The heart of Asia

by Francis Henry Skrine; Sir E. Denison Ross

CHAPTER VIII
Askabad and Merv

Krasnovodsk, the western terminus of the Transcaspian Railway, stands on the northern side of the Balkan Bay, through which the Oxus once discharged into the Caspian. It is protected from the groundswell by a natural breakwater of jagged rock which stretches nearly twenty-five miles southwards; and from icy Siberian blasts by a range of barren limestone hills.

The little town which nestles in this bleak amphitheatre is of recent origin, for it was only in 1897 that it superseded Uzun Ada, a shallow and insecure port on the south of the bay. The Government offices, substantially built of a warm brown freestone, surround a central square, where a patch of grass and a few scraggy trees strive in vain to relieve the desolation which recalls the surroundings of Aden to the Eastern traveller. Nor is the parallel confined to externals, for Krasnovodsk is dependent on distillation for its water-supply. The building where the precious fluid is manufactured from the briny Caspian is well worth a visit, inasmuch as its designer, M. Yagen, has solved the problem how to extract a maximum of fresh water at a minimum expenditure of fuel. The steam, generated in tubular boilers heated by a roaring fire of petroleum refuse,[677] passes through a series of iron vats sheathed with felt, losing some of its heat and aqueous particles in each. But the chief ornament of Krasnovodsk is, strange to say, the railway terminus. Unlike those which disgrace so many English towns, it is a highly successful effort to blend the ornamental with the useful. The trains which leave Krasnovodsk for the heart of Central Asia twice a week are made up of second and third-class carriages on the corridor system. They are warmed in the abominable fashion peculiar to Russia, by air heated in a roaring stove, and their lavatories are on the most primitive model. The stuffy compartments contain narrow wooden benches; and upper berths, which let down at night, form very indifferent beds. In one of these little purgatories the traveller bound for Samarkand ensconces himself at 4.30 p.m., after a substantial meal at the railway buffet, which differs in no wise from those met with on the Caucasian railways. But the jolting and discomfort are soon forgotten in the novelty of the surroundings. For seventy miles the line skirts the deep blue Caspian, which is covered in winter with wild fowl, a living contradiction to the travellers’ tales which represent the great lake as nearly destitute of animal life. The northern horizon is hemmed in by the rugged outlines of the Great Balkans, a range as desolate and forbidding as the mountains of the moon. Then the train plunges into a boundless plain covered with sparse tufts of wiry grass. This is the great Turkoman Desert, the habitat of that splendid race which inspired terror in the Roman legionaries and defied the greatest military power of modern Europe. But soon the rugged outlines of the Kopet Dāgh Mountains open southward, and at 6.22 on the following morning the train halts at Kizil Arvat, the workshops of the Transcaspian Railway, which break the wild poetry of hill and desert by their prose of Western industry. They were founded ten years ago by General Annenkoff, whose modest bungalow is still pointed out with the respect instinctively rendered to genius everywhere. The works on the south side of the railway are as complete in their degree as those at Crewe. The forges and fitting shops come first in order. They occupy two masonry sheds, exhibiting lines of blacksmiths’ forges, in each of which an astatki fire burns without the smallest attention from the operatives. The installation in the turning-shop, with its lathes and steam hammers, would interest an Englishman more if it was not too evident that the appliances were of German origin. It is a relief to pass into the engine-room and find one of the five machines, with a horse-power of 52 nominal, bearing the honoured name of Tangye. The foundry will be next visited. It can furnish castings up to a maximum of two tons. In point of fact, locomotives of the latest pattern may be turned out at Kizil Arvat; though in practice it is found expedient to import them from Moscow. The carpenters’ shops are lofty structures, with a floor area of 36,000 feet, where cars and waggons are turned out with great rapidity. The inspecting carriages are marvels of compactness, containing a saloon upholstered with luxurious settees, a bedroom, bath, and kitchen. The storehouses are specially worth visiting. Their sides are lined with masonry compartments, containing tools, with “plus and minus” slips enabling stock to be taken in in a few hours. With the exception of a few files which bear Sheffield trade-marks, the tools are all the products of Russian and German workshops. Nor has our declining metallurgic industry any share in the supply of raw material, for the tariff practically excludes its products from the empire in the absence of a special authorisation of the Ministry of Commerce. Some attention is paid to the comfort of the workmen employed at Kizil Arvat. There is an institute, styled a Casino, containing a restaurant, where meals can be had at an absurdly low tariff, and a ballroom large enough to accommodate the 700 workmen and their wives. Some distraction is a sheer necessity, for the surroundings of Kizil Arvat are calculated to drive a European to despair. The town stands in a dreary plain two miles from the mountains, which supply an abundance of water. Nothing would be easier than to produce vegetation of surpassing beauty, for the desert soil needs but irrigation to furnish everything that could delight the eye. The People’s Park only serves to make the aspect of the town more forbidding; and the ugly square boxes serving as married quarters are entirely destitute of a garden. The place is said to be healthy, in spite of a summer heat rising to 110 degrees; but another tale is told by the crowd which are attracted by the band of the 2nd Railway Battalion, stationed here. The adults are generally ill-favoured and stunted, and the repulsive sores on their faces are evidence of bad water and insufficient nutrition. The working population is Russian, with the exception of a few Turkomans, who are admitted as apprentices, and exhibit a mechanical bias which ought to be more encouraged. Wages and working hours would hardly be approved of by the pampered British artisan. Foremen draw a salary of £110 to £130 annually, but the rank and file are paid on the piece-work system. A carpenter of average industry can earn 5s. 6d.; a fitter, 4s. 4d. per diem. The hours of work are from 6 p.m. till noon, with a break at 7.30 for breakfast; and again from 1.30 till 7 p.m.—an eleven hours’ day.

