The Red Rat's Daughter

"And now that we are on our way again, my dear Browne," said Maas when the others had gone below, "what is our destination?"

"Of our ultimate destination I am not yet quite certain," answered Browne, who was anxious to gain time to think before he committed himself. "But at first we are going north to have a look at the Sea of Okhotsk. My fiancée's father has been residing on an island there for many years, and it is our intention to pick him up and to bring him home, in order that he may be present at our wedding."

"In other words," put in Maas, "you are conniving at the escape of a Russian convict from Saghalien. Is that so?"

Browne uttered a cry that was partly one of astonishment, and partly one of terror. He could scarcely believe he had heard aright. This was the second time, since they had been on board the yacht, that Maas had played him this sort of trick, and he did not want to be taken in again. Was the other really aware of what they were going to do, or was this, as on the previous occasion, a shot fired at random?

"My dear fellow," he began, as unconcernedly as his excitement would permit, "what on earth do you mean? Help a Russian convict to escape? Surely you must have taken leave of your senses."

"Look here," said Maas with unusual emphasis, "what is the use of your attempting to keep a secret? Nature never intended you for a conspirator. You may not have guessed it, but I have seen for some considerable time past, long before we left Europe in fact, that there was trouble in the wind. Otherwise, why do you think I should have accompanied you to the East, so many thousand weary miles from Paris and civilization?"

"Because your health was bad," Browne replied. "At least, that is what you said yourself. Was that not so?"

"My health is as good as your own," the other answered. "No, Browne, I invented that excuse because I wanted to come with you; because I had some sort of notion of what you were about to do."

"But, even supposing it should be so, how could you have known it?"

"I will tell you. Do you remember the night at the Amphitryon Club when you told me that you were thinking of taking a trip to the Farther East?"

Browne admitted that he did remember it.

"Well, I happened to know who the lady was to whom you were paying such marked attention. I happened to mention her name one day to an old friend, who immediately replied, 'I know the young lady in question; she is the daughter of the famous Polowski, the Nihilist, who was sent to Siberia, and who is now confined upon the island of Saghalien.' Then you spoke of your yachting voyage to the Farther East, and I put two and two together, and resolved that, happen what might, I would see you through the business. You see how candid I am with you."

"And do you mean to say that you knew all the time what I was going to do?"

"All the time," said Maas. "Did not I give you a hint at breakfast on the morning following our joining the yacht at Southampton? I am your friend, Browne; and, as your friend, I want to be allowed to stand by you in your hour of danger. For it is dangerous work you are engaged upon, as I suppose you know."

"And do you really mean that you are going to help me to get this man out of his place of captivity?" inquired Browne, putting on one side the other's reference to their friendship.

"If you are going to do it, I'm certainly going to stand by you," Maas replied. "That's why I am here."

"And all the time I was wishing you at Hanover, because I thought, that if you knew, you would disapprove."

"It only goes to show how little we know our true friends," continued Maas. "If you feel that you can trust me now, do not let us have any more half-measures. Let me be with you hand and glove, or put me ashore somewhere, and get me out of the way. I don't want to push myself in where I am not wanted."

Browne was genuinely touched. "My dear old fellow," he answered, putting his hand on Maas's shoulder, "I must confess I feel as if I had treated you very badly. If you are really disposed to help me, I shall be only too glad of your assistance. It's a big job, and a hideously risky one. I don't know what on earth I shall do if we fail."

Then, in the innocence of his heart, Browne told him as much of their arrangements as he had revealed to Jimmy Foote. Maas expressed his sympathy, and forthwith propounded several schemes for getting the unhappy man to a place of safety, when they had got him on board the yacht. He went so far as to offer to land on the island, and to make his way into the interior in the hope of being able to render some assistance should it be necessary.

"Well, you know your own business best," said Jimmy Foote to Browne, when the latter had informed him of the discovery he had made. "But I can't say that I altogether like the arrangement. If he had guessed our secret, why didn't he let us know that he knew it? It seems to me that there is a little bit of underhand work somewhere."

