THE GREAT LENA POST-ROAD
The distance from Irkutsk to Yakutsk is about 2000 English miles, but
the post-road by which we travelled during the first stage of the
overland journey is, properly speaking, no road at all. After leaving
Irkutsk the traveller crosses about 150 miles of well-wooded country,
until the upper waters of the Lena river are reached.[3] In winter time
the frozen surface of the latter connects the two cities, and there is
no other way by land. A double row of pine branches stuck into the snow
at short intervals indicate the track, and this is a necessary
precaution, as the hot springs of the Upper Lena frequently render the
ice treacherous and unsafe. A sharp look-out is, therefore, kept all
along the line for overflows, and, when necessary, the road is shifted
to avoid them, but notwithstanding these precautions, darkness and
drunken drivers often cause fatal accidents. In summer time Yakutsk may
be reached by small steamers plying from Ust-kutsk, on the Lena, about
250 miles by road from Irkutsk. The trip takes about a fortnight down
stream, and three weeks in the reverse direction, but sand-bars
frequently cause delays, rendered the more irksome by poor
accommodation, stifling heat, and clouds of mosquitoes.[4]
[Footnote 3: The Lena river has an estimated length of not less than
3000 miles. It rises in the Baikal mountains and flows north and east
past the towns of Kirensk, Vitimsk, and Olekminsk to Yakutsk, thence it
turns to the north-west and enters the Arctic Ocean, forming a wide
delta. The Lena receives several large tributaries, viz., the Vitim,
about 1400, the Olekma, about 800, and the Aldan, about 1300 miles
long.]
[Footnote 4: This must be very slow travelling, for Dobell, the
traveller, writes: "When I descended the Lena from Ust-kutsk in the
spring of 1816, I was only fourteen days going to Yakutsk in a large
flat-bottomed boat."]
Most people in England have a very vague idea of the size of Siberia. It
is only by actually visiting the country that one can grasp the
harassing difficulties due to appalling distances and primitive modes of
locomotion, especially when the traveller is bound for the Far North. I
will, therefore, endeavour to convey to the reader, as briefly as
possible, the area of this land of illimitable space, and cannot do so
better than by quoting the graphic description given by the American
explorer, Mr. George Kennan.[5] He says: "You can take the whole of the
United States of America, from Maine to California and from Lake
Superior to the Gulf of Mexico, and set it down in the middle of Siberia
without touching anywhere the boundaries of the latter's territory; you
can then take Alaska and all the countries of Europe, with the exception
of Russia, and fit them into the remaining margin like the pieces of a
dissected map. After having thus accommodated all of the United States,
including Alaska, and the whole of Europe, except Russia, you will
still have more than 300,000 miles of Siberian territory to spare. In
other words, you will still have unoccupied in Siberia an area half as
large again as the Empire of Germany." According to the census of 1897
the entire population of Siberia is little more than that of the English
metropolis.
[Footnote 5: "Siberia and the Exile System," by George Kennan.]
A couple of Yakute sleighs sufficed for ourselves and entire outfit. I
rode with de Clinchamp in the leading vehicle, while Harding and the
bulk of the stores followed in the other. At first sight, the Yakute
sleigh appears to be a clumsy but comfortable contrivance, but very few
miles had been covered before I discovered its unlimited powers of
inflicting pain. For this machine does not glide like a well-behaved
sleigh, but advances by leaps and bounds that strain every nerve and
muscle in the body. In anything like deep, soft snow it generally comes
to a standstill, and the combined efforts of men and horses are required
to set it going again. However, for the first three or four days, good
progress was made at the rate of about 200 versts[6] in the twenty-four
hours, for we travelled night and day. There was no incentive to pass
the night in the post-houses, which were generally of a filthy
description, although luxurious compared to the Yakute Yurtas and
Tchuktchi huts awaiting us up North. On the Lena post-road, stages were
only from fifteen to thirty miles apart, and with a fresh _troika_
(three horses harnessed abreast) at such short intervals, our rate of
speed for the first week was very satisfactory. Between Irkutsk and the
river Lena part of the road lies through dense forests, which are
generally infested with runaway convicts, so we kept a sharp look-out
and revolvers handy. Only a week before we passed through this region a
mail-cart had been held up and its driver murdered, but I fancy news had
filtered through that my expedition was well armed, and we therefore
reached the Lena unmolested.
[Footnote 6: A verst is two-thirds of an English mile.]
