Chapter Chapter 20 · BLOW FOR BLOW

. 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 fête 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

hand, carried it to Marfa’s lips. Then she refreshed herself. They

found new life in these welcome waters. Suddenly Nadia started up; an

involuntary cry escaped her.

Michael Strogoff was there, a few steps from her. It was he. The dying

rays of the sun fell upon him.

At Nadia’s cry Michael started. But he had sufficient command over

himself not to utter a word by which he might have been compromised. And

yet, when he saw Nadia, he also recognized his mother.

Feeling he could not long keep master of himself at this unexpected

meeting, he covered his eyes with his hands and walked quickly away.

Nadia’s impulse was to run after him, but the old Siberian murmured in

her ear, “Stay, my daughter!”

“It is he!” replied Nadia, choking with emotion. “He lives, mother! It

is he!”

“It is my son,” answered Marfa, “it is Michael Strogoff, and you see

that I do not make a step towards him! Imitate me, my daughter.”

Michael had just experienced the most violent emotion which a man can

feel. His mother and Nadia were there!

The two prisoners who were always together in his heart, God had brought

them together in this common misfortune. Did Nadia know who he was? Yes,

for he had seen Marfa’s gesture, holding her back as she was about to

rush towards him. Marfa, then, had understood all, and kept his secret.

During that night, Michael was twenty times on the point of looking for

and joining his mother; but he knew that he must resist the longing he

felt to take her in his arms, and once more press the hand of his young

companion. The least imprudence might be fatal. He had besides sworn not

to see his mother. Once at Tomsk, since he could not escape this very

night, he would set off without having even embraced the two beings

in whom all the happiness of his life was centered, and whom he should

leave exposed to so many perils.

Michael hoped that this fresh meeting at the Zabediero camp would have

no disastrous consequences either to his mother or to himself. But he

did not know that part of this scene, although it passed so rapidly, had

been observed by Sangarre, Ogareff’s spy.

The Tsigane was there, a few paces off, on the bank, as usual, watching

the old Siberian woman. She had not caught sight of Michael, for he

disappeared before she had time to look around; but the mother’s gesture

as she kept back Nadia had not escaped her, and the look in Marfa’s eyes

told her all.

It was now beyond doubt that Marfa Strogoff’s son, the Czar’s courier,

was at this moment in Zabediero, among Ivan Ogareff’s prisoners.

Sangarre did not know him, but she knew that he was there. She did not

then attempt to discover him, for it would have been impossible in the

dark and the immense crowd.

As for again watching Nadia and Marfa Strogoff, that was equally

useless. It was evident that the two women would keep on their

guard, and it would be impossible to overhear anything of a nature to

compromise the courier of the Czar. The Tsigane’s first thought was

to tell Ivan Ogareff. She therefore immediately left the encampment. A

quarter of an hour after, she reached Zabediero, and was shown into the

house occupied by the Emir’s lieutenant. Ogareff received the Tsigane

directly.

“What have you to tell me, Sangarre?” he asked.

“Marfa Strogoff’s son is in the encampment.”

“A prisoner?”

“A prisoner.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Ogareff, “I shall know--”

“You will know nothing, Ivan,” replied Tsigane; “for you do not even

know him by sight.”

“But you know him; you have seen him, Sangarre?”

“I have not seen him; but his mother betrayed herself by a gesture,

which told me everything.”

“Are you not mistaken?”

“I am not mistaken.”

“You know the importance which I attach to the apprehension of this

courier,” said Ivan Ogareff. “If the letter which he has brought from

Moscow reaches Irkutsk, if it is given to the Grand Duke, the Grand Duke

will be on his guard, and I shall not be able to get at him. I must have

that letter at any price. Now you come to tell me that the bearer of

this letter is in my power. I repeat, Sangarre, are you not mistaken?”

Ogareff spoke with great animation. His emotion showed the extreme

importance he attached to the possession of this letter. Sangarre

was not at all put out by the urgency with which Ogareff repeated his

question. “I am not mistaken, Ivan,” she said.

“But, Sangarre, there are thousands of prisoners; and you say that you

do not know Michael Strogoff.”

