Kitabı oku: «The Price of Power», sayfa 12
Chapter Twenty Three.
Identification!
When again I opened my eyes it was to find a lamp being held close to my face, and a man who apparently possessed a knowledge of surgery – a political exile from Moscow, who had been a doctor, I afterwards discovered – was carefully bathing my wound.
Beside him stood two Cossacks and the chief of police himself. All were greatly agitated that an attack should have been made upon a man who was guest to His Imperial Majesty, their Master.
To my host’s question I described in a few words what had occurred, and bewailed the loss of my papers and my money.
“They are not lost,” he replied. “Fortunately the sentry outside heard your scream, and seeing the intruder emerge from the window and run, he raised his rifle and shot him.”
“Killed him?” I asked.
“Of course. He was an utter stranger in Olekminsk. Presently we shall discover who and what he is. Here are your papers,” he added, handing back the precious documents to me. “For the present the man’s body lies outside. Afterwards you shall see if you recognise him. From his passport his name would appear to be Gabrillo Passhin. Do you know anyone of that name?”
“Nobody,” I replied, my brain awhirl with the crowded events of the past half-hour.
I suppose it was another half-hour before the doctor, a grey-bearded, prematurely-aged man, finished bandaging my wound and strapping my left arm across my chest. Then, assisted by my host, I rose and went forth, led by men with lanterns, to where, in the snow, as he had fallen beneath the sentry’s bullet, lay the would-be assassin.
They held their lanterns against the white, dead lace, but I did not recognise him. He seemed to be about thirty-five, with thin, irregular features and shaven chin. He was respectably dressed, while his hands were soft, betraying no evidence of manual labour. The features were perfectly calm, for death had been instantaneous, the bullet striking at the back of the skull.
Near where he lay a small pool of blood showed dark against the snow.
While we were examining the body, Petrakoff, whom I had sent for from the post-house, arrived in hot haste, and became filled with alarm when he saw my neck and arm enveloped in bandages.
In a few words I told him what had occurred, and then advancing, he bent and looked upon my assailant’s face. He remained bent there for quite a couple of minutes. Then, straightening himself, he asked:
“Does his passport give his name as Ivan Müller – or Gabrillo Passhin?”
“You know him!” I gasped. “Who is he?”
“Well,” he replied, “I happen to have rather good reason to know him. In Odessa he was chief of a desperate gang of bank-note forgers, who, after eluding us for two years, were at last arrested – six of them in Moscow. The seventh, who called himself Müller, escaped to Germany. A year ago he was bold enough to return to Petersburg, where I recognised him one day close to the Nicholas station and followed him to the house where he lodged. I entered there alone, very foolishly perhaps, whereupon he drew a revolver and fired point-blank at me. The bullet struck me in the right shoulder, but assistance was forthcoming, and he was arrested. His sentence about eleven months ago was confinement in the Fortress of Peter and Paul for fifteen years. So he must have escaped. Ah! he was one of the most daring, astute and desperate criminals in all Russia. At his trial he spat at the judge, and contemptuously declared that his friends would not allow him to be confined for very long.”
“It seems that they have not,” I remarked thoughtfully. “The fact of his having dared to break into the house of the chief of police shows in itself the character of the man,” Petrakoff exclaimed. “I myself had a most narrow escape when I arrested him. But what was he doing here – in Siberia?”
“He may have been exiled here and escaped,” remarked the chief of police, as we were returning to the bureau at the side of the house.
“I hardly think that, Excellency,” interrupted a Cossack sergeant, who had just returned from the post-station, where he had been making inquiries. “We have just arrested a yamshick, who arrived with the assassin an hour after midnight. Here he is.”
A moment later a big, red-faced, shaggy, vodka-drinking driver in ragged furs was brought into the bureau between two Cossacks, and at once interrogated by the chief of police.
First he was taken out to view the body still lying in the snow; then brought back into the police office, a bare, wooden room, lit by a single petroleum lamp, and bearing on its walls posters of numbers of official regulations, each headed by the big black double eagle.