The weather at Irkutsk had been comparatively warm, and we were,
therefore, unprepared for the intense cold experienced only forty-eight
hours after our departure. Although on the evening of the 19th the
thermometer had registered only 10 deg. below zero Fahrenheit, it
suddenly sank during the night to 65 deg. below zero, where it remained
until the following evening. Oddly enough, a dense mist accompanied the
fall of the mercury, rendering the cold infinitely harder to bear. Our
drivers declared that this climatic occurrence was most unusual, and the
fact remains that this was the lowest temperature recorded during the
entire journey south of the Yakute Yurta of Yuk-Takh, several hundred
miles north of Yakutsk. There we had to face 75 deg. below zero, but
then Yuk-Takh adjoins Verkhoyansk, the coldest place in the world. But
the dry frosty air of even this remote settlement inconvenienced me far
less than the chilly breeze of a raw November day on the Paris
Boulevards with the mercury half a dozen degrees above the
freezing-point. On the Lena this Arctic cold only lasted for about
eighteen hours, and then slowly rose again, after remaining at about 50
deg. below zero for a couple of days. The severest cold afterwards
experienced south of Yakutsk was 51 deg. below zero, and that only upon
one occasion. Otherwise it varied from 2 deg. above to 40 deg. below
zero, but even that was sufficient to convert our provisions into a
granite-like consistency, and at first wearisome delays were occasioned
at the post-stations by the thawing out of petrified sardines and tinned
soup converted into solid ice. Milk, frozen and cut into cubes, was
conveniently carried in a net attached to the sleigh, and this, with
tea, was our sole beverage. For a case with a few bottles of Crimean
claret, which we had taken to enliven the first portion of the journey,
was found when broached to contain nothing but fragments of red ice and
broken glass. Even some cognac (for medicinal purposes) was partly
frozen in its flask. On the same day de Clinchamp, removing his mits to
take a photograph, accidentally touched some metal on the camera, and
his fingers were seared as though with a red-hot iron. Perhaps our
greatest annoyance on this voyage was the frequent deprivation of
tobacco, that heavenly solace on long and trying journeys. For at even
40 deg. below zero nicotine blocks the pipe-stem, and cigar or cigarette
freezes firmly to the lips. The moustache also forms a mask of solid
ice, and becomes an instrument of torture, so much so that on the third
day out on the Lena ours were mercilessly clipped.
The post-houses on this road are, as I have said, luxurious as compared
to the accommodation found among the Arctic races of Siberia, but I
fancy those accustomed to "roughing it," as the word is generally
understood in England, would find even a trip as far as Yakutsk rather a
trial. Of course, these establishments vary from the best, which are
about on a par with the labourer's cottage in England, to the worst,
which can only be described as dens of filth and squalor. All are built
on the same plan. There is one guest-room, a bare carpetless apartment,
with a rough wooden bench, a table, and two straight-backed wooden
chairs, and the room is heated to suffocation by a huge stove, which
occupies a corner of the room. The flimsy plank partition is unpapered,
but generally plastered with the cheap, crudely coloured prints sold by
pedlars. Some of these depicted events connected with our recent war in
South Africa, and it is needless to add that the English troops were
invariably depicted in the act of ignominious flight.[7] I purchased
one, in which three distinguished British Generals were portrayed upon
their knees imploring mercy of Mr. Kruger, and sent it to England, but
it never reached its destination. This work of art had been "made in
Germany."
[Footnote 7: I was surprised by the interest displayed by the Russian
settlers of this district anent the Boer War. In every village we were
eagerly questioned as to how affairs in the Transvaal were progressing.]
In every guest-room, however squalid, four objects were never missing:
the sacred Ikon, portraits of the Tsar and Tsarina, and a printed copy
of the posting rules. On the wall was generally also a bill of fare, in
faded ink, which showed how many generations of travellers must have
been duped by its tempting list of savoury dishes. I never could
ascertain whether these had ever really existed in the far distant past,
or whether the notice was a poor joke on the part of the proprietor. In
any case, the _menu_ we found was always the same: hot water, sour
black bread, and (very rarely) eggs of venerable exterior, for although
the inmates of these stations presumably indulge occasionally in meat,
no amount of bribery would induce them to produce it for our benefit.
Vermin was everywhere; night and day it crawled gaily over the walls and
ceiling, about our bodies, and into our very food, and, although the
subject did not interest us, a naturalist would have delighted in the
ever-changing varieties of insect life. Of the latter, cockroaches were,
I think, the most objectionable, for they can inflict a nasty poisonous
bite. Oddly enough, throughout Siberia I never saw a rat, although mice
seem to swarm in every building, old or new, which we entered. The Lena
post-house has a characteristic odour of unwashed humanity, old
sheep-skins and stale tobacco. Occasionally, this subtle blend includes
a whiff of the cow-shed, which generally means that one or more of its
youthful occupants have been carried indoors out of the cold. In winter
there is no ventilation whatsoever, save when the heavy felt-lined door
is opened and an icy blast rushes in to be instantly converted by the
stifling heat into a dense mass of steam. Indoors it was seldom under 80
deg. Fahrenheit, and although divested of heavy furs we would invariably
awaken from a sleep of, perhaps, a couple of hours, drenched with
perspiration, in which state we would once more face the pitiless cold.
