MICHAEL was in comparative safety, though his situation was still
terrible. Now that the faithful animal who had so bravely borne him had
met his death in the waters of the river, how was he to continue his
journey?
He was on foot, without provisions, in a country devastated by the
invasion, overrun by the Emir’s scouts, and still at a considerable
distance from the place he was striving to reach. “By Heaven, I will get
there!” he exclaimed, in reply to all the reasons for faltering. “God
will protect our sacred Russia.”
Michael was out of reach of the Usbeck horsemen. They had not dared to
pursue him through the river.
Once more on solid ground Michael stopped to consider what he should
do next. He wished to avoid Tomsk, now occupied by the Tartar troops.
Nevertheless, he must reach some town, or at least a post-house, where
he could procure a horse. A horse once found, he would throw himself out
of the beaten track, and not again take to the Irkutsk road until in the
neighborhood of Krasnoiarsk. From that place, if he were quick, he
hoped to find the way still open, and he intended to go through the Lake
Baikal provinces in a southeasterly direction.
Michael began by going eastward. By following the course of the Obi two
versts further, he reached a picturesque little town lying on a small
hill. A few churches, with Byzantine cupolas colored green and gold,
stood up against the gray sky. This is Kolyvan, where the officers and
people employed at Kamsk and other towns take refuge during the summer
from the unhealthy climate of the Baraba. According to the latest news
obtained by the Czar’s courier, Kolyvan could not be yet in the hands of
the invaders. The Tartar troops, divided into two columns, had marched
to the left on Omsk, to the right on Tomsk, neglecting the intermediate
country.
Michael Strogoff’s plan was simply this--to reach Kolyvan before the
arrival of the Usbeck horsemen, who would ascend the other bank of the
Obi to the ferry. There he would procure clothes and a horse, and resume
the road to Irkutsk across the southern steppe.
It was now three o’clock in the morning. The neighborhood of Kolyvan
was very still, and appeared to have been totally abandoned. The country
population had evidently fled to the northwards, to the province of
Yeniseisk, dreading the invasion, which they could not resist.
Michael was walking at a rapid pace towards Kolyvan when distant firing
struck his ear. He stopped, and clearly distinguished the dull roar of
artillery, and above it a crisp rattle which could not be mistaken.
“It is cannon and musketry!” said he. “The little Russian body is
engaged with the Tartar army! Pray Heaven that I may arrive at Kolyvan
before them!”
The firing became gradually louder, and soon to the left of Kolyvan
a mist collected--not smoke, but those great white clouds produced by
discharges of artillery.
The Usbeck horsemen stopped on the left of the Obi, to await the result
of the battle. From them Michael had nothing to fear as he hastened
towards the town.
In the meanwhile the firing increased, and became sensibly nearer. It
was no longer a confused roar, but distinct reports. At the same time
the smoke partially cleared, and it became evident that the combatants
were rapidly moving southwards. It appeared that Kolyvan was to be
attacked on the north side. But were the Russians defending it or the
Tartars? It being impossible to decide this, Michael became greatly
perplexed.
He was not more than half a verst from Kolyvan when he observed flames
shooting up among the houses of the town, and the steeple of a church
fell in the midst of clouds of smoke and fire. Was the struggle, then,
in Kolyvan? Michael was compelled to think so. It was evident that
Russians and Tartars were fighting in the streets of the town. Was this
a time to seek refuge there? Would he not run a risk of being taken
prisoner? Should he succeed in escaping from Kolyvan, as he had escaped
from Omsk? He hesitated and stopped a moment. Would it not be better to
try, even on foot, to reach some small town, and there procure a horse
at any price? This was the only thing to be done; and Michael, leaving
the Obi, went forward to the right of Kolyvan.
The firing had now increased in violence. Flames soon sprang up on the
left of the town. Fire was devouring one entire quarter of Kolyvan.
Michael was running across the steppe endeavoring to gain the covert of
some trees when a detachment of Tartar cavalry appeared on the right. He
dared not continue in that direction. The horsemen advanced rapidly, and
it would have been difficult to escape them.
Suddenly, in a thick clump of trees, he saw an isolated house, which
it would be possible to reach before he was perceived. Michael had
no choice but to run there, hide himself and ask or take something to
recruit his strength, for he was exhausted with hunger and fatigue.
He accordingly ran on towards this house, still about half a verst
distant. As he approached, he could see that it was a telegraph office.
Two wires left it in westerly and easterly directions, and a third went
towards Kolyvan.
It was to be supposed that under the circumstances this station was
abandoned; but even if it was, Michael could take refuge there, and wait
till nightfall, if necessary, to again set out across the steppe covered
with Tartar scouts.
He ran up to the door and pushed it open.
A single person was in the room whence the telegraphic messages were
dispatched. This was a clerk, calm, phlegmatic, indifferent to all that
was passing outside. Faithful to his post, he waited behind his little
wicket until the public claimed his services.
Michael ran up to him, and in a voice broken by fatigue, “What do you
know?” he asked.
“Nothing,” answered the clerk, smiling.
“Are the Russians and Tartars engaged?”
“They say so.”
“But who are the victors?”
“I don’t know.”
Such calmness, such indifference, in the midst of these terrible events,
was scarcely credible.
“And is not the wire cut?” said Michael.
“It is cut between Kolyvan and Krasnoiarsk, but it is still working
between Kolyvan and the Russian frontier.”
“For the government?”
“For the government, when it thinks proper. For the public, when they
pay. Ten copecks a word, whenever you like, sir!”
Michael was about to reply to this strange clerk that he had no message
to send, that he only implored a little bread and water, when the door
of the house was again thrown open.
Thinking that it was invaded by Tartars, Michael made ready to leap out
of the window, when two men only entered the room who had nothing of
the Tartar soldier about them. One of them held a dispatch, written in
pencil, in his hand, and, passing the other, he hurried up to the wicket
of the imperturbable clerk.
In these two men Michael recognized with astonishment, which everyone
will understand, two personages of whom he was not thinking at all, and
whom he had never expected to see again. They were the two reporters,
Harry Blount and Alcide Jolivet, no longer traveling companions, but
rivals, enemies, now that they were working on the field of battle.
They had left Ichim only a few hours after the departure of Michael
Strogoff, and they had arrived at Kolyvan before him, by following the
same road, in consequence of his losing three days on the banks of the
Irtych. And now, after being both present at the engagement between the
Russians and Tartars before the town, they had left just as the struggle
broke out in the streets, and ran to the telegraph office, so as to send
off their rival dispatches to Europe, and forestall each other in their
report of events.
Michael stood aside in the shadow, and without being seen himself he
could see and hear all that was going on. He would now hear interesting
news, and would find out whether or not he could enter Kolyvan.
Blount, having distanced his companion, took possession of the wicket,
whilst Alcide Jolivet, contrary to his usual habit, stamped with
impatience.
“Ten copecks a word,” said the clerk.
Blount deposited a pile of roubles on the shelf, whilst his rival looked
on with a sort of stupefaction.
“Good,” said the clerk. And with the greatest coolness in the world he
began to telegraph the following dispatch: “_Daily Telegraph_, London.
“From Kolyvan, Government of Omsk, Siberia, 6th August.
“Engagement between Russian and Tartar troops.”
The reading was in a distinct voice, so that Michael heard all that the
English correspondent was sending to his paper.
“Russians repulsed with great loss. Tartars entered Kolyvan to-day.”
These words ended the dispatch.
“My turn now,” cried Alcide Jolivet, anxious to send off his dispatch,
addressed to his cousin.
But that was not Blount’s idea, who did not intend to give up the
wicket, but have it in his power to send off the news just as the events
occurred. He would therefore not make way for his companion.
“But you have finished!” exclaimed Jolivet.
“I have not finished,” returned Harry Blount quietly.
And he proceeded to write some sentences, which he handed in to the
clerk, who read out in his calm voice: “John Gilpin was a citizen of
credit and renown; a train-band captain eke was he of famous London
town.”
Harry Blount was telegraphing some verses learned in his childhood, in
order to employ the time, and not give up his place to his rival. It
would perhaps cost his paper some thousands of roubles, but it would be
the first informed. France could wait.
Jolivet’s fury may be imagined, though under any other circumstances
he would have thought it fair warfare. He even endeavored to force the
clerk to take his dispatch in preference to that of his rival.
“It is that gentleman’s right,” answered the clerk coolly, pointing
to Blount, and smiling in the most amiable manner. And he continued
faithfully to transmit to the _Daily Telegraph_ the well-known verses of
Cowper.
Whilst he was working Blount walked to the window and, his field glass
to his eyes, watched all that was going on in the neighborhood of
Kolyvan, so as to complete his information. In a few minutes he resumed
his place at the wicket, and added to his telegram: “Two churches are
in flames. The fire appears to gain on the right. ‘John Gilpin’s spouse
said to her dear, Though wedded we have been these twice ten tedious
years, yet we no holiday have seen.’”
Alcide Jolivet would have liked to strangle the honorable correspondent
of the _Daily Telegraph_.
He again interrupted the clerk, who, quite unmoved, merely replied: “It
is his right, sir, it is his right--at ten copecks a word.”
And he telegraphed the following news, just brought him by Blount:
“Russian fugitives are escaping from the town. ‘Away went Gilpin--who
but he? His fame soon spread around: He carries weight! he rides a race!
‘Tis for a thousand pound!’” And Blount turned round with a quizzical
look at his rival.
Alcide Jolivet fumed.
In the meanwhile Harry Blount had returned to the window, but this time
his attention was diverted by the interest of the scene before him.
Therefore, when the clerk had finished telegraphing the last lines
dictated by Blount, Alcide Jolivet noiselessly took his place at the
wicket, and, just as his rival had done, after quietly depositing a
respectable pile of roubles on the shelf, he delivered his dispatch,
which the clerk read aloud: “Madeleine Jolivet, 10, Faubourg Montmartre,
Paris.
“From Kolyvan, Government of Omsk, Siberia, 6th August.
