Chapter V: The Desert of Gobi (2)

We were not sorry to get out of the tent, for the temperature therein registered over 100°. As the flimsy structure was only intended to hold three at the most, and as every one assisted at our medical consultation, this was hardly surprising. When we emerged again into the open air the changed appearance of the sky and desert somewhat puzzled, not to say alarmed, us. The heat was still oppressive, but whereas half an hour previously the sky had been bright and cloudless, it was now darkened, while the sun like a huge ball of fire glowed, red and angry, in the misty heavens, which had changed within the last ten or fifteen minutes from a deep intense blue to a uniform leaden colour. Nor was the appearance of the desert the same, the glassy yellow expanse of sand had disappeared. Beyond a distance of thirty or forty yards one saw nothing but a moving yellow mass swaying to and fro, and producing the effect, against the dark masses of cloud, of a huge field of ripe corn waving wildly about in a heavy gale of wind.

The _coup-d’œil_ would have been peculiar and interesting anywhere else. In the desert it was weird and alarming, so much so that I returned to the tent, and, calling Moses out, drew his attention to it, and not a moment too soon. In less time than it takes to write, Sylvia was scouring the plain in search of the camels, which had fortunately not strayed far out of reach, while Aaron busied himself in firmly hammering in the tent-pegs, which had only been lightly fixed during our temporary halt. In less than ten minutes the camels were in and tethered in a line next the carts, to which the ponies were firmly fastened. Moses then led or rather pushed us into our carts, and slammed the door in our faces. Looking out of the window a moment after I saw the Mongols disappear one by one into the tent; Sylvia, who entered last, firmly fastening the aperture behind him. During these mysterious preparations it had become darker and darker, while the wind, which had suddenly risen, was driving thick woolly masses of white cloud across the black lowering sky. We were not long in suspense. A few seconds only elapsed when a perfect tornado burst upon us. I managed with some difficulty to open my door on the lee side and look out, but could see nothing but one whirling mass of sand or vapour, I could not tell which, in appearance very much like a thick London fog. Nor could we hear anything but the whirling of the wind, the wild, unearthly cries of the camels, whose shadowy forms I could just distinguish huddled together a few yards from me, and the neighing of Chow and Karra, the latter of whom had, with his usual sagacity and fore-thought, broken his bridle and crawled under my cart. Then for the first time the truth dawned upon me——we were in a sandstorm.

It was not an agreeable sensation, for I was in a pleasing state of uncertainty as to how it would all end. One might as well have tried, during the storm, to attract the attention of the man in the moon as to make oneself heard. Luckily it did not last long. In five minutes it was over, and the sky blue and clear again. The sight on looking out of the carts again was a queer one. The camels’ heads were invisible, each being burrowed under the body of his neighbour. As for the tent, it had disappeared, and it was only after a time that I made out a heap of sand with a moving mass underneath to show where it had been. It had blown down early in the proceedings, and Moses and Co., to say nothing of the wretched Jee Boo, narrowly escaped suffocation. In half an hour everything had resumed its wonted appearance, and the air was as cool and pleasant as before it had been sultry and oppressive. The inside of our carts, though, were an inch deep in sand, and our nostrils, hair and eyes full of it. Save for a hot, feverish feeling that banished sleep, and gave one an uncomfortable feeling in the head like influenza, we felt no ill effects, and were not altogether sorry when it was over that we had experienced the strange phenomenon. Sandstorms are rare in Gobi, but when they do occur are dangerous to solitary travellers. Many mysterious disappearances in this part of the desert are put down to them; for the sand-drifts obliterating the marks of the Mongol’s guiding rods, he is unable to retrace his steps to the yourt he started from.

We reached the wells at about 4 a.m. next morning, and were relieved to find them nearly full, and the water drinkable. The rain came down in torrents shortly afterwards. We would have given a good deal for a shower the day before, but could now have gladly dispensed with it, for the carts leaked badly, and we were wet through before the weather cleared at daybreak. We got a couple of hours’ rest though, and by ten o’clock were away again, refreshed if not rested. It is astonishing what little amount of sleep a man can do with when put to it.

