Tartar Cavalry
As soon as news of the affair reached Irkutsk, the Governor General ordered a battalion of soldiers by steamer to Posolsky. On the 28th of June a fight occurred at the river Bestriya. The insurgents were defeated with a loss of twenty-five or thirty men, while the force sent against them lost five men and one officer. The Polish leader was among the killed. After the defeat the insurgents separated in small bands and fled into the mountains. They were pursued by Tartar cavalry, who scoured the country thoroughly and retook all the fugitives. The insurrection caused much alarm at its outbreak, as it was supposed all prisoners in Siberia were in the conspiracy. Exaggerated reports were spread, and all possible precautions taken, but they proved unnecessary. The conspiracy extended no farther than the working parties on the Baikal road.
The prisoners were brought to Irkutsk, where a court-martial investigated the affair. A Russian court-martial does not differ materially from any other in the manner of its proceedings. It requires positive evidence for or against a person accused, and, like other courts, gives him the benefit of doubts. My informant told me that the court in this case listened to all evidence that had any possible bearing on the question. The sitting continued several weeks, and after much deliberation the court rendered a finding and sentence.
In the finding the prisoners were divided into five grades, and their sentences accorded with the letter of the law. The first grade comprised seven persons, known to have been leaders in the revolt. These were sentenced to be shot. In the second grade there were a hundred and ninety-seven, who knew the design to revolt and joined in the insurrection. One-tenth of these were to suffer death, the choice being made by lot; the remainder were sentenced to twenty years labor. The third grade comprised a hundred and twenty-two, ignorant of the conspiracy before the revolt, but who joined the insurgents. These received an addition of two or three years to their original sentences to labor. The fourth grade included ninety-four men, who knew the design to revolt but refused to join the insurgents. These were sentenced “to remain under suspicion.” In the fifth and last grade there were two hundred and sixty, who were ignorant of the conspiracy and remained at their posts. Their innocence was fully established, and, of course, relieved them from all charge.
It was found that the design of the insurgents was to escape into Mongolia and make their way to Pekin. This would have been next to impossible, for two reasons: the character of the country, and the treaty between China and Russia. The region to be traversed from the Siberian frontier toward Pekin is the Mongolian steppe or desert. The only food obtainable on the steppe is mutton from the flocks of the nomad inhabitants. These are principally along the road from Kiachta, and even there are by no means numerous. The escaping exiles in avoiding the road to ensure safety would have run great risk of starvation. The treaty between China and Russia requires that fugitives from one empire to the other shall be given up. Had the exiles succeeded in crossing Mongolia and reaching the populous parts of China, they would have been once more in captivity and returned to Russian hands.
The finding of the court-martial was submitted to General Korsackoff for approval or revision. The general commuted the sentence of three men in the first grade to twenty years labor. Those in the second grade sentenced to death were relieved from this punishment and placed on the same footing as their companions. In the third grade the original sentence (at the time of banishment) was increased by one or two years labor. Other penalties were not changed.
During my stay in Irkutsk the four prisoners condemned to death suffered the extreme penalty, the execution occurring in the forest near the town. A firing party of forty-eight men was divided into four squads. According to the custom at all military executions one musket in each squad was charged with a blank cartridge. The four prisoners were shot simultaneously, and all died instantly. Two of them were much dejected; the others met their deaths firmly and shouted “Vive la Pologne” as they heard the order to fire.
I was told that the crowd of people, though large, was very quiet, and moved away in silence when the execution was over. Very few officers and soldiers were present beyond those whose duty required them to witness or take part in the affair.
One of the most remarkable escapes from Siberia was that of Rufin Piotrowski, a Polish emigrant who left Paris in 1844 to return to his native country, with impossible plans and crude ideas for her relief. The end of his journey was Kamimetz, in Podolia, where he gave himself out as a Frenchman, who had come to give private lessons in foreign languages, and received the usual permit from the authorities without exciting any suspicion. He was soon introduced into the best society; and the better to shield his connections, he chose the houses of Russian employés. His security rested upon his not being supposed to understand the Polish language; and, during the nine months that he remained, he obtained such command over himself, that the police had not the slightest suspicion of his being a Pole. The warning voice came from St. Petersburg, through the spies in Paris.
