Michael was walking at a rapid pace towards Kolyvan when distant firing struck his ear. He stopped, and clearly distinguished the dull roar of artillery, and above it a crisp rattle which could not be mistaken.
“It is cannon and musketry!” said he. “The little Russian body is engaged with the Tartar army! Pray Heaven that I may arrive at Kolyvan before them!”
Michael was not mistaken. The firing became gradually louder, and soon to the left of Kolyvan a mist collected on the horizon—not smoke, but those great white clouds produced by discharges of artillery.
The Usbeck horsemen had stopped on the left of the Obi, to await the result of the battle.
On this side Michael had nothing to fear as he hastened towards the town.
In the mean while the firing increased, and became sensibly nearer. It was no longer a confused roar, but distinct reports. At the same time the smoke partially cleared, and it became evident that the combatants were rapidly moving southwards. It appeared that Kolyvan was to be attacked on the north side. But would the Russians defend it against the Tartar troops, and would they endeavour to retake it from the soldiers of Feofar-Khan? It being impossible to decide this point, Michael became greatly perplexed.
He was not more than half a verst from Kolyvan when he observed flames shooting up among the houses of the town, and the steeple of a church fell in the midst of clouds of smoke and fire.
Was the struggle, then, in Kolyvan? Michael was compelled to think so. It was evident that Russians and Tartars were fighting in the streets of the town. Was this a time to seek refuge there? Would he not run a risk of being taken prisoner? Should he succeed in escaping from Kolyvan, as he had escaped from Omsk? All these contingencies presented themselves to his mind. He hesitated and stopped a moment. Would it not be better to try, even on foot, to reach some small town, such as Diachinks or another, and there procure a horse at any price? This was the only thing to be done; and Michael, leaving the banks of the Obi, went forward to the right of Kolyvan.
The firing had now increased in violence. Flames soon sprang up on the left of the town. Fire was devouring one entire quarter of Kolyvan.
Michael was running on across the steppe endeavouring to gain the covert of some trees when a detachment of Tartar cavalry appeared on the right.
He dared not continue in that direction. The horsemen advanced rapidly towards the town, and it would have been difficult to escape them.
Suddenly, in a thick clump of trees, he saw an isolated house, which it would be possible to reach before he was perceived.
Michael had no choice but to run there, hide himself and ask or take something to recruit his strength, for he was exhausted with hunger and fatigue.
He accordingly ran on towards this house, still about half a verst distant. As he approached, he could see that it was a telegraph office. Two wires left it in westerly and easterly directions, and a third went towards Kolyvan.
It was to be supposed that under the circumstances this station was abandoned; but even if it was, Michael could take refuge there, and wait till nightfall, if necessary, to again set out across the steppe covered with Tartar scouts.
Michael ran up to the door and pushed it open.
A single person was in the room whence the telegraphic messages were despatched.
This was a clerk, calm, phlegmatic, indifferent to all that was passing outside. Faithful to his post, he waited behind his little wicket until the public claimed his services.
Michael ran up to him, and in a voice broken by fatigue, “What do you know?” he asked.
“Nothing,” answered the clerk, smiling.
“Are the Russians and Tartars engaged?”
“They say so.”
“But who are the victors?”
“I don’t know.”
Such calmness, such indifference, in the midst of these terrible events, was scarcely credible.
“And is not the wire cut?” said Michael
“It is cut between Kolyvan and Krasnoiarsk, but it is still working between Kolyvan and the Russian frontier.”
“For the government?”
“For the government, when it thinks proper. For the public, when they pay. Ten copecks a word, whenever you like, sir!”
Michael was about to reply to this strange clerk that he had no message to send, that he only implored a little bread and water, when the door of the house was again thrown open.
Thinking that it was invaded by Tartars, Michael made ready to leap out of the window, when two men only entered the room who had nothing of the Tartar soldier about them.
One of them held a despatch, written in pencil, in his hand, and, passing the other, he hurried up to the wicket of the imperturbable clerk.
