by G. A. Henty
The two young men looked in surprise at each other.
“But if they printed a paper and attacked the government?” Akim asked.
“Oh, they do that! there are as many papers pitch into the government as there are in favour of the government; parties are pretty equally divided, you see, and the party that is out always abuses the party which is in power.”
“And even that is lawful?”
“Certainly it is. You can abuse the government as much as you like, say that the ministers are a parcel of incompetent fools, and so on; but, of course, you cannot attack them as to their private life and character any more than you can anyone else, because then you would render yourself liable to an action for libel.”
“And you can travel where you like, in the country and out of the country, without official permits or passports?”
“Yes, there is nothing like that known in England. Every man can go where he likes, and live where he likes, and do anything he likes, providing that it does not interfere with the rights of other people.”
“Ah! shall we ever come to this in Russia, Akim?” Petroff said.
Akim made no answer, but Godfrey replied for him. “No doubt you will in time, Petroff; but you see liberties like these do not grow up in a day. We had serfs and vassals in England at one time, and feudal barons who could do pretty much what they chose, and it was only in the course of centuries that these things got done away with.” At this moment there was a knock at the door.
“It is Katia,” Akim said, jumping up from his seat and opening the door. A young woman entered. She was pleasant and intelligent looking. “Katia, this is an English gentleman, a friend of ours, who has been telling us about his country. Godfrey, this is my cousin Katia; she teaches music in the houses of many people of good family.”
“I did not expect to find visitors here,” the girl said smiling. “And how do you like our winter? it is a good deal colder than you are accustomed to.”
“It is a great deal more pleasant,” Godfrey said: “I call it glorious weather. It is infinitely better than alternate rains and winds, with just enough frost occasionally to make you think you are going to do some skating, and then a thaw.”
“You are extravagant,” the girl said, looking round; “it is a long time since I have felt the room as warm as this. I suppose Petroff has got his allowance?”
“Yes, and a grumbling letter. My father has a vague idea that in some way or other I ought to pick up my living, though he never offers a suggestion as to how I should do it.”
The young woman went to the cupboard, fetched another tumbler and poured herself out some tea, and then chatted gaily about St. Petersburg, her pupils, and their parents.
“Do you live at the house of one of your pupils?” Godfrey asked.
“Oh no!” she said. “I don’t mind work, but I like to be free when work is over. I board in an honest family, and live in a little room at the top of the house which is all my own and where I can see my friends.”
After chatting for some time longer Godfrey took his leave. As soon as he had gone the girl’s manner changed.
“Do you think you are wise to have him here, Akim?”
“Why not?” the student asked in turn. “He is frank and agreeable, he is respectable, and even you will allow that it would be safer walking with him than some we know; we do not talk politics with him.”
“For all that I am sorry, Akim. You know how it will be; we shall get him into trouble. It is our fate; we have a great end in view; we risk our own lives, and although for the good of the cause we must not hesitate even if others suffer, I do hate with all my heart that others should be involved in our fortunes.”
“This is not like you, Katia,” Petroff said. “I have heard you say your maxim is ‘At any cost,’ and you have certainly lived up to it.”
“Yes, and I shall live up to it,” she said firmly; “but it hurts sometimes, Petroff; it hurt me just now when I thought that that lad laughing and chatting with us had no idea that he had better have thrust his hand into that stove than have given it to us. I do not shrink; I should use him as I should use anyone else, as an instrument if it were needful, but don’t suppose that I like it.”
“I don’t think there is any fear of our doing him harm,” Akim said; “he is English, and would find no difficulty in showing that he knew nothing of us save as casual acquaintances; they might send him out of the country, but that would be all.”
“It would all depend,” she said, “upon how he fell into their hands. If you happened to be arrested only as you were walking with him down the Nevski Prospekt he would be questioned, of course, but as soon as they learned who he was and that he had nothing to do with you, they would let him go. But if he were with us, say here, when we were pounced upon, and you had no time to pull the trigger of the pistol pointing into that keg of powder in the cupboard, he would be hurried away with us to one of the fortresses, and the chances are that not a soul would ever know what had become of him. Still it cannot be helped now; he may be useful, and as we give our own lives, so we must not shrink from giving others’. But this is not what I came here to talk to you about; have you heard of the arrest of Michaelovich?”
“No,” they both exclaimed, leaping from their seats.
“It happened at three o’clock this morning,” Katia said. “They surrounded the house and broke in suddenly, and rushed down into the cellar and found him at work. He shot two of them, and then he was beaten down and badly wounded.”
“Where were the other two?” Akim asked.
“He sent them away but an hour before, but he went on working himself to complete the number of hand-bills. Of course he was betrayed. I don’t think there are six people who knew where the press was; even I didn’t know.”
“Where did you hear of it, Katia?”
“Feodorina Samuloff told me; you know she often helps Michaelovich to work at the press; she thinks it must have been either Louka or Gasin. Why should Michaelovich have sent them away when he hadn’t finished work if one or the other of them had not made some excuse so as to get out of the way before the police came? But that is nothing, there will be time to find out which is the traitor; they know nothing, either of them, except that they worked at the secret press with him; they were never much trusted. But Michaelovich is a terrible loss, he was always daring and full of expedients.”
