Michael was one of those men who never give in while life exists. He was
yet alive; he still had the imperial letter safe; his disguise had been
undiscovered. He was included amongst the numerous prisoners whom the
Tartars were dragging with them like cattle; but by approaching Tomsk he
was at the same time drawing nearer to Irkutsk. Besides, he was still in
front of Ivan Ogareff.
“I will get there!” he repeated to himself.
Since the affair of Kolyvan all the powers of his mind were concentrated
on one object--to become free! How should he escape from the Emir’s
soldiers?
Feofar’s camp presented a magnificent spectacle.
Numberless tents, of skin, felt, or silk, glistened in the rays of the
sun. The lofty plumes which surmounted their conical tops waved amidst
banners, flags, and pennons of every color. The richest of these tents
belonged to the Seides and Khodjas, who are the principal personages of
the khanat. A special pavilion, ornamented with a horse’s tail issuing
from a sheaf of red and white sticks artistically interlaced, indicated
the high rank of these Tartar chiefs. Then in the distance rose several
thousand of the Turcoman tents, called “karaoy,” which had been carried
on the backs of camels.
The camp contained at least a hundred and fifty thousand soldiers,
as many foot as horse soldiers, collected under the name of Alamanes.
Amongst them, and as the principal types of Turkestan, would have been
directly remarked the Tadjiks, from their regular features, white skin,
tall forms, and black eyes and hair; they formed the bulk of the Tartar
army, and of them the khanats of Khokhand and Koundouge had furnished
a contingent nearly equal to that of Bokhara. With the Tadjiks were
mingled specimens of different races who either reside in Turkestan or
whose native countries border on it. There were Usbecks, red-bearded,
small in stature, similar to those who had pursued Michael. Here were
Kirghiz, with flat faces like the Kalmucks, dressed in coats of mail:
some carried the lance, bows, and arrows of Asiatic manufacture; some
the saber, a matchlock gun, and the “tschakane,” a little short-handled
ax, the wounds from which invariably prove fatal. There were Mongols--of
middle height, with black hair plaited into pigtails, which hung down
their back; round faces, swarthy complexions, lively deep-set eyes,
scanty beards--dressed in blue nankeen trimmed with black plush,
sword-belts of leather with silver buckles, coats gayly braided,
and silk caps edged with fur and three ribbons fluttering behind.
Brown-skinned Afghans, too, might have been seen. Arabs, having the
primitive type of the beautiful Semitic races; and Turcomans, with eyes
which looked as if they had lost the pupil,--all enrolled under the
Emir’s flag, the flag of incendiaries and devastators.
Among these free soldiers were a certain number of slave soldiers,
principally Persians, commanded by officers of the same nation, and they
were certainly not the least esteemed of Feofar-Khan’s army.
If to this list are added the Jews, who acted as servants, their robes
confined with a cord, and wearing on their heads instead of the turban,
which is forbidden them, little caps of dark cloth; if with these
groups are mingled some hundreds of “kalenders,” a sort of religious
mendicants, clothed in rags, covered by a leopard skin, some idea may be
formed of the enormous agglomerations of different tribes included under
the general denomination of the Tartar army.
Nothing could be more romantic than this picture, in delineating which
the most skillful artist would have exhausted all the colors of his
palette.
Feofar’s tent overlooked the others. Draped in large folds of a
brilliant silk looped with golden cords and tassels, surmounted by tall
plumes which waved in the wind like fans, it occupied the center of a
wide clearing, sheltered by a grove of magnificent birch and pine trees.
Before this tent, on a japanned table inlaid with precious stones, was
placed the sacred book of the Koran, its pages being of thin gold-leaf
delicately engraved. Above floated the Tartar flag, quartered with the
Emir’s arms.
In a semicircle round the clearing stood the tents of the great
functionaries of Bokhara. There resided the chief of the stables, who
has the right to follow the Emir on horseback even into the court of
his palace; the grand falconer; the “housch-begui,” bearer of the
royal seal; the “toptschi-baschi,” grand master of the artillery; the
“khodja,” chief of the council, who receives the prince’s kiss, and
may present himself before him with his girdle untied; the
“scheikh-oul-islam,” chief of the Ulemas, representing the priests; the
“cazi-askev,” who, in the Emir’s absence settles all disputes raised
among the soldiers; and lastly, the chief of the astrologers, whose
great business is to consult the stars every time the Khan thinks of
changing his quarters.
When the prisoners were brought into the camp, the Emir was in his tent.
He did not show himself. This was fortunate, no doubt. A sign, a word
from him might have been the signal for some bloody execution. But
he intrenched himself in that isolation which constitutes in part the
majesty of Eastern kings. He who does not show himself is admired, and,
above all, feared.
As to the prisoners, they were to be penned up in some enclosure, where,
ill-treated, poorly fed, and exposed to all the inclemencies of the
weather, they would await Feofar’s pleasure.
The most docile and patient of them all was undoubtedly Michael
Strogoff. He allowed himself to be led, for they were leading him where
he wished to go, and under conditions of safety which free he could not
have found on the road from Kolyvan to Tomsk. To escape before reaching
that town was to risk again falling into the hands of the scouts, who
were scouring the steppe. The most eastern line occupied by the Tartar
columns was not situated beyond the eighty-fifth meridian, which passes
through Tomsk. This meridian once passed, Michael considered that he
should be beyond the hostile zones, that he could traverse Genisci
without danger, and gain Krasnoiarsk before Feofar-Khan had invaded the
province.
