Kabanata Kabanata 18 · A TARTAR CAMP

. A TARTAR CAMP

AT a day’s march from Kolyvan, several versts beyond the town of

Diachinks, stretches a wide plain, planted here and there with great

trees, principally pines and cedars. This part of the steppe is usually

occupied during the warm season by Siberian shepherds, and their

numerous flocks. But now it might have been searched in vain for one of

its nomad inhabitants. Not that the plain was deserted. It presented a

most animated appearance.

There stood the Tartar tents; there Feofar-Khan, the terrible Emir

of Bokhara, was encamped; and there on the following day, the 7th

of August, were brought the prisoners taken at Kolyvan after the

annihilation of the Russian force, which had vainly attempted to oppose

the progress of the invaders. Of the two thousand men who had engaged

with the two columns of the enemy, the bases of which rested on Tomsk

and Omsk, only a few hundred remained. Thus events were going badly,

and the imperial government appeared to have lost its power beyond the

frontiers of the Ural--for a time at least, for the Russians could not

fail eventually to defeat the savage hordes of the invaders. But in

the meantime the invasion had reached the center of Siberia, and it

was spreading through the revolted country both to the eastern, and

the western provinces. If the troops of the Amoor and the province of

Takutsk did not arrive in time to occupy it, Irkutsk, the capital of

Asiatic Russia, being insufficiently garrisoned, would fall into the

hands of the Tartars, and the Grand Duke, brother of the Emperor, would

be sacrificed to the vengeance of Ivan Ogareff.

What had become of Michael Strogoff? Had he broken down under the weight

of so many trials? Did he consider himself conquered by the series

of disasters which, since the adventure of Ichim, had increased in

magnitude? Did he think his cause lost? that his mission had failed?

that his orders could no longer be obeyed?

Michael was one of those men who never give in while life exists. He was

yet alive; he still had the imperial letter safe; his disguise had been

undiscovered. He was included amongst the numerous prisoners whom the

Tartars were dragging with them like cattle; but by approaching Tomsk he

was at the same time drawing nearer to Irkutsk. Besides, he was still in

front of Ivan Ogareff.

“I will get there!” he repeated to himself.

Since the affair of Kolyvan all the powers of his mind were concentrated

on one object--to become free! How should he escape from the Emir’s

soldiers?

Feofar’s camp presented a magnificent spectacle.

Numberless tents, of skin, felt, or silk, glistened in the rays of the

sun. The lofty plumes which surmounted their conical tops waved amidst

banners, flags, and pennons of every color. The richest of these tents

belonged to the Seides and Khodjas, who are the principal personages of

the khanat. A special pavilion, ornamented with a horse’s tail issuing

from a sheaf of red and white sticks artistically interlaced, indicated

the high rank of these Tartar chiefs. Then in the distance rose several

thousand of the Turcoman tents, called “karaoy,” which had been carried

on the backs of camels.

The camp contained at least a hundred and fifty thousand soldiers,

as many foot as horse soldiers, collected under the name of Alamanes.

Amongst them, and as the principal types of Turkestan, would have been

directly remarked the Tadjiks, from their regular features, white skin,

tall forms, and black eyes and hair; they formed the bulk of the Tartar

army, and of them the khanats of Khokhand and Koundouge had furnished

a contingent nearly equal to that of Bokhara. With the Tadjiks were

mingled specimens of different races who either reside in Turkestan or

whose native countries border on it. There were Usbecks, red-bearded,

small in stature, similar to those who had pursued Michael. Here were

Kirghiz, with flat faces like the Kalmucks, dressed in coats of mail:

some carried the lance, bows, and arrows of Asiatic manufacture; some

the saber, a matchlock gun, and the “tschakane,” a little short-handled

ax, the wounds from which invariably prove fatal. There were Mongols--of

middle height, with black hair plaited into pigtails, which hung down

their back; round faces, swarthy complexions, lively deep-set eyes,

scanty beards--dressed in blue nankeen trimmed with black plush,

sword-belts of leather with silver buckles, coats gayly braided,

and silk caps edged with fur and three ribbons fluttering behind.

Brown-skinned Afghans, too, might have been seen. Arabs, having the

primitive type of the beautiful Semitic races; and Turcomans, with eyes

which looked as if they had lost the pupil,--all enrolled under the

Emir’s flag, the flag of incendiaries and devastators.

Among these free soldiers were a certain number of slave soldiers,

principally Persians, commanded by officers of the same nation, and they

were certainly not the least esteemed of Feofar-Khan’s army.

If to this list are added the Jews, who acted as servants, their robes

confined with a cord, and wearing on their heads instead of the turban,

which is forbidden them, little caps of dark cloth; if with these

groups are mingled some hundreds of “kalenders,” a sort of religious

mendicants, clothed in rags, covered by a leopard skin, some idea may be

formed of the enormous agglomerations of different tribes included under

the general denomination of the Tartar army.

Nothing could be more romantic than this picture, in delineating which

the most skillful artist would have exhausted all the colors of his

palette.

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 center 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-begui,” 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 surely 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

recognized, 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 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 traveling 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 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, and skillfully 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! it’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, 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

indulge himself.

“M. Jolivet,” he asked, “do you think that our last dispatches 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 dispatches?” asked

Blount, for the first time putting his 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.”

“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.

“Oh, 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 favor 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 honor 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. 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 traveling 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.