It was my original intention to make a journey from Kiachta to Pekin
and back again, but the lateness of the season prevented me. I did not
wish to be caught in the desert of Gobi in winter. I talked with
several persons who had traversed Mongolia, and among them a gentleman
who had just arrived from the Chinese capital. I made many notes from
his recital which I found exceedingly interesting.
For a time the Chinese refused passports to foreigners wishing to
cross Mongolia; but on finding their action was likely to cause
trouble, they gave the desired permission, though accompanying it with
an intimation that the privilege might be suspended at any time. The
bonds that unite Mongolia to the great empire are not very strong, the
natives being somewhat indifferent to their rulers and ready at any
decent provocation to throw off their yoke. Though engaged in the
peaceful pursuits of sheep-tending, and transporting freight between
Russia and China, they possess a warlike spirit and are capable of
being roused into violent action. They are proud of tracing their
ancestry to the soldiers that marched with Genghis Khan, and carried
his victorious banners into Central Europe; around their fires at
night no stories are more eagerly heard than those of war, and he who
can relate the most wonderful traditions of daring deeds may be
certain of admiration and applause.
The first “outside barbarian,” other than Russians, who attempted this
overland journey, was a young French Count, who traveled in search of
adventure. Proceeding eastward from St. Petersburg, he reached Kiachta
in 1859. After some hesitation, the governor-general of Eastern
Siberia appointed him secretary to a Russian courier _en route_ for
Pekin. He made the journey without serious hindrance, but on reaching
the Chinese capital his nationality was discovered, and he was forced
to return to Siberia.
From Pekin the traveller destined for Siberia passes through the
northern gate amid clouds of dust or pools of mud, according as the
day of his exit is fair or stormy. He meets long strings of carts
drawn by mules, oxen, or ponies, carrying country produce of different
kinds to be digested in the great maw of the Imperial city. Animals
with pack-saddles, swaying under heavy burdens, swell the caravans,
and numerous equestrians, either bestriding their steeds, or sitting
sidewise in apparent carelessness, are constantly encountered. Now and
then an unruly mule causes a commotion in the crowd by a vigorous use
of his heels, and a watchful observer may see an unfortunate native
sprawling on the ground in consequence of approaching too near one of
the hybrid beasts. Chinese mules _will_ kick as readily as their
American cousins; and I can say from experience, that their hoofs are
neither soft nor delicate. They can bray, too, in tones terribly
discordant and utterly destructive of sleep. The natives have a habit
of suppressing their music when it becomes positively unbearable, and
the means they employ may be worth notice. A Chinaman says a mule
cannot bray without elevating his tail to a certain height; so to
silence the beast he ties a stone to that ornamental appendage, and
depends upon the weight to shut off the sound. Out of compassion to
the mule, he attaches the stone so that it rests upon the ground and
makes no strain as long as the animal behaves himself.
[Illustration: A MUSICAL STOP.]
A Chinese pack-mule will carry about four hundred pounds of dead
weight, if properly adjusted. The loads are not lashed on the animals’
backs, but simply balanced; consequently, they must be very nicely
divided and arranged on each side of the saddles.
On the road from Pekin the track is so wretched, and the carts so
roughly made, that journeying with wheeled vehicles is next to an
impossibility. Travelers go on horseback—if their circumstances
allow—and by way of comfort, especially if there be ladies in the
party, they generally provide themselves with mule-litters. The
mule-litter is a goodly-sized palanquin, not quite long enough for
lying at full length, but high enough to allow the passenger to sit
erect. There is a box or false flooring in the bottom, to accommodate
baggage in small parcels that can be easily stowed. A good litter has
the sides stuffed to save the occupant from bruises; and with plenty
of straw and a couple of pillows, he generally finds himself quite
comfortable. The body is fastened to two strong and flexible poles
that extend fore and aft far enough to serve as shafts for a couple of
mules. At the ends of the shafts their points are connected by stout
bands of leather that pass over the saddles of the respective mules;
each band is kept in place by an iron pin fixed in the top of the
saddle, and passing through a hole in the leather. As the shafts are
long enough to afford the animals plenty of walking room, there is a
good deal of spring to the concern, and the motion is by no means
disagreeable. Sometimes the bands slip from the shafts, and in such
case the machine comes to the ground with a disagreeable thump; if the
traveler happens to be asleep at the time he can easily imagine he is
being shot from a catapult.
Just outside of Pekin there is a sandy plain, and beyond it a fine
stretch of country under careful cultivation, the principal cereal
being millet, that often stands ten or twelve feet high. Some cotton
is grown, but the region is too far north to render its culture
profitable.