“Now,” asked the chief of police, assuming an air of great severity, “where do you come from?”
“Krasnoyarsk, Excellency,” answered the man gruffly.
“What do you know of the individual you have just seen dead – eh?”
“All I know of him, Excellency, is that he contracted with me to drive him to Yakutsk.”
“Why? Was he quite alone?”
“Yes, Excellency. He made me hurry, driving night and day sometimes, for he was overtaking a friend.”
“What friend?”
“Ah! I do not know. Only at each stancia, or povarnia, he inquired if an Englishman had passed. Therefore I concluded that it was an Englishman he was following.”
Petrakoff, hearing the man’s words, looked meaningly towards me.
“He was alone, you say?” I inquired. “Had he any friends in Krasnoyarsk, do you know?”
“None that I know of. He had journeyed all the way from Petersburg, and he paid me well, because he was travelling so rapidly. We heard of the Englishman at a number of stancias, and have gradually overtaken him, until we found, on arrival here, that the friend he sought had only come in an hour before us. I heard the post-house keeper tell him so.”
“Then he was following this mysterious Englishman – eh?” asked the chief of police, who had seated himself at his table with some officiousness before commencing the inquiry.
“No doubt he was, Excellency. One day he told me that if he did not overtake the Englishman on his way to Yakutsk, he would remain and wait for his return.”
Then I took a couple of steps forward to the official’s table and said:
“I fear that I must be the Englishman whom this mysterious person has followed in such hot haste for nearly six thousand miles.”
“So it seems. But why?” asked the chief of police. “I can see no reason why that escaped criminal should follow you with such sinister intent. You don’t know him?”
“Not in the least. I have never even heard his name before.”
“He was well supplied with money, it seems,” remarked my host. “This wallet found upon him contains over ten thousand roubles in notes, together with a credit upon the branch of the National Bank in Yakutsk for a further thirty thousand.” And he showed me a well-worn leather pocket-book, evidently of German manufacture.
Both Petrakoff and myself knew only too well that this daring criminal had been released from that cold citadel in the Nevi and given money, promised a free pardon in all probability, if he followed me and at all hazards prevented me from obtaining an interview with the poor, innocent, suffering woman whose dastardly enemy had marked her “dangerous.”
I was about to tell the while scandalous truth, but on second thought I saw that no good could be served. Therefore I held my tongue, and allowed the officials – for the starosti of the village had now arrived – regard the affair as a complete mystery.
I had narrowly escaped death, the doctor had declared, and my friend, the chief of police of Olekminsk, kept the unfortunate yamshick under arrest while he reported the extraordinary affair to Yakutsk. He also confiscated the money found upon the man who had made that daring attack upon me.
I could see he was secretly delighted that the criminal had been killed. What, I wondered, would have happened to him if I, a guest of His Imperial Majesty, had lost my life beneath his roof?
The same thought apparently crossed his mind, for in those white winter days I was compelled to remain his guest, being unfit for travel on account of my wound, he many times referred to the narrow escape I had had.
Petrakoff, on his part, related to us some astounding stories of the man, who hid been known to the coining and note-forging fraternity as Müller, alias Passhin, the man who had at least three murders to his record.
And this man was Markoff’s hireling! What, I wondered, was the actual price placed upon my head?
For a whole week – seven weary days – I was compelled to remain there in Olekminsk. I wanted to push forward, but the exiled doctor would not allow it.
There was a small and wretched colony of political exiles in the village, and I visited them. Fancy a poet and littérateur, one of those rare Russian souls whose wonder-working effusions must ultimately enlighten and enfranchise the people – a Turgenieff – immured for life in that snowy desert. Yet in Olekminsk there was such a one. He lived in a wretched one-roomed, log-built cabin within a stone’s-throw of the house wherein I so nearly lost my life – a tall, alert, deep-eyed man, whom even the savagery of his surroundings could not dispirit or cool the ardour of his wonderful genius. From his prolific pen flowed a ceaseless stream of learning and of light; he wrote and wrote, and in this writing forgot his wrongs and sorrows. The authorities – the local officials who wield such autocratic authority in those parts – were overjoyed to see him in this mood. They fostered his rich whim, they encouraged him to write his books, the manuscripts of which they seized and sold in Petersburg and Berlin, Paris and London.
