“It is all bosh,” was the all but universal opinion of Bayazid in regard
to our alleged ascent of Ararat. None but the Persian consul and the
mutessarif himself deigned to profess a belief in it, and the gift of
several letters to Persian officials, and a sumptuous dinner on the eve of
our departure, went far toward proving their sincerity.
On the morning of July 8, in company with a body-guard of zaptiehs, which
the mutessarif forced upon us, we wheeled down from the ruined
embattlements of Bayazid. The assembled rabble raised a lusty cheer at
parting. An hour later we had surmounted the Kazlee Gool, and the “land of
Iran” was before us. At our feet lay the Turco-Persian battle-plains of
Chaldiran, spreading like a desert expanse to the parched barren hills
beyond, and dotted here and there with clumps of trees in the village
oases. And this, then, was the land where, as the poets say, “the
nightingale sings, and the rose-tree blossoms,” and where “a flower is
crushed at every step!” More truth, we thought, in the Scotch traveler’s
description, which divides Persia into two portions—“One desert with salt,
and the other desert without salt.” In time we came to McGregor’s opinion
as expressed in his description of Khorassan. “We should fancy,” said he,
“a small green circle round every village indicated on the map, and shade
all the rest in brown.” The mighty hosts whose onward sweep from the Indus
westward was checked only by the Grecian phalanx upon the field of
Marathon must have come from the scattered ruins around, which reminded us
that “Iran was; she is no more.” Those myriad ranks of Yenghiz Khan and
Tamerlane brought death and desolation from Turan to Iran, which so often
met to act and react upon one another that both are now only landmarks in
the sea of oblivion.
[Illustration: HARVEST SCENE NEAR KHOI.]
Our honorary escort accompanied us several miles over the border to the
Persian village of Killissakend, and there committed us to the hospitality
of the district khan, with whom we managed to converse in the Turkish
language, which, strange to say, we found available in all the countries
that lay in our transcontinental pathway as far as the great wall of
China. Toward evening we rode in the garden of the harem of the khan, and
at daybreak the next morning were again in the saddle. By a very early
start we hoped to escape the burden of excessive hospitality; in other
words, to get rid of an escort that was an expensive nuisance. At the next
village we were confronted by what appeared to be a shouting,
gesticulating maniac. On dismounting, we learned that a harbinger had been
sent by the khan, the evening before, to have a guard ready to join us as
we passed through. In fact, two armed _ferashes_ were galloping toward us,
armed, as we afterward learned, with American rifles, and the usual
_kamma_, or huge dagger, swinging from a belt of cartridges. These
fellows, like the zaptiehs, were fond of ostentation. They frequently led
us a roundabout way to show us off to their relatives or friends in a
neighboring village. Nature at last came to our deliverance. As we stood
on a prominent ridge taking a last look at Mount Ararat, now more than
fifty miles away, a storm came upon us, showering hailstones as large as
walnuts. The ferashes with frantic steeds dashed ahead to seek a place of
shelter, and we saw them no more.
Five days in Persia brought us to the shores of Lake Ooroomeeyah, the
saltest body of water in the world. Early the next morning we were wading
the chilly waters of the Hadji Chai, and a few hours later found us in the
English consulate at Tabreez, where we were received by the Persian
secretary. The English government, it seemed, had become embroiled in a
local love-affair just at a time when Colonel Stewart was off on
“diplomatic duty” on the Russian Transcaspian border. An exceptionally
bright Armenian beauty, a graduate of the American missionary schools at
this place, had been abducted, it was claimed, by a young Kurdish
cavalier, and carried away to his mountain home. Her father, who happened
to be a naturalized English subject, had applied for the assistance of his
adopted country in obtaining her release. Negotiations were at once set on
foot between London and Teheran, which finally led to a formal demand upon
the Kurds by the Shah himself. Upon their repeated refusal, seven thousand
Persian troops, it was said, were ordered to Soak Boulak, under the
command of the vice-consul, Mr. Patton. The matter at length assumed such
an importance as to give rise, in the House of Commons, to the question,
“Who is Katty Greenfield?” This, in time, was answered by that lady
herself, who declared under oath that she had become a Mohammedan, and was
in love with the man with whom she had eloped. More than this, it was
learned that she had not a drop of English blood in her veins, her father
being an Austrian, and her mother a native Armenian. Whereupon the Persian
troopers, with their much disgusted leader, beat an inglorious retreat,
leaving “Katty Greenfield” mistress of the situation, and of a Kurdish
heart.