“They will get nothing from him,” Petroff said.
“Not they,” she agreed. “When do they ever get anything out of us? One of the outer-circle fellows like Louka and Gasin, who know nothing, who are instruments and nothing more, may tell all they know for gold, or for fear of the knout, but never once have they learned anything from one who knows. Fortunately the press was a very old one and there was but little type there, only just enough for printing small hand-bills; we have two others ready to set up.”
“Were there any papers there?”
“No, Michaelovich was too careful for that.”
“I hear that old Libka died in prison yesterday,” Akim said.
“He is released from his suffering,” Katia said solemnly. “Anything else, Akim?”
“Yes, a batch of prisoners start for Siberia to-morrow, and there are ten of us among them.”
“Well, be careful for the next few days, Akim,” Katia said; “don’t do anything in the schools, it will not be long now before all is ready to strike a blow, and it is not worth while to risk anything until after that. I have orders that we are all to keep perfectly quiet till the plans are settled and we each get our instructions. Now I must go, I have two lessons to give this afternoon. It tries one a little to be talking to children about quavers and semiquavers when one’s head is full of great plans, and you know that at any moment a policeman may tap you on the shoulder and take you off to the dungeons of St. Nicholas, from which one will never return unless one is carried out, or is sent to Siberia, which would be worse. Be careful; the police have certainly got scent of so
mething, they are very active at present;” and with a nod she turned and left the room.
“She is a brave girl,” Akim said. “I think the women make better conspirators than we do, Petroff. Look at her. She was a little serious to-day because of Michaelovich, but generally she is in high spirits, and no one would dream that she thought of anything but her pupils and pleasure. Then there is Feodorina Samuloff. She works all day, I believe, in a laundry, and she looks as impassive as if she had been carved out of soap. Yet she is ready to go on working all night if required, and if she had orders she would walk into the Winter Palace and throw down a bomb (that would kill her as well as everyone else within its reach) with as much coolness as if she was merely delivering a message.”
CHAPTER II
A CAT’S-PAW
One evening a fortnight later Godfrey went with two young Englishmen to a masked ball at the Opera. It was a brilliant scene. Comparatively few of the men were masked or in costume, but many of the ladies were so. Every other man was in uniform of some kind, and the floor of the house was filled with a gay laughing crowd, while the boxes were occupied by ladies of the highest rank, several of the imperial family being present. He speedily became separated from his companions, and after walking about for an hour he became tired of the scene, and was about to make his way towards the entrance when a hand was slipped behind his arm. As several masked figures had joked him on walking about so vaguely by himself, he thought that this was but another jest.
“You are just the person I wanted,” the mask said.
“I think you have mistaken me for some one else, lady,” he replied.
“Not at all. Now put up your arm and look as if I belong to you. Nonsense! do as you are told, Godfrey Bullen.”
“Who are you who know my name?” Godfrey laughed, doing as he was ordered, for he had no doubt that the masked woman was a member of one of the families whom he had visited.
“You don’t know who I am?” she asked.
“How should I when I can see nothing but your eyes through those holes?”
“I am Katia, the cousin of your friend Akim.”
“Oh, of course!” Godfrey said, a little surprised at meeting the music mistress in such an assembly. “I fancied I knew your voice, though I could not remember where I had heard it. And now what can I do for you?”
The young woman hesitated. “We have got up a little mystification,” she said after a pause, “and I am sure I can trust you; besides, you don’t know the parties. There is a gentleman here who is supposed to be with his regiment at Moscow; but there is a sweetheart in the case, and you know when there are sweethearts people do foolish things.”
“I have heard so,” Godfrey laughed, “though I don’t know anything about it myself, for I sha’n’t begin to think of such luxuries as sweethearts for years to come.”
“Well, he is here masked,” the girl went on, “and unfortunately the colonel of his regiment is here, and some ill-natured person—we fancy it is a rival of his—has told the colonel. He is furious about it, and declares that he will catch him and have him tried by court-martial for being absent without leave. The only thing is, he is not certain as to his information.”
“Well, what can I do?” Godfrey asked. “How can I help him?”
“You can help if you like, and that without much trouble to yourself. He is at present in the back of that empty box on the third tier. I was with him when I saw you down here, so I left him to say good-bye to his sweetheart alone, and ran down to fetch you, for I felt sure you would oblige me. What I thought was this: if you put his mask and cloak on—you are about the same height—it would be supposed that you are he. The colonel is waiting down by the entrance. He will come up to you and say, ‘Captain Presnovich?’ You will naturally say, ‘By no means.’ He will insist on your taking your mask off. This you will do, and he will, of course, make profuse apologies, and will believe that he has been altogether misinformed. In the meantime Presnovich will manage to slip out, and will go down by the early train to Moscow. It is not likely that the colonel will ever make any more inquiries about it, but if he does, some of Presnovich’s friends will be ready to declare that he never left Moscow.”