“Once at Tomsk,” he repeated to himself, to repress some feelings of
impatience which he could not entirely master, “in a few minutes I
should be beyond the outposts; and twelve hours gained on Feofar, twelve
hours on Ogareff, that surely would be enough to give me a start of them
to Irkutsk.”
The thing that Michael dreaded more than everything else was the
presence of Ivan Ogareff in the Tartar camp. Besides the danger of being
recognized, he felt, by a sort of instinct, that this was the traitor
whom it was especially necessary to precede. He understood, too, that
the union of Ogareff’s troops with those of Feofar would complete the
invading army, and that the junction once effected, the army would march
en masse on the capital of Eastern Siberia. All his apprehensions came
from this quarter, and he dreaded every instant to hear some flourish of
trumpets, announcing the arrival of the lieutenant of the Emir.
To this was added the thought of his mother, of Nadia,--the one a
prisoner at Omsk; the other dragged on board the Irtych boats, and no
doubt a captive, as Marfa Strogoff was. He could do nothing for them.
Should he ever see them again? At this question, to which he dared not
reply, his heart sank very low.
At the same time with Michael Strogoff and so many other prisoners Harry
Blount and Alcide Jolivet had also been taken to the Tartar camp. Their
former traveling companion, captured like them at the telegraph office,
knew that they were penned up with him in the enclosure, guarded by
numerous sentinels, but he did not wish to accost them. It mattered
little to him, at this time especially, what they might think of him
since the affair at Ichim. Besides, he desired to be alone, that he
might act alone, if necessary. He therefore held himself aloof from his
former acquaintances.
From the moment that Harry Blount had fallen by his side, Jolivet had
not ceased his attentions to him. During the journey from Kolyvan to
the camp--that is to say, for several hours--Blount, by leaning on his
companion’s arm, had been enabled to follow the rest of the prisoners.
He tried to make known that he was a British subject; but it had no
effect on the barbarians, who only replied by prods with a lance or
sword. The correspondent of the Daily Telegraph was, therefore, obliged
to submit to the common lot, resolving to protest later, and obtain
satisfaction for such treatment. But the journey was not the less
disagreeable to him, for his wound caused him much pain, and without
Alcide Jolivet’s assistance he might never have reached the camp.
Jolivet, whose practical philosophy never abandoned him, had physically
and morally strengthened his companion by every means in his power. His
first care, when they found themselves definitely established in the
enclosure, was to examine Blount’s wound. Having managed carefully to
draw off his coat, he found that the shoulder had been only grazed by
the shot.
“This is nothing,” he said. “A mere scratch! After two or three
dressings you will be all to rights.”
“But these dressings?” asked Blount.
“I will make them for you myself.”
“Then you are something of a doctor?”
“All Frenchmen are something of doctors.”
And on this affirmation Alcide, tearing his handkerchief, made lint of
one piece, bandages of the other, took some water from a well dug in the
middle of the enclosure, bathed the wound, and skillfully placed the wet
rag on Harry Blount’s shoulder.
“I treat you with water,” he said. “This liquid is the most efficacious
sedative known for the treatment of wounds, and is the most employed
now. Doctors have taken six thousand years to discover that! Yes, six
thousand years in round numbers!”
“I thank you, M. Jolivet,” answered Harry, stretching himself on a bed
of dry leaves, which his companion had arranged for him in the shade of
a birch tree.
“Bah! it’s nothing! You would do as much for me.”
“I am not quite so sure,” said Blount candidly.
“Nonsense, stupid! All English are generous.”
“Doubtless; but the French?”
“Well, the French--they are brutes, if you like! But what redeems them
is that they are French. Say nothing more about that, or rather, say
nothing more at all. Rest is absolutely necessary for you.”
But Harry Blount had no wish to be silent. If the wound, in prudence,
required rest, the correspondent of the Daily Telegraph was not a man to
indulge himself.
“M. Jolivet,” he asked, “do you think that our last dispatches have been
able to pass the Russian frontier?”
“Why not?” answered Alcide. “By this time you may be sure that my
beloved cousin knows all about the affair at Kolyvan.”
“How many copies does your cousin work off of her dispatches?” asked
Blount, for the first time putting his question direct to his companion.
“Well,” answered Alcide, laughing, “my cousin is a very discreet person,
who does not like to be talked about, and who would be in despair if she
troubled the sleep of which you are in need.”
“I don’t wish to sleep,” replied the Englishman. “What will your cousin
think of the affairs of Russia?”
“That they seem for the time in a bad way. But, bah! the Muscovite
government is powerful; it cannot be really uneasy at an invasion of
barbarians.”
“Too much ambition has lost the greatest empires,” answered Blount, who
was not exempt from a certain English jealousy with regard to Russian
pretensions in Central Asia.
“Oh, do not let us talk politics,” cried Jolivet. “It is forbidden by
the faculty. Nothing can be worse for wounds in the shoulder--unless it
was to put you to sleep.”
“Let us, then, talk of what we ought to do,” replied Blount. “M.
Jolivet, I have no intention at all of remaining a prisoner to these
Tartars for an indefinite time.”
“Nor I, either, by Jove!”
“We will escape on the first opportunity?”
“Yes, if there is no other way of regaining our liberty.”
“Do you know of any other?” asked Blount, looking at his companion.
“Certainly. We are not belligerents; we are neutral, and we will claim
our freedom.”