“Fugitives are escaping from the town. Russians defeated. Fiercely
pursued by the Tartar cavalry.”
And as Harry Blount returned he heard Jolivet completing his telegram by
singing in a mocking tone:
“II est un petit homme, Tout habille de gris, Dans Paris!”
Imitating his rival, Alcide Jolivet had used a merry refrain of
Beranger.
“Hallo!” said Harry Blount.
“Just so,” answered Jolivet.
In the meantime the situation at Kolyvan was alarming in the extreme.
The battle was raging nearer, and the firing was incessant.
At that moment the telegraph office shook to its foundations. A shell
had made a hole in the wall, and a cloud of dust filled the office.
Alcide was just finishing writing his lines; but to stop, dart on the
shell, seize it in both hands, throw it out of the window, and return to
the wicket, was only the affair of a moment.
Five seconds later the shell burst outside. Continuing with the greatest
possible coolness, Alcide wrote: “A six-inch shell has just blown up the
wall of the telegraph office. Expecting a few more of the same size.”
Michael Strogoff had no doubt that the Russians were driven out of
Kolyvan. His last resource was to set out across the southern steppe.
Just then renewed firing broke out close to the telegraph house, and a
perfect shower of bullets smashed all the glass in the windows. Harry
Blount fell to the ground wounded in the shoulder.
Jolivet even at such a moment, was about to add this postscript to
his dispatch: “Harry Blount, correspondent of the _Daily Telegraph_, has
fallen at my side struck by--” when the imperturbable clerk said calmly:
“Sir, the wire has broken.” And, leaving his wicket, he quietly took his
hat, brushed it round with his sleeve, and, still smiling, disappeared
through a little door which Michael had not before perceived.
The house was surrounded by Tartar soldiers, and neither Michael nor the
reporters could effect their retreat.
Alcide Jolivet, his useless dispatch in his hand, had run to Blount,
stretched on the ground, and had bravely lifted him on his shoulders,
with the intention of flying with him. He was too late!
Both were prisoners; and, at the same time, Michael, taken unawares
as he was about to leap from the window, fell into the hands of the
Tartars!
END OF BOOK I
BOOK II
CHAPTER I A TARTAR CAMP
AT a day’s march from Kolyvan, several versts beyond the town of
Diachinks, stretches a wide plain, planted here and there with great
trees, principally pines and cedars. This part of the steppe is usually
occupied during the warm season by Siberian shepherds, and their
numerous flocks. But now it might have been searched in vain for one of
its nomad inhabitants. Not that the plain was deserted. It presented a
most animated appearance.
There stood the Tartar tents; there Feofar-Khan, the terrible Emir
of Bokhara, was encamped; and there on the following day, the 7th
of August, were brought the prisoners taken at Kolyvan after the
annihilation of the Russian force, which had vainly attempted to oppose
the progress of the invaders. Of the two thousand men who had engaged
with the two columns of the enemy, the bases of which rested on Tomsk
and Omsk, only a few hundred remained. Thus events were going badly,
and the imperial government appeared to have lost its power beyond the
frontiers of the Ural--for a time at least, for the Russians could not
fail eventually to defeat the savage hordes of the invaders. But in
the meantime the invasion had reached the center of Siberia, and it
was spreading through the revolted country both to the eastern, and
the western provinces. If the troops of the Amoor and the province of
Takutsk did not arrive in time to occupy it, Irkutsk, the capital of
Asiatic Russia, being insufficiently garrisoned, would fall into the
hands of the Tartars, and the Grand Duke, brother of the Emperor, would
be sacrificed to the vengeance of Ivan Ogareff.
What had become of Michael Strogoff? Had he broken down under the weight
of so many trials? Did he consider himself conquered by the series
of disasters which, since the adventure of Ichim, had increased in
magnitude? Did he think his cause lost? that his mission had failed?
that his orders could no longer be obeyed?
Michael was one of those men who never give in while life exists. He was
yet alive; he still had the imperial letter safe; his disguise had been
undiscovered. He was included amongst the numerous prisoners whom the
Tartars were dragging with them like cattle; but by approaching Tomsk he
was at the same time drawing nearer to Irkutsk. Besides, he was still in
front of Ivan Ogareff.
“I will get there!” he repeated to himself.
Since the affair of Kolyvan all the powers of his mind were concentrated
on one object--to become free! How should he escape from the Emir’s
soldiers?
Feofar’s camp presented a magnificent spectacle.
Numberless tents, of skin, felt, or silk, glistened in the rays of the
sun. The lofty plumes which surmounted their conical tops waved amidst
banners, flags, and pennons of every color. The richest of these tents
belonged to the Seides and Khodjas, who are the principal personages of
the khanat. A special pavilion, ornamented with a horse’s tail issuing
from a sheaf of red and white sticks artistically interlaced, indicated
the high rank of these Tartar chiefs. Then in the distance rose several
thousand of the Turcoman tents, called “karaoy,” which had been carried
on the backs of camels.
The camp contained at least a hundred and fifty thousand soldiers,
as many foot as horse soldiers, collected under the name of Alamanes.
Amongst them, and as the principal types of Turkestan, would have been
directly remarked the Tadjiks, from their regular features, white skin,
tall forms, and black eyes and hair; they formed the bulk of the Tartar
army, and of them the khanats of Khokhand and Koundouge had furnished
a contingent nearly equal to that of Bokhara. With the Tadjiks were
mingled specimens of different races who either reside in Turkestan or
whose native countries border on it. There were Usbecks, red-bearded,
small in stature, similar to those who had pursued Michael. Here were
Kirghiz, with flat faces like the Kalmucks, dressed in coats of mail:
some carried the lance, bows, and arrows of Asiatic manufacture; some
the saber, a matchlock gun, and the “tschakane,” a little short-handled
ax, the wounds from which invariably prove fatal. There were Mongols--of
middle height, with black hair plaited into pigtails, which hung down
their back; round faces, swarthy complexions, lively deep-set eyes,
scanty beards--dressed in blue nankeen trimmed with black plush,
sword-belts of leather with silver buckles, coats gayly braided,
and silk caps edged with fur and three ribbons fluttering behind.
Brown-skinned Afghans, too, might have been seen. Arabs, having the
primitive type of the beautiful Semitic races; and Turcomans, with eyes
which looked as if they had lost the pupil,--all enrolled under the
Emir’s flag, the flag of incendiaries and devastators.
Among these free soldiers were a certain number of slave soldiers,
principally Persians, commanded by officers of the same nation, and they
were certainly not the least esteemed of Feofar-Khan’s army.
If to this list are added the Jews, who acted as servants, their robes
confined with a cord, and wearing on their heads instead of the turban,
which is forbidden them, little caps of dark cloth; if with these
groups are mingled some hundreds of “kalenders,” a sort of religious
mendicants, clothed in rags, covered by a leopard skin, some idea may be
formed of the enormous agglomerations of different tribes included under
the general denomination of the Tartar army.
Nothing could be more romantic than this picture, in delineating which
the most skillful artist would have exhausted all the colors of his
palette.
Feofar’s tent overlooked the others. Draped in large folds of a
brilliant silk looped with golden cords and tassels, surmounted by tall
plumes which waved in the wind like fans, it occupied the center of a
wide clearing, sheltered by a grove of magnificent birch and pine trees.
Before this tent, on a japanned table inlaid with precious stones, was
placed the sacred book of the Koran, its pages being of thin gold-leaf
delicately engraved. Above floated the Tartar flag, quartered with the
Emir’s arms.
In a semicircle round the clearing stood the tents of the great
functionaries of Bokhara. There resided the chief of the stables, who
has the right to follow the Emir on horseback even into the court of
his palace; the grand falconer; the “housch-begui,” bearer of the
royal seal; the “toptschi-baschi,” grand master of the artillery; the
“khodja,” chief of the council, who receives the prince’s kiss, and
may present himself before him with his girdle untied; the
“scheikh-oul-islam,” chief of the Ulemas, representing the priests; the
“cazi-askev,” who, in the Emir’s absence settles all disputes raised
among the soldiers; and lastly, the chief of the astrologers, whose
great business is to consult the stars every time the Khan thinks of
changing his quarters.
When the prisoners were brought into the camp, the Emir was in his tent.
He did not show himself. This was fortunate, no doubt. A sign, a word
from him might have been the signal for some bloody execution. But
he intrenched himself in that isolation which constitutes in part the
majesty of Eastern kings. He who does not show himself is admired, and,
above all, feared.
As to the prisoners, they were to be penned up in some enclosure, where,
ill-treated, poorly fed, and exposed to all the inclemencies of the
weather, they would await Feofar’s pleasure.
The most docile and patient of them all was undoubtedly Michael
Strogoff. He allowed himself to be led, for they were leading him where
he wished to go, and under conditions of safety which free he could not
have found on the road from Kolyvan to Tomsk. To escape before reaching
that town was to risk again falling into the hands of the scouts, who
were scouring the steppe. The most eastern line occupied by the Tartar
columns was not situated beyond the eighty-fifth meridian, which passes
through Tomsk. This meridian once passed, Michael considered that he
should be beyond the hostile zones, that he could traverse Genisci
without danger, and gain Krasnoiarsk before Feofar-Khan had invaded the
province.
“Once at Tomsk,” he repeated to himself, to repress some feelings of
impatience which he could not entirely master, “in a few minutes I
should be beyond the outposts; and twelve hours gained on Feofar, twelve
hours on Ogareff, that surely would be enough to give me a start of them
to Irkutsk.”
The thing that Michael dreaded more than everything else was the
presence of Ivan Ogareff in the Tartar camp. Besides the danger of being
recognized, he felt, by a sort of instinct, that this was the traitor
whom it was especially necessary to precede. He understood, too, that
the union of Ogareff’s troops with those of Feofar would complete the
invading army, and that the junction once effected, the army would march
en masse on the capital of Eastern Siberia. All his apprehensions came
from this quarter, and he dreaded every instant to hear some flourish of
trumpets, announcing the arrival of the lieutenant of the Emir.
