“It is only kindness and not severity that can impress at the distance
of a thousand miles”
--_Chinese proverb_
Among all the brightness and sparkle of life in Urga, there is alas!
a very dark and sinister side. Day after day, we rode past a certain
little inconspicuous enclosure surrounded by a rough pine stockade,
little recking of the appalling amount of misery it encompassed. How
far circumstances and how far sheer native cruelty are responsible
for the terrible condition under which the Mongols drag out a ghastly
existence in punishment for crimes either great or small, and even
prior to condemnation, it would be difficult to establish. Deprivation
of liberty and rigorous confinement is the accepted form of punishment
held by the Mongols in common with all nations of modern civilisation,
and the present form probably originated before there was any other
way of imprisoning malefactors than the felt yourt of the nomad, from
which, of course, any prisoner could escape in ten minutes.
Few, if any, Europeans other than Russians have seen the inside of this
Mongol prison; and truly the dungeons at Urga beggar description.
Through the kind offices of one of our Russian friends we obtained a
pass from the Mongol Government to enable us to visit the prisoners.
The authorities were not a little suspicious as to our object in
wishing to do so, and since a reason had perforce to be furnished,
they were informed that we were merely humane travellers who desired
to distribute largesse among the suffering inmates. Accompanied by a
couple of Mongol officials, three Russians, and Mr. Gull, I was taken
over the entire place, and I believe that none of its horrors escaped
me.
It would indeed be a hard heart that did not open to the hopeless
misery of the prisoners. Within a small compound fenced in by high
spiked palisades are five or six dungeons. The dungeons are thrice
enclosed by a stockade of rough pinewood some eighteen feet high, and
to gain access to them many heavily bolted doors have to be unbarred.
All the doors were double, and two great padlocks ensured the security
of each. As we entered, the gaolers, who struck us as being a most
unholy looking couple who literally gloated over the misery of the
prisoners in their power, met us, and called our attention, quite
unnecessarily, to a trio of pale-faced Mongols sitting on the ground
just inside the gates. Their hands and feet were heavily chained
together, and they fell on their knees when they saw us. We had each
contributed three roubles before entering the prison, and, having
reduced it to small change, one of the party doled it out, making the
sum go as far as possible among the miserable suppliants.
Passing on to the interior, we came upon a heavy wooden chest, some
4 to 4½ feet long by 2½ feet deep, iron-bound and secured by two
strong padlocks. To our horror we discovered that it contained a
man--one might have imagined that a wild beast to be sent by train was
temporarily imprisoned therein! But a man! The hole in the side was
of sufficient size to enable the prisoner to thrust out his manacled
hands. This also provided the sole means of ventilation. But this
unfortunate creature was well off compared with the others we saw
subsequently. At least he was breathing in the open air. The dungeons,
we were told, were so full that this prisoner had to remain outside.
While we were discussing his pitiable lot, clank, clank, went the great
bars and bolts, and the gaoler had opened the double doors leading into
the first dungeon. There must have been from twenty to thirty coffins
in this, some piled on the tops of the others, and the atmosphere was
absolutely putrid. The two Mongol officials, whose general tone I
cannot say impressed us very favourably, now very ostentatiously held
their long sleeves over their noses, accustomed to smells though they
were. One imagines that there may have been some means of cleaning out
the coffins from underneath as is the case in cages in a menagerie,
for it was most strongly impressed upon us that never under any
circumstances whatsoever are the prisoners allowed to come out except
for execution or--rarely--to be set free. The majority are in for life
sentences.
[Illustration: PRISONERS AT URGA, SHUT UP FOR THE REMAINDER OF THEIR
LIVES IN HEAVY IRON-BOUND COFFINS]
One’s eyes growing accustomed to the darkness--the only light that
penetrates it is from the doors when they are opened--one became
gradually aware of wild shaggy heads poking through the round holes
in the coffin’s sides. I was standing, quite unconsciously, close to
a coffin, when, glancing down, I saw a terrible face, nothing more,
almost touching the skirt of my riding coat. Beside one coffin was a
pool of blood which told its own tale. Within it there was a poor devil
coughing his lungs up. The Russian officer, knowing Mongolian well,
spoke a few words to one or two of them, but they seemed too dazed to
understand. Their minds, like their limbs, quickly atrophy in this
close confinement. After a breath of fresh air in the tiny space that
separates the dungeons, which, by the way, are four or five feet below
ground level, another double door was unbarred for us, and we entered
the second dungeon where there were a similar number of Chinese, in
the coffins. It struck us as infinitely sad to find these gentle,
highly civilised Chinese here, Shansi merchants most of them, friends
and neighbours no doubt of the men with whom we had drunk tea in their
charming guild rooms adjoining the little temple in Mai-mai-ch’eng.
