by Jules Verne
“Poor Michael!” answered Nadia, with emotion. “Do not speak so. That is not the answer to my question, Michael, why, now, are you in such haste to reach Irkutsk?”
“Because I must be there before Ivan Ogareff,” exclaimed Michael.
“Even now?”
“Even now, and I will be there, too!”
In uttering these last words, Michael did not speak solely through hatred to the traitor. But Nadia understood that her companion had not told, or could not tell, her all.
On the 15th of September, three days later, the two reached the village of Kouitounskoë, seventy versts from Toulounovskoë. The young girl suffered dreadfully. Her aching feet could scarcely support her; but she fought, she struggled, against her weariness, and her only thought was this—
“Since he cannot see me, I will go on till I drop.”
There were no obstacles on this part of the journey, no danger either since the departure of the Tartars, only much fatigue.
For three days it continued thus. It was plain that the third invading column was advancing rapidly in the East; that could be seen by the ruins which they left after them—the cold cinders and the already decomposing corpses.
There was nothing to be seen in the West; the Emir’s advance-guard had not yet appeared. Michael began to consider the various reasons which might have caused this delay. Was a sufficient force of Russians directly menacing Tomsk or Krasnoiarsk? Did the third column, isolated from the others, run a risk of being cut off? If this was the case, it would be easy for the Grand Duke to defend Irkutsk, and any time gained against an invasion was a step towards repulsing it.
Michael sometimes let his thoughts run on these hopes, but he soon saw their improbability, and felt that the preservation of the Grand Duke depended alone on him.
Sixty versts separate Kouitounskoë from Kimilteiskoë, a little village situated at a short distance from the Dinka, a tributary of the Angara. Michael thought with some apprehension of the obstacle which this affluent placed in his way. There was not the remotest chance of finding anything like a boat, and he remembered (having already crossed it in happier times) when it was difficult to ford. But this once crossed, no other river interrupted the road to Irkutsk, two hundred and thirty versts from thence.
It would only take three days to reach Kimilteiskoë. Nadia dragged herself along. Whatever might be her moral energy, her physical strength would soon fail her. Michael knew it only too well.
If he had not been blind, Nadia would have said to him—
“Go, Michael, leave me in some hut! Reach Irkutsk! Accomplish your mission! See my father! Tell him where I am! Tell him that I wait for him, and you both will know where to find me! Start! I am not afraid! I will hide myself from the Tartars! I will take care of myself for him, for you! Go, Michael! I can go no farther! . . .”
Many times Nadia was obliged to stop. Michael then took her in his arms and, having no longer to think of her fatigue, walked more rapidly and with his indefatigable step.
On the 18th of September, at ten in the evening, Kimilteiskoë was at last entered. From the top of a hill, Nadia saw in the horizon a long light line. It was the Dinka. A few lightning flashes were reflected in the water; summer lightning, without thunder.
Nadia led her companion through the ruined village. The cinders were quite cold. The last of the Tartars had passed through at least five or six days before.
Arrived at the outskirts of the village, Nadia sank down on a stone bench.
“Shall we make a halt?” asked Michael.
“It is night, Michael,” answered Nadia. “Do you not want to rest a few hours?”
“I would rather have crossed the Dinka,” replied Michael, “I should like to put that between us and the Emir’s advance-guard. But you can scarcely drag yourself along, my poor Nadia!”
“Come, Michael,” returned Nadia, seizing her companion’s hand and drawing him forward.
Two or three versts further the Dinka flowed across the Irkutsk road. The young girl wished to attempt this last effort asked by her companion. She found her way by the light from the flashes. They were then crossing a boundless desert, in the midst of which was lost the little river. Not a tree nor a hillock broke the flatness. Not a breath disturbed the atmosphere, whose calmness would allow the slightest sound to travel an immense distance.
Suddenly, Michael and Nadia stopped, as if their feet had been caught in some crevice in the ground.
