menu_book Chapter 15

Section 15. Effect of Road, Siberian Lynch Law, Runaway Convicts, A Curious Incident, The Post Courier, An Awkward Accident, Arrival at Irkutsk. My traveling in Siberia is evidently altered very much for the better during the last three years, for my experiences on the Great Post Road were very different indeed to those described by the author of a recent book of travel in these

parts. Perhaps, however, the fact of my doing the journey during the winter may, to a certain extent, account for it. But whatever the cause, the impressions received are the same, and the eight days' journey, though certainly a somewhat tedious one, will remain in my memory as one amongst the many interesting episodes of my Siberian wanderings. After all that I had read about the many difficulties and discomforts, not to say dangers, of this long journey, I must confess that it was

not without certain misgivings that I at last decided to make a move, and to start from my comfortable quarters in the Gostinitsa, Gadalov, and push on further east, in accordance with the route I had planned out for myself. My numerous friends on learning this were so unanimous in their advice to me not to travel alone, in case of my being taken ill on the road or meeting with an accident, that I was at length persuaded, almost against my will, to listen to them and

take a servant with me. And, as will be seen, it was very fortunate I did so. Once it was known I was in want of a servant, I had no difficulty in finding men who were willing to go with me to Irkutsk, even on the off chance of my not requiring a servant when once there. In fact, it was an embarrasse de richesse, and I had my choice. The principal question was to find someone who was accustomed to traveling. Luckily, I suddenly heard of an ex-sergeant of gendarme, who was anxious to

get to the capital, and who would be glad to give his services as servant to me in return for a free passage. The mere fact of his having been in the gendarmerie was in itself sufficient recommendation, as only men of exceptionally good character are admitted into this branch of the service. So without hesitation I decided on taking him, and he eventually turned out to be the best and most conscientious servant I have ever had.

He was also the biggest, for he stood no less than six foot three inches, and was a typical fellow of his class. My journey to Irkutsk was therefore une affaire arrangée, for from the moment I arranged with Sergeant Madvev, all trouble on my part ceased, for he simply took charge of the arrangements as though he had travelled with me for years.

and all I had to do was decide when to start and leave the rest to him, even to packing my things, ordering the horses, and the host of minor details inseparable from Siberian travel. It's almost unnecessary to add that he spoke no language but Russian, so our means of conversation were very limited,

and most of the time I had to make him understand by means of pantomime. At last my preparations were complete, and on the evening of Sunday, January 25th, I started towards the next stage of my long journey, and shortly after Krasnoyarsk, with its many pleasant associations, was but a reminiscence

of the past. The road for some miles after leaving the town lay along the ice in the very center of the river Yenisei. As it was a very bright moonlight night, the effect was novel and beautiful, the track was smooth and level, and the horses went along at their top speed. I was gradually lulled into a deep sleep and woke to find the first stage of twenty-nine versts accomplished, and the sledge in the postyard of Botoyskaya. The little village

was slumbering. Not a light was to be seen in any of the windows. In the post-house was the only sign of life. Looking up the quaint street, which in the moonlight had a weird appearance with its tumble-down cottages, I saw a most curious sight. The centre of the road had exactly the appearance of being laid with railway sleepers. As far as one could see, the long ridges in the snow followed each other so regularly that I could not help

asking what was the reason of so cutting up the road. To my astonishment, I was told that these ridges were caused by the thousands of horses of the caravans which had passed along the road since the commencement of the winter. The horses instinctively know that they can get a better foothold by walking in each other's footsteps, and fall into the habit of doing so almost mechanically. I shortly after had the first of many opportunities of noting this for myself,

for presently a large tea caravan came along, and I observed that it hardly ever happened that a horse stepped out of the grooves, so much so that the drivers strolling alongside seemed to have very little to do, as the animals appeared to know all that was expected of them. This, my first sight of a caravan on the Great Post Road, was but the forerunner of what we met or passed both day and night almost without intermission the whole way to Irkutsk. While many were laden with European

goods bound eastward, most of them were coming from China with tea. So great, in fact, was this traffic that I could not help wondering where all this immense quantity of tea can possibly go to, more especially when one comes to consider that what comes to Europe by the Great Post Road is only a small proportion of the annual amount exported from China. The tea of China, packed in bales of hide, is brought across the Gobi Desert by ox wagons,

