sometimes in groups. Their faces were uncovered, but from time to time
they threw a light veil over their heads, and a gauze cloud passed over
their bright eyes as smoke over a starry sky. Some of these Persians
wore leathern belts embroidered with pearls, from which hung little
triangular bags. From these bags, embroidered with golden filigree, they
drew long narrow bands of scarlet silk, on which were braided verses
of the Koran. These bands, which they held between them, formed a belt
under which the other dancers darted; and, as they passed each verse,
following the precept it contained, they either prostrated themselves
on the earth or lightly bounded upwards, as though to take a place among
the houris of Mohammed’s heaven.
But what was remarkable, and what struck Alcide, was that the Persians
appeared rather indolent than fiery. Their passion had deserted them,
and, by the kind of dances as well as by their execution, they recalled
rather the calm and self-possessed nauch girls of India than the
impassioned dancers of Egypt.
When this was over, a stern voice was heard saying:
“Look while you may!”
The man who repeated the Emir’s words--a tall spare Tartar--was he who
carried out the sentences of Feofar-Khan against offenders. He had taken
his place behind Michael, holding in his hand a broad curved saber, one
of those Damascene blades which are forged by the celebrated armorers of
Karschi or Hissar.
Behind him guards were carrying a tripod supporting a chafing-dish
filled with live coals. No smoke arose from this, but a light vapor
surrounded it, due to the incineration of a certain aromatic and
resinous substance which he had thrown on the surface.
The Persians were succeeded by another party of dancers, whom Michael
recognized. The journalists also appeared to recognize them, for Blount
said to his companion, “These are the Tsiganes of Nijni-Novgorod.”
“No doubt of it,” cried Alcide. “Their eyes, I imagine, bring more money
to these spies than their legs.”
In putting them down as agents in the Emir’s service, Alcide Jolivet
was, by all accounts, not mistaken.
In the first rank of the Tsiganes, Sangarre appeared, superb in her
strange and picturesque costume, which set off still further her
remarkable beauty.
Sangarre did not dance, but she stood as a statue in the midst of the
performers, whose style of dancing was a combination of that of all
those countries through which their race had passed--Turkey, Bohemia,
Egypt, Italy, and Spain. They were enlivened by the sound of cymbals,
which clashed on their arms, and by the hollow sounds of the “daires”--a
sort of tambourine played with the fingers.
Sangarre, holding one of those daires, which she played between her
hands, encouraged this troupe of veritable corybantes. A young Tsigane,
of about fifteen years of age, then advanced. He held in his hand a
“doutare,” strings of which he made to vibrate by a simple movement of
the nails. He sung. During the singing of each couplet, of very peculiar
rhythm, a dancer took her position by him and remained there immovable,
listening to him, but each time that the burden came from the lips of
the young singer, she resumed her dance, dinning in his ears with her
daire, and deafening him with the clashing of her cymbals. Then, after
the last chorus, the remainder surrounded the Tsigane in the windings of
their dance.
At that moment a shower of gold fell from the hands of the Emir and his
train, and from the hands of his officers of all ranks; to the noise
which the pieces made as they struck the cymbals of the dancers, being
added the last murmurs of the doutares and tambourines.
“Lavish as robbers,” said Alcide in the ear of his companion. And in
fact it was the result of plunder which was falling; for, with the
Tartar tomans and sequins, rained also Russian ducats and roubles.
Then silence followed for an instant, and the voice of the executioner,
who laid his hand on Michael’s shoulder, once more pronounced the words,
which this repetition rendered more and more sinister:
“Look while you may”
But this time Alcide observed that the executioner no longer held the
saber bare in his hand.
Meanwhile the sun had sunk behind the horizon. A semi-obscurity began
to envelop the plain. The mass of cedars and pines became blacker and
blacker, and the waters of the Tom, totally obscured in the distance,
mingled with the approaching shadows.
But at that instant several hundreds of slaves, bearing lighted torches,
entered the square. Led by Sangarre, Tsiganes and Persians reappeared
before the Emir’s throne, and showed off, by the contrast, their dances
of styles so different. The instruments of the Tartar orchestra sounded
forth in harmony still more savage, accompanied by the guttural cries of
the singers. The kites, which had fallen to the ground, once more winged
their way into the sky, each bearing a parti-colored lantern, and under
a fresher breeze their harps vibrated with intenser sound in the midst
of the aerial illumination.
Then a squadron of Tartars, in their brilliant uniforms, mingled in
the dances, whose wild fury was increasing rapidly, and then began a
performance which produced a very strange effect. Soldiers came on the
ground, armed with bare sabers and long pistols, and, as they executed
dances, they made the air re-echo with the sudden detonations of their
firearms, which immediately set going the rumbling of the tambourines,
and grumblings of the daires, and the gnashing of doutares.
Their arms, covered with a colored powder of some metallic ingredient,
after the Chinese fashion, threw long jets--red, green, and blue--so
that the groups of dancers seemed to be in the midst of fireworks.
In some respects, this performance recalled the military dance of
the ancients, in the midst of naked swords; but this Tartar dance
was rendered yet more fantastic by the colored fire, which wound,
serpent-like, above the dancers, whose dresses seemed to be embroidered
with fiery hems. It was like a kaleidoscope of sparks, whose infinite
combinations varied at each movement of the dancers.
Though it may be thought that a Parisian reporter would be perfectly
hardened to any scenic effect, which our modern ideas have carried so
far, yet Alcide Jolivet could not restrain a slight movement of the
head, which at home, between the Boulevard Montmartre and La Madeleine
would have said--“Very fair, very fair.”
Then, suddenly, at a signal, all the lights of the fantasia were
extinguished, the dances ceased, and the performers disappeared. The
ceremony was over, and the torches alone lighted up the plateau, which a
few instants before had been so brilliantly illuminated.
On a sign from the Emir, Michael was led into the middle of the square.
“Blount,” said Alcide to his companion, “are you going to see the end of
all this?”
“No, that I am not,” replied Blount.
“The readers of the _Daily Telegraph_ are, I hope, not very eager for the
details of an execution a la mode Tartare?”
“No more than your cousin!”
“Poor fellow!” added Alcide, as he watched Michael. “That valiant
soldier should have fallen on the field of battle!”
“Can we do nothing to save him?” said Blount.
“Nothing!”
The reporters recalled Michael’s generous conduct towards them; they
knew now through what trials he must have passed, ever obedient to his
duty; and in the midst of these Tartars, to whom pity is unknown, they
could do nothing for him. Having little desire to be present at the
torture reserved for the unfortunate man, they returned to the town.
An hour later, they were on the road to Irkutsk, for it was among
the Russians that they intended to follow what Alcide called, by
anticipation, “the campaign of revenge.”
Meantime, Michael was standing ready, his eyes returning the Emir’s
haughty glance, while his countenance assumed an expression of intense
scorn whenever he cast his looks on Ivan Ogareff. He was prepared to
die, yet not a single sign of weakness escaped him.
The spectators, waiting around the square, as well as Feofar-Khan’s
body-guard, to whom this execution was only one of the attractions, were
eagerly expecting it. Then, their curiosity satisfied, they would rush
off to enjoy the pleasures of intoxication.
The Emir made a sign. Michael was thrust forward by his guards to the
foot of the terrace, and Feofar said to him, “You came to see our goings
out and comings in, Russian spy. You have seen for the last time. In an
instant your eyes will be forever shut to the day.”
Michael’s fate was to be not death, but blindness; loss of sight, more
terrible perhaps than loss of life. The unhappy man was condemned to be
blinded.
However, on hearing the Emir’s sentence Michael’s heart did not grow
faint. He remained unmoved, his eyes wide open, as though he wished
to concentrate his whole life into one last look. To entreat pity from
these savage men would be useless, besides, it would be unworthy of him.
He did not even think of it. His thoughts were condensed on his mission,
which had apparently so completely failed; on his mother, on Nadia, whom
he should never more see! But he let no sign appear of the emotion he
felt. Then, a feeling of vengeance to be accomplished came over him.
“Ivan,” said he, in a stern voice, “Ivan the Traitor, the last menace of
my eyes shall be for you!”
Ivan Ogareff shrugged his shoulders.
But Michael was not to be looking at Ivan when his eyes were put out.
Marfa Strogoff stood before him.
“My mother!” cried he. “Yes! yes! my last glance shall be for you, and
not for this wretch! Stay there, before me! Now I see once more your
well-beloved face! Now shall my eyes close as they rest upon it...!”
The old woman, without uttering a word, advanced.
“Take that woman away!” said Ivan.
Two soldiers were about to seize her, but she stepped back and remained
standing a few paces from Michael.
The executioner appeared. This time, he held his saber bare in his hand,
and this saber he had just drawn from the chafing-dish, where he had
brought it to a white heat. Michael was going to be blinded in the
Tartar fashion, with a hot blade passed before his eyes!
Michael did not attempt to resist. Nothing existed before his eyes but
his mother, whom his eyes seemed to devour. All his life was in that
last look.
Marfa Strogoff, her eyes open wide, her arms extended towards where he
stood, was gazing at him. The incandescent blade passed before Michael’s
eyes.
A despairing cry was heard. His aged mother fell senseless to the
ground. Michael Strogoff was blind.
His orders executed, the Emir retired with his train. There remained
in the square only Ivan Ogareff and the torch bearers. Did the wretch
intend to insult his victim yet further, and yet to give him a parting
blow?
Ivan Ogareff slowly approached Michael, who, feeling him coming, drew
himself up. Ivan drew from his pocket the Imperial letter, he opened it,
and with supreme irony he held it up before the sightless eyes of the
Czar’s courier, saying, “Read, now, Michael Strogoff, read, and go and
repeat at Irkutsk what you have read. The true Courier of the Czar is
Ivan Ogareff.”
This said, the traitor thrust the letter into his breast. Then, without
looking round he left the square, followed by the torch-bearers.
