VIII. THE STORY OF AN EXILE
Such was the tragic story told,
And, tired from standing on his feet,
This patriarch so gray and old
Relit his pipe and took a seat.
As one, inert and overtaxed
From strenuous toil, he soon relaxed
Into that dull composure, which
Fatigue accords to poor and rich.
The observation could detect
Nor through his story was there heard
Remark or interruptive word,
His voice and bearing as he spoke,
Admitting not of jest or joke.
The common feeling seemed to be
Respect and deepest sympathy.
As childish incidents recurred
In memory to Dad McGuire,
As one who neither saw nor heard
He sat, intent upon the fire;
Yet watched the ever-changing blaze
With that intensity of gaze
Which shows the things the eyes have caught
Are not the subjects of the thought,
But far beyond their metes and bounds
The vision rests on other grounds.
This story of a life rehearsed,
Left other eyes bedimmed and blurred;
Each with his silent thoughts conversed
And none presumed to speak a word,
Lest sympathy the tears provoke.
Old Uncle Jim forgot to smoke
And though he had replenished it,
Still left his meerschaum pipe unlit,
Till as the watchdog suddenly
Wakes up with apprehensive sniff,
He started from his reverie
And took an unsuccessful whiff;
But embers which the fire supplied
Soon changed the fragrant charge inside
With alternating draw and whiff,
Into a meerschaum Teneriffe.
All smoked, excepting Dad McGuire,
Who stirred the embers of the fire,
And placed thereon what seemed to be,
The remnants of a hemlock tree;
'Twas one of those ungainly stumps,
Composed of twisted knots and bumps,
Which every boy or even man,
In chopping wood, skips if he can;
'Twas such a chunk as may be seen
After the woodpile's chopped up clean;
The log they split the blocks upon
And leave when all the rest is gone.
This chunk, which none of them could split,
Though many had attempted it,
By divers and ingenious ways,
Was soon enveloped in a blaze,
Which shed its glare into the night,
As beacons radiate their light.
Reclining by his brother's side,
Abstracted and preoccupied,
The Russian, rubicund and hale,
Was importuned to tell his tale,
And slightly coughing from the smoke,
Forthwith in faultless diction spoke:
"My brother's story you have heard,
The same should mine be, word for word,
Up to that dismal dungeon grate,
Which he presumed had sealed my fate.
I doubt not he related well
The horrors of that loathsome cell,
So that description, now by me,
Would fruitless repetition be.
Sufficient be it to declare
That brief was my detention there.
Though discontent the action was
Which constituted my offence,
I felt the weight of Russian laws
When chained to other malcontents.
Before the chains had time to rust
I plodded through the mud and dust
As many exiles erst had trod,
Their footprints often stained with blood.
With clanking chains and painful stride,
With Cossack guards on either side,
We marched in silence, in the reach
Of sabres that discouraged speech.
A sad procession, for full well
Our destinations could we tell.
Down country lane and village street
We limped with bruised and blistered feet,
In single file, as some infirm
Though monstrous centipede or worm,
Beset by some tormenting foe,
Might move with locomotion slow,
And tortured by its enemy,
Propel its foul dimensions by.
Past where the Urals, bleak and high,
Invade the cerulean sky
With summits desolate and gray,
With weary tread we wound our way.
Where intertwining branches made
A vernal canopy of shade,
The song-birds, from their arches high
Mocked at our chains, as we passed by;
The only forms of earth or air,
Deprived of rightful freedom there.
At night in forest depths profound,
We lay upon the cheerless ground,
Where on our route we chanced to be,
Nor couch nor coverlet had we
Between us and the turf or stones,
To soothe our tired and aching bones.
Our limbs emaciated grew,
Ragged were we and dirty, too,
As o'er the trans-Slavonian plains,
We dragged our grievous weight of chains.
As passed the autumn months away
Six leagues we measured every day,
Six leagues our loads were daily borne,
On shoulders galled and callous-worn.
Each morning was our march begun,
Before the advent of the sun,
While every evening in the west
He sank, before we paused for rest.
Time and again upon the road,
The weaker dropped beneath their load,
And fainting from fatigue and pain,
They sank, but rose not up again.
Where the Pacific's broad expanse
Of sleeping waters, calm and fair,
Divide the mighty continents
With their pelagic barrier;
Upon the Asiatic shore,
Some twelve leagues from the sea or more,
In course of time, our weary line
Was halted at a penal mine.
'Twas there within a log stockade
Constructed in a manner crude,
That we our habitation made
Through many months of servitude.
A mine's a mine the world around,
A cheerless place wherever found,
Dismal and dark beyond compare
And charged with foul, unwholesome air,
Which fills the lungs at every breath
With germs of an untimely death.
In caverns subterranean,
With limbs not bound by gyve or chain,
Of those who toil, few are the men
Who reach the threescore years and ten.
