From Pekin to Calais by Land

by Harry De Windt

Towards evening we usually found our way to the summit of a rocky mountain about a couple of miles from Kalgan, and watched the sunset, which was, as a rule, of exceptional beauty. Though the ascent was steep and arduous, one was well repaid by the view when it was over. The ravine leading to it was a kind of crack or fissure, evidently of volcanic origin, and pitch dark on the brightest day, save for a patch of bright blue sky seen through the narrow aperture overhead. Emerging from this, one came to a steep, almost perpendicular grass slope, crowned at its summit by a huge limestone rock literally riddled with caves, and occupied by thousands of huge black and white birds sitting motionless at their outlets, winking and blinking at the setting sun, and looking as if no human being had broken in upon their solitude for centuries. They displayed not the slightest alarm at our approach, but gathered in groups and cawed and screamed as if in anger at our intrusion. Not a dwelling was to be seen, not a sound heard to break the silence but the occasional rustle of wings, the croak of some huge bird, or the distant crash of some boulder or stone as it dislodged itself to fall heavily into the dark valley below. One could see from here the limitless chains of mountains that surround Kalgan, the great wall stretching away east and west to the horizon, and beyond it, a long, level sea-like expanse, the green and fertile plains of China. Nearer still, nestling in the valley, lay Kalgan, with its white houses and flower-gardens, its coloured awnings and terraces, extending for a mile and more along the banks of the broad blue river, and half-way up the steep, rugged mountain behind the city. It was hard to realize at such times that one was so far from the civilized world. It needed but a slight effort to imagine oneself in Europe again, hidden away in some secluded mountain village in the Alps or Pyrenees. Pleasant too was it to sit out in the veranda of an evening, with a cool breeze blowing in fresh and strong from the desert, watching the moon slowly rise over the great black mountain at the foot of the pass, throwing the weirdest effects of light and shade over the dark valley and frowning crenellated walls of the sleeping city, for all was quiet as a rule by ten o’clock, and not a sound to be heard but the cry of the watch, or at hourly intervals, the beating of a gong at the Great Gate. We almost regretted, at such times, that our days in China were drawing to a close. One feels a pang of regret on leaving even the most disagreeable countries, and we had assuredly nothing to complain of in this so-called barbarous land, where, save on one occasion, we had met with nothing but civility and kindness. Anticipation is usually either better or worse than realization, and we looked forward with no little anxiety to the journey across the desert of Gobi——with no signs of vegetation, no settled habitations or fellow-beings to break the monotony or disturb the solitude of the long and weary thirty-five days’ journey that lay between us and the Russian frontier.

Though the days were hot at Kalgan, the nights were cool and pleasant. Our rest was somewhat disturbed, though, by Ivanoff’s clerks, who shared the apartment next ours, and gave us a nightly concert that began about half past ten, and lasted till an indefinite hour in the morning. Their instrument was a kind of half banjo, half concertina, very popular in Siberia, which has a melancholy, though not unpleasing, sound. Both men were Siberians, one a native of Irkoutsk, and the other of Kiakhta, and, like all their countrymen, had a rooted antipathy to going to bed. I do not believe they ever slept at all, for I once woke about 4 a.m., and one of them, even at that hour, was reading out loud to the other. Neither could speak a word of English, or, indeed, any language but Russian and Mongolian. They came rushing into our room one night to say there was a large wolf in the yard at the back of the house. We loaded a rifle and hurried out, but only just in time to see the beast vanish over the wall in the moonlight. The outskirts of Kalgan are infested with these brutes at night, and even in the daytime children have been carried off; but we never saw another till we got into Siberia.

The camels arrived on the tenth day, four days sooner than we expected them, and we set about making our preparations for a start without further delay. The caravan was, according to Ivanoff’s arrangement, to consist of sixteen camels, three carts, and three ponies, under the escort of three Mongol guides. We found it quite hopeless to attempt to pronounce their names, so christened them, for purposes of identification, Moses, Aaron, and Sylvia, the latter from his striking, though somewhat grotesque, likeness to a burlesque actress of that name who graces the boards of the Gaiety Theatre in London. Though Sylvia was a pleasant-looking, good-tempered boy of about twenty, his companions were positively repulsive. I have seldom seen a more villainous-looking cutthroat individual than Aaron, but luckily his looks belied him. Each wore the Mongol costume, a loose, long gown, thickly coated all down the front with mutton fat, grease, and other abominations, for a Mongol’s coat is his dinner-napkin. All were armed with short, ugly-looking knives, while Moses, in his capacity of leader, carried a rusty horse-pistol which looked as if it had been made about the same date as the Great Wall, and which would probably have done him far more injury than his opponent, had it gone off.

