Chapter 33
Inga sighed, leaning heavily on a stack of trunks, and breathing as though she’d run a long distance. The sun had been out this morning, but disappeared long before noon. People said it disappeared when the bloody fighting on the plain of Arsk began. They said the sun could not bear to shine on the gory demise of so many young men, so it wrapped itself in clouds and hid its face from the shame of war.
Since noon, casualties from the battlefield had flooded in. As when the fire struck Moscow a year before, the servants set up a makeshift hospital to care for the sick and dying. In Moscow, Inga treated burn victims. It had been horrible. Now, Inga saw things she’d never imagined: severed limbs, insides on the outside, eyes hanging out from their faces by strange red and blue cords that were not meant to be seen.
Inga shuddered. Her smock was covered shoulders-to-knees in blood, none of it hers. She'd helped Yehvah in the tents all day and now stood outside the largest one, directing soldiers bringing more wounded. Yehvah wanted the wounded grouped by type of injury, and seemed adequate for now. If they kept coming in these numbers, however, it wouldn’t matter. They would need to be put anywhere she could find room.
Inga straightened as the next soldiers arrived—two men with another soldier held between them. The wounded man had blond hair and his head hung down on his chest while his feet dragged behind him. The two soldiers, tired as they were, struggled to hold him upright.
“We don’t know what’s wrong with him,” one of them said. “He’s bleeding from the back of his head, but he’s alive. He won’t wake, though.”
Inga gently pulled the soldier’s head back. His hair color and style looked close enough to Taras’s that she needed to be sure. This man had a narrower, gaunter face than Taras’s, however, and a jagged scar crossed his nose.
“Take him to the east tent,” she pointed. “The doctor will get to him in his turn.”
The two men nodded and headed for the tent she’d indicated, as another group approached. Four men approached, each holding one corner of a large litter made from a tent tied over four poles. It held three injured men. One was missing a leg. Another bled from the stomach and moaned in agony. The third had probably been alive when he left the battlefield. His eyes were fixed and lifeless. Inga instructed them on where to put these soldiers and turned to the next group.
Two soldiers holding an injured one between them walked slowly but steadily forward. It would take them a minute or so to reach her. She ought to walk out to meet them, but exhaustion made her limbs shaky. When she told her legs to move, they often didn’t.
Though it didn’t take long, the time spent waiting for the injured to reach her allowed a deep, cold pit of fear to settle in her stomach. All day, the fear had tried to invade. Inga threw it back, fighting her own private battle with doubt. She hadn't heard from Taras since he left his tent yesterday morning. The night she’d spent in his embrace felt safer than she’d ever felt in her life. Ironic, given that she slept hundreds of leagues from her home, and a scant mile from the den of a bloodthirsty enemy.
And now, he might be gone. Gone, before she knew it. He might have been killed in the first skirmish. The thought made her hands go cold and her arms tremble. A tide of tears rose in her throat so sharply that she couldn’t breathe. She turned her back to the oncoming wounded and placed a hand on her chest, forcing herself to breathe. After a few seconds, the panic receded. Taking a deep breath, she turned to the wounded soldiers.
Blood stained the torso of the wounded man in the middle. As Inga stared at him, he began convulsing. The man on his left had a hand on the wounded soldier’s neck.
“What . . . how is he?”
The man on the left lifted his hand and blood spurted out rhythmically. A devastating neck wound. The two carrying him stared at her silently, their eyes haunted. They wanted her—a woman and a servant—to give them answers. It was not something Russian soldiers would normally do.
Inga searched, unsure where to put the wounded man. He convulsed more violently and Inga stepped back. The man jerked back and forth in the grip of the two soldiers supporting him and turned limp, his mouth opening and his breath expiring.
Inga fought to keep her face still, despite the tide of tears and trying to break through.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” the soldier who'd spoken before sounded contrite.
She shook her head. “Don’t be.” She was surprised at how even her voice sounded. “A pit—a mass grave has been dug around back, behind the hospital. Take him there. Lay him in as gently as you can.”
“I’ll take him,” the man said, then pointed to his fellow soldier on the other side of the dead man. “He’s hurt too.”
Inga peered at the other man.
