Chapter IX: Maurice Dupont

As the twinkling lights of the little settlement receded in the distance, and the stretch of road intervening still remained free from pursuers, Sandoff and his companions felt their spirits rise, darkly as the future loomed ahead. Shamarin helped Vera to prepare and load all the guns. This done, he furled the rear hood, and stationed himself so that he could see back along the course over which they had come. The horses continued to gallop at a tremendous pace, but when two or three miles had been traversed the pursuers hove in sight, and Shamarin soon reported the alarming fact that they were gaining.

“They will continue to gain, of course,” said Sandoff. “It can’t be otherwise. We must fight them off.”

He backed the two trunks and a pile of rugs against the seat, for protection to himself while driving, and instructed Vera and Shamarin to keep low in the bottom of the sledge, which had a depth of at least two feet.

By this time the Cossacks were close enough to be counted, and close enough for something else, too, for a shower of bullets suddenly whistled about the sledge. Shamarin retorted with two cleverly aimed shots, and disabled one of the enemy. This occasioned a slight delay, after which the Cossacks came on more rapidly than ever. It was evident that a resumption of firing would do speedy harm to the fugitives or their horses. Taking advantage of a smooth bit of road where the sledge made little noise, Shamarin leaned from the end and shouted with all his might:

“We have a captive here—Inspector Zamosc. We are going to place him in range, and if you shoot again you will surely kill him.”

Colonel Nord’s reply to this was a volley of oaths, but the firing was not resumed, in spite of the fact that occasional shots from the sledge held the Cossacks at bay.

None realized the critical nature of the situation better than Sandoff. Nearly half the distance to the next station had been covered, and at any moment Cossacks might be met coming from the opposite direction. He decided on a daring and uncertain plan—nothing less than to abandon the post road and strike across country toward the coast. Although Vladivostok was yet some sixty miles away, it was barely two thirds of that distance to the nearest point on the Sea of Japan.

The desired opportunity speedily came—none too soon, however, for the Cossacks were beginning to spread out with a view of getting ahead of the sledge or of shooting down the horses.

To the right of the post road lay wooded hills, and on the left, toward the sea coast, was a stretch of undulating country very little timbered. Sandoff abruptly turned the horses in this direction, and applied the whip with merciless severity. The sledge attained a speed that was truly terrific. It skimmed over the frozen ground, swaying dizzily from side to side, and leaping high in air as it struck hillocks or scattered stones.

The Cossacks made a desperate effort to overtake the fugitives, but the four who had come on from Riga with Colonel Nord began to fall behind, their horses being exhausted. The colonel himself had evidently procured a fresh steed at the post station, for he pushed on with the other three Cossacks.

For half an hour this wild race continued. The ground increased in ruggedness. The undulating swells of land grew higher, and the hollows between them consequently deeper. As the horses galloped with steaming nostrils up one of these long slopes and dragged the sledge lightly over the crest, Sandoff uttered a cry of dismay. Down in the next valley wound a stream a hundred yards or more in width. It was ice bound, but the glassy covering looked smooth and treacherous, and was dotted with air holes.

“They have us now!” exclaimed Shamarin. “The game’s up!”

Sandoff gritted his teeth and took a firmer hold of the lines.

“There is a chance yet,” he cried hoarsely to his companions. “Drowning is better than recapture.” Then he lashed the horses more furiously than ever, and the sledge went down the frozen descent like a meteor, and whizzed out on the sheet of ice. Had the horses been moving less rapidly they must have broken through at once, but their very speed carried them on over the treacherous surface. The frail ice behind the sledge creaked and groaned and broke, and the angry and amazed Cossacks, who were close in pursuit, found their progress cut off by a watery gulf.

On went the sledge, Sandoff all the while urging the noble beasts by whip and voice, but when the shore was only half a dozen yards away the ice gave way with a terrific crash.

Sandoff plunged into the icy water waist deep, and, taking Vera in his arms, conveyed her in safety to the bank. Shamarin followed him with an armful of rifles and ammunition. Then Sandoff returned to the horses, knife in hand, and regardless of the bullets that pattered about him, he severed two of the animals from their fastenings, and after much kicking and plunging they gained a foothold on the firm ice. The third horse was struck in the head by a bullet, just as Shamarin—who had hurried back to aid his companion—was cutting it loose, and with a shrill neigh it rolled over into the water.