Michael was left alone, at a few paces from his mother, lying lifeless,
perhaps dead. He heard in the distance cries and songs, the varied
noises of a wild debauch. Tomsk, illuminated, glittered and gleamed.
Michael listened. The square was silent and deserted. He went, groping
his way, towards the place where his mother had fallen. He found her
with his hand, he bent over her, he put his face close to hers, he
listened for the beating of her heart. Then he murmured a few words.
Did Marfa still live, and did she hear her son’s words? Whether she
did so or not, she made not the slightest movement. Michael kissed her
forehead and her white locks. He then raised himself, and, groping with
his foot, trying to stretch out his hand to guide himself, he walked by
degrees to the edge of the square.
Suddenly Nadia appeared. She walked straight to her companion. A knife
in her hand cut the cords which bound Michael’s arms. The blind man knew
not who had freed him, for Nadia had not spoken a word.
But this done: “Brother!” said she.
“Nadia!” murmured Michael, “Nadia!”
“Come, brother,” replied Nadia, “use my eyes whilst yours sleep. I will
lead you to Irkutsk.”
CHAPTER VI A FRIEND ON THE HIGHWAY
HALF an hour afterwards, Michael and Nadia had left Tomsk.
Many others of the prisoners were that night able to escape from the
Tartars, for officers and soldiers, all more or less intoxicated,
had unconsciously relaxed the vigilant guard which they had hitherto
maintained. Nadia, after having been carried off with the other
prisoners, had been able to escape and return to the square, at the
moment when Michael was led before the Emir. There, mingling with the
crowd, she had witnessed the terrible scene. Not a cry escaped her when
the scorching blade passed before her companion’s eyes. She kept, by her
strength of will, mute and motionless. A providential inspiration bade
her restrain herself and retain her liberty that she might lead Marfa’s
son to that goal which he had sworn to reach. Her heart for an instant
ceased to beat when the aged Siberian woman fell senseless to the
ground, but one thought restored her to her former energy. “I will be
the blind man’s dog,” said she.
On Ogareff’s departure, Nadia had concealed herself in the shade. She
had waited till the crowd left the square. Michael, abandoned as a
wretched being from whom nothing was to be feared, was alone. She saw
him draw himself towards his mother, bend over her, kiss her forehead,
then rise and grope his way in flight.
A few instants later, she and he, hand in hand, had descended the steep
slope, when, after having followed the high banks of the Tom to the
furthest extremity of the town, they happily found a breach in the
inclosure.
The road to Irkutsk was the only one which penetrated towards the east.
It could not be mistaken. It was possible that on the morrow, after some
hours of carousal, the scouts of the Emir, once more scattering over
the steppes, might cut off all communication. It was of the greatest
importance therefore to get in advance of them. How could Nadia bear the
fatigues of that night, from the 16th to the 17th of August? How
could she have found strength for so long a stage? How could her feet,
bleeding under that forced march, have carried her thither? It is almost
incomprehensible. But it is none the less true that on the next morning,
twelve hours after their departure from Tomsk, Michael and she reached
the town of Semilowskoe, after a journey of thirty-five miles.
Michael had not uttered a single word. It was not Nadia who held his
hand, it was he who held that of his companion during the whole of that
night; but, thanks to that trembling little hand which guided him, he
had walked at his ordinary pace.
Semilowskoe was almost entirely abandoned. The inhabitants had fled.
Not more than two or three houses were still occupied. All that the town
contained, useful or precious, had been carried off in wagons. However,
Nadia was obliged to make a halt of a few hours. They both required food
and rest.
The young girl led her companion to the extremity of the town. There
they found an empty house, the door wide open. An old rickety wooden
bench stood in the middle of the room, near the high stove which is to
be found in all Siberian houses. They silently seated themselves.
Nadia gazed in her companion’s face as she had never before gazed. There
was more than gratitude, more than pity, in that look. Could Michael
have seen her, he would have read in that sweet desolate gaze a world of
devotion and tenderness.
The eyelids of the blind man, made red by the heated blade, fell half
over his eyes. The pupils seemed to be singularly enlarged. The rich
blue of the iris was darker than formerly. The eyelashes and eyebrows
were partly burnt, but in appearance, at least, the old penetrating look
appeared to have undergone no change. If he could no longer see, if his
blindness was complete, it was because the sensibility of the retina and
optic nerve was radically destroyed by the fierce heat of the steel.
Then Michael stretched out his hands.
“Are you there, Nadia?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied the young girl; “I am close to you, and I will not go
away from you, Michael.”
At his name, pronounced by Nadia for the first time, a thrill passed
through Michael’s frame. He perceived that his companion knew all, who
he was.
“Nadia,” replied he, “we must separate!”
“We separate? How so, Michael?”
“I must not be an obstacle to your journey! Your father is waiting for
you at Irkutsk! You must rejoin your father!”
“My father would curse me, Michael, were I to abandon you now, after all
you have done for me!”
“Nadia, Nadia,” replied Michael, “you should think only of your father!”
“Michael,” replied Nadia, “you have more need of me than my father. Do
you mean to give up going to Irkutsk?”
“Never!” cried Michael, in a tone which plainly showed that none of his
energy was gone.
“But you have not the letter!”
“That letter of which Ivan Ogareff robbed me! Well! I shall manage
without it, Nadia! They have treated me as a spy! I will act as a spy! I
will go and repeat at Irkutsk all I have seen, all I have heard; I swear
it by Heaven above! The traitor shall meet me one day face to face! But
I must arrive at Irkutsk before him.”
“And yet you speak of our separating, Michael?”
“Nadia, they have taken everything from me!”
“I have some roubles still, and my eyes! I can see for you, Michael; and
I will lead you thither, where you could not go alone!”
“And how shall we go?”
“On foot.”
“And how shall we live?”
“By begging.”
“Let us start, Nadia.”
“Come, Michael.”
The two young people no longer kept the names “brother” and “sister.”
In their common misfortune, they felt still closer united. They left
the house after an hour’s repose. Nadia had procured in the town some
morsels of “tchornekhleb,” a sort of barley bread, and a little mead,
called “meod” in Russia. This had cost her nothing, for she had already
begun her plan of begging. The bread and mead had in some degree
appeased Michael’s hunger and thirst. Nadia gave him the lion’s share
of this scanty meal. He ate the pieces of bread his companion gave him,
drank from the gourd she held to his lips.
“Are you eating, Nadia?” he asked several times.
“Yes, Michael,” invariably replied the young girl, who contented herself
with what her companion left.
Michael and Nadia quitted Semilowskoe, and once more set out on the
laborious road to Irkutsk. The girl bore up in a marvelous way against
fatigue. Had Michael seen her, perhaps he would not have had the courage
to go on. But Nadia never complained, and Michael, hearing no sigh,
walked at a speed he was unable to repress. And why? Did he still expect
to keep before the Tartars? He was on foot, without money; he was blind,
and if Nadia, his only guide, were to be separated from him, he could
only lie down by the side of the road and there perish miserably.
But if, on the other hand, by energetic perseverance he could reach
Krasnoiarsk, all was perhaps not lost, since the governor, to whom he
would make himself known, would not hesitate to give him the means of
reaching Irkutsk.
Michael walked on, speaking little, absorbed in his own thoughts. He
held Nadia’s hand. The two were in incessant communication. It seemed
to them that they had no need of words to exchange their thoughts. From
time to time Michael said, “Speak to me, Nadia.”
“Why should I, Michael? We are thinking together!” the young girl
would reply, and contrived that her voice should not betray her extreme
fatigue.
But sometimes, as if her heart had ceased to beat for an instant, her
limbs tottered, her steps flagged, her arms fell to her sides, she
dropped behind. Michael then stopped, he fixed his eyes on the poor
girl, as though he would try to pierce the gloom which surrounded him;
his breast heaved; then, supporting his companion more than before, he
started on afresh.
However, amidst these continual miseries, a fortunate circumstance on
that day occurred which it appeared likely would considerably ease
their fatigue. They had been walking from Semilowskoe for two hours when
Michael stopped.
“Is there no one on the road?”
“Not a single soul,” replied Nadia.
“Do you not hear some noise behind us? If they are Tartars we must hide.
Keep a good look-out!”
“Wait, Michael!” replied Nadia, going back a few steps to where the road
turned to the right.
Michael Strogoff waited alone for a minute, listening attentively.
Nadia returned almost immediately and said, “It is a cart. A young man
is leading it.”
“Is he alone?”
“Alone.”
Michael hesitated an instant. Should he hide? or should he, on the
contrary, try to find a place in the vehicle, if not for himself, at
least for her? For himself, he would be quite content to lay one hand
on the cart, to push it if necessary, for his legs showed no sign of
failing him; but he felt sure that Nadia, compelled to walk ever since
they crossed the Obi, that is, for eight days, must be almost exhausted.
He waited.
The cart was soon at the corner of the road. It was a very dilapidated
vehicle, known in the country as a kibitka, just capable of holding
three persons. Usually the kibitka is drawn by three horses, but this
had but one, a beast with long hair and a very long tail. It was of the
Mongol breed, known for strength and courage.
A young man was leading it, with a dog beside him. Nadia saw at once
that the young man was Russian; his face was phlegmatic, but pleasant,
and at once inspired confidence. He did not appear to be in the
slightest hurry; he was not walking fast that he might spare his
horse, and, to look at him, it would not have been believed that he was
following a road which might at any instant be swarming with Tartars.
Nadia, holding Michael by the hand, made way for the vehicle. The
kibitka stopped, and the driver smilingly looked at the young girl.
“And where are you going to in this fashion?” he asked, opening wide his
great honest eyes.
At the sound of his voice, Michael said to himself that he had heard it
before. And it was satisfactory to him to recognize the man for his brow
at once cleared.
“Well, where are you going?” repeated the young man, addressing himself
more directly to Michael.