In these two men Michael recognized with astonishment, which every one will understand, two personages of whom he was not thinking at all, and whom he had never expected to see again.
They were the two reporters, Harry Blount and Alcide Jolivet, no longer travelling companions, but rivals, enemies, now that they were working on the field of battle.
They had left Ichim only a few hours after the departure of Michael Strogoff, and they had arrived at Kolyvan before him, by following the same road, in consequence of his losing three days on the banks of the Irtych.
And now, after being both present at the engagement between the Russians and Tartars before the town, they had left just as the struggle broke out in the streets, and ran to the telegraph-office, so as to send off their rival despatches to Europe, and forestall each other in their report of events.
Michael stood aside in the shadow, and without being seen himself he could see and hear all that was going on. He would now hear interesting news, and would find out whether or not he could enter Kolyvan.
Blount, having distanced his companion, took possession of the wicket, whilst Alcide Jolivet, contrary to his usual habit, stamped with impatience.
“Ten copecks a word,” said the clerk, as he took the despatch.
Blount deposited a pile of roubles on the shelf, whilst his rival looked on with a sort of stupefaction.
“Good,” said the clerk.
And with the greatest coolness in the world he began to telegraph the following despatch:
“Daily Telegraph, London.
“From Kolyvan, Government of Omsk, Siberia, 6th August
“Engagement between Russian and Tartar troops.”
The reading was in a distinct voice, so that Michael heard all that the English correspondent was sending to his paper.
“Russian troops repulsed with great loss. Tartars entered Kolyvan to-day.”
These words ended the despatch.
“My turn now,” cried Alcide Jolivet, anxious to send off his despatch, addressed to his cousin in the Faubourg Montmartre.
But that was not Blount’s idea, who did not intend to give up the wicket, but have it in his power to send off the news just as the events occurred. He would therefore not make way for his companion.
“But you have finished!” exclaimed Jolivet
“I have not finished,” returned Harry Blount, quietly.
And he proceeded to write some sentences, which he handed in to the clerk, who read out in his calm voice—
“John Gilpin was a citizen
Of credit and renown;
A train-band captain eke was he
Of famous London town.”
Harry Blount was telegraphing some verses learned in his childhood, in order to employ the time, and not give up his place to his rival. It would perhaps cost his paper some thousands of roubles, but it would be the first informed. France could wait.
Jolivet’s fury may be imagined, though under any other circumstances he would have thought it fair warfare. He even endeavoured to force the clerk to take his despatch in preference to that of his rival.
“It is that gentleman’s right,” answered the clerk coolly, pointing to Blount, and smiling in the most amiable manner.
And h
e continued faithfully to transmit to the Daily Telegraph the well-known verses of the poet Cowper.
Whilst he was working Blount walked to the window and, his field-glass to his eyes, watched all that was going on in the neighbourhood of Kolyvan, so as to complete his information.
In a few minutes he resumed his place at the wicket, and added to his telegram—
“Two churches are in flames. The fire appears to gain on the right
“John Gilpin’s spouse said to he! dear,
“Though wedded we have been
These twice ten tedious years, yet we
No holiday have seen.”’”
Alcide Jolivet would have liked just to strangle the honourable correspondent of the Daily Telegraph.
He again interrupted the clerk, who, quite unmoved, merely replied—
“It is his right, sir, it is his right—at ten copecks a word.”
And he telegraphed the following news, just brought him by Blount—
“Russian fugitives are escaping from the town.
“Away went Gilpin—who but he?
His fame soon spread around:
“He carries weight! he rides a race!
’Tis for a thousand pound!”’”
And Blount turned round with a quizzical look it his rival.
Alcide Jolivet fumed.