To this was added the thought of his mother, of Nadia,--the one a
prisoner at Omsk; the other dragged on board the Irtych boats, and no
doubt a captive, as Marfa Strogoff was. He could do nothing for them.
Should he ever see them again? At this question, to which he dared not
reply, his heart sank very low.
At the same time with Michael Strogoff and so many other prisoners Harry
Blount and Alcide Jolivet had also been taken to the Tartar camp. Their
former traveling companion, captured like them at the telegraph office,
knew that they were penned up with him in the enclosure, guarded by
numerous sentinels, but he did not wish to accost them. It mattered
little to him, at this time especially, what they might think of him
since the affair at Ichim. Besides, he desired to be alone, that he
might act alone, if necessary. He therefore held himself aloof from his
former acquaintances.
From the moment that Harry Blount had fallen by his side, Jolivet had
not ceased his attentions to him. During the journey from Kolyvan to
the camp--that is to say, for several hours--Blount, by leaning on his
companion’s arm, had been enabled to follow the rest of the prisoners.
He tried to make known that he was a British subject; but it had no
effect on the barbarians, who only replied by prods with a lance or
sword. The correspondent of the _Daily Telegraph_ was, therefore, obliged
to submit to the common lot, resolving to protest later, and obtain
satisfaction for such treatment. But the journey was not the less
disagreeable to him, for his wound caused him much pain, and without
Alcide Jolivet’s assistance he might never have reached the camp.
Jolivet, whose practical philosophy never abandoned him, had physically
and morally strengthened his companion by every means in his power. His
first care, when they found themselves definitely established in the
enclosure, was to examine Blount’s wound. Having managed carefully to
draw off his coat, he found that the shoulder had been only grazed by
the shot.
“This is nothing,” he said. “A mere scratch! After two or three
dressings you will be all to rights.”
“But these dressings?” asked Blount.
“I will make them for you myself.”
“Then you are something of a doctor?”
“All Frenchmen are something of doctors.”
And on this affirmation Alcide, tearing his handkerchief, made lint of
one piece, bandages of the other, took some water from a well dug in the
middle of the enclosure, bathed the wound, and skillfully placed the wet
rag on Harry Blount’s shoulder.
“I treat you with water,” he said. “This liquid is the most efficacious
sedative known for the treatment of wounds, and is the most employed
now. Doctors have taken six thousand years to discover that! Yes, six
thousand years in round numbers!”
“I thank you, M. Jolivet,” answered Harry, stretching himself on a bed
of dry leaves, which his companion had arranged for him in the shade of
a birch tree.
“Bah! it’s nothing! You would do as much for me.”
“I am not quite so sure,” said Blount candidly.
“Nonsense, stupid! All English are generous.”
“Doubtless; but the French?”
“Well, the French--they are brutes, if you like! But what redeems them
is that they are French. Say nothing more about that, or rather, say
nothing more at all. Rest is absolutely necessary for you.”
But Harry Blount had no wish to be silent. If the wound, in prudence,
required rest, the correspondent of the _Daily Telegraph_ was not a man to
indulge himself.
“M. Jolivet,” he asked, “do you think that our last dispatches have been
able to pass the Russian frontier?”
“Why not?” answered Alcide. “By this time you may be sure that my
beloved cousin knows all about the affair at Kolyvan.”
“How many copies does your cousin work off of her dispatches?” asked
Blount, for the first time putting his question direct to his companion.
“Well,” answered Alcide, laughing, “my cousin is a very discreet person,
who does not like to be talked about, and who would be in despair if she
troubled the sleep of which you are in need.”
“I don’t wish to sleep,” replied the Englishman. “What will your cousin
think of the affairs of Russia?”
“That they seem for the time in a bad way. But, bah! the Muscovite
government is powerful; it cannot be really uneasy at an invasion of
barbarians.”
“Too much ambition has lost the greatest empires,” answered Blount, who
was not exempt from a certain English jealousy with regard to Russian
pretensions in Central Asia.
“Oh, do not let us talk politics,” cried Jolivet. “It is forbidden by
the faculty. Nothing can be worse for wounds in the shoulder--unless it
was to put you to sleep.”
“Let us, then, talk of what we ought to do,” replied Blount. “M.
Jolivet, I have no intention at all of remaining a prisoner to these
Tartars for an indefinite time.”
“Nor I, either, by Jove!”
“We will escape on the first opportunity?”
“Yes, if there is no other way of regaining our liberty.”
“Do you know of any other?” asked Blount, looking at his companion.
“Certainly. We are not belligerents; we are neutral, and we will claim
our freedom.”
“From that brute of a Feofar-Khan?”
“No; he would not understand,” answered Jolivet; “but from his
lieutenant, Ivan Ogareff.”
“He is a villain.”
“No doubt; but the villain is a Russian. He knows that it does not do
to trifle with the rights of men, and he has no interest to retain us;
on the contrary. But to ask a favor of that gentleman does not quite
suit my taste.”
“But that gentleman is not in the camp, or at least I have not seen him
here,” observed Blount.
“He will come. He will not fail to do that. He must join the Emir.
Siberia is cut in two now, and very certainly Feofar’s army is only
waiting for him to advance on Irkutsk.”
“And once free, what shall we do?”
“Once free, we will continue our campaign, and follow the Tartars, until
the time comes when we can make our way into the Russian camp. We must
not give up the game. No, indeed; we have only just begun. You, friend,
have already had the honor of being wounded in the service of the Daily
Telegraph, whilst I--I have as yet suffered nothing in my cousin’s
service. Well, well! Good,” murmured Alcide Jolivet; “there he is
asleep. A few hours’ sleep and a few cold water compresses are all that
are required to set an Englishman on his legs again. These fellows are
made of cast iron.”
And whilst Harry Blount rested, Alcide watched near him, after having
drawn out his note book, which he loaded with notes, determined besides
to share them with his companion, for the greater satisfaction of the
readers of the _Daily Telegraph_. Events had united them one with the
other. They were no longer jealous of each other. So, then, the thing
that Michael Strogoff dreaded above everything was the most lively
desire of the two correspondents. Ivan Ogareff’s arrival would evidently
be of use to them. Blount and Jolivet’s interest was, therefore,
contrary to that of Michael. The latter well understood the situation,
and it was one reason, added to many others, which prevented him from
approaching his former traveling companions. He therefore managed so as
not to be seen by them.
Four days passed thus without the state of things being in anywise
altered. The prisoners heard no talk of the breaking up of the Tartar
camp. They were strictly guarded. It would have been impossible for them
to pass the cordon of foot and horse soldiers, which watched them night
and day. As to the food which was given them it was barely sufficient.
Twice in the twenty-four hours they were thrown a piece of the
intestines of goats grilled on the coals, or a few bits of that cheese
called “kroute,” made of sour ewe’s milk, and which, soaked in mare’s
milk, forms the Kirghiz dish, commonly called “koumyss.” And this was
all. It may be added that the weather had become detestable. There were
considerable atmospheric commotions, bringing squalls mingled with rain.
The unfortunate prisoners, destitute of shelter, had to bear all the
inclemencies of the weather, nor was there the slightest alleviation to
their misery. Several wounded women and children died, and the prisoners
were themselves compelled to dig graves for the bodies of those whom
their jailers would not even take the trouble to bury.
During this trying period Alcide Jolivet and Michael Strogoff worked
hard, each in the portions of the enclosure in which they found
themselves. Healthy and vigorous, they suffered less than so many
others, and could better endure the hardships to which they were
exposed. By their advice, and the assistance they rendered, they were
of the greatest possible use to their suffering and despairing
fellow-captives.
Was this state of things to last? Would Feofar-Khan, satisfied with his
first success, wait some time before marching on Irkutsk? Such, it was
to be feared, would be the case. But it was not so. The event so much
wished for by Jolivet and Blount, so much dreaded by Michael, occurred
on the morning of the 12th of August.
On that day the trumpets sounded, the drums beat, the cannon roared.
A huge cloud of dust swept along the road from Kolyvan. Ivan Ogareff,
followed by several thousand men, made his entry into the Tartar camp.
CHAPTER II CORRESPONDENTS IN TROUBLE
IVAN OGAREFF was bringing up the main body of the army of the Emir. The
cavalry and infantry now under him had formed part of the column which
had taken Omsk. Ogareff, not having been able to reduce the high town,
in which, it must be remembered, the governor and garrison had sought
refuge, had decided to pass on, not wishing to delay operations which
ought to lead to the conquest of Eastern Siberia. He therefore left a
garrison in Omsk, and, reinforcing himself _en route_ with the conquerors
of Kolyvan, joined Feofar’s army.
Ivan Ogareff’s soldiers halted at the outposts of the camp. They
received no orders to bivouac. Their chief’s plan, doubtless, was not
to halt there, but to press on and reach Tomsk in the shortest possible
time, it being an important town, naturally intended to become the
center of future operations.
Besides his soldiers, Ogareff was bringing a convoy of Russian and
Siberian prisoners, captured either at Omsk or Kolyvan. These unhappy
creatures were not led to the enclosure--already too crowded--but
were forced to remain at the outposts without shelter, almost without
nourishment. What fate was Feofar-Khan reserving for these unfortunates?
Would he imprison them in Tomsk, or would some bloody execution,
familiar to the Tartar chiefs, remove them when they were found too
inconvenient? This was the secret of the capricious Emir.
This army had not come from Omsk and Kolyvan without bringing in its
train the usual crowd of beggars, freebooters, pedlars, and gypsies,
which compose the rear-guard of an army on the march.
All these people lived on the country traversed, and left little of
anything behind them. There was, therefore, a necessity for pushing
forward, if only to secure provisions for the troops. The whole region
between Ichim and the Obi, now completely devastated, no longer offered
any resources. The Tartars left a desert behind them.
Conspicuous among the gypsies who had hastened from the western
provinces was the Tsigane troop, which had accompanied Michael Strogoff
as far as Perm. Sangarre was there. This fierce spy, the tool of Ivan
Ogareff, had not deserted her master. Ogareff had traveled rapidly
to Ichim, whilst Sangarre and her band had proceeded to Omsk by the
southern part of the province.
