by Henry Frith, author of "On the Wings of the Wind," "Through Flood, Through Fire," etc.
As published in Strange Doings in Strange Places (Cassell & Company, Ltd.; 1890), originally published in Cassell's Saturday Journal.
I.
"What's that yonder on the berg, Thompson?" said the skipper of the Ann and Peter, whaler, of Gloucester, U.S., to me, one afternoon.
"Can't say, skipper," was my rejoinder. "But," I added, after a turn at the telescope, "it seems to me like a couple of bodies lying close together."
"Guess there's somethin' queer up yonder," said the skipper, Atterbury by name. "Heave to and launch the boat. Blamed if I don't go and fix it!"
The boat was manned; the captain was quickly pulled round the berg and disappeared.
While he was absent you may be sure we had a considerable spell of guessing. After awhile we perceived the skipper and an old hand up on the top, and hailed them. They didn't take any particular notice, and in a few minutes they quitted, but were a long time before they came aboard again. Just before twilight came down, the boat returned; the wind dropped, and there we lay becalmed under the lee of the berg.
"Well, captain, any news?" I asked.
"You bet!" was his reply. "Them corpses is close alongside, froze dead! There's been murder up there, and no mistake. We couldn't bring 'em away."
"No papers? Nothing to identify them?"
"Ay, ay! There's a kind o' diary narrative; some wrote in ink, some in blood, with a gull's quill. It's awful, Thompson! How in thunder they've drifted up here beats me. They're Russian in dress, but I guess one's British; both as dead as seal meat. That's a fact."
"And the berg is drifting on us, skipper," said Noah Soames. "It's unlucky."
"Stow that," said the skipper. "We're all right. The berg won't turn turtle this hitch. Make all snug, Thompson, and come down into the cabin."
He went down, and when the watch had been set and all snug, it fell flat calm. So I went down and found the skipper poring over a roll of thick paper which had been written in different inks in scraps. The writing was headed:--
"The true Confession of Reg. Beauchamp to any Christians who may find it."
"S'pose he means us," remarked the skipper, dubiously; "so here goes. It's a narrative. Just you listen here, Thompson."
I listened as the captain read, and when he had finished I asked him for the papers. From them I have made the following narrative, merely altering personal pronouns and the names, not wishing to have trouble. The paper is headed, "The Beginning of our Quarrel." The facts are as recorded by the Englishman, as it seems; and, with a little dressing up, here's the story:--
* * * * *
"Do you hear, sir? I will shoot you like a dog whenever I meet you!" said the Englishman. "You are a scoundrel!"
"Gently, my good sir," replied the Russian, who spoke English perfectly. "I will shoot you with pleasure in the morning. But I am not a scoundrel."
"You are, sir! You have come between me and Mademoiselle Adèle; you have attempted to gain her over to your rascally plots; you have also--"
"Enough, sir," interrupted the other. "My friends shall wait on you this evening. I have the honour to salute you--blusterer!"
The cool Russian retired, politely raising his hat as he left the quiet café in which this stormy scene had been rapidly enacted. There were few people there at that hour; Paris wore its loveliest aspect that early June afternoon, and every one--or, at any rate, nearly every habitué of the Café Homérique--was out of doors in the Champs Élysées or the Bois, or in the Boulevards.
Only one man--a German, he seemed; a harsh, hectoring, swaggering individual--was greatly interested. He took a good look at the young Englishman, and then silently left the Café Homérique, taking the same direction as the Russian had done.
Left virtually alone, the Britisher muttered an observation and a wish that, if fulfilled, would not tend to the eternal welfare of the Russian gentleman. Then he sat down again, ordered an absinthe, lighted a cigar, and began to think. As he smoked away he cooled. His better feelings hinted at an apology: his pride forbade it; and he quitted the café, in his turn, to pay a visit first, and then to return to his rooms in one of the streets leading out of the Avenue des Champs Élysées.
Reginald Beauchamp, like a number of other well-to-do young Englishmen, had come to reside in Paris for awhile to amuse himself in a more or less pleasant fashion under the ægis of the third Emperor. The most friendly alliance then existed between England and France; English dress, carriages, "boule-dogs," and other appendages were quite the rage.
