To KOSKOGOR—THIRD DAY, DECEMBER 20TH
Oh, you silvery moon, are you interested in that bugle call? It is telling our men to come to breakfast at once—6:45, for we start for Koskogor at 8:00 a. m. or before. The start is made at 7:45. Road is fine—well-beaten yesterday by marketing convoys and by Russians bound for church to celebrate Saint Nick’s Day. Between the pines our road winds. Not a breath of air has stirred since the fine snow came in the night and “ridged each twig inch deep with pearl.” What a sight it would have been if the sun had come up. Wisconsin, we think of you as we traverse these bluffs. You tenth verst, you break a beautiful scene on us with your trail across the valley. You courageous little pony, you deserve to eat all that hay you are lugging up that hill. Your load is not any worse than that of the pony behind who hauls a giant log on two sleds. You deserve better treatment, Loshad. When Russia grows up to an educated nation animal power will be conserved.
Here we see the primitive saw mill. Perched high on a pair of horses is a great log. Up and down cuts the long-toothed saw. Up pulls the man on top. Down draws the man on the ground. Something is lacking—it is the snap-ring that we so remember from boyhood wood-cutting days in Michigan.
Here we are back to the river again and another picturesque scene with its formidable hill—Verst 18. But we get on fast for the end is in sight. The windmill for grinding grain tells us a considerable village is near. We arrive and stop on the top of the hill in the home of a merchant-peasant, Lopatkin: a fine home—house plants and a big clock and a gramophone. It is cold, for the Russian stove has not been fired since morning—great economy of fuel in a land of wood.
To KHOLMOGORA—FOURTH DAY, DECEMBER 21ST
Harbinger of hope! Oh you red sky line! Shall we see the sun today?
It is 8:00 a. m. and from our hill top the wide red horizon in the south affords a wonderful scene. In the distance, headlands on the Dvina cut bold figures into the red. Far, far away stretches the flat river. Now we are safely down the long, steep hill and assembled on the river. Sergeant Getzloff narrowly escapes death from a reckless civilian’s pony and sleigh. We crawl along the east shore for a verst and then cross squarely to the other side, facing a cold, harsh wind. What a wonderful subject for a picture. Tall pines—tallest we have yet seen in Russia, on the island lift their huge trunks against the red, the broad red band on the skyline. And now, too, the upland joins itself to the scene.
The going is drifty and sternly cold. Broad areas allow the biting wind full sweep. Ears are covered and hands are thrashed. That “stolen horse” pole there may be a verst post. Sure enough, and “5,” it says, “16 to go.” Look now for the barber poles. We are too late to get a glimpse of the sun. Red is the horizon yet but the sun has risen behind a low cloud screen. The advance guard has outwalked the convoy and while ponies toil up the hill, we seek shelter in the lee of a house to rest, to smoke. The convoy at last comes up. One animal has a ball of ice on his foot. We make the drivers rest their ponies and look after their feet. Ten minutes and then on.
It is a desperate cold. A driver’s ears are tipped with white. The bugler’s nose is frozen on the windward side. Everyone with yarn mittens only is busy keeping fingers from freezing. Here it is good going for the long straight road is flanked by woods that protect road from drifts and traveller from icy blasts. This road ends in a half mile of drifts before a town on the bank of a tributary to the Dvina. We descend to the river.
So there you are, steamboat, till the spring break-up frees you and then you will steam up and down the river with logs and lumber and hemp and iron and glass and soldiers perhaps—but no Americans, I hope. What is this train that has come through our point? Bolshevik? Those uniforms of the Russki M. P.’s are alarmingly like those we have been shooting at. Go on with your prisoners. Now it is noon. The sun is only a hand high in the sky. The day has grown grey and colder. Or is it lack of food that makes us more susceptible to winter’s blasts? A bit of hard tack now during this rest while we admire the enduring red of the sky. We are nearing our objective. For several versts we have skirted the edge of the river and watched the spires and domes of the city come nearer to us. We wind into the old river town and pass on for a verst and a half to an old monastery where we find quarters in a subsidiary building which once was an orphan’s home. The old women are very kind and hospitable. The rooms are clean and airy and warm.