If the night had been miserable, the morning was far worse. We were perfectly willing to start; anything was preferable to sitting in our carts, listening to the ceaseless pattering of the rain and looking out of the narrow window at the misty, dreary landscape; but the Mongols were obdurate. Nothing upsets them like rain or getting wet, presumably because they never wash, and Moses steadfastly refused to move till the weather cleared, which it showed no signs whatever of doing. Our men had managed to rig the tent up again, and all three lay inside, packed like sardines, with every aperture tightly closed. I tried to read, but soon had to give it up, my head shook so withthe cold. Worse still, we had exhausted our last scrap of tobacco, and could not bring ourselves to venture on the hay-like filth that Sylvia offered us. Still, it showed the little Tartar’s unselfishness, for he had but a pipeful left to last him on to Ourga, and there is no race in the world so devoted to the fragrant weed.
About two o’clock it mended a little, and the sun, which had all the morning been invisible, began to struggle through the grey, watery clouds. So sudden are the changes of temperature and weather in the desert that by 3 p.m. the sky was blue and cloudless, and the sun too hot to be pleasant. We were not sorry to get out again, and dry ourselves in the warm rays which took the stiffness out of our cramped and aching limbs. We suffered but little from vermin, which up till now had been one of our greatest annoyances, after this. “It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good;” and perhaps they were all drowned!
Starting at 7 p.m., we travelled all night, and by morning every trace of sand and gravel had disappeared, and we were in the grass plains again——where our ponies fairly revelled in the fresh, rich pasture. Sylvia was despatched to a yourt somefive miles distant to buy a camel in place of the one we had lost, and as he was not expected back till six o’clock, we enjoyed a good sleep all the afternoon, not before we wanted it. We had had none for two nights.
The camel arrived in due course. He was a snow-white one, of mild and benign appearance. Lancaster took a great fancy to him, and insisted in having him harnessed to his cart. I noticed a look in the beast’s eye, whenever he was pushed about or touched more roughly than usual, that boded no good. However, we were assured that he was all that could be desired, and took Sylvia’s word for it. We started again that evening, with our new purchase in Lancaster’s cart. Although the night was fine and starlit, with a lovely moon, I turned into my cart early, for the plain was as smooth and unbroken as a lawn-tennis ground, and I did not despair of getting a really good night’s rest, and probably should have had one, but for an unforeseen accident that, ridiculous and laughable as it now seems, might have had a very serious, if not fatal result. I was rudely awoke about 2 a.m. by Jee Boo, who bursting open my door, entreated me to come out at once. One is easily unnerved in thedesert, and apt to fancy things, so much so that for a moment I thought a mutiny had broken out among the Mongols, and, seizing my revolver and pouch, jumped out on to the moonlit plain. The sight that greeted my eyes caused me at first to burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, in which, however, the Mongols, who were helplessly assembled round my cart, did not join. Like them, I also soon realized how seriously the affair might end. Lancaster’s camel hadrun away, and was scouring the plain in a way that plainly showed if we ever intended seeing him again we had better catch him at once. The ponies were all unsaddled, but Sylvia and I jumped upon ours barebacked, and galloped away as hard as we could lay legs to the ground after the refractory beast, whose white body, followed by the cart swaying madly to and fro, was rapidly disappearing in the dim, shadowy distance. It had happened in a second. Sylvia, having left his cart for a moment, which was leading, the cunning brute had taken advantage of his absence to break with one jerk the string that fastened his cart to the next camel. When our driver returned, he found the caravan halted and his new purchase making tracks across the plain in,strange to say, the direction of the yourt we had bought him from.