The morning of this (the 23rd of August) was bright and clear, and the rain and cool air seemed to have given a new lease of life to man and beast. Jee Boo, though complaining of slight headache, had otherwise quite recovered from his attack, so that with the bright sunshine and crisp, clear air, our spirits rose, and all went merry as the traditional marriage-bell. Towards midday we had a somewhat exciting chase after an antelope, and one that might have resulted somewhat disagreeably. The ever-watchful Jee Boo having sighted a herd near a ridge of rocks some three miles distant, we saddled the ponies, and, with our rifles, galloped towards them under the guidance of the little Tartar, taking care to keep the ridge between us. When within about three hundred yards of the spot, we dismounted, Lancaster, accompanied by Sylvia, making for the right of the rocks (which were about a mile in length and two hundred feet in height) while I took the left hand. Though less precipitous than the ridge we had crossed two days before, the ascent was too steep to be pleasant, especially when laden with a rifle in one hand, and having to lead a wilful and obstinate pony with the other.

We reached the summit in safety after a stiff climb. To any pony but Karra the ascent would have been impossible. Securing his bridle to a sharp edge of rock, I lay flat upon the ground, and crawled to the edge of the precipice, but there was nothing to be seen but bare sandy plain. Having watched for about five minutes, I was about to rise and take up a fresh position, when the crack of Lancaster’s rifle rang out some distance to the right. In another moment the whole herd, some sixty or seventy in number, came bounding by just underneath me. Picking out a fine buck, I took steady aim, fired, and had the satisfaction of seeing him drop on his forelegs. I thought for a second he was badly hit, but he only reeled to and fro once or twice, then with an effort regained his feet, and galloped on after the others, who were already almost out of sight. Seeing that he got over the ground but slowly and with difficulty, I determined to give chase, and, loosing Karra, we made our way helter-skelter down the cliff-side. Though the climb had taken us quite half an hour, the descent did not take more than three minutes. Some of the ledges were quite four feet high, with a landing on smooth slippery rock, but little Karra never once made a mistake. Arrived at the bottom of the cliff, I jumped on his back, and away we went full gallop after the wounded antelope, now just disappearing out of sight over a high ridge of sand a good distance off. My pony was even keener than I, and I never knew till that day what a little wonder he was. Fifteen days had we been in the desert, travelling day and night, and two days of that on short allowance of water and food, and yet here he was galloping as strong as a steam engine, and pulling and tearing at his bridle as if he had been in the stable for a month. What would he not have been worth in England! But quickly as we covered the distance to the ridge which had hidden the antelope from view, we were too late. No trace could we discover of him. The desert was here covered with innumerable sand-hills and depressions, and it is more than likely that he succeeded in hiding himself in one of these. We hunted about for some time, but without success. I dared not stop too long, for fear of losing the caravan, which I knew had not stopped during our absence. So, somewhat disappointed, I dismounted, and led Karra slowly back to the rocks where, as I thought, Lancaster and Sylvia were awaiting me. No trace of the caravan was now visible.

