The fugitives would indeed have to defend themselves against these ferocious beasts, whom hunger and cold had sent roaming through the province. They had smelt out the raft, and would soon attack it. The fugitives must struggle, but without using firearms, for they could not now be far from the Tartar posts.
The women and children were collected in the middle of the raft, and the men, some armed with poles, others with their knives, but the most part with sticks, stood prepared to repulse their assailants. They did not make a sound, but the howls of the wolves filled the air.
Michael did not wish to remain inactive. He lay down at the side attacked by the savage pack. He drew his knife, and every time that a wolf passed within his reach, his hand found out the way to plunge his weapon into its throat. Neither were Jolivet and Blount idle, but fought bravely with the brutes. Their companions gallantly seconded them. The battle was carried on in silence, although many of the fugitives received severe bites.
The struggle did not appear as if it would soon terminate. The pack was being continually reinforced from the right bank of the Angara.
“This will never be finished!” said Alcide, brandishing his dagger, red with blood.
In fact, half an hour after the commencement of the attack, the wolves were still coming in hundreds across the ice.
The exhausted fugitives were getting weaker. The fight was going against them. At that moment, a group of ten huge wolves, raging with hunger, their eyes glowing in the darkness like red-hot coals, sprang onto the raft. Jolivet and his companion threw themselves into the midst of the fierce beasts, and Michael was finding his way towards them, when a sudden change took place.
In a few moments the wolves had deserted not only the raft, but also the ice on the river. All the black bodies dispersed, and it was soon certain that they had in all haste regained the shore.
Wolves, like other beasts of prey, require darkness for their proceedings, and at that moment a bright light illuminated the entire river.
It was the blaze of an immense fire. The whole of the small town of Poshkavsk was burning. The Tartars were indeed there, finishing their work. From this point, they occupied both banks beyond Irkutsk. The fugitives had by this time reached the dangerous part of their voyage, and they were still thirty versts from the capital.
It was now half past eleven. The raft continued to glide on amongst the ice, with which it was quite mingled, but gleams of light sometimes fell upon it. The fugitives stretched on the platform did not permit themselves to make a movement by which they might be betrayed.
The conflagration was going on with frightful rapidity. The houses, built of fir-wood, blazed like torches—a hundred and fifty flaming at once. With the crackling of the fire was mingled the yells of the Tartars. The old boatman, getting a foothold on a near piece of ice, managed to shove the raft towards the right bank, by doing which a distance of from three to four hundred feet divided it from the flames of Poshkavsk.
Nevertheless, the fugitives, lighted every now and then by the glare, would have been undoubtedly perceived had not the incendiaries been too much occupied in their work of destruction.
It may be imagined what were the apprehensions of Jolivet and Blount, when they thought of the combustible liquid on which the raft floated.
Sparks flew in millions from the houses, which resembled so many glowing furnaces. They rose among the volumes of smoke to a height of five or six hundred feet. On the right bank, the trees and cliffs exposed to the fire looked as if they likewise were burning. A spark falling on the surface of the Angara would be sufficient to spread the flames along the current, and to carry disaster from one bank to the other. The result of this would be in a short time the destruction of the raft and of all those which it carried.
But, happily, the breeze did not blow from that side. It came from the east, and drove the flames towards the left. It was just possible that the fugitives would escape this danger.
The blazing town was at last passed. Little by little the glare grew dimmer, the crackling became fainter, and the flames at last disappeared behind the high cliffs which arose at an abrupt turn of the river.
By this time it was nearly midnight. The deep gloom again threw its protecting shadows over the raft. The Tartars were there, going to and fro near the river. They could not be seen, but they could be heard. The fires of the outposts burned brightly.
In the meantime it had become necessary to steer more carefully among the blocks of ice.
The old boatman stood up, and the muzhiks resumed their poles. They had plenty of work, the management of the raft becoming more and more difficult as the river was further obstructed.
Michael had crept forward.
Alcide Jolivet followed him.
Both listened to what the old boatman and his men were saying.
“Look out on the right!”
“There are blocks drifting on to us on the left!”
“Fend! fend off with your boat-hook!”
“Before an hour is past we shall be stopped … !”
“If it is God’s will!” answered the old man. “Against His will there is nothing to be done.”
“You hear them,” said Alcide.
“Yes,” replied Michael, “but God is with us!”
The situation became more and more serious. Should the raft be stopped, not only would the fugitives not reach Irkutsk, but they would be obliged to leave their floating platform, for it would be very soon smashed to pieces in the ice. The osier ropes would break, the fir trunks torn asunder would drift under the hard crust, and the unhappy people would have no refuge but the ice blocks themselves. Then, when day came, they would be seen by the Tartars, and massacred without mercy!
Michael
