Short Fiction Vladimir Korolenko (best motivational novels .TXT) 📖

and all night, until the break of day, I listened to the vagrant’s tale. III

On a summer night of 187-, the steamer Nízhni-Nóvgorod was crossing the waters of the Sea of Japan, trailing behind it, against the blue sky, a long ribbon of black smoke. The steep shore of the Marine Province was visible on the left, through the hazy light of the silvery fog. On the right, the ripples of the Straits of La Pérouse were lost in the distance. The steamer was shaping its course for Saghálin, but the rocky shores of that island were not yet in sight. All on board was quiet and peaceful. On the top of the house might be seen the moonlit figures of the boatswain and the officers on duty, while the flickering lights of the cabins were reflected from the dark surface of the ocean.

The Nízhni-Nóvgorod was “freighted with convicts” for Saghálin. Naval laws are always strict, and on board a ship with such a freight they are still more stringent. During the daytime the convicts, closely guarded, exercised in turn. The rest of the time they remained in their cabin, under deck. There were more convicts than sentries; but, to make amends for this inequality, every step and movement of the gray crowd was controlled by a firm hand, a well disciplined crew strictly guarding against the possibility of a mutiny. Indeed, every chance here was taken into consideration, even the improbable: supposing a wild beast were to make its appearance in the midst of this crowd, and, in its despair, defy all danger; if shots fired through the grating had no effect, and the raging animal threatened to break down its iron cage, even in such a case the captain would still have a powerful remedy at his command.

He would only have to call out to the engineer’s department these words:⁠—

“Have lever so-and-so⁠ ⁠… opened!”

“Aye, aye, sir!” and, instantly, scalding steam would be poured into the convict’s quarter, as if it were but a hole filled with cockroaches. This unique and powerful remedy prevented every possibility of a general outbreak such as might have been feared from the gray population of the hold. They occupied a large cabin with a low ceiling. In the daytime the light came through small deadlights, standing out in the dark background like two rows of buttons⁠—decreasing, and finally disappearing, on the rounded sides of the steamer’s hull. Along the middle of the hold ran a narrow passage, shaped like a corridor. Iron gratings separated this passageway from the bunks of the convicts. Here, leaning on muskets, the sentries were posted. Lanterns, in a funereal line, shed a dim light through this passage in the evening.

Not a movement of the gray passengers behind these bars escaped the eye. Whether a burning tropical sun stood overhead; or the wind whistled through the bending and creaking rigging; or high waves washed the decks in a raging gale, and the steamer groaned under the lashing of the storm⁠—it was all the same to them⁠—to these hundreds of men, who had no concern with what was going on overhead, or whither their floating prison was steering.

Meanwhile, under the pressure of this strict regime, the gray population behind the iron bars lived its usual life, and on a certain night⁠—when the steamer was leisurely flapping its wheels, and the glow of its fires was reflected from the undulating surface of the deep; when the sentries, leaning on their muskets, dozed in the corridors of the hold, and the lanterns, slightly jarred by the sleepless engine, shed their dim and mournful light along the iron-bound passageway⁠—behind the bars, where the sleeping forms of the convicts rested in motionless rows, there, behind these very bars, a silent tragedy was enacted. The gray society in shackles executed its own culprits.⁠ ⁠…

The following morning, at the time of the roll-call, three convicts remained in their bunks, unheeding the stern calls of the guards. When the latter went behind the bars and lifted their coverings, it was plainly to be seen that these three would never again answer to the roll-call.

In every convict artel all the most important affairs are controlled by an influential and united group, while to the mass⁠—the gray, impersonal crowd⁠—such events are often quite unexpected. Terrified by the ghastly tragedy of the night, the population of the hold was at first hushed. An awkward silence prevailed. Outside, one could hear nothing but the splashing of the sea, the noise of the murmuring waves cleft by the steamer’s hull and hurrying along in her wake, the panting breath of the engine, and the monotonous strokes of the piston.

Soon, however, the consequences of the event began to be discussed among the convicts. The officers did not intend to overlook this unpleasant episode, or to ascribe these deaths to an accident or illness. The proofs of the murder were evident. An investigation was instituted, but the convicts unanimously denied all knowledge of the affair. Perhaps at some other time it would not have been difficult to find several persons among them who, through fear or bribes, could be induced to disclose all they knew; now, however, apart from the feeling of comradeship, all tongues, were held by fear. No matter how dreaded might be the officials, or how stern their commands, the artel was more dreaded still. Undoubtedly, some must have been awake that night. Certain ears must have heard the stifled sounds of the struggle “under the cover,”8 the death-rattle, and the panting breath so unlike that of sleeping men; yet no one, by even a syllable, denounced the perpetrators of this terrible crime. The officials were obliged to lay the responsibility upon the acknowledged superintendents of the artel, the stárosta and his assistant. On the same day, they were handcuffed and put in irons. Vasíli, who at that time was known by another name, was the assistant.

Two more days passed, and the affair