"I think you are misjudging him," returned Browne; "upon my word I do. Of one thing there can be no sort of doubt, and that is, that whatever he may have known, he is most anxious to help."

"Is he?" exclaimed Jimmy, in a tone that showed that he was still more than a little sceptical concerning Maas's good intentions. "I don't set up to be much of a prophet; but I am willing to go so far as to offer to lay a hundred pounds to a halfpenny, that we shall find he has been hoodwinking us somewhere before we've done."

Jimmy spoke with such unusual gravity that Browne looked at him in surprise. "Oh, you may look," answered Jimmy; "but you won't stare away what I think. Browne, old man," he continued, "you and I were at school together; we have been pals for a very long time; and I'm not going to see you, just when you're booked to settle down happily with your wife, and become a respectable member of society, upset and spoil everything by a foolish action."

"Thank you, Jimmy," said Browne. "I know you mean well by me; but, at the same time, you must not let your liking for me make you unjust to other people. Maas has proved himself my friend, and I should be mean indeed if I ventured to doubt him."

"All right," replied Jimmy; "go your way. I'll say no more."

That evening Browne realized his long-felt wish. He and Katherine promenaded the deck together, as the yacht sped on its way, across the seas, towards their goal, and talked for hours together of their hopes and aspirations. When at last she and Madame Bernstein bade the gentlemen good-night, the latter adjourned to the smoking-room to discuss their plan of action. Maas had been evidently thinking the matter over, for he was prepared with one or two new suggestions, which struck the company as being eminently satisfactory. So sincere was he, and so anxious to be of service, that when at last they bade each other good-night, and he had retired below, Jimmy turned to Browne, who was standing beside the bulwark, and said: —

"Jack, old boy, I believe, after all, that I've done that man an injustice. I do think now that he is really anxious to do what he can."

"I'm glad indeed to hear you say so," Browne rejoined; "for I'm sure he is most anxious to be of use. Forgive me if I was a bit sharp to you this afternoon. I cannot tell you how grateful I feel to you for all your kindness."

"Fiddlesticks!" muttered Jimmy. "There's no talk of kindness between us."

Fourteen days after leaving Yokohama, and a little before sunset, those on board the yacht caught their first glimpse of the Russian island, of which they had come in search. At first it was scarcely discernible; then, little by little, it grew larger, until its steep and abrupt rocks could be distinctly seen, with a far-away line of distant mountain-peaks, stretching to the northward.

Katharine, Madame Bernstein, and the three young men were upon the bridge at the time. Browne, who held his sweetheart's hand, could feel her trembling. Madame Bernstein appeared by far the most excited of the group. Advanced though the time of year was, the air was bitterly cold. But, for once in a way, the Yezo Strait, usually so foggy, was now devoid even of a vestige of vapour. The season was a late one, and for some hours they had been passing packs of drift ice; but as they closed up on the land it could be seen lying in thick stacks along the shore.

"That is Cape Siretoko," said Browne. "It is the most southerly point of Saghalien."

CHAPTER XXV

Three weeks had elapsed since that memorable afternoon, when the party on board the yacht, had obtained their first glimpse of the island of Saghalien. In pursuance of the plan MacAndrew had revealed to him in Hong-kong, Browne had left his companions upon the vessel, and for upwards of forty-eight hours had domiciled himself in a small log-hut on the northern side of the Bay of Kroptskoi, awaiting news of the man whom they had come so far, and undertaken so much, to rescue. It was the night of full moon, and the scene which Browne had before him, as he stood, wrapped up in his furs, outside the door of the hut, was as miserable as a man could well desire to become acquainted with. The settlement, as I have said, was located at the northern end of a small bay, and had once consisted of upwards of six huts, built upon a slight eminence, having at its foot a river still ice-bound. At the back rose a still more precipitous hill, densely clothed with taiga, or forest. So impenetrable, indeed, was it, that even the wolf and bear found a difficulty in making their way through it. To the right, and almost unobservable from the huts, was a track that once connected with the coal-mines of Dui, but was now overgrown and scarcely to be distinguished from the virgin forest on either side.

