The Silent Steppe The Memoir Of A Kazakh Nomad

Under Stalin Mukhamet Shayakhmetov Jan Butler

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 The

SILENT
STEPPE
 The

S IL E N T
STEPPE
T h e M e m o ir o f a Kazakh N o m a d u n d e r S ta lin

MUKHAMET
SHAYAKHMETOV

Translated from the Russian by Jan Butler

O v e r lo o k /R o o k e r y
New York, New York
 THE SILENT STEPPE

This edition first published in The United States of America in 2007 by

The Rookery Press, Tracy Cams Ltd.
in association with The Overlook Press
141 Wooster Street
New York, NY 10012
www.therookerypress.com

Copyright © 2006 Mukhamet Shayakhmetov

Translation copyright © 2006 Stacey International Publishers
Published in the UK by Stacey International Publishers

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner
without written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes
to quote brief passages in connection with a review. The scanning, uploading
and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the
permission of the publisher is illegal and stricdy prohibited.

Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress

Printed in the United States o f America

F irst E dition

ISBN 1-58567-955-0
ISBN-13 978-1-58567-955-3

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

Maps drawn by Jennifer Skelley

 CONTENTS
Introduction by Tom Stacey vii
Prologue: The Fugitive xiii

Part O ne : Class Enemy

Chapter 1: The Life We Lost 3
Chapter 2: My Uncles Trial 11
Chapter 3: The Holy Yurt 19
Chapter 4: My Sister s Secret Wedding 26
Chapter 5: The Last Autumn of the Nomadic Aul 31
Chapter 6: The Escape of the Oralman Clans 39
Chapter 7: School 43
Chapter 8: The Kulaks Son 48
Chapter 9: Confiscation 55
Chapter 10: The Silent Steppe 61
Chapter 11 : Leaving Much-Loved Places 68
Chapter 12: My Perilous Journey 77
Chapter 13: At Kalmakbai Aul 102
Chapter 14: Deportation 121
Part T w o : Famine
Chapter 15: The Refugees 135
Chapter 16: Fleeing Back Home 143
Chapter 17: Hunger Comes to the Aul 153
Chapter 18: Days of Mourning 178
Chapter 19: The New Harvest 190
Chapter 20: The Milk of Human Kindness 199
Chapter 21: The Last Days of Famine 221
Chapter 22: A Home of our Own 230
Chapter 23: Adolescence 240
Part T hree: War
Chapter 24: The Coming of the Great Patriotic War 255
Chapter 25: In the Red Army 265
Chapter 26: At the Front 276
Chapter 27: Stalingrad 285
Chapter 28: Casualty 298
Chapter 29: On the Border 309
Chapter 30: The Journey Home 320

Epilogue 343
Glossary 345
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Starting after page 178:

Part of a Kazakh family’s train on seasonal migration.
A late 19th century painting of a Kazakh family’s horse and camel train.
The last migrations, in 1927.
Construction of a summer yurt in the 1920s.
A Soviet Party official harangues nomadic Kazakhs in 1929.
Certificate recording membership of the ‘Kossky Farm Labourers’ Union.
Enforced settlement was accompanied by attempts at mechanisation.
Milk yield from a single cow is delivered in a standard pail.
Feodor Goloshchekin, Stalin’s Party chief for the territory.
Families awaiting deportation by rail.
The author in Red Army winter kit in 1941.
The author with a school friend in 1938.
The author with a cousin in 1939.
Mukhamet Shayakhmetov’s family.
The author at school c. 1937.
The author wearing the medals awarded to him for services to education,
together with his military medals.

Maps:
Modern-day Kazakhstan 2
Soviet Central Asia in the Stalin era 2
Localities of significant sites in The Silent Steppe 16
North-east Kazakhstan in the 1930s 134
 INTRODUCTION

he educated world knows little —if anything at all —of the

T suffering of the nomadic peoples of central Asia under the
rule of Stalin and the policy of collectivisation launched in 1929:
least of all, of Kazakhs whose immemorial habitat comprised that
vast swathe of steppe-land from the Eastern shores of the Caspian
to the great Tien Shan range of mountains which, with the Altai
range to the north, forms the frontier of Kazakh territory, and
today’s Kazakhstan, with China. During that period the
population of indigenous Kazakhs fell by approximately 1.2
million from death by starvation. Over the whole of the first
decade and a half of effective Soviet Communist rule, from - say -
around 1923, some 1.75 million Kazakhs out of a previous
population of around 4 million were lost by starvation or execution
or, in the case of about a tenth of that number, by flight to other
countries in the region, notably China, Afghanistan and Iran. This
is a story of willed catastrophe, on a scale of ideological horror
unequalled even in the total record of Stalins tyranny, and only
subsequently surpassed by Mao Tse-tung and Pol Pot.
It comprised not only the massacre of people in vast numbers
but the destruction of a nomadic culture and way of life of
antiquity such as defined in essence the Kazakh nation. In todays
terms, it would unquestionably justify the accusation of genocide.
It is a matter of joyful irony that it was the Leninist principle of
recognising, within the ruthless matrix of his Marxist empire, the
factor of ethnic ‘nationalities’, with their puppet governments of
indigenous Soviet toadies and their phoney territorial autonomies,
which has resulted today in the Republic of Kazakhstan, the ninth
biggest country in the world, no less, and no less than the major
economic presence in central Asia with its vast capital of Caspian
oil, and with a population of more than 14 million of which over
half is of Kazakh blood. Blood carries memories; and today
THE SILENT STEPPE

Kazakhs are, to a man and a woman, the descendants of that

remnant who somehow survived the privations of the appalling
period this book covers.
The Kazakh people were no strangers to Russian persecution
and exploitation. For three quarters of a century prior to the time
when Mukhamet Shayakhmetov was.born (1922), Russia had been
established as colonial authority across all Turkic-speaking central
Asia (less the Uighurs of Sinkiang), involving the Kazakhs, Kyrgyz,
Turkmens and Uzbeks; and indeed their Farsi-speaking neighbours
towards the Afghan border, the Tadjiks. All are of Moslem
adherence, converted at various points from the seventh century
onwards, albeit some of them quite recently and fairly loosely. They
had a sustained if secret allegiance to their shamanistic inheritance,
which in turn had coloured that combination of Buddhist,
Zoroastrian and Nestorian Christian amalgam comprising what
today we term ‘tengrism’: a faith in the unity of creation with Man
at its centre and in communion with it, and of Man as the inheritor
of a potential gift of ecstatic enlightenment. All this was mystically
exercised among the Kazakhs in the rituals of their immensely
ancient nomadic and transhumant existence, based upon their
horse- and camel-borne economy of herding sheep and goats across
the vast breadth of the steppe, and subject to a climate of extreme
conditions, especially in winter. With it came an oral tradition of
song and saga and poetry, and a flowering in the written corpus of
work of the Kazakh Abai Kunanbaev, who had died in 1904. To all
this young Mukhamet Shayakhmetov was a devout heir. His was a
way of life traceable down the centuries from the Scythians of
Greek mythology and classical times, from the panning of gold by
the sacred (and secret) means of the fleece, and indeed from the
techniques of domesticating the wild horse for human
transportation, first devised on these very steppes some seven
thousand years ago.
From early in their colonial intrusion, the Russians had sought to
break, or at least override, the traditional Kazakh nomadic life and
defiant clan allegiances, its lines of authority descending from its
various Khans, and the complex weave of its three zhuzes — of the
 INTRODUCTION

