Chapter Chapter 27 · BAIKAL AND ANGARA

. BAIKAL AND ANGARA

LAKE BAIKAL is situated seventeen hundred feet above the level of the

sea. Its length is about six hundred miles, its breadth seventy. Its

depth is not known. Madame de Bourboulon states that, according to the

boatmen, it likes to be spoken of as “Madam Sea.” If it is called “Sir

Lake,” it immediately lashes itself into fury. However, it is reported

and believed by the Siberians that a Russian is never drowned in it.

This immense basin of fresh water, fed by more than three hundred

rivers, is surrounded by magnificent volcanic mountains. It has no other

outlet than the Angara, which after passing Irkutsk throws itself into

the Yenisei, a little above the town of Yeniseisk. As to the mountains

which encase it, they form a branch of the Toungouzes, and are derived

from the vast system of the Altai.

In this territory, subject to peculiar climatical conditions, the

autumn appears to be absorbed in the precocious winter. It was now the

beginning of October. The sun set at five o’clock in the evening, and

during the long nights the temperature fell to zero. The first snows,

which would last till summer, already whitened the summits of the

neighboring hills. During the Siberian winter this inland sea is frozen

over to a thickness of several feet, and is crossed by the sleighs of

caravans.

Either because there are people who are so wanting in politeness as to

call it “Sir Lake,” or for some more meteorological reason, Lake Baikal

is subject to violent tempests. Its waves, short like those of all

inland seas, are much feared by the rafts, prahms, and steamboats, which

furrow it during the summer.

It was the southwest point of the lake which Michael had now reached,

carrying Nadia, whose whole life, so to speak, was concentrated in her

eyes. But what could these two expect, in this wild region, if it was

not to die of exhaustion and famine? And yet, what remained of the long

journey of four thousand miles for the Czar’s courier to reach his end?

Nothing but forty miles on the shore of the lake up to the mouth of the

Angara, and sixty miles from the mouth of the Angara to Irkutsk; in all,

a hundred miles, or three days’ journey for a strong man, even on foot.

Could Michael Strogoff still be that man?

Heaven, no doubt, did not wish to put him to this trial. The fatality

which had hitherto pursued his steps seemed for a time to spare him.

This end of the Baikal, this part of the steppe, which he believed to be

a desert, which it usually is, was not so now. About fifty people were

collected at the angle formed by the end of the lake.

Nadia immediately caught sight of this group, when Michael, carrying her

in his arms, issued from the mountain pass. The girl feared for a moment

that it was a Tartar detachment, sent to beat the shores of the Baikal,

in which case flight would have been impossible to them both. But Nadia

was soon reassured.

“Russians!” she exclaimed. And with this last effort, her eyes closed

and her head fell on Michael’s breast.

But they had been seen, and some of these Russians, running to them, led

the blind man and the girl to a little point at which was moored a raft.

The raft was just going to start. These Russians were fugitives of

different conditions, whom the same interest had united at Lake Baikal.

Driven back by the Tartar scouts, they hoped to obtain a refuge at

Irkutsk, but not being able to get there by land, the invaders having

occupied both banks of the Angara, they hoped to reach it by descending

the river which flows through the town.

Their plan made Michael’s heart leap; a last chance was before him,

but he had strength to conceal this, wishing to keep his incognito more

strictly than ever.

The fugitives’ plan was very simple. A current in the lake runs along

by the upper bank to the mouth of the Angara; this current they hoped

to utilize, and with its assistance to reach the outlet of Lake Baikal.

From this point to Irkutsk, the rapid waters of the river would bear

them along at a rate of eight miles an hour. In a day and a half they

might hope to be in sight of the town.

No kind of boat was to be found; they had been obliged to make one;

a raft, or rather a float of wood, similar to those which usually are

drifted down Siberian rivers, was constructed. A forest of firs, growing

on the bank, had supplied the necessary materials; the trunks, fastened

together with osiers, made a platform on which a hundred people could

have easily found room.

