III
On a summer night of 187‒, the steamer Nízhni-Nóvgorod was crossing the waters of the Sea of Japan, trailing behind it, against the blue sky, a long ribbon of black smoke. The steep shore of the Marine Province was visible on the left, through the hazy light of the silvery fog. On the right, the ripples of the Straits of La Pérouse were lost in the distance. The steamer was shaping its course for Saghálin, but the rocky shores of that island were not yet in sight. All on board was quiet and peaceful. On the top of the house might be seen the moonlit figures of the boatswain and the officers on duty, while the flickering lights of the cabins were reflected from the dark surface of the ocean.
The Nízhni-Nóvgorod was “freighted with convicts” for Saghálin. Naval laws are always strict, and on board a ship with such a freight they are still more stringent. During the daytime the convicts, closely guarded, exercised in turn. The rest of the time they remained in their cabin, under deck. There were more convicts than sentries; but, to make amends for this inequality, every step and movement of the gray crowd was controlled by a firm hand, a well disciplined crew strictly guarding against the possibility of a mutiny. Indeed, every chance here was taken into consideration, even the improbable: supposing a wild beast were to make its appearance in the midst of this crowd, and, in its despair, defy all danger; if shots fired through the grating had no effect, and the raging animal threatened to break down its iron cage, even in such a case the captain would still have a powerful remedy at his command.
He would only have to call out to the engineer’s department these words:—
“Have lever so-and-so … opened!”
“Aye, aye, sir!” and, instantly, scalding steam would be poured into the convict’s quarter, as if it were but a hole filled with cockroaches. This unique and powerful remedy prevented every possibility of a general outbreak such as might have been feared from the gray population of the hold. They occupied a large cabin with a low ceiling. In the daytime the light came through small deadlights, standing out in the dark background like two rows of buttons—decreasing, and finally disappearing, on the rounded sides of the steamer’s hull. Along the middle of the hold ran a narrow passage, shaped like a corridor. Iron gratings separated this passageway from the bunks of the convicts. Here, leaning on muskets, the sentries were posted. Lanterns, in a funereal line, shed a dim light through this passage in the evening.
Not a movement of the gray passengers behind these bars escaped the eye. Whether a burning tropical sun stood overhead; or the wind whistled through the bending and creaking rigging; or high waves washed the decks in a raging gale, and the steamer groaned under the lashing of the storm—it was all the same to them—to these hundreds of men, who had no concern with what was going on overhead, or whither their floating prison was steering.
Meanwhile, under the pressure of this strict regime, the gray population behind the iron bars lived its usual life, and on a certain night—when the steamer was leisurely flapping its wheels, and the glow of its fires was reflected from the undulating surface of the deep; when the sentries, leaning on their muskets, dozed in the corridors of the hold, and the lanterns, slightly jarred by the sleepless engine, shed their dim and mournful light along the iron-bound passageway—behind the bars, where the sleeping forms of the convicts rested in motionless rows, there, behind these very bars, a silent tragedy was enacted. The gray society in shackles executed its own culprits. …
The following morning, at the time of the roll-call, three convicts remained in their bunks, unheeding the stern calls of the guards. When the latter went behind the bars and lifted their coverings, it was plainly to be seen that these three would never again answer to the roll-call.
In every convict artel all the most important affairs are controlled by an influential and united group, while to the mass—the gray, impersonal crowd—such events are often quite unexpected. Terrified by the ghastly tragedy of the night, the population of the hold was at first hushed. An awkward silence prevailed. Outside, one could hear nothing but the splashing of the sea, the noise of the murmuring waves cleft by the steamer’s hull and hurrying along in her wake, the panting breath of the engine, and the monotonous strokes of the piston.