In the mean while Harry Blount had returned to the window, but this time, his attention being no doubt diverted by the interest of the scene before him, he prolonged his absence too long. Therefore, when the clerk had finished telegraphing the last lines dictated by Blount, Alcide Jolivet noiselessly took his place at the wicket, and, just as his rival had done, after quietly depositing a respectable pile of roubles on the shelf, he delivered his despatch, which the clerk read aloud—
“Madeleine Jolivet, 10, Faubourg Montmartre, Paris.
“From Kolyvan, Government of Omsk, Siberia, 6th August
“Fugitives are escaping from the town. Russians defeated. Fiercely pursued by the Tartar cavalry.”
And as Harry Blount returned he heard Jolivet completing his telegram by singing in a mocking tone—
“Il est un petit homme,
Tout habillé de gris,
Dans Paris!”
Imitating his rival, Alcide Jolivet had used a merry refrain of Béranger.
“Hallo!” said Harry Blount
“Just so,” answered Jolivet.
In the mean time the situation of Kolyvan was alarming in the extreme. The battle was raging nearer, and the firing was incessant.
At that moment the telegraph-house shook to its foundations.
A shell had made a hole in the wall, and a cloud of dust filled the office.
Alcide was just finishing writing these lines—
“Joufflu comme une pomme,
Qui, sans un sou comptant——”
But to stop, dart on the shell, seize it in both hands, throw it out of the window, and return to the wicket, was only the affair of a moment.
Five seconds later the shell burst outside.
But continuing to draw up his telegram with the greatest possible coolness, Alcide wrote—
“A six-inch shell has just blown up the wall of the telegraph-office. Expecting a few more of the same size.”
Michael Strogoff had no doubt that the Russians were driven out of Kolyvan. His last resource was to set out across the southern steppe.
Just then renewed firing broke out close to the telegraph-house, and a perfect shower of bullets smashed all the glass in the windows.
Harry Blount fell to the ground wounded in the shoulder.
Jolivet, even at such a moment, was about to add this postscript to his despatch—
“Harry Blount, correspondent of the Daily Telegraph, has fallen at my side struck by a shot from a volley of——” when the imperturbable clerk said calmly—
“Sir, the wire has broker.”
And, leaving his wicket, he quietly took his hat, brushed it round with his sleeve, and, still smiling, disappeared through a little door which Michael had not before perceived.
The house was surrounded by Tartar soldiers, and neither Michael nor the reporters could effect their retreat.
Alcide Jolivet, his useless despatch in his hand, had run to Blount, stretched on the ground, and had bravely lifted him on his shoulders, with the intention of flying with him. He was too late!
Both were prisoners; and, at the same time, Michael, taken unawares as he was about to leap from the window, fell into the hands of the Tartars!
PART II.
CHAPTER I.
A TARTAR CAMP.
AT a day’s march from Kolyvan, several versts beyond the town of Diachinks, stretches a wide plain, planted here and there with great trees, principally pines and cedars.
This part of the steppe is usually occupied during the warm season by Siberian shepherds, who there feed their numerous flocks. But now it might have been searched in vain for one of its nomad inhabitants. Not that the plain was deserted. On the contrary, it presented a most animated appearance.
There stood the Tartar tents; there Feofar-Khan, the terrible Emir of Bokhara, was encamped; and there on the following day, the 7th of August, were brought the prisoners taken at Kolyvan after the annihilation of the Russian force, which had vainly attempted to oppose the progress of the invaders. Of the two thousand men who had engaged with the two columns of the enemy, the bases of which rested on Tomsk and Omsk, only a few hundred remained. Thus events were going badly, and the imperial government appeared to have lost its power beyond the frontiers of the Ural—for a time at least, for the Russians could not fail eventually to defeat the savage hordes of the invaders. But in the mean time the invasion had reached the centre of Siberia, and it was spreading through the revolted country both to the eastern and the western provinces. If the troops of the Amoor and the province of Takutsk did not arrive in time to occupy it, this capital of Asiatic Russia, being insufficiently garrisoned, would fall into the hands of the Tartars, and before it could be retaken the Grand Duke, brother of the Emperor, would be sacrificed to the vengeance of Ivan Ogareff.