“We are going to Irkutsk,” he replied.
“Oh! little father, you do not know that there are still versts and
versts between you and Irkutsk?”
“I know it.”
“And you are going on foot?”
“On foot.”
“You, well! but the young lady?”
“She is my sister,” said Michael, who judged it prudent to give again
this name to Nadia.
“Yes, your sister, little father! But, believe me, she will never be
able to get to Irkutsk!”
“Friend,” returned Michael, approaching him, “the Tartars have robbed
us of everything, and I have not a copeck to offer you; but if you will
take my sister with you, I will follow your cart on foot; I will run
when necessary, I will not delay you an hour!”
“Brother,” exclaimed Nadia, “I will not! I will not! Sir, my brother is
blind!”
“Blind!” repeated the young man, much moved.
“The Tartars have burnt out his eyes!” replied Nadia, extending her
hands, as if imploring pity.
“Burnt out his eyes! Oh! poor little father! I am going to Krasnoiarsk.
Well, why should not you and your sister mount in the kibitka? By
sitting a little close, it will hold us all three. Besides, my dog will
not refuse to go on foot; only I don’t go fast, I spare my horse.”
“Friend, what is your name?” asked Michael.
“My name is Nicholas Pigassof.”
“It is a name that I will never forget,” said Michael.
“Well, jump up, little blind father. Your sister will be beside you, in
the bottom of the cart; I sit in front to drive. There is plenty of good
birch bark and straw in the bottom; it’s like a nest. Serko, make room!”
The dog jumped down without more telling. He was an animal of the
Siberian race, gray hair, of medium size, with an honest big head,
just made to pat, and he, moreover, appeared to be much attached to his
master.
In a moment more, Michael and Nadia were seated in the kibitka. Michael
held out his hands as if to feel for those of Pigassof. “You wish to
shake my hands!” said Nicholas. “There they are, little father! shake
them as long as it will give you any pleasure.”
The kibitka moved on; the horse, which Nicholas never touched with the
whip, ambled along. Though Michael did not gain any in speed, at least
some fatigue was spared to Nadia.
Such was the exhaustion of the young girl, that, rocked by the
monotonous movement of the kibitka, she soon fell into a sleep, its
soundness proving her complete prostration. Michael and Nicholas laid
her on the straw as comfortably as possible. The compassionate young man
was greatly moved, and if a tear did not escape from Michael’s eyes, it
was because the red-hot iron had dried up the last!
“She is very pretty,” said Nicholas.
“Yes,” replied Michael.
“They try to be strong, little father, they are brave, but they are weak
after all, these dear little things! Have you come from far.”
“Very far.”
“Poor young people! It must have hurt you very much when they burnt your
eyes!”
“Very much,” answered Michael, turning towards Nicholas as if he could
see him.
“Did you not weep?”
“Yes.”
“I should have wept too. To think that one could never again see
those one loves. But they can see you, however; that’s perhaps some
consolation!”
“Yes, perhaps. Tell me, my friend,” continued Michael, “have you never
seen me anywhere before?”
“You, little father? No, never.”
“The sound of your voice is not unknown to me.”
“Why!” returned Nicholas, smiling, “he knows the sound of my voice!
Perhaps you ask me that to find out where I come from. I come from
Kolyvan.”
“From Kolyvan?” repeated Michael. “Then it was there I met you; you were
in the telegraph office?”
“That may be,” replied Nicholas. “I was stationed there. I was the clerk
in charge of the messages.”
“And you stayed at your post up to the last moment?”
“Why, it’s at that moment one ought to be there!”
“It was the day when an Englishman and a Frenchman were disputing,
roubles in hand, for the place at your wicket, and the Englishman
telegraphed some poetry.”
“That is possible, but I do not remember it.”
“What! you do not remember it?”
“I never read the dispatches I send. My duty being to forget them, the
shortest way is not to know them.”
This reply showed Nicholas Pigassof’s character. In the meanwhile the
kibitka pursued its way, at a pace which Michael longed to render
more rapid. But Nicholas and his horse were accustomed to a pace which
neither of them would like to alter. The horse went for two hours and
rested one--so on, day and night. During the halts the horse grazed,
the travelers ate in company with the faithful Serko. The kibitka was
provisioned for at least twenty persons, and Nicholas generously placed
his supplies at the disposal of his two guests, whom he believed to be
brother and sister.
After a day’s rest, Nadia recovered some strength. Nicholas took the
best possible care of her. The journey was being made under tolerable
circumstances, slowly certainly, but surely. It sometimes happened that
during the night, Nicholas, although driving, fell asleep, and snored
with a clearness which showed the calmness of his conscience. Perhaps
then, by looking close, Michael’s hand might have been seen feeling
for the reins, and giving the horse a more rapid pace, to the great
astonishment of Serko, who, however, said nothing. The trot was
exchanged for the amble as soon as Nicholas awoke, but the kibitka had
not the less gained some versts.
Thus they passed the river Ichirnsk, the villages of Ichisnokoe,
Berikylokoe, Kuskoe, the river Marunsk, the village of the same name,
Bogostowskoe, and, lastly, the Ichoula, a little stream which divides
Western from Eastern Siberia. The road now lay sometimes across wide
moors, which extended as far as the eye could reach, sometimes through
thick forests of firs, of which they thought they should never get to
the end. Everywhere was a desert; the villages were almost entirely
abandoned. The peasants had fled beyond the Yenisei, hoping that this
wide river would perhaps stop the Tartars.
On the 22d of August, the kibitka entered the town of Atchinsk, two
hundred and fifty miles from Tomsk. Eighty miles still lay between them
and Krasnoiarsk.
No incident had marked the journey. For the six days during which they
had been together, Nicholas, Michael, and Nadia had remained the same,
the one in his unchange-able calm, the other two, uneasy, and thinking
of the time when their companion would leave them.
Michael saw the country through which they traveled with the eyes of
Nicholas and the young girl. In turns, they each described to him the
scenes they passed. He knew whether he was in a forest or on a plain,
whether a hut was on the steppe, or whether any Siberian was in sight.
Nicholas was never silent, he loved to talk, and, from his peculiar way
of viewing things, his friends were amused by his conversation. One day,
Michael asked him what sort of weather it was.
“Fine enough, little father,” he answered, “but soon we shall feel the
first winter frosts. Perhaps the Tartars will go into winter quarters
during the bad season.”
Michael Strogoff shook his head with a doubtful air.
“You do not think so, little father?” resumed Nicholas. “You think that
they will march on to Irkutsk?”
“I fear so,” replied Michael.
“Yes... you are right; they have with them a bad man, who will not let
them loiter on the way. You have heard speak of Ivan Ogareff?”
“Yes.”
“You know that it is not right to betray one’s country!”
“No... it is not right...” answered Michael, who wished to remain
unmoved.
“Little father,” continued Nicholas, “it seems to me that you are not
half indignant enough when Ivan Ogareff is spoken of. Your Russian heart
ought to leap when his name is uttered.”
“Believe me, my friend, I hate him more than you can ever hate him,”
said Michael.
“It is not possible,” replied Nicholas; “no, it is not possible! When
I think of Ivan Ogareff, of the harm which he is doing to our sacred
Russia, I get into such a rage that if I could get hold of him--”
“If you could get hold of him, friend?”
“I think I should kill him.”
“And I, I am sure of it,” returned Michael quietly.
CHAPTER VII THE PASSAGE OF THE YENISEI
AT nightfall, on the 25th of August, the kibitka came in sight of
Krasnoiarsk. The journey from Tomsk had taken eight days. If it had not
been accomplished as rapidly as it might, it was because Nicholas had
slept little. Consequently, it was impossible to increase his horse’s
pace, though in other hands, the journey would not have taken sixty
hours.
Happily, there was no longer any fear of Tartars. Not a scout had
appeared on the road over which the kibitka had just traveled. This
was strange enough, and evidently some serious cause had prevented the
Emir’s troops from marching without delay upon Irkutsk. Something had
occurred. A new Russian corps, hastily raised in the government of
Yeniseisk, had marched to Tomsk to endeavor to retake the town. But,
being too weak to withstand the Emir’s troops, now concentrated there,
they had been forced to effect a retreat. Feofar-Khan, including his own
soldiers, and those of the Khanats of Khokhand and Koun-douze, had
now under his command two hundred and fifty thousand men, to which
the Russian government could not as yet oppose a sufficient force. The
invasion could not, therefore, be immediately stopped, and the whole
Tartar army might at once march upon Irkutsk. The battle of Tomsk was on
the 22nd of August, though this Michael did not know, but it explained
why the vanguard of the Emir’s army had not appeared at Krasnoiarsk by
the 25th.
However, though Michael Strogoff could not know the events which had
occurred since his departure, he at least knew that he was several days
in advance of the Tartars, and that he need not despair of reaching
before them the town of Irkutsk, still six hundred miles distant.
Besides, at Krasnoiarsk, of which the population is about twelve
thousand souls, he depended upon obtaining some means of transport.
Since Nicholas Pigassof was to stop in that town, it would be necessary
to replace him by a guide, and to change the kibitka for another more
rapid vehicle. Michael, after having addressed himself to the governor
of the town, and established his identity and quality as Courier of the
Czar--which would be easy--doubted not that he would be enabled to
get to Irkutsk in the shortest possible time. He would thank the good
Nicholas Pigassof, and set out immediately with Nadia, for he did not
wish to leave her until he had placed her in her father’s arms. Though
Nicholas had resolved to stop at Krasnoiarsk, it was only as he said,
“on condition of finding employment there.” In fact, this model clerk,
after having stayed to the last minute at his post in Kolyvan, was
endeavoring to place himself again at the disposal of the government.
“Why should I receive a salary which I have not earned?” he would say.
