KALGAN, OR CHANG-CHIA-KOW.
WE had intended making a stay of four or five days, at the most, at
Kalgan. This, we thought, would give us ample time to get carts, camels,
and men for the crossing of the Great Gobi Desert; for, we had been led
to believe, when at Tientsin, that there would not be the slightest
necessity for remaining more than a day or so at the frontier city,
unless we particularly wished to do so. But, alas! as at Pekin, fresh
difficulties cropped up hourly; and when we broached to M. Ivanoff our
intention of leaving for Ourga in three or four days’ time, he simply
laughed in our faces.
“You must recollect you are not in Europe,” said the hospitable Russian,
“and also that Mongols are worse even than Chinamen in the matter of
delay. Moreover, I shall have to get your carts built, a question of ten
days at the very least. The camels, too, are all out on the plains. No,
gentlemen; I fear you must make up your minds to at least a fortnight’s
imprisonment in Kalgan!”
There was nothing for it under the circumstances but to smile and look
pleasant, thanking Providence, meanwhile, for giving us such comfortable
quarters, and not cooping us up in a Chinese inn. Considering
everything, we had by no means a bad time of it with the Russian
tea-merchants at Kalgan.
They certainly had a very fair idea of making themselves comfortable.
The house of our host was especially so, and by no means the kind of
dwelling one would expect to find in this out-of-the-way corner of the
earth. We had pictured to ourselves a rough wooden shanty——we found a
well-built stone house with cool, lofty bedrooms, a pretty drawing-room,
with grand piano and bright chintzes, singing-birds, and flowers; and
French windows opening on to the creeper-covered verandah, whence one
looked on to the beautiful valley of Kalgan. At one’s feet a shady
garden wherein roses, Eucharis lilies, jasmine, mignonette, and other
flowers grew in wild profusion, though untended and uncared for; while
in the far distance the Great Wall of China, now towering on a summit,
now lost in a valley, wound like a huge serpent, its course of two
thousand miles. Nor were the more substantial things of life uncared
for, for our host had an excellent cook, and in this land of milk and
honey there was no lack of material for his culinary efforts. The Kalgan
mutton is excellent, and potatoes, cauliflowers, cabbages, peas,
lettuce, even asparagus, thrive there, all imported from Russia, to say
nothing of Chinese vegetables with unpronounceable names, and still more
curious taste. Our host’s cook was an artist; his claret undeniable; his
cigars good. We had certainly tumbled upon our legs at Kalgan.
The city of Chang-Chia-Kow, or Kalgan, is built on the banks of a broad,
swift-flowing river. Running at right angles to this, between two
precipitous mountains, is the narrower gorge of Yambooshan, the houses
thereof standing outside the gates of the city, and built close into the
side of the hills, portions of which in some cases had been blasted away
to admit them. There is a reason for this. The dry, shingly road, which
in summer serves as highway to thousands of caravans, becomes in winter
a roaring torrent, which sweeps down the valley with terrific force to
join the larger stream, at times occasioning great loss of life. At the
time of our visit, the river-bed was absolutely dry, though the
preceding winter had been a severe one, and much damage had been done in
the spring.
We spent a good deal of our time watching the caravans as they jingled
and rattled along the stony river-bed to or from Pekin. Many were laden
with wood cut into logs and brought from the mountains near Ourga,
across the desert, for wood is scarce in Northern China, and I do not
think we passed more than a dozen trees in all the whole way from the
capital to the Great Wall. Between Yambooshan and the city of Kalgan is
the “Gap,” where the road narrows to a width of about nine feet. It is
from this the city takes its name, the word “Kalga” signifying in the
Mongolian tongue a gap or gate. It has been estimated that three hundred
and fifty thousand chests of tea pass through here annually, for every
caravan is bound to pass Kalgan on its way east or west. There is no
other road. Thus about forty million chests of tea pass through annually
to Mongolia and Siberia, and Ivanoff (who has much experience in these
matters) was of opinion that when the projected line from Irkoutsk to
Tomsk is completed, there will be a further increase of a hundred and
fifty thousand chests, making in all the enormous total of five hundred
thousand chests annually. No railway can ever be made across Gobi. The
means of transit must always remain what it has ever been, i.e. by the
“Ship of the Desert.”
The best tea never leaves China, and nearly all the next best in quality
goes to Russia. Few people in England know what good tea really is. An
immense trade in Asiatic Russia is done in what is known as brick tea,
an article I shall describe later on, and which is drunk chiefly by the
Mongols and lower classes in Siberia. This is pressed into oblong cakes,
about two pounds in weight, and is made of tea dust, stalks, and refuse,
mixed with bullocks’ blood, to give it a flavour. I never tasted a viler
concoction in my life.
“You English boil your tea,” Ivanoff would say, when on his favourite
topic. “How can you expect to get it good;” and there is no doubt much
in this. I got into a habit in Siberia and Russia of drinking tea at all
hours of the day and night, and learnt to make it _à la Russe_——two
teaspoonfuls to each cup; then pour boiling water into the pot, so as
just to cover the leaves, and at once pour it out again, afterwards
adding the requisite amount of liquid. Let it stand for two or three
minutes at most, and drink. The Russians never drink their tea twice
over, as we do, but change the leaves and the pot every fresh brew. This
makes a good deal more difference than some may think. I have heard
English people deny that overland tea is any better than that sent by
sea, but I do not think there can be any real doubt about it. As a
matter of fact, genuine overland tea very rarely finds its way to
England.