The transit of the Desert of Gobi is accomplished by the regular heavy Russian post (established 1860) in something under twenty-five days from Kiakhta, but we expected to take considerably longer. The post caravans are under the direction of experienced Mongol mail-men and Cossacks, who know the road to an inch, although there is, of course, no beaten track to guide them. Our guides were of a somewhat primitive order, and as we afterwards discovered, often considerably out both as to time and distance. Some Chinese tea-merchants strolled into the yard the day before we left, while we were getting the packing-cases settled evenly on the camels’ backs. They evidently did not think much of our caravan, and more than one of them, Jee Boo told me, openly expressed an opinion that we should never get across with such weak camels and inexperienced men. Truly we could not have chosen a worse time to start so far as the strength of the camels was concerned. As to the men, I felt we must take our chance, but I was somewhat uneasy, and did not enjoy the excellent dinner (our last civilized meal for some time) that Ivanoff provided for us so much as I should have done under ordinary circumstances. It was too late now, however, to make any alterations, and we retired to rest earlier than usual, so as to make an early start in the morning for Da-Hun-Go, the last settlement or hamlet on the Chinese side before the desert city of Ourga (600 miles distant) is reached. Ivanoff was to accompany us as far as our first halting-place, about twenty miles distant. The carts had already started when, at 10.30 (on the morning of the 8th of July), we set out for Da-Hun-Go. Just as we were about to mount, a white-clad figure appeared, surmounted by an enormous straw hat, which when removed disclosed the perspiring and beaming features of our old naval friend, Captain Lew Buah. This necessitated a further adjournment to the house, where the captain drank success to our expedition in Vodka, and made an appointment to dine with us in London in two years’ time. I sincerely hope the old fellow has since obtained his pardon, and returned to his vocation, for which, as far as regards pluck, he was certainly well fitted.

It was a bright and lovely morning. The first hour or two of our journey lay through the dry river-bed——or caravan road——on which we passed many strings of bullock-carts, but few camels. About nine miles from Kalgan, and half-way to Da-Hun-Go, we passed “Tutinza,” a Mongol word signifying “Cave Town.” Tutinza, which contained about eight hundred inhabitants, could not have been better named, as the houses are literally built into the sides of the hill, and are roofless, although they belonged to well-to-do Chinamen, and were well and even luxuriously furnished inside; while here and there among them were pretty flower-gardens and clustering vines. Seen from a distance, the appearance of the blue and white clad figures moving about among the pathways intersecting the caves was very curious. It looked like a huge ant-hill. Nearly opposite the village is “The Target of Tamerlan,” a mountain about three or four hundred feet high, the summit of which is perforated by a clean-cut circular aperture about thirty feet in diameter, plainly visible from the road below. A freak of nature, no doubt; but the Mongols say that this hole was made by an arrow shot by the Tartar hero. Jee Boo derisively remarked to Moses that Tamerlan must have had a very large bow, which only elicited a grunt in reply, and made our leader look, if possible, more ill-tempered and villainous than ever.

The long rest at Kalgan had put our ponies in rare trim, and when we had left the rocky valley and got on to the grass plains that bound the valley of Da-Hun-Go, they tore away with us at a pace that it took Ivanoff, who was riding an antiquated steed purchased from a Cossack courier, all his time to keep up with us. Before reaching the plains, we ascended for the last time the ridge of mountainous rocks separating China from the plains of Mongolia. There is a gradual rise of about fifteen hundred feet from Kalgan to Da-Hun-Go, from which point the desert extends, flat and unbroken, with the exception of gentle undulations, and a few ridges of rock, to the borders of Siberia. So steep was the ascent that we had to get off and lead our ponies, and though only three hundred feet high, it took the carts nearly two hours to accomplish it. Half-way up we met a caravan of bullock-carts, each with three or four men hanging on behind with ropes to act as breaks. Even with these precautions two or three lay smashed to pieces on the roadside. It is a curious fact, seeing the rough work they go through, that these vehicles are built entirely of wood, and have not a scrap of iron or other metal in their construction. About four o’clock we came to a dilapidated, crumbling wall about fifteen feet in height, a branch of the Great Wall of China, which, running at right angles to it for about thirty miles, forms the boundary between Inner Mongolia and China. A kind of gap or gate fifteen to twenty feet broad, marked the caravan road. Passing through this, we turned and looked our last on the Chinese Empire, and by five o’clock had reached our camping-ground, a green stretch of meadow-land, watered by a clear running stream, on the borders of which cattle, sheep, and ponies were grazing.

