The juvenile cantonists were packed into wagons
like so many sheep and carried off in batches under a military
convoy. When they took leave of their dear ones it was for a quarter of a
century; in the case of children it was for a longer term, too often it
was good-bye for life.

How these unfortunate youngsters were driven to their places of
destination we learn from the description of Alexander Hertzen, [1] who
chanced to meet a batch of Jewish cantonists on his involuntary journey
through Vyatka, in 1835. At one of the post stations in some
God-forsaken village of the Vyatka government he met the escorting
officer. The following dialogue ensued between the two:

[Footnote 1: Hertzen, a famous Russian writer (d. 1870), was exiled to the
government of Vyatka for propagating liberal doctrines.]

"Whom do you carry and to what place?"

"Well, sir, you see, they got together a bunch of these accursed
Jewish youngsters between the age of eight and nine. I suppose they
are meant for the fleet, but how should I know? At first the command
was to drive them to Perm. Now there is a change. We are told to
drive them to Kazan. I have had them on my hands for a hundred
versts or thereabouts. The officer that turned them over to me told
me they were an awful nuisance. A third of them remained on the road
(at this the officer pointed with his finger to the ground). Half of
them will not get to their destination," he added.

"Epidemics, I suppose?", I inquired, stirred to the very core.

"No, not exactly epidemics; but they just fall like flies. Well, you
know, these Jewish boys are so puny and delicate. They can't stand
mixing dirt for ten hours, with dry biscuits to live on. Again
everywhere strange folks, no father, no mother, no caresses. Well
then, you just hear a cough and the youngster is dead. Hello,
corporal, get out the small fry!"

The little ones were assembled and arrayed in a military line. It
was one of the most terrible spectacles I have ever witnessed. Poor,
poor children! The boys of twelve or thirteen managed somehow to
stand up, but the little ones of eight and ten.... No brush, however
black, could convey the terror of this scene on the canvas.

Pale, worn out, with scared looks, this is the way they stood in
their uncomfortable, rough soldier uniforms, with their starched,
turned-up collars, fixing an inexpressibly helpless and pitiful gaze
upon the ga