by Jules Verne
The search was continued. They examined the houses on the shore, abandoned like all the rest of Krasnoiarsk. They had merely to push open the doors and enter. The cottages were evidently those of poor people, and quite empty. Nicholas visited one, Nadia entered another, and even Michael went here and there and felt about, hoping to light upon some article that might be useful.
Nicholas and the girl had each fruitlessly rummaged these cottages and were about to give up the search, when they heard themselves called.
Both ran to the bank and saw Michael standing on the threshold of a door.
“Come!” he exclaimed.
Nicholas and Nadia went towards him and followed him into the cottage.
“What are these?” asked Michael, touching several objects piled up in a corner.
“They are leathern bottles,” answered Nicholas, “and not less than half a dozen of them!”
“Are they full? . . .”
“Yes, full of koumyss. We have found them very opportunely to renew our provisions!”
“Koumyss” is a drink made of mare’s or camel’s milk, and is very sustaining, and even intoxicating; so that Nicholas and his companions could not but congratulate themselves on the discovery.
“Put one aside,” said Michael, “but empty all the others.”
“Directly, little father.”
“These will help us to cross the Yeniseï.”
“And the raft?”
“Will be the kibitka itself, which is light enough to float. Besides, we will sustain it, as well as the horse, with these bottles.”
“Well thought of, little father,” exclaimed Nicholas, “and by God’s help we will get safely over . . . though perhaps not in a straight line, for the current is rapid!”
“What does that matter?” replied Michael. “Let us get across first, and we shall soon find out the road to Irkutsk on the other side of the river.”
“To work, then,” said Nicholas, beginning to empty the bottles and carry them to the kibitka.
One full of koumyss was reserved, and the rest, carefully fastened up, being previously filled with air, were used to form a floating apparatus. Two bottles were fastened to the horse’s sides to support it in the water. Two others were attached to the shafts in order to keep them on a level with the body of the machine, thus transformed into a raft.
This work was soon finished.
“You will not be afraid, Nadia?” asked Michael.
“No, brother,” answered the girl.
“And you, friend?”
“I!” cried Nicholas. “I am now going to have one of my dreams realized—that of sailing in a cart.”
At the spot where they were now standing, the bank sloped, and was suitable for the launching of the kibitka. The horse drew it into the water, and they were soon both floating. As to Serko, he was swimming bravely.
The three passengers, seated in the vehicle, had with due precaution taken off their shoes and stockings; but, thanks to the bottles, the water did not even come over their ankles. Michael held the reins, and, according to Nicholas’s directions, guided the animal obliquely, but cautiously, so as not to exhaust him by struggling against the current. So long as the kibitka went with the current all was easy, and in a few minutes it had passed the quays of Krasnoiarsk. It drifted northwards, and it was soon evident that it would only reach the opposite bank far below the town. But that mattered little. The crossing of the Yeniseï would have been made without great difficulty, even on this imperfect apparatus, had the current been more regular; but, unfortunately, there were whirlpools in numbers, and soon the kibitka, notwithstanding all Michael’s efforts, was irresistibly drawn into one of these tumultuous spots.
There the danger was great. The kibitka no longer drifted, but spun rapidly round, inclining towards the centre of the eddy, like a rider in a circus. The horse could scarcely keep his head above water, and ran a great risk of being suffocated. Serko had been obliged to take refuge in the carriage.
Michael knew what was happening. He felt himself drawn round in a gradually narrowing line, from which they could not get free. How he longed to see, to be better able to avoid this peril. . . . but that was no longer possible.
Nadia was silent, her hands clinging to the sides of the cart, supporting her in the jerks of the machine, which was inclining more and more towards the centre of depression.
And Nicholas, did he not understand the gravity of the situation? Was it with him phlegm or contempt of danger, courage or indifference? Was his life valueless in his eyes, and, according to the Eastern expression, “an hotel for five days,” which, whether one is willing or not, must be left the sixth? At any rate, the smile on his rosy face never faded for an instant.