Senior of the partially settled south and south-east, containing their

ancient cities; the Middle zhuz of the families and clans of which
Mukhamet Shayakhmetov was a part, in the north-east and north of
Kazakh territory; and the ‘Junior’ zhuz of the west. In the mid­
nineteenth century the Russians had offered to protect the steppeland
inhabitants from the ravages of Jungarian invaders from across the
Eastern mountain borders of what is today Chinese and Mongolian
territory. Their price was an unwanted colonial control and Russian
setdement which, by 1854, had become energetic and determined.
From their base in Fort Verny, soon to be renamed Alma Ata
(today’s Almaty), Tsarist Russia presided over relentless
resettlement of Russian peasantry. All Kazakh land serving the
nomadic way of life was deemed to belong to the Russian state.
The newcomers were invariably and advisedly armed. In 1880, the
Russian commander at Fort Verny declared, as he said, in the
‘requirement of sincerity’ that ‘Our business here is a Russian one,
first and foremost, and all the land populated by the Kazakhs is not
their own... The Russian settled elements must force them off the
land or lead them into oblivion.’ At the same time, the territory of
the Kazakhs (or Kyrgyz, as they were commonly termed, in the
absence of distinction from their ethnic neighbours setded in the
mountains of the extreme southeast of the territory), was used as a
dumping ground or place of exile for those elements or individuals
St Petersburg deemed subversive. Those exiled included the
novelist Feodor Dostoevsky, dispatched to Semipalatinsk, the main
urban centre of the territory covered by the story of this work, and
Taras Shevchenko, the Ukrainian writer and poet, to Mangyshlak.
By 1916, six years before Mukhamet Shayakhmetov’s birth and
two years into the conflict in which Russia was locked with
Germany, the Kazakhs rose in steppe-wide revolt against their
Russian masters. No fewer than 385,000 Kazakhs, the cream of the
entire generation of males, were to be drafted into the Tsarist army,
to provide backing for the front line against the Kaiser’s armies. In
1914-15 alone, 260,000 head of Kazakh livestock were
‘requisitioned’ by the Russians without a kopek of compensation.
Seizing that moment of evident vulnerability in St Petersburg, a
THE SILENT STEPPE

group of Kazakh patriots, headed by the nationalist intellectuals of

Alash Orda, raised the flag of Kazakh independence. The rebellion
was ruthlessly quelled. Thousands of patriots died, thousands more
fled: a few, awaiting execution, were saved by the revolution of
February 1917, which ended Romanov Tsarist rule, and led to
Russia’s withdrawal from the Great War.
For a tumultuous year or two following Lenin’s putsch of
November 7, 1917 - the ‘Great October Socialist Revolution - it
seemed that a renewed surge by the Kazakhs, allied to the Whites,
would achieve the people’s independence. But slowly the Reds
gained the upper hand, and with the arrival of the fifth Red Army
under General V Frunze, submission to Marxist-Leninist rule from
Moscow became the ineluctable reality for the whole of the former
Tsarist central Asia. In 1923, the year before Lenin’s death, two of
the darkest figures of early Communist rule across the Soviet
empire were posted to Kazakhstan. One was Nikolai Yezhov,
founder of first Lenin’s - and soon afterwards, Stalin’s - secret
police, OGPU; the other was Feodor Goloshchenkin, who five
years earlier had participated in the gratuitous murder of the entire
Romanov royal family of Russia at Ekaterinburg. Their brief was to
consolidate the grip of the Party on the region. They succeeded.
Goloshchenkin remained to develop and sustain the Communist
regime in Kazakhstan which in 1928 was instructed to implement
the ‘collectivisation’ and enforced settlement of the entire
population of the steppes, exclusively ethnic Kazakhs. This
destruction of an ancient way of life and a subtle and successful
economy was accompanied by the liquidation of all social
distinctions (except in so far as it applied to the new Party
hierarchy), the enforced introduction of monetary exchange over
against traditional barter, and confiscation of all ‘kulak’ land or
flocks and their ‘redistribution. The winter of 1926-27 had
experienced a peculiarly evil ju t, the climatic phenomenon where a
freeze follows a spring-time thaw and the animals’ pasturage, while
visible, is frozen under an impenetrable film of ice. Herds and
flocks were catastrophically diminished when, the next year,
collectivisation was promulgated. The policy was imposed under a
 INTRODUCTION

regime of terror. The grain yield plummeted, animals in their

thousands died; hunger was rampant and famine had descended
upon the entire rural population. In one year alone (1933) 33,000
Kazakh men and women were convicted and sentenced
(sometimes to death) for attempting to hide grain or meat to feed
their own families.
Such was the political and social background of the personal
story of the boy, so remarkably to survive, who as an old man -
now in his eighties - he unfolds here: the record of his own
experience kept faithfully throughout those terrible years, and up
to his recruitment into the Red Army and his participation in the
defence of Stalingrad. It is a document virtually unique, and of
unchallengeable honesty and exactitude, first produced in a version
in Russian under the tide Sudba (‘Destiny) and printed in
Kazakhstan in 2002. Under the deft guidance of his editor,
Anthony Gardner, and the skilled translation of Jan Butler,
Mukhamet Shayakhmetov has now given access to an English-
speaking readership worldwide to the full narrative which seems
destined to be treasured as a key resource in the annals of his fellow
Kazakhs and their emerging nation.
Kazakhstan was projected, blinking, into independent nadonhood
in 1991, following the extraordinary events of August that year, and
the then virtually powerless Mikhail Gorbachevs ‘suspension of the
activities of the Russian Communist Party. Up to as late as December
of that year it was widely expected that the USSR’s constituent
‘Republics’ would remain within a Russian-dominated union. Such
was not to evolve. It was to be full independence for Kazakhstan and
all the constituent republics of equivalent status.
As for the great steppe-land, the eternal Kazakh heartland,
collectivised agriculture never succeeded. The yields of animals for
meat and milk and wool or hides never recovered. By the death of
Stalin, 1953, vast areas of steppe were unproductive and virtually
uninhabited. The following year, to great fanfare, Nikita Khrushchev
launched the ‘virgin lands’ scheme - tselinny kray - by which vast
stretches of northern Kazakhstan were to be settled by 350,000
drafted-in Russian, Belorussian and Ukrainian peasantry, and to
THE SILENT STEPPE

grow immense harvests of wheat. The rainfall and soil fertility were
not sufficient to sustain the early promise; even so, Kazakhstan
remains to this day a significant exporter of wheat. Meanwhile, in
the northeast, that same Kazakh territory where the story of The
Silent Steppe was played out, Stalin had allocated 18,500 square
kilometres, the Semipalatinsk Polygon, for the detonation of what -
over forty years - was to amount tö 470 nuclear bombs, leaving a
legacy upon the local population of cancer, leukaemia, stillbirths,
and congenital deformity not yet entirely eradicated.
O f the nomadic way of life, a fragment - perhaps some 5 per
cent of the stock-rearing population - has to this day still survived,
or has resumed something akin to the old way of life. These
Kazakh nomads are to be found in the arid far south-west of the
country. Farming in Kazakhstan has been formally privatised, and
has struggled back to profitable production, albeit patchily, usually
as quite large-scale agro-business. The Kazakh nomads of the
‘Junior’ zhuz, of the semi-desert region west and north of the Aral
Sea (itself an ecological disaster as a result of the theft of its
tributary waters for the sake of Uzbekistan’s now defunct cotton
plantations), are still to be found erecting their yurts and
foregathering in their aids, moving their flocks from one remote
region of grazing to another. The herders themselves are vehicle-
borne now, not horse-borne. With the freeing of markets they have
lately come to flourish, with a high yield per head of animal (often
the Karakul sheep), adhering to the remnant structures of family
and clan, and benefiting from the long neglect of ancient Kazakh
pastures. They are the living relic of a way of life and inheritance
of spirit into which Mukhamet Shayakhmetov was born in the far
north-east reaches of their homeland territory, some 85 years ago,
and which this gallant author so poignantly illuminates and vivifies
on behalf of all his nation in his intensely personal, microcosmic
account of its devastation.
Tom Stacey
 PROLOGUE

