THE FLIGHT.
The fugitives crouched thus for twenty minutes or more. Then, as the boat
could ill spare their attention, and was being driven dangerously among
the ice floes, the two men seized the boathooks and stood up.
The Cossacks and the open country had both disappeared. Dark, gloomy
hills encircled the river as far as the eye could reach.
Sandoff noted with satisfaction that the snow was still falling thickly.
“If we can reach the hut that you speak of,” he said to Vera, “we shall
be quite safe as far as pursuit is concerned. The cold is our greatest
enemy now.”
“We must fight it off,” replied the girl. “Even with this swift current
we cannot reach the hut before tomorrow afternoon, for it lies very near
the point where the Shilka and the Amur River meet.”
“How shall we know the place, Vera?” asked her brother.
For answer she produced a tiny scrap of paper covered with close writing.
While Shamarin held a lighted match over her shoulder, she read the
contents aloud:
You will pass a small island in the center of the river, on
the crest of which grow four big pine trees. Just below this
island, on the left bank of the river, is a narrow ravine among
thickly wooded hills. Pursue this for a quarter of a mile, and
you will find the hut on your right. It lies among rocks and
pine trees.
“That has a cheerful and definite ring to it,” remarked Sandoff. “It is
a pleasant prospect to look forward to—a sheltered hut among the hills,
and in a wild and desolate spot, where the Cossacks will never think of
looking for us.”
“Yes, that is true,” said Shamarin. “The valley of the Shilka is a lonely
region. If we find this hut, we can safely remain there for some weeks.
If we run short of food, there is game in the forest.”
Conversation gave way to silent watchfulness as the boat drifted on
through the long, dark hours of the early morning. When daylight came the
misty outlines of the hilly shores showed dimly through the driving snow.
There was little to be feared from the Cossacks under such circumstances,
so the fugitives continued to float down the center of the stream,
keeping a sharp lookout, nevertheless, on each bank.
Soon after noon an island hove in sight in mid stream. Four tall pine
trees stood on its crest, and when they had passed this and driven the
boat far to the left shore, a dark, narrow ravine was visible, with
wooded hills on each side. This was the place, beyond doubt, so they
landed on the rim of firm ice, and were about to send the boat adrift
when Sandoff interfered.
“We had better make sure, first, that the cabin is here,” he said. “I
will go up the valley and search for it. If I am successful I will give a
sharp whistle. Then turn the boat bottom up—so that the Cossacks, if they
find it, will think we have perished—and send it adrift. Then follow my
footsteps up the ravine.”
This wise plan was carried out. The others watched Sandoff as he plodded
up the ravine, almost waist deep in the drifted snow, and ten minutes
later a shrill whistle came distinctly to their ears. Taking out the
bundles, they cast the boat adrift, bottom up, and followed the path
Sandoff had taken.
Vera’s information proved to be correct. Slightly more than a quarter of
a mile from the river, they met Sandoff just starting back to meet them.
“Yes, I have found the hut,” he said. “It is close by, and in a splendid
location.”
He led them on for a few yards, and then turned up the hill to a thick
cluster of pine trees and scattered rocks. In the very center of this was
what they sought—a small, square cabin, strongly built. It was provided
with a door and a window, both of which were tightly closed. An entry
was effected with little difficulty, and the fugitives examined the
interior with growing delight and amazement. In one corner of the floor
lay a great heap of withered grass, and a rude closet in the wall held a
plentiful supply of dried meat and a lump of brick tea. Everything was
just as the former occupant had left it on the morning when he went away
in search of game—never to return. A heap of ashes lay in the fireplace,
and near by were some plates and a cup rudely fashioned out of wood.
“Nothing could be better suited to our purpose,” said Shamarin. “Here we
can live in safety, for the ravine will soon be choked up with snow and
no one can come near us.”
“Let us have something to eat,” suggested Sandoff. “I am nearly famished.”
That night was one to be remembered. In spite of the bitter cold outside,
the interior of the cabin was snug and comfortable, and the fugitives
slept in peace until the sun was far up. They were well provided with
coverings, for in addition to their warm clothing each had a heavy
blanket—Vera had brought one for herself—and Sandoff owned two overcoats,
his own and the one taken from the Cossack.
