Part 19

The love of new scenes, however, had not been quenched by her adventures, and in her yacht she made frequent visits to Naples and Rome, Smyrna and Jaffa, Algiers and Tripoli. While at the latter port, a caravan arrived from the Sahara, with the products of the rich lands that lie beyond that famous desert. The incident suggested to her bold imagination the idea of an expedition which in romance and interest should eclipse her previous enterprise, and she traced the plan of a journey across Tripoli to the capital of Fezzan, thence to Kuka, and westward, by way of Wadai, Darfur, and Kordofan, to the Nile. As this route would carry her into the territory of the brave but treacherous Towaregs, a race to whom plunder and rapine seem the breath of life, she took care to provide herself with a sufficient escort, and on the 29th of January, 1869, set out from Tripoli at the head of a troop of fifty armed men. At Sokna, in Fezzan, which she reached on the 1st of March, she engaged the services of a Towareg chief, one Ik-nu-ken; but at the last moment he failed her, and she accepted as guides two chiefs of the same tribe, who professed to have been sent by Ik-nu-ken. These men, in conjunction with her attendant, Mohammed, a Tunisian, resolved upon murdering her in order to gain possession of her money and valuables. Soon after her departure from Sokna (it was on the 1st of August) they excited a quarrel among the camel-drivers, and when Alexina quitted her tent to ascertain the cause, one of the Towaregs shot her with a rifle-bullet, mortally wounding her. For four and twenty hours she lay dying at the door of her tent, no one venturing to offer assistance or consolation.

Such was the melancholy fate of Alexina Tinné! It is satisfactory to know that the murderers who, with their plunder, had escaped into the interior, were eventually captured, tried, and sentenced to imprisonment for life. {259}

MR. J. A. MACGAHAN, AND CAMPAIGNING ON THE OXUS.

I.

MR. J. A. MACGAHAN, as special correspondent for the _New York Herald_, a journal well known by the liberality and boldness of its management, accompanied the Russian army, under General Kauffmann, in its campaigns in Central Asia in 1873 and 1874.

Bound for the seat of war, he made his way, in company with Mr. Eugene Schuyler, the American _chargé d’affaires_ at St. Petersburg, who desired to see something of Central Asia, to Kasala, a Russian town on the Syr-Daria (the ancient _Jaxartes_), where he arrived in April, 1873. He describes this town, or fort, as the entering wedge of the Russians into Central Asia. Its population, exclusive of Russian soldiers and civilians, consists of Sarts, or Tadjiks, Bokhariots, Kirghiz, and Kara-Kalpaks; all being Tartar tribes, in whom an infusion of Aryan blood has more or less modified the old Mongolian type. As for the town, it is picturesque enough to a European eye—its low mud houses, with flat roofs, windowless, and almost doorless; its bazár, where long-bearded men, in bright-coloured robes, gravely drink tea among the wares that crowd their little shops; and the strings of laden camels that stalk through its streets, presenting a novel combination. As soon as he had obtained all the information he could with respect to the movements of the Russian force, Mr. MacGahan resolved on making a dash for the Oxus, hoping to reach that river before General Kauffmann’s army had crossed it. But when the Russian authorities learned his design, they at once interfered, declaring that the journey was dangerous, if not impracticable, and must not be undertaken without leave from the Governor-General. Mr. MacGahan then resolved on pushing forward to Fort Perovsky, as if going only to Tashkent; trusting to find there an officer in command who would not be troubled by such conscientious scruples about his personal safety. No objection was made to a journey to Tashkent; Mr. MacGahan and Mr. Schuyler therefore hurried their preparations, stowed their baggage in a waggon, and themselves in a tarantass, and shaking the dust off their feet at inhospitable and suspicious Kasala, took their course along the banks of the Syr-Daria.

This, the ancient Jaxartes, is one of the most eccentric of rivers. It is continually changing its bed, like a restless traveller; “here to-day, and gone to-morrow,” and gone a distance of some eight to ten miles. To adapt it to the purposes of navigation seems almost impossible, or, at all events, would be unprofitable; and the best use that could be made of its waters would be to irrigate with them the thirsty sands of the desert of Kyzil-Kum.

