She gave him a dazzling smile. "Thank you, Mr. Pope! Thank you very much!" All the crew had gathered to say goodbye. One by one they bobbed their heads at her. Only Ben Turk was more formal, muttering something indistinguishable as he stepped back.
"Take care of the boys, Barney," LaBarge told Kohl, "and of the Susquehanna. And there's a letter on my desk for Robert Walker. Mail it, will you?" The water was choppy but the men at the oars pulled strongly and the longboat headed for shore. Gant, who was in charge of the boat, glanced at Boyar. "Be careful, man. Remember you're a Pole."
"I'd do better here," Boyar said dryly, "to forget it." Jean LaBarge looked back at the Susquehanna, experiencing once more the thrill he had felt when he first saw her lying on the waters of Frisco bay. The shore offered nothing, just a gray slate shore with its patches of snow, and the weather-beaten buildings. This was Okhotsk, on the coast of Siberia, and the end of the world. Before them lay a journey of more than five thousand miles to St. Petersburg, and much of that distance was fraught with danger. The boat grated on the gravel of the beach and a sailor jumped in and drew the boat higher. Jean sprang down to the gray sand and helped Helena from the boat. He turned to the crew and shook hands all around. "Take her back, boys, and take care of the schooner for me."
Several people, bundled in shapeless clothing, had paused to watch the arrivals but they did not offer to approach. When the boat shoved off and left the three standing on the beach the observers walked away, apparently no longer interested. Taking Helena's arm, Jean started up the shelving beach toward the muddy street lined with its haggard buildings of logs or unpainted lumber, all equally dismal and unattractive. There was no evidence of warmth or welcome. Helena had papers she often used when traveling incognito, which identified her as Helena Mirov, governess, of St. Petersburg. She had her own papers, but as she explained to Jean, "Nobody would believe a niece of the Czar could travel without entourage or luggage. They would certainly hold us for investigation, and that could take months and might lead to no end of trouble. And it would certainly alert all of Baron Zinnovy's allies here." "Then you must use the other papers."
"Jean"--Helena looked up at him--"there is another thing. It would be better, I think, if it was believed I was your wife--recently married, to account for the names on the papers. There would be fewer questions." "I agree with Madame," Boyar said. "And unless Madame intends to ask for an armed escort, I would suggest the sooner we start the better for us." A square-built man in a heavy gray coat stopped across the street some distance away and watched them. Boyar glanced at him nervously, then picked up their bags and started hastily up the street. The man watched them without apparent change until they entered the office of the post.
Boyar paused in the door and watched the man cross the street and enter police headquarters. Boyar looked around the bare, uncomfortable room in which they stood. There was no one behind the counter and no one in sight. "Wait here," he said, and slipped out of the door and down the street. The moments ticked slowly by. The fire in the potbellied stove gave off little heat. They looked at each other, saying nothing. For once, Jean felt out of his element. There was so much he did not understand. Shivering in the still cold of the post station, they waited for someone to come. A half hour passed before Boyar suddenly opened the door and motioned to them. "Come quickly!" he called. "We leave at once!"
Boyar caught up their bags and started out the door. He went down the street a few steps, then turned into a dismal alley to a low-roofed barn where a man was hitching three horses to an odd-looking vehicle. "These are volni," Boyar explained, low-voiced. "They are 'free horses,' unattached to the post system. The driver is a peasant farmer willing to make some extra money."
The vehicle was a tarantas, a heavy, boat-shaped carriage mounted on four wheels with a heavy hood that could be closed in bad weather. The body of the carriage was mounted on two poles which connected the front and rear axles and served as rude springs to break the jolts on the always rough roads. The usual procedure was for the traveler to stow his luggage in the bottom, cover it with straw, and then to cover the straw with blankets and robes. On this he reclined, leaning against pillows. The driver sat on the front end of the carriage and drove the three horses hitched side by side with four reins. Hastily, they stowed their luggage, and Boyar brought from the house some blankets and an odorous bearskin rug. Climbing in, they spread these out and then Boyar got to a seat beside the driver and the latter gathered the reins and shouted, "Nu rodniya!"
