SHOOTING THE CATARACTS.
Having great things before us to-day, we once more shake off dull
sloth and early rise. During the night we had passed not only Belgrade
and Semendria, but an ancient Turkish fortress and many other places
of interest, all of which we were sorry to miss; but even the most
enthusiastic of travellers cannot always keep awake.
Going out on deck, we find we are passing a long island, clothed with
dense vegetation of fairest green, feathering down to the water’s edge.
“How exactly this portion of our great Duna (Danube) resembles the
Mississippi, which I visited last year!” exclaimed the Count--the only
passenger as yet on deck, and who coming forward greeted us with a
pleasant smile. “There is nothing wanting to complete the resemblance.
No! not even the canoe--for see that strange savage-looking fellow
yonder, paddling himself about in that small sandy creek--his boat the
hollowed-out trunk of a tree! And those ‘snags,’ too, lying half-out in
mid-stream. How like all is to the mightier river of the New World!”
The island itself is full of wild-fowl--a “whir-r-r!” and away go a
large flock skimming through the air, their white wings gleaming
like silver in the morning light; whilst here and there web-footed
“water-ravens,” about the size of a small goose, are still seen
roosting on the trees or standing on sandy promontories watching for
fish.
The cold is intense, the climate having altered strangely since
yesterday, when even before sunrise it was warm and pleasant. Yet the
river’s course has been taking us steadily southwards since leaving
Pest.
“We are approaching the jaws of the defile,” said the captain, who,
just then appearing on deck, observed me drawing my large “cloud”
around me. “The wind is always rough there, even on the hottest day, no
matter how calm it is elsewhere, and it will blow very hard to-day, for
we can feel it even here.”
We had lost the greater number of our fellow-passengers, for they left
us at Semlin and Belgrade. The Turkish family, however, are still with
us, together with the young Bosniak, who, by the way, has been joined
by a brother. Both are resplendent in crimson satin waistcoats covered
with silver chains and various kinds of ornaments, and they look very
handsome as they pace the deck in their beautiful sable-lined cloaks
and broad fur collars. There are several Hungarians who have also
remained on board, including the testy old gentleman, who hospitably
insists on our being his guests at breakfast this morning. That meal,
however, is very hastily partaken of on this occasion, for there are
too many things of interest to be seen on deck to admit of the most
prosaic person lingering in the saloon longer than is absolutely
necessary.
There are three sets of steamers on the Danube, and we are fearing lest
we may have to leave this one at Drenkova, on account of the lowness
of the water. At some seasons the navigation of the Lower Danube is
very dangerous, except for the smallest steamers; the narrow channels
between the reefs, which in some places stretch across the whole
breadth of the river and rise above its surface like alligators’ teeth,
containing scarcely more than eighteen inches of water.
Attempts have been made to remove these obstructions by blasting the
highest of the reefs, but with ill success. They principally consist of
a hard micaceous slate, which is very difficult to blast; and even the
little flat-bottomed barges which are made expressly for the shallows,
striking on the edges of these pointed rocks, are often sunk or broken
to pieces. The most dangerous of these rapids, or _Cataracten_
as they are called here, lies below Drenkova, where the reefs create
a fall of eight feet. Across these the native boatmen dash heedlessly
without steering, shutting their eyes to the danger, and appealing for
protection either to Allah or the Virgin, according as their religion
may dictate; their craft, however, not unfrequently coming to hopeless
grief notwithstanding, whilst they occasionally lose their own lives as
well.
Having passed the island of Moldova, curious sandhills appear in sight.
They are almost destitute of verdure, a tuft of grass here and there
being the only vegetation seen upon them, and appear in fact to be
formed of loose sand drifted hither by the wind. Yet these small and
insignificant hillocks are in truth none other than the beginnings of
the South-Eastern Carpathians, which soon enclose us on either side.
At Moldova, a military frontier-post, the river widens considerably,
and wears all the appearance of a beautiful lake, whose sandy shores,
crimson in the rising sun, are backed by golden and purple mountains,
veiled partially in the morning mist. As we proceed, however, we soon
discern a narrow cleft in the high rocks through which the river forces
its way. Through this narrow defile the wind tears madly, as if to defy
our entrance.
The pent-up waters are now covered with innumerable waves, as, flowing
over reefs which lie only a few feet below the surface, eddies and
whirlpools are formed which cause the steamer to rock from side to
side. But this is by no means one of the really formidable portions of
the Pass, and is but a small obstacle to the navigation of the river
compared with those which we have to encounter farther on.
