must have been of immense importance. Michael Strogoff knew, therefore,
that every effort would be made to capture him.
But what he did not know, and could not know, was that Marfa Strogoff
was in the hands of Ivan Ogareff, and that she was about to atone,
perhaps with her life, for that natural exhibition of her feelings which
she had been unable to restrain when she suddenly found herself in the
presence of her son. And it was fortunate that he was ignorant of it.
Could he have withstood this fresh trial?
Michael Strogoff urged on his horse, imbuing him with all his own
feverish impatience, requiring of him one thing only, namely, to bear
him rapidly to the next posting-house, where he could be exchanged for a
quicker conveyance.
At midnight he had cleared fifty miles, and halted at the station of
Koulikovo. But there, as he had feared, he found neither horses nor
carriages. Several Tartar detachments had passed along the highway of
the steppe. Everything had been stolen or requisitioned both in the
villages and in the posting-houses. It was with difficulty that Michael
Strogoff was even able to obtain some refreshment for his horse and
himself.
It was of great importance, therefore, to spare his horse, for he could
not tell when or how he might be able to replace it. Desiring, however,
to put the greatest possible distance between himself and the horsemen
who had no doubt been dispatched in pursuit, he resolved to push on.
After one hour’s rest he resumed his course across the steppe.
Hitherto the weather had been propitious for his journey. The
temperature was endurable. The nights at this time of the year are very
short, and as they are lighted by the moon, the route over the steppe is
practicable. Michael Strogoff, moreover, was a man certain of his
road and devoid of doubt or hesitation, and in spite of the melancholy
thoughts which possessed him he had preserved his clearness of mind, and
made for his destined point as though it were visible upon the horizon.
When he did halt for a moment at some turn in the road it was to breathe
his horse. Now he would dismount to ease his steed for a moment, and
again he would place his ear to the ground to listen for the sound of
galloping horses upon the steppe. Nothing arousing his suspicions, he
resumed his way.
On the 30th of July, at nine o’clock in the morning, Michael Strogoff
passed through the station of Touroumoff and entered the swampy district
of the Baraba.
There, for a distance of three hundred versts, the natural obstacles
would be extremely great. He knew this, but he also knew that he would
certainly surmount them.
These vast marshes of the Baraba, form the reservoir to all the
rain-water which finds no outlet either towards the Obi or towards the
Irtych. The soil of this vast depression is entirely argillaceous, and
therefore impermeable, so that the waters remain there and make of it
a region very difficult to cross during the hot season. There, however,
lies the way to Irkutsk, and it is in the midst of ponds, pools, lakes,
and swamps, from which the sun draws poisonous exhalations, that the
road winds, and entails upon the traveler the greatest fatigue and
danger.
Michael Strogoff spurred his horse into the midst of a grassy prairie,
differing greatly from the close-cropped sod of the steppe, where feed
the immense Siberian herds. The grass here was five or six feet in
height, and had made room for swamp-plants, to which the dampness of
the place, assisted by the heat of summer, had given giant proportions.
These were principally canes and rushes, which formed a tangled network,
an impenetrable undergrowth, sprinkled everywhere with a thousand
flowers remarkable for the brightness of their color.
Michael Strogoff, galloping amongst this undergrowth of cane, was no
longer visible from the swamps which bordered the road. The tall grass
rose above him, and his track was indicated only by the flight of
innumerable aquatic birds, which rose from the side of the road and
dispersed into the air in screaming flocks.
The way, however, was clearly traceable. Now it would lie straight
between the dense thicket of marsh-plants; again it would follow the
winding shores of vast pools, some of which, several versts in length
and breadth, deserve the name of lakes. In other localities the stagnant
waters through which the road lay had been avoided, not by bridges, but
by tottering platforms ballasted with thick layers of clay, whose
joists shook like a too weak plank thrown across an abyss. Some of these
platforms extended over three hundred feet, and travelers by tarantass,
when crossing them have experienced a nausea like sea-sickness.
Michael Strogoff, whether the soil beneath his feet was solid or whether
it sank under him, galloped on without halt, leaping the space between
the rotten joists; but however fast they traveled the horse and the
horseman were unable to escape from the sting of the two-winged insects
which infest this marshy country.
Travelers who are obliged to cross the Baraba during the summer take
care to provide themselves with masks of horse-hair, to which is
attached a coat of mail of very fine wire, which covers their shoulders.
Notwithstanding these precautions, there are few who come out of these
marshes without having their faces, necks, and hands covered with red
spots. The atmosphere there seems to bristle with fine needles, and one
would almost say that a knight’s armor would not protect him against
the darts of these dipterals. It is a dreary region, which man dearly
disputes with tipulae, gnats, mosquitos, horse-flies, and millions
of microscopic insects which are not visible to the naked eye;
but, although they are not seen, they make themselves felt by their
intolerable stinging, to which the most callous Siberian hunters have
never been able to inure themselves.
Michael Strogoff’s horse, stung by these venomous insects, sprang
forward as if the rowels of a thousand spurs had pierced his flanks.
Mad with rage, he tore along over verst after verst with the speed of an
express train, lashing his sides with his tail, seeking by the rapidity
of his pace an alleviation of his torture.