The barking of a dog came across the steppe.
“Do you hear?” said Nadia.
Then a mournful cry succeeded it—a despairing cry, like the last appeal of a human being about to die.
“Nicholas! Nicholas!” cried the girl, feeling a foreboding of evil.
Michael, who was listening, shook his head.
“Come, Michael, come,” said Nadia.
And she who just now was dragging herself with difficulty along, suddenly recovered strength, under violent excitement.
“We have left the road,” said Michael, feeling that he was treading no longer on powdery soil but on short grass.
“Yes. . . . we must! . . . .” returned Nadia. “It was there, on the right, from which the cry came!”
In a few minutes they were not more than half a verst from the river.
A second bark was heard, but, although more feeble, it was certainly nearer.
Nadia stopped.
“Yes!” said Michael. “It is Serko barking! . . . He has followed his master!”
“Nicholas!” called the girl.
Her cry was unanswered.
A few birds of prey alone rose and disappeared in the sky.
Michael listened. Nadia gazed over the plain illumined now and again with electric light, but she saw nothing.
And yet a voice was again raised, this time murmuring in a plaintive tone, “Michael! . . .”
Then a dog, all bloody, bounded up to Nadia.
It was Serko!
Nicholas could not be far off! He alone could have murmured the name of Michael! Where was he? Nadia had no strength to call again.
Michael, crawling on the ground, felt about with his hands.
Suddenly Serko uttered a fresh bark and darted towards a gigantic bird which had swooped down.
It was a vulture. When Serko ran towards it, it rose, but, returning to the charge, it struck the dog. The latter leapt up at it. . . . A blow from the formidable beak alighted on his head, and this time Serko fell back lifeless on the ground.
At the same moment a cry of horror escaped Nadia.
“There . . . there!” she exclaimed.
A head issued from the ground! She had stumbled against it in the darkness.
Nadia fell on her knees beside it.
Nicholas, buried up to his neck, according to the atrocious Tartar custom, had been left in the steppe to die of hunger and thirst, and perhaps by the teeth of wolves or the beaks of birds of prey!
Frightful torture for the victim imprisoned in the ground—the earth pressed down so that he cannot move, his arms bound to his body like those of a corpse in its coffin! The miserable wretch, living in the mould of clay from which he is powerless to break out, can only long for the death which is so slow in coming!
There the Tartars had buried their prisoner three days before! . . . For three days, Nicholas waited for the help which now came too late!
The vultures had caught sight of the head on a level with the ground, and for some hours the dog had been defending his master against these ferocious birds!
Michael dug at the ground with his knife to release his friend!
The eyes of Nicholas, which till then had been closed, opened.
He recognized Michael and Nadia. Then—
“Farewell, my friends!” he murmured. “I am glad to have seen you again! Pray for me! . . .”
These words were his last.
Michael continued to dig, though the ground, having been tightly rammed down, was as hard as a stone, and he
managed at last to get out the body of the unhappy man. He listened if his heart was still beating. . . . It was still!
He wished to bury him, that he might not be left exposed on the steppe; and the hole into which Nicholas had been placed when living, he enlarged, so that he might be laid in it—dead! The faithful Serko was laid by his master.
At that moment, a noise was heard on the road, about half a verst distant.
Michael Strogoff listened.
It was evidently a detachment of horse advancing towards the Dinka.
“Nadia, Nadia!” he said in a low voice.
Nadia, who was kneeling in prayer, arose.
“Look, look!” said he.
“The Tartars!” she whispered.
It was indeed the Emir’s advance-guard, passing rapidly along the road to Irkutsk.
“They shall not prevent me from burying him!” said Michael.
And he continued his work.
Soon, the body of Nicholas, the hands crossed on the breast, was laid in the grave. Michael and Nadia, kneeling, prayed a last time for the poor fellow, inoffensive and good, who had paid for his devotion towards them with his life.