I took my time returning to the ridge, imagining that by this time my companions had seen me, and would not move till I came up to them. It seemed strange too that they should have abandoned their position, for on coming up to the right side of the rocks I found them gone. When, on riding the whole length of the ridge, shouting as I went, I saw no signs of them, the disagreeable truth flashed across me that they had departed altogether——a surmise which proved correct. In vain I searched every cleft and ravine, thinking they might have penetrated thither in search of wounded game; in vain I yelled myself hoarse, and blew the whistle which we always carried in view of this contingency, till I was black in the face; not a sound came in answer, but the echoes, which the innumerable creeks and gullies which riddled the place flung back to me. In one of the ravines, curiously enough, I came upon a tree, the first and only one we saw in the desert, or indeed since leaving Tsin W’hui Poo; it was but ten or twelve feet high, a kind of wild olive with gnarled trunk and scanty foliage. At any other time I should have stopped to examine it more closely, but that my mind was then running on matters very far removed from natural history. Every moment the awkwardness of my position grew more apparent. A thousand doubts and fears crowded on my mind, which the surroundings of the lone, desolate-looking place did not tend to reassure. At one moment I was for remaining where I was, but the next brought the reflection that Lancaster, having seen me riding for dear life in a S.W. direction, would probably direct the Mongols in that quarter, and never dream of returning to this bleak barren rock. One thing was certain, if the caravan did not rescue me, no one would, for this part of Gobi is as uninhabited and desolate as the interior of the Sahara itself.

Of a sudden the thought struck me to climb to the summit of the rocks, and as a last resource to scan the horizon from that altitude with the glasses I had fortunately brought with me. Securing Karra to the old tree, I again ascended to the top, this time not without some hard knocks and scratches, while the perspiration poured off me in my anxiety to lose no time. I was never without a compass in the desert, and had luckily taken the bearings of the rocks before we set out that morning. Allowing for time and distance, I found the caravan should now be N.N.W. from where I stood, and turning my glasses to the spot, discovered it to my great relief, on the very edge of the horizon, and hardly visible, even through the powerful glasses. To the naked eye it was invisible. First taking care to get my bearings right, I scrambled down, and, loosing Karra, galloped after it _ventre à terre_. In twenty minutes it was well in sight, and we were safe.

It was all owing to Sylvia, who had persuaded Lancaster to return, saying that I should without doubt join the caravan farther on. A Mongol failing is to think that strangers know their way about the desert as well as they do themselves. Lancaster had had no better luck than myself, so our day’s sport was hardly a success. We were a good deal disappointed, though not so much as our men, who had been looking forward to a meal of fresh roast meat, the gooroosh being excellent eating.

Towards evening of the same day we traversed a tract of sand about a mile across, so deep that we had to hitch three camels on to each cart. Even then they could hardly get the heavy, clumsy vehicles through it, and we had to literally put our shoulders to the wheel. The sand was nearly up to our knees, and so fine that it actually worked its way into our boots through the sole and the leather. Just beyond this the sand is succeeded by hard gravelly soil of a deep red colour, covered so thickly in parts with transparent stones and crystals, that the ground looked here and there like inlaid mosaic. Quantities of these stones are sent to Pekin, to be converted into buttons, snuff-bottle-stoppers, &c. They are also much sought after by the ladies of Ourga for head ornaments. Most of the pebbles were a species of yellow or red agate, and I picked up a couple of very pretty violet ones——presumably amethysts.

There is not a blade of grass or vegetation in this part of the desert, nor are there any rocks or hills to break the dead-level of the plain, as flat and smooth as a billiard-table or well-kept garden-walk, for miles and miles. It therefore struck us as curious to come, while walking a few yards in front of the caravan, upon the letters “A. L.” formed in capitals three feet long, by a kind of creeper which had firmly taken root in the hard, gravelly soil. Had the letters been irregularly or fantastically formed, they might have suggested a freak of nature, but they were clear, distinct, and as well formed as any on this page. How they came there must remain a mystery. They could not have been the work of Russians (for their L is totally different to that of other European languages) much less that of a Mongol or Chinaman. I must own that I am superstitious, and hoped that the mysterious characters might bode no evil to one of my greatest friends bearing the same initials in England.

Just after sunset three mounted Mongols rode out of the dusk, and, galloping furiously past the caravan, disappeared in the direction we were going. They seemed to have started out of the ground, so suddenly did they make their appearance. An event of this sort always creates excitement in the desert, for as a general rule every one stops and exchanges words when meeting a caravan on the lonely highway. For this reason perhaps our Mongols did not like the look of the strangers, and Jee Boo, at the request of Moses, begged us to load our revolvers. We did so, but saw nothing more of the mysterious horsemen, who Sylvia positively assured us were robbers, who would have attacked us had they not found us too strong for them, and on the defensive.