On Mr. MacGahan’s arrival at Fort Perovsky, he proceeded to engage a guide and horses, having fully resolved to carry out his bold enterprise. From the commandant he was fortunate enough to obtain a passport, and on the 30th of April he bade farewell to Mr. Schuyler, and set out. His _cortége_ consisted of Ak-Mamatoff, his Tartar servant, Mushuf, the guide, and a young Kirghiz attendant, all mounted, with ten horses to carry the baggage and forage. As a man of peace, he says, he went but lightly armed. Yet a heavy double-barrelled hunting rifle, a double-barrelled shot gun (both being breech-loaders), an eighteen-shooter Winchester rifle, three heavy revolvers, and one ordinary muzzle-loading shot gun throwing slugs, together with a few knives and sabres, would seem to make up a tolerable arsenal! Mr. MacGahan, however, assures us that he did not contemplate fighting, and that he encumbered himself with these “lethal weapons” only that he might be able to discuss with becoming dignity questions concerning the rights of way and of property, on which his opinions might differ from those of the nomads of the desert, who hold to Rob Roy’s good old rule, that

“They should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.”

That night our traveller accepted the hospitality of a Kirghiz. Next morning he and his men were in the saddle by sunrise, riding merrily away to the south-west, across a country innocent of road or path. Sometimes their course lay through tangled brushwood, sometimes through tall reeds which completely concealed each rider from his companions, sometimes over low sandy dunes, and sometimes across a bare and most desolate plain. Occasionally they heard the loud sharp cry of the golden pheasant of Turkistan; then they would pass large flocks and herds of sheep, cattle, and horses, quietly grazing; and again they would meet and salute a Kirghiz shepherd on horseback. To eyes that have been trained to _see_ no desert can be utterly barren of interest; the vigilant observer will discover, in the most sterile waste, something of fresh and novel character, something suggestive of thick-coming fancies. For example, Mr. MacGahan noted the remarkable difference between the wide stretches of the sandy plain and the occasional streaks of ground that had been under recent cultivation; and he perceived that the desert had the advantage. Parched and sun-scorched, and without a trace of vegetation, was the land that had been irrigated only the year before; while the desert assumed a delicate tint of green, with its budding brushwood and thin grass, which always springs into life as soon as the snow melts, to flourish until stricken sore by the heats of summer.

At nightfall the travellers, weary with eleven hours’ ride, drew up at a Kara-Kalpak aul, or encampment, consisting of a dozen kibitkas, pitched near a little pond in the centre of a delightful oasis. The owner of one of the kibitkas proved to be the guide’s brother, and gave the party a cordial welcome. The Kara-Kalpaks are nomads like the Kirghiz, but though they live side by side with them, and frequently intermarry, they seem to belong to a different race of men. They are taller than the Kirghiz, and well-made; their skin is almost as white as that of a European; and instead of the small eyes, high cheek-bones, flat noses, thick lips, and round beardless faces of the Kirghiz, they have long faces, high noses, large open eyes, and are bearded “like the pard.”

“After supper,” says Mr. MacGahan, “I stepped outside the tent to take a look on the surrounding scene, and enjoy the cool air of the evening. The new moon was just setting; lights were gleaming in every direction over the plain, showing that ours was not the only aul in the vicinity. The bleating of sheep and the lowing of cattle could be heard, mingled with the playful bark of dogs and the laughing voices of children, which came to us on the still evening air like music. In places the weeds and grass of last year had been fired to clear the ground for the new growth, and broad sheets of fire crawled slowly forward over the plain, while huge volumes of dense smoke, that caught the light of the flames below, rolled along the sky in grotesque fantastic shapes like clouds of fire.”