[Illustration: LEAVING KHOI.]
In Tabreez there is one object sure to attract attention. This is the
“Ark,” or ancient fortified castle of the Persian rulers. High on one of
the sides, which a recent earthquake has rent from top to bottom, there is
a little porch whence these Persian “Bluebeards,” or rather Redbeards,
were wont to hurl unruly members of the harem. Under the shadow of these
gloomy walls was enacted a tragedy of this century. Babism is by no means
the only heresy that has sprung from the speculative genius of Persia; but
it is the one that has most deeply moved the society of the present age,
and the one which still obtains, though in secret and without a leader.
Its founder, Seyd Mohammed Ali, better known as Bab, or “Gate,”
promulgated the doctrine of anarchy to the extent of “sparing the rod and
spoiling the child,” and still worse, perhaps, of refusing to the ladies
no finery that might be at all becoming to their person. While not a
communist, as he has sometimes been wrongly classed, he exhorted the
wealthy to regard themselves as only trustees of the poor. With no thought
at first of acquiring civil power, he and his rapidly increasing following
were driven to revolt by the persecuting mollas, and the sanguinary
struggle of 1848 followed. Bab himself was captured, and carried to this
“most fanatical city of Persia,” the burial-place of the sons of Ali. On
this very spot a company was ordered to despatch him with a volley; but
when the smoke cleared away, Bab was not to be seen. None of the bullets
had gone to the mark, and the bird had flown—but not to the safest refuge.
Had he finally escaped, the miracle thus performed would have made Babism
invincible. But he was recaptured and despatched, and his body thrown to
the canine scavengers.
[Illustration: YARD OF CARAVANSARY AT TABREEZ.]
[Illustration: LUMBER-YARD AT TABREEZ.]
_Tabreez_ (fever-dispelling) was a misnomer in our case. Our sojourn here
was prolonged for more than a month by a slight attack of typhoid fever,
which this time seized Sachtleben, and again the kind nursing of the
missionary ladies hastened recovery. Our mail, in the mean time, having
been ordered to Teheran, we were granted the privilege of intercepting it.
For this purpose we were permitted to overhaul the various piles of
letters strewn over the dirty floor of the distributing-office. Both the
Turkish and Persian mail is carried in saddle-bags on the backs of
reinless horses driven at a rapid gallop before the mounted mail-carrier
or herdsman. Owing to the carelessness of the postal officials, legations
and consulates employ special couriers.
The proximity of Tabreez to the Russian border makes it politically, as
well as commercially, one of the most important cities in Persia. For this
reason it is the place of residence of the Emir-e-Nizam (leader of the
army), or prime minister, as well as the Vali-Ahd, or Prince Imperial.
This prince is the Russian candidate, as opposed to the English candidate,
for the prospective vacancy on the throne. Both of these dignitaries
invited us to visit them, and showed much interest in our “wonderful wind
horses,” of the speed of which exaggerated reports had circulated through
the country. We were also favored with a special letter for the journey to
the capital.
On this stage we started August 15, stopping the first night at
Turkmanchai, the little village where was signed the famous treaty of 1828
by virtue of which the Caspian Sea became a Russian lake. The next morning
we were on the road soon after daybreak, and on approaching the next
village overtook a curious cavalcade, just concluding a long night’s
journey. This consisted of a Persian palanquin, with its long pole-shafts
saddled upon the back of a mule at each end; with servants on foot, and a
body-guard of mounted soldiers. The occupant of this peculiar conveyance
remained concealed throughout the stampede which our sudden appearance
occasioned among his hearse-bearing mules, for as such they will appear in
the sequel. In our first article we mentioned an interview in London with
Malcolm Khan, the representative of the Shah at the court of St. James.
Since then, it seemed, he had fallen into disfavor. During the late visit
of the Shah to England certain members of his retinue were so young, both
in appearance and conduct, as to be a source of mortification to the
Europeanized minister. This reached the ears of the Shah some time after
his return home; and a summons was sent for the accused to repair to
Teheran. Malcolm Khan, however, was too well versed in Oriental craft to
fall into such a trap, and announced his purpose to devote his future
leisure to airing his knowledge of Persian politics in the London press.