T he Fugitive

Late Summery 1930.

t was two days since our aul, or nomadic clan, had migrated
I from the summer pastures high up in the Altai ranges foothills
to the natural shelter of the Karagash just east of the Irtysh river
where we usually stopped at this time of the year. The dense
tussocks of grass were so tall and springy - some of them waist-
high to an adult - that they could trip a child up and knock him
to the ground. As the cool evening closed in, the summer air grew
denser and the gathering darkness blanked nearly everything out;
but I was still able to see three silhouettes hurrying through the
fading twilight from our yurt to the one next door.
After catching and tethering the lambs of the ewes that were
going to be milked, and finishing off the evening chores I was set
as an eight-year-old, I returned to our tent and found my mother
sitting all alone. Softly, as though fearing we might be overheard,
she whispered to me, ‘The Chief Aga has arrived.’
Then I realised that the silhouettes had been those of my
grandmother and my two elder sisters, on their way to meet my
Uncle Toimbai.
He was my fathers half-brother, and the head of our clan. His
real name was Shayakhmet, but according to an age-old custom of
ours, my mother was not allowed to call her husbands male
relatives by their real names, but had to invent other ones for them
instead. The names, chosen at the time of marriage, were not only
terms of endearment, but indicated how closely the person was
related to her husband, and his age. In keeping with tradition, we
children of Toimbai s younger brother added the Kazakh word for
‘grandfather’ - ‘ata’ - to his name and called him Toimbai-ata. The
THE SILENT STEPPE

other children in the aul must have copied us because they called
him that, too.
Toimbai-àta was the oldest person in our aul, and the wealthiest.
He was a naturally taciturn and gentle man, but his opinion and
will were accepted unquestioningly by all the members of our clan.
Unlike the other elders, he never abused his status by using his
authority to override other peoples wishes, or interfering
unnecessarily in his kinsmens affairs. In the communal
organisation of the aul, he was responsible for all the livestock,
making sure that they were properly grazed and calculating the
time and duration of each journey between stopping places in
summertime. For two years after the Soviet authorities had banned
privately hired labour, he had also taken turns with all the other
men in grazing the communal flock of sheep in three-day shifts.
It was a whole year since Toimbai-ata had been in our aul. He
was very fond of children and always used to spoil me, and as it was
very rare for us not to see a relative for such a long time, I had
missed him terribly. So I immediately rushed over to my uncle’s
yurt, dashing across the yard and through the doorway, where I
caught sight of Toimbai-ata in the middle of the tent, hugging my
grandmother. Although he was sixty years old, he was sobbing
convulsively as he quietly repeated two words over and over again:
‘Mother! Darling!’
It was the first time I had seen grown-ups crying inconsolably,
and it upset and baffled me. Where, I wondered, had my uncle
come from? Where had he been for so long that people had grown
tired of waiting for him? And now they had seen him, why were
they crying so bitterly?
But I also felt embarrassed. I knew that the previous autumn my
uncle had been classified as a kulak or class enemy of the Soviet
regime, had all his property confiscated, and been sentenced to two
years’ imprisonment. And now here he was a year later, returning
home like a thief in the night, under the cover of darkness.
 PART O NE

C lass E nemy
Above: Modern-day Kazakhstan

Below: Soviet Central Asia in the Stalin era

 Chapter One

T he Life W e Lost

or as long as anyone could remember, a stock-breeders entire life

F in the steppe had been bound up with his animals. Our people
always looked after them with great care, because they were our main
livelihood, and we knew just about everything there was to know
about rearing them. The death of even one of them was always
treated very seriously: a kid accidentally strangling itself on its tether
would cause great consternation, and the whole family would mourn
the loss of a favourite horse or camel, because they were the main
means of transport and work force in a nomadic household. Relatives
and friends would solemnly express their condolences, just as if a
member of the family had died, and help them to cover their loss.
The Kazakh nomads could not imagine an existence without their
livestock: they knew of no other kind, and believed that to be left
without their animals would mean certain death.
The pattern of our year was dictated by the needs of our herds
and flocks. In order to provide enough grazing for them, we were
always on the move between pastures, following routes established
by our forefathers. In the south and south-west of Kazakhstan,
migration to the abundant summer pastures could mean a journey
of over a thousand kilometres. For us in the eastern, mountainous
THE SILENT STEPPE

part of the country, the distances were smaller: 150 to 200

kilometres, divided into stages of five kilometres upwards. Each
move had to take into account the stamina of our animals -
particularly the ewes, which could usually cover no more than
twenty kilometres in one day.
Each move was like a festival, .especially for us children;
everyone was happy, and dressed up for the occasion. The caravan
was headed by the most respected woman of the aul, who rode on
a horse, leading the camels which carried her family’s possessions.
These animals are very obedient, and quietly followed the leader.
The other women came next, also leading pack camels, in a long
line accompanied by two men who acted as guides. The rest of the
men would drive the flocks separately from the caravan, and the
young people would play along the way, racing one another on
horses, singing songs, and picking flowers and wild berries.
These moves were made as a rule at warm times of year, and
followed the seasons exactly. The first were in early spring from
winter camps to places known as ‘spring/autumn stopping places
of the aul’. These were light dwellings, suitable for habitation in
early spring and late autumn - though most of the stock-breeders
preferred to put up their yurts and live in those. Here lambing took
place; then, after a month or six weeks, when new-born lambs were
old enough to travel small distances, there would be a move to new
pastures, up to ten kilometres away. In another month - around
the middle of June, when the hot summer days came - the nomads
headed up into the mountains, or else further north. By the
beginning of July they had reached their final destination - cool
summer pastures with plenty of grass - and would remain there till
mid-August, though they would continue to move their flocks
between meadows.
The first part of the return journey would take them down to
the lower slopes of the mountains. Then, in early September, with
the weather becoming cooler in the lowlands, they would head
onto the steppe, staying there until the end of October, with
occasional short moves to different pastures: we called one of these
a zhayau kosh, or ‘migration on foot’.

