CHAPTER VI.

IN THE OBI VALLEY.

Three days after leaving Omsk, the train drew up at the rather important station of Kreveschokovo. It was important as a station, because here was the first check in our train journey from the Hook of Holland. We had arrived, as a matter of fact, at the end of the railway metals which lay in one continuous line from the most western part of Europe right to the banks of the Obi River. The bridge had not yet been completed over this colossal water highway, and in order to resume our train journey it was necessary to take sledges from the station of Kreveschokovo, across the river to the station of Ob.

I think that everybody was more or less glad that the bridge was not completed. To ride in a sledge, after being cooped up in the overheated train, was a bit of a change, at any rate, and I must confess that we four Englishmen jumped at the chance.

We had reached the end of the steppe, and before us now lay mountainous country, and the difficulties which the engineers of the Trans-Siberian Railway had experienced were evident on all hands. The Obi at this point was some two miles wide, and a bridge over such a distance as that was no mean task. The railway, we understood, was completed almost as far as Kansk, nearly a thousand miles further on; but in spite of all the haste of the Russian engineers, the Obi bridge was yet far from completion.

In the gathering twilight of an early February afternoon we stood out on a bluff overlooking the frozen river and surveyed the workings of what must rank as a monumental engineering enterprise. The Obi bridge is built on the suspension plan on high tiers, and is simply a network of girders and stanchions, great earthworks running up from the level plain on either side to a considerable height.

We alighted, and the kind Russian officials left us to shift for ourselves with regard to transportation across the river. We got out our baggage, which was immediately distributed by energetic porters in various and inaccessible portions of the station, and then wandered out to find something in the shape of a sledge which would carry us to the station of Ob, seven miles away. Unfortunately for our plan, the whole of the passengers of the Siberian train were on the same tack, and knowing Russian better than we, managed at any rate to get hold of the best isvostchiks who ply for hire. Ultimately we were able to secure a basket-work arrangement, tied on a couple of runners, and which was supposed to be drawn by a pair of horses, the size of which, in comparison to the size of the vehicle, was rather ludicrous. Whether it is the cold, or whether it is the terribly hard work which Siberian horses undergo, I don’t know, but I am safe in saying that the average Siberian horse is not much larger than an English donkey. There was, of course, the usual long and interesting bargaining encounter with the driver of the vehicle. From five roubles we got down to two at length, bundled in our baggage, pushed our way through the crowd of harpies who had looked at the whole proceedings and wanted tipping for so doing, and set off.

Down a little road past the station at a mad gallop; swish! round the corner, and out over a level plateau. We banged against tree stumps which stuck out through the snow, cannoned against fence corners protecting some agricultural property, until, with a whirl and a clatter, we dashed down a short slope and were out on the river.

Before us lay the white expanse of ice, but all hummocky and broken. It is difficult to describe the appearance of that frozen river. Instead of a smooth level plain of ice, as one would expect to see, the whole surface was one jumbled mass of broken ice, which seemed as if at the very moment of its breaking, it had been arrested by King Frost and frozen solid. Great lumps, ten to fifteen feet high and four to five feet in thickness, towered above us; smaller pieces hung on to the larger by mere strips, and through this wilderness of congealation, a narrow road had been formed for the passage of vehicles. Over this road we galloped at a terrific pace, bumping and scrunching, whirling and swishing, the drosky clattering from side to side, now on one runner, now on the other, and all our traps jerking about like peas in a frying-pan, while we, poor unfortunate mortals, hung on by one hand, and with the other hand endeavoured to smother the mouth in order to warm the air for the lungs. A few minutes of this brought us into the centre of the river, where the ice was clearer, and a level plain stretched before us. It was a sublime sight then to see that noble river so silent and still, and it was something to realize the marvellous work of Nature in having secured the means to that end.

On again, with the light fading away behind us and the greyness of night creeping up ahead. Through the jagged ice once more, until, with a whoop and a halloo, we scuttled over a narrow stretch where the water oozed and spirted between a crack; then up the bank at a mad scramble, to disappear in a miniature forest, to whirl around at a breakneck speed on the edge of an embankment, and to clatter into the station yard at Ob with smoking horses, excited driver, and bruised bodies we, but pleased nevertheless.

