Jules Verne (10 page)

Almost immediately the train resumes its normal speed and Popof
reappears a minute afterwards.

"What is the matter, Popof?"

"What is often the matter, Monsieur Bombarnac. We have smashed a
dromedary."

"Poor brute!"

"Poor brute? He might have thrown us off the line!"

"Stupid brute, then!"

Before the train reaches Gheok Tepe I am back in the car. Confound this
dromedary! If he had not managed to get smashed so clumsily No. 11
would no longer be unknown to me. He would have opened his panel, we
would have talked in a friendly way, and separated with a friendly
shake of the hand. Now he will be full of anxiety, he knows his fraud
is discovered, that there is some one who has reason to suspect his
intentions, some one who may not hesitate to betray his secret. And
then, after being taken out of his case, he will be put under guard at
the next station, and it will be useless for Mademoiselle Zinca Klork
to expect him in the capital of the Chinese Empire!

Yes! It would be better for me to relieve his anxiety this very night.
That is impossible, for the train will soon stop at Gheok Tepe, and
then at Askhabad which it will leave in the first hour of daylight. I
can no longer trust to Popof's going to sleep.

I am absorbed in these reflections, when the locomotive stops in Gheok
Tepe station at one o'clock in the morning. None of my companions have
left their beds.

I get out on to the platform and prowl around the van. It would be too
risky to try and get inside. I should have been glad to visit the town,
but the darkness prevents me from seeing anything. According to what
Major Noltitz says it still retains the traces of Skobeleffs terrible
assault in 1880—dismantled walls, bastions in ruins. I must content
myself with having seen all that with the major's eyes.

The train starts at two o'clock in the morning, after having been
joined by a few passengers who Popof tells me are Turkomans. I will
have a look at them when daylight comes.

For ten minutes I remained on the car platform and watched the heights
of the Persian frontier on the extreme limit of the horizon. Beyond the
stretch of verdant oasis watered by a number of creeks, we crossed wide
cultivated plains through which the line made frequent diversions.

Having discovered that Popof did not intend to go to sleep again, I
went back to my corner.

At three o'clock there was another stop. The name of Askhabad was
shouted along the platform. As I could not remain still I got out,
leaving my companions sound asleep, and I ventured into the town.

Askhabad is the headquarters of the Transcaspian, and I opportunely
remembered what Boulangier, the engineer, had said about it in the
course of that interesting journey he had made to Merv. All that I saw
on the left as I went out of the station, was the gloomy outline of the
Turkoman Fort, dominating the new town, the population of which has
doubled since 1887. It forms a confused mass behind a thick curtain of
trees.

When I returned at half-past three, Popof was going through the luggage
van, I know not why. What must be the Roumanian's anxiety during this
movement to and fro in front of his box!

As soon as Popof reappeared I said to him: "Anything fresh?"

"Nothing, except the morning breeze!" said he.

"Very fresh!" said I. "Is there a refreshment bar in the station?"

"There is one for the convenience of the passengers."

"And for the convenience of the guards, I suppose? Come along, Popof."

And Popof did not want asking twice.

The bar was open, but there did not seem to be much to choose from. The
only liquor was "Koumiss," which is fermented mare's milk, and is the
color of faded ink, very nourishing, although very liquid. You must be
a Tartar to appreciate this koumiss. At least that is the effect it
produced on me. But Popof thought it excellent, and that was the
important point.

Most of the Sarthes and Kirghizes who got out at Askhabad, have been
replaced by other second-class passengers, Afghan merchants and
smugglers, the latter particularly clever in their line of business.
All the green tea consumed in Central Asia is brought by them from
China through India, and although the transport is much longer, they
sell it at a much lower price than the Russian tea. I need not say that
their luggage was examined with Muscovite minuteness.

The train started again at four o'clock. Our car was still a sleeper. I
envied the sleep of my companions, and as that was all I could do, I
returned to the platform.

