THE END OF THE JOURNEY
THEY expected their release every day. The band of exiles who had
marched together for so many months was broken up, and scattered to
various places of exile, excepting those criminals who were sentenced
to the mines. But the Stundists seemed to be overlooked. Demyan was
aware of their arrival, and sent in messages of welcome. He had already
provided a shelter for them, and obtained promises of work in Irkutsk.
At last one morning they were summoned to the prison-yard, where a
party was being made up for the Kara Mines. Was it possible that they
were doomed to that place of horrors? The men were again chained to
other prisoners, with leg-fetters; the women and children were placed
in telegas; and once more, over ground frozen many feet deep, and with
the thermometer, even at noonday, several degrees below zero, they set
out on their dreary march, uncertain now what their destination might
be.
They crossed to the eastern side of Lake Baikal, into a wild and
desolate region, at this time lying under a thick cover of snow. But
the second time they reached an étape, a few days after quitting
Irkutsk, their fellow-prisoners started on without them. The captain of
the convoy, which was now returning to Irkutsk, waited some time for
the arrival of a police officer to take charge of the Stundists, but
growing impatient at his delay, and afraid of the short day leaving him
before he could reach a shelter, he called Alexis to him.
"You are a trustworthy man," he said, "and I must leave you to report
yourselves at the police station. They will tell you under what
conditions you are to live here. It's not a cheerful spot. Have you any
complaint to make to me?"
"Not any, sir," answered Alexis respectfully.
"Then God go with you!" he said.
"And with you!" replied the exiles.
They watched the convoy until they were hidden in the frosty fog. Then
they turned towards the village, which lay about half a mile away. At
the barrier a wretched old man came out of a hut which looked like a
huge snow-stack, and challenged them. Alexis explained who they were;
whilst Michael and Sergius tried to decipher the inscription on a
rotten post. They made out, "thirty-four houses, sixty-five males." The
women and children did not count in the population.
But it was a small place. The houses were log-huts, and were scattered
in two long, straggling lines on each side of the road. They too looked
like edifices built wholly of snow. It was evident that extreme poverty
prevailed. Such of the inhabitants as appeared in the street had a
Mongolian cast of features, and seemed uncouth and savage.
The Stundists marched to the police station, and gave their names,
and the paper entrusted to them by the convoy captain, to the village
Ispravnik. He was certainly a Mongol. He looked at each one of the
men keenly, as if to make sure of knowing them again; and told them
they must report themselves to him once a week, and whenever he chose
to summon them. The women and children stood outside the station,
shivering in the freezing air.
"Where are we to go, sir?" asked Alexis.
"Just where you please," answered the police officer; "you're free to
live where you like in this village, but nowhere else."
"Are there any houses to let?" Alexis inquired.
"None that I know of," said the man; "you see, brother, it is a very
little place. There are two or three families in every house already."
"Can we find lodgings?" asked Alexis again.
"You can go and try, brother," he answered; "you are free, and the
people are free. They may lodge you if they please."
Then began a weary search for shelter. At some of the huts the
inmates would not even open the door, for fear of letting in a blast
of freezing wind; they shouted to them through the frosted windows
there was no room for them there. There were no young children in
the homeless band, but the five women and the two girls who had
survived the terrible journey were suffering from the intense cold.
Their spirits, too, were depressed at the sight of the savage and
inhospitable spot to which their husbands had been exiled for several
years. Some of them would have wept but for fear of the tears freezing
on their eyelashes. Khariton Kondraty silently thanked God that his
wife and daughters had been mercifully taken from him.
At length, after traversing the village from end to end, they returned
to the hut where a withered bush frosted over delicately proclaimed the
village inn. They were quickly admitted, and the door closed behind
them. The atmosphere was almost as foul as that of the kameras they had
slept in, but they had grown used to it, and this roof was at least a
shelter. Here they could rest and warm themselves, and get food to eat.
The innkeeper was a Jew, and more intelligent than anyone they had yet
seen. But he could not tell them of any hut or barn, or shed even,
where they could find a refuge. Nor could he tell them of any place
where more than one could be lodged. The dwellings were all too full
already. No work could possibly be had until the thaw came, and then
strong labourers might earn a few pence a day on the common lands. No
one wanted any women, he said; there were women enough and to spare.
At last he bethought himself of a half-ruined hut at the extreme end of
the village, which had been empty for some years, ever since a whole
family had been horribly murdered by some runaway convicts from mines.
The innkeeper gave the details of the crime, with zest; and the women
shuddered as they heard them.
"Folks here say the spirits of the dead people have never left the
spot," he added; "they'll not go till murderers are punished. But you
can have it for small rent if you dare."
The men went off, as soon as they had finished their meal, to inspect
the place. It was a fair-sized hut, and the log walls and great stove
were in tolerable repair, but the frozen snow showed white through the
clunks in the roof. There were some out-buildings that also needed
restoring. But little could be done before the thaw came.
There were thirteen of them; the nine men and the four boys who had
outlived their hardships. They were gaunt, haggard, and emaciated; the
women they had left in the inn were almost skeletons. Yet as they stood
under the ragged roof, they lifted up their hands, and in solemn words
dedicated themselves afresh to the service of their Lord. Here they
would make homes; and here, too, should there be a church where they
could worship God according to their conscience.
They decided, if possible, to find lodgings for the women; and to live
together in this hut till they could put it in repair. The prospect
lying before them was not cheerful, but the present was better than
the past. They would have to endure hunger and cold and poverty of the
greatest, but they would no longer witness the unutterable wretchedness
and wickedness of the kameras. The misery they had passed through was
stamped indelibly on their memories.
"There's one good thing," said Michael, "we may write what letters we
like. The Ispravnik cannot read."
"Are you sure of it?" asked Alexis.
"Yes," answered Michael; "he held the list of your names upside down,
and pretended to check them off, as if he was reading them. I'll begin
a school as soon as the people know us a little."
"It is against the law," said his father; "and we are a law-abiding
people."