There they were, shut up for the remainder of their lives in heavy
iron-bound coffins, out of which they could never under any conditions
or for any purpose move. They could not lie down flat, they could not
sit upright, they were not only manacled but chained to the coffins.
They saw daylight but for a few minutes, when their food was thrust
into their coffins through a hole four or five inches in diameter,
twice daily. In one way only did they score over their Mongolian
fellow-sufferers. Their narrower Chinese skulls enabled them, painfully
and with difficulty, to protrude their heads through the hole in the
coffin side. The Mongol cranium is too wide to do so at all.
Mr. Gull talked to the Chinese as long as the brutal-looking gaolers
would let him, and I admired the pluck which enabled him to remain so
long in that fearsome atmosphere. The men told him that all they knew
was that they were suspected of supporting the Chinese Republic at the
time of the Mongol declaration of independence. They had apparently had
no trial, and they saw not the slightest chance of escape from this
appalling situation. They seemed thankful to have a few words with
anyone in their own tongue.
There were five dungeons and we went into all of them. It was
impossible in the dim light to estimate how many prisoners they
contained, and one got very varying figures, but I imagine that the
total must be in the neighbourhood of 150. One of the Russians wished
to take a photograph of the three prisoners outside, and the brutes
of gaolers held their hands when they tried to cover their faces. I
felt that one ought not insult their misery by doing such a thing.
Indeed, no matter what their crimes, one had nothing but the deepest
pity for the prisoners. We were profoundly moved by all the experiences
of the afternoon and rode back much saddened in the twilight to
Mai-mai-ch’eng. Nothing I can ever see in the future will wipe out the
memory of that terrible prison.
What I had learned of the prison system in Urga helped me the better
to understand what I saw later on. I was present, not indeed from any
morbid curiosity, but in order to witness the much-vaunted Mongol
courage in the face of death, at the execution of three Mongol
soldiers, who six months before had murdered their general, Gen Dung
Geng, and since that time had been dragging out their lives in those
awful coffins.
A perfect July morning. The ride over the short turf for miles along
the wide valley to the north-east of Urga made us forgetful for the
time being of the gruesome object of our expedition. Three of the
soldiers who had murdered their general--the prince, who had led them
400 strong against 4000 Chinese within the walled city of Kobdo, and
whose title was the reward of his conquest--were to be executed.
Discipline among his ranks had been terribly severe; his soldiers hated
him, and the glory with which they were covered as a consequence of
their victory did not outweigh the rancour in their hearts. A chosen
few were supported without exception by their fellows. They were
unanimous to a man.
The prince must die. They rose against him on the morning of an
ice-bound day in January, and twenty Mauser rifles emptied their lead
into his body. Miraculous seemed the strength possessed by the General.
A bullet shattered his thigh, but he continued to run. The soldiers
hesitated when they saw that he did not fall. For one English mile he
fled from his pursuers, limping but swift. To the city he fled, and
people ran out from their dwellings to ask the reason for such doings.
They were out of earshot when the answer came flinging back to them.
But as he ran he called to those that would have come up with him,
“Stand away from me, or you also will surely be killed,” and in his
agony he pushed into a place of safety some little children who were
in his path. His heart was tender in spite of the severity of his
discipline.
He ran; and coming to a gateway where he might hope to find sanctuary,
he threw himself with all his force against the door. He was a strong
man, and the door fell in, and he with it. He lay as he fell. His own
soldiers came quickly up with him, and to the first he cried, “Kill
me, then, that I may enter the new life without further delay”. And
straightway the man shot him through the head.
... And we sat on the hill-side and waited, while our ponies found
fodder more luscious than that to which they were accustomed on the
nearer plains. We waited for over two hours. The Mongols are not a
punctual people.