“My leg, my lady.” Inga knelt to examine his leg, as the other man slung the corpse over his shoulder and staggered off. She wondered if either man realized they'd addressed her far above her station. The soldier had a bandage wrapped around his leg, directly above the knee. When she pulled it up, blood gushed out, but not before she noted a short, deep cut.
“You need to be stitched,” she said, replacing the bandage. “Go into the tent behind me. It won’t take long.”
“I don’t think I can walk without someone to lean on.” If she were allowed to leave her post, Inga would have helped him herself. Before she could look around for a solution, Yehvah’s authoritative voice came from behind her.
“You there, soldier. Help this man get to the tent. His leg is injured.” She hollered at a soldier who'd already brought in some wounded and was heading back out. He changed directions without complaint to help the man with the wounded leg.
“Inga. How are you doing?”
Inga stared at Yehvah, and Yehvah read the answer in her face. She looked sympathetic.
“I know it’s difficult. Everyone is struggling. I wanted to check on you.” She gazed toward the battlefield. An unending line of men marched toward them—all carrying wounded comrades—and the sky was darkening.
The man Yehvah called put his shoulder under the wounded man’s arm and they limped off together. Inga whirled and grabbed the wounded man’s arm before he could get far.
“Soldier. Please, tell me what the situation is on the battlefield.”
The man showed no emotion. Covered with dirt and blood, he looked ghoulish. “Do you not know, with all these casualties coming in?”
“I know we’ve lost many men,” Inga answered, aware of Yehvah looking at her quizzically. “Have the Tatars lost as many? How many of our men still stand?”
The man stared at her for a long time, and she wondered if he'd stopped breathing.
“We still have an army, but the battle did not go well today. We lost great chunks of the main force in front of the eastern gates. There are more Russian bodies than Tatar on the Plains of Arsk. The blood is ankle deep. It does not bode well for the coming months.” He stared at her for another minute, then the two men limped toward the hospital.
Inga turned to face Yehvah, her back to the battlefield. An overwhelming sense of urgency weighed on her. She had to know. She had to, or she would go mad. She took a step backward. Yehvah’s eyes widened in alarm.
“Inga, no. Don’t . . .” She reached out a hand.
“Yehvah, I must. I’m sorry.” She continued stepping backward. Yehvah matched her step for step. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She turned her back on the hospital, but Yehvah grabbed her arm.
“Inga, you cannot walk out onto the battlefield. You could be killed.”
Inga did not try to stop the tears or suppress the thickness of her voice.
“I have to know. Please, Yehvah.” A sad comprehension entered the other woman’s eyes. They softened, and compassion, or perhaps empathy, entered Yehvah’s face. She nodded. She picked up a torn piece of dirt-caked tent fabric. At least it didn’t have blood on it. Yehvah threw it over Inga’s head, wrapping it around her to conceal her head and shoulders.
“Keep your head down. People are too distracted to notice you, but don’t draw attention to yourself. Our own soldiers could take advantage out there, simply to make themselves feel better. Move quickly. Don’t stop. Inga, if you cannot find him before dark, promise me you’ll return.”
Inga nodded, having no such intention. “I promise.”
Yehvah put her hand on Inga’s cheek. “Be careful.”
“I will be.”
Inga turned to go as more wounded soldiers were brought in. She got only a few paces before Yehvah’s voice once again caught her.
“Inga.” Inga turned. Then Yehvah did something rare. She glanced away, seeming uncertain, embarrassed even. Yehvah never displayed such emotions, but Inga could see tears swimming in her eyes.
Inga took a step toward Yehvah, wondering what brought this on. “Yes?”
“Will you look for Nikolai too?”
Inga should have been surprised. Somehow, she wasn’t. Yehvah’s words were like a drum, sounding a loud, final thump in Inga’s chest, confirming what she'd suspected for months now. Who was she to judge? She felt for Taras what Yehvah did for Nikolai. Suddenly she understood Yehvah as never before. A tear slid down Yehvah’s cheek.
Inga crossed the remaining distance between them and clasped her mother’s hands. For Yehvah was her mother, if anyone.
“I’ll find them both. I promise.”
Yehvah nodded. The bloodless bond between them became iron, and Inga felt the weight of it. They stared at one another for several more seconds before Inga pulled away and fled.