The city of Kalgan proper, reminds one more of an Egyptian or Arab town
than a Chinese one. The dwellings are of baked mud, unwhitewashed, and
flat roofed. Some are ornamented with arabesques, and gaily-striped
awnings, many of their façades being half hidden with clustering vines.
The “Yamen,” or court-house, is the only building of pure Chinese
architecture in the whole place, and one felt, when taking a stroll
through its busy streets and covered bazaars, as if one had been
suddenly transplanted from the heart of the Chinese Empire to some town
in Central Asia. There is more colour, too, than in most Chinese towns,
the eternal dark blue or white dress of the natives being relieved by
the gaudy dresses and barbaric trappings of the Mongolian Tartar. The
very smell of the place, too, was different to those we had passed
through, the half fishy, half spicy odour with which every traveller in
Northern China is familiar, being superseded by the sickly smell of
argol-smoke, old rags, and general filth that clings to the Mongol
wherever he goes. They were not reassuring to look at, these Mongols. It
was not altogether pleasant to think that a fortnight more would see us
consigned to the tender mercies of this wild, nomad race, two solitary
Europeans, alone and unprotected in the great desert of Gobi. At first
sight the Mongol Tartar decidedly inspired us with respect, not to say
mistrust.
There are few noisier and busier places than Kalgan. The row in the
middle of the day was deafening, and the clouds of black dust, raised by
the perpetual traffic, unbearable. It was amusing sometimes to walk in
the busiest part of the day, to the market-place, in the middle of the
city, where the great horse, or rather pony mart is situated. There must
have been some three or four hundred ponies the morning we were there,
being trotted and galloped up and down for sale——for export to Pekin and
other parts of China. It was exciting, not to say dangerous, work,
apparently, for the wild desert horsemen tore hither and thither,
utterly regardless of where they went, or whom they knocked down or
collided with. I saw half a dozen falls in less than half an hour; but
the riders did not seem to mind, nor did it occasion any chaff or
merriment among the crowd of bystanders, as would have been the case in
England. The riders merely got up, and with a shake of the shoulders
waited till the yelling, chattering crowd had caught and restored the
runaway! Though the ground was rough and flint-strewn, no one seemed to
mind a fall. Round the square were a number of tea-houses and sheds for
the sale of “Airak” (native brandy), where the wily Pekin Chinaman might
be seen hobnobbing with the swarthy Tartar over a “deal.” I fancy the
latter usually got the worst of the bargain. The ponies were beautifully
shaped, wiry little animals, about thirteen to fourteen hands. I saw
one, a chestnut, sold for eight dollars, which would have fetched thirty
or forty guineas in England. At mid-day it became almost impossible to
make one’s way through the crowds of people that thronged the narrow
streets, and crowded the canvas booths for the sale of iced drinks, tea,
tobacco, and other refreshments erected along the foot-paths. At such
moments, on a fine day, the bright sunshine, gaudy dresses of the
Mongols, white and blue of the Chinese, thronging the streets of the
huge walled city, with its amphitheatre of rugged, precipitous hills,
made a picture as unique as it was interesting. The whole place looked
like a gigantic fair. Street tumblers, jugglers, and fortune-tellers
plied a brisk trade in the middle of the roadway, heedless of yelling,
wild-looking Mongols galloping madly about on ponies, while the
shopkeepers at the top of their voices cried out from their doors the
excellence of their wares, each trying to outyell his neighbour. Add to
this the clashing of cymbals and beating of gongs from a theatre hard
by, and you have a faint idea of a street in Kalgan at midday.
Here, as in Pekin, the dust acts as a disinfectant, and Kalgan is by no
means an unhealthy place, though the heat in summer is as severe as in
winter the cold is intense. I know no place so inspiriting on a fine
day, so depressing on a dull one, as Kalgan. In the former case all was
animation, life, and colour. The sky of Mediterranean blue, and the
verdant, smiling hills and gaily-coloured verandahs and dresses of the
natives, coupled with the keen, inspiriting air, enlivened the spirits
like a glass of champagne; but on a dull or rainy day everything around
looked dark and depressing. A kind of fog hung over everything, over the
mountain tops wreathed in dank, white mist, the grey, lowering sky, and
brown, mud-coloured dwellings, while the white wooden crosses in the
Russian cemetery, just to the right of our house, stood out with
uncomfortable prominence. It was on days like this that one realized how
far one was from England, how many thousand leagues of unknown country
lay between us and home.
Dull days were in the minority, however, and our time passed pleasantly
enough, if somewhat uneventfully, at Kalgan. There were but eleven
European residents in all, five of them belonging to the two Russian tea
firms, the remainder to an American Mission established here ten years
ago. “We are like the rival editors in Peek-Veek,” said Ivanoff one day,
alluding to himself and his _confrère_ in the tea-trade. “We do not
speak; and have not for some years.” I was not a little surprised to
find our host so well up in English literature, till I heard that
Dickens, as well as many other standard authors, has been largely
translated into Russian, and has an enormous sale at Irkoutsk (our
friend’s native place), and other parts of Siberia.