It required as good a horseman as Michael Strogoff not to be thrown by
the plungings of his horse, and the sudden stops and bounds which
he made to escape from the stings of his persecutors. Having become
insensible, so to speak, to physical suffering, possessed only with the
one desire to arrive at his destination at whatever cost, he saw during
this mad race only one thing--that the road flew rapidly behind him.
Who would have thought that this district of the Baraba, so unhealthy
during the summer, could have afforded an asylum for human beings? Yet
it did so. Several Siberian hamlets appeared from time to time among
the giant canes. Men, women, children, and old men, clad in the skins
of beasts, their faces covered with hardened blisters of skin, pastured
their poor herds of sheep. In order to preserve the animals from the
attack of the insects, they drove them to the leeward of fires of green
wood, which were kept burning night and day, and the pungent smoke of
which floated over the vast swamp.
When Michael Strogoff perceived that his horse, tired out, was on the
point of succumbing, he halted at one of these wretched hamlets, and
there, forgetting his own fatigue, he himself rubbed the wounds of the
poor animal with hot grease according to the Siberian custom; then he
gave him a good feed; and it was only after he had well groomed and
provided for him that he thought of himself, and recruited his strength
by a hasty meal of bread and meat and a glass of kwass. One hour
afterwards, or at the most two, he resumed with all speed the
interminable road to Irkutsk.
On the 30th of July, at four o’clock in the afternoon, Michael Strogoff,
insensible of every fatigue, arrived at Elamsk. There it became
necessary to give a night’s rest to his horse. The brave animal could no
longer have continued the journey. At Elamsk, as indeed elsewhere, there
existed no means of transport,--for the same reasons as at the previous
villages, neither carriages nor horses were to be had.
Michael Strogoff resigned himself therefore to pass the night at Elamsk,
to give his horse twelve hours’ rest. He recalled the instructions which
had been given to him at Moscow--to cross Siberia incognito, to arrive
at Irkutsk, but not to sacrifice success to the rapidity of the journey;
and consequently it was necessary that he should husband the sole means
of transport which remained to him.
On the morrow, Michael Strogoff left Elamsk at the moment when the
first Tartar scouts were signaled ten versts behind upon the road to the
Baraba, and he plunged again into the swampy region. The road was
level, which made it easy, but very tortuous, and therefore long. It was
impossible, moreover, to leave it, and to strike a straight line across
that impassable network of pools and bogs.
On the next day, the 1st of August, eighty miles farther, Michael
Strogoff arrived at midday at the town of Spaskoe, and at two o’clock he
halted at Pokrowskoe. His horse, jaded since his departure from Elamsk,
could not have taken a single step more.
There Michael Strogoff was again compelled to lose, for necessary rest,
the end of that day and the entire night; but starting again on the
following morning, and still traversing the semi-inundated soil, on the
2nd of August, at four o’clock in the afternoon, after a stage of fifty
miles he reached Kamsk.
The country had changed. This little village of Kamsk lies, like
an island, habitable and healthy, in the midst of the uninhabitable
district. It is situated in the very center of the Baraba. The
emigration caused by the Tartar invasion had not yet depopulated this
little town of Kamsk. Its inhabitants probably fancied themselves safe
in the center of the Baraba, whence at least they thought they would
have time to flee if they were directly menaced.
Michael Strogoff, although exceedingly anxious for news, could ascertain
nothing at this place. It would have been rather to him that the
Governor would have addressed himself had he known who the pretended
merchant of Irkutsk really was. Kamsk, in fact, by its very situation
seemed to be outside the Siberian world and the grave events which
troubled it.
Besides, Michael Strogoff showed himself little, if at all. To be
unperceived was not now enough for him: he would have wished to be
invisible. The experience of the past made him more and more circumspect
in the present and the future. Therefore he secluded himself, and not
caring to traverse the streets of the village, he would not even leave
the inn at which he had halted.
As for his horse, he did not even think of exchanging him for another
animal. He had become accustomed to this brave creature. He knew to what
extent he could rely upon him. In buying him at Omsk he had been lucky,
and in taking him to the postmaster the generous mujik had rendered
him a great service. Besides, if Michael Strogoff had already become
attached to his horse, the horse himself seemed to become inured, by
degrees, to the fatigue of such a journey, and provided that he got
several hours of repose daily, his rider might hope that he would carry
him beyond the invaded provinces.
So, during the evening and night of the 2nd of August, Michael Strogoff
remained confined to his inn, at the entrance of the town; which was
little frequented and out of the way of the importunate and curious.
Exhausted with fatigue, he went to bed after having seen that his horse
lacked nothing; but his sleep was broken. What he had seen since his
departure from Moscow showed him the importance of his mission. The
rising was an extremely serious one, and the treachery of Ogareff made
it still more formidable. And when his eyes fell upon the letter bearing
upon it the authority of the imperial seal--the letter which, no
doubt, contained the remedy for so many evils, the safety of all this
war-ravaged country--Michael Strogoff felt within himself a fierce
desire to dash on across the steppe, to accomplish the distance which
separated him from Irkutsk as the crow would fly it, to be an eagle that
he might overtop all obstacles, to be a hurricane that he might sweep
through the air at a hundred versts an hour, and to be at last face
to face with the Grand Duke, and to exclaim: “Your highness, from his
Majesty the Czar!”
On the next morning at six o’clock, Michael Strogoff started off again.