“Mount as once,” cried Sandoff, as he led the horses out on the shore. “Vera can ride with you or me—it matters not which.”

“And Zamosc! Shall I shoot him before I go?”

“No, leave him to his fate.”

“But,” said Vera, placing her hand softly on Sandoff’s arm, “the sledge is sinking, and he is helpless. Give him a chance for his life.”

“The villain doesn’t deserve it,” replied Sandoff shortly, but meeting an appealing glance from Vera’s eyes he turned and waded back to the sledge. Leaning over the seat he pulled Zamosc to an upright position, and took the gag from his mouth.

“If you value your life you had better tell your friends to cease firing,” he said.

Zamosc lost no time in making good use of his voice, and he was shouting lustily for help when Sandoff regained the shore. By the aid of a huge bowlder Shamarin mounted one of the horses. As it happened to be the smaller of the two, Sandoff mounted the other, and helped Vera up behind him. A moment later the fugitives vanished over the crest of the next ridge.

A succession of thick forests and rockstrewn ravines made progress slow and painful. Day came, revealing a barren and desolate country stretching as far as the eye could reach. In front of the fugitives towered a range of lofty mountains. After three or four hours of difficult riding they reached the foothills, themselves and their horses thoroughly exhausted. Here the latter were abandoned, and the ascent was begun on foot. A long and wearisome climb brought the refugees to the top, and here their eyes were gladdened by the sight they had longed to see. The mountain and the wooded hills at its base sloped gently to the eastward for half a dozen miles, and beyond were the fair blue waters of the Japan Sea, fading away into the horizon. Near the shore lay two black objects—steamers without doubt.

It was late in the afternoon when the fugitives drew near the sea. One slight ridge crowned with pine trees lay between them and the desired goal. They crept through the valley with slow and cautious steps, fearing either to meet Cossacks who had come up the coast from Vladivostok, apprised of the situation by telegraph, or to be overtaken by Colonel Nord and his party, who for all they knew might have been following them since the previous night.

“The first thing is to get a good look at those vessels lying off the shore and discover their nationality,” said Sandoff.

At that moment a rifle shot rang sharply on the air, and was followed by a second report and a ferocious yell that came from no human throat.

“Some wild beast!” muttered Sandoff, and as he spoke a man’s voice cried, “Help! Help!”

The tragedy—for such it seemed to be—was taking place but a few yards distant.

Rifle in hand, Sandoff ran forward for a dozen yards or more and peered through the thick foliage into a circular open glade. In the center of this rose a rounded bowlder six or eight feet high, and perched on the top was a young man, striking blow after blow with a clubbed rifle at a great wounded tiger cat who was making frantic efforts to get at him.

At sight of the stranger Sandoff uttered a cry of surprise. “Can it be he?” he said aloud. “Yes, it surely is. What can he be doing——”

He did not finish the sentence, for at that instant the tiger cat sprang fairly to the top of the bowlder, and seized the unfortunate man by the ankle. It was no time for hesitation. Sandoff boldly advanced from the bushes, and, taking aim at the tiger cat’s head, fired. The brute rolled backward in his death struggle, while the rescued man half fell, half jumped, from the rock, and limped toward Sandoff with amazement and gratitude visible on his face.

“I owe you my life,” he said huskily. “That was a good shot of yours. I fired twice at the brute, but failed to kill him, and my steward, who was with me, ran off. The coward won’t stop now until he gets to the yacht.”

“The yacht!” cried Sandoff hoarsely. “Is your yacht here? But don’t you know me, Maurice Dupont?—No, of course you don’t. I am Victor Sandoff.”

“Victor Sandoff!” The other repeated the words in an amazed tone. “Can it really be you? How came you here? You, who were sent to Siberia. I heard about it—it was unjust, tyrannical!”

Both were silent for an instant, thinking of the time when they had last met in one of the aristocratic clubs of St. Petersburg.

“Tell me,” said Dupont, “what does this mean?”

