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.
Pages:
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328