Part 20

“We have scarcely shut our eyes,” says this intrepid, indefatigable traveller, “when we are called by the guide to renew the march. It is still night, but the desert is visible, dim and ghostly under the cold pale light of the rising moon. Vegetation has entirely disappeared; there is scarcely a twig even of the hardy saxaul. Side by side with us move our own shadows, projected long and black over the moonlit sand, like fearful spectres pursuing us to our doom.

“Thin streaks of light begin to shoot up the eastern sky. The moon grows pale, the shadows fade out, and at last the sun, red and angry, rises above the horizon. After the sharp cold of the night its rays strike us agreeably, suffusing a pleasant sensation of warmth over our benumbed limbs. Then it grows uncomfortably warm, then hot, and soon we are again suffering the pangs of heat and thirst; our eyes are again blinded by the fiery glare, and our lungs scorched by the stifling noonday atmosphere.”

Throughout that day the ride was continued, and even far into the night. Early next morning the traveller reached the summit of the mountain range behind which lies Khala-Ata. With feelings of eager expectancy and hope, he spurred forward his horse, and with his field-glass looked down upon the bleak bare plain which stretched far away in the direction of Bokhara; there, at the distance of eight miles, he saw a dome-like mound, encircled by small tents, which shone in the morning sunlight, and at various points were grouped masses of soldiers in white uniform, and the sheen of steel. At last, then, he had overtaken Kauffmann!

Though weary and spent, and covered with the dust of the desert, it was with a cheerful heart that, at about six o’clock on the morning of the 16th of May, he rode into the camp and fortress of Khala-Ata, after a ride of five hundred miles and a chase of seventeen days. All the more bitter was his disappointment when, on asking the young officer on duty to direct him to the quarters of General Kauffmann, he was informed that the general had left Khala-Ata, five days before, and by that time must certainly have reached the Amu-Darya. The chase, then, had been fruitless; the rider, daring and indefatigable as he had showed himself, had missed his mark. The commandant at Khala-Ata proved to be a Colonel Weimam, who received the special correspondent with marked discourtesy, and refused to allow him to continue his search for General Kauffmann, unless he first obtained that general’s permission. The sole concession he would make was, that he would send on Mr. MacGahan’s letters of introduction, and then, if the Russian commander-in-chief expressed a wish to see him, he would be at liberty to go. This arrangement, however, would evidently involve a delay of ten or twelve days. In the mean time the army would cross the Oxus, would capture Khiva, and the special correspondent’s “occupation” would be “gone.” Anxiously did Mr. MacGahan meditate on the course it would be best for him to adopt. To break through the Russian lines and effect his escape seemed impracticable. In all probability, the swift-footed and ferocious Turcoman cavalry were hanging in General Kauffmann’s rear; and how, without an escort, was he to make his way through their ranks? Yet the more he reflected, the more he became convinced that this was his only chance of reaching the Russian army in time to witness the capture of Khiva. The difficulties in the way, apart from the danger, were enormous. His horses were exhausted; he had neither provisions nor forage, nor any means of procuring them; and he might reckon on Colonel Weimam’s despatching a squadron of Cossacks to pursue and arrest him. Ascertaining, however, that the colonel was about to move forward with a couple of companies of infantry, one hundred Cossacks, and two field-pieces, he resolved on the bold plan of quitting the camp with the cavalry, trusting to the darkness to escape detection, and afterwards making a wide circuit to pass the detachment. Several days passed by in wretched inaction. The heat was oppressive; clouds of dust filled the atmosphere, and almost choked the unfortunate victims exposed to its irritating influence; provisions were painfully scarce, and Colonel Weimam absolutely refused to sell or give a grain of barley to the traveller’s starving horses. At last, about one a.m. on the 14th of May, the Russian detachment marched out of camp, and struck to the westward, in the direction of Adam-Kurulgan and the Amu-Daria. Mr. MacGahan and his men were on the alert. “I dropped silently,” he says, “in the rear of the Cossacks, who led the column, followed by my people, and when we had gained the summit of the low sand-hill, a mile from the camp, over which the road led, I as silently dropped out again, turned my horses’ heads to the west, and plunged into the darkness.”

