the yellow barrenness of the country contrasting vividly with the
fertility of the verdurous borders of the river. It is, indeed, a
desert, infested by roving bands of murderous Towaregs. Such is the
well-known insecurity of the route, that a thicket, situated midway,
bears the significant name of “It does not hear”—that is, it is deaf to
the cries of a victim. To the left stands the tree of Wely-Salah, a
mimosa which the natives have covered with rags in the hope that the
saint will replace them by new clothes. As they drew near Timbuktú, the
sky clouded over, the atmosphere was full of sand, and the city could
scarcely be seen through the rubbish surrounding it. A deputation of the
inhabitants met Dr. Barth, and bade him welcome. One of them addressed
him in Turkish. He had almost forgotten the language, which, of course,
in his character of a Syrian, he ought to have known; but he recalled a
few words with which to frame a reply, and then avoided awkward questions
by spurring his horse and entering the city. The streets were so narrow,
that not more than two horsemen could ride abreast; Dr. Barth was
astonished, however, by the two-storied houses, with their ornamented
façades. Turning to the west, and passing in front of the Sultan’s
palace, he arrived at the house which had been allotted for his
accommodation.
He had attained the goal of his wishes; he had reached Timbuktú; but the
anxieties and fatigue of his journey had exhausted him, and he was seized
with an attack of fever. Yet never had he had greater need of his energy
and coolness. A rumour had already got abroad that a Christian had
obtained admission into the city. The Sultan was absent; and his
brother, who had promised his support, was sulking because he had not
received presents enough. On the following day, however, the fever
having left him, Barth received the visits of some courteous people, and
took the air on the terrace of his lodging, which commanded a view of the
city. To the north could be seen the massive outlines of the great
mosque of Sankora; to the east, the tawny surface of the desert; to the
south, the habitations of the Ghadami merchants; while the picture gained
variety from the presence of straw-roofed huts among houses built of
clay, long rows of narrow winding streets, and a busy market-place on the
slope of the sand-hills.
A day or two later, there were rumours of a meditated attack upon his
residence, but his calm and intrepid aspect baffled hostile designs. The
sheikh’s brother made an attempt to convert him, and defied him to
demonstrate the superiority of his religious principles. With the help
of his pupils, he carried on an animated discussion; but Dr. Barth
confuted him, and by his candour and good sense secured the esteem of the
more intelligent inhabitants. A fresh attack of fever supervened on the
17th; his weakness increased daily; when, at three o’clock in the morning
of the 26th, a blare of instruments and a din of voices announced the
arrival of the sheikh, El Bakay, and his warm welcome to the stranger
dispelled his pains and filled him with a new vigour. He strongly
censured his brother’s ungracious conduct; sent provisions to Barth, with
a recommendation to partake of nothing that did not come from his palace;
and offered him his choice between the various routes that led to the
sea-coast. Could he have foreseen that he was fated to languish eight
months at Timbuktú, Dr. Barth thinks that he could not have supported the
idea; but, happily, man never knows the intensity or duration of the
struggle in which he engages, and marches courageously through the
shadows which hide from him the future.
Ahmed El Bakay was tall of stature and well proportioned, with an open
countenance, an intelligent air, and the bearing and physiognomy of a
European. His complexion was almost black. His costume consisted of a
short black tunic, black pantaloons, and a shawl bound negligently round
his head. Between him and Dr. Barth a cordial understanding was quickly
formed and loyally maintained. He spoke frequently of Major Laing, the
only Christian whom he had ever seen; for, thanks to the disguise assumed
by the French traveller, Caillé, no one at Timbuktú was aware that he had
at one time resided in their city.
