CHAPTER XV.
IN WHICH KÉRABAN, AHMET, VAN MITTEN, AND THEIR SERVANTS PLAY THE PART OF SALAMANDERS.
Taman is but a melancholy-looking town, with its comfortless houses, its thatched roofs discoloured by the weather, and its wooden church, the bell-tower of which is continually concealed by the flocks of falcons which wheel around it.
The chaise merely passed through Taman. So Van Mitten was not able to visit the military positions, nor the fortress of Phanagoria, nor the ruins of Tmoutarakan.
If Kertsch is Greek in population and costume, Taman itself is Cossack, a contrast which the Dutchman could not help remarking upon.
The chaise, invariably proceeding by the shortest routes, followed for an hour the southern shore of the bay of Taman. The travellers saw enough to perceive that the country was full of game, and afforded opportunities for shooting almost unequalled in any other part of the globe.
In fact, pelicans, cormorants, grebes, without counting the flocks of bustards, arose from the marshes in incredible numbers.
"I have never seen such quantities of water-fowl," observed Van Mitten. "One might fire into the marsh at random: not a grain of shot would fail to hit."
This remark evoked no discussion. Kéraban was no sportsman, and Ahmet was occupied with far different thoughts. There was not even the commencement of a dispute, except when a flock of wild ducks rose, alarmed at the approach of the carriage, just as it was quitting the coast-road to turn to the south-east.
"There is a flock!" exclaimed Van Mitten; "it is really a regiment!"
"A regiment! you mean an army," replied Kéraban, shrugging his shoulders.
"Ma foi, you are right," said Van Mitten. "There are at least a hundred thousand ducks."
"A hundred thousand!" exclaimed Kéraban. "If you had said two hundred thousand now!"
"Oh, two hundred thousand!"
"I should even say three hundred thousand, Van Mitten, and then I should be in no way exaggerating."
"You are right, Seigneur Kéraban," replied the Dutchman, prudently, for he did not wish to excite his companion to throw a million wild ducks at his head. But he was right: a hundred thousand ducks is an immense flight, but there were certainly no fewer in that extensive cloud of birds which threw such an immense shadow on the waters of the bay. The weather was very fine, and the road was fairly passable for carriages. The horses proceeded rapidly, and there were no delays at the relays. They no longer had Seigneur Saffar in front of them.
We need hardly say that when night came on they passed it still rapidly on the journey towards the first slopes of the Caucasus, which appeared in the distant horizon. Since the night had been passed at the hotel at Kertsch, no one had even thought of quitting the chaise for six-and-thirty hours.
However, towards evening, at supper-time, the travellers stopped at one of the post-houses, which was also an inn. They did not know what the resources of the Caucasus were, and whether food was easily procurable there. So they thought it prudent to economize the provisions taken in at Kertsch.
The inn was of second-class quality, but there was an abundance of food. So they had nothing to complain of on that score. Only the hotel-keeper, perhaps out of his natural distrust, or according to the custom of the country, wished them to pay for everything as soon as they had had it. So when he brought the bread he said,—
"This is ten kopecks."
Ahmet gave him the money.
Then he came in with some eggs.
"These are eighty kopecks,” he said. And Ahmet paid the eighty kopecks demanded.
For the kwass for the wild ducks so much: for the salt—yes, even for the salt—so much. Ahmet paid all, even to the knives, glasses, spoons, forks, and plates.
As may be expected, such dealings served only to excite Kéraban so much that he finished by purchasing en bloc the various necessaries for the supper, but not without certain objurgations which the landlord listened to with an impassibility which would have done credit to Van Mitten. When the meal was finished, Kéraban resold the utensils at a loss of fifty per cent.
"It is lucky that he does not charge us anything for our digestion," remarked Kéraban. "What a man he is! He ought to be Financial Minister in Turkey. That is a man who would know how to tax every oar that ever rowed a caïque across the Bosphorus."
But they had supped well enough, which was an important matter, as Bruno remarked; and they proceeded on their way when night had fallen—a dark, moonless night.
It is quite a curious experience, but one not without charm, to find oneself hurried along in a carriage in profound darkness, through an unknown country, in which villages are far apart and even farmhouses are scattered. The jingling of the harness bells, the measured fall of the horses' hoofs, the sound of the carriage wheels upon the sandy plain, the jolting in the ruts, the cracking of the postillion's whip, the gleam of the lamps which is soon lost in the darkness when the road is open, and which is vividly flashed back by trees, rocks, drinking sign-boards erected on the embankment of the road; all these constitute an ensemble of sights and sounds to which few travellers can remain insensible. They hear the noises; they see the objects in a dreamy manner, in a kind of half-somnolence, which lends to the surroundings a somewhat fantastic character.