In England such extremes of temperature, experienced day after day,
would probably kill the strongest man outright, but here they made no
appreciable difference in our bodily health.
It was no doubt rough travelling along the Lena, and yet the pleasures
of the journey far outweighed its ills. Before reaching the river our
way lay across vast deserts of snow, with no objects visible save, at
rare intervals, some tiny village almost buried in the drifts, its dark
roofs peeping out here and there, and appearing at a distance like
pieces of charcoal laid on a piece of white cotton-wool. Beyond these
nothing but the single telegraph wire which connects Yakutsk with
civilisation. Coated with rime it used to stand out like a jewelled
thread against the dazzling sky, which merged imperceptibly from darkest
sapphire overhead to tenderest turquoise on the horizon. Who can
describe the delights of a sleigh journey under such conditions, or
realise, in imagination, the charm and novelty of a wild gallop over
leagues of snow behind game little Siberian horses, tearing along to the
clash of yoke-bells at the rate of twenty miles an hour! In anything but
a Yakute sleigh we should have been in an earthly paradise.
And on fine evenings, pleasanter still was it to lie in the sleigh
snugly wrapped in furs, and watch the inky sky powdered with stars--Ursa
Major (now almost overhead) sprawling its glittering shape across the
heavens, and the little Pleiades twinkling like a diamond spray against
dark velvet. At times I could make out every lonely peak and valley in
the lunar world, and even distinguish far-away Polaris twinkling dimly
over the earth's great mystery. The stars are never really seen in misty
Europe.
But a week, ten days, elapses and so little progress is made in the
alarming total of mileage that the heart sinks at the mere thought of
the stupendous distance before us. Few villages are passed and these
are invariably alike. A row of ramshackle huts; at one extremity the
post-house with black and white _verst_ post, at the other a rough
palisade of logs about twenty feet high, enclosing a space from which a
grey column of smoke rises lazily into the frosty air. The building is
invisible, but it generally contains one or more unhappy exiles wending
slowly towards a place of exile. Every village between Irkutsk and
Yakutsk has its _Balogan_, or resting-place for political offenders, but
in the Far North beyond the Arctic Circle prison bars become
superfluous. Nature has taken their place.
There can be no doubt that, for monotony, this journey is unequalled.
After a few days surrounding objects seemed to float by in a vague
dream. Only the "scroop" of the runners and jingle of the sleigh-bells
seemed to be hammered into the brain, for all eternity. And yet, even
the bells in their own way were a godsend, for they were changed (with
the yoke) at every station, and I liked to think that every one of the
hundred and twenty-two stages were accompanied by a different tune!
There were other drawbacks to complete enjoyment. On the whole, the
weather was still and clear, but occasionally the sky would darken, down
would come the snow, and we would flounder about, sometimes for hours,
lost in the drifts. Logs frozen into the river, fissures in the ice, and
other causes rendered upsets of almost daily occurrence, but it was
generally soft falling. I remarked that as we proceeded further north
the post-horses became wilder and more unmanageable, and it was often
more than the drivers could do to hold them. Twice our sleigh was run
away with, and once de Clinchamp and myself were thrown with unpleasant
force on to hard black ice. On another occasion the _troika_ started off
while the driver was altering the harness, and went like the wind before
we could clamber on to the box, seize the reins, and stop them. The
unfortunate _yemstchik_[8] was dragged with them, and I expected to find
the poor fellow a mangled corpse, but we pulled him out from under his
team badly cut and bruised, but otherwise little the worse for the
accident. He had clung like grim death to the pole, or the heavy sleigh
must have crushed him.
[Footnote 8: Driver.]
During daylight we could afford to laugh at such trifles, but at night
time it was a different matter. To tear through the darkness at a
breakneck pace at the mercy of three wild, unbroken horses required some
nerve, especially when lying under the _koshma_ as helpless as a sardine
in a soldered tin. For the first few days overflows were a constant
menace, especially at night when sleep under the apron was out of the
question, for any moment might mean a plunge through the ice into the
cold dark waters of the Lena. I generally had a clasp-knife ready to
slash asunder, at a moment's notice, the ropes which secured the apron
to the sleigh. After a time I could lie in the dark and tell with
unerring precision whether the sleigh was gliding over the river or the
land, and whether, in the former case, the ice was black and sound or
that dread element, water, was rippling against the runners. If so, out
came the clasp-knife, and there was no more _koshma_ for that night.
