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-skoe. 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.
The monks came from the North of the Empire. Three months before they
had left the town of Archangel. They had visited the sacred islands near
the coast of Carelia, the convent of Solovetsk, the convent of Troitsa,
those of Saint Antony and Saint Theodosia, at Kiev, that of Kazan, as
well as the church of the Old Believers, and they were now on their way
to Irkutsk, wearing the robe, the cowl, and the clothes of serge.
As to the papa, or priest, he was a plain village pastor, one of the six
hundred thousand popular pastors which the Russian Empire contains. He
was clothed as miserably as the moujiks, not being above them in social
position; in fact, laboring like a peasant on his plot of ground;
baptis-ing, marrying, burying. He had been able to protect his wife and
children from the brutality of the Tartars by sending them away into the
Northern provinces. He himself had stayed in his parish up to the last
moment; then he was obliged to fly, and, the Irkutsk road being stopped,
had come to Lake Baikal.
These priests, grouped in the forward part of the raft, prayed at
regular intervals, raising their voices in the silent night, and at the
end of each sentence of their prayer, the “Slava Bogu,” Glory to God!
issued from their lips.
No incident took place during the night. Nadia remained in a sort of
stupor, and Michael watched beside her; sleep only overtook him at long
intervals, and even then his brain did not rest. At break of day, the
raft, delayed by a strong breeze, which counteracted the course of the
current, was still forty versts from the mouth of the Angara. It seemed
probable that the fugitives could not reach it before three or four
o’clock in the evening. This did not trouble them; on the contrary, for
they would then descend the river during the night, and the darkness
would also favor their entrance into Irkutsk.
The only anxiety exhibited at times by the old boatman was concerning
the formation of ice on the surface of the water. The night had been
excessively cold; pieces of ice could be seen drifting towards the West.
Nothing was to be dreaded from these, since they could not drift into
the Angara, having already passed the mouth; but pieces from the Eastern
end of the lake might be drawn by the current between the banks of the
river; this would cause difficulty, possibly delay, and perhaps even an
insurmountable obstacle which would stop the raft.
Michael therefore took immense interest in ascertaining what was the
state of the lake, and whether any large number of ice blocks appeared.
Nadia being now awake, he questioned her often, and she gave him an
account of all that was going on.
Whilst the blocks were thus drifting, curious phenomena were taking
place on the surface of the Baikal. Magnificent jets, from springs of
boiling water, shot up from some of those artesian wells which Nature
has bored in the very bed of the lake. These jets rose to a great height
and spread out in vapor, which was illuminated by the solar rays, and
almost immediately condensed by the cold. This curious sight would have
assuredly amazed a tourist traveling in peaceful times on this Siberian
sea.
At four in the evening, the mouth of the Angara was signaled by the old
boatman, between the high granite rocks of the shore. On the right bank
could be seen the little port of Livenitchnaia, its church, and its few
houses built on the bank. But the serious thing was that the ice blocks
from the East were already drifting between the banks of the Angara, and
consequently were descending towards Irkutsk. However, their number was
not yet great enough to obstruct the course of the raft, nor the cold
great enough to increase their number.
The raft arrived at the little port and there stopped. The old boatman
wished to put into harbor for an hour, in order to make some repairs.
The trunks threatened to separate, and it was important to fasten them
more securely together to resist the rapid current of the Angara.
The old boatman did not expect to receive any fresh fugitives at
Livenitchnaia, and yet, the moment the raft touched, two passengers,
issuing from a deserted house, ran as fast as they could towards the
beach.
Nadia seated on the raft, was abstractedly gazing at the shore. A cry
was about to escape her. She seized Michael’s hand, who at that moment
raised his head.
“What is the matter, Nadia?” he asked.
“Our two traveling companions, Michael.”
“The Frenchman and the Englishman whom we met in the defiles of the
Ural?”
“Yes.”
Michael started, for the strict incognito which he wished to keep ran a
risk of being betrayed. Indeed, it was no longer as Nicholas Korpanoff
that Jolivet and Blount would now see him, but as the true Michael
Strogoff, Courier of the Czar. The two correspondents had already met
him twice since their separation at the Ichim post-house--the first time
at the Zabediero camp, when he laid open Ivan Ogareff’s face with the
knout; the second time at Tomsk, when he was condemned by the Emir. They
therefore knew who he was and what depended on him.