“And now,” said Michael, as he threw in the earth, “the wolves of the steppe will not devour him.”
Then he shook his fist at the troop of horsemen who were passing.
“Forward, Nadia!” he said.
Michael could not follow the road, now occupied by the Tartars. He must cross the steppe and turn to Irkutsk. He had not now to trouble himself about crossing the Dinka.
Nadia could not move, but she could see for him. He took her in his arms and went on towards the South-west of the province.
More than two hundred versts still remained to be traversed. How was the distance to be performed? Should they not succumb to such fatigue? On what were they to live on the way? By what superhuman energy were they to pass the slopes of the Sayansk Mountains? Neither he nor Nadia could answer this!
And yet, twelve days after, on the 2nd of October, at six o’clock in the evening, a wide sheet of water lay at Michael Strogoff’s feet.
It was Lake Baïkal
CHAPTER X.
BAÏKAL AND ANGARA.
LAKE BAÏKAL is situated seventeen hundred feet above the level of the sea. Its length is about nine hundred versts, its breadth one hundred. Its depth is not known. Madame de Bourboulon states that, according to the boatmen, it likes to be spoken of as “Madam Sea.” If it is called “Sir Lake,” it immediately lashes itself into fury. However, it is reported and believed by the Siberians that a Russian is never drowned in it.
This immense basin of fresh water, fed by more than three hundred rivers, is surrounded by magnificent volcanic mountains. It has no other outlet than the Angara, which after passing Irkutsk throws itself into the Yeniseï, a little above the town of Yeniseisk. As to the mountains which encase it, they form a branch of the Toungouzes, and are derived from the vast system of the Altaï.
Even now the cold began to be felt In this territory, subject to peculiar climatical conditions, the autumn appears to be absorbed in the precocious winter. It was now the beginning of October. The sun set at five o’clock in the evening, and during the long nights the temperature fell to zero. The first snows, which would last till summer, already whitened the summits of the neighbouring hills.
During the Siberian winter this inland sea is frozen over to a thickness of several feet, and is cut up by the sleighs of couriers and caravans.
Either because there are people who are so wanting in politeness as to call it “Sir Lake,” or for some more meteorological reason, Lake Baïkal is subject to violent tempests. Its waves, short like those of all inland seas, are much feared by the rafts, prahms, and steamboats, which furrow it during the summer.
It was the South-west point of the lake which Michael had now reached, carrying Nadia, whose whole life, so to speak, was concentrated in her eyes. But what could these two expect, in this wild region, if it was not to die of exhaustion and famine? And yet, what remained of the long journey of six thousand versts for the Czar’s courier to reach his end? Nothing but sixty versts on the shore of the lake up to the mouth of the Angara, and eighty versts from the mouth of the Angara to Irkutsk; in all, a hundred and forty versts, or three days’ journey for a strong healthy man, even on foot.
Could Michael Strogoff still be that man?
Heaven, no doubt, did not wish to put him to this trial. The fatality which had hitherto pursued his steps seemed for a time to spare him. This end of the Baïkal, this part of the steppe, which he believed to be a desert, which it usually is, was not so now.
About fifty people were collected at the angle formed by the South-west point of the lake.
Nadia immediately caught sight of this group, when Michael, carrying her in his arms, issued from the mountain pass.
The girl feared for a moment that it was a Tartar detachment, sent to beat the shores of the Baïkal, in which case flight would have been impossible to them both.
But Nadia was soon reassured on this point.
“Russians!” she exclaimed.
And with this last effort, her eyes closed and her head fell on Michael’s breast.
But they had been seen, and some of these Russians, running to them, led the blind man and the girl to a little point at which was moored a raft.
The raft was just going to start.
These Russians were fugitives of different conditions, whom the same interest had united at this point of Lake Baïkal. Driven back by the Tartar scouts, they hoped to obtain a refuge at Irkutsk, but not being able to get there by land, the invaders having taken up a position on the two banks of the Angara, they hoped to reach it by descending the river which flows through that town.
