All this summer I travelled on the Amúr. I went as far as its mouth, or
rather its estuary--Nikoláevsk--to join the Governor-General, whom I
accompanied in a steamer up the Usurí; and after that, in the autumn, I
made a still more interesting journey up the Sungarí, to the very heart
of Manchuria, as far as Ghirín (or Kirín, according to the southern
pronunciation).
Many rivers in Asia are formed by the junction of two equally important
streams, so that it is difficult for the geographer to say which of
the two is the main one and which is a tributary. The Ingodá and the
Onón join to make the Shílka; the Shílka and the Argúñ join to make
the Amúr; and the Amúr joins the Sungarí to form that mighty stream
which flows north-eastwards and enters the Pacific in the inhospitable
latitudes of the Tartar Strait.
Up to the year 1864 the great river of Manchuria remained very little
known. All information about it dated from the times of the Jesuits,
and that was scanty. Now that a revival in the exploration of Mongolia
and Manchuria was going to take place, and the fear of China which had
hitherto been entertained in Russia appeared to be exaggerated, all of
us younger people pressed upon the Governor-General the necessity of
exploring the Sungarí. To have next door to the Amúr an immense region
almost as little known as an African desert seemed to us provoking.
Quite unexpectedly, General Korsákoff decided that same autumn to send
a steamer up the Sungarí, under the pretext of carrying some message of
friendship to the Governor-General of the Ghirín province. A Russian
consul from Urgá had to take the message. A doctor, an astronomer, two
topographers, and myself, all placed under the command of a Colonel
Chernyáeff, had to take part in the expedition on board a tiny steamer,
_Usuri_, which had in tow a barge with coal. Twenty-five soldiers,
whose rifles were carefully concealed in the coal, went with us on the
barge.
All was organized very hurriedly, and there was no accommodation on the
small steamer to receive such a numerous company; but we were all full
of enthusiasm, and huddled as best we could in the tiny cabins. One of
us had to sleep on a table, and when we started we found that there
were even no knives and forks for all of us--not to speak of other
necessaries. One of us resorted to his penknife at dinner time, and
my Chinese knife with two ivory sticks was a welcome addition to our
equipment.
It was not an easy task to go up the Sungarí. The great river, in its
lower parts, where it flows through the same lowlands as the Amúr, is
very shallow, and, although our steamer had only three feet draught,
we often could not find a channel deep enough to pass through. There
were days when we advanced but some forty miles, and scraped many times
the sandy bottom of the river with our keel; over and over again a
rowing boat was sent out to find the necessary depth. But our young
captain had made up his mind that he would reach Ghirín this autumn,
and we progressed every day. As we advanced higher and higher up we
found the river more and more beautiful, and more and more easy for
navigation; and when we had passed the sandy deserts at its junction
with its sister-river, the Nónni, navigation became easy and pleasant.
In a few weeks we reached the capital of this province of Manchuria. An
excellent map of the river was made by the topographers.
There was no time, unfortunately, to spare, and so we very seldom
landed in any village or town. The villages are few and rare along the
banks of the river, and in its lower parts we found only lowlands,
which are inundated every year. Higher up we sailed for a hundred miles
amidst sand dunes. It was only when we reached the upper Sungarí and
began to approach Ghirín that we found a dense population.
If our aim had been to establish friendly relations with Manchuria--and
not simply to learn what the Sungarí is--our expedition ought to have
been considered a dead failure. The Manchurian authorities had it fresh
in their memories how, eight years before, the ‘visit’ of Muravióff
ended in the annexation of the Amúr and the Usurí, and they could
not but look with suspicion on these new and uncalled-for visitors.
The twenty-five rifles concealed in the coal, which had been duly
reported to the Chinese authorities before we left, still more provoked
their suspicions; and when our steamer cast her anchor in front of
the populous city of Ghirín we found all its merchants armed with
rusty swords, unearthed from some old arsenal. We were not prevented,
however, from walking in the streets, but all shops were closed as soon
as we landed and the merchants were not allowed to sell anything. Some
provisions were sent on board the steamer--as a gift, but no money was
taken in return.
The autumn was rapidly coming to its end, the frosts began already,
and we had to hurry back, as we could not winter on the Sungarí. In
short, we saw Ghirín, but spoke to none but the couple of interpreters
who came every morning on board our steamer. Our aim, however, was
fulfilled. We had ascertained that the river is navigable, and a
detailed map of it was made, from its mouth to Ghirín, with the aid
of which we were able to steam on our return journey at full speed
without any accident. Our steamer only once touched the ground. But the
Ghirín authorities, desirous above all that we should not be compelled
to winter on the river, sent us two hundred Chinese, who aided us in
getting off the sands. When I jumped into the water and, also taking a
stick, began to sing our river song, ‘_Dubínushka_,’ which helps all
present to give a sudden push at the same moment, the Chinese enjoyed
immensely the fun of it, and after several such pushes the steamer was
soon afloat. The most cordial relations were established after this
little adventure between ourselves and the Chinese--I mean, of course,
the people, who seemed to dislike very much their arrogant Manchurian
officials.
We called at several Chinese villages peopled with exiles from the
celestial empire, and we were received in the most cordial way.
One evening especially impressed itself on my memory. We came to a
small, picturesque village as night was already falling. Some of us
landed, and I went alone through the village. A thick crowd of a
hundred Chinese soon surrounded me, and although I knew not a word of
their tongue, and they knew no more of mine, we chatted in the most
amicable way by mimicry and we understood each other. To pat one on the
shoulders in sign of friendship is decidedly international language.
To offer each other tobacco and to be offered a light is again an
international expression of friendship. One thing interested them--why
had I, though young, a beard? They wear none before they are sixty. And
when I told them by signs that in case I should have nothing to eat I
might eat it--the joke was transmitted from one to the other through
the whole crowd. They roared with laughter, and began to pat me even
more caressingly on the shoulders; they took me about, showing me their
houses, everyone offered me his pipe, and the whole crowd accompanied
me as a friend to the steamer. I must say that there was not one
single _boshkó_ (policeman) in that village. In other villages our
soldiers and the young officers always made friends with the Chinese,
but as soon as a _boshkó_ appeared all was spoiled. In return, one must
have seen what ‘faces’ they used to make at the _boshkó_ behind his
back! They evidently hated these representatives of authority.
Our expedition has since been forgotten. The astronomer, Th. Usóltzeff,
and I published reports about it in the ‘Memoirs’ of the Siberian
Geographical Society; but a few years later a great conflagration
at Irkútsk destroyed all the copies left of the Memoirs as well as
the original map of the Sungarí, and it was only last year, when the
Trans-Manchurian railway began to be built, that Russian geographers
unearthed our reports, and found that the great river had been explored
five-and-thirty years ago.