Usually an offender receives 30 to 100 strokes with birch rods. This depends on who gave the order to punish him, the district commander or the warden. The former has the right to order up to 100, thc lauer up to 30. One warden always gave 30. Once when he was required to take the place of the district commander, he immediately raised his customary allotment to 100, as though this hun- dred strokes with birch rods was an indispensable mark of his new authorif. He did not change the number until the district commander returned, and then in the same con- scientious manner he resumed the old figure of 30. Because of its very frequent application, flogging with birch rods has become debased. It no longer causes abhorrence or fear among many prisoners. They tell me that there arc quite a number of prisoners who do not feel any pain when they arc being flogged with birch rods.
Lashes are used far less frequently and only after a sen- tence passed by the district courts. From a report of the director of the medical department it appears that in 1889, "in order to determine the ability to endure corporal pun- ishment ordered by the courts," 67 prisoners were exam- ined by the doctors. Of all the punishments exacted on Sakhalin this punitive measure is the most abominable in its cruelty and abhorrent circumstances, and the jurists of European Russia who sentence vagrants and incorrigible criminals to be flogged would have renounced this mode of punishment long ago had it been carried out in their presence. But these floggings are prevented from being a scandalous and outrageously sensational spectacle by Article 478 of the Code, which specifies that the sentences of the Russian and Siberian courts must be executed in the place where the prisoner is confined.
I saw how they flog prisoners in Due. Vagrant Pro-
328
khorov, whose real name was Mylnikov, a man thirty-five to forty years of age, escaped from the Voyevodsk prison, and after building a small raft, he took off for the mainland. On shore they noticed him in time, and sent a cutter to imercept him. The investigation of his escape began. They took a look at the official records and then they made a dis- covery: this Prokhorov was actually Mylnikov, who had been semenced last year by the Khabarovsk district court to 90 lashes and the ball and chain for murdering a Cos- sack and his two grandchildren. Owing to an oversight the semence had not yet been carried out. If Prokhorov had not taken it imo his head co escape, they might never have noticed their error and he would have been spared a flog- ging and being chained to an iron ball. Now, however, the execution of the semence was inevitable.
On the morning of the appoimed day, August 13, the warden, the physician and I leisurely approached che prison office. Prokhorov, whose presence in the office had been ordered the previous evening, was sitting on the porch witb a guard. He did not know what awaited him. Seeing us, he got up. He may have understood then what was going to happen, because he blanched.
"Imo the office!" the warden ordered.
\Y/e emered the office. They led Prokhorov in. The doc- tor, a young German, ordered him to strip and listened to his heart to ascertain bow many lashes the prisoner could endure. He decides this question in a minute and then in a businesslike fashion sits down to write his examination report.
"Ob, the poor fellow!" he says sorrowfully in a thick German accent, dipping the pen imo the ink. "The chains must weigh upon you! Plead with the honorable warden and he will order them removed."
Prokhorov remains silem. His lips are pale and trem- bling.
"Your hope is in vain," the doctor cominues. "You all have vain hopes. Such suspicious people in Russia! Oh, poor fellow, poor fellow!"
The report is ready. They include it with the documems on the investigation of the escape. Then follows utter si- lence. The clerk writes, the doctor and the warden write. Prokhorov does not yet know exactly why he was brought here. Is it only because he escaped, or because of the escape and the old question as well? The uncertainty depresses him.
"\Vhat did you dream of last night?" the warden asks finally.
'I forgot, your worship."
"Now listen," says the warden, glancing at the official documents. "On such and such a date you were sentenced to 90 lashcs by thc Khabarovsk district court for mur- dcring a Cossack . . . . And today is the day you are to get them."
Then he smacks the prisoner on his forchead with the flat of his hand and admonishcs him:
"Why did all this have to happcn? It's bccause your hcad nceds to bc smartcr than it is. You all try to escapc and think you will be bettcr off, but it turns out worse."
We all entcr thc "guardhouse," which is a gray bar- racks-fpe building. The military mcdical assistant, who stands at the door, says in a whccdling voice as though asking a favor:
"Your worship, please lct me see how they punish a prisoner."
In thc middle of the guardroom there is a sloping bench with apertures for binding the hands and feet. Thc cxecu- tioner is a tall, solid man, built like an acrobat. His name is Tolstykh.10 He wears no coat, and his waistcoat is un- buttoncd. Hc nods at Prokhorov, who silently lies down. Tolstykh, taking his timc, silcntly pulls down the prisoner's trousers to the knees and slowly ties his hands and feet to the bench. The warden looks callously out the window, the doctor strolls around the room. He is carrying a vial of mcdicinal drops in his hands.
"\Vould you like a glass of water?" he asks.
"For God's sake, yes, your worship."
At last Prokhorov is tied up. The executioner picks up the lash with three leather thongs and slowly straightens it.
"Brace yourself!" he says softly, and without any ex- cessive motion, as though measuring himself to the task, he applies the first stroke.
''One-ne," says the warden in his chanting voice of a cantor.
For a moment Prokhorov is silent and his facial expres- sion does not change, but then a spasm of pain runs along his body, and there follows not a scream but a piercing shriek.
"Two," shouts the warden.
The executioner stands to one side and strikes in such a way that the lash falls across the body. After every five strokes he goes to the other side and the prisoner is per- mitted a half-minute rest. Prokhorov's hair is matted to his forehead, his neck is swollen. After the first five or ten strokes his body, covered by scars from previous beatings, turns blue and purple, and his skin bursts at each stroke.
Through the shrieks and cries there can be heard the words: "Your worship! Your worship! Mercy, your wor- ship!"
And Iater, after 20 or 30 strokes, he complains like a drunken man or like someone in delirium:
"Poor me, poor me, you are murdering me. . . . Why are you punishing me?"
Then follows a peculiar stretching of the neck, the noise of vomiting. Prokhorov says nothing; only shrieks and wheezes. A whole eternity seems to have passed since the beginning of the punishment. The warden cries, "Forty- two! Forty-three!" It is a long way to 90.
I go outside. The street is quite silent, and it seems to me that che heartrending sounds from the guardhouse can be heard all over Due. A convict wearing the clothing of a free man passes by and throws a fleeting glance in the direction of the guardhouse, terror written on his face and on his way of walking. I return to the guardhouse, and then go ouc again, and still the warden keeps counting.
Finally, 90! Prokhorov's hands and feet are quickly released and he is lifted up. The flesh where he was beaten is black and blue with bruises and it is bleeding. His teeth are chattcring, his face yellow and damp, and his eyes are wandering. \X'hen they give him the medicinal drops in a glass of water, he convulsively bites the glass. . . . They soak his head with water and lead him off to the infirmary.