Kabanata Kabanata 16 · A FINAL EFFORT

. A FINAL EFFORT

MICHAEL’S fear of meeting the Tartars in the plains beyond the Baraba

was by no means ungrounded. The fields, trodden down by horses’ hoofs,

afforded but too clear evidence that their hordes had passed that way;

the same, indeed, might be said of these barbarians as of the Turks:

“Where the Turk goes, no grass grows.”

Michael saw at once that in traversing this country the greatest caution

was necessary. Wreaths of smoke curling upwards on the horizon showed

that huts and hamlets were still burning. Had these been fired by

the advance guard, or had the Emir’s army already advanced beyond the

boundaries of the province? Was Feofar-Khan himself in the government

of Yeniseisk? Michael could settle on no line of action until these

questions were answered. Was the country so deserted that he could not

discover a single Siberian to enlighten him?

Michael rode on for two versts without meeting a human being. He looked

carefully for some house which had not been deserted. Every one was

tenantless.

One hut, however, which he could just see between the trees, was still

smoking. As he approached he perceived, at some yards from the ruins of

the building, an old man surrounded by weeping children. A woman still

young, evidently his daughter and the mother of the poor children,

kneeling on the ground, was gazing on the scene of desolation. She had

at her breast a baby but a few months old; shortly she would have not

even that nourishment to give it. Ruin and desolation were all around!

Michael approached the old man.

“Will you answer me a few questions?” he asked.

“Speak,” replied the old man.

“Have the Tartars passed this way?”

“Yes, for my house is in flames.”

“Was it an army or a detachment?”

“An army, for, as far as eye can reach, our fields are laid waste.”

“Commanded by the Emir?”

“By the Emir; for the Obi’s waters are red.”

“Has Feofar-Khan entered Tomsk?”

“He has.”

“Do you know if his men have entered Kolyvan?”

“No; for Kolyvan does not yet burn.”

“Thanks, friend. Can I aid you and yours?”

“No.”

“Good-by.”

“Farewell.”

And Michael, having presented five and twenty roubles to the unfortunate

woman, who had not even strength to thank him, put spurs to his horse

once more.

One thing he knew; he must not pass through Tomsk. To go to Kolyvan,

which the Tartars had not yet reached, was possible. Yes, that is what

he must do; there he must prepare himself for another long stage. There

was nothing for it but, having crossed the Obi, to take the Irkutsk road

and avoid Tomsk.

This new route decided on, Michael must not delay an instant. Nor

did he, but, putting his horse into a steady gallop, he took the road

towards the left bank of the Obi, which was still forty versts distant.

Would there be a ferry boat there, or should he, finding that the

Tartars had destroyed all the boats, be obliged to swim across?

As to his horse, it was by this time pretty well worn out, and Michael

intended to make it perform this stage only, and then to exchange it for

a fresh one at Kolyvan. Kolyvan would be like a fresh starting point,

for on leaving that town his journey would take a new form. So long as

he traversed a devastated country the difficulties must be very great;

but if, having avoided Tomsk, he could resume the road to Irkutsk across

the province of Yeniseisk, which was not yet laid waste, he would finish

his journey in a few days.

Night came on, bringing with it refreshing coolness after the heat of

the day. At midnight the steppe was profoundly dark. The sound of the

horses’s hoofs alone was heard on the road, except when, every now and

then, its master spoke a few encouraging words. In such darkness as

this great care was necessary lest he should leave the road, bordered by

pools and streams, tributaries of the Obi. Michael therefore advanced

as quickly as was consistent with safety. He trusted no less to

the excellence of his eyes, which penetrated the gloom, than to the

well-proved sagacity of his horse.

Just as Michael dismounted to discover the exact direction of the road,

he heard a confused murmuring sound from the west. It was like the

noise of horses’ hoofs at some distance on the parched ground. Michael

listened attentively, putting his ear to the ground.

“It is a detachment of cavalry coming by the road from Omsk,” he said to

himself. “They are marching very quickly, for the noise is increasing.

Are they Russians or Tartars?”

Michael again listened. “Yes,” said he, “they are at a sharp trot. My

horse cannot outstrip them. If they are Russians I will join them; if

Tartars I must avoid them. But how? Where can I hide in this steppe?”

He gave a look around, and, through the darkness, discovered a confused

mass at a hundred paces before him on the left of the road. “There is a

copse!” he exclaimed. “To take refuge there is to run the risk of being

caught, if they are in search of me; but I have no choice.”

In a few moments Michael, dragging his horse by the bridle, reached

a little larch wood, through which the road lay. Beyond this it was

destitute of trees, and wound among bogs and pools, separated by

dwarfed bushes, whins, and heather. The ground on either side was quite

impracticable, and the detachment must necessarily pass through the

wood. They were pursuing the high road to Irkutsk. Plunging in about

forty feet, he was stopped by a stream running under the brushwood. But

the shadow was so deep that Michael ran no risk of being seen, unless

the wood should be carefully searched. He therefore led his horse to the

stream and fastened him to a tree, returning to the edge of the road to

listen and ascertain with what sort of people he had to do.