Michael Strogoff rapidly made up his mind. “Nadia,” said he, “when they
step on board, ask them to come to me!”
It was, in fact, Blount and Jolivet, whom the course of events had
brought to the port of Livenitchnaia, as it had brought Michael
Strogoff. As we know, after having been present at the entry of the
Tartars into Tomsk, they had departed before the savage execution which
terminated the fete. They had therefore never suspected that their
former traveling companion had not been put to death, but blinded by
order of the Emir.
Having procured horses they had left Tomsk the same evening, with
the fixed determination of henceforward dating their letters from
the Russian camp of Eastern Siberia. They proceeded by forced marches
towards Irkutsk. They hoped to distance Feofar-Khan, and would certainly
have done so, had it not been for the unexpected apparition of the third
column, come from the South, up the valley of the Yenisei. They had been
cut off, as had been Michael, before being able even to reach the Dinka,
and had been obliged to go back to Lake Baikal.
They had been in the place for three days in much perplexity, when
the raft arrived. The fugitives’ plan was explained to them. There was
certainly a chance that they might be able to pass under cover of the
night, and penetrate into Irkutsk. They resolved to make the attempt.
Alcide directly communicated with the old boatman, and asked a passage
for himself and his companion, offering to pay anything he demanded,
whatever it might be.
“No one pays here,” replied the old man gravely; “every one risks his
life, that is all!”
The two correspondents came on board, and Nadia saw them take their
places in the forepart of the raft. Harry Blount was still the reserved
Englishman, who had scarcely addressed a word to her during the whole
passage over the Ural Mountains. Alcide Jolivet seemed to be rather
more grave than usual, and it may be acknowledged that his gravity was
justified by the circumstances.
Jolivet had, as has been said, taken his seat on the raft, when he felt
a hand laid on his arm. Turning, he recognized Nadia, the sister of the
man who was no longer Nicholas Korpanoff, but Michael Strogoff, Courier
of the Czar. He was about to make an exclamation of surprise when he saw
the young girl lay her finger on her lips.
“Come,” said Nadia. And with a careless air, Alcide rose and followed
her, making a sign to Blount to accompany him.
But if the surprise of the correspondents had been great at meeting
Nadia on the raft it was boundless when they perceived Michael Strogoff,
whom they had believed to be no longer living.
Michael had not moved at their approach. Jolivet turned towards the
girl. “He does not see you, gentlemen,” said Nadia. “The Tartars have
burnt out his eyes! My poor brother is blind!”
A feeling of lively compassion exhibited itself on the faces of Blount
and his companion. In a moment they were seated beside Michael, pressing
his hand and waiting until he spoke to them.
“Gentlemen,” said Michael, in a low voice, “you ought not to know who
I am, nor what I am come to do in Siberia. I ask you to keep my secret.
Will you promise me to do so?”
“On my honor,” answered Jolivet.
“On my word as a gentleman,” added Blount.
“Good, gentlemen.”
“Can we be of any use to you?” asked Harry Blount. “Could we not help
you to accomplish your task?”
“I prefer to act alone,” replied Michael.
“But those blackguards have destroyed your sight,” said Alcide.
“I have Nadia, and her eyes are enough for me!”
In half an hour the raft left the little port of Livenitchnaia, and
entered the river. It was five in the evening and getting dusk. The
night promised to be dark and very cold also, for the temperature was
already below zero.
Alcide and Blount, though they had promised to keep Michael’s secret,
did not leave him. They talked in a low voice, and the blind man, adding
what they told him to what he already knew, was able to form an exact
idea of the state of things. It was certain that the Tartars had
actually invested Irkutsk, and that the three columns had effected a
junction. There was no doubt that the Emir and Ivan Ogareff were before
the capital.
But why did the Czar’s courier exhibit such haste to get there, now that
the Imperial letter could no longer be given by him to the Grand Duke,
and when he did not even know the contents of it? Alcide Jolivet and
Blount could not understand it any more than Nadia had done.
No one spoke of the past, except when Jolivet thought it his duty to say
to Michael, “We owe you some apology for not shaking hands with you when
we separated at Ichim.”