The kibitka, according to our traveller, is made up of numerous thin strips of wood, six feet long, which are fastened loosely together like a vine trellis, and can be opened out or folded up compactly, as necessity requires. As the strips are slightly curved in the middle, the framework, when expanded, naturally takes the form of a segment of a circle. Four of these frames constitute the skeleton sides of the tent; and on their tops are placed some twenty or thirty rafters, properly curved, with their upper ends inserted in the hoop, three or four feet in diameter, that serves as a roof-tree. The method of pitching a kibitka may be thus described:—As soon as the camel with the felt and framework reaches the chosen site, he is made to kneel down, and a couple of women seize the framework, which they straightway set up on end, and extend in the form of a circle. Next the doorposts are planted, and the whole bound firmly together with a camel’s-hair rope. Then one of the women takes the afore-mentioned wooden hoop, and raising it above her head on a pole, the other proceeds to insert in their proper holes the twenty or thirty rafters, fastening their basis to the lower framework by means of hoops. When a thick fold of felt has been let down over the framework, the kibitka, which measures about fifteen feet in diameter, and eight feet in length, is complete. In appearance it is not unlike a magnified beehive of the old pattern.

The Kirghiz nomads are fierce, crafty, often cruel, but they hold the life of a guest sacred. For his property, however, they have no such high consideration, and they are not above the temptation of plundering him of any article that attracts their fancy. Their chief amusements are horse exercises and falconry. They love the chase with a true sportsman’s passion; loving it for itself, rather than for the game it procures, as they can conceive of nothing daintier than a dish of mutton—a dish which they prepare with touching simplicity. For, a sheep having been skinned, they cut it into quarters, which they plunge into a large caldron of water, and boil for a couple of hours. Generally, on a principle of severe economy, they cook the intestines with the meat, not taking the trouble even to separate them. The guests arrange themselves in a circle on carpets of felt; the men, as recognized lords of the creation, occupying the foremost places, the women and children sitting in the rear. The smoking quarters of mutton are removed from the pot; each man draws his knife, slashes off a cantle, eats until satisfied, and passes what is left to his wife and children, who speedily effect a clearance. The dogs come in for the bones. Afterwards, bowls of the liquor in which the meat has been boiled are handed round, and not a Kirghiz but swallows the greasy potion with as much zest as an epicure takes his glass of dry champagne. This broth, koumis (fermented mare’s milk), and tea, are his customary liquors; but the tea, instead of being prepared in the European fashion, is made into a kind of soup with milk, flour, butter, and salt. In every respectable Kirghiz kibitka the women keep constantly upon the fire a vessel of this beverage, which they offer to visitors, just as a Turk serves up coffee, and a Spaniard chocolate.

In their mode of life the Kirghiz display a certain originality. They spend the three winter months in mud huts on the bank of a river or a small stream, and resume their annual migrations as soon as the snow begins to melt. During these migrations they live in tents, and never halt in one spot for longer than three days. Their march is often continued until they have travelled three or four hundred miles; then they turn round, and retrace the same route, so as to reach their place of hibernation before the snow falls. In their selection of quarters they seem guided by some traditions handed down in the different auls; and not unfrequently a body of Kirghiz will pass over much excellent grazing ground, and travel many a league to inferior pasturage. The hardships they undergo are so many, their pleasures so few and mean, their objects so commonplace, that one is tempted to wonder what kind of answer an intelligent Kirghiz would return to the question not long ago put with some emphasis before the reading public, “Is life worth living?” Those higher motives, those purer aspirations which the cultivated European mind delights to recognize, are unknown to the wild nomad, and he spends day after day, and month after month, in what would seem to be a drearily monotonous struggle for existence, under conditions which might be supposed to render existence an intolerable burden. But then he can love and suffer as we know civilized men and women love and suffer; and love and suffering will invest the harshest, coarsest life with a certain grace and consecration.

