Michael Strogoff; or the Courier of the Czar

by Jules Verne

  “Very far.”

  “Poor young people! It must have hurt you very much when they burnt your eyes!”

  “Very much,” answered Michael, turning towards Nicholas as if he could see him.

  “Did you not weep?”

  “Yes.”

  “I should have wept too. To think that one could never again see those one loves. But they can see you, however; that’s perhaps some consolation!”

  “Yes, perhaps. Tell me, my friend,” continued Michael, “have you never seen me anywhere before?”

  “You, little father? No, never.”

  “The sound of your voice is not unknown to me.”

  “Why!” returned Nicholas, smiling, “he knows the sound of my voice! Perhaps you ask me that to find out where I come from. Oh! I am going to tell you. I come from Kolyvan.”

  “From Kolyvan?” repeated Michael. “Then it was there I met you; you were in the telegraph office?”

  “That may be,” replied Nicholas. “I was stationed there. I was the clerk in charge of the messages.”

  “And you stayed at your post up to the last moment?”

  “Why, it’s just at that moment that one ought to be there!”

  “It was the day on which an Englishman and a Frenchman were disputing, roubles in hand, for the place at your wicket, and when the Englishman telegraphed some poetry.”

  “That is possible, little father, but I do not remember it.”

  “What! You do not remember it?”

  “I never read the despatches which I send. My duty being to forget them, the shortest way is not to know them at all.”

  This reply showed Nicholas Pigassof’s character. In the meanwhile the kibitka pursued its way, at a pace which Michael longed to render more rapid. But Nicholas and his horse were accustomed to a pace which neither of them would like to alter. The horse went for two hours and rested one—so on, day and night. During the halts the horse grazed, the travellers eat in company with the faithful Serko. The kibitka was provisioned for at least twenty persons, and Nicholas generously placed his supplies at the disposal of his two guests, whom he believed to be brother and sister.

  After a day’s rest, Nadia recovered some strength. Nicholas took the best possible care of her. The journey was being made under tolerable circumstances, slowly certainly, but surely. It sometimes happened that during the night, Nicholas, although driving, fell asleep, and snored with a clearness which showed the calmness of his conscience. Perhaps then, by looking close, Michael’s hand might have been seen feeling for the reins, and giving the horse a more rapid pace, to the great astonishment of Serko, who however said nothing. The trot was exchanged for the amble as soon as Nicholas awoke, but the kibitka had not the less gained some versts.

  Thus they passed the river Ichirnsk, the villages of Ichisnokoë, Berikylokoë, Kuskoë, the river Marünsk, the village of the same name, Bogostowskoë, and, lastly, the Ichoula, a little stream which divides Western from Eastern Siberia. The road now lay sometimes across wide moors, which extended as far as the eye could reach, sometimes through thick forests of firs, of which they thought they should never get to the end.

  Everywhere was a desert; the villages were almost entirely abandoned. The peasants had fled beyond the Geniser, hoping that this wide river would perhaps stop the Tartars.

  On the 22nd of August, the kibitka entered the town of Atchinsk, three hundred and eighty versts from Tomsk. A hundred and twenty versts still lay between them and Krasnoiarsk.

  No incident had marked the journey. For the six days during which they had been together, Nicholas, Michael, and Nadia had remained the same, the one in his unchangeable calm, the other two, uneasy, and thinking of the time when their companion would leave them.

  Michael saw the country through which they travelled with the eyes of Nicholas and the young girl. In turns, they each described to him the scenes they passed. He knew whether he was in a forest or on a plain, whether a hut was on the steppe, or whether any Siberian was in sight Nicholas was never silent, he loved to talk, and, from his peculiar way of viewing things, his friends were amused by his conversation.

  One day, Michael asked him what sort of weather it was.

  “Fine enough, little father,” he answered, “but we are in the last days of summer; the autumn is short in Siberia, and soon we shall feel the first winter frosts. Perhaps the Tartars will think of going into winter quarters during the bad season.

  Michael Strogoff shook his head with a doubtful air.

