by Jules Verne
Michael Strogoff gripped the mujik’s hand. Then, recovering himself with a sudden effort, “Friend,” said he, “how long have I been in thy hut?”
“Three days.”
“Three days lost!”
“Three days hast thou lain unconscious.”
“Hast thou a horse to sell me?”
“Thou wishest to go?”
“At once.”
“I have neither horse nor carriage, little father. Where the Tartar has passed there remains nothing!”
“Well, I will go on foot to Omsk to find a horse.”
“A few more hours of rest, and thou wilt be in a better condition to pursue thy journey.”
“Not an hour!”
“Come now,” replied the mujik, recognizing the fact that it was useless to struggle against the will of his guest, “I will guide thee myself. Besides,” he added, “the Russians are still in great force at Omsk, and thou couldst, perhaps, pass unperceived.”
“Friend,” replied Michael Strogoff, “Heaven reward thee for all thou hast done for me!”
“Reward! Only fools expect reward on earth,” replied the mujik.
Michael Strogoff went out of the hut. When he tried to walk he was seized with such faintness that, without the assistance of the mujik, he would have fallen; but the fresh air quickly revived him. He then felt the wound in his head, the violence of which his fur cap had lessened. With the energy which he possessed, he was not a man to succumb under such a trifle. Before his eyes lay a single goal—far-distant Irkutsk. He must reach it! But he must pass through Omsk without stopping there.
“God protect my mother and Nadia!” he murmured. “I have no longer the right to think of them!”
Michael Strogoff and the mujik soon arrived in the mercantile quarter of the lower town, and, although under military occupation, they entered it without difficulty. The surrounding earthwork had been destroyed in many places, and there were the breaches through which the marauders who followed the armies of Feofar-Khan had penetrated.
Within Omsk, in its streets and squares, the Tartar soldiers swarmed like ants, but it was easy to see that a hand of iron imposed upon them a discipline to which they were but little accustomed. In fact, they walked nowhere alone, but in armed groups, for the purpose of defending themselves against surprise.
In the chief square, transformed into a camp, guarded by many sentries, 2000 Tartars bivouacked. The horses, picketed but still saddled, were ready to start at the first order. Omsk could only be a temporary halting-place for this Tartar cavalry, which preferred the rich plains of Eastern Siberia, where the towns were more wealthy, the country more fertile, and, consequently, pillage more profitable.
Above the mercantile town rose the upper quarter, which Ivan Ogareff, notwithstanding several assaults vigorously made but bravely repelled, had not yet been able to reduce. Upon its embattled walls floated the national colours of Russia.
It was not without a legitimate pride that Michael Strogoff and his guide, vowing fidelity, saluted them.
Michael Strogoff was perfectly acquainted with the town of Omsk, and he took care to avoid those streets which were much frequented. This was not from any fear of being recognized. In the town his old mother only could have called him by name, but he had sworn not to see her, and he did not. Besides—and he wished it with his whole heart—she might have fled into some quiet portion of the steppe.
The mujik very fortunately knew a postmaster who, if well paid, would not refuse at his request either to let or to sell a carriage or horses. There remained the difficulty of leaving the town, but the breaches in the fortifications would, of course, facilitate his departure.
The mujik was accordingly conducting his guest straight to the posting-house, when, in a narrow street, Michael Strogoff, coming to a sudden stop, sprang behind a jutting wall.
“What is the matter?” quickly asked the mujik, much astonished at this sudden movement.
“Silence!” hastily replied Michael Strogoff, with his finger on his lips.
At this moment a detachment debouched from the principal square into the street which Michael Strogoff and his companion had just been following.
At the head of the detachment, composed of twenty horsemen, was an officer dressed in a very simple uniform. Although he glanced rapidly from one side to the other he could not have seen Michael Strogoff, owing to his precipitous retreat.