or by camels as far as Kiyakta, the Russian frontier town, where it is transferred to sledges or Siberian carts according to the season, and the long journey to Tomsk is then commenced, a journey taking over two months. The same horses go the whole way, but they are allowed to take their own pace, and seldom do more than three miles an hour. At Tomsk, the tea is stored till the spring,

when it's taken by river steamer into Russia. Tea brought overland is said to retain more of its original flavor than that which, packed in lead, has made a sea voyage, but the difference is probably so slight that only an expert could detect it. There are comparatively very few men in charge of these immensely valuable consignments, which often consist of as many as 250 sledges, one man to about seven horses as a rule, and these at night take it in turns to

keep watch. For on the Great Post Road a peculiar form of highway robbery exists. Bales of tea are frequently cut loose and stolen in the dark hours by thieves, who lurk around to take advantage of a driver dozing on his sledge. The poor fellow then has to pay dearly for his forty winks, as he has to make good the loss out of his wages, a very serious matter considering the value of a large bale of tea. Last year, I am informed, these thefts became so frequent, and the thieves so

daring, that at last the drivers combined to have their revenge, and when, on one or two occasions, they managed to catch a thief, flagrante delicto, they actually lynched him in quite a North American Indian style. Bending a stout birch sapling to the ground by means of a rope, they fastened the back of the victim's head to it by the hair, and then cut the rope, releasing the tree, which immediately sprang back to its original position, and the unfortunate wretch was literally scalped.

He was then left to his fate. It is probable that a few examples of this kind will have as deterrent an effect on intending thieves as on the victims themselves. But to return to my narrative, we had no difficulty in getting horses, and, after a stoppage of twenty-five minutes, were rattling merrily along the frost-bound highway. It was a bitterly cold night, no less than forty degrees below zero, Rayel Muir, but till now I had not felt it much,

as the wind was at our backs. Unfortunately, a turn in the road brought it right against us, and then I felt such cold that in all my life I never experienced any like it. Although I was buried in furs, and the hood of the sledge down, there was no keeping it out. Mustache, nostrils, and eyelashes were frozen hard, and my dacha, where it came in contact with my face, was one solid mass of ice, caused by my breath, and to this my skin actually stuck. The wonder to me was

how the Yem's chicks stand it as they do, but I suppose they get case-hardened to it in time, frost-proof in fact, for rolled up in their sheepskins they seem impervious to temperature, taking it all as a matter of course. As to the horses, although they were always so covered with frost as to have the appearance of being thickly coated with snow, they never seemed to mind it a bit, and would keep up the same pace the whole stage, standing afterwards in the postyard

as quiet as sheep, while their icy coats were, so to speak, broken off with a primitive sort of curry comb attached to the handle of the driver's whip. Twenty-five versts, or about two and a half hours of this sort of temperature, was quite enough at a stretch, as I soon found, and the sight of the village boundary fence was always a welcome sight, as betokening the end of another spell. The novelty of sledge traveling soon wears off, especially on a road like this, where there is so

little to vary the eternal monotony of the dense forests or rolling plains on either side of one. The same dreary aspects seemed to repeat themselves over and over again almost at every turn of the road, whilst the various villages resembled each other so much that it was at times hard to believe we were not returning to the one we had just left. I do not propose wearying you with a detailed account of the 43 stations between Krasnoyarsk and Irkutsk, for a description of one, which I have already given, suffices for all.

So much so, in fact, that although I tried hard to see something more to sketch, I could discover nothing I had not already seen and sketched on our journey up the Yenisei, or in Yeniseisk, or Krasnoyarsk. Where, for instance, in France, every little pays has its individual character, so to speak, here in Siberia, from one end to the other of this enormous continent, all is the same. And if you have studied one portion of it, you have studied

all, of course with the exception of the Aborigines, who naturally differ according to their tribes. For my own part, I can assert that I saw absolutely no difference, either in the build of the houses, or the dress or customs of the inhabitants, all the way from Golchika, the tiny settlement on the tundras far away within the Arctic Circle, and Chiaakta, a distance of nearly 3,000 miles.

