Jules Verne (6 page)

Suddenly there is a new sound. This time I am not mistaken. A
half-stifled sneeze shakes the side of the case. Never did an animal
sneeze like that!

Is it possible? A human being is hidden in this case and is being
fraudulently carried by the Grand Transasiatic to the pretty Roumanian!
But is it a man or a woman? It seems as though the sneeze had a
masculine sound about it.

It is impossible to sleep now. How long the day is coming! How eager I
am to examine this box! I wanted incidents—well! and here is one, and
if I do not get five lines out of this—

The eastern horizon grows brighter. The clouds in the zenith are the
first to color. The sun appears at last all watery with the mists of
the sea.

I look; it is indeed the case addressed to Pekin. I notice that certain
holes are pierced here and there, by which the air inside can be
renewed. Perhaps two eyes are looking through these holes, watching
what is going on outside? Do not be indiscreet!

At breakfast gather all the passengers whom the sea has not affected:
the young Chinaman, Major Noltitz, Ephrinell, Miss Bluett, Monsieur
Caterna, the Baron Weissschnitzerdörfer, and seven or eight other
passengers. I am careful not to let the American into the secret of the
case. He would be guilty of some indiscretion, and then good-by to my
news par!

About noon the land is reported to the eastward, a low, yellowish land,
with no rocky margin, but a few sandhills in the neighborhood of
Krasnovodsk.

In an hour we are in sight of Uzun Ada, and twenty-seven minutes
afterward we set foot in Asia.

Travelers used to land at Mikhailov, a little port at the end of the
Transcaspian line; but ships of moderate tonnage hardly had water
enough there to come alongside. On this account, General Annenkof, the
creator of the new railway, the eminent engineer whose name will
frequently recur in my narrative, was led to found Uzun Ada, and
thereby considerably shorten the crossing of the Caspian. The station
was built in three months, and it was opened on the 8th of May, 1886.

Fortunately I had read the account given by Boulangier, the engineer,
relating to the prodigious work of General Annenkof, so that I shall
not be so very much abroad during the railway journey between Uzun Ada
and Samarkand, and, besides, I trust to Major Noltitz, who knows all
about the matter. I have a presentiment that we shall become good
friends, and in spite of the proverb which says, "Though your friend be
of honey do not lick him!" I intend to "lick" my companion often enough
for the benefit of my readers.

We often hear of the extraordinary rapidity with which the Americans
have thrown their railroads across the plains of the Far West. But the
Russians are in no whit behind them, if even they have not surpassed
them in rapidity as well as in industrial audacity.

People are fully acquainted with the adventurous campaign of General
Skobeleff against the Turkomans, a campaign of which the building of
the railway assured the definite success. Since then the political
state of Central Asia has been entirely changed, and Turkestan is
merely a province of Asiatic Russia, extending to the frontiers of the
Chinese Empire. And already Chinese Turkestan is very visibly
submitting to the Muscovite influence which the vertiginous heights of
the Pamir plateau have not been able to check in its civilizing march.

I was about to cross the countries which were formerly ravaged by
Tamerlane and Genghis Khan, those fabulous countries of which the
Russians in 1886 possessed six hundred and fifteen thousand square
kilometres, with thirteen hundred thousand inhabitants. The southern
part of this region now forms the Transcaspian province, divided into
six districts, Fort Alexandrovski, Krasnovodsk, Askhabad, Karibent,
Merv, Pendjeh, governed by Muscovite colonels or lieutenant-colonels.

As may be imagined, it hardly takes an hour to see Uzun Ada, the name
of which means Long Island. It is almost a town, but a modern town,
traced with a square, drawn with a line or a large carpet of yellow
sand. No monuments, no memories, bridges of planks, houses of wood, to
which comfort is beginning to add a few mansions in stone. One can see
what this, first station of the Transcaspian will be like in fifty
years; a great city after having been a great railway station.