Timbuktú is situated about six miles from the Niger, in lat. 18° N. Its
shape is that of a triangle, the apex of which is turned towards the
desert. Its circuit at the present time is about three miles and a half;
but of old it extended over a much larger area. It is by no means the
wealthy, powerful, and splendid city which was dreamed of in the fond
imaginations of the early travellers. Its streets are unpaved, and most
of them narrow. There are a thousand houses clay-built, and, in the
northern and north-western suburbs, some two hundred huts of reeds. No
traces exist of the ancient palace, nor of the Kasba; but the town has
three large and three small mosques, and a chapel. It is divided into
seven quarters, inhabited by a permanent population of thirty thousand
souls, which is increased to thirty-five or forty thousand from November
to January, the epoch of the caravans. Founded early in the twelfth
century by the Towaregs, on one of their old pasture-grounds, Timbuktú
belonged to the Souray in the first half of the fourteenth. Recovered, a
century later, by its founders, it was snatched from them by Sami Ali,
who sacked it, then rebuilt it, and drew thither the merchants of
Ghadami. As early as 1373 it is marked upon the Spanish charts, not only
as the entrepôt of the trade in salt and gold, but as the scientific and
religious centre of the Western Soudan; and exciting the cupidity of
Mulay Ahmed, it fell, in 1592, with the empire of the Askias, under the
sway of Marocco. Down to 1826 it remained in the hands of the Ramas, or
Maroccan soldiers settled in the country. Next came the Fulbi; then the
Towaregs, who drove out the Fulbi in 1844. But this victory, by
isolating Timbuktú on the border of the river, led to a famine. Through
the intervention of El Bakay, however, a compromise was effected in 1848;
the Towaregs recognized the nominal supremacy of the Fulbi, on condition
that they should keep no garrison in the city; the taxes were to be
collected by two cadis, a Souray and a Fulbi; and the administration, or
rather the police, was entrusted to two Souray magistrates, controlled
simultaneously by the Fulbi and the Towaregs, between whom was divided
the religious authority, represented by the sheikh, a Rama by origin.
Dr. Barth’s residence in Timbuktú was a source of intense dissatisfaction
to some of the ruling spirits. Even in the sheikh’s own family it led to
grave dissensions; and many demanded that he should be expelled. El
Bakay remained firm in his support, and, to protect the life of his
visitor, moved him to Kabara. Dr. Barth speaks in high terms of this
liberal and enlightened man, and of the happiness of his domestic circle.
Europe itself could not produce a more affectionate father or husband;
indeed, Dr. Barth hints that he yielded too much to the wishes of his
august partner.
Week after week, the storms of war and civil discord raged more and more
furious; the traveller’s position became increasingly painful. His
bitterest enemies were the Fulbi. They endeavoured to drag him from the
sheikh’s protection by force, and when this failed, had recourse to an
artifice to get him into their power. The Welád Shinan, who assassinated
Major Laing, swore they would kill him. On the 27th of February, 1854,
the chief of the Fulbi again intimated to the sheikh his request that
Barth should be driven from the country. The sheikh peremptorily
refused. Then came a fresh demand, and a fresh refusal; a prolonged and
angry struggle; a situation more and more intolerable; while commerce
suffered and the people were disquieted by the quarrels of their rulers.
So it came to pass that, on the night of the 17th of March, Sidi
Mohammed, eldest brother of El Bakay, beat the drum, mounted his horse,
and bade Dr. Barth follow him with two of his servants, while the
Towaregs, who supported them, clashed their bucklers together, and
shouted their shrill war-cry. He found the sheikh at the head of a
numerous body of Arabs and Sourays, with some Fulbi, who were devoted to
him. As might be expected, Dr. Barth begged that he might not be the
cause of any bloodshed; and the sheikh promised the malcontents that he
would conduct the obnoxious Christian beyond the town. He encamped on
the frontier of the Oberay, where everybody suffered terribly from bad
food and insects.
At length, after a residence of thirty-three days on the creek of
Bosábango, it was decided that the march should be begun on the 19th of
April. On the 25th, after having passed through various encampments of
Towaregs, they followed the windings of the Niger, having on their left a
well-wooded country, intersected by marshes, and enlivened by numerous
pintados. Then they fell in with the valiant Wughduga, a sincere friend
of El Bakay, and a magnificent Towareg warrior, nearly seven feet high,
of prodigious strength, and the hero of deeds of prowess worthy of the
most famous knight of the Table Round. Under his escort Dr. Barth
reached Gogo—in the fifteenth century the flourishing and famous capital
of the Souray empire, now a small and straggling town with a few hundred
huts. Here he took leave of his kind and generous protector; and, with
an escort of about twenty persons, recrossed to the right bank of the
river, and descended it as far as Say, where he had passed it the year
before. In this journey of one hundred and fifty leagues, he had seen
everywhere the evidence of great fertility, and a peaceable population,
in whose midst a European might travel in security; speaking to the
people, as he did, of the sources and termination of their great
fostering river—questions which interest those good negroes as much,
perhaps, as they have perplexed the scientific societies of Europe, but
of which they do not possess the most rudimentary knowledge.
