From a sociological perspective, an act constitutes a cri when it violates a strong and clear collective sentint. Yet, in Tsarist Russia, these political exiles did not violate collective sentint but rather the sentint of the ruling class led by the Tsar, thus they occupy a rather special position among other types of exiles.
—Arthur Hastings
In this vast and boundless snowy land, the cold wind seems like an uninvited soul, piercing and tearing through every inch of skin.
The wheels of the carriage creak lowly on the heavy snow, echoing with the sound of the horses’ hooves, gradually moving further away.
The sun has already slanted westward, staining the endless snowfield with a blood-red hue with its afterglow.
Winter in Russia is as harsh and unfeeling as this land, and today, for those political prisoners being escorted, it is filled with indescribable terror and despair.
At the forefront of the convoy was a Constitutional Soldier Captain in a dark green uniform.
His expression was stern, and his deep gaze seed able to see through everything in front of him, even peering into the fear and silence within the night.
He would occasionally gently pat the horse’s neck, urging it to move steadily forward.
Beneath the tall military hat, his face showed no emotion, even though the surrounding cold and oppressive atmosphere did not shake his calm in the slightest.
The Constitutional Soldier Captain carried a strong sense of authority, tightly gripping a command whip in his hand, which he occasionally swung firmly to remind the caravan to maintain speed and discipline.
He did not speak directly to the prisoners, leaving all power and fate to those soldiers who were long accustod to their walking corpse-like existence.
Within the convoy, several Polish political prisoners were held in a carriage, sitting dejectedly with hollow gazes.
Their faces were pale, as if crushed by the long journey and the rciless fate soon to co.
The haggardness and fear on the young n’s faces were particularly striking; in their hearts, they had been radical thinkers, freedom fighters opposing the tyranny of Tsarist Russia.
However, now, their thoughts had been locked in a silent, frozen cage, turning into indescribable pain and regret.
The rest of their lives were already destined to be spent with the cold wind, buried in unknown mountains.
A constable approached the carriage and opened the window, commanding in a cold voice, "Keep quiet, and do not forget the fate upon you."
The window opened slightly, and the unforgiving wind and snow blew into the carriage as if judging the souls of the prisoners.
The prisoners spoke no word; they hung their heads powerlessly, avoiding contact with the outside, not even a flicker of defiance in their downcast eyes.
The nearby forest gradually disappeared from sight, replaced by a vast wilderness where snowflakes danced wildly like crazed spirits amid the deafening silence.
The convoy trudged slowly on the thick snow, with Druiysk looming faintly ahead. That silent little town, like an abandoned pebble, was deeply embedded in this vast wilderness.
Unlike cities like Moscow and St. Petersburg, Druiysk’s existence seed entirely aningless, perhaps without any trace of ti having passed through here.
But for this constabulary team that marched day and night through the ice and snow, having a temporary rest stop to drink a cup of warm wine was sothing to be grateful for.
"Move on quickly." The Captain commanded coldly, his voice devoid of any emotion.
The guards whipped the horses, and the caravan continued forward; the wheels of the carriage made a dull sound on the snow as they gradually entered the city gates.
The Constitutional Soldier Captain did not stop, and without even looking up, he calmly directed the convoy straight through the streets of the small town.
The houses lining the streets were silent, with shuttered windows. Passersby were rare, occasionally soone would peek from inside a house, their eyes filled with unfamiliar and curious glances.
However, upon seeing the convoy’s insignia, all eyes quickly turned away. In the past two years, the residents of Druiysk had grown accustod to this cruel phenonon — those prisoners arriving from afar were only temporarily staying, ultimately disappearing into the rciless northern land.
The convoy gradually passed the guard post at the city gates, through a narrow street, finally stopping in front of an ordinary yet imposing building — Druiysk’s temporary prison.
A prison guard, half drunk with a wine bottle in hand, jolted at the sight of this group, instantly sobering up and dispelling the slight drunkenness he had brewed.
The Constitutional Soldier Captain dismounted, nodded to the saluting guard at the entrance, and his subordinates moved to pull the prisoners down from the carriage, pushing them into the cold building.
The air here was so cold it was suffocating, filled with the scent of rust and frost, creating an inexplicable sense of oppression.
The Constitutional Soldier Captain lit his pipe with a match, taking a deep puff and slowly exhaling two streams of smoke from his nostrils.
The prison guard straightened his tattered cap and saluted the Captain: "Sir, may I see your docunts?"
The Constitutional Soldier Captain cast a single glance at him, a glance that made the guard tremble all over, but fortunately, he did not trouble the guard. Instead, he retrieved a dark leather-bound docunt embossed with the golden double-headed eagle emblem from his bosom.
Russian Empire
Directorate of the Constabulary
Official Identification
Na: Richard Hoot
Rank: Cavalry Captain
Position: Constitutional Captain
Assigned Unit: Directorate of the Constabulary of the Russian Empire
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