It was one thing getting to Ourga, quite another getting out of it, as I found when I made inquiries as to the most expeditious way of crossing the immense waste which lay between me and the Great Wall of China; it was, in fact, mainly owing to this circumstance that I stayed so long in the dreary city, for when I spoke to my Russian friends on the subject, they shook their heads, and expressed an opinion that I would not find it an easy matter to make up so small a caravan as I should require for the journey. And so it proved. Moreover, much to my annoyance, I learnt that there was not one really reliable Mongol in Ourga at the time, and that to think of going alone with doubtful guides would have been to tempt Providence. I was, therefore, advised to make the best of it and postpone my departure for a while, on the chance of something turning up. At length the Russian postmaster, with whom I was on very friendly terms, came to my rescue, and kindly offered to let me accompany the caravan of the Russian Heavy Mail as far as Peking. This was indeed a bit of luck, for the convoy is not only always accompanied by two experienced Cossacks, but does the journey in considerably less time than any ordinary caravan, and my expenses would also be very much lessened.

As the time for my departure approached, my preparations for the long and tedious journey required a good deal of attention, for nothing can be purchased en route. Much to my disappointment, I learned that I should not be able to take my horse with me, as there would be no means of getting sufficient food for him, even if he could stand the long forced marches, for it is only by having relays of fresh camels that the mail can get across so quickly as it does. I had taken the precaution to bring out with me from England a sufficient quantity of tinned provisions to last me right across Siberia and leave me enough for my desert journey. I had also a small American cooking-stove, which the makers (Messrs. Poore and Co., of Cheapside, London) guaranteed would work equally well with coal, wood, or argol (dried camel-dung, the fuel of the desert), and this portable kitchener proved absolutely invaluable; even in wind or rain it worked to perfection, and many were the delicacies it afforded me.

Having overhauled my stock of provisions, my next trouble was to get a cart to travel in, or rather to sleep in, for I was then under the illusion that I should spend the greater part of the daytime on the back of one of our “ships of the desert.” I was soon, however, undeceived; I had forgotten what a bad sailor I am. A camel-cart, as will be seen from my sketch, is of peculiar construction, and I do not think it is possible accurately to describe one of these boxes of torture without going into profanity. No matter how smooth or level may be the road, the camel-cart bumps and jolts about as vigorously as when it is passing over rocks, and the smallest pebble under the wheels will send a spasm through the whole vehicle like an electric shock; in fact, I could not help coming to the conclusion that, were a camel-cart to pass over the smoothest asphalt road, it would be affected by the geological sub-strata and jolt accordingly. There was one thing I discovered beyond a question of a doubt whilst crossing the Gobi in this camel-cart, and that was, that I possessed, under certain conditions, a thorough command of my mother tongue. I managed to hire one of these conveyances, for to have one built expressly is a very expensive affair, and would have taken some little time. I also had to hire an extra camel from the Mongol who runs the mail, for the postmaster only undertook to provide me with one for my baggage, so I had to get another expressly to draw my cart—no easy matter, as I soon found out, for it is not every one of these brutes that will allow himself to be harnessed; and when they don’t at once condescend to walk between the shafts, no manner of persuasion will ever induce them to do so. With a camel whipping is simply out of the question; for, immediately one attempts to chastise him, he either lies down, and refuses to get up, or else starts kicking. Till I went to Mongolia I had always thought that the camel was the most patient and docile of animals. I soon, however, saw that for absolute bad temper and stubbornness he has not his equal anywhere; and, as added to these gentle traits of character, nature has also provided him with a unique and disgusting means of defence, in the form of a power to spit, or rather eject, almost on the slightest provocation, a mass of undigested food, at any one who may be unlucky enough to incur his displeasure, it may be imagined that he is seldom interfered with by strangers, owing to the risk of receiving one of these odoriferous discharges. No less than six camels were tried before one could be found which was deemed reliable enough to draw the cart, and this had to be bought for the purpose. The value of these brutes varies according to their age; full-grown ones generally average from 160 to 200 roubles (£20 to £25).

