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Finally, towards half past three in the afternoon, Michael Strogoff left
the last depressions of the Baraba, and the dry and hard soil of Siberia rang
out once more beneath his horse's hoofs.
He had left Moscow on the 15th of July. Therefore on this day, the 5th of
August, including more than seventy hours lost on the banks of the Irtych,
twenty days had gone by since his departure.
One thousand miles still separated him from Irkutsk.
Chapter XVI.
A Final Effort
M ichael's fear of meeting the Tartars in the plains beyond the Baraba
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was by no means ungrounded. The fields, trodden down by horses' hoofs,
afforded but too clear evidence that their hordes had passed that way; the
same, indeed, might be said of these barbarians as of the Turks: "Where the
Turk goes, no grass grows."
Michael saw at once that in traversing this country the greatest caution
was necessary. Wreaths of smoke curling upwards on the horizon showed that
huts and hamlets were still burning. Had these been fired by the advance
guard, or had the Emir's army already advanced beyond the boundaries of the
province? Was Feofar-Khan himself in the government of Yeniseisk? Michael
could settle on no line of action until these questions were answered. Was the
country so deserted that he could not discover a single Siberian to enlighten
him?
Michael rode on for two versts without meeting a human being. He looked
carefully for some house which had not been deserted. Every one was
tenantless.
One hut, however, which he could just see between the trees, was still
smoking. As he approached he perceived, at some yards from the ruins of the
building, an old man surrounded by weeping children. A woman still young,
evidently his daughter and the mother of the poor children, kneeling on the
ground, was gazing on the scene of desolation. She had at her breast a baby
but a few months old; shortly she would have not even that nourishment to give
it. Ruin and desolation were all around!
Michael approached the old man.
"Will you answer me a few questions?" he asked.
"Speak," replied the old man.
"Have the Tartars passed this way?"
"Yes, for my house is in flames."
"Was it an army or a detachment?"
"An army, for, as far as eye can reach, our fields are laid waste."
"Commanded by the Emir?"
"By the Emir; for the Obi's waters are red."
"Has Feofar-Khan entered Tomsk?"
"He has."
"Do you know if his men have entered Kolyvan?"
"No; for Kolyvan does not yet burn."
"Thanks, friend. Can I aid you and yours?"
"No."
"Good-by."
"Farewell."
And Michael, having presented five and twenty roubles to the unfortunate
woman, who had not even strength to thank him, put spurs to his horse once
more.
One thing he knew; he must not pass through Tomsk. To go to Kolyvan,
which the Tartars had not yet reached, was possible. Yes, that is what he must
do; there he must prepare himself for another long stage. There was nothing
for it but, having crossed the Obi, to take the Irkutsk road and avoid Tomsk.
This new route decided on, Michael must not delay an instant. Nor did he,
but, putting his horse into a steady gallop, he took the road towards the left
bank of the Obi, which was still forty versts distant. Would there be a ferry
boat there, or should he, finding that the Tartars had destroyed all the
boats, be obliged to swim across?
As to his horse, it was by this time pretty well worn out, and Michael
intended to make it perform this stage only, and then to exchange it for a
fresh one at Kolyvan. Kolyvan would be like a fresh starting point, for on
leaving that town his journey would take a new form. So long as he traversed a
devastated country the difficulties must be very great; but if, having avoided
Tomsk, he could resumethe road to Irkutsk across the province of Yeniseisk,
which was not yet laid waste, he would finish his journey in a few days.
Night came on, bringing with it refreshing coolness after the heat of the
day. At midnight the steppe was profoundly dark. The sound of the horses's
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hoofs alone was heard on the road, except when, every now and then, its master
spoke a few encouraging words. In such darkness as this great care was
necessary lest he should leave the road, bordered by pools and streams,
tributaries of the Obi. 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 heard 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. 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?"
He gave a look around, and, through 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 to run the risk of being
caught, if they are in search of me; but I have no choice." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]