“From that brute of a Feofar-Khan?”
“No; he would not understand,” answered Jolivet; “but from his
lieutenant, Ivan Ogareff.”
“He is a villain.”
“No doubt; but the villain is a Russian. He knows that it does not do
to trifle with the rights of men, and he has no interest to retain us;
on the contrary. But to ask a favor of that gentleman does not quite
suit my taste.”
“But that gentleman is not in the camp, or at least I have not seen him
here,” observed Blount.
“He will come. He will not fail to do that. He must join the Emir.
Siberia is cut in two now, and very certainly Feofar’s army is only
waiting for him to advance on Irkutsk.”
“And once free, what shall we do?”
“Once free, we will continue our campaign, and follow the Tartars, until
the time comes when we can make our way into the Russian camp. We must
not give up the game. No, indeed; we have only just begun. You, friend,
have already had the honor of being wounded in the service of the Daily
Telegraph, whilst I--I have as yet suffered nothing in my cousin’s
service. Well, well! Good,” murmured Alcide Jolivet; “there he is
asleep. A few hours’ sleep and a few cold water compresses are all that
are required to set an Englishman on his legs again. These fellows are
made of cast iron.”
And whilst Harry Blount rested, Alcide watched near him, after having
drawn out his note book, which he loaded with notes, determined besides
to share them with his companion, for the greater satisfaction of the
readers of the Daily Telegraph. Events had united them one with the
other. They were no longer jealous of each other. So, then, the thing
that Michael Strogoff dreaded above everything was the most lively
desire of the two correspondents. Ivan Ogareff’s arrival would evidently
be of use to them. Blount and Jolivet’s interest was, therefore,
contrary to that of Michael. The latter well understood the situation,
and it was one reason, added to many others, which prevented him from
approaching his former traveling companions. He therefore managed so as
not to be seen by them.
Four days passed thus without the state of things being in anywise
altered. The prisoners heard no talk of the breaking up of the Tartar
camp. They were strictly guarded. It would have been impossible for them
to pass the cordon of foot and horse soldiers, which watched them night
and day. As to the food which was given them it was barely sufficient.
Twice in the twenty-four hours they were thrown a piece of the
intestines of goats grilled on the coals, or a few bits of that cheese
called “kroute,” made of sour ewe’s milk, and which, soaked in mare’s
milk, forms the Kirghiz dish, commonly called “koumyss.” And this was
all. It may be added that the weather had become detestable. There were
considerable atmospheric commotions, bringing squalls mingled with rain.
The unfortunate prisoners, destitute of shelter, had to bear all the
inclemencies of the weather, nor was there the slightest alleviation to
their misery. Several wounded women and children died, and the prisoners
were themselves compelled to dig graves for the bodies of those whom
their jailers would not even take the trouble to bury.
During this trying period Alcide Jolivet and Michael Strogoff worked
hard, each in the portions of the enclosure in which they found
themselves. Healthy and vigorous, they suffered less than so many
others, and could better endure the hardships to which they were
exposed. By their advice, and the assistance they rendered, they were
of the greatest possible use to their suffering and despairing
fellow-captives.
Was this state of things to last? Would Feofar-Khan, satisfied with his
first success, wait some time before marching on Irkutsk? Such, it was
to be feared, would be the case. But it was not so. The event so much
wished for by Jolivet and Blount, so much dreaded by Michael, occurred
on the morning of the 12th of August.
On that day the trumpets sounded, the drums beat, the cannon roared.
A huge cloud of dust swept along the road from Kolyvan. Ivan Ogareff,
followed by several thousand men, made his entry into the Tartar camp.
CHAPTER II CORRESPONDENTS IN TROUBLE
IVAN OGAREFF was bringing up the main body of the army of the Emir. The
cavalry and infantry now under him had formed part of the column which
had taken Omsk. Ogareff, not having been able to reduce the high town,
in which, it must be remembered, the governor and garrison had sought
refuge, had decided to pass on, not wishing to delay operations which
ought to lead to the conquest of Eastern Siberia. He therefore left a
garrison in Omsk, and, reinforcing himself en route with the conquerors
of Kolyvan, joined Feofar’s army.
Ivan Ogareff’s soldiers halted at the outposts of the camp. They
received no orders to bivouac. Their chief’s plan, doubtless, was not
to halt there, but to press on and reach Tomsk in the shortest possible
time, it being an important town, naturally intended to become the
center of future operations.
Besides his soldiers, Ogareff was bringing a convoy of Russian and
Siberian prisoners, captured either at Omsk or Kolyvan. These unhappy
creatures were not led to the enclosure--already too crowded--but
were forced to remain at the outposts without shelter, almost without
nourishment. What fate was Feofar-Khan reserving for these unfortunates?
Would he imprison them in Tomsk, or would some bloody execution,
familiar to the Tartar chiefs, remove them when they were found too
inconvenient? This was the secret of the capricious Emir.
This army had not come from Omsk and Kolyvan without bringing in its
train the usual crowd of beggars, freebooters, pedlars, and gypsies,
which compose the rear-guard of an army on the march.
All these people lived on the country traversed, and left little of
anything behind them. There was, therefore, a necessity for pushing
forward, if only to secure provisions for the troops. The whole region
between Ichim and the Obi, now completely devastated, no longer offered
any resources. The Tartars left a desert behind them.