The scene which now presents itself to our view is surely one of the
most magnificent in the world. On either side are lofty crags, which
rise precipitously out of the raging waters. On the topmost crest of
that to the left stands the ruined stronghold of a robber-knight, now
abandoned to eagles; whilst a little lower down, on the right bank,
crowning the summit of an almost inaccessible rock--the two having once
held the keys of the Pass--stand the splendid but crumbling ruins of
the feudal castle of Golumbacz, with its nine towers and battlemented
walls dominating the river. Its name is said to be a corruption of
“Columba” (the castle of the Dove), for it was here that the Greek
Princess Helena was imprisoned.
This splendid ruin--called in Turkish _Gögerdschnik_-- which
was besieged by King Sigismund and afterwards taken from the Turks
by Matthias Corvinus, is built on the site of an ancient Roman
_castrum_, many historical events being recorded in connection
with its imposing towers, seven of which are still in good preservation.
[Illustration]
Projecting about eighteen or twenty feet above the boiling stream,
we now come in sight of a singularly-shaped solitary rock, called
“Babacaj,” a word said to mean in the Turkish language “Repent,” and
to which tradition assigns a strange history. For here--so runs the
legend--a ruffianly Beh, seized with jealousy, brought his young bride,
and having landed her on the rock, rowed away, and left her to starve
and die, answering her piteous cries with “_Babacaj! babacaj!_”
(Repent! repent!) And the shepherds watching their flocks on the summit
of these mountain heights tell how in the “stilly nights” her voice
reaches them above the restless wave, and how also on stormy ones, as
the water dashes over the rock, piercing screams come echoing up the
gorge.
* * * * *
As we approach the rock “Babacaj,” a vulture perched conspicuously on
its summit, solemnly regarding the surrounding scene, rose suddenly,
and with a great flapping of wings, which measured fully seven or eight
feet across, flew to his eyrie in a mountain crest on the opposite
side of the gorge. These rocky precipices, perforated with clefts and
fissures, are the abode of numerous vultures of a large species, as
well as eagles.
The largest of these fissures is called “the cavern of Golumbacz,”
on account of its proximity to the ruined castle of that name, and
was pointed out to us by a credulous Magyar as being the veritable
cave in which St. George slew the Dragon, whose carcase--so tradition
adds--still in process of decay, gives birth to innumerable
“_Mord-mücken_” (murder-flies)--a very venomous species of gnat,
known to naturalists as the _Furia infernalis_. However much the
former part of the tradition concerning their origin may be regarded as
a myth, there is no doubt that these terrible little pests do really
inhabit this cave. During the months of June and July they pour forth
like a living cloud, and are the terror of the shepherds and herdsmen
on the heights of the Danube, who light large fires of green wood by
night to protect themselves and their flocks from the ravages of these
insects, which often prove fatal in a few hours even to horses and
buffalo, and which, attacking the eyes, nostrils, ears and throat,
create suffocation from the swelling caused by the poison of their
sting.
In vain the peasants have endeavoured to wall up the cavern; these
poisonous gnats only force their way through other fissures. They are,
however, scarcely likely to have any real connection with the cavern,
and are doubtless bred in the marshes and swamps of the Danube, taking
refuge in these rocks during the frosty weather, collecting into huge
societies, and then pouring forth when the ice melts and the summer
heat begins.
After passing the first rapids, we find ourselves in calm waters.
Looking back, the scene is perfectly sublime, and the Danube, hemmed
in on all sides, as at Moldova, with precipitous mountains, once more
wears the appearance of a lake, whilst here and there the windings of
the shallow shore, showing black against the lofty crags, and cutting
into their reflections with horizontal lines, create a picture the
splendour of which it is impossible to describe. Beautiful as are the
defiles of the Rhine between Bingen and Coblenz, they are but a mere
toy compared with those of the Lower Danube.
To the right, about half a mile below Golumbacz, are the ruins of the
Roman fort Gradisca, the first visible tracings of the Via Trajana,
while on the left or Hungarian bank of the river we now trace the
magnificent modern road which was constructed by the Hungarian
Government at the instance of its great patriot Count Szechenyi, whose
name it bears, and to whom the navigation of the river, and many of
the public works in Hungary, are due. This roadway is formed in some
places--where the rocks, rising sheer out of the water, admitted of
no pathway--of vast galleries which pierce the mountains; whilst in
others, the road being carried along the outside of the rock, it is
widened by terraces of masonry.