Yet he lived in a smoky, wooden hovel, banked up by snow, and wrote his books upon a rough wooden bench, which was polished at the spot over which his forearm travelled with his pen.
No exile, I found, was allowed to carry on any business, teach in a school, till the soil, labour at a trade, practise a profession, or engage in any work otherwise than through a master. If I wanted any service, an exile would sometimes come and offer to perform it, but I would have to pay his master, upon whose bounty he must depend for remuneration.
The doctor, named Kasharofski who bandaged me was not a revolutionist, or at all intemperate in his political view’s. He was one of the thousands of Markoff’s victims sacrificed in order that the Chief of Secret Police should remain in favour with the Emperor. Therefore he was not in favour with many of his fellow-exiles, who held pronounced revolutionary views. He was on pleasant visiting terms with the chief of police, and I often went to his wretched, carpetless hut, around which were sleeping bunks, and spent many an hour with him listening to the cruel, inhuman wrong from which he had suffered at the hands of that marvellously alert organisation, the Secret Police.
One grey, snowy afternoon, while I sat with him in his bare wooden hut, one room with benches around for beds, and he smoked a cigar I had given him, he burst forth angrily against the exile system, declaring: “The whole government is a monstrous mistake. Russia has been striding in vain to populate Siberia for a thousand years, but she will never succeed so long as she continues in her present policy of converting the land into a vast penitentiary wherein the prisoners are prevented from making an honest livelihood, and so driven, if criminals, to a further commission of crime. Beyond doubt there are rogues of the very worst type in Russia and Siberia, but certainly it is plain that their mode of punishment will never tend to elevate or reform them; further, it is utterly impossible that Siberia, under its present system of government, should ever be populated or improved, as have been the penal colonies of the French and English.”
His words were, alas! too true. What I had seen of Siberia and its exile system – those terrible prisons where men and women were herded together and infected with typhoid and smallpox; those wretched hovels of the political settlement, and those chained gangs of despairing prisoners on the roads – had indeed filled me with horror. The condition of those exiles, both socially and morally, was utterly appalling.
The day after my conversation with Doctor Kasharofski, after a week of irritating delay, in which every moment I feared that I was losing valuable time, I set forth again upon my last stage, the journey of four hundred miles of snow-covered tundra and forests of cheerless silver birch to Yakutsk.
Did Madame de Rosen still live, or had Markoff taken good care that, even though I escaped the assassin’s knife, I should never meet her again in the flesh?
Ay, that was the one important question. And my heart beat quickly as, bidding farewell to my hospitable friend, the chief of police, our three shaggy horses plunged jingling away into the snow.
Chapter Twenty Four.
The Journey’s End
The farther north we pushed, the worse became the roads, and snow fell daily. Only by following the line of telegraph and the verst-posts could we find the road, which sometimes ran along the Lena valley, and at others crossed high hills or penetrated deep, gloomy forests of dwarfed leafless trees.
After three days we approached a high mountain range, where absolute silence reigned and the snowfall was constant and heavy. The trees were so overburdened with the white weight softly and quietly heaped upon them, that many had broken down completely and obstructed the wild road through the forest. Vasilli had furnished us with hatchets for this purpose, and we were often compelled to stop and hack and drag the fallen trees from our path.
When at last we had gained the top of the mountain pass, we at once felt a complete change in the atmosphere. Whereas to the south everything was as calm as the quiet of death, in front of us a gale was already blowing, and instead of trees bowed down and breaking with their burden of snow, to the northward of the mountain range not a single flake appeared on the shrubbery or woodland.