In Paris this foolish Beauchamp, assisted by an indulgent father, managed to pass a pleasant winter. During his residence in the French capital, he had made the acquaintance of a certain Madame and Mdlle. de Blanchefleur, people of some means and position apparently, who had apartments in the Avenue of the Elysian Fields not very far from the Triumphal Arch.
Who they were--these Blanchefleurs--Beauchamp could not divine, but he soon constituted Adèle Blanchefleur his divinity, and hung upon her cherry lips, so to speak; for Miss Adèle was most discreet, and, for a Frenchwoman, prudish in her manner. At length Reginald fell head over ears in love, and had the temerity to declare his passion to the quiet, self-contained Adèle. She accepted his declaration as calmly as if he had proposed to escort her and her mother to the Bois.
She certainly liked the Englishman--nay, he was almost a Frenchman; but to please her he must make a little sacrifice and if he married her he must also devote himself to her cause.
Reginald protested his willingness to serve her and her cause, whatever it might be, during the term of his natural life, and if possible, subsequently—"for the whole of ever," in fact. She accepted his homage and his heart, likewise his presents and his escort; and in return gave him her hand, sometimes her cheek, to kiss, and he believed it all--
Until the Count Russendorff appeared, and then our jealous Englishman was both annoyed and alarmed. Adèle and her mother were devoted to the count, and it seemed as if Reginald was of no account at all. Then his patience gave way; he quarrelled with the count, who laughed at him; but, when publicly insulted, challenged him, as related.
Such was the condition of things when this little tale opens. Now Beauchamp is on his hasty way to visit Adèle. He found her in her boudoir, a charming little apartment, furnished with all the elegance which a Frenchwoman can make apparent even with ordinary appliances. There were flowers in abundance and knick-knacks galore. A toy revolver stood on a table where were glasses and a decanter, and a coffee service.
"Adèle," cried Reginald, as soon as he had seated himself, "I have to request an explanation of you."
She shrugged her pretty shoulders, and turned to him with an amused and slightly contemptuous smile. The vulgar English of this was, though he did not so read her gestures, "Don't you wish you may get it?"
Reginald continued--
"I must request that you will dismiss Count Russendorff. You cannot pretend to like him, and love me; so--"
"Why not?" asked Miss Simple, with an elevation of the arched eyebrows. "Is poor Nicholas so very objectionable?"
"Nicholas! you call him so to my face! Adèle, I love you dearly, ma belle, but you must dismiss the count or me. Which shall it be?"
She returned his gaze calmly and without flinching; a smile dwelt upon her mouth--a pitying smile it seemed. Reginald's gifts of jewellery hung upon her neck, and shone upon her fingers and wrists. He had been lavish; she had been sweet to him: now she was cold.
"Choose!" he cried, passionately.
"I am at a loss!" she said, smiling. "I am fond of Nicholas--mon ami. What would you have?"
Reginald took up the decanter which contained brandy, and drank a couple of small glasses of eau de vie ere he replied, excitedly--
"Mademoiselle Adèle Blanchefleur, you mock me. You must choose. I will not be deluded longer. Speak, or by Heaven I will blow my brains out!"
She shrieked, and implored him to be calmer. He felt foolish, and lowered the revolver, which he had, somewhat theatrically, seized and pressed to his forehead.
"Tell me the truth, Adèle. Do you love this Russian bear?"
"Bear! you are impolite, sir. You ask for the truth, and you shall have it. Yes, I do love this count--there!"
"You love Nicholas Count Russendorff!" exclaimed Beauchamp, in stern tones. "Take care, mademoiselle. I am not to be trifled with!"
"So I perceive! But you asked for truth, monsieur. I have loved Nicholas since I was a child!" she replied, with a coquettish air, though her eyes should have reassured her lover.
His hand shook nervously; he almost fell. Then with an effort he recovered himself. She laughed, and was about to speak when the pistol exploded, and she fell back on the couch, bleeding from a ghastly wound in the neck.