We called on the mission one day, whose headquarters are in a
substantially stone-built house standing in beautiful gardens on the
outskirts of the city. One might almost have imagined oneself in some
country parsonage in England, drinking tea in a cool, pretty
drawing-room, while a fresh, sweet smell stole in through the French
windows from the hay and clover fields. Four were lady missionaries, two
of whom were certificated doctors, who had, Ivanoff told us, done
wonders in the epidemic of typhus, that had visited Kalgan two years
previously, and by their untiring efforts and wonderful cures had made
many converts. We were welcomed, on entering the house, by a pretty
little Chinese lady, unaccountably so, as we thought, for one of her
race. The mystery was explained when she invited us to be seated, in our
own language, and further told us that although she had adopted Chinese
costume, she was an American. Mrs. S———— had only been married three
months, and had come straight from New York to Kalgan, to share her
husband’s fortunes in the wilds, for she was about to leave for a
mission four hundred miles from Kalgan, situated in one of the most
dangerous districts of the Chinese empire. Her husband came in shortly
after, also in Chinese costume, with the addition of a pigtail! It is a
rule that every one connected with this society shall wear native dress;
and when at their posts in Central China the missionaries are expected
to eat like the natives. I could not help pitying the pretty,
delicate-looking little woman when I thought of the trials and dangers
she was embarking on. She seemed quite undismayed, however, and laughed
and prattled away about the career she had chosen like a child——indeed
she was little more than one in years.
Another missionary, Mr. C————, had arrived that morning from his post
five hundred miles off, a hazardous and fatiguing journey, which he had
made in under six weeks, bringing his little son, under two years old,
with him, notwithstanding that some of the journey over the passes had
to be done on foot. The natives of the regions through which he had
passed, had, he told us, insisted upon it, that the little fellow was an
old man, for he had very light, almost white hair. Most of them were
“Tow-ists.” The founder of this sect is believed by its followers to
have been born at the age of eighty-three, with grey hair. Hence their
refusal to be persuaded, notwithstanding Mr. C————’s most earnest
assurance that his son was not an old man! “Kalgan,” said Mr. C————,
“is, in the eyes of Mahometans, the Bokhara of China, and there are
large colleges here, where the teachers of the Mahometan faith are
educated. Although the three great Chinese religions are Confucianism,
Buddhism, and Tow-ism, there are many more Mahometans existing in China
than is generally supposed; their faith in the Celestial Empire is
governed by a consistory of as many as seventy persons.”
We stayed to dinner, and bade adieu to our hosts at sundown, having to
be outside the city gates before seven o’clock. Mr. T————, the head of
the mission, expressed a hope, before we left, that we should not follow
the example of the last travellers (a German and a Frenchman), who had
attempted the transit of Gobi, armed with a perfect arsenal of firearms
and escorted by a large caravan. Ten days from the start they were back
again in Kalgan, having fallen out on the way. That was their excuse;
but I doubt, from subsequent experience, if the dreary monotony of the
desert had not more to do with it, for they were good friends enough,
when, after two days’ rest at the mission, they set off for Japan.
Arrived at the Great Gate of the city, on our homeward way, we found
ourselves, together with some dozen other unfortunate beings, locked
out, or rather in, for the night. All our efforts to induce the
gatekeeper to let us out were fruitless, for he simply responded to our
frantic signs and gestures with a grin and shrug of the shoulders, and
crawled back into his foul-smelling den, to discuss the mess of pigs’
entrails, slugs, or some Chinese delicacy of a like description, which
constituted his evening meal. The position was awkward. To climb the
walls was out of the question. Their height precluded that, for the city
walls of Kalgan are at this point actually part of the Great Wall of
China itself. The only way out of the dilemma was to drop a distance of
thirty feet or so on to some rocks at a point about three hundred to
four hundred yards from the gate, but we preferred even a night in a
tea-house, to a sojourn of a month or two at Kalgan, tied down with a
broken leg. There was nothing for it but to sit down patiently and trust
to Ivanoff’s coming to release us, though that seemed unlikely enough,
seeing that he lived some distance from Batouyeff’s house, and never
visited it after nightfall. Matters were not improved by a thin
drizzling rain which began to fall after we had waited nearly an hour,
and drove us to seek refuge in a crowded tea-house close by the gates,
the resort of the gay dogs of Kalgan who are locked out of their homes
for the night. The stench and smoke, though, soon drove us out again, to
say nothing of the aggressive curiosity of the inmates, the greater part
of whom were Mongols. Nine o’clock, ten, eleven o’clock passed, and yet
no Ivanoff, or signs of a rescue from our awkward situation. We should
long before have tried an expedient that seldom fails in any country,
never in China, but alas! we had no cash. At one o’clock, a.m., we gave
it up as a bad job, and had resolved to get what sleep we could on the
ground, wet and miry as it was, when, in searching for a light, I came
upon a hard round substance in my waistcoat pocket, and found a dollar
that had reposed there ever since the day I last wore the garment, six
weeks ago, in Shanghai. Armed with this, I entered the old janitor’s
den. He was still awake, smoking and crooning over the dying embers of
an argol fire. The effect was instantaneous. In less than five minutes
the mercenary old wretch had summoned help from the tea-shop, which was
still blazing with light, and crowded with people. After much difficulty
and labour, unbolting and unbarring, the heavy gates, guided by the
efforts of six men, swung slowly back upon their hinges and let us out,
stiff, cramped, and in a fiendish temper, but free, and followed by the
ragged rabble who had been our fellow-captives, and who luckily for us
led us direct for Batouyeff’s house, for we should never have found our
way alone. An excellent supper soon made amends for our discomfort. All
had retired to rest, thinking we had slept at the Mission-house.