It may be easily understood how useful this woman was to Ogareff. With
her gypsy-band she could penetrate anywhere. Ivan Ogareff was kept
acquainted with all that was going on in the very heart of the invaded
provinces. There were a hundred eyes, a hundred ears, open in his
service. Besides, he paid liberally for this espionage, from which he
derived so much advantage.
Once Sangarre, being implicated in a very serious affair, had been saved
by the Russian officer. She never forgot what she owed him, and had
devoted herself to his service body and soul.
When Ivan Ogareff entered on the path of treason, he saw at once how
he might turn this woman to account. Whatever order he might give her,
Sangarre would execute it. An inexplicable instinct, more powerful still
than that of gratitude, had urged her to make herself the slave of the
traitor to whom she had been attached since the very beginning of his
exile in Siberia.
Confidante and accomplice, Sangarre, without country, without family,
had been delighted to put her vagabond life to the service of the
invaders thrown by Ogareff on Siberia. To the wonderful cunning natural
to her race she added a wild energy, which knew neither forgiveness nor
pity. She was a savage worthy to share the wigwam of an Apache or the
hut of an Andaman.
Since her arrival at Omsk, where she had rejoined him with her Tsiganes,
Sangarre had not again left Ogareff. The circumstance that Michael and
Marfa Strogoff had met was known to her. She knew and shared Ogareff’s
fears concerning the journey of a courier of the Czar. Having Marfa
Strogoff in her power, she would have been the woman to torture her with
all the refinement of a Redskin in order to wrest her secret from her.
But the hour had not yet come in which Ogareff wished the old Siberian
to speak. Sangarre had to wait, and she waited, without losing sight
of her whom she was watching, observing her slightest gestures, her
slightest words, endeavoring to catch the word “son” escaping from her
lips, but as yet always baffled by Marfa’s taciturnity.
At the first flourish of the trumpets several officers of high rank,
followed by a brilliant escort of Usbeck horsemen, moved to the front of
the camp to receive Ivan Ogareff. Arrived in his presence, they paid him
the greatest respect, and invited him to accompany them to Feofar-Khan’s
tent.
Imperturbable as usual, Ogareff replied coldly to the deference paid to
him. He was plainly dressed; but, from a sort of impudent bravado, he
still wore the uniform of a Russian officer.
As he was about to enter the camp, Sangarre, passing among the officers
approached and remained motionless before him. “Nothing?” asked Ogareff.
“Nothing.”
“Have patience.”
“Is the time approaching when you will force the old woman to speak?”
“It is approaching, Sangarre.”
“When will the old woman speak?”
“When we reach Tomsk.”
“And we shall be there--”
“In three days.”
A strange gleam shot from Sangarre’s great black eyes, and she retired
with a calm step. Ogareff pressed his spurs into his horse’s flanks,
and, followed by his staff of Tartar officers, rode towards the Emir’s
tent.
Feofar-Khan was expecting his lieutenant. The council, composed of the
bearer of the royal seal, the khodja, and some high officers, had taken
their places in the tent. Ivan Ogareff dismounted and entered.
Feofar-Khan was a man of forty, tall, rather pale, of a fierce
countenance, and evil eyes. A curly black beard flowed over his chest.
With his war costume, coat of mail of gold and silver, cross-belt and
scabbard glistening with precious stones, boots with golden spurs,
helmet ornamented with an aigrette of brilliant diamonds, Feofar
presented an aspect rather strange than imposing for a Tartar
Sardana-palus, an undisputed sovereign, who directs at his pleasure the
life and fortune of his subjects.
When Ivan Ogareff appeared, the great dignitaries remained seated on
their gold-embroidered cushions; but Feofar rose from a rich divan which
occupied the back part of the tent, the ground being hidden under the
thick velvet-pile of a Bokharian carpet.
The Emir approached Ogareff and gave him a kiss, the meaning of which he
could not mistake. This kiss made the lieutenant chief of the council,
and placed him temporarily above the khodja.
Then Feofar spoke. “I have no need to question you,” said he; “speak,
Ivan. You will find here ears very ready to listen to you.”
“Takhsir,” answered Ogareff, “this is what I have to make known to you.”
He spoke in the Tartar language, giving to his phrases the emphatic turn
which distinguishes the languages of the Orientals. “Takhsir, this is
not the time for unnecessary words. What I have done at the head of your
troops, you know. The lines of the Ichim and the Irtych are now in
our power; and the Turcoman horsemen can bathe their horses in the now
Tartar waters. The Kirghiz hordes rose at the voice of Feofar-Khan. You
can now push your troops towards the east, and where the sun rises, or
towards the west, where he sets.”
“And if I march with the sun?” asked the Emir, without his countenance
betraying any of his thoughts.
“To march with the sun,” answered Ogareff, “is to throw yourself towards
Europe; it is to conquer rapidly the Siberian provinces of Tobolsk as
far as the Ural Mountains.”
“And if I go to meet this luminary of the heavens?”
“It is to subdue to the Tartar dominion, with Irkutsk, the richest
countries of Central Asia.”
“But the armies of the Sultan of St. Petersburg?” said Feofar-Khan,
designating the Emperor of Russia by this strange title.
“You have nothing to fear from them,” replied Ivan Ogareff. “The
invasion has been sudden; and before the Russian army can succor them,
Irkutsk or Tobolsk will have fallen into your power. The Czar’s troops
have been overwhelmed at Kolyvan, as they will be everywhere where yours
meet them.”
“And what advice does your devotion to the Tartar cause suggest?” asked
the Emir, after a few moments’ silence.
“My advice,” answered Ivan Ogareff quickly, “is to march to meet the
sun. It is to give the grass of the eastern steppes to the Turcoman
horses to consume. It is to take Irkutsk, the capital of the eastern
provinces, and with it a hostage, the possession of whom is worth a
whole country. In the place of the Czar, the Grand Duke his brother must
fall into your hands.”
This was the great result aimed at by Ivan Ogareff. To listen to him,
one would have taken him for one of the cruel descendants of Stephan
Razine, the celebrated pirate who ravaged Southern Russia in the
eighteenth century. To seize the Grand Duke, murder him pitilessly,
would fully satisfy his hatred. Besides, with the capture of Irkutsk,
all Eastern Siberia would pass to the Tartars.
“It shall be thus, Ivan,” replied Feofar.
“What are your orders, Takhsir?”
“To-day our headquarters shall be removed to Tomsk.”
Ogareff bowed, and, followed by the housch-begui, he retired to execute
the Emir’s orders.
As he was about to mount his horse, to return to the outposts, a tumult
broke out at some distance, in the part of the camp reserved for the
prisoners. Shouts were heard, and two or three shots fired. Perhaps it
was an attempt at revolt or escape, which must be summarily suppressed.
Ivan Ogareff and the housch-begui walked forward and almost immediately
two men, whom the soldiers had not been able to keep back appeared
before them.
The housch-begui, without more information, made a sign which was an
order for death, and the heads of the two prisoners would have rolled on
the ground had not Ogareff uttered a few words which arrested the sword
already raised aloft. The Russian had perceived that these prisoners
were strangers, and he ordered them to be brought to him.
They were Harry Blount and Alcide jolivet.
On Ogareff’s arrival in the camp, they had demanded to be conducted to
his presence. The soldiers had refused. In consequence, a struggle,
an attempt at flight, shots fired which happily missed the two
correspondents, but their execution would not have been long delayed, if
it had not been for the intervention of the Emir’s lieutenant.
The latter observed the prisoners for some moments, they being
absolutely unknown to him. They had been present at that scene in
the post-house at Ichim, in which Michael Strogoff had been struck by
Ogareff; but the brutal traveler had paid no attention to the persons
then collected in the common room.
Blount and Jolivet, on the contrary, recognized him at once, and the
latter said in a low voice, “Hullo! It seems that Colonel Ogareff and
the rude personage of Ichim are one!” Then he added in his companion’s
ear, “Explain our affair, Blount. You will do me a service. This Russian
colonel in the midst of a Tartar camp disgusts me; and although, thanks
to him, my head is still on my shoulders, my eyes would exhibit my
feelings were I to attempt to look him in the face.”
So saying, Alcide Jolivet assumed a look of complete and haughty
indifference.
Whether or not Ivan Ogareff perceived that the prisoner’s attitude
was insulting towards him, he did not let it appear. “Who are you,
gentlemen?” he asked in Russian, in a cold tone, but free from its usual
rudeness.
“Two correspondents of English and French newspapers,” replied Blount
laconically.
“You have, doubtless, papers which will establish your identity?”
“Here are letters which accredit us in Russia, from the English and
French chancellor’s office.”
Ivan Ogareff took the letters which Blount held out, and read them
attentively. “You ask,” said he, “authorization to follow our military
operations in Siberia?”
“We ask to be free, that is all,” answered the English correspondent
dryly.
“You are so, gentlemen,” answered Ogareff; “I am curious to read your
articles in the _Daily Telegraph_.”
“Sir,” replied Blount, with the most imperturbable coolness, “it is
sixpence a number, including postage.” And thereupon he returned to his
companion, who appeared to approve completely of his replies.
Ivan Ogareff, without frowning, mounted his horse, and going to the head
of his escort, soon disappeared in a cloud of dust.
“Well, Jolivet, what do you think of Colonel Ivan Ogareff,
general-in-chief of the Tartar troops?” asked Blount.
“I think, my dear friend,” replied Alcide, smiling, “that the
housch-begui made a very graceful gesture when he gave the order for our
heads to be cut off.”
Whatever was the motive which led Ogareff to act thus in regard to the
two correspondents, they were free and could rove at their pleasure
over the scene of war. Their intention was not to leave it. The sort of
antipathy which formerly they had entertained for each other had
given place to a sincere friendship. Circumstances having brought them
together, they no longer thought of separating. The petty questions of
rivalry were forever extinguished. Harry Blount could never forget what
he owed his companion, who, on the other hand, never tried to remind him
of it. This friendship too assisted the reporting operations, and was
thus to the advantage of their readers.