On this particular evening, Browne was the reverse of easy in his mind. He had left the yacht buoyed up by the knowledge that in so doing he was best serving the woman he loved. It had been arranged with MacAndrew that they should meet at this hut, not later than the thirteenth day of that particular month. This, however, was the evening of the fifteenth, and still neither MacAndrew, nor the man they were endeavouring to rescue, had put in an appearance. Apart from every consideration of danger, it was far from being the sort of place a man would choose in which to spend his leisure. The hut was draughty and bitterly cold; the scenery was entirely uninviting; he had no one to speak to; he had to do everything – even his cooking – for himself; while, away out in the bay, the ice chinked and rattled together continually, as if to remind him of his miserable position. It was nearly nine o'clock, and he could very well guess what they were doing on board the yacht. His guests would be in the drawing-room. Katharine would be playing one of those soft German folk-songs, of which she was so fond, and most probably thinking of himself; Madame Bernstein would be knitting in an easy-chair beside the stove; while the gentlemen would be listening to the music, and wondering how long it would be, before they would be at liberty to retire to the smoking-room and their cigars. He could picture the soft electric light falling on a certain plain gold ring on Katherine's finger, and upon the stones of a bracelet upon her slender wrist. Taken altogether, he did not remember to have felt so home-sick in his life before. As if to add to his sensation of melancholy, while he was pursuing this miserable train of thought, a wolf commenced to howl dismally in the forest behind him. This was the climax. Unable to bear any more, he retired into the hut, bolted the door, and, wrapping himself up in his blanket, laid himself down upon his bed and was soon asleep. When he looked out upon the world next morning he found himself confronted with a dense fog, which obscured everything – the forest behind him, the ice-girdled shore in front, and, indeed, all his world. It is, of course, possible that, in this world of ours, there may be places with more unpleasant climates than Saghalien, but it would be difficult to find them. On the west coast the foggy and rainy days average two hundred and fifty-three out of every three hundred and sixty-five, and even then the inhabitants are afraid to complain, lest it might be worse with them. As Browne reflected upon these things, he understood something of what the life of Katherine's father in this dreadful place must be. Seeing that it was hopeless to venture out, and believing that it was impossible the men he expected could put in an appearance on such a day, Browne retired into his hut, and, having closed the door carefully, stirred up the fire, and, seating himself before it, lit a cigar. He had another day's weary waiting before him. Fortunately, when his boat had brought him ashore from the yacht, it had also brought him an ample supply of provisions and such other things, as would help to make life bearable in such a place. On the rough table in the centre of the hut were arranged a collection of books of travel and adventure, and, since he did not pretend to be a blue-stocking, a good half-dozen novels, yellow-back and otherwise. One of the latter, a story by Miss Braddon, he remembered purchasing at the Dover bookstall the day he had returned from Paris with Maas. As he recalled the circumstances he could see again the eager, bustling crowd upon the platform, the porters in their dingy uniforms, the bright lamps around the bookstalls, and the cheery clerk who had handed the novel to him, with a remark about the weather. How different was his position now! He opened the book and tried to interest himself in it; the effort, however, was in vain. Do what he would, he could not rivet his attention upon the story. The perilous adventures of the hero in the forests of Upper Canada only served to remind him of his own unenviable position. Little by little the sentences ran into each other; at length his cigar dropped from his fingers, his head fell forward, and he was fast asleep. How long he slept it would be impossible to tell, but when he rose again and went to the door the fog had drawn off, darkness had fallen, and the brilliant northern stars were shining in the firmament above. Once more his hopes had proved futile. Another day had passed, and still he had received no news of the fugitives. How long was this to go on? Feeling hungry, he shut the door and set about preparing his evening meal. Taking a large piece of drift-wood from the heap in the corner, he placed it upon the fire, and soon the flame went roaring merrily up the chimney. He had made his tea, and was in the act of opening one of his cans of preserved meat, when a sound reached him from outside, and caused him to stop suddenly and glance round, as if in expectation of hearing something further. It certainly sounded like the step of some one who was carefully approaching the hut. Who could it be? The nearest civilization was the township of Dui, which was upwards of a hundred versts away. He had been warned, also, that the forest was in many places tenanted by outlaws, whose presence would be far from desirable at any time. Before he went to the door to draw the bolts he was careful to feel in the pocket of his coat for his revolver. He examined it and satisfied himself that it was fully loaded and ready for use. Then, turning up the lamp, he approached the door, and called out in English, "Who is there?"