The best description I have ever read of a camel’s pace when at full speed is given by the late Colonel Burnaby, in “A Ride to Khiva,” where he says: “A camel’s gait is a peculiar one. They go something like a pig with the fore, and like a cow with the hind, legs.” This does not sound like speed, but the pace at which these brutes get over the ground is something more than remarkable, and it took us all our time, to get up to Lancaster’s cart, who was, to use a sporting expression, “going strong!” The frantic bounds the cart was taking beggars description. I thought every second it would overturn, for the brute whirled it about as if it had been a match-box. I could see Lancaster in the moonlight at the open door, evidently meditating a jump, so shouted to him to remain where he was. The ground was rough and stony, and to fall might have meant a broken limb, which would have placed us in an awkward predicament. It was some time before we managed to stop the runaway by each getting one side of, and riding into, him. I never could have believed a camel had such a turn of speed. Sylvia caught the nosestring, and we secured him at last, and got him back to the caravan without further mishap. He was relegated to the water-barrels in future. It was thought the weight might steady him, and it did, for we were troubled with no more of his pranks.
The plains next day were more thickly inhabited and the pasture more luxuriant than in any part of the desert yet traversed. We passed several yourts, from which the inhabitants rode out to meet us with presents of milk and a kind of cheese made of mare’s milk. They seemed cleaner and better-mannered than the Mongols the other side, and did not (for a wonder) ask us for anything. Their yourts, too, were cleaner, their sheep and ponies better looking than others we had seen.
Hand drawingAN AWKWARD MOMENT.
AN AWKWARD MOMENT.
AN AWKWARD MOMENT.
This portion of the Gobi swarms with a curious animal, of which I ignore the name. It is in colour like a hare, in size something between that animal and a rabbit, with short thin legs, and stiff wiry hair like that of a badger. The ground was in many places literally honeycombed with their burrows, which are enormous for so small an animal. Many of the holes would for a short distance admit a good-sized man. They are neatly and beautifullyconstructed, the earth being carried and thrown away some distance off, thoughhowhas not been ascertained. We must have seen thousands, but could never get near enough to shoot one, and so examine it closely. Unlike the smaller species of rat on the other side, they are, shy and wary, and bolt into their holes on the slightest noise. It is said that Mongols eat them, but I am rather doubtful as to the truth of this assertion. Few would have the patience or take the trouble to catch them.
We sighted, on the 28th of August, a huge encampment of some fifty tents, on the horizon, evidently the yourt of some chief or Lama of importance,en voyage. On passing it at the nearest point (some two miles distant), Lancaster and I were riding off to inspect it more closely, but were recalled by the frantic gesticulations of Moses, who begged us on no account to go. His reason I never could ascertain, but he led us to understand, through Jee Boo, that we might meet with an unpleasant reception, by which I conclude some religious ceremony was being performed. We could distinguish through the glasses, crowds of people moving about the encampment, onfoot and on horseback, and these with the white tents gay with gaudy prayer-flags, against the bright green sward, gave it more the appearance of a huge fair than a desert camp. The plains for miles around were dotted with flocks and herds, but none of the people, though they saw us distinctly, rode out to the caravan.
The country on the 28th became more accentuated and undulating. We passed to-day two large lakes (fresh) teeming with wild fowl, duck, and wild geese, of which latter we bagged a brace, and ate for dinner, washed down by a bottle of champagne specially kept for the day when the neck of our desert journey should be broken. The plain to-day was full of huge edible mushrooms as large as soup plates. We gathered a quantity, and had some for dinner, although as we ate them solely on Jee Boo’s assurance that they were not poisonous, we were somewhat uneasy for a couple of hours after. We encamped to-day in a kind of oasis, of wild, sweet-smelling flowers, pink heather and long grass through which ran a delightfully clear cold stream of water over a gravelly bed. It was like nectar, after the filth we had been drinking, and yet so improvident are the Mongols,that had we not insisted upon it, they would have left without filling the barrels. It was lucky we did so, for the two succeeding wells were stagnant and brackish, and one, having the remains of a dead sheep in it, undrinkable. The next day at mid-day we camped in sight of the high and partly wooded hills that surround Ourga.