Passing beneath one of these terraces, we see three figures wending
their way along, the only signs of life we have observed on the banks
to-day. They are Wallachian women, dressed in bright-coloured garments,
with blue and red scarves wound round their heads like turbans, and
contrasting very picturesquely with the sombre grey and brown tints of
the surrounding rocks. They are driving a herd of yellow long-haired
swine, but the whole procession looks so small as it skirts the giant
ramparts, that they appear like tiny figures in a Noah’s-ark.
We are now approaching another defile, and the wind blowing fiercely,
as through the last, again defies our entrance.
The captain having kindly offered me his place, a snug little corner
on the quarter-deck, strongly framed-in with canvas walls and
overlooking the forecastle and bows, I not only had an uninterrupted
view of all around me, but, up to my shoulders at any rate, was well
protected from the fury of the wind. But for this circumstance I doubt
whether I should have been able to remain on deck. Looking behind me
for an instant, I see F. and the other gentlemen staggering as they
try to maintain their equilibrium, whilst below me, crouching in
the forecastle, whither they have gone for shelter, are our Bosnian
brothers, muffled up in cloaks and fur-lined hoods, the picture of
abject misery, if not despair.
Borne onwards by the swift current, we now approach the second defile
at a pace that makes one giddy, the rate at which the steamer takes us
being no doubt greatly exaggerated to our senses by the close proximity
and height of the stupendous mountain buttresses which hem us in on
either side. The wind blows against us with a deafening noise, and
almost stuns us.
[Illustration]
It is impossible to remain any longer standing, and I am obliged to sit
down and hold on tightly; whilst the gentlemen’s voices shouting to me
from the deck to look, now on this side, now on that, as object after
object of peculiar interest and beauty, and the stupendous bastions of
rugged rock, unfold in rapid succession, seem like voices far away. I
cannot hear, but the captain, leaving his position on the other side of
the vessel and coming to the place where I am enclosed, interprets for
them, and bids me turn my eyes to the left, for we are passing a series
of Roman fortifications; and then, fastening my wraps more securely
round me, tells me that the wind always blows fiercely always up this
gorge, though not usually so madly as to-day. And now, rounding a rocky
rampart which rises perpendicularly out of the water, the cataracts
of Islaez and Tachtalia come in sight, two sister reefs consisting of
hard porphyry, which, stretching across the river like dams, extend for
a mile and a half. Here and there, piercing through the surface, are
pointed rocks, round which the water rushing fiercely makes innumerable
eddies, till we at length reach the monster whirlpool that so often
proves fatal to small craft ascending or descending the river. Near it
rises a fragment of rock called “the Buffalo,” beyond which long lines
of white-crested breakers are seen stretching across the whole width
of the river. Holding our breath, we pass by a mere shave through a
narrow channel in the reef, more dangerous on account of its eddies
and whirlpools than even the reefs themselves. We no longer steam: the
current of the river bearing us along, whilst the captain stands on the
bridge looking down anxiously on the boiling, seething mass.
Navigation is fraught with the greatest danger to small vessels when
the water is low. At such times also passengers are transferred from
the steamers to peculiar flat-bottomed boats, constructed especially
for this part of the river, which is then not navigable for boats
drawing more than a minimum of water.
The Romans, alive to the serious obstacles which these rocks presented,
constructed a canal here, remains of which are still said to exist.
As soon as we have safely descended the rapids and doubled a sharp
promontory, the river begins to expand until it again attains the
proportions almost of an inland sea; when it again becomes contracted,
and we approach the formidable and perilous passage of the “Greben,”
in the centre of whose reefs stands ominously an iron cross to warn
boatmen of the dangerous Pass which has wrecked so many vessels.
We have now crossed three of the great rapids, or _Cataracten_,
of the Danube, with their tremendous breakers and currents, doing so
in one instance through a gap only twenty yards broad and twenty-four
inches deep. Over some of these weirs the steamer rocked as in a storm
at sea, as it struggled against the eddies which, formed by the rocks
beneath the surface, were driven back against the current.
The river, freed from its present difficulties, now leaps forth
exultant into a broad channel, like a monster released from bondage,
and spreading out its arms embraces the Servian island of Porecz, where
a Greek church has been erected, and above which rise bluff escarpments
and walls of rock containing cracks and rents like loopholes of a
Cyclopean citadel, and beneath which our steamer seems dwarfed to a
mere speck upon the waters.