4
 THE LIFE WE LOST

O n the eve of the winter, people settled again in the stopping

places they had used in the spring. Only when the first snowfall
came in mid-November would they move into their winter
dwellings, where they would remain until March and the
beginning of the next nomadic cycle. This final move was always
left as late as possible, in order to conserve the winter pastures.
These moves were easy for us, as they had been developed to a
fine art, and the whole business of dismantling the yurt, packing
what was needed for summer living and loading it onto a camel
could be managed in an hour or an hour and a half.
The yurt was made up of a frustrum-shaped wooden frame
consisting of long poles, and panels woven from osiers. The size
could be increased simply by adding more panels, if the owner was
wealthy enough. The tops of the poles were inserted into a canopy
of withies, creating a dome, and the frame was then covered with a
large waterproof felt mat. The temperature could be regulated by
opening or closing the dome as required.
As for our winter houses, these were simple affairs made from
stones, clay bricks or logs. Each had a flat roof and consisted of two
or three rooms, or simply one big room for all members of the
family. In the one-room houses people would spend the night in
different corners, separated by curtains. It was even more hugger-
mugger in the yurts.
The floor, whether in a yurt or in a house, would be covered
with a felt mat decorated with patterns and thick enough to ensure
protection from cold and moisture. Homespun rugs were also used
for warmth and decoration. At mealtimes, the whole family would
sit at the dastarkhan (a low table) in winter, or around a tablecloth
spread on the floor in summer.
Nomads had almost no furniture in its present-day meaning,
apart from their dinner table, wooden beds, and chests and boxes
for storing household things and food. The yurts were even more
sparsely furnished than their houses, because they left as much as
they could behind in their winter dwellings to minimise the burden
on the camels.
Once a week we washed in a bathhouse. There was usually one

5
THE SILENT STEPPE

of these for each winter or autumn/spring stopping place, though

there might be two if there were a lot of yurts based there. They
were far from perfect, each heated by a stone fireplace which filled
the place with smoke. In the summertime, a temporary bathhouse
would be erected wherever we stopped, using a frame covered with
floor mats.
Around our winter houses were pèns for sheep, camels and oxen
- but not for horses, who stayed in their pastures day and night
throughout the winter, clearing the snow with their hoofs to reach
the grass beneath. The other animals would be let out during the
day and brought back to the pens at night. Stopping-places were
usually chosen for their light snowfall, or for their situation at the
foot of a mountain where frequent winds would blow the snow
clear. Nomads did not put aside a stock of fodder for winter, except
for the possibility of a couple of horses or animals falling sick.
There was always the danger that in severe winters large numbers
of animals could die of starvation - a devastating blow to their
owners.
O n arrival at the spring stopping places, wheat and other crops
would be sown in fields some distance away from our pastures.
Then, when we returned in the autumn, most of the men and
youths would go off to harvest them and make hay. The men
generally would not return home at all while they were busy
harvesting, and those of them who did come back for a short while
would return to the fields the following morning. The older
women were left in charge of the aul, along with the old men and
children who were unable to manage the heavy field work. The
tough, older boys would graze the livestock and look after them
under the supervision of the old men. They had a great many
duties, such as herding the sheep out to pasture, keeping an eye on
the calves, watching the kid goats whose mothers were still being
milked and the foals which - unlike in summer - were allowed to
run with the herd, attached by a rope to their mothers’ necks, and
graze in the steppe.
I learnt to ride at the age of five, and my father encouraged me
from early on to get used to taking a horse out on my own. He

6
 THE LIFE WE LOST

would send me on errands to relatives or friends, and when a

regional official came to visit the area and needed to borrow a horse
to get to the next aul, I would sit behind him and then ride it
home. I used to undertake these journeys with great eagerness and
pride, and my father rewarded me with enthusiastic praise.
Every two hours from morning until nightfall, the mares had to
be herded back to the aul and milked and then driven out to
pasture again —and the boys were expected to do all this work as
well as catching the foals every morning. The horses were hard to
round up in the chilly mist after the nights rain: when they got
near the aul, they suddenly got excited and sometimes spun round
and galloped back into the steppe. This caused the old men and
women and young boys a lot of extra work: it seemed as though
the herd could sense there were no young men around in the aul
to chase after them on their fast horses and yell commands at them.
This is how our great Kazakh poet, Abai, described the picture in
the autumn steppe he had probably seen ever since his childhood:

Cold storm-clouds spinning darkness,

Swathe the bare mountain crags in mist,
And herds of horses in the pasture frolic
In the frost or drowsy, droning heat.

For us boys, the hardest and most worrying work, apart from
grazing the flock of sheep, was looking after the kid goats. Usually
born in early spring, the kids would spend the summer grazing
with the lambs, which were also separated from their mothers all
day during the summer while they were still being milked. In
autumn the kids were kept apart from the lambs. They were not as
docile as the lambs and harder to graze, because they were always
darting about and never stood still. It was difficult to tell whether
they were just searching for new grass in the pasture or simply
restless by nature and had to keep racing off somewhere.
If you didn’t keep your eyes trained on them, they would be
gone in a flash and completely disappear. They were particularly
hard to manage on windy days. The dry autumn wind was their
THE SILENT STEPPE

idea of heaven. They could quickly bunch together in the wind and
then, as if something had taken hold of them, dart off all together
in the opposite direction to the wind, jostling each other, nibbling
at the tops of the grass as they ran. And then before you knew it,
they had disappeared from sight and you wouldn’t be able to catch
up with them on foot. Sometimes they would all wander off far
into the steppe and fall prey to wolves - in which case, the boys in
charge of them would be sure to get a beating.
These were the jobs all the boys in the aul had to do. But I also
had some duties that others didn’t. For instance, I used to graze the
communal flock two days in row while the other boys only grazed
them for one day at a time, since we had twice as many sheep as
the others. Even before my father sent me at the age of eight to
graze the communal flock, I had already worked as an apprentice’
shepherd for three years, for I had sometimes been asked by the
elders to take charge of the flock for a couple of hours a day.
To begin with, I was really happy to do this work as it seemed
so important and made me feel grown-up: I used to stride boldly
out into the steppe on my own with the 700 sheep in the flock and
drive them back to the aul in good time, proud of myself for
managing an adult’s job. But as I grew older, the only thing I
enjoyed about grazing the sheep was that I could spend the whole
day on horseback in the steppe. Pretending you were riding round
the flock, you could gallop about as much as you liked, even
though it was strictly forbidden for a nomad to gallop and tire his
horse out needlessly. If you happened to meet another boy on
horseback also grazing a flock, you could have races with him.
While men had overall responsibility for the animals and crops
and providing fuel and other necessaries, women were kept busy at
home. Contrary to the established Western idea of women in
oriental countries, they enjoyed extensive rights, and often became
the head not only of the family but of the whole clan. Nevertheless,
although they were not expected to do heavy physical work such as
building and ploughing, their chores occupied them from early
morning until late evening. These included anything to do with
dairy produce: they spent three to four hours every day just

8
 EARLY DAYS

treating the milk, in addition to milking all the cows and ewes
twice a day. They were also in charge of cooking, looking after the
children, tanning, felt-making, weaving and sewing.
Meat was the most important part of our diet - though in the
summer we tended to eat more dairy produce - and Kazakh
women excelled at cooking it. Another staple was millet, which was
God’s gift to a farmer, since it required comparatively few seeds,
was drought-resistant, and stored well. Our traditional millet
recipes are rarely used nowadays because they are so difficult and
time-consuming. Cooking it in a cauldron and then husking it in
a mortar would take several hours, until the grains - known as tary
- were pearly-white and deliciously crunchy, light and crumbly.
They could then be served with butter, cream, milk or simply on
their own; they could be made into porridge or added to cream and
meat-based soups. A favourite dish was tary soaked in warm milk
and served with a topping of sour cream; another delicious version
of this was to pound it in a mortar with the raw fat of sheeps tail
and serve it with tea. It was often flavoured with curd cheese, sugar
or honey and then boiled in animal fat and served as a sweet cake
to guests at special family celebrations. Sadly, even with all the
high-tech expertise available today, no husking machinery has been
adapted to process Kazakh millet, so tary has fallen out of favour.
Then there were clothes to be made and mended. Most were
made from homespun wool, or leather from the skin of our
animals (though we also bought factory-made material for things
such as underwear and bedding). My winter outfit included a fur
coat, wide leather trousers made from ewe skin, and a warm
astrakhan hat.
Traditionally, children seldom received much education, since
the teachers were mullahs who gave learning the (Arabic) Koran by
heart precedence over more practical things. Following the
Revolution, the mullahs were banned from teaching, and
conventional Soviet schools introduced instead. We nevertheless
continued to observe our faith, praying five times a day to Mecca,
though the scattered nature of the steppe aul made it impossible to
come together regularly in a mosque.