The dawn was appearing in the east. Here and there were the ruins of
the ancient city, a citadel girdled with high ramparts and a succession
of long porticos extending over fifteen hundred yards. Running over a
few embankments, necessitated by the inequalities of the sandy ground,
the train reaches the horizontal steppe.

We are running at a speed of thirty miles an hour in a southwesterly
direction, along the Persian frontier. It is only beyond Douchak that
the line begins to leave it. During this three hours' run the two
stations at which the train stops are Gheours, the junction for the
road to Mesched, whence the heights of the Iran plateau are visible,
and Artyk where water is abundant although slightly brackish.

The train then traverses the oasis of the Atek, which is an important
tributary of the Caspian. Verdure and trees are everywhere. This oasis
justifies its name, and would not disgrace the Sahara. It extends to
the station of Douchak at the six hundred and sixtieth verst, which we
reach at six o'clock in the morning.

We stop here two hours, that is to say, there are two hours for us to
walk about. I am off to look at Douchak with Major Noltitz as my
cicerone.

A traveler precedes us out of the railway station; I recognize Sir
Francis Trevellyan. The major makes me notice that this gentleman's
face is more sullen than usual, his lip more scornful, his attitude
more Anglo-Saxon.

"And do you know why, Monsieur Bombarnac? Because this station at
Douchak might be the terminus of a line from British India through the
Afghan frontier, Kandahar, the Bolan Pass and the Pendjeh oasis, that
would unite the two systems."

"And how long would the line be?"

"About six hundred miles. But the English will not meet the Russians in
a friendly way. But if we could put Calcutta within twelve days of
London, what an advantage that would be for their trade!"

Talking in this way the major and I "did" Douchak. Some years ago it
was foreseen how important this village would be. A branch line unites
it with Teheran in Persia, while there has, as yet, been no survey for
a line to India. While gentlemen cast in the mould of Sir Francis
Trevellyan are in the majority in the United Kingdom, the Asiatic
network of railways will never be complete.

I was led to question the major regarding the safety of the Grand
Transasiatic across the provinces of Central Asia.

In Turkestan, he told me, the safety is well assured. The Russian
police keep constant watch over it; there is a regular police force at
the stations, and as the stations are not far apart, I don't think the
travelers have much to fear from the nomad tribes. Besides, the
Turkomans are kept in their place by the Russian administration. During
the years the Transcaspian has been at work, there has been no attack
to hinder the train service.

"That is comforting, Major Noltitz. And as to the section between the
frontier and Pekin?"

"That is another matter," replied the major. "Over the Pamir plateau,
up to Kachgar, the road is carefully guarded; but beyond that, the
Grand Transasiatic is under Chinese control, and I have not much
confidence in that."

"Are the stations very far from each other?" I asked.

"Very far, sometimes."

"And the Russians in charge of the train are replaced by Chinese, are
they not?"

"Yes, with the exception of Popof, who goes through with us."

"So that we shall have Chinese engine drivers and stokers? Well, major,
that seems rather alarming, and the safety of the travelers—"

"Let me undeceive you, Monsieur Bombarnac. These Chinese are just as
clever as we are. They are excellent mechanics, and it is the same with
the engineers who laid out the line through the Celestial Empire. They
are certainly a very intelligent race, and very fit for industrial
progress."

"I think, major, that they will one day become masters of the
world—after the Slavs, of course!"

"I do not know what the future may have in store," said Major Noltitz,
with a smile. "But, returning to the Chinese, I say that they are of
quick comprehension, with an astonishing facility of assimilation. I
have seen them at work, and I speak from experience."

"Agreed," said I; "but if there is no danger under this head, are there
not a lot of scoundrels prowling about Mongolia and Northern China?"

"And you think these scoundrels will be daring enough to attack the
train?"

"Exactly, major, and that is what makes me feel easy."

"What? Makes you feel easy?"

"Quite so, for my sole anxiety is that our journey may not be devoid of
incident."