The Persian Minister of Foreign Affairs, Musht-a-Shar-el-Dowlet, then
residing at Tabreez, who was accused of carrying on a seditious
correspondence with Malcolm Khan, was differently situated, unfortunately.
It was during our sojourn in that city that his palatial household was
raided by a party of soldiers, and he was carried to prison as a common
felon. Being unable to pay the high price of pardon that was demanded, he
was forced away, a few days before our departure, on that dreaded journey
to the capital, which few, if any, ever complete. For on the way they are
usually met by a messenger, who proffers them a cup of coffee, a sword,
and a rope, from which they are to choose the method of their doom. This,
then, was the occupant of the mysterious palanquin, which now was opened
as we drew up before the village caravansary. Out stepped a man, tall and
portly, with beard and hair of venerable gray. His keen eye, clear-cut
features, and dignified bearing, bespoke for him respect even in his
downfall, while his stooped shoulders and haggard countenance betrayed the
weight of sorrow and sleepless nights with which he was going to his tomb.
[Illustration: THE CONVEYANCE OF A PERSIAN OFFICIAL TRAVELING IN
DISGRACE TO TEHERAN AT THE CALL OF THE SHAH.]
At Miana, that town made infamous by its venomous insect, is located one
of the storage-stations of the Indo-European Telegraph Company. Its
straight lines of iron poles, which we followed very closely from Tabreez
to Teheran, form only a link in that great wire and cable chain which
connects Melbourne with London. We spent the following night in the German
operator’s room.
The weakness of the Persian for mendacity is proverbial. One instance of
this national weakness was attended with considerable inconvenience to us.
By some mischance we had run by the village where we intended to stop for
the night, which was situated some distance off the road. Meeting a
Persian lad, we inquired the distance. He was ready at once with a
cheerful falsehood. “One farsak” (four miles), he replied, although he
must have known at the time that the village was already behind us. On we
pedaled at an increased rate, in order to precede, if possible, the
approaching darkness; for although traditionally the land of a double
dawn, Persia has only one twilight, and that closely merged into sunset
and darkness. One, two farsaks were placed behind us, and still there was
no sign of a human habitation. At length darkness fell; we were obliged to
dismount to feel our way. By the gradually rising ground, and the rocks,
we knew we were off the road. Dropping our wheels, we groped round on
hands and knees, to find, if possible, some trace of water. With a burning
thirst, a chilling atmosphere, and swarms of mosquitos biting through our
clothing, we could not sleep. A slight drizzle began to descend. During
our gloomy vigil we were glad to hear the sounds of a caravan, toward
which we groped our way, discerning, at length, a long line of camels
marching to the music of their lantern-bearing leader. When our
nickel-plated bars and white helmets flashed in the lantern-light, there
was a shriek, and the lantern fell to the ground. The rear-guard rushed to
the front with drawn weapons; but even they started back at the sound of
our voices, as we attempted in broken Turkish to reassure them.
Explanations were made, and the camels soon quieted. Thereupon we were
surrounded with lanterns and firebrands, while the remainder of the
caravan party was called to the front. Finally we moved on, walking side
by side with the lantern-bearing leader, who ran ahead now and then to
make sure of the road. The night was the blackest we had ever seen.
Suddenly one of the camels disappeared in a ditch, and rolled over with a
groan. Fortunately, no bones were broken, and the load was replaced. But
we were off the road, and a search was begun with lights to find the
beaten path. Footsore and hungry, with an almost intolerable thirst, we
trudged along till morning, to the ding-dong, ding-dong of the deep-toned
camel-bells. Finally we reached a sluggish river, but did not dare to
satisfy our thirst, except by washing out our mouths, and by taking
occasional swallows, with long intervals of rest, in one of which we fell
asleep from sheer exhaustion. When we awoke the midday sun was shining,
and a party of Persian travelers was bending over us.
