Kabanata Kabanata 19 · CORRESPONDENTS IN TROUBLE

. CORRESPONDENTS IN TROUBLE

IVAN OGAREFF was bringing up the main body of the army of the Emir. The

cavalry and infantry now under him had formed part of the column which

had taken Omsk. Ogareff, not having been able to reduce the high town,

in which, it must be remembered, the governor and garrison had sought

refuge, had decided to pass on, not wishing to delay operations which

ought to lead to the conquest of Eastern Siberia. He therefore left a

garrison in Omsk, and, reinforcing himself _en route_ with the conquerors

of Kolyvan, joined Feofar’s army.

Ivan Ogareff’s soldiers halted at the outposts of the camp. They

received no orders to bivouac. Their chief’s plan, doubtless, was not

to halt there, but to press on and reach Tomsk in the shortest possible

time, it being an important town, naturally intended to become the

center of future operations.

Besides his soldiers, Ogareff was bringing a convoy of Russian and

Siberian prisoners, captured either at Omsk or Kolyvan. These unhappy

creatures were not led to the enclosure--already too crowded--but

were forced to remain at the outposts without shelter, almost without

nourishment. What fate was Feofar-Khan reserving for these unfortunates?

Would he imprison them in Tomsk, or would some bloody execution,

familiar to the Tartar chiefs, remove them when they were found too

inconvenient? This was the secret of the capricious Emir.

This army had not come from Omsk and Kolyvan without bringing in its

train the usual crowd of beggars, freebooters, pedlars, and gypsies,

which compose the rear-guard of an army on the march.

All these people lived on the country traversed, and left little of

anything behind them. There was, therefore, a necessity for pushing

forward, if only to secure provisions for the troops. The whole region

between Ichim and the Obi, now completely devastated, no longer offered

any resources. The Tartars left a desert behind them.

Conspicuous among the gypsies who had hastened from the western

provinces was the Tsigane troop, which had accompanied Michael Strogoff

as far as Perm. Sangarre was there. This fierce spy, the tool of Ivan

Ogareff, had not deserted her master. Ogareff had traveled rapidly

to Ichim, whilst Sangarre and her band had proceeded to Omsk by the

southern part of the province.

It may be easily understood how useful this woman was to Ogareff. With

her gypsy-band she could penetrate anywhere. Ivan Ogareff was kept

acquainted with all that was going on in the very heart of the invaded

provinces. There were a hundred eyes, a hundred ears, open in his

service. Besides, he paid liberally for this espionage, from which he

derived so much advantage.

Once Sangarre, being implicated in a very serious affair, had been saved

by the Russian officer. She never forgot what she owed him, and had

devoted herself to his service body and soul.

When Ivan Ogareff entered on the path of treason, he saw at once how

he might turn this woman to account. Whatever order he might give her,

Sangarre would execute it. An inexplicable instinct, more powerful still

than that of gratitude, had urged her to make herself the slave of the

traitor to whom she had been attached since the very beginning of his

exile in Siberia.

Confidante and accomplice, Sangarre, without country, without family,

had been delighted to put her vagabond life to the service of the

invaders thrown by Ogareff on Siberia. To the wonderful cunning natural

to her race she added a wild energy, which knew neither forgiveness nor

pity. She was a savage worthy to share the wigwam of an Apache or the

hut of an Andaman.

Since her arrival at Omsk, where she had rejoined him with her Tsiganes,

Sangarre had not again left Ogareff. The circumstance that Michael and

Marfa Strogoff had met was known to her. She knew and shared Ogareff’s

fears concerning the journey of a courier of the Czar. Having Marfa

Strogoff in her power, she would have been the woman to torture her with

all the refinement of a Redskin in order to wrest her secret from her.

But the hour had not yet come in which Ogareff wished the old Siberian

to speak. Sangarre had to wait, and she waited, without losing sight

of her whom she was watching, observing her slightest gestures, her

slightest words, endeavoring to catch the word “son” escaping from her

lips, but as yet always baffled by Marfa’s taciturnity.