We passed a couple of yourts shortly afterwards, smoke-blackened, shapeless dwellings, about half the size of an ordinary Mongol tent, with a small hole for a door, out of which a man and a woman crawled and offered us argol for sale. More revolting specimens of the human race I have never seen. We saw no sheep or ponies about; indeed there was nothing to feed them upon. Hard by lay a dead camel, the stench from which nearly knocked us down fifty yards off, and on which the poor wretches had been subsisting for several days. Other food they had none, though there was a well brimful of clear cold water a quarter of a mile farther on, at which we filled the barrels, and, for the first time for ten days, washed our hands and faces.

We managed to get some sleep in the carts, for the first and only time that night, for the ground was as smooth as a billiard-table, and there were no stones or boulders to disturb our slumbers. Nor did I wake till past one o’clock, when the caravan halted.

Looking out of the cart window, I at first imagined that we had arrived at Ourga, for we were encamped, apparently, under the walls of a city. At the same time it struck me as strange, that a silence so dead should reign over such a large place. The illusion was complete, and I was never more astonished to find that what I had taken for walls, towers and roofs of houses, were in reality nothing more than a group of enormous blocks of granite. Some must have measured quite fifty feet high by twenty broad, the space of ground they occupied being considerably over a square mile. Had I thought for a moment, I must have known that stone buildings in Mongolia are extremely rare, almost unknown. A Mongol Tartar has the greatest objection to living in a permanent dwelling of any sort or kind, and even Ourga, the capital, is composed almost exclusively of tents. Notwithstanding, one could scarcely realize that it was an optical delusion, that the mimic domes and minarets standing out clear and distinct, as a pen-and-ink sketch against the starlit sky, were but masses of unhewn stone, and the work of nature, not of man.

Our Mongols were asleep, and Lancaster; but late as it was, and at the sacrifice of my remaining rest, I could not resist the temptation of exploring the place, first taking the precaution of arming myself. It looked just the kind of spot that robbers or marauders, had there been any about, would have selected for an encampment.

I found the interior as curious as the outside, for the rocks were placed as regularly, and the ways as well defined, as the streets and squares of a modern city. The deathlike stillness, and queer fantastic shadows, thrown by the bright moon-rays, gave one an uncanny feeling, and I took care to keep the caravan fires in sight. Although outside the desert was hard and gravelly, the sand here was knee-deep. Suddenly while walking down one of the smaller paths my foot struck sharply against a small square stone sunk deeply into the sand. On examining this more closely, I found that on it was rudely carved a Russian character and a cross. It was evidently a grave. Having no desire to prolong my investigations after this, I was about to rise and return to the caravan, when an indefinable impression stole over me that something, and something human and living, was near me. The feeling may have been produced by liver, perhaps by instinct. At any rate, it was correct, for on turning I found myself next to one of the most repulsive and hideous creatures I have ever beheld. It was impossible to tell in the dim light whether it was a man or a woman, for its body was covered with shapeless rags, its head with a mass of grey tangled hair that hid the features. I have seldom felt more uncomfortable, and would at that moment gladly have given five pounds to be back safe and snug in my cart. At any rate, I thought, the sooner out of this the better, so seizing my opportunity, I dodged past the figure, and walked quickly away in the direction of the camp fires. Guessing my intention, it pursued me for a few yards, struggling with difficulty through the deep sand, but I soon distanced it, and only breathed freely again when I had got out of the place, and was once more in the open.

