A Ride to India across Persia and Baluchistán | Page 7

of information to himself. Meanwhile nothing was visible from the cabin-windows but great rollers topped with crests of foam, which looked as if, every moment, they would engulf the little vessel. But she behaved splendidly. Although green seas were coming in over the bows, flooding her decks from stem to stern, and pouring down the gangway into the saloon, the Kaspia rode through the gale like a duck. To venture on deck was impossible. One could barely sit, much less stand, and the atmosphere of the saloon may be better imagined than described. Every aperture tightly closed; every one, with the exception of the captain, Ger?me, and myself, sea-sick; no food, no fire, though we certainly did not miss the former much.
About ten o'clock Z---- weighed anchor and stood out to sea. It would not be safe, he said, to trust to our slender cable another night. About midnight I struggled on deck, to get a breath of fresh air before turning in. The night was fine and clear, but the sea around black as ink, with great foaming white rollers. The decks, a foot deep in snow, were deserted save by Z---- and the steersman, whose silhouettes stood out black and distinct against the starlit sky as they paced the rickety-looking little bridge flanked by red and green lights. The Enzelli lighthouse was no longer visible. The latter is under the care of Persians, who light it, or not, as the humour takes them. This is, on dark nights, a source of considerable danger to shipping; but, though frequently remonstrated with by the Russian Government, the Shah does not trouble his head about the matter.
Three routes to Teherán were now open to us: back to Baku, thence to Tiflis, and over the mountains to Talriz,--very dubious on account of the snow; the second, from Baku to Astrabad, and thence _via_ Mount Demavend,--still more dubious on account of bad landing as well as blocked passes; there remained to us Astará, and along the sea-beach (no road) to Enzelli, with swollen rivers and no post-horses. All things considered, we resolved to land at Astará, even at the risk of a ducking. Daylight found us there, anchored a mile from the shore, and a heavy swell running. But there is no bar here; only a shelving sandy beach, on which, even in rough weather, there is little danger. Some good-sized boats came out to the Kaspia with fish and vegetables, and we at once resolved to land. Anything sooner than return to Baku!
"There is no road from Astará," said Z----, "and deep rivers to cross. You will be robbed and murdered like the Italian who travelled this way three years ago! He was the last European to do so."
Ger?me remembers the incident. In fact, he says, the murdered man was a friend of his, travelling to Teherán with a large sum of money. Unable to land at Résht, and impatient to reach his destination, he took the unfrequented route, was waylaid, robbed, tied to a tree, and left to starve. "He was alone and unarmed, though," says my companion; adding with a wink, "Let them try it on with us!"
Seeing remonstrance is useless, Z---- wishes us God-speed. The good-natured Swede presses a box of Russian cigarettes into my hand as I descend the ladder--a gift he can ill afford--and twenty minutes later our boat glides safely and smoothly on Persian soil.
It was a lovely day, and the blue sky and sunshine, singing of birds, and green of plain and forest, a pleasant relief to the eye and senses after the cold and misery of the past two days. Astará (though the port of Tabriz) is an insignificant place, its sole importance lying in the fact that it is a frontier town. On one side of the narrow river a collection of ramshackle mud huts, neglected gardens, foul smells, beggars, and dogs--Persia; on the other, a score of neat stone houses, well-kept roads and paths, flower-gardens, orchards, a pretty church, and white fort surrounded by the inevitable black-and-white sentry-boxes, guarded by a company of white-capped Cossacks--Russia. I could not help realizing, on landing at Astará, the huge area of this vast empire. How many thousand miles now separated me from the last border town of the Great White Czar that I visited--Kiakhta, on the Russo-Chinese frontier?
Surrounded by a ragged mob, we walked to the village to see about horses and a lodging for the night. The latter was soon found--a flat-roofed mud hut about thirty feet square, devoid of chimney or furniture of any kind. The floor, cracked in several places, was crawling with vermin, and the walls undermined with rat-holes; but in Persia one must not be particular. Leaving our baggage in the care of one "Hassan," a bright-eyed, intelligent-looking lad, and