Briefly Sandoff recounted the story of his escape, and when he paused, pale and agitated, Maurice Dupont took both his hands in his and held them there.

“Your troubles are over, my old friend,” he said, with tears in his eyes. “Tonight, as soon as it is dark, come down to the shore. You will find a boat there with one of my men in it, and once safely on my yacht I defy the Czar himself to take you off. You must be careful, though, for a Russian corvette is lying at anchor near me, watching for a couple of poor devils who escaped in a boat from the convict island of Saghalien last week. In fact, one of the Russian officers came out with me today. He is somewhere at hand now, with a couple of my men. You see I have been wintering in Vladivostok, and came up here a day or two ago for a little sport before starting for _la belle France_—but stop! I hear footsteps. Keep yourself and your companions well hidden, Sandoff, and as soon as it is dark make your way to the beach. You will find the boat opposite my yacht, which you can identify by the red lantern in the bow. Quick! They are coming.”

The Frenchman strolled leisurely across the glade while Sandoff darted into the bushes and made his way back to Shamarin and Vera with his burden of joyful news.

Through the remainder of that short afternoon the fugitives lay concealed among the rocks on the summit of the ridge, and when darkness came they crept cautiously down to the edge of the bay. Less than a mile from shore lay the steam yacht Grenelle, easily distinguished by the red light that swung from its bow.

“If your friend fails to keep his word, we are lost,” said Shamarin. “He may hesitate to assume such a risk——”

“He won’t hesitate and he won’t fail,” interrupted Sandoff with decision. “There! What is that now?”

“A boat!” cried Vera joyously, and so indeed it was. It lay upon the beach, and as the fugitives drew near a man advanced to meet them—a middle aged bearded sailor, wearing the blue and white uniform of the Grenelle. He bowed politely to Sandoff and said, “The boat is waiting, monsieur. I fear we shall have a rough passage, for the surf is heavy and the wind is rising.”

“Then the sooner we start the better,” said Sandoff, answering the sailor in his own tongue.

The boat was small, and without difficulty it was dragged down to the edge of the surf with Vera seated in the stern. The three men pushed the craft out through the surf. Then they sprang in, and Sandoff and the sailor fell to the oars, Vera and her brother meanwhile bailing out the water that had been flung over the sides.

“Pull with all your strength, my friend,” said Sandoff. “It will be no easy matter to gain the yacht.”

The wind was blowing toward the shore. Each moment it seemed to increase in violence, and the sea to grow more turbulent. After a period of steady rowing Sandoff noted with alarm that the boat was being carried in the direction of the Russian corvette. Again and again it was headed for the crimson wake of the lantern, and each time the waves buffeted it persistently out of its course. Shamarin relieved Sandoff at the oar, but with no better result. The situation was becoming alarming. The sky was overcast with dark, murky clouds, and the waves tossed the frail craft about at will.

Suddenly a ruddy blaze was seen on the beach. Then a rocket with a luminous blue wake whizzed high in the air, and before the fugitives could recover from their surprise a similar signal was sent up from the deck of the corvette.

“We have been tracked to the shore,” cried Sandoff. “The Cossacks must have come up from Vladivostok, and now they are signaling to the corvette either to be on the lookout or to send a boat in.”

“Most likely the latter,” said Shamarin. “Look! Lights are moving on deck, and I can hear the rattling of chains.”

The possibility of recapture when safety was so near at hand dismayed the fugitives. The boat was in a dangerous position, being directly between the corvette and the shore.

“We may be saved yet,” cried Sandoff hoarsely. “Pull straight for the yacht—pull as you never pulled in your lives. It is our last chance.”

The men tugged desperately at the oars, and to such purpose that the boat made visible headway toward the Grenelle. A shout for help might have brought another boat to the rescue, but as it could have been heard with equal distinctness on board the corvette this expedient was out of the question.

Another mishap was close at hand. As the sailor pulled desperately at his oar, it split with a sharp crack. In the momentary confusion that followed, the boat swung broadside to the waves, and a fierce blast of wind coming up at that instant, over it went in the twinkling of an eye.