On the following morning Shamarin partitioned off one end of the cabin
for Vera’s use, taking timber for that purpose from a pile that lay
outside among the pine trees. It was all drift wood—of which material
the cabin itself was made—and the poor fellow who built it must have
dragged every piece up the ravine from the river. The tools used in its
construction were found in the cabin—a small blunt axe and a rusty saw.
Vera knew nothing of the identity of the builder, but the fact of his
having these tools showed pretty conclusively that he had belonged to the
Free Command.
The fugitives now settled down to a manner of life that was painfully
dreary and monotonous. For three whole days it snowed. On the fourth
night a small avalanche dropped from the hillside above, and, crashing
through the pine trees, completely buried the cabin. This proved to be
a rather fortunate thing, for from that time on the little dwelling was
snug and warm. After half a day’s labor the men opened communication
with the outer world by means of a tunnel leading from the cabin door.
At night they slept, and during the day they whiled away the time by
conversation and story telling. Not once, however, did either Sandoff or
Shamarin touch on his past life. By tacit consent that subject was always
avoided. Each felt that it was better to forget the great gulf that had
once separated them—better to remember only that they were comrades now,
with the same perils and the same hopes.
So the days passed into weeks, and the weeks went by until February was
half gone. Food was getting scarce, and all three grew so heart-sick of
their cheerless life that a change of almost any sort would have been
welcome. One evening when they were all sitting about the fireplace,
where a few sticks of wood were burning for the purpose of light, Sandoff
said abruptly:
“I have come to the conclusion, my friends, that we had better leave
this place at once and begin our journey to the Pacific. I will explain
my reasons,” he continued, as his companions gave him their earnest
attention. “In the first place, as you know, alternate slight thaws and
heavy frosts have put a crust on the snow that will easily bear our
weight, while horses would break through it at once. Two months of winter
yet remain—a period which is usually one of steady cold—and I maintain
that during these two months is the best time for us to travel. The way
to Vladivostok leads down the valley of the Amur River. That is really
the only path we can take. As you know, the great Siberian post road also
follows the windings of the stream. Of course we will keep back among
the foothills, and at this time of year, when the post road is little
traveled and but few persons are abroad, the danger of discovery would
be lessened. If the crust remains on the snow we should be able in two
months to cover the thousand miles that separate us from the Pacific.
Moreover, if my plan succeeds we shall reach Vladivostok in the early
spring, when vessels from foreign countries are coming into the harbor,
and when those that have wintered there are preparing to depart. If, on
the other hand, we remain here until spring, our progress will be delayed
by melting snows and swollen streams, and we shall reach Vladivostok
at a very bad season. Still, there are many obstacles in the way of an
immediate start—the cold, the difficulty of finding shelter at night, and
the necessity of procuring food.”
Sandoff had hardly ceased when Shamarin leaned over and clasped his hand.
“You’ve taken the words right out of my mouth, comrade,” he said eagerly.
“I have been thinking of that very thing for the past week or so, and I
agree exactly with what you say. As for the obstacles you speak of, we
are warmly enough clad to defy the cold. Caverns and bushes will give us
shelter by night. We can find an abundance of small game, and now and
then pick up food from the friendly peasants who live along the post
road. The sooner we start the better—that is my firm opinion. As for
Vera, no doubt she is of the same mind.”
“I am,” exclaimed the girl eagerly. “I am anxious to start at once. The
journey holds no terrors for me. You know that, Felix?”
“Yes, I know it,” returned her brother proudly. “I know you have twice
as much courage and endurance as most men.” At which remark Vera blushed
and drew back into the shadow.
So the question was settled without further discussion, and at daybreak
on the following morning the fugitives were up and preparing for the
eventful journey. That preparation, as may be imagined, was very slight.
Shamarin possessed quite an inventive faculty, and in less than an hour
he constructed a long flat sledge, rudely but strongly put together.
“This will serve to carry our baggage,” he said, “or any one of us who
may be worn out or unable to walk. Moreover, if we come to any long,
smooth inclines we can all get on board and go sliding down.”
The blankets, extra clothes, and the small quantity of food that
remained, were put up in a neat bundle and strapped to the sledge.