From the high lands of Azerbeidjan, where, strange to say, nearly all
Persian pestilences arise, we dropped suddenly into the Kasveen plain, a
portion of that triangular, dried-up basin of the Persian Mediterranean,
now for the most part a sandy, saline desert. The argillaceous dust
accumulated on the Kasveen plain by the weathering of the surrounding
uplands resembles in appearance the “yellow earth” of the Hoang Ho
district in China, but remains sterile for the lack of water. Even the
little moisture that obtains beneath the surface is sapped by the
_kanots_, or underground canals, which bring to the fevered lips of the
desert oases the fresh, cool springs of the Elburz. These are dug with
unerring instinct, and preserved with jealous care by means of shafts or
slanting wells dug at regular intervals across the plain. Into these we
would occasionally descend to relieve our reflection-burned—or, as a
Persian would say, “snow-burned”—faces, while the thermometer above stood
at 120° in the shade.
Over the level ninety-mile stretch between Kasveen and the capital a
so-called carriage-road has recently been constructed close to the base of
the mountain. A sudden turn round a mountain-spur, and before us was
presented to view Mount Demavend and Teheran. Soon the paved streets,
sidewalks, lamp-posts, street-railways, and even steam-tramway, of the
half modern capital were as much of a surprise to us as our “wind horses”
were to the curious crowds that escorted us to the French Hotel.
[Illustration: A PERSIAN REPAIRING THE WHEELS OF HIS WAGON.]
From Persia it was our plan to enter Russian central Asia, and thence to
proceed to China or Siberia. To enter the Transcaspian territory, the
border-province of the Russian possessions, the sanction of its governor,
General Kuropatkine, would be quite sufficient; but for the rest of the
journey through Turkestan the Russian minister in Teheran said we would
have to await a general permission from St. Petersburg. Six weeks were
spent with our English and American acquaintances, and still no answer was
received. Winter was coming on, and something had to be done at once. If
we were to be debarred from a northern route, we would have to attempt a
passage into India either through Afghanistan, which we were assured by
all was quite impossible, or across the deserts of southern Persia and
Baluchistan. For this latter we had already obtained a possible route from
the noted traveler, Colonel Stewart, whom we met on his way back to his
consular post at Tabreez. But just at this juncture the Russian minister
advised another plan. In order to save time, he said, we might proceed to
Meshed at once, and if our permission was not telegraphed to us at that
point, we could then turn south to Baluchistan as a last resort. This, our
friends unanimously declared, was a Muscovite trick to evade an absolute
refusal. The Russians, they assured us, would never permit a foreign
inspection of their doings on the Afghan border; and furthermore, we would
never be able to cross the uninhabited deserts of Baluchistan. Against all
protest, we waved “farewell” to the foreign and native throng which had
assembled to see us off, and on October 5 wheeled out of the fortified
square on the “Pilgrim Road to Meshed.”
Before us now lay six hundred miles of barren hills, swampy _kevirs_,
brier-covered wastes, and salty deserts, with here and there some
kanot-fed oases. To the south lay the lifeless desert of Luth, the
“Persian Sahara,” the humidity of which is the lowest yet recorded on the
face of the globe, and compared with which “the Gobi of China and the
Kizil-Kum of central Asia are fertile regions.” It is our extended and
rather unique experience on the former of these two that prompts us to
refrain from further description of desert travel here, where the
hardships were in a measure ameliorated by frequent stations, and by the
use of cucumbers and pomegranates, both of which we carried with us on the
long desert stretches. Melons, too, the finest we have ever seen in any
land, frequently obviated the necessity of drinking the strongly brackish
water.
[Illustration: LEAVING TEHERAN FOR MESHED.]
Yet this experience was sufficient to impress us with the fact that the
national poets, Hafiz and Sadi, like Thomas Moore, have sought in fancy
what the land of Iran denied them. Those “spicy groves, echoing with the
nightingale’s song,” those “rosy bowers and purling brooks,” on the whole
exist, so far as our experience goes, only in the poet’s dream.
Leaving on the right the sand-swept ruins of Veramin, that capital of
Persia before Teheran was even thought of, we traversed the pass of
Sir-Dara, identified by some as the famous “Caspian Gate,” and early in
the evening entered the village of Aradan. The usual crowd hemmed us in on
all sides, yelling, “Min, min!” (“Ride, ride!”), which took the place of
the Turkish refrain of “Bin, bin!” As we rode toward the caravansary they
shouted, “Faster, faster!” and when we began to distance them, they caught
at the rear wheels, and sent a shower of stones after us, denting our
helmets, and bruising our coatless backs. This was too much; we dismounted
and exhibited the ability to defend ourselves, whereupon they tumbled over
one another in their haste to get away. But they were at our wheels again
before we reached the caravansary. Here they surged through the narrow
gangway, and knocked over the fruit-stands of the bazaars.