During the first week we frequently passed places where hot springs had
broken through the ice. One or two of these holes were quite near the
track, and might well, on a dark night, have brought the expedition to
an untimely end.
Talking of ice, we noticed a curious phenomenon in connection with it
while journeying down the Lena. On clear sunny days the frozen surface
of the river would appear to be sloping downwards at a perceptible
gradient in the direction in which we were travelling; occasionally it
would almost seem as though we were descending a fairly steep hill, had
not the unrelaxed efforts of our teams suggested the optical delusion
which, as long ago as 1828, was observed by Erman the explorer, who
wrote: "I am disposed to think that this phenomenon was connected with
the glistening and distortion of distant objects which I remarked not
only in this part of the valley, but frequently also on the following
days. This proved that the air was ascending from the ice and therefore
that the lower strata were lighter than those above in which the eye was
placed. Under such circumstances a plane perfectly horizontal and level
in fact would appear depressed towards the horizon, or, in other words,
it would seem to slope downwards." Scientists must determine whether
this be the correct explanation of this strange deception of nature,
which was often noticeable on the Lena, although we never observed it
elsewhere.
We reached Ust-kutsk (the first town of any importance) on the sixth
day. This place figures largely on most English maps, but it is little
more than an overgrown village. A church with apple-green dome and gilt
crosses, a score of neat houses clustered around the dwelling of an
_ispravnik_,[9] perhaps a couple of stores for the sale of clothing and
provisions, and a cleaner post-house than usual: such is a "town" on the
banks of the Lena. With the exception of Ust-kutsk there are only three,
Kirensk, Vitimsk, and Olekminsk, places of such little general interest
that they are chiefly associated in my mind with the four square meals
we were able to obtain during those three weeks of incessant travel. At
Ust-kutsk, for instance, we refreshed the inner man with a steaming bowl
of _schtchi_ or cabbage soup followed by the tough and greasy chunks of
meat that had been boiled in it, and the meal tasted delicious after
nearly a week on black bread, an occasional salt fish and dubious eggs.
Our own provisions were so hopelessly frozen that we seldom wasted the
time necessary to thaw them out into an eatable condition.
[Footnote 9: An official who combines the duties of Mayor and Chief of
Police.]
There are salt-mines near Ust-kutsk from which about 50,000 _poods_[10]
are annually exported throughout the Lena province, and the forests
around here contain valuable timber, but agriculture did not seem so
prosperous here as in the districts to the north and south. Oddly enough
the cultivation of the land seemed to improve as we progressed
northward, as far as Yakutsk, where, as the reader will presently see,
the most modern methods of farming have been successfully adopted by a
very peculiar and interesting class of people.
[Footnote 10: A "pood" is thirty-six English pounds.]
I was told that during the navigation season, from June until the latter
end of September, Ust-kutsk is a busy place on account of the weekly
arrival and departure of the river steamers. But lying silent and still
in the icy grip of winter, this appeared to me to be the most desolate
spot I had ever set eyes upon. And we left it without regret,
notwithstanding that a darkening sky and threatening snow-flakes
accompanied our departure, and the cold and hunger of the past few days
had considerably lowered the high spirits in which we had left Irkutsk.
Up till now monotony had been the worst evil to bear. In summer time the
river as far as Yakutsk is highly cultivated, and smiling villages and
fertile fields can be discerned from the deck of a steamer, but in
winter, from a sleigh, nothing is visible day after day, week after
week, but an unvarying procession of lime-stone, pine-clad cliffs, which
completely shut out any scenery which may lie beyond them, and between
which the bleak and frozen flood lies as inert and motionless as a
corpse. Even at Ust-kutsk, nearly 3000 miles from the Arctic Ocean, the
stream is as broad as an arm of the sea, which enhances the general
impression of gloom and desolation. But in this world everything is
comparative, and we little dreamt, when reviling the Lena, that a time
was coming when we should look back even upon this apparently earthly
Erebus as a whirlpool of gaiety.