9
THE SILENT STEPPE

Although we worked hard, there was one free day a week -

Friday - and we celebrated various holidays throughout the year,
including New Year and the opening and closing day of the
farming season. There were also special occasions such as the birth
of children, the celebration of a baby’s first step, the initiation of a
boy as a dzhigit or young warrior, and weddings (lasting, as a rule,
for several days). Any of these would involve relatives, friends and
acquaintances from nearby and more remote aul. In addition, our
two-month stay in the mountain meadows was for most men a
time of relaxation - and every movement of the aul to a new
stopping place was considered a holiday. We would celebrate with
folk songs and music, competitions for improvising poetry, and
different kinds of sporting contests.
This is how life was while I was growing up in our small aul,
with its half-dozen yurts belonging to close relatives. But the Soviet
authorities brought it all to an end when they introduced collective
farms, and gave the terrible name ‘kulak’ to my father and Uncle
Toimbai.
 Chapter Two

M y U ncle s Trial

he authorities’ drive to dispossess the kulaks - destroying well-

T off peasant holdings by confiscating their livestock, land and
property and deporting the owner and his family from their home
- began across the USSR in 1928, and reached the remote regions
of Southern Altai and the upper reaches of the River Irtysh in the
autumn of 1929. Those of the wealthy people in the aul who
recognised the threat set off with their families and possessions in
search of safety - some of them crossing the border into China,
where the Government not only allowed them to settle but offered
them exemption from tax for three years. Others, however,
somehow hoped that they would not get caught up in the policy.
/

Yet it hit most of them like a bolt from the blue. In our family, we
were caught quite unawares by the alarming news that Uncle
Toimbai had been arrested and was likely to be put on trial the very
next day.
The men in our aul decided to travel to the local courthouse to
see and hear for themselves exactly what was going on there. I
asked Mother (as Father was away from home) if I could go as well.

11
THE SILENT STEPPE

In those days the very notion of a person being convicted by an

official court was practically unheard-of among Kazakhs. O n this
occasion six or seven well-off farmers from our group of villages
(officially known as Administrative Aui Number Six of the
Kumashinko-Altai rural district, Bukhtarminsk region,
Semipalatinsk province) had been pur on trial. A large number of
people attended the court session, mainly belsendi (activists) from
local aul who were carrying through the Soviet authorities’ policies
in the countryside. Relatives o f the accused also attended, and so
did quite a few people who were there purely for the curiosity
value. There were those, too, who had heard that the kulaks’
money, property and livestock were going to be confiscated and
distributed to the poor, and had come in the hope of receiving a
share of the spoils.
At that rime there were no particularly rich Kazakhs living in the
mountain regions of Southern Altai and the narrow valley of the
River Irtysh. The wealthiest among them might own one thousand
head of sheep, between one and two hundred horses and several
dozen head of large-horned cattle and a few camels. The major
landowners (or bai, as they were locally known) had been
eliminated and deported to other parts of the country back in
1926. Now, three years later, the State set about eliminating and
alienating the next group of well-off peasant formers and nomadic
stock-breeders by classifying them as kulaks.
In 1929 —hailed by Stalin and the Communists as ‘the year of
radical change’ on account o f the peasants’ supposedly voluntary
mass transition to collective forms —the Government’s efforts to
merge small-scale form holdings into large units had not, in fact,
received the support of the population as a whole. The peasants
were not joining the collectives. The authorities put all the blame
for rhis on the well-off peasants and decided that the best way of
removing this obstacle was to destroy them. A draconian law set
out the criteria for classifying an individual peasant as a kulak,
defined by the size o f the form holding, by the size of the area
under crops, by livestock numbers, the ownership of a single
mechanical engine (mill, thresher, harvester, or mowing-machine).
 MY UNCLE’S TRIAL

and even by the use of a single hired hand. On 1 May, 1929, the
farm belonging to my Uncle Toimbai (who, according official
calculations, was the most comfortably well-off among us)
consisted of 350 head of sheep, three geldings, one stallion, two
mares with their offspring from the past two years, five dairy cows,
one working ox, four large-horned bullocks and four camels; he
had sown no crops.
As an immediate way of eliminating kulak holdings, the
authorities devised new taxes and obligatory in-kind deliveries of
grain or livestock. The taxes were expressly exorbitant and
unrealisable - in many cases they were several times higher than
the total harvest or head of livestock on the holding. What is more,
the time allowed for delivering the grain and livestock and paying
off the tax was impossible to keep to. Failure to pay these taxes on
time then resulted in the farmer being convicted of opposing
Soviet policy, with draconian consequences.
Well-off nomadic Kazakh farmers who never went in for arable
farming were expected to pay tax in the form of grain deliveries to
the State, and so were forced to buy in grain from other farms. This
meant having cash to pay for it, which was something nomadic
farmers never had, since they were used to paying in kind; they
were therefore forced to sell off their livestock as quickly as possible
to get the cash to purchase the grain with. But inevitably, an
increase in the amount of animals for sale caused their value to
plummet; and since any livestock belonging to private individuals
was being put in collective farms, very few people were interested
in buying it.
Even if the livestock was successfully sold off or bartered, it took
quite some time to amass sufficient grain to pay off the tax. Delays
would occur and the deadline would pass; even if a farmer did
manage to meet it, he was then presented with yet more demands,
so that in the end some decided that they would never be able to
pay everything they owed and simply stopped handing over their
grain and livestock to the State. The authorities would respond by
instigating criminal proceedings against them. Whether they
refused or were simply unable to pay, their actions were categorised

13
THE SILENT STEPPE

as anti-Soviet. Eventually the matter was resolved in court, where

the farmer was sentenced to imprisonment and had all his property
confiscated, while his family 'Was deported some distance from
their permanent home.
The trials of peasants officially classified as kulaks were
conducted in a bizarre manner. The proceedings against the group
of six or seven men from Administrative Aul Number Six, for
instance, were held in a private apartment rather than a courtroom,
and could be summarised like this:
Judge to the accused: ‘Citizen X, you are accused of malicious
failure to pay an obligatory tax to the Soviet State. You have
committed the crime of refusing to obey Soviet laws. What do you
say to this?’
Accused to the judge: ‘I was ordered to pay tax in the form of
grain deliveries. I did not sow grain myself. So I have no grain. I
didn’t have any money either. So I sold off some livestock and got
hold of some money and then found some grain and bought it and
delivered it to the State, but I didn’t manage to do it all in time. I’d
paid two taxes before; if I’m given more time and if I can find grain
for sale, I’ll pay this third tax as well.’
Judge to the second accused: ‘You have tried to deceive the Soviet
State. You mixed sand and grit in the grain you delivered to the
State. Why did you do this?’
Accused: ‘The grain I delivered to the State was bought from
local people at market. When I was buying it, I carefully checked
it for quality and purity. I delivered it myself to the man on duty
at the collection point and it was top-quality and totally clean. It is
not true that I deceived anyone. I swear it on my children...’
Judge to one o f the witnesses for the prosecution: ‘Did you receive
the grain as an obligatory delivery to the State from the accused
kulaks? What can you tell us about the quality of the grain you
received from the suppliers?’
Witness to the judge: ‘I did not do a quality check on it when it
was delivered. Later, when the grain collected in various auls was
delivered to the State procurement station it was discovered that
the grain had sand and grit in it. These suppliers here, these