We were shown to a room, or windowless cell, in the honeycomb structure
that surrounded an open quadrangular court, at the time filled with a
caravan of pilgrims, carrying triangular white and black flags, with the
Persian coat of arms, the same we have seen over many doorways in Persia
as warnings of the danger of trespassing upon the religious services held
within. The cadaverous stench revealed the presence of half-dried human
bones being carried by relatives and friends for interment in the sacred
“City of the Silent.” Thus dead bodies, in loosely nailed boxes, are
always traveling from one end of Persia to the other. Among the pilgrims
were blue and green turbaned Saids, direct descendants of the Prophet, as
well as white-turbaned mollas. All were sitting about on the _sakoo_, or
raised platform, just finishing the evening meal. But presently one of the
mollas ascended the mound in the middle of the stable-yard, and in the
manner of the muezzin called to prayer. All kneeled, and bowed their heads
toward Mecca. Then the horses were saddled, the long, narrow boxes
attached upright to the pack-mules, and the _kajacas_, or double boxes,
adjusted on the backs of the horses of the ladies. Into these the veiled
creatures entered, and drew the curtains, while the men leaped into the
saddle at a signal, and, with the tri-cornered flag at their head, the
cavalcade moved out on its long night pilgrimage. We now learned that the
village contained a _chappar khan_, one of those places of rest which have
recently been provided for the use of foreigners and others, who travel
_chappar_, or by relays of post-horses. These structures are usually
distinguished by a single room built on the roof, and projecting some
distance over the eaves.
[Illustration: IN A PERSIAN GRAVEYARD.]
To this we repaired at once. Its keeper evinced unusual pride in the
cleanliness of his apartments, for we were asked to take off our shoes
before entering. But while our boastful host was kicking up the mats to
convince us of the truth of his assertions, he suddenly retired behind the
scenes to rid himself of some of the pests.
[Illustration: PILGRIMS IN THE CARAVANSARY.]
Throughout our Asiatic tour eggs were our chief means of subsistence, but
_pillao_, or boiled rice flavored with grease, we found more particularly
used in Persia, like _yaourt_ in Turkey. This was prepared with chicken
whenever it was possible to purchase a fowl, and then we would usually
make the discovery that a Persian fowl was either wingless, legless, or
otherwise defective after being prepared by a Persian _fuzul_, or
foreigner’s servant, who, it is said, “shrinks from no baseness in order
to eat.” Though minus these particular appendages, it would invariably
have a head; for the fanatical Shiah frequently snatched a chicken out of
our hands to prevent us from wringing or chopping its head off. Even after
our meal was served, we would keep a sharp lookout upon the unblushing
pilferers around us, who had called to pay their respects, and to fill the
room with clouds of smoke from their chibouks and gurgling kalians. For a
fanatical Shiah will sometimes stick his dirty fingers into the dishes of
an “unbeliever,” even though he may subsequently throw away the
contaminated vessel. And this extreme fanaticism is to be found in a
country noted for its extensive latitude in the profession of religious
beliefs.
[Illustration: A PERSIAN WINE-PRESS.]
A present from the village khan was announced. In stepped two men bearing
a huge tray filled with melons, apricots, sugar, rock-candy, nuts,
pistachios, etc., all of which we must, of course, turn over to the
khan-keeper and his servants, and pay double their value to the bearers,
as a present. This polite method of extortion was followed the next
morning by one of a bolder and more peremptory nature. Notwithstanding the
feast of the night before at our expense, and in addition to furnishing us
with bedclothes which we really ought to have been paid to sleep in, our
oily host now insisted upon three or four prices for his lodgings. We
refused to pay him more than a certain sum, and started to vacate the
premises. Thereupon he and his grown son caught hold of our bicycles.
