Chapter IV: A Daring Escape

The convict prison at the settlement of Middle Kara was a long, low, single story building, so situated that one of its longer sides fronted upon the street, while the other opened on a square courtyard surrounded by a high stockade. Of the two narrow ends one faced another street, and the other was backed by the pretentious tin roofed dwelling belonging to the commander of the prison. The interior of this wretched building, which sheltered nightly from one to two hundred convicts, was dirty and foul in the extreme, and was apportioned into _kameras_ or sleeping cells, holding anywhere from four to a dozen men apiece. Sandoff and Shamarin occupied one of the smaller apartments and shared it with two other prisoners, Butin and Vraskoi by name.

Thus, when they returned that night from the mines and were locked up in their dreary cells, they found themselves confronted by a very perplexing question—how to dispose of Butin and Vraskoi.

At present they gave no thought to what lay beyond the first and most important step—the escape from the prison. It was enough for Shamarin to know that his sister had some possible plan in her head—some plan that offered a fair chance of overcoming the terrible obstacles that usually confronted fugitives who tried to escape from Siberia, and especially at this time of year—the dead of winter. He had sufficient faith in Vera to believe this, and patience enough to act and wait.

As for Sandoff, the possibility of escape thrilled and cheered him and left no room in his heart for the dark side of the question. He, too, had faith in Vera. His past experience had taught him something of her strength of character.

As there was little opportunity for conversation, Shamarin conceived a course of procedure and boldly took the initiative. When the four had eaten their supper—for the lieutenant’s harsh order concerning Sandoff and Shamarin was for some reason not carried out—and were lounging on the hard platforms before retiring, Shamarin revealed the whole affair to Butin and Vraskoi. He felt safe in doing this, for both were political prisoners and had a high sense of honor.

The result was satisfactory. As concerned themselves, Butin and Vraskoi refused to entertain for a moment any project of escape at such a time of year, but they cheerfully offered to assist their companions to the best of their ability, although by so doing they would lay themselves open to severe punishment.

“It will be nothing worse than a deprivation of food, or being chained to our barrows for a week or so,” remarked Vraskoi. “We can endure that easily enough. Surely you would do the same in our place.”

This was quite true, and the services of the two brave men were reluctantly accepted.

While waiting for the prison to quiet down and the night guard to go on duty, Shamarin told Sandoff that his sister had been confined for the past year in the female prison at Ust Kara—which was the most southerly of the settlements. He had seen her but once in that time, on which occasion, three months before, they had mutually agreed to try to escape during the approaching spring, and attempt to make their way to Vladivostok on the Pacific coast.

“Why she has chosen this time to escape I do not know,” concluded Shamarin. “But depend upon it she has a good reason. I know her well enough for that.”

“I believe you,” replied Sandoff. “God willing, we will join her before midnight.”

“It will be a partial reparation for what we have made you suffer, if through her efforts you get safely out of Siberia,” rejoined Shamarin. “It will be a terrible blow when she learns of your misfortune. She will reproach herself bitterly.”

“That will be needless,” said Sandoff. “Fate willed that we should suffer in this way. Your sister saved my life. Could I have acted otherwise than I did? But let us dismiss the past and think only of the future. It will be better.”

“Yes, that is true,” assented Shamarin. “We will think only of the future.”

The conversation then ceased, and as all the prisoners were supposed by this time to have gone to sleep, Sandoff and Shamarin stretched themselves on the hard platform beside their companions. For some time sounds of voices and the shuffling of feet came from the main portion of the prison, but finally, about nine o’clock in the evening, everything became quiet, save for the occasional tramp of a Cossack sentry in the corridor without the cell. This signified that the commander of the prison, his staff of officers, and in fact all residing in the settlement of Middle Kara—except the night guard of Cossacks—had retired to rest. The time for action had arrived.

None of the inmates of the cell were sleeping. They rose noiselessly to their feet and gathered about Shamarin as he drew the package given him by Vera from his pocket. Outside, in the courtyard on which the cell faced, the sentries had built fires, and these sent a dull reflection through the grimy panes of a window high up in the wall. The packet proved to contain a long, sharp bladed knife and a short, flat iron wedge—tools well fitted for the proposed undertaking. How the brave girl had acquired them it was impossible to guess.

Shamarin made a brief examination of the floor, which fortunately was old and rotten. Choosing a likely spot, he set to work with such energy and skill that in less than five minutes two planks had been pried loose, and a dark hole was revealed, through which came a damp and musty odor. All this was accomplished without a particle of noise. Meanwhile Sandoff had been doing up in a neat bundle the blankets and change of clothes belonging to himself and Shamarin.

“Now is our time,” said the latter. “Come, Sandoff, delay may be fatal.”

“Yes, you had better go at once,” added Butin. “It will be safer—though the chances are that your absence will not be discovered until morning. It is very seldom that the guard looks into our cell of a night.”