Do not think that there are no hotels. Among others there is the Hôtel
du Czar, which has a good table, good rooms and good beds. But the
question of beds has no interest for me. As the train starts at four
o'clock this afternoon, to begin with, I must telegraph to the
Twentieth Century,
by the Caspian cable, that I am at my post at the
Uzun Ada station. That done, I can see if I can pick up anything worth
reporting.

Nothing is more simple. It consists in opening an account with those of
my companions with whom I may have to do during the journey. That is my
custom, I always find it answers, and while waiting for the unknown, I
write down the known in my pocketbook, with a number to distinguish
each:

1. Fulk Ephrinell, American.
2. Miss Horatia Bluett, English.
3. Major Noltitz, Russian.
4. Monsieur Caterna, French.
5. Madame Caterna, French.
6. Baron Weissschnitzerdörfer, German.

As to the Chinese, they will have a number later on, when I have made
up my mind about them. As to the individual in the box, I intend to
enter into communication with him, or her, and to be of assistance in
that quarter if I can do so without betraying the secret.

The train is already marshaled in the station. It is composed of first
and second-class cars, a restaurant car and two baggage vans. These
cars are painted of a light color, an excellent precaution against the
heat and against the cold. For in the Central Asian provinces the
temperature ranges between fifty degrees centigrade above zero and
twenty below, and in a range of seventy degrees it is only prudent to
minimize the effects.

These cars are in a convenient manner joined together by gangways, on
the American plan. Instead of being shut up in a compartment, the
traveler strolls about along the whole length of the train. There is
room to pass between the stuffed seats, and in the front and rear of
each car are the platforms united by the gangways. This facility of
communication assures the security of the train.

Our engine has a bogie on four small wheels, and is thus able to
negotiate the sharpest curves; a tender with water and fuel; then come a
front van, three first-class cars with twenty-four places each, a
restaurant car with pantry and kitchen, four second-class cars and a
rear van; in all twelve vehicles, counting in the locomotive and tender.
The first class cars are provided with dressing rooms, and their seats,
by very simple mechanism, are convertible into beds, which, in fact, are
indispensable for long journeys. The second-class travelers are not so
comfortably treated, and besides, they have to bring their victuals with
them, unless they prefer to take their meals at the stations. There are
not many, however, who travel the complete journey between the Caspian
and the eastern provinces of China—that is to say about six thousand
kilometres. Most of them go to the principal towns and villages of
Russian Turkestan, which have been reached by the Transcaspian Railway
for some years, and which up to the Chinese frontier has a length of
over 1,360 miles.

This Grand Transasiatic has only been open six weeks and the company is
as yet only running two trains a week. All has gone well up to the
present; but I ought to add the significant detail that the railway men
carry a supply of revolvers to arm the passengers with if necessary.
This is a wise precaution in crossing the Chinese deserts, where an
attack on the train is not improbable.

I believe the company are doing their best to ensure the punctuality of
their trains; but the Chinese section is managed by Celestials, and who
knows what has been the past life of those people? Will they not be
more intent on the security of their dividends than of their passengers?

As I wait for the departure I stroll about on the platform, looking
through the windows of the cars, which have no doors along the sides,
the entrances being at the ends.

Everything is new; the engine is as bright as it can be, the carriages
are brilliant in their new paint, their springs have not begun to give
with wear, and their wheels run true on the rails. Then there is the
rolling stock with which we are going to cross a continent. There is no
railway as long as this—not even in America. The Canadian line
measures five thousand kilometres, the Central Union, five thousand two
hundred and sixty, the Santa Fe line, four thousand eight hundred and
seventy-five, the Atlantic Pacific, five thousand six hundred and
thirty, the Northern Pacific, six thousand two hundred and fifty. There
is only one line which will be longer when it is finished, and that is
the Grand Transsiberian, from the Urals to Vladivostock, which will
measure six thousand five hundred kilometres.

