At Krasnovarski we were put in prison again, and there remained
several weeks, awaiting further orders as to our disposal, for,
notwithstanding what we had been told at Kieff, there appeared to be
some doubt touching the fate in store for us. At length came the final
instructions. We were to march with the chain-gang of common prisoners
to Irkoutsk. It was then that, as an expedient for avoiding penal
servitude and eventually regaining my liberty, the idea of effecting an
exchange first occurred to me. The device is one frequently practised
among the outlaws of Siberia. This is the method of it:—Two prisoners
make a bargain, whereby one of the contracting parties takes the name
and certificate and assumes the crime of the other, and _vice versâ_.
There is, in fact, a complete change of identities, and the one who
gains by the exchange settles the difference by a money payment. The
result is that the man condemned to hard labor becomes a Siberian
settler, and the other takes his place at the mines or in gaol. The
bargain may appear an unequal one, but a moneyless man will sometimes
do a great deal for a small sum of ready cash—especially if he has a
passion for gambling or drink—and there is always the possibility that,
when the deceit is discovered, the more extreme penalty may not be
enforced. In the meantime, moreover, the supposed political prisoner,
who is generally of noble birth, enjoys a consideration and some
material advantages which are denied to the common malefactor.
During the long tramp of the chain gang these substitutions are
effected without much difficulty. The escort being changed every two
days, it is impossible for the members of it, in so short a time, to
familiarize themselves with the names and condition of the ten or
twelve score prisoners who compose the convoy. They can do no more than
count heads, and when the officer in command of the party has delivered
to his successor the same number of convicts, in each category, which
he received from his predecessor, his task is fully acquitted. Whether
they are the same persons he cannot undertake to say, and is never
asked.
On August 20, or thereabouts—I am not sure to a day—we were once more
_en route_, this time on foot. From Krasnovarski the distance is 700
English miles, and the journey, it was reckoned, would occupy about two
months. I had thus ample time to make the acquaintance of my convict
comrades and carry out the substitution.
We were now put under an altogether different _régime_. Hitherto we had
not been able to exchange a word with anybody. I saw about me only my
fellow political convicts, and might speak, when occasion required, to
none but my guards. Now we were allowed to communicate freely with each
other, and with the rather mixed society of which we formed a part.
The gang consisted of 170 persons of both sexes and of every class and
age; from the babe in its mother's arms to the old man with snow-white
hair. Most of them were peasants; yet several among us could claim the
privileges of nobility. But the strength of the convoy diminished as we
went on, for Krasnovarski is within the limits of Eastern Siberia, and
several prisoners were left as colonists at the villages through which
we passed.
The escort consisted of an officer and thirty soldiers, armed with
old-fashioned muskets. A detachment of three or four marched at the
head of the column. The others marched at the side and were supposed to
form a military chain. But it was so weak, relatively to its duties,
as to be almost worthless, the convoy being increased to a portentous
length by the baggage-wagons and the families of the prisoners who were
following them into exile. After the baggage-wagons came two carriages
occupied by gentlemen malefactors of the nobility, and three in which,
when they were footsore, rode the political prisoners.
About six o'clock in the evening the convoy generally reached the
“half-stage,” a building in which we pass the night. After a march of
two days, or of a full day, we had a day's rest at one of the buildings
known as _étapes_, or stages. On these occasions the prisoners are
ranged in front of the building and counted. If the count be right
the gates are opened, and with cries of joy the weary wayfarers throw
themselves into the court. Then, pushing and hustling, clanking their
chains and cursing like demons, they fight their way into the house,
struggling desperately for the best places. The first comers take
possession of the benches; the others lie where they can. When all
are inside the gates are closed, but the doors are not barred until
nightfall.
The “stage” is a small wooden barrack—with a large court, formed of
palisades, in the rear—divided into several compartments, one of which
is assigned to the nobles of the convoy; but like all the others it is
far too little for its destined purpose. The prisoners are as closely
packed as herrings in a barrel. A few only can find places on the
benches. The others have to sleep on the damp and dirty floor. Next to
the benches the most desirable spot is under them, for there it is a
little cleaner and the sleepers are less likely to be disturbed than
on the open floor.
