THE EXILES' BEGGING SONG
SO the protracted, monotonous march went on; the only change, a change
of guards. Some of these made the life more wretched than others;
and now and then a captain would compel the whole cavalcade to make
a forced march in quicker time than usual, if business or pleasure
awaited him in the town they were approaching. Of the towns the exiles
saw nothing, but in the villages on their route they were allowed to
beg from the inhabitants; for the allowance of money made to each
person by the Government was a pitiful pittance, quite too little to
sustain life on the merest necessities.
As they drew near to a village, the chained prisoners let their fetters
clink and jingle as loudly as possible, to call attention to their
passing by. The shrill ring formed an accompaniment to the convicts'
begging song, which each man sang, not in unison, but in an almost
tuneless chant, which, however, had a heart-shaking modulation of its
own.
"Have pity on us, O our fathers!
Don't forgot the unwilling travellers,
Don't forgot the long-imprisoned.
Feed us, O our father!—Help us!
"Feed and help the poor and needy!
Have compassion, O our fathers!
Have compassion, O our mothers!
For the sake of Christ, have mercy
On the prisoners—the shut-up ones!
Behind walls of stone and gratings,
Behind oaken doors and padlocks,
Behind bars and locks of iron,
We are held in close confinement.
We have parted from our fathers,
From our mothers;
We from all our kin have parted,
We are prisoners;
Pity us, O our fathers!"
This mournful chant rang on far in advance, and the pitiful notes
brought many a peasant to the door, with half a loaf of bread or a few
handfuls of meal. The Stundists were usually deputed to beg, as they
could be trusted not to secrete any alms that might take the shape
of money or tobacco. Alexis, with his grave and noble face, and old
Matrona, whose bowed shoulders and wrinkled features appealed strongly
for pity, were the most successful suppliants. The placid and grateful
old woman often moved the peasant women to tears.
"You're too old to go on étape, mother," they said.
"I go with my only son," she would answer.
"God pity you both!" exclaimed the peasants.
"He pities us, and loves us too," said Matrona, with her peaceful smile.
When the midday halt was called, the food collected by the way was
divided among them all. A rough sense of fairness and comradeship
prevailed among this band of murderers, robbers, and criminals of
various kinds and degrees; besides the political prisoners and
persecuted Stundists. They slept under the same roof, and traversed
side by side the same road; their lives were absolutely similar, as far
as the Government could make them.
The autumn came, and with the rain the dust disappeared. For a short
interval the long-drawn-out pilgrimage was more endurable. The weather
was still warm, and the sunshine was soft and genial. The leaves
were still upon the trees. The vast, unfenced cornfields were bare.
Innumerable flocks of birds fluttered over the stubble, feeding on the
grain which had been too ripe to carry. In the villages the gifts were
more bountiful with the abundance of the harvest. Flowers lingered in
dells and hollows, where the frosty night-breeze passed above them.
The convict band felt this cheering change. There was a less languid
stepping out, and they were better fed. The children began to laugh and
play again; and even the women looked less wretched and exhausted.
But the autumnal rains grew heavy and persistent, and still the endless
journey continued. The shoes provided for the convicts had fallen to
pieces a week or two after they started; and they had tramped barefoot
through the hot dust. One shirt of coarse linen was given to them once
in six months; these were in rags. Their coats and trousers were also
of grey linen, and were equally tattered. The voluntary exiles were
scarcely better off, though they wore their own clothes. But each was
allowed only a small bag for carrying all the possessions they wished
to take with them into exile. Many of them had sold what they could
spare for food. Under the pitiless rain, drenched to the skin, they
travelled on, the chilly breeze benumbing their ill-fed and emaciated
bodies, and the mud, half-frozen, oozing through their worn-out shoes.
Nor was there much relief when they gained the shelter of an étape, for
they could not dry their saturated rags, nor had they any change of
clothing. They must sleep as they were on the wooden platform, in their
drenched and dirty garments; the natural warmth of so many closely
packed human beings producing a malarious steam, added to the already
foul air. Shivering with cold, yet seething in a reeking atmosphere,
the miserable creatures could not rest in sleep.
[Illustration: THE PROCESSION CRAWLED ACROSS THE SNOWCLAD PLAINS.]
Presently the rain changed to snow; the first snowstorm of the winter
coming swiftly down upon them from the north. They were weather-bound
for a few days, so blinding and baffling were the thickly-falling
flakes. Then hunger set in; such hunger and starvation as had never
yet befallen them, for no provisions were laid up for the exiles, and
the peasants from whom they bought their food could no more go to them
than they could march along the road. The convoy captain allowed them
a scanty share of the soldiers' rations, just sufficient to keep them
alive, but he could do no more for them. Without food or fire, in
clothes that dried upon their bodies, huddled together, they passed the
miserable days and nights.
At last the snowstorm ceased, and a sharp frost set in. A number of
peasants came with rough sledges, judging rightly that all the women
and children, and some of the convicts, would be unable to walk the
next stage. The winter had come upon them so early and so unexpectedly
that even the guards were not prepared. The convicts were in the rags
of their summer clothing, and barefoot, but at the next forwarding
prison winter garments would be given out.
But to the half-famished men and women the next few days were bitter,
under the gloomy sky, with an icy wind whistling around them. In dead
silence, except for the jingling of their chains, the procession
crawled slowly and weariedly across the snowclad plains. The prisoners
kept closely together, to avoid being frozen to death, but not a word
did one man say to his fellow. In the telegas, and the sledges also,
the women were speechless, in a half stupor; and only now and then the
children uttered a cry at the death-like apathy of those around them.
Michael and Sergius kept as near as they could to the telega where
Tatiania was crouching, with little Clava on her lap. But they too were
appalled at this universal stupefaction, and could not speak of it to
one another.
They reached at last the forwarding prison, where winter stores were
kept. They were to rest there for a few days to recover strength, for
several of the older convicts had broken down on the way. It was a
great relief to them all. Tatiania, who had seemed near unto death,
revived a little.
"Khariton," she said one night, as she lay beside him on the nari, "you
know that little Clava and I are going to leave you soon?"
"Yes, dear wife," he answered.
"And you will not pray to our Lord to keep us back?" she said.
"No," he replied, with a sharp pain at his heart.
"It's time for me to give up what Alexis trusted me with," she
whispered in his ear. "I've kept it safe; nobody has suspected. But if
I die on the road, they'll find it, and you'll lose most of it—perhaps
all."
"But who will take care of it for us?" he asked. "Matron is too old;
who could expect her to live to the end? We have still many weeks to
travel, and all the women are failing."
"Let the boys take charge of it," she continued, still whispering,
"fifty roubles to Michael, and fifty to Sergius. They are both as wise
and prudent as men. Oh, they've been a great comfort to us, good boys!
There 'll not be too much to divide among you when you reach Irkutsk;
only there you'll soon get work."
"I will ask Alexis to-morrow," said Khariton.
"Then my mind will be quite easy," she murmured; "I should have died
to-day, only I prayed the Lord to spare me until I could give up my
trust. Now I shall have nothing to think of but how blessed we shall be
when we are all together again, with the Lord. We were very happy in
Knishi, husband!"
"We were," he replied with a sob.
"We might have been happy in Irkutsk," she went on, "but I'm worn-out,
body and mind. I long to get away out of this world. You'll let Clava
and me go?"
"God's will be done!" he said.