Once more he was in the open desert, once more he was free, and he could not repress a feeling of exultation, though he was suffering from hunger, his horses were spent with starvation, and at any moment he might fall into the hands of the murderous Turcomans. A more daring enterprise, or one conceived in a more resolute and intrepid spirit, is hardly recorded, I think, in the annals of adventure. When he supposed himself at a sufficient distance from the Russian column, he turned sharp round to the west, and made as straight as he could for the Amu-Darya, expecting to reach it before Colonel Weimam. But after a hard day’s ride, he found, as he approached Adam-Kurulgan, that the Russian soldiers were before him! There seemed no alternative but to return to Khala-ata or surrender himself to the obnoxious and despotic Weimam. Yes; if he could get water for his exhausted beasts he might avoid Adam-Kurulgan altogether, and still pursue his wild ride to the Oxus! Some Kirghiz guides, on their way to Khala-Ata, informed him that twenty miles further on was Alty-Kuduk, or the “Six Wells;” it was not on the road to the Amu, but some four miles to the north, and Kauffmann had left some troops there. This news revived his drooping spirits. “Forward!” he cried, and away through the deep sand-drifts the little company toiled and struggled. He lost another of his horses, and the survivors were almost mad with thirst; but his cry was still “Forward!” He himself longed for water, with a longing unknown to those who have not travelled in the arid desert and under the burning sun, for hours and hours, without moistening the parched lips; but his only thought was “Forward!” On the following day the brave man’s persistency was rewarded. He reached the camp of Alty-Kuduk, met with a most friendly reception from all its inmates, and obtained meat and drink for himself and his men, and barley and water for his horses.

A day’s rest, and he was again in the saddle (May 27th). It was soon apparent by the dead camels that lined the road that he had got into the trail of the Russian army, and from time to time he could recognize the tracks of cannon. Then he came upon the bodies of Turcoman horses, which, as he afterwards learned, had been slain in a skirmish two days before. Towards sunset the character of the country changed: the rolling sand dunes disappeared, and the traveller entered upon a level plain, which sank away into a lower kind of terrace. The day drew rapidly to a close: lower and lower down the western sky sunk the blood-red sun; at last it dropped below the horizon, and as the sky flashed momently with broad streaks of red and purple and golden light, the shimmer of water became visible in the distance. It was the Oxus!

It was long after dark when MacGahan reached the river. He refreshed his horses with its waters, and then encamped for the night. At daylight he ascended a hill, and looked out upon the scene. The broad, calm river, winding north and south, sparkled before him, like a belt of silver on a golden mantle. But where was the Russian army? Where was General Kauffmann?

Nowhere could he discover a trace of human habitation, of tent or kibitka. Nowhere could he see a single picket, not even a solitary Cossack.

Again was MacGahan disappointed. I have read of an old superstition which represents a cup of gold as the prize of the fortunate mortal who shall find the exact spot where a rainbow touches the earth. And I have read that men, believing it, have pursued the radiant iris with eager footsteps, only to find her eluding them when most they think themselves sure of grasping her. So was it with our special correspondent. He had hoped to overtake the Russians at Myn-Bulak, but they had vanished; at Khala-Ata, but he was too late; and again on the Oxus, but they had disappeared. He was almost tempted to look upon himself as the victim of a portentous delusion. Would there really be a Kauffmann? Was the expedition to Khiva other than a myth?

The tracks of cannon and the ashes of extinct campfires reassured him on these points; and, rallying his energies, he set out once more on his strange quest, following the course of the Oxus. That day he rode five and forty miles. At night he encamped, but as Khivans might be prowling in the vicinity, he resolved to keep watch. For hours he paced up and down in the darkness, a darkness that would have been death stillness but for the murmur of the flowing river; and at length he caught a flash of light. To him, like the light which Columbus saw on the eve of the discovery of the New World, it portended the end of his adventure; for it proceeded, as he knew, from either a Khivan or a Russian bivouac. In the morning he started early, and had ridden but a short distance, when loud upon his ears broke the rolling thunder of artillery! Then he knew that the army was close at hand, and engaged in desperate combat with its Khivan enemies.

A few miles more, and Mr. MacGahan reached a sand-hill which afforded him an extensive view of the valley of the river. The opposite bank was crowded with horsemen, who were galloping to and fro, while a couple of cannon placed in front of a small pit were busily discharging missiles. On his own side the Russians were posted in loose order, and looking quietly on; their artillery replying to the Khivan fire with whizzing shells. “It was a curious scene,” says our traveller; “and I suppose the old Oxus, since the time it first broke from the ice-bound springs of Pamir, had never heard such music as this. Five times before had the Russians attempted to reach this very spot, and five times had they failed. Five times had they been driven back, beaten, and demoralized, either by the difficulties of the way, the inclemency of the season, or the treachery of the Khivans. The one detachment which had succeeded in capturing Khiva had afterwards been slaughtered to the last man; and now the Russians stood at last, this bright morning, on the banks of that historic river, with their old enemy once more before them.” The Khivans soon retired, leaving the opposite bank entirely free. Mr. MacGahan then started down the river to join the Russian army, and in a short time found himself in their midst, overwhelmed with friendly attentions. News of his gallant ride across the Kyzil-Kum had preceded him, so that he was received as a man who had quietly done a truly heroic thing. His first duty was to pay his respects to the object of his prolonged quest, General Kauffmann. The general, wrapped up in a Bokharan khalat or gown, was seated in an open tent, drinking tea and smoking a cigarette; a man of middle age, bald, rather short of stature, beardless, but wearing a thick moustache, prominent nose, blue eyes, and a pleasant kindly countenance. He shook hands with MacGahan, asked him to sit down, and remarked, with a smile, that he appeared to be something of a “molodyeltz” (a brave fellow). After questioning him respecting his adventures, he briefly told the story of his campaign up to that time, and gave him full and free permission to accompany the army the rest of the way to Khiva. By the Grand-Duke Nicholas Mr. MacGahan was received with equal courtesy.

