CHAPTER VIII.

THE END OF THE RAILWAY.

Eastward from Tomsk the Trans-Siberian Railway passes through a country of mountainous aspect. The foothills between the Obi River and Tomsk itself develop into mountain ranges, up which the road-bed of the railway is taken by many tortuous windings to the very top. As an engineering feat, the railway engineers have to be commended for the enterprise as a whole, but the shocking manner in which the line itself is laid will always preclude any decent pace being attained on its metals. Instead of cuttings or tunnelings, the whole line from Tigre to Krasnoiarsk is but a series of sharp curves. Rather than tunnel or cut through a bluff of insignificant proportions, the banking will be carried around in zigzag fashion, only to meet another bluff not a quarter of a mile away, which needs further curves.

Haste is shown in every feature of this section of the Siberian railroad. At the outset of the enterprise it was estimated that Irkutsk would be reached by the end of 1897; but while the laying of the road over the flat steppes from Chelabinsk to the Obi River offered no insuperable difficulties to the engineer, the mountains which had to be traversed further on had been looked upon with too optimistic an eye, and the consequence is that, in order to avoid borings or cuttings, the line has been carried many miles out of its way, at a cost far exceeding that which would have covered a properly laid and properly engineered road-bed.

I had conversations with several engineers on this subject, but I must confess that what I heard came rather as a shock to my ideas of Russian State enterprise. “You see,” said one, “that we are engaged to lay this railroad. It is to be finished all the way in about three years’ time; after that what are _we_ going to do?” In other words, the suggestion was that it would be foolish to kill the goose which laid the golden eggs. And in corroboration of this I have heard many suggestions from influential people in Siberia that the construction of the railway has from its very commencement been one vast scheme of bribery, corruption, and general mismanagement. Accidents to the first trains to run over new sections have been numerous. On one new piece of road between Marinsk and Atchinsk the first engine to travel over the road disappeared bodily through the ballast into a small river below, necessitating a delay of several months for repairs and another excuse for extra pay. Still, all along that line there are signs of prosperity. The peasantry, heretofore employed in agricultural pursuits or the breeding of horses, are employed at wages which to them seem fabulous. Prices have gone up all round, and everybody seems more or less independent--and cheeky at that. Short-sighted, perhaps, for in a few years, when the construction of the line shall be completed, they will have to go back to their old pursuits, with less chance of making those pursuits remunerative.

A day and a half after leaving Tomsk the train arrived at the banks of the Chulim River, rather a small stream when compared to the Obi, Tom, or Irtish, but still broad enough to make two of the River Thames at London Bridge. A novel experience awaited us here, and one which we had not bargained for. As on the Obi, the bridge was not finished--in fact, only a couple of spans had been completed. The Russian engineer, however, did not do here what he did at Kreveschokovo. Instead of landing us out of the train to take sledges across the river, he made use of Nature’s bridge, and that was the ice itself. A quarter of a mile from the river the rails diverted from the main road, and continued down the slope, and so on across the ice to the Atchinsk side. The whole thing was so unexpected and so novel that each one of us four gasped in astonishment. How deep the river was we did not know; and whether the ice was thick enough to bear the several hundreds of tons of locomotive and fifteen heavy carriages was another problem. Anyway, we were all glad when, as the train drew slowly up on the bank of the river, the conductor came up and requested us to descend and walk to the other side--cheerfully remarking that if the train went through only he, his fellow-conductors, and the engine-drivers would be drowned. We descended. A cheerless waste of ice stretched before us; beyond, over the river, we could see the glint of the sun on the brazen dome of a church in Atchinsk, with the twilight gathering in its greyness behind. The half-finished bridge stood out on our right, gaunt and spidery, and nothing around us but the eternal white of the snow.

Out came the passengers, a nondescript and heterogeneous crowd, smothered in furs, and all looking like gigantic bales of wool. Down the bank and out on to the ice of the river we went; moujiks jabbering, Chinovniks hustling through the crowd, and we, more interested than any, slowly progressing in order to see the effect the train would have in its passage across the ice. A whistle sounded, then another, and yet another. The engine snorted, puffed, snorted again, puffed three or four times and got up way slowly, drew to the shelving bank and laboriously descended on to the ice. There was a distinct crunch as it did so, and another crunch when the first car rolled on; but gradually the whole train descended, and, at a pace not exceeding five miles an hour, moved across the frozen surface. As it passed us we felt the ice quiver, and heard innumerable cracks, like the reports of pistols in the distance; but the train got across the centre safely, spurted when near the bank, climbed up, and was on _terra firma_ again.