Michael had scarcely taken up his position behind a group of larches

when a confused light appeared, above which glared brighter lights

waving about in the shadow.

“Torches!” said he to himself. And he drew quickly back, gliding like a

savage into the thickest underwood.

As they approached the wood the horses’ pace was slackened. The horsemen

were probably lighting up the road with the intention of examining every

turn.

Michael feared this, and instinctively drew near to the bank of the

stream, ready to plunge in if necessary.

Arrived at the top of the wood, the detachment halted. The horsemen

dismounted. There were about fifty. A dozen of them carried torches,

lighting up the road.

By watching their preparations Michael found to his joy that the

detachment were not thinking of visiting the copse, but only bivouacking

near, to rest their horses and allow the men to take some refreshment.

The horses were soon unsaddled, and began to graze on the thick grass

which carpeted the ground. The men meantime stretched themselves by the

side of the road, and partook of the provisions they produced from their

knapsacks.

Michael’s self-possession had never deserted him, and creeping amongst

the high grass he endeavored not only to examine the new-comers, but to

hear what they said. It was a detachment from Omsk, composed of Usbeck

horsemen, a race of the Mongolian type. These men, well built, above

the medium height, rough, and wild-featured, wore on their heads the

“talpak,” or black sheep-skin cap, and on their feet yellow high-heeled

boots with turned-up toes, like the shoes of the Middle Ages. Their

tunics were close-fitting, and confined at the waist by a leathern

belt braided with red. They were armed defensively with a shield, and

offensively with a curved sword, and a flintlock musket slung at the

saddle-bow. From their shoulders hung gay-colored cloaks.

The horses, which were feeding at liberty at the edge of the wood, were,

like their masters, of the Usbeck race. These animals are rather smaller

than the Turcomanian horses, but are possessed of remarkable strength,

and know no other pace than the gallop.

This detachment was commanded by a “pendja-baschi”; that is to say,

a commander of fifty men, having under him a “deh-baschi,” or simple

commander of ten men. These two officers wore helmets and half

coats-of-mail; little trumpets fastened to their saddle-bows were the

distinctive signs of their rank.

The pendja-baschi had been obliged to let his men rest, fatigued with

a long stage. He and the second officer, smoking “beng,” the leaf which

forms the base of the “haschisch,” strolled up and down the wood, so

that Michael Strogoff without being seen, could catch and understand

their conversation, which was spoken in the Tartar language.

Michael’s attention was singularly excited by their very first words. It

was of him they were speaking.

“This courier cannot be much in advance of us,” said the pendja-baschi;

“and, on the other hand, it is absolutely impossible that he can have

followed any other route than that of the Baraba.”

“Who knows if he has left Omsk?” replied the deh-baschi. “Perhaps he is

still hidden in the town.”

“That is to be wished, certainly. Colonel Ogareff would have no fear

then that the dispatches he bears should ever reach their destination.”

“They say that he is a native, a Siberian,” resumed the deh-baschi. “If

so, he must be well acquainted with the country, and it is possible that

he has left the Irkutsk road, depending on rejoining it later.”

“But then we should be in advance of him,” answered the pendja-baschi;

“for we left Omsk within an hour after his departure, and have since

followed the shortest road with all the speed of our horses. He has

either remained in Omsk, or we shall arrive at Tomsk before him, so as

to cut him off; in either case he will not reach Irkutsk.”

“A rugged woman, that old Siberian, who is evidently his mother,” said

the deh-baschi.

At this remark Michael’s heart beat violently.

“Yes,” answered the pendja-baschi. “She stuck to it well that the

pretended merchant was not her son, but it was too late. Colonel Ogareff

was not to be taken in; and, as he said, he will know how to make the

old witch speak when the time comes.”

These words were so many dagger-thrusts for Michael. He was known to be

a courier of the Czar! A detachment of horsemen on his track could not

fail to cut him off. And, worst of all, his mother was in the hands of

the Tartars, and the cruel Ogareff had undertaken to make her speak when

he wished!

Michael well knew that the brave Siberian would sacrifice her life for

him. He had fancied that he could not hate Ivan Ogareff more, yet a

fresh tide of hate now rose in his heart. The wretch who had betrayed

his country now threatened to torture his mother.

The conversation between the two officers continued, and Michael

understood that an engagement was imminent in the neighborhood of

Kolyvan, between the Muscovite troops coming from the north and the

Tartars. A small Russian force of two thousand men, reported to have

reached the lower course of the Obi, were advancing by forced marches

towards Tomsk. If such was the case, this force, which would soon

find itself engaged with the main body of Feofar-Khan’s army, would

be inevitably overwhelmed, and the Irkutsk road would be in the entire

possession of the invaders.

As to himself, Michael learnt, by some words from the pendja-baschi,

that a price was set on his head, and that orders had been given to take

him, dead or alive.

It was necessary, therefore, to get the start of the Usbeck horsemen on

the Irkutsk road, and put the Obi between himself and them. But to do

that, he must escape before the camp was broken up.

His determination taken, Michael prepared to execute it.

Indeed, the halt would not be prolonged, and the pendja-baschi did not

intend to give his men more than an hour’s rest, although their horses

could not have been changed for fresh ones since Omsk, and must be as

much fatigued as that of Michael Strogoff.