Such was the smoke-polluted mine
Wherein we slaved from morn till night,
Or when the sun had ceased to shine
We toiled till his returning light,
Then dragged each one his ball and chain
Back to his bed of straw again.
Day after day could there be seen
The same monotonous routine;
Such was the drudging life we led
Till hope from every bosom fled,
And each became as time rolled on
A spiritless automaton.
The details of a captive's lot
I fear would interest you not,
So your forbearance I beseech,
While, in impromptu forms of speech,
I strive in simple terms to shape
The narrative of my escape.
From out the realms of tropic heat,
Invading with contagious feet,
Came there a plague, one summer-tide.
Up from the south with fatal stride
It stalked, and poured its vials forth
Upon the sparsely settled North;
A wave of pestilence and fear
Swept o'er the northland far and near;
The frenzied peasants, in their fright,
Sought safety in promiscuous flight;
In consternation and alarm,
To seek immunity from harm,
They left the sick in their distress,
And fled into the wilderness;
As if, within the solitude,
The Nemesis, which had pursued,
Might satiate its deadly wrath,
And deviate or change its path,
And its malignant steps retrace
Back to the southern starting-place.
The able-bodied left behind
The paralyzed, the halt and blind;
The well in abject terror fled,
Forsook the dying, while the dead,
Unburied in the summer breeze,
Became a nidus of disease,
Wherefrom fresh seeds of pestilence
Were scattered by the elements.
Of those who felt its loathsome breath,
But few escaped a speedy death;
So rapid were the ravages
Of that distemper or disease,
That many, stricken in the night,
Expired before the dawn of light;
For some, who in the morning time
Stood well and strong in manhood's prime,
The noontide brought the fatal scourge,
And evening zephyrs played the dirge;
Those who survived the plague direct
Oft died from hunger and neglect;
The convalescents woke and found
No ministering forms around,
No watcher sitting by the bed,
Alone were they, save for the dead;
They called, but Echo's voice alone
Answered the supplicating moan;
They prayed, but no one heard their prayer,
Then perished from the want of care.
The suffering of the stricken then,
Defies descriptive word or pen;
I see with memory's vision yet
The beads of suppurating sweat
Stand on the burning brows of those
Smitten with agonizing throes;
As racking tortures permeate
Each swollen and distorted shape,
With thirst which none may mitigate,
They call for drink with mouths agape;
Yet naught may succor such distress,
Save coma and unconsciousness;
When these the intellect benumb,
The sense and feeling overcome,
Within its tuneful cavern hung
No longer rests the fluent tongue,
But swollen by the pain and drouth,
Protrudes from out the parching mouth;
The burning and discolored lip
Imagined moisture tries to sip;
Again they vainly strive to speak
Their fevered incoherencies,
But vocal organs parched and weak
Respond but labored gasp and wheeze.
I scent the putrefying air,
And see the horror and despair
Depicted on the lineaments
Of every stricken countenance;
I see them writhe, then suddenly,
With ghastly leer convulse and die.
As stagnant waters generate
A fungous and unsightly freight
Of morbid scum and slimy moss,
Of origin spontaneous;
So latent germs, unnoticed, lurk
In readiness for deadly work;
When these the right conditions find,
And spread infection to the wind,
Chronologers, both far and near,
Record an epidemic year.
Within the bounds of our stockade,
The plague its foul appearance made,
And soon inoculated there,
Its virus to the very air,
Till e'en the genial summer breeze
Seemed a dispenser of disease;
Then, as impartial lightnings strike
The nobleman and serf alike,
Within this filthy prison yard,
It smote both prisoner and guard;
The difference of race, of lot,
Of rank was speedily forgot,
As discipline succumbed to dread
And officers and soldiers fled,
Save such as, fallen by the way,
Helpless and unattended lay,
Till death brought silence and relief,
From agony intense, though brief.
Within the walls of the stockade
Not one unstricken person stayed,
Except some convicts who remained
For one good reason:—we were chained.
Our dingy quarters, floor and bed,
Were filled with dying and with dead;
The only shelter we could claim,
A fetid lazar-house became.
I need not tell you how the air
Was filled with accents of despair,
How clamor and entreaty smote
The air, from blistered tongue and throat,
As burning rash and ghastly rheum
Supplanted nature's ruddy bloom;
How moan and outcry, curse and prayer
Were mingled with each other there;
Some raved in dialects unknown,
Or terms provincial, while the groan,
The common tongue of suffering men,
Was echoed ever and again.
Some, with reluctant clutch and gasp,
Saw life receding from their grasp;
And some, with stoic countenance,
Maintained a stern indifference,
For what are death's abstruse alarms,
When life is shorn of all its charms;
As zealots, when they come to die,
Lift their enraptured gaze on high,
And clasp to the expiring breast
Some crucifix or icon blest,
And mutter with stertorious breath
Some sacred word or shibboleth,
Then sink expectant and resigned,
As if in death a boon to find,
Some in excruciating pain,
Welcomed its foul destroying breath
And sought from cruel gyve and chain
Emancipation, though in death.