And from what I hear, it's the same from the Urals to the Pacific. It almost seems as though it had been ordained by Imperial Ukesi that all over this vast empire the inhabitants should everywhere adopt the same costumes and build and furnish their houses always on the same pattern. What strikes one most on the long stretches of road is the total absence of isolated cottages or farmhouses

which so help to enliven a landscape in Europe. Once beyond the fence which encircles the limits of each village commune, all signs of habitation and even cultivation instantly cease, and no more are seen till the next commune is reached. The road then passes through a big wooden gate with high posts on either side.

Just inside this is a small sentry box, in which a watchman is always stationed during the summer months to see that the gate is kept closed, and so keep the cattle from straying outside the boundary. In the winter the gate is always open.

In the distance one then sees the long, dreary stretch of village street, with a green-roofed ostrug, or prison, and the public granary standing out in relief against the dilapidated wooden hovels. Everywhere, as a rule, there seems an entire absence of human life. The post house is only distinguishable from the other houses,

by its having black and white lampposts on either side of the door, and the Russian coat of arms painted on a board over it. Of course, there were flourishing villages here and there, but so few. Kansk, Nizhny, Yudinsk, Tulong, and the large village of Kotulik are really the only places worth mentioning in this long road.

At Tulong, the streets were actually lighted up at night. At these places, of course, the post-houses were better furnished and looked after, but they were but oases among the number of wretched and uncomfortable ones although I must in justice admit that with only one or two exceptions they were all as clean as soap and water could make them. But then, soap and water does not restore dilapidations or rebuild ramshackle places, unfortunately,

and many were very dilapidated indeed, and scarcely worthy being called government post-houses. The same ideas of ventilation evidently prevail all over Siberia, for everywhere I found the windows hermetically sealed. In most instances, when the stove was in full blaze, the atmosphere was simply stifling, as may be imagined after it's been confined in these stuffy rooms for six long winter months and being breathed over and over again by hundreds and hundreds of travelers.

However, à la guerre comme à la guerre, and in the wilds of Siberia, it would have been absurd to expect to find European notions of sanitation. With but one exception, I had no difficulty whatever in getting horses at each station. In fact, in most instances, the fresh team was generally ready to start before I was, so I could not complain about being kept waiting.

The one exception I refer to occurred at Kansk, where I arrived unfortunately too late at night to be able to look round this interesting and flourishing little town, as I should have had ample time to have done for unreaching the post-house. The Staroster, as the postmaster is called, courteously informed me that no horses could be had till three the next morning, six hours to wait. Luckily, the waiting room was as clean and comfortable as one could have wished it, so I decided to have supper at once and turn in on the sofa for a few hours. A tin of Irish stew washed down by a glass or two of vodka and a cup of black coffee

seemed a feast for a king after the hasty meals I had been having since leaving Krasnoyarsk. So when I did turn in an hour later, it was to immediately fall into the deep sleep which naturally follows when one has got outside a square meal and one has a good digestion. Although I had particularly asked the station master to call me as soon as the horses arrived, I suppose, like the Irish servant in Lever's story,

he did not like to knock too hard at the door for fear of waking me, for I was only awakened at eight o'clock the next morning by the sun streaming into my eyes. Still, I was not exactly sorry for the few hours I had lost, as I had a splendid rest, and after a good sluice and a bucket of ice-cold water,

felt fit as ninepence, though why ninepence should be fit I know not, and did ample justice to a good breakfast before starting. Moreover, as it turned out, after leaving the town, we passed through some of the finest forest scenery I have ever seen, and which it would

have been a pity to have missed, for there was really so little that was interesting, that I should have been sorry to have passed any that was during the night. Either the big road, for some reason or other, was blocked, or else the driver thought he knew a near cut. Anyway, we shortly after made a detour of several miles and went straight across the forest itself by a rough sort of track. It was a wild, desolate-looking place, the trees meeting overhead

causing a dim twilight, which considerably helped to heighten the effect, just the sort of place one would not have been astonished to meet a bear or a pack of wolves in. In fact, I was fondly hoping to see something and got my rifle ready. But in the still mysterious depths of the dense jungle, no sign whatever of life was visible. Over the thick carpet of snow, the sledge glided noiselessly, even the sound of horses' hoofs was muffled, and the deadly silence of the surroundings was only

