Prisoners and Captives

Evening Star, Issue 9830, 19 October 1895, Page 1 (Supplement)

Prisoners and Captives

By Henry Skton Merriman Author of 'Young Mistley,' 'The Phantom Future,' * Suspense').

VOLUME 111

CHAPTER X. A HORRIBLE TASK,

There are lrtauy people who go through life withouL ever knowing what it is to light a gale of wind. Dwellers in cities know indeed that the wild winds blow when they hear the hum of stained wires overhead, when the dust rise? in whirls at every street corner, when the sanitary employes have difficulty in capturing small truant paper bags that refuse to recogise their cart or power, and when it is really inconvenient to wear high hats and light-minded skirts. Those who live at the edge of the sea will never admit that they know little about a gale of wind, when at equiuoetial periods their windows require cieauing every day, when face and hair are sticky with salt rime, and there i 3 a pleasant sharpness of taste on either lip. There gale is a matter of staying indoors, of avoiding the seawall, and carefully closing all windows. The sea ;3 yellow and disturbed ; far away it is of a peculiar light green, like dead pea puds, aud from its bosom there arises a thin white veil of spray, and there is no perspective. Sky aud "water meet in a grey uncertainty a short way beyond the pier-head. Occasionally a dripping coaster, some close-reefed brig mayhap, or a tiny schoouer moves across the near horizon, making better weather of it than one would think.

Sailors of course have the monopoly of wind and weather. They alone are competent to judge whether it be a whole gale or half, or a mere capful of wind. It is thentrade and calling to tussle with the elements. And Boreas is their chiefest enemy ; without the double warmth of oilskius and hope I think there would be very few sailors. This preliminary leads where ino3t thin and watery pathways do, into a gale of wind, and such a gale as few mortals ever have to meet. The tropica are gifced in this way; there have you cyclones, typhoons, tornadoes, araeans, vuthans, white squalls and black squalh, north-easters, monsoons, and the wild changes thereof. Of these most of us must perforce judge from the standpoint of our own paltry breezes, our bises, our siroccos aud thin south-westers, our mistrals and Danubian squalls. All these long-named winds are cruel, but killing is not their mission. There is, however, a breath of heaven of which the sole message is death. It is a >vind with nofiue-souudmg name, for it belongs to the North, where men endure things aud have no thought of naming them. It blows for six months of the year, with here aud there a breathing space wherein to gather fresh impetuosity. It veers from south-south-west to north-west-by-north, and it is born upon the grey ice-fields round the pole. For many hundred miles it raves across the frozen ocean, gathering deathly coldness at every league. On its shoulders it carries tons of suow, and then striking land it rages and tears, howls, moans, and screams across Northern Europe into far-frozen Asia. In passing it clothes all Russia in white and still has plenty to spare for bleak Siberia, Northern China, and Japan. I have crouched and shivered beneath its breath, and the only thought that waa not frozen up was that the prevalence of such a wind must assuredly depopulate any land. As a matter of fact this is alnpst the case, although a few northern races manage to live on in such numbers as to save extermination, and that is all. More than a third of them are partially or wholly blind. Their existence is a constant aud unequal struggle against this same wind .'"id its pitiless auxiliaries—snow and frost. The earth yields no increase here. A little sparse vegetation, sufficient only to nourish miserable reindeer and a few horses ; a scattering of pine trees, anil that is all. Although no sanctifying Spirit can be said to walk upon the waters, the sea alone sustains life, for men, dogs, and reindeer eat fish, not dried but frozen, when they can get it. It was across this country, and in face of tliij wind, that a party of man and womeu made their way in the late summer live years ago. By late summer one means the 'first fortnight- in Ja!y in these high latitude*: These travellers were twenty one in number, sixteen men and five women, One woman tarried a baby—a gaol-bird born in prison—-unbaptised. Lz did not count, not even as half a person, to anyone except its mother. Men and women were dressed alike in good far clothing, baggy trousers tucked into felt boots, long blouselike fur coats, and caps with ear-tlaps tied down. Boots, trousers, coats, ami even caps bore sign 3of damage by water. When .Northern Siberia is not frozen up it is in a state of flood, and travelling, except by water, is almost iinpoasible. These people had come many miles by this comparatively easy method at imminent risk, for they had travelled north on the bo3om of the Hood. Since then they had literally burnt their vessels in order to cut orF pursuit.

