Chetah stands on the left bank of the Ingodah, nearly three hundred
miles above Stratensk, and is the capital of the Trans-Baikal
province. For many years it was a small town with a few hundred
inhabitants, but the opening of the Amoor in 1854 changed its
character. Below this point the Ingodah is navigable for boats and
rafts, and during the early years of the Amoor occupation much
material was floated down from Chetah. In 1866 its population,
including the garrison, was about five thousand. Many houses were
large and well fitted, and all were of wood. The officers lived
comfortably, but complained of high rents.
The governor’s mansion is the largest and best, and near it is the
club-house where weekly soirees are held. I attended one of these and
found a pleasant party. There was music and dancing, tea-drinking and
card-playing, gossip and silence at varied and irregular intervals.
Some of the officers read selections from Russian authors, and others
recited pieces of prose and poetry. There were dialogues, evidently
humorous to judge by the mirth they produced, and there was a paper
containing original contributions. The association appeared
prosperous, and I was told that its literary features were largely due
to the efforts of the governor.
There is a _gastinni-dvor_ or row of shops and a market-place
surrounded with huckster’s stalls, much like those near Fulton Ferry.
Desiring to replace a broken watch-key I found a repair shop and
endeavored to make my inquiries in Russian. “_Monsieur parle le
Francais, je crois_,” was the response to my attempt, and greatly
facilitated the transaction of business. Before I left New York an
acquaintance showed me a photograph of a Siberian, who proved to be
the watchmaker thus encountered.
Walking about the streets I saw many prisoners at work under guard,
most of them wearing fetters. Though I became accustomed during my
Siberian travels to the sight of chains on men, I could never hear
their clanking without a shudder. The chains worn by a prisoner were
attached at one end to bands enclosing his ankles and at the other to
a belt around his waist. The sound of these chains as the men walked
about was one of the most disagreeable I ever heard, and I was glad to
observe that the Russians did not appear to admire it. The prisoners
at Chetah were laboring on the streets, preparing logs for
house-building, or erecting fences. Most of the working parties were
under guard, but the overseers did not appear to push them severely.
Some were taking it very leisurely and moved as if endeavoring to do
as little as possible in their hours of work. I was told that they
were employed on the eight hour system. Their dress was coarse and
rough, like that of the peasants, but had no marks to show that its
wearer was a prisoner.
[Illustration: PRISONERS AT CHETAH.]
There were between three and four thousand prisoners in the province
of the Trans-Baikal. About one-sixth of them were at Chetah and in
its vicinity. The prisoners were of two classes—political and
criminal—and their punishment varied according to their offence. Some
were sentenced to labor in chains, and others to labor without chains.
Some could not go out without a guard, while others had more freedom.
Some were sentenced to work in prison and others were imprisoned
without labor. Some were exiled to Siberia but enjoyed the liberty of
a province, a particular district, or a designated town or village.
Some were allowed a certain amount of rations and others supported
themselves. In fact there were all grades of prisoners, just as we
have all grades in our penitentiaries.
The Polish revolution in 1863 sent many exiles to the country east of
Lake Baikal. Among the prisoners at the time of my journey there was a
Colonel Zyklinski confined in prison at a village north of Chetah. He
had a prominent part in the Polish troubles, and was captured at the
surrender of the armies. He served in America under M’Clellan during
the Peninsular campaign, and was in regular receipt of a pension from
our government.
The Trans-Baikal Province is governed by Major General Ditmar, to whom
I brought letters of introduction. When Borasdine returned from his
visit he brought invitation to transfer our quarters to the
gubernatorial mansion, where we went and met the governor. I found him
an agreeable gentleman, speaking French fluently, and regretting the
absence of Madame Ditmar, in whose praise many persons had spoken. At
dinner I met about twenty persons, of whom more than half spoke French
and two or three English.