Arriving at Sokotó and Vurno in the midst of the rainy season, Dr. Barth
was warmly welcomed by the Emir; but, with strength exhausted and health
broken, he could not profit by his kindness.
On the 17th of October he arrived at Kanó, where he had been long
expected; but neither money nor despatches had been forwarded for him—no
news from Europe had been received. Yet at Kanó he had arranged to pay
his servants, discharge his debts, and renew his credits, long since
exhausted. He pledged the little property remaining to him, including
his revolver, until he could obtain the cutlery and four hundred dollars
left at Zindu; but, alas! these had disappeared during recent intestine
commotions. Kanó must always be unhealthy for Europeans; and Dr. Barth,
in his enfeebled condition, acutely felt the ill effects of its climatic
conditions. His horses and camels fell ill, and he lost, among others,
the noble animal which for three years had shared all his fatigues.
Over every difficulty, every obstacle, that splendid energy which had
carried the great explorer to the Niger and Timbuktú ultimately
prevailed; and on the 24th of November he set out for Kúkáwa. In his
absence it had been the theatre of a revolution. A new ruler held the
reins of government, and Dr. Barth was doomed to encounter fresh
embarrassments. It was not until after a delay of four months that he
was able to resume the journey through the Fezzan. He followed this time
the direct route, by Bilma—the route formerly taken by the travellers,
Denham and Clapperton.
At the end of August he entered Tripoli, where he spent only four days.
By way of Malta he proceeded to Marseilles; and thence to Paris; arriving
in London on the 6th of September, 1855.
It may be doubted whether the English public have fully appreciated the
labours of this persevering explorer. To us it seems that he occupies a
high place in the very front rank of African travellers, in virtue not
only of the work he did, but of the courage, perseverance, skill, and
energy which he displayed. He failed in nothing that he undertook,
though his resources were very limited, and the difficulties in his path
of the gravest character. He explored Bornú, A’damáwa, and Bagirmi,
where no European had ever before penetrated. He surveyed, over an area
of six hundred miles, the region which lies between Katséna and Timbuktú,
though even to the Arabs it is the least known portion of the Soudan. He
formed friendly relations with the powerful princes on the banks of the
Niger, from Sokotó to the famous city which shuts its gates upon the
Christian. Five of his best years he dedicated to this astonishing
enterprise, enduring the gravest privations, and braving the most
pestilential climates, as well as the most implacable fanaticism. All
this he did, without friends, without companions, without money. Of the
five brave men who undertook this adventurous expedition, he alone
returned; and returned loaded with treasure, with precious materials of
all kinds for the use of the man of science or the merchant—with maps,
drawings, chronologies, vocabularies, historical and ethnological notes,
itineraries, botanical and geological data, and meteorological tables.
Nothing escaped his attention; he was not only a traveller and an
observer, but a scientific pioneer. Let us give due honour to a
Livingstone, but let us not forget the debt we owe to a Barth. {156}
MR. THOMAS WITLAM ATKINSON,
AND HIS ADVENTURES IN SIBERIA
AND CENTRAL ASIA.
A.D. 1849–55.
I.
MR. THOMAS WITLAM ATKINSON among recent travellers is not one of the
least distinguished. He ventured into what may be called “virgin
country”—a region scarcely known to Europeans; carrying his life in his
hand; animated by the desire of knowledge rather than the hope of fame;
quick to observe, accurate in his observations, and intelligent in
combining them into a distinct and satisfactory whole. For some years he
lived among the wild races who inhabit Siberia and Mongolia, the Kirghiz
steppes, Chinese Tartary, and the wilder districts of Central Asia; and
he collected a vast amount of curious information in reference not only
to their manners and customs and mode of life, but to the lands which
they call their own. The broad and irresistible wave of Western
civilization has reached the confines of their vast territories, before
long will pour in upon them, and already is slowly, but surely,
undermining many an ancient landmark. In the course of another fifty
years its advance will have largely modified their characteristics, and
swept away much that is now the most clearly and picturesquely defined.
