On we flew, through richest scenery hourly becoming more mountainous. The road continued admirable. The sun broke dazzlingly through the mists. The aspect of the country was that of a soft, delicate patchwork in shades of green and gold. There were no hedgerows. There were no glittering scintillations of light and atmosphere, no hardness of outline as in Switzerland. All was soft, suggestive, seductive. Little wooden houses perched upon the rocks and ledges. Large patriarchal farm-houses lay in the valleys. Bright rivulets flashed in and out of the sedge. Occasionally we passed a broad stream or a lake, or paused to drink from a sparkling waterfall. Higher and higher we climbed, the sweet air growing rarer, the habitations less numerous. Eagles screamed aloft. An ancient castle or faded monastery, incredibly old, stood out here and there upon the landscape. Everything spoke of a peaceful, happy, peasant life, of rich flocks and autumn plenty.
At intervals the cars were stopped for some radiant welcome of us by happy villagers. Sometimes we made little speeches to them, which were translated by a young Georgian officer. Bread and salt, wine and fruit, song and dance, merry words and gentle prayers and fierce patriotic vows—it was all very wonderful and very moving to the men and women from the West. A tiny peasant boy danced for us shyly at the little town where we lunched, and imagination removed that boy to the Opera House in Petrograd or to the Alhambra in London, there to delight the sophisticated city folk with his mountain-born grace and incomparable agility. The Georgians are a race of dancers. Their feet and hands move instinctively to a gay tune. The lilt of the song is in my ears as I write:
Georgian Dance Song (to be sung to the clapping of hands)
Vigorously.
On and on we went, higher and yet higher. The sun was beginning to go down. Should we reach Kasbec before it quite set? Should we see the great peaks before darkness came down upon us? We wished that we might. We wrapped our furs more closely around us. It was really cold now. Our faces were sore with alternate cold wind and hot sun. We chaffed one another on our personal appearance, our red noses, suggestive of a certain want of sobriety! The peaks grew higher. Round first one and then another, we dashed at the maddest pace on those narrow roads. Up and up we went. Now the road narrowed dangerously, the valleys darkened, the gloom gathered on the hills. The solitary peasant at the head of the pass stood gazing after us with astonished eyes, leaning upon his staff. Round the last corner we panted, our machines steaming their protest, when suddenly there burst upon our awestruck gaze Kasbec, the prince of mountains, its immense snow-covered peak glowing rose-pink in the last rays of the setting sun. One glorious instant, and it was gone, shrouded in shadow and mysterious gloom. Up one more slight incline, and then began our descent. It was quite dark by this time. We settled down to quiet reverie upon the majesty of the mountains and the beauty of the starry night.
With startling suddenness wild shrieks tore the air, and the mad clattering of innumerable horses’ feet coming towards us along the pass. We sat up startled. What on earth could it be in that solitary place? It was not the screaming of eagles, nor the roar of wild animals in pain. That steady patter of feet growing ever louder was of horses ridden by human beings. We were within a few miles of the Russian frontier. Perhaps this was a raid of hungry Bolsheviks. If so, what were we to do? Unfortunately for our safety, the Georgians carried arms. At one of our pleasant stopping-places they had practised their arms on improvised targets. The picturesque Mayor of Tiflis, for a wager, had hit the bull’s-eye at thirty paces, the target being a piece of white handkerchief on the branch of a tree. There would certainly be fighting in the event of a collision with the Bolsheviks. And then—what?
The foremost emotion was curiosity, not fear. Renaudel stood up and peered into the blackness. Marquet mounted the seat. I hung out of the car at the side. We could discover nothing. The sounds were coming nearer. They came from either side as well as in front. Shots rang out. Wild whoops added to the mystery and the clamour. Suddenly from out of the mountains on both sides, almost into the cars where we sat, leapt ferocious horsemen, black and bearded, by the score. They were dressed in native peasant warrior style, with swords and pistols, curved scimitars and studded shields. Their head-dress was of various kinds, round astrakhan caps or the captured peaked caps of the enemy across the border. The heads of most were uncovered. Broad, spreading square-shaped astrakhan capes, a family inheritance perchance, covered the more sober riders.
They rode hardy mountain horses or shaggy ponies, and rode them with amazing skill, picking up their dropped swords as they galloped and performing other feats of astounding dexterity. They were of several tribes, these peasant soldiers of Georgia, of terrifying aspect, wild and untamed, but withal the merriest, most engaging lot of black-eyed brigands that ever stepped outside a cinema show. We were out of the modern world and had moved back through a thousand years of history.
This gallant company had assembled to conduct us into Kasbec, the most original guard of honour that ever took charge of the guests of a Government. At their head galloped a particularly attractive ruffian carrying a red flag on a long wand. How he contrived to carry this heavy pole in one hand, holding it perfectly erect, and to control his spirited horse with the other, was one of the wonders at which we marvelled greatly. It seemed as easy as falling off a log to him. He led the procession in the three-mile gallop to Kasbec. On either side of the cars ran torch-bearers on horseback. The fifty attendants grew to a hundred as we neared the city, the hundred to two hundred, the two hundred to three, four, five hundred. In addition were women and children in the town, waiting to help with the songs and the dances.
The old church in which the address of welcome was to be delivered was too small for the company assembled. We held the meeting in the churchyard and spoke to the people from the top of a broad wall. I never heard Mr. Macdonald speak better than he did to those grim but simple mountain warriors, reminiscent as they were of the shaggy Highlanders of his native Scotland three centuries or more ago.