From the Arctic Ocean to the Yellow Sea

by Julius M. Price

Moreover, as it turned out, after leaving the town we passed through some of the finest forest scenery I have ever seen, and which it would have been a pity to have missed, for there was really so little that was interesting that I should have been sorry to have passed any that was, during the night. Either the big road, for some reason or other, was blocked, or else the driver thought he knew a near cut; anyway, we shortly after made a détour of several miles and went straight across the forest itself by a rough sort of track. It was a wild, desolate-looking place, the trees meeting overhead causing a dim twilight which considerably helped to heighten the effect—just the sort of place one would not have been astonished to meet a bear or a pack of wolves in; in fact, I was fondly hoping to see something and got my rifle ready. But in the still mysterious depths of the dense jungle no sign whatever of life was visible; over the thick carpet of snow, the sledge glided noiselessly, even the sound of horses’ hoofs was muffled, and the deadly silence of the surroundings was only broken now and again by the subdued jingle of the duga bells. I could not help thinking how serious it would have been if an accident had occurred to the sledge or horses just about here; for the “near cut” was evidently not the usual road, as the whole length of it we were entirely alone.

It must have taken us at least three hours to do the next fifteen miles or so, for the track was so narrow in places, and so blocked by abutting trees, that at times it seemed doubtful whether the sledge would pass at all, so tight a squeeze was it. However, at last we got through and out into the broad daylight on the high-road again, when for a few seconds the light seemed absolutely dazzling after the semi-obscurity we had just left. Although we passed through many miles of dense forest after this, we did so on the regular road and in the full glare of the midday sun, so my impressions were very different to those received in the lonely track we had just come through.

The next day or two were uneventful, and as there was nothing new to see, the stoppages at the different post-houses usually came as a pleasant break to the journey, and an excuse to get out of the sledge and call for the samovar. By the way, talking of samovars, it is really astonishing how quickly one takes to the Russian way of drinking weak tea without milk, boiling hot, out of a tumbler. There is no doubt about it that one can appreciate the full flavour of the tea better that way than as we drink it in England, although to drink out of a cup appears to me to be much more convenient than out of a tumbler; and I am surprised the Russians don’t think so, for there is not the slightest doubt which is the more practical.

An interesting incident occurred shortly after leaving the village of Rasgonnaiaa. I had learnt at the station that a large gang of prisoners had passed a few days previously, so hurried on as much as possible in the hope of overtaking it, and at any rate seeing something which would break the monotony of the journey. The road, which hitherto had passed through forest-land, was now open on either side, and for miles ahead the rolling, snow-covered plains stretched, relieved, so to speak, only by the winding road and its endless vista of telegraph-poles. During the morning I had noticed that we were continually passing rough-looking men on foot, hurrying along, always in the same direction, as though on important business. Now, in any other country than Siberia such an occurrence would pass unnoticed, for “Shank’s pony” is a cosmopolitan beast, and among certain classes generally the only means of locomotion. Here, however, in the wilds of Siberia, a foot-traveller is an extreme rarity outside a village. Hence my surprise. At last it occurred to me to ask Matwieff if he could tell me what these curious-looking men were, and what they were doing on the road so far from a village. Imagine my surprise when, without the slightest hesitation, he told me they were bradiagga, or runaway prisoners, from the parti on ahead. I could scarcely believe it, so he suggested our stopping the next one we met, and he would then convince me of the truth of his statement. To him there was evidently not so much novelty in the incident as to me, for as an ex-gendarme he could probably “spot” a prisoner at a glance.

I had not long to wait, for in a short time there appeared in the far distance another of these gentlemen hurrying towards us. I thought it would not be a bad idea to “take his photo,” so ordered the yemschik to stop, and, getting out of the sledge, waited till the fellow got up abreast of us. Matwieff then called out to him to come over to where we were, for he was on the far side of the road, which (as is usual in Siberia) was of enormous width. The fellow, in his anxiety to get along as quickly as possible, had evidently not noticed that we were stopping, for when he heard us call out to him and he looked up and caught sight of us, a most curious look came over his face, which we could not help remarking. Whether it was the sight of my revolver (which I always wore outside my coat) or the gendarme cap Matwieff had on, I cannot tell, but he looked round wildly for a second over the snow-covered plain as though meditating a “bolt;” then realizing, perhaps, that he could not possibly get away, he seemed to make up his mind, and came slowly over towards us.

When he got close up we then saw that he was simply trembling in every limb with fright, whilst his mouth was quivering to such an extent that it was positively painful to see such a picture of abject fear. Although he was a great big hulking fellow, and had an ugly looking cudgel under his arm, he was as unnerved and cowed as a beaten dog, and evidently expected us to immediately handcuff him and take him back at the tail of the sledge to the parti he had escaped from. The delight of the poor wretch when he learnt that I only wanted to photograph him was almost curious to witness, and he offered no objection to my carrying out my fell purpose. Matwieff then, to prove to me that the man really was as he said, a bradiagga, coolly went up to him, and, lifting up his sheepskin coat, lo and behold, underneath were his prison clothes, whilst hidden by his high peasant boots were the ends of his chains still attached to the anklets, which he had not yet had time to remove. His head also, he showed me by removing his cap, had been half shaved in the usual convict manner. Whatever his crime, it was certainly no business of ours to re-arrest him, so I took the photo of him and then gave him a few kopeks for standing. Before letting him go, out of curiosity I asked him where he was going to. To my astonishment he replied, “Moscow.” The idea of his setting out, on foot, to accomplish over three thousand miles home, in the depth of winter, struck me as being an awful task to undertake.

At the next station, the staroster, on my mentioning the incident, informed me that in the village they were simply infested with runaway convicts after a convoy had passed, and that at night the barns and outhouses were always occupied; he had known as many as a dozen men sleeping in the bath-house of the station. (The baths in a Russian village are generally in wooden outbuildings.) The peasants, he further informed me, so far from interfering with the fuyards, or thinking even of giving them up, supply them on the quiet with bread and broken victuals, so that, at any rate, there is no fear of them dying of hunger within the village commune. As a matter of fact, the men themselves know that they can always reckon on something to eat in every place they have to pass through, and it has grown to be such a regular custom, this providing of food for them, that they take it as a matter of course.

The wind, which hitherto had somewhat lulled, now recommenced with renewed force. Fortunately, however, owing to the road going in a different direction, it was at our backs; for so hard did it blow, that the country presented the effect almost of steaming under it owing to the driving particles of snow, and one could only see a few yards ahead through the sort of white fog enveloping everything, and we should have doubtless had an unpleasant time if we had been going against it.

THE IMPERIAL MAIL.