'Tis not my purpose to declare
The horrors which befell us there,
As passed the fatal hours away,
Of that most memorable day.
Each hour increased our dire distress,
Yet found our numbers less and less,
Till when the shadows overspread,
The major number were the dead.
But three survived that awful night,
To gaze upon the morning light;
And when the noonday breezes blew,
That three had been reduced to two;
And ere the setting of the sun
I was the sole remaining one.
A silence strangely mute and dumb
Succeeded pandemonium.
There when my last companion died,
Chained to a corpse on either side,
Strange as may seem the miracle,
I never felt more strong and well,
Nor held my life in less esteem;
In that position most extreme,
By silent death surrounded, I
Enjoyed a weird immunity.
'Twould serve no purpose to recite
My feelings, as approaching night,
With his impenetrable pall,
Descended and enveloped all.
I sat alone in fear and dread,
Chained to the floor,—and to the dead.
A gruesome and revolting sight
Is horrifying in the light,
But when dissembling night conceals,
The breast a double terror feels.
That darkness, black beyond compare,
Seemed a fit mantle for despair.
Few are the words when hope has failed;
An awful quietude prevailed;
I sat, a mute and helpless lump,
And felt my heart's pulsating thump,
With movement regular and strong,
Propel life's crimson flood along,
But made no sound until the spell
Of silence was unbearable.
I spoke, but all the ears in reach
Were deaf to every charm of speech;
I shouted till the roof, the floor
And walls resounded with the roar;
I called the dead men at my side,
But Echo's voice alone replied;
I was alone, nor man nor brute
Was there, save those so stark and mute;
My voice upon my listening ear
Fell, most unnatural and queer,
As if with weird, uncanny sound
The walls responsive voices found,
And echoed back the tones at will,
To mock those tongues so cold and still;
Though these vociferations made
My spirit none the less afraid,
The silence seemed more terrible;
Words fail me as I strive to tell
How in my desperation, I
Abandoned hope, yet could not die.
I never craved the morning light,
As through that terrifying night,
For gentle but erratic Sleep
Withheld her respite soft and deep,
As in that charnel house I lay,
Till twilight ushered in the day.
When daylight had returned again
I strove with the relentless chain,
Twisted and tugged until at length
A more than ordinary strength
Possessed my arm, and at one stroke
The rivets weakened, bent and broke;
One master wrench and from the floor,
The ring which held the chain I tore;
I dragged the dead men o'er the ground
Till forge and anvil I had found;
There with the hammer, rasp and file
I wrought with diligence the while;
At some expense of time and pains,
I disengaged the cruel chains,
And stood once more erect and free:
A guard lay prostrate on the sand,
His rifle in his lifeless hand;
I wrenched it from his rigid clutch,
Then played the ghoul in self-defence,
For clothing and accoutrements
Escaped not my despoiling touch;
I breathed the air of liberty,
Alone I stood, but armed and free.
To mislead any watchful eyes,
I donned a militant disguise,
And, in the dead man's uniform,
Was soon prepared for strife or storm.
Unseen, unhindered, unpursued,
I soon was in the solitude,
Contending with impediments,
Which every wilderness presents.
Primeval forests, through which poured
Rivers unknown to bridge or ford;
Swamps, overgrown with weeds and moss,
Almost impossible to cross;
A waste of fallen trees and logs,
Rank vegetation, stagnant bogs;
Decaying leaves, profusely spread,
Which rustled at the slightest tread,
While underbrush and thicket made
A thorny maze or barricade,
Through which 'twas difficult to force
A passage or retain one's course.
There my experience began,
Along the lines of primal man;
My fare, as I remember well,
Was strictly aboriginal,
For stupid grouse and ptarmigan
Were easily approached and slain;
And, as a relish for such food,
I had the berries of the wood.
Through arches of umbrageous shade
I journeyed onward undismayed,
And undisturbed by man or beast,
Made daily progress toward the east,
Till viewing the Pacific shore,
Northward along the coast I bore.
I kept that course for many days,
Where none but savage eyes might gaze;
Full many a mile my footsteps led
Through regions uninhabited,
Till where Kamschatka's barren rocks
Resist the sea's aggressive shocks,
One gloomy afternoon, I stood
And watched the wide and trackless flood.
'Twould make a tedious tale, I fear,
Not meet for recitation here,
Should I endeavor to relate
The details of a hermit's fate.
To all appearance I was free;
Is little consolation, where
One lonely recluse breathes the air;
For solitary mortals find
But little joy and peace of mind;
When freedom is enjoyed alone,
Its fondest attributes are flown;
Men of companions destitute
Sink to the level of the brute;
Their sacred essence seems to be
Dependent on community.