When we left Ust-kutsk at about 3 P.M. night was falling fast, a
proceeding which scattered snow-flakes followed with such vigour that
only a few _versts_ had been covered when we were brought to a
standstill by a dense snowstorm, which, with a northerly gale, rapidly
assumed the proportions of a blizzard. Providence has mercifully
ordained that a high wind seldom, if ever, accompanies a very low
temperature or on this occasion (and many others) we should have fared
badly. But here and in the Arctic a fall of the glass was invariably
accompanied by a rise of the thermometer, and _vice versa_. During this,
our first storm, it was only eight degrees below zero, and even then it
was impossible to face the wind for more than a few moments at a time,
for it penetrated our heavy fur coats as though they had been of
_crepe-de-chine_, and cut into the face like the lash of a
cat-o'-nine-tails. I had never experienced such a gale (although it was
nothing to those we afterwards encountered), for the wind seemed to blow
from all points of the compass at once as we blundered blindly along
through the deep snow, pushing and hauling at the sleighs as well as our
numbed hands and cumbersome garments would permit. So blinding was the
snow we couldn't see a yard ahead; so fierce the wind we could scarcely
stand up to it. Suddenly both teams gave a wild plunge which sent us
sprawling on our faces, and when I regained my feet the sleighs were
upset and the horses, snorting with terror, were up to their girths in a
snow-drift. I then gave up all hopes of reaching a station that night.
For over an hour we worked like galley-slaves, and suddenly when we had
finally got things partly righted, the wind dropped as if by magic, and
one or two stars peeped out overhead. The rapidity with which the
weather can change in these regions is simply marvellous. We often left
a post-house in clear weather, and, less than an hour after, were
fighting our way in the teeth of a gale and heavy snow. An hour later
and stillness would again reign, and the sun be shining as before! We
now quickly took advantage of the lull to push on, and in a few hours
were rewarded by the glimmering lights of a post-house. We had reached
the village of Yakurimsk and, being fairly exhausted by the cold and
hard work, I resolved to stay here the night. This was our first
experience of frost-bite (both faces and hands suffered severely), which
is not actually painful until circulation returns, and care must then be
taken not to approach a fire. I have always found that snow, vigorously
rubbed on the frozen part, is the best remedy. The stage between
Ust-kutsk and Yakurimsk was a short one, only about eighteen _versts_,
but it took us six hours to make it. When we awoke next morning bright
sunshine was streaming into the guest-room, which was older and filthier
than usual. But it possessed a cracked and cloudy looking-glass which
dimly reflected three countenances swollen and discoloured beyond
recognition. For we had neglected to anoint our faces with grease
(Lanoline is the best), but after this experience never neglected this
essential precaution.
The postmaster at Yakurimsk, a decrepit Pole of benign but unwashed
exterior, informed me that the woods around his village swarmed with
bears, and that on payment of a few roubles for beaters he could ensure
us a good day's sport. But although the offer was tempting I did not
feel justified in risking the delay. Wolves had also been numerous, but
had, as usual, confined their attacks to pigs and cattle. Before
visiting Siberia I had the usual fallacious notion concerning the
aggressiveness of this meek and much maligned animal. I remember, in my
early youth, a coloured plate depicting a snow scene and a sleigh being
hotly pursued at full gallop by a pack of hungry and savage-looking
wolves. In the sleigh was a Cossack pale with terror, with a baby in his
teeth and a pistol in each hand. I fancy that, in riper years, I must
have unconsciously based my estimate of the wolf's ferocity on this
illustration, for I have now crossed Siberia four times without being
attacked, or even meeting any one who had been molested. The only wolf
which ever crossed my path was a haggard mangy-looking specimen, which,
at first sight, I took for a half-starved dog. We met in a lonely wood
near Krasnoyarsk in Western Siberia, but, as soon as he caught sight of
me, the brute turned and ran for his life!
Our drivers and horses were exchanged at every station so that the
severe work of the previous night did not retard our progress after
leaving Yakurimsk. The weather was fine and we made good headway until
the 28th, on the afternoon of which day we reached the second town of
Kirensk. A few miles above the latter the Lena makes a wide _detour_ of
fifty to sixty miles and the post-road is laid overland in a straight
line to avoid it. It was a relief to exchange, if only for a few hours,
that eternal vista of lime-stone and pines for a more extended view. The
Kirensk mountains are here crossed, a range which, although of no great
altitude, is precipitous and thickly wooded, so much so that in places
the sleighs could scarcely pass between the trees. The climb was severe,
but a lovely view over hundreds of miles of country amply rewarded our
exertions. The glorious panorama of mountain, stream, and woodland
stretching away on all sides to the horizon, intersected by the silvery
Lena, was after the flat and dismal river scenery like a draught of
clear spring water to one parched with thirst. Overhead a network of
rime-coated branches sparkled against the blue with a bright and almost
unnatural effect that reminded one of a Christmas card. A steep and
difficult descent brought us to the plains again, and after a pleasant
drive through forests of pine and cedar interspersed with mountain ash
and a pretty red-berried shrub of which I ignore the name, we arrived,
almost sorry that the short land trip was over, at Kirensk.