broken now and again by the subdued jingle of the Duga bells. I could not help thinking how serious it would have been if an accident had occurred to the sledge or horses just about here, for the near cut was evidently not the usual road, as the whole length of it we were entirely alone. It must have taken us at least three hours to do the next fifteen miles or so, for the track was so narrow in places, and so blocked by abutting trees, that at times it seemed doubtful whether

the sledge would pass at all, so tight a squeeze was it. However, at last we got through and out into the broad daylight on the high road again, when for a few seconds the light seemed absolutely dazzling, half to the semi-obscurity we had just left. Although we passed through many miles of dense forest after this, we did so on the regular road, and in the full glare of the midday sun, so my impressions were very different to those received in the lonely track we had just come

through. The next day or two were uneventful, and as there was nothing new to see, the stoppages at the different post-houses usually came as a pleasant break to the journey, and an excuse to get out of the sledge and call for the samovar. By the way, talking of samovars, it is really astonishing how quickly one takes to the Russian way of drinking weak tea without milk, boiling hot, out of a tumbler. There is no doubt about it that one can appreciate the full flavor of the tea

better that way than as we drink it in England, although to drink out of a cup appears to me much more convenient than out of a tumbler, and I'm surprised the Russians don't think so, for there is not the slightest doubt which is the more practical. An interesting incident occurred shortly after leaving the village of Rasgonaia. I had learnt at the station that a large gang of prisoners had passed a few days previously, so hurried on as much as possible in the hope of

overtaking it, and at any rate seeing something which would break the monotony of the journey. The road, which hitherto had passed through forest land, was now open on either side, and for miles ahead the rolling, snow-covered plains stretched, relieved, so to speak, only by the winding road and its endless vista of telegraph poles. During the morning I had notice that we were continually passing rough-looking men on foot, hurrying along, always in the same

direction, as though on important business. Now in any other country than Siberia, such an occurrence would pass unnoticed, for Shank's pony is a cosmopolitan beast, and among certain classes generally the only means of locomotion. Here, however, in the wilds of Siberia, a foot-traveler is an extreme rarity outside a village, hence my surprise. At last it occurred to me to ask Matveyev if he could tell me what these curious-looking men were, and what they were doing on the road

so far from a village. Imagine my surprise when, without the slightest hesitation, he told me they were bradiaga, or runaway prisoners, from the party on ahead. I could scarcely believe it, so he suggested our stopping the next one we met, and he would then convince me of the truth of his statement. To him there was evidently not so much novelty in the incident as to me, for as an ex- gendarme he could probably spot a prisoner at a glance. I had not long to wait, for in a short

time there appeared in the far distance, another of these gentlemen hurrying towards us. I thought it would not be a bad idea to take his photo, so ordered the Yem's chick to stop, and, getting out of the sledge, waited till the fellow got up abreast of us. Matveyev then called out to him to come over to where we were, for he was on the far side of the road, which, as is usual in Siberia, was of enormous width. The fellow, in his anxiety to get along as quickly as possible, had evidently not

noticed that we were stopping, for when he heard us call out to him and he looked up and caught sight of us, a most curious look came over his face, which we could not help remarking. Whether it was the sight of my revolver, which I always wore outside my coat, or the gendarme cat Matveyev had on, I cannot tell. But he looked round wildly for a second over the snow-covered plain as though meditating a bolt. Then, realizing perhaps that he could not possibly get away,

he seemed to make up his mind and came slowly over toward us. When he got close up, we then saw that he was simply trembling in every limb with fright, whilst his mouth was quivering to such an extent that it was positively painful to see such a picture of abject fear. Although he was a great big hulking fellow and had an ugly-looking cudgel under his arm, he was as unnerved and cowed as a beaten dog, and evidently expected us to immediately handcuff him and take

him back at the tail of the sledge to the party he had escaped from. The delight of the poor wretch when he learnt that I only wanted to photograph him was almost curious to witness, and he offered no objection to my carrying out my fell purpose. Matveyev, then, to prove to me that the man really was, as he said, a bradyaga, coolly went up to him, and, lifting up his sheepskin coat, lo and behold, underneath were his prison clothes, whilst hidden by his high peasant boots were the

ends of his chains, still attached to the anklets, which he had not yet had time to remove. His head, also, he showed me by removing his cap, had been half-shaved in the usual convict manner. Whatever his crime, it was certainly no business of ours to re-arrest him, so I took the photo of him and then gave him a few kopecks for standing. Before letting him go, out of curiosity I asked him where he was going to.