"The powers be thanked, it's you!" said a voice, which he plainly recognised as that of MacAndrew. "Open the door and let us in, for we're more dead than alive."

"Thank God you're come at last," exclaimed Browne, as he did as the other requested. A curious picture was revealed by the light which issued from the open door.

Standing before the hut was a tall man with a long gray beard, clad in a heavy cloak of the same colour, who held in his arms what looked more like a bundle of furs than a human being.

"Who are you?" cried Browne in astonishment, for this tall, gaunt individual of seventy was certainly not MacAndrew; "and what have you got there?"

"I'll tell you everything in good time," replied the other in English. "In the meantime just catch hold of this chap's feet, and help me to carry him into the hut. I am not quite certain that he isn't done for."

Without asking any further questions, though he was dying to do so, Browne complied with the other's request, and between them the two men carried the bundle into the hut and placed it in a chair before the fire.

"Brandy!" said MacAndrew laconically; and Browne immediately produced a flask from a bag and unscrewed the lid. He poured a quantity of the spirit into a cup, and then placed it to the sick man's lips, while MacAndrew chafed his hands and removed his heavy boots.

"I have been expecting you for the last two days," Browne began, as soon as they had time to speak to each other.

"It couldn't be managed," returned MacAndrew. "As it was I got away sooner than I expected. The pursuit was so hot that we were compelled to take to the woods, where, as ill-luck had it, we lost ourselves, and have been wandering about for the last four days. It was quite by chance that we reached here at all. I believe another day would have seen the end of this fellow. He knocked up completely this morning."

As he spoke the individual in the chair opened his eyes and gazed about him in a dazed fashion. Browne looked at him more carefully than he had yet done, and found a short man with a small bullet head, half of which was shaven, the remainder being covered with a ferocious crop of red hair. Though he would probably not have confessed so much, he was conscious of a feeling of intense disappointment, for, from what he had heard from Katherine and Madame Bernstein, he had expected to see a tall, aristocratic individual, who had suffered for a cause he believed to be just, and whom sorrow had marked for her own. This man was altogether different.

"Monsieur Petrovitch," said Browne in a tone, that might very well have suggested that he was anxious to assure himself as to the other's identity; "or rather, I should say, Monsieur – "

"Petrovitch will do very well for the present," the other replied in a querulous voice, as if he were tired, and did not want to be bothered by such minor details. "You are Monsieur Browne, I presume – my Katherine's affianced husband?"

"Yes, that is my name," the young man answered. "I cannot tell you how thankful your daughter will be to have you back with her once more."

To this the man offered no reply, but sat staring into the fire with half-closed eyes. His behaviour struck Browne unpleasantly. Could the man have lost his former affection for his daughter? If not, why was it he refrained from making further inquiries about the girl, who had risked so much to save him? MacAndrew, however, stepped into the breach.

"You will have to be a bit easy with him at first, Mr. Browne," he said. "They are always like this when they first get free. You must remember that, for a good many years, he has never been asked to act or think for himself. I have seen many like this before. Once get him on board your yacht, away from every thought and association of his old life, and you will find that he will soon pick up again."

"And Madame Bernstein?" asked the man in the chair, as if he were continuing a train of thoughts suggested by their previous conversation.

"She is very well," said Browne, "and is also anxiously awaiting your coming. She has taken the greatest possible interest in your escape."

"Ah!" said the man, and then fell to musing again.