Thanks to his extreme prudence this part of the journey was signalized
by no incident whatever. At Oubinsk he gave his horse a whole night’s
rest, for he wished on the next day to accomplish the hundred versts
which lie between Oubinsk and Ikoulskoe without halting. He started
therefore at dawn; but unfortunately the Baraba proved more detestable
than ever.
In fact, between Oubinsk and Kamakore the very heavy rains of some
previous weeks were retained by this shallow depression as in a
water-tight bowl. There was, for a long distance, no break in the
succession of swamps, pools, and lakes. One of these lakes--large enough
to warrant its geographical nomenclature--Tchang, Chinese in name, had
to be coasted for more than twenty versts, and this with the greatest
difficulty. Hence certain delays occurred, which all the impatience of
Michael Strogoff could not avoid. He had been well advised in not taking
a carriage at Kamsk, for his horse passed places which would have been
impracticable for a conveyance on wheels.
In the evening, at nine o’clock, Michael Strogoff arrived at Ikoulskoe,
and halted there over night. In this remote village of the Baraba news
of the war was utterly wanting. From its situation, this part of the
province, lying in the fork formed by the two Tartar columns which had
bifurcated, one upon Omsk and the other upon Tomsk, had hitherto escaped
the horrors of the invasion.
But the natural obstacles were now about to disappear, for, if he
experienced no delay, Michael Strogoff should on the morrow be free of
the Baraba and arrive at Kolyvan. There he would be within eighty miles
of Tomsk. He would then be guided by circumstances, and very probably
he would decide to go around Tomsk, which, if the news were true, was
occupied by Feofar-Khan.
But if the small towns of Ikoulskoe and Karguinsk, which he passed on
the next day, were comparatively quiet, owing to their position in the
Baraba, was it not to be dreaded that, upon the right banks of the Obi,
Michael Strogoff would have much more to fear from man? It was probable.
However, should it become necessary, he would not hesitate to abandon
the beaten path to Irkutsk. To journey then across the steppe he would,
no doubt, run the risk of finding himself without supplies. There would
be, in fact, no longer a well-marked road. Still, there must be no
hesitation.
Finally, towards half past three in the afternoon, Michael Strogoff left
the last depressions of the Baraba, and the dry and hard soil of Siberia
rang out once more beneath his horse’s hoofs.
He had left Moscow on the 15th of July. Therefore on this day, the 5th
of August, including more than seventy hours lost on the banks of the
Irtych, twenty days had gone by since his departure.
One thousand miles still separated him from Irkutsk.
CHAPTER XVI A FINAL EFFORT
MICHAEL’S fear of meeting the Tartars in the plains beyond the Baraba
was by no means ungrounded. The fields, trodden down by horses’ hoofs,
afforded but too clear evidence that their hordes had passed that way;
the same, indeed, might be said of these barbarians as of the Turks:
“Where the Turk goes, no grass grows.”
Michael saw at once that in traversing this country the greatest caution
was necessary. Wreaths of smoke curling upwards on the horizon showed
that huts and hamlets were still burning. Had these been fired by
the advance guard, or had the Emir’s army already advanced beyond the
boundaries of the province? Was Feofar-Khan himself in the government
of Yeniseisk? Michael could settle on no line of action until these
questions were answered. Was the country so deserted that he could not
discover a single Siberian to enlighten him?
Michael rode on for two versts without meeting a human being. He looked
carefully for some house which had not been deserted. Every one was
tenantless.
One hut, however, which he could just see between the trees, was still
smoking. As he approached he perceived, at some yards from the ruins of
the building, an old man surrounded by weeping children. A woman still
young, evidently his daughter and the mother of the poor children,
kneeling on the ground, was gazing on the scene of desolation. She had
at her breast a baby but a few months old; shortly she would have not
even that nourishment to give it. Ruin and desolation were all around!
Michael approached the old man.
“Will you answer me a few questions?” he asked.
“Speak,” replied the old man.
“Have the Tartars passed this way?”
“Yes, for my house is in flames.”
“Was it an army or a detachment?”
“An army, for, as far as eye can reach, our fields are laid waste.”
“Commanded by the Emir?”
“By the Emir; for the Obi’s waters are red.”
“Has Feofar-Khan entered Tomsk?”
“He has.”
“Do you know if his men have entered Kolyvan?”
“No; for Kolyvan does not yet burn.”
“Thanks, friend. Can I aid you and yours?”
“No.”
“Good-by.”
“Farewell.”
And Michael, having presented five and twenty roubles to the unfortunate
woman, who had not even strength to thank him, put spurs to his horse
once more.
One thing he knew; he must not pass through Tomsk. To go to Kolyvan,
which the Tartars had not yet reached, was possible. Yes, that is what
he must do; there he must prepare himself for another long stage. There
was nothing for it but, having crossed the Obi, to take the Irkutsk road
and avoid Tomsk.
This new route decided on, Michael must not delay an instant. Nor
did he, but, putting his horse into a steady gallop, he took the road
towards the left bank of the Obi, which was still forty versts distant.
Would there be a ferry boat there, or should he, finding that the
Tartars had destroyed all the boats, be obliged to swim across?