“No, you had reason to think me a coward!”
“At any rate,” added the Frenchman, “you knouted the face of that
villain finely, and he will carry the mark of it for a long time!”
“No, not a long time!” replied Michael quietly.
Half an hour after leaving Livenitchnaia, Blount and his companion were
acquainted with the cruel trials through which Michael and his companion
had successively passed. They could not but heartily admire his energy,
which was only equaled by the young girl’s devotion. Their opinion of
Michael was exactly what the Czar had expressed at Moscow: “Indeed, this
is a Man!”
The raft swiftly threaded its way among the blocks of ice which were
carried along in the current of the Angara. A moving panorama was
displayed on both sides of the river, and, by an optical illusion, it
appeared as if it was the raft which was motionless before a succession
of picturesque scenes. Here were high granite cliffs, there wild gorges,
down which rushed a torrent; sometimes appeared a clearing with a still
smoking village, then thick pine forests blazing. But though the Tartars
had left their traces on all sides, they themselves were not to be
seen as yet, for they were more especially massed at the approaches to
Irkutsk.
All this time the pilgrims were repeating their prayers aloud, and the
old boatman, shoving away the blocks of ice which pressed too near them,
imperturbably steered the raft in the middle of the rapid current of the
Angara.
CHAPTER XI BETWEEN TWO BANKS
BY eight in the evening, the country, as the state of the sky had
foretold, was enveloped in complete darkness. The moon being new had not
yet risen. From the middle of the river the banks were invisible. The
cliffs were confounded with the heavy, low-hanging clouds. At intervals
a puff of wind came from the east, but it soon died away in the narrow
valley of the Angara.
The darkness could not fail to favor in a considerable degree the plans
of the fugitives. Indeed, although the Tartar outposts must have
been drawn up on both banks, the raft had a good chance of passing
unperceived. It was not likely either that the besiegers would have
barred the river above Irkutsk, since they knew that the Russians could
not expect any help from the south of the province. Besides this, before
long Nature would herself establish a barrier, by cementing with frost
the blocks of ice accumulated between the two banks.
Perfect silence now reigned on board the raft. The voices of the
pilgrims were no longer heard. They still prayed, but their prayer was
but a murmur, which could not reach as far as either bank. The fugitives
lay flat on the platform, so that the raft was scarcely above the level
of the water. The old boatman crouched down forward among his men,
solely occupied in keeping off the ice blocks, a maneuver which was
performed without noise.
The drifting of the ice was a favorable circumstance so long as it did
not offer an insurmountable obstacle to the passage of the raft. If that
object had been alone on the water, it would have run a risk of being
seen, even in the darkness, but, as it was, it was confounded with these
moving masses, of all shapes and sizes, and the tumult caused by
the crashing of the blocks against each other concealed likewise any
suspicious noises.
There was a sharp frost. The fugitives suffered cruelly, having no
other shelter than a few branches of birch. They cowered down together,
endeavoring to keep each other warm, the temperature being now ten
degrees below freezing point. The wind, though slight, having passed
over the snow-clad mountains of the east, pierced them through and
through.
Michael and Nadia, lying in the afterpart of the raft, bore this
increase of suffering without complaint. Jolivet and Blount, placed near
them, stood these first assaults of the Siberian winter as well as they
could. No one now spoke, even in a low voice. Their situation entirely
absorbed them. At any moment an incident might occur, which they could
not escape unscathed.
For a man who hoped soon to accomplish his mission, Michael was
singularly calm. Even in the gravest conjunctures, his energy had
never abandoned him. He already saw the moment when he would be at
last allowed to think of his mother, of Nadia, of himself! He now only
dreaded one final unhappy chance; this was, that the raft might be
completely barred by ice before reaching Irkutsk. He thought but of
this, determined beforehand, if necessary, to attempt some bold stroke.