We need, therefore, to be grateful to Mr. Atkinson for the record he has
supplied of their present condition; a record which to us is one of
romantic interest, as to the future historian it will be one of authentic
value.
In introducing that record to the reader, he says:—“Mine has been a
tolerably wide field, extending from Kokhand on the west to the eastern
end of the Baikal, and as far south as the Chinese town of Tchin-si;
including that immense chain Syan-shan, never before seen by any
European; as well as a large portion of the western part of the Gobi,
over which Gonghiz Khan marched his wild hordes; comprising a distance
traversed of about 32,000 versts in carriages, 7100 in boats, and 20,300
on horseback—in all, 59,400 versts (about 39,500 miles), in the course of
seven years.” Neither the old Venetian, Marco Polo, nor the Jesuit
priests, could have visited these regions, their travels having been far
to the south; even the recent travellers, Hue and Gobet, who visited “the
land of grass” (the plains to the south of the great Desert of Gobi), did
not penetrate into the country of the Kalkas. It is unnecessary to
premise that in such a journey, prolonged over so many years, extended
into so many countries, he suffered much both from hunger and thirst, was
exposed to numerous tests of his courage and fortitude, and on several
occasions placed in most critical situations with the tribes of Central
Asia; that he more than once was called upon to confront an apparently
inevitable death. Within the limits to which we are confined, it will be
impossible for us to attempt a detailed narrative of his labours, but we
shall hope to select those passages and incidents which will afford a
fair idea of their value and enterprise.
* * * * *
Armed with a passport from the Czar of All the Russias, which in many a
difficult conjuncture proved to its bearer as all-powerful as Ali Baba’s
“Open Sesame,” Mr. Atkinson left Moscow on the 6th of March, intent upon
the exploration of the wild regions of Siberia. A ten days’ journey
brought him to Ekaterineburg, the first Russian town in this direction,
across the Asiatic boundary. Here he took boat on the river
Tchoussowaia, which he descended as far as the pristan, or port, of
Chaitanskoï. Thence he made an excursion to the house of an hospitable
Russian, the director of the Outskinkoï iron-works, traversing a forest
of pines, which deeply impressed him by its aspect of gloomy grandeur.
Resuming his river-voyage, {159} he observed that the valley widened
considerably as he advanced. On the west bank spread a large extent of
meadow-land; on the eastern, the soil was partly cultivated, and bloomed
with young crops of rye. The pastures shone with fresh strong verdure,
were already starred with flowers, while the birch trees were hourly
bursting into leaf. In this region the change from winter to summer is
magically sudden, like that of a transformation scene. At night, you see
the grass browned by frost, and the trees bare of buds; in twenty-four
hours, the meadows are covered with fresh greenness, and the woods spread
over you a thick canopy of vigorous foliage. But if you come from a
temperate clime, you miss that sweet and gradual development of bud and
bloom, of leaf and flower, which is the charm and privilege of spring.
You miss the rare pleasure of watching the opening violet, the first
primrose, the early tinge of green upon the hedgerow and in the coppice,
which you recognize as the heralds and pledges of happy days to come.
At Oslanskoï Mr. Atkinson took his leave of the Tchoussowaia, and
prepared to cross the Ural Mountains. But while staying at Nijne-Toura,
he resolved upon ascending the great peak of the Katchkanar. The road
led through a tract of deep forest, which spread over high hills, and
down into deep valleys, filled with white vapour, through which the
branches of lightning-stricken pines loomed ghastly like the shivered
masts of a wreck through the ocean mist. Towards noon a thunder-storm
came on, accompanied by heavy rain. Portions of the forest were so thick
as completely to exclude the daylight; and Mr. Atkinson and his
companions frequently found it necessary to cut their way through the
intertangled growth.
Though bears and other beasts of prey frequent these wilds, Mr. Atkinson
met with none; the chief danger was a fall in the midst of rocks and
prostrate trees, which might have been attended with painful
consequences. At last they emerged from the forest gloom, at the foot of
a steep ascent overlaid with huge blocks of stones. As their horses
slowly clambered up the rugged acclivity, the sound was heard of the roar
of water, indicating a cataract close at hand. It proved to be the
outcome of a small stream, which tumbled down a steep and rocky bed in a
succession of shining falls. Crossing this stream, the riders pursued
their upward course until at eight o’clock they reached the Katchkanar,
after a tedious journey of eleven hours. The guide, a veteran hunter,
proposed to halt for the night at the foot of some high rocks—a
proposition readily accepted. All hands set to work, and soon a great
fire was blazing, not only for the purpose of warmth, but as a protection
against the clouds of mosquitoes which swarmed around, and threatened to
murder sleep.