As a novel piece of railway engineering, I think the passage of the Chulim River deserves commendation. Naturally it was impossible to nail the ties to the ice, but the Russian engineer had obviated this difficulty by freezing them on, and kept them frozen on by continual douches of water which was brought in buckets from a hole in the ice. I do not know the exact weight of that train, but it must have been considerably heavier than an ordinary English train, inasmuch as the carriages are built on a much more solid plan than our own. What struck me more than anything was the indifference which all the passengers, except ourselves, displayed in the affair. The taciturnity and nonchalance of the Russian becomes almost exasperating at times. Here, in face of what was distinctly a novel piece of railway travelling, there was no one with the exception of our four selves to pass a word of commendation, condemnation, or admiration of the feat.

Five minutes later we rolled into Atchinsk, where three mortal hours were spent in a station which was, metaphorically speaking, little larger than a bandbox, and not half so comfortable.

Through the night on we went, toiling over mountain passes, through deep glens, or in and out gigantic forest glades, but with that eternal snow everywhere, with nothing around us which was inspiring or inspiriting. No moon, but with glinting stars that shed a pale light down upon a melancholy and deserted country. Morning broke, still we clattered on, but thankful that we were nearing our journey’s end. In a few hours we should reach Krasnoiarsk, and there the Trans-Siberian Railway would end, and we should have to resort to the primitive method of locomotion which Siberians have known for hundreds of years, and which they still cling fondly to--the tarantass sledge.

In the early morning we were descending the slopes of the mountain range towards the valley of the Yenesei. Our train, in spite of the indifferently laid road, got up something like a speed at times, although I must admit the effect was not one to inspire confidence. Round narrow curves and over trestle bridges, high embankments, and across deep, sullen gorges, down which latter the very snow looked black and forbidding. It was a great time, then, when the conductor came and intimated that in one hour we should arrive at our journey’s end. We commenced packing our traps with feverish haste; unpacked them again when we found that we wanted something; packed them up, and unpacked, in a delightful mood, engendered by the thoughts of something fresh in store. At length we descended into the valley of the Yenesei, and soon observed, from the end windows of the corridor carriages, the little white town of Krasnoiarsk away in the distance.

At the station we repeated our experience of Tomsk--with one stupefying alteration. This was the presentation of a hotel card by a dirty looking individual who said, in broken German, that he was an interpreter. Could it be possible that here, right out in the wilds of Siberia, we had struck some sort of civilization? An interpreter! We questioned him eagerly. What sort of hotel was it that he owed allegiance to?--meanwhile that clamorous drosky drivers, crowding around us, expatiated at length upon the merits of their particular horses.

More sledging and more bumping over the frost-bound roads. The station, as in duty bound, was three miles from the town, and a brisk drive of half an hour landed us into its main street.

I must confess, however, that my impressions upon arrival were considerably better than they had been on landing at Tomsk. Krasnoiarsk is smaller, but it is much cleaner, and its situation is one which cannot fail to elicit admiration. The tall mountains rear up all around it, and in the narrow cleft on a low belt of land, past which the broad and majestic Yenesei has its course, Krasnoiarsk lies. With the exception of the one opening in the cliffs the town is entirely sheltered; thus it was not surprising to find the snow not nearly so deep as we had found it in other parts of Siberia--in fact, on several parts of the high street we found our sledges running on the brown earth of the roadway--while the atmosphere was distinctly warmer than we had experienced so far.

The hotel which we put up at was attached to the post-station, a long low building, but surprisingly clean and well ordered in comparison with other Siberian hotels which we had stayed at. We even found, when on a voyage of discovery, a billiard-table in the basement, and great was our amazement thereat. The proprietor of the hotel, who was a Jew of the most Hebrew cast of countenance possible to conceive, busied himself to a great extent. He got us food in an incredibly short space of time, he did all that he could to assist us in our difficulties, and he did something more--and that was to ingratiate himself into our favour of his race.

It is freely stated that Krasnoiarsk will become in the space of a few short years the most important city in all Siberia. At the present time it is, like Tomsk, a town of merchants and gold-miners. It is something more--it is a penal settlement. About eighty per cent. of the population of Krasnoiarsk consists of exiles, and these include not only the very lowest class of the peasantry, but some of the wealthiest and most influential men of the town. In Siberia it holds something of a black name on account of its enormous percentage of exiled criminals, and I have heard it said that, so great is the bond between exile and exile, that the inhabitant who is a native-born Siberian, and not the descendant of a convict, is not only tabooed from the so-called society of the town, but has a very bad time in commercial matters. I give the following story for what it is worth, but it is related that a certain merchant of Krasnoiarsk found such difficulty in doing business with the inhabitants, in view of that bond of sympathy existing between the exiles, that he determined to become one of their class. To this end he journeyed to St. Petersburg, committed a crime, and was sent to Siberia in chains. After doing a short term of imprisonment in the Alexandrovsk prison at Irkutsk, he journeyed back to Krasnoiarsk, recommenced his business, and got on famously. Lie or no lie, I saw enough in my little stay in this penal settlement to convince me that, however little honour there may be amongst thieves, there is a great deal of sympathy.

[Illustration: KRASNOIARSK FROM THE RIVER.]