Conspicuous among the gypsies who had hastened from the western
provinces was the Tsigane troop, which had accompanied Michael Strogoff
as far as Perm. Sangarre was there. This fierce spy, the tool of Ivan
Ogareff, had not deserted her master. Ogareff had traveled rapidly
to Ichim, whilst Sangarre and her band had proceeded to Omsk by the
southern part of the province.
It may be easily understood how useful this woman was to Ogareff. With
her gypsy-band she could penetrate anywhere. Ivan Ogareff was kept
acquainted with all that was going on in the very heart of the invaded
provinces. There were a hundred eyes, a hundred ears, open in his
service. Besides, he paid liberally for this espionage, from which he
derived so much advantage.
Once Sangarre, being implicated in a very serious affair, had been saved
by the Russian officer. She never forgot what she owed him, and had
devoted herself to his service body and soul.
When Ivan Ogareff entered on the path of treason, he saw at once how
he might turn this woman to account. Whatever order he might give her,
Sangarre would execute it. An inexplicable instinct, more powerful still
than that of gratitude, had urged her to make herself the slave of the
traitor to whom she had been attached since the very beginning of his
exile in Siberia.
Confidante and accomplice, Sangarre, without country, without family,
had been delighted to put her vagabond life to the service of the
invaders thrown by Ogareff on Siberia. To the wonderful cunning natural
to her race she added a wild energy, which knew neither forgiveness nor
pity. She was a savage worthy to share the wigwam of an Apache or the
hut of an Andaman.
Since her arrival at Omsk, where she had rejoined him with her Tsiganes,
Sangarre had not again left Ogareff. The circumstance that Michael and
Marfa Strogoff had met was known to her. She knew and shared Ogareff’s
fears concerning the journey of a courier of the Czar. Having Marfa
Strogoff in her power, she would have been the woman to torture her with
all the refinement of a Redskin in order to wrest her secret from her.
But the hour had not yet come in which Ogareff wished the old Siberian
to speak. Sangarre had to wait, and she waited, without losing sight
of her whom she was watching, observing her slightest gestures, her
slightest words, endeavoring to catch the word “son” escaping from her
lips, but as yet always baffled by Marfa’s taciturnity.
At the first flourish of the trumpets several officers of high rank,
followed by a brilliant escort of Usbeck horsemen, moved to the front of
the camp to receive Ivan Ogareff. Arrived in his presence, they paid him
the greatest respect, and invited him to accompany them to Feofar-Khan’s
tent.
Imperturbable as usual, Ogareff replied coldly to the deference paid to
him. He was plainly dressed; but, from a sort of impudent bravado, he
still wore the uniform of a Russian officer.
As he was about to enter the camp, Sangarre, passing among the officers
approached and remained motionless before him. “Nothing?” asked Ogareff.
“Nothing.”
“Have patience.”
“Is the time approaching when you will force the old woman to speak?”
“It is approaching, Sangarre.”
“When will the old woman speak?”
“When we reach Tomsk.”
“And we shall be there--”
“In three days.”
A strange gleam shot from Sangarre’s great black eyes, and she retired
with a calm step. Ogareff pressed his spurs into his horse’s flanks,
and, followed by his staff of Tartar officers, rode towards the Emir’s
tent.
Feofar-Khan was expecting his lieutenant. The council, composed of the
bearer of the royal seal, the khodja, and some high officers, had taken
their places in the tent. Ivan Ogareff dismounted and entered.
Feofar-Khan was a man of forty, tall, rather pale, of a fierce
countenance, and evil eyes. A curly black beard flowed over his chest.
With his war costume, coat of mail of gold and silver, cross-belt and
scabbard glistening with precious stones, boots with golden spurs,
helmet ornamented with an aigrette of brilliant diamonds, Feofar
presented an aspect rather strange than imposing for a Tartar
Sardana-palus, an undisputed sovereign, who directs at his pleasure the
life and fortune of his subjects.
When Ivan Ogareff appeared, the great dignitaries remained seated on
their gold-embroidered cushions; but Feofar rose from a rich divan which
occupied the back part of the tent, the ground being hidden under the
thick velvet-pile of a Bokharian carpet.
The Emir approached Ogareff and gave him a kiss, the meaning of which he
could not mistake. This kiss made the lieutenant chief of the council,
and placed him temporarily above the khodja.
Then Feofar spoke. “I have no need to question you,” said he; “speak,
Ivan. You will find here ears very ready to listen to you.”
“Takhsir,” answered Ogareff, “this is what I have to make known to you.”
He spoke in the Tartar language, giving to his phrases the emphatic turn
which distinguishes the languages of the Orientals. “Takhsir, this is
not the time for unnecessary words. What I have done at the head of your
troops, you know. The lines of the Ichim and the Irtych are now in
our power; and the Turcoman horsemen can bathe their horses in the now
Tartar waters. The Kirghiz hordes rose at the voice of Feofar-Khan. You
can now push your troops towards the east, and where the sun rises, or
towards the west, where he sets.”
“And if I march with the sun?” asked the Emir, without his countenance
betraying any of his thoughts.
“To march with the sun,” answered Ogareff, “is to throw yourself towards
Europe; it is to conquer rapidly the Siberian provinces of Tobolsk as
far as the Ural Mountains.”
“And if I go to meet this luminary of the heavens?”
“It is to subdue to the Tartar dominion, with Irkutsk, the richest
countries of Central Asia.”
“But the armies of the Sultan of St. Petersburg?” said Feofar-Khan,
designating the Emperor of Russia by this strange title.