About twenty miles from Pekin is the village of Sha-ho, near two old
stone bridges that span a river now nearly dried away. The village is
a sort of half-way halting place between. Pekin and the Nankow pass, a
rocky defile twelve or fifteen miles long. The huge boulders and
angular fragments of stone have been somewhat worn down and smoothed
by constant use, though they are still capable of using up a good many
mule-hoofs annually. With an eye to business, a few traveling farriers
hang about this pass, and find occasional employment in setting shoes.
Chinese shoeing, considered as a fine art, is very much in its
infancy. Animals are only shod when the nature of the service requires
it; the farriers do not attempt to make shoes to order, but they keep
a stock of iron plates on hand, and select the nearest size they can
find. They hammer the plate a little to fit it to the hoof and then
fasten it on; an American blacksmith would be astonished at the
rapidity with which his Chinese brother performs his work.
The pass of Nankow contains the remains of several old forts, which
were maintained in former times to protect China from Mongol
incursions. The natural position is a strong one, and a small force
could easily keep at bay a whole army. Just outside the northern
entrance of the pass there is a branch of one of the “Great Walls” of
China. It was built some time before _the_ Great Wall. Foreigners
visiting Pekin and desiring to see the Great Wall are usually taken to
Nankow, and gravely told they have attained the object they seek.
Perhaps it is just as well for them to believe so, since they avoid a
journey of fifty miles farther over a rough road to reach the real
Great Wall; besides, the Chinese who have contracted to take them on
the excursion are able to make a nice thing of it, since they charge
as much for one place as for the other.
The country for a considerable distance is dotted with old forts and
ruins, and the remains of extensive earthworks. Many battles were
fought here between the Chinese and the Mongols when Genghis Khan made
his conquest. For a long time the assailants were kept at bay, but one
fortress after another fell into their hands, and finally the capture
of the Nankow pass by Che-pee, one of Genghis Khan’s generals, laid
Pekin at their mercy.
[Illustration: NANKOW PASS.]
There is a tradition that the loss of the first line of northern forts
was due to a woman. Intelligence was transmitted in those days by
means of beacon fires, and the signals were so arranged as to be
rapidly flashed through the empire. Once a lady induced the Emperor to
give the signal and summon his armies to the capital. The Mandarins
assembled with their forces, but on finding they had been simply
employed at the caprice of a woman, they returned angrily to their
homes. By-and-by the enemy came; the beacon fires were again lighted;
but this time the Mandarins did not heed the call for assistance.
The Great Wall—the real one—crosses the road at Chan-kia-kow, a
large and scattered town lying in a broad valley, pretty well enclosed
by mountains. The Russians call the town Kalgan (gate), but the
natives never use any other than the Chinese name. In maps made from
Russian authorities, Kalgan appears, while in those taken from the
Chinese, the other appellation is used. Kalgan (I stick to the Russian
term, as more easily pronounced, though less correct) is the centre of
the transit trade from Pekin to Kiachta, and great quantities of tea
and other goods pass through it annually. Several Russians are
established there, and the town contains a population of Chinese from
various provinces of the empire, mingled with Mongols and Thibetans in
fair proportion. The religion is varied, and embraces adherents to all
the branches of Chinese theology, together with Mongol lamas and a
considerable sprinkling of Mahommedans. There are temples,
lamissaries, and mosques, according to the needs of the faithful; and
the Russian inhabitants have a chapel of their own, and are thus able
to worship according to their own faith. The mingling of different
tribes and kinds of people in a region where manners and morals are
not severely strict, has produced a result calculated to puzzle the
present or future ethnologist. Many of the merchants have grown
wealthy, and take life as comfortably as possible; they furnish their
houses in the height of Chinese style, and some of them have even sent
to Russia for the wherewith to astonish their neighbors.
The Great Wall runs along the ridge of hills in a direction nearly
east and west; where it crosses the town it is kept in good repair,
but elsewhere it is very much in ruins, and could offer little
resistance to an enemy. Many of the towers remain, and some of them
are but little broken. They seem to have been better constructed than
the main portions of the wall, and, though useless against modern
weapons, were, no doubt, of importance in the days of their erection.
The Chinese must have held the Mongol hordes in great dread, to judge
by the labor expended to guard against incursions.
As Kalgan is the frontier town between China and Mongolia, many
Mongols go there for all purposes, from trading down to loafing. They
bring their camels to engage in transporting goods across the desert,
and indulge in a great deal of traffic on their own account. They
drive cattle, sheep, and horses from their pastures farther north, and
sell them for local use, or for the market at Pekin. Mutton is the
staple article of food, and nearly always cheap and abundant. The
hillsides are covered with flocks, which often graze where nothing
else can live. In the autumn, immense numbers of sheep are driven to
Pekin, and sometimes the road is fairly blocked with them.
