Michael Strogoff; or the Courier of the Czar

by Jules Verne

  These priests, grouped in the forward part of the raft, prayed at regular intervals, raising their voices in the silent night, and at the end of each sentence of their prayer, the “Slava Bogu,” Glory to God! issued from their lips.

  No incident took place during the night. Nadia remained in a sort of stupor, and Michael watched beside her; sleep only overtook him at long intervals, and even then his brain did not rest At break of day, the raft, delayed by a strong breeze, which counteracted the course of the current, was still forty versts from the mouth of the Angara. It seemed probable that the fugitives could not reach it before three or four o’clock in the evening. This did not trouble them; on the contrary, for they would then descend the river during the night, and the darkness would also favour their entrance into Irkutsk.

  The only anxiety exhibited at times by the old boatman was concerning the formation of ice on the surface of the water. The night had been excessively cold; pieces of ice could be seen drifting towards the West Nothing was to be dreaded from these, since they could not drift into the Angara, having already passed the mouth; but pieces from the Eastern end of the lake might be drawn by the current between the banks of the river; this would cause difficulty, possibly delay, and perhaps even an insurmountable obstacle which would stop the raft.

  Michael therefore took immense interest in ascertaining what was the state of the lake, and whether any large number of ice blocks appeared. Nadia being now awake, he questioned her often, and she gave him an account of all that was going on.

  Whilst the blocks were thus drifting, curious phenomena were taking place on the surface of the Baïkal. Magnificent jets from springs of boiling water, shot up from some of those artesian wells which Nature has bored in the very bed of the lake. These jets rose to a great height and spread out in vapour, which was illuminated by the solar rays, and almost immediately condensed by the cold. This curious sight would have assuredly amazed a tourist travelling in peaceful times and sailing for pleasure on this Siberian sea.

  At four in the evening, the mouth of the Angara was signalled by the old boatman, between the high granite rocks of the shore. On the right bank could be seen the little port of Livenitchnaia, its church, and its few houses built on the bank.

  But the serious thing was that the ice blocks from the East were already drifting between the banks of the Angara, and consequently were descending towards Irkutsk. However, their number was not yet great enough to obstruct the course of the raft, nor the cold great enough to increase their number.

  The raft arrived at the little port and there stopped.

  The old boatman wished to put into the harbour for an hour, in order to make some necessary repairs.

  The trunks threatened to separate, and it was important to fasten them more securely together to resist the rapid current of the Angara.

  During the fine season, the port of Livenitchnaia is a station for the embarkation or disembarkation of voyagers across Lake Baïkal, either on their way to Kiakhta, the last town on the Russo-Chinese frontier, or when they are returning.

  It is therefore much frequented by the steamboats and all the little coasters of the lake.

  But Livenitchnaia was abandoned. Its inhabitants had fled for fear of being exposed to the depredations of the Tartars, who were now overrunning both banks of the Angara. They had sent to Irkutsk the flotilla of boats and barges which usually wintered in their harbour, and, supplied with all that they could carry, they had taken refuge in time in the capital of Eastern Siberia.

  The old boatman did not expect to receive any fresh fugitives at Livenitchnaia, and yet, the moment the raft touched, two passengers, issuing from a deserted house, ran as fast as they could towards the beach.

  Nadia, seated on the raft, was abstractedly gazing at the shore.

  A cry was about to escape her. She seized Michael’s hand, who at that moment raised his head.

  “What is the matter Nadia?” he asked.

  “Our two travelling companions, Michael.”

  “The Frenchman and the Englishman whom we met in the defiles of the Ural?”

  “Yes.”

  Michael started, for the strict incognito which he wished to keep ran a risk of being betrayed.

  Indeed, it was no longer as Nicholas Korpanoff that Jolivet and Blount would now see him, but as the true Michael Strogoff, Courier of the Czar. The two correspondents had already met him twice since their separation at the Ichim post-house—the first time at the Zabediero camp, when he laid open Ivan Ogareff’s face with the knout; the second time at Tomsk, when he was condemned by the Emir. They therefore knew who he was and what depended on him.