Remonstrances proving of no avail, and being unable to force our passage
through the narrow doorway with the bicycles in our hands, we dropped
them, and grappled with our antagonists. A noisy scuffle, and then a heavy
fall ensued, but luckily we were both on the upper side. This unusual
disturbance now brought out the inmates of the adjoining _anderoon_. In a
moment there was a din of feminine screams, and a flutter of garments, and
then—a crashing of our pith helmets beneath the blows of pokers and
andirons. The villagers, thus aroused, came at last to our rescue, and at
once proceeded to patch up a compromise. This, in view of the Amazonian
reinforcements, who were standing by in readiness for a second onset, we
were more than pleased to accept. From this inglorious combat we came off
without serious injury; but with those gentle poker taps were knocked out
forever all the sweet delusions of the “Light of the Harem.”
The great antiquity of this Teheran-Meshed road, which is undoubtedly a
section of that former commercial highway between two of the most ancient
capitals in history—Nineveh and Balk, is very graphically shown by the
caravan ruts at Lasgird. These have been worn in many places to a depth of
four feet in the solid rock. It was not far beyond this point that we
began to feel the force of that famous “Damghan wind,” so called from the
city of that name. Of course this wind was against us. In fact, throughout
our Asiatic tour easterly winds prevailed; and should we ever attempt
another transcontinental spin we would have a care to travel in the
opposite direction.
[Illustration: CASTLE STRONGHOLD AT LASGIRD.]
Our peculiar mode of travel subjected us to great extremes in our mode of
living. Sometimes, indeed, it was a change almost from the sublime to the
ridiculous, and vice versa—from a stable or sheepfold, with a diet of figs
and bread, and an irrigating-ditch for a lavatory, to a palace itself, an
Oriental palace, with all the delicacies of the East, and a host of
servants to attend to our slightest wish. So it was at Bostam, the
residence of one of Persia’s most influential _hakims_, or governors,
literally, “pillars of state,” who was also a cousin to the Shah himself.
This potentate we visited in company with an English engineer whom we met
in transit at Sharoud. It was on the evening before, when at supper with
this gentleman in his tent, that a special messenger arrived from the
governor, requesting us, as the invitation ran, “to take our brightness
into his presence.” As we entered, the governor rose from his seat on the
floor, a courtesy never shown us by a Turkish official. Even the politest
of them would, just at this particular moment, be conveniently engrossed
in the examination of some book or paper. His courtesy was further
extended by locking up our “horses,” and making us his “prisoners” until
the following morning. At the dinner which Mr. Evans and we were invited
to eat with his excellency, benches had to be especially prepared, as
there was nothing like a chair to be found on the premises. The governor
himself took his accustomed position on the floor, with his own private
dishes around him. From these he would occasionally fish out with his
fingers some choice lamb _kebabh_ or cabbage _dolmah_, and have it passed
over to his guests—an act which is considered one of the highest forms of
Persian hospitality.
With a shifting of the scenes of travel, we stood at sunset on the summit
of the Binalud mountains, overlooking the valley of the Kashafrud. Our two
weeks’ journey was almost ended, for the city of Meshed was now in view,
ten miles away. Around us were piles of little stones, to which each pious
pilgrim adds his quota when first he sees the “Holy Shrine,” which we
beheld shining like a ball of fire in the glow of the setting sun.
[Illustration: PILGRIM STONE HEAPS OVERLOOKING MESHED.]
While we were building our pyramid a party of returning pilgrims greeted
us with “Meshedi at last.” “Not yet,” we answered, for we knew that the
gates of the Holy City closed promptly at twilight. Yet we determined to
make the attempt. On we sped, but not with the speed of the falling night.
Dusk overtook us as we reached the plain. A moving form was revealed to us
on the bank of the irrigating-canal which skirted the edge of the road.
Backward it fell as we dashed by, and then the sound of a splash and
splutter reached us as we disappeared in the darkness. On the morrow we
learned that the spirits of Hassan and Hussein were seen skimming the
earth in their flight toward the Holy City. We reached the bridge, and
crossed the moat, but the gates were closed. We knocked and pounded, but a
hollow echo was our only response. At last the light of a lantern
illumined the crevices in the weather-beaten doors, and a weird-looking
face appeared through the midway opening. “Who’s there?” said a voice,
whose sepulchral tones might have belonged to the sexton of the Holy Tomb.
“We are _Ferenghis_,” we said, “and must get into the city to-night.”