We had passed from the world of silence to the wild, bleak regions of the Arctic blizzard. All that day we toiled through deep snow, the mountain road rugged beyond description and the tearing wind icy and howling. It blew as though it would never calm. And the distance between the two lonely post-houses was one hundred and twenty-four English miles. Not a vestige of a habitation between. All was a great lone land.
The frost was intense, and icicles hung from Vasilli’s beard and from our own moustaches – a black deadly cold, rendered the more biting by the wind straight from the Polar ice-pack.
I looked up upon that awful snow-covered road and shuddered. Luba and her mother had actually traversed it on foot. Because they had been marked as “dangerous” the Cossack captain had exposed them to that terrible suffering, hoping that they would thereby die before reaching Yakutsk – in which case he would, no doubt, receive a word of commendation from the Governor.
We were now fast approaching the dreaded Arctic penal settlements, of which the town of Yakutsk was the centre, distant over four thousand miles from the Russian frontier, every inch of which we had traversed by road.
Hour by hour, day by day, onward we went, with those irritating bells ever jingling in our ears. Petrakoff slept, his head sunk wearily upon his breast, but my mind was much too agitated for sleep. I had, by good fortune, escaped the assassin who had followed me hot-foot across Asia, and now I must soon overtake the unfortunate woman from whose lips I would seek permission for Her Highness to speak.
Pakrovskoe, a mere handful of huts, came in sight one day just as the grey light faded. It was the last village before our goal – Yakutsk. We changed horses and ate some dried fish and rye bread, washed down by a cup of weak tea. Then, after half an hour’s rest, again we went forward into the grey gloom of the snow, where on our left at the edge of the plain showed the pale yellow streak of the winter afterglow.
Through that long, interminable night we toiled on and ever on in deep snowdrifts. Vasilli ever and anon uttering curses in his beard, for the horses we had obtained at Pakrovskoe were terrible screws.
At length, however, just as the first grey of dawn appeared on the horizon our driver pointed with his whip, crying excitedly:
“Yakutsk! Excellency! Yakutsk! God be thanked for a safe journey!”
At first I could see nothing, but presently, straining my eyes straight before me, I discerned at the far edge of the snow-covered plain several low towers with bulgy spires, and a long line of house roofs silhouetted against the faint horizon.
Petrakoff gazed forth sleepily, and then with a low, half-conscious grunt lapsed again into inert slumber.
But no longer could I close my eyes. I drew my furs more closely round me, and sat with eyes fixed upon my longed-for goal.
Would success crown my efforts, or had, alas! poor Marya de Rosen succumbed to the brutal treatment meted out to her by the Cossack captain.
After three eager, breathless hours, which seemed weeks to me, we at last drove into the long wide thoroughfare which is the principal street of that northerly town – a road lined by small, square wooden houses, with sloping roofs, each surrounded by its little stockade. The town seemed practically deserted, a dreary, dismal, silent place, of which half the inhabitants were exiles or the free children of exiles. The remainder were, as I afterwards discovered, free Russians – merchants who had emigrated there for the advantage of trade, together with a host of Government officials – Cossack, civil, police, revenue, church, etc.
Without much difficulty we found the Guestnitsa Hotel, a wretched place, verminous and dirty, like every other hotel in all Siberia was before the enlightening days of the great railroad. Here I established myself, and sent Petrakoff with a note to the Governor-General, asking for audience without delay.
Scarcely had I washed, shaved and made myself a trifle presentable – though I fear my unshorn hair presented a somewhat shaggy appearance – when the agent of police returned with a note from His Excellency General Vorontzoff, Governor-General of the province, expressing his regret that owing to being compelled to make a military inspection during that day he was unable to receive me until five o’clock in the evening.
Thus was I compelled to await His Excellency’s pleasure.
