THE KIRGIZ YOURTAR
--I found it a terrible thing. These villains set on me, and I
beginning to resist, they gave but a call, and in came their master.
I would, as the saying is, have given my life for a penny: but that,
as God would have it, I was clothed with armor of proof.--JOHN BUNYAN.
In the northern parts of Siberia, in summer time, it seems as if the
night would never come. At midsummer, it is almost true to say that
there is no night--nothing but a veil of sapphire twilight, which
lasts three or four hours. It was a month past midsummer when Felix
drove to play tennis and dine at the Governor's house; but even then
the dark was long in coming, and Vronsky did not expect his darling
home until midnight. There was no moon that night; but the sky was
cloudless, and the North burnt as if with the glow of a furnace
hidden just below the horizon.
Out on the Steppe, between Savlinsky and the Forest of Nicolashof,
there stood, some quarter of a mile from the road, and hidden from
view by one of those undulations of the ground too low to be called
hills, a Kirgiz yourtar, or tent. From a distance these yourtars
look more like haystacks than anything else--round, fat haystacks,
bound together by strips of hide. The material of which they are
really made is thick, warm felt; and they afford a most efficient
protection from cold and wet.
By the door, all that afternoon, sat three men, in the dress of
Kirgiz peasants--long linen shirts, such as one may imagine Abraham
to have worn as he sat in his tent door. The woman also, in her long
white robe, with a white handkerchief bound round her head, going to
and fro with her waterpails to a pond at a short distance, was very
like a figure from the Old Testament.
From a hillock on the way to the pond she could just see a glimpse of
the white highroad, her own head not being a conspicuous object upon
the landscape, and all the rest of her being hidden from view by
intervening swells of ground. From an hour before mid-day until an
hour or so after, her avocations seemed to necessitate almost
constant passing to and fro for water. Soon after half-past one a
carriage shot past upon the quiet road. The woman at once reported
this unusual event to her male companions. She added the information
that the tarantasse contained Felix only, and that Vronsky was not
with him. The statement was evidently of interest to one of the men,
whose features did not seem to be of the true Kirgiz type, and who
was smoking a pipe that suggested Western civilization. He consulted
in low tones with the two other men. They seemed to come to some
arrangement, and then fell silent. The long afternoon hours passed
away, and they sat on like graven images. About five o'clock the
woman again grew restless, and remained long at her coign of vantage,
watching the road. But nothing stirred upon its empty expanse.
After a while the woman brought supper, and they ate in silence,
while the children, unwashed, untended, crept inside to sleep. It
was about nine o'clock when a solitary figure appeared over the top
of the low hillock which protected the yourtar from view of the road.
The men at the tent door made no movement nor sign that they had seen
this man. He came on, quite alone; and when he had come near enough
to speak, he greeted them in Russian. It was Streloff.
Evidently he bore disturbing news. He directed most of his talk to
Cravatz, who, in his disguise, sat immovable, his eyes alone
glittering in the dusk, showing his deep concern in the affairs
related. There followed much urging, discussion, argument. At last
a decision was arrived at. Cravatz was to depart southward at once,
and alone. He must walk during the greater part of the night, not
touching the highroad, straight to a yourtar which belonged to the
brother of the man who now sheltered him. This man was a political
refugee--no Kirgiz, but living as one, and married to a Kirgiz woman.
As soon as Cravatz was gone, the other two men took off the Kirgiz
shirts they wore, armed themselves, and with Streloff proceeded
quietly westward, towards Nicolashof, not walking by the road, but
keeping as far possible parallel with it, though out of sight of it,
and using great caution until they were lost in the beginnings of the
forest.
They disappeared--Cravatz to the south, they to the west--and the
woman and children remained in the yourtar alone.
Soon they were sound asleep, while the deep rich blue of the northern
summer night grew deeper and more intense, and the stars glowed like
drops of fire.
Streloff carried the dagger of the Brotherhood. He had received his
orders. Felix, in spite of Streloff's attempt to prevent it, had
carried to the Governor the arraignment of Cravatz. Felix was to die
that night. It was the first mission of the kind upon which the
young man had been engaged, and he relished it.
In the wood all was very quiet. No living soul was astir. The
village was long ago hushed into slumber, no light glimmered in all
its extent. But Streloff and the two men with him did not go as far
as the village. They passed the outer skirting of birch trees, where
too much light fell upon the road, and entered with precaution the
deeper depths of the pine trees, intending to halt at a certain spot
where there was a dense thicket into which a body might with ease be
dragged and hidden.
Suddenly one of the two men--a genuine Kirgiz--halted, his finger on
his lip. The other two halted also, and crouched where they stood.