Half a dozen brick and wooden houses composed the village of Da-Hun-Go. While the tents were being struck, we strolled out with our guns, but though we saw plenty of game, duck, snipe, and a species of moor-hen in plenty, we could get nowhere near them. We would willingly have stayed here a day, but that the Mongols when once off are as hard to stop as a switchback railway until they have reached their destination, long or short as the journey may be. On our return we found the fires lit and a comfortable meal prepared for us by Jee Boo. Ivanoff stayed the night, and slept in the tent, but we preferred doubling up in our carts, the night being so cold, that one was glad of a thick sheepskin even in the close, stuffy vehicles. We slept soundly, lulled by the murmur of the brook, and were rather loth to move, when Jee Boo brought us the matutinal cup of cocoa and a biscuit. But the camels were already packed, and although it was then only six, the indefatigable Ivanoff had been up an hour superintending everything and giving final instructions for our comfort and safety to the Mongols, an utterly useless proceeding, I afterwards thought, when I got to know this unique race better, for whatever is said to them, except for their own benefit, invariably goes in at one ear and out of the other.

We left Da-Hun-Go at seven o’clock, taking leave of our kindly host with much the same feeling that a man experiences when embarking for the first time on a long sea voyage, with the difference that we had but a very faint notion of when we should reach port, and but a very vague idea of the hardships and fatigue to be undergone before we regained comparative civilization at Kiakhta. At length all was ready. The tent and water-barrels packed, carts harnessed, and ponies saddled. Moses, mounting a wiry little beast about twelve hands high, led the way, while Aaron took the lead on the foremost camel, Sylvia bringing up the rear and bunting up the stragglers, who were continually breaking loose from the line as they stooped to gather the sweet fresh pasture through which we travelled. A final squeeze of the hand to Ivanoff, a crack of Moses’ heavy whip, and the caravan slowly moved away to the deep boom-booming of the camel bells, a music which, though it sounded musical and pleasing enough at first, we were heartily, hopelessly sick and tired of long before reaching Ourga. As we turned a corner of the road and took a last look at the vanishing figure of our friend and host, it was with a feeling of loneliness and depression, hardly wonderful, perhaps, when we realized that for nearly one thousand miles in distance and more than a month in time we should see no other Europeans, and very few natives. Nor was it reassuring to think that we were for the next month entirely at the mercy of the three ragged, villainous-looking individuals who constituted our escort, and who might, if they so pleased, murder, rob, or desert us with impunity, so far as any fear of punishment was concerned. Siberia, to say nothing of Russia and France, seemed very far away on that bright July morning as we slowly started off, on the first important stage of the long land journey from Pekin to Calais.

We were nearly four hours getting out of the valley of Da-Hun-Go, one of the prettiest bits of scenery we passed during the whole of our voyage. The ravine itself is a little over a mile broad, with low undulating green hills on either side. Flocks of sheep dotted their sides, and an occasional red and gold Buddhist temple flashed in the sun on their summits and broke the sky-line. Through the centre of the valley ran a tumbling, foaming brook alive with trout, its banks fringed with sweet-smelling flowers, and about fifty yards from its brink the brown, well-trodden caravan road which from here to the borders of the desert proper is well defined. One might have been in one of the loveliest parts of England. Wild hyacinths, cowslips, wild dog-roses, periwinkles, and daisies grew on all sides in the long, sweet grass through which our ponies almost laboured knee-deep, while in the distance the low sweet notes of a cuckoo heightened the illusion, and recalled lovely bits of scenery in Devonshire or Wales.