Sandoff, being on the leeward side, shot out and downward, going clear under the icy water and coming to the surface a few seconds later, to find the capsized boat half a dozen feet from him. To the bow clung Shamarin, submerged to the breast, while the sailor had managed to crawl upon the stern. Vera was not to be seen, and as Sandoff made this terrible discovery his heart seemed to stand still and his chilled limbs to lose their power.

“Victor! Victor! Help me!”

His name was called in feeble accents, and he saw a head and an arm floating in the waves between him and the boat.

All else was instantly forgotten. With three powerful strokes he reached the spot, and placed one arm tightly about the girl’s waist, while with the other he beat the water furiously.

“I will save you, I will save you, Vera—my darling!” he whispered hoarsely. The words came unbidden from his very soul. This moment of common peril had wrung from his lips the confession of a passion that he had cherished in secret for months.

The wind forced the boat down toward him, and throwing up his arm he caught the keel and clung there, pressing his precious burden close to his side. Slowly the space between the yacht and the boat widened. They were drifting nearer and nearer to the long, black hull of the Russian corvette.

“Better to die now than go back to the mines—back to torture and a living death,” whispered Shamarin across the boat. “Good by, Sandoff. I can’t hold on much longer.”

Sandoff could not reply. His own strength was failing, and a deadly numbness was stealing his senses away. The heroic sailor remained mute, faithful to his trust, though a single cry would have brought rescuers to the spot.

Suddenly the quick, sharp rattle of oars was heard. The sound came nearer and nearer, and finally a dim object passed close to the drifting boat. It was the gig from the corvette, speeding toward the shore.

As the dreaded object disappeared in the gloom, Sandoff still held to the keel, though his arm seemed to be tearing from the socket. With the other arm he fiercely drew Vera to his breast until her cheek was almost touching his.

“I love you, I love you!” he cried passionately. “I tell you now, Vera, in the presence of death. Would that God had seen fit to spare us for another and a better life in a land without tyranny and oppression! But regrets are vain. It is sweeter to die this way together than to be torn apart and dragged back to the horrors of Siberia.”

His eyes met hers, and he read in their swift, mute glance the echo of his own words.

With one hand she drew his head down. “Victor,” she whispered, “you have made death sweet. Its bitterness is gone.” Then their lips met, and as the waves thundered around them Sandoff felt his hand slipping from the boat.

A low cry from the sailor roused him, and unconsciously his fingers tightened anew on the keel. The spot where Shamarin had been was empty—the brave fellow had gone down. For him there was an end of toil and suffering.

Again that low cry! The seaman was kneeling on the capsized craft, staring ahead through the gloom. “A boat! a boat!” he cried hoarsely.

“He is mad,” thought Sandoff. “He sees no boat,” but even as he strained Vera to his breast and felt the icy waters rising higher around him, a dark object shot forward over the waves, and a voice cried, “Sandoff! Sandoff!”

The next instant he and his burden were snatched from the icy waters, and then remembrance left him.

When his senses returned, he was lying, warm and comfortable, in a snug berth on board the Grenelle. As in a dream he saw kind faces about him and heard Maurice Dupont’s voice:

“Sandoff, my dear fellow, you are safe now. The yacht is already under way. We are bound for France. It was providence that guided us when we started out to search for you in the other boat. We arrived just in time—but too late to save your companion. The brave fellow had gone down.”

Sandoff made an effort to rise. “Vera, where is she?” he asked.

“Safe, my dear fellow, safe and well. You will see her tomorrow.”

Sandoff smiled and his eyes closed. He was sleeping peacefully.

* * * * *

Toward the end of the following June the Grenelle entered the harbor of Marseilles, and Sandoff and Vera journeyed by rail to Paris, accompanied by Maurice Dupont.

But little more remains to be told. Vera and Sandoff were married in Paris, where both had friends, and the honeymoon was spent in Maurice Dupont’s villa at Asnieres. They will never return to Russia, nor have they any desire to do so. They live happily in their adopted country, but if they are spared to the extreme limit of old age they can never forget the terrible adventures they shared together when escaping from the mines of Kara, or that memorable night off the Siberian coast when poor Felix Shamarin lost his life in the sea he toiled so hard to reach.

EDITORIAL ETCHINGS.