To my astonishment, he replied, Moscow. The idea of his setting out on foot to accomplish over 3,000 miles home in the depth of winter struck me as being an awful task to undertake. At the next station, the Starostar, on my mentioning the incident, informed me that in the village they were simply infested with runaway convicts after a convoy had

passed, and that at night the barns and outhouses were always occupied. He had known as many as a dozen men sleeping in the bathhouse of the station. The baths in a Russian village are generally in wooden outbuildings. The peasants, he further informed me, so far from interfering with the fouillards, or thinking even of giving them up, supply them on the quiet with bread and broken victuals, so that at any rate there is no fear of them dying of hunger within the village

commune. As a matter of fact, the men themselves know they can always reckon on something to eat in every place they have to pass through, and it's grown to be such a regular custom, this providing of food for them, that they take it as a matter of course. The wind, which hitherto had somewhat lulled, now recommenced with renewed force. Fortunately, however, owing to the road going in a different direction, it was at our backs,

for so hard did it blow that the country presented the effect almost of steaming under it, owing to the driving particles of snow, and one could only see a few yards ahead through the sort of white fog enveloping everything, and we should have doubtless had an unpleasant time if we had been going against it. I was much struck with the scarcity of travellers we met, either on the road or in the stations, for only on two or three occasions did we meet anyone or find the waiting

room occupied. At one place the imperial mail, bound for Irkutsk, came up while we were there, half a dozen of the shabbiest and most ramshackle of sledges, in charge of an equally seedy and shabby individual in a dirty old sheepskin coat, and with an enormous revolver in his belt. I could not help feeling somewhat disappointed, for from what I had previously read,

I had expected to see a dashing courier, resplendent in green and gold and armed to the teeth. So had my sketchbook in readiness as soon as I heard that the mail had arrived. At another station I found the room occupied by a family, consisting of a lady and a gentleman, and no less than four children and a maid. By some accident, I discovered that the lady spoke German, so we had quite a long chat together.

She informed me that they had come straight away from far of Vladivostok, and were going to St. Petersburg, a journey which, from start to finish, would probably take them ten weeks, that is, if they stopped nowhere on the road. Her husband, who was a government official, she told me,

had been in bad health for some time past, and had been recommended to go to St. Petersburg to get the highest of medical advice. This is the longest journey I ever heard of to see a doctor. I saw them start again shortly after, and although there were so many of them, they had such a huge sledge that they all seemed to pack into it quite comfortably.

You may imagine how refreshing, so to speak, it was, after the sort of wilderness we'd come through, to find that the next station, Toulon, was quite a busy little town. Its many and well-built streets actually lighted up, while several important-looking shops and large houses

helped to give quite a lively appearance to the place. The post-house itself was also quite up to the town, and not only boasted of several large and well-furnished rooms, but also a big apartment, most handsomely decorated, in which, I was informed, the governor of Irkutsk held receptions when he had occasion to visit the town. Tulung, though an old town, was certainly one of the prettiest and most flourishing I had passed through, and my only regret was that it was night when we got there, for I should like to have sketched some of the bits I saw,

notably the beautiful house of the merchant, Mr. Shokunov, which stands exactly opposite the post station, for it struck me as being a splendid specimen of Russian architecture. After doing a little shopping and a look around and a feed, once more I got underway. The next few stations were wretchedly uncomfortable,

or anyway they seemed so, perhaps out of contrast to the nice one we had just left, so there was little temptation to loiter in them longer than was absolutely necessary whilst waiting for the fresh horses. At Terezkaya, where we had to cross the Oka, The road went along the center of the river on the ice for several miles,

and the high wooded banks on either side gave it a most peculiar and striking appearance, not unlike a railway cutting. The next place of interest we came to was the large village of Kutulik, or rather small town, for it contains over 1,100 inhabitants. The post-house here was without exception the smartest on the whole road.