  Michael rapidly made up his mind.

  “Nadia,” said he, “when the Frenchman and the Englishman step on board, ask them to come to me!”

  It was, in fact, Harry Blount and Alcide Jolivet, whom, not chance, but the course of events had brought to the port of Livenitchnaia, as it had brought Michael Strogoff.

  As we know, after having been present at the entry of the Tartars into Tomsk, they had departed before the savage execution which terminated the fête. They had therefore never suspected that their former travelling companion had not been put to death, and they were ignorant that he had been only blinded by order of the Emir.

  Having procured horses they had left Tomsk the same evening, with the fixed determination of henceforward dating their letters from the Russian camp of Eastern Siberia.

  Jolivet and Blount proceeded by forced marches towards Irkutsk. They hoped to distance Feofar-Khan, and would certainly have done so, had it not been for the unexpected apparition of the third column, come from the South, up the valley of the Yeniseï. They had been cut off, as had been Michael, before being able even to reach the Dinka, and had been obliged to go back to Lake Baïkal.

  When they reached Livenitchnaia, they found the port already deserted. It was impossible on this side either for them to enter Irkutsk, now invested by the Tartar army. They had been in the place for three days in much perplexity, when the raft arrived.

  The fugitives’ plan was now explained to them.

  There was certainly a chance that they might be able to pass under cover of the night, and penetrate into Irkutsk. They resolved to make the attempt.

  Alcide directly communicated with the old boatman, and asked a passage for himself and his companion, offering to pay anything he demanded, whatever it might be.

  “No one pays here,” replied the old man gravely; “every one risks his life, that is all!”

  The two correspondents came on board, and Nadia saw them take their places in the fore part of the raft.

  Harry Blount was still the reserved Englishman, who had scarcely addressed a word to her during the whole passage over the Ural Mountains.

  Alcide Jolivet seemed to be rather more grave than usual, and it may be acknowledged that his gravity was justified by the circumstances.

  Jolivet had, as has been said, taken his seat on the raft, when he felt a hand laid on his arm.

  Turning, he recognized Nadia, the sister of the man who was no longer Nicholas Korpanoff, but Michael Strogoff, Courier of the Czar.

  He was about to make an exclamation of surprise when he saw the young girl lay her finger on her lips.

  “Come,” said Nadia.

  And with a careless air, Alcide rose and followed her, making a sign to Blount to accompany him.

  But if the surprise of the correspondents had been great at meeting Nadia on the raft it was boundless when they perceived Michael Strogoff, whom they had believed to be no longer living.

  Michael had not moved at their approach. Jolivet turned towards the girl.

  “He does not see you, gentlemen,” said Nadia. “The Tartars have burnt out his eyes! My poor brother is blind!”

  A feeling of lively compassion exhibited itself on the faces of Blount and his companion.

  In a moment they were seated beside Michael, pressing his hand and waiting until he spoke to them.


  “Gentlemen,” said Michael, in a low voice, “you ought not to know who I am, nor what I am come to do in Siberia. I ask you to keep my secret Will you promise me to do so?”

  “On my honour,” answered Jolivet.

  “On my word as a gentleman,” added Blount.

  “Good, gentlemen.”

  “Can we be of any use to you?” asked Harry Blount. “Could we not help you to accomplish your task?”

  “I prefer to act alone,” replied Michael.

  “But those blackguards have destroyed your sight,” said Alcide.

  “I have Nadia, and her eyes are enough for me!”

  In half an hour the raft left the little port of Livenitchnaia, and entered the river. It was five in the evening and getting dusk. The night promised to be dark and very cold also, for the temperature was already below zero.

  Alcide and Blount, though they had promised to keep Michael’s secret, did not, however, leave him. They talked in a low voice, and the blind man, adding what they told him to what he already knew, was able to form an exact idea of the state of things.