A Lama,en routeto the capital, now joined us. This is an invariable custom in the desert, a Tartar never travelling alone if he can possibly help it, perhaps more for the sake of companionship than from fear of robbers or marauders, who are said to infest the more lonely parts of Gobi. He (the Lama) was a fat, good-tempered old fellow, his enormously fat carcase clad from head to foot in bright yellow silk. The grey pony he rode was so tiny that looked at from behind its body was invisible. One saw nothing but a huge balloon-like mass of yellow silk, supported by four thin, very shaky-looking white legs. I noticed, throughout Mongolia, that the fattest men invariably rode the smallest ponies, perhaps on the same principle that in Europe the largest instrument in a German band is almost invariably played by a diminutive child of tender years.
We visited a yourt after dinner by the invitation of our newly made fat friend. The tent was cleaner, both inside and out, than the ones we had passed here on the Chinese side, indeed all the yourts had a prosperous, well-to-do look about them, very different to the smoke-blackened, dirty-looking dwellings on the southern side of the sandy desert. This was probably due to their being in the close vicinity of the capital, and also in a great measure to the fuel used being wood instead of the sickly-smelling, stifling “Argol.”
The reader may or may not believe in Palmistry, but it can scarcely fail to interest him to hear that this ancient science is as well known among the Mongols as the gipsies, and has been for hundreds of years. I found this out quite by accident, on examining the hand of a young girl who brought us milk and cheese, and otherwise did the honours of the yourt. To my surprise she at once guessed my intention, and insisted on my reading it all through, and explaining the lines to her. Nor did my work end here, a dozen greasy palms being eagerly thrust forward as soon as I had completed “Tsaira’s.”
The latter, a bright-looking girl of about sixteen,was evidently the belle of these parts, and not unjustly so, for her dark eyes, comely features, and pearly teeth were a pleasing contrast to the ordinary stolid, flat-faced females of the desert. She was the first (and last) really pretty Mongolian woman we saw, and unlike most of her sex (in the desert) not the least shy. The operation of shaving (which I now went through preparatory to meeting the Russian Consul at Ourga) astonished her a good deal, but the sight of a looking-glass much more so. She had never heard of such a thing, or seen her own pretty face, except dimly reflected in water or tea. It was the only one we possessed, or I could not have had the heart to refuse it her, for she was not backward in asking. However, a few sticks of chocolate consoled her, though she tried very hard for a ring I wore. It was only by impressing on her that it was given me by a “Boosooge”[7]almost as pretty as herself, who would never forgive me, if I returned without it, that she allowed me to depart in peace, which we did at sunset, all the inhabitants of the yourt turning out to bid us good-bye, and load us with parting gifts of milk and cheese.
The next day (30th August) we entered a greenand fertile valley, about three miles broad, with lofty, partially wooded hills on either side. The plain was in parts thickly inhabited, and we continually passed Mongols, both men and women, and during the day three large caravans, two of bullock-carts one hundred to one hundred and fifty strong, laden with wood and hides for China, to return with tea. The third was composed exclusively of camels, sixty in number. About twenty men accompanied it. On one of the leading camels was a poor Mongol, evidently in a dying condition. Our own men were far behind, and the ones we questioned by signs, only laughed and walked on when we pointed to the poor wretch, lying on his back with the fierce sun beating down on his ghastly, upturned face. About a quarter of a mile behind the caravan came the Chinaman in charge, gorgeous in yellow and lavender silk, and bristling with arms. I felt very much inclined to kick him out of his cart, and put the dying Mongol there instead. Although white men of any kind are so rare here, they never deigned to look at us, nor reply to our question, addressed in Chinese, as to how many days they had left Ourga. By getting them into conversation, we might, we thought, have accompaniedthem as far as the caravan, and by Jee Boo’s help got something done for the poor Tartar, but it was no use. I could not get the latter out of my head the whole day, and shuddered when I thought of how his sufferings might end. The Mongols never bury their dead, at any time, and often on a voyage leave their sick to themselves, very much as they do a camel, alone in mid-desert.