Restored by a few hours’ rest, Nadia had regained the physical energy
which misery had sometimes overcome, although without ever having shaken
her moral energy. She thought, too, that if Michael had to make any
fresh effort to attain his end, she must be there to guide him. But in
proportion as she drew nearer to Irkutsk, the image of her father rose
more and more clearly before her mind. She saw him in the invested town,
far from those he loved, but, as she never doubted, struggling against
the invaders with all the spirit of his patriotism. In a few hours, if
Heaven favored them, she would be in his arms, giving him her mother’s
last words, and nothing should ever separate them again. If the term of
Wassili Fedor’s exile should never come to an end, his daughter would
remain exiled with him. Then, by a natural transition, she came back
to him who would have enabled her to see her father once more, to that
generous companion, that “brother,” who, the Tartars driven back, would
retake the road to Moscow, whom she would perhaps never meet again!
As to Alcide Jolivet and Harry Blount, they had one and the same
thought, which was, that the situation was extremely dramatic, and that,
well worked up, it would furnish a most deeply interesting article.
The Englishman thought of the readers of the Daily Telegraph, and the
Frenchman of those of his Cousin Madeleine. At heart, both were not
without feeling some emotion.
“Well, so much the better!” thought Alcide Jolivet, “to move others, one
must be moved one’s self! I believe there is some celebrated verse
on the subject, but hang me if I can recollect it!” And with his
well-practiced eyes he endeavored to pierce the gloom of the river.
Every now and then a burst of light dispelling the darkness for a time,
exhibited the banks under some fantastic aspect--either a forest
on fire, or a still burning village. The Angara was occasionally
illuminated from one bank to the other. The blocks of ice formed so many
mirrors, which, reflecting the flames on every point and in every
color, were whirled along by the caprice of the current. The raft passed
unperceived in the midst of these floating masses.
The danger was not at these points.
But a peril of another nature menaced the fugitives. One that they
could not foresee, and, above all, one that they could not avoid. Chance
discovered it to Alcide Jolivet in this way:--Lying at the right side
of the raft, he let his hand hang over into the water. Suddenly he was
surprised by the impression made on it by the current. It seemed to be
of a slimy consistency, as if it had been made of mineral oil. Alcide,
aiding his touch by his sense of smell, could not be mistaken. It was
really a layer of liquid naphtha, floating on the surface of the river!
Was the raft really floating on this substance, which is in the highest
degree combustible? Where had this naphtha come from? Was it a natural
phenomenon taking place on the surface of the Angara, or was it to serve
as an engine of destruction, put in motion by the Tartars? Did they
intend to carry conflagration into Irkutsk?
Such were the questions which Alcide asked himself, but he thought it
best to make this incident known only to Harry Blount, and they both
agreed in not alarming their companions by revealing to them this new
danger.
It is known that the soil of Central Asia is like a sponge impregnated
with liquid hydrogen. At the port of Bakou, on the Persian frontier,
on the Caspian Sea, in Asia Minor, in China, on the Yuen-Kiang, in the
Burman Empire, springs of mineral oil rise in thousands to the surface
of the ground. It is an “oil country,” similar to the one which bears
this name in North America.
During certain religious festivals, principally at the port of Bakou,
the natives, who are fire-worshipers, throw liquid naphtha on the
surface of the sea, which buoys it up, its density being inferior to
that of water. Then at nightfall, when a layer of mineral oil is thus
spread over the Caspian, they light it, and exhibit the matchless
spectacle of an ocean of fire undulating and breaking into waves under
the breeze.
But what is only a sign of rejoicing at Bakou, might prove a fearful
disaster on the waters of the Angara. Whether it was set on fire by
malevolence or imprudence, in the twinkling of an eye a conflagration
might spread beyond Irkutsk. On board the raft no imprudence was to be
feared; but everything was to be dreaded from the conflagrations on both
banks of the Angara, for should a lighted straw or even a spark blow
into the water, it would inevitably set the whole current of naphtha in
a blaze.
The apprehensions of Jolivet and Blount may be better understood than
described. Would it not be prudent, in face of this new danger, to
land on one of the banks and wait there? “At any rate,” said Alcide,
“whatever the danger may be, I know some one who will not land!”
He alluded to Michael Strogoff.
In the meantime, on glided the raft among the masses of ice which were
gradually getting closer and closer together. Up till then, no Tartar
detachment had been seen, which showed that the raft was not abreast of
the outposts. At about ten o’clock, however, Harry Blount caught sight
of a number of black objects moving on the ice blocks. Springing from
one to the other, they rapidly approached.
“Tartars!” he thought. And creeping up to the old boatman, he pointed
out to him the suspicious objects.