An extraordinary being called upon us next morning, and one looked upon
as a character by the European population of Kalgan. The visiting-card
which announced him told us but little; a piece of flimsy red paper
about eight inches long by five broad covered with Chinese characters;
and we wondered what the caller could possibly want, not without grave
doubts that an order might have come from Pekin to stop us. Our visitor
was then shown in, a short, intelligent-looking man of about fifty, who,
to our astonishment, spoke English perfectly. We had a long chat (and
many successive ones) with Captain Lew Buah (for such was the stranger’s
name), of the Chinese Navy, who entertained the usual liking of his
profession for cold brandy and water, and delighted in nothing more than
in coming to spend the afternoon to fight his battles over again, rather
to the detriment of our small stock of spirits. He had been exiled to
Kalgan, he told us, for five years, in consequence of being the only man
who had saved his ship from the French at Foochow. Ten other Chinese
men-of-war were sunk on this occasion, but Lew Buah, seeing defence was
useless, had run his steamer, a gunboat of three hundred tons, up a
small creek of the river, and so saved her from the enemy. For this he
was, unjustly enough, condemned to death, a sentence afterwards commuted
to five years’ exile on the Mongolian border. If the captain’s yarn was
true, he was certainly to be pitied, for his other exploits (which I
have since ascertained were not exaggerated) make him out anything but a
coward.
One of them was amusing enough. Having run the blockade of Formosa three
times, he was on the fourth occasion, when carrying a cargo of soldiers,
captured by a French man-of-war, the commander of which had for some
time been trying in vain to catch him. Luckily for our friend, however,
the soldiers were sent from Manchuria unarmed and disguised as peasants,
and neither the captain nor officers of the Frenchman knew him by sight.
He was, however, taken on board at once, and examined by a Chinese
interpreter in presence of the French commander. Oddly enough the former
was an old friend of Lew Buah’s, and intimated by a wink as soon as his
countryman came on board that all would be right. Nothing suspicious was
found on board Lew Buah’s ship, and he was allowed to depart in peace,
the French captain observing as he left, “If you see that d————d
scoundrel Lew Buah, tell him from me I’ll hang him to my main yard-arm
whenever he crosses my path.” The telling of this yarn was the old
gentleman’s greatest delight, and he would return with fresh vigour to
the brandy bottle after telling us how he had done the foreign devil in
the eye. The old fellow’s life had been a somewhat chequered one. It
commenced at Canton where his father had been a street fruit-hawker,
carrying his wares in two baskets slung across his shoulders by a
bamboo; in one basket was the fruit, balanced by little Lew Buah in the
other! An English lady who happened to meet the strange couple, took a
violent fancy to the fat, chubby-cheeked baby, and having no children of
her own, prevailed upon his father, nothing loth, to sell her his son
for the modest price of ten dollars. He thus, at the early age of two
years, fairly lit on his legs, and, after a residence of fifteen years
with his benefactress, returned to China and obtained a commission in
the Imperial Navy, in which, up to the time of the unfortunate
_contretemps_ at Foochow he had greatly distinguished himself. Though
the captain spoke English fluently, some of his expressions were at
times very original. We asked him one day if there was any sport to be
got round Kalgan, upon which he informed us that the hills around
abounded with “Scotch woodcock.” Still, for a Chinaman, the old fellow
had charming manners, and was a thorough gentleman in thought and
feeling.
As I have said, a bitter feud existed between Ivanoff and his confrère;
but the postmaster, M. Kolestnikoff, and our host were firm friends.
Both, too, were ardent sportsmen, and invited us one morning to join
them in a day’s shooting in the hills and ravines round Kalgan.
Ivanoff’s costume was somewhat singular, consisting of a suit of
spotless white canvas, silk socks and dancing-pumps, while round his
neck was slung an enormous field-glass. Politeness forbade my making
inquiries till we got to the shooting-ground. I imagined, at least, that
we were going deerstalking, judging from the caution our Russian friends
displayed in climbing about the crags and peaks. It was terribly hard
climbing, and our hands were torn and bleeding when we reached the
summit of the mountain, about a mile from the house, where the day’s
sport was to commence. Here I was somewhat surprised to see Ivanoff lay
down his gun, and, gravely unslinging his huge pair of glasses, intently
scan the rocks of a mountain separated from us by a narrow ravine.