Soon, however, the consequences of the event began to be discussed among the convicts. The officers did not intend to overlook this unpleasant episode, or to ascribe these deaths to an accident or illness. The proofs of the murder were evident. An investigation was instituted, but the convicts unanimously denied all knowledge of the affair. Perhaps at some other time it would not have been difficult to find several persons among them who, through fear or bribes, could be induced to disclose all they knew; now, however, apart from the feeling of comradeship, all tongues, were held by fear. No matter how dreaded might be the officials, or how stern their commands, the artel was more dreaded still. Undoubtedly, some must have been awake that night. Certain ears must have heard the stifled sounds of the struggle “under the cover,” the death-rattle, and the panting breath so unlike that of sleeping men; yet no one, by even a syllable, denounced the perpetrators of this terrible crime. The officials were obliged to lay the responsibility upon the acknowledged superintendents of the artel, the stárosta and his assistant. On the same day, they were handcuffed and put in irons. Vasíli, who at that time was known by another name, was the assistant.
Two more days passed, and the affair had been fully discussed by the convicts. It was supposed at first that all traces were concealed; that it would be impossible to discover the culprits; and that the lawful representatives of the artel would only be subjected to a slight disciplinary punishment. To all questions put to them, the convicts had but one straightforward, and plausible answer: “We were asleep.” But on closer investigation the suspicion fell on Vasíli. It is true that in such cases as this the artel always acts in such a way as to prove, conclusively, the innocence of the accused parties, and by adopting such a course Vasíli could easily have shown that he took no part whatever in the tragedy. Nevertheless, while discussing the affairs of the stárosta’s assistant, the experienced convicts, who had been through fire and water, shook their heads dubiously.
“I say, my boy,” said an old, weather-beaten vagrant, one day, to Vasíli, “as soon as we arrive on Saghálin, you had better have your legs in readiness. It is a bad business, that affair of yours!—very bad!”
“Why so?”
“Because … is it the first, or the second time that you have been convicted?”
“The second.”
“That’s the trouble. And do you remember whom the dead Féydka reported? Was it not you? He was the cause of your being handcuffed for a week, was he not?”
“You are right.”
“And what did you say to him at the time? The soldiers heard it! Was it not something like a threat?”
Vasíli and the others understood the full significance of this remark.
“Now, my advice to you is to think the matter over, and make up your mind to be shot.”
A general murmur followed this speech.
“Don’t talk like an idiot, Burán!” said the convicts, angrily.
“The old man does not know what he is saying.”
“He is losing his mind from old age. It is a poor joke to talk like that.”
“I am not losing my mind!” exclaimed the old man, indignantly. “Much you greenhorns know! You act as though you were in Russia!—I know the local laws! I tell you, Vasíli, when the report is sent to the governor-general of the Amúr province, you may expect to be shot. Even if, as a great mercy, they whip you with knouts, instead of putting you to death, that will be still worse. You will not survive. You must remember, my dear fellow, that you are on board ship, and that naval laws are twice as strict as land laws. However,” he added, feebly, evidently fatigued with such a long discourse, “I don’t care what becomes of you all.”
The dim eyes of the old man, with whom life had dealt so unkindly, had long been used to look at things through a medium of mingled gloom and indifference. He waved his hand despairingly, and walked away.
Often among such bands of convicts are to be found men fully conversant with the law; and when, after a careful consideration of an affair like the present one, a definite opinion is formed, it is generally confirmed by coming events. In the present case, all the authorities agreeing with Burán, it was decided that Vasíli must escape; and as it seemed likely that he was to be held responsible for the artel, the latter considered itself in duty bound to help him. All remnants of biscuits and rusks were made over to Vasíli, and he began to “form a party” of such as wished to participate in the attempt to escape.
As Burán had already twice escaped from Saghálin, he was naturally among the first who were asked to join. The old man decided without hesitating a moment.
“I am doomed to die in the forest,” he said, “and I don’t know but that such a death is more becoming for a vagrant. Only, my age is against me; for I am getting worn out.”
The old man blinked a moment, then—
“Go ahead and collect your party,” he added. “It would be useless for two or three to make such an attempt; the road is too rough. When ten of us are ready, we can start. You may depend on me; I will walk till my feet refuse to carry me. If it were only my lot to die anywhere but on this cursed island!”
Burán winked rapidly, and tears ran down his weather-beaten face.
“The old man must be getting feeble,” thought Vasíli, as he started off to make up the party.