  It was certain that the Tartars had actually invested Irkutsk, and that the three columns had effected a junction. There was no doubt that the Emir and Ivan Ogareff were before the capital.

  But why did the Czar’s courier exhibit such haste to get there, now that the Imperial letter could no longer be given by him to the Grand Duke, and when he did not even know the contents of it? Alcide Jolivet and Blount could not understand it any more than Nadia had done.

  No one spoke of the past, except when Jolivet thought it his duty to say to Michael—

  “We owe you some apology for not shaking hands with you when we separated at Ichim.”

  “No, you had reason to think me a coward!”

  “At any rate,” added the Frenchman, “you knouted the face of that villain finely, and he will carry the mark of it for a long time!”

  “No, not a long time!” replied Michael quietly.

  Half an hour after leaving Livenitchnaia, Blount and his companion were acquainted with the cruel trials through which Michael and his companion had successively passed. They could not but heartily admire his energy, which was only equalled by the young girl’s devotion. Their opinion of Michael was exactly what the Czar had expressed at Moscow: “Indeed, this is a Man!”

  The raft swiftly threaded its way among the blocks of ice which were carried along in the current of the Angara. A moving panorama was displayed on both sides of the river, and, by an optical illusion, it appeared as if it was the raft which was motionless before a succession of picturesque scenes. Here were high granite cliffs, there wild gorges, down which rushed a torrent; sometimes appeared a clearing with a still smoking village, then thick pine forests blazing. But though the Tartars had left their traces on all sides, they themselves were not to be seen as yet, for they were more especially massed at the approaches to Irkutsk.

  All this time the pilgrims were repeating their prayers aloud, and the old boatman, shoving away the blocks of ice which pressed too near them, imperturbably steered the raft in the middle of the rapid current of the Angara.

  CHAPTER XI

  BETWEEN TWO BANKS.

  BY eight in the evening, the country, as the state of the sky had foretold, was enveloped in complete darkness. The moon being new had not yet risen. From the middle of the river the banks were invisible. The cliffs were confounded with the heavy, low-hanging clouds. At intervals a puff of wind came from the east, but it soon died away in the narrow valley of the Angara.

  The darkness could not fail to favour in a considerable degree the plans of the fugitives. Indeed, although the Tartar outposts must have been drawn up on both banks, the raft had a good chance of passing unperceived. It was not likely either that the besiegers would have barred the river above Irkutsk, since they knew that the Russians could not expect any help from the south of the province. Besides this, before long Nature would herself establish a barrier, by cementing with frost the blocks of ice accumulated between the two banks.

  Perfect silence now reigned on board the raft.

  The voices of the pilgrims were no longer heard. They still prayed, but their prayer was but a murmur, which could not reach as far as either bank. The fugitives lay flat on the platform, so that the raft was scarcely above the level of the water. The old boatman crouched down forward among his men, solely occupied in keeping off the ice blocks, a manœuvre which was performed without noise.

  The drifting of the ice was a favourable circumstance so long as it did not offer an insurmountable obstacle to the passage of the raft. If that object had been alone on the water, it would have run a risk of being seen, even in the darkness, but, as it was, it was confounded with these moving masses, of all shapes and sizes, and the tumult caused by the crashing of the blocks against each other concealed likewise any suspicious noises.

  There was a sharp frost. The fugitives suffered cruelly, having no other shelter than a few branches of birch. They cowered down together, endeavouring to keep each other warm, the temperature being now ten degrees below freezing point The wind, though slight, having passed over the snow-clad mountains of the east, pierced them through and through.

  Michael and Nadia, lying in the afterpart of the raft, bore this increase of suffering without complaint. Jolivet and Blount, placed near them, stood these first assaults of the Siberian winter as well as they could. No one now spoke, even in a low voice. Their situation entirely absorbed them. At any moment an incident might occur, a danger, a catastrophe even, from which they might not escape unscathed.