At the first flourish of the trumpets several officers of high rank,

followed by a brilliant escort of Usbeck horsemen, moved to the front of

the camp to receive Ivan Ogareff. Arrived in his presence, they paid him

the greatest respect, and invited him to accompany them to Feofar-Khan’s

tent.

Imperturbable as usual, Ogareff replied coldly to the deference paid to

him. He was plainly dressed; but, from a sort of impudent bravado, he

still wore the uniform of a Russian officer.

As he was about to enter the camp, Sangarre, passing among the officers

approached and remained motionless before him. “Nothing?” asked Ogareff.

“Nothing.”

“Have patience.”

“Is the time approaching when you will force the old woman to speak?”

“It is approaching, Sangarre.”

“When will the old woman speak?”

“When we reach Tomsk.”

“And we shall be there--”

“In three days.”

A strange gleam shot from Sangarre’s great black eyes, and she retired

with a calm step. Ogareff pressed his spurs into his horse’s flanks,

and, followed by his staff of Tartar officers, rode towards the Emir’s

tent.

Feofar-Khan was expecting his lieutenant. The council, composed of the

bearer of the royal seal, the khodja, and some high officers, had taken

their places in the tent. Ivan Ogareff dismounted and entered.

Feofar-Khan was a man of forty, tall, rather pale, of a fierce

countenance, and evil eyes. A curly black beard flowed over his chest.

With his war costume, coat of mail of gold and silver, cross-belt and

scabbard glistening with precious stones, boots with golden spurs,

helmet ornamented with an aigrette of brilliant diamonds, Feofar

presented an aspect rather strange than imposing for a Tartar

Sardana-palus, an undisputed sovereign, who directs at his pleasure the

life and fortune of his subjects.

When Ivan Ogareff appeared, the great dignitaries remained seated on

their gold-embroidered cushions; but Feofar rose from a rich divan which

occupied the back part of the tent, the ground being hidden under the

thick velvet-pile of a Bokharian carpet.

The Emir approached Ogareff and gave him a kiss, the meaning of which he

could not mistake. This kiss made the lieutenant chief of the council,

and placed him temporarily above the khodja.

Then Feofar spoke. “I have no need to question you,” said he; “speak,

Ivan. You will find here ears very ready to listen to you.”

“Takhsir,” answered Ogareff, “this is what I have to make known to you.”

He spoke in the Tartar language, giving to his phrases the emphatic turn

which distinguishes the languages of the Orientals. “Takhsir, this is

not the time for unnecessary words. What I have done at the head of your

troops, you know. The lines of the Ichim and the Irtych are now in

our power; and the Turcoman horsemen can bathe their horses in the now

Tartar waters. The Kirghiz hordes rose at the voice of Feofar-Khan. You

can now push your troops towards the east, and where the sun rises, or

towards the west, where he sets.”

“And if I march with the sun?” asked the Emir, without his countenance

betraying any of his thoughts.

“To march with the sun,” answered Ogareff, “is to throw yourself towards

Europe; it is to conquer rapidly the Siberian provinces of Tobolsk as

far as the Ural Mountains.”

“And if I go to meet this luminary of the heavens?”

“It is to subdue to the Tartar dominion, with Irkutsk, the richest

countries of Central Asia.”

“But the armies of the Sultan of St. Petersburg?” said Feofar-Khan,

designating the Emperor of Russia by this strange title.

“You have nothing to fear from them,” replied Ivan Ogareff. “The

invasion has been sudden; and before the Russian army can succor them,

Irkutsk or Tobolsk will have fallen into your power. The Czar’s troops

have been overwhelmed at Kolyvan, as they will be everywhere where yours

meet them.”

“And what advice does your devotion to the Tartar cause suggest?” asked

the Emir, after a few moments’ silence.