The kibitka was thus in the whirlpool, and the horse was nearly exhausted, when, all at once, Michael, throwing off such of his garments as might impede him, jumped into the water; then, seizing with a strong hand the bridle of the terrified horse, he gave him such an impulse that he managed to struggle out of the circle, and getting again into the current, the kibitka drifted along with renewed speed.
“Hurrah!” exclaimed Nicholas.
Two hours only after leaving the wharf, the kibitka had crossed the widest arm of the river, and had landed on an island more than six versts below the starting point.
There the horse drew the cart on to the bank, and an hour’s rest was given to the courageous animal; then the island having been crossed under the shade of its magnificent birches, the kibitka found itself on the shore of the smallest arm of the Yeniseï.
This passage was much easier; no whirlpools broke the course of the river in this second bed; but the current was so rapid that the kibitka only reached the opposite side five versts below. They had drifted eleven versts in all.
These great Siberian rivers, across which no bridges have as yet been thrown, are serious obstacles to the facility of communication. All had been more or less unfortunate to Michael Strogoff. On the Irtyche, the boat which carried him and Nadia had been attacked by Tartars. On the Obi, after his horse had been struck by a bullet, he had only by a miracle escaped from the horsemen who were pursuing him. In fact, this passage of the Yeniseï had been performed the least disastrously.
“That would not have been so amusing,” exclaimed Nicholas, rubbing his hands, as they disembarked on the right bank of the river, “if it had not been so difficult.”
“That which has only been difficult to us, friend,” answered Michael, “will, perhaps, be impossible to the Tartars.”
CHAPTER VIII.
A HARE CROSSES THE ROAD.
MICHAEL STROGOFF might at last hope that the road to Irkutsk was clear. He had distanced the Tartars, now detained at Tomsk, and when the Emir’s soldiers should arrive at Krasnoiarsk they would find only a deserted town. There being no immediate communication between the two banks of the Yeniseï, a delay of some days would be caused until a bridge of boats could be established, and to accomplish this would be a difficult undertaking.
For the first time since the encounter with Ivan Ogareff at Omsk, the Courier of the Czar felt less uneasy, and began to hope that no fresh obstacle would arise to delay his progress.
The kibitka, after descending obliquely towards the south-west for fifteen versts, found and continued the long path traced across the steppe.
The road was good, for the part of it which extends between Krasnoiarsk and Irkutsk is considered the best in the whole journey; fewer jolts for travellers, large trees to shade them from the heat of the sun, sometimes forests of pines or cedars covering an extent of a hundred versts. It was no longer the wide steppe with limitless horizon; but the rich country was empty. Everywhere they came upon deserted villages. The Siberian peasantry had vanished. It was a desert, but, as has been said, a desert by order of the Czar.
The weather was fine, but the air, which cooled during the night, took some time to get warm again. Indeed it was now near September, and in this high region the days were se
nsibly shortening. Autumn here lasts but a very little while, although this part of Siberian territory is not situated above the fifty-fifth parallel, which is the same as Edinburgh and Copenhagen. However, winter succeeds summer almost unexpectedly. These winters of Asiatic Russia may be said to be precocious, considering that during them the thermometer falls until the mercury is frozen nearly 42 degrees below zero, and that 20 degrees below zero is considered a supportable temperature.
The weather favoured our travellers. It was neither stormy nor rainy. The heat was moderate, the nights cool. The health of Nadia and Michael was good, and since leaving Tomsk they had gradually recovered from their past fatigues.
As to Nicholas Pigassof, he had never been better in his life. To him this journey was a trip, an agreeable excursion in which he employed his enforced holiday.
“Decidedly,” said he, “this is pleasanter than sitting twelve hours a day, perched on a stool, working the manipulator!”