The queer custom prevalent among the Mongol Tartars of leaving their dead on the surface of the ground was brought to my notice in a forcible though somewhat unpleasant manner the next day, a couple of hours before we reached the river Tola, which lies about two miles from Ourga. Upon this occasion our baggage-camels had, contrary to custom, started first. The caravan road here is clearly defined, so we started off alone and on foot in advance of our party, and had barely gone three hundred yards when an object lying in the middle of the road arrested my attention, a small, oblong parcel about two feet long, done up in Chinese paper, and secured with twine. “Something Moses has dropped,” I remarked casually; and the contents feeling soft and shapeless, I put it down to some of his wearing apparel, and returned to thecaravan to give it to Sylvia, who had just started and was, as usual, softly crooning to himself in a semi-state of slumber on the leading camel. But catching sight of what I held, he nearly fell off with fright, and shrieking “Moo-moo” with all his might, pulled his camel away from me with such force that the cart nearly turned over. “Moo-moo,” he repeated, hurriedly dismounting, and leaving the caravan to itself, put a respectful distance between us. His face was a picture of alarm and dismay, and as pale as a ghost. I was not altogether easy myself, thinking the packet might be infected with some virulent disease, so I yielded to the little Tartar’s vehement gestures, threw it on the ground and walked on, followed slowly by Sylvia muttering to himself and smoking furiously, a sure sign that a Mongol’s equanimity has been seriously upset.
It was not till we reached the others at mid-day that I found out what the mysterious packet contained, and that what I had innocently been carrying about was adead baby! Sylvia had by this time recovered himself, and affected to laugh at the occurrence, though, at the time, I have never seen a human being in a state of more abject terror.The Russian Consul, when I told him of the occurrence, remarked that all Mongols have an almost ridiculous fear of death and everything connected with it. This seemed the more curious as every step you take in their capital reminds you of it. Ourga might justly be called “a dead city,” so grim and weird are the customs of its strange, uncanny population.
We sighted the Tola at about nine o’clock on the morning of the 31st of August, and must have passed at least a dozen caravans of fifty or sixty camels each, before we reached its banks, from the time we started, about six a.m. The reports we got as to the state of the river were not encouraging. Heavy rains had made the ford impassable, and all traffic was now being carried on by means of the ferry, some five miles lower down the stream. It was not reassuring either to hear that this ramshackle contrivance had broken down twice within the last twenty-four hours, precipitating three bullock-carts and two men (one of whom was drowned) into the water. However, we made up our minds for the worst, and, hoping for the best, gave ourselves up to enjoyment of the really beautiful scenery we were passing through.
One might have been in the most picturesque parts of Switzerland or the Tyrol. A broad, gravelly road runs from here right into Ourga, and along this a continual stream of caravans, inward and outward bound, was hurrying. The whole plain was alive with movement, and the bright sunshine, gay dresses of Mongol horsemen, and tinkling of caravan bells, gave an air of gaiety to the scene, welcome enough after twenty-three days of uninterrupted, monotonous desert. On our right hand a clear, brawling stream swirled along, an outlet of the swollen, tumultuous Tola, to lose itself in the large fresh-water lake we passed yesterday. On our left a range of low, green hills, wooded at the summit, their green hill-sides, dotted with countless sheep and ponies at pasture, stretched away to where the Tola, a thin thread of silver, wound its course through this lovely valley, literally a “land of milk and honey!” We arrived at the riverside about one o’clock. The foaming, turgid river, the banks lined on either side, as far as eye could see, with bullock-carts and camels, the row and hubbub, where each man (and there must have been some hundreds) tried to shout louder than his neighbour; it was a strange, picturesque sight.
A smart dapper-looking Cossack, in grey coat with yellow facings, and white, peakless cap, had charge of the ferry, a clumsy-looking arrangement enough, worked by a dilapidated-looking rope stretched across the stream, here about three hundred yards wide, and secured to two small trees on either side of the river. It did not need much calculation to see where the ferry would go in the event of this breaking, for about two hundred yards down stream was a chain of rocks, against which the torrent foamed and dashed in a manner anything but cheering to non-swimmers like Lancaster and myself. The result of an accident had been pretty well shown, for this was the third boat used during the last twenty-four hours, the others having been engulfed, with the loss, however, of only one human life.