Geok Teppe, the scene of the crowning mercy of 1881, is the next halting-place. In this dry atmosphere the vestiges of the Tekkes’ last refuge enables the traveller to conjure up the fearful scenes enacted there eighteen years ago. A hundred yards north of the railway stretches a long earthen rampart 12 or 15 feet high, broken near its south-east angle and on the eastern face by huge gaps, through which the infuriated Russian soldiers pressed on the memorable 24th of January 1881. The interior of the rude fortress is still scored with funnel-shaped holes, and strewn with fragments of iron left by the exploding shells. The whole scene comes vividly before him who ascends Dangil Teppe, a mound at the north-west corner whence the Turkomans plied their only gun during the siege.[678] He seems to see beneath, the dense mass of dark felt kibitkas lit up by the explosion of missiles charged with petroleum. His ears are stunned by the shrieks of the agonised women and children who seek shelter in vain from these messengers of death, the hoarse cries of the combatants locked in a death-struggle, the roar of musketry and the clash of steel. While he is fain to admit that civilisation has gained by the issue of the tremendous struggle, the Englishman bares his head in honour of the brave men who bled for freedom here. The Russian lines can still be distinguished to the east of the crumbling ramparts; and, as if to point Gray’s sad moral, “the paths of glory lead but to the grave,” three graveyards alone remain where the pulse of war once beat highest, tenanted by the bones of those who died at their Tsar’s behest. The Cossack and the Stavropol Regiments have their own God’s acre, and in a third, which stands near the site of Skobeleff’s camp, is a white-washed mound with an iron plate recording the number of the slain. A little museum of relics of the siege has lately been opened between the rugged earthen wall and the railway line. The contrast between past and present is placed in a startling light by a large cotton-pressing factory which has been established by a Jew near the western face of Geok Teppe. Here gangs of Turkomans, some of whom were doubtless once eager in war and foray, may be seen toiling at the screw-presses under the sharp spur of necessity.

