It was now about one o’clock in the morning, and I could distinguish nothing but mountains of ice surrounding us on all sides. On examining these hillocks, I found they were built up with blocks of about a foot thick.
It was clear, therefore, that we were suspended over the depths of the lake by a floor of no greater thickness. Could we count on this even, throughout, to bear up the weight of the laden sledge and horses?
Between life and death, between the air we breathed and the bottom of the lake, there was only one foot of ice. We were not only far from human beings, but far from the land they inhabited. Who, indeed, knew where we were? Who would be thinking of us at this hour? Who at this distance could have heard our last desperate cry of anguish, at the moment when the ice, breaking under our weight, would open and then close over us for ever?
The mournful moaning of the wind in the hollows of this glacial wild, interrupted by the ominous cracking of the ice, like the low booming of cannon in the distance, broke the silence of the night. Never had I felt the weakness, the ignoble insignificance of man in a manner so complete and absolute: never had I been so sensible to the imposing might of Nature. I held my breath with awe, for man, in her august presence, would be as meaningless as a grain of sand or the poorest worm, if the moment should come when he was doomed to be crushed in the terrible exercise of her power.
When day at last appeared we could realize, still more forcibly, the danger of our situation. There were fissures scoring the surface in every direction. Pools of water in certain spots showed that the congelation in these parts, from some cause or other, had only been partial. On seeing myself exposed to so many snares, I understood why the Russian Government had declined assuming any responsibility this year for the safety of travellers. I was abandoned to my own resources and trembled for the consequences, for it seemed I was lost.
In the dilemma I knew not what to do; it was necessary to move, for we could not escape danger by remaining still any longer, and I gave orders to the driver, mechanically, as if spell-bound, to take his course towards the rising sun. We started; no way could have been more prudently selected and, in spite of the element of danger still existing, be more replete with thrilling interest. We were obliged to make many long windings to avoid some crevice or other. The yemschik, now having recovered from the effects of his intemperance, seemed desirous of redeeming his fault, and went on foot alone in advance in peril of his life, to ascertain the thickness of the ice. We were obliged to pull up now and then, as we came near an ominous long streak of rippling water that barred our passage. If we ventured to brave it, we decided to draw back on our steps a little way—reculer pour mieux sauter—and then, with the whip smartly applied, aided with wild gesture, hallooing and screaming, to give a mad rattling pace to the horses, we cleared, in the twinkling of an eye, but not without a sickening horror, these treacherous crevices gaping to devour us.
About eight in the morning we caught a glimpse of the land, and soon after it plainly came into sight. The further we advanced the thicker and more reliable the ice became, and every step now raised our long depressed spirits, till, at last, all further danger disappeared. Then, strange to say, I felt a pang of regret to quit the Baikal: for though I had blenched with fear, I could not forget that I was still standing on enchanted ground.
At last, at ten in the morning, I entered the village of Slernaia to reflect over the twenty-two hours passed on Lake Baikal—the most stirring and momentous adventure I have experienced in all my travels.