Chapter VI: Strange Acquaintance

William Barnwell suffered terribly during the next forty-eight hours after his terrible flogging, for having resented the punishment of a girl, for during all that time he was left without his clothes and without food.

But his clothes were finally thrown into his cell, together with half a loaf of black bread, dry and moldy.

He had never known what hunger was before, but now he seized that disgusting loaf and ate it with avidity, and while doing so he dressed himself, but without having a chance to wash his lacerations, the blood of which had dried upon his back.

But he had suffered much from the cold, and his clothes were welcome indeed.

What would be the next move?

He realized that he was a Russian victim, and that in all probability he would never leave Siberia alive, and that his friends would never know his fate.

Indeed, he understood now that exile to Siberia was like suddenly sinking into the earth or the sea, never to be seen or heard of again.

The particulars of his case were, however, reported to the secretary of the governor of Siberia, and through him to the governor, who, for some reason or other, became interested to such a degree that he ordered the presumptuous prisoner brought before him.

When taken from his loathsome cell, young Barnwell did not know, did not care what his fate was to be. He was so stiff that he could scarcely walk, and the doing so caused him great pain.

He was marched to the governor's palace by two armed guards, and presently taken into his presence.

But he was far from being the handsome-looking youth he was before he fell into the hands of Russian tyrants, although, in spite of his badly lacerated back, he still maintained his erect carriage and independent bearing.

The governor looked at him for a moment and then spoke to him in Russian, but Barnwell shook his head. Then he spoke German, but he did not understand that.

"English," said he.

"Oh, you are an Englishman--eh?" asked the governor, who appeared to be the master of many languages.

"No, sir; I am an American," replied Barnwell indignantly.

"What brings you here?"

"Fraud, deceit, and Russian tyranny."

"What did you do?"

"Simply brought a letter from New York, from Paul Zobriskie, without knowing what its contents were--simply to oblige a stranger--and this is my reward," said he bitterly.

"Paul Zobriskie! To whom directed?" the governor asked cautiously.

"Prince Mastowix."

"Ah! he has been lately executed."

"Thank God!" exclaimed Barnwell.

"And you knew nothing of the contents of the letter?"

"Nothing; but it is evident that he thought I did, and when I assured him that I was not a Nihilist, he ordered my arrest, and here I am in cursed Siberia."

"You speak too strongly."

"Because I have been outraged."

"You struck one of the guard."

"Yes; because he was about to strike a lady on her bare back with his cruel knout, which act my American blood revolted at," replied Barnwell.

"That is the way we punish refractory prisoners."

"Well, it is the way of brutes and fiends."

"You are altogether too outspoken, sir."

"Why should I not be? I owe no allegiance to the Czar," replied Barnwell, quickly.

"But you owe respect to me, sir."

"As the kid owes respect to the wolf in whose power it is."

"Be cautious, I advise you. If what you say of yourself is true, why did you not appeal to the American Minister at St. Petersburg?"

"I was not permitted to do so, sir, but was thrown into a dungeon."

"Did you know Zobriskie was a Nihilist?"

"I did not. He accosted me when on the eve of sailing, and asked me as a favor to hand the letter to Prince Mastowix. I did so without suspecting that I was in any danger."

"But it appears that you were in danger, and as I learn from St. Petersburg, that letter by some means or other got into the hands of the authorities, he was arrested, brought before the tribunal, proven to be a Nihilist in disguise, and executed. It is very strange," he added.

"But I am not to blame, and why should I suffer for the faults of others?"

"Well, you should not."

"Then send me back to St. Petersburg," said Barnwell, eagerly.

"That I cannot do without an imperial order. But I will forward the particulars of your case to the authorities, and then, if they see fit to act favorably towards you, I will send you back again with pleasure," replied the governor, who was not altogether bad at heart.

"How long will it take?"

"That I cannot say."

"And what of the money that was taken from me, and my passport, and not returned?"

"Well, sir, if you succeed in establishing your innocence, they will be restored to you. Was your passport franked by the American Minister?"

"Yes; and that should enable him to establish both my identity and my innocence."

"But it might take him a long time to show the Imperial Government that you are not an enemy to Russia."

"But it can be shown."

"We shall see."

"And in the meantime must I remain in that dungeon?"

"No, I will remand you to the guard-house until I can find employment for you."

"Thank you for this much, governor. I have lately inherited a fortune, and had just set out on a tour around the world, when this unexpected occurrence stopped me. I am also engaged to be married to a lovely girl, who knows nothing of me since I parted with her in London for the sole purpose of delivering this unfortunate letter, and if you can forward matters any, you will not only win a substantial reward, but the gratitude of loving hearts."

"I will see what can be done," said he, waving him away.

"Please do."

"Take him to the guard-house and treat him as a prisoner of the second class until you hear from me again," said the governor to the guard, speaking in Russian.