Evidently they are after deer, I thought, thankful that I had brought
some bullet cartridges with me, when suddenly our host dropped the
glasses and seized my arm. Following the direction in which he was
pointing, I made out, with some difficulty, what looked like a covey of
partridges sunning themselves on the plain eighty or a hundred feet
below us. “Will you shoot first?” said Ivanoff, cocking a huge
muzzle-loader almost the size of a duck gun. “But are we not going to
walk them up?” asked Lancaster, who, like myself, was somewhat
bewildered at their strange proceedings. “Walk them up?” inquired the
Russian, with a puzzled look, “walk them up? what do you mean? No, no,
shoot from here, I will show you,” and lying flat on his stomach, he
took deliberate aim at the unconscious victims. Bang went the old
field-piece with a report that woke a thousand echoes from the hills
around, and must have been heard distinctly at Kalgan, over a mile off.
When the thick white smoke had cleared away, there was but one little
brown body lying extended on the ground, a sight which was received with
rapturous applause by the postmaster, who was watching the proceedings
from a rock higher up. We shot, or rather climbed and fell about, till
mid-day, but saw no more birds. If the sport was not first-class, the
excitement was intense. In some of the places we literally had to hold
on by our eyelids, and squeeze past sheer falls of two hundred or three
hundred feet, on to the sharp, rugged rocks below. Ivanoff afterwards
told us that a brace is accounted a good bag at Kalgan, which seems
curious when the desert hard by teems with game of all kinds. Perhaps,
though, the method practised by our Kalgan friends had something to do
with the small bags.
We could have had plenty of fun with the pigeons, which flew about in
huge flocks in the mountain-paths about Kalgan; but as we were the
guests of a Russian we did not like to shoot them.[4] We saw many
hundreds of specimens of a peculiar kind of beetle in the lower and
swampy grounds, an animal rather larger than a mouse, with a long
whip-tail, and short broad black body, covered with bright red bands. I
was unable to discover its name. They do no harm to the crops, Ivanoff
said, living chiefly on smaller insects, and are largely eaten by the
natives, who consider them a great delicacy.
We crossed the Great Wall of China on our way home, or rather a portion
of it that had broken away and left a mass of shapeless stone and
rubble. Its height is wonderfully deceptive. Seen from the valley it
looked five or six feet high at the very most, but on taking the trouble
to measure its dimensions we found it to be twenty-three feet in height,
about twelve feet wide at the base, and seven at the top. It has a
tumble-down, dilapidated appearance, for, saving the square battlemented
towers that are built in it at every four hundred yards or so, it is
uncemented, and composed of huge loose stones gradually decreasing in
size as they near the coping. Though the stones have rolled away in
places and left great gaps in the structure, one only realizes on
approaching it close——at Kalgan no easy matter——what a herculean work
the building of this barrier two thousand miles long must have been. The
stones of which it is composed are so time-worn and moss-covered that it
is almost impossible to say to what species they belong; they seemed
mostly of one kind, and extremely heavy. I managed to secure three small
ones for paper weights, while Ivanoff and Kolestnikoff “kept cave,” the
Mongols and Chinese being very jealous of any interference with their
property or institutions. At the same time no one ever dreams of
repairing the gaps, though it would be easy enough. As the reader is
probably aware, the Great Wall of China was built about 300 B.C. by the
Chinese, as a defence against the Tartar hordes who were then ravaging
the countries bordering on their frontier.
We had now been at Kalgan nearly ten days, and our carts were
approaching completion, but there were as yet no signs of the camels.
Two suspicious-looking gentlemen (a Mongol and a Chinese) called on us
one evening with a plausible tale of being able to bring us eight camels
on the morrow, and, that we might be delayed no longer, themselves
undertook to guide us across the desert to Ourga. Ivanoff was then away
for two days, and on my replying that I could give no definite answer
without consulting him, the faces of our visitors lengthened
considerably. Their intention was probably to rob and desert us, for on
seeing that we were determined to await our host’s return before closing
with them, they vanished to return no more. A more villainous-looking
couple I have seldom seen, and, if appearance goes for anything, there
is no doubt they meant mischief.
Comfortable as were our quarters and host, we were getting a little
tired of Kalgan, for besides strolling about the streets and loafing
about on the caravan track, there was absolutely nothing to do. Our
chief occupation of a morning was to ramble round the city, whiling away
an hour or two at the Chinese theatre, booths or shops. In the afternoon
it was amusing to watch the long strings of wood-carts come jingling and
rattling along the stony river-bed from Mongolia, and lazy,
sleepy-looking camel caravans crawling along under their burdens of furs
and other products of Siberia. Some were a hundred and fifty to two
hundred strong, and one wondered why, when there were so many of them
about, they could not afford to let us have half a dozen or so to fit
out our modest expedition across the Great Hungry Desert, as it is
called by the Chinese. We had learnt by now, however, that suggestions
do not hurry this journey, but retard it, however feasible the project,
so wisely held our peace.