At three o’clock, Mr. Atkinson was up and about. The dawn was swiftly
advancing over the interminable Siberian forest. Above the vast horizon
stretched long lines of pale yellow clouds, which every minute became
more luminous, until they seemed like so many waves of golden light
rolling and breaking on the far celestial shore. As the sun gradually
rose into the heavens, every mountain-top blazed with fire, like gigantic
altars, and the pines were transformed into columns of gold. The
adventurers were soon afoot, and, crossing a little grassy valley, began
the real ascent.
It was a chaotic mass of loose huge rocks, with snow filling up many of
the cavities; in other places they passed under colossal blocks, over
which it would have been no easy task to climb. Further up they
stretched across large patches of frozen snow, and reached the foot of
the high crags of the Katchkanar; many of which stand out like huge
crystals, not less than one hundred feet in height, and are composed of
regular courses, with pure magnetic iron ore between their beds, varying
from one inch to four inches thick. In some places cubes or crystals of
iron project from the solid rock, three and four inches square; and in
others the whole mass seems to be of iron, or some other mineral
substance. Climbing one of the highest pinnacles, Mr. Atkinson enjoyed a
glorious prospect, such as it is difficult for the dweller in plains,
with their always limited horizons, to form even an idea of. For
hundreds of miles the view to the east extended into Siberia, until all
disappeared in fine blue vapour. “There is something truly grand,” says
Mr. Atkinson, “in looking over these black and apparently interminable
forests, in which no trace of a human habitation, not even a wreath of
smoke, can be seen to assure us that man is there. Turning to the north,
and about one hundred versts distant, Pardinsky Kanem rises out of the
dark forest (this is one of the highest points in the Ural chain); it is
partly covered with snow, and shines like frosted silver in the bright
sun. All the mountains near are blue, purple, and misty, with a rugged
foreground of rocks of great height, broken into all shapes and forms.
In fact, the summit of the Katchkanar is evidently a mountain in ruins,
the softer parts having been removed or torn away by the hand of time,
leaving the barren portion, or vertebræ of the mountain, standing like a
huge skeleton, which, seen at a distance, often assumed the most
fantastic and picturesque shapes.”
After a brief rest, Mr. Atkinson and his friends began the descent of the
mountain, taking, however, a circuitous route which secured them a
variety of scenes, and about seven o’clock in the evening they reached
the site of their encampment on the preceding night. There they slept
until dawn, when they made the best of their way back to Nijne-Toura—a
long day’s journey.
While at Nijne Mr. Atkinson had an opportunity of seeing something of the
pastimes popular among the iron-workers of the district. It was the
occasion of a popular festival, and the workmen and their families were
all holiday-making. Females and children were riding merrily in the
boxes of the large swings that had been temporarily constructed. The men
were wrestling, just as they might do in Devonshire or Cornwall.
Stripping off his coat, each man tied his long sash firmly round his
waist; this his antagonist gripped with the right hand, while the left
was placed on his shoulder; then the struggle began. One of the athletes
was so conspicuously superior to the rest in skill and prowess, that at
length no one would respond to his repeated challenges to try a fall.
Assuming the honours of championship, he was on the point of quitting the
arena when a slim-built, but well-proportioned, young man suddenly
stepped forward as a competitor. He was evidently a stranger, and his
appearance was greeted with a good deal of laughter, in which the
champion readily joined. The latter acted as if assured of an easy
victory, but, to the general surprise, a sharp and prolonged contention
ensued. The wrestler, angry at the prospect of losing his laurels,
exerted all his dexterity to throw his daring opponent, and when that
failed, endeavoured to overcome him by superior strength. In vain: he
was flung prostrate on the ground. Red with shame, he sprang to his feet
and repeated his challenge. A second combat followed, and the would-be
champion, by a second defeat and a heavy fall, was taught a lesson in
modesty, which it is to be hoped he long remembered.