“That is impossible,” he answered, “for the gates are locked, and the keys
have been sent away to the governor’s palace.” With this the night air
grew more chill. But another thought struck us at once. We would send a
note to General McLean, the English consul-general, who was already
expecting us. This our interlocutor, for a certain _inam_, or Persian
bakshish, at length agreed to deliver. The general, as we afterward
learned, sent a servant with a special request to the governor’s palace.
Here, without delay, a squad of horsemen was detailed, and ordered with
the keys to the “Herat Gate.” The crowds in the streets, attracted by this
unusual turnout at this unusual hour, followed in their wake to the scene
of disturbance. There was a click of locks, the clanking of chains, and
the creaking of rusty hinges. The great doors swung open, and a crowd of
expectant faces received us in the Holy City.
[Illustration: RIDING BEFORE THE GOVERNOR AT MESHED.]
Meshed claims our attention chiefly for its famous dead. In its sacred
dust lie buried our old hero Haroun al Raschid, Firdousi, Persia’s
greatest epic poet, and the holy Imaum Riza, within whose shrine every
criminal may take refuge from even the Shah himself until the payment of a
blood-tax, or a debtor until the giving of a guarantee for debt. No
infidel can enter there.
[Illustration: FEMALE PILGRIMS ON THE ROAD TO MESHED.]
Meshed was the pivotal point upon which our wheel of fortune was to turn.
We were filled with no little anxiety, therefore, when, on the day after
our arrival, we received an invitation to call at the Russian
consulate-general. With great ceremony we were ushered into a suite of
elegantly furnished rooms, and received by the consul-general and his
English wife in full dress. Madame de Vlassow was radiant with smiles as
she served us tea by the side of her steaming silver samovar. She could
not wait for the circumlocution of diplomacy, but said: “It is all right,
gentlemen. General Kuropatkine has just telegraphed permission for you to
proceed to Askabad.” This precipitate remark evidently disconcerted the
consul, who could only nod his head and say, “_Oui, oui_,” in affirmation.
This news lifted a heavy load from our minds; our desert journey of six
hundred miles, therefore, had not been made in vain, and the prospect
brightened for a trip through the heart of Asia.
[Illustration: IN THE GARDEN OF THE RUSSIAN CONSULATE AT MESHED.]
Between the rival hospitality of the Russian and English consulates our
health was now in jeopardy from excess of kindness. Among other social
attentions, we received an invitation from Sahib Devan, the governor of
Khorassan, who next to the Shah is the richest man in Persia. Although
seventy-six years of age, on the day of our visit to his palace he was
literally covered with diamonds and precious stones. With the photographer
to the Shah as German interpreter, we spent half an hour in an interesting
conversation. Among other topics he mentioned the receipt, a few days
before, of a peculiar telegram from the Shah: “Cut off the head of any one
who attempts opposition to the Tobacco Regie”; and this was followed a few
days after by the inquiry, “How many heads have you taken?” A retinue of
about three hundred courtiers followed the governor as he walked out with
feeble steps to the parade-ground. Here a company of Persian cavalry was
detailed to clear the field for the “wonderful steel horses,” which, as
was said, had come from the capital in two days, a distance of six hundred
miles. The governors extreme pleasure was afterward expressed in a special
letter for our journey to the frontier.
[Illustration: WATCH-TOWER ON THE TRANSCASPIAN RAILWAY.]
[Illustration: GIVING A “SILENT PILGRIM” A ROLL TOWARD MESHED.]
The military road now completed between Askabad and Meshed reveals the
extreme weakness of Persia’s defense against Russian aggression. Elated by
her recent successes in the matter of a Russian consul at Meshed, Russia
has very forcibly invited Persia to construct more than half of a road
which, in connection with the Transcaspian railway, makes Khorassan almost
an exclusive Russian market, and opens Persia’s richest province to
Russia’s troops and cannon on the prospective march to Herat. At this very
writing, if the telegraph speaks the truth, the Persian border-province of
Dereguez is another cession by what the Russians are pleased to call their
Persian vassal. In addition to its increasing commercial traffic, this
road is patronized by many Shiah devotees from the north, among whom are
what the natives term the “silent pilgrims.” These are large stones, or
boulders, rolled along a few feet at a time by the passers-by toward the
Holy City. We ourselves were employed in this pious work at the close of
our first day’s journey from Meshed when we were suddenly aroused by a
bantering voice behind us. Looking up, we were hailed by Stagno Navarro,
the inspector of the Persian telegraph, who was employed with his men on a
neighboring line. With this gentleman we spent the following night in a
telegraph station, and passed a pleasant evening chatting over the wires
with friends in Meshed.