“No,” answered the Tsigane, with a look of savage joy, “I do not know

him; but his mother knows him. Ivan, we must make his mother speak.”

“To-morrow she shall speak!” cried Ogareff. So saying, he extended his

hand to the Tsigane, who kissed it; for there is nothing servile in this

act of respect, it being usual among the Northern races.

Sangarre returned to the camp. She found out Nadia and Marfa Strogoff,

and passed the night in watching them. Although worn out with fatigue,

the old woman and the girl did not sleep. Their great anxiety kept them

awake. Michael was living, but a prisoner. Did Ogareff know him, or

would he not soon find him out? Nadia was occupied by the one thought

that he whom she had thought dead still lived. But Marfa saw further

into the future: and, although she did not care what became of herself,

she had every reason to fear for her son.

Sangarre, under cover of the night, had crept near the two women, and

remained there several hours listening. She heard nothing. From an

instinctive feeling of prudence not a word was exchanged between Nadia

and Marfa Strogoff. The next day, the 16th of August, about ten in the

morning, trumpet-calls resounded throughout the encampment. The Tartar

soldiers were almost immediately under arms.

Ivan Ogareff arrived, surrounded by a large staff of Tartar officers.

His face was more clouded than usual, and his knitted brow gave signs of

latent wrath which was waiting for an occasion to break forth.

Michael Strogoff, hidden in a group of prisoners, saw this man pass. He

had a presentiment that some catastrophe was imminent: for Ivan Ogareff

knew now that Marfa was the mother of Michael Strogoff.

Ogareff dismounted, and his escort cleared a large circle round him.

Just then Sangarre approached him, and said, “I have no news.”

Ivan Ogareff’s only reply was to give an order to one of his officers.

Then the ranks of prisoners were brutally hurried up by the soldiers.

The unfortunate people, driven on with whips, or pushed on with lances,

arranged themselves round the camp. A strong guard of soldiers drawn up

behind, rendered escape impossible.

Silence then ensued, and, on a sign from Ivan Ogareff, Sangarre advanced

towards the group, in the midst of which stood Marfa.

The old Siberian saw her, and knew what was going to happen. A scornful

smile passed over her face. Then leaning towards Nadia, she said in a

low tone, “You know me no longer, my daughter. Whatever may happen, and

however hard this trial may be, not a word, not a sign. It concerns him,

and not me.”

At that moment Sangarre, having regarded her for an instant, put her

hand on her shoulder.

“What do you want with me?” said Marfa.

“Come!” replied Sangarre, and pushing the old Siberian before her, she

took her to Ivan Ogareff, in the middle of the cleared ground. Michael

cast down his eyes that their angry flashings might not appear.

Marfa, standing before Ivan Ogareff, drew herself up, crossed her arms

on her breast, and waited.

“You are Marfa Strogoff?” asked Ogareff.

“Yes,” replied the old Siberian calmly.

“Do you retract what you said to me when, three days ago, I interrogated

you at Omsk?”

“No!”

“Then you do not know that your son, Michael Strogoff, courier of the

Czar, has passed through Omsk?”

“I do not know it.”

“And the man in whom you thought you recognized your son, was not he

your son?”

“He was not my son.”

“And since then you have not seen him amongst the prisoners?”

“No.”

“If he were pointed out, would you recognize him?”

“No.”

On this reply, which showed such determined resolution, a murmur was

heard amongst the crowd.

Ogareff could not restrain a threatening gesture.

“Listen,” said he to Marfa, “your son is here, and you shall immediately

point him out to me.”

“No.”

“All these men, taken at Omsk and Kolyvan, will defile before you; and

if you do not show me Michael Strogoff, you shall receive as many blows

of the knout as men shall have passed before you.”

Ivan Ogareff saw that, whatever might be his threats, whatever might be

the tortures to which he submitted her, the indomitable Siberian would

not speak. To discover the courier of the Czar, he counted, then, not on

her, but on Michael himself. He did not believe it possible that, when

mother and son were in each other’s presence, some involuntary movement

would not betray him. Of course, had he wished to seize the imperial

letter, he would simply have given orders to search all the prisoners;

but Michael might have destroyed the letter, having learnt its contents;

and if he were not recognized, if he were to reach Irkutsk, all Ivan

Ogareff’s plans would be baffled. It was thus not only the letter which

the traitor must have, but the bearer himself.