“Yes, as far as that goes you are safe,” added Vraskoi. “The critical point is to get clear of the prison without detection.”

“That will be easily managed,” said Shamarin. “The weather is in our favor. Come, let us start!”

The parting with Butin and Vraskoi was a sad one. Good wishes were exchanged and hands were clasped in a friendly embrace. Then Shamarin lowered himself into the hole, followed by Sandoff, and the planks were forced into place over their heads.

The first step had been safely accomplished, and the fugitives were now in a hollow place about three feet high and extending under the entire prison, for the building had been erected on piles above the ground. This space was full of dirt and filth that had been dropped in through holes in the floor, and was surrounded on all four sides by a wall of heavy logs roughly plastered together.

Shamarin knew the location of the prison well, and had formed his plans accordingly. Bending low he groped his way forward, with Sandoff by his side, until he came in contact with the wall of logs. With his knife he picked out some of the dried plaster from the chinks. Putting his eyes to the fissure thus formed he could see into the stockaded courtyard of the prison. Through the snow, which was still falling, the forms of half a dozen Cossacks loomed darkly as they stood about a blazing fire, warming their limbs. A stack of rifles was visible close by.

“All right! I have my bearings now,” whispered Shamarin. “Keep close to me and don’t make any more noise than you can help.”

He groped his way along the wall until he reached the angle. Turning this he pushed on for half a dozen yards or more. Then he stopped, and asked in a low whisper, “are you there, Sandoff?”

“Yes,” came the instant reply. “Where are we?”

“On a line with the side street,” answered Shamarin. “The next step is to remove a log. Here, take this wedge and help me to pick out the plaster.”

By feeling with his hands Shamarin chose a log suitable for the purpose, midway between the ground and the prison floor, and both attacked it vigorously but noiselessly. In less than half an hour the plaster that held it in place was removed, as far as was possible, and by their combined efforts, one using the knife and the other the wedge, one end of the log was pried inward until they could grasp it with their hands.

It was a critical moment. Before proceeding further Shamarin peeped out through the crevice. The narrow vista afforded only a brief view of snow covered ground, but as all was quiet he plucked up heart and dragged the log entirely out of its setting. It toppled into the inclosure with a slight crash.

Both men thrust their heads out together, and drew them back as quickly with a startled jerk. An armed Cossack was standing on guard along the prison wall not ten feet distant.

The imminence of the peril staggered the fugitive for an instant. They believed that the Cossack had heard the falling log, and expected him to put in an appearance at any moment. The latter part of this supposition was verified almost instantly, and before any plan of action could be decided upon.

The sentry had _not_ heard any noise, for the wind was blowing in the opposite direction, but at the very moment when the fugitives thrust out their heads he decided to exercise his stiffening limbs. With long strides he advanced, bowing his head before the driving snow. In this attitude the dark gap in the prison wall caught his eye, and with more of curiosity than suspicion he bent down close to the mysterious hole and peered into it. He could not see the fugitives, but the conviction that something was wrong quickly forced itself into his mind, and he opened his mouth to summon the officer of the guard.

Too late! A pair of muscular arms darted lightning like through the opening, and the unlucky Cossack was seized by the throat and dragged bodily out of the snow and through the narrow opening. Still holding his victim by the throat, so that no outcry was possible, Shamarin—for it was he who had performed the daring deed—struck the Cossack’s head forcibly against the end of the log. His struggles ceased, and he lay quietly on the ground.

“Not dead, is he?” asked Sandoff fearfully.

“No, only stunned,” replied Shamarin. “Help me to bind him, quick! Every moment that we stay here increases our peril.” As he spoke he tore the Cossack’s leather belt from about his waist and proceeded to sever it in two, lengthwise, with the knife.

“Don’t stop for that,” said Sandoff. “The officer of the guard makes a round every few moments. If he comes by now we are lost.”

“True!” exclaimed Shamarin. “I had forgotten that—what shall we do? It is important that this sentry be put out of the way, as you will see later. Stop! I have an idea. Put on this fellow’s cap and coat, shoulder his rifle, and mount guard outside, keeping your back up against the hole.”

“A good plan,” replied Sandoff approvingly. “I will do it.”

Shamarin handed him the cap and cloak and he quickly donned them. They fitted his tall figure well. Then he crept hurriedly into the snowy street, picked up the rifle that the Cossack had dropped, and assumed a rigid martial attitude. Opposite him was a row of low buildings, dark and silent. To his left, around the angle of the prison, the narrow street opened on the square, and to the right it extended through the outskirts of the settlement to the Kara River. Not a living creature was in sight.

Five minutes passed and no word or signal came from Shamarin. Then a quick crunching sound fell on Sandoff’s ear, and he had barely time to divine its meaning when a Cossack officer rounded the angle of the prison and approached him on a brisk walk.