As to his horse, it was by this time pretty well worn out, and Michael
intended to make it perform this stage only, and then to exchange it for
a fresh one at Kolyvan. Kolyvan would be like a fresh starting point,
for on leaving that town his journey would take a new form. So long as
he traversed a devastated country the difficulties must be very great;
but if, having avoided Tomsk, he could resume the road to Irkutsk across
the province of Yeniseisk, which was not yet laid waste, he would finish
his journey in a few days.
Night came on, bringing with it refreshing coolness after the heat of
the day. At midnight the steppe was profoundly dark. The sound of the
horses’s hoofs alone was heard on the road, except when, every now and
then, its master spoke a few encouraging words. In such darkness as
this great care was necessary lest he should leave the road, bordered by
pools and streams, tributaries of the Obi. Michael therefore advanced
as quickly as was consistent with safety. He trusted no less to
the excellence of his eyes, which penetrated the gloom, than to the
well-proved sagacity of his horse.
Just as Michael dismounted to discover the exact direction of the road,
he heard a confused murmuring sound from the west. It was like the
noise of horses’ hoofs at some distance on the parched ground. Michael
listened attentively, putting his ear to the ground.
“It is a detachment of cavalry coming by the road from Omsk,” he said to
himself. “They are marching very quickly, for the noise is increasing.
Are they Russians or Tartars?”
Michael again listened. “Yes,” said he, “they are at a sharp trot. My
horse cannot outstrip them. If they are Russians I will join them; if
Tartars I must avoid them. But how? Where can I hide in this steppe?”
He gave a look around, and, through the darkness, discovered a confused
mass at a hundred paces before him on the left of the road. “There is a
copse!” he exclaimed. “To take refuge there is to run the risk of being
caught, if they are in search of me; but I have no choice.”
In a few moments Michael, dragging his horse by the bridle, reached
a little larch wood, through which the road lay. Beyond this it was
destitute of trees, and wound among bogs and pools, separated by
dwarfed bushes, whins, and heather. The ground on either side was quite
impracticable, and the detachment must necessarily pass through the
wood. They were pursuing the high road to Irkutsk. Plunging in about
forty feet, he was stopped by a stream running under the brushwood. But
the shadow was so deep that Michael ran no risk of being seen, unless
the wood should be carefully searched. He therefore led his horse to the
stream and fastened him to a tree, returning to the edge of the road to
listen and ascertain with what sort of people he had to do.
Michael had scarcely taken up his position behind a group of larches
when a confused light appeared, above which glared brighter lights
waving about in the shadow.
“Torches!” said he to himself. And he drew quickly back, gliding like a
savage into the thickest underwood.
As they approached the wood the horses’ pace was slackened. The horsemen
were probably lighting up the road with the intention of examining every
turn.
Michael feared this, and instinctively drew near to the bank of the
stream, ready to plunge in if necessary.
Arrived at the top of the wood, the detachment halted. The horsemen
dismounted. There were about fifty. A dozen of them carried torches,
lighting up the road.
By watching their preparations Michael found to his joy that the
detachment were not thinking of visiting the copse, but only bivouacking
near, to rest their horses and allow the men to take some refreshment.
The horses were soon unsaddled, and began to graze on the thick grass
which carpeted the ground. The men meantime stretched themselves by the
side of the road, and partook of the provisions they produced from their
knapsacks.
Michael’s self-possession had never deserted him, and creeping amongst
the high grass he endeavored not only to examine the new-comers, but to
hear what they said. It was a detachment from Omsk, composed of Usbeck
horsemen, a race of the Mongolian type. These men, well built, above
the medium height, rough, and wild-featured, wore on their heads the
“talpak,” or black sheep-skin cap, and on their feet yellow high-heeled
boots with turned-up toes, like the shoes of the Middle Ages. Their
tunics were close-fitting, and confined at the waist by a leathern
belt braided with red. They were armed defensively with a shield, and
offensively with a curved sword, and a flintlock musket slung at the
saddle-bow. From their shoulders hung gay-colored cloaks.
The horses, which were feeding at liberty at the edge of the wood, were,
like their masters, of the Usbeck race. These animals are rather smaller
than the Turcomanian horses, but are possessed of remarkable strength,
and know no other pace than the gallop.
This detachment was commanded by a “pendja-baschi”; that is to say,
a commander of fifty men, having under him a “deh-baschi,” or simple
commander of ten men. These two officers wore helmets and half
coats-of-mail; little trumpets fastened to their saddle-bows were the
distinctive signs of their rank.
The pendja-baschi had been obliged to let his men rest, fatigued with
a long stage. He and the second officer, smoking “beng,” the leaf which
forms the base of the “has-chisch,” strolled up and down the wood, so
that Michael Strogoff without being seen, could catch and understand
their conversation, which was spoken in the Tartar language.
Michael’s attention was singularly excited by their very first words. It
was of him they were speaking.
“This courier cannot be much in advance of us,” said the pendja-baschi;
“and, on the other hand, it is absolutely impossible that he can have
followed any other route than that of the Baraba.”
“Who knows if he has left Omsk?” replied the deh-baschi. “Perhaps he is
still hidden in the town.”
“That is to be wished, certainly. Colonel Ogareff would have no fear
then that the dispatches he bears should ever reach their destination.”
“They say that he is a native, a Siberian,” resumed the deh-baschi. “If
so, he must be well acquainted with the country, and it is possible that
he has left the Irkutsk road, depending on rejoining it later.”