FROM WEEKLY TO MAGAZINE.

In the issue of the 18th of August, MUNSEY’S WEEKLY announced that thereafter that publication would be issued monthly and in magazine form, instead of weekly, and that the name would accordingly be changed to MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE. This departure has been made in the belief that the MAGAZINE will furnish broader scope for serious work than the WEEKLY, that its ample pages and higher grade of art will remove it to a more desirable distance from the daily press, which with its illustrations and its great Sunday issues has, to a very great extent, usurped the position once held by the illustrated weekly journals of this country.

Now that the transition from WEEKLY to MAGAZINE is accomplished it will be the purpose of the management to make MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE a publication of the best grade—one that shall be strong in illustration, instructive in its heavier articles and entertaining in its fiction. Life is a necessary condition of growth, and as we now have life so shall growth follow—growth in everything that goes to round out a magazine in whatever approaches the ideal.

OUR IMMIGRANT ARMIES.

“Hundreds of thousands of able bodied immigrants arriving in our ports every year! What a tremendous addition to the wealth and prosperity of the country!”

“Hundreds of thousands of penniless immigrants arriving in our ports every year! No wonder that in the American labor market competition grows fiercer and fiercer!”

Here we have two expressions of opinion that may be heard every day, and that give diametrically opposite views of one of the most familiar and important facts of the day. Which of the two is correct? Is the arrival of a foreigner, whose sole capital is his ability to labor, a benefit or an injury to the country? It is surely time that the question should be definitely decided in the popular mind. The annual influx of about half a million foreigners cannot but have a tremendous effect upon the industrial, social and political development of the country. If its effect is beneficial, then the influx should be encouraged and even stimulated; if injurious, it should be regulated and restricted.

The question is one for political economists and statesmen. Politicians of the ordinary sort will no doubt prefer to let it severely alone. It was indeed raised as a political issue by the defunct Knownothing party, but the shape in which it was presented, and the answer that it met, belong to a past generation. We have to deal with the subject anew, and at a more advanced point in our national history. Our condition, our needs, and our dangers are widely different from those of our predecessors, and changed circumstances may require altered policies.

Few will question the truth of the axiom that the great need of a new country is industrious immigrants. In the youth of the American commonwealth, its pioneers found themselves possessed of a vast continent of almost boundless natural resources, upon whose eastern edge a handful of scanty population was scattered. Had immigration ceased at the beginning of the present century, the development of those resources would have been incalculably retarded. This would be today a comparatively small, weak and indigent nation—more closely resembling, perhaps, the Canada of today than the United States of today.

So much for the past. Now for the future. Do not common sense and experience show that communities, like individuals, must have their birth, their adolescence, and their maturity? And must there not come a time in their development when accessions to their numbers are rather a burden than an aid? We have all heard of over populated countries, and it is not necessary to be a follower of Malthus to recognize that while population tends to multiply in an ever increasing ratio, there must always be a limit to the means of subsistence. That we are within measurable distance of such a limit we do not maintain; that we are advancing toward it cannot be denied.

Take England as an example of a country in the state of social and industrial development that we are approaching. She is old and crowded with population. Her resources have been exploited, her railroads have been built, her canals have been dug. Her industries are of course vast in extent, but their expansion becomes more and more difficult, and it grows harder and harder to find employment for the increasing hosts who demand work. If it were proposed to bring into England, from some other country, a hundred thousand, or even a thousand, penniless laborers, what a unanimous outcry would be raised against the inexpediency of such action! The vehemence with which the idea would be opposed may be judged from the uneasiness and even indignation already excited there by the gathering in London of a colony, comparatively insignificant in numbers, of immigrants from Eastern Europe.

The condition of the United States is still very different from that of England. She has over five hundred inhabitants to the square mile—we have but twenty. There are still fertile plains in the West that have not felt the plow, and lodes of ore in our mountains awaiting the miner’s pick. We have still great resources to develop. But there evidently is a point in a country’s history at which foreign immigration, once vitally beneficial, becomes injurious. The question that calls for earnest discussion and speedy settlement is whether we are now approaching that point—whether we have not already arrived there.

RULING OUT ART.

