From Pekin to Calais by Land

by Harry De Windt

Our road was now clear to Kiakhta, and there were no further difficulties to be got over, excepting the Irul river——a broad, swift stream, the crossing of which is dangerous at certain seasons. Jee Boo, ever a Job’s comforter, told us that the natives reported heavy rains, and if such was the case, we should certainly have a tough job of it. But he had so often cried “Wolf,” we paid no heed to his statement.

We travelled on all night, halting at nine the next morning for tea and biscuits. Part of the work was very fatiguing, as we had to cross several miles of country thickly covered with huge mole-hills, over which the carts jolted terribly, for there was no beaten track. The shaking at last became so unbearable that we left the carts at 4 a.m., tired as we were, and walked till the morning halt. We passed, just after sunrise, a large wooden building, a monastery of Tibetan architecture, its white façades gaudy with blue and red stripes and a gilt cupola. As we passed, two or three Lamas came out and blessed the caravan in the usual manner, an operation which necessitated a stoppage of half an hour.

Nearly the whole of this day’s work was through deep, drifting sand——in many places over the axles. At mid-day there was not a blade of grass or vegetation to be seen. This part of the country was, in fact, far more like one’s idea of what a desert should be than anything we had come through in Gobi. In the midst of this sandy waste (about fifteen miles in length), we came to a green valley or oasis, fresh and beautiful. The descent to it (for it lay in a hollow whence not a particle of sand was visible) was about fifty feet deep. Grass grew luxuriantly here, and a clear brook of running water springing from Heaven knows where, ran the whole length of the defile into a small lake or pond at the end——a dark, shady pool fringed with willows, and covered with white, broad-leaved water-lilies. Wild flowers of all kinds covered the roadway, among them the forget-me-not and marguerites of a delicate mauve colour. Although the sun had been hot and scorching out on the sand, the air struck like a cold bath the moment we entered this fertile valley, but so damp was the atmosphere, that our clothes were wringing wet when we emerged at the other end. The mosquitoes and sandflies, too, were the largest and most venomous I have ever seen or felt, and our faces and hands so inflamed that we had to stop the caravan and bathe them with ammonia, which, however, did little good, for we got no sleep for twenty-four hours after. The bites took days to heal. Game of all sorts, duck, teal, and widgeon appeared to abound in this “sleepy hollow,” and we managed to bag a duck, which made a welcome addition to the usual menu of preserved meat and sardines.

The morning of the 8th August broke dull and lowering, and about mid-day a thin rain commenced falling, which by degrees increased to a steady downpour at 4 a.m. We were to reach the Irul river at about sunset, and, if possible, cross before dark, but felt, if Jee Boo’s prediction were true, that we should indeed have our work cut out. The woolly, grey clouds and leaden sky gave but little promise of a break in the weather. Our only prayer was that the wind might not rise, but in this we were also disappointed, for by the time we had reached the banks of the river, or rather the margin, for it had overflowed for a considerable distance, the sky was as black as ink, the rain coming down in sheets, and the wind blowing in violent gusts that threatened every moment to blow the carts clean over. To think of crossing that night would have been madness. To say nothing of the fact that another caravan was waiting to be ferried over before us, the ferryman would not answer for the strength of the rope holding out against the current and gale combined. Still, if the Gospodins liked, and did not mind risking it, the head man (who was a Bouriatte, and spoke Russian well,) would do what he could to get them over. The Gospodins, however, strongly objected to risking it, and determined to make themselves as comfortable as circumstances and the last half-bottle of whisky would permit, till morning.

I thoroughly enjoyed that night’s rest. Whether it was the consciousness that we had a really quiet night before us (I had given orders not to be “called” till nine), or the hot whisky and water, I know not, but I had not enjoyed such a night’s rest since leaving Pekin. I only woke once during the night, woke to hear the rain still pattering on the roof, and to find myself lying in the usual pool of water, while the wind still howled mournfully round the carts. The sight of the river dashing by in a sheet of white foam was not reassuring, but did not interfere with my slumbers, for rolling myself in sheepskins, I slept away peacefully till past nine o’clock the next morning, when Jee Boo opened the door to let in a bright flood of sunshine and the welcome news that the rain had ceased.