The waiting room, which was really well furnished, was not only full of plants and flowers, but actually had pictures on the walls. Not the usual cheap religious ones, but good oleographs. Whilst, to add to the good impression caused by these attempts at luxury, I learnt that there was a real dinner ready if I cared to take of it.

You may imagine I jumped at it after living on tin food for nearly a week. The wife of the starostra had evidently been a professed cook in her time, judging from the result and the way I was served. After dinner I lit my pipe and had a stroll through the village, whilst Matveyev was looking after the horses.

The streets presented so lively and animated an appearance that I spent more time than I had intended to, wandering about in search of subjects. The inhabitants were evidently used to artists, for neither my sketchbook nor my camera attracted any particular attention. During the night after leaving Kutulik occurred the accident, which I have already referred to. We had started from the station of Polo Vilnaia at about 1.30 a.m., and I was soon fast asleep.

How long I had been asleep I know not, but I was suddenly woke up by an indescribable sort of sensation that the sledge had changed front. I sprang up, and raising the hood, looked out, when, to my no slight dismay, I discovered that we were on a long and steep hill, and that the horses had lost all control over the sledge, which was skidding down sideways at a rate that increased every instant. Matveyev was immediately as wide awake as myself, and we both sat and looked out and waited breathlessly for the result, which was absolutely inevitable, for it would have been utter madness to have attempted to jump out,

encumpered as we both were with our heavy furs and the stiff apron of the sledge. Although the driver urged the horses to their very top speed, they could not get ahead of the heavy vehicle, which had obtained complete mastery over them and was simply dragging them along with it. Just before reaching the bottom of the hill was a slight rise in the road such as one sees on a switchback railway. Here the driver was shot off his seat as out of a catapult,

and a few yards further down, the sledge turned completely over into a huge drift of snow by the side of the road. The luggage was so firmly wedged in that it barely moved, and both Matveyev and I were also so firmly boxed in that we found ourselves lying on our sides, completely helpless. Fortunately, a large caravan was coming along at the moment, and the men, seeing our predicament, immediately hurried up and soon righted the sledge again.

The horses, I forgot to add, stopped at once as soon as they felt the resistance offered by the deep snow. This little misadventure was evidently a usual occurrence to them, and also to the driver, who turned up unhurt and smiling a few seconds after, and soon we were off again as fast as ever. For the moment I thought we had got off scot-free, for the sledge was uninjured, and neither Matveyev nor I felt any ill effects from the spill.

A few stations further on, however, when going to get out of the sledge I felt a nasty pain in my right ankle, and found, on trying to walk, that my leg was so stiff I could not use it. Here was a pretty go. I was evidently in for a bad sprain, and I knew what that meant. Luckily, Matveyev was an old soldier in every sense of the word, and rose to the occasion,

for without the slightest hesitation he insisted on my not moving, and also on his putting me on a snow compress. In the meantime it was decided that we should hurry on to Irkutsk, which was now only some forty versts off, without any unnecessary delay. In spite, however, of the cold compress, the pain in my foot, probably aggravated by the movement of the sledge, increased to such an extent that I was in positive agony when at last we came in sight of our destination,

and the many golden kopalos and minarets of the capital of eastern Siberia stood out clear and defined as a picture against the bright morning sky. The scene was a beautiful one, and I could not help enjoying it in spite of the acute pain I was suffering. Our road lay right across the frozen river Angara, the most beautiful river in the world, as it has been called. It was a Sunday morning, and crowds of gaily dressed peasants on foot and in sledges were

making their way towards the city in the brilliant sunshine. The air resounded with a merry ring of sledge bells, whilst the many quaint costumes and curious conveyances gave an aspect of gaiety and life to a scene the like of which I had not yet witnessed in Siberia. My only regret was that owing to my being unable to move, I could not get out of the

sledge to make a sketch or take a photograph. However, I promised myself not to lose sight of the subject and to return on the very first occasion when my foot would allow me. A few minutes afterwards the driver drew up outside a large triumphal arch, standing at the entrance to the city, and removed the Duga bells before passing through, as nowhere in Siberia are these allowed except on the high road.

My eight days' tedious journey was at last ended, and it was with a veritable feeling of relief that I found myself passing through the broad, well-built streets, with the prospect of soon being once again in a comfortable and well-appointed hotel. The end of section 15.