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,' r eplied Orlov. 'I want to go home, and grow c abbages or something. I'm sick o f blood and killing and burning places. I've done nothing but destroy for the last eight years. It's time I found a decent o ccupation!
Kusminsky patted his shoulder sympatheticall y. 'Well, start off with a decent night's sleep,' he advised.
Orlov wished him goodnight, and walked slowly over to the te nt. 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 o n a box by one of the supportin g poles. Two or three boxes a nd his own and the Countess' tr unks 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 we re enormous in her small white f ace.
Orlov hastily averted his gaze and stripped off his coat and shirt. He sat down on his b lankets and struggled out of h is 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 le an forward, ten to one the thin g 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 lie 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 put 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
'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,' r eplied Orlov. 'I want to go home, and grow c abbages or something. I'm sick o f blood and killing and burning places. I've done nothing but destroy for the last eight years. It's time I found a decent o ccupation!
Kusminsky patted his shoulder sympatheticall y. 'Well, start off with a decent night's sleep,' he advised.
Orlov wished him goodnight, and walked slowly over to the te nt. 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 o n a box by one of the supportin g poles. Two or three boxes a nd his own and the Countess' tr unks 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 we re enormous in her small white f ace.
Orlov hastily averted his gaze and stripped off his coat and shirt. He sat down on his b lankets and struggled out of h is 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 le an forward, ten to one the thin g 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 lie 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 put 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
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