“But then we should be in advance of him,” answered the pendja-baschi;
“for we left Omsk within an hour after his departure, and have since
followed the shortest road with all the speed of our horses. He has
either remained in Omsk, or we shall arrive at Tomsk before him, so as
to cut him off; in either case he will not reach Irkutsk.”
“A rugged woman, that old Siberian, who is evidently his mother,” said
the deh-baschi.
At this remark Michael’s heart beat violently.
“Yes,” answered the pendja-baschi. “She stuck to it well that the
pretended merchant was not her son, but it was too late. Colonel Ogareff
was not to be taken in; and, as he said, he will know how to make the
old witch speak when the time comes.”
These words were so many dagger-thrusts for Michael. He was known to be
a courier of the Czar! A detachment of horsemen on his track could not
fail to cut him off. And, worst of all, his mother was in the hands of
the Tartars, and the cruel Ogareff had undertaken to make her speak when
he wished!
Michael well knew that the brave Siberian would sacrifice her life for
him. He had fancied that he could not hate Ivan Ogareff more, yet a
fresh tide of hate now rose in his heart. The wretch who had betrayed
his country now threatened to torture his mother.
The conversation between the two officers continued, and Michael
understood that an engagement was imminent in the neighborhood of
Kolyvan, between the Muscovite troops coming from the north and the
Tartars. A small Russian force of two thousand men, reported to have
reached the lower course of the Obi, were advancing by forced marches
towards Tomsk. If such was the case, this force, which would soon
find itself engaged with the main body of Feofar-Khan’s army, would
be inevitably overwhelmed, and the Irkutsk road would be in the entire
possession of the invaders.
As to himself, Michael learnt, by some words from the pendja-baschi,
that a price was set on his head, and that orders had been given to take
him, dead or alive.
It was necessary, therefore, to get the start of the Usbeck horsemen on
the Irkutsk road, and put the Obi between himself and them. But to do
that, he must escape before the camp was broken up.
His determination taken, Michael prepared to execute it.
Indeed, the halt would not be prolonged, and the pendja-baschi did not
intend to give his men more than an hour’s rest, although their horses
could not have been changed for fresh ones since Omsk, and must be as
much fatigued as that of Michael Strogoff.
There was not a moment to lose. It was within an hour of morning. It
was needful to profit by the darkness to leave the little wood and dash
along the road; but although night favored it the success of such a
flight appeared to be almost impossible.
Not wishing to do anything at random, Michael took time for reflection,
carefully weighing the chances so as to take the best. From the
situation of the place the result was this--that he could not escape
through the back of the wood, the stream which bordered it being not
only deep, but very wide and muddy. Beneath this thick water was a slimy
bog, on which the foot could not rest. There was only one way open, the
high-road. To endeavor to reach it by creeping round the edge of the
wood, without attracting attention, and then to gallop at headlong
speed, required all the remaining strength and energy of his noble
steed. Too probably it would fall dead on reaching the banks of the Obi,
when, either by boat or by swimming, he must cross this important river.
This was what Michael had before him.
His energy and courage increased in sight of danger.
His life, his mission, his country, perhaps the safety of his mother,
were at stake. He could not hesitate.
There was not a moment to be lost. Already there was a slight movement
among the men of the detachment. A few horsemen were strolling up and
down the road in front of the wood. The rest were still lying at the
foot of the trees, but their horses were gradually penetrating towards
the center of the wood.
Michael had at first thought of seizing one of these horses, but he
recollected that, of course, they would be as fatigued as his own. It
was better to trust to his own brave steed, which had already rendered
him such important service. The good animal, hidden behind a thicket,
had escaped the sight of the Usbecks. They, besides, had not penetrated
so far into the wood.
Michael crawled up to his horse through the grass, and found him lying
down. He patted and spoke gently to him, and managed to raise him
without noise. Fortunately, the torches were entirely consumed, and
now went out, the darkness being still profound under shelter of the
larches. After replacing the bit, Michael looked to his girths and
stirrups, and began to lead his horse quietly away. The intelligent
animal followed his master without even making the least neigh.
A few Usbeck horses raised their heads, and began to wander towards the
edge of the wood. Michael held his revolver in his hand, ready to blow
out the brains of the first Tartar who should approach him. But happily
the alarm was not given, and he was able to gain the angle made by the
wood where it joined the road.
To avoid being seen, Michael’s intention was not to mount until after
turning a corner some two hundred feet from the wood. Unfortunately,
just at the moment that he was issuing from the wood, an Usbeck’s horse,
scenting him, neighed and began to trot along the road. His master ran
to catch him, and seeing a shadowy form moving in the dim light, “Look
out!” he shouted.
At the cry, all the men of the bivouac jumped up, and ran to seize their
horses. Michael leaped on his steed, and galloped away. The two officers
of the detachment urged on their men to follow.
Michael heard a report, and felt a ball pass through his tunic. Without
turning his head, without replying, he spurred on, and, clearing the
brushwood with a tremendous bound, he galloped at full speed toward the
Obi.
The Usbecks’ horses being unsaddled gave him a small start, but in less
than two minutes he heard the tramp of several horses gradually gaining
on him.
Day was now beginning to break, and objects at some distance were
becoming visible. Michael turned his head, and perceived a horseman
rapidly approaching him. It was the deh-baschi. Being better mounted,
this officer had distanced his detachment.