Kuchan, our next stopping-place, lies on the almost imperceptible
watershed which separates the Herat valley from the Caspian Sea. This
city, only a few months ago, was entirely destroyed by a severe
earthquake. Under date of January 28, 1894, the American press reported:
“The bodies of ten thousand victims of the awful disaster have already
been recovered. Fifty thousand cattle were destroyed at the same time. The
once important and beautiful city of twenty thousand people is now only a
scene of death, desolation, and terror.”
From this point to Askabad the construction of the military highway speaks
well for Russia’s engineering skill. It crosses the Kopet Dagh mountains
over seven distinct passes in a distance of eighty miles. This we
determined to cover, if possible, in one day, inasmuch as there was no
intermediate stopping-place, and as we were not a little delighted by the
idea of at last emerging from semi-barbarism into semi-civilization. At
sunset we were scaling the fifth ridge since leaving Kuchan at daybreak,
and a few minutes later rolled up before the Persian custom-house in the
valley below. There was no evidence of the proximity of a Russian
frontier, except the extraordinary size of the tea-glasses, from which we
slaked our intolerable thirst. During the day we had had a surfeit of
cavernous gorges and commanding pinnacles, but very little water. The only
copious spring we were able to find was filled at the time with the
unwashed linen of a Persian traveler, who sat by, smiling in derision, as
we upbraided him for his disregard of the traveling public.
[Illustration: AN INTERVIEW WITH GENERAL KUROPATKINE AT THE RACES NEAR
ASKABAD.]
It was already dusk when we came in sight of the Russian custom-house, a
tin-roofed, stone structure, contrasting strongly with the Persian mud
hovels we had left behind. A Russian official hailed us as we shot by, but
we could not stop on the down-grade, and, besides, darkness was too
rapidly approaching to brook any delay. Askabad was twenty-eight miles
away, and although wearied by an extremely hard day’s work, we must sleep
that night, if possible, in a Russian hotel. Our pace increased with the
growing darkness until at length we were going at the rate of twelve miles
per hour down a narrow gorge-like valley toward the seventh and last ridge
that lay between us and the desert. At 9:30 P. M. we stood upon its
summit, and before us stretched the sandy wastes of Kara-Kum, enshrouded
in gloom. Thousands of feet below us the city of Askabad was ablaze with
lights, shining like beacons on the shore of the desert sea. Strains of
music from a Russian band stole faintly up through the darkness as we
dismounted, and contemplated the strange scene, until the shriek of a
locomotive-whistle startled us from our reveries. Across the desert a
train of the Transcaspian railway was gliding smoothly along toward the
city.
[Illustration: MOSQUE CONTAINING THE TOMB OF TAMERLANE AT SAMARKAND.]
A hearty welcome back to civilized life was given us the next evening by
General Kuropatkine himself, the Governor-General of Transcaspia. During
the course of a dinner with him and his friends, he kindly assured us that
no further recommendation was needed than the fact that we were American
citizens to entitle us to travel from one end of the Russian empire to the
other.
From Askabad to Samarkand there was a break in the continuity of our
bicycle journey. Our Russian friends persuaded us to take advantage of the
Transcaspian railway, and not to hazard a journey across the dreaded
Kara-Kum sands. Such a journey, made upon the railroad track, where water
and food were obtainable at regular intervals, would have entailed only a
small part of the hardships incurred on the deserts in China, yet we were
more than anxious to reach, before the advent of winter, a point whence we
could be assured of reaching the Pacific during the following season.
Through the kindness of the railway authorities at Bokhara station our car
was side-tracked to enable us to visit, ten miles away, that ancient city
of the East. On November 6 we reached Samarkand, the ancient capital of
Tamerlane, and the present terminus of the Transcaspian railway.
[Illustration: CARAVANSARY AT FAKIDAOUD.]
[Illustration: A MARKET-PLACE IN SAMARKAND, AND THE RUINS OF A
COLLEGE.]