By this time Browne had placed before him a large bowl of smoking beef-extract, which had been prepared by a merchant in England, who had little dreamt the use it would be put to in the Farthest East. As soon as the old man had satisfied his hunger, Browne led him to his own sleeping-place, and placed him upon it, covering him with the fur rugs. Then he returned to the table, and, seating himself at it, questioned MacAndrew, while the other stowed away an enormous meal, as if to make up for the privations he had lately endured. From him Browne learnt all the incidents of their journey. Disguised as a Russian fur merchant, MacAndrew had made his way to the town of Dui, where he had made inquiries, and located the man he wanted. At first it was difficult to get communication with him; but once that was done the rest was comparatively easy. They reached the forest and made for the coast, with the result that has already been narrated.

"Between ourselves," said MacAndrew, "our friend yonder is scarcely the sort of man to travel with. He hasn't the heart of a louse, and is as suspicious as a rat."

Browne said nothing; he was thinking of Katherine, and what her feelings would be, when he should present this man to her as the father she had so long revered. He began to think that it would have been better, not only for the man himself, but for all parties concerned, if they had left him to meet his fate on the island.

CHAPTER XXVI

"Now, what about the yacht?" inquired MacAndrew. "We mustn't be caught here. It is impossible to say how soon the troops may be after us. There is a guard-house in Aniwa Bay; and they are certain to know before long, that a man has escaped from Dui and is heading this way."

"The yacht will be within signalling distance of this hut to-night at midnight," said Browne. "And you can see for yourself there are some rockets in that corner which I can fire. Then, within half an hour, she will send a boat ashore."

"Good," he remarked in a tone of approval. "Very good. You are the sort of man I like to do business with. For my part, I shall not be sorry to get out of this." He pointed to his disguise.

"I dare say you will not," answered Browne. "You have succeeded wonderfully well. I cannot tell you how much obliged I am to you."

"I am equally obliged to you," said MacAndrew, "so we can cry quits. I flatter myself that, all things considered, it has been a pretty good escape; but I could tell you of one or two which have been better. We mustn't shout too soon, however; we are not out of the wood yet." As he spoke he mixed himself another glass of grog and lit a cigar, the smoke of which he puffed through his nose with the enjoyment of a man, to whom such a luxury had been forbidden for some time past. Browne followed his example, and the two men smoked in silence, while the ex-Nihilist snored on the bed in the corner. Hour after hour they talked on. As Browne had suspected, MacAndrew proved the most interesting companion in the world. His life had been one long series of hairbreadth escapes; he had fought both for civilization and against it; had sold his services to native sultans and rajahs, had penetrated into the most dangerous places, and had met the most extraordinary people. Strange to relate, with it all, he had still preserved the air of a gentleman.

"Oxford man?" asked Browne after a moment's pause, without taking his eyes off the fire, and still speaking in the same commonplace tone. The other mentioned the name of a certain well-known college. Both felt that there was no more to be said, and they accordingly relapsed into silence.

"Rum thing this world of ours, isn't it?" said MacAndrew after a little while. "Look at me. I started with everything in my favour; eldest son, fine old place in the country, best of society; for all I know I might have ended my days as a J.P. and member for my county. The Fates, however, were against it; in consequence I am sitting here to-night, disguised as a Russian fur-trader. It's a bit of a transformation scene – isn't it? I wonder what my family would say if they could see me?"

"I wonder what some of my friends would say if they could see me?" continued Browne. "If I'd been told a year ago that I should be doing this sort of thing, I should never have believed it. We never know what's in store for us, do we? By the way, what's the time?" He consulted his watch, and discovered that it only wanted ten minutes of twelve o'clock. "In ten minutes we'll fire the first rocket," he said. "It's to be hoped it's clear weather. Let us pray that there's not another vessel outside, who, seeing our signal, may put in and send a boat to discover what is the matter."

"You're quite sure that the yacht will be there, I suppose?" asked MacAndrew.

"As sure as I can be," replied Browne. "I told my captain to hang about at night, and to look round this coast at midnight, so that if we did signal he might be ready. Of course, there's no saying what may have turned up; but we must hope for the best. How is our friend yonder?"