The Mongolian dromedary, or rather camel—for it has two humps—is a very different-looking animal to its Arabian cousin, for it is very much smaller, and in winter covered with a long and shaggy coat of hair. During the summer months this coat comes off, and the animal then presents an even more unpleasant appearance than usual, which, however, in summer or winter, is thoroughly in harmony with that of the Mongol attendants.

The caravan of the Russian Heavy Mail usually consists of the two Cossacks in charge of it, three Mongols, and six camels. If the mail be an exceptionally heavy one, an extra camel is perhaps added; but this occurs very seldom. It is, in reality, the Parcel Post, for only heavy matter is sent by it. Letters are conveyed across the Gobi by horse post, which goes three times a month both ways, on a system not unlike the old pony express in America, the distance of one thousand miles, from Kiakhta to Kalgan, being covered in the short time of nine days by five consecutive riders and nine relays of horses. Only Mongols are employed on this arduous task, and night and day, in all weathers and seasons, these hardy sons of the desert do their monotonous and lonely journey, keeping their time with almost the regularity of clockwork, so well is the system organized. They go at a hard gallop the whole way, the mail being carried in saddle-bags, slung over a second horse, which they lead with them. The difference in the time occupied by the heavy and the light posts is naturally very considerable, the caravans taking as much as seventeen and eighteen days to do the distance from Ourga to Kalgan, and this even with four different relays of camels on the way. Still, this is very much quicker than the ordinary tea-caravans can do it, for it is no unusual occurrence for twenty-five, thirty, or even as much as forty days to be spent on the journey across. The great difference, of course, between the mail and the private caravan is that the latter has the same camels to go the whole way; so a road has to be taken which passes through the district most likely to afford pasturage to the animals. As, owing to the number of caravans passing, these pastures are yearly becoming more remote, the roads, in consequence, are getting longer for the ordinary caravans, for they have to go further afield in search of grass. The two Cossacks who went in charge of the mail I accompanied were both men who had had much experience on the road, the leader, Nicolaieff, having been eleven years continually passing to and fro across the Gobi, so he knew almost every inch of the ground.

I could not help wondering what inducement the dreary Mongolian waste could offer to any young and active man, for him to elect to pass his life in it, so to speak; for, although the same Cossacks accompany the mail right across China, as far even as Tientsin, they only stay long enough there for the contrast of the life in the busy town to appear even more marked in comparison with their own monotonous existence. Yet there are men, in most cases married, who actually give up the best years of their lives in this obscure and remote postal service—and for what? The Cossack Nicolaieff received, I learnt, the munificent sum of twenty roubles (£2 10s.) per month, out of which he had to keep himself and family! Stepanoff, who was his junior, received somewhat less. Of course, it must not be forgotten that living is cheap in these parts. Still, 12s. 6d. per week is not a big sum to keep a large family on.

It has seldom been my luck to come across two such thoroughly good fellows as these humble Cossacks, and it was with a real feeling of regret that I separated from them at the end of the journey; for I don’t think that I ever met two men working together in more absolute harmony of friendship. There was none of the effusiveness one sees in the higher walks of life, but there was, I noticed, a certain quiet and unobtrusive steadfastness between them which meant volumes more than all the “old chap” this or “old man” that could ever convey. Duty bound them together, and with the implicit obedience to it which is an instinctive quality in the character of the Russian soldier, they did their work together like men and brothers.

It was with a feeling of relief that on May 7 I left the dreary desert city of Ourga, though certainly not without some forebodings of the hardships which would have to be endured before I reached civilization. Eight hundred miles of sandy waste lay between me and the Great Wall of China—a sandy waste which, for utter desolation and monotony, is probably without an equal in the world. I do not propose to give a chronological account of the tedious journey; events were so few and far between during the long and tiresome marches that a description of the routine of one day will suffice for all. The start for the day’s journey was usually made at daybreak, when in a few seconds the sleeping encampment would become a scene of bustle and movement. The dawn was scarcely visible in a faint streak of rosy red on the horizon, when the drivers would be awakened by the leader, and preparations at once made for the start. All had to be repacked on the camels, and mine reharnessed to my cart, everything being finished and ready to proceed in an incredibly short space of time. No time whatever was wasted in toilet arrangements or even refreshing the inner man, and, although I would often have given anything for a cup of hot coffee or Bouillon Fleet before starting, I did not like to disarrange the evidently invariable custom of making an early start, by delaying the caravan for the preparation which the making of such a beverage would have involved.