The men dragged light sledges, three to a sledge, and four resting. The women carried various more preciou3 burdens, delicate instruments such as compasses and aneroids. Beneath the fur caps throbbed some singular brains, from under the •draggled brims looked out some strange facet There was a doctor among thorn, two army officers, a judge, and others who had not been allowed time to become anything, for they were exiled while studeuts. The whole party pressed forward in silence with tight-locked lips and half-clo3ed eyes, for the "rushing wind carried a fiue blinding snow before it. Only one person spoke at times. It was the woman who carried the baby, and she interlarded her aneonsequent remarks with snatches of song and bursts of peculiar cackling laughter. Suddenly die sat down on a boulder. " I will ait here," she said, " in the warm son." e . The whole party stopped, and one of the women answered:

'•Come, Anna." she said, "we cannot ■wait here." Still speaking she took her arm and urged her to rise. " But," protested she who had been addressed as Anna, "where is the picnic to i»ef , ~ "The picnic, Anua Pavloski,' said a small, squarely -built man, coming forward and spe*kiug' in a wonderfully deep and harmonious tone of voice, "is to be held farther on. You must come at once." "I think," she replied gently, "that I will wait here for my husband. I expect ihim horns from the office. He will bring the newspaper."' They were all grouped round the woman now except one man, and he stood apart with his back turned towards them. He had been dragging the foremost sledge, and vhe broad band of the trace was still across diis shoulders. He had been leading the ■way, and seemed in some subtle manner to he reoognised as chief and pioneer. Again the woman who had first spoken persuaded j again the broad-shouldered man spoke in his commanding gentleness. It was, however, cf no avail. Then after a few moments of painful hesitation, he left the group aud went to where the leader stood alone.

" Pavloeki," he said. " Yes, doetor." He never turned his head, but stood, rigid and stern, looking straight before him, scowling with eyes from which <&e horror would now never fade, into t ! ie ■grey hopelesa distance. No marble statue could reproduce the strong cold despair that breathed in every limb aud feature. " Something," said the doctor, " must be Ao&e. We are behind our time already." "I »uppose it is my duty to stay with vouf Btid Pavloski; "I cannoc leave the party ? I caonot stay behind '!'' The little man made no answer. Hi 3 silence was more eloquent than any words oauld have been. A dramatic painter could sesu/cely have found a. sadder picture than these two friends who dared not to meet «ach other's eyes. And yet, ia » moment, at was readered infinitely sadder by the advent of a tiiird person. Swathed as sh* was in furs, it was difficult to distinguish that this was a woman at all, and yet to a close observer hei- movements, the manner in which she set uor feet upon •the ground, the suggestion of graceful curves •in limb and form, betrayed that she was indeed a young girl. Her face confirmed it —gay blue eyes and a rosebud mouth, ,-ound cheeks delicately tinted despite the

wild wind, and little wisps of golden hair straggling out beneath the ear-flaps, and gleaming against the dusky face. "I,"said this little woman, "will Btay with her. Sergiua, I will try and take her back. We will give ourselves up. It does not matter. Now that Hans is dead I have nothing to live for. I have no husband." Poor little maiden, she had never had a husband ; the fatherly Russian Government had seen to that! But she chose to call Hans Onetcheff her husband. This name Onetcheff had been administratively exiled by mistake, and being delicate had died, at the mines, of prison consumption. The little doctor winced. He was not a Niiiilist at all, and never had been ; but in personal appearance lie had resembled one. There was something horribly real in the words that came from the girl's rosy lips. She shouted them, for the wind was so furious as to render conversation impossible; and in order to make herself heard, she raised her round cherub-like face with a very fascinating childishness of manner. Sergiua Pavloski shook Ins head and moved a step or two towards the group half hidden by a line driving suow. "No," he answered. "We arranged it before leaving London. • There, is only one thing to be done." The doctor and the girl exchanged a look of horror, ami hesitated to follow him. "It was agreed," he continued, mechanically, " that the lives of all were never to be endangered for the sake of one. Tyara 6aid that."

Slowly the two followed him. As they approached the group some of these stepped sdently back, some walked away a few pace 3 aud stood apart with averted faces. "Can you tell me," said the woman, looking up suddenly, and leaving the baby's face aud throat fully exposed to the cruel wind, " whether I can find a lodging near here ?"