Michael had managed to get Nicholas to make his horse quicken his pace. To obtain this result, he had confided to Nicholas that Nadia and he were on their way to join their father, exiled at Irkutsk, and that they were very anxious to get there. Certainly, it would not do to overwork the horse, for very probably they would not be able to exchange him for another; but by giving him frequent rests—every fifteen versts, for instance—sixty versts in twenty-four hours could easily be accomplished. Besides, the animal was strong, and of a race calculated to endure great fatigue. He was in no want of rich pasturage along the road, the grass being thick and abundant. Therefore, it was possible to demand an increase of work from him.
Nicholas gave in to all these reasons. He was much moved at the situation of these two young people, going to share their father’s exile. Nothing had ever appeared so touching to him. Then, with what a smile he said to Nadia:
“Divine goodness! What joy will Mr. Korpanoff feel, when his eyes behold you, when his arms open to receive you! If I go to Irkutsk—and that appears very probable now—will you permit me to be present at that interview! You will, will you not?”
Then, striking his forehead:
“But, I forgot, what grief too when he sees that his poor son is blind! Ah! everything is mingled in this world!”
However, the result of all this was that the kibitka went faster, and, according to Michael’s calculations, now made ten to twelve versts an hour.
On the 28th of August, our travellers passed the town of Balaisk, eighty versts from Krasnoiarsk, and on the 29th that of Ribinsk, forty versts from Balaisk.
The next day, five and thirty versts beyond that, they arrived at Kamsk, a larger place, watered by the river of the same name, a little affluent of the Yeniseï, which rises in the Sayanok Mountains. It is not an important town, but its wooden houses are picturesquely grouped round a square, overlooked by the tall steeple of its cathedral, of which the gilded cross glitters in the sun.
Houses empty, church deserted! Not a relay to be found, not an inn inhabited! Not a horse in the stables! Not even a cat or a dog in the place! The orders of the Muscovite government had been executed with absolute strictness. All that could not be carried away had been destroyed.
On leaving Kamsk, Michael told Nadia and Nicholas that they would find only one small town of any importance, Nijni-Oudinsk, between that and Irkutsk. Nicholas replied that he knew there was a telegraph station in that town; therefore if Nijni-Oudinsk was abandoned like Kamsk, he would be obliged to seek some occupation in the capital of Eastern Siberia.
The kibitka could ford, without getting any damage, the little river which flows across the road beyond Kamsk. Between the Yeniseï and one of its great tributaries, the Angara, which waters Irkutsk, there was nothing to be feared from any stoppage caused by a river, unless it was the Dinka. But the journey would not be much delayed even by this.
From Kamsk to the next town was a long stage, nearly a hundred and thirty versts. It is needless to say that the regulation halts were observed, “without which,” said Nicholas, “they might have drawn upon themselves a just complaint on the part of the horse.” It had been agreed with the brave animal that he should rest every fifteen versts, and when a contract is made, even with an animal, justice demands that the terms of it should be kept to.
After crossing the little river Biriousa, the kibitka reached Biriousensk on the morning of the 4th of September.
There, very fortunately, for Nicholas saw that his provisions were becoming exhausted, he found in an oven a dozen “pogatchas,” a kind of cake prepared with sheep’s fat and a large supply of plain boiled rice. This increase was very opportune, for something would soon have been needed to replace the koumyss with which the kibitka had been stored at Krasnoiarsk.
After a halt, the journey was continued in the afternoon. The distance to Irkutsk was not now more than five hundred versts. There was not a sign of the Tartar vanguard.
Michael Strogoff had some grounds for hoping that his journey would not be again delayed, and that in eight days, or at most ten, he would be in the presence of the Grand Duke.
On leaving Biriousinsk, a hare ran across the road, thirty feet in front of the kibitka.
“Ah!” exclaimed Nicholas.
“What is the matter, friend?” asked Michael quickly, like a blind man whom the least sound arouses.
“Did you not see? . . .” said Nicholas, whose bright face had become suddenly clouded.
Then he added:
“Ah! No! You could not see, and it’s lucky for you little father!”