The station at Ob is singular from the fact that previous to the Trans-Siberian Railway passing that way the region was a complete wilderness. Four years ago, when the railway reached that far, houses began to spring up with marvellous rapidity, and at the present time it is difficult to buy a plot of land in the vicinity of the station. Nor is this all. Recognizing that the Trans-Siberian Railway is bound to bring a large number of travellers from the East, who will probably in the summer make use of the great steamboat highway of the Obi system, hotels and magazines have been opened in anticipation of that traffic. All this was very surprising to us in face of the extreme apathy which seemed to obtain in every other part of Siberia so far. But the houses in Ob, although constructed of wood, and the magazines and hotels built on the orthodox Russian principle, were at any rate superior looking to those we had seen thus far.

Next day we arrived at the small station of Tigre. It was called Tigre because “tigre” is Russian for “forest.” This little station was bang in the midst of the most impenetrable forest I had ever set eyes on. It lay, in fact, in the centre of a clearing--in the centre of a pit, it seemed, for the great black trunks of the pines went up all around and left only a circular space of blue sky visible. When the engine whistled the noise echoed and re-echoed through the still forest. When we looked around, what was there to see? We might as well have been dumped out of a balloon in the middle of an uninhabited land, only that the railway gave the lie direct. A small hut representing the station, a side-track with a few waggons, a glimpse of a house amongst the trees, a forlorn-looking engine-shed away up the line, and that was all--all except that bewildering mass of trees packed so closely together that it seemed as if one could scarcely put one’s arm between each trunk--sombre, still, and awe-inspiring. And here, in this inspiriting place, we had to wait no less than nine hours for the train to take us to Tomsk!

Tigre is the junction of the Tomsk railroad, and I have already mentioned the fact that the main line in its neglect of Tomsk has left that town very much stranded. It seems, too, that the Government, resenting the independence of the great Siberian city, has put as many obstacles in the way of travellers thereto as it possibly can. To wait nine hours in a station like Tigre was the sort of thing sufficient to make a man’s blood boil--that is if anything could boil in a temperature of thirty-six below zero, Réaumur.

The Krasnoiarsk train departed. We watched it as it drew slowly out of the station and disappeared in the forest, sparks flying from the funnel of its engine and a wealth of smoke mingling with the snow which covered the tree-tops. There were only a few of us bound for Tomsk--seven, as a matter of fact--and we made four of them. Three were Chinovniks, very much uniformed and very supercilious. There was a buffet of insignificant proportions attached to the station, and in this we did our best to while the time away. It was a hard matter, and an experience well to be forgotten, for, with true Russian perversity, the Tomsk train was got ready to start just about the time when we were all in the middle of slumber.

Our natural ill humour was not reduced upon finding that the Tomsk train contained no first-class _coupés_. Some one explained that up to the present the Tomsk section had received no first-class carriages from the works; so, although we possessed first-class tickets, we were forced to put up with the miserable accommodation provided by some old time-worn cars, which by some chance or other had managed to get so far.

The Tomsk section of the Siberian Railway, being, as it was, a something apart from the great enterprise, was if anything worse than the main line itself. It was miserably laid, and the jerks and joltings which we experienced on that ninety-versts ride did not altogether inspire us with confidence. We slept on bare boards in third-class compartments, because the second-class cushions, after an hour or two’s experience, became altogether too suspicious for longer stay. So we groaned through the night and woke stiff and bruised, unrefreshed and ill tempered. On we hurtled, at the excessive pace of eight miles an hour, seemingly never coming to the end. Day broke, and passed, and afternoon and its darkness came again. Ninety versts were all we had to do, but what with hours spent at wayside stations, which seemed to have no more importance than one hut could show, we got through time grandly, and, just when it was too late for anything, pulled up at Tomsk.

The usual ceremonial, the usual clanging of bells, blowing of whistles, general excitement, and we descended to shake hands with each other on the fact of having arrived in the very centre of Siberia.