Michael Strogoff; or the Courier of the Czar Read online

  The beasts of burden might be counted by thousands. There were camels of small size, but well made, with long hair, and thick mane falling on their necks, docile, and more easy to harness than the dromedary called “nars,” with a hump and reddish curly hair. To these must be added vast numbers of donkeys, which are good workers; their flesh being also much esteemed, and forming part of the Tartars’ food.

  Over this immense collection of men, animals, and tents, large clumps of cedars and pines threw a cool shade, broken here and there by the sun’s rays.

  Nothing could be more romantic than this picture, in delineating which the most skilful artist would have exhausted all the colours of his palette.

  When the prisoners taken at Kolyvan arrived before the tents of Feofar and the great dignitaries of the khanat, the drums beat and the trumpets sounded. With these formidable sounds were mingled the sharp musket-shots and the deeper reports of the cannon, four or six of which composed the artillery of the Emir. Feofar’s camp was purely military. What might be called his domestic establishment, his harem and those of his allies, were at Tomsk, now in the hands of the Tartars. When the camp broke up, Tomsk would become the Emir’s residence until the time when he should exchange it for the capital of Eastern Siberia.

  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 centre 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-bégui,” 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 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 recognised, 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, therefore, 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 travelling 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, my dear fellow, 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, which happily was not serious, and skilfully 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! that’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, if you will take my advice, 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 indu
lge himself.

  “M. Jolivet,” he asked, “do you think that our last despatches 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 despatches?” asked Blount, for the first time putting this 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, and Siberia will not be lost.”

  “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.

  “O, 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 favour 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 honour 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, for, their quality of English and French correspondents once known, nothing could be more probable than that they would be set at liberty. The Emir’s lieutenant would know how to make Feofar hear reason, though he would otherwise not have failed to treat the correspondents as ordinary spies. 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 travelling 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 to 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 sufficient 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 centre of future operations.

  Besides his solders, 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 gipsies, which compose the rearguard 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, which the Russians could not cross without difficulty.

  Conspicuous among the gipsies who had hastened from the western provinces was the Tsigane troop, which had accompani
ed Michael Strogoff as far as Perm. Sangarre was there. This fierce spy, the tool of Ivan Ogareff, had not deserted her master. We have seen them both laying their plots in Russia itself, in the government of Nijni-Novgorod. After crossing the Urals, they had been separated for a few days only. Ogareff had travelled 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 gipsy-band she could penetrate anywhere, hearing and reporting everything. 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, always 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 was 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.