anticipating this problem. He pulled out a pleasantly weighty little bag of money which he had brought for her and slipped it into her hand.
“Here, this will solve the problem," he said. "That's for you to spend as you please. Josef will see to all the finances of your journey so you needn't worry about that. Pay the girl whatever you think fit and buy any clothes or anything else you fancy. Don't start thanking me!" he added hastily. "I'd rather you didn't. It only leads to arguments and me losing my temper. When do you think you'll be ready to go on to Ryazan? I don't want to hurry you but I'd like Josef back here before I have to leave Kaluga myself."
“I'll go whenever you wish. I'm not ill or anything, you know. Madame seems to think I should be in a decline after my dreadful ordeal and I simply can't convince her that I've never enjoyed myself so much in all my life."
“Are you fit and healthy enough for a five-day journey?" he asked. She said she was so he suggested that she should prepare to set off the day after tomorrow. "That will allow Josef plenty of time to be back here by the first of September, by which time I should have finished what I have to do here and be ready to go to Tula."
“Tula? Not back to the Army?”
'Not yet," he replied, and told her the various duties which had been assigned to him. She took hold of one of his large, capable hands with her small fragile ones and said earnestly, "It's important, necessary work, isn't it? You won't mind? After all, men have to be trained and you'll be able to see that the cavalry get good horses. You won't mind not being where the fighting is?"
“I'm not all that fond of fighting," Orlov assured her, smiling. "I'm not one of your death-or-glory boys, you know! On the whole, I've a healthy respect for the safety of my own skin and I'm not heartbroken at missing the chance to die a nasty death. Do you think I'm a coward?" He asked the question half-jokingly, but he knew that some people would assume from his remarks that he was.
“No, just sensible," she replied. "I know you're not a coward. I've seen you being very brave.”
He stayed talking to her until it was time for him to go and he told the Governor before he left that Irina would be leaving for Ryazan the morning after next and thanked him and his wife yet again for their kindness. He kissed Irina and murmured, "Goodnight, Sparrow," before he released her and was left with the uneasy feeling that her smile was a little too brave and bright to be true.
The next day was fine and sunny, pleasant after the dismal grey wetness of the previous two but Orlov had no time to enjoy it. Writing his report occupied almost the whole day as he had to collect a great deal of information from Kolniev to incorporate into it, but he finished it before dinner, which he took in the mess with Kolniev. He had included strongly worded recommendations of both the surgeon and the captain for their efficiency and resourcefulness, giving them most of the credit for the success of the enterprise.
After dinner, he checked with Josef that everything was in order for Countess Irina's departure in the morning and then drove to the Governor's house to call in the hope of spending an hour or so with Irina but her hosts were holding a soirée. They were very pleased to see him, but he was again in so much demand as an answerer of questions that he had little opportunity for more than a few words with her.
When he left, she held on to his hand and asked anxiously, "Shall I see you in the morning?"
“Oh, my dear love!" he exclaimed softly, "You don't imagine I'd let you go without coming to see you off?" He remembered Kusminsky's advice and added, "It's like losing a part of myself. I shan't feel complete until we're together again." The look in her eyes told him that the surgeon had been right.

*
In the morning, Josef went to fetch the carriage and Orlov went directly to the Governor's house, accompanied by Kolniev and Kusminsky. Sergeant Platov and several other men who were sufficiently mobile asked permission to see the Countess off too and made their way there on foot while the officers went on horseback.
The Governor met them in the entrance hall of his house with his usual warm welcome for Orlov which he was pleased to extend to the other two as well. He invited them into his  study for a glass of wine while they waited for the Countess to come down and the carriage to arrive. They sat about sipping the wine, which was very good, and answering the Governor's questions as best they could, excepting Orlov who sat silent, feeling ill and unhappy.
