by Jules Verne
Michael therefore advanced as quickly as was consistent with safety. He trusted no less to the excellence of his eyes, which penetrated the gloom, than to the well-proved sagacity of his horse.
Just as Michael dismounted to discover the exact direction of the road, he seemed to hear a confused murmuring sound from the west. It was like the noise of horses’ hoofs at some distance on the parched ground.
Michael listened attentively, putting his ear to the ground.
“It is a detachment of cavalry coming by the road from Omsk,” he said to himself. “They are marching very quickly, for the noise is increasing. Are they Russians or Tartars?”
Michael again listened.
“Yes,” said he, “they are at a sharp trot. In ten minutes they will be here. My horse cannot outstrip them. If they are Russians I will join them; if Tartars I must avoid them. But how? Where can I hide in this steppe?”
Michael gave a look round, and, his eye penetrating the darkness, discovered a confused mass at a hundred paces before him on the left of the road.
“There is a copse!” he exclaimed. “To take refuge there is perhaps to run the risk of being caught, if they are in search of me; but I have no choice.”
In a few moments Michael, dragging his horse by the bridle, reached a little larch-wood, through which the road lay. Beyond this it was destitute of trees, and wound among bogs and pools, separated by dwarfed bushes, whins, and heather. The ground on either side was quite impracticable, and the detachment must necessarily pass through the wood. They were pursuing the high road to Irkutsk. Plunging in about forty feet, he was stopped by a stream running under the brushwood. But the shadow was so deep that Michael ran no risk of being seen, unless the wood should be carefully searched. He therefore led his horse to the stream and fastened him to a tree, returning to the edge of the road to listen and ascertain with what sort of people he had to do.
Michael had scarcely taken up his position behind a group of larches when a confused light appeared, above which glared brighter lights waving about in the shadow.
“Torches!” said he to himself.
And he drew quickly back, gliding like a savage into the thickest part of the underwood.
As they approached the wood the horses’ pace was slackened. The horsemen were probably lighting up the road with the intention of examining every turn.
Michael feared this, and instinctively drew near to the bank of the stream, ready to plunge in if necessary.
Arrived at the top of the wood, the detachment halted. The horsemen dismounted. There were about fifty. A dozen of them carried torches, lighting up the road for some distance.
By watching their preparations Michael found to his joy that the detachment were not thinking of visiting the copse, but only bivouacking near, to rest their horses and allow the men to take some refreshment.
The horses were soon unsaddled, and began to graze on the thick grass which carpeted the ground. The men meantime stretched themselves by the side of the road, and partook of the provisions they produced from their knapsacks.
Michael’s self-possession had never deserted him, and creeping amongst the high grass he endeavoured not only to examine the new-comers, but to hear what they said. It was a detachment from Omsk, composed of Usbeck horsemen, a race of the Mongolian type, who are very numerous in Tartary. These men, well built, above the medium height, rough, and wild-featured, wore on their heads the “talpak,” or black sheep-skin cap, and on their feet yellow high-heeled boots with turned-up toes, like the shoes of the Middle Ages. Their tunics, of calico padded with raw cotton, were close-fitting, and confined at the waist by a leathern belt braided with red. They were armed defensively with a shield, and offensively with a curved sword, a long cutlass, and a flintlock musket slung at the saddle-bow. From their shoulders hung gay-coloured cloaks.
The horses, which were feeding at liberty at the edge of the wood, were, like their masters, of the Usbeck race. They could be perfectly seen by the light the torches threw under the branches of the larches. These animals are rather smaller than the Turcomanian horses, but are possessed of remarkable strength, and know no other pace than the gallop.
This detachment was commanded by a “pendja-baschi;” that is to say, a commander of fifty men, having under him a “deh-baschi,” or simple commander of ten men. These two officers wore helmets and half coats-of-mail; little trumpets fastened to their saddle-bows were the distinctive signs of their rank.
The pendja-baschi had been obliged to let his men rest, fatigued with a long stage. He and the second officer, smoking “beng,” the leaf of the hemp which forms the base of the “haschisch,” used so generally by Asiatics, strolled up and down the wood, so that Michael, without being seen, could catch and understand their conversation, which was spoken in the Tartar language.
Michael’s attention was singularly excited by the very first words they uttered.
In fact it was of him they were speaking.
“This courier cannot be much in advance of us,” said the pendja-baschi; “and, on the other hand, it is absolutely impossible that he can have followed any other route than that of the Baraba.”
“Who knows if he has left Omsk?” replied the deh-baschi. “Perhaps he is still hidden in some house in the town.”
“That is to be wished, certainly. Colonel Ogareff would have no fear then that the despatches of which this courier is evidently the bearer should ever reach their destination.”
“They say that he is a native, a Siberian,” resumed the deh-baschi. “If so, he must be well acquainted with the country, and it is possible that he has left the Irkutsk road, depending on rejoining it later.”
