CHAPTER XVII.INTO SIBERIA.
If there is one country in the world where the wheel of modern progress has failed to turn, that country is Siberia. True, there is a railroad, or perhaps several railroads, that traverse and extend into the broad expanse of uninhabited country; but they are few and far between. Except in times of war, such as these, they are not much traveled.
The road to Siberia, in Jack’s case, lay through Petrograd itself. There, with perhaps fifty other prisoners securely bound, he was thrown into an open freight car, bound eastward.
Muffled in his great coat, as he was, and with his heavy fur cap pulled well down over his ears, the lad was nevertheless very cold; still he was not in such imminent danger of freezing as were some of his fellow-prisoners, who, not garbed so warmly when they were arrested, shivered terribly in the frigid atmosphere.
In spite of his warm garments Jack’s teeth chattered. Try as he would he could not stop them; and when the train moved off, slowly at first, and then faster and faster, it seemed that he could bear it no longer. His hands and feet grew numb, he felt his eyes closing and then he knew no more. Unconsciousness had come to his relief.
When Jack again opened his eyes it was because he felt some one kicking the soles of his feet. He tried to move them, but the effort was vain. He could barely feel the shock of the other’s blows, but he realized that he was expected to get up and he knew that it would be best to obey, if possible.
Slowly the blood began to circulate through his legs and feet. They pained him sharply at first, but gradually the pain subsided and at last the lad, his hands still bound, struggled to his feet.
He took in his situation at a glance. The train had come to a stop, and Jack let his eyes rove to the north, to the east and to the south and west. Ahead was another freight car and behind another; but from the sides all the lad could see was a broad expanse of snow, stretching far into the distance. There was not a sign of a human habitation, although the lad knew that ahead probably was a railroad station, or a shed that marked a junction, or something.
Russian guards, big heavily bearded men, forced their way through the struggling heaps of humanity in the car, stirring the half-frozen men with the toes of their heavy boots. Some kicks brought groans, others curses; but, in spite of this, the men at last managed to get slowly to their feet.
Jack gazed at them curiously, forgetting for a moment his own desperate plight. The majority were men of middle age. Some were older and some few younger.
A groan at his feet attracted Jack’s attention. There he saw a young boy—he could not have been more than fifteen—lying upon the floor of the car. The lad was small and delicate, half frozen, and it appeared that he could not drag himself to his feet.
But the big guard who stood over him paid no attention to the lad’s pleadings to be let alone. Twice he stirred the prostrate form with the toe of his boot as Jack looked on; then, drawing back his foot, he kicked the boy heavily in the side.
The lad gave a subdued cry and rolled away. The guard moved after him and would have repeated the kick, had Jack not taken a sudden step forward, and in spite of the cords that bound his hands, placed himself before the burly guard and his victim.
“Shame on you!” cried Jack.
Jack spoke in English. Evidently the Russian, while not understanding the lad’s words, guessed their import. For a brief moment he hesitated; then, drawing back his huge fist, he struck Jack a heavy blow on the right cheek.
Jack staggered, but did not fall. He stood his ground, still facing the big Russian, but there was a dark scowl on the lad’s face. Again the Russian stepped forward and raised a hand.
But before the blow could fall, Jack stooped a trifle, and thrusting his head in front of him, charged. The Russian was unable to leap back in time to avoid Jack, and the lad’s head struck him squarely in the pit of the stomach. The guard doubled up and fell to the bottom of the car, gasping for air.
There was a murmur of approval from the other prisoners in the car; but this was soon silenced, for half a dozen other guards, wielding revolver butts and long whips, sprang in among them, and laid about lustily. The prisoners could not fight, for their hands were bound, and there was nothing for them to do but to stand and receive the blows stolidly. But there was anger in their eyes and Jack knew that it would go hard with one of the guards should a prisoner get a hold upon him.
For himself, he bore up bravely under the biting lashes of the whip that curled about his face and legs, leaving great red welts. Eight, nine, ten times, a whip wrapped around him; then, apparently thinking the lad had had enough, the guard who had attacked him desisted.
Jack, braced for still another blow, staggered forward as the man drew back, and evidently believing that the lad was about to attack him, the Russian quickly drew a revolver, reversed the butt and struck Jack over the head. It was a hard blow and the lad fell forward on his face. Once, twice, he tried to regain his feet. Then a wall of blackness descended upon him again and he knew nothing more, while the Russian turned his attention to the other prisoners.