“But can’t he manage to leave his mask and cloak in the box and to slip away without them?”
“No, that would never do. It is necessary that the colonel should see for himself that the man in the cloak, with the white and red bow pinned to it, is not the captain.”
“Very well, then, I will do it,” Godfrey said. “It will be fun to see the colonel’s face when he finds out his mistake; but mind I am doing it to oblige you.”
“I feel very much obliged,” the girl said; “but don’t you bring my name into it though.”
“How could I?” he laughed. “I do not see that I am likely to be cross-questioned in any way; but never fear, I will keep your counsel.”
By this time they had arrived at the door of the box. “Wait a moment,” she said, “I will speak to him first.”
She was two minutes gone, and then opened the door and let him in. “I am greatly obliged to you, sir,” a man said as he entered. “It is a foolish business altogether, but if you will enact my part for a few minutes you will get me out of an awkward scrape.”
“Don’t mention it,” Godfrey replied. “It will be a joke to laugh over afterwards.” He placed the broad hat, to which the black silk mask was sewn, on his head, and Katia put the cloak on his shoulders.
“I trust you,” she said in a low voice as she walked with him to the top of the stairs. “There, I must go now. I had better see Captain Presnovich safely off, and then go and tell the young lady, who is a great friend of mine—it is for her sake I am doing it, you know, not for his—how nicely we have managed to throw dust in the colonel’s eyes!”
Regarding the matter as a capital joke, Godfrey went down-stairs and made his way to the entrance, expecting every moment to be accosted by the irascible colonel. No one spoke to him, however, and he began to imagine that the colonel must have gone to seek the captain elsewhere, and hoped that he would not meet him as he went down the stairs with Katia. He walked down the steps into the street. As he stepped on to the pavement a man seized him from behind, two others grasped his wrists, and before he knew what had happened he was run forward across the pavement to a covered sledge standing there and flung into it. His three assailants leapt in after him; the door was slammed; another man jumped on to the box with the driver; and two mounted men took their places beside it as it dashed off from the door. The men had again seized Godfrey’s hands and held them firmly the instant they entered the carriage.
“It is of no use your attempting to struggle,” one of the men said, “there is an escort riding beside the sledge, and a dozen more behind it. There is no chance of a rescue, and I warn you you had best not open your lips; if you do, we will gag you.”
Godfrey was still half bewildered with the suddenness of the transaction. What had he been seized for? Who were the men who had got hold of him? and why were they gripping his wrists so tightly? He had heard of arbitrary treatment in the Russian army, but that a colonel should have a captain seized in this extraordinary way merely because he was absent from his post without leave was beyond anything he thought possible.
“I thought I was going to have the laugh all on my side,” he said to himself, “but so far it is all the other way.” In ten minutes the carriage stopped for a moment, there was a challenge, then some gates were opened. Godfrey had already guessed his destination, and his feeling of discomfort had increased every foot he went. There was no doubt he was being taken to the fortress. “It seems to me that Miss Katia has got me into a horrible scrape of some kind,” he said to himself. “What a fool I was to let myself be humbugged by the girl in that way!”
Two men with lanterns were at the door of a building, at which the carriage, after passing into a large court-yard, drew up. Still retaining their grip on his wrists, two of the men walked beside
him down a passage, while several others followed behind. An officer of high rank was sitting at the head of a table, one of inferior rank stood beside him, while at the end of the table were two others with papers and pens before them.
“So you have captured him!” the general said eagerly.
“Yes, your excellency,” the man who had spoken to Godfrey in the carriage said respectfully.
“Has he been searched?”
“No, your excellency, the distance was so short, and I feared that he might wrench one of his hands loose. Moreover, I thought that you might prefer his being searched in your presence.”
“It is better so. Take off that disguise.” As the hat and mask were removed the officer sprang to his feet and exclaimed, “Why, who is this? This is not the man you were ordered to arrest; you have made some confounded blunder.”
“I assure you, your excellency,” the official said in trembling accents, “this is the only man who was there in the disguise we were told of. There, your excellency, is the bunch of white and red ribbons on his cloak.”
“And who are you, sir?” the general thundered.
“My name, sir, is Godfrey Bullen. I reside with Ivan Petrovytch, a merchant living in the Vassili Ostrov.”
“But how come you mixed up in this business, sir?” the general exclaimed furiously. “How is it that you are thus disguised, and that you are wearing that bunch of ribbon? Beware how you answer me, sir, for this is a matter which concerns your life.”
“So far as I am concerned, sir,” Godfrey said, “I am absolutely ignorant of having done any harm in the matter, and have not the most remote idea why I have been arrested. I may have behaved foolishly in allowing myself to take part in what I thought was a masquerade joke, but beyond that I have nothing to blame myself for. I went to the Opera-house, never having seen a masked ball before. I was alone, and being young and evidently a stranger, I was spoken to and joked by several masked ladies. Presently one of them came up to me. I had no idea who she was; she was closely masked, and I could see nothing of her face.” He then repeated the request that had been made him.