Without drawing rein, Michael extended his revolver, and took a moment’s
aim. The Usbeck officer, hit in the breast, rolled on the ground.
But the other horsemen followed him closely, and without waiting to
assist the deh-baschi, exciting each other by their shouts, digging
their spurs into their horses’ sides, they gradually diminished the
distance between themselves and Michael.
For half an hour only was the latter able to keep out of range of
the Tartars, but he well knew that his horse was becoming weaker, and
dreaded every instant that he would stumble never to rise again.
It was now light, although the sun had not yet risen above the horizon.
Two versts distant could be seen a pale line bordered by a few trees.
This was the Obi, which flows from the southwest to the northeast,
the surface almost level with the ground, its bed being but the steppe
itself.
Several times shots were fired at Michael, but without hitting him, and
several times too he discharged his revolver on those of the soldiers
who pressed him too closely. Each time an Usbeck rolled on the ground,
midst cries of rage from his companions. But this pursuit could only
terminate to Michael’s disadvantage. His horse was almost exhausted. He
managed to reach the bank of the river. The Usbeck detachment was now
not more than fifty paces behind him.
The Obi was deserted--not a boat of any description which could take him
over the water!
“Courage, my brave horse!” cried Michael. “Come! A last effort!” And he
plunged into the river, which here was half a verst in width.
It would have been difficult to stand against the current--indeed,
Michael’s horse could get no footing. He must therefore swim across the
river, although it was rapid as a torrent. Even to attempt it showed
Michael’s marvelous courage. The soldiers reached the bank, but
hesitated to plunge in.
The pendja-baschi seized his musket and took aim at Michael, whom he
could see in the middle of the stream. The shot was fired, and Michael’s
horse, struck in the side, was borne away by the current.
His master, speedily disentangling himself from his stirrups, struck out
boldly for the shore. In the midst of a hailstorm of balls he managed to
reach the opposite side, and disappeared in the rushes.
CHAPTER XVII THE RIVALS
MICHAEL was in comparative safety, though his situation was still
terrible. Now that the faithful animal who had so bravely borne him had
met his death in the waters of the river, how was he to continue his
journey?
He was on foot, without provisions, in a country devastated by the
invasion, overrun by the Emir’s scouts, and still at a considerable
distance from the place he was striving to reach. “By Heaven, I will get
there!” he exclaimed, in reply to all the reasons for faltering. “God
will protect our sacred Russia.”
Michael was out of reach of the Usbeck horsemen. They had not dared to
pursue him through the river.
Once more on solid ground Michael stopped to consider what he should
do next. He wished to avoid Tomsk, now occupied by the Tartar troops.
Nevertheless, he must reach some town, or at least a post-house, where
he could procure a horse. A horse once found, he would throw himself out
of the beaten track, and not again take to the Irkutsk road until in the
neighborhood of Krasnoiarsk. From that place, if he were quick, he
hoped to find the way still open, and he intended to go through the Lake
Baikal provinces in a southeasterly direction.
Michael began by going eastward. By following the course of the Obi two
versts further, he reached a picturesque little town lying on a small
hill. A few churches, with Byzantine cupolas colored green and gold,
stood up against the gray sky. This is Kolyvan, where the officers and
people employed at Kamsk and other towns take refuge during the summer
from the unhealthy climate of the Baraba. According to the latest news
obtained by the Czar’s courier, Kolyvan could not be yet in the hands of
the invaders. The Tartar troops, divided into two columns, had marched
to the left on Omsk, to the right on Tomsk, neglecting the intermediate
country.
Michael Strogoff’s plan was simply this--to reach Kolyvan before the
arrival of the Usbeck horsemen, who would ascend the other bank of the
Obi to the ferry. There he would procure clothes and a horse, and resume
the road to Irkutsk across the southern steppe.
It was now three o’clock in the morning. The neighborhood of Kolyvan
was very still, and appeared to have been totally abandoned. The country
population had evidently fled to the northwards, to the province of
Yeniseisk, dreading the invasion, which they could not resist.
Michael was walking at a rapid pace towards Kolyvan when distant firing
struck his ear. He stopped, and clearly distinguished the dull roar of
artillery, and above it a crisp rattle which could not be mistaken.
“It is cannon and musketry!” said he. “The little Russian body is
engaged with the Tartar army! Pray Heaven that I may arrive at Kolyvan
before them!”
The firing became gradually louder, and soon to the left of Kolyvan
a mist collected--not smoke, but those great white clouds produced by
discharges of artillery.
The Usbeck horsemen stopped on the left of the Obi, to await the result
of the battle. From them Michael had nothing to fear as he hastened
towards the town.
In the meanwhile the firing increased, and became sensibly nearer. It
was no longer a confused roar, but distinct reports. At the same time
the smoke partially cleared, and it became evident that the combatants
were rapidly moving southwards. It appeared that Kolyvan was to be
attacked on the north side. But were the Russians defending it or the
Tartars? It being impossible to decide this, Michael became greatly
perplexed.