They had heard a noise--very, very slight. It sounded like the
striking of a match. Streloff felt his heart in his mouth. A moment
later, and the unmistakable flicker of a light gleamed among the
trees some distance ahead. It died down. The very, very faint sound
of a voice, a whisper, broke the stillness. Someone was there. They
held their breath, listening intently. They looked from one to the
other blankly. What was to be done? Someone was there, and meant to
stay there, for no movement was perceptible. Streloff considered.
If there were but a solitary wayfarer it was awkward. They did not
want to murder anybody unnecessarily; but this was not a solitary
wayfarer, since they had heard someone speak. One does not talk to
oneself--as a rule.
The one thing supremely important to the young spy was that he should
not be seen. And he doubted whether it were now possible even to
retreat, without making some slight noise to put those mysterious
others upon the alert. They had almost walked into an ambush. His
brain ached with the wonder. Who could they possibly be? What
conceivable object, save to stop Felix Vanston's tarantasse, could
lead men to hide in the wood at that hour? And he could not think of
any others besides himself who would be likely to wish to do that.
He was horribly agitated. For these men, no doubt, were as desirous
as himself of being unobserved. They made no noise. In the intense
silence of the forest he could not hear a sound. And he dared not
make one.
Nothing was less desired by this young man than any kind of a fight.
He wanted a murder, that was all. One accomplice to hold the horse,
one to hold the coachman--and himself to knife Felix, who would
almost certainly be unarmed. This sudden, wholly unexpected check
upset his nerves. His subordinates looked to him for orders. He had
none to give. But a few minutes' reflection steadied his nerves.
They must somehow retreat, unobserved. They must cross the road
lower down, and re-enter the wood on the other side of the road.
Then they must rapidly work their way along, to a point between the
village and the spot where the ambush lay, and there await the coming
of their victim.
With inconceivable precaution they crept away. Among pine trees
there is little undergrowth, few dead twigs to crack beneath the
foot. Nevertheless, in that silence, for three men to retreat
unheard was something of a feat; and Streloff, when after a quarter
of an hour that seemed an eternity they stood out of sight and
earshot, at the edge of the road, felt that he was proving himself a
born spy.
They listened. Not a sound broke the calm of the summer night except
the sigh of the wandering breeze in the tops of the pines. Like
three flitting shadows, they crossed the road; and entered the wood
upon the farther side. Streloff was immensely anxious to go on for
at least half a mile--to meet the tarantasse at as great a distance
as possible from where the ambush waited. But he was bothered, for
the unknown others had chosen the very place he had decided to
occupy--in the deep part of the wood, yet far enough from the village
to prevent sounds from being heard. Who could they be? As they
pushed along, he told himself that he was a fool. Doubtless these
men were but three or four tramps, perhaps on their way from the
harvest of one village to that of another--sleeping in the woods on
their journey. But, whoever they were, they must not be witnesses of
what was to take place.
And then, before he and his followers had reached a spot parallel to
that where they had seen the lighted match, they heard the ringing of
the harness-bells upon Felix's carriage.
For a moment they paused, simultaneously, while the musical ting,
ting, ting, sounded each second clearer. This sudden destruction of
his plans caused Streloff to hesitate--to hesitate three or four
long, endless seconds, before he said: "Run back--back--as far down
the road as we can."
They ran. But behind them the bells of the tarantasse rang more and
more piercing sweet. And then there was a long, wild shout, and
Streloff faced suddenly round, to see that a man had sprung from the
other side of the road and caught the horse's head, and that Felix
Vanston was standing up in the tarantasse, and had just hurled a
second man down upon the ground; while two or three others were
winding ropes about the prostrate form of Max, whom they had dragged
from his seat.
Streloff gave no orders to his followers. He forgot all about them.
Without a second thought he sprang into the mêlée. He never doubted
that these men, though unknown to him, were his allies, for
manifestly they were hostile to Felix; and he ran forward, his knife
bare, shouting wildly, "Kill him--kill him! What is the use of
taking him prisoner?"
He had brought no revolver, for he had meant to do his work silently,
and shots carry on a still night. But his sudden appearance from
nowhere seemed to strike the other men for a breathing space still
with amazement. He saw then that they were masked.
"Help! Help!" cried Felix, writhing in the grip of three of them.
But the man who led had recovered from his bewilderment. "Stand, or
I fire!" he called out, covering Streloff with the muzzle of his
revolver.
"Streloff!" shouted Felix. "What are you doing here? Help me, you
young fool! Knock that fellow down!"
"He has a knife! Look out!" cried another of the masked men,
springing behind Streloff and pinioning his elbows.