When Jack returned to consciousness the first thing to call itself to his attention was the warmth. His last remembrance was of cold. He tried to think, but for the space of several moments he could not piece together the tangled chain of events that revolved and revolved in his mind.
At length, however, as he took additional note of the pleasing warmth and realized that his feet were no longer numb; that his ears were not frozen and that he could breathe without the sensation of snuffing ice. He was able, piece by piece, to recall what had transpired.
“By Jove!” he said at last. “By rights, I should be lying in an open car and freezing while some great brute of a Russian stood over me with a whip. Wonder where on earth I am?”
He raised himself on one elbow and looked around, but he could see nothing. The place in which he found himself was pitch dark. The lad thought he could now catch the sound of other voices, and he called out:
“Anybody here?”
The lad spoke in English and there was no reply. He asked the same question again, this time in French, and still there was no answer. A third time he tried it, this time speaking in German. He drew an answer at last.
“Yes; Boris Duttsky. Who are you?”
Jack introduced himself in German and in the darkness, and then added;
“Where are we?”
“Siberia,” was the brief response.
“I know that,” said Jack. “But where are we right now? And what makes it so awfully dark in here?”
“We are in a dungeon,” was the reply. “I recognize a dungeon by the feeling, because I have been in a dungeon before. I believe I know who you are. You are the English prisoner, are you not?”
“Yes,” replied Jack.
“I thought so. I spotted you in the freight car when you knocked the guard down. That’s why you’re here.”
“And are we the only two in this place?”
“I guess so. I have heard no other voices.”
“And you say I am here because I knocked the guard down?”
“Yes; they consider you a bad customer.”
“And why are you here?”
“For the same reason. I followed your example in the car and butted a guard under the chin. I wish I hadn’t now. It’s a bad business.”
“Why? All they have done is lock us up where it is dark.”
“Wait; in the morning they’ll take us out and give us the lash.”
“The lash?”
“Yes; probably lay a dozen strokes across our bare backs with their big whips. After that they’ll give us bread to eat and water to drink; and that’s probably all we’ll get for a week.”
Jack shuddered. Then he straightened himself up in the darkness.
“They had better not lay a whip on me,” he said quietly.
The Russian laughed aloud.
“Why? What will you do?” he asked.
“I’ll fight. I’ll rush the man who strikes me, whether I’m bound or not.”
“That would be foolish. The punishment would only be redoubled. No; take my advice, and grin and bear it.”
“I don’t know but what you’re right,” said Jack after some consideration. “I’ll take your advice, then, in part. I’ll bear it, but I won’t promise to grin.”
“Now that’s the way I like to hear a man talk,” declared the Russian. “You are a man after my own heart. It will hurt, of course, but it won’t kill. Although,” he added as an afterthought, “I don’t know but it would be well to kill a man at once, rather than to kill him by inches as they do here in Siberia.”
“You talk as though you knew something about it,” said Jack.
“I do. I had a brother who was once imprisoned in Siberia, through a mistake. He was later released by the personal order of the Czar; but in the time he was here he endured much. He has told me many tales of the cruelties of the guards and their officers.”
“Well, all we can do is hope that we shall have a chance to escape,” said Jack.
“No chance of that—without outside help,” declared the Russian. “Besides, if you were able to get away, where would you go? You are miles from a railroad and you would perish of cold or of hunger before you got far.”
“The railroad can’t be so very far,” Jack protested. “It was only a few hours ago that we were in a freight car.”
“A few hours,” ejaculated the Russian. “It has been all of twenty-four.”
“Twenty-four,” exclaimed Jack. “Do you mean I have been unconscious all that time?”
“You must have been. And it was a blessing that you were. You saved yourself a hard walk through the snow. You were carried on a sleigh while the rest of us were forced to walk.”
“Then there is no escape?”
“A man escaped once,” returned the Russian grimly. “There was no pursuit, for there was no place he could go without food, as he had gone. He was found a month later in the snow. There wasn’t much left of him.”
Jack shuddered.
“Not for me,” he said aloud.
“No,” continued the Russian, “there is no chance of escape; and for that reason the prisoners are not even bound. No, without outside help, no man ever escapes from Siberia.”
“Then,” said Jack quietly, “we must have outside help.”