For a few seconds Reginald gazed upon her with horror. She did not stir. With a bound he leaped to the bell, which he rang furiously, and then in terror and dismay, he opened the door and fled for his life!
II.
Reginald Beauchamp hardly knew in which direction he was hurrying; nor did he perceive that a German had seen him leave the house on the wings of terror, and had made a note of him. The man knew him; he nodded, and then stood at the open gate of the courtyard, which formed the entry to the house occupied by the Blanchefleurs.
Suddenly a cry of alarm and screams caught his ears, and attracted his attention. Murder! Impossible! Who would commit the crime in civilised Paris in broad day? Not an Englishman, surely—yet an Englishman had hurriedly quitted the apartment in very suspicious circumstances! The German thought he would enter.
A flying female domestic ran against him. "Murder!" she screamed, and hurried for a doctor. "Suicide," muttered the concierge, as the German passed upstairs. He had hardly gained the door of the apartment, when he was thrust aside by an impetuous arm, and Nicholas Count Russendorff dashed into the room unannounced.
Then the German-looking man quickly descended the staircase, and returning to the roadway, gently blew a silver whistle, which he drew from his coat. Two gendarmes quickly joined him, and the three held an important consultation. Meanwhile Nicholas Count Russendorff had thrown himself down at Adèle's side, as she lay pale, insensible, and bleeding on the couch. A female attendant was endeavouring to stanch the blood, but the vein obstinately refused to be closed; so, pending the arrival of the surgeon, the poor lady ran some risk of bleeding to death.
"Who did this?" inquired the count, sternly; "what villain has shot my poor sister?"
He made an attempt, by tying a handkerchief round the throat, to lessen the effusion of blood, and then he bathed the neck in cold water. He was thus occupied when the concierge came in with Mdlle. Blanchefleur's attendant, and was followed by Madame Adèle's mother, who had not been able to appear sooner. Her terror and grief were extreme, and she suffered acutely when she perceived the pretty furniture all bedabbled with her daughter's blood.
Adèle now showed signs of recovery, and by the time the surgeon had arrived was quite sensible again,
though feeling weak and prostrate in consequence of the shock and loss of blood.
"Dear sister," whispered Nicholas, "tell me who did this, and what villain has dared to assault you thus! His name--quick!"
"Dear Nicholas, it was not done purposely; it was an accident. He had been accusing me of loving you, and I teased him; then the revolver exploded in his hand. He is innocent."
"Innocent! He!" exclaimed Nicholas. "Then that insolent Englishman is the villain who has shot my sister. Beauchamp is a traitor, Adèle! He shall pay for this!"
"A traitor, Nicholas! A betrayer of our cause!" she exclaimed, half rising.
"Hush! here is the surgeon. Be calm. I will tell you all presently."
The surgeon entered, examined the wound, which he pronounced not dangerous. He stopped the bleeding after awhile; prescribed quiet and rest; took a fee, and his departure, in ten minutes, leaving brother and sister alone.
"I tell you, Adèle, this man is a traitor."
"I do not think so," she replied. "He loves me. These islanders are faithful, I believe; but there is danger, brother."
"Whence?" inquired Nicholas, briefly.
"From Nancolief. He is in Paris!"
"Nancolief, the inspector? The man who wanted to send me to the mines?"
"Yes: he is here. I have seen him. He is watching us. He has a warrant, I am assured. We must fly, brother. Our meetings are even suspected by the French. We may be classed with the Orsini; and then--"
"Humph!" muttered Nicholas. "I must wait till to-morrow. I have an engagement in the Bois."
"A duel?" asked his sister. "Is your adversary dangerous?"
"No," replied Nicholas; "nothing of importance--a chastisement for insult. I shall shoot him, I daresay. Now you must rest."
They parted. Nicholas Count Russendorff descended the staircase and passed out into the Avenue. Here his progress was suddenly arrested by the police officer, who whispered a few words of Russian in his ear.
"Nancolief!" exclaimed the count; "you arrest me. The Englishman has betrayed me!" he muttered.
"I do! Your gentle sister is upstairs?" replied the police spy.
