CHAPTER VIII

ASKABAD AND MERV

KRASNOVODSK, the western terminus of the Transcaspian Railway, stands on the northern side of the Balkan Bay, through which the Oxus once discharged into the Caspian. It is protected from the groundswell by a natural breakwater of jagged rock which stretches nearly twenty-five miles southwards; and from icy Siberian blasts by a range of barren limestone hills.

The little town which nestles in this bleak amphitheatre is of recent origin, for it was only in 1897 that it superseded Uzun Ada, a shallow and insecure port on the south of the bay. The Government offices, substantially built of a warm brown freestone, surround a central square, where a patch of grass and a few scraggy trees strive in vain to relieve the desolation which recalls the surroundings of Aden to the Eastern traveller. Nor is the parallel confined to externals, for Krasnovodsk is dependent on distillation for its water-supply. The building where

the precious fluid is manufactured from the briny Caspian is well worth a visit, inasmuch as its designer, M. Yagen, has solved the problem how to extract a maximum of fresh water at a minimum expenditure of fuel. The steam, generated in tubular boilers heated by a roaring fire of petroleum refuse,1 passes through a series of iron vats

'This is a by-product of petroleum distillation, and termed, in Russian, After the more volatile illuminants have passed over, a residue

astatki.

sheathed with felt, losing some of its heat and aqueous particles in each. But the chief ornament of Krasnovodsk is, strange to say, the railway terminus. Unlike those which disgrace so many English towns, it is a highly successful effort to blend the ornamental with the useful. The trains which leave Krasnovodsk for the heart of Central Asia twice a week are made up of second and third-class carriages on the corridor system. They are warmed in the abominable fashion peculiar to Russia, by air heated in a roaring stove, and their lavatories are on the most primitive model. The stuffy compartments contain narrow wooden benches; and upper berths, which let down at night, form very indifferent beds. In one of these little purgatories the traveller bound for Samarkand ensconces himself at 4.30 p.m., after a substantial meal at the railway buffet, which differs in no wise from those met with on the Caucasian railways. But the jolting and discomfort are soon forgotten in the novelty of the surroundings. For seventy miles the line skirts the deep blue Caspian, which is covered in winter with wild fowl, a living contradiction to the travellers' tales which represent the great lake as nearly destitute of animal life. The northern horizon is hemmed in by the rugged outlines of the Great Balkans, a range as desolate and forbidding as the mountains of the moon. Then the train plunges into a boundless plain covered with sparse tufts of wiry grass. This is the great Turkoman Desert, the habitat of that splendid race which inspired terror in the Roman legionaries and defied the greatest military power of modern Europe. But soon the rugged outlines of the Kopet Dagh Mountains open southward, and at remains in the shape of a ropy greenish-brown fluid, which in former days was considered valueless. It is now rapidly superseding coal as a steam raiser, and the recent rise in the market price of crude petroleum is in great measure due to the constantly extending use of astatki on steamers and railways.

6.22 on the following morning the train halts at Kizil Arvat, the workshops of the Transcaspian Railway, which break the wild poetry of hill and desert by their prose of Western industry. They were founded ten years ago by General Annenkoff, whose modest bungalow is still pointed out with the respect instinctively rendered to genius everywhere. The works on the south side of the railway are as complete in their degree as those at Crewe. The forges and fitting shops come first in order. They occupy two masonry sheds, exhibiting lines of blacksmiths' forges, in each of which an astatki fire burns without the smallest attention from the operatives. The installation in the turning-shop, with its lathes and steam hammers, would interest an Englishman more if it was not too evident that the appliances were of German origin. It is a relief to pass into the engine-room and find one of the five machines, with a horse-power of 52 nominal, bearing the honoured name of Tangye. The foundry will be next visited. It can furnish castings up to a maximum of two tons. In point of fact, locomotives of the latest pattern may be turned out at Kizil Arvat; though in practice it is found expedient to import them from Moscow. The carpenters' shops are lofty structures, with a floor area of 36,000 feet, where cars and waggons are turned out with great rapidity. The inspecting carriages are marvels of compactness, containing a saloon upholstered with luxurious settees, a bedroom, bath, and kitchen. The storehouses are specially worth visiting. Their sides are lined with masonry compartments, containing tools, with "plus and minus" slips enabling stock to be taken in in a few hours. With the exception of a few files which bear Sheffield trade-marks, the tools are all the products of Russian and German workshops. Nor has our declining metallurgic industry any share in the supply of raw material, for the tariff practically