Although not the largest, this is the prettiest and cleanest-looking
town on the Lena. Perhaps our favourable impressions of the place were
partly due to the dazzling sunshine and still, delicious air. Dull skies
and a fog would, perhaps, have made a world of difference; but as, under
existing conditions, Kirensk afforded us the only interval of real rest
and enjoyment on the Lena, we were proportionately grateful. And it was
almost a pleasure to walk through the neat streets, with their
gaily-painted houses and two or three really fine stores, where any
article from a ship's anchor to a gramophone seemed to be on sale. A few
mercantile houses and a busy little dockyard, with a couple of
river-steamers in course of construction, explained the prosperous
appearance of this attractive little town, which contrasted cheerfully
with all others which we saw in Siberia. The inn was quite in keeping
with its surroundings, and perhaps a longer time than was absolutely
necessary was passed there, for _dejeuner_ was served, not in the usual
dark fusty room reeking with foul odours, but in a bright, cheerful
little apartment with comfortable furniture and a table set with a white
cloth and spotless china by a window overlooking the river. There was a
mechanical organ, too, which enlivened us with "La Marseillaise" and
"Loin du Pays" as a pretty waiting-maid in Russian costume served us
with some excellent cutlets and an omelette, which were washed down with
a bottle of Crimean wine. These culinary details may appear trifles to
the reader, but they had already become matters of moment to us. And the
sun shone so brightly that the claret glowed like a ruby in the glass as
we drank to the success of the expedition and our friends in far-away
France and England. And so susceptible is man to the influence of his
surroundings that for one fleeting hour New York seemed no distance away
to speak of!
After leaving Kirensk the horses were harnessed _gusem_ or tandem
fashion, for it is here necessary to leave the river and travel along
its shores where the roadway becomes a mere track three or four feet
wide through the forests. As our sleighs were unusually broad, this
caused some trouble, and once or twice trees had to be felled before we
could proceed. When Vitimsk was reached, on February 2, the drivers
there flatly refused to embark upon a stage until the breadth of our
sleighs had been reduced by at least one-third. Fortunately the weather
changed for the worse, and snowstorms and a stiff Northern gale would
have greatly impeded us, so that the lost time was not so precious as it
might have been. There is no inn at Vitimsk, but the post-house was
clean and comfortable, and the _ispravnik_, on reading the Governor's
letter, also placed his house and services at my disposal, but I only
availed myself of the latter to hasten the alteration to the sleighs.
The only wheelwright in Vitimsk being an incorrigible drunkard, this
operation would, under ordinary circumstances, have occupied at least a
week; under the watchful eye of the stern official it was finished in
forty-eight hours. Politically, I am a Radical, but I am bound to admit
that there are circumstances under which an autocratic form of
Government has its advantages.
Until Vitimsk was reached we had met but few travellers during our
journey down the Lena, certainly under a score in all, which was
fortunate, considering the limited accommodation _en route_. But at
Vitimsk I was destined to come across not only an Englishman but a
personal friend. The meeting, on both sides, was totally unexpected, and
as on the evening of our arrival I watched a sleigh drive up through the
blinding storm and a shapeless bundle of furs emerge from it and stagger
into the post-house, I little dreamt that the newcomer was one with whom
I had passed many a pleasant hour in the realms of civilisation. The
recognition was not mutual, for a week of real Siberian travel will
render any man unrecognisable. "Pardon, M'sieu," began the stranger, and
I at once recognised the familiar British accent; "Je reste ici
seulement une heure." "Faites, monsieur," was my reply. But as I spoke
the fur-clad giant looked up from the valise he was unstrapping and
regarded me curiously. "Well, I'm d----d," he said, after a long pause,
"if it isn't Harry de Windt." But Talbot Clifton had to reveal his
identity, for months of hardship and privation, followed by a dangerous
illness, had so altered his appearance that I doubt if even his mother
would have recognised her son in that post-house at Vitimsk. Clifton had
already passed a year among the Eskimo on the Northern coast of the
American continent, when, in the summer of 1901, he descended the Lena
as far as its delta on the Arctic Ocean. Here he remained for several
months, living with the natives and accompanying them on their fishing
and shooting expeditions. In the fall of the year he returned to
Yakutsk, where he contracted a chill which developed into double
pneumonia, and nearly cost him his life. My friend, who was now on his
way home to England, had only bad news for us. The reindeer to the north
of Yakutsk were so scarce and so weak that he had only just managed to
struggle back there from Bulun, on the delta, a trifling trip compared
to the journey we were about to undertake. Moreover, the mountain passes
south of Verkhoyansk were blocked with snow, and, even if deer were
obtainable, we might be detained on the wrong side of the range for
days, or even weeks. All things considered, I would rather not have met
Clifton at this juncture, for his gloomy predictions seemed to sink into
the hearts of my companions--and remain there. However, a pleasant
evening was passed with the assistance of tobacco and a villainous
mixture, which my friend concocted with fiery _vodka_ and some wild
berries, and called punch. I doubt if, before this notable occasion,
Vitimsk had ever contained (at the same time) two Englishmen, a
Frenchman, and the writer, who may claim to be a little of both.