“And now,” asked Blount, “what shall we do with our liberty?”
“Take advantage of it, of course,” replied Alcide, “and go quietly to
Tomsk to see what is going on there.”
“Until the time--very near, I hope--when we may rejoin some Russian
regiment?”
“As you say, my dear Blount, it won’t do to Tartarise ourselves too
much. The best side is that of the most civilized army, and it is
evident that the people of Central Asia will have everything to lose and
absolutely nothing to gain from this invasion, while the Russians will
soon repulse them. It is only a matter of time.”
The arrival of Ivan Ogareff, which had given Jolivet and Blount their
liberty, was to Michael Strogoff, on the contrary, a serious danger.
Should chance bring the Czar’s courier into Ogareff’s presence, the
latter could not fail to recognize in him the traveler whom he had so
brutally treated at the Ichim post-house, and although Michael had
not replied to the insult as he would have done under any other
circumstances, attention would be drawn to him, and at once the
accomplishment of his plans would be rendered more difficult.
This was the unpleasant side of the business. A favorable result of his
arrival, however, was the order which was given to raise the camp
that very day, and remove the headquarters to Tomsk. This was the
accomplishment of Michael’s most fervent desire. His intention, as has
been said, was to reach Tomsk concealed amongst the other prisoners;
that is to say, without any risk of falling into the hands of the scouts
who swarmed about the approaches to this important town. However, in
consequence of the arrival of Ivan Ogareff, he questioned whether it
would not be better to give up his first plan and attempt to escape
during the journey.
Michael would, no doubt, have kept to the latter plan had he not learnt
that Feofar-Khan and Ogareff had already set out for the town with some
thousands of horsemen. “I will wait, then,” said he to himself; “at
least, unless some exceptional opportunity for escape occurs. The
adverse chances are numerous on this side of Tomsk, while beyond I shall
in a few hours have passed the most advanced Tartar posts to the east.
Still three days of patience, and may God aid me!”
It was indeed a journey of three days which the prisoners, under the
guard of a numerous detachment of Tartars, were to make across the
steppe. A hundred and fifty versts lay between the camp and the town--an
easy march for the Emir’s soldiers, who wanted for nothing, but a
wretched journey for these people, enfeebled by privations. More than
one corpse would show the road they had traversed.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon, on the 12th of August, under a hot
sun and cloudless sky, that the toptschi-baschi gave the order to start.
Alcide and Blount, having bought horses, had already taken the road to
Tomsk, where events were to reunite the principal personages of this
story.
Amongst the prisoners brought by Ivan Ogareff to the Tartar camp was an
old woman, whose taciturnity seemed to keep her apart from all those
who shared her fate. Not a murmur issued from her lips. She was like a
statue of grief. This woman was more strictly guarded than anyone else,
and, without her appearing to notice, was constantly watched by the
Tsigane Sangarre. Notwithstanding her age she was compelled to follow
the convoy of prisoners on foot, without any alleviation of her
suffering.
However, a kind Providence had placed near her a courageous,
kind-hearted being to comfort and assist her. Amongst her companions in
misfortune a young girl, remarkable for beauty and taciturnity, seemed
to have given herself the task of watching over her. No words had been
exchanged between the two captives, but the girl was always at the old
woman’s side when help was useful. At first the mute assistance of the
stranger was accepted with some mistrust. Gradually, however, the young
girl’s clear glance, her reserve, and the mysterious sympathy which
draws together those who are in misfortune, thawed Marfa Strogoff’s
coldness.
Nadia--for it was she--was thus able, without knowing it, to render to
the mother those attentions which she had herself received from the son.
Her instinctive kindness had doubly inspired her. In devoting herself
to her service, Nadia secured to her youth and beauty the protection
afforded by the age of the old prisoner.
On the crowd of unhappy people, embittered by sufferings, this
silent pair--one seeming to be the grandmother, the other the
grand-daughter--imposed a sort of respect.
After being carried off by the Tartar scouts on the Irtych, Nadia had
been taken to Omsk. Kept prisoner in the town, she shared the fate
of all those captured by Ivan Ogareff, and consequently that of Marfa
Strogoff.
If Nadia had been less energetic, she would have succumbed to this
double blow. The interruption to her journey, the death of Michael,
made her both desperate and excited. Divided, perhaps forever, from her
father, after so many happy efforts had brought her near him, and, to
crown her grief, separated from the intrepid companion whom God seemed
to have placed in her way to lead her. The image of Michael Strogoff,
struck before her eyes with a lance and disappearing beneath the waters
of the Irtych, never left her thoughts.
Could such a man have died thus? For whom was God reserving His miracles
if this good man, whom a noble object was urging onwards, had been
allowed to perish so miserably? Then anger would prevail over grief. The
scene of the affront so strangely borne by her companion at the Ichim
relay returned to her memory. Her blood boiled at the recollection.
“Who will avenge him who can no longer avenge himself?” she said.
And in her heart, she cried, “May it be I!” If before his death Michael
had confided his secret to her, woman, aye girl though she was, she
might have been able to carry to a successful conclusion the interrupted
task of that brother whom God had so soon taken from her.
Absorbed in these thoughts, it can be understood how Nadia could remain
insensible to the miseries even of her captivity. Thus chance had united
her to Marfa Strogoff without her having the least suspicion of who she
was. How could she imagine that this old woman, a prisoner like herself,
was the mother of him, whom she only knew as the merchant Nicholas
Korpanoff? And on the other hand, how could Marfa guess that a bond of
gratitude connected this young stranger with her son?
The thing that first struck Nadia in Marfa Strogoff was the similarity
in the way in which each bore her hard fate. This stoicism of the old
woman under the daily hardships, this contempt of bodily suffering,
could only be caused by a moral grief equal to her own. So Nadia
thought; and she was not mistaken. It was an instinctive sympathy for
that part of her misery which Marfa did not show which first drew Nadia
towards her. This way of bearing her sorrow went to the proud heart of
the young girl. She did not offer her services; she gave them. Marfa
had neither to refuse nor accept them. In the difficult parts of the
journey, the girl was there to support her. When the provisions were
given out, the old woman would not have moved, but Nadia shared her
small portion with her; and thus this painful journey was performed.
Thanks to her companion, Marfa was able to follow the soldiers who
guarded the prisoners without being fastened to a saddle-bow, as were
many other unfortunate wretches, and thus dragged along this road of
sorrow.
“May God reward you, my daughter, for what you have done for my old
age!” said Marfa Strogoff once, and for some time these were the only
words exchanged between the two unfortunate beings.
During these few days, which to them appeared like centuries, it would
seem that the old woman and the girl would have been led to speak of
their situation. But Marfa Strogoff, from a caution which may be easily
understood, never spoke about herself except with the greatest brevity.
She never made the smallest allusion to her son, nor to the unfortunate
meeting.
Nadia also, if not completely silent, spoke little. However, one day her
heart overflowed, and she told all the events which had occurred from
her departure from Wladimir to the death of Nicholas Korpanoff.
All that her young companion told intensely interested the old Siberian.
“Nicholas Korpanoff!” said she. “Tell me again about this Nicholas.
I know only one man, one alone, in whom such conduct would not have
astonished me. Nicholas Korpanoff! Was that really his name? Are you
sure of it, my daughter?”
“Why should he have deceived me in this,” replied Nadia, “when he
deceived me in no other way?”
Moved, however, by a kind of presentiment, Marfa Strogoff put questions
upon questions to Nadia.
“You told me he was fearless, my daughter. You have proved that he has
been so?” asked she.
“Yes, fearless indeed!” replied Nadia.
“It was just what my son would have done,” said Marfa to herself.
Then she resumed, “Did you not say that nothing stopped him, nor
astonished him; that he was so gentle in his strength that you had
a sister as well as a brother in him, and he watched over you like a
mother?”
“Yes, yes,” said Nadia. “Brother, sister, mother--he has been all to
me!”
“And defended you like a lion?”
“A lion indeed!” replied Nadia. “A lion, a hero!”
“My son, my son!” thought the old Siberian. “But you said, however, that
he bore a terrible insult at that post-house in Ichim?”
“He did bear it,” answered Nadia, looking down.
“He bore it!” murmured Marfa, shuddering.
“Mother, mother,” cried Nadia, “do not blame him! He had a secret. A
secret of which God alone is as yet the judge!”
“And,” said Marfa, raising her head and looking at Nadia as though she
would read the depths of her heart, “in that hour of humiliation did you
not despise this Nicholas Korpanoff?”
“I admired without understanding him,” replied the girl. “I never felt
him more worthy of respect.”
The old woman was silent for a minute.
“Was he tall?” she asked.
“Very tall.”
“And very handsome? Come, speak, my daughter.”
“He was very handsome,” replied Nadia, blushing.
“It was my son! I tell you it was my son!” exclaimed the old woman,
embracing Nadia.
“Your son!” said Nadia amazed, “your son!”
“Come,” said Marfa; “let us get to the bottom of this, my child. Your
companion, your friend, your protector had a mother. Did he never speak
to you of his mother?”
“Of his mother?” said Nadia. “He spoke to me of his mother as I spoke to
him of my father--often, always. He adored her.”
“Nadia, Nadia, you have just told me about my own son,” said the old
woman.
And she added impetuously, “Was he not going to see this mother, whom
you say he loved, in Omsk?”
“No,” answered Nadia, “no, he was not.”
“Not!” cried Marfa. “You dare to tell me not!”
“I say so: but it remains to me to tell you that from motives which
outweighed everything else, motives which I do not know, I understand
that Nicholas Korpanoff had to traverse the country completely in
secret. To him it was a question of life and death, and still more, a
question of duty and honor.”
“Duty, indeed, imperious duty,” said the old Siberian, “of those who
sacrifice everything, even the joy of giving a kiss, perhaps the last,
to his old mother. All that you do not know, Nadia--all that I did not
know myself--I now know. You have made me understand everything. But
the light which you have thrown on the mysteries of my heart, I cannot
return on yours. Since my son has not told you his secret, I must keep
it. Forgive me, Nadia; I can never repay what you have done for me.”