Every morning there is a horse-fair on an open space just beyond the
Great Wall, and on its northern side. The modes of buying and selling
horses are very curious, and many of the tricks would be no discredit
to American jockeys. The horses are tied or held wherever their owners
can keep them, and in the centre of the fair grounds there is a space
where the beasts are shown off. They trot or gallop up and down the
course, their riders yelling as if possessed of devils, and holding
their whips high in air. These riders are generally Mongols; their
garments flutter like the decorations of a scarecrow in a morning
breeze, and their pig-tails, if not carefully triced up, stand out at
right angles like ships’ pennants in a northeast gale. Notwithstanding
all the confusion, it rarely happens that anybody is run over, though
there are many narrow escapes.
[Illustration: RACING AT THE KALGAN FAIR.]
The fair is attended by two classes of people—those who want to trade
in horses, and those who don’t; between them they manage to assemble a
large crowd. There are always plenty of curbstone brokers, or
intermediaries, who hang around the fair to negotiate purchases and
sales. They have a way of conducting trades by drawing their long
sleeves over their hands, and making or receiving bids by means of the
concealed fingers. This mode of telegraphing is quite convenient when
secrecy is desired, and prevails in many parts of Asia. Taverneir and
other travelers say the diamond merchants conduct their transactions
in this manner, even when no one is present to observe them.
[Illustration: STREET IN KALGAN.]
Unless arrangements have been made beforehand, it will be necessary to
spend three or four days at Kalgan in preparing for the journey over
the desert. Camels must be hired, carts purchased, baggage packed in
convenient parcels, and numerous odds and ends provided against
contingencies. Of course, there is generally something forgotten, even
after careful attention to present and prospective wants.
But we are off at last. The start consumes the greater part of a day,
as it is best to have nothing done carelessly at the outset. The heavy
baggage is loaded upon the camels, the animals lying down and
patiently waiting while their cargoes are stowed. Pieces of felt cloth
are packed between and around their humps, to prevent injury from the
cords that sustain the bundles. The drivers display much ingenuity in
arranging the loads so that they shall be easily balanced, and the
sides of the beasts as little injured as possible. Spite of
precautions, the camels get ugly sores in their sides and backs, which
grow steadily worse by use. Occasionally their hoofs crack and fill
with sand, and when this occurs, their owner has no alternative but to
rest them a month or two, or risk losing their services altogether.
The principal travel over the desert is in the cold season. In the
autumn, the camels are fat, and their humps appear round and hard.
They are then steadily worked until spring, and very often get very
little to eat. As the camel grows thin, his humps fall to one side,
and the animal assumes a woe-begone appearance. In the spring, his
hair falls off; his naked skin wrinkles like a wet glove, and he
becomes anything but an attractive object.
[Illustration: IN GOOD CONDITION.]
As a beast of burden, the camel is better than for purposes of draft.
He can carry from six hundred to eight hundred pounds, if the load be
properly placed on his back; but when he draws a cart the weight must
be greatly diminished. In crossing Mongolia, heavy baggage is carried
on camels, but every traveler takes a cart for riding purposes, and
alternates between it and his saddle horse. The cart is a sort of
dog-house on two wheels; its frame is of wood, and has a covering of
felt cloth, thick enough to ward off a light fall of rain, and
embarrass a heavy one. It is barely high enough to allow a man to sit
erect, but not sufficiently long to enable him to lie at full length.
The body rests directly upon the axle, so that the passenger gets the
full benefit of every jolt. The camel walks between the shafts, and
his great body is the chief feature of the scenery when one looks
ahead. The harness gives way occasionally, and allows the shafts to
fall to the ground; when this happens, the occupant runs the risk of
being dumped among the ungainly feet that propel his vehicle. One
experience of this kind is more than satisfactory.
After passing a range of low mountains north of Kalgan, the road
enters the table-land of Mongolia, elevated about five thousand feet
above the sea. The country opens into a series of plains and gentle
swells, not unlike the rolling prairies of Kansas and Nebraska, with
here and there a stretch of hills. Very often not a single tree is
visible, and the only stationary objects that break the monotony of
the scene are occasional yourts, or tents of the natives. All the way
along the road there are numerous trains of ox-carts, and sometimes
they form a continuous line of a mile or more. Those going southward
are principally laden with logs of wood from the valley of the Tolla,
about two hundred miles from the Siberian frontier. The logs are about
six or seven feet long, and their principal use is to be cut into
Chinese coffins. Many a gentleman of Pekin has been stowed in a coffin
whose wood grew in the middle of Mongolia; and possibly when our
relations with the empire become more intimate, we shall supply the
Chinese coffin market from the fine forests of our Pacific coast.