Between Tiflis and Pekin our journey will not last more than thirteen
days, from Uzun Ada it will only last eleven. The train will only stop
at the smaller stations to take in fuel and water. At the chief towns
like Merv, Bokhara, Samarkand, Tashkend, Kachgar, Kokhand, Sou Tcheou,
Lan Tcheou, Tai Youan, it will stop a few hours—and that will enable
me to do these towns in reporter style.

Of course, the same driver and stoker will not take us through. They
will be relieved every six hours. Russians will take us up to the
frontier of Turkestan, and Chinese will take us on through China.

But there is one representative of the company who will not leave his
post, and that is Popof, our head guard, a true Russian of soldierly
bearing, hairy and bearded, with a folded overcoat and a Muscovite cap.
I intend to talk a good deal with this gallant fellow, although he is
not very talkative. If he does not despise a glass of vodka,
opportunity offered, he may have a good deal to say to me; for ten
years he has been on the Transcaspian between Uzun Ada and the Pamirs,
and during the last month he has been all along the line to Pekin.

I call him No. 7 in my notebook, and I hope he will give me information
enough. I only want a few incidents of the journey, just a few little
incidents worthy of the
Twentieth Century.

Among the passengers I see on the platform are a few Jews, recognizable
more by their faces than their attire. Formerly, in Central Asia, they
could only wear the "toppe," a sort of round cap, and a plain rope
belt, without any silk ornamentation—under pain of death. And I am
told that they could ride on asses in certain towns and walk on foot in
others. Now they wear the oriental turban and roll in their carriages
if their purse allows of it. Who would hinder them now they are
subjects of the White Czar, Russian citizens, rejoicing in civil and
political rights equal to those of their Turkoman compatriots?

There are a few Tadjiks of Persian origin, the handsomest men you can
imagine. They have booked for Merv, or Bokhara, or Samarkand, or
Tachkend, or Kokhand, and will not pass the Russo-Chinese frontier. As
a rule they are second-class passengers. Among the first-class
passengers I noticed a few Usbegs of the ordinary type, with retreating
foreheads and prominent cheek bones, and brown complexions, who were
the lords of the country, and from whose families come the emirs and
khans of Central Asia.

But are there not any Europeans in this Grand Transasiatic train? It
must be confessed that I can only count five or six. There are a few
commercial travelers from South Russia, and one of those inevitable
gentlemen from the United Kingdom, who are inevitably to be found on
the railways and steamboats. It is still necessary to obtain permission
to travel on the Transcaspian, permission which the Russian
administration does not willingly accord to an Englishman; but this man
has apparently been able to get one.

And he seems to me to be worth notice. He is tall and thin, and looks
quite the fifty years that his gray hairs proclaim him to be. His
characteristic expression is one of haughtiness, or rather disdain,
composed in equal parts of love of all things English and contempt for
all things that are not. This type is occasionally so insupportable,
even to his compatriots, that Dickens, Thackeray and others have often
made fun of it. How he turned up his nose at the station at Uzun Ada,
at the train, at the men, at the car in which he had secured a seat by
placing in it his traveling bag! Let us call him No. 8 in my pocketbook.

There seem to be no personages of importance. That is a pity. If only
the Emperor of Russia, on one side, or the Son of Heaven, on the other,
were to enter the train to meet officially on the frontier of the two
empires, what festivities there would be, what grandeur, what
descriptions, what copy for letters and telegrams!

It occurs to me to have a look at the mysterious box. Has it not a
right to be so called? Yes, certainly. I must really find out where it
has been put and how to get at it easily.

The front van is already full of Ephrinell's baggage. It does not open
at the side, but in front and behind, like the cars. It is also
furnished with a platform and a gangway. An interior passage allows the
guard to go through it to reach the tender and locomotive if necessary.
Popof's little cabin is on the platform of the first car, in the
left-hand corner. At night it will be easy for me to visit the van, for
it is only shut in by the doors at the ends of the passage arranged
between the packages. If this van is reserved for luggage registered
through to China, the luggage for the Turkestan stations ought to be in
the van at the rear.

When I arrived the famous box was still on the platform.