“But then we should be in advance of him,” answered the pendja-baschi; “for we left Omsk within an hour after his departure, and have since followed the shortest road with all the speed of which our horses are capable. He has therefore either remained in Omsk, or we shall arrive at Tomsk before him, so as to cut off his retreat; and in either case he will not reach Irkutsk.”
“A rugged woman, that old Siberian, who is evidently his mother,” said the deh-baschi.
At this remark Michael’s heart beat violently.
“Yes,” answered the pendja-baschi. “She stuck to it well that the pretended merchant was not her son, but it was too late. Colonel Ogareff was not to be taken in; and, as he said, he will know how to make the old witch speak when the time comes.”
These words were so many dagger-thrusts for Michael. He was known to be a courier of the Czar! A detachment of horsemen on his track could not fail to cut him off. And, worst of all, his mother was in the hands of the Tartars, and the cruel Ogareff had undertaken to make her speak when he wished!
Michael well knew that the brave Siberian would not speak, and that she would sacrifice her life for him.
Michael had fancied that he could not hate Ivan Ogareff more than he had hated him up to this moment, and yet a fresh tide of hate now rose in his heart The wretch who had betrayed his country now threatened to torture his mother.
The conversation between the two officers continued, and Michael understood that an engagement was imminent in the neighbourhood of Kolyvan, between the Muscovite troops coming from the north and the Tartars. A small Russian force of two thousand men, reported to have reached the lower course of the Obi, were advancing by forced marches towards Tomsk. If such was the case, this force, which would soon find itself engaged with the main body of Feofar-Khan’s army, would be inevitably overwhelmed, and the Irkutsk road would be in the entire possession of the invaders.
As to himself, Michael learnt, by some words from the pendja-baschi, that a price was set on his head, and that orders had been given to take him, dead or alive.
It was necessary, therefore, to get the start of the Usbeck horsemen on the Irkutsk road, and put the Obi between himself and them. But to do that, he must escape before the camp was broken up.
His determination taken, Michael prepared to execute it.
Indeed, the halt would not be prolonged, and the pendja-baschi did not intend to give his men more than an hour’s rest, although their horses could not have been changed for fresh ones since Omsk, and must be as much fatigued, and for the same reasons, as that of Michael Strogoff.
There was not a moment to lose. It was within an hour of morning. It was needful to profit by the darkness, which would be soon dispersed by the dawn, to leave the little wood and dash along the road; but although night favoured it, the success of such a flight appeared to be almost impossible.
Not wishing to do anything at random, Michael took time for reflection, carefully weighing the chances for and against him, so as to have the best in his hand.
From the situation of the place the result was this—that he could not escape through the back of the wood, the stream which bordered it being not only deep, but very wide and muddy. Great furze-bushes, too, rendered it absolutely impassable. Beneath this thick water was a slimy bog, on which the foot could not rest. Besides, beyond the stream the bushes covering the ground would have offered great difficulties to a rapid flight. The alarm once given, Michael, pursued and hemmed in, must inevitably fall into the hands of the Tartar horsemen.
There was only one way open, the high-road. To endeavour to reach it by creeping round the edge of the wood, without attracting attention, accomplish a quarter of a verst without being seen, and then to gallop at head-long speed, required all the remaining strength and energy of his noble steed. Too probably it would fall dead on reaching the banks of the Obi, when, either by boat or by swimming, should other means of transport fail, he must cross this important river. Such was what Michael had before him.
His energy and courage increased in sight of danger.
His life, his mission, the honour of his country, perhaps the safety of his mother, were at stake. He could not hesitate.
There was not another moment to be lost Already there was a slight movement among the men of the detachment. A few horsemen were strolling up and down the road in front of the wood. The rest were still lying at the foot of the trees, but their horses were gradually collecting towards the centre of the wood.
Michael had at first thought of seizing one of these horses, but he recollected that, of course, they would be as fatigued as his own. It was better to trust to his own brave steed, which had already rendered him such important service. The good animal, hidden behind a thicket, had escaped the sight of the Usbecks. They, besides, had not penetrated so far into the wood.
Michael crawled up to his horse through the grass, and found him lying down. He patted and spoke gently to him, and managed to raise him without noise.
Fortunately enough, the torches were entirely consumed, and now went out, the darkness being still profound, at least under shelter of the larches. After replacing the bit, Michael looked to his girths and stirrups, and began to lead his horse quietly away by the bridle. The intelligent animal, as if he understood what was required of him, followed his master without even making the least neigh.
However, a few Usbeck horses raised their heads, and began to wander towards the edge of the wood.
Michael held his revolver in his right hand, ready to blow out the brains of the first Tartar who should approach him. But happily the alarm was not given, and he was able to gain the angle made by the wood to the right where it joined the road.
To avoid being seen, Michael’s intention was not to mount until the last moment, and only after turning a corner some two hundred feet from the wood. Unfortunately, just at the moment that he was issuing from the wood, an Usbeck’s horse, scenting him, neighed and began to trot along the road.
His master ran to catch him, and seeing a shadowy form moving in the dim light, “Look out!” he shouted.
At the cry, all the men of the bivouac jumped up, and ran to seize their horses.
