From Pekin to Calais by Land

by Harry De Windt

The queer custom prevalent among the Mongol Tartars of leaving their dead on the surface of the ground was brought to my notice in a forcible though somewhat unpleasant manner the next day, a couple of hours before we reached the river Tola, which lies about two miles from Ourga. Upon this occasion our baggage-camels had, contrary to custom, started first. The caravan road here is clearly defined, so we started off alone and on foot in advance of our party, and had barely gone three hundred yards when an object lying in the middle of the road arrested my attention, a small, oblong parcel about two feet long, done up in Chinese paper, and secured with twine. “Something Moses has dropped,” I remarked casually; and the contents feeling soft and shapeless, I put it down to some of his wearing apparel, and returned to the caravan to give it to Sylvia, who had just started and was, as usual, softly crooning to himself in a semi-state of slumber on the leading camel. But catching sight of what I held, he nearly fell off with fright, and shrieking “Moo-moo” with all his might, pulled his camel away from me with such force that the cart nearly turned over. “Moo-moo,” he repeated, hurriedly dismounting, and leaving the caravan to itself, put a respectful distance between us. His face was a picture of alarm and dismay, and as pale as a ghost. I was not altogether easy myself, thinking the packet might be infected with some virulent disease, so I yielded to the little Tartar’s vehement gestures, threw it on the ground and walked on, followed slowly by Sylvia muttering to himself and smoking furiously, a sure sign that a Mongol’s equanimity has been seriously upset.

It was not till we reached the others at mid-day that I found out what the mysterious packet contained, and that what I had innocently been carrying about was a dead baby! Sylvia had by this time recovered himself, and affected to laugh at the occurrence, though, at the time, I have never seen a human being in a state of more abject terror. The Russian Consul, when I told him of the occurrence, remarked that all Mongols have an almost ridiculous fear of death and everything connected with it. This seemed the more curious as every step you take in their capital reminds you of it. Ourga might justly be called “a dead city,” so grim and weird are the customs of its strange, uncanny population.

We sighted the Tola at about nine o’clock on the morning of the 31st of August, and must have passed at least a dozen caravans of fifty or sixty camels each, before we reached its banks, from the time we started, about six a.m. The reports we got as to the state of the river were not encouraging. Heavy rains had made the ford impassable, and all traffic was now being carried on by means of the ferry, some five miles lower down the stream. It was not reassuring either to hear that this ramshackle contrivance had broken down twice within the last twenty-four hours, precipitating three bullock-carts and two men (one of whom was drowned) into the water. However, we made up our minds for the worst, and, hoping for the best, gave ourselves up to enjoyment of the really beautiful scenery we were passing through.

One might have been in the most picturesque parts of Switzerland or the Tyrol. A broad, gravelly road runs from here right into Ourga, and along this a continual stream of caravans, inward and outward bound, was hurrying. The whole plain was alive with movement, and the bright sunshine, gay dresses of Mongol horsemen, and tinkling of caravan bells, gave an air of gaiety to the scene, welcome enough after twenty-three days of uninterrupted, monotonous desert. On our right hand a clear, brawling stream swirled along, an outlet of the swollen, tumultuous Tola, to lose itself in the large fresh-water lake we passed yesterday. On our left a range of low, green hills, wooded at the summit, their green hill-sides, dotted with countless sheep and ponies at pasture, stretched away to where the Tola, a thin thread of silver, wound its course through this lovely valley, literally a “land of milk and honey!” We arrived at the riverside about one o’clock. The foaming, turgid river, the banks lined on either side, as far as eye could see, with bullock-carts and camels, the row and hubbub, where each man (and there must have been some hundreds) tried to shout louder than his neighbour; it was a strange, picturesque sight.

A smart dapper-looking Cossack, in grey coat with yellow facings, and white, peakless cap, had charge of the ferry, a clumsy-looking arrangement enough, worked by a dilapidated-looking rope stretched across the stream, here about three hundred yards wide, and secured to two small trees on either side of the river. It did not need much calculation to see where the ferry would go in the event of this breaking, for about two hundred yards down stream was a chain of rocks, against which the torrent foamed and dashed in a manner anything but cheering to non-swimmers like Lancaster and myself. The result of an accident had been pretty well shown, for this was the third boat used during the last twenty-four hours, the others having been engulfed, with the loss, however, of only one human life.

The Cossack was politeness itself, and I luckily knew a little Russian. “Are you the Englishmen expected from Pekin?” “Yes.” How they knew of our advent at Ourga was, and has ever since been, inexplicable to me. “M. Shishmaroff has been expecting you. Please take a seat, and I will send you and the ponies over, the carts can follow.” And offering us a cigarette, our friend hurried off to see our steeds safely embarked. Though only a private soldier, the man’s manner was as courteous and polite as could be. It was, however, only a forerunner of what we were to experience, for seldom have I experienced in any country so much genuine kindness and hospitality from the lower orders as in Asiatic Russia.

Our friend the Cossack returned in under half an hour. “Your boat is ready, Gospodin, and you can get in, but please sit tight. I will cross with you. In case of accident,” he added coolly, as he politely handed us in, “jump out and hold on to the rope. The Mongols will pull you ashore.”

It was not a pleasant sensation, crossing that stream, in fact I do not know that I have ever passed a much more mauvais quart-d’heure. The clumsy craft, although containing only the Cossack, our two selves and the ponies, lurched over midway across, so suddenly and at such an angle that the water came pouring in over the side. This frightened the ponies, who set to plunging and kicking with such a will that I thought every instant their heels would go through the side of the rotten old tub. We were then, luckily, considerably more than half-way over, each holding on like grim death to the rope, for to let go would have meant a certain upset. Never have I heard such a babel. The Mongols on the bank (in whose minds the death of their drowned companion was still fresh) raised a yell that would have awoke the dead, and must have disturbed the Kootooktas mid-day siesta three miles off. It was only by dint of sheer hard work, that we succeeded in pulling ourselves across, our fingers nearly cut to the bone by the fraying of the rope. I have seldom felt more relieved than when we stood once more high and dry on terra firma. The thought of how our carts were to be got over did not concern us in the least. We were only too glad to have escaped with our lives, for an upset, even to a good swimmer, would have meant certain death.

It was nearly three o’clock by the time we were across, and as the carts were not to be brought over till the ferry was repaired, a work of three or four hours, we resolved to ride on alone. The way was simple enough, for a broad gravel path or road runs right into the city. Having got minute directions from the Cossack how to find the Consul’s house, we set off at a gallop across the plain to Ourga.

So ended our journey over the desert proper. What we had always imagined would be the hardest part of our journey was now over. We had never thought of Siberia. That seemed feasible enough. Our bugbear, before starting, had been Gobi, the terrible Chinese desert, against which we had been so often warned before leaving England. “You will never get across,” said one. “The Tartars will murder you for a certainty,” said another. Even in Pekin itself we heard blood-curdling stories of the wild tribes said to inhabit the lonely waste lying between the Great Wall of China and Russian frontier. As a matter of fact, few Europeans, even those living in China itself, know anything whatever of Mongolia. Danger there may be, but we never experienced it, nor do the three or four Englishmen who preceded us make mention of ever having been attacked. I would, personally, very much sooner spend the night unarmed and alone in the (so-called) most dangerous parts of Gobi, than walk through the lonelier suburbs of London or Paris, after dark on a winter’s evening.