The caravan was in a state of commotion when I returned, for I had been away quite an hour, and having told no one of my intention, they were, on waking, at a loss to know where I had got to. When I related my adventures to Moses, his face was a picture. “Moo chim” (bad men), he kept repeating, which meant that the place, according to Mongols, is haunted, and that no one who can avoid it ever penetrates into its silent, mysterious depths by day or night. Whether the creature I saw was a ghost, I know not. If so, it was a very dirty one. It would have needed the pencil of a Doré, the pen of a Rider Haggard, to describe the place, which was certainly the most marvellous freak of nature I have ever come across.

I made inquiries at Kiakhta, but could never find out anything to explain, geologically, the presence of these stones, and their peculiar position. All the Russian merchants could tell me was that a Cossack in charge of the mail had been buried there seven years ago, and that the place ever since was said by the Mongols to be infested with evil spirits. It seems strange that no efforts have ever been made by the professors belonging to the College of Kiakhta to unravel the mystery, but the latter appeared to give more of their leisure hours to cards, vodka, and flirtation with their neighbours’ wives than to scientific research.

The morning of the next day (July 25th) was cold and cloudy. We crossed, an hour after starting, a large salt-marsh, with tufts of half-withered grass growing here and there. The ponies fared badly, but the camels managed all right, as I verily believe they would do in a crater. Though this marsh is deep in rainy weather, and very difficult to get over, there had, luckily, been no rain for some time, and we crossed it without difficulty, the ground being hard, and covered with evaporated salt, giving the desert the appearance of a huge snow-field. Beyond this, vegetation again ceased, and we entered on a tract of gravelly country. Some low green hills now appeared on the horizon——the plains and rich pastures of Toogoorook, at which yourt the hardest part of our desert journey would be virtually over.

We encamped midday at the foot of a steep and barren rock, about one thousand feet high, on the banks of a large lake of dirty, brackish water, as wild and desolate a spot as can well be imagined. Huge vultures and other carrion birds flew hither and thither about the rocks and ravines, while the dismal and incessant croaking of the frogs among the withered sedges that fringed the black, melancholy-looking water made the place anything but a cheerful spot for an encampment. The further end of the lake swarmed with wild fowl, and we succeeded, after dinner, in bagging a couple of sheldrake, though they were so shy, it was only with great difficulty we could get near them. We also shot an enormous vulture, seven feet broad from one wing-tip to the other; but he smelt so, we had to have him carried some distance away from the caravan. This was explained by the partially devoured remains of a camel we afterwards passed a few hundred yards from camp. The brink of the lake was strewn with the bleached bones of these animals, which did not contribute to make the _coup-d’œil_ more cheerful.

Towards evening we sighted a large herd of antelope on the horizon, but they saw us, and were off long before we could give chase.

About five o’clock it came on to rain and blow as it only can in Gobi. I do not think I ever spent a more wretched night. The storm became so bad that the camels would not face it, and we had to stop and pitch tents at ten o’clock, three hours before the usual time. Several attempts were made to light a fire, but without success, for the wind not only blew it out, but the wretched, flimsy tent down on top of it, Mongols and all. We consoled ourselves as best we could with a nip of whisky (of which we had one bottle left), and turned into our carts to make the best of it. But even our sheepskins were next to useless in the keen wind that whistled through the rents and chinks of the canvas cart roofs as if they had been sieves. About midnight the rain came down again in sheets, and in less than half an hour was streaming in upon us, like a shower-bath. We were wet through in less than ten minutes, and then abandoned the idea of rest or sleep altogether.

If the night had been miserable, the morning was far worse. We were perfectly willing to start; anything was preferable to sitting in our carts, listening to the ceaseless pattering of the rain and looking out of the narrow window at the misty, dreary landscape; but the Mongols were obdurate. Nothing upsets them like rain or getting wet, presumably because they never wash, and Moses steadfastly refused to move till the weather cleared, which it showed no signs whatever of doing. Our men had managed to rig the tent up again, and all three lay inside, packed like sardines, with every aperture tightly closed. I tried to read, but soon had to give it up, my head shook so with the cold. Worse still, we had exhausted our last scrap of tobacco, and could not bring ourselves to venture on the hay-like filth that Sylvia offered us. Still, it showed the little Tartar’s unselfishness, for he had but a pipeful left to last him on to Ourga, and there is no race in the world so devoted to the fragrant weed.