Presently, riding in twos and threes, they came straggling over the
hill; the hill that shall obscure from view the bloody deed which must
be carried out without the knowledge of the gods, which on no account
may take place within sight of the sacred mountain of Bogdo-N’or upon
whose face all Urga gazes.
The horsemen rode slowly across the mountain, for they knew that more
slowly still would the ox-carts with their mounted escort of soldiers
from the south wend their way around its foot. Besides, there was no
hurry. The prince’s soldiers, three only of the many who were eating
their hearts out in those awful dungeons, were to die to-day for his
murder.
Some sixty or seventy Chinese herded together near us, a cheery,
chattering crowd, make a jarring note in this sombre atmosphere. They
rejoice to witness death, more especially when a Mongol is to die. They
sit apart from all others. There is no natural affinity between these
warring races; and the chances just now are that in the near future
Mongolia’s relations with her celestial neighbours may be fundamentally
altered.
Suddenly round the bend of the valley appears a multi-coloured little
group of riders, the predominant tint being the blue uniforms of the
southern soldiers making general harmony with the grey-green of the
grass on the slopes. They are quickly within range, and by the peacock
plumes in their velvet hats one sees that many officials accompany
the criminals. There, in the midst of the soldiers, are the primitive
little ox-carts, two of them, and in them sit, arms tightly bound to
their backs, the shock-headed criminals. Shock-headed and bearded they
have become during their sojourn in the coffins in which they have been
closely confined in Urga’s dungeons. Death is indisputably preferable
to imprisonment in Mongolia. One of the trio, in spite of the terrible
six months through which he has passed, is full of life and vigour, and
he shouts up in a truculent manner to the officials who have gathered
together in a little tent overlooking the stakes to which later on
the prisoners are to be bound, “Hi, you there,” he calls, “don’t go
and hide yourselves inside the tent. You have to watch our execution.
Come out and see us die.” And when the simple meal, with which they
are served immediately before the execution takes place, is served to
them--unable to feed themselves, the bowls are held to their lips by
the gaolers--this same man demands his rights, and asks for meat and
tea instead of the water and tsamba which are given to him.
And then--having satisfied their hunger, they are quickly and securely
bound in kneeling posture to the stakes. For the last time the sturdy
ruffian expostulates at not being allowed to face the fire. “Why do you
not let us face the guns?” he argued. “Why will you not allow us to die
like soldiers?” This position is ignominious. It is unworthy of their
traditions. But no notice is taken of him, and perhaps his earlier
discipline impels him to submit without further demur. A lama, carrying
in his hands a framed picture of the Great Prophet, walks in front of
the captives. What he says to them we cannot hear, but one replies,
“I only want to be a soldier when I am born again”. The three gaze
reverently enough at the Buddha, and perhaps pray to him that their lot
in the speedy re-incarnation, which they confidently anticipate, may
be cast in pleasanter places. The lama retires, and with a startling
rapidity, three blue-clad soldiers have placed themselves at close
range, five yards at most from the murderers, and then--thud, thud,
and the dust on the hill beyond puffs up in three little clouds. The
heads of two of the men fall backwards with a jerk on their necks. The
bullets have done their work. But custom demands that a second and
even a third round shall be fired. Then we see that one of the men,
the central figure of the group, is still alive, and the awful thing
is that no one but ourselves appears to give heed to the fact, until
the Norwegian runs down the hill to the unfortunate victim and calls
the attention of the Mongols to his condition. Five minutes--they seem
like hours--pass before one of the troop of soldiers, already mounted
and galloping up the hill towards Urga, is called back. He dismounts,
kneels, and takes aim and fires. There is no mistake about the despatch
this time. The poor wretch has died hard indeed.
We are a very quiet little party as we ride slowly homewards through
the valleys. Away behind us the kites circle round the spot we have
just left; waiting until the last of the crowd has taken himself off.
A human vulture has paid a few kopecks for the privilege of stripping
those three poor bodies of the filthy clothes in which they so bravely
expiated their crime, and he too waits until we are all out of sight
before he commences his gruesome task. And the dogs, the ghoulish dogs
that infest Urga, will compete with the vultures.