The Night Was Fine And Clear, But The Sea Around
Black As Ink, With Great Foaming White Rollers.
The decks, a foot
deep in snow, were deserted save by Z - - and the steersman, whose
silhouettes stood out black and distinct against the starlit sky as
they paced the rickety-looking little bridge flanked by red and green
lights.
The Enzelli lighthouse was no longer visible. The latter is
under the care of Persians, who light it, or not, as the humour takes
them. This is, on dark nights, a source of considerable danger to
shipping; but, though frequently remonstrated with by the Russian
Government, the Shah does not trouble his head about the matter.
Three routes to Teheran were now open to us: back to Baku, thence to
Tiflis, and over the mountains to Talriz, - very dubious on account of
the snow; the second, from Baku to Astrabad, and thence _via_ Mount
Demavend, - still more dubious on account of bad landing as well as
blocked passes; there remained to us Astara, and along the sea-beach
(no road) to Enzelli, with swollen rivers and no post-horses. All
things considered, we resolved to land at Astara, even at the risk of
a ducking. Daylight found us there, anchored a mile from the shore,
and a heavy swell running. But there is no bar here; only a shelving
sandy beach, on which, even in rough weather, there is little
danger. Some good-sized boats came out to the _Kaspia_ with fish and
vegetables, and we at once resolved to land. Anything sooner than
return to Baku!
"There is no road from Astara," said Z - - , "and deep rivers to cross.
You will be robbed and murdered like the Italian who travelled this
way three years ago! He was the last European to do so."
Gerome remembers the incident. In fact, he says, the murdered man was
a friend of his, travelling to Teheran with a large sum of money.
Unable to land at Resht, and impatient to reach his destination, he
took the unfrequented route, was waylaid, robbed, tied to a tree, and
left to starve. "He was alone and unarmed, though," says my companion;
adding with a wink, "Let them try it on with us!"
Seeing remonstrance is useless, Z - - wishes us God-speed. The
good-natured Swede presses a box of Russian cigarettes into my hand
as I descend the ladder - a gift he can ill afford - and twenty minutes
later our boat glides safely and smoothly on Persian soil.
It was a lovely day, and the blue sky and sunshine, singing of birds,
and green of plain and forest, a pleasant relief to the eye and senses
after the cold and misery of the past two days. Astara (though the
port of Tabriz) is an insignificant place, its sole importance lying
in the fact that it is a frontier town. On one side of the narrow
river a collection of ramshackle mud huts, neglected gardens, foul
smells, beggars, and dogs - Persia; on the other, a score of neat stone
houses, well-kept roads and paths, flower-gardens, orchards, a pretty
church, and white fort surrounded by the inevitable black-and-white
sentry-boxes, guarded by a company of white-capped Cossacks - Russia. I
could not help realizing, on landing at Astara, the huge area of this
vast empire. How many thousand miles now separated me from the last
border town of the Great White Czar that I visited - Kiakhta, on the
Russo-Chinese frontier?
Surrounded by a ragged mob, we walked to the village to see about
horses and a lodging for the night. The latter was soon found - a
flat-roofed mud hut about thirty feet square, devoid of chimney or
furniture of any kind. The floor, cracked in several places, was
crawling with vermin, and the walls undermined with rat-holes; but in
Persia one must not be particular. Leaving our baggage in the care of
one "Hassan," a bright-eyed, intelligent-looking lad, and instructing
him to prepare a meal, we made for the bazaar, a hundred yards away,
through a morass, knee deep in mud and abomination of all kinds, to
procure food.
A row of thirty or forty mud huts composed the "bazaar," where, having
succeeded in purchasing tea, bread, eggs, and caviar, we turned our
attention to horseflesh.
An old Jew having previously agreed to convert, at exorbitant
interest, our rouble notes into "sheis" and kerans, negotiations for
horses were then opened by Gerome, and, as the _patois_ spoken in
Astara is a mixture of Turkish and Persian, with a little Tartar
thrown in, his task was no easy one, especially as every one spoke at
once and at the top of their voices. We discovered at last that but
few of the villagers owned a horse, and those who did were very
unwilling to let the animal for such an uncertain journey. "Who is
going to guarantee that the 'Farangis' will not steal it?" asked one
ragged, wild-looking fellow in sheepskins and a huge lamb's-wool cap.
"Or get it stolen from them?" added another, with a grin. "They can
have my old grey mare for two hundred kerans, but you won't catch me
letting her for hire," added a third.
With the aid of our friend, the Jew, however, we finally persuaded
the sheepskin gentleman (a native of Khiva) to change his mind. After
considerable haggling as to price, he disappeared, to return with two of
the sorriest steeds I ever set eyes on. "We ought to reach Enzelli in
about three days, if we do not get our throats cut," said the Khivan, who
was to accompany us, encouragingly.
Hassan had been busy in our absence; he had prepared an excellent
pilaff, and sent to Russian Astara for some kaketi wine, which was
brought over in a goatskin. This, with our own provisions bought in
the morning, furnished a substantial and much-needed meal. Persian
native bread is somewhat trying at first to a weak digestion.
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