About two o’clock it mended a little, and the sun, which had all the morning been invisible, began to struggle through the grey, watery clouds. So sudden are the changes of temperature and weather in the desert that by 3 p.m. the sky was blue and cloudless, and the sun too hot to be pleasant. We were not sorry to get out again, and dry ourselves in the warm rays which took the stiffness out of our cramped and aching limbs. We suffered but little from vermin, which up till now had been one of our greatest annoyances, after this. “It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good;” and perhaps they were all drowned!

Starting at 7 p.m., we travelled all night, and by morning every trace of sand and gravel had disappeared, and we were in the grass plains again——where our ponies fairly revelled in the fresh, rich pasture. Sylvia was despatched to a yourt some five miles distant to buy a camel in place of the one we had lost, and as he was not expected back till six o’clock, we enjoyed a good sleep all the afternoon, not before we wanted it. We had had none for two nights.

The camel arrived in due course. He was a snow-white one, of mild and benign appearance. Lancaster took a great fancy to him, and insisted in having him harnessed to his cart. I noticed a look in the beast’s eye, whenever he was pushed about or touched more roughly than usual, that boded no good. However, we were assured that he was all that could be desired, and took Sylvia’s word for it. We started again that evening, with our new purchase in Lancaster’s cart. Although the night was fine and starlit, with a lovely moon, I turned into my cart early, for the plain was as smooth and unbroken as a lawn-tennis ground, and I did not despair of getting a really good night’s rest, and probably should have had one, but for an unforeseen accident that, ridiculous and laughable as it now seems, might have had a very serious, if not fatal result. I was rudely awoke about 2 a.m. by Jee Boo, who bursting open my door, entreated me to come out at once. One is easily unnerved in the desert, and apt to fancy things, so much so that for a moment I thought a mutiny had broken out among the Mongols, and, seizing my revolver and pouch, jumped out on to the moonlit plain. The sight that greeted my eyes caused me at first to burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, in which, however, the Mongols, who were helplessly assembled round my cart, did not join. Like them, I also soon realized how seriously the affair might end. Lancaster’s camel had _run away_, and was scouring the plain in a way that plainly showed if we ever intended seeing him again we had better catch him at once. The ponies were all unsaddled, but Sylvia and I jumped upon ours barebacked, and galloped away as hard as we could lay legs to the ground after the refractory beast, whose white body, followed by the cart swaying madly to and fro, was rapidly disappearing in the dim, shadowy distance. It had happened in a second. Sylvia, having left his cart for a moment, which was leading, the cunning brute had taken advantage of his absence to break with one jerk the string that fastened his cart to the next camel. When our driver returned, he found the caravan halted and his new purchase making tracks across the plain in, strange to say, the direction of the yourt we had bought him from.

The best description I have ever read of a camel’s pace when at full speed is given by the late Colonel Burnaby, in “A Ride to Khiva,” where he says: “A camel’s gait is a peculiar one. They go something like a pig with the fore, and like a cow with the hind, legs.” This does not sound like speed, but the pace at which these brutes get over the ground is something more than remarkable, and it took us all our time, to get up to Lancaster’s cart, who was, to use a sporting expression, “going strong!” The frantic bounds the cart was taking beggars description. I thought every second it would overturn, for the brute whirled it about as if it had been a match-box. I could see Lancaster in the moonlight at the open door, evidently meditating a jump, so shouted to him to remain where he was. The ground was rough and stony, and to fall might have meant a broken limb, which would have placed us in an awkward predicament. It was some time before we managed to stop the runaway by each getting one side of, and riding into, him. I never could have believed a camel had such a turn of speed. Sylvia caught the nose string, and we secured him at last, and got him back to the caravan without further mishap. He was relegated to the water-barrels in future. It was thought the weight might steady him, and it did, for we were troubled with no more of his pranks.