Long shall I remember those dreary, weary hours which always preceded our first stoppage, for no halt was ever made until close on noon. A bite of biscuit, perhaps some preserved icy-cold tinned meat, washed down by a limited quantity of stale water sucked through a pocket-filter, was my only breakfast—a breakfast so complete in its discomfort as to require the very keenest appetite to do justice to it. The appetite I fortunately usually possessed, for the bracing air of the desert acted on one like the strongest tonic. The noonday halt after seven or eight hours of incessant jolting in the cart was a veritable oasis in the discomfort of the day, as at this time I could make at least some attempt at an imitation of a civilized meal. At this time also the benefit of my little portable stove was simply inestimable; it fairly astonished the simple Mongol. Still, even this attempt at a square meal was never unattended by discomfort, for in the middle of the day a cold piercing easterly wind was invariably blowing, and, although the Cossacks always pitched their tent, the open air was preferable to its smoky, malodorous interior with a fire in the centre. Two hours and a half were usually the limit of time allowed for the midday rest; then the boys would be sent off to fetch back the camels, which would often stray far away from the encampment in search of pasturage. Then the tent was struck, loads readjusted, the caravan marshalled into its usual order, with my cart leading, and once more we started on another dreary and monotonous spell, which only terminated late at night.

Our rate of progression, even under the most favourable conditions, never exceeded three and a half miles an hour. It was usually managed so that we should have reached a well when we halted; still, the precaution was always taken of filling our water-barrels whenever the opportunity offered, so as not to have to rely on doing the exact distances between the wells. These distances varied very considerably from fifteen up to even thirty miles; but the water varied still more. I thought, when I was up-country in Africa, that I had drunk the most repulsive water it would ever be my lot to have to put up with, but I had not then been in the Gobi Desert. Even my pocket-filter on one or two occasions gave it up as a bad job, for it got so clogged with dirt that it would not act, so I had then to throw aside the remains of my fastidiousness and drink the awful liquid in its natural state, which in appearance and consistency was a cut between chocolate paste and coffee and milk; for il y avait de quoi boire et manger. I could not help noticing how very slightly the Cossacks were affected by these nasty incidents.

Long habit had acclimatized them, so to speak, to living in dirt, and eating and drinking it also; they were quite Mongolized, in fact. On one occasion, at the commencement of the journey, I remember going into the tent when their dinner, a quantity of meat, was stewing, or rather boiling, in the large iron pan over the open fire. The preparation was a simple one, for the meat had been merely cut into chunks and thrown into the pot and covered with water. As the mess boiled, a nasty scum, consisting of all the dirt in the water and the meat, rose to the surface. This filth was eagerly scooped up by both the Cossacks and the Mongols, and swallowed with much avidity; in fact, I learned they look upon it as the best part of the food, for when I expressed my astonishment at their even leaving it in the stew, as it would be better and cleaner if it were removed, they stared in blank surprise at what they probably considered my ignorance. I was much surprised to notice how very little water a camel requires when on the road, and how little he gets given to him; even when there was an abundance they never received it more often than once every two days, so as not to accustom them to luxuries, and they did not seem to be very keen for it even then.

The first day after leaving Ourga was uneventful enough, the track offering little or nothing of interest, though the actual flat sandy expanse of desert had not yet commenced. The surrounding hills were bare and desolate-looking, and the dreary aspect was a fitting prelude to the unutterable solitude and desolation farther on. A few miles out from the capital we crossed the broad, swiftly running Tola River. Our camels were quite girth-deep in its waters, for there had been rain up in the mountains recently; still, the animals did not seem much to mind crossing it, breasting the current as unconcernedly as though they liked it. This was the last water of any importance we saw until we reached Kalgan, nearly three weeks after.