14
 MY UNCLE’S TRIAL

enemies of the Soviet authorities and working people, had poured

sand and grit into the bottom of the sacks of grain.’
Judge to the same witness: ‘Give the full names of the accused
seated in this courtroom who, with the intent of sabotaging and
swindling the Soviet authorities, attempted to deliver grain
adulterated with sand to the State.’
Witness: ‘All the accused kulaks seated here deliberately did so.’
Those of us who witnessed the proceedings were astonished;
some even dared to laugh. It was obvious that everything was
designed to speed up the destruction of the well-off holdings in the
villages with a total disregard for logic or the law.
The same day ‘justice’ was administered to the most recent
enemies of the Soviet authorities, poorest peasants and former farm
labourers’. The court’s sentence read as follows: ‘For malicious failure
to fulfil specified deliveries of grain to the State, for sabotaging the
State by adding sand and grit to grain delivered to the State, the
persons listed by name below are deprived of their freedom and
sentenced to two years of imprisonment. All their property —their
livestock and domestic property —is to be confiscated. After serving
their custodial sentence they will be deported for five years to a
remote part of the country. This sentence is final and not subject to
appeal and will take immediate effect.’
The convicted were escorted from the ‘courtroom’ under guard
and shortly afterwards their families had all their livestock and
domestic property, right down to cups and cutlery, confiscated.
Within two days twenty ‘class enemies’ and ‘exploiters’ from the
various auls had been sent under escort to be imprisoned in the
town of Ust-Kamenogorsk (now Oskemen), 250 kilometres away.
Accustomed since time immemorial to a life of freedom and to
the fresh air of the vast open spaces, these people of the steppe
found it hard enough during the winter months when they were
confined to their huts. They regarded life in town - from what they
had heard of it - as hell, and were quite sure that incarceration in
a prison cell could only mean death. It was therefore only natural
for them to seek ways and means of escaping.
The method chosen by the authorities for transferring the

15
 MY UNCLE’S TRIAL

prisoners to Ust-Kamenogorsk made it easy for them. As they had

no organised means of transport at their disposal, the court
officials decided to send the group under escort on their own
horses. And so, loaded with provisions, the men set off on
horseback accompanied by two militia guards. After travelling
some 25 or 30 kilometres, the group set up camp for the first night
in the aul of Kayinda and were warmly welcomed by the local
residents, many of whom were acquaintances and even relatives.
The arrested men were put up in small groups in their friends’
homes. The people of Kayinda offered them traditional hospitality
as well as heartfelt sympathy for their situation.
The morning after their first night in the aul, none of the
arrested men was anywhere to be seen and the two militia guards
were lying with their hands and feet tied up. But none of the
fugitives had any idea what to do now they were on the run: most
could think of nothing better than to hide in the homes of friends
and relatives in other auls close to home. Some collected their
families and fled across the border to safety in China, but these
were a small minority. Most did not wish to leave their homeland
and hoped in vain to hide from the authorities nearby, with the
support of their fellow countrymen and relatives.
Among these fugitives were Toimbai-ata and one of our cousins,
Muksiin Nurmukhambetov. That night the two of them crossed
over to the left bank of the River Irtysh, and found temporary
shelter at the home of some distant relatives. They were convinced
they had travelled far enough not to be recognised by any locals,
whereas in actual fact they were only about thirty kilometres away
from where they had escaped their guards, and seventy to eighty
kilometres from their aul and families.
Their hope lay in the covert sympathy and support they were
shown by ordinary people. It was no secret that most peasants did
not support the Soviet authorities’ policy of setting the poor
against the well-off. The persecution of the kulaks and the coercion
used to turn farms into collectives gave rise to deep discontent, and
this led people to harbour fugitives as a form of protest.
Nevertheless, within a short time most of the fugitives were
THE SILENT STEPPE

recaptured. By staying on the run for a year before the night he

reappeared at our aul, Uncle Toimbai-ata proved himself to be
much the most resourceful.
He seemed safe among us to begin with. In late summer and
early autumn there were few casual visitors to the aul, because most
people were busy haymaking and tending to the ripening crops of
corn. Only the elderly who were still able to watch over the
communal livestock were left in the stopping places dotted across
the steppe and lower foothills of the Altai mountains, and though
they used to visit our aul to drink kumys (mares milk), they were
taciturn men, good at keeping secrets. If they saw Toimbai-ata they
would pay their respects to him, and even advise him on how best
to hide.
But after he had been with us for a month, his grey horse -
which was well-known in the area - was spotted standing by the
water hole with the communal herd, and seized by local activists;
and though no one came looking for him in the days that followed,
Toimbai-ata - discouraged by his loss and convinced of the futility
of life as a fugitive - finally decided to give himself up to the
authorities. They reaffirmed his sentence, and sent him to prison
in the town of Zaisan.
 Chapter Three

T he H oly Yurt

oimbai-atas fellow fugitive Muksiin Nurmukhambetov had

T given himself up in the spring, but - because he was suffering
from a severe lung infection after a winter on the run - the
authorities soon released him and allowed him to return home. His
presence among us was to cause unexpected problems for our
annual migration to the summer pastures in the mountains.
The number of families in each aul had always been determined
by the amount of livestock they had between them - the sheep in
the flock and horses in the herd. In the summer months, there
could be as many as one thousand sheep in the flock (including the
new lambs), but only half as many in winter. If this number was
exceeded, the grass in the pastures would be eaten too quickly and
the weakest sheep in the flock, which ate only what the others left,
would fall sick and die.
The need to stick to this size of flock forced the aul members
to split the herds of horses and flocks of sheep in two.
Consequently, the people who looked after them also had to split
up. And so sons were separated from parents and one set of
relatives from another, all creating new auls. These could range