“You have nothing to fear from them,” replied Ivan Ogareff. “The
invasion has been sudden; and before the Russian army can succor them,
Irkutsk or Tobolsk will have fallen into your power. The Czar’s troops
have been overwhelmed at Kolyvan, as they will be everywhere where yours
meet them.”
“And what advice does your devotion to the Tartar cause suggest?” asked
the Emir, after a few moments’ silence.
“My advice,” answered Ivan Ogareff quickly, “is to march to meet the
sun. It is to give the grass of the eastern steppes to the Turcoman
horses to consume. It is to take Irkutsk, the capital of the eastern
provinces, and with it a hostage, the possession of whom is worth a
whole country. In the place of the Czar, the Grand Duke his brother must
fall into your hands.”
This was the great result aimed at by Ivan Ogareff. To listen to him,
one would have taken him for one of the cruel descendants of Stephan
Razine, the celebrated pirate who ravaged Southern Russia in the
eighteenth century. To seize the Grand Duke, murder him pitilessly,
would fully satisfy his hatred. Besides, with the capture of Irkutsk,
all Eastern Siberia would pass to the Tartars.
“It shall be thus, Ivan,” replied Feofar.
“What are your orders, Takhsir?”
“To-day our headquarters shall be removed to Tomsk.”
Ogareff bowed, and, followed by the housch-begui, he retired to execute
the Emir’s orders.
As he was about to mount his horse, to return to the outposts, a tumult
broke out at some distance, in the part of the camp reserved for the
prisoners. Shouts were heard, and two or three shots fired. Perhaps it
was an attempt at revolt or escape, which must be summarily suppressed.
Ivan Ogareff and the housch-begui walked forward and almost immediately
two men, whom the soldiers had not been able to keep back appeared
before them.
The housch-begui, without more information, made a sign which was an
order for death, and the heads of the two prisoners would have rolled on
the ground had not Ogareff uttered a few words which arrested the sword
already raised aloft. The Russian had perceived that these prisoners
were strangers, and he ordered them to be brought to him.
They were Harry Blount and Alcide jolivet.
On Ogareff’s arrival in the camp, they had demanded to be conducted to
his presence. The soldiers had refused. In consequence, a struggle,
an attempt at flight, shots fired which happily missed the two
correspondents, but their execution would not have been long delayed, if
it had not been for the intervention of the Emir’s lieutenant.
The latter observed the prisoners for some moments, they being
absolutely unknown to him. They had been present at that scene in
the post-house at Ichim, in which Michael Strogoff had been struck by
Ogareff; but the brutal traveler had paid no attention to the persons
then collected in the common room.
Blount and Jolivet, on the contrary, recognized him at once, and the
latter said in a low voice, “Hullo! It seems that Colonel Ogareff and
the rude personage of Ichim are one!” Then he added in his companion’s
ear, “Explain our affair, Blount. You will do me a service. This Russian
colonel in the midst of a Tartar camp disgusts me; and although, thanks
to him, my head is still on my shoulders, my eyes would exhibit my
feelings were I to attempt to look him in the face.”
So saying, Alcide Jolivet assumed a look of complete and haughty
indifference.
Whether or not Ivan Ogareff perceived that the prisoner’s attitude
was insulting towards him, he did not let it appear. “Who are you,
gentlemen?” he asked in Russian, in a cold tone, but free from its usual
rudeness.
“Two correspondents of English and French newspapers,” replied Blount
laconically.
“You have, doubtless, papers which will establish your identity?”
“Here are letters which accredit us in Russia, from the English and
French chancellor’s office.”
Ivan Ogareff took the letters which Blount held out, and read them
attentively. “You ask,” said he, “authorization to follow our military
operations in Siberia?”
“We ask to be free, that is all,” answered the English correspondent
dryly.
“You are so, gentlemen,” answered Ogareff; “I am curious to read your
articles in the Daily Telegraph.”
“Sir,” replied Blount, with the most imperturbable coolness, “it is
sixpence a number, including postage.” And thereupon he returned to his
companion, who appeared to approve completely of his replies.
Ivan Ogareff, without frowning, mounted his horse, and going to the head
of his escort, soon disappeared in a cloud of dust.
“Well, Jolivet, what do you think of Colonel Ivan Ogareff,
general-in-chief of the Tartar troops?” asked Blount.
“I think, my dear friend,” replied Alcide, smiling, “that the
housch-begui made a very graceful gesture when he gave the order for our
heads to be cut off.”
Whatever was the motive which led Ogareff to act thus in regard to the
two correspondents, they were free and could rove at their pleasure
over the scene of war. Their intention was not to leave it. The sort of
antipathy which formerly they had entertained for each other had
given place to a sincere friendship. Circumstances having brought them
together, they no longer thought of separating. The petty questions of
rivalry were forever extinguished. Harry Blount could never forget what
he owed his companion, who, on the other hand, never tried to remind him
of it. This friendship too assisted the reporting operations, and was
thus to the advantage of their readers.
“And now,” asked Blount, “what shall we do with our liberty?”
“Take advantage of it, of course,” replied Alcide, “and go quietly to
Tomsk to see what is going on there.”
“Until the time--very near, I hope--when we may rejoin some Russian
regiment?”
“As you say, my dear Blount, it won’t do to Tartarise ourselves too
much. The best side is that of the most civilized army, and it is
evident that the people of Central Asia will have everything to lose and
absolutely nothing to gain from this invasion, while the Russians will
soon repulse them. It is only a matter of time.”