The detachment went at full trot into the narrow street. Neither the officer nor his escort concerned themselves about the inhabitants. Several unlucky ones had scarcely time to make way for their passage. There were, therefore, a few half-stifled cries, to which thrusts of the lance gave an instant reply, and the street was immediately cleared.
When the escort had disappeared, “Who is that officer?” asked Michael Strogoff, returning towards the mujik.
And while putting the question his face was pale as that of a corpse.
“It is Ivan Ogareff,” replied the Siberian, but in a deep voice which breathed hatred.
“He!” cried Michael Strogoff, from whom the word escaped with an accent of fury which he could not conquer.
He had just recognized in this officer the traveller who had struck him at the posting-house of Ichim. And, although he had only caught a glimpse of him, it burst upon his mind, at the same time, that this traveller was the old Zingari whose words he had overheard in the market-place of Nijni-Novgorod.
Michael Strogoff was not mistaken. The two men were one and the same. It was under the garb of a Zingari, mingling with the band of Sangarre, that Ivan Ogareff had been able to leave the town of Nijni-Novgorod, where he had gone to seek amongst the numerous strangers which the fair had gathered from Central Asia the confidants whom he had associated in the accomplishment of his accursed task. Sangarre and his Zingari, veritable paid spies, were absolutely devoted to him. It was he who, during the night, on the fair-ground had uttered that singular sentence, of which Michael Strogoff could not understand the sense; it was he who was voyaging on board the Caucasus, with the whole of the Bohemian band; it was he who, by this other route, from Kasan to Ichim, across the Urals, had reached Omsk, where now he held supreme authority.
Ivan Ogareff had been barely three days at Omsk, and had it not been for their fatal meeting at Ichim, and for the event which had detained him three days on the banks of the Irtych, Michael Strogoff would have evidently beaten him on the way to Irkutsk.
And who knows how many misfortunes would have been avoided in the future! In any case—and now more than ever—Michael Strogoff must avoid Ivan Ogareff, and contrive not to be seen. When the moment of encountering him face to face should arrive, he knew how to meet it, even should the traitor be master of the whole of Siberia.
The mujik and Michael resumed their way and arrived at the posting-house. To leave Omsk by one of the breaches would not be difficult after nightfall. As for purchasing a carriage to replace the tarantass, that was impossible. There were none to be let or sold. But what want had Michael Strogoff now for a carriage? Was he not alone, alas? A horse would suffice him; and, very fortunately, a horse could be had. It was an animal of mettle, capable of enduring much fatigue, and Michael Strogoff, accomplished horseman as he was, could make good use of it.
The horse cost a high price, and a few moments later Michael was ready to start.
It was then four o’clock in the afternoon.
Michael Strogoff, compelled to wait till nightfall, in order to pass the fortifications, but not desiring to show himself in the streets of Omsk, remained in the posting-house, and there partook of food.
There was a great crowd in the public room, it being the resort of numbers of the anxious inhabitants, who at this eventful period collected there to obtain news. They were talking of the expected arrival of a corps of Muscovite troops, not at Omsk, but at Tomsk—a corps intended to recapture that town from the Tartars of Feofar-Khan.
Michael Strogoff lent an attentive ear to all that was said, b
ut took no part in the conversation.
Suddenly a cry made him tremble, a cry which penetrated to the depths of his soul, and these two words, so to speak, rushed into his ear:
“My son!”
His mother, the old woman Marfa, was before him! Trembling, she smiled upon him. She stretched forth her arms to him.
Michael Strogoff arose. He was about to throw himself——
The thought of duty, the serious danger for his mother and himself in this unfortunate meeting, suddenly stopped him, and such was his command over himself that not a muscle of his face moved.
There were twenty people in the public room. Among them were, perhaps, spies, and was it not known in the town that the son of Marfa Strogoff belonged to the corps of the couriers of the Czar?
Michael Strogoff did not move.
“Michael!” cried his mother.
“Who are you, my good lady?” Michael Strogoff stammered, unable to speak in his usual firm tone.