A military band occupied the gallery over the dining-room. When
General Ditmar proposed “the United States of America,” my ears were
greeted with one of our national airs. It was well played, and when I
said so they told me its history. On hearing of my arrival the
governor summoned his chief musician and asked if he knew any American
music. The reply was in the negative. The governor then sent the
band-master to search his books. He soon returned, saying he had
found the notes of “Hail Columbia.”
“Is that the only American tune you have?” asked the general.
“Yes, sir.”
“Have your band learn to play it by dinner time.”
The order was obeyed, and the American music accompanied the first
regular toast. It was repeated at the club-rooms and on two or three
other occasions during my stay in Chetah, and though learned so
hastily it was performed as well as by any ordinary band in our army.
The principal rooms in General Ditmar’s house had a profusion of green
plants in pots and tubs of different sizes. One apartment in
particular seemed more like a greenhouse than a room where people
dwelt. Whether so much vegetation in the houses affects the health of
the people I am unable to say, but I could not ascertain that it did.
The custom of cultivating plants in the dwellings prevails through
Siberia, especially in the towns. I frequently found bushes like small
trees growing in tubs, and I have in mind several houses where the
plants formed a continuous line half around the walls of the principal
rooms. The devotion to floriculture among the Siberians has its chief
impulse in the long winters, when there is no out-door vegetation
visible beyond that of the coniferous trees. I can testify that a
dwelling-which one enters on a cold day in midwinter appears doubly
cheerful when the eye rests upon a luxuriance of verdure and flowers.
Winter seems defeated in his effort to establish universal sway.
The winters in this region are long and cold, though very little snow
falls. Around Chetah and in most of the Trans-Baikal province there is
not snow enough for good sleighing, and the winter roads generally
follow the frozen rivers. Horses, cattle, and sheep subsist on the
dead and dry grass from October to April, but they do not fare
sumptuously every day.
North and south of the head-waters of the Ingodah and Orion there are
mountain ranges, having a general direction east and west. Away to the
north the Polar sea and the lakes and rivers near it supply the rain
and snow-clouds. As they sweep toward the south these clouds hourly
become less and their last drops are wrung from them as they strike
the slopes of the mountains and settle about their crests. The winter
clouds from the Indian Ocean and Caspian Sea rarely pass the desert of
Gobi, and thus the country of the Trans-Baikal has a climate peculiar
to itself.
During my stay at Chetah a party was organized to hunt gazelles. There
were ten or fifteen officers and about twenty Cossacks, as at
Blagoveshchensk. Up to the day of the excursion the weather was
delightful, but it suddenly changed to a cloudy sky, a high wind, and
a freezing temperature. The scene of action was a range of hills five
or six miles from town. We went there in carriages and wagons and on
horseback, and as we shivered around a fire built by the Cossacks near
an open work cabin, we had little appearance of a pleasure party.
[Illustration: ON THE HILLS NEAR CHETAH.]
The first drive resulted in the death of two rabbits and the serious
disability of a third. One halted within twenty steps of me and
received the contents of my gun-barrel. I reloaded while he lay
kicking, and just as I returned the ramrod to its place the beast
rose and ran into the thick bushes. I hope he recovered and will live
many years. He seemed gifted with a strong constitution, and I heard
several stories of the tenacity of life displayed by his kindred.
The rabbit or hare (_lepus variabilis_) abounds in the valley of the
Amoor and generally throughout Siberia. He is much larger than the New
England rabbit I hunted in my boyhood, and smaller than the long-eared
rabbit of the Rocky Mountains and California. He is grey or brown in
summer and white in winter, his color changing as cold weather begins.
No snow had fallen at Chetah, but the rabbits were white as chalk and
easily seen if not easily killed. The peasants think the rabbit a
species of cat and refuse to eat his flesh, but the upper classes have
no such scruples. I found him excellent in a roast or stew and
admirably adapted to destroying appetites. Our day’s hunt brought us
one gazelle, six rabbits, one lunch, several drinks, and one smashed
wagon.
