Short Fiction by Vladimir Korolenko (ready player one ebook TXT) 📕

miss the roll-call for three days before any notice is taken of it. The doctor objects to corporal punishment, because the hospital is in such a wretched condition. If anyone gets tired out and becomes ill from working, he goes into the woods instead of going to the hospital, and often recovers in the open air. But if he does not put in an appearance on the third day, he is considered missing; and were he to come back of his own accord, it would make no difference⁠—he might as well make up his mind, at once, to be flogged.”

“At any rate, I hope we shall escape the flogging,” replied Vasíli; “if we succeed in getting away, we will not return of our own accord.”

“And if you don’t,” growled Burán, “it will be all the same; it will end in the crows devouring your carcass, as it lies not far from one of the outposts. The soldiers have no time to fool away for your sake; they won’t escort you back hundreds of versts. Wherever they see you, they will shoot you down, and there is the end of it.”

“Stop croaking, you old raven! Remember, we start tomorrow. Tell Bobróf what we need, and the artel will supply us.”

The old man mumbled some reply, and left him with downcast head, while Vasíli went to his comrades and bade them get ready. He had given up the duties of stárosta’s assistant some time before, and another man had been chosen in his place. The fugitives packed their bags, exchanged their clothes for the strongest that could be found, and the next day volunteered to work on the mill. That very day they all left work, and lud themselves in the woods. Burán alone was not among them.

It was a well selected party. Among Vasíli’s comrades were a personal friend of his, called Volóydka Makárof, a strong and agile man, who had already escaped twice from Kára; two Circassians, determined fellows, and invaluable as faithful comrades; and a Tartar, a great rogue, but skilful and ingenious. The rest were also vagrants, who had more than once wandered through Siberia.

Already the fugitives had been one day in the woods;⁠ ⁠… the night had passed, and the greater part of the following day; still no Burán. The Tartar was sent to the barracks to look him up. On arriving, he secretly called out an old convict, Bobróf, a friend of Vasíli’s, a man who had great influence among his comrades. The next morning, Bobróf came to the spot where the fugitives were concealed.

“Well, comrades, how can I help you?”

“Send Burán to us at once. We cannot start without him; and if he is waiting because he needs something, help him to get it. We are all waiting for him.”

When Bobróf returned to the barracks, he saw that Burán had made no preparations whatever for starting. He found him walking restlessly about the barracks, talking to himself, and gesticulating wildly.

“What are you about, Burán?” he called out to him.

“Why, what is that to you?”

“How, what is that to me? Why are you not getting ready?”

“I am getting ready for my grave; that is what I am getting ready for.”

This answer provoked Bobróf.

“What do you mean? Don’t you know that the boys have already been three days in the bushes? Do you want to get them whipped? And you call yourself an old vagrant!”

These reproaches touched the old man to the quick.

“My time has gone by. I shall never escape from this island.⁠ ⁠… I am worn out!”

“Whether you are worn out or not, that is your own affair. Supposing you do not reach the end of your journey in safety, supposing you die on the way, you will not be blamed for that; but what if through any fault of yours eleven men were to be whipped? You see, the responsibility resting on you obliges you to go. If I should report this to the artel, what do you think they would do to you?”

“I know it all,” replied Burán; “they would ‘cover’ me, and I should deserve it. It is not becoming for an old vagrant to die such a death. It seems as though it were my fate to go. Only, I have made no preparations.”

“We will get you ready at once. What do you want?”

“Well, in the first place, I want twelve good new coats.”

“But every man has a coat of his own!”

“You mind what I say!” replied Burán, with a show of temper. “I know that they have one apiece; but they need two. Each one will have to give the Ghiláks a coat for ferrying him across. Besides, I want twelve good knives, about three-quarters of an arshin11 long, two hatchets, and three kettles.”

Bobróf called a meeting of the artel, and stated the case. Whoever had a good coat gave it to the vagrants. Every convict has an instinctive sympathy with each daring attempt to escape from their four prison-walls. Knives and kettles were furnished, some being bought, and some given by the convict settlers. In two days everything was ready. Thirteen days had already passed since the arrival of the party on the island, and the following morning Bobróf accompanied Burán to the hiding-place of the convicts, assisting him to carry the provisions.

In accordance with an old convict regulation, the men “stood up for prayers,” something like a Te Deum was read for the occasion, and, bidding goodbye to Bobróf, they started on their journey.

V

“How you must have enjoyed starting!” I exclaimed, observing the animated expression and the cheerful voice of the narrator.

“Indeed, we did! As we left the bushes and entered the woods, it seemed as though we had been born anew. We were very happy. Burán, alone, with downcast head, was marching in advance, muttering something to himself. He did not start in a cheerful mood; he may have felt that he had not far to go. We