Nadia had heard all, and she now knew who was Michael Strogoff, and why

he had wished to cross, without being recognized, the invaded provinces

of Siberia.

On an order from Ivan Ogareff the prisoners defiled, one by one, past

Marfa, who remained immovable as a statue, and whose face expressed only

perfect indifference.

Her son was among the last. When in his turn he passed before his

mother, Nadia shut her eyes that she might not see him. Michael was to

all appearance unmoved, but the palm of his hand bled under his nails,

which were pressed into them.

Ivan Ogareff was baffled by mother and son.

Sangarre, close to him, said one word, “The knout!”

“Yes,” cried Ogareff, who could no longer restrain himself; “the knout

for this wretched old woman--the knout to the death!”

A Tartar soldier bearing this terrible instrument of torture approached

Marfa. The knout is composed of a certain number of leathern thongs,

at the end of which are attached pieces of twisted iron wire. It is

reckoned that a sentence to one hundred and twenty blows of this whip is

equivalent to a sentence of death.

Marfa knew it, but she knew also that no torture would make her speak.

She was sacrificing her life.

Marfa, seized by two soldiers, was forced on her knees on the ground.

Her dress torn off left her back bare. A saber was placed before her

breast, at a few inches’ distance only. Directly she bent beneath her

suffering, her breast would be pierced by the sharp steel.

The Tartar drew himself up. He waited. “Begin!” said Ogareff. The whip

whistled in the air.

But before it fell a powerful hand stopped the Tartar’s arm. Michael was

there. He had leapt forward at this horrible scene. If at the relay at

Ichim he had restrained himself when Ogareff’s whip had struck him, here

before his mother, who was about to be struck, he could not do so. Ivan

Ogareff had succeeded.

“Michael Strogoff!” cried he. Then advancing, “Ah, the man of Ichim?”

“Himself!” said Michael. And raising the knout he struck Ogareff a sharp

blow across the face. “Blow for blow!” said he.

“Well repaid!” cried a voice concealed by the tumult.

Twenty soldiers threw themselves on Michael, and in another instant he

would have been slain.

But Ogareff, who on being struck had uttered a cry of rage and pain,

stopped them. “This man is reserved for the Emir’s judgment,” said he.

“Search him!”

The letter with the imperial arms was found in Michael’s bosom; he had

not had time to destroy it; it was handed to Ogareff.

The voice which had pronounced the words, “Well repaid!” was that of

no other than Alcide Jolivet. “Par-dieu!” said he to Blount, “they are

rough, these people. Acknowledge that we owe our traveling companion

a good turn. Korpanoff or Strogoff is worthy of it. Oh, that was fine

retaliation for the little affair at Ichim.”

“Yes, retaliation truly,” replied Blount; “but Strogoff is a dead man.

I suspect that, for his own interest at all events, it would have

been better had he not possessed quite so lively a recollection of the

event.”

“And let his mother perish under the knout?”

“Do you think that either she or his sister will be a bit better off

from this outbreak of his?”

“I do not know or think anything except that I should have done much

the same in his position,” replied Alcide. “What a scar the Colonel has

received! Bah! one must boil over sometimes. We should have had water in

our veins instead of blood had it been incumbent on us to be always and

everywhere unmoved to wrath.”

“A neat little incident for our journals,” observed Blount, “if only

Ivan Ogareff would let us know the contents of that letter.”

Ivan Ogareff, when he had stanched the blood which was trickling

down his face, had broken the seal. He read and re-read the letter

deliberately, as if he was determined to discover everything it

contained.

Then having ordered that Michael, carefully bound and guarded, should

be carried on to Tomsk with the other prisoners, he took command of

the troops at Zabediero, and, amid the deafening noise of drums and

trumpets, he marched towards the town where the Emir awaited him.