“My advice,” answered Ivan Ogareff quickly, “is to march to meet the

sun. It is to give the grass of the eastern steppes to the Turcoman

horses to consume. It is to take Irkutsk, the capital of the eastern

provinces, and with it a hostage, the possession of whom is worth a

whole country. In the place of the Czar, the Grand Duke his brother must

fall into your hands.”

This was the great result aimed at by Ivan Ogareff. To listen to him,

one would have taken him for one of the cruel descendants of Stephan

Razine, the celebrated pirate who ravaged Southern Russia in the

eighteenth century. To seize the Grand Duke, murder him pitilessly,

would fully satisfy his hatred. Besides, with the capture of Irkutsk,

all Eastern Siberia would pass to the Tartars.

“It shall be thus, Ivan,” replied Feofar.

“What are your orders, Takhsir?”

“To-day our headquarters shall be removed to Tomsk.”

Ogareff bowed, and, followed by the housch-begui, he retired to execute

the Emir’s orders.

As he was about to mount his horse, to return to the outposts, a tumult

broke out at some distance, in the part of the camp reserved for the

prisoners. Shouts were heard, and two or three shots fired. Perhaps it

was an attempt at revolt or escape, which must be summarily suppressed.

Ivan Ogareff and the housch-begui walked forward and almost immediately

two men, whom the soldiers had not been able to keep back appeared

before them.

The housch-begui, without more information, made a sign which was an

order for death, and the heads of the two prisoners would have rolled on

the ground had not Ogareff uttered a few words which arrested the sword

already raised aloft. The Russian had perceived that these prisoners

were strangers, and he ordered them to be brought to him.

They were Harry Blount and Alcide jolivet.

On Ogareff’s arrival in the camp, they had demanded to be conducted to

his presence. The soldiers had refused. In consequence, a struggle,

an attempt at flight, shots fired which happily missed the two

correspondents, but their execution would not have been long delayed, if

it had not been for the intervention of the Emir’s lieutenant.

The latter observed the prisoners for some moments, they being

absolutely unknown to him. They had been present at that scene in

the post-house at Ichim, in which Michael Strogoff had been struck by

Ogareff; but the brutal traveler had paid no attention to the persons

then collected in the common room.

Blount and Jolivet, on the contrary, recognized him at once, and the

latter said in a low voice, “Hullo! It seems that Colonel Ogareff and

the rude personage of Ichim are one!” Then he added in his companion’s

ear, “Explain our affair, Blount. You will do me a service. This Russian

colonel in the midst of a Tartar camp disgusts me; and although, thanks

to him, my head is still on my shoulders, my eyes would exhibit my

feelings were I to attempt to look him in the face.”

So saying, Alcide Jolivet assumed a look of complete and haughty

indifference.

Whether or not Ivan Ogareff perceived that the prisoner’s attitude

was insulting towards him, he did not let it appear. “Who are you,

gentlemen?” he asked in Russian, in a cold tone, but free from its usual

rudeness.

“Two correspondents of English and French newspapers,” replied Blount

laconically.

“You have, doubtless, papers which will establish your identity?”

“Here are letters which accredit us in Russia, from the English and

French chancellor’s office.”

Ivan Ogareff took the letters which Blount held out, and read them

attentively. “You ask,” said he, “authorization to follow our military

operations in Siberia?”

“We ask to be free, that is all,” answered the English correspondent

dryly.

“You are so, gentlemen,” answered Ogareff; “I am curious to read your

articles in the _Daily Telegraph_.”

“Sir,” replied Blount, with the most imperturbable coolness, “it is

sixpence a number, including postage.” And thereupon he returned to his

companion, who appeared to approve completely of his replies.

Ivan Ogareff, without frowning, mounted his horse, and going to the head

of his escort, soon disappeared in a cloud of dust.

“Well, Jolivet, what do you think of Colonel Ivan Ogareff,

general-in-chief of the Tartar troops?” asked Blount.

“I think, my dear friend,” replied Alcide, smiling, “that the

housch-begui made a very graceful gesture when he gave the order for our

heads to be cut off.”