The traveller now develops into the special correspondent, and his record of travel changes into a chronicle of military events. It would be inconsistent with our purpose to follow minutely his narrative of the Khivan war; but we shall endeavour to select such passages as throw some light on the nature of the country and the character of its inhabitants.

II.

The Khivans, according to Mr. MacGahan, are generally medium-sized, lean, muscular fellows, with long black beards, and no very agreeable physiognomy. They dress in a white cotton shirt, and loose trousers of the same material, over which is worn a khalat, or long tunic, cut straight, and reaching to the heels. The Khivan khalat, with its narrow stripes of dirty brown and yellow, differs very much indeed from the beautiful and brilliant khalat of the Bokhariots. Most of the Khivans go barefoot, and they cover their head with a tall, heavy, black sheepskin cap, which is heavier, uglier, and more inconvenient than even the bearskin of our household troops. In the neighbourhood of Khiva they chiefly cultivate the soil, and their prowess as horticulturists deserves to be renowned. For miles around their capital the country blooms with well-kept gardens, where fruit trees of all kinds flourish, and little fields of waving corn. The houses and farmyards are enclosed by stout walls, from fifteen to twenty feet high, solidly buttressed, and flanked by corner towers. The entrance is through an arched and covered gateway, closing with a massive timber gate. The farmhouse, a rectangular building, from twenty-five to seventy-five yards square, is built of dried mud, worked into large blocks like granite, and measuring three or four feet square and as many thick. There is always a little pond of clear water close at hand, and this is shaded by three or four large elms, while the enclosures are planted with elms and poplars.

Khiva surrendered to the Russians on the 9th. Mr. MacGahan entered it in company with the victorious troops, but confesses to experiencing a feeling of disappointment. The grand or magnificent he had not expected; but his dreams of this Oriental city, secluded far away in the heart of the desert, had pictured it as impressive and picturesque, and they proved entirely false. Through narrow, dirty, and crooked streets, he advanced to the citadel. Entering by a heavy arched brick gateway, he came in sight of a great porcelain tower, shining brilliantly with green, and brown, and blue, and purple. This tower, about one hundred and twenty-five feet high, measured about thirty feet in diameter at the base, and tapered gradually towards the top, where its diameter was about fifteen feet. It was covered all over with burnt tiles, arranged in a variety of broad stripes and figures, as well as with numerous verses of the Koran. With the Khan’s palace, it forms one side of a great square, enclosed by the walls of the citadel; the opposite side being occupied by a new médressé, and the other two sides by sheds and private houses.

In the palace nothing is worthy of notice except the Khan’s audience chamber, or great hall of state. Of this you can form a good idea if you will tax your imagination to conceive a kind of porch, opening on an inner court, measuring about thirty feet high, twenty feet wide, and ten feet deep, and flanked on either side by towers ornamented with blue and green tiles. The floor was raised six feet, and the roof supported by two curved, slender wooden pillars. The other rooms were mostly dark and ill ventilated. At the back of the hall of state was the Khan’s treasury, a low vaulted chamber, the walls and ceilings of which were covered with frescoes of vines and flowers, executed on the most fantastic principles of colouring. The gold, silver, and precious stones had been removed, but not so the weapons, of which there was a most various assortment: swords, guns, daggers, pistols, revolvers, of almost every shape and description. Two or three sabres were of English manufacture. There were also many of the beautiful broad, slightly curved blades of Khorassan, inlaid with gold; slender Persian scimitars, their scabbards blazing with turquoises and emeralds; and short, thick, curved poniards and knives from Afghanistan, all richly enamelled, and their sheaths set in precious stones. In the hurry of the Khan’s departure, beautiful carpets had also been left behind, silk coverlets, cushions, pillows, khalats, and rich and rare Kashmir shawls.