Early one winter’s morning he was roughly shaken out of slumber by the director of police, and carried before the governor of the province, who had come specially on this errand. His position was represented to him as one of the greatest danger, and he was recommended to make a full confession. This for many days he refused to do, until a large number of those who were his accomplices were brought before him; and their weary, anxious faces induced him to exclaim loudly, and in his native tongue—“Yes, I am a Pole, and have returned because I could not bear exile from my native land any longer. Here I wished to live inoffensive and quiet, confiding my secret to a few countrymen; and I have nothing more to say.” An immediate order was made out for the culprit’s departure to Kiev. According to the story he has published his sufferings were frightful, and were not lessened when they stopped at a hut, where some rusty chains were brought out, the rings of which were thrust over his ankles: they proved much too small, and the rust prevented the bars from turning in the sockets, so that the pain was insupportable. He was rudely carried and thrown into the carriage, and thus arrived in an almost insensible condition at the fortress of Kiev.
After many months’ detention in this prison, being closely watched and badly treated, he was sentenced to hard labor in Siberia for life, degraded from his rank as a noble, and ordered to make the journey in chains. As soon as this was read to him, he was taken to a kibitka, with three horses, irons were put on, and he was placed between two armed soldiers; the gates of the fortress were shut, and the road to Siberia was before him. An employee came up to M. Piotrowski, and timidly offered him a small packet, saying—“Accept this from my saint.” The convict not understanding, he added, “You are a Pole, and do not know our customs. It is my fête-day, when it is above all a duty to assist the unfortunate. Pray, accept it, then, in the name of my saint, after whom I am called.” The packet contained bread, salt, and money.
Night and day the journey continued, with the utmost rapidity, for about a month, when, in the middle of the night, they stopped at the fortress of Omsk, where he was placed for a few hours with a young officer who had committed some breach of discipline. They talked on incessantly until the morning, so great was the pleasure of meeting with an educated person. A map of Siberia was in the room, which Piotrowski examined with feverish interest. “Ah!” said his companion, “are you meditating flight? Pray, do not think of it: many of your fellow-countrymen have tried it, and never succeeded.”
At midday he was brought before Prince Gortchakoff, and the critical moment of his fate arrived: he might either be sent to some of the government factories in the neighborhood, or to the mines underground. An hour passed in cruel suspense while this was debated. At length one of the council announced to him that he was to be sent to the distillery of Ekaterinski, three hundred miles to the north of Omsk. The clerks around congratulated him on his destination, and his departure was immediate.
On a wintry morning he reached a vast plain near the river Irtish, on which a village of about two hundred wooden huts was built around a factory. When introduced into the clerks’ office, a young man who was writing jumped up and threw himself into his arms: he also was a Pole from Cracow, a well-known poet, and sent away for life as “a measure of precaution.” Soon they were joined by another political criminal: these spoke rapidly and with extreme emotion, entreating their new friend to bear everything in the most submissive and patient manner, as the only means of escaping from menial employment, and being promoted to the clerks’ office. Not long was he permitted to rest. A convict came and ordered him to take a broom and sweep away a mass of dirt that some masons had left; a murderer was his companion; and thus he went on until nightfall, when his two friends were permitted to visit him, in the presence of the soldiers and convicts, most of the latter of whom had been guilty of frightful crimes.
Thus day after day passed on, in sweeping, carrying wood and water, amid snow and frost. His good conduct brought him, in a year and a half, to the office, where he received ten francs a month and his rations, and the work was light. During this time he saw and conversed with many farmers and travelers from a distance, and gained every information about the roads, rivers, etc., with a view to the escape he was ever meditating. Some of the natives unite with the soldiers in exercising an incessant supervision over the convicts, and a common saying among the Tartars is: “In killing a squirrel you get but one skin, whilst a convict has three—his coat, his shirt, and his skin.”
Slowly and painfully he collected the materials for his journey. First of all, a passport was an essential. A convict who had been sentenced for making false money, still possessed an excellent stamp of the royal arms; this Piotrowski bought for a few francs. The sheet of paper was easily obtained in the office, and the passport forged. After long waiting, he procured a Siberian wig—that is, a sheepskin with the wool turned in, to preserve the head from the cold—three shirts, a sheepskin bournouse, and a red velvet cap bordered with fur—the dress of a well-to-do peasant. On a sharp frosty night he quitted Ekaterinski for Tara, having determined to try the road to the north for Archangel, as the least frequented. A large fair was shortly to be held at Irbit, at the foot of the Urals, and he hoped to hide himself in the vast crowd of people that frequented it. Soon after he had crossed the river a sledge was heard behind him. He trembled for his safety—his pursuers were perhaps coming.