On board this raft Michael and Nadia were taken. The girl had returned

to herself; some food was given to her as well as to her companion.

Then, lying on a bed of leaves, she soon fell into a deep sleep.

To those who questioned him, Michael Strogoff said nothing of what

had taken place at Tomsk. He gave himself out as an inhabitant of

Krasnoiarsk, who had not been able to get to Irkutsk before the Emir’s

troops arrived on the left bank of the Dinka, and he added that, very

probably, the bulk of the Tartar forces had taken up a position before

the Siberian capital.

There was not a moment to be lost; besides, the cold was becoming more

and more severe. During the night the temperature fell below zero; ice

was already forming on the surface of the Baikal. Although the raft

managed to pass easily over the lake, it might not be so easy between

the banks of the Angara, should pieces of ice be found to block up its

course.

At eight in the evening the moorings were cast off, and the raft drifted

in the current along the shore. It was steered by means of long poles,

under the management of several muscular moujiks. An old Baikal boatman

took command of the raft. He was a man of sixty-five, browned by the

sun, and lake breezes. A thick white beard flowed over his chest; a

fur cap covered his head; his aspect was grave and austere. His large

great-coat, fastened in at the waist, reached down to his heels. This

taciturn old fellow was seated in the stern, and issued his commands by

gestures. Besides, the chief work consisted in keeping the raft in the

current, which ran along the shore, without drifting out into the open.

It has been already said that Russians of all conditions had found a

place on the raft. Indeed, to the poor moujiks, the women, old men, and

children, were joined two or three pilgrims, surprised on their journey

by the invasion; a few monks, and a priest. The pilgrims carried a

staff, a gourd hung at the belt, and they chanted psalms in a plaintive

voice: one came from the Ukraine, another from the Yellow sea, and

a third from the Finland provinces. This last, who was an aged man,

carried at his waist a little padlocked collecting-box, as if it had

been hung at a church door. Of all that he collected during his long and

fatiguing pilgrimage, nothing was for himself; he did not even possess

the key of the box, which would only be opened on his return.

The monks came from the North of the Empire. Three months before they

had left the town of Archangel. They had visited the sacred islands near

the coast of Carelia, the convent of Solovetsk, the convent of Troitsa,

those of Saint Antony and Saint Theodosia, at Kiev, that of Kazan, as

well as the church of the Old Believers, and they were now on their way

to Irkutsk, wearing the robe, the cowl, and the clothes of serge.

As to the papa, or priest, he was a plain village pastor, one of the six

hundred thousand popular pastors which the Russian Empire contains. He

was clothed as miserably as the moujiks, not being above them in social

position; in fact, laboring like a peasant on his plot of ground;

baptising, marrying, burying. He had been able to protect his wife and

children from the brutality of the Tartars by sending them away into the

Northern provinces. He himself had stayed in his parish up to the last

moment; then he was obliged to fly, and, the Irkutsk road being stopped,

had come to Lake Baikal.

These priests, grouped in the forward part of the raft, prayed at

regular intervals, raising their voices in the silent night, and at the

end of each sentence of their prayer, the “Slava Bogu,” Glory to God!

issued from their lips.

No incident took place during the night. Nadia remained in a sort of

stupor, and Michael watched beside her; sleep only overtook him at long

intervals, and even then his brain did not rest. At break of day, the

raft, delayed by a strong breeze, which counteracted the course of the

current, was still forty versts from the mouth of the Angara. It seemed

probable that the fugitives could not reach it before three or four

o’clock in the evening. This did not trouble them; on the contrary, for

they would then descend the river during the night, and the darkness

would also favor their entrance into Irkutsk.

The only anxiety exhibited at times by the old boatman was concerning

the formation of ice on the surface of the water. The night had been

excessively cold; pieces of ice could be seen drifting towards the West.