Talbot Clifton left early the next day, and before sunset the sleighs
were finished and we were once more on the road. From Vitimsk I
despatched telegrams to the Governor of Yakutsk and the London _Daily
Express_, and was surprised at the moderate charges for transmission. Of
course, the messages had to be written in Russian, but they were sent
through at five and ten kopeks a word respectively.[11]
[Footnote 11: A kopek is the one-hundredth part of a rouble; the value
of the latter is about 2_s._ 1_d._]
Vitimsk is, perhaps, less uninteresting than other towns on the Lena,
for two reasons. It is the centre of a large and important gold-mining
district, and the finest sables in the world are found in its immediate
neighbourhood. Up till four years ago the gold was worked in a very
desultory way, but machinery was introduced in 1898, and last year an
already large output was trebled. This district is said to be richer
than Klondike, but only Russian subjects may work the gold.
Olekminsk (pronounced "Alokminsk") was now our objective point. I shall
not weary the reader with the details of this stage, for he is probably
already too familiar, as we were at this juncture, with the physical and
social aspects of travel on the Lena. Suffice it to say that a
considerable portion of the journey was accomplished through dense
forests, during which the sleighs were upset on an average twice a day
by refractory teams, and that the filthiest post-houses and worst
weather we had yet experienced added to the discomfort of the trip.
Blizzards, too, were now of frequent occurrence, and once we were lost
for nearly eighteen hours in the drifts and suffered severely from cold
and hunger. Nearing Yakutsk travellers became more numerous, and we met
some strange types of humanity. Two of these, travelling together, are
stamped upon my memory. They consisted of an elderly, bewigged, and
powdered little Italian, his German wife, a much-berouged lady of large
proportions and flaxen hair, with a poodle. We met them at midnight in a
post-house, where they had annexed every available inch of sleeping
space the tiny hut afforded.
A gale and gusts of sleet rendered further progress impossible for that
night, and I was therefore compelled to break in upon the conjugal
privacy of the couple and their faithful companion. Monsieur, who was
sleeping on the floor, at once made room for us, but Madame, who (with
the poodle) occupied the bench, fiercely resented the intrusion and
threatened de Clinchamp, the first to enter the room, with summary
vengeance if he did not at once retire. This my friend politely did,
but it was so bitterly cold outside that I battered at the bolted door
of the guest-room until the little Italian emerged, and volubly
explained the situation. His massive consort, it appeared, invariably
disrobed at night (even in a Lena post-house!), and was not prepared to
receive visitors. Gallantry forbade further discussion, and we shared
the postmaster's dark closet with his wife and five squalling children.
The room, about ten feet by four, possessed the atmosphere of a Turkish
bath, and an odour as though it had, for several months, harboured a
thriving family of ferrets. But with a lady in the question there was
nothing to be done. When we awoke next morning the strange couple had
departed. I never saw them again, but from what I afterwards heard at
Yakutsk their mission to that city was such a shady one that I question
if "Madame's" modesty was not assumed for the occasion.
The remainder of the journey from here to Yakutsk was accomplished
without further incident, and the town of Olekminsk so resembles its
predecessors as to need no description. We reached the place late at
night, but the _ispravnik_ was more hospitably inclined than others we
had met, and gave us supper while the teams were changed. One of the
dishes would certainly have found favour in a Paris restaurant--a fish
called "Nelma," which is found only in the Lena, and is served uncooked
and in thin frozen slices. Ices and champagne terminated the little
repast, which was presided over by our host's pretty wife. The only
other guest was one Vassily Brando, a political exile, whose intimacy
with the _ispravnik_ was strangely at variance with all that I had heard
and read concerning exiles in the remoter parts of Siberia. Brando, a
Jewish-looking person with keen dark eyes, was undergoing a sentence of
eight years here after the usual term of preliminary imprisonment in
Europe. During his incarceration Brando had taught himself English,
which he now spoke almost fluently. This exile told me that Olekminsk
contained twenty other politicals, and was preferred to any other town
or village on the Lena as a place of detention. Neither he nor his
companions could travel for more than ten versts in any direction
without a special permit from the Governor of Yakutsk, but, as the poor
fellow pathetically remarked, "That's no great hardship!" The exiles at
Olekminsk may frequently receive letters and communicate with their
friends (under the supervision of the authorities), and the solace of
modern literature is not denied them so long as it is not connected with
Socialism. Brando was an ardent admirer of Rudyard Kipling, and could, I
verily believe, have passed an examination in most of his works.