A GROUP OF TURKOMANS AT ASKABAD STATION

Askabad, the capital of Transcaspia, is 322¼ miles from Krasnovodsk, and is reached in twenty hours. The town dates only from 1883, and now has a population of about 16,000, including a garrison of 10,000. It stands on the broadest part of the Akkal oasis, at the foot of the Kopet Dāgh range, which affords a refuge to the European in the fierce summer heats. There are two sanataria,—Fīrūza, in a pleasant valley 2800 feet above sea-level, and Khayrābād, 3000 higher, a Transcaspian Simla sacred to the Di Majores of the official Pantheon. The broad streets are lined with vigorous young trees, and cut each other at right angles. The Anglo-Indian traveller is forcibly reminded of the cantonments, which are believed to have furnished the founder, General Komaroff, with a model for his headquarters. In the matter of roads, the Russian stations of Central Asia would give points to any town in the European dominions of the Tsar. They show no break-neck holes, no boulders which only a droshky can negotiate; and their excellence at Askabad is vouched for by the existence of a flourishing bicycle club, which is the centre of social life for the non-military population. On leaving the station the tourist passes, on the left, the offices of the railway staff, with Oriental arcades surrounding a pretty garden, a technical school, which has recently been enlarged, and a pro-gymnasium, and thus reaches the barracks, which stand at the north-east corner of the town, and accommodate four active and one reserve battalion of Transcaspian Rifles, a regiment of Cossacks from Terek in the Caucasus, three batteries of field and one of mountain guns, and a squadron of 200 Turkoman militia. Their quarters have been arranged on purely Indian lines. Every company or squadron has a lofty one-storeyed building allotted to it, containing a dormitory with a double row of beds, a chapel, and a hall for recreation and military instruction. The latter contains two rifles on stands with targets for aiming-drill, which is illustrated by books containing photogravures of the different positions. Here, too, are always seen oleograph portraits of the reigning Tsar and his consort. So vast is his empire, that unless the personality of the sovereign were not brought home to the people by these perpetual reminders there would be some risk of its becoming a mere abstraction.

Every care is taken to keep alive the traditions of the army by coloured prints portraying acts of bravery and self-devotion in past campaigns. Thus the story of the soldier Ossipoff is told in nearly every barrack-room. He belonged to a garrison which defended a redoubt in the Caucasus during Schamyl’s insurrection. Besieged by an overwhelming force, the little band held out to the last extremity; and when the position was taken by storm, Ossipoff exploded the magazine, blowing himself and hundreds of the enemy into the air. To this day his name is borne on the muster-roll of his battalion, and when it is called the man next on the list replies: “He has died for the honour of the Russian army!” In the company kitchens the soldiers’ cabbage soup may be tasted. It is made with stock provided by the half-pound of fresh meat which, with three pounds of rye bread, constitutes the daily ration. On gala days the men have a mess of rice boiled with butter and raisins. The fare would probably excite loathing in the British private, but the physique of the troops is a sufficient proof that it is abundant and nutritious. The means of developing muscle are not wanting; for every barrack-ground has a gymnasium as well as a miniature fort, which is formed by competing companies at the word of command. The parade-ground adjoins the barracks. It is overshadowed by the cathedral, a splendid structure built three years ago in an ornate Byzantine style, which contains, on the left of the altar, a beautiful eikon in enamel of the soldier’s saint, Alexander Nevsky, in full panoply, placed there in memory of the late Tsar. In the centre of the Champ de Mars is a pillar commemorating Geok Teppe, flanked at each corner by an Afghan cannon captured at Dāsh Keupri in 1885. Manœuvres take place weekly on the broken ground between the town and the lower spur of the Kopet Dāgh Mountains. British officers who have witnessed one of these field-days are unanimous in praising the workmanlike appearance of the troops. The riflemen in their tunics, knickerbockers, and long Russian boots are sturdy, if rather undersized; and the Cossacks are picturesquely clad in long caftans and closely fitting astrakhan shakoes. The artillery come into action at 3500 yards, and show a fair amount of dash; but the Cossacks’ performance is disappointing. A water-course encountered during a charge will reduce a regiment to a disorderly mob, and the ponies are blown long before the objective is reached. It is the belief of good judges that a cavalry regiment of Upper India would be quite a match for a similar Cossack force. The infantry show that they have been drilled assiduously, and their movements are executed with mechanical precision. It is, however, unaccompanied by the spirit and keen enjoyment which the British soldier imports into mimic warfare. In point of fact, the rank and file in Russia are taught to look too exclusively to their officers for example and support, and self-reliance is not encouraged. In stubborn endurance they are as unsurpassed to-day as they were at Borodino, where the victorious legions of Napoleon found their match. But it is impossible to conceive the myriads of the Tsar winning a “soldier’s battle”—wrestling from the foe a victory imperilled by the incapacity of their chiefs. Reviews are more frequent in Russian than in English armies. On specially solemn occasions, such as the birthday of the sovereign, they are preceded by a Te Deum at the garrison church, which is attended by the chief military and civil officials. The connection between Church and State are far closer than with us. We have seen that the imperial power owes its evolution quite as much to priestly influence as to the ambition of the princes. The obligation has never been forgotten by the Tsars, who are, literally as well as figuratively, heads of the Church, and regard its hierarchy as the mainstay of the whole fabric of their Government. Brilliant is the display of uniforms at these official devotions. Combative officers are distinguished by gold lace, those of the scientific branches by silver; but all are gorgeously attired, while galaxies are frequent of fifteen or twenty medals and crosses on the same manly breast. The review which follows is a mere march-past; and as each company files before the general he exclaims, “Good day, my children,” a greeting which elicits the reply in chorus, “We are pleased to render you service.”[679]