“Who am I, thou askest! Dost thou no longer know thy mother?”
“You are mistaken,” coldly replied Michael Strogoff. “A resemblance deceives you.”
The old Marfa went up to him, and, looking straight into his eyes, said,
“Thou art not the son of Peter and Marfa Strogoff?”
Michael Strogoff would have given his life to have locked his mother in his arms; but if he yielded it was all over with him, with her, with his mission, with his oath! Completely master of himself, he closed his eyes, in order not to see the inexpressible anguish which agitated the revered countenance of his mother. He drew back his hands, in order not to touch those trembling hands which sought him.
“I do not know in truth what it is you say, my good woman,” he replied, stepping back.
“Michael!” again cried his aged mother.
“My name is not Michael. I never was your son! I am Nicolas Kopanoff, a merchant at Irkutsk.”
And suddenly he left the public room, whilst for the last time the words reëchoed,
“My son! my son!”
Michael Strogoff, by a desperate effort, had gone. He did not see his old mother, who had fallen back almost inanimate upon a bench. But when the postmaster hastened to assist her, the aged woman raised herself. Suddenly a thought occurred to her. She denied by her son! It was not possible. As for being herself deceived, and taking another for him, equally impossible. It was certainly her son whom she had just seen; and if he had not recognized her it was because he would not, it was because he ought not, it was because he had some cogent reasons for acting thus! And then, her mother’s feelings arising within her, she had only one thought—“Can I, unwittingly, have ruined him?”
“I am mad,” she said to her interrogators. “My eyes have deceived me! This young man is not my child. He had not his voice. Let us think no more of it; if we do I shall end by finding him everywhere.”
Less than ten minutes afterwards a Tartar officer appeared in the posting-house.
“Marfa Strogoff?” he asked.
“It is I,” replied the old woman, in a tone so calm, and with a face so tranquil, that those who had witnessed the meeting with her son would not have known her.
“Come,” said the officer.
Marfa Strogoff, with firm step, followed the Tartar officer and left the posting-house.
Some moments afterwards Marfa Strogoff found herself in the chief square and in the presence of Ivan Ogareff, to whom all the details of this scene had been immediately reported.
Ivan Ogareff, suspecting the truth, interrogated the old Siberian woman.
“Thy name?” he asked in a rough voice.
“Marfa Strogoff.”
“Thou hast a son?”
“Yes.”
“He is a courier of the Czar?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“At Moscow.”
“Thou hast no news of him?”
“No news.”
“Since how long?”
“Since two months.”
“Who, then, was that young man whom thou didst call thy son a few moments ago at the posting-house?”
“A young Siberian whom I took for him,” replied Marfa Strogoff. “This is the tenth man in whom I have thought I recognized my son since the town has been so full of strangers. I think I see him everywhere.”
“So this young man was not Michael Strogoff?”
“It was not Michael Strogoff.”
“Dost thou know, old woman, that I can torture thee until thou avowest the truth?”
“I have spoken the truth, and torture will not cause me to alter my words in any way.”
“This Siberian was not Michael Strogoff?” asked a second time Ivan Ogareff.
“No, it was not he,” replied a second time Marfa Strogoff. “Do you think that for anything in the world I would deny a son whom God has given me?”
Ivan Ogareff regarded with an evil eye the old woman who braved him to the face. He did not doubt but that she had recognized her son in this young Siberian. Now if this son had first renounced his mother, and if his mother renounced him in her turn, it could occur only from the most weighty motive.
Ivan Ogareff had therefore no doubt that the pretended Nicolas Kopanoff was Michael Strogoff, courier of the Czar, seeking concealment under a false name, and charged with some mission which it would have been important for him to know. He therefore at once gave orders for his pursuit. Then,
“Let this woman be conducted to Tomsk,” he said, returning towards Marfa Strogoff.