[Illustration: POOR YAKUTES.]
We took leave of our kind host, Captain Bereskine, at midnight. It was
bitterly cold (30 deg. below zero), and I was, therefore, surprised when
we alighted at the first post-house, after a long stage of thirty-five
miles, to find our host smilingly awaiting us with sandwiches,
cigarettes, and a bottle of cognac! He had passed us on the road,
determined, even at considerable discomfort to himself, that we should
travel, at any rate through his district, in comfort. Such a thing
could never have occurred in any country but Siberia, where hospitality
is looked upon (amongst Russians) as the first duty of man. Just imagine
leaving your host on a cold winter's night in England to travel from
London to Edinburgh and finding him waiting at, say, Hitchin to bid you
a final farewell. But the _simile_ is weak, for there is a vast
difference between an open sleigh and a sleeping-car.
An interesting personality we afterwards met on the road to Yakutsk was
Dr. Herz, the famous naturalist, whom we fortunately came across in a
post-house, for it gave me an opportunity of a chat with the Doctor
anent his now well-known discovery, the "latest Siberian Mammoth," which
he was conveying in sections, packed in twenty sleighs, to Irkutsk. Dr.
Herz gave us, like Talbot Clifton, very disheartening accounts of
affairs north of Yakutsk. The Doctor had travelled here from the Kolyma
river (our goal on the Arctic Ocean) only with the greatest difficulty
on account of the scarcity of reindeer and the dangerous condition of
the mountain passes. The task of conveying the mammoth, even as far as
this point, had been an almost super-human one, but no trouble or
expense had been spared in the preservation of this antediluvian
monster, which is undoubtedly the most perfect specimen of its kind ever
brought to light. The animal was found frozen into a huge block of ice,
as it had evidently fallen from a cliff overhead, for the forelegs were
broken and there were other signs of injury. The flesh of the mammoth
(which measures about twenty feet high) was of a pinkish colour and as
fresh, in appearance, as during the monster's lifetime, countless ages
ago. Some grasses found in the mouth had been carefully preserved, and
have since been analysed with the view of ascertaining the age of the
prehistoric monster. Time was now of the greatest importance to Dr.
Herz, for everything depended upon the arrival of his treasure in
European Russia in a frozen condition. A few days of warm muggy weather
nearing Europe might render futile the task of many months of hardship.
So our interview was of short duration, but I am glad to say that the
eminent Professor eventually met with success, and that his priceless
addition to the treasury of natural history now occupies a niche of
honour in the Imperial Academy of Science in Petersburg.
Nearing Yakutsk the country becomes unutterably wild and desolate.
Forest trees are now replaced for miles and miles by low withered scrub
and dwarf fir-trees on either side of the river. As we proceed the Lena
gradually widens until it resembles a succession of huge lakes, where
even our practised drivers have some difficulty in finding the way. The
Russian language is now seldom heard, for in the villages a kind of
native _patois_ is spoken. And yet the country is more thickly populated
than upriver, although the pretty Russian _isba_ has given place to the
Yakute _yurta_, a hideous flat-roofed mud-hut, with blocks of ice for
window-panes, and yellow-faced weirdly clad inmates, with rough, uncouth
manners and the beady black eyes of the Tartar. And one cold grey
morning I awaken, worn out with cold and fatigue, to peer with sleepy
eyes, no longer down the familiar avenue of ice and pine-trees, but
across a white and dreary wilderness of snow. On the far horizon,
dividing earth and sky, a thin drab streak is seen which soon merges, in
the clear sunrise, into the faint semblance of a city. Golden domes and
tapering fire-towers are soon distinguishable, and our driver grows
proportionately loquacious as his home is neared. "Yakutsk!" he cries,
with a wave of his short, heavy whip, and I awaken de Clinchamp, still
slumbering peacefully, with the welcome news that the first important
stage of our long land-journey is nearly at an end.[12]
[Footnote 12: This was on February 14, 1902, and 7800 miles (out of a
somewhat alarming total) now lay behind us. To reach this from Irkutsk
we had employed 720 horses, at a cost of under L70 for both sleighs.]