The fame of Alexander Vorontzoff was well-known in Petersburg. He was a hard, hide-bound bureaucrat, without a spark of pity or of human feeling. And for that reason the camarilla surrounding His Majesty the Emperor had managed to obtain his appointment as Governor-General of Yakutsk. He was the catspaw of that half-dozen astute Ministers who terrorised the Emperor and his Court, and by so doing feathered their own nests. “Politicals” committed by Markoff to his tender mercies were shown little consideration, for was not his appointment as Governor-General mainly on account of his brutal treatment of offenders during his term of office at Tomsk?
Hartwig, had, more than once, mentioned this man as the most cruel, inhuman official in all Siberia. Therefore, being forewarned, I was ready to meet him on his own ground.
Many a man, and many a delicate woman, transported there from Russia, although quite as innocent of revolutionary ideas as my friend Madame de Rosen, had lived but a few short days on their arrival at the prison at Yakutsk, horrible tales of which had even filtered through back to Petersburg and Moscow.
One fact well-known was that, two years before, when smallpox had broken out at the prison, this brutal official caused a whole batch of prisoners to be placed in a room where a dozen other prisoners were lying in the last stages of that fatal disease, with the result that over two hundred exiles became infected, and of them one hundred and eighty died without receiving the least medical attention.
Such an action stood to his credit in the bureau of the Ministry of the Interior at Petersburg! He had saved the Empire the keep of a hundred and eighty prisoners – mostly the victims of Markoff and the camarilla!
When at five o’clock I was ushered into a big, gloomy room, lit by a hundred candles in brass sconces, a vulgar, thick-set man in tight-fitting, dark green uniform, his breast glittering with decorations, rose to greet me in a thick, deep voice. I judged him to be nearly sixty, with grey, steely eyes, a bloated face, short-cropped grey beard, and very square shoulders.
He apologised for his absence during the day, and after handing me a cigarette invited me to a chair covered with red plush, himself taking one opposite to me.
“I have been already notified of your coming,” he said, speaking through his beard. “They sent me word from Petersburg that you were travelling to Yakutsk. I am very delighted to receive you as guest of my Imperial Master. In what way can I be of service to you?”
I treated him with considerable hauteur, as became one bearing the order of the Tzar.
From my pocket I produced the Imperial instructions to all Governors of the Asiatic provinces to do my bidding. As soon as he saw it his manner changed and he became most humble and submissive.
“I must again apologise for not receiving you – for not calling upon you instantly on your arrival, Mr Trewinnard. But, truth to tell, I had for the moment forgotten that you were the guest of His Imperial Majesty. I had quite overlooked the telegram sent to me months ago,” he said; and then he read the other permits I produced. “I hope you have had a safe journey, and not too uncomfortable,” he went on. “I travelled once from Moscow in winter, and I must confess I, although a Russian, found it uncommonly cold.”
I gave him to understand that I had not travelled over six thousand miles merely to talk of climatic conditions.
But he strode with swagger across the big, well-furnished room, his gay decorations glittering in the candle-light. The treble windows were closed with thick, dark green curtains pulled across them. The armchairs and sofa were leather-covered, and at the farther end of the room was a big, littered writing-table set near the high stove of glazed brick.
He was a bachelor, with the reputation of being a hard drinker and a confirmed gambler. And under the iron hand of this unsympathetic and brutal official ten thousand political exiles, scattered all over the Arctic province, led an existence to which, in many cases, death would have been far preferable.
Upon the dark green walls of that sombre room – a room in which many a wretched “political” had pleaded in vain – was a single picture, a portrait of the Emperor, one of those printed by the thousand and distributed to every Government office throughout the great Empire. His Excellency General Vorontzoff, as representative of the Emperor, lived in considerable state with a large military staff, and Cossack sentries posted at all the doors. He was as unapproachable as the Tzar himself, probably knowing how hated he was among those unfortunates over whom he held the power of life and death. For the ordinary man to obtain audience of him was wellnigh impossible.
The explicit order in His Majesty’s own handwriting altered things considerably in my case, and I saw that he was greatly puzzled as to who I really could be, and why his Master had been so solicitous regarding my welfare.
“I have travelled from Petersburg, Your Excellency, in order to have private interviews with two political prisoners who have recently arrived here,” I explained at last.