I saw at Chetah a chess board in a box ten inches square with a
miniature tree six inches high on its cover. The figure of a man in
chains leaning upon a spade near a wheelbarrow, stood under the tree.
The expression of the face, the details of the clothing, the links of
the chains, the limbs of the tree, and even the roughness of its bark,
were carefully represented. It was the work of a Polish exile, who was
then engaged upon something more elaborate. Chessmen, tree, barrow,
chains, and all, were made from black bread! The man took part of his
daily allowance, moistened it with water, and kneaded it between his
fingers till it was soft like putty. In this condition he fashioned it
to the desired shape.
When I called upon the watchmaker he told me of an American recently
arrived from Kiachta. Two hours later while writing in my room I heard
a rap at my door. On opening I found a man who asked in a bewildered
air, “_Amerikansky doma?_”
“_Dah_,” I responded.
“_Parlez vous Francais_?” was his next question. “_Oui, Monsieur,
Francais ou Anglais_.”
“Then you are the man I want to find. How do you do?”
It was the American, who had come in search of me. He told me he was
born in England and was once a naturalized citizen of the United
States. He had lived in New York and Chicago, crossed the Plains in
1850, and passed through all the excitements of the Pacific coast,
finishing and being finished at Frazer’s River. After that he went to
China and accompanied a French merchant from Shanghae across the
Mongolian steppes to Kiachta. He arrived in Chetah a month before my
visit, and was just opening a stock of goods to trade with the
natives.
He was about to begin matrimonial life with a French lady whose
acquaintance he made in Kiachta. He had sent for a Catholic priest to
solemnize the marriage, as neither of the high contracting parties
belonged to the Russian church. The priest was then among the exiles
at Nerchinsk Zavod, three hundred miles away, and his arrival at
Chetah was anxiously looked for by others than my new acquaintance.
The Poles being Catholics have their own priests to attend them and
minister to their spiritual wants. Some of these priests are exiles
and others voluntary emigrants, who went to Siberia to do good. The
exiled priests are generally permitted to go where they please, but I
presume a sharp watch is kept over their actions. When there is a
sufficient number of Poles they have churches of their own and use
exclusively the Romish service.
The Germans settled in Russia, as well as Russians of German descent,
usually adhere to the Lutheran faith. The Siberian peasants almost
invariably speak of a Lutheran church as a ‘German’ one, and in like
manner apply the name ‘Polish’ to Catholic churches. The government
permits all religious denominations in Siberia to worship God in their
own way, and makes no interference with spiritual leaders. Minor sects
corresponding to Free Lovers, Shakers, and bodies of similar
character, are not as liberally treated as the followers of any
recognized Christian faith. Of course the influence of the government
is for the Greek Church, but it allows no oppression of Catholics and
Lutherans. So far as I could observe, the Greek Church in Siberia and
the Established Church in England occupy nearly similar positions
toward dissenting denominations.
Three days after my arrival General Ditmar started for Irkutsk,
preceded a few hours by my late traveling companion. In the afternoon
following the general’s departure I witnessed an artillery parade and
drill, the men being Cossacks of the Trans-Baikal province. The
battery was a mounted one of six guns, and I was told the horses were
brought the day before from their summer pastures. The affair was
creditable to officers and men, the various evolutions being well and
rapidly performed. The guns were whirled about the field, unlimbered,
fired, dismounted, and passed through all the manipulations known to
artillerists.
At the close of the review the commanding officer thanked his men and
praised their skill. He received the response, simultaneously spoken,
“We are happy to please you,” or words of like meaning. At every
parade, whether regular or Cossack, this little ceremony is observed.
As the men marched from the field to their quarters they sang one of
their native airs. These Cossacks meet at stated intervals for drill
and discipline, and remain the balance of the time at their homes. The
infantry and cavalry are subject to the same regulation, and the
musters are so arranged that some part of the Cossack force is always
under arms.
