Chapter V: Siberia

A glance at the map will show the geographical location of far-away Siberia, but no map, no book will tell you what a hell on earth this northernmost arm of the Russian Empire is.

But little is known of it in Russia itself, not even by the members of the autocratic political family, beyond the fact of its being a dreary, frozen land of political exile, a region without light or hope for the banished.

The people shudder at the mention of it, for they have heard much of it from the broken wretches who have been fortunate enough to escape, after years of toil and suffering. They know that the innocent as well as the guilty are liable to be sent there; that thousands upon thousands have died or been murdered there by the autocrat's petty tyrants, placed there to guard and work them, and that their bones molder or bleach upon the inhospitable shores, where wolves lay in wait for the bodies of victims which are thrown where they can reach them, and thus save the trouble of burial.

A large portion of the penal colony is honey-combed with mines, which the prisoners are forced to work for the benefit of the government that has exiled them there; and thousands of poor wretches, when once forced into them, never again see the light of day, but drag out a miserable existence hundreds of feet underground.

The serfs have been nominally freed; but slavery of the most horrible and degrading kinds is rampant in Russia to-day. The press is gagged and suppressed, and no man is free to speak his opinion regarding the tyrants and their doings.

Is it any wonder the people meet in secret conclave and resort to dynamite?

After a long and dreary passage, William Barnwell was landed, with his companions in misery, not one of whom could speak English, in Siberia, more dead than alive.

They had been treated worse than cattle during transportation, and now their fortunes were on the eve of being made even worse.

However guilty the others of his party may have been, his case was one of the grossest injustice, and one that the United States would have been quick to demand satisfaction for had there been an opportunity of finding it out.

As before stated, there is no such a thing in Russia as justice. All is selfish tyranny and inborn ingratitude.

They--the members of the secret tribunal--knew that the important letter which enabled the government to arrest dangerous and wholly unsuspected enemies had been brought over by a young American gentleman, and also that his identity had been blotted out, and he sent to Siberia; but whether he was innocent or guilty, they never gave themselves the trouble to think, and so, virtually, that was the end of him, so far as they were concerned or cared; not even thanks enough for the result he had innocently brought about to inquire into his case at all.

On the first day of their arrival they were assigned to different gangs for different mines, and on the second, to give the newcomers an idea of what insubordination brought about, they were treated to the revolting sight of the punishing of prisoners with the knout.

There were nearly fifty of them, but what their crimes had been Barnwell had no means of knowing, as he could not understand the Russian language.

But the poor, miserable wretches were unmercifully flogged on their bare backs with that terrible weapon of torture, the knout; and while some of them sent up piteous cries as the cruel whip tore their flesh, others received their punishment in stolid silence, as though disdaining to let the tyrants know that they suffered, while still others paid back every lash with a curse.

It was one of the most terrible sights that young Barnwell had ever conceived of even, and being forced to witness it he became sick and faint at heart. He had read of such things but until now he never believed them possible. He could not believe that anything wearing the human form could be so fiendishly cruel. Indeed, it seemed to be a holiday treat to those bearded beasts who wielded the thongs, and whenever a particular case was administered upon they would look at the newcomer with mocking leers.

Finally to Barnwell's infinite horror a young Russian girl was brought out bared to the waist.

She could not have been above twenty years of age and under different circumstances would have been beautiful and evidently belonged to a grade higher than the peasants.

"Zera Vola!" he heard the governor's officer call as the girl was led out for punishment.

"Great Scott!" exclaimed Barnwell, "are they going to flog her? I had rather die myself than see it!"

He looked around, but no one appeared to understand him, although he noted the horror and disgust on the faces of the new exiles.

The girl was blushing deeply at this forced exposition of her person, but she seemed otherwise firm and undaunted.

The wretch with the knout grinned, and made some insulting remarks, which his fellow-brutes appeared to enjoy very much.

Then she was placed in position and forced to bow her head so that her beautiful back might be rounded up for the cruel blows. And yet she did not flinch, and Barnwell saw red scars that told of previous castigations.

The grinning rascal raised his knout to strike her, when young Barnwell, mad with indignation, leaped into the arena.

With one powerful blow he felled the burly rascal like a log, and seizing his knout, placed his foot upon him and raised it as if to strike.

The movement was so sudden and so bold that the officers were for a moment paralyzed and stood looking at him.

"Wretches, to strike a woman! Flog me if you must vent your brutality, but if you claim to be men, don't harm that girl!" he cried.

She was the only one present who understood the English language.

"Oh, sir," said she, "they will kill you for this!"

"Let them; I had rather die than witness such horrible brutality."

The next instant he was seized, or an attempt was made to seize him, but before they succeeded in doing so, at least six of them felt his powerful blows and went down under them.

Quick orders were given, and his clothes were stripped from him, and he was held in position while the executioner rained blow after blow upon him to revenge the one he had received.

And then he was hurried away and thrust into a cold, damp dungeon, his lacerated flesh bleeding copiously, but with his heart still unbroken.