19
THE SILENT STEPPE

from two to ten yurts in size, which would be positioned a

kilometre or several kilometres apart from the next aul,
depending on the time of year and the grazing available.
According to the version of our family tree that had been passed
down by word of mouth, our ancestors were descended from the
Naiman tribe, once one of the principal tribes of the so-called
Middle Zhuz of Kazakhstan. (Zhuzès were originally federations of
tribes occupying different parts of the country, which in the
sixteenth century took shape as three regions - the other two being
the ‘Senior’ and ‘Junior’ Zhuz.) Long before, in the twelfth
century, the Naiman had their own state - one of the most
powerful of the time - extending from the lands of modern-day
Mongolia to Southern Altai and the upper reaches of the River
Irtysh. For many years the Naiman waged war against the
Mongolian Tartar forces of Genghis Khan, but after finally being
defeated at the turn of the thirteenth century, they fled to Central
Asia, where they remained for 500 years. Their long and peaceful
existence there was shattered when they were invaded by the
Jungars from Chinese Turkmenistan in the early eighteenth
century, and were forced to flee towards the western and northern
lands of present-day Kazakhstan. As the Jungars were gradually
expelled in the latter half of the eighteenth century, the Naiman
chose to settle in the liberated lands of central and eastern
Kazakhstan.
The key Kazakh figure at this time was the great leader Abylai
Khan, who succeeded in uniting the country’s various factions
against the Jungars. Among his supporters were two of our ancestors,
Barak and Zhandeli, who earned the tide o f ‘batyr’ (meaning ‘heroic
warrior’); both died of wounds received in batde, and after their
deaths our family moved for greater safety to a region which was
then part of China, on the east bank of the River Kurchum. It was
only in 1881, when the State borders between the Russian and
Chinese Empires were finally established, that our ancestors -
known as the Otei kinsmen - became citizens of Russia.
Zhandeli’s eldest son was called Myrzabai, and among his sons
was my great-great-grandfather, Nauei. At the turn of the

20
 THE HOLY YURT

twentieth century Nauei’s great-grandsons formed four

independent aul with all the administrative and legal attributes of
an organised nomadic community; but in 1916 they lost
considerable numbers of clan members and livestock when many
Kazakhs - aggrieved by the Tsarist regime s policies - emigrated to
China. They were further depleted by the cholera epidemics of
1917-1918, and attacks by Jhut invaders in 1911 and 1918, so that
at the beginning of the 1920s the four auls were forced to merge
into two. Now, because each of these had lost members in the drive
against kulaks, it was decided to merge them into one.
Traditionally, the whole aul would move to the summer pastures
at the same time, and the families with insufficient saddle horses or
pack animals (camels, oxen and sometimes horses as well) would
borrow them from the wealthier ones. But now the livestock
belonging to the two rich families had been confiscated by the State,
there was no longer enough transport to go round. Rather than all
remain behind in the stifling summer heat, the families whose
kinsmen had been dispossessed decided to move to the summer
stopping place in two goes. Part of the aul would move first, and
then the necessary transport would go back and pick up the rest.
Among those left behind on the initial journey was Muksiins
yurt, since he was not well enough to complete the journey on
horseback. But no one felt at all comfortable about this, because
the yurt in question was held in particular reverence, having once
belonged to Muksiins grandfather, the holy Hadji Bayan.
The traditions of steppe Muslims included that of the so-called
posthumous ‘Hadj by default’, whereby arrangements were made
for a relative or other person to undertake a pilgrimage to the holy
sites in the Arabian cities of Mecca and Medina on behalf of
someone who had died. O f my great-great-grandfather Nauei s six
sons, the youngest, Bayan, was the most prosperous, and after his
death in 1907 his son hired a man who had experience of guiding
pilgrims to make the Hadj for him. Unfortunately the man died in
Mecca and never returned; but although there was no evidence
that he had fulfilled all the conditions of the Hadj, the venerable
tide of Hadji was still posthumously conferred on Bayan.
THE SILENT STEPPE

In those days it was believed that the relics of such people had
considerable power, and it became a custom for everyone in the
area to cross the threshold of Hadji Bayans yurt before starting any
important business or embarking on a distant journey: there they
would pray to his ashes and eat a meal in the blessed household.
This was still the practice when Bayans grandson became the head
of the family. So when this venerated yurt was left behind instead
of heading the migrating caravan as it should have done,
everything seemed to have been turned upside down.
According to Kazakh custom, it was obligatory for relatives who
shared the same great-grandparents to help one another when
times were hard. (Even the seventh generation of a family
considered one another to be brothers.) So the day after the first
section of the aul had settled in its new stopping place, the elders
from other aul who were all descended from Nauei and fourth-
generation descendants of Myrzabai, gathered together in our yurt
at the invitation of my father Shayakhmet, who was now the oldest
man left in our clan.
Traditionally, when the elders got together to talk, the young
children were expected to remain with them in the yurt. We were
encouraged to listen to the adults’ conversation, in the hope that
we would find it edifying; and anyone with a sensitive ear and
curious mind could certainly learn a great deal from their
eloquence. I was among the assembled company that day, and I
was struck by their brilliant figures of speech, their astute
comparisons, their sayings and their proverbs, many of which were
in verse and recited from memory.
Pouring fresh mare’s milk into the bowl in front of each guest,
my father began speaking: ‘Honourable elders, older and younger
brothers, it is perhaps the will of Allah or perhaps because of our
mortal sins that an incomprehensible, grim time is now upon us
and some people have started taking away other people’s livestock,
wealth and happiness. Remember the popular old saying: “God has
no wealth. He gives it from one person to another”. Well, it now
appears to be true. The authorities and aul activists have taken
everything away from the rich and handed it over to idlers and

22
 THE HOLY YURT

made some of us extremely poor overnight. Just such a misfortune

has befallen the family of Hadji Bayan. So revered by us all, the
blessed yurt belonging to the holy Hadji and all his grandsons and
great-grandsons has been left behind on its own in the old stopping
place. The Hadji s eldest grandson who now owns this yurt is laid
up and seriously ill. In the good old days each and every one of us
used to visit this blessed yurt to ask God and the Hadji s spirit for
their blessing and assistance. All of you, all of Myrzabais clan, have
more than once received generous help in this yurt, first in Hadji
Bayans lifetime and more recently when it belonged to his son
Mukshai and his grandson Muksiin. We have all felt the support
and benevolence of the Hadji s spirit. The question now is how to
move this yurt which has been left behind on its own, this yurt
belonging to the Hadji and his grandsons and great-grandsons and
the present head of the family, Muksiin, who is on his death bed,
and bring it here to our aul along with the other yurts. I have
invited you to hear your advice. What are your thoughts on this
and how can you help in this matter which concerns all of
Myrzabais clan?’
It took a short exchange of opinions for the elders to setde the
matter. They agreed that it was completely disgraceful for the yurt of
the Hadjis grandsons to be moved last when the aul migrated: the
other families found this abhorrent and sinful, and believed it might
incite the wrath of the Hadjis spirit. And so it was decided to move
the Hadjis yurt first whenever the aul migrated. It was also decided
to assemble a number of young men the very next day and allocate
them pack camels and horses to move the rest of the yurts, and to
include several older people in this group - among them the mullah,
so that he could appease the Hadjis spirit if need be.
Quite a long time was spent working out how to move the sick
man. (In such cases a home-made stretcher was usually strung up
between two horses: camels could not be used because they jolted
their passengers about so much.) However, the very same evening
that the helpers arrived with their carts to pick up the yurt that had
been left behind, Muksiin passed away. The funeral arrangements
then delayed the move for another few days.