The struggle for places over, the barrack-yard becomes very lively.
The prisoners are preparing the evening meal; some laying fires,
others putting a few scanty morsels of food into a pot—for our fare is
terribly meagre; others bringing water and making tea. After supper we
are again counted, driven inside, and left there for the night. No one
is allowed to go out for any purpose whatever; but as a substitute for
latrines large wooden pails are placed in the corridor. The presence of
these abominations among so many people in ill-ventilated rooms renders
the air unutterably foul; its odor is something quite peculiar, as all
who have had occasion to enter the prisoners' quarters at night, or,
still worse, early in the morning, well know.
In the same corridor, but at the other end, is the _maidan_, a sort of
itinerant shop, which serves at the same time as a club and gambling
saloon; for the prisoners are much given to play. This _maidan_ is an
institution common to every Siberian convoy and gaol. The _markitant_,
or keeper of it, is always a prisoner. The post, which is much coveted
and very profitable, is sold to the highest bidder, and the proceeds
of the sale, often considerable, are added to the common hoard. For
one of the first proceedings of the prisoners is to form themselves
into a society, which is a faithful reproduction of the rural _mir_.
They elect a _starosta_, who also acts as general cashier, and appoint
him an assistant. The authorities, on their part, always recognise
this system of self-government, and acknowledge the authority of the
_starosta_. All orders are communicated through him, and he makes all
payments on behalf of the community. He acts, in short, as general
intermediary between the prisoners and their custodians—bribes, when
it is necessary, the agents of justice, and pays a regular tribute to
the executioner, in consideration whereof that official is good enough,
often at the risk of his own back, to wield his whip with all possible
consideration for the feelings of his victim.
The scene in the _markitant's_ den on a rest day was very queer, and,
well painted, would make a striking picture: the players round the
capote-covered table, as excited and as intent over their game as if
they were playing for thousands of roubles instead of fractions of
kopecs—the shouting and gesticulating onlookers, following with keenest
interest the varying fortunes of the game—a ruined gambler bargaining
with the _markitant_ for an advance on a coat, a pair of shoes, or an
old watch—a convict asleep on the floor—another mending a rent in his
clothes—a third hammering at his irons. He is widening the rings that
shackle his legs, in order that he may slip them off when he is on the
road—walking in irons not being precisely an amusement. The sentries
and the officers cannot fail to hear the clang of the hammer, but the
custom of removing irons while on the march is so common as to have the
force of a recognised regulation, and is seldom, if ever, objected to
by the commander of an escort.
Day followed day with unvarying monotony, but every one brought us
nearer to our destination, and though I had not yet ventured to
effect an exchange, I never wavered in my resolution to escape on the
first favorable opportunity. Almost every day we met vagabonds, as
runaway convicts are called, making for Russia. Their dress, their
closely cropped hair, and their general appearance left no doubt as
to their quality. Yet neither the officer of the escort nor the local
authorities paid the least attention to them, so common are fugitive
convicts on Siberian roads. When they met us they would draw on one
side, sometimes saluting the officer. I have known old friends meet in
this way.
“Hallo, Ivan Ivanovitch, how goes it?” would call out one of the tramps
to a man whom he recognised in the chain gang.
“Ah, is that you, Iliouschka?” would answer the other pleasantly.
“What! have you become a vagabond[1] already?”
“Yes, I am on the lookout for cheap lodgings; I dare say I shall soon
get accommodated.”
This in allusion to the certainty, sooner or later, of his recapture.
Political prisoners on the march enjoy privileges which are denied
to ordinary convicts. They are not fettered; they can, when so
disposed, ride in the carriages which accompany the convoy, and they
are allowed fifteen kopecs (threepence) a day for food. On the other
hand, the orders in our regard given to the officers of the escort
were exceedingly stringent; orders, however, which for the most part
it was impossible to execute. For instance, they were enjoined to
keep us always apart, and not let us on any account mix with the
other prisoners. But the weakness of the escort, and, above all, the
arrangement of the buildings at the _étapes_, or halting-places,
rendered observance of this injunction so extremely difficult that it
was seldom enforced.