Whatever was the motive which led Ogareff to act thus in regard to the

two correspondents, they were free and could rove at their pleasure

over the scene of war. Their intention was not to leave it. The sort of

antipathy which formerly they had entertained for each other had

given place to a sincere friendship. Circumstances having brought them

together, they no longer thought of separating. The petty questions of

rivalry were forever extinguished. Harry Blount could never forget what

he owed his companion, who, on the other hand, never tried to remind him

of it. This friendship too assisted the reporting operations, and was

thus to the advantage of their readers.

“And now,” asked Blount, “what shall we do with our liberty?”

“Take advantage of it, of course,” replied Alcide, “and go quietly to

Tomsk to see what is going on there.”

“Until the time--very near, I hope--when we may rejoin some Russian

regiment?”

“As you say, my dear Blount, it won’t do to Tartarise ourselves too

much. The best side is that of the most civilized army, and it is

evident that the people of Central Asia will have everything to lose and

absolutely nothing to gain from this invasion, while the Russians will

soon repulse them. It is only a matter of time.”

The arrival of Ivan Ogareff, which had given Jolivet and Blount their

liberty, was to Michael Strogoff, on the contrary, a serious danger.

Should chance bring the Czar’s courier into Ogareff’s presence, the

latter could not fail to recognize in him the traveler whom he had so

brutally treated at the Ichim post-house, and although Michael had

not replied to the insult as he would have done under any other

circumstances, attention would be drawn to him, and at once the

accomplishment of his plans would be rendered more difficult.

This was the unpleasant side of the business. A favorable result of his

arrival, however, was the order which was given to raise the camp

that very day, and remove the headquarters to Tomsk. This was the

accomplishment of Michael’s most fervent desire. His intention, as has

been said, was to reach Tomsk concealed amongst the other prisoners;

that is to say, without any risk of falling into the hands of the scouts

who swarmed about the approaches to this important town. However, in

consequence of the arrival of Ivan Ogareff, he questioned whether it

would not be better to give up his first plan and attempt to escape

during the journey.

Michael would, no doubt, have kept to the latter plan had he not learnt

that Feofar-Khan and Ogareff had already set out for the town with some

thousands of horsemen. “I will wait, then,” said he to himself; “at

least, unless some exceptional opportunity for escape occurs. The

adverse chances are numerous on this side of Tomsk, while beyond I shall

in a few hours have passed the most advanced Tartar posts to the east.

Still three days of patience, and may God aid me!”

It was indeed a journey of three days which the prisoners, under the

guard of a numerous detachment of Tartars, were to make across the

steppe. A hundred and fifty versts lay between the camp and the town--an

easy march for the Emir’s soldiers, who wanted for nothing, but a

wretched journey for these people, enfeebled by privations. More than

one corpse would show the road they had traversed.

It was two o’clock in the afternoon, on the 12th of August, under a hot

sun and cloudless sky, that the toptschi-baschi gave the order to start.

Alcide and Blount, having bought horses, had already taken the road to

Tomsk, where events were to reunite the principal personages of this

story.

Amongst the prisoners brought by Ivan Ogareff to the Tartar camp was an

old woman, whose taciturnity seemed to keep her apart from all those

who shared her fate. Not a murmur issued from her lips. She was like a

statue of grief. This woman was more strictly guarded than anyone else,

and, without her appearing to notice, was constantly watched by the

Tsigane Sangarre. Notwithstanding her age she was compelled to follow

the convoy of prisoners on foot, without any alleviation of her

suffering.

However, a kind Providence had placed near her a courageous,

kind-hearted being to comfort and assist her. Amongst her companions in

misfortune a young girl, remarkable for beauty and taciturnity, seemed

to have given herself the task of watching over her. No words had been

exchanged between the two captives, but the girl was always at the old

woman’s side when help was useful. At first the mute assistance of the

stranger was accepted with some mistrust. Gradually, however, the young

girl’s clear glance, her reserve, and the mysterious sympathy which

draws together those who are in misfortune, thawed Marfa Strogoff’s

coldness.

