Ardanusch—The Ardahan river—Shadavan scenery—Crossing the
mountains—The roof of the world—The Tschorock river—Mohammed
is afraid—Kismet—If a Christian is ill—Going to Paradise—Does
a Christian send for a doctor?—A vast amphitheatre—Kale or the
old fortress of Ardanusch—Akiska—War—The Mostaphas are to be
called out—The road to Livana—The cayek.
We rode by several Turkish and Kurd villages in the direction of
Ardanusch. The track was firm and tolerably level. After a four hours'
march we crossed the Ardahan river on a wooden bridge about seventy
yards long by sixteen feet wide. The structure was very much out of
repair; the planks were loose in many places, here and there large
holes in the timber let us see the river below. We halted at Shadavan, a
Turkish village containing about thirty houses, and close to the water's
edge. I had intended to have made a longer march, but the hired steeds
were wretched brutes. They had shown unmistakable signs of fatigue. The
proprietor of the house in which we stopped owned large flocks of sheep,
the country round Ardahan being chiefly grazing land. He informed me
that for every thousand sheep he possessed, the tax collector took from
him the sum of thirty liras annually. There was no tax for sheep under
a year old, nor for cows and oxen.
Two hours after leaving Shadavan, the path crossed a high mountain. It
was covered with its winter garb; this fortunately was frozen hard and
afforded a firm foothold. The scenery around us became each moment more
wild; fir-trees, shaded in their cold white robes, embroider the sides
of the steep; huge rocks, their northern faces covered with snow, but
black as ebony towards the south, frown down on the glistening carpet.
The track wound higher and higher. A thick oppressive mist enveloped
us like a shroud. We were above the clouds. The air became each moment
more rarefied. We breathed with difficulty, owing to our elevation. It
seemed at last as if we had reached the roof of the earth. A plateau
lay before us.
Onward we march. Our horses struggle through the drifts. Every minute
we have to stop to let them take breath. At last the road begins to
descend; now abruptly for a few hundred yards, we slide down some
glaciers; then it dips over a succession of crests, each one lower than
its predecessor. We reach the regions of vegetation, and, continuing
for some time our descent, find that winter has been left behind us.
There were many villages in this district, fruit-trees abounded
throughout the neighbourhood. No more snow could be seen. The weather
was oppressively warm. The Tschoroch river dashed along at our feet
on its way to Batoum. Mohammed, pointing at the rapid stream, said
something to my English servant.
"What is he saying?" I inquired.
"He don't like the idea of going in a boat, sir," replied Radford. "He
is afraid that he will be drowned."
"Do you know how to swim, Mohammed?" I inquired.
"No, Effendi. Cannot we continue our journey by road to Batoum?" he
added. "The road is safe, but the water is dangerous."
"Mohammed, it may be written in your kismet that you are to be drowned."
"Perhaps, Effendi. But—"
"But what?"
"If I am to die, I would sooner end my days in a bed."
"You ought to be very glad to have the chance of dying," I now remarked.
"Only think of the many wives who are awaiting you in the next world."
Mohammed here shrugged his shoulders.
"Effendi, you are a Christian."
"Yes."
"Do Christians believe in a future state of happiness?"
"Yes."
"Do they think that their heaven will be more delightful than this
earth?"
"Yes."
"If a Christian is ill, does he send for a hakim (physician)?"
"Yes."
Then added Mohammed triumphantly, "Why does he do so; he ought to be
delighted at the chance of speedily going to Paradise, and yet Effendi,
according to you, the Christian does his best to postpone the pleasure."
The track now became very bad, it led several times across the river
which was spanned by rickety wooden bridges. The may-trees were in
full blossom. The voices of a thousand songsters chirruping amidst the
branches echoed over the waters.
We enter what appears to be a vast amphitheatre. The Coliseum at Rome on
a gigantic scale lies before us. Its walls are represented by a circular
range of hills, the boxes looking down upon the arena by numerous
châlets, they jut forth from the slopes. An enormous rock faces us.
It stands out on one side of the amphitheatre, and might have been an
emperor's throne. The boxes grow larger as we ride across the arena. The
resemblance fades away. A speck appears on the crest of a neighbouring
height; bigger and bigger it becomes.
"Kale, or the old fortress of Ardanusch," says our guide, pointing to
it. Soon afterwards we put up for the night in a house belonging to the
Caimacan of the district. This official informed me that it was only an
eighteen hours' march to Akiska, the Russian frontier station. The road
to the border was a good one; artillery could be brought along it. There
were no troops in Ardanusch, and the governor was much alarmed lest the
Russians should commence the war by an attack upon his town. Whilst we
were conversing, a servant brought him a letter which had been sent on
by special messengers from Ardahan.
The Caimacan opened the envelope. "War!" he cried. "An order has
come for me to call out all the Mostaphas (the last reserve) in this
district. The Government would have never put itself to this expense
unless our Padishah had felt sure that war was inevitable."
Leaving me, the governor went out to give the necessary orders for the
execution of the Sultan's mandate.
We continued onward to Livana; the track was sometimes so narrow that
we had to ride or lead our horses in Indian file. Now we come to a place
where ten men could defend the road against an army, and then to a spot
where the path has given way altogether, and fallen into the stream
below. Our guide reins his horse backward. It is impossible to turn.
We essay another route, and presently again strike the river. A large
cayek was anchored by the bank. A man coming up to me proposed that we
should go in his boat to Batoum.
"How much money do you want for taking us there?" I inquired.
"Ten liras, Effendi."
"Go away, sheep's son!" ejaculated Mohammed indignantly; "we will ride
to Livana, which is only four hours' march from here; and then, if it
pleases the Effendi to entrust himself to a boatman, I will get a ship
for two liras—rascal that you are to ask ten liras for the hire of your
little cayek!"