At this point commences a line of Roman fortifications, which with
little interruption form conspicuous objects on the left bank of the
river for twenty miles, until, indeed, we reach the magnificent ruin of
Tricule, with its triple-towered castle, one of the most beautiful of
Roman antiquities.
Immediately after passing this castle, we arrive at another imposing
spectacle of the mighty Danube. Already the majestic limestone crags
flanking its threshold are in sight; and we soon steam beneath one of
the most glorious monuments of nature’s architecture--the “_Sterbeczu
Almare_,” or “huge bastion of the Danube”--rocks which rear their
summits almost perpendicularly to a height of over two thousand feet
from the water’s brink. Beneath the rocks the narrow channel of the
river, suddenly cramped to its smallest dimensions, rushes with a
deafening roar, and, rolling its waves over its rocky bed with a noise
like thunder, lashes the rugged sides of its obstructing enemies with
furious spray. This is none other than the celebrated Kazan Pass; a
defile so narrow, notwithstanding the depth of the river--200 feet at
this point--that, as our pigmy steamer takes us through it, we tremble
lest it should get foul of the rocks on one side or the other. And if
this river presents such a wild and savage scene now, in its stately
summer grandeur, what must it be in winter, when it becomes a mass of
floating ice through which the narrow storm-tossed channel has to force
its way! How wonderful and terrific must then be its aspect, as bearing
down on its current huge boulders of ice, they knock and crash against
each other, and then, hurling against the rocks, grind themselves to
powder!
At the termination of this last defile, and nearly _vis-à-vis_ to
the little village of Old Gradina, we arrive at Trajan’s _Tafel_,
another interesting monument commemorative of the achievements of the
Emperor whose name it bears, consisting of a tablet hewn in the solid
rock, on which are inscribed his titles, together with the names of the
legions and their cohorts by whom the road was constructed.
This tablet, which stands on a niche sloping outwards from the
vertical, is supported by winged genii and dolphins, the whole being
surmounted by the Roman eagle.
As we passed, a man standing in a clumsy kind of canoe was impelling
himself by a pole close under the tablet, whilst another wild-looking
fellow was sitting in the niche cooking his mid-day meal.
At this point on the Servian side the rocks manifest very singular
serpentine stratification--like metal that had twisted in the act
of cooling. On the same side, too, we once more see tracings of the
ancient Roman road, which, situated about ten feet above the river,
extend for a considerable distance. They consist of a perfectly
horizontal ridge, varying from two to four feet in width, beneath
which, as previously observed higher up the river, are a number of
square holes or sockets, placed at regular intervals, believed to
have been made to support beams by means of which the narrow path
was widened by a wooden platform which overhung the stream. In a
climate like this, which is subject to such severe alternations of
cold and heat--frosts Arctic in their rigour and heat little short of
tropical--it is marvellous that these ancient memorials should not ere
this have been either defaced and concealed, by Time’s obliterating
mantle, or have crumbled beneath his tread; but there they are, as
fresh as if the Roman workman had just left his hammer and chisel and
would return to continue his work on the morrow; whilst in places where
the rocky escarpment was cut to form the pathway, the stone is as white
as if laid bare but yesterday, and its edge as sharp and angular as
when first completed.
Continuing our steam down the river, we meet for the first time
with true specimens of Wallachian villages, with which, at a later
period, we were destined to become so familiar in our travels through
Transylvania.
We descended the Danube thus far for the purpose of steaming through
the renowned “Iron Grate Pass,” about twenty miles below Orsova; but,
although it is said to be the most dangerous and formidable of all the
rapids of the river, having two distinct falls of eight feet, which at
low water form themselves into foaming cataracts and over which the
water falls perpendicularly, yet the scenery is comparatively tame. In
the place of rugged and scarped precipices rising to a height of from
1500 to 2000 feet, and hanging over the mighty stream like impending
Titans, the mountains slope landwards, receding from the water’s
edge. It is grand, however; and the little steamer, as it threads its
dangerous passage between the rocks, sways from side to side.
But at last the splendid Danube, having lashed itself into weariness
over the reefs which extending for a mile constitute that portion of
it known as the “Iron Gate Pass,” widens considerably, and flows on
henceforth with calm and dignified demeanour, till, having fulfilled
its noble career, it loses itself at last in the Black Sea.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
Transcriber’s Notes:
1. Obvious printers’, punctuation and spelling errors have been
corrected silently.
2. Italics are shown as _xxx_.