Towards evening we usually found our way to the summit of a rocky
mountain about a couple of miles from Kalgan, and watched the sunset,
which was, as a rule, of exceptional beauty. Though the ascent was steep
and arduous, one was well repaid by the view when it was over. The
ravine leading to it was a kind of crack or fissure, evidently of
volcanic origin, and pitch dark on the brightest day, save for a patch
of bright blue sky seen through the narrow aperture overhead. Emerging
from this, one came to a steep, almost perpendicular grass slope,
crowned at its summit by a huge limestone rock literally riddled with
caves, and occupied by thousands of huge black and white birds sitting
motionless at their outlets, winking and blinking at the setting sun,
and looking as if no human being had broken in upon their solitude for
centuries. They displayed not the slightest alarm at our approach, but
gathered in groups and cawed and screamed as if in anger at our
intrusion. Not a dwelling was to be seen, not a sound heard to break the
silence but the occasional rustle of wings, the croak of some huge bird,
or the distant crash of some boulder or stone as it dislodged itself to
fall heavily into the dark valley below. One could see from here the
limitless chains of mountains that surround Kalgan, the great wall
stretching away east and west to the horizon, and beyond it, a long,
level sea-like expanse, the green and fertile plains of China. Nearer
still, nestling in the valley, lay Kalgan, with its white houses and
flower-gardens, its coloured awnings and terraces, extending for a mile
and more along the banks of the broad blue river, and half-way up the
steep, rugged mountain behind the city. It was hard to realize at such
times that one was so far from the civilized world. It needed but a
slight effort to imagine oneself in Europe again, hidden away in some
secluded mountain village in the Alps or Pyrenees. Pleasant too was it
to sit out in the veranda of an evening, with a cool breeze blowing in
fresh and strong from the desert, watching the moon slowly rise over the
great black mountain at the foot of the pass, throwing the weirdest
effects of light and shade over the dark valley and frowning crenellated
walls of the sleeping city, for all was quiet as a rule by ten o’clock,
and not a sound to be heard but the cry of the watch, or at hourly
intervals, the beating of a gong at the Great Gate. We almost regretted,
at such times, that our days in China were drawing to a close. One feels
a pang of regret on leaving even the most disagreeable countries, and we
had assuredly nothing to complain of in this so-called barbarous land,
where, save on one occasion, we had met with nothing but civility and
kindness. Anticipation is usually either better or worse than
realization, and we looked forward with no little anxiety to the journey
across the desert of Gobi——with no signs of vegetation, no settled
habitations or fellow-beings to break the monotony or disturb the
solitude of the long and weary thirty-five days’ journey that lay
between us and the Russian frontier.
Though the days were hot at Kalgan, the nights were cool and pleasant.
Our rest was somewhat disturbed, though, by Ivanoff’s clerks, who shared
the apartment next ours, and gave us a nightly concert that began about
half past ten, and lasted till an indefinite hour in the morning. Their
instrument was a kind of half banjo, half concertina, very popular in
Siberia, which has a melancholy, though not unpleasing, sound. Both men
were Siberians, one a native of Irkoutsk, and the other of Kiakhta, and,
like all their countrymen, had a rooted antipathy to going to bed. I do
not believe they ever slept at all, for I once woke about 4 a.m., and
one of them, even at that hour, was reading out loud to the other.
Neither could speak a word of English, or, indeed, any language but
Russian and Mongolian. They came rushing into our room one night to say
there was a large wolf in the yard at the back of the house. We loaded a
rifle and hurried out, but only just in time to see the beast vanish
over the wall in the moonlight. The outskirts of Kalgan are infested
with these brutes at night, and even in the daytime children have been
carried off; but we never saw another till we got into Siberia.
The camels arrived on the tenth day, four days sooner than we expected
them, and we set about making our preparations for a start without
further delay. The caravan was, according to Ivanoff’s arrangement, to
consist of sixteen camels, three carts, and three ponies, under the
escort of three Mongol guides. We found it quite hopeless to attempt to
pronounce their names, so christened them, for purposes of
identification, Moses, Aaron, and Sylvia, the latter from his striking,
though somewhat grotesque, likeness to a burlesque actress of that name
who graces the boards of the Gaiety Theatre in London. Though Sylvia was
a pleasant-looking, good-tempered boy of about twenty, his companions
were positively repulsive. I have seldom seen a more villainous-looking
cutthroat individual than Aaron, but luckily his looks belied him. Each
wore the Mongol costume, a loose, long gown, thickly coated all down the
front with mutton fat, grease, and other abominations, for a Mongol’s
coat is his dinner-napkin. All were armed with short, ugly-looking
knives, while Moses, in his capacity of leader, carried a rusty
horse-pistol which looked as if it had been made about the same date as
the Great Wall, and which would probably have done him far more injury
than his opponent, had it gone off.