There was once a young Kirghiz, named Polat, who was affianced to Muna Aim, the comeliest maiden in the aul, or community, of Tugluk. Her father, Ish Djan, had received the customary kalym, or wedding present, and the marriage day had been appointed. But before it arrived, “the blind fury with the abhorred shears” had “slit” Polat’s “thin-spun life;” and Muna Aim was set free from her promise. Suluk, Polat’s brother, came forward, however, and, in his anxiety to recover his brother’s property, which she had received as her dower, claimed her as his wife. The claim was supported by her father; but Muna Aim, who had sufficient means to live on, considered herself a widow, and refused to marry. She was driven from her father’s kibitka; and taking her camel, with her sheep and goats, her clothes and carpets, she bought a little kibitka for herself, and lived alone, but not unhappy. For her heart was really with Azim, a young Kirghiz belonging to another aul, and she had consented to marry Polat only in obedience to her father. A second sacrifice she was determined not to make. But the old women grew very angry with Muna Aim, as she continued to enjoy her independence. “What is the matter with her?” they cried. “She will not go to her husband, but lives alone like an outlaw.” She was an innovator, boldly breaking through a traditional custom, and they resolved to “reason” with her. Their arguments were those which the strong too often employ against the feeble; they hurled at her bad names, and they scratched her face and pulled her hair. Still she would not yield; and in contentment she milked her sheep and goats, drove them to the pasture, and drew water for them from the well, waiting for some happy turn of fortune which might unite her with her Azim.

At last Suluk also resolved to try the effect of “reason.” With three or four friends he repaired one night to her kibitka, and broke it open, resolved to carry her off to his tent, and compel her to be his wife. Love and despair, however, lent her so wonderful an energy, that she resisted all their efforts. They dragged her to the door; but she clutched at the door-posts with her hands, and held so firmly, that to make her let go they were forced to draw their knives and slash her fingers. When they succeeded in hauling her into the open air, her clothes were torn from her body, and she was covered with blood from head to foot. She continued her brave struggle; and Suluk, leaping on his horse and catching her by her beautiful long hair, dragged her at his horse’s heels, until it came out by the roots, and he was compelled to leave her on the ground, naked, bleeding, half dead.

Information of this outrage, however, reached the Yarim-Padshah (or “half emperor”), as the tribes of Central Asia call the redoubtable General Kauffmann; and he despatched a party of Cossacks to seize its author. Suluk was speedily captured, and sent, a prisoner, to Siberia; while the faithful and courageous Muna Aim recovered her health and her braids of long dark hair, and in the winter met the lover for whom she had endured so much, and was happily married.

Thus the reader will perceive that romance flourishes even in the wildernesses of the Kyzil-Kum; and that a Kirghiz woman can be elevated by a true love like an English maiden.

* * * * *

Continuing his ride after the Russians, Mr. MacGahan, when near Irkibai, came upon the ruins of an ancient city. It had once been about three miles in circumference, walled, and on three sides surrounded by a wide and deep canal, on the fourth by the Yani-Daria. The wall had been strengthened by watch-towers, and on the summit of a hill in the centre stood two towers thirty to forty feet in height. The whole was built of sun-dried brick, and was fast crumbling into shapeless mounds. At Irkibai Mr. MacGahan met with every courtesy from the commandant, but nothing was known of the whereabouts of General Kauffmann. There were but two courses before the traveller—to return, or go forward. Mr. MacGahan was not the man to retrace his steps until his work was done, if it were possible to do it; and he resolved on continuing his progress to the Oxus. On the 7th of May he rode forward. At first he followed the regular caravan route, which, as many traces showed, had also been that of the Russian division, under the Grand-Duke Nicholas. It crosses the thirsty desert—twenty leagues without a well. Fair enough is it to the eye, with its rolling lines of verdant hills; but the hills are only sand, and the verdure consists of a coarse soft weed that, when it flowers, exhales a most offensive odour. Beneath the broad leaves lurk scorpions and tarantulas, great lizards, beetles, and serpents. The traveller, if he lose his way in this deadly waste of delusion, may wander to and fro for days, until he and his horse sink exhausted, to perish of thirst, with no other covering for their bones than the rank and noxious herbage.