After the review I dined with a party of eighteen or twenty officers
at the invitation of Captain Erifayeff of the governor’s staff. The
dinner was given in the house where my host and his friend, Captain
Pantoukin, lived, _en garcon_. The Emperor of Russia and the President
of the United States were duly remembered, and the toasts in their
honor were greeted with appropriate music. In conversation after
dinner, I found all the officers anxious to be informed concerning the
United States. The organization of our army, the relations of our
people after the war, our mode of life, manners, and customs, were
subjects of repeated inquiry.
On the morning of the 26th October, Captain Molostoff, who was to be
my companion, announced his readiness to depart. I made my farewell
calls, and we packed our baggage into my tarantass, with the exception
of the terrible trunk that adhered to me like a shadow. As we had no
Cossack and traveled without a servant, there was room for the
unwieldy article on the seat beside the driver. I earnestly advise
every tourist in Siberia not to travel with a trunk. The Siberian
ladies manage to transport all the articles for an elaborate toilet
without employing a single ‘dog house’ or ‘Saratoga.’ If they can do
without trunks, of what should not man be capable?
Our leave-taking consumed much time and champagne, and it was nearly
sunset before we left Chetah. It is the general custom in Siberia to
commence journeys in the afternoon or evening, the latter extending
anywhere up to daybreak. As one expects to travel night and day until
reaching his destination, his hour of starting is of no consequence.
Just before leaving he is occupied in making farewell calls, and is
generally ‘seen off’ by his friends. In the evening he has no warm bed
to leave, no hasty toilet to make, and no disturbed household around
him. With a vehicle properly arranged he can settle among his furs and
pillows and is pretty likely to fall asleep before riding many miles.
I was never reconciled to commencing a journey early in the morning,
with broken sleep, clothing half arranged, and a ‘picked-up’ breakfast
without time to swallow it leisurely.
On leaving Chetah we crossed a frozen stream tributary to the Ingodah,
and proceeded rapidly over an excellent road. We met several carts,
one-horse affairs on two wheels, laden with hay for the Chetah market.
One man generally controlled three or four carts, the horses
proceeding in single file. The country was more open than on the other
side of Chetah, and the road had suffered little in the rains and
succeeding cold. For some distance we rode near two lines of
telegraph; one was a temporary affair erected during the insurrection
of 1866, while the other was the permanent line designed to connect
America with Europe by way of Bering’s Straits. The poles used for
this telegraph are large and firmly set, and give the line an
appearance of durability.
The Captain was fond of dogs and had an English pointer in his
baggage. During the day the animal ran near the carriage, and at night
slept at his master’s feet. He was well inclined toward me after we
were introduced, and before the journey ended he became my personal
friend. He had an objectionable habit of entering the tarantass just
before me and standing in the way until I was seated. Sometimes when
left alone in the carriage he would not permit the yemshicks to attach
the horses. On two or three occasions of this kind the Captain was
obliged to suspend his tea-drinking and go to pacify his dog. Once as
a yemshick was mounting the box of the tarantass, ‘Boika’ jumped at
his face and very nearly secured an attachment to a large and ruddy
nose. Spite of his eccentricities, he was a good dog and secured the
admiration of those he did not attempt to bite.
We passed the Yablonoi mountains by a road far from difficult. Had I
not been informed of the fact I could have hardly suspected we were in
a mountain range. The Yablonoi chain forms the dividing ridge between
the head streams of the Amoor and the rivers that flow to the Arctic
Ocean.
On the south we left a little brook winding to reach the Ingodah, and
two hours later crossed the Ouda, which joins the Selenga at Verkne
Udinsk. The two streams flow in opposite directions. One threads its
way to the eastward, where it assists in forming the Amoor; the other
through the Selenga, Lake Baikal, and the Yenesei, is finally
swallowed up among the icebergs and perpetual snows of the far north.
“One to long darkness and the frozen tide;
One to the Peaceful Sea.”