Sandoff took the rifle and ammunition, and Shamarin the pistol. Then,
with a last look at the dark cabin where so many weary days had been
spent, they passed through the door, closing it behind them, and thence
along the hard trodden tunnel to the outer air. The day was just two
hours old when they started. The sun was shining brightly, and the
hard, frozen crust that covered the snow sparkled like myriads of
diamonds. They turned up the eastern side of the ravine, pulling the
sledge lightly behind them, and stopped for a moment on the summit of
the ridge to admire the view that lay before them—range after range of
snow topped hills as far as the eye could reach. Then briskly and with
light hearts they started away and traveled for hours up one hill and
down another—keeping the Shilka River constantly in sight—until the sun
was far toward the horizon. The country was desolate and deserted; so
when they chose a stopping place in a deep, wooded hollow, they did not
hesitate to build a cheerful fire. This was kept up all night, Sandoff
and Shamarin mounting guard by turns. In the morning the march was
resumed, and during that day the fugitives crossed the Shilka River,
very near its mouth, by means of an ice gorge that had formed during the
previous night. An hour later they were tramping along the shore of the
Amur, the vast watery highway that flows to the Pacific coast. It was now
a sheet of ice, and as the Siberian post road—marked by the long line of
telegraph poles—skirted the shore, the fugitives made haste to draw back
into the forest.
From this time dated a period of progress and security which lasted for
three weeks. Day after day they traveled on down the valley, keeping as
far back from the river as possible, and during all this time they met
not a single human being. The snow crust remained firm, and they made
fair progress, covering about fifteen miles every day. At night they
suffered much from cold—for sometimes villages were close at hand and
they dare not make fires—but they found sufficient shelter to prevent
them from freezing.
They nearly starved, however, in spite of the birds and hares that
Shamarin skillfully succeeded in trapping. When they halted on the twenty
second night after leaving the hut, in a thick wood overlooking the Amur,
it was evident that a crisis had been reached. They were worn out with
incessant traveling, faint and sick from hunger, and all the shelter they
had was this strip of wood—their only food a couple of raw quail.
For themselves the two brave men cared little, but that Vera, whose lips
never uttered a word of complaint, should have to endure such suffering
was more than they could stand. Especially aggravating to them tonight
was the sight of the post station, a mile away, where lights shone
cheerily through the twilight from houses in which men were eating and
drinking and sitting by warm fires.
“Something must be done,” declared Sandoff earnestly. “We can’t stand
this another day. We must have nourishing food or we can go no farther.”
“And where shall we get it?” asked Shamarin moodily. “The outlook is bad
enough. We have come less than one third of the distance, and still have
seven hundred miles before us.”
For once Vera had no words of cheer for her companions. She knew they had
defined the situation truly, and that nothing she could say would help
them. Her eyes sought the ground sadly and remained there, fixed with
repugnance on the miserable birds that Shamarin had taken from his snares
that morning.
“Yes, something must be done,” repeated Sandoff, “and without
delay—tonight. I will go down and reconnoiter around yonder post station.
If I don’t return soon you need not be alarmed, for I intend to be very
careful.”
His companions made no attempt to dissuade him, except that Shamarin
offered to go in his place. But Sandoff would not hear of this.
“It is best for me to go,” he said firmly. “My knowledge of government
regulations at these post stations will help me if I get into a tight
place.”
He hurriedly exchanged the coat he was wearing for the dark green Cossack
cloak—knowing that he would attract less attention if seen in this guise.
The muff shaped fur cap he had been wearing constantly, and when Shamarin
handed him the rifle he looked a thorough Cossack soldier. The deception
was still further assisted by the tangled beard and mustache he had grown
since his escape from the mines. Thus equipped he bade farewell to his
companions, and struck off at a rapid pace through the forest. He had no
definite purpose in view—merely a vague hope that he might in some manner
procure a supply of food.
The post station was less than a mile distant. By following a ravine
covered with thick bushes, Sandoff came out in the rear of a little
cluster of houses bunched together on both sides of the post road—the
station itself with the square courtyard in front, the telegraph office
and half a dozen tiny cabins across the way. A careful glance showed him
that no one was in sight and that only one light was visible—a yellow
glimmer shining from the rear window of the post station. Toward this
Sandoff directed his steps, moving slowly and cautiously over the snow
crust.