In the event of his services not being required at Krasnoiarsk, which it
was expected would be still in telegraphic communication with Irkutsk,
he proposed to go to Oudinsk, or even to the capital of Siberia itself.
In the latter case, he would continue to travel with the brother and
sister; and where would they find a surer guide, or a more devoted
friend?
The kibitka was now only half a verst from Krasnoiarsk. The numerous
wooden crosses which are erected at the approaches to the town, could be
seen to the right and left of the road. It was seven in the evening; the
outline of the churches and of the houses built on the high bank of the
Yenisei were clearly defined against the evening sky, and the waters of
the river reflected them in the twilight.
“Where are we, sister?” asked Michael.
“Half a verst from the first houses,” replied Nadia.
“Can the town be asleep?” observed Michael. “Not a sound strikes my
ear.”
“And I cannot see the slightest light, nor even smoke mounting into the
air,” added Nadia.
“What a queer town!” said Nicholas. “They make no noise in it, and go to
bed uncommonly early!”
A presentiment of impending misfortune passed across Michael’s heart. He
had not said to Nadia that he had placed all his hopes on Krasnoiarsk,
where he expected to find the means of safely finishing his journey. He
much feared that his anticipations would again be disappointed.
But Nadia had guessed his thoughts, although she could not understand
why her companion should be so anxious to reach Irkutsk, now that the
Imperial letter was gone. She one day said something of the sort to him.
“I have sworn to go to Irkutsk,” he replied.
But to accomplish his mission, it was necessary that at Krasnoiarsk he
should find some more rapid mode of locomotion. “Well, friend,” said he
to Nicholas, “why are we not going on?”
“Because I am afraid of waking up the inhabitants of the town with the
noise of my carriage!” And with a light fleck of the whip, Nicholas put
his horse in motion.
Ten minutes after they entered the High Street. Krasnoiarsk was
deserted; there was no longer an Athenian in this “Northern Athens,” as
Madame de Bourboulon has called it. Not one of their dashing equipages
swept through the wide, clean streets. Not a pedestrian enlivened the
footpaths raised at the bases of the magnificent wooden houses, of
monumental aspect! Not a Siberian belle, dressed in the last French
fashion, promenaded the beautiful park, cleared in a forest of birch
trees, which stretches away to the banks of the Yenisei! The great bell
of the cathedral was dumb; the chimes of the churches were silent. Here
was complete desolation. There was no longer a living being in this
town, lately so lively!
The last telegram sent from the Czar’s cabinet, before the rupture
of the wire, had ordered the governor, the garrison, the inhabitants,
whoever they might be, to leave Krasnoiarsk, to carry with them any
articles of value, or which might be of use to the Tartars, and to take
refuge at Irkutsk. The same injunction was given to all the villages of
the province. It was the intention of the Muscovite government to lay
the country desert before the invaders. No one thought for an instant of
disputing these orders. They were executed, and this was the reason why
not a single human being remained in Krasnoiarsk.
Michael Strogoff, Nadia, and Nicholas passed silently through the
streets of the town. They felt half-stupefied. They themselves made the
only sound to be heard in this dead city. Michael allowed nothing of
what he felt to appear, but he inwardly raged against the bad luck which
pursued him, his hopes being again disappointed.
“Alack, alack!” cried Nicholas, “I shall never get any employment in
this desert!”
“Friend,” said Nadia, “you must go on with us.”
“I must indeed!” replied Nicholas. “The wire is no doubt still working
between Oudinsk and Irkutsk, and there--Shall we start, little father?”
“Let us wait till to-morrow,” answered Michael.
“You are right,” said Nicholas. “We have the Yenisei to cross, and need
light to see our way there!”
“To see!” murmured Nadia, thinking of her blind companion.
Nicholas heard her, and turning to Michael, “Forgive me, little father,”
said he. “Alas! night and day, it is true, are all the same to you!”
“Do not reproach yourself, friend,” replied Michael, pressing his hand
over his eyes. “With you for a guide I can still act. Take a few hours’
repose. Nadia must rest too. To-morrow we will recommence our journey!”
Michael and his friends had not to search long for a place of rest. The
first house, the door of which they pushed open, was empty, as well as
all the others. Nothing could be found within but a few heaps of leaves.
For want of better fodder the horse had to content himself with
this scanty nourishment. The provisions of the kibitka were not yet
exhausted, so each had a share. Then, after having knelt before a small
picture of the Panaghia, hung on the wall, and still lighted up by a
flickering lamp, Nicholas and the young girl slept, whilst Michael, over
whom sleep had no influence, watched.
Before daybreak the next morning, the 26th of August, the horse was
drawing the kibitka through the forests of birch trees towards the banks
of the Yenisei. Michael was in much anxiety. How was he to cross the
river, if, as was probable, all boats had been destroyed to retard the
Tartars’ march? He knew the Yenisei, its width was considerable, its
currents strong. Ordinarily by means of boats specially built for the
conveyance of travelers, carriages, and horses, the passage of the
Yenisei takes about three hours, and then it is with extreme difficulty
that the boats reach the opposite bank. Now, in the absence of any
ferry, how was the kibitka to get from one bank to the other?
Day was breaking when the kibitka reached the left bank, where one of
the wide alleys of the park ended. They were about a hundred feet above
the Yenisei, and could therefore survey the whole of its wide course.
“Do you see a boat?” asked Michael, casting his eyes eagerly about from
one side to the other, mechanically, no doubt, as if he could really
see.
“It is scarcely light yet, brother,” replied Nadia. “The fog is still
thick, and we cannot see the water.”
“But I hear it roaring,” said Michael.
Indeed, from the fog issued a dull roaring sound. The waters being high
rushed down with tumultuous violence. All three waited until the misty
curtain should rise. The sun would not be long in dispersing the vapors.
“Well?” asked Michael.
“The fog is beginning to roll away, brother,” replied Nadia, “and it
will soon be clear.”
“Then you do not see the surface of the water yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Have patience, little father,” said Nicholas. “All this will soon
disappear. Look! here comes the breeze! It is driving away the fog.
The trees on the opposite hills are already appearing. It is sweeping,
flying away. The kindly rays of the sun have condensed all that mass of
mist. Ah! how beautiful it is, my poor fellow, and how unfortunate that
you cannot see such a lovely sight!”
“Do you see a boat?” asked Michael.
“I see nothing of the sort,” answered Nicholas.
“Look well, friend, on this and the opposite bank, as far as your eye
can reach. A raft, even a canoe?”
Nicholas and Nadia, grasping the bushes on the edge of the cliff, bent
over the water. The view they thus obtained was extensive. At this place
the Yenisei is not less than a mile in width, and forms two arms, of
unequal size, through which the waters flow swiftly. Between these arms
lie several islands, covered with alders, willows, and poplars, looking
like verdant ships, anchored in the river. Beyond rise the high hills of
the Eastern shore, crowned with forests, whose tops were then empurpled
with light. The Yenisei stretched on either side as far as the eye could
reach. The beautiful panorama lay before them for a distance of fifty
versts.
But not a boat was to be seen. All had been taken away or destroyed,
according to order. Unless the Tartars should bring with them materials
for building a bridge of boats, their march towards Irkutsk would
certainly be stopped for some time by this barrier, the Yenisei.
“I remember,” said Michael, “that higher up, on the outskirts of
Krasnoiarsk, there is a little quay. There the boats touch. Friend, let
us go up the river, and see if some boat has not been forgotten on the
bank.”
Nadia seized Michael’s hand and started off at a rapid pace in the
direction indicated. If only a boat or a barge large enough to hold the
kibitka could be found, or even one that would carry just themselves,
Michael would not hesitate to attempt the passage! Twenty minutes after,
all three had reached the little quay, with houses on each side quite
down to the water’s edge. It was like a village standing beyond the town
of Krasnoiarsk.
But not a boat was on the shore, not a barge at the little wharf,
nothing even of which a raft could be made large enough to carry three
people. Michael questioned Nicholas, who made the discouraging reply
that the crossing appeared to him absolutely impracticable.
“We shall cross!” answered Michael.
The search was continued. They examined the houses on the shore,
abandoned like all the rest of Krasnoiarsk. They had merely to push open
the doors and enter. The cottages were evidently those of poor people,
and quite empty. Nicholas visited one, Nadia entered another, and even
Michael went here and there and felt about, hoping to light upon some
article that might be useful.
Nicholas and the girl had each fruitlessly rummaged these cottages and
were about to give up the search, when they heard themselves called.
Both ran to the bank and saw Michael standing on the threshold of a
door.
“Come!” he exclaimed. Nicholas and Nadia went towards him and followed
him into the cottage.
“What are these?” asked Michael, touching several objects piled up in a
corner.
“They are leathern bottles,” answered Nicholas.
“Are they full?”
“Yes, full of koumyss. We have found them very opportunely to renew our
provisions!”
“Koumyss” is a drink made of mare’s or camel’s milk, and is very
sustaining, and even intoxicating; so that Nicholas and his companions
could not but congratulate themselves on the discovery.
“Save one,” said Michael, “but empty the others.”
“Directly, little father.”
“These will help us to cross the Yenisei.”
“And the raft?”
“Will be the kibitka itself, which is light enough to float. Besides, we
will sustain it, as well as the horse, with these bottles.”
“Well thought of, little father,” exclaimed Nicholas, “and by God’s help
we will get safely over... though perhaps not in a straight line, for
the current is very rapid!”
“What does that matter?” replied Michael. “Let us get across first,
and we shall soon find out the road to Irkutsk on the other side of the
river.”
“To work, then,” said Nicholas, beginning to empty the bottles.
One full of koumyss was reserved, and the rest, with the air carefully
fastened in, were used to form a floating apparatus. Two bottles were
fastened to the horse’s sides to support it in the water. Two others
were attached to the shafts to keep them on a level with the body of the
machine, thus transformed into a raft. This work was soon finished.
“You will not be afraid, Nadia?” asked Michael.