The arrival of Ivan Ogareff, which had given Jolivet and Blount their
liberty, was to Michael Strogoff, on the contrary, a serious danger.
Should chance bring the Czar’s courier into Ogareff’s presence, the
latter could not fail to recognize in him the traveler whom he had so
brutally treated at the Ichim post-house, and although Michael had
not replied to the insult as he would have done under any other
circumstances, attention would be drawn to him, and at once the
accomplishment of his plans would be rendered more difficult.
This was the unpleasant side of the business. A favorable result of his
arrival, however, was the order which was given to raise the camp
that very day, and remove the headquarters to Tomsk. This was the
accomplishment of Michael’s most fervent desire. His intention, as has
been said, was to reach Tomsk concealed amongst the other prisoners;
that is to say, without any risk of falling into the hands of the scouts
who swarmed about the approaches to this important town. However, in
consequence of the arrival of Ivan Ogareff, he questioned whether it
would not be better to give up his first plan and attempt to escape
during the journey.
Michael would, no doubt, have kept to the latter plan had he not learnt
that Feofar-Khan and Ogareff had already set out for the town with some
thousands of horsemen. “I will wait, then,” said he to himself; “at
least, unless some exceptional opportunity for escape occurs. The
adverse chances are numerous on this side of Tomsk, while beyond I shall
in a few hours have passed the most advanced Tartar posts to the east.
Still three days of patience, and may God aid me!”
It was indeed a journey of three days which the prisoners, under the
guard of a numerous detachment of Tartars, were to make across the
steppe. A hundred and fifty versts lay between the camp and the town--an
easy march for the Emir’s soldiers, who wanted for nothing, but a
wretched journey for these people, enfeebled by privations. More than
one corpse would show the road they had traversed.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon, on the 12th of August, under a hot
sun and cloudless sky, that the toptschi-baschi gave the order to start.
Alcide and Blount, having bought horses, had already taken the road to
Tomsk, where events were to reunite the principal personages of this
story.
Amongst the prisoners brought by Ivan Ogareff to the Tartar camp was an
old woman, whose taciturnity seemed to keep her apart from all those
who shared her fate. Not a murmur issued from her lips. She was like a
statue of grief. This woman was more strictly guarded than anyone else,
and, without her appearing to notice, was constantly watched by the
Tsigane Sangarre. Notwithstanding her age she was compelled to follow
the convoy of prisoners on foot, without any alleviation of her
suffering.
However, a kind Providence had placed near her a courageous,
kind-hearted being to comfort and assist her. Amongst her companions in
misfortune a young girl, remarkable for beauty and taciturnity, seemed
to have given herself the task of watching over her. No words had been
exchanged between the two captives, but the girl was always at the old
woman’s side when help was useful. At first the mute assistance of the
stranger was accepted with some mistrust. Gradually, however, the young
girl’s clear glance, her reserve, and the mysterious sympathy which
draws together those who are in misfortune, thawed Marfa Strogoff’s
coldness.
Nadia--for it was she--was thus able, without knowing it, to render to
the mother those attentions which she had herself received from the son.
Her instinctive kindness had doubly inspired her. In devoting herself
to her service, Nadia secured to her youth and beauty the protection
afforded by the age of the old prisoner.
On the crowd of unhappy people, embittered by sufferings, this
silent pair--one seeming to be the grandmother, the other the
grand-daughter--imposed a sort of respect.
After being carried off by the Tartar scouts on the Irtych, Nadia had
been taken to Omsk. Kept prisoner in the town, she shared the fate
of all those captured by Ivan Ogareff, and consequently that of Marfa
Strogoff.
If Nadia had been less energetic, she would have succumbed to this
double blow. The interruption to her journey, the death of Michael,
made her both desperate and excited. Divided, perhaps forever, from her
father, after so many happy efforts had brought her near him, and, to
crown her grief, separated from the intrepid companion whom God seemed
to have placed in her way to lead her. The image of Michael Strogoff,
struck before her eyes with a lance and disappearing beneath the waters
of the Irtych, never left her thoughts.
Could such a man have died thus? For whom was God reserving His miracles
if this good man, whom a noble object was urging onwards, had been
allowed to perish so miserably? Then anger would prevail over grief. The
scene of the affront so strangely borne by her companion at the Ichim
relay returned to her memory. Her blood boiled at the recollection.
“Who will avenge him who can no longer avenge himself?” she said.
And in her heart, she cried, “May it be I!” If before his death Michael
had confided his secret to her, woman, aye girl though she was, she
might have been able to carry to a successful conclusion the interrupted
task of that brother whom God had so soon taken from her.
Absorbed in these thoughts, it can be understood how Nadia could remain
insensible to the miseries even of her captivity. Thus chance had united
her to Marfa Strogoff without her having the least suspicion of who she
was. How could she imagine that this old woman, a prisoner like herself,
was the mother of him, whom she only knew as the merchant Nicholas
Korpanoff? And on the other hand, how could Marfa guess that a bond of
gratitude connected this young stranger with her son?