The plains next day were more thickly inhabited and the pasture more luxuriant than in any part of the desert yet traversed. We passed several yourts, from which the inhabitants rode out to meet us with presents of milk and a kind of cheese made of mare’s milk. They seemed cleaner and better-mannered than the Mongols the other side, and did not (for a wonder) ask us for anything. Their yourts, too, were cleaner, their sheep and ponies better looking than others we had seen.

This portion of the Gobi swarms with a curious animal, of which I ignore the name. It is in colour like a hare, in size something between that animal and a rabbit, with short thin legs, and stiff wiry hair like that of a badger. The ground was in many places literally honeycombed with their burrows, which are enormous for so small an animal. Many of the holes would for a short distance admit a good-sized man. They are neatly and beautifully constructed, the earth being carried and thrown away some distance off, though _how_ has not been ascertained. We must have seen thousands, but could never get near enough to shoot one, and so examine it closely. Unlike the smaller species of rat on the other side, they are, shy and wary, and bolt into their holes on the slightest noise. It is said that Mongols eat them, but I am rather doubtful as to the truth of this assertion. Few would have the patience or take the trouble to catch them.

We sighted, on the 28th of August, a huge encampment of some fifty tents, on the horizon, evidently the yourt of some chief or Lama of importance, _en voyage_. On passing it at the nearest point (some two miles distant), Lancaster and I were riding off to inspect it more closely, but were recalled by the frantic gesticulations of Moses, who begged us on no account to go. His reason I never could ascertain, but he led us to understand, through Jee Boo, that we might meet with an unpleasant reception, by which I conclude some religious ceremony was being performed. We could distinguish through the glasses, crowds of people moving about the encampment, on foot and on horseback, and these with the white tents gay with gaudy prayer-flags, against the bright green sward, gave it more the appearance of a huge fair than a desert camp. The plains for miles around were dotted with flocks and herds, but none of the people, though they saw us distinctly, rode out to the caravan.

The country on the 28th became more accentuated and undulating. We passed to-day two large lakes (fresh) teeming with wild fowl, duck, and wild geese, of which latter we bagged a brace, and ate for dinner, washed down by a bottle of champagne specially kept for the day when the neck of our desert journey should be broken. The plain to-day was full of huge edible mushrooms as large as soup plates. We gathered a quantity, and had some for dinner, although as we ate them solely on Jee Boo’s assurance that they were not poisonous, we were somewhat uneasy for a couple of hours after. We encamped to-day in a kind of oasis, of wild, sweet-smelling flowers, pink heather and long grass through which ran a delightfully clear cold stream of water over a gravelly bed. It was like nectar, after the filth we had been drinking, and yet so improvident are the Mongols, that had we not insisted upon it, they would have left without filling the barrels. It was lucky we did so, for the two succeeding wells were stagnant and brackish, and one, having the remains of a dead sheep in it, undrinkable. The next day at mid-day we camped in sight of the high and partly wooded hills that surround Ourga.

A Lama, _en route_ to the capital, now joined us. This is an invariable custom in the desert, a Tartar never travelling alone if he can possibly help it, perhaps more for the sake of companionship than from fear of robbers or marauders, who are said to infest the more lonely parts of Gobi. He (the Lama) was a fat, good-tempered old fellow, his enormously fat carcase clad from head to foot in bright yellow silk. The grey pony he rode was so tiny that looked at from behind its body was invisible. One saw nothing but a huge balloon-like mass of yellow silk, supported by four thin, very shaky-looking white legs. I noticed, throughout Mongolia, that the fattest men invariably rode the smallest ponies, perhaps on the same principle that in Europe the largest instrument in a German band is almost invariably played by a diminutive child of tender years.