Sandoff nerved himself for the ordeal. His cap was far over his eyes and the cape of his coat came well up about his ears, so he had little fear of recognition. He presented his rifle respectfully as the officer reached the spot. The latter contented himself with a nod and a brief glance, and was about to pass on when the rattle of hoofs echoed down the narrow street. Hearing this he stopped not six feet from Sandoff, and waited.

Presently half a dozen mounted Cossacks loomed out of the driving snow, and clattered down the street until they were opposite the prison. Then, catching a glimpse of the officer, their commander ordered a halt, and while the horses pranced restlessly from side to side, a brief conversation took place between the two.

“What luck, Captain Petrof?” asked the officer of the guard.

“None whatever, lieutenant,” was the reply. “The girl has probably perished from exposure by this time. Her body will be found after the first thaw.”

From this Sandoff inferred that the squad of Cossacks had been scouring the country in search of Vera. His ears were on the alert to catch every word, though at the same time he was enduring agonies of suspense lest the prying eyes of the Cossacks—which were frequently turned toward him—should discover the gaping hole in the wall that he was trying to hide.

The next question touched on a still more interesting subject.

“By the way, lieutenant,” said Captain Petrof suddenly, “I want to call your attention, while I think of it, to a grave mistake that was made a day or two ago—though it only came to my knowledge this morning. You know the convict Shamarin, who was brought up from the lower prison? Well, by some blunder he was placed in the same kamera with Sandoff, the one time Inspector of the Third Section. You know the connection between them—and by the way, it was this same girl that got Sandoff into trouble who escaped last night—the sister of Shamarin, you know.”

“That was indeed a serious blunder, Captain Petrof,” replied the lieutenant. “I will rectify it at once. I will remove Shamarin to another cell.”

“It will do the first thing in the morning,” suggested Captain Petrof.

“No, I will attend to it tonight,” returned the lieutenant firmly, “as soon as I have finished my round of inspection.”

The captain chirruped to his horse and the squad of Cossacks trotted off toward the barracks across the prison square, while the lieutenant pushed on without a glance at Sandoff and soon disappeared around the corner of the stockade.

The alarm and consternation of the latter at what he had just heard may be easily imagined. As he turned hurriedly a log was thrust endways through the hole behind him, and was followed an instant later by Shamarin.

“Have you heard?” whispered Sandoff huskily. “Our escape will be discovered. They will enter the cell in a few moments.”

“Yes,” said Shamarin coolly, “I heard all. I am sorry now that I wasted so much time with that fellow in there. I wanted to make sure that he would not alarm his companions and put them on our track. I have him nicely gagged and bound. Now my trouble goes for nothing. But don’t despair, Sandoff. We will make good use of what time we may have. Here, help me to put this log in place—then we will be off.”

Sandoff lent a willing hand, and the break in the wall was soon roughly closed up.

“They will find that fellow long before morning,” said Shamarin. “He is in no danger of being buried alive. Are you ready now? Just keep that Cossack coat and rifle. They may do you good service in the future. I will carry the other bundle, and the knife and wedge. We may need them all. Is the breast of that coat you have on filled out with cartridges?”

“Yes,” replied Sandoff, making a hasty examination.

“Good!” said Shamarin. “It is a strong point in our favor to have firearms. That rifle may save us from starvation—and from Cossacks,” he added significantly.

Then, with a last glance at the gloomy prison, they quickly crossed the street, and plunged in among the rows of squalid huts, keeping a sharp lookout for danger. But on such a stormy night no one was abroad except in the vicinity of the prison, and after winding in and out among the narrow streets of the settlement, the fugitives reached the suburbs. Presently they came to the bank of the Kara River, where they stopped for a breath of free air—the first they had enjoyed in two long years.

“It is possible that the lieutenant has changed his mind, and won’t enter the cell until morning,” said Shamarin, at this point, “but we won’t take any chances. The snow is now about half a foot deep, and it is not coming down fast enough to conceal our tracks in case our flight is discovered within the next hour. We should be traced to this point at once.”

“Then what can we do?” asked Sandoff uneasily.

“Only one thing,” was the reply. “Wade up the shallow bed of the river. It is only partly frozen, owing to the swiftness of its current. The Cossacks may suspect our ruse, it is true, but they will follow the stream southward down the valley, and not to the north, in which direction we must go. But come! Vera will be expecting us.”

Without hesitation they waded into the icy waters and worked their way up stream, keeping close to the shore, where it was quite shallow, and sometimes stepping from one to another of the rocks that, covered with snow and ice, rose above the surface of the current.

Two full hours were required to traverse the two miles and a half that separated the settlement from the gold placers where the convicts had recently been working, but at last the ungainly heaps of sand and gravel began to appear here and there. Peering through the falling snow Shamarin descried at a little distance the hollow where his sister had promised to await their coming.

Forgetful of pain and fatigue they pressed on, and as their weary feet trod the soft snow that carpeted the shore of the river, a dull report echoed through the night and shattered the stillness of the valley. Then another, and another—each seeming louder than the last.