“No, brother,” answered the girl.
“And you, friend?”
“I?” cried Nicholas. “I am now going to have one of my dreams
realized--that of sailing in a cart.”
At the spot where they were now standing, the bank sloped, and was
suitable for the launching of the kibitka. The horse drew it into the
water, and they were soon both floating. As to Serko, he was swimming
bravely.
The three passengers, seated in the vehicle, had with due precaution
taken off their shoes and stockings; but, thanks to the bottles, the
water did not even come over their ankles. Michael held the reins, and,
according to Nicholas’s directions, guided the animal obliquely, but
cautiously, so as not to exhaust him by struggling against the current.
So long as the kibitka went with the current all was easy, and in a few
minutes it had passed the quays of Krasnoiarsk. It drifted northwards,
and it was soon evident that it would only reach the opposite bank far
below the town. But that mattered little. The crossing would have been
made without great difficulty, even on this imperfect apparatus, had
the current been regular; but, unfortunately, there were whirlpools in
numbers, and soon the kibitka, notwithstanding all Michael’s efforts,
was irresistibly drawn into one of these.
There the danger was great. The kibitka no longer drifted, but spun
rapidly round, inclining towards the center of the eddy, like a rider in
a circus. The horse could scarcely keep his head above water, and ran a
great risk of being suffocated. Serko had been obliged to take refuge in
the carriage.
Michael knew what was happening. He felt himself drawn round in a
gradually narrowing line, from which they could not get free. How he
longed to see, to be better able to avoid this peril, but that was no
longer possible. Nadia was silent, her hands clinging to the sides
of the cart, which was inclining more and more towards the center of
depression.
And Nicholas, did he not understand the gravity of the situation? Was it
with him phlegm or contempt of danger, courage or indifference? Was his
life valueless in his eyes, and, according to the Eastern expression,
“an hotel for five days,” which, whether one is willing or not, must be
left the sixth? At any rate, the smile on his rosy face never faded for
an instant.
The kibitka was thus in the whirlpool, and the horse was nearly
exhausted, when, all at once, Michael, throwing off such of his garments
as might impede him, jumped into the water; then, seizing with a strong
hand the bridle of the terrified horse, he gave him such an impulse that
he managed to struggle out of the circle, and getting again into the
current, the kibitka drifted along anew.
“Hurrah!” exclaimed Nicholas.
Two hours after leaving the wharf, the kibitka had crossed the widest
arm of the river, and had landed on an island more than six versts below
the starting point.
There the horse drew the cart onto the bank, and an hour’s rest was
given to the courageous animal; then the island having been crossed
under the shade of its magnificent birches, the kibitka found itself on
the shore of the smaller arm of the Yenisei.
This passage was much easier; no whirlpools broke the course of the
river in this second bed; but the current was so rapid that the kibitka
only reached the opposite side five versts below. They had drifted
eleven versts in all.
These great Siberian rivers across which no bridges have as yet been
thrown, are serious obstacles to the facility of communication. All had
been more or less unfortunate to Michael Strogoff. On the Irtych, the
boat which carried him and Nadia had been attacked by Tartars. On the
Obi, after his horse had been struck by a bullet, he had only by a
miracle escaped from the horsemen who were pursuing him. In fact, this
passage of the Yenisei had been performed the least disastrously.
“That would not have been so amusing,” exclaimed Nicholas, rubbing his
hands, as they disembarked on the right bank of the river, “if it had
not been so difficult.”
“That which has only been difficult to us, friend,” answered Michael
Strogoff, “will, perhaps, be impossible to the Tartars.”
CHAPTER VIII A HARE CROSSES THE ROAD
MICHAEL STROGOFF might at last hope that the road to Irkutsk was clear.
He had distanced the Tartars, now detained at Tomsk, and when the Emir’s
soldiers should arrive at Krasnoiarsk they would find only a deserted
town. There being no communication between the two banks of the Yenisei,
a delay of some days would be caused until a bridge of boats could be
established, and to accomplish this would be a difficult undertaking.
For the first time since the encounter with Ivan Ogareff at Omsk, the
courier of the Czar felt less uneasy, and began to hope that no fresh
obstacle would delay his progress.
The road was good, for that part of it which extends between Krasnoiarsk
and Irkutsk is considered the best in the whole journey; fewer jolts for
travelers, large trees to shade them from the heat of the sun, sometimes
forests of pines or cedars covering an extent of a hundred versts.
It was no longer the wide steppe with limitless horizon; but the rich
country was empty. Everywhere they came upon deserted villages. The
Siberian peasantry had vanished. It was a desert, but a desert by order
of the Czar.
The weather was fine, but the air, which cooled during the night, took
some time to get warm again. Indeed it was now near September, and in
this high region the days were sensibly shortening. Autumn here lasts
but a very little while, although this part of Siberian territory is
not situated above the fifty-fifth parallel, that of Edinburgh and
Copenhagen. However, winter succeeds summer almost unexpectedly. These
winters of Asiatic Russia may be said to be precocious, considering that
during them the thermometer falls until the mercury is frozen nearly
42 degrees below zero, and that 20 degrees below zero is considered an
unsupportable temperature.
The weather favored our travelers. It was neither stormy nor rainy. The
health of Nadia and Michael was good, and since leaving Tomsk they had
gradually recovered from their past fatigues.
As to Nicholas Pigassof, he had never been better in his life. To him
this journey was a trip, an agreeable excursion in which he employed his
enforced holiday.
“Decidedly,” said he, “this is pleasanter than sitting twelve hours a
day, perched on a stool, working the manipulator!”
Michael had managed to get Nicholas to make his horse quicken his pace.
To obtain this result, he had confided to Nicholas that Nadia and he
were on their way to join their father, exiled at Irkutsk, and that they
were very anxious to get there. Certainly, it would not do to overwork
the horse, for very probably they would not be able to exchange him
for another; but by giving him frequent rests--every ten miles, for
instance--forty miles in twenty-four hours could easily be accomplished.
Besides, the animal was strong, and of a race calculated to endure great
fatigue. He was in no want of rich pasturage along the road, the grass
being thick and abundant. Therefore, it was possible to demand an
increase of work from him.
Nicholas gave in to all these reasons. He was much moved at the
situation of these two young people, going to share their father’s
exile. Nothing had ever appeared so touching to him. With what a smile
he said to Nadia: “Divine goodness! what joy will Mr. Korpanoff feel,
when his eyes behold you, when his arms open to receive you! If I go to
Irkutsk--and that appears very probable now--will you permit me to be
present at that interview! You will, will you not?” Then, striking his
forehead: “But, I forgot, what grief too when he sees that his poor son
is blind! Ah! everything is mingled in this world!”
However, the result of all this was the kibitka went faster, and,
according to Michael’s calculations, now made almost eight miles an
hour.
After crossing the little river Biriousa, the kibitka reached
Biriousensk on the morning of the 4th of September. There, very
fortunately, for Nicholas saw that his provisions were becoming
exhausted, he found in an oven a dozen “pogatchas,” a kind of cake
prepared with sheep’s fat and a large supply of plain boiled rice. This
increase was very opportune, for something would soon have been needed
to replace the koumyss with which the kibitka had been stored at
Krasnoiarsk.
After a halt, the journey was continued in the afternoon. The distance
to Irkutsk was not now much over three hundred miles. There was not
a sign of the Tartar vanguard. Michael Strogoff had some grounds for
hoping that his journey would not be again delayed, and that in eight
days, or at most ten, he would be in the presence of the Grand Duke.
On leaving Biriousinsk, a hare ran across the road, in front of the
kibitka. “Ah!” exclaimed Nicholas.
“What is the matter, friend?” asked Michael quickly, like a blind man
whom the least sound arouses.
“Did you not see?” said Nicholas, whose bright face had become suddenly
clouded. Then he added, “Ah! no! you could not see, and it’s lucky for
you, little father!”
“But I saw nothing,” said Nadia.
“So much the better! So much the better! But I--I saw!”
“What was it then?” asked Michael.
“A hare crossing our road!” answered Nicholas.
In Russia, when a hare crosses the path, the popular belief is that
it is the sign of approaching evil. Nicholas, superstitious like the
greater number of Russians, stopped the kibitka.
Michael understood his companion’s hesitation, without sharing his
credulity, and endeavored to reassure him, “There is nothing to fear,
friend,” said he.
“Nothing for you, nor for her, I know, little father,” answered
Nicholas, “but for me!”
“It is my fate,” he continued. And he put his horse in motion again.
However, in spite of these forebodings the day passed without any
accident.
At twelve o’clock the next day, the 6th of September, the kibitka halted
in the village of Alsalevok, which was as deserted as the surrounding
country. There, on a doorstep, Nadia found two of those strong-bladed
knives used by Siberian hunters. She gave one to Michael, who concealed
it among his clothes, and kept the other herself.
Nicholas had not recovered his usual spirits. The ill-omen had affected
him more than could have been believed, and he who formerly was never
half an hour without speaking, now fell into long reveries from which
Nadia found it difficult to arouse him. The kibitka rolled swiftly along
the road. Yes, swiftly! Nicholas no longer thought of being so careful
of his horse, and was as anxious to arrive at his journey’s end as
Michael himself. Notwithstanding his fatalism, and though resigned, he
would not believe himself in safety until within the walls of Irkutsk.
Many Russians would have thought as he did, and more than one would have
turned his horse and gone back again, after a hare had crossed his path.
Some observations made by him, the justice of which was proved by Nadia
transmitting them to Michael, made them fear that their trials were not
yet over. Though the land from Krasnoiarsk had been respected in its
natural productions, its forests now bore trace of fire and steel; and
it was evident that some large body of men had passed that way.
Twenty miles before Nijni-Oudinsk, the indications of recent devastation
could not be mistaken, and it was impossible to attribute them to others
than the Tartars. It was not only that the fields were trampled by
horse’s feet, and that trees were cut down. The few houses scattered
along the road were not only empty, some had been partly demolished,
others half burnt down. The marks of bullets could be seen on their
walls.