Nadia--for it was she--was thus able, without knowing it, to render to

the mother those attentions which she had herself received from the son.

Her instinctive kindness had doubly inspired her. In devoting herself

to her service, Nadia secured to her youth and beauty the protection

afforded by the age of the old prisoner.

On the crowd of unhappy people, embittered by sufferings, this

silent pair--one seeming to be the grandmother, the other the

grand-daughter--imposed a sort of respect.

After being carried off by the Tartar scouts on the Irtych, Nadia had

been taken to Omsk. Kept prisoner in the town, she shared the fate

of all those captured by Ivan Ogareff, and consequently that of Marfa

Strogoff.

If Nadia had been less energetic, she would have succumbed to this

double blow. The interruption to her journey, the death of Michael,

made her both desperate and excited. Divided, perhaps forever, from her

father, after so many happy efforts had brought her near him, and, to

crown her grief, separated from the intrepid companion whom God seemed

to have placed in her way to lead her. The image of Michael Strogoff,

struck before her eyes with a lance and disappearing beneath the waters

of the Irtych, never left her thoughts.

Could such a man have died thus? For whom was God reserving His miracles

if this good man, whom a noble object was urging onwards, had been

allowed to perish so miserably? Then anger would prevail over grief. The

scene of the affront so strangely borne by her companion at the Ichim

relay returned to her memory. Her blood boiled at the recollection.

“Who will avenge him who can no longer avenge himself?” she said.

And in her heart, she cried, “May it be I!” If before his death Michael

had confided his secret to her, woman, aye girl though she was, she

might have been able to carry to a successful conclusion the interrupted

task of that brother whom God had so soon taken from her.

Absorbed in these thoughts, it can be understood how Nadia could remain

insensible to the miseries even of her captivity. Thus chance had united

her to Marfa Strogoff without her having the least suspicion of who she

was. How could she imagine that this old woman, a prisoner like herself,

was the mother of him, whom she only knew as the merchant Nicholas

Korpanoff? And on the other hand, how could Marfa guess that a bond of

gratitude connected this young stranger with her son?

The thing that first struck Nadia in Marfa Strogoff was the similarity

in the way in which each bore her hard fate. This stoicism of the old

woman under the daily hardships, this contempt of bodily suffering,

could only be caused by a moral grief equal to her own. So Nadia

thought; and she was not mistaken. It was an instinctive sympathy for

that part of her misery which Marfa did not show which first drew Nadia

towards her. This way of bearing her sorrow went to the proud heart of

the young girl. She did not offer her services; she gave them. Marfa

had neither to refuse nor accept them. In the difficult parts of the

journey, the girl was there to support her. When the provisions were

given out, the old woman would not have moved, but Nadia shared her

small portion with her; and thus this painful journey was performed.

Thanks to her companion, Marfa was able to follow the soldiers who

guarded the prisoners without being fastened to a saddle-bow, as were

many other unfortunate wretches, and thus dragged along this road of

sorrow.

“May God reward you, my daughter, for what you have done for my old

age!” said Marfa Strogoff once, and for some time these were the only

words exchanged between the two unfortunate beings.

During these few days, which to them appeared like centuries, it would

seem that the old woman and the girl would have been led to speak of

their situation. But Marfa Strogoff, from a caution which may be easily

understood, never spoke about herself except with the greatest brevity.

She never made the smallest allusion to her son, nor to the unfortunate

meeting.

Nadia also, if not completely silent, spoke little. However, one day her

heart overflowed, and she told all the events which had occurred from

her departure from Wladimir to the death of Nicholas Korpanoff.

All that her young companion told intensely interested the old Siberian.

“Nicholas Korpanoff!” said she. “Tell me again about this Nicholas.

I know only one man, one alone, in whom such conduct would not have

astonished me. Nicholas Korpanoff! Was that really his name? Are you

sure of it, my daughter?”