  “You do not think so, little father?” resumed Nicholas. “You think that they will march on to Irkutsk?”

  “I fear so,” replied Michael.

  “Yes . . . you are right; they have with them a bad man, who will not let them loiter on the way. You have heard speak of Ivan Ogareff?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know that it is not right to betray one’s country!”

  “No . . . it is not right . . .” answered Michael, who wished to remain unmoved.

  “Little father,” continued Nicholas, “it seems to me that you are not half indignant enough when Ivan Ogareff is spoken of. Your Russian heart ought to leap when his name is uttered.”

  “Believe me, my friend, I hate him more than you can ever hate him,” said Michael.

  “It is not possible,” replied Nicholas; “no, it is not possible! When I think of Ivan Ogareff, of the harm which he is doing to our sacred Russia, I get into such a rage that if I could get hold of him——”

  “If you could get hold of him, friend?”

  “I think I should kill him.”

  “And I, I am sure of it,” returned Michael quietly.

  CHAPTER VII.

  THE PASSAGE OF THE YENISEI.

  AT nightfall, on the 25th of August, the kibitka came in sight of Krasnoiarsk. The journey from Tomsk had taken eight days. If it had not been accomplished as rapidly as it might, it was because Nicholas had slept little. Consequently, it was impossible to increase his horse’s pace, though in other hands, the journey would not have taken sixty hours.

  Happily, there was no longer any fear of Tartars. Not a scout had appeared on the road over which the kibitka had just travelled. This was strange enough, and evidently some serious cause had prevented the Emir’s troops from marching without delay upon Irkutsk. Something had occurred. A new Russian corps, hastily raised in the government of Yeniseisk, had marched to Tomsk to endeavour to retake the town. But, being too weak to withstand the Emir’s troops, now concentrated there, they had been forced to effect a retreat. Feofar-Khan, including his own soldiers, and those of the Khanats of Khokhand and Koundouze, had now under his command two hundred and fifty thousand men, to which the Russian government could not as yet oppose a sufficient force. The invasion, could not, therefore be immediately stopped, and the whole Tartar army might at once march upon Irkutsk.

  The battle of Tomsk was on the 22nd of August, though this Michael did not know, but it explained why the vanguard of the Emir’s army had not appeared at Krasnoiarsk by the 25th.

  However, though Michael Strogoff could not know the events which had occurred since his departure, he at least knew this: that he was several days in advance of the Tartars, and that he need not despair of reaching before them the town of Irkutsk, still eight hundred and fifty versts distant.

  Besides, at Krasnoiarsk, of which the population is about twelve thousand souls, he depended upon obtaining some means of transport. Since Nicholas Pigassof was to stop in that town, it would be necessary to replace him by a guide, and to change the kibitka for another more rapid vehicle. Michael, after having addressed himself to the governor of the town, and established his identity and quality as Courier of the Czar—which would be easy—doubted not that he would be enabled to get to Irkutsk in the shortest possible time. He would thank the good Nicholas Pigassof, and set out immediately with Nadia, for he did not wish to leave her until he had placed her in her father’s arms. Though Nicholas had resolved to stop at Krasno
iarsk, it was only as he said, “on condition of finding employment there.”

  In fact, this model clerk, after having stayed to the last minute at his post in Kolyvan, was endeavouring to again place himself at the disposal of the government.

  “Why should I receive a salary which I have not earned?” he would say.

  In the event of his services not being required at Krasnoiarsk, which it was expected would be still in telegraphic communication with Irkutsk, he proposed to go to Oudinsk, or even to the capital of Siberia itself. In the latter case, he would continue to travel with the brother and sister; and where would they find a surer guide, or a more devoted friend?

  The kibitka was now only half a verst from Krasnoiarsk. The numerous wooden crosses which are erected at the approaches to the town could be seen to the right and left of the road. It was seven in the evening; the outline of the churches and of the houses built on the high bank of the Yeniseï were clearly defined against the evening sky, and the waters of the river reflected them in the twilight.