excludes its products from the empire in the absence of a special authorisation of the Ministry of Commerce. Some attention is paid to the comfort of the workmen employed at Kizil Arvat. There is an institute, styled a Casino, containing a restaurant, where meals can be had at an absurdly low tariff, and a ballroom large enough to accommodate the 700 workmen and their wives. Some distraction is a sheer necessity, for the surroundings of Kizil Arvat are calculated to drive a European to despair. The town stands in a dreary plain two miles from the mountains, which supply an abundance of water. Nothing would be easier than to produce vegetation of surpassing beauty, for the desert soil needs but irrigation to furnish everything that could delight the eye. The People's Park only serves to make the aspect of the town more forbidding; and the ugly square boxes serving as married quarters are entirely destitute of a garden. The place is said to be healthy, in spite of a summer heat rising to I 10 degrees; but another tale is told by the crowd which are attracted by the band of the 2nd Railway Battalion, stationed here. The adults are generally ill-favoured and stunted, and the repulsive sores on their faces are evidence of bad water and insufficient nutrition. The working population is Russian, with the exception of a few Turkomans, who are admitted as apprentices, and exhibit a mechanical bias which ought to be more encouraged. Wages and working hours would hardly be approved of by the pampered British artisan. Foremen draw a salary of £110 to £130 annually, but the rank and file are paid on the piece-work system. A carpenter of average industry can earn 5s. 6d.; a fitter, 4s. 4d. per diem. The hours of work are from 6 p.m. till noon, with a break at 7.30 for breakfast; and again from 1.30 till 7 p.m.-an eleven hours' day.

Geok Teppe, the scene of the crowning mercy of 1881,

is the next halting-place. In this dry atmosphere the vestiges of the Tekkes' last refuge enables the traveller to conjure up the fearful scenes enacted there eighteen years ago. A hundred yards north of the railway stretches a long earthen rampart 12 or 15 feet high, broken near its southeast angle and on the eastern face by huge gaps, through which the infuriated Russian soldiers pressed on the memorable 24th of January 1881. The interior of the rude fortress is still scored with funnel-shaped holes, and strewn with fragments of iron left by the exploding shells. The whole scene comes vividly before him who ascends Dangil Teppe, a mound at the north-west corner whence the Turkomans plied their only gun during the siege. He seems to see beneath, the dense mass of dark felt kibitkas lit up by the explosion of missiles charged with petroleum. His ears are stunned by the shrieks of the agonised women and children who seek shelter in vain from these messengers of death, the hoarse cries of the combatants locked in a death-struggle, the roar of musketry and the clash of steel. While he is fain to admit that civilisation has gained by the issue of the tremendous struggle, the Englishman bares his head in honour of the brave men who bled for freedom here. The Russian lines can still be distinguished to the east of the crumbling ramparts; and, as if to point Gray's sad moral," the paths of glory lead but to the grave," three graveyards alone remain where the pulse of war

1 This ancient piece, a prize taken from the cowardly Persians, very nearly cost Skobeleff his life. Moser relates that the general, while reconnoitring the defences, became a mark for a brisk fusilade which wounded several of his staff. He was implored not to expose himself unnecessarily; but his only reply was to call for a chair and a glass of tea. There he sat indulging calmly in a cigarette while the bullets whistled round him. When, however, the cannon spoke, and its projectile plunged deeply into the soil close to his chair, Skobeleff adopted the "best part of valour." He rose, saluted the Tekke gunners, and walked slowly back to his quarters (A Travers l'Asie Centrale, p. 315).