The thing that first struck Nadia in Marfa Strogoff was the similarity
in the way in which each bore her hard fate. This stoicism of the old
woman under the daily hardships, this contempt of bodily suffering,
could only be caused by a moral grief equal to her own. So Nadia
thought; and she was not mistaken. It was an instinctive sympathy for
that part of her misery which Marfa did not show which first drew Nadia
towards her. This way of bearing her sorrow went to the proud heart of
the young girl. She did not offer her services; she gave them. Marfa
had neither to refuse nor accept them. In the difficult parts of the
journey, the girl was there to support her. When the provisions were
given out, the old woman would not have moved, but Nadia shared her
small portion with her; and thus this painful journey was performed.
Thanks to her companion, Marfa was able to follow the soldiers who
guarded the prisoners without being fastened to a saddle-bow, as were
many other unfortunate wretches, and thus dragged along this road of
sorrow.
“May God reward you, my daughter, for what you have done for my old
age!” said Marfa Strogoff once, and for some time these were the only
words exchanged between the two unfortunate beings.
During these few days, which to them appeared like centuries, it would
seem that the old woman and the girl would have been led to speak of
their situation. But Marfa Strogoff, from a caution which may be easily
understood, never spoke about herself except with the greatest brevity.
She never made the smallest allusion to her son, nor to the unfortunate
meeting.
Nadia also, if not completely silent, spoke little. However, one day her
heart overflowed, and she told all the events which had occurred from
her departure from Wladimir to the death of Nicholas Korpanoff.
All that her young companion told intensely interested the old Siberian.
“Nicholas Korpanoff!” said she. “Tell me again about this Nicholas.
I know only one man, one alone, in whom such conduct would not have
astonished me. Nicholas Korpanoff! Was that really his name? Are you
sure of it, my daughter?”
“Why should he have deceived me in this,” replied Nadia, “when he
deceived me in no other way?”
Moved, however, by a kind of presentiment, Marfa Strogoff put questions
upon questions to Nadia.
“You told me he was fearless, my daughter. You have proved that he has
been so?” asked she.
“Yes, fearless indeed!” replied Nadia.
“It was just what my son would have done,” said Marfa to herself.
Then she resumed, “Did you not say that nothing stopped him, nor
astonished him; that he was so gentle in his strength that you had
a sister as well as a brother in him, and he watched over you like a
mother?”
“Yes, yes,” said Nadia. “Brother, sister, mother--he has been all to
me!”
“And defended you like a lion?”
“A lion indeed!” replied Nadia. “A lion, a hero!”
“My son, my son!” thought the old Siberian. “But you said, however, that
he bore a terrible insult at that post-house in Ichim?”
“He did bear it,” answered Nadia, looking down.
“He bore it!” murmured Marfa, shuddering.
“Mother, mother,” cried Nadia, “do not blame him! He had a secret. A
secret of which God alone is as yet the judge!”
“And,” said Marfa, raising her head and looking at Nadia as though she
would read the depths of her heart, “in that hour of humiliation did you
not despise this Nicholas Korpanoff?”
“I admired without understanding him,” replied the girl. “I never felt
him more worthy of respect.”
The old woman was silent for a minute.
“Was he tall?” she asked.
“Very tall.”
“And very handsome? Come, speak, my daughter.”
“He was very handsome,” replied Nadia, blushing.
“It was my son! I tell you it was my son!” exclaimed the old woman,
embracing Nadia.
“Your son!” said Nadia amazed, “your son!”
“Come,” said Marfa; “let us get to the bottom of this, my child. Your
companion, your friend, your protector had a mother. Did he never speak
to you of his mother?”
“Of his mother?” said Nadia. “He spoke to me of his mother as I spoke to
him of my father--often, always. He adored her.”
“Nadia, Nadia, you have just told me about my own son,” said the old
woman.
And she added impetuously, “Was he not going to see this mother, whom
you say he loved, in Omsk?”
“No,” answered Nadia, “no, he was not.”
“Not!” cried Marfa. “You dare to tell me not!”
“I say so: but it remains to me to tell you that from motives which
outweighed everything else, motives which I do not know, I understand
that Nicholas Korpanoff had to traverse the country completely in
secret. To him it was a question of life and death, and still more, a
question of duty and honor.”
“Duty, indeed, imperious duty,” said the old Siberian, “of those who
sacrifice everything, even the joy of giving a kiss, perhaps the last,
to his old mother. All that you do not know, Nadia--all that I did not
know myself--I now know. You have made me understand everything. But
the light which you have thrown on the mysteries of my heart, I cannot
return on yours. Since my son has not told you his secret, I must keep
it. Forgive me, Nadia; I can never repay what you have done for me.”
“Mother, I ask you nothing,” replied Nadia.
All was thus explained to the old Siberian, all, even the conduct of her
son with regard to herself in the inn at Omsk. There was no doubt that
the young girl’s companion was Michael Strogoff, and that a secret
mission in the invaded country obliged him to conceal his quality of the
Czar’s courier.
“Ah, my brave boy!” thought Marfa. “No, I will not betray you, and
tortures shall not wrest from me the avowal that it was you whom I saw
at Omsk.”
Marfa could with a word have paid Nadia for all her devotion to her. She
could have told her that her companion, Nicholas Korpanoff, or rather
Michael Strogoff, had not perished in the waters of the Irtych, since
it was some days after that incident that she had met him, that she had
spoken to him.
But she restrained herself, she was silent, and contented herself with
saying, “Hope, my child! Misfortune will not overwhelm you. You will see
your father again; I feel it; and perhaps he who gave you the name of
sister is not dead. God cannot have allowed your brave companion to
perish. Hope, my child, hope! Do as I do. The mourning which I wear is
not yet for my son.”