“Mother, I ask you nothing,” replied Nadia.
All was thus explained to the old Siberian, all, even the conduct of her
son with regard to herself in the inn at Omsk. There was no doubt that
the young girl’s companion was Michael Strogoff, and that a secret
mission in the invaded country obliged him to conceal his quality of the
Czar’s courier.
“Ah, my brave boy!” thought Marfa. “No, I will not betray you, and
tortures shall not wrest from me the avowal that it was you whom I saw
at Omsk.”
Marfa could with a word have paid Nadia for all her devotion to her. She
could have told her that her companion, Nicholas Korpanoff, or rather
Michael Strogoff, had not perished in the waters of the Irtych, since
it was some days after that incident that she had met him, that she had
spoken to him.
But she restrained herself, she was silent, and contented herself with
saying, “Hope, my child! Misfortune will not overwhelm you. You will see
your father again; I feel it; and perhaps he who gave you the name of
sister is not dead. God cannot have allowed your brave companion to
perish. Hope, my child, hope! Do as I do. The mourning which I wear is
not yet for my son.”
CHAPTER III BLOW FOR BLOW
SUCH were now the relative situations of Marfa Strogoff and Nadia.
All was understood by the old Siberian, and though the young girl was
ignorant that her much-regretted companion still lived, she at least
knew his relationship to her whom she had made her mother; and she
thanked God for having given her the joy of taking the place of the son
whom the prisoner had lost.
But what neither of them could know was that Michael, having been
captured at Kolyvan, was in the same convoy and was on his way to Tomsk
with them.
The prisoners brought by Ivan Ogareff had been added to those already
kept by the Emir in the Tartar camp. These unfortunate people,
consisting of Russians, Siberians, soldiers and civilians, numbered some
thousands, and formed a column which extended over several versts. Some
among them being considered dangerous were handcuffed and fastened to
a long chain. There were, too, women and children, many of the latter
suspended to the pommels of the saddles, while the former were dragged
mercilessly along the road on foot, or driven forward as if they were
animals. The horsemen compelled them to maintain a certain order, and
there were no laggards with the exception of those who fell never to
rise again.
In consequence of this arrangement, Michael Strogoff, marching in the
first ranks of those who had left the Tartar camp--that is to say, among
the Kolyvan prisoners--was unable to mingle with the prisoners who had
arrived after him from Omsk. He had therefore no suspicion that his
mother and Nadia were present in the convoy, nor did they suppose
that he was among those in front. This journey from the camp to Tomsk,
performed under the lashes and spear-points of the soldiers, proved
fatal to many, and terrible to all. The prisoners traveled across the
steppe, over a road made still more dusty by the passage of the Emir and
his vanguard. Orders had been given to march rapidly. The short halts
were rare. The hundred miles under a burning sky seemed interminable,
though they were performed as rapidly as possible.
The country, which extends from the right of the Obi to the base of the
spur detached from the Sayanok Mountains, is very sterile. Only a few
stunted and burnt-up shrubs here and there break the monotony of the
immense plain. There was no cultivation, for there was no water; and
it was water that the prisoners, parched by their painful march, most
needed. To find a stream they must have diverged fifty versts eastward,
to the very foot of the mountains.
There flows the Tom, a little affluent of the Obi, which passes near
Tomsk before losing itself in one of the great northern arteries. There
water would have been abundant, the steppe less arid, the heat less
severe. But the strictest orders had been given to the commanders of the
convoy to reach Tomsk by the shortest way, for the Emir was much
afraid of being taken in the flank and cut off by some Russian column
descending from the northern provinces.
It is useless to dwell upon the sufferings of the unhappy prisoners.
Many hundreds fell on the steppe, where their bodies would lie until
winter, when the wolves would devour the remnants of their bones.
As Nadia helped the old Siberian, so in the same way did Michael
render to his more feeble companions in misfortune such services as his
situation allowed. He encouraged some, supported others, going to and
fro, until a prick from a soldier’s lance obliged him to resume the
place which had been assigned him in the ranks.
Why did he not endeavor to escape?
The reason was that he had now quite determined not to venture until the
steppe was safe for him. He was resolved in his idea of going as far as
Tomsk “at the Emir’s expense,” and indeed he was right. As he observed
the numerous detachments which scoured the plain on the convoy’s flanks,
now to the south, now to the north, it was evident that before he could
have gone two versts he must have been recaptured. The Tartar horsemen
swarmed--it actually appeared as if they sprang from the earth--like
insects which a thunderstorm brings to the surface of the ground. Flight
under these conditions would have been extremely difficult, if not
impossible. The soldiers of the escort displayed excessive vigilance,
for they would have paid for the slightest carelessness with their
heads.
At nightfall of the 15th of August, the convoy reached the little
village of Zabediero, thirty versts from Tomsk.
The prisoners’ first movement would have been to rush into the river,
but they were not allowed to leave the ranks until the halt had been
organized. Although the current of the Tom was just now like a torrent,
it might have favored the flight of some bold or desperate man, and
the strictest measures of vigilance were taken. Boats, requisitioned
at Zabediero, were brought up to the Tom and formed a line of obstacles
impossible to pass. As to the encampment on the outskirts of the
village, it was guarded by a cordon of sentinels.
Michael Strogoff, who now naturally thought of escape, saw, after
carefully surveying the situation, that under these conditions it was
perfectly impossible; so, not wishing to compromise himself, he waited.
The prisoners were to encamp for the whole night on the banks of the
Tom, for the Emir had put off the entrance of his troops into Tomsk. It
had been decided that a military fête should mark the inauguration of
the Tartar headquarters in this important city. Feofar-Khan already
occupied the fortress, but the bulk of his army bivouacked under its
walls, waiting until the time came for them to make a solemn entry.
Ivan Ogareff left the Emir at Tomsk, where both had arrived the evening
before, and returned to the camp at Zabediero. From here he was to start
the next day with the rear-guard of the Tartar army. A house had been
arranged for him in which to pass the night. At sunrise horse and foot
soldiers were to proceed to Tomsk, where the Emir wished to receive
them with the pomp usual to Asiatic sovereigns. As soon as the halt was
organized, the prisoners, worn out with their three days’ journey, and
suffering from burning thirst, could drink and take a little rest. The
sun had already set, when Nadia, supporting Marfa Strogoff, reached the
banks of the Tom. They had not till then been able to get through those
who crowded the banks, but at last they came to drink in their turn.
The old woman bent over the clear stream, and Nadia, plunging in her
hand, carried it to Marfa’s lips. Then she refreshed herself. They
found new life in these welcome waters. Suddenly Nadia started up; an
involuntary cry escaped her.
Michael Strogoff was there, a few steps from her. It was he. The dying
rays of the sun fell upon him.
At Nadia’s cry Michael started. But he had sufficient command over
himself not to utter a word by which he might have been compromised. And
yet, when he saw Nadia, he also recognized his mother.
Feeling he could not long keep master of himself at this unexpected
meeting, he covered his eyes with his hands and walked quickly away.
Nadia’s impulse was to run after him, but the old Siberian murmured in
her ear, “Stay, my daughter!”
“It is he!” replied Nadia, choking with emotion. “He lives, mother! It
is he!”
“It is my son,” answered Marfa, “it is Michael Strogoff, and you see
that I do not make a step towards him! Imitate me, my daughter.”
Michael had just experienced the most violent emotion which a man can
feel. His mother and Nadia were there!
The two prisoners who were always together in his heart, God had brought
them together in this common misfortune. Did Nadia know who he was? Yes,
for he had seen Marfa’s gesture, holding her back as she was about to
rush towards him. Marfa, then, had understood all, and kept his secret.
During that night, Michael was twenty times on the point of looking for
and joining his mother; but he knew that he must resist the longing he
felt to take her in his arms, and once more press the hand of his young
companion. The least imprudence might be fatal. He had besides sworn not
to see his mother. Once at Tomsk, since he could not escape this very
night, he would set off without having even embraced the two beings
in whom all the happiness of his life was centered, and whom he should
leave exposed to so many perils.
Michael hoped that this fresh meeting at the Zabediero camp would have
no disastrous consequences either to his mother or to himself. But he
did not know that part of this scene, although it passed so rapidly, had
been observed by Sangarre, Ogareff’s spy.
The Tsigane was there, a few paces off, on the bank, as usual, watching
the old Siberian woman. She had not caught sight of Michael, for he
disappeared before she had time to look around; but the mother’s gesture
as she kept back Nadia had not escaped her, and the look in Marfa’s eyes
told her all.
It was now beyond doubt that Marfa Strogoff’s son, the Czar’s courier,
was at this moment in Zabediero, among Ivan Ogareff’s prisoners.
Sangarre did not know him, but she knew that he was there. She did not
then attempt to discover him, for it would have been impossible in the
dark and the immense crowd.
As for again watching Nadia and Marfa Strogoff, that was equally
useless. It was evident that the two women would keep on their
guard, and it would be impossible to overhear anything of a nature to
compromise the courier of the Czar. The Tsigane’s first thought was
to tell Ivan Ogareff. She therefore immediately left the encampment. A
quarter of an hour after, she reached Zabediero, and was shown into the
house occupied by the Emir’s lieutenant. Ogareff received the Tsigane
directly.
“What have you to tell me, Sangarre?” he asked.
“Marfa Strogoff’s son is in the encampment.”
“A prisoner?”
“A prisoner.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Ogareff, “I shall know--”
“You will know nothing, Ivan,” replied Tsigane; “for you do not even
know him by sight.”
“But you know him; you have seen him, Sangarre?”
“I have not seen him; but his mother betrayed herself by a gesture,
which told me everything.”
“Are you not mistaken?”
“I am not mistaken.”