Each morning, in the reddening skies,
Alone, I watched the sun god rise,
While every evening in the west,
Alone, I watched him sink to rest.
To catch a passing ship, in vain
I hourly scanned the watery plain,
Till one fair morn a distant sail
Brought the conclusion of my tale.
The whaler, such she proved to be,
Steered landward through a rippling sea,
And made directly for the shore;
She anchored, then I saw them lower
The ship's long-boat; at a command
I saw them row, then saw them land.
Fearing occasion might require
The service of a signal fire,
A mass of driftwood I had heaped;
Behind that pile I hid and peeped.
From that concealed position, I,
Watching with closest scrutiny,
Discovered that the squad of ten
Were not my fellow-countrymen.
Their purpose I could now discern;
One had a spade, which turn by turn
Each wielded till their willing hands
Had delved a grave within the sands.
Six of the party I espied
Returning to the long-boat's side,
Where from its bottom they began
To raise the body of a man,
In canvas strips securely sewed,
All ready for its last abode;
From every motion it would seem
The object of sincere esteem.
From my location I could see
Them balance it most tenderly,
As on six shoulders broad and strong,
They bore it sorrowfully along,
While wind and ever-restless surge
Joined in a requiem or dirge.
The sun through hazy Autumn skies
Shone on the simple obsequies,
As round the open grave they stood,
In reverential attitude,
And shovelled in the brown sea sand;
One, with a prayer-book in his hand,
Essayed the rôle of corybant;
Omitting the accustomed chant,
He read a burial service there,
Concluding with its words of prayer:
'Ashes to ashes! Dust to dust!'
These words of that abiding trust,
In life beyond the fleeting span
Which heaven has accorded man;
Elysian fields, where perfect peace
Succeeds life's transitory lease;
The inextinguishable fire
Of faith, the daughter of desire,
Glows brightest, when the faltering breath
Is conscious of approaching death;
Bent 'neath the weight of many years,
The form of hoary age appears,
E'en as the failing hourglass shows
That life is drawing to its close,
And when the final sands are spent,
The trembling limbs make their descent
Into the shadows, while the ray
Of faith illuminates the way.
Vain introspection, which descries
No light behind the mysteries
Of death, engenders in the breast
But vacant yearnings and unrest;
Relying on the eye of hope,
We look beyond our mundane scope,
And with enraptured vision see
With eager eyes I watched them stand,
Upon that barren waste of sand,
Until the final words of prayer
Had died away upon the air.
Their words, euphonious and clear,
Were wafted to my listening ear,
Borne on a favorable breeze
Which blew directly from the seas;
My breast, with deep emotion stirred,
I recognized their every word,
An English burial ritual read,
On this wild shore, above the dead.
This dissipated every fear,
I knew deliverance was near;
My secret would be safe among
The scions of the English tongue.
Forever from the light of day
They laid his pallid form away,
While every word and action proved
Their rites were over one they loved.
Soon from the level of the ground,
There rose another silent mound,
To teach, beside that northern sea,
Its lesson of mortality.
Death on that dismal northern main,
In binding with its silent chain
Forever their lamented mate,
Had freed me from a sterner fate.
Leaving my earstwhile hiding place,
I stood before them face to face;
Then in their own vernacular,
Gave proper salutation there.
'Twas plain that they regarded me
As human salvage, which the sea
Had, in some evil moment, tossed
Upon that bleak and barren coast,
Like broken wreckage or debris,
Cast up by the capricious sea.
With frank but sympathetic eyes,
They watched me with no small surprise,
While I rehearsed without delay,
My story as a castaway.
Repairing to the ship's long-boat,
Which soon was in the surf afloat,
I bade farewell to Russian soil
In language not intensely loyal.
They ministered to my distress,
From ample stores of food and dress,
Performed such acts of kindness then
As might beseem large-hearted men;
Nor was there aught perfunctory
In their solicitude for me;
Their acts were of their own accord,
Without suspicion of reward.
[ the noble spruce and stately fir]
"The noble spruce and stately fir
Stood draped in feathery garniture."
See page [119]
Although possessed of little skill
A seaman's watch I volunteered,
As we toward Arctic waters steered,
Pursuant of the spouting whale;
I plied each task with rope and sail,
And ere we reached a harbor bar,
Was rated as a first-class tar;
By sufferance of as brave a crew
As ever sailed a voyage through,
The two succeeding years I passed
In northern seas before the mast;
Two years from that eventful day
We moored in San Francisco Bay.
I bade the sea farewell for aye,
Bade my deliverers good-bye,
With fervent pressure of the hand,
Then straight betook myself to land.
Seeking a home with freedom blest,
I've cast my fortunes with the West."