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

had been fully discussed by the convicts. It was supposed at first that all traces were concealed; that it would be impossible to discover the culprits; and that the lawful representatives of the artel would only be subjected to a slight disciplinary punishment. To all questions put to them, the convicts had but one straightforward, and plausible answer: “We were asleep.” But on closer investigation the suspicion fell on Vasíli. It is true that in such cases as this the artel always acts in such a way as to prove, conclusively, the innocence of the accused parties, and by adopting such a course Vasíli could easily have shown that he took no part whatever in the tragedy. Nevertheless, while discussing the affairs of the stárosta’s assistant, the experienced convicts, who had been through fire and water, shook their heads dubiously.

“I say, my boy,” said an old, weather-beaten vagrant, one day, to Vasíli, “as soon as we arrive on Saghálin, you had better have your legs in readiness. It is a bad business, that affair of yours!⁠—very bad!”

“Why so?”

“Because⁠ ⁠… is it the first, or the second time that you have been convicted?”

“The second.”

“That’s the trouble. And do you remember whom the dead Féydka reported? Was it not you? He was the cause of your being handcuffed for a week, was he not?”

“You are right.”

“And what did you say to him at the time? The soldiers heard it! Was it not something like a threat?”

Vasíli and the others understood the full significance of this remark.

“Now, my advice to you is to think the matter over, and make up your mind to be shot.”

A general murmur followed this speech.

“Don’t talk like an idiot, Burán!” said the convicts, angrily.

“The old man does not know what he is saying.”

“He is losing his mind from old age. It is a poor joke to talk like that.”

“I am not losing my mind!” exclaimed the old man, indignantly. “Much you greenhorns know! You act as though you were in Russia!⁠—I know the local laws! I tell you, Vasíli, when the report is sent to the governor-general of the Amúr province, you may expect to be shot. Even if, as a great mercy, they whip you with knouts, instead of putting you to death, that will be still worse. You will not survive. You must remember, my dear fellow, that you are on board ship, and that naval laws are twice as strict as land laws. However,” he added, feebly, evidently fatigued with such a long discourse, “I don’t care what becomes of you all.”

The dim eyes of the old man, with whom life had dealt so unkindly, had long been used to look at things through a medium of mingled gloom and indifference. He waved his hand despairingly, and walked away.

Often among such bands of convicts are to be found men fully conversant with the law; and when, after a careful consideration of an affair like the present one, a definite opinion is formed, it is generally confirmed by coming events. In the present case, all the authorities agreeing with Burán, it was decided that Vasíli must escape; and as it seemed likely that he was to be held responsible for the artel, the latter considered itself in duty bound to help him. All remnants of biscuits and rusks were made over to Vasíli, and he began to “form a party” of such as wished to participate in the attempt to escape.

As Burán had already twice escaped from Saghálin, he was naturally among the first who were asked to join. The old man decided without hesitating a moment.

“I am doomed to die in the forest,” he said, “and I don’t know but that such a death is more becoming for a vagrant. Only, my age is against me; for I am getting worn out.”

The old man blinked a moment, then⁠—

“Go ahead and collect your party,” he added. “It would be useless for two or three to make such an attempt; the road is too rough. When ten of us are ready, we can start. You may depend on me; I will walk till my feet refuse to carry me. If it were only my lot to die anywhere but on this cursed island!”

Burán winked rapidly, and tears ran down his weather-beaten face.

“The old man must be getting feeble,” thought Vasíli, as he started off to make up the party.

IV

Rounding the precipitous cape, the steamer entered the bay. The convicts gathered about the hatchways, and with feverish curiosity watched the high shores of the island, looming up before them through the evening twilight.

At nightfall they entered the port. The outlines of the island had the effect of drawing nearer as they approached, and stood out more clearly defined in their black grandeur. The boat stopped. The sailors formed in line, and the convicts were led out.

On shore, in the darkness, a few lights were visible; the water splashed against the beach, the sky was overcast, and a sympathetic cloud of sadness weighed on all hearts. “This is Fort Doué,” said Burán, in an undertone. “Here we shall have to live in barracks at first.”

After roll-call the party was conducted on shore, in the presence of the local officials. Having lived several months continuously on board ship, now the convicts once more walked on solid ground. The steamer on which they had spent so long a time rocked gently in the dusk, softly sighing amid clouds of white steam.

Lights were moving ahead, and voices were heard.

“Is this the party?”

“It is.”

“Show them the way to barrack No. 7.”

The convicts followed the light. They were walking in a disorderly line, and were surprised to have no one beside them, urging them on with musket-butts.

“Say, fellows, there is no escort with us!” several exclaimed in astonishment.

“Keep still!” angrily growled Burán. “What need is there for an escort! There is no danger that you will run away, even if you are not guarded. The island is large, and surrounded