Across the gleaming burning sands, while the sun smote them pitilessly with his burning arrows, rode our brave traveller and his companions. Their lips cracked with thirst, and their eyes smarted with the noontide glare, and their weary horses stumbled in the loose shifting soil; but rest they durst not until they reached the well of Kyzil-Kak. How glad they were to throw themselves down beside it, while some kindly Kirghiz, who had already refreshed their camels and horses, drew for them the welcome water! MacGahan made a short halt here, feeding his horses, and sharing with his attendants a light meal of biscuits and fresh milk, supplied by the Kirghiz, and then—the saddle again! Meeting with a caravan, he learned from its Bashi, or leader, that the Russian army was at Tamdy—that is, instead of being, as he had hoped, within a day’s march, it must be upwards of two hundred miles distant; and as it was just on the point of starting for Aristan-Bel-Kudluk, which was still further south, it was impossible to say when he might overtake it. His disappointment was great; but his cry was still “Onwards!” By nine o’clock next morning the indefatigable traveller reached the foot of the grey, bare, treeless heights of the Bukan-Tau. Though but a thousand feet in elevation, they presented, with their glancing peaks, their conical summits, their deep valleys, and awful precipices, all the characteristics of an Alpine range of mountains. Resting there for some hours, he took up, on the morrow, a line of march around their northern slope, and gradually descended into the plain. From some Kirghiz he ascertained that the Grand-Duke Nicholas had joined General Kauffmann two days before, and that the united Russian army had then marched for Karak-Aty. The problem of overtaking it seemed more incapable than ever of a satisfactory solution. But, on studying his map, he found that from the point which he had reached it was no further to Karak-Aty than to Tamdy, and he instantly resolved to follow up a caravan route to the south, which promised to lead to the former.

At noon he rode into the little valley of Yuz-Kudak, or the “Hundred Wells.” It was completely bare of vegetation, except a little thin grass, but was brightened by a small, narrow runlet, which led, in less than a quarter of a mile, to the water. There, along the valley, bubbled about twenty-five or thirty wells or springs; in some the water trickling over the surface, in others standing at a depth of from five to ten feet. Thence, to the next well, was a distance of twenty-five miles. The country was sandy, but high and broken up, with a low range of mountains on the left, extending north-east and south-west. Next day Mr. MacGahan fell in with a Kirghiz aul, where he was hospitably entertained by a chief named Bii Tabuk. From him he learned that Kauffmann had left Karak-Aty and arrived at Khala-Ata, one hundred miles further to the south, and that the shortest way to Khala-Ata lay right across the desert in the direction of the Oxus, a little west of south. As there was no road, nor even a sheep path, Mr. MacGahan sought for a guide, and eventually engaged a young Kirghiz at the exorbitant fee of twenty-five roubles. Then, having enjoyed a couple of days’ rest, he started before sunrise on that interminable hunt after General Kauffmann, which seemed to promise as romantic a legend as the voyage of Jason in search of the Golden Fleece, or Sir Galahad’s famous quest of the Sangreal.

He had not ridden far, when, as the issue of a little intrigue between his Tartar, his old guide, Mushuf, and his new guide, the last named suddenly refused to proceed unless, in addition to the twenty-five roubles, he received a horse or the money to buy one. With prompt decision MacGahan dismissed the guide, and when Ak-Mamatoff showed a disposition to be recalcitrant, threatened him with his revolver. This display of firmness and courage immediately produced a satisfactory effect. Ak-Mamatoff humbled himself, and to prove the sincerity of his penitence, rode to a neighbouring aul, and procured another and more trustworthy guide. Afterwards they all breakfasted, and once more rode across the sandy wastes in the direction of Khala-Ata. Sand, sand, sand, everywhere sand. The horses struggled with difficulty through the huge drifts, and on the second night one of them gave up, and had to be left behind. Sand, sand, sand, everywhere sand; by day as by night, and all so lonely and silent! For fifteen days MacGahan had bravely plodded through the dreary, inhospitable desert—when and how would his journey end? Still he persevered: stumbling through the low coarse brushwood, sliding down into deep sandy hollows; again, clambering painfully up steep ascents, where the horses panted and laboured, and strove with the heavy inexorable sand; over the hard-bound earth, where their hoof’s rang as on a stone pavement; late in the night, he was glad to fling himself on the sand to snatch a brief repose.