The transit of the Desert of Gobi is accomplished by the regular heavy
Russian post (established 1860) in something under twenty-five days from
Kiakhta, but we expected to take considerably longer. The post caravans
are under the direction of experienced Mongol mail-men and Cossacks, who
know the road to an inch, although there is, of course, no beaten track
to guide them. Our guides were of a somewhat primitive order, and as we
afterwards discovered, often considerably out both as to time and
distance. Some Chinese tea-merchants strolled into the yard the day
before we left, while we were getting the packing-cases settled evenly
on the camels’ backs. They evidently did not think much of our caravan,
and more than one of them, Jee Boo told me, openly expressed an opinion
that we should never get across with such weak camels and inexperienced
men. Truly we could not have chosen a worse time to start so far as the
strength of the camels was concerned. As to the men, I felt we must take
our chance, but I was somewhat uneasy, and did not enjoy the excellent
dinner (our last civilized meal for some time) that Ivanoff provided for
us so much as I should have done under ordinary circumstances. It was
too late now, however, to make any alterations, and we retired to rest
earlier than usual, so as to make an early start in the morning for
Da-Hun-Go, the last settlement or hamlet on the Chinese side before the
desert city of Ourga (600 miles distant) is reached. Ivanoff was to
accompany us as far as our first halting-place, about twenty miles
distant. The carts had already started when, at 10.30 (on the morning of
the 8th of July), we set out for Da-Hun-Go. Just as we were about to
mount, a white-clad figure appeared, surmounted by an enormous straw
hat, which when removed disclosed the perspiring and beaming features of
our old naval friend, Captain Lew Buah. This necessitated a further
adjournment to the house, where the captain drank success to our
expedition in Vodka, and made an appointment to dine with us in London
in two years’ time. I sincerely hope the old fellow has since obtained
his pardon, and returned to his vocation, for which, as far as regards
pluck, he was certainly well fitted.
It was a bright and lovely morning. The first hour or two of our journey
lay through the dry river-bed——or caravan road——on which we passed many
strings of bullock-carts, but few camels. About nine miles from Kalgan,
and half-way to Da-Hun-Go, we passed “Tutinza,” a Mongol word signifying
“Cave Town.” Tutinza, which contained about eight hundred inhabitants,
could not have been better named, as the houses are literally built into
the sides of the hill, and are roofless, although they belonged to
well-to-do Chinamen, and were well and even luxuriously furnished
inside; while here and there among them were pretty flower-gardens and
clustering vines. Seen from a distance, the appearance of the blue and
white clad figures moving about among the pathways intersecting the
caves was very curious. It looked like a huge ant-hill. Nearly opposite
the village is “The Target of Tamerlan,” a mountain about three or four
hundred feet high, the summit of which is perforated by a clean-cut
circular aperture about thirty feet in diameter, plainly visible from
the road below. A freak of nature, no doubt; but the Mongols say that
this hole was made by an arrow shot by the Tartar hero. Jee Boo
derisively remarked to Moses that Tamerlan must have had a very large
bow, which only elicited a grunt in reply, and made our leader look, if
possible, more ill-tempered and villainous than ever.
The long rest at Kalgan had put our ponies in rare trim, and when we had
left the rocky valley and got on to the grass plains that bound the
valley of Da-Hun-Go, they tore away with us at a pace that it took
Ivanoff, who was riding an antiquated steed purchased from a Cossack
courier, all his time to keep up with us. Before reaching the plains, we
ascended for the last time the ridge of mountainous rocks separating
China from the plains of Mongolia. There is a gradual rise of about
fifteen hundred feet from Kalgan to Da-Hun-Go, from which point the
desert extends, flat and unbroken, with the exception of gentle
undulations, and a few ridges of rock, to the borders of Siberia. So
steep was the ascent that we had to get off and lead our ponies, and
though only three hundred feet high, it took the carts nearly two hours
to accomplish it. Half-way up we met a caravan of bullock-carts, each
with three or four men hanging on behind with ropes to act as breaks.
Even with these precautions two or three lay smashed to pieces on the
roadside. It is a curious fact, seeing the rough work they go through,
that these vehicles are built entirely of wood, and have not a scrap of
iron or other metal in their construction. About four o’clock we came to
a dilapidated, crumbling wall about fifteen feet in height, a branch of
the Great Wall of China, which, running at right angles to it for about
thirty miles, forms the boundary between Inner Mongolia and China. A
kind of gap or gate fifteen to twenty feet broad, marked the caravan
road. Passing through this, we turned and looked our last on the Chinese
Empire, and by five o’clock had reached our camping-ground, a green
stretch of meadow-land, watered by a clear running stream, on the
borders of which cattle, sheep, and ponies were grazing.
Half a dozen brick and wooden houses composed the village of Da-Hun-Go.
While the tents were being struck, we strolled out with our guns, but
though we saw plenty of game, duck, snipe, and a species of moor-hen in
plenty, we could get nowhere near them. We would willingly have stayed
here a day, but that the Mongols when once off are as hard to stop as a
switchback railway until they have reached their destination, long or
short as the journey may be. On our return we found the fires lit and a
comfortable meal prepared for us by Jee Boo. Ivanoff stayed the night,
and slept in the tent, but we preferred doubling up in our carts, the
night being so cold, that one was glad of a thick sheepskin even in the
close, stuffy vehicles. We slept soundly, lulled by the murmur of the
brook, and were rather loth to move, when Jee Boo brought us the
matutinal cup of cocoa and a biscuit. But the camels were already
packed, and although it was then only six, the indefatigable Ivanoff had
been up an hour superintending everything and giving final instructions
for our comfort and safety to the Mongols, an utterly useless
proceeding, I afterwards thought, when I got to know this unique race
better, for whatever is said to them, except for their own benefit,
invariably goes in at one ear and out of the other.