Nicholas was silent. This was too much.
"Yes, I know. My wife is her attendant. There are others."
"Who has set you on this?" cried Nicholas furiously. He saw resistance was useless. "Has that Englishman betrayed us?"
Nancolief shrugged his shoulders as he beckoned to his confederates.
"The Englishman?" he asked.
"Yes; I have an old score to settle with him. Arrest him too. Beauchamp is his name. I denounce him!"
"I am aware of it; he is already in our hands. You need not fear, sir; you will meet at the mines. Friends must not be parted!"
"At the mines," groaned the count; "oh, great Heaven! My poor sister!"
"We will deal with her as gently as we can. Come, sir; my wife will accompany your sister when she is fit to travel. Come: you can make preparations for your journey. No one will suspect you are a State prisoner, I promise you--for I am your very good friend."
The count groaned audibly.
"And am I condemned already--unheard? I will appeal. I will arouse the people. I will call for help, and--"
"Die," whispered the police agent. "I am armed! You may give the alarm now, here; but I will shoot you. I am guaranteed my safety. Do not be rash, count; time will pass," he added, consolingly. "Come; you should not plot against the sacred person of the Father of his people--the Czar. It was rash, very. Come."
While Nicholas, instead of seeking his seconds in the intended duel, was in the iron grip of the Russian police, Beauchamp, who had hastened home in terror, was busily packing his portmanteau. He was thus occupied when a telegram from England was handed to him. His father was dying!
Terrible news! But in his heart the young man hailed it as his means of deliverance. He would start by the mail that evening. Yes! He packed energetically to kill reflection, but his cowardice in leaving Paris while Adèle lay dying, and his avoidance of the duel, galled him. He felt a cur.
"I must write and explain matters to the count. I shall enclose the telegram and appoint another meeting when I reach England. What will he think of me? A coward! Yes, I am afraid to meet Adèle! My dearest, I am the most miserable wretch under the sun!" he exclaimed, as he flung himself into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
He remained some time in the deepest dejection. Then he roused himself and wrote to the count, enclosing the telegram, and holding himself at his disposal. He gave his address in England. Then, unconscious of the blow in store for him, he penned a contrite and humble epistle to his fiancée, explaining his departure, humbling himself to the dust for his inadvertent act; imploring pardon; and assuring her of his unaltered affection. These letters he sealed, addressed, and laid on the table of his sitting-room. Then ringing for his servant, he desired him to complete the preparations and call a conveyance.
A close carriage was in attendance when young Beauchamp, having paid his landlord, and given directions concerning his remaining effects, reached the street. The evening had clouded; there were indications of tempest, but the change did not much affect Reginald Beauchamp, although he was conscious of a feeling of uneasiness for which he could not account. The illness of his father affected him deeply, and as the carriage rolled on to the station he fell into a profound reverie.
Surely the man is a long time driving to the Nord terminus? This is not it! This is the Eastern of France Line!
"This is not the Calais train," cried Beauchamp.
"No, sir; it is the Eastern express to Berlin," said the police agent.
"Berlin!" cried Beauchamp. "You are mad. I am bound for England!"
"Excuse me, sir--for Moscow! You are under arrest by the Russian Government for complicity with Nihilists--the Count Russendorff and his family. He has denounced you!"
Beauchamp staggered back.
"Arrested!" he exclaimed. "Oh, my poor father! Where are you taking me to?" he asked, turning fiercely on the man. "You have no warrant!"
"Siberia!" he replied. "Now, be quick; we have no time for chatter. Hi, hallo! here, help!"
Beauchamp had fainted. The strong man had succumbed. He was lost!
* * * * *
"Well, Thompson, that's pretty good," remarked the captain. "But there's a little more. Poor chap; he was carried off--betrayed, you see."
"I s'pose he managed to clear out. But how did he get on this berg, captain? Heave ahead, skipper."
The skipper heaved as requested.
III.
"From that day I, Reginald Beauchamp, can recall nothing distinctly until we reached the Russian frontier. Then we were all examined--all, because there were other unfortunates--and then our misery began. Shall I recount the horrors of the journey, the labour, and the awful misery until my fellow prisoner and I made our escape? No one who has not been in Siberia can ever realise the horrors of it."