She addressed Pavloski, who was standing in front of her. He made no answer, but presently turned away with a convulsive movement of lips aud throat, as if he were swallowing something with an effort. Then he raised his voice, and addressing his companions generally, he said with the assurance of a man placed iu a position to exact obedieuce:

" Will you all go on ? Keep the same direction, north-by-west according to the compass. I shall catch you up before evening." He stood quite still, like a man hewn out of stone—upright, emotionless, and quite determined—awaiting the fulfilment of his eommamk Ail around him his companions waited.. It. almost seemed as if they expected the Almighty to interfere. Even to those who have tasted the bitterest cup that life has ever brewed, this seemed too cruel to be true too horrid ! Aud the wind blew all around them, tearing, ragingon. Some of them staggered a little, but none made a movement to obey the command of their leader ; each seemed to dread setting an example to the others. At last oue man had the courage to do it. It was he who had spoken to Pavloski, the man whom they called doctor. He went towards one of the sledges and proceeded to disentangle the traces thrown carelessly down when a halt had been called. The men stepped silently forward aud drew the cords across their shoulders. The women moved away first, stepping softly on the silent snow, and like phantoms vanishing in the mist and windy turmoil. Tiie men followed, dragging their noiseless sledges. The doctor stayed behind for a moment. When the others were out of earshot he went towards Pavloski aud laid his mittened hand upon his arm. " Sergius," he said with painful hesitation, "let me do it—l am a doctor—it will be easier."

Pavloski turned aud looked at the speaker in a stupid, bewildered way, as if the language used were unknown to him. Then he smiled suddenly in a sickening way ; it was like a cynical smile upon the face of the dead.

"Go! 1 ' he saiJ, pointing to windward, whore their companions had disappeared. "Go with them. Let each one of us do his duty. 11 will he a consolation whatever the end may be." The doctor was bound in honor to obey this man in ull and through all. He obeyed now, and left Sergius Pavloski alone with his mad wile and his helpless babe. As he moved awav lie heard the woman prattling of the sun, and the birds, and the (lowers. Ho turned his face resolutely northwards and pressed forward into the icy wind ; lint a muiilad gurgling shriek broke down his strong resolution. Without stopping, he glaueed back over his shoulder with a gasp of horror. Sergius Pavloski was kneeling with his back to the north ; but he was not kneeling on the snow, for the doctor saw two fur-r:!ad arms waving convulsively, uud between the soles of Pavloski's great snowboots he caught sight of two other feet drawn up in agony. "Goad God," exclaimed the man aloud, " forgive him !"' And with bloodshot eye 3 and haggard lips he stumbled on, not heeding where he set his feet. He fell, and rose again,, scarce knowing what he did. Despite the freezing wind, the perspiration ran down his face, blinding him. It froze, and hung ii\ little icicles on his moustache and heard. "Good God," he mumbled again, "forgive him !' !

And in the agony of his strong mind his brain lo3t all power of concentration. His lips continued to frame those four words over and over and over again, until they became bereft of all meaning, ami lapsed into a mere rhythmic refrain, keeping time with the swing of his sturdy legs. CHAPTER XI. ON THE NEVA. It is a thousand pities that Englishmen, Americans, Russians, Scandinavians, and others of a Northern nationality are so difficult to write about. The manner in which these large men persistently ignore the emotions, and continuously refuse to play to the gallery, as it were, simply forces the astute novelist to seek material elsewhere. And so we have the Anglo-Italiau, the Anglo-French, the Anglo-South American novel. They are so picturesque, these Giovannis, and Pippis, aud Andres. They bubble over so conwith love rhapsodies ; they are so deft with their knives ; and their per bacchos and *«/.•/•« and eamiHi'icw look so well in italics —lending a local color, you know. And then it is so easy to know what they are about because they are so frankly emotional. They weep so often, and usually on the bosom of an aged mother, or beneath the shadow of the " Porto del Popolo," or some other porto that sounds local in its tendency ;

while an honest Euglish young man called John or Andrew never gives one a chance. One cannot make obvious to the gallery the emotions that are passing within his breast because he absolutely refuses to gesticulate, to cast himself about upon the furniture, or to apostrophise the heavens. Aud the greater portion of English-speaking novel readers is, so to speak, the gallery. There is small consolation to be derived from that self complacency born of a conviction that virtue is sometimes unrewarded. The little boy who tells the truth generally has a bad time, while the small follower of Auanias walks in the sunshine of popularity. We do not generally admit this unfortunate fact in mixed circles on account of the