Michael’s anxiety may be imagined. He could no longer doubt that a party
of Tartars had recently passed that way, and yet it was impossible
that they could be the Emir’s soldiers, for they could not have passed
without being seen. But then, who were these new invaders, and by what
out-of-the-way path across the steppe had they been able to join the
highroad to Irkutsk? With what new enemies was the Czar’s courier now to
meet?
He did not communicate his apprehensions either to Nicholas or Nadia,
not wishing to make them uneasy. Besides, he had resolved to continue
his way, as long as no insurmountable obstacle stopped him. Later, he
would see what it was best to do. During the ensuing day, the recent
passage of a large body of foot and horse became more and more apparent.
Smoke was seen above the horizon. The kibitka advanced cautiously.
Several houses in deserted villages still burned, and could not have
been set on fire more than four and twenty hours before.
At last, during the day, on the 8th of September, the kibitka stopped
suddenly. The horse refused to advance. Serko barked furiously.
“What is the matter?” asked Michael.
“A corpse!” replied Nicholas, who had leapt out of the kibitka. The body
was that of a moujik, horribly mutilated, and already cold. Nicholas
crossed himself. Then, aided by Michael, he carried the body to the side
of the road. He would have liked to give it decent burial, that the
wild beasts of the steppe might not feast on the miserable remains, but
Michael could not allow him the time.
“Come, friend, come!” he exclaimed, “we must not delay, even for an
hour!” And the kibitka was driven on.
Besides, if Nicholas had wished to render the last duties to all the
dead bodies they were now to meet with on the Siberian highroad, he
would have had enough to do! As they approached Nijni-Oudinsk, they were
found by twenties, stretched on the ground.
It was, however, necessary to follow this road until it was manifestly
impossible to do so longer without falling into the hands of the
invaders. The road they were following could not be abandoned, and yet
the signs of devastation and ruin increased at every village they
passed through. The blood of the victims was not yet dry. As to gaining
information about what had occurred, that was impossible. There was not
a living being left to tell the tale.
About four o’clock in the afternoon of this day, Nicholas caught sight
of the tall steeples of the churches of Nijni-Oudinsk. Thick vapors,
which could not have been clouds, were floating around them.
Nicholas and Nadia looked, and communicated the result of their
observations to Michael. They must make up their minds what to do. If
the town was abandoned, they could pass through without risk, but if, by
some inexplicable maneuver, the Tartars occupied it, they must at every
cost avoid the place.
“Advance cautiously,” said Michael Strogoff, “but advance!”
A verst was soon traversed.
“Those are not clouds, that is smoke!” exclaimed Nadia. “Brother, they
are burning the town!”
It was, indeed, only too plain. Flashes of light appeared in the midst
of the vapor. It became thicker and thicker as it mounted upwards. But
were they Tartars who had done this? They might be Russians, obeying the
orders of the Grand Duke. Had the government of the Czar determined that
from Krasnoiarsk, from the Yenisei, not a town, not a village should
offer a refuge to the Emir’s soldiers? What was Michael to do?
He was undecided. However, having weighed the pros and cons, he thought
that whatever might be the difficulties of a journey across the steppe
without a beaten path, he ought not to risk capture a second time by
the Tartars. He was just proposing to Nicholas to leave the road, when
a shot was heard on their right. A ball whistled, and the horse of the
kibitka fell dead, shot through the head.
A dozen horsemen dashed forward, and the kibitka was surrounded. Before
they knew where they were, Michael, Nadia, and Nicholas were prisoners,
and were being dragged rapidly towards Nijni-Oudinsk.
Michael, in this second attack, had lost none of his presence of
mind. Being unable to see his enemies, he had not thought of defending
himself. Even had he possessed the use of his eyes, he would not have
attempted it. The consequences would have been his death and that of his
companions. But, though he could not see, he could listen and understand
what was said.
From their language he found that these soldiers were Tartars, and from
their words, that they preceded the invading army.
In short, what Michael learnt from the talk at the present moment, as
well as from the scraps of conversation he overheard later, was this.
These men were not under the direct orders of the Emir, who was now
detained beyond the Yenisei. They made part of a third column chiefly
composed of Tartars from the khanats of Khokland and Koondooz, with
which Feofar’s army was to affect a junction in the neighborhood of
Irkutsk.
By Ogareff’s advice, in order to assure the success of the invasion in
the Eastern provinces, this column had skirted the base of the Altai
Mountains. Pillaging and ravaging, it had reached the upper course of
the Yenisei. There, guessing what had been done at Krasnoiarsk by order
of the Czar, and to facilitate the passage of the river to the Emir’s
troops, this column had launched a flotilla of boats, which would enable
Feofar to cross and resume the road to Irkutsk. Having done this, it had
descended the valley of the Yenisei and struck the road on a level with
Alsalevsk. From this little town began the frightful course of ruin
which forms the chief part of Tartar warfare. Nijni-Oudinsk had shared
the common fate, and the Tartars, to the number of fifty thousand, had
now quitted it to take up a position before Irkutsk. Before long, they
would be reinforced by the Emir’s troops.
Such was the state of affairs at this date, most serious for this
isolated part of Eastern Siberia, and for the comparatively few
defenders of its capital.
It can be imagined with what thoughts Michael’s mind was now occupied!
Who could have been astonished had he, in his present situation,
lost all hope and all courage? Nothing of the sort, however; his lips
muttered no other words than these: “I will get there!”
Half an hour after the attack of the Tartar horsemen, Michael Strogoff,
Nadia, and Nicholas entered Nijni-Oudinsk. The faithful dog followed
them, though at a distance. They could not stay in the town, as it
was in flames, and about to be left by the last of the marauders. The
prisoners were therefore thrown on horses and hurried away; Nicholas
resigned as usual, Nadia, her faith in Michael unshaken, and Michael
himself, apparently indifferent, but ready to seize any opportunity of
escaping.
The Tartars were not long in perceiving that one of their prisoners
was blind, and their natural barbarity led them to make game of their
unfortunate victim. They were traveling fast. Michael’s horse, having no
one to guide him, often started aside, and so made confusion among the
ranks. This drew on his rider such abuse and brutality as wrung Nadia’s
heart, and filled Nicholas with indignation. But what could they do?
They could not speak the Tartar language, and their assistance was
mercilessly refused. Soon it occurred to these men, in a refinement
of cruelty, to exchange the horse Michael was riding for one which was
blind. The motive of the change was explained by a remark which Michael
overheard, “Perhaps that Russian can see, after all!”
Michael was placed on this horse, and the reins ironically put into
his hand. Then, by dint of lashing, throwing stones, and shouting,
the animal was urged into a gallop. The horse, not being guided by his
rider, blind as himself, sometimes ran into a tree, sometimes went quite
off the road--in consequence, collisions and falls, which might have
been extremely dangerous.
Michael did not complain. Not a murmur escaped him. When his horse fell,
he waited until it got up. It was, indeed, soon assisted up, and the
cruel fun continued. At sight of this wicked treatment, Nicholas could
not contain himself; he endeavored to go to his friend’s aid. He was
prevented, and treated brutally.
This game would have been prolonged, to the Tartars’ great amusement,
had not a serious accident put an end to it. On the 10th of September
the blind horse ran away, and made straight for a pit, some thirty or
forty feet deep, at the side of the road.
Nicholas tried to go after him. He was held back. The horse, having no
guide, fell with his rider to the bottom. Nicholas and Nadia uttered a
piercing cry! They believed that their unfortunate companion had been
killed.
However, when they went to his assistance, it was found that Michael,
having been able to throw himself out of the saddle, was unhurt, but the
miserable horse had two legs broken, and was quite useless. He was
left there to die without being put out of his suffering, and Michael,
fastened to a Tartar’s saddle, was obliged to follow the detachment on
foot.
Even now, not a protest, not a complaint! He marched with a rapid step,
scarcely drawn by the cord which tied him. He was still “the Man of
Iron,” of whom General Kissoff had spoken to the Czar!
The next day, the 11th of September, the detachment passed through the
village of Chibarlinskoe. Here an incident occurred which had serious
consequences. It was nightfall. The Tartar horsemen, having halted,
were more or less intoxicated. They were about to start. Nadia, who till
then, by a miracle, had been respectfully treated by the soldiers, was
insulted by one of them.
Michael could not see the insult, nor the insulter, but Nicholas saw for
him. Then, quietly, without thinking, without perhaps knowing what
he was doing, Nicholas walked straight up to the man, and, before the
latter could make the least movement to stop him, had seized a pistol
from his holster and discharged it full at his breast.
The officer in command of the detachment hastened up on hearing the
report. The soldiers would have cut the unfortunate Nicholas to pieces,
but at a sign from their officer, he was bound instead, placed across a
horse, and the detachment galloped off.
The rope which fastened Michael, gnawed through by him, broke by the
sudden start of the horse, and the half-tipsy rider galloped on without
perceiving that his prisoner had escaped.
Michael and Nadia found themselves alone on the road.
CHAPTER IX IN THE STEPPE
MICHAEL STROGOFF and Nadia were once more as free as they had been in
the journey from Perm to the banks of the Irtych. But how the conditions
under which they traveled were altered! Then, a comfortable tarantass,
fresh horses, well-kept post-horses assured the rapidity of their
journey. Now they were on foot; it was utterly impossible to procure any
other means of locomotion, they were without resources, not knowing how
to obtain even food, and they had still nearly three hundred miles to
go! Moreover, Michael could now only see with Nadia’s eyes.
As to the friend whom chance had given them, they had just lost him,
and fearful might be his fate. Michael had thrown himself down under the
brushwood at the side of the road. Nadia stood beside him, waiting for
the word from him to continue the march.