We left Da-Hun-Go at seven o’clock, taking leave of our kindly host with
much the same feeling that a man experiences when embarking for the
first time on a long sea voyage, with the difference that we had but a
very faint notion of when we should reach port, and but a very vague
idea of the hardships and fatigue to be undergone before we regained
comparative civilization at Kiakhta. At length all was ready. The tent
and water-barrels packed, carts harnessed, and ponies saddled. Moses,
mounting a wiry little beast about twelve hands high, led the way, while
Aaron took the lead on the foremost camel, Sylvia bringing up the rear
and bunting up the stragglers, who were continually breaking loose from
the line as they stooped to gather the sweet fresh pasture through which
we travelled. A final squeeze of the hand to Ivanoff, a crack of Moses’
heavy whip, and the caravan slowly moved away to the deep boom-booming
of the camel bells, a music which, though it sounded musical and
pleasing enough at first, we were heartily, hopelessly sick and tired of
long before reaching Ourga. As we turned a corner of the road and took a
last look at the vanishing figure of our friend and host, it was with a
feeling of loneliness and depression, hardly wonderful, perhaps, when we
realized that for nearly one thousand miles in distance and more than a
month in time we should see no other Europeans, and very few natives.
Nor was it reassuring to think that we were for the next month entirely
at the mercy of the three ragged, villainous-looking individuals who
constituted our escort, and who might, if they so pleased, murder, rob,
or desert us with impunity, so far as any fear of punishment was
concerned. Siberia, to say nothing of Russia and France, seemed very far
away on that bright July morning as we slowly started off, on the first
important stage of the long land journey from Pekin to Calais.
We were nearly four hours getting out of the valley of Da-Hun-Go, one of
the prettiest bits of scenery we passed during the whole of our voyage.
The ravine itself is a little over a mile broad, with low undulating
green hills on either side. Flocks of sheep dotted their sides, and an
occasional red and gold Buddhist temple flashed in the sun on their
summits and broke the sky-line. Through the centre of the valley ran a
tumbling, foaming brook alive with trout, its banks fringed with
sweet-smelling flowers, and about fifty yards from its brink the brown,
well-trodden caravan road which from here to the borders of the desert
proper is well defined. One might have been in one of the loveliest
parts of England. Wild hyacinths, cowslips, wild dog-roses, periwinkles,
and daisies grew on all sides in the long, sweet grass through which our
ponies almost laboured knee-deep, while in the distance the low sweet
notes of a cuckoo heightened the illusion, and recalled lovely bits of
scenery in Devonshire or Wales.
[Illustration: DA-HUN-GO.]
We halted for an hour, about two o’clock, for a tin of preserved meat
and glass of cold whisky and water. Moses intimated to us through Jee
Boo his intention of pushing on and gaining the desert before nightfall,
so there was no help for it. I did not wish to begin the journey with a
disturbance, and made no demur, and three o’clock saw us again on the
march, passing through plains of wheat and barley, and enormous fields
or enclosures of mustard and poppies. We saw no habitations, and
wondered a good deal where the tillers of all this ground reside. The
road got worse towards evening, and the heavy, clumsy carts stuck fast
several times in the deep, rotten holes with which it was honeycombed. A
little before six o’clock we got into a more desolate-looking country,
although it was better travelling, which was perhaps lucky, as the stiff
work in the marshes had almost done up our camels. I had yet to learn
that the more beat these animals look, the fitter they are.
We now passed through a sterile, burnt-up-looking country, thickly
covered with clumps of thick, wiry grass, over which the camel carts
plunged and rolled in a very painful manner. I retired to my cart about
five o’clock for a rest, and, tired out with my long ride in the sun,
fell asleep. The sun was low in the heavens when I awoke and looked out
of the little window. All traces of vegetation had vanished, while
straight in front of us rose a low range of yellow sand-hills, through
which stunted wisps of light green grass struggled at intervals. On the
near side of these were a couple of circular tents, some dogs, and
ponies standing hard by; on the far side of the sand-hills the sea, or
what appeared so exactly like it, that I had to rub my eyes to make sure
I was not dreaming. There it was; the great grey waste looking exactly
as it does when lit up at sunset, by the rays of the setting sun after a
hot summer’s day in England. The low yellow sand-hills, too, heightened
the illusion, and stood out clear and distinct against the grey expanse
and level, unbroken horizon. At this moment my ruminations were rudely
broken in upon by Moses. Appearing suddenly at the side of my cart, he
thrust his flat, ill-favoured face in at the window, and extending a
long, skinny forefinger, pointed to the darkening waste. “Shamo,”[5] he
muttered in a hoarse, guttural voice. Then I knew we had reached the
confines of the “Great Hungry Desert.”
—————
Footnote 4:
The pigeon in Russia, and especially Siberia, is looked upon as a
sacred bird.
Footnote 5:
Mongol name for Gobi Desert.
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