And William Barnwell was marched away by them with a somewhat lighter heart.

The governor of Siberia sat meditating for some time after being left alone.

He had been a schoolmate of Paul Mastowix, and well remembered that even as a boy his chief characteristic was hypocrisy, and even in after years he had many times suspected the loyalty of the man, and was not at all surprised to learn that he was an active Nihilist behind a mask of loyalty.

And it was so strange that the innocent cause of his sudden downfall should now come under his charge. The fact gave him an interest in the young man which he would not otherwise have had, for he evidently believed his story.

So he set to work to think of a place where he could put him until such time as he could make sure regarding him, and after consulting with the superintendent, he concluded to put him into the general reception-room, to act as an assistant in receiving new convicts sent to Siberia.

And the following day he was installed there. In the meantime, however his wounds had been dressed by one of the surgeons--a rare condescension to a prisoner.

It was a strange place, but there was little to do, save when a new batch of prisoners arrived; and as he had already gone through with the prisoner part of the business, the place after all did not seem so strange to him.

There were altogether about a dozen men belonging to this department, and for the most part they were exiles for life, or long terms, who had become blunted and reconciled-men whose hopes and ambitions were gone, and who only lived because they could not die--men whose time had not yet come.

The employees in this department seldom spoke to each other. Some of them were old men, some actually tottering and evidently longing for the grave, and when young Barnwell was put among them he was not received with favor, hardly with prison civility.

"He is a spy," said one.

"Put here to watch us," said another.

"But what can he learn? We have no secrets, no desires but to die," remarked a third.

"Yet there must be some reason for this young man's being placed here; keep an eye on him," whispered a fourth.

"Bah!" was the general expression, for they knew there was no occasion to watch them, and if there was they would not be there, but down in the gold mines, hundreds of feet below, where they now suffered with the cold.

And so it passed into a matter of indifference with them. They regarded themselves as favored above the general run of exiles, and they would not, dared not, question the appearance of the newcomer.

As before stated, there was but little to do; in fact. It was little better than a hospital for favored or dying ones, and so they wondered for a little while, and then resolved themselves into the same idiotic company they had become to be.

Barnwell comprehended the situation, and resolved to fit himself to it, for he was buoyed up with a hope of release which the others might once have had, but which they did not have now.

He tried to speak with them, but not one of them appeared to understand English; and after his first day in this department he began to lose heart, and had it not been for the hope which buoyed him up, he might have fallen as low as any of the others there.

On the third day he was given the position of servant to the surgeon, and as he spoke some English, he found it comparatively easy to get along with him, although, of course, he had great difficulty in any position, on account of his not being able to speak the abominable Russian.

The hospital for dying or disabled exiles was a most barbarous place, more like a black hole than a hospital, its principal object being, it seemed, to hurry prisoners out of the world, after they had become incapacitated by age, sickness, or accident for working in the mines.

There were hundreds of those miserable wretches there, in all states of conditions, and dozens a week were carted away, and to whom death was a welcome change.

Barnwell was horrified by the sights which met his eyes, and the sounds which racked his ears; but the thought that he would not have to remain there long gave him strength to bear up and endure the pitiful sights.

The surgeon took quite a fancy to him, and did all he could to teach him the Russian language, so that he might be more useful. But not having the time to devote, he sent him to an old man by the name of Batavsky, who spoke both English and Russian.

"He will teach you if he likes you, but if not he will not speak a word," said he.

"Who and what is he?" asked Barnwell.

"Peter Batavsky has been here over thirty years--sent here for conspiracy against Czar Nicholas. He has worked in the mines until within the last fifteen months, since which time he has gone mad, and the governor ordered him here."

"Taking lessons of a madman!"

"Well, I am not certain he will give you any at all. He is rational enough at times to do so if he happens to take to you; if not, he will not notice you at all."

"It is a strange situation, but as I am anxious to learn the Russian language, why, I will take almost any chance to do it, and to oblige you, doctor."

And with this understanding Barnwell went to the cell of old Peter Batavsky.

He found him indeed a character, even if he was insane at times.

He was at least seventy years of age, bent and bowed by hard work and long imprisonment.

His thin hair was white, and his skin like old parchment, but his eyes were bright, and even in his age showed the fires of youth, as well as a high-born nature, all of which had not yet been crushed out of him by misfortune.

But in youth he must have been a magnificent specimen of physical manhood, standing at least six feet in height, and the surgeon had told him that he belonged to a wealthy and influential family up to the time of his apostacy.

He occupied a narrow cell, in which he secluded himself almost continually, holding no intercourse with his fellow-unfortunates.

To this cell young Barnwell made his way, armed with the surgeon's request, which he at once made known to him.

The old man looked him all over in the most scrutinizing manner, for his great hallucination was that he was beset with spies who were bound to bring him before the secret tribunal.

But there was something about the old lunatic which attracted the young American, and there seemed to be a counter attraction between them.