He was not more than half a verst from Kolyvan when he observed flames
shooting up among the houses of the town, and the steeple of a church
fell in the midst of clouds of smoke and fire. Was the struggle, then,
in Kolyvan? Michael was compelled to think so. It was evident that
Russians and Tartars were fighting in the streets of the town. Was this
a time to seek refuge there? Would he not run a risk of being taken
prisoner? Should he succeed in escaping from Kolyvan, as he had escaped
from Omsk? He hesitated and stopped a moment. Would it not be better to
try, even on foot, to reach some small town, and there procure a horse
at any price? This was the only thing to be done; and Michael, leaving
the Obi, went forward to the right of Kolyvan.
The firing had now increased in violence. Flames soon sprang up on the
left of the town. Fire was devouring one entire quarter of Kolyvan.
Michael was running across the steppe endeavoring to gain the covert of
some trees when a detachment of Tartar cavalry appeared on the right. He
dared not continue in that direction. The horsemen advanced rapidly, and
it would have been difficult to escape them.
Suddenly, in a thick clump of trees, he saw an isolated house, which
it would be possible to reach before he was perceived. Michael had
no choice but to run there, hide himself and ask or take something to
recruit his strength, for he was exhausted with hunger and fatigue.
He accordingly ran on towards this house, still about half a verst
distant. As he approached, he could see that it was a telegraph office.
Two wires left it in westerly and easterly directions, and a third went
towards Kolyvan.
It was to be supposed that under the circumstances this station was
abandoned; but even if it was, Michael could take refuge there, and wait
till nightfall, if necessary, to again set out across the steppe covered
with Tartar scouts.
He ran up to the door and pushed it open.
A single person was in the room whence the telegraphic messages were
dispatched. This was a clerk, calm, phlegmatic, indifferent to all that
was passing outside. Faithful to his post, he waited behind his little
wicket until the public claimed his services.
Michael ran up to him, and in a voice broken by fatigue, “What do you
know?” he asked.
“Nothing,” answered the clerk, smiling.
“Are the Russians and Tartars engaged?”
“They say so.”
“But who are the victors?”
“I don’t know.”
Such calmness, such indifference, in the midst of these terrible events,
was scarcely credible.
“And is not the wire cut?” said Michael.
“It is cut between Kolyvan and Krasnoiarsk, but it is still working
between Kolyvan and the Russian frontier.”
“For the government?”
“For the government, when it thinks proper. For the public, when they
pay. Ten copecks a word, whenever you like, sir!”
Michael was about to reply to this strange clerk that he had no message
to send, that he only implored a little bread and water, when the door
of the house was again thrown open.
Thinking that it was invaded by Tartars, Michael made ready to leap out
of the window, when two men only entered the room who had nothing of
the Tartar soldier about them. One of them held a dispatch, written in
pencil, in his hand, and, passing the other, he hurried up to the wicket
of the imperturbable clerk.
In these two men Michael recognized with astonishment, which everyone
will understand, two personages of whom he was not thinking at all, and
whom he had never expected to see again. They were the two reporters,
Harry Blount and Alcide Jolivet, no longer traveling companions, but
rivals, enemies, now that they were working on the field of battle.
They had left Ichim only a few hours after the departure of Michael
Strogoff, and they had arrived at Kolyvan before him, by following the
same road, in consequence of his losing three days on the banks of the
Irtych. And now, after being both present at the engagement between the
Russians and Tartars before the town, they had left just as the struggle
broke out in the streets, and ran to the telegraph office, so as to send
off their rival dispatches to Europe, and forestall each other in their
report of events.
Michael stood aside in the shadow, and without being seen himself he
could see and hear all that was going on. He would now hear interesting
news, and would find out whether or not he could enter Kolyvan.
Blount, having distanced his companion, took possession of the wicket,
whilst Alcide Jolivet, contrary to his usual habit, stamped with
impatience.
“Ten copecks a word,” said the clerk.
Blount deposited a pile of roubles on the shelf, whilst his rival looked
on with a sort of stupefaction.
“Good,” said the clerk. And with the greatest coolness in the world he
began to telegraph the following dispatch: “Daily Telegraph, London.
“From Kolyvan, Government of Omsk, Siberia, 6th August.
“Engagement between Russian and Tartar troops.”
The reading was in a distinct voice, so that Michael heard all that the
English correspondent was sending to his paper.
“Russians repulsed with great loss. Tartars entered Kolyvan to-day.”
These words ended the dispatch.
“My turn now,” cried Alcide Jolivet, anxious to send off his dispatch,
addressed to his cousin.
But that was not Blount’s idea, who did not intend to give up the
wicket, but have it in his power to send off the news just as the events
occurred. He would therefore not make way for his companion.
“But you have finished!” exclaimed Jolivet.
“I have not finished,” returned Harry Blount quietly.
And he proceeded to write some sentences, which he handed in to the
clerk, who read out in his calm voice: “John Gilpin was a citizen of
credit and renown; a train-band captain eke was he of famous London
town.”
Harry Blount was telegraphing some verses learned in his childhood, in
order to employ the time, and not give up his place to his rival. It
would perhaps cost his paper some thousands of roubles, but it would be
the first informed. France could wait.
Jolivet’s fury may be imagined, though under any other circumstances
he would have thought it fair warfare. He even endeavored to force the
clerk to take his dispatch in preference to that of his rival.
“It is that gentleman’s right,” answered the clerk coolly, pointing
to Blount, and smiling in the most amiable manner. And he continued
faithfully to transmit to the Daily Telegraph the well-known verses of
Cowper.