Their plan made Michael’s heart leap; a last chance was before him, but he had strength to conceal this, wishing to keep his incognito more strictly than ever.
The fugitives’ plan was very simple. A current in the lake runs along by the upper bank to the mouth of the Angara; this current they hoped to utilise, and with its assistance to reach the outlet of Lake Baïkal. From this point to Irkutsk, the rapid waters of the river would bear them along at a rate of from ten to twelve versts an hour. In a day and a half they might hope to be in sight of the town.
No kind of boat was to be found; they had been obliged to make one; a raft, or rather a float of wood, similar to those which usually are drifted down Siberian rivers, was constructed. A forest of firs, growing on the bank, had supplied the necessary materials; the trunks, fastened together with osiers, made a platform on which a hundred people could have easily found room.
On board this raft Michael and Nadia were taken. The girl had returned to herself; some food was given to her as well as to her companion. Then, lying on a bed of leaves, she soon fell into a deep sleep.
To those who questioned him, Michael Strogoff said nothing of what had taken place at Tomsk. He gave himself out as an inhabitant of Krasnoiarsk, who had not been able to get to Irkutsk before the Emir’s troops arrived on the left bank of the Dinka, and he added that, very probably, the bulk of the Tartar forces had taken up a position before the Siberian capital.
There was not a moment to be lost; besides, the cold was becoming more and more severe. During the night the temperature fell below zero; ice was already forming on the surface of the Baïkal. Although the raft managed to pass easily over the lake, it might not be so easy between the banks of the Angara, should pieces of ice be found to block up its course.
For all these reasons, it was necessary that the fugitives should start without delay.
At eight in the evening the moorings were cast off, and the raft drifted in the current along the shore. It was steered by means of long poles, under the management of several muscular moujiks.
An old Baïkal boatman took command of the raft. He was a man of sixty-five, browned by the sun, and lake breezes. A thick white beard flowed over his chest; a fur cap covered h
is head; his aspect was grave and austere. His large great-coat, fastened in at the waist, reached down to his heels. This taciturn old fellow was seated in the stern, and issued his commands by gestures, not uttering ten words in ten hours. Besides, the chief work consisted in keeping the raft in the current, which ran along the shore, without drifting out into the open.
It has been already said that Russians of all conditions had found a place on the raft. Indeed, to the poor moujiks, the women, old men, and children, were joined two or three pilgrims, surprised on their journey by the invasion; a few monks, and a papa. The pilgrims carried a staff, a gourd hung at the belt, and they chanted psalms in a plaintive voice: one came from the Ukraine, another from the Yellow Sea, and a third from the Finland provinces. This last, who was an aged man, carried at his waist a little padlocked collecting-box, as if it had been hung at a church door. Of all that he collected during his long and fatiguing pilgrimage, nothing was for himself; he did not even possess the key of the box, which would only be opened on his return.
The monks came from the North of the Empire. Three months before they had left the town of Archangel, which some travellers justly believe to have the appearance of an Eastern city. They had visited the sacred islands near the coast of Carelia, the convent of Solovetsk, the convent of Troïtsa, those of Saint Antony and Saint Theodosia, at Kiev, the old favourite of the Jagellons, the monastery of Simeonof at Moscow, that of Kazan, as well as the church of the Old Believers, and they were now on their way to Irkutsk, wearing the robe, the cowl, and the clothes of serge.
As to the papa, he was a plain village priest, one of the six hundred thousand popular pastors which the Russian Empire contains. He was clothed as miserably as the moujiks, not being above them in social position; in fact, labouring like a peasant on his plot of ground; baptising, marrying, burying. He had been able to protect his wife and children from the brutality of the Tartars by sending them away into the Northern provinces. He himself had stayed in his parish up to the last moment; then he was obliged to fly, and, the Irkutsk road being stopped, had come to Lake Baïkal.