In their dealings with Art, Congress and the Treasury Department have not been fortunate. The legislative and executive authorities at Washington seem to think that the great and glorious principle of protection to American industries demands the exclusion or heavy taxation of every product of foreign art. The Treasury recently distinguished itself by issuing an order that all engravings, etchings, and photographs found in the mails from abroad should be confiscated. Under this ruling an American traveling or residing in Europe cannot mail a photograph to his relatives at home. An immigrant from Ireland or Germany cannot receive the likeness of his mother or sister in the “old country” unless it is sent him by an express company and through the custom house, whose expenses and delays are almost prohibitory.

It may be gathered from the preceding article that we believe in the exercise of the government’s powers for the encouragement of American industries and the protection of American labor. We are also patriotic enough to think that America is a civilized country, and that a policy of hostility to foreign art is unworthy of her. Art knows no international boundaries and is not a mere matter of dollars and cents. Even if it were, the prohibition or restriction of importations would make us poorer and not richer. Inspection of representative work from abroad is in a hundred ways beneficial to our own educational, artistic, and mechanical advancement. All this has been so fully and frequently pointed out, that we may hope some day to see it recognized in our fiscal system. The McKinley bill did indeed take a step in the right direction by reducing the duty on paintings and statuary from thirty to fifteen per cent ad valorem, leaving the tariff upon photographs, etchings, and all kinds of prints at twenty five per cent. It is difficult to see why the arguments that led Congress to cut off one half the tax upon paintings should not apply with equal force to the abolition of the other half. The Treasury order excluding photographs from the mails is surely oppressive enough to excite forcible protests. It is true that the ruling is in strict accordance with the letter of the law, which had previously been in abeyance. The annoyances—individually trifling, perhaps, but collectively serious—that its enforcement will cause, may result in strengthening the demand for the liberation of art from the customs officials.

DEFECTS IN OUR PENAL CODE.

Nineteenth century ingenuity has identified and christened the science of penology, but has hitherto failed to make any thorough application of its principles. The practical side of the matter is indeed in a state of partial chaos. Take, for instance, the various contemporary methods of dealing with homicides. England hangs them, France guillotines them, Spain garottes them, New York invokes electrical science to slay them with artificial lightning. The great West takes them without any tiresome legal process and suspends them upon the nearest tree. And meanwhile the best thought of the day seems to be turning toward the opinion that capital punishment in any form is unjust and inexpedient.

Another anomaly in existing penal systems is their failure to deal adequately with the chronic “jail bird”—the man whose inveterate tendency to crime breaks out again and again, with only such enforced intervals as may be imposed by periodical incarcerations. Such cases are, unfortunately, far from rare. For instance, the daily press last month recorded a fiendish plot to rob and murder an aged couple in a Long Island village. Of the two conspirators, one had spent a total of seventeen years in prison as the result of a series of convictions for similar offenses, while the other—a lad of eighteen—had just finished a term of imprisonment for a previous attempt to murder.

At almost the same time a miscreant made an effort, which narrowly missed success, to blow up a crowded train on the Lehigh Valley railroad by placing dynamite on the track. Investigation of his antecedents revealed that most of his life had been passed in jail, to which he had been repeatedly sentenced for a variety of more or less serious crimes, among which was an attempt to destroy a Hudson River passenger steamboat. For his last offense he was tried, convicted, and sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment. With the usual commutations, his term will probably expire in five or six years, when we may expect him to renew his attacks upon his fellow men.

The dual purpose of the penal law is, we take it, the reformation of the criminal and the protection of society. Now in the cases cited, and in scores of similar ones, it is entirely clear that repeated terms of imprisonment have not the slightest corrective or deterrent effect upon the offender, while they afford only a temporary safeguard to the community upon which he preys. As soon as he is released from jail, his perverted mental bent impels him to resume his warfare against mankind. It is mere fatuity to give such a man his liberty, when liberty simply means another opportunity to attack the lives or property of others. And yet, under existing laws, he is again and again set loose to resume his predatory career. There is no statute under which his incurable hostility to society can be rendered innocuous by imprisonment for life. And yet it is evident that such is the only rational method of dealing with a large number of cases.