Nothing was to be dreaded from these, since they could not drift into

the Angara, having already passed the mouth; but pieces from the Eastern

end of the lake might be drawn by the current between the banks of the

river; this would cause difficulty, possibly delay, and perhaps even an

insurmountable obstacle which would stop the raft.

Michael therefore took immense interest in ascertaining what was the

state of the lake, and whether any large number of ice blocks appeared.

Nadia being now awake, he questioned her often, and she gave him an

account of all that was going on.

Whilst the blocks were thus drifting, curious phenomena were taking

place on the surface of the Baikal. Magnificent jets, from springs of

boiling water, shot up from some of those artesian wells which Nature

has bored in the very bed of the lake. These jets rose to a great height

and spread out in vapor, which was illuminated by the solar rays, and

almost immediately condensed by the cold. This curious sight would have

assuredly amazed a tourist traveling in peaceful times on this Siberian

sea.

At four in the evening, the mouth of the Angara was signaled by the old

boatman, between the high granite rocks of the shore. On the right bank

could be seen the little port of Livenitchnaia, its church, and its few

houses built on the bank. But the serious thing was that the ice blocks

from the East were already drifting between the banks of the Angara, and

consequently were descending towards Irkutsk. However, their number was

not yet great enough to obstruct the course of the raft, nor the cold

great enough to increase their number.

The raft arrived at the little port and there stopped. The old boatman

wished to put into harbor for an hour, in order to make some repairs.

The trunks threatened to separate, and it was important to fasten them

more securely together to resist the rapid current of the Angara.

The old boatman did not expect to receive any fresh fugitives at

Livenitchnaia, and yet, the moment the raft touched, two passengers,

issuing from a deserted house, ran as fast as they could towards the

beach.

Nadia seated on the raft, was abstractedly gazing at the shore. A cry

was about to escape her. She seized Michael’s hand, who at that moment

raised his head.

“What is the matter, Nadia?” he asked.

“Our two traveling companions, Michael.”

“The Frenchman and the Englishman whom we met in the defiles of the

Ural?”

“Yes.”

Michael started, for the strict incognito which he wished to keep ran a

risk of being betrayed. Indeed, it was no longer as Nicholas Korpanoff

that Jolivet and Blount would now see him, but as the true Michael

Strogoff, Courier of the Czar. The two correspondents had already met

him twice since their separation at the Ichim post-house--the first time

at the Zabediero camp, when he laid open Ivan Ogareff’s face with the

knout; the second time at Tomsk, when he was condemned by the Emir. They

therefore knew who he was and what depended on him.

Michael Strogoff rapidly made up his mind. “Nadia,” said he, “when they

step on board, ask them to come to me!”

It was, in fact, Blount and Jolivet, whom the course of events had

brought to the port of Livenitchnaia, as it had brought Michael

Strogoff. As we know, after having been present at the entry of the

Tartars into Tomsk, they had departed before the savage execution which

terminated the fête. They had therefore never suspected that their

former traveling companion had not been put to death, but blinded by

order of the Emir.

Having procured horses they had left Tomsk the same evening, with

the fixed determination of henceforward dating their letters from

the Russian camp of Eastern Siberia. They proceeded by forced marches

towards Irkutsk. They hoped to distance Feofar-Khan, and would certainly

have done so, had it not been for the unexpected apparition of the third

column, come from the South, up the valley of the Yenisei. They had been

cut off, as had been Michael, before being able even to reach the Dinka,

and had been obliged to go back to Lake Baikal.

They had been in the place for three days in much perplexity, when

the raft arrived. The fugitives’ plan was explained to them. There was

certainly a chance that they might be able to pass under cover of the

night, and penetrate into Irkutsk. They resolved to make the attempt.

Alcide directly communicated with the old boatman, and asked a passage

for himself and his companion, offering to pay anything he demanded,

whatever it might be.

“No one pays here,” replied the old man gravely; “every one risks his

life, that is all!”