Whilst he was working Blount walked to the window and, his field glass
to his eyes, watched all that was going on in the neighborhood of
Kolyvan, so as to complete his information. In a few minutes he resumed
his place at the wicket, and added to his telegram: “Two churches are
in flames. The fire appears to gain on the right. ‘John Gilpin’s spouse
said to her dear, Though wedded we have been these twice ten tedious
years, yet we no holiday have seen.’”
Alcide Jolivet would have liked to strangle the honorable correspondent
of the Daily Telegraph.
He again interrupted the clerk, who, quite unmoved, merely replied: “It
is his right, sir, it is his right--at ten copecks a word.”
And he telegraphed the following news, just brought him by Blount:
“Russian fugitives are escaping from the town. ‘Away went Gilpin--who
but he? His fame soon spread around: He carries weight! he rides a race!
‘Tis for a thousand pound!’” And Blount turned round with a quizzical
look at his rival.
Alcide Jolivet fumed.
In the meanwhile Harry Blount had returned to the window, but this time
his attention was diverted by the interest of the scene before him.
Therefore, when the clerk had finished telegraphing the last lines
dictated by Blount, Alcide Jolivet noiselessly took his place at the
wicket, and, just as his rival had done, after quietly depositing a
respectable pile of roubles on the shelf, he delivered his dispatch,
which the clerk read aloud: “Madeleine Jolivet, 10, Faubourg Montmartre,
Paris.
“From Kolyvan, Government of Omsk, Siberia, 6th August.
“Fugitives are escaping from the town. Russians defeated. Fiercely
pursued by the Tartar cavalry.”
And as Harry Blount returned he heard Jolivet completing his telegram by
singing in a mocking tone:
“II est un petit homme, Tout habille de gris, Dans Paris!”
Imitating his rival, Alcide Jolivet had used a merry refrain of
Beranger.
“Hallo!” said Harry Blount.
“Just so,” answered Jolivet.
In the meantime the situation at Kolyvan was alarming in the extreme.
The battle was raging nearer, and the firing was incessant.
At that moment the telegraph office shook to its foundations. A shell
had made a hole in the wall, and a cloud of dust filled the office.
Alcide was just finishing writing his lines; but to stop, dart on the
shell, seize it in both hands, throw it out of the window, and return to
the wicket, was only the affair of a moment.
Five seconds later the shell burst outside. Continuing with the greatest
possible coolness, Alcide wrote: “A six-inch shell has just blown up the
wall of the telegraph office. Expecting a few more of the same size.”
Michael Strogoff had no doubt that the Russians were driven out of
Kolyvan. His last resource was to set out across the southern steppe.
Just then renewed firing broke out close to the telegraph house, and a
perfect shower of bullets smashed all the glass in the windows. Harry
Blount fell to the ground wounded in the shoulder.
Jolivet even at such a moment, was about to add this postscript to
his dispatch: “Harry Blount, correspondent of the Daily Telegraph, has
fallen at my side struck by--” when the imperturbable clerk said calmly:
“Sir, the wire has broken.” And, leaving his wicket, he quietly took his
hat, brushed it round with his sleeve, and, still smiling, disappeared
through a little door which Michael had not before perceived.
The house was surrounded by Tartar soldiers, and neither Michael nor the
reporters could effect their retreat.
Alcide Jolivet, his useless dispatch in his hand, had run to Blount,
stretched on the ground, and had bravely lifted him on his shoulders,
with the intention of flying with him. He was too late!
Both were prisoners; and, at the same time, Michael, taken unawares
as he was about to leap from the window, fell into the hands of the
Tartars!
END OF BOOK I
BOOK II
CHAPTER I A TARTAR CAMP
AT a day’s march from Kolyvan, several versts beyond the town of
Diachinks, stretches a wide plain, planted here and there with great
trees, principally pines and cedars. This part of the steppe is usually
occupied during the warm season by Siberian shepherds, and their
numerous flocks. But now it might have been searched in vain for one of
its nomad inhabitants. Not that the plain was deserted. It presented a
most animated appearance.
There stood the Tartar tents; there Feofar-Khan, the terrible Emir
of Bokhara, was encamped; and there on the following day, the 7th
of August, were brought the prisoners taken at Kolyvan after the
annihilation of the Russian force, which had vainly attempted to oppose
the progress of the invaders. Of the two thousand men who had engaged
with the two columns of the enemy, the bases of which rested on Tomsk
and Omsk, only a few hundred remained. Thus events were going badly,
and the imperial government appeared to have lost its power beyond the
frontiers of the Ural--for a time at least, for the Russians could not
fail eventually to defeat the savage hordes of the invaders. But in
the meantime the invasion had reached the center of Siberia, and it
was spreading through the revolted country both to the eastern, and
the western provinces. If the troops of the Amoor and the province of
Takutsk did not arrive in time to occupy it, Irkutsk, the capital of
Asiatic Russia, being insufficiently garrisoned, would fall into the
hands of the Tartars, and the Grand Duke, brother of the Emperor, would
be sacrificed to the vengeance of Ivan Ogareff.
What had become of Michael Strogoff? Had he broken down under the weight
of so many trials? Did he consider himself conquered by the series
of disasters which, since the adventure of Ichim, had increased in
magnitude? Did he think his cause lost? that his mission had failed?
that his orders could no longer be obeyed?
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999
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1000