He frowned slightly at mention of the word “political.”
“I understand,” he said. “They are friends of yours – eh?”
“Yes,” I replied. “And I wish to have interviews with the ladies with as little delay as possible.”
“Ladies – eh?” he asked, raising his grey eyebrows. “Who are they?”
“Their name is de Rosen,” I said, “but their exile numbers are 14956 and 14957.”
He bent to his writing-table, near which he was at that moment standing, and scribbled down the numbers. “They arrived recently, you say?”
“Yes. And I may tell you in confidence that a grave injustice has been done in exiling them. His Majesty is about to institute full and searching inquiries into the circumstances.”
His bloated face fell. He grew a trifle paler, and regarded me with some concern.
“I suppose they arrived with the last convoy?” he said reflectively. “We will quickly see.”
And he rang a bell, in answer to which a smart young Cossack officer appeared, saluting.
To him he handed the slip of paper with the numbers, saying in that hard, imperious voice of his:
“Report at once to me the whereabouts of these two prisoners. They arrived recently, and I am awaiting information.”
The officer again saluted and withdrew. Scarcely had he closed the door when another officer, wearing his heavy greatcoat flecked with snow, entered and, saluting, handed the Governor a paper, saying:
“The prisoners for Kolimsk are ready to start, Excellency.”
“How many?”
“Two hundred and seven – one hundred and twenty-six men, and eighty-one women. Your Excellency.”
Sredne Kolimsk! That was the most northerly and most dreaded settlement in all the Arctic, still distant nearly one thousand miles – the living tomb of so many of Markoff’s victims.
“Are they outside?” asked the Governor. To which the officer in charge replied in the affirmative.
“May I see them?” I asked. Whereupon my request was readily granted.
But before we went outside General Vorontzoff took the list from the Captain’s hand and scrawled his signature – the signature which sent two hundred and seven men and women to the coldest region in the world – that frozen bourne whence none ever returned.
Outside in the dark snowy night the wretched gang, in rough, grey, snow-covered clothes, were assembled, a dismal gathering of the most hopeless and dejected wretches in the world, all of them educated, and the majority being members of the professional classes. Yet all had, by that single stroke of the Governor’s pen, been consigned to a terrible fate, existence in the filthy yaurtas or huts of the half-civilised Yakuts – an unwashed race who live in the same stable as their cows, and whose habits are incredibly disgusting.
That huddled, shivering crowd had already trudged over four thousand miles on foot and survived, though how many had died on the way would never be told. They stood there like driven cattle, inert, silent and broken. Hardly a word was spoken, save by the mounted Cossack guards, who smoked or joked, several of them having been drinking vodka freely before leaving.
The Governor, standing at my side, glanced around them, mere shadows on the snow. Then he exclaimed with a low laugh, as though amused:
“Even this fate is too good for such vermin! Let’s go inside.”
I followed him in without a word. My heart bled for those poor unfortunate creatures, who at that moment, at a loud word of command from the Cossack captain, moved away into the bleak and stormy night.
In the cosy warmth of his own room General Vorontzoff threw himself into a deep armchair and declared that I must leave the “Guestnitsa” and become his guest, an invitation which I had no inclination to accept. He offered me champagne, which I was compelled out of courtesy to drink, and we sat smoking until presently the young Cossack officer reappeared, bearing a bundle of official papers.
“Well, where are they?” inquired the Governor quickly. “How slow you are!” he added emphatically.
“The two prisoners in question are still here in Yakutsk,” was the officer’s reply. “They have not yet been sent on to Parotovsk.”
“Then I must go to them at once,” I cried in eagerness, starting up quickly from my chair. “I must speak with them without delay. I demand to do so – in the Tzar’s name.”
The officer bent and whispered some low words into His Excellency’s ear; whereupon the Governor, turning to me with a strange expression upon his coarse countenance, said in a quiet voice:
“I much regret, Mr Trewinnard, but I fear that is impossible – quite impossible!”