Seigneur Kéraban and his companions were not insensible to this impression, which increased every instant. Through the windows of the carriage they contemplated, with half-closed eyes, the great shadows of the equipage—capricious, undefined, moving shadows, which developed themselves in front upon the vaguely lighted road.
It was about eleven o'clock when a peculiar sound awoke the travellers from their reverie. The noise was a kind of whistle, something like that which is produced by opening a bottle of mineral water, but increased tenfold. One might have imagined it was caused by steam blowing off from the safety-valve of a boiler.
The carriage stopped. The postillion could hardly hold his horses. Ahmet, anxious to know what the matter was, hastily let down the window of the chaise.
"What is the matter?" he cried. "Why do not you go on? What is that noise?"
"It is caused by the mud volcanoes," replied the postillion.
"Mud volcanoes!" cried Kéraban. "Whoever heard of 'mud volcanoes!' This is certainly a pleasant way you are taking us, nephew Ahmet!"
"Seigneur Kéraban, you and your companions had better descend," said the postillion.
"Descend!" exclaimed Kéraban.
"Yes. I must trouble you to follow the chaise on foot, as I cannot manage the horses, and they may run away."
"Let us do so," said Ahmet. "The man is right. We must get out."
"There are five or six versts to be traversed," added the postillion: "perhaps eight, but no more."
"Will you decide, uncle?" said Ahmet.
"Let us get out, Kéraban," said Van Mitten. "We must see what kind of phenomena these mud volcanoes are."
Kéraban consented, but not without protest. They all quitted the carriage and walked behind the chaise, which only advanced at a slow pace, guided by the light of the lamps. The night was very dark. If the Dutchman had any expectation of seeing the mud volcanoes, he was disappointed; but, unless one were deaf, it would have been impossible to avoid hearing the curions hissing sound they emitted.
Had it been daylight they would have seen an immense steppe, upon which had been puffed up on all sides little eruptive cones, like the large ant-hills one meets with in Central Africa. From these cones escaped gaseous and bituminous springs, which are called mud volcanoes, though volcanic action has nothing to do with their production. The eruption is simply a mixture of mud, gypsum, chalk, pyrites, with petroleum even, which, under the pressure of carbonetted, or sometimes phosphoretted, hydrogen gas, escapes with considerable violence. These little heaps, which are raised by degrees, give way to permit the eruptive matter to escape, and afterwards fall in, when the tertiary formations are exhausted, in a space of time of greater or less duration.
The hydrogen gas produced under these conditions is due to the slow, but continuous decomposition of petroleum mixed with various other substances. The rocky region in which it is enclosed is finally broken up under the action of water (rain or springs), the filtration of which is continuous. Then the effusion ceases, just as the effervescence of champagne will cease as the elasticity of the gas is exhausted. These cones of ejected matter open in great numbers in the peninsula of Taman. There are other localities in the peninsula of Kertsch, for instance, where they may be observed; but our travellers did not see them, for they do not exist near the high road.
However, the travellers passed here between the great mounds surrounded with fumes, in the midst of the outpourings of liquid mud. Sometimes the pedestrians were obliged to approach so close to them that they received puffs of the gas right in their faces, which gave them a most disagreeable sensation, and was of a most unpleasant odour.
"Eh," said Van Mitten, who recognized the presence of gas, "we are in danger here. I trust there will be no explosion."
"You are right," replied Ahmet. "We must be cautious, and ought to extinguish the lamps."
The postillion, who was doubtless conversant with the route, was evidently of the same opinion, for the lamps were suddenly extinguished.
"Mind you do not smoke, you fellows," cried Ahmet to the servants.
"You may be quite easy on that point, Seigneur Ahmet," replied Bruno; "we have no desire to be blown up."
"What!" exclaimed Kéraban; do you mean that we cannot smoke here?"
"No, uncle," replied Ahmet; "we must not smoke for some versts at least."
"Not even a cigarette?" added the "headstrong one," who was rolling a pinch of tombékí in his practised fingers.
"Later on, friend Kéraban, later on; it is for all our sakes," said Van Mitten. "It would be as dangerous to smoke here as in a powder magazine."
"A nice country this!" muttered Kéraban. "I should be surprised if a tobacco merchant made his fortune here. Nephew Ahmet, though we had lost a few days, it would have been better to have gone round the Sea of Azof."
Ahmet made no answer. He did not wish to enter into a discussion on this subject. His uncle grumblingly put the cigarette in his pocket, and the travellers continued to follow the chaise, which was a shapeless mass looming in the obscurity of the night.
It was necessary, then, to proceed with extreme caution for fear of falling. The road was much cut up, and by no means firm under foot. The way ascended gradually towards the east. Fortunately there was no wind, so the vapours ascended straight into the air, instead of blowing against the travellers and thus greatly incommoding them.