It was ten o’clock. The sun had more than three hours before disappeared
below the horizon. There was not a house in sight. The last of the
Tartars was lost in the distance. Michael and Nadia were quite alone.
“What will they do with our friend?” exclaimed the girl. “Poor Nicholas!
Our meeting will have been fatal to him!” Michael made no response.
“Michael,” continued Nadia, “do you not know that he defended you when
you were the Tartars’ sport; that he risked his life for me?”
Michael was still silent. Motionless, his face buried in his hands;
of what was he thinking? Perhaps, although he did not answer, he heard
Nadia speak.
Yes! he heard her, for when the young girl added, “Where shall I lead
you, Michael?”
“To Irkutsk!” he replied.
“By the highroad?”
“Yes, Nadia.”
Michael was still the same man who had sworn, whatever happened, to
accomplish his object. To follow the highroad, was certainly to go the
shortest way. If the vanguard of Feofar-Khan’s troops appeared, it would
then be time to strike across the country.
Nadia took Michael’s hand, and they started.
The next morning, the 13th of September, twenty versts further, they
made a short halt in the village of Joulounov-skoë. It was burnt and
deserted. All night Nadia had tried to see if the body of Nicholas had
not been left on the road, but it was in vain that she looked among
the ruins, and searched among the dead. Was he reserved for some cruel
torture at Irkutsk?
Nadia, exhausted with hunger, was fortunate enough to find in one of the
houses a quantity of dried meat and “soukharis,” pieces of bread,
which, dried by evaporation, preserve their nutritive qualities for an
indefinite time.
Michael and the girl loaded themselves with as much as they could carry.
They had thus a supply of food for several days, and as to water, there
would be no want of that in a district rendered fertile by the numerous
little affluents of the Angara.
They continued their journey. Michael walked with a firm step, and
only slackened his pace for his companion’s sake. Nadia, not wishing to
retard him, obliged herself to walk. Happily, he could not see to what a
miserable state fatigue had reduced her.
However, Michael guessed it. “You are quite done up, poor child,” he
said sometimes.
“No,” she would reply.
“When you can no longer walk, I will carry you.”
“Yes, Michael.”
During this day they came to the little river Oka, but it was fordable,
and they had no difficulty in crossing. The sky was cloudy and the
temperature moderate. There was some fear that the rain might come on,
which would much have increased their misery. A few showers fell, but
they did not last.
They went on as before, hand in hand, speaking little, Nadia looking
about on every side; twice a day they halted. Six hours of the night
were given to sleep. In a few huts Nadia again found a little mutton;
but, contrary to Michael’s hopes, there was not a single beast of burden
in the country; horses, camels--all had been either killed or carried
off. They must still continue to plod on across this weary steppe on
foot.
The third Tartar column, on its way to Irkutsk, had left plain traces:
here a dead horse, there an abandoned cart. The bodies of unfortunate
Siberians lay along the road, principally at the entrances to villages.
Nadia, overcoming her repugnance, looked at all these corpses!
The chief danger lay, not before, but behind. The advance guard of the
Emir’s army, commanded by Ivan Ogareff, might at any moment appear.
The boats sent down the lower Yenisei must by this time have reached
Krasnoiarsk and been made use of. The road was therefore open to the
invaders. No Russian force could be opposed to them between Krasnoiarsk
and Lake Baikal, Michael therefore expected before long the appearance
of the Tartar scouts.
At each halt, Nadia climbed some hill and looked anxiously to the
Westward, but as yet no cloud of dust had signaled the approach of a
troop of horse.
Then the march was resumed; and when Michael felt that he was dragging
poor Nadia forward too rapidly, he went at a slower pace. They spoke
little, and only of Nicholas. The young girl recalled all that this
companion of a few days had done for them.
In answering, Michael tried to give Nadia some hope of which he did not
feel a spark himself, for he well knew that the unfortunate fellow would
not escape death.
One day Michael said to the girl, “You never speak to me of my mother,
Nadia.”
His mother! Nadia had never wished to do so. Why renew his grief? Was
not the old Siberian dead? Had not her son given the last kiss to her
corpse stretched on the plain of Tomsk?
“Speak to me of her, Nadia,” said Michael. “Speak--you will please me.”
And then Nadia did what she had not done before. She told all that had
passed between Marfa and herself since their meeting at Omsk, where they
had seen each other for the first time. She said how an inexplicable
instinct had led her towards the old prisoner without knowing who she
was, and what encouragement she had received in return. At that time
Michael Strogoff had been to her but Nicholas Korpanoff.
“Whom I ought always to have been,” replied Michael, his brow darkening.
Then later he added, “I have broken my oath, Nadia. I had sworn not to
see my mother!”
“But you did not try to see her, Michael,” replied Nadia. “Chance alone
brought you into her presence.”
“I had sworn, whatever might happen, not to betray myself.”
“Michael, Michael! at sight of the lash raised upon Marfa, could you
refrain? No! No oath could prevent a son from succoring his mother!”
“I have broken my oath, Nadia,” returned Michael. “May God and the
Father pardon me!”
“Michael,” resumed the girl, “I have a question to ask you. Do not
answer it if you think you ought not. Nothing from you would vex me!”
“Speak, Nadia.”
“Why, now that the Czar’s letter has been taken from you, are you so
anxious to reach Irkutsk?”
Michael tightly pressed his companion’s hand, but he did not answer.
“Did you know the contents of that letter before you left Moscow?”
“No, I did not know.”
“Must I think, Michael, that the wish alone to place me in my father’s
hands draws you toward Irkutsk?”
“No, Nadia,” replied Michael, gravely. “I should deceive you if I
allowed you to believe that it was so. I go where duty orders me to go.
As to taking you to Irkutsk, is it not you, Nadia, who are now taking me
there? Do I not see with your eyes; and is it not your hand that guides
me? Have you not repaid a hundred-fold the help which I was able to give
you at first? I do not know if fate will cease to go against us; but the
day on which you thank me for having placed you in your father’s hands,
I in my turn will thank you for having led me to Irkutsk.”
“Poor Michael!” answered Nadia, with emotion. “Do not speak so. That
does not answer me. Michael, why, now, are you in such haste to reach
Irkutsk?”
“Because I must be there before Ivan Ogareff,” exclaimed Michael.
“Even now?”
“Even now, and I will be there, too!”
In uttering these words, Michael did not speak solely through hatred to
the traitor. Nadia understood that her companion had not told, or could
not tell, her all.
On the 15th of September, three days later, the two reached the village
of Kouitounskoe. The young girl suffered dreadfully. Her aching feet
could scarcely support her; but she fought, she struggled, against her
weariness, and her only thought was this: “Since he cannot see me, I
will go on till I drop.”
There were no obstacles on this part of the journey, no danger either
since the departure of the Tartars, only much fatigue. For three days
it continued thus. It was plain that the third invading column was
advancing rapidly in the East; that could be seen by the ruins which
they left after them--the cold cinders and the already decomposing
corpses.
There was nothing to be seen in the West; the Emir’s advance-guard had
not yet appeared. Michael began to consider the various reasons which
might have caused this delay. Was a sufficient force of Russians
directly menacing Tomsk or Krasnoiarsk? Did the third column, isolated
from the others, run a risk of being cut off? If this was the case, it
would be easy for the Grand Duke to defend Irkutsk, and any time gained
against an invasion was a step towards repulsing it. Michael
sometimes let his thoughts run on these hopes, but he soon saw their
improbability, and felt that the preservation of the Grand Duke depended
alone on him.
Nadia dragged herself along. Whatever might be her moral energy, her
physical strength would soon fail her. Michael knew it only too well. If
he had not been blind, Nadia would have said to him, “Go, Michael, leave
me in some hut! Reach Irkutsk! Accomplish your mission! See my father!
Tell him where I am! Tell him that I wait for him, and you both will
know where to find me! Start! I am not afraid! I will hide myself from
the Tartars! I will take care of myself for him, for you! Go, Michael! I
can go no farther!”
Many times Nadia was obliged to stop. Michael then took her in his
strong arms and, having no longer to think of her fatigue, walked more
rapidly and with his indefatigable step.
On the 18th of September, at ten in the evening, Kimilteiskoe was at
last entered. From the top of a hill, Nadia saw in the horizon a
long light line. It was the Dinka River. A few lightning flashes were
reflected in the water; summer lightning, without thunder. Nadia led her
companion through the ruined village. The cinders were quite cold. The
last of the Tartars had passed through at least five or six days before.
Beyond the village, Nadia sank down on a stone bench. “Shall we make a
halt?” asked Michael.
“It is night, Michael,” answered Nadia. “Do you not want to rest a few
hours?”
“I would rather have crossed the Dinka,” replied Michael, “I should
like to put that between us and the Emir’s advance-guard. But you can
scarcely drag yourself along, my poor Nadia!”
“Come, Michael,” returned Nadia, seizing her companion’s hand and
drawing him forward.
Two or three versts further the Dinka flowed across the Irkutsk
road. The young girl wished to attempt this last effort asked by her
companion. She found her way by the light from the flashes. They were
then crossing a boundless desert, in the midst of which was lost the
little river. Not a tree nor a hillock broke the flatness. Not a breath
disturbed the atmosphere, whose calmness would allow the slightest sound
to travel an immense distance.
Suddenly, Michael and Nadia stopped, as if their feet had been fast to
the ground. The barking of a dog came across the steppe. “Do you hear?”
said Nadia.
Then a mournful cry succeeded it--a despairing cry, like the last appeal
of a human being about to die.
“Nicholas! Nicholas!” cried the girl, with a foreboding of evil.
Michael, who was listening, shook his head.
“Come, Michael, come,” said Nadia. And she who just now was dragging
herself with difficulty along, suddenly recovered strength, under
violent excitement.
“We have left the road,” said Michael, feeling that he was treading no
longer on powdery soil but on short grass.