“You know the importance which I attach to the apprehension of this
courier,” said Ivan Ogareff. “If the letter which he has brought from
Moscow reaches Irkutsk, if it is given to the Grand Duke, the Grand Duke
will be on his guard, and I shall not be able to get at him. I must have
that letter at any price. Now you come to tell me that the bearer of
this letter is in my power. I repeat, Sangarre, are you not mistaken?”
Ogareff spoke with great animation. His emotion showed the extreme
importance he attached to the possession of this letter. Sangarre
was not at all put out by the urgency with which Ogareff repeated his
question. “I am not mistaken, Ivan,” she said.
“But, Sangarre, there are thousands of prisoners; and you say that you
do not know Michael Strogoff.”
“No,” answered the Tsigane, with a look of savage joy, “I do not know
him; but his mother knows him. Ivan, we must make his mother speak.”
“To-morrow she shall speak!” cried Ogareff. So saying, he extended his
hand to the Tsigane, who kissed it; for there is nothing servile in this
act of respect, it being usual among the Northern races.
Sangarre returned to the camp. She found out Nadia and Marfa Strogoff,
and passed the night in watching them. Although worn out with fatigue,
the old woman and the girl did not sleep. Their great anxiety kept them
awake. Michael was living, but a prisoner. Did Ogareff know him, or
would he not soon find him out? Nadia was occupied by the one thought
that he whom she had thought dead still lived. But Marfa saw further
into the future: and, although she did not care what became of herself,
she had every reason to fear for her son.
Sangarre, under cover of the night, had crept near the two women, and
remained there several hours listening. She heard nothing. From an
instinctive feeling of prudence not a word was exchanged between Nadia
and Marfa Strogoff. The next day, the 16th of August, about ten in the
morning, trumpet-calls resounded throughout the encampment. The Tartar
soldiers were almost immediately under arms.
Ivan Ogareff arrived, surrounded by a large staff of Tartar officers.
His face was more clouded than usual, and his knitted brow gave signs of
latent wrath which was waiting for an occasion to break forth.
Michael Strogoff, hidden in a group of prisoners, saw this man pass. He
had a presentiment that some catastrophe was imminent: for Ivan Ogareff
knew now that Marfa was the mother of Michael Strogoff.
Ogareff dismounted, and his escort cleared a large circle round him.
Just then Sangarre approached him, and said, “I have no news.”
Ivan Ogareff’s only reply was to give an order to one of his officers.
Then the ranks of prisoners were brutally hurried up by the soldiers.
The unfortunate people, driven on with whips, or pushed on with lances,
arranged themselves round the camp. A strong guard of soldiers drawn up
behind, rendered escape impossible.
Silence then ensued, and, on a sign from Ivan Ogareff, Sangarre advanced
towards the group, in the midst of which stood Marfa.
The old Siberian saw her, and knew what was going to happen. A scornful
smile passed over her face. Then leaning towards Nadia, she said in a
low tone, “You know me no longer, my daughter. Whatever may happen, and
however hard this trial may be, not a word, not a sign. It concerns him,
and not me.”
At that moment Sangarre, having regarded her for an instant, put her
hand on her shoulder.
“What do you want with me?” said Marfa.
“Come!” replied Sangarre, and pushing the old Siberian before her, she
took her to Ivan Ogareff, in the middle of the cleared ground. Michael
cast down his eyes that their angry flashings might not appear.
Marfa, standing before Ivan Ogareff, drew herself up, crossed her arms
on her breast, and waited.
“You are Marfa Strogoff?” asked Ogareff.
“Yes,” replied the old Siberian calmly.
“Do you retract what you said to me when, three days ago, I interrogated
you at Omsk?”
“No!”
“Then you do not know that your son, Michael Strogoff, courier of the
Czar, has passed through Omsk?”
“I do not know it.”
“And the man in whom you thought you recognized your son, was not he
your son?”
“He was not my son.”
“And since then you have not seen him amongst the prisoners?”
“No.”
“If he were pointed out, would you recognize him?”
“No.”
On this reply, which showed such determined resolution, a murmur was
heard amongst the crowd.
Ogareff could not restrain a threatening gesture.
“Listen,” said he to Marfa, “your son is here, and you shall immediately
point him out to me.”
“No.”
“All these men, taken at Omsk and Kolyvan, will defile before you; and
if you do not show me Michael Strogoff, you shall receive as many blows
of the knout as men shall have passed before you.”
Ivan Ogareff saw that, whatever might be his threats, whatever might be
the tortures to which he submitted her, the indomitable Siberian would
not speak. To discover the courier of the Czar, he counted, then, not on
her, but on Michael himself. He did not believe it possible that, when
mother and son were in each other’s presence, some involuntary movement
would not betray him. Of course, had he wished to seize the imperial
letter, he would simply have given orders to search all the prisoners;
but Michael might have destroyed the letter, having learnt its contents;
and if he were not recognized, if he were to reach Irkutsk, all Ivan
Ogareff’s plans would be baffled. It was thus not only the letter which
the traitor must have, but the bearer himself.
Nadia had heard all, and she now knew who was Michael Strogoff, and why
he had wished to cross, without being recognized, the invaded provinces
of Siberia.
On an order from Ivan Ogareff the prisoners defiled, one by one, past
Marfa, who remained immovable as a statue, and whose face expressed only
perfect indifference.
Her son was among the last. When in his turn he passed before his
mother, Nadia shut her eyes that she might not see him. Michael was to
all appearance unmoved, but the palm of his hand bled under his nails,
which were pressed into them.
Ivan Ogareff was baffled by mother and son.
Sangarre, close to him, said one word, “The knout!”
“Yes,” cried Ogareff, who could no longer restrain himself; “the knout
for this wretched old woman--the knout to the death!”
A Tartar soldier bearing this terrible instrument of torture approached
Marfa. The knout is composed of a certain number of leathern thongs,
at the end of which are attached pieces of twisted iron wire. It is
reckoned that a sentence to one hundred and twenty blows of this whip is
equivalent to a sentence of death.
Marfa knew it, but she knew also that no torture would make her speak.
She was sacrificing her life.
Marfa, seized by two soldiers, was forced on her knees on the ground.
Her dress torn off left her back bare. A saber was placed before her
breast, at a few inches’ distance only. Directly she bent beneath her
suffering, her breast would be pierced by the sharp steel.
The Tartar drew himself up. He waited. “Begin!” said Ogareff. The whip
whistled in the air.
But before it fell a powerful hand stopped the Tartar’s arm. Michael was
there. He had leapt forward at this horrible scene. If at the relay at
Ichim he had restrained himself when Ogareff’s whip had struck him, here
before his mother, who was about to be struck, he could not do so. Ivan
Ogareff had succeeded.
“Michael Strogoff!” cried he. Then advancing, “Ah, the man of Ichim?”
“Himself!” said Michael. And raising the knout he struck Ogareff a sharp
blow across the face. “Blow for blow!” said he.
“Well repaid!” cried a voice concealed by the tumult.
Twenty soldiers threw themselves on Michael, and in another instant he
would have been slain.
But Ogareff, who on being struck had uttered a cry of rage and pain,
stopped them. “This man is reserved for the Emir’s judgment,” said he.
“Search him!”
The letter with the imperial arms was found in Michael’s bosom; he had
not had time to destroy it; it was handed to Ogareff.
The voice which had pronounced the words, “Well repaid!” was that of
no other than Alcide Jolivet. “Par-dieu!” said he to Blount, “they are
rough, these people. Acknowledge that we owe our traveling companion
a good turn. Korpanoff or Strogoff is worthy of it. Oh, that was fine
retaliation for the little affair at Ichim.”
“Yes, retaliation truly,” replied Blount; “but Strogoff is a dead man.
I suspect that, for his own interest at all events, it would have
been better had he not possessed quite so lively a recollection of the
event.”
“And let his mother perish under the knout?”
“Do you think that either she or his sister will be a bit better off
from this outbreak of his?”
“I do not know or think anything except that I should have done much
the same in his position,” replied Alcide. “What a scar the Colonel has
received! Bah! one must boil over sometimes. We should have had water in
our veins instead of blood had it been incumbent on us to be always and
everywhere unmoved to wrath.”
“A neat little incident for our journals,” observed Blount, “if only
Ivan Ogareff would let us know the contents of that letter.”
Ivan Ogareff, when he had stanched the blood which was trickling
down his face, had broken the seal. He read and re-read the letter
deliberately, as if he was determined to discover everything it
contained.
Then having ordered that Michael, carefully bound and guarded, should
be carried on to Tomsk with the other prisoners, he took command of
the troops at Zabediero, and, amid the deafening noise of drums and
trumpets, he marched towards the town where the Emir awaited him.
CHAPTER IV THE TRIUMPHAL ENTRY
TOMSK, founded in 1604, nearly in the heart of the Siberian provinces,
is one of the most important towns in Asiatic Russia. Tobolsk, situated
above the sixtieth parallel; Irkutsk, built beyond the hundredth
meridian--have seen Tomsk increase at their expense.
And yet Tomsk, as has been said, is not the capital of this important
province. It is at Omsk that the Governor-General of the province and
the official world reside. But Tomsk is the most considerable town of
that territory. The country being rich, the town is so likewise, for
it is in the center of fruitful mines. In the luxury of its houses, its
arrangements, and its equipages, it might rival the greatest European
capitals. It is a city of millionaires, enriched by the spade and
pickax, and though it has not the honor of being the residence of the
Czar’s representative, it can boast of including in the first rank
of its notables the chief of the merchants of the town, the principal
grantees of the imperial government’s mines.
But the millionaires were fled now, and except for the crouching poor,
the town stood empty to the hordes of Feofar-Khan. At four o’clock the
Emir made his entry into the square, greeted by a flourish of trumpets,
the rolling sound of the big drums, salvoes of artillery and musketry.
Feofar mounted his favorite horse, which carried on its head an aigrette
of diamonds. The Emir still wore his uniform. He was accompanied by
a numerous staff, and beside him walked the Khans of Khokhand and
Koundouge and the grand dignitaries of the Khanats.