children, but it is there nevertheless. And the children grow up—some of them alas ' grow up into novelists, others into felons. The seed is sown in the one as in the other, and neither seem capable of helpiDg it. It is with the novelists that we have to do. Young Ananias possesses an imagination, aud he proceeds to tell most iniquitous No; I mean he goes on to describe men and women, who not only have never lived, but to whom life would be impossible in this matter-of-fact planet. He draws lurid pictures of adventure in countries which he has only seen casually on the map—he describes deeds of bravery and feats of agility which any common-sense person must recognise at once as quite impossible. Perhaps he has a far-reaching, an unclean mind ; he proceeds to wallow in realistic details which are not only sickening, but totally untrue to nature. Never mind! Ananias gets on famously, comes out in weekly parts in the cheap newspapers, and finishes up in a yellow-back novel on the railway book stalls depicting the murder of one faultlessly dresstjd gentleman by another —an everyday occurrence, of course. Now the unpopular good boy drones away his time in descriptions of events that really happen or have happened. He sets down men and women as he has seen and knowfn

them, he narrates their deede i& juoh 1&»: guage as he commands, and .negleote to conjure up impossibilities forbnclm to perpetrate. He sacrifices dramatic construction on the altar of Truth, and fails to make use of certain well-known devices. He does not, for instance, cause a son to narrate at length to the mother whose akifit he has, never ie|t the flad story of his oiru life in the firsfe volume. He does not make husband and wife exchange terrible confidences after twelve or thirteen years of; married life—i said confidences being of such a nature that unless they had habited different parts of the globe mutual concealment would have been quite impossible. ' No; this blind fictionist make his fiction possible; he tolls the truth, and of course he is unpopular. If Matthew Mark Easton had arrived in St. Petersburg in any other manner it should have been narrated here. If he had come down in the middle of the Admiralty gardens in a Nihilistic balloon in the dead of night the details of his descent should have been set down here. If he had exchanged mysterious meaningless paraphrases with picturesque conspirators those observations should have been faithfully given here—in italics. But he did none of these things. He merely arrived by train from Libau, and took a droschky to the Hotel de France for which he paid seventy kopecks. His passport was in perfeot order, although smeared most lamentably by the clerk of the Russian consulate who vistd it in London. This small American was an experienced and clever traveller, a3 most of his countrymen ate, and was as much at home in St. Petersburg as he might have been in Boston or London. Moreover, he had been in St. Petersburg and in the Hotel de France before. His nationality was also in those days fraught with a certain weight of favorable prejudice, for that was three years ago, before the Siberian question had attracted transatlantic attention. Matthew Mark Easton therefore made himself quite at home in the Hotel de France, and dined very comfortably at the table d'httc, of which small eccentricities failed to surprise him. He lighted his interprandial cigarette at the candle placed between each two guests for the purpose, and fell very naturally into Slavonic habits; bub it is perhaps worth noticing that he somewhat carefully concealed his knowledge of the Russian language. This alone was proof of his intimacy with the internal economy of the White Empire; for old travellers there know that it is better to reserve one's Russian for a necessity, even if he have no other purpose than enjoyment in his wanderings. After dinner he retired to his room, not however without being forced to ward olf several singularly leading questions put to him by a bland landlord. These questions were obviously of one and the same purpose namely, to discover the reason of Eastou's presence in Russia. Had he been there before ''. Did he admire the town? Was not the Newski Prospect uurivalled? Where was he going after he quitted the Northern capital? To all of these Matthew Mark Easton replied vaguely and almost densely, with a singularly strong American accent. He was not surprised to be awakened the next morning by the wildest carillon that ever pealed from cathedral spire, for he had heard the remarkable performance of St. Michael's bells before. After breakfast he wandered forth, guidebook in hand, having refused the services of a polyglot individual who professed to be the brother-in-law of the hall porter. The landlord himself directed Easton to the Newski Prospect, which however was not considered interesting until the afternoon. Nevertheless he went that way, and finally found himself on the English quay. He crossed the Neva, still in the same tourist's gait, and lost himself among the smaller commercial streets of the Vasili Ostroff. Presently by the merest accident he found himself opposite a small warehouse bearing the name "L. Ogroft'" in painted letters above the blind windows of what had once been a shop. He pushed open the curtained floor, and addressing himself to a pleasantlooking giri who was seated at a counter adding up the columns of a ledger, he mentioned the name " Loria Ogroff." " Yes,'' answered the girl in perfect English, "he is in. Who are you ?" '•Matthew Mark Eiaton."' "Ah ! Come in." She pointed to a little swing-door in the counter, and did not oiler to open it as a born and bred servitor would have done. Then she led the way into an inner room which Avas lined with shelves containing long wooden boxes like miniature coffins. There were upon the table some rolls of common cloth. "Mr Ogroff is apparently a tailor," hazarded Easton in a conversational way, seeing that the girl was pretty and pleasantlooking. "Yes," she answered, with a short laugh; "a very cheap one." She had not relinquished her hold of the door handle, and stood in a graceful attitude looking at him with clear blue eyes in which a great interest and a slight amusement were provokingly mingled. She evidently knew all about him, and her attitude physical and mental was notably devoid of that shyness or embarrassment which is considered correct and polite between young persons of opposite sexes who meet without introduction.