There was not a moment to lose. It was within an hour of morning. It

was needful to profit by the darkness to leave the little wood and dash

along the road; but although night favored it the success of such a

flight appeared to be almost impossible.

Not wishing to do anything at random, Michael took time for reflection,

carefully weighing the chances so as to take the best. From the

situation of the place the result was this--that he could not escape

through the back of the wood, the stream which bordered it being not

only deep, but very wide and muddy. Beneath this thick water was a slimy

bog, on which the foot could not rest. There was only one way open, the

high-road. To endeavor to reach it by creeping round the edge of the

wood, without attracting attention, and then to gallop at headlong

speed, required all the remaining strength and energy of his noble

steed. Too probably it would fall dead on reaching the banks of the Obi,

when, either by boat or by swimming, he must cross this important river.

This was what Michael had before him.

His energy and courage increased in sight of danger.

His life, his mission, his country, perhaps the safety of his mother,

were at stake. He could not hesitate.

There was not a moment to be lost. Already there was a slight movement

among the men of the detachment. A few horsemen were strolling up and

down the road in front of the wood. The rest were still lying at the

foot of the trees, but their horses were gradually penetrating towards

the center of the wood.

Michael had at first thought of seizing one of these horses, but he

recollected that, of course, they would be as fatigued as his own. It

was better to trust to his own brave steed, which had already rendered

him such important service. The good animal, hidden behind a thicket,

had escaped the sight of the Usbecks. They, besides, had not penetrated

so far into the wood.

Michael crawled up to his horse through the grass, and found him lying

down. He patted and spoke gently to him, and managed to raise him

without noise. Fortunately, the torches were entirely consumed, and

now went out, the darkness being still profound under shelter of the

larches. After replacing the bit, Michael looked to his girths and

stirrups, and began to lead his horse quietly away. The intelligent

animal followed his master without even making the least neigh.

A few Usbeck horses raised their heads, and began to wander towards the

edge of the wood. Michael held his revolver in his hand, ready to blow

out the brains of the first Tartar who should approach him. But happily

the alarm was not given, and he was able to gain the angle made by the

wood where it joined the road.

To avoid being seen, Michael’s intention was not to mount until after

turning a corner some two hundred feet from the wood. Unfortunately,

just at the moment that he was issuing from the wood, an Usbeck’s horse,

scenting him, neighed and began to trot along the road. His master ran

to catch him, and seeing a shadowy form moving in the dim light, “Look

out!” he shouted.

At the cry, all the men of the bivouac jumped up, and ran to seize their

horses. Michael leaped on his steed, and galloped away. The two officers

of the detachment urged on their men to follow.

Michael heard a report, and felt a ball pass through his tunic. Without

turning his head, without replying, he spurred on, and, clearing the

brushwood with a tremendous bound, he galloped at full speed toward the

Obi.

The Usbecks’ horses being unsaddled gave him a small start, but in less

than two minutes he heard the tramp of several horses gradually gaining

on him.

Day was now beginning to break, and objects at some distance were

becoming visible. Michael turned his head, and perceived a horseman

rapidly approaching him. It was the deh-baschi. Being better mounted,

this officer had distanced his detachment.

Without drawing rein, Michael extended his revolver, and took a moment’s

aim. The Usbeck officer, hit in the breast, rolled on the ground.

But the other horsemen followed him closely, and without waiting to

assist the deh-baschi, exciting each other by their shouts, digging

their spurs into their horses’ sides, they gradually diminished the

distance between themselves and Michael.

For half an hour only was the latter able to keep out of range of

the Tartars, but he well knew that his horse was becoming weaker, and

dreaded every instant that he would stumble never to rise again.

It was now light, although the sun had not yet risen above the horizon.

Two versts distant could be seen a pale line bordered by a few trees.

This was the Obi, which flows from the southwest to the northeast,

the surface almost level with the ground, its bed being but the steppe

itself.

Several times shots were fired at Michael, but without hitting him, and

several times too he discharged his revolver on those of the soldiers

who pressed him too closely. Each time an Usbeck rolled on the ground,

midst cries of rage from his companions. But this pursuit could only

terminate to Michael’s disadvantage. His horse was almost exhausted. He

managed to reach the bank of the river. The Usbeck detachment was now

not more than fifty paces behind him.

The Obi was deserted--not a boat of any description which could take him

over the water!

“Courage, my brave horse!” cried Michael. “Come! A last effort!” And he

plunged into the river, which here was half a verst in width.

It would have been difficult to stand against the current--indeed,

Michael’s horse could get no footing. He must therefore swim across the

river, although it was rapid as a torrent. Even to attempt it showed

Michael’s marvelous courage. The soldiers reached the bank, but

hesitated to plunge in.

The pendja-baschi seized his musket and took aim at Michael, whom he

could see in the middle of the stream. The shot was fired, and Michael’s

horse, struck in the side, was borne away by the current.

His master, speedily disentangling himself from his stirrups, struck out

boldly for the shore. In the midst of a hailstorm of balls he managed to

reach the opposite side, and disappeared in the rushes.