We visited a yourt after dinner by the invitation of our newly made fat friend. The tent was cleaner, both inside and out, than the ones we had passed here on the Chinese side, indeed all the yourts had a prosperous, well-to-do look about them, very different to the smoke-blackened, dirty-looking dwellings on the southern side of the sandy desert. This was probably due to their being in the close vicinity of the capital, and also in a great measure to the fuel used being wood instead of the sickly-smelling, stifling “Argol.”

The reader may or may not believe in Palmistry, but it can scarcely fail to interest him to hear that this ancient science is as well known among the Mongols as the gipsies, and has been for hundreds of years. I found this out quite by accident, on examining the hand of a young girl who brought us milk and cheese, and otherwise did the honours of the yourt. To my surprise she at once guessed my intention, and insisted on my reading it all through, and explaining the lines to her. Nor did my work end here, a dozen greasy palms being eagerly thrust forward as soon as I had completed “Tsaira’s.”

The latter, a bright-looking girl of about sixteen, was evidently the belle of these parts, and not unjustly so, for her dark eyes, comely features, and pearly teeth were a pleasing contrast to the ordinary stolid, flat-faced females of the desert. She was the first (and last) really pretty Mongolian woman we saw, and unlike most of her sex (in the desert) not the least shy. The operation of shaving (which I now went through preparatory to meeting the Russian Consul at Ourga) astonished her a good deal, but the sight of a looking-glass much more so. She had never heard of such a thing, or seen her own pretty face, except dimly reflected in water or tea. It was the only one we possessed, or I could not have had the heart to refuse it her, for she was not backward in asking. However, a few sticks of chocolate consoled her, though she tried very hard for a ring I wore. It was only by impressing on her that it was given me by a “Boosooge”[7] almost as pretty as herself, who would never forgive me, if I returned without it, that she allowed me to depart in peace, which we did at sunset, all the inhabitants of the yourt turning out to bid us good-bye, and load us with parting gifts of milk and cheese.

The next day (30th August) we entered a green and fertile valley, about three miles broad, with lofty, partially wooded hills on either side. The plain was in parts thickly inhabited, and we continually passed Mongols, both men and women, and during the day three large caravans, two of bullock-carts one hundred to one hundred and fifty strong, laden with wood and hides for China, to return with tea. The third was composed exclusively of camels, sixty in number. About twenty men accompanied it. On one of the leading camels was a poor Mongol, evidently in a dying condition. Our own men were far behind, and the ones we questioned by signs, only laughed and walked on when we pointed to the poor wretch, lying on his back with the fierce sun beating down on his ghastly, upturned face. About a quarter of a mile behind the caravan came the Chinaman in charge, gorgeous in yellow and lavender silk, and bristling with arms. I felt very much inclined to kick him out of his cart, and put the dying Mongol there instead. Although white men of any kind are so rare here, they never deigned to look at us, nor reply to our question, addressed in Chinese, as to how many days they had left Ourga. By getting them into conversation, we might, we thought, have accompanied them as far as the caravan, and by Jee Boo’s help got something done for the poor Tartar, but it was no use. I could not get the latter out of my head the whole day, and shuddered when I thought of how his sufferings might end. The Mongols never bury their dead, at any time, and often on a voyage leave their sick to themselves, very much as they do a camel, alone in mid-desert.

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.

We skirted for a time the precipitous mountain that lines the left bank of the Tola. Presently we came to an abrupt turn in the road; a glorious panorama of plain and wood, mountain and river, lay at our feet, and a couple of miles away a compact mass of red and white dwellings, golden domes, and snowy tents, surmounted and surrounded by thousands of brightly coloured-prayer flags, which flashed and waved in the sun with every breath of the pure morning air. We had reached the sacred city of Ourga.

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Footnote 6:

A Mongol tent or encampment.

Footnote 7:

Woman.

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