The Cossack was politeness itself, and I luckily knew a little Russian. “Are you the Englishmen expected from Pekin?” “Yes.” How they knew of our advent at Ourga was, and has ever since been, inexplicable to me. “M. Shishmaroff has been expecting you. Please take a seat, and I will send you and the ponies over, the carts can follow.” And offering us a cigarette, our friend hurried off tosee our steeds safely embarked. Though only a private soldier, the man’s manner was as courteous and polite as could be. It was, however, only a forerunner of what we were to experience, for seldom have I experienced in any country so much genuine kindness and hospitality from the lower orders as in Asiatic Russia.
Our friend the Cossack returned in under half an hour. “Your boat is ready, Gospodin, and you can get in, but please sit tight. I will cross with you. In case of accident,” he added coolly, as he politely handed us in, “jump out and hold on to the rope. The Mongols will pull you ashore.”
It was not a pleasant sensation, crossing that stream, in fact I do not know that I have ever passed a much moremauvais quart-d’heure. The clumsy craft, although containing only the Cossack, our two selves and the ponies, lurched over midway across, so suddenly and at such an angle that the water came pouring in over the side. This frightened the ponies, who set to plunging and kicking with such a will that I thought every instant their heels would go through the side of the rotten old tub. We were then, luckily, considerably more thanhalf-way over, each holding on like grim death to the rope, for to let go would have meant a certain upset. Never have I heard such a babel. The Mongols on the bank (in whose minds the death of their drowned companion was still fresh) raised a yell that would have awoke the dead, and must have disturbed the Kootooktas mid-day siesta three miles off. It was only by dint of sheer hard work, that we succeeded in pulling ourselves across, our fingers nearly cut to the bone by the fraying of the rope. I have seldom felt more relieved than when we stood once more high and dry on terra firma. The thought of how our carts were to be got over did not concern us in the least. We were only too glad to have escaped with our lives, for an upset, even to a good swimmer, would have meant certain death.
It was nearly three o’clock by the time we were across, and as the carts were not to be brought over till the ferry was repaired, a work of three or four hours, we resolved to ride on alone. The way was simple enough, for a broad gravel path or road runs right into the city. Having got minute directions from the Cossack how to find the Consul’s house, we set off at a gallop across the plain to Ourga.
So ended our journey over the desert proper. What we had always imagined would be the hardest part of our journey was now over. We had never thought of Siberia. That seemed feasible enough. Our bugbear, before starting, had been Gobi, the terrible Chinese desert, against which we had been so often warned before leaving England. “You will never get across,” said one. “The Tartars will murder you for a certainty,” said another. Even in Pekin itself we heard blood-curdling stories of the wild tribes said to inhabit the lonely waste lying between the Great Wall of China and Russian frontier. As a matter of fact, few Europeans, even those living in China itself, know anything whatever of Mongolia. Danger there may be, but we never experienced it, nor do the three or four Englishmen who preceded us make mention of ever having been attacked. I would, personally, very much sooner spend the night unarmed and alone in the (so-called) most dangerous parts of Gobi, than walk through the lonelier suburbs of London or Paris, after dark on a winter’s evening.
We skirted for a time the precipitous mountain that lines the left bank of the Tola. Presently we came to an abrupt turn in the road; a gloriouspanorama of plain and wood, mountain and river, lay at our feet, and a couple of miles away a compact mass of red and white dwellings, golden domes, and snowy tents, surmounted and surrounded by thousands of brightly coloured-prayer flags, which flashed and waved in the sun with every breath of the pure morning air. We had reached the sacred city of Ourga.
6. A Mongol tent or encampment.
6. A Mongol tent or encampment.
7. Woman.
7. Woman.