  For a man who hoped soon to accomplish his mission, Michael was singularly calm. Even in the gravest conjunctures, his energy had never abandoned him. He already saw the moment when he would be at last allowed to think of his mother, of Nadia, of himself! He now only dreaded one final and unhappy chance; this was, that the raft might be completely barred by ice before reaching Irkutsk. He thought but of this, determined beforehand, if necessary, to attempt some bold stroke.

  Restored by a few hours’ rest, Nadia had regained the physical energy which misery had sometimes overcome, although without ever having shaken her moral energy. She thought, too, that if Michael had to make any fresh effort to attain his end, she must be there to guide him. But in proportion as she drew nearer to Irkutsk, the image of her father rose more and more clearly before her mind. She saw him in the invested town, far from those he loved, but, as she never doubted, struggling against the invaders with all the spirit of his patriotism. In a few hours, if Heaven favoured them, she would be in his arms, giving him her mother’s last words, and nothing should ever separate them again. If the term of Wassili Fedor’s exile should never come to an end, his daughter would remain exiled with him. Then, by a natural transition, she came back to him who would have enabled her to see her father once more, to that generous companion, that “brother,” who, the Tartars driven back, would retake the road to Moscow, whom she would perhaps never meet again!

  As to Alcide Jolivet and Harry Blount, they had one and the same thought, which was, that the situation was extremely dramatic, and that, well worked up, it would furnish a most deeply interesting article. The Englishman thought of the readers of the Daily Telegraph, and the Frenchman of those of his Cousin Madeleine. At heart, both were not without feeling some emotion.

  “Well, so much the better!” thought Alcide Jolivet, “to move others, one must be moved one’s self! I believe there is some celebrated verse on the subject, but hang me if I can recollect it!”

  And with his well-practised eyes he endeavoured to pierce the gloom which enveloped the river.

  However, every now and then a burst of light dispelling the darkness for a time, exhibited the banks under some fantastic aspect—either a forest on fire, or a still burning village, a sinister reproduction of the daylight scenes, with the contrast of the night. The Angara was occasionally illuminated from one bank to the other. The blocks of ice form
ed so many mirrors, which, reflecting the flames on every point and in every colour, were whirled along by the caprice of the current. The raft passed unperceived in the midst of these floating masses.

  The danger was not at these points.

  But a peril of another nature menaced the fugitives. One that they could not foresee, and, above all, one that they could not avoid. Chance discovered it to Alcide Jolivet in this way:—Lying at the right side of the raft, he let his hand hang over into the water. Suddenly he was surprised by the impression made on it by contact with the surface of the current. It seemed to be of a slimy consistency, as if it had been made of mineral oil.

  Alcide, aiding his touch by his sense of smelling, could not be mistaken. It was really a layer of liquid naphtha, floating on the surface of the river and flowing with it!

  Was the raft really floating on this substance, which is in the highest degree combustible? Where had this naphtha come from? Was it a natural phenomenon taking place on the surface of the Angara, or was it to serve as an engine of destruction, put in motion by the Tartars? Did they intend to carry conflagration into Irkutsk by means which the laws of war could never justify between civilized nations?

  Such were the questions which Alcide asked himself, but he thought it best to make this incident known only to Harry Blount, and they both agreed in not alarming their companions by revealing to them this new danger.

  It is known that the soil of Central Asia is like a sponge impregnated with liquid hydrogen.

  At the port of Bakou, on the Persian frontier, in the peninsula of Abcheron, on the Caspian Sea, in Asia Minor, in China, on the Yuen-Kiang, in the Burman Empire, springs of mineral oil rise in thousands to the surface of the ground. It is an “oil country,” similar to the one which bears this name in North America.

  During certain religious festivals, principally at the port of Bakou, the natives, who are fire-worshippers, throw liquid naphtha on the surface of the sea, which buoys it up, its density being inferior to that of water. Then at nightfall, when a layer of mineral oil is thus spread over the Caspian, they light it, and exhibit the matchless spectacle of an ocean of fire undulating and breaking into waves under the breeze.