The young man guessed himself in a trap, though unable to understand
its nature. They were gagging Felix--he saw that--they could not
understand that he, Streloff, was on their side--they might think him
a rescue party, since they probably knew him to be in Vronsky's
service. He struggled like a panther in the hold of his captor,
writhed himself free, and hurled himself, knife in hand, upon
Vanston. There could be no doubt of his murderous intent, and the
man who covered him with his revolver fired without hesitation. The
sound died away upon the quiet air, a light smoke drifted between the
horrified eyes of Felix and the black trunks of the surrounding
trees. Streloff dropped forwards, a strangled word upon his lips, a
grin of rage upon his features. His blade had actually grazed young
Vanston's ribs.
"Please God," said the policeman who had shot Streloff to Felix,
"you'll never be nearer death than that again--until your time comes."
"Are there any more of them?" asked one of his colleagues, moving
cautiously along the edge of the wood.
"I saw only him," replied a subordinate.
They raised the young fellow's body. He was quite dead.
"But he never could have started out alone to grapple with Mr.
Vanston and Max," thoughtfully said the policeman. He gave an order,
suddenly and sharp. "Search the wood thoroughly on both sides."
The men went off, searching up and down. But the two Kirgiz had got
a couple of minutes' start, and they made the most of it. Like
streaks of shadow they fled, down by-ways they knew well, and never
paused until they stood before the yourtar, and roused the sleeping
wife and children. By morning all was gone. There was no trace of
yesterday's camp, except the brown circle of downtrodden grass where
the tent had stood. The two men, the woman and the children, were
tramping harmlessly along the highroad southward, towards the yourtar
whither Cravatz had withdrawn.
It was past midnight when, with a rush and a crash of breaking wood,
the horses galloped madly into the stableyard at Savlinsky, having
broken one wheel off the tarantasse against the gate-post. Vronsky,
who was restless and feverish, heard the uproar, and sent his
servant, who slept in his room, to find out what had happened.
The man returned, chalk-white, and shaking as with ague. The
carriage had returned, but it contained neither Felix nor Max. Its
only occupant was--was the corpse of Streloff, the young clerk,
murdered by a bullet wound in the temple.
The single shot fired by the policeman--the shot that killed
Streloff--did not rouse the sleeping village. There was nobody to
see the party of kidnappers slip in among the trees with their bound
victims, nor to watch them unloose their bonds as soon as darkness
covered them.
There was not, nevertheless, a moment to be lost, for the dawn was
hard upon their heels, and all must re-enter the Governor's domain
unseen. They separated. Only one remained as a guide with Felix and
his servant, the others melted away into the forest in various
directions. The guide kept them going at a swift trot, along a
wood-cutter's path, and in several places over tracts where there was
no path. If they came to a place where footmarks were perceptible he
covered them up before proceeding. But in most places, on the hard,
dry summer ground, their feet left no trace. On they went, on and
on, the dawn shimmering down each instant with a more direct threat
of daylight. Soon the north-east was on fire with rose-red light, as
if it must burst into flame in a few minutes more. Trails of
gossamer drifted across the eyes of Felix as he ran, the gray
Siberian squirrels ran up the smooth trunks, the birds began to
chatter and call. At last, when it seemed they had run for hours,
they found themselves breasting a steep hill, where their feet
slipped perpetually in the pine needles, and their guide, with
infinite labor, had to obliterate their tracks by brushing them with
a branch of pine foliage.
At last they reached the high wall or palisade of untrimmed fir
trunks which protected the Governor's grounds from the forest.
Along it they moved, battling here with rank undergrowth which grew
in profusion wherever trees had been cut down. At last came a door;
their guide inserted a key. They slipped through, and found
themselves in a long dim green alley.
It seemed to Felix that it reached to the end of the world. His head
was swimming, his feet sticky with something that ran down his legs
into his boots. But he staggered on, holding on to Max, who did not
seem at all distressed; and at last dragged himself into a small
room, where stood a table with food and drink, and the Governor
himself advanced, with hand outstretched.
"All well?" he asked. "I was a little anxious. You are later than
you should have been by nearly an hour."
"There was more than one ambush," began Felix; but, to his own
surprise, his voice failed, and the room rocked round him. He made a
dizzy step forward and lurched. But the arms of Max behind upheld
him.
"Unfasten his coat," said the servant, himself still breathless with
the flight. "Unless I am much mistaken he has been losing blood all
the way."
"Blood!" echoed the Governor. "Was there an accident, then?"
"There were real murderers afoot, your Excellency, as well as sham
ones," said Max. "If your men had not been there, who can tell what
might have happened?"
He had opened Felix's shirt at the throat. The whole of his clothing
was soaked and saturated with blood. A handkerchief which the
policeman had hurriedly pushed in was scarlet and dripping.
"Good heavens! This was not my fault?" cried the Governor, in horror.
"No, indeed, my Lord. As I say, it is a good thing your men were in
the way. They have saved his life," said Max, gathering his master
into his arms. "Before they tell you more may we carry him to bed,
and stop this bleeding?"