Michael could only leap on his steed, and gallop away.
The two officers of the detachment urged on their men to follow.
But Michael was already in the saddle.
At that moment he heard a report, and felt a ball pass through his tunic.
Without turning his head, without replying, he spurred on, and, clearing the brushwood with a tremendous bound, he galloped at full speed in the direction of the Obi.
The Usbeck’s horses being unsaddled gave him a small start of them, but they could not be long in setting off in pursuit of him; and indeed in less than two minutes after he left the wood he heard the tramp of several horses which were gradually gaining on him.
Day was now beginning to break, and objects at some distance were becoming visible.
Michael turned his head, and perceived a horseman rapidly approaching him.
It was the deh-baschi. Being better mounted, this officer had distanced his detachment, and threatened to come up with the fugitive.
Without drawing rein, Michael extended his revolver, and took a moment’s aim. The Usbeck officer, hit in the breast, rolled on the ground.
But the other horsemen followed him closely, and without waiting to assist the deh-baschi, exciting each other by their shouts, digging their spurs into their horses’ sides, they gradually diminished the distance between themselves and Michael.
For half an hour only was the latter able to keep out of range of the Tartars, but he well knew that his horse was becoming weaker, and dreaded every instant that he would stumble never to rise again.
It was now light, although the sun had not yet risen above the horizon.
Two versts distant could be seen a pale line bordered by a few trees.
This was the Obi, which flows from the south-west to the north-east, the surface almost level with the ground, its bed being but the steppe itself.
Several times shots were fired at Michael, but without hitting him, and several times too he discharged his revolver on those of the soldiers who pressed him too closely. Each time an Usbeck rolled on the ground, midst cries of rage from his companions.
But this pursuit could only terminate to Michael’s disadvantage. His horse was almost exhausted, and yet he managed to bring him to the bank of the river.
The Usbeck detachment was now not more than fifty paces behind him.
The Obi was deserted—not a boat of any description which could take him over the water!
“Courage, my brave horse!” cried Michael. “Come! A last effort!”
And he plunged into the river, which here was half a verst in width.
It would have been difficult to stand against the current—indeed, Michael’s horse could get no looting. He must therefore swim across the river, although it was rapid as a torrent Even to attempt it showed Michael’s marvellous courage.
The soldiers had reached the bank, but hesitated to plunge in.
At that moment the pendja-baschi seized his musket and took aim at Michael, whom he could see in the middle of the stream. The shot was fired, and Michael’s horse, struck in the side, was borne away by the current.
His master, speedily disentangling himself from his stirrups, struck out boldly for the shore. In the midst of a hailstorm of balls he managed to reach the opposite side, and disappeared in the rushes which covered that bank of the Obi.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE RIVALS.
MICHAEL was now in comparative safety, though his situation was still terrible.
Now that the faithful animal who had so bravely borne him had met his death in the waters of the river, how was he to continue his journey?
He was on foot, without provisions, in a country devastated by the invasion, overrun by the Emir’s scouts, and still at a considerable distance from the place he was striving to reach.
“By Heaven, I will get there!” he exclaimed, in reply to all the reasons for faltering. “God will protect our sacred Russia.”
Michael was out of reach of the Usbeck horsemen. They had not dared to pursue him through the river, and must besides have thought he was drowned, for after his disappearance b
eneath the water they had seen nothing more of him.
But Michael, creeping up among the gigantic rushes, had reached a higher part of the bank, though not without difficulty, for the thick mud deposited by the overflowing of the water made it slippery in the extreme.
Once more on solid ground Michael stopped to consider what he should do next He wished to avoid Tomsk, now occupied by the Tartar troops. Nevertheless, he must reach some town, or at least a post-house, where he could procure a horse. A horse once found, he would throw himself out of the beaten track, and not again take to the Irkutsk road until in the neighbourhood of Krasnoiarsk. From that place, if he were quick, he hoped to find the way still open, and he intended to go through the Lake Baikal provinces in a south-easterly direction.
Michael began by going eastward.
By following the course of the Obi two versts further, a picturesque little town lying on a small hill is reached. A few churches, with Byzantine cupolas coloured green and gold, stand up against the grey sky.
This is Kolyvan, where the officers and people employed at Kamsk and other towns take refuge during the summer from the unhealthy climate of the Baraba. According to the latest news obtained by the Czar’s courier, Kolyvan could not be yet in the hands of the invaders. The Tartar troops, divided into two columns, had marched to the left on Omsk, to the right on Tomsk, neglecting the intermediate country.
Michael Strogoff’s plan was simply this—to reach Kolyvan before the arrival of the Usbeck horsemen, who would ascend the left bank of the Obi. There, even if he had to pay ten times more than they were worth, he would procure clothes and a horse, and resume the road to Irkutsk across the southern steppe.
It was now three o’clock in the morning. The neighbourhood of Kolyvan was very still, and appeared to have been totally abandoned. The country population had evidently fled to the northwards, to the province of Yeniseisk, dreading the invasion, which they could not resist.