“Yes, we must!” returned Nadia. “It was there, on the right, from which
the cry came!”
In a few minutes they were not more than half a verst from the river.
A second bark was heard, but, although more feeble, it was certainly
nearer. Nadia stopped.
“Yes!” said Michael. “It is Serko barking!... He has followed his
master!”
“Nicholas!” called the girl. Her cry was unanswered.
Michael listened. Nadia gazed over the plain illumined now and again
with electric light, but she saw nothing. And yet a voice was again
raised, this time murmuring in a plaintive tone, “Michael!”
Then a dog, all bloody, bounded up to Nadia.
It was Serko! Nicholas could not be far off! He alone could have
murmured the name of Michael! Where was he? Nadia had no strength to
call again. Michael, crawling on the ground, felt about with his hands.
Suddenly Serko uttered a fresh bark and darted towards a gigantic bird
which had swooped down. It was a vulture. When Serko ran towards it, it
rose, but returning struck at the dog. The latter leapt up at it. A blow
from the formidable beak alighted on his head, and this time Serko fell
back lifeless on the ground.
At the same moment a cry of horror escaped Nadia. “There... there!” she
exclaimed.
A head issued from the ground! She had stumbled against it in the
darkness.
Nadia fell on her knees beside it. Nicholas buried up to his neck,
according to the atrocious Tartar custom, had been left in the steppe to
die of thirst, and perhaps by the teeth of wolves or the beaks of birds
of prey!
Frightful torture for the victim imprisoned in the ground--the earth
pressed down so that he cannot move, his arms bound to his body like
those of a corpse in its coffin! The miserable wretch, living in the
mold of clay from which he is powerless to break out, can only long for
the death which is so slow in coming!
There the Tartars had buried their prisoner three days before! For three
days, Nicholas waited for the help which now came too late! The vultures
had caught sight of the head on a level with the ground, and for some
hours the dog had been defending his master against these ferocious
birds!
Michael dug at the ground with his knife to release his friend! The eyes
of Nicholas, which till then had been closed, opened.
He recognized Michael and Nadia. “Farewell, my friends!” he murmured. “I
am glad to have seen you again! Pray for me!”
Michael continued to dig, though the ground, having been tightly rammed
down, was as hard as stone, and he managed at last to get out the body
of the unhappy man. He listened if his heart was still beating.... It
was still!
He wished to bury him, that he might not be left exposed; and the hole
into which Nicholas had been placed when living, was enlarged, so that
he might be laid in it--dead! The faithful Serko was laid by his master.
At that moment, a noise was heard on the road, about half a verst
distant. Michael Strogoff listened. It was evidently a detachment of
horse advancing towards the Dinka. “Nadia, Nadia!” he said in a low
voice.
Nadia, who was kneeling in prayer, arose. “Look, look!” said he.
“The Tartars!” she whispered.
It was indeed the Emir’s advance-guard, passing rapidly along the road
to Irkutsk.
“They shall not prevent me from burying him!” said Michael. And he
continued his work.
Soon, the body of Nicholas, the hands crossed on the breast, was laid in
the grave. Michael and Nadia, kneeling, prayed a last time for the poor
fellow, inoffensive and good, who had paid for his devotion towards them
with his life.
“And now,” said Michael, as he threw in the earth, “the wolves of the
steppe will not devour him.”
Then he shook his fist at the troop of horsemen who were passing.
“Forward, Nadia!” he said.
Michael could not follow the road, now occupied by the Tartars. He must
cross the steppe and turn to Irkutsk. He had not now to trouble himself
about crossing the Dinka. Nadia could not move, but she could see for
him. He took her in his arms and went on towards the southwest of the
province.
A hundred and forty miles still remained to be traversed. How was the
distance to be performed? Should they not succumb to such fatigue? On
what were they to live on the way? By what superhuman energy were they
to pass the slopes of the Sayansk Mountains? Neither he nor Nadia could
answer this!
And yet, twelve days after, on the 2d of October, at six o’clock in the
evening, a wide sheet of water lay at Michael Strogoff’s feet. It was
Lake Baikal.
CHAPTER X BAIKAL AND ANGARA
LAKE BAIKAL is situated seventeen hundred feet above the level of the
sea. Its length is about six hundred miles, its breadth seventy. Its
depth is not known. Madame de Bourboulon states that, according to the
boatmen, it likes to be spoken of as “Madam Sea.” If it is called “Sir
Lake,” it immediately lashes itself into fury. However, it is reported
and believed by the Siberians that a Russian is never drowned in it.
This immense basin of fresh water, fed by more than three hundred
rivers, is surrounded by magnificent volcanic mountains. It has no other
outlet than the Angara, which after passing Irkutsk throws itself into
the Yenisei, a little above the town of Yeniseisk. As to the mountains
which encase it, they form a branch of the Toungouzes, and are derived
from the vast system of the Altai.
In this territory, subject to peculiar climatical conditions, the
autumn appears to be absorbed in the precocious winter. It was now the
beginning of October. The sun set at five o’clock in the evening, and
during the long nights the temperature fell to zero. The first snows,
which would last till summer, already whitened the summits of the
neighboring hills. During the Siberian winter this inland sea is frozen
over to a thickness of several feet, and is crossed by the sleighs of
caravans.
Either because there are people who are so wanting in politeness as to
call it “Sir Lake,” or for some more meteorological reason, Lake Baikal
is subject to violent tempests. Its waves, short like those of all
inland seas, are much feared by the rafts, prahms, and steamboats, which
furrow it during the summer.
It was the southwest point of the lake which Michael had now reached,
carrying Nadia, whose whole life, so to speak, was concentrated in her
eyes. But what could these two expect, in this wild region, if it was
not to die of exhaustion and famine? And yet, what remained of the long
journey of four thousand miles for the Czar’s courier to reach his end?
Nothing but forty miles on the shore of the lake up to the mouth of the
Angara, and sixty miles from the mouth of the Angara to Irkutsk; in all,
a hundred miles, or three days’ journey for a strong man, even on foot.
Could Michael Strogoff still be that man?
Heaven, no doubt, did not wish to put him to this trial. The fatality
which had hitherto pursued his steps seemed for a time to spare him.
This end of the Baikal, this part of the steppe, which he believed to be
a desert, which it usually is, was not so now. About fifty people were
collected at the angle formed by the end of the lake.
Nadia immediately caught sight of this group, when Michael, carrying her
in his arms, issued from the mountain pass. The girl feared for a moment
that it was a Tartar detachment, sent to beat the shores of the Baikal,
in which case flight would have been impossible to them both. But Nadia
was soon reassured.
“Russians!” she exclaimed. And with this last effort, her eyes closed
and her head fell on Michael’s breast.
But they had been seen, and some of these Russians, running to them, led
the blind man and the girl to a little point at which was moored a raft.
The raft was just going to start. These Russians were fugitives of
different conditions, whom the same interest had united at Lake Baikal.
Driven back by the Tartar scouts, they hoped to obtain a refuge at
Irkutsk, but not being able to get there by land, the invaders having
occupied both banks of the Angara, they hoped to reach it by descending
the river which flows through the town.
Their plan made Michael’s heart leap; a last chance was before him,
but he had strength to conceal this, wishing to keep his incognito more
strictly than ever.
The fugitives’ plan was very simple. A current in the lake runs along
by the upper bank to the mouth of the Angara; this current they hoped
to utilize, and with its assistance to reach the outlet of Lake Baikal.
From this point to Irkutsk, the rapid waters of the river would bear
them along at a rate of eight miles an hour. In a day and a half they
might hope to be in sight of the town.
No kind of boat was to be found; they had been obliged to make one;
a raft, or rather a float of wood, similar to those which usually are
drifted down Siberian rivers, was constructed. A forest of firs, growing
on the bank, had supplied the necessary materials; the trunks, fastened
together with osiers, made a platform on which a hundred people could
have easily found room.
On board this raft Michael and Nadia were taken. The girl had returned
to herself; some food was given to her as well as to her companion.
Then, lying on a bed of leaves, she soon fell into a deep sleep.
To those who questioned him, Michael Strogoff said nothing of what
had taken place at Tomsk. He gave himself out as an inhabitant of
Krasnoiarsk, who had not been able to get to Irkutsk before the Emir’s
troops arrived on the left bank of the Dinka, and he added that, very
probably, the bulk of the Tartar forces had taken up a position before
the Siberian capital.
There was not a moment to be lost; besides, the cold was becoming more
and more severe. During the night the temperature fell below zero; ice
was already forming on the surface of the Baikal. Although the raft
managed to pass easily over the lake, it might not be so easy between
the banks of the Angara, should pieces of ice be found to block up its
course.
At eight in the evening the moorings were cast off, and the raft drifted
in the current along the shore. It was steered by means of long poles,
under the management of several muscular moujiks. An old Baikal boatman
took command of the raft. He was a man of sixty-five, browned by the
sun, and lake breezes. A thick white beard flowed over his chest; a
fur cap covered his head; his aspect was grave and austere. His large
great-coat, fastened in at the waist, reached down to his heels. This
taciturn old fellow was seated in the stern, and issued his commands by
gestures. Besides, the chief work consisted in keeping the raft in the
current, which ran along the shore, without drifting out into the open.
It has been already said that Russians of all conditions had found a
place on the raft. Indeed, to the poor moujiks, the women, old men, and
children, were joined two or three pilgrims, surprised on their journey
by the invasion; a few monks, and a priest. The pilgrims carried a
staff, a gourd hung at the belt, and they chanted psalms in a plaintive
voice: one came from the Ukraine, another from the Yellow sea, and
a third from the Finland provinces. This last, who was an aged man,
carried at his waist a little padlocked collecting-box, as if it had
been hung at a church door. Of all that he collected during his long and
fatiguing pilgrimage, nothing was for himself; he did not even possess
the key of the box, which would only be opened on his return.