"Really, Mr. Special Correspondent, I admire you. You must have
incidents—"

"As a doctor must have patients. Now a real good adventure—"

"Well, Monsieur Bombarnac, I am afraid you will be disappointed, as I
have heard that the company has treated several chiefs of the robber
bands—"

"As the Greek Government treated Hadji Stavros in About's romance."

"Precisely; and who knows that if in their wisdom—"

"I don't believe it."

"Why not? It would be quite in the modern style, this way of assuring
the safety of the trains during the run through the Celestial Empire.
Anyhow, there is one of these highwaymen, who has retained his
independence and liberty of action, a certain Ki-Tsang."

"Who is he?"

"A bold bandit chief, half-Chinaman, half-Mongol. Having for some time
been a terror to Yunnan, he was being too closely pursued, and has now
moved into the northern provinces. His presence has ever been reported
in that part of Mongolia served by the Grand Transasiatic."

"Well, he ought to furnish a few paragraphs."

"The paragraphs Ki-Tsang will furnish you with may cost you too dearly."

"Bah! major, the
Twentieth Century
is quite rich enough to pay for
its glory."

"To pay with its money, perhaps, but we may have to pay with our lives!
Luckily our companions have not heard you talk in this way, or they
might come in a body and demand your expulsion from the train. So be
careful, and keep a guard on your desires as a newspaper man in quest
of adventures. Above all, don't have anything to do with this Ki-Tsang.
It would be all the better in the interest of the passengers."

"But not of the passage, major."

We returned towards the station. The stoppage at Douchak had another
half hour to last. As I walked on the quay, I observed something going
on which would change the make-up of our train.

Another van had arrived from Teheran by the branch line to Mesphed,
which puts the Persian capital in communication with the Transcaspian.

This van was bolted and barred, and accompanied by a squad of Persian
police, whose orders seemed to be not to lose sight of it.

I don't know what made me think so, but it seemed as though this van
had something mysterious about it, and as the major had left me, I went
and spoke to Popof, who was watching over the proceedings.

"Popof, where is that van going?"

"To Pekin."

"And what has it got in it?"

"What has it got in it? An exalted personage."

"An exalted personage?"

"Are you surprised?"

"I am. In this van?"

"It is his own idea."

"Well, Popof, when this exalted personage gets out perhaps you will let
me know?"

"He Will not get out."

"Why not?"

"Because he is dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes, and it is his body they are taking to Pekin, where he will be
interred with all the honors due to him."

So that we were to have an important personage in our train—in the
shape of a corpse, it is true. Never mind! I asked Popof to discover
the name of the defunct. He ought to be some mandarin of mark. As soon
as I knew it I would send a telegram to the
Twentieth Century
.

While I was looking at this van, a new passenger came up and examined
it with no less curiosity than I did.

This traveler was a fine-looking man of about forty, wearing gracefully
the costume of the richer Mongols, a tall fellow, with rather a gloomy
look, a military moustache, tawny complexion, and eyes that never shut.

"Here is a splendid fellow," I said to myself. "I don't know if he will
turn out the hero of the drama I am in search of, but, anyhow, I will
number him twelve in my traveling troupe."

This leading star, I soon learned from Popof, bore the name of
Faruskiar. He was accompanied by another Mongol, of inferior rank, of
about the same age, whose name was Ghangir. As they looked at the van
being attached to the tail of the train in front of the luggage van,
they exchanged a few words. As soon as the arrangements were complete
the Persians took their places in the second-class car, which preceded
the mortuary van, so as to have the precious corpse always under their
surveillance.

At this moment there was a shout on the station platform I recognized
the voice. It was the Baron Weissschnitzerdörfer shouting:

"Stop! stop!"

This time it was not a train on the start, but a hat in distress. A
sudden gust had swept through the station and borne off the baron's
hat—a helmet-shaped hat of a bluish color. It rolled on the platform,
it rolled on the rails, it skimmed the enclosure and went out over the
wall, and its owner ran his hardest to stop it.