He was worried about Irina. She had put on a brave front since they arrived in Kaluga, but he felt that she was not happy. Although their imminent parting could explain that, he kept remembering Kusminsky's warning and wondered how he could remove any uncertainties she might have about his feelings for her – or maybe he was mistaken about her feelings for him. An awful doubt had entered his mind during the night that perhaps a return to a more normal life had changed her mind about marrying him. Perhaps he had only imagined the expression in her eyes last night.
Presently, the Governor's wife brought Irina down. She was dressed for travelling in one of her plain, dull dresses but it was brightened by a rich brown velvet cloak, trimmed with gold braid in a military style, which she carried over her arm. Orlov thought approvingly that if it was her own choice, she had an elegant taste in clothes He went forward to take her hands and kiss her in greeting. She was pale and although she put up her face to receive his kiss and spoke in her usual composed manner, Orlov was dismayed by the constraint apparent in her voice and the way she kept her eyes down and made no attempt to meet his gaze.
She was pleased to see Kolniev and Kusminsky and thanked them for coming to say goodbye with more warmth in her voice than when she spoke to Orlov. He stood fretting in the background while the others were talking animatedly. What on earth could he do? He couldn't bear to let her go off like this, with a barrier of some sort between them when it might be months before he saw her again.
A servant came in to say that the carriage had arrived and that Countess Barova's luggage had been put into it. They all went outside and Irina presented Masha, her new maid, to Orlov. She was a plump, rosy-cheeked girl with a sensible manner and a pleasant humorous face. Orlov felt relieved when he saw her – she was just the sort of maid he wanted for Irina.
Outside, Josef was standing by the carriage, talking to the driver. It was a new, well-built vehicle, large and comfortable, with four good horses and Irina exclaimed with delight when she saw it. "What a fine coach!"
“Better than a farm cart?" asked Kolniev with a grin. The soldiers made a little informal guard of honour and Irina went to speak to them and say goodbye. They blessed her and wished her well with a great deal of sentiment, Sergeant Platov wiping away a tear with a fine theatrical flourish. Then she made her farewells to the Governor and his lady, with repeated thanks for their hospitality, then to Kolniev and Kusminsky, who both kissed her cheek and begged for invitations to the wedding.
Orlov handed her into the carriage, where the maid was already seated. Irina sat in a corner, looking small and frail, her eyes fixed on her hands, which were twisted together in her lap, and her lips trembling a little. Orlov stood by the open carriage door looking up at her and was filled with black misery. There were a thousand things he wanted to say to her if only they were alone together, but there were so many people; the Governor, his wife, the soldiers, the officers, the post-boys, the driver, the maid, Josef. He gave one desperate look round at their watching faces, then glanced again at Irina's white cheeks and trembling lips. He saw her bite the lower lip in an effort to keep it still, then practically flung himself into the carriage and took her in his arms. Ignoring the watching faces, he kissed her with a wild, passionate abandon which held everything he felt for her, making no effort to be careful, or gentle, or controlled. And she responded! She returned all that his kiss tried to tell her in full measure. For a long minute, there were no barriers, only a complete exchange of love and trust which left them both shaking with emotion, but utterly confident of their mutual devotion.
Finally, Orlov tore himself away. Josef closed the carriage door and climbed on the box, the driver whipped up his horses and the carriage drew away at a spanking pace across the town square and away down the main street towards the east gate, a handkerchief fluttering from the window in a last farewell as it turned the corner and passed out of sight. Orlov stood staring after it, shivering uncontrollably despite the blazing sunshine, until Kusminsky took him by the arm and said, not unkindly, "When are you going to admit that you ought to be on sick leave? Come on – bed for you. You're in a fever again.”
*
At the same moment, a hundred miles to the north, the Russian army was spreading out across low, rounded hills and narrow, wooded valleys around the village of Borodino, where General Kutuzov, now Commander-in-chief, stood surveying his selected battleground. A great eagle soared and wheeled in the sky high above his head and the sun beat down and sparkled in a myriad points of light from musket and cannon barrels, badges, brassards and bayonets. In the distance, as yet out of sight to all save the eagle, advanced the threatening menace of the Grande Armée.