The old man looked attentively. “They are only wolves!” said he. “I
like them better than Tartars. But we must defend ourselves, and without
noise!”
The fugitives would indeed have to defend themselves against these
ferocious beasts, whom hunger and cold had sent roaming through the
province. They had smelt out the raft, and would soon attack it. The
fugitives must struggle without using firearms, for they could not now
be far from the Tartar posts. The women and children were collected in
the middle of the raft, and the men, some armed with poles, others with
their knives, stood prepared to repulse their assailants. They did not
make a sound, but the howls of the wolves filled the air.
Michael did not wish to remain inactive. He lay down at the side
attacked by the savage pack. He drew his knife, and every time that a
wolf passed within his reach, his hand found out the way to plunge his
weapon into its throat. Neither were Jolivet and Blount idle, but fought
bravely with the brutes. Their companions gallantly seconded them.
The battle was carried on in silence, although many of the fugitives
received severe bites.
The struggle did not appear as if it would soon terminate. The pack was
being continually reinforced from the right bank of the Angara. “This
will never be finished!” said Alcide, brandishing his dagger, red with
blood.
In fact, half an hour after the commencement of the attack, the wolves
were still coming in hundreds across the ice. The exhausted fugitives
were getting weaker. The fight was going against them. At that moment, a
group of ten huge wolves, raging with hunger, their eyes glowing in the
darkness like red coals, sprang onto the raft. Jolivet and his companion
threw themselves into the midst of the fierce beasts, and Michael was
finding his way towards them, when a sudden change took place.
In a few moments the wolves had deserted not only the raft, but also
the ice on the river. All the black bodies dispersed, and it was soon
certain that they had in all haste regained the shore. Wolves, like
other beasts of prey, require darkness for their proceedings, and at
that moment a bright light illuminated the entire river.
It was the blaze of an immense fire. The whole of the small town of
Poshkavsk was burning. The Tartars were indeed there, finishing their
work. From this point, they occupied both banks beyond Irkutsk. The
fugitives had by this time reached the dangerous part of their voyage,
and they were still twenty miles from the capital.
It was now half past eleven. The raft continued to glide on amongst the
ice, with which it was quite mingled, but gleams of light sometimes
fell upon it. The fugitives stretched on the platform did not permit
themselves to make a movement by which they might be betrayed.
The conflagration was going on with frightful rapidity. The houses,
built of fir-wood, blazed like torches--a hundred and fifty flaming
at once. With the crackling of the fire was mingled the yells of the
Tartars. The old boatman, getting a foothold on a near piece of ice,
managed to shove the raft towards the right bank, by doing which a
distance of from three to four hundred feet divided it from the flames
of Poshkavsk.
Nevertheless, the fugitives, lighted every now and then by the glare,
would have been undoubtedly perceived had not the incendiaries been too
much occupied in their work of destruction.
It may be imagined what were the apprehensions of Jolivet and Blount,
when they thought of the combustible liquid on which the raft floated.
Sparks flew in millions from the houses, which resembled so many glowing
furnaces. They rose among the volumes of smoke to a height of five or
six hundred feet. On the right bank, the trees and cliffs exposed to
the fire looked as if they likewise were burning. A spark falling on the
surface of the Angara would be sufficient to spread the flames along the
current, and to carry disaster from one bank to the other. The result
of this would be in a short time the destruction of the raft and of all
those which it carried.
But, happily, the breeze did not blow from that side. It came from the
east, and drove the flames towards the left. It was just possible that
the fugitives would escape this danger. The blazing town was at last
passed. Little by little the glare grew dimmer, the crackling became
fainter, and the flames at last disappeared behind the high cliffs which
arose at an abrupt turn of the river.
By this time it was nearly midnight. The deep gloom again threw its
protecting shadows over the raft. The Tartars were there, going to and
fro near the river. They could not be seen, but they could be heard. The
fires of the outposts burned brightly.
In the meantime it had become necessary to steer more carefully among
the blocks of ice. The old boatman stood up, and the moujiks resumed
their poles. They had plenty of work, the management of the raft
becoming more and more difficult as the river was further obstructed.
Michael had crept forward; Jolivet followed; both listened to what the
old boatman and his men were saying.
“Look out on the right!”
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