  The kibitka stopped.

  “Where are we, sister?” asked Michael.

  “Half a verst from the first houses,” replied Nadia.

  “Can the town be asleep?” observed Michael. “Not a sound strikes my ear.”

  “And I cannot see the slightest light, nor even smoke mounting into the air,” added Nadia.

  “What a queer town!” said Nicholas. “They make no noise in it, and go to bed uncommonly early!”

  A presentiment of impending misfortune passed across Michael’s heart. He had not said to Nadia that he had placed all his hopes on Krasnoiarsk, where he expected to find the means of safely finishing his journey. He much feared that his anticipations would again be disappointed.

  But Nadia had guessed his thoughts, although she could not understand why her companion should be so anxious to reach Irkutsk, now that the Imperial letter was gone. She one day said something of the sort to him.

  “I have sworn to go to Irkutsk,” he contented himself with replying.

  But to accomplish his mission, it was necessary that at Krasnoiarsk he should find some more rapid mode of locomotion.

  “Well, friend,” said he to Nicholas, “why are we not going on?”

  “Because I am afraid of waking up the inhabitants of the town with the noise of my carriage!”

  And with a light fleck of the whip, Nicholas put his horse in motion. Serko uttered a few short barks, and the kibitka rolled along the road towards Krasnoiarsk.

  Ten minutes after they entered the High Street.

  Krasnoiarsk was deserted; there was no longer an Athenian in this “Northern Athens,” as Madame de Bourboulon has called it. Not one of their dashing equipages swept through the wide clean streets. Not a pedestrian enlivened the footpaths raised at the bases of the magnificent wooden houses, of monumental aspect! Not a Siberian belle, dressed in the last French fashion, promenaded the beautiful park, cleared in a forest of birch-trees, which stretches away to the banks of the Yeniseï! The great bell of the cathedral was dumb; the chimes of the churches were silent, and it is uncommon for a Russian town not to be filled with the sound of its bells. But here was complete desolation. There was no longer a living being in this town, lately so lively!

  The last telegram sent from the Czar’s cabinet, before the rupture of the wire, had ordered the governor, the garrison, the inhabitants, whoever they might be, to leave Krasnoiarsk, to carry with them any articles of value, or which might be of use to the Tartars, and to take refuge at Irkutsk. The same injunction was given to all the villages of the province. It was the intention of the Muscovite government to lay the country desert before the invaders. No one thought for an instant of disputing these orders. They were executed, and this was the reason why not a single human being remained in Krasnoiarsk.

  Michael Strogoff, Nadia, and Nicholas passed silently through the streets of the town. They felt half-stupefied. They themselves made the only sound to be heard in this dead city. Michael allowed nothing of what he felt to appear, but he inwardly raged against the bad luck which pursued him, his hopes being again disappointed.

  “Alack, alack!” cried Nicholas, “I shall never get any employment in this desert!”

  “Friend,” said Nadia, “you must go on with us to Irkutsk.”

  “I must indeed!” replied Nicholas. “The wire is no doubt still working between Oudinsk and Irkutsk, and there . . . Shall we start, little father?”

  “Let us wait till to-morrow,” answered Michael.

  “You are right,” said Nicholas. “We have the Yeneseï to cross, and need light to see our way there!”

  “To see!” murmured Nadia, thinking of her blind companion

  Nicholas heard her, and turning to Michael—

  “Forgive me, little father,” said he. “Alas! Night and day, it is true, are all the same to you!”

  “Do not reproach yourself, friend,” replied Michael, pressing his hand over his eyes. “With you for a guide I can still act. Take a few hours’ repose. Nadia must rest too. To-morrow we will recommence our journey!”

  Michael and his friends had not to search long for a place of rest. The first house, the door of which they pushed open, was empty, as well as all the others. Nothing could be found within but a few heaps of leaves. For want of better fodder the horse had to content himself with this scanty nourishment. The provisions of the kibitka were not yet exhausted, so each had a share. Then, after having knelt before a small picture of the Panaghia, hung on the wall, and still lighted up by a flickering lamp, Nicholas and the young girl slept, whilst Michael, over whom sleep had no influence, watched.