And, whilst the soldiers brutally dragged her along, he added between his teeth, “When the moment arrives I shall know how to make her speak, this old sorceress!”
CHAPTER XV.
THE MARSHES OF THE BARABA.
IT was fortunate that Michael Strogoff had left the posting-house so promptly. The orders of Ivan Ogareff had been immediately transmitted to all the approaches of the city, and a full description of Michael sent to all the various commandants, in order to prevent his departure from Omsk. But he had already passed through one of the breaches in the fortifications; his horse was galloping over the steppe, and, not having been immediately pursued, the chances of escape were in his favour.
It was on the 29th of July, at eight o’clock in the evening, that Michael Strogoff had left Omsk. This town is situated about halfway between Moscow and Irkutsk, where it was necessary that he should arrive within ten days if he wished to get ahead of the Tartar columns. It was evident that the unlucky chance which had brought him into the presence of his mother had betrayed his incognito. Ivan Ogareff was no longer ignorant of the fact that a courier of the Czar had just passed Omsk, taking the direction of Irkutsk. The despatches which this courier bore must have been of immense importance. Michael Strogoff knew, therefore, that every effort would be made to capture him.
But what he did not know, and could not know, was that Marfa Strogoff was in the hands of Ivan Ogareff, and that she was about to atone, perhaps with her life, for that natural exhibition of her feelings which she had been unable to restrain when she suddenly found herself in the presence of her son. And it was fortunate that he was ignorant of it. Could he have withstood this fresh trial?
Michael Strogoff urged on his horse, imbuing him with all his own feverish impatience, requiring of him one thing only, namely, to bear him rapidly to the next posting-house, where he could be exchanged for a quicker conveyance.
At midnight he had cleared seventy versts, and halted at the station of Koulikovo. But there, as he had feared, he found neither horses nor carriages. Several Tartar detachments had passed along the highway of the steppe. Everything had been stolen or requisitioned both in the villages and in the posting-houses. It was with difficulty that Michael Strogoff was even able to obtain some refreshment for his horse and himself.
It was of great importance, therefore, to spare his horse, for he could not tell when or how he might be able to replace it. Desiring, however, to put the g
reatest possible distance between himself and the horsemen whom Ivan Ogareff had no doubt despached in pursuit, he resolved to push on. After one hour’s rest he resumed his course across the steppe.
Hitherto the weather had been propitious for the journey of the courier of the Czar. The temperature was endurable. The nights at this time of the year are very short, and as they are lighted by the moon shining through the clouds, the route over the steppe is practicable. Michael Strogoff, moreover, was a man certain of his road and devoid of doubt or hesitation, and in spite of the melancholy thoughts which possessed him he had preserved his clearness of mind, and made for his destined point as though it were visible upon the horizon. When he did halt for a moment at some turn of the road it was to breathe his horse. Now he would dismount to ease his steed for a moment, and again he would place his ear to the ground to listen for the sound of galloping horses upon the steppe. Nothing having occurred to arouse his suspicions, he resumed his way.
Ah, if all this Siberian country could only have been invaded by the Polar summer day, that permanent day during which darkness is unknown! This was indeed to be desired, in order that it could be traversed with more safety.
On the 30th of July, at nine o’clock in the morning, Michael Strogoff passed through the station of Touroumoff and entered the swampy district of the Baraba.
There, for a distance of three hundred versts, the natural obstacles would be extremely great. He knew this, but he also knew that he would certainly surmount them.
These vast marshes of the Baraba, lying between the sixtieth and fifty-second parallels, form the reservoir to all the rain-water which finds no outlet either towards the Obi or towards the Irtych. The soil of this vast depression is entirely argillaceous, and therefore impermeable, so that the waters remain there and make of it a region very difficult to cross during the hot season.
There, however, lies the way to Irkutsk, and it is in the midst of ponds, pools, lakes, and swamps, from which the sun draws poisonous exhalations, that the road winds, and entails upon the traveller the greatest fatigue and danger.