Eager to be off, the horses started with a rush. As they turned down the street the police official they had earlier seen glanced their way in an uninterested manner. He stepped to the door of the post station and entered. Instantly he was out on the street, shouting after the tarantas. Boyar noticed but the driver did not, and Boyar lifted a finger to his lips. With the jangling harness, bumping of wheels over the rutted road and the ringing of bells over the horses' backs, the driver heard nothing. Once on the road the man whipped up his horses. Their hoofs pounded smartly on the half-frozen road as they dashed off into the emptiness before them. Yet this emptiness would not remain with them for many miles. Beyond that lay the taiga, the world's greatest stand of virgin timber, a wild, lonely region of forest and swamp, inhabited by peasants and exiles, escaped convicts and outlaws. This road was the famous tracht, leading from Siberia to Perm, at the edge of Russia proper. Travel by post road was easy, although subject to interference and questioning by the police. All that was needed for travel on the post road was the priceless padarozhnaya--the order for horses. The same carriage might be kept all the way through and only the horses changed. However, travel by volni was often best, for the farmers' horses were better fed and the travel faster. It was cold. Not a piercing cold but the chill of late spring. The country over which they drove was a vast marshy plain scattered with clumps of alder and willow, stunted growths more like brush than trees. Helena moved closer to him and they leaned back against a duffel bag Jean had placed as a back rest, reclining rather than sitting.
Boyar turned his head to tell them they were headed, not for the post station, but for a farm where the driver knew free horses were also available. In this way, with luck, they might travel the entire distance without approaching a post station.
The curtains of the carriage were open and they could watch the country as it slipped behind them. Occasionally a cold blast of wind whipped the curtains and Helena snuggled deeper into the blankets and closer to Jean. From time to time they dozed, talked, watched the miles go by.
The farm at which they finally arrived had a high wooden gate, behind which were several log buildings, much less impressive than the gate that led to them. As they drove up two huge dogs ran out, barking wildly. The gate swung back and a man emerged, accompanied by a boy.
They were served a meal, hastily prepared, coarse black bread, pickled mushrooms, boiled salmon, wild strawberries and tea. "He eats too well, this one." Boyar spoke in an undertone to Jean. "We must be careful."
Their host was a stocky, powerful man with a heavy beard. His smile was wide but the look in his eyes was hard and calculating. Those eyes took in their warm clothing, the bags in the vehicle, and several times his eyes returned to Helena, lively with curiosity. He spoke to Boyar in Russian, and Boyar commented, "He suggests we stay the night ... I think it would be unwise." "Thank him," Jean said, "and tell him we have no time." When they rose from the table to return to their carriage, their host was talking to a stranger who must have come up after their arrival. He also said something to their driver. This was a new driver, a boy scarcely sixteen, with a sallow, vicious face and shifty eyes. His hair was uncut and his clothing was grimy and evil-smelling. Once, after the carriage was moving, he turned and glanced back at them with such an expression of malignancy that Helena shuddered. "I don't like it, Jean," she whispered. "I am afraid!" Before them the narrow dirt road dipped into a forest of scattered pines that grew thicker and thicker as they rolled and rocked over the rutted road. The lowering clouds grew darker and a wind blew through the pines, skittering the dried leaves along the frozen ground. Off the road the forest was thick with an unrevealing gloom. Helena had fallen asleep against Jean's shoulder and slowly he himself relaxed and began to sleep fitfully, jolted awake again and again by the roughness of the road and the capacity of the tarantas to bounce around... He was awakened by a persistent shaking of his foot. He opened his eyes, aware that the vehicle was moving at a walk and something was pressing against him. Then he heard Boyar's whisper and realized that the weight against his side was the Polish hunter. "Captain, sir?"