They advanced very cautiously for about half an hour. The horses "whinnied" and plunged continually, so that the postillion had considerable difficulty to restrain them. The axle-trees of the chaise groaned when the wheels slipped into some deep rut or other; but the carriage was pretty strong, as had been already proved in the marshes of the lower Danube. In another quarter of an hour the region of the mudcones would be passed.
Suddenly a vivid light appeared on the left of the road. One of the cones had taken fire, and was burning with a tremendous flame. The steppe was illuminated to the extent of a verst around it.
"They are smoking there," muttered Ahmet, who was in advance of his companions. But no one was smoking.
Suddenly the postillion was heard calling out in front. Then the loud cracking of his whip succeeded. He could not manage the horses, which darted forward, and the chaise was dragged away at a tremendous pace.
The pedestrians halted in consternation. The whole plain presented a most terrifying aspect. In fact the flames had been communicated by one cone to another, and they exploded successively with great violence, like immense displays of fireworks.
Now the immense illumination quite filled the plain. In the weird light appeared hundreds of great cones vomiting fire, the gas from which burned in the midst of liquid ejected matter; some cones flared with the sinister gleams of petroleum, others were coloured diversely by the presence of sulphur, pyrites, or carbonate of iron.
All the time deep growling sounds were audible, and the travellers were afraid lest the earth should open, and form an immense crater under the pressure of so much eruptive matter.
There was indeed imminent danger. Instinctively Kéraban and his companions separated, so as to diminish the danger of a common destruction. But they did not stop—they passed on more rapidly: it was absolutely necessary to traverse the dangerous zone as quickly as possible. The way, well lighted, appeared practicable. So, winding in and out amongst the cones, they traversed the fiery steppe.
"Come on—come on," cried Ahmet.
The others did not answer him, but they complied. Each one hurried in the direction which the chaise had taken, but they could not perceive it. On the horizon night reigned darkly, and there it was evident the zone of fire terminated.
Suddenly a tremendous explosion burst out in the road itself. A jet of flame rose from a great heap, which erupted the ground in an instant.
Kéraban was knocked down, and his companions could perceive him struggling through the flame. What would become of him if they did not go to his assistance?
The immense illumination quite filled the plain.
With one bound Ahmet dashed to the assistance of his uncle. He seized him before the burning gas could reach him, and dragged him, half suffocated, beyond the influence of the vapours.
"Oh! uncle, uncle!" cried the young man.
Then Van Mitten, Bruno, and Nizib, having assisted to carry him to the thicket near by, endeavoured to reanimate Kéraban.
At length, after some vigorous coughing, Kéraban began to breathe freely. When he was restored to his senses and to life, his first words were,—
"Do you dare to dispute, Ahmet, that it would not have been better to have made the tour of the Sea of Azof?"
"You are right, uncle," he replied.
"As I always am, nephew, always!"
Kéraban had scarcely finished this little speech, when profound darkness fell upon the plain. The cones had become simultaneously and suddenly extinguished, as if the hand of a machinist had cut off the gas. Everything was pitchy dark, and appeared all the more sombre after the late glow, which had left its impression upon the retina of the light which had so suddenly been extinguished.
What had happened then? How had the cones caught fire, since no light had approached them?
We can offer a probable explanation. To the influence of a gas which will take fire when it comes in contact with the air, such a phenomenon, like that which took place in the vicinity of Taman in 1840, was due. This gas is phosphoretted hydrogen, generated in phosphates. It is visible in the carcases of dead animals, and in marshy places. It takes fire, and communicates the flame to the carbonetted hydrogen, which is only the ordinary gas we use for lighting purposes. So, under the influence, perhaps, of certain atmospheric conditions, the spontaneous combustion was suddenly produced in a way which could not have been foreseen.
From this point of view, the peninsulas of Kertsch and Taman present serious dangers, from which it is difficult to guard, as they are so very sudden.
Seigneur Kéraban was not far wrong when he said that any other route would have been preferable to that they were pursuing. But, after all, they had escaped the danger; uncle and nephew a little singed, no doubt, but the others without even a burn.
Three versts further on they found the carriage and horses, with the postillion, who had mastered his cattle. The moment the flames had gone out, he had lighted the carriage lamps again; and, guided by their gleam, the travellers rejoined him without danger, and without fatigue.
Each one resumed his place. They started again, and the night passed without incident. But Van Mitten preserved a vivid recollection of the scene. He could not have been more astonished if the chances of life had carried him to that part of New Zealand where the springs boil up in the eruptive hills.
Next day, the 6th of September, eighteen leagues from Taman, the chaise, having turned the Bay of Kisiltasch, traversed the village of Anapa, and at about eight o'clock in the evening stopped in Rajewskaja, on the borders of the Caucasian district.