CHAPTER III BLOW FOR BLOW
SUCH were now the relative situations of Marfa Strogoff and Nadia.
All was understood by the old Siberian, and though the young girl was
ignorant that her much-regretted companion still lived, she at least
knew his relationship to her whom she had made her mother; and she
thanked God for having given her the joy of taking the place of the son
whom the prisoner had lost.
But what neither of them could know was that Michael, having been
captured at Kolyvan, was in the same convoy and was on his way to Tomsk
with them.
The prisoners brought by Ivan Ogareff had been added to those already
kept by the Emir in the Tartar camp. These unfortunate people,
consisting of Russians, Siberians, soldiers and civilians, numbered some
thousands, and formed a column which extended over several versts. Some
among them being considered dangerous were handcuffed and fastened to
a long chain. There were, too, women and children, many of the latter
suspended to the pommels of the saddles, while the former were dragged
mercilessly along the road on foot, or driven forward as if they were
animals. The horsemen compelled them to maintain a certain order, and
there were no laggards with the exception of those who fell never to
rise again.
In consequence of this arrangement, Michael Strogoff, marching in the
first ranks of those who had left the Tartar camp--that is to say, among
the Kolyvan prisoners--was unable to mingle with the prisoners who had
arrived after him from Omsk. He had therefore no suspicion that his
mother and Nadia were present in the convoy, nor did they suppose
that he was among those in front. This journey from the camp to Tomsk,
performed under the lashes and spear-points of the soldiers, proved
fatal to many, and terrible to all. The prisoners traveled across the
steppe, over a road made still more dusty by the passage of the Emir and
his vanguard. Orders had been given to march rapidly. The short halts
were rare. The hundred miles under a burning sky seemed interminable,
though they were performed as rapidly as possible.
The country, which extends from the right of the Obi to the base of the
spur detached from the Sayanok Mountains, is very sterile. Only a few
stunted and burnt-up shrubs here and there break the monotony of the
immense plain. There was no cultivation, for there was no water; and
it was water that the prisoners, parched by their painful march, most
needed. To find a stream they must have diverged fifty versts eastward,
to the very foot of the mountains.
There flows the Tom, a little affluent of the Obi, which passes near
Tomsk before losing itself in one of the great northern arteries. There
water would have been abundant, the steppe less arid, the heat less
severe. But the strictest orders had been given to the commanders of the
convoy to reach Tomsk by the shortest way, for the Emir was much
afraid of being taken in the flank and cut off by some Russian column
descending from the northern provinces.
It is useless to dwell upon the sufferings of the unhappy prisoners.
Many hundreds fell on the steppe, where their bodies would lie until
winter, when the wolves would devour the remnants of their bones.
As Nadia helped the old Siberian, so in the same way did Michael
render to his more feeble companions in misfortune such services as his
situation allowed. He encouraged some, supported others, going to and
fro, until a prick from a soldier’s lance obliged him to resume the
place which had been assigned him in the ranks.
Why did he not endeavor to escape?
The reason was that he had now quite determined not to venture until the
steppe was safe for him. He was resolved in his idea of going as far as
Tomsk “at the Emir’s expense,” and indeed he was right. As he observed
the numerous detachments which scoured the plain on the convoy’s flanks,
now to the south, now to the north, it was evident that before he could
have gone two versts he must have been recaptured. The Tartar horsemen
swarmed--it actually appeared as if they sprang from the earth--like
insects which a thunderstorm brings to the surface of the ground. Flight
under these conditions would have been extremely difficult, if not
impossible. The soldiers of the escort displayed excessive vigilance,
for they would have paid for the slightest carelessness with their
heads.
At nightfall of the 15th of August, the convoy reached the little
village of Zabediero, thirty versts from Tomsk.
The prisoners’ first movement would have been to rush into the river,
but they were not allowed to leave the ranks until the halt had been
organized. Although the current of the Tom was just now like a torrent,
it might have favored the flight of some bold or desperate man, and
the strictest measures of vigilance were taken. Boats, requisitioned
at Zabediero, were brought up to the Tom and formed a line of obstacles
impossible to pass. As to the encampment on the outskirts of the
village, it was guarded by a cordon of sentinels.
Michael Strogoff, who now naturally thought of escape, saw, after
carefully surveying the situation, that under these conditions it was
perfectly impossible; so, not wishing to compromise himself, he waited.
The prisoners were to encamp for the whole night on the banks of the
Tom, for the Emir had put off the entrance of his troops into Tomsk. It
had been decided that a military fete should mark the inauguration of
the Tartar headquarters in this important city. Feofar-Khan already
occupied the fortress, but the bulk of his army bivouacked under its
walls, waiting until the time came for them to make a solemn entry.
Ivan Ogareff left the Emir at Tomsk, where both had arrived the evening
before, and returned to the camp at Zabediero. From here he was to start
the next day with the rear-guard of the Tartar army. A house had been
arranged for him in which to pass the night. At sunrise horse and foot
soldiers were to proceed to Tomsk, where the Emir wished to receive
them with the pomp usual to Asiatic sovereigns. As soon as the halt was
organized, the prisoners, worn out with their three days’ journey, and
suffering from burning thirst, could drink and take a little rest. The
sun had already set, when Nadia, supporting Marfa Strogoff, reached the
banks of the Tom. They had not till then been able to get through those
who crowded the banks, but at last they came to drink in their turn.
The old woman bent over the clear stream, and Nadia, plunging in her
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