As we slowly advanced we gradually left the hills behind, till at last, three days out, we reached the actual commencement of the great desert; and I saw stretched out before me a vast, limitless waste, so flat and unbroken that it looked exactly like the sea. A quiet, as though of death, reigned over it, for not even the slightest sign of life broke the oppressive stillness of the scene. Neither the Karoo or the Kalahari deserts in South Africa ever produced on me an impression so weird and indescribable as did that first glimpse of the awful Gobi, “The Great Hungry Desert.” The mere look of the dreary waste recalled all I had ever read of the horrors of a lingering death, by thirst or starvation, which has so often befallen travellers who have been unfortunate enough to lose themselves on its almost trackless surface. Nothing, in fact, was wanting to complete the gloomy picture. Even the faintly marked trail before us was rendered more easily discernable by the bleached bones of camels lying here and there on either side.

Our fourth day out was marked by an event—for the slightest incident in that weary, uneventful journey magnified itself into an important occurrence. During the afternoon we met the caravan of the homeward-bound Russian mail, and, considering we had not seen a living soul, except each other, for more than forty-eight hours, it may be imagined how pleasurable was the meeting. The two convoys halted for a time; our Cossacks exchanged news with the other Cossacks, and even the Mongols hobnobbed together; the inevitable vodka was produced, and, under its genial influence, for a few moments the weariness of the journey was forgotten; then, with many final shakes of the hand and friendly wishes, we were under way, and in a short time were once more alone on the boundless waste. It was on this occasion that I first heard of the attempted assassination of the Czarewitch.

The next day we reached a range of rocky hills—great heaps of huge boulders lay piled around in picturesque confusion, and, altogether, the scene was a welcome change after the flatness of the plains. Right in the very midst of these hills, nestling as it were under their shelter, to my surprise we came upon a miniature town, which I had never even heard of before. This, I learned, was Tcho-Iyr, a Lama settlement, entirely inhabited by Mongols who are devoting their lives to religion.

It was a lovely day, the finest one we had had as yet, and in the still air and the eternal silence of the surroundings the effect was very impressive, for it was indeed “asleep in the sunshine of the East,” and “far from the busy haunts of men.” I therefore persuaded Nicolaieff to halt the caravan for a short time, so that I could have a stroll around the quaint little place, with my sketch-book and camera; and very pleased was I afterwards that I had done so, for it was one of the prettiest spots I saw in Mongolia. On a nearer inspection it turned out to be larger than I had first taken it to be, and absolutely different from what I expected to find, for the quiet pervading the streets was quite in keeping with the proximity to the vast desert—there was, in fact, quite the atmosphere of religious seclusion which one feels in a monastery. But what struck me most was the wonderful cleanliness I saw everywhere, and I don’t think that, for its size, I ever saw its equal. Everything looked spick and span, as though it were cleaned carefully every day. There was also a striking absence of dogs, those pests of Mongolia. One could stroll about without being continually on the qui vive, as in Ourga. Instead of a conglomeration of dirty yourts, there were trim, neatly built, whitewashed cottages, of absolutely the same outward appearance as English ones, not so large perhaps, but still strangely reminding one of far-away England. Curiously enough, I did not see anything at all similar to them anywhere else, either in Mongolia or China; nor could I find out why this style of building was exclusively confined to the pretty little desert settlement.

My appearance naturally created quite an excitement, for I was probably the first Englishman that has ever visited the place, which is, I believe, out of the usual caravan route; and the appearance of a stranger in their midst will doubtless form the subject of conversation for a long time to come. Still, I was in no way annoyed—a little crowded in, perhaps, but that I was beginning to get accustomed to, and the half-hour I spent there was so pleasant that I really regretted having to hurry away. Either there were no women in the place, or at least very few, for I never saw them; the inhabitants appeared to be entirely of the sterner sex, and all of them, from the very youngest, Lamas or Lama students. The effect of the entire population being dressed in red and yellow was very curious. Many of the older men wore massive gold-rimmed spectacles, which gave them a very learned appearance. A couple of large temples of Tibetan architecture, in excellent preservation, seemed the most important buildings in the town, and, besides these, I learned, there was a monastery. When I got back to the caravan, I found it quite surrounded by visitors, for the news of our arrival had by this time spread all over the place, and evidently a general half-holiday had been taken in consequence.