“Where are you going?” shouted the peasant who drove it.
“To Tara.”
“Give me ten sous, and I will take you.”
“No; it is too much. I will give eight.”
“Well, so let it be. Jump in quickly.”
He was set down in the street; and knocking at a house, inquired in the Russian fashion—“Have you horses to hire?”
“Yes—a pair. Where to?”
“To Irbit. I am a commercial traveler, and going to meet my master. I am behind my time, and wish to go as quickly as possible.”
No sooner had they set off than a snow-storm came on, and the driver lost his way. They wandered about all night in the forest, and it was impossible to describe the anguish and suffering Piotrowski endured.
“Return to Tara,” said he, as the day broke; “I will engage another sledge; and you need not expect any money from me, after the folly you have shown in losing your way.”
They turned, but had hardly gone a mile before the driver jumped up, looked around, and cried—“This is our road.” Then making up for lost time, he set him down at a friend’s house, where he procured some tea and fresh horses. On he went in safety, renewing his horses at small expense, until late at night, when he suffered from a most unfortunate robbery. He had not money at hand to pay the conductor. They turned into a public-house, where a crowd of drunken people were celebrating the carnival. He drew out some paper-money to get change, when the crowd coming round, some one seized his papers, among which were several rouble notes, his invaluable passport, and a note in which he had minutely inscribed all the towns and villages he must pass through on the road to Archangel. He was in despair. The very first day, a quarter of his money was gone, and the only thing by which he hoped to evade suspicion, his passport. He dare not appeal to the police, and was obliged to submit.
Regret and hesitation were not to be thought of. He soon found himself on the high-road to Irbit, crowded with an innumerable mass of sledges, going or returning to the fair. It is the season of gain and good humor, and the people show it by unbounded gaiety. Piotrowski took courage, returned the salutations of the passers-by—for how could he be distinguished in such a crowd? The gates of Irbit were reached on the third day. “Halt, and shew your passport,” cried an official; but added in a whisper—“Give me twenty copecks, and pass quickly.” The demand was willingly gratified, and with some difficulty he procured a night’s lodging, lying on the floor amidst a crowd of peasants, who had previously supped on radish-soup, dried fish, oatmeal gruel, with oil and pickled cabbage.
Up at daybreak, he took care to make the orthodox salutations, and passing rapidly through the crowded town, he walked out of the opposite gate, for, henceforwards, his scanty funds demanded that the journey should be made on foot. In the midst of a heavily falling snow, he managed to keep the track, avoiding the villages, and, when hungry, drawing a piece of frozen bread from his bag. At nightfall, he buried himself in the forest, hollowed a deep hole in the snow, and found a hard but warm bed, where he gained the repose he so greatly needed. Another hard day, with a dry cutting wind, forced him to ask for shelter at night in a cottage, which was granted without hesitation. He described himself as a workman, going to the iron-foundries at Bohotole, on the Ural Mountains. Whilst the supper was preparing, he dried his clothes, and stretched himself on a bench with inexpressible satisfaction. He fancied he had neglected no precautions; his prayers and salutations had been made; and yet suspicion was awakened, as it appeared, by the sight of his three shirts, which no peasant possesses. Three men entered, and roughly shook him from sleep, demanding his passport.
“By what right do you ask for it? Are you police?”
“No; but we are inhabitants of the village.”
“And can you enter houses, and ask for passports! Who can say whether you do not mean to rob me of my papers? But my answer is ready. I am Lavrenti Kouzmine, going to Bohotole; and it is not the first time I have passed through the country.”
He then entered into details of the road and the fair at Irbit, ending by showing his permission to pass, which, as it bore a stamp, satisfied these ignorant men.
“Forgive us,” said they. “We thought you were an escaped convict; some of them pass this way.”
Henceforward, he dared not seek the shelter of a house. From the middle of February to the beginning of April, in the midst of one of the severest winters ever known, his couch was in the snow. Frozen bread was his food for days together, and the absence of warm aliments brought him face to face with the terrible spectres of cold and hunger. The Urals were reached, and he began to climb their wooded heights. On passing through a little village at nightfall, a voice cried: “Who is there?”
“A traveler.”
“Well, would you like to come and sleep here?”
“May God recompense you, yes; if it will not inconvenience you.”
An aged couple lived there—good people, who prepared a meagre repast, which seemed a feast to Piotrowski: the greatest comfort of all being that he could take off his clothes.