What had become of Michael Strogoff? Had he broken down under the weight of so many trials? Did he consider himself conquered by the series of disasters which, since the adventure of Ichim, had increased in magnitude? Did he think his cause lost? that his mission had failed? that his orders could no longer be obeyed?
Michael was one of those men who never give in while life exists. He was yet alive; he still had the imperial letter safe about him; his disguise had been undiscovered. He was included amongst the numerous prisoners whom the Tartars were dragging with them like cattle; but by approaching Tomsk he was at the same time drawing nearer to Irkutsk. Besides, he was still in front of Ivan Ogareff.
“I will get there!” he repeated to himself.
Since the affair of Kolyvan all the powers of his mind were concentrated on one object—to become free! How should he escape from the Emir’s soldiers? When the time came he would see.
Feofar’s camp presented a magnificent spectacle.
Numberless tents, of skin, felt, or silk, glistened in the rays of the sun. The lofty plumes which surmounted their conical tops waved amidst banners, flags, and pennons of every colour. The richest of these tents belonged to the Seides and Khodjas, who are the principal personages of the khanat. A special pavilion, ornamented with a horse’s tail issuing from a sheaf of red and white sticks artistically interlaced, indicated the high rank of these Tartar chiefs. Then in the distance rose several thousand of the Turcoman tents, called “karaoy,” which had been carried on the backs of camels.
The camp contained at least a hundred and fifty thousand soldiers, as many foot as horse soldiers, collected under the name of Alamanes. Amongst them, and as the principal types of Turkestan, would have been directly remarked the Tadjiks, from their regular features, white skin, tall forms, and black eyes and hair; they formed the bulk of the Tartar army, and of
them the khanats of Khokhand and Koundouge had furnished a contingent nearly equal to that of Bokhara. With the Tadjiks were mingled specimens of different races who either reside in Turkestan or whose native countries border on it. There were Usbecks, red-bearded, small in stature, similar to those who had pursued Michael. Here were Kirghiz, with flat faces like the Kalmucks, dressed in coats of mail: some carried the lance, bows, and arrows of Asiatic manufacture; some the sabre, a matchlock gun, and the “tschakane,” a little short-handled axe, the wounds from which invariably prove fatal. There were Mongols—of middle height, with black hair plaited into pigtails, which hung down their backs; round faces, swarthy complexions, lively deep-set eyes, scanty beards—dressed in blue nankeen trimmed with black plush, sword-belts of leather with silver buckles, boots gaily braided, and silk caps edged with fur and three ribbons fluttering behind. Brown-skinned Afghans too might have been seen. Arabs, having the primitive type of the beautiful Semitic races; and Turcomans, with eyes which looked as if they had lost the pupil,—all enrolled under the Emir’s flag, the flag of incendiaries and devastators.
Among these free soldiers were a certain number of slave soldiers, principally Persians, commanded by officers of the same nation, and they were certainly not the least esteemed of Feofar-Khan’s army.
If to this list are added the Jews, who acted as servants, their robes confined with a cord, and wearing on their heads instead of the turban, which is forbidden them, little caps of dark cloth; if with these groups are mingled some hundreds of “kalenders,” a sort of religious mendicants, clothed in rags, covered by a leopard skin, some idea may be formed of the enormous agglomerations of different tribes included under the general denomination of the Tartar army.
Fifty thousand of these soldiers were mounted, and the horses were not less varied than the men. Among these animals, fastened by tens to two cords fixed parallel to each other, the tail knotted, the croup covered with a net of black silk, might be remarked the Turcomans, with slight legs, long bodies, glossy hair, and noble of look; the Usbecks, which are fine beasts; the Khokhandians, which carry, besides their masters, two tents and a cooking apparatus; the Kirghiz, with glossy coats, from the banks of the river Emba, where they are taken with the “arcane,” the Tartar lasso; and many others of mixed breeds of inferior quality.