Let me condense the narrative.
Such horrors Reginald Beauchamp and the count had experience of for awhile, as sickness thinned the ranks of their companions, and struck at them. But at length a day came. Removed to Irkutsk in civil capacities, the count and his declared enemy once again encountered one another. They were in the presence of the governor, and any recognition by speech was impossible. The Englishman, unaware of his foe's relationship to Adèle, had sworn to shoot the Russian, and the latter had permitted his quondam friend to be exiled and tortured because he believed he had betrayed him.
They met, worked, and continued to dislike each other. One day the Russian had formed a plan of escape, and he communicated this to his enemy. ["Fool that I was, I did not perceive this. He intended to destroy me; if captured, horrible punishment awaited us. If we escaped, neither of us could live; we had declared we would carry out the duel to the death."]
The plan was matured: it succeeded. The escape through Russian territory in winter to the icy sea of Okhotsk, where some vessel would perchance rescue the fugitives, was made.
To dwell on this terrible journey is unnecessary. The Stanovoi Mountains once crossed, the rest was easier. Assisted by the Yakouts, the fugitives reached the ocean, and then starvation became imminent. But after many trials they survived, and, with the assistance of some natives, erected a hut on a lofty peninsula, which jutted out from the land. One night a terrible storm came on. The ice blocks were loosed. The annual breaking-up set in, and the enemies--foes still--found themselves separated from the main land and drifting helplessly out to sea! Yes, drifting, almost destitute, on an iceberg, in the open sea!
Oh, the horror of those days! The Russian, maddened, more than once attempted his companion's life "As these feeble lines are being penned in blood, the madman approaches. Heaven help us; we are no longer human!" says the diary.
"We have fought: the Russian is dying. He has confessed his relationship to Adèle. We have both been in error. I can write no more--strength failing! Heaven have mercy—!"
* * * * *
The captain paused.
"Is that all?" I asked.
"That's all the narration," replied the skipper. "Here's the papers, Thompson; we'll investigate this soon's possible."
At dawn, which wasn't long in coming, I and the skipper, with the boat's crew, went on board the berg. We managed to find our way up, and in pretty quick time, with our axes and ropes, we gained the summit, rosy red in the sun. On the upper slope, near the remains of a wooden shanty, we came on the bodies--a terrible sight!
The first man, I judged, was the Englishman, who had written the narrative. He had a knife-thrust in the breast; a quill of a sea bird's wing was in his stiffened hand! He was dead and frozen. A little way off lay the other--the Russian--also dead and frozen, the congealed blood on his breast and throat having a dreadful look against the white face and the snow. A ghastly sight! He had been killed by a stab in the neck.
The snow was all trampled and spotted with blood. A terrible struggle had taken place, we could see. In the shanty were a few birds half eaten; some biscuits, and a revolver, but no ammunition. It had given out no doubt. The American sailors gave it as their opinion that one man--the Russian--had gone mad. How many days or weeks these foes had been living in armed neutrality no one could determine. For many days, doubtless, neither had slept, for fear of death at the hands of his companion.
"I don't think we want to wait here, skipper," said Noah Soames; "it makes me feel kind o' bad!"
"Ay," said Atterbury; "but we'll bury them. Hitch them into the ropes and lower away."
With great difficulty we managed to bring them down, and the bodies were committed to the ocean. We noticed the breeze rising, so we clapped on sail, and hadn't got a mile away before the berg parted with a thundering roar. Then one piece of the mountain dived down and turned completely over, sending a wave after us which nearly pooped the whaler. But we managed to ride on it, and got away safely.
I kept possession of the papers, and, when the business was over, made them into the tale you have read. True or not--and I suppose it is true--the narrative is extraordinary; and in my mind it is true, or why should the man I renamed Beauchamp write it with his blood? Anyway, there it is! The curious part in it is this: the young lady is not mentioned as having been exiled! And--well there! The skipper couldn't have been playing a game on us. Could he?