“Why should he have deceived me in this,” replied Nadia, “when he

deceived me in no other way?”

Moved, however, by a kind of presentiment, Marfa Strogoff put questions

upon questions to Nadia.

“You told me he was fearless, my daughter. You have proved that he has

been so?” asked she.

“Yes, fearless indeed!” replied Nadia.

“It was just what my son would have done,” said Marfa to herself.

Then she resumed, “Did you not say that nothing stopped him, nor

astonished him; that he was so gentle in his strength that you had

a sister as well as a brother in him, and he watched over you like a

mother?”

“Yes, yes,” said Nadia. “Brother, sister, mother--he has been all to

me!”

“And defended you like a lion?”

“A lion indeed!” replied Nadia. “A lion, a hero!”

“My son, my son!” thought the old Siberian. “But you said, however, that

he bore a terrible insult at that post-house in Ichim?”

“He did bear it,” answered Nadia, looking down.

“He bore it!” murmured Marfa, shuddering.

“Mother, mother,” cried Nadia, “do not blame him! He had a secret. A

secret of which God alone is as yet the judge!”

“And,” said Marfa, raising her head and looking at Nadia as though she

would read the depths of her heart, “in that hour of humiliation did you

not despise this Nicholas Korpanoff?”

“I admired without understanding him,” replied the girl. “I never felt

him more worthy of respect.”

The old woman was silent for a minute.

“Was he tall?” she asked.

“Very tall.”

“And very handsome? Come, speak, my daughter.”

“He was very handsome,” replied Nadia, blushing.

“It was my son! I tell you it was my son!” exclaimed the old woman,

embracing Nadia.

“Your son!” said Nadia amazed, “your son!”

“Come,” said Marfa; “let us get to the bottom of this, my child. Your

companion, your friend, your protector had a mother. Did he never speak

to you of his mother?”

“Of his mother?” said Nadia. “He spoke to me of his mother as I spoke to

him of my father--often, always. He adored her.”

“Nadia, Nadia, you have just told me about my own son,” said the old

woman.

And she added impetuously, “Was he not going to see this mother, whom

you say he loved, in Omsk?”

“No,” answered Nadia, “no, he was not.”

“Not!” cried Marfa. “You dare to tell me not!”

“I say so: but it remains to me to tell you that from motives which

outweighed everything else, motives which I do not know, I understand

that Nicholas Korpanoff had to traverse the country completely in

secret. To him it was a question of life and death, and still more, a

question of duty and honor.”

“Duty, indeed, imperious duty,” said the old Siberian, “of those who

sacrifice everything, even the joy of giving a kiss, perhaps the last,

to his old mother. All that you do not know, Nadia--all that I did not

know myself--I now know. You have made me understand everything. But

the light which you have thrown on the mysteries of my heart, I cannot

return on yours. Since my son has not told you his secret, I must keep

it. Forgive me, Nadia; I can never repay what you have done for me.”

“Mother, I ask you nothing,” replied Nadia.

All was thus explained to the old Siberian, all, even the conduct of her

son with regard to herself in the inn at Omsk. There was no doubt that

the young girl’s companion was Michael Strogoff, and that a secret

mission in the invaded country obliged him to conceal his quality of the

Czar’s courier.

“Ah, my brave boy!” thought Marfa. “No, I will not betray you, and

tortures shall not wrest from me the avowal that it was you whom I saw

at Omsk.”

Marfa could with a word have paid Nadia for all her devotion to her. She

could have told her that her companion, Nicholas Korpanoff, or rather

Michael Strogoff, had not perished in the waters of the Irtych, since

it was some days after that incident that she had met him, that she had

spoken to him.

But she restrained herself, she was silent, and contented herself with

saying, “Hope, my child! Misfortune will not overwhelm you. You will see

your father again; I feel it; and perhaps he who gave you the name of

sister is not dead. God cannot have allowed your brave companion to

perish. Hope, my child, hope! Do as I do. The mourning which I wear is

not yet for my son.”