  Before daybreak the next morning, the 26th of August, the horse was drawing the kibitka through the forest of birch trees towards the banks of the Yeniseï.

  Michael was in much anxiety. How was he to cross the river, if, as was probable, all boats had been destroyed to retard the Tartars’ march? He knew the Yeniseï, having already crossed it several times. He knew that its width was considerable, that its currents were strong in the double bed which it has hollowed for itself between the islands. Under ordinary circumstances, by means of boats specially built for the conveyance of travellers, carriages, and horses, the passage of the Yeniseï takes about three hours, and then it is with extreme difficulty that the boats reach the opposite bank. Now, in the absence of any ferry, how was the kibitka to get from one bank to the other?

  Day was breaking when the kibitka reached the left bank, where one of the wide alleys of the park ended. They were about a hundred feet above the course of the Yeniseï, and could therefore survey the whole of its wide course.

  “Do you see a boat?” asked Michael, casting his eyes eagerly about from one side to the other, mechanically, no doubt, as if he could really see.

  “It is scarcely light yet, brother,” replied Nadia “The fog is still thick, and we cannot see the water.”

  “But I hear it roaring,” said Michael.

  Indeed, from the fog issued a dull roaring sound. The waters being high rushed down with tumultuous violence. All three waited until the misty curtain should rise. The sun was ascending rapidly above the horizon, and his rays would not be long in dispersing the vapours.

  “Well?” asked Michael.

  “The fog is beginning to roll away, brother,” replied Nadia, “and it will soon be clear.”

  “Then you do not see the surface of the water yet, sister?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Have patience, little father,” said Nicholas. “All this will soon disappear. Look! here comes the breeze! It is driving away the fog. The trees on the opposite hills are already appearing. It is sweeping, flying away. The kindly rays of the sun have condensed all that mass of mist. Ah! how beautiful it is, my poor fellow, and how unfortunate that you cannot see such a lovely sight!”

  “Do you see a boat?” asked Michael.

  “I see nothing of the sort,” answered Nicholas.

  “Look well,
friend, on this and the opposite bank, as far as your eye can reach. A boat, a raft, a birch-bark canoe?”

  Nicholas and Nadia, grasping the bushes on the edge of the cliff, bent over the water.

  The view they thus obtained was extensive. At this place the Yeniseï is not less than a verst and a half in width, and forms two arms, of unequal size, through which the waters flow swiftly. Between these arms lie several islands, covered with alders, willows, and poplars, looking like verdant ships, anchored in the river. Beyond rise the high hills of the Eastern shore, crowned with forests, whose tops were then empurpled with light The Yeniseï stretched on either side as far as the eye could reach. The beautiful panorama lay before them for a distance of fifty versts.

  But not a boat was to be seen, either on the left or the right bank, or on the islets. All had been taken away or destroyed, according to order. Unless the Tartars should bring with them, from the south, the materials for building a bridge of boats, their march towards Irkutsk would certainly be stopped for some time by this barrier, the Yeniseï.

  “I remember,” said Michael, “that higher up, on the outskirts of Krasnoiarsk, there is a little quay. There the boats touch. Friend, let us go up the river, and see if some boat has not been forgotten on the bank.”

  Nadia seized Michael’s hand and started off at a rapid pace in the direction indicated. If only a boat or a barge large enough to hold the kibitka could be found, or even one that would carry just themselves, Michael would not hesitate to attempt the passage!

  Twenty minutes after, all three had reached the little quay, with houses on each side quite down to the water’s edge. It was like a village standing beyond the town of Krasnoiarsk.

  But not a boat was on the shore, not a barge at the little wharf, nothing even of which a raft could be made large enough to carry three people.

  Michael questioned Nicholas, and the latter made the discouraging reply that the crossing of the river appeared to him to be absolutely impracticable.

  “We shall cross!” answered Michael.