At the same moment appeared on the terrace the chief of Feofar’s wives,
the queen, if this title may be given to the sultana of the states
of Bokhara. But, queen or slave, this woman of Persian origin was
wonderfully beautiful. Contrary to the Mahometan custom, and no doubt by
some caprice of the Emir, she had her face uncovered. Her hair, divided
into four plaits, fell over her dazzling white shoulders, scarcely
concealed by a veil of silk worked in gold, which fell from the back
of a cap studded with gems of the highest value. Under her blue-silk
petticoat, fell the “zirdjameh” of silken gauze, and above the sash
lay the “pirahn.” But from the head to the little feet, such was the
profusion of jewels--gold beads strung on silver threads, chaplets of
turquoises, “firouzehs” from the celebrated mines of Elbourz, necklaces
of cornelians, agates, emeralds, opals, and sapphires--that her dress
seemed to be literally made of precious stones. The thousands of
diamonds which sparkled on her neck, arms, hands, at her waist, and at
her feet might have been valued at almost countless millions of roubles.
The Emir and the Khans dismounted, as did the dignitaries who escorted
them. All entered a magnificent tent erected on the center of the first
terrace. Before the tent, as usual, the Koran was laid.
Feofar’s lieutenant did not make them wait, and before five o’clock the
trumpets announced his arrival. Ivan Ogareff--the Scarred Cheek, as
he was already nick-named--wearing the uniform of a Tartar officer,
dismounted before the Emir’s tent. He was accompanied by a party of
soldiers from the camp at Zabediero, who ranged up at the sides of the
square, in the middle of which a place for the sports was reserved. A
large scar could be distinctly seen cut obliquely across the traitor’s
face.
Ogareff presented his principal officers to the Emir, who, without
departing from the coldness which composed the main part of his dignity,
received them in a way which satisfied them that they stood well in the
good graces of their chief.
At least so thought Harry Blount and Alcide Jolivet, the two
inseparables, now associated together in the chase after news. After
leaving Zabediero, they had proceeded rapidly to Tomsk. The plan they
had agreed upon was to leave the Tartars as soon as possible, and to
join a Russian regiment, and, if they could, to go with them to Irkutsk.
All that they had seen of the invasion, its burnings, its pillages, its
murders, had perfectly sickened them, and they longed to be among the
ranks of the Siberian army. Jolivet had told his companion that he could
not leave Tomsk without making a sketch of the triumphal entry of the
Tartar troops, if it was only to satisfy his cousin’s curiosity; but the
same evening they both intended to take the road to Irkutsk, and being
well mounted hoped to distance the Emir’s scouts.
Alcide and Blount mingled therefore in the crowd, so as to lose no
detail of a festival which ought to supply them with a hundred good
lines for an article. They admired the magnificence of Feofar-Khan, his
wives, his officers, his guards, and all the Eastern pomp, of which the
ceremonies of Europe can give not the least idea. But they turned away
with disgust when Ivan Ogareff presented himself before the Emir, and
waited with some impatience for the amusements to begin.
“You see, my dear Blount,” said Alcide, “we have come too soon, like
honest citizens who like to get their money’s worth. All this is before
the curtain rises, it would have been better to arrive only for the
ballet.”
“What ballet?” asked Blount.
“The compulsory ballet, to be sure. But see, the curtain is going to
rise.” Alcide Jolivet spoke as if he had been at the Opera, and taking
his glass from its case, he prepared, with the air of a connoisseur, “to
examine the first act of Feofar’s company.”
A painful ceremony was to precede the sports. In fact, the triumph of
the vanquisher could not be complete without the public humiliation of
the vanquished. This was why several hundreds of prisoners were brought
under the soldiers’ whips. They were destined to march past Feofar-Khan
and his allies before being crammed with their companions into the
prisons in the town.
In the first ranks of these prisoners figured Michael Strogoff. As
Ogareff had ordered, he was specially guarded by a file of soldiers. His
mother and Nadia were there also.
The old Siberian, although energetic enough when her own safety was in
question, was frightfully pale. She expected some terrible scene. It was
not without reason that her son had been brought before the Emir. She
therefore trembled for him. Ivan Ogareff was not a man to forgive
having been struck in public by the knout, and his vengeance would
be merciless. Some frightful punishment familiar to the barbarians
of Central Asia would, no doubt, be inflicted on Michael Ogareff had
protected him against the soldiers because he well knew what would
happen by reserving him for the justice of the Emir.
The mother and son had not been able to speak together since the
terrible scene in the camp at Zabediero. They had been pitilessly kept
apart--a bitter aggravation of their misery, for it would have been some
consolation to have been together during these days of captivity. Marfa
longed to ask her son’s pardon for the harm she had unintentionally done
him, for she reproached herself with not having commanded her maternal
feelings. If she had restrained herself in that post-house at Omsk,
when she found herself face to face with him, Michael would have passed
unrecognized, and all these misfortunes would have been avoided.
Michael, on his side, thought that if his mother was there, if Ogareff
had brought her with him, it was to make her suffer with the sight of
his own punishment, or perhaps some frightful death was reserved for her
also.
As to Nadia, she only asked herself how she could save them both, how
come to the aid of son and mother. As yet she could only wonder, but
she felt instinctively that she must above everything avoid drawing
attention upon herself, that she must conceal herself, make herself
insignificant. Perhaps she might at least gnaw through the meshes which
imprisoned the lion. At any rate if any opportunity was given her she
would seize upon it, and sacrifice herself, if need be, for the son of
Marfa Strogoff.
In the meantime the greater part of the prisoners were passing before
the Emir, and as they passed each was obliged to prostrate himself,
with his forehead in the dust, in token of servitude. Slavery begins by
humiliation. When the unfortunate people were too slow in bending, the
rough guards threw them violently to the ground.
Alcide Jolivet and his companion could not witness such a sight without
feeling indignant.
“It is cowardly--let us go,” said Alcide.
“No,” answered Blount; “we must see it all.”
“See it all!--ah!” cried Alcide, suddenly, grasping his companion’s arm.
“What is the matter with you?” asked the latter.
“Look, Blount; it is she!”
“What she?”
“The sister of our traveling companion--alone, and a prisoner! We must
save her.”
“Calm yourself,” replied Blount coolly. “Any interference on our part in
behalf of the young girl would be worse than useless.”
Alcide Jolivet, who had been about to rush forward, stopped, and
Nadia--who had not perceived them, her features being half hidden by
her hair--passed in her turn before the Emir without attracting his
attention.
However, after Nadia came Marfa Strogoff; and as she did not throw
herself quickly in the dust, the guards brutally pushed her. She fell.
Her son struggled so violently that the soldiers who were guarding him
could scarcely hold him back. But the old woman rose, and they were
about to drag her on, when Ogareff interposed, saying, “Let that woman
stay!”
As to Nadia, she happily regained the crowd of prisoners. Ivan Ogareff
had taken no notice of her.
Michael was then led before the Emir, and there he remained standing,
without casting down his eyes.
“Your forehead to the ground!” cried Ogareff.
“No!” answered Michael.
Two soldiers endeavored to make him bend, but they were themselves laid
on the ground by a buffet from the young man’s fist.
Ogareff approached Michael. “You shall die!” he said.
“I can die,” answered Michael fiercely; “but your traitor’s face, Ivan,
will not the less carry forever the infamous brand of the knout.”
At this reply Ivan Ogareff became perfectly livid.
“Who is this prisoner?” asked the Emir, in a tone of voice terrible from
its very calmness.
“A Russian spy,” answered Ogareff. In asserting that Michael was a spy
he knew that the sentence pronounced against him would be terrible.
The Emir made a sign at which all the crowd bent low their heads. Then
he pointed with his hand to the Koran, which was brought him. He opened
the sacred book and placed his finger on one of its pages.
It was chance, or rather, according to the ideas of these Orientals, God
Himself who was about to decide the fate of Michael Strogoff. The people
of Central Asia give the name of “fal” to this practice. After having
interpreted the sense of the verse touched by the judge’s finger, they
apply the sentence whatever it may be.
The Emir had let his finger rest on the page of the Koran. The chief of
the Ulemas then approached, and read in a loud voice a verse which ended
with these words, “And he will no more see the things of this earth.”
“Russian spy!” exclaimed Feofar-Kahn in a voice trembling with fury,
“you have come to see what is going on in the Tartar camp. Then look
while you may.”
CHAPTER V “LOOK WHILE YOU MAY!”
MICHAEL was held before the Emir’s throne, at the foot of the terrace,
his hands bound behind his back. His mother overcome at last by mental
and physical torture, had sunk to the ground, daring neither to look nor
listen.
“Look while you may,” exclaimed Feofar-Kahn, stretching his arm towards
Michael in a threatening manner. Doubtless Ivan Ogareff, being well
acquainted with Tartar customs, had taken in the full meaning of these
words, for his lips curled for an instant in a cruel smile; he then took
his place by Feofar-Khan.
A trumpet call was heard. This was the signal for the amusements to
begin. “Here comes the ballet,” said Alcide to Blount; “but, contrary to
our customs, these barbarians give it before the drama.”
Michael had been commanded to look at everything. He looked. A troop
of dancers poured into the open space before the Emir’s tent. Different
Tartar instruments, the “doutare,” a long-handled guitar, the “kobize,”
a kind of violoncello, the “tschibyzga,” a long reed flute; wind
instruments, tom-toms, tambourines, united with the deep voices of the
singers, formed a strange harmony. Added to this were the strains of an
aerial orchestra, composed of a dozen kites, which, fastened by strings
to their centers, resounded in the breeze like AEolian harps.
Then the dancers began. The performers were all of Persian origin;
they were no longer slaves, but exercised their profession at liberty.
Formerly they figured officially in the ceremonies at the court of
Teheran, but since the accession of the reigning family, banished or
treated with contempt, they had been compelled to seek their fortune
elsewhere. They wore the national costume, and were adorned with a
profusion of jewels. Little triangles of gold, studded with jewels,
glittered in their ears. Circles of silver, marked with black,
surrounded their necks and legs.