“ ‘I wonder what our folks are doing now, boys!’ suddenly exclaimed Volóydka.
“ ‘Whom do you mean?’ I asked.
“ ‘I mean the Saghálinians, our comrades of barrack No. 7. I suppose they are sleeping just now, free from care! And here are we poor wretches. … We ought not to have started. …’
“ ‘Don’t be like an old woman,’ I replied, pretending to be angry. ‘It would have been better if you had remained there, since you are so short-breathed, for you only distress us with your whining.’
“Yet I felt very much the same myself. We were weary, and dozed as we trudged along. A vagrant acquires the habit of taking naps when on his feet, and whenever I dozed I invariably dreamt of the barracks. … It seemed to me as if the moon were shining, and I saw the walls glittering in its light; I dreamed, too, that I saw the barred windows, and, behind them, the convicts sleeping in their rows of bunks. Then, again, I dreamed that I also was lying there, and stretching myself … but when I made the motion, the dream vanished.
“What is more painful for the vagrant than to dream of his father and mother? In my dream, it was as if nothing had ever happened to me, as though neither prison nor Saghálin had ever existed; it seemed as if I were lying in my parents’ house, and my mother, softly humming, were combing and smoothing my hair. A candle stood on the table, and my father, with spectacles on his nose, was reading an ancient book … he was a bookkeeper. …
“Arousing from my doze, I felt as if I could have stabbed myself then and there. Instead of home, I saw a narrow forest-path; Makárof was walking ahead, and we were following him in single file.
“Fitful gusts of wind rose every now and then, swaying the branches, and, again subsiding, left everything silent as before. Through the trees, in the distance, we caught glimpses of the sea, and above it a bit of the sky, showing the first faint vestige of dawn, a warning for us to hide in some ravine. The sea is never, never silent; you may have noticed that yourself. It always seems to be talking, or singing, or murmuring something. … It was this that made me dream ever of songs. The sea always made us feel homesick … because we were not used to it, I suppose. As we approached Nikoláevsk, the country grew more thickly settled, and our danger increased; but we still pushed slowly along. We travelled by night, and by day hid in thickets, so dense that beast or bird could hardly have penetrated, far less a human being. We ought to have avoided the city of Nikoláevsk; but we were exhausted, wandering in the wilderness, and our provisions were nearly out. One evening, toward night, we reached the river, and perceived some people on the banks. As we drew near, we recognized them to be the ‘Free Company.’15 They were seining. We approached in an easy, self-composed manner.
“ ‘How do you do, gentlemen of the Free Company!’
“ ‘How do you do!’ they replied. ‘Where do you hail from?’
“By degrees we entered into conversation with them. Their stárosta, after looking at us attentively, called me aside and said:—
“ ‘Are you not the men from Saghálin? Is it you who have “covered” Saltánof?’
“I must confess I was in doubt whether it would be wise to tell him the truth; for, though he was a fellow-convict, yet, in a matter such as this, I hesitated to confide in anyone. If one stops to consider, a Free Company is a very different matter from an ordinary convict artel; for, should any of them wish to curry favor with the officials, he could secretly report us—for was he not a ‘free man’? Inside the prison-walls, we were acquainted with all the spies; whenever we were betrayed, we knew at once whom to suspect. Here we were at the mercy of all.
“Noticing my hesitation, he added: ‘Have no fear; I would not betray a comrade! Moreover, it is none of my business; I take your word for it. Only, as I had heard that a crime had been committed on Saghálin, and as there are eleven of you, I suspected it. This is a dangerous business, boys; it was a bold deed, and our isprávnik is a shrewd one, I assure you. But, then, that’s your own lookout. You will be lucky if you succeed in getting away. Now, let me offer you some provisions belonging to the artel, which were left over; you are welcome to them, as we are to return tonight. You can also have what bread there is left, and some fish. Don’t you need a kettle?’
“ ‘An extra one might come handy.’
“ ‘Take the one that belongs to our artel. I will bring you more things in the night, for I always feel it my duty to help a comrade.’
“We were much relieved. I took off my hat and bowed to this kindhearted man. My comrades also thanked him. … We were glad to receive the provisions, but still better pleased to hear a kind word. Until now we had held aloof from all, being well aware that death was the only thing we could expect from any man; and these men pitied us. In our joy, we nearly got ourselves into trouble.
“After they had left us, our boys grew more cheerful, and Volóydka even began to dance. We forgot our anxiety, and, on entering a deep valley, near the riverbank, called Dickman’s Valley, after a German steamship-owner by the name of Dickman, who built his steamers there, we made a fire, and hung the two kettles over it. In one we made tea, and in the other fish-chowder. By that time it was nearly night, and soon after it grew quite dark, and rain began to fall; but as we were sitting by the fire, drinking tea, it did not trouble us much.
“There