The stream was still swollen from the incessant rain; but the caravan that had encamped next us had crossed at daylight in safety, with the exception of the loss of one bullock. Our camels were taken to a ford about a mile up stream, and we preferred accompanying them to trusting ourselves to the rickety old boat and frayed, rotten-looking rope, for the new one had not yet arrived. The ferry itself did not look capable of carrying half a dozen men, much less a heavy, clumsy camel-cart. Arrived at the ford, however, the spectacle of the leading camel suddenly disappearing from view in a deep hole made us change our minds and return to the boat. The first cart had just been got in, and we leapt on board just as they were shoving off into the stream.

Little more than half way across, a huge snag or tree-trunk got entangled with the rope and impeded our passage. I thought it quite time to say my prayers, for, had the cart tilted over, we must have followed it. It was a trying moment. The deafening roar of the torrent, pale, scared faces of the Mongols, as they rushed to and fro screaming and yelling to each other, but doing nothing to lessen the strain on the rope, which, stretched to its utmost, threatened to snap every moment. At last one of the men, wiser and pluckier than the rest, rushed to the bows, and with a superhuman effort dislodged the heavy mass, and sent it tumbling away down-stream, and we forged slowly ahead again, with a sigh of relief, for I fully expected our last hour had come.

We walked up to the ford again while the other carts were being got over. About fifty or sixty bullocks belonging to a tea-caravan were being driven across by men and women who were pelting them with stones until they leapt into the torrent, to emerge half dead and prostrate from fright and exhaustion about two hundred yards lower down. Many of the caravan people were women, some young and good-looking, though their costumes were more scanty than elegant. One, a pretty, bright-eyed girl of about sixteen, took a violent fancy to my brown boots, and it was only with the greatest difficulty I could prevent her from cutting them off my feet. The caravan, laden with furs from Irkoutsk, was bound for Pekin, and would probably be returning four months later with tea to Kiakhta.

We left the Irul at mid-day. Travelling was now easier, and the jolting scarcely perceptible on the hard, gravelly track that leads from the banks of this river right into the town of Kiakhta. Although the country is uncultivated, the scenery we passed through would have compared favourably with the lovelier parts of Switzerland and the Tyrol. Green fertile plains surrounded by chains of undulating fir-clad hills, occasional belts of forest with flowers and ferns in profusion, bubbling waterfalls splashing down the hill sides, through the moss-grown, ivy-clad boulders, then through vast plains of pasture again——such was the scenery we passed through the day before reaching Kiakhta. There grew, also, throughout this region (I saw it nowhere else) a long-stalked, star-shaped, violet flower, with a strong scent of heliotrope. The air was full of the scent for miles around, and one could see great violet patches of it on the green plain, stretching away at intervals to the horizon on every side. I doubt if there is a country in the world where wild flowers grow so luxuriantly as in parts of Mongolia.

The succeeding day (August 10th) we got into a sandy region again, with intervals of grass plain. Some of the drifts being of great depth, the camels had a bad time of it, and suffered severely from the heat. Poor little Karra could scarcely stagger along, and had Kiakhta been a couple of days further, I doubt if he would ever have reached Siberia. Lancaster’s cart seemed under a curse; for to-day, the driver being, as usual, asleep, the near wheel ran up a high sand-hillock and upset the whole machine, Lancaster being asleep inside at the time. It was luckily deep sand, or it must have been a nasty fall. It was fortunate, too, our journey was over, for the camel, falling under the shaft, had split it clean in two. I firmly believe the Mongol would have been sent to his fathers, had a revolver been handy, and I had the greatest difficulty in preventing my friend from going for him with the broken shaft.