The Askabad Government House is a straggling one-storeyed edifice resembling an overgrown Indian bungalow, but it is well adapted for ceremonial. The other public buildings are a library with 12,000 volumes, a military printing-office, and that of the Turkestan Gazette—a daily paper edited by a member of the governor’s staff, which, unlike its Indian contemporary, is no dry catalogue of promotions, transfers, and official acts.

The railway between Askabad and Merv follows the now familiar Kopet Dāgh range for 105 miles, and then, at a roadside station named Dushak, trends sharply to the north-east. Here the great mountain barrier between Transcaspia and the dominions of the Shāh attains the height of 9000 feet; and its spurs, clad with rich verdure, offer an ever-changing succession of graceful outlines. The intervening plain is covered with thorny camel-grass, varied by patches of cultivation, where mountain torrents afford the means of irrigation. A wider expanse of green betrays the vicinity of the river Tajand, better known to fame as the Harī Rūd, which laves the walls of Herāt. It is crossed by a girder bridge 347 feet in length. Merv is reached in thirteen hours from Askabad. Nowhere in Central Asia is the contrast more marked between the present and a comparatively recent past. It is difficult to believe that this pale copy of an Indian junction can have been the robbers’ den so elaborately described by Marvin from hearsay, and by O’Donovan from bitter personal experience. A broad metalled road, parallel with the line of railway, leads to the Murghāb, a canal-like stream crossed by a bridge with ninety-six feet water-way. On the right bank of this ancient source of Merv’s prosperity are the remains of a stupendous line of ramparts, which, O’Donovan tells us,[680] were commenced in hot haste by the Tekkes in the vain hope that they might serve as a bulwark against the Russian advance. From their crest, thirty feet above the plain, the barracks of the garrison are seen embowered in stately trees. Merv has immense strategic value, and is therefore the headquarters of a force far larger than would be necessary to overawe the scanty population of the oasis. There are four battalions of Transcaspian Rifles, one of sappers, a railway battalion, and two batteries of field artillery. On the east of the Murghāb, too, is the Russian town, laid out with the same depressing regularity as Askabad. But the bungalows which line the dusty streets are redeemed by no wealth of tropical foliage. The humanising effects of gardening are not appreciated by Russians, and the jealously watered compounds of the officials enclose only scraggy trees and stuccoed buildings. The interiors are less forbidding. The rooms have polished floors, but little in the way of furniture save low divans spread with Turkoman carpets and tiger skins.[681]