In another apartment were found about three hundred volumes of books, some old telescopes, bows and arrows, and several fine suits of armour, which doubtlessly belonged to the era of the Crusades, when the chivalry of Europe encountered the Saracens on the plains of Syria and Palestine.

In the course of his wanderings Mr. MacGahan lighted upon the Khan’s harem, where his favourite Sultana and some other women still remained. As he was an American—or, rather, because they supposed him to be an Englishman—the ladies gave him a cordial reception, and entertained him to tea. They were eight in number: three were old and exceedingly ugly; three middle-aged or young, and moderately good looking; one was decidedly pretty; and the other whom Mr. MacGahan speaks of as the Sultana, was specially distinguished by her superior intelligence, her exquisite grace of movement, and her air of distinction. She wore a short jacket of green silk, embroidered with gold thread; a long chemise of red silk, fastened on the throat with an emerald, slightly open at the bosom, and reaching below the knees; wide trousers, fastened at the ankles; and embroidered boots. She had no turban, and her hair was curled around her well-shaped head in thick and glossy braids. Curious earrings, composed of many little pendants of pearls and turquoises, glanced from her ears, and round her wrists gleamed bracelets of solid silver, traced with gold.

The chamber in which these ladies sat was ten feet wide, twenty long, and twelve high. Parts of the ceiling were embellished with coloured designs, rude in conception and execution. Against one side of the room were placed elegant shelves, supporting a choice assortment of the finest Chinese porcelain. The floor was strewn with carpets, cushions, coverlets, shawls, robes, and khalats, all in admired disorder, together with household utensils, arms, an English double-barrelled hunting rifle, empty cartridges, percussion caps, and—strange contrast!—two or three guitars. It was evident that preparations for flight had been begun, and the principal valuables already removed.

The Khan soon found that nothing was to be gained by flight, and as the Russians were disposed to treat him leniently, he decided on returning to Khiva, and surrendering to the great Yarim-Padshah, the victorious Kauffmann. Mr. MacGahan, who was present at the interview, describes the Asiatic potentate, Muhamed Rahim Bogadur Khan, as at that time a man of about thirty years of age, with a not unpleasing expression of countenance; large fine eyes, slightly oblique, aquiline nose, heavy sensual mouth, and thin black beard and moustache. He was about six feet three inches high, with broad shoulders and a robust figure. “Humbly he sat before Kauffmann, scarcely daring to look him in the face. Finding himself at the feet of the Governor of Turkistan, his feelings must not have been of the most reassuring nature. The two men formed a curious contrast; Kauffmann was not more than half as large as the Khan, and a smile, in which there was apparent a great deal of satisfaction, played on his features, as he beheld Russia’s historic enemy at his feet. I thought there never was a more striking example of the superiority of mind over brute force, of modern over ancient modes of warfare, than was presented in the two men. In the days of chivalry, this Khan, with his giant form and stalwart arms, might have been almost a demi-god; he could have put to flight a regiment single-handed, he would probably have been a very Cœur de Lion; and now the meanest soldier in Kauffmann’s army was more than a match for him.”

The capital of this Asiatic potentate is, as I have hinted, deficient in remarkable characteristics. With three or four exceptions, the buildings are all of clay, and present a miserable appearance. There are two walls—an outer and an inner; the interior enclosing the citadel, which measures a mile in length by a quarter of a mile in breadth, and in its turn encloses the Khan’s palace and the great porcelain tower. The outer wall is on an average twenty-five feet high, and it is strengthened by a broad ditch or moat. There are seven gates. The area between the walls is at one point converted into a kind of cemetery; at another it is planted out in gardens, which are shaded by elms and fruit trees, and watered by little canals. Of the houses it is to be said that the interior is far more comfortable than the wretched exterior would lead the traveller to anticipate. Most of them are constructed on the same plan. You pass from the street into a large open court, all around which are arranged the different apartments, each opening into the court, and seldom having any direct communication with each other. Facing the north stands a high porch, with its roof some seven or eight feet above the surrounding walls; this serves to catch the wind, and bring it down into the court below on the principle of a wind-sail aboard ship. The free circulation of air thus maintained is, undoubtedly, very pleasant in the summer heat, but in a Khivan winter it must have its disadvantages.

With twenty-two médressés, or monasteries, and seventeen mosques, is Khiva endowed. Of the latter, the most beautiful and the most highly esteemed is the mosque Palvan-Ata, which raises its tall dome to a height of sixty feet, shining with tiles of glaring green. The interior of the dome is very striking: it is covered, like the exterior, with tiles, but these are adorned with a beautiful blue tracery, interwoven with verses from the Koran. In a niche in the wall, protected by a copper lattice-work, are the tombs of the Khans; and Palvan, the patron-saint of the Khivans, is also buried there.