Chapter VIII: The Russian Language and a Story

The next day, and for several days, William Barnwell visited the cell of old Peter Batavsky for the purpose of receiving lessons in the Russian language.

The poor old exile was undoubtedly right when he said that the surgeon of the hospital wanted him to learn it so that he would become a more valuable slave.

But at the same time he had convinced him that it was best for him to learn it, and so he applied himself with all diligence, greatly to the delight of the hospital surgeon, who, having taken a fancy to the American youth, without stopping to think or to care about the cruel tyranny that had taken him there, wanted him to become even more useful, as he undoubtedly could be by learning to speak Russian.

And old Batavsky had learned to love him during the time. But as his excitement over the death of Prince Mastowix subsided he became more and more rational.

His whole intent now seemed to be to teach Barnwell the language, and then to confide to him not only the story of his eventful life, but the pith of it, which covered a great secret.

And the young exile had also learned to have a most profound respect for Batavsky, whom he found to be a highly educated man of more than ordinary ability, and how he could be thus consigned to such a dreadful place for life was more than he could understand, knowing but little of the dark deeds and ways of Russian tyrants.

But in spite of what the old man had told him regarding the improbability of his ever being released, he still hoped that the governor would make good his word, and that his case would in time reach the American Minister at St. Petersburg, and that his government would interfere and demand his release.

And so he struggled on and hoped, learning rapidly all the while, and making himself more and more valuable to the chief surgeon. And, too, he was becoming hardened somewhat, and used to the suffering which he saw in the hospital, and which was so revolting to his nature at first.

Week after week, month after month, went by without bringing him any word of hope, and he was not permitted to see the governor for the purpose of asking him if he had sent his case back to St. Petersburg as he agreed.

He could do nothing but labor, wait and hope. Every month or so there would come a batch of prisoners from St. Petersburg or Moscow, and official dispatches, but nothing came for him; no word, no suggestion that he was even remembered in any way.

Hope began to die in his heart, where he had nursed it so long.

Was he, then, really doomed for life?

And what of the beautiful girl of whom he was so fond, and whom he promised to meet at Berlin?

Would she not forget and condemn him for failing to keep his word, not knowing why did did not keep it?

One day when he went to the cell occupied by old Batavsky, he found him unexpectedly low and evidently very ill; in fact, he was nearly unconscious.

Barnwell at once sprang to his side.

"Are you ill, sir? Speak to me."

The old man opened his eyes slowly when he caught him by the hand, but he did not speak, and Barnwell went at once and reported the case to the chief surgeon, and asked for some brandy for him.

"No; let him die! he cannot live much longer anyway," was the brutal reply.

"But I am getting along so nicely in learning the language of him---"

"Oh, well, take him some brandy, then."

Without losing a moment he hastened back to the old man with a cup of brandy.

"Here, sir, take some of this, and it will make you feel better," said he, raising his head tenderly, so as to enable him to do so.

Batavsky allowed him to place the cup to his lips, and he drank several swallows of the strong liquor, after which he lay down again.

"Thank you, my son."

"Do you feel better, sir?"

"Yes; it warms my old blood a trifle. It was very kind of you to get it for me, but I shall not tax your kindness much longer," he said, with a sigh.

"It is no tax to do a helpless person a kindness," replied young man.

"True, but I am so unused to kindness. Yet I am glad you came to me to-day, for knowing I have but a short time to live, I wish to confide a secret to you."

"Are you strong enough to talk? Take another sip of the brandy."

"Thank you, my son; keep it, for it may enable me to tell my story through, but I could not do so without it. The secret I am about to transmit to your keeping has been my secret for nearly forty years. I have hoped and hoped for thirty-five of those years that I should escape in some way, but the hope is finally dead in me, and I transfer it to you, who are full of life, youth, strength, and hope.

"After I am dead, be it the ambition of your life to get away from this accursed place."

"Doubt not it shall be, sir."

"And should it be your misfortune not to be able to do so, promise me that before you die you will transmit the secret to some intelligent Nihilist, in the hope that he may succeed."

"I promise you, sir, and I will exact a like promise from him if you wish it."

"It shall be yours to judge, my son. As I have stated to you at different times, I was betrayed by Mastowix, with whom I was engaged with others in a plot against Nicholas, Czar of Russia. I was worth a million of rubles, and the whole of it I pledged to the cause of human liberty in Russia. Mastowix knew this, and he also knew that other members of the society had large sums thus pledged. After a while I half suspected him, and so secreted my gold in a place known only to myself."

"A million of rubles!" mused Barnwell.

"Yes, my son, gold rubles. Well, Mastowix, when he thought the time ripe for his villainy, betrayed us all, with the understanding that he was to have one-half of all the government could find belonging to us, together with an office in which he could rise to ennoblement. Nicholas accepted his proposition, and we were banished to Siberia. All of my companions are dead, and all these years Mastowix has reveled in their money and the smiles of the autocrats. But he failed to find my rubles, as I intended he should do, for no eye saw the spot where I secreted it. And all these long weary years I have waited and hoped to escape, so I might secure that money and put it to the use I originally dedicated it to. Now, my son, will you see that this money is recovered and turned against tyranny?"

"Yes, if I ever escape. Every ruble of it shall help crush a tyrant," said he resolutely.

"Spoken like the brave youth I know you are."

"But if I never succeed in escaping, then the money will molder and still be as useless as it has been during your long imprisonment," he replied sadly.

"True, but you must escape. You have youth on your side, and can afford to bide your time. Again, you have an advantage that I never had. You will probably never be sent into the mines where I have slaved my life away, never, but once a year, seeing the light of day, and this will give you opportunities for escape which I have never had. Play your cards so as to win the confidence of your superiors, and when the right time comes manage somehow to escape. How, I will not undertake to tell you. That you must work out yourself. But shape your course for the German frontier, and once across the border you will be safe."

"So far away?"

"Yes, for there is liberty and safety nowhere short of there. If you succeed, the money is yours, to do with as you like, only assure me that a portion of it shall eke your revenge, and mine."

"I promise you, sir."

"Good. If you live to reach Germany, make inquiries for the village of Mertz. Once there, become familiar with the place and its mountainous surroundings, after which this diagram will assist you in finding the cave where the gold is hidden," and he took from his breast, next to his poor old wrinkled flesh, a strip of folded parchment, which, when unfolded, was about eight inches square.

Barnwell took it with hands that trembled fully as much as the old man's did.

"On it is a map which you can easily study out and decipher, and which will surely lead you to the hidden treasure. It is a wild and uninhabited part of the town, only about five miles from the frontier border. That red dot there marks the spot where it is secreted, and you notice that all lines on the diagram lead to it. Mark the line leading up from the old post-road, and on it are marked the---"

At that instant a servant entered the cell and announced that the surgeon wanted "No. 1000," which was Barnwell; and remembering how long he had been absent, he hastily thrust the parchment under his shirt.

"I come," said he in Russian, and the slave went away. "I will see you again at the first opportunity. Drink the remainder of the brandy," and he almost pressed it to his thin lips.

"Be on your guard, my son; for from this hour your watchfulness must begin. Farewell."

"Farewell; and I shall hope to find you better when I come again," said Barnwell.

"But do not be surprised to find me dead."

"Cheer up, your time is not yet come, I hope; and, besides, I want further instructions."

He did not wait for a reply, but hurried to the surgeon's office.