To Englishmen Krasnoiarsk will be interesting from the fact that it is the point of debarkation for English steamers. A few years ago Captain Wiggins, an explorer of Northern seas, conceived the idea of forcing the passage of the Kara Sea to the mouth of the Yenesei River, and then to proceed by stream over a thousand miles to Krasnoiarsk. After many fruitless attempts he succeeded in his object, and to his success was due the formation of the Siberian Trading Syndicate. The Russian Government was approached, and in order to encourage foreign enterprise in Siberia a special concession was given to the English syndicate, which allowed them to carry goods viâ the Kara Sea and the Yenesei River into the heart of Siberia, free of duty. At the time, it was predicted that nothing could stop the gigantic success of the enterprise, but bungling at home and an ignorance of the requirements of the Siberian trader led to complications and vicissitudes. Goods were sent out which were of no earthly use to the Siberians. Ships came along loaded to the very decks with goods which are to this day lying rotting or rusting on the banks of the Yenesei. Much money was lost, but considerable experience gained. The company was reconstructed again and again; but, hard on the heels of the enterprise, came the Trans-Siberian Railway, and whatever chances the Kara Sea route to Siberia may have had in the past, it is difficult to reconcile its success in the future with the construction of railway communication from the Baltic to the Pacific.

In this Siberian enterprise the name of Mr. Leyland Popham, a well-known London financier, stands out prominently. He has spent many thousands of pounds in the development of his hobby, and it is to be regretted that with special and unheard of concessions to foreigners in Siberia his enterprise should not have borne better fruit. It only exemplifies, however, the difficulty which all foreigners must experience in trading with a country so different in every respect to Europe.

The conditions of Siberia, it should always be remembered, are diametrically opposed to those of the Western states; but it is a difficult matter to convince the stay-at-homes of this fact, that they are not dealing with a civilized country, but one which is even more barbarous and primitive than the most barbarous and primitive of the British colonies. It is a country where prejudice ranks above everything, and where it is almost impossible to convince. The Siberian is not the sort of man who will accept for gospel truth, by means of an advertisement, that such and such a pick, or such and such a machine, are better than the implements which his grandfather used. What he wants you to do is to go there, demonstrate by actual working that your instrument _is_ better than his, and then he will buy. This feeling has contributed more to the failure of foreign enterprise in Russia than many people are prone to admit.

Krasnoiarsk is also famous in connection with the Chinese tea trade. The tea traffic of Russia, as my readers are perhaps aware, is one of enormous proportions, and the Chinese tea which travels overland from the fertile valleys south of the Great Wall, over the Gobi Desert, through Urga, Kiakta, and Irkutsk, is handled in its commercial sense by the great tea-merchants of Krasnoiarsk. Most of this traffic occurs during the winter, when the frozen roads offer greater facilities for travel than during summer, when mud, sand, and deep dust makes travelling on the post-roads an extremely difficult undertaking. From the time when the snow fairly settles on the high-road, some time in October, until the break up in April, the whole road over the desert south of Lake Baikal, and the Yeneseik Mountains, is one line of tea caravans. It is sent in its original bales by the Chinese grower, but in Krasnoiarsk is redistributed to the various centres of the Empire. Many men have made fortunes out of the tea trade, which soon became almost a monopoly, and how this came about forms the subject of an interesting story.

Some forty years ago a certain merchant in Krasnoiarsk, who handled an enormous amount of Chinese tea, conceived the rather novel idea, at least to Siberians, of insuring his caravans. This was in the time when escaped prisoners, brigands, cut-throats, and general desperadoes thronged the high-road between Irkutsk and Krasnoiarsk, and as the caravans, each one consisting of some forty to fifty sledges, were in the charge of only two men to each caravan, there was considerable danger of not only losing the tea but also the horses. Our wily tea-trader, however, went even one better than the insurance scheme could give him. He actually employed thieves to stop his own caravans and steal his own tea. The stolen tea the hired thieves brought along to him by a circuitous route, and was sold by him _sub rosâ_, while he pocketed the insurance indemnity which the then guileless companies paid up with a liberal hand. By such methods as these, this particular tea-trader grew up in affluence, and, being in a land where swindling was only part and parcel of the general condition of things, when the bubble burst things were hushed up, and he went on his career smilingly, a rich man and an independent. Being an exile, however, and forbidden to leave Siberia for life, his wealth availed him little, for it could not be spent beyond the confines of his home. Still, the exercise of his capital was so great that in the few years of his trading he had been able to crush all formidable opposition, and could not only supply all markets of Siberia and European Russia at a cheaper rate than any other trader, but he was able to purchase from the Chinese grower a class of tea which could not be rivalled. Whether the Government was reluctant to make a scandal of his pecadilloes, or preferred to let things slide in consideration of the excellent tea with which this trader supplied the community it is difficult to say, but it only constitutes one of those peculiarities of Russian customs which are for ever offering problems to he who cares to think.