“But I saw nothing,” said Nadia.
“So much the better! So much the better! But I . . . I saw! . . .”
“What was it then?” asked Michael.
“A hare crossing our road!” answered Nicholas.
In Russia, when a hare crosses the path of a traveller, the popular belief is that it is the sign of approaching evil.
Nicholas, superstitious like the greater number of Russians, had stopped the kibitka.
Michael understood his companion’s hesitation, although he in no way shared his credulity as to hares passing, and he endeavoured to reassure him.
“There is nothing to fear, friend,” said he.
“Nothing for you, nor for her, I know, little father,” answered Nicholas, “but for me!”
“It is my fate,” he continued.
And he put his horse in motion again.
However, in spite of these forebodings the day passed without any accident.
At twelve o’clock the next day, the 6th of September, the kibitka halted in the village of Alsalevok, which was as deserted as all the surrounding country.
There, on a doorstep, Nadia found two of those strong-bladed knives used by Siberian hunters. She gave one to Michael, who concealed it among his clothes, and kept the other herself. They were now not more than seventy-five versts from Nijni-Oudinsk.
Nicholas had not recovered his usual spirits. The ill-omen had affected him more than could have been believed, and he who formerly was never half an hour without speaking, now fell into long reveries from which Nadia found it difficult to arouse him. His moody state may be accounted for when it is recollected that he was a man belonging to those northern races whose superstitious ancestors have been the founders of the Hyperborean mythology.
On leaving Ekaterinburg, the Irkutsk road runs almost parallel with the fifty-fifth degree of latitude, but from Biriousinsk it proceeds south-east, so as to slope across the hundredth meridian. It takes the shortest way to reach the Siberian capital by crossing the Sayansk Mountains. These mountains are themselves but part of the great Altaï chain, which are visible at a distance of two hundred versts.
The kibitka rolled swiftly along the road. Yes, swiftly! Nicholas no longer thought of being so careful of his horse, and was as anxious to arrive at his journey’s end as Michael himself. Notwithstanding his fatalism, and though resigned, he would not believe himself in safety until within the walls of Irkutsk. Many Russians would h
ave thought as he did, and more than one would have turned his horse and gone back again, after a hare had crossed his path.
However, some observations made by him, the justice of which was proved by Nadia transmitting them to Michael, made them fear that their trials were not yet over.
Though the land from Krasnoiarsk had been respected in its natural productions, its forests now bore trace of fire and steel; the fields on each side of the road had been devastated, and it was evident that some large body of men had passed that way.
Thirty versts before Nijni-Oudinsk, the indications of recent devastation could not be mistaken, and it was impossible to attribute them to others than the Tartars.
Indeed, it was not only that the fields were trampled by horses’ feet, and that trees were cut down. The few houses scattered along the road were not only empty, some had been partly demolished, others half burnt down. The marks of bullets could be seen on their walls.
Michael’s anxiety may be imagined. He could no longer doubt that a party of Tartars had recently passed that way, and yet it was impossible that they could be the Emir’s soldiers, for they could not have passed without being seen. But then, who were these new invaders, and by what out-of-the-way path across the steppe had they been able to join the highroad to Irkutsk? With what new enemies was the Czar’s courier now to meet?
Michael did not communicate his apprehensions either to Nicholas or Nadia, not wishing to make them uneasy. Besides, he had resolved to continue his way, as long as no insurmountable obstacle stopped him. Later, he would see what it was best to do.
During the ensuing day, the recent passage of a large body of foot and horse became more and more apparent Smoke was seen above the horizon. The kibitka advanced cautiously. Several houses in deserted villages still burned, and they certainly could not have been set on fire more than four and twenty hours before.
At last, during the day, on the 8th of September, the kibitka stopped suddenly. The horse refused to advance. Serko barked furiously.
“What is the matter?” asked Michael.
“A corpse!” replied Nicholas, who had leapt out of the kibitka.