" He is upstairs in the cutting-out room," she continued, with a twinkle in her childish eves. "I shall tell him." "Easton stood looking at the curtained door after she had closed it. Then he picked up a piece of rough cloth and examined its texture critically. " I am half inclined," he reflected aloud, "to become a Nihilist. There are alleviations even in the lot of a tailor's assistant of the establishment Ogroff." In a few moments the door opened again, and a stout man entered with a bow. He shook hands without speaking, and pointed

to a chair. Round his thick neck he wore a yellow tape measure with the two ends hanging down in front. Before speaking he took up some rolls of cloth that stood iu the cox-ner, and unfolding a portion of each he ranged them upon the table in front? of Eastou. We last saw this man in Easton's rooms in London. His name was not mentioned then because there was not much in a name for him. It was not Ogroff then. He was not minutely described, because a written dflscription is not always of great value. For iastance, he was in London a dark' grizzled man with a beard—in this shop in the Vasili Ostroff, St. Petersburg, he was a fair, hairless man. " Well ?" he said asthmatically at length. "Not a word !" replied Easton;

I "and you?'' j The man shrugged his heavy shoulders. " Not a word. I have written to you all (that 1 heard. I wrote on the fifth of May; ■' have you destroyed the letter ?"' I " Yes—burnt it." j " Well!" ejaculated the Russian, misusing the word. "I heard," he continued—- ■ "never mind how—that they all got away, in good health, at the proper time—that is, i in the early summer of the year before last. 1 They were followed, but they destroyed all ! the horses and boats as they went, and the pursuit was necessarily given up." "Since that," inquired Easton, "not a word ?" j " Not a word." '' There has been no semi-official account ' of the matter in the newspapers ?" j "No; it has been hushed up. The official ' report is (as far as I can learn) that certain i exiles and prisoners escaped ; that they were ! pursued by Cossacks, and that the chase was only given up when their death by starvation was a moral certainty." i "And," said Easton, "are they struck ; out of the list ?" j " Yes; they are struck out." | The fat man spoke in a gasping way, and • his breathing was attended by a peculiar hollow sound. It was noticeable that he : never paused to think before replying to any question, and never referred to note book or written memorandum. All his information was on the surface ready for use, and all his memoranda were mental. Qne cannot search in a man's mind for incriminating evidence. He who at present passed under the name of Loris Ogroff was known among his colleagues as an eminently "safe" man. " I am going to look for them," announced Easton, after a pause. j The Russian raised his flaxen eyebrows. ' "Ah ! I understood that you were condemned —by the doctors." "No, not condemned ; they merely said : ' If you go it will kill you.'"

" you gO." • ,' A ».•/, '" ? " Someone must,* answered v , £aatk>n with equal coolness. " You; eannop-r-yon ate to®. \ fail" , ' '. - s '-l "No; I do not travel npw as J used, j Besides, I have other work. My hands are J full, us well au.ipy WAistcoat." - , _ "I am going by Tajxa,*' continued fcbe> American. " I leave Petersburg to-ftiorrow morning." > . I Ogron rose from his chair. " You must go now," he said. " You have been here long enough; we are. watched, you know. Here m Petersburg we all watch each other. I will send you a fur-lined travelling cloak to-night to- your hotel—the Hotel de France, I suppose ?" " Yes ; how do you know V "I get a copy of each day's passport returns from a friend of mine in the police." " But," protested Easton, " I do not want a fur cloak."

"Never matter; it will be useful—you can give it away. It is to allay suspicion." "All right; send it." The Russian held out a fat white land.

" Good-bye, you brave American," he said.

" G'bye!'' returned Easton with a laugh,

( To be contmue(i.j