The two correspondents came on board, and Nadia saw them take their

places in the forepart of the raft. Harry Blount was still the reserved

Englishman, who had scarcely addressed a word to her during the whole

passage over the Ural Mountains. Alcide Jolivet seemed to be rather

more grave than usual, and it may be acknowledged that his gravity was

justified by the circumstances.

Jolivet had, as has been said, taken his seat on the raft, when he felt

a hand laid on his arm. Turning, he recognized Nadia, the sister of the

man who was no longer Nicholas Korpanoff, but Michael Strogoff, Courier

of the Czar. He was about to make an exclamation of surprise when he saw

the young girl lay her finger on her lips.

“Come,” said Nadia. And with a careless air, Alcide rose and followed

her, making a sign to Blount to accompany him.

But if the surprise of the correspondents had been great at meeting

Nadia on the raft it was boundless when they perceived Michael Strogoff,

whom they had believed to be no longer living.

Michael had not moved at their approach. Jolivet turned towards the

girl. “He does not see you, gentlemen,” said Nadia. “The Tartars have

burnt out his eyes! My poor brother is blind!”

A feeling of lively compassion exhibited itself on the faces of Blount

and his companion. In a moment they were seated beside Michael, pressing

his hand and waiting until he spoke to them.

“Gentlemen,” said Michael, in a low voice, “you ought not to know who

I am, nor what I am come to do in Siberia. I ask you to keep my secret.

Will you promise me to do so?”

“On my honor,” answered Jolivet.

“On my word as a gentleman,” added Blount.

“Good, gentlemen.”

“Can we be of any use to you?” asked Harry Blount. “Could we not help

you to accomplish your task?”

“I prefer to act alone,” replied Michael.

“But those blackguards have destroyed your sight,” said Alcide.

“I have Nadia, and her eyes are enough for me!”

In half an hour the raft left the little port of Livenitchnaia, and

entered the river. It was five in the evening and getting dusk. The

night promised to be dark and very cold also, for the temperature was

already below zero.

Alcide and Blount, though they had promised to keep Michael’s secret,

did not leave him. They talked in a low voice, and the blind man, adding

what they told him to what he already knew, was able to form an exact

idea of the state of things. It was certain that the Tartars had

actually invested Irkutsk, and that the three columns had effected a

junction. There was no doubt that the Emir and Ivan Ogareff were before

the capital.

But why did the Czar’s courier exhibit such haste to get there, now that

the Imperial letter could no longer be given by him to the Grand Duke,

and when he did not even know the contents of it? Alcide Jolivet and

Blount could not understand it any more than Nadia had done.

No one spoke of the past, except when Jolivet thought it his duty to say

to Michael, “We owe you some apology for not shaking hands with you when

we separated at Ichim.”

“No, you had reason to think me a coward!”

“At any rate,” added the Frenchman, “you knouted the face of that

villain finely, and he will carry the mark of it for a long time!”

“No, not a long time!” replied Michael quietly.

Half an hour after leaving Livenitchnaia, Blount and his companion were

acquainted with the cruel trials through which Michael and his companion

had successively passed. They could not but heartily admire his energy,

which was only equaled by the young girl’s devotion. Their opinion of

Michael was exactly what the Czar had expressed at Moscow: “Indeed, this

is a Man!”

The raft swiftly threaded its way among the blocks of ice which were

carried along in the current of the Angara. A moving panorama was

displayed on both sides of the river, and, by an optical illusion, it

appeared as if it was the raft which was motionless before a succession

of picturesque scenes. Here were high granite cliffs, there wild gorges,

down which rushed a torrent; sometimes appeared a clearing with a still

smoking village, then thick pine forests blazing. But though the Tartars

had left their traces on all sides, they themselves were not to be

seen as yet, for they were more especially massed at the approaches to

Irkutsk.

All this time the pilgrims were repeating their prayers aloud, and the

old boatman, shoving away the blocks of ice which pressed too near them,

imperturbably steered the raft in the middle of the rapid current of the

Angara.