23
THE SILENT STEPPE

Muksiin was only 33 years old. Either because it was my first

experience of death in the aul, or because the adults mourned the
death of their kinsman and.the Hadjis descendant so profoundly,
I have remembered that period of mourning all my life. It was
possibly the very last time in an aul that the traditional funeral rite
was performed almost in its entirety
When the funeral procession came within half a kilometre of the
aul, the widow of the dead man started weeping loudly and
lamenting her loss. Echoing her, everyone else in the aul replied by
wailing, ‘Oi, baurym! Oh, beloved!’ The women of the aul then
began lamenting with incredible force. People from neighbouring
aul added their voices to the lamentation. So deep were their
expressions of grief that I can still hear them today.
When I remember it all now, I cannot fully understand why
people subjected themselves to such a harrowing ritual and
prolonged period of mourning, involving such heartrending cries
and so many tears. The wailing was kept up for more than a day.
And over the next few days, relatives, friends and acquaintances of
the deceased came to our aul from far and wide. Each visitor to the
household in mourning expressed their grief by lamenting bitterly
as they embraced each and every member of the family, in keeping
with tradition. In addition to all this, the women mourned the
dead man with special two-part laments three times a day, just
before sunrise and sunset and at midday. On this occasion the
ceremony was performed by the widow and daughter-in-law, who
extolled the noble and almost sacred descent of the deceased, his
forebears’ exploits and the exceptional nature of their most recent
offspring. This was followed by an account of the deceased’s
singular merits and noble acts and how he had departed this life
prematurely, and how his death was willed by God but caused by
the new authorities’ evil doings.
It was not, however, the Soviet Government itself, but the
belsendi who were principally blamed for the tragedy. After all, it
was argued, any authority is God-given, and so finding fault with
it was a sin; but if it had not been for the activists, Muksiin would
never have been persecuted or have contracted his fatal disease. The

24
 THE HOLY YURT

human emotion of pity was beyond the comprehension of godless

people like them. They were wreckers.
The daily two-part laments weighed heavily on everyone’s
hearts, and the mournful words were hard to listen to - though at
least they were never boring, since each was a new and skilfully
improvised piece of poetry. For forty days they went on, always
being performed exactly at the prescribed times; and whenever
they took place, everyone in the aul had to stop what they were
doing and listen to them.
 Chapter Four

M y Sister s Secret W edding

he activists in every aul comprised a small group of young

T men from poor families who busily supported the Soviet
authorities’ class policy and tried to sow discord, even among
relatives who had always lived in harmony and relied on mutual
assistance in their close-knit community. These were people who
sincerely believed all the slogans about the Soviet authorities
empowering the poor, freeing them all from bondage’, and
‘granting them the same rights and privileges as everyone else’.
Most of the activists were illiterate. If a very small percentage of
them could read and write, it was because some time in the past they
had been taught by the poorly educated aul mullah. Some of these
young men had learnt to recognise the letters of the alphabet and
read words by the syllable at the short-lived schools which were set
up to eradicate illiteracy. Only two of our activists had paid jobs: the
chairman and secretary of the aul council. The rest worked on a
voluntary basis, assisting the aul and rural district chairmen and all
the other coundess local and regional officials in the hope that if they
showed enough enthusiasm, they might possibly land some kind of
permanent job. They spent most of their time in the aul alarming the

26
 MY SISTER’S SECRET WEDDING

illiterate residents with made-up stories about impending upheavals

which the authorities would surely be implementing. At the same
time, they tried to impress upon the frightened people that they
would intercede for them if need be.
In their daily lives and relations with the locals, they made no
particular effort to introduce the Soviet authorities’ new policies.
They behaved arrogantly towards simple people, just like the
officials of tsarist times. They would do deals with the landowners
whenever it suited them, so betraying the interests of their political
masters, and tried to line their own pockets any way they could.
They used to intimidate not only the rich but also the poor and
moderately well-off peasants, which was why they were so
unpopular and often given derogatory nicknames.
It would be a distortion of the truth to say that all the activists
were loathed by people in the aul. Some were serious and
thoughtful, and always easy to get on with: they correcdy
understood the authorities’ policies and people’s aspirations, and
explained the way things were in an intelligent and comprehensible
manner. Most, however - because of their lack of education -
interpreted the law as they saw fit. They deliberately went to
extremes when conducting any campaign, exceeding State targets,
and persecuted their fellow Kazakhs in order to impress the
authorities. Just one example of their ‘assistance’ in introducing
new laws is enough to illustrate how heavy-handed they were.
The Soviet authorities did quite a lot to give women equal rights
with men and elevate their role in society. In particular, they
liberated the women of the East from old customs such as
polygamy and the obligation of a widowed woman in an aul to
marry a relative of her late husband. They also introduced an
undeniably progressive law banning so-called ‘bride money - the
custom of a man’s family paying for his bride.
Originally, this custom probably had a positive function. It was
devised as a way of creating comfortable living conditions for a
young couple who had just set up home on their own, and - along
with the dowry paid by the bride’s family — enabled her to be
provided with clothing, bed linen, cooking equipment, household
THE SILENT STEPPE

goods, somewhere to live, a new yurt and definitely a horse and

camel, so that she arrived at her grooms house with the basic
essentials for a nomadic way of life and could be independent, at
least for the time being. However, with the passing of time, bride
money acquired a new significance, and in the hands of certain
greedy people often became a commodity and source of easy profit.
No sooner had the new law been introduced than the activists
began to abuse it. Every time there was a wedding, they would see
to it that it was denounced as a criminal act. They would insist that
a payment must have been received for the bride, and ensure that
the brides father was prosecuted; the bridegroom would also face
prosecution for buying his bride. And so, to avoid trouble, parents
started marrying their daughters off in secret, without weddings.
They would announce that their daughter had secretly run away
from them; the grooms family, for their part, would then
announce that their son had stolen the girl and brought her home
and that they now had a daughter-in-law.
Another part of the wedding tradition was that the families
marked the couple s betrothal by a verbal agreement sealed with a
vow at a dastarkhan meal. As it happened, in 1929, our family had
concluded just such an agreement concerning my sister Zhamba
with a family from the Karauzhasssyk clan who lived on the other
side of the River Irtysh. It had been mutually agreed to set the date
of the wedding for the autumn of 1930, before the sheep shearing,
since nomads usually organised major family celebrations to fit in
with farm work and migration schedules. (The best times were
after lambing, before the migration to the summer stopping place,
or after the migration to the winter stopping place.)
As the time drew near for the groom to come for his bride, the
tension started to mount in our family and all over the aul. It was
mainly the fear of being accused of receiving bride money, and thus
breaking the new marriage and family law; but what also alarmed
people was the prospect of a young girl getting married without a
wedding ceremony. Unless the customs were observed and rites
performed, they believed, neither the bride nor the groom could be
happy and prosperous in the future.

28
 MY SISTER’S SECRET WEDDING

It was arranged that the groom would arrive secretly, under

cover of darkness, accompanied not by his family or an entourage,
but by a single friend. By the time he did so, there was not a single
man left at home: they had all officially gone off till the following
day to make hay and harvest the ripe cereal crops, so as not to be
accused of collusion in the sale’ of the girl.
The mothers of the aul also tried to get their children to sleep
early that night, so that they would not witness the crime’ about
to be committed and perhaps later give away the secret. This
included me, on the pretext that I had to go and graze the flock the
next morning. Aware of the womens secret plans, I could not get
to sleep; but not daring to disobey orders, I peeped over my
blanket and watched what was going on. I was aware that I was
about to part with my favourite sister and would no longer be able
to see her every day.
Zhamba (the name means ‘gold ingot’ in Kazakh) had only
turned eighteen the previous spring. She was the eldest child in our
family and not only my parents’ but the whole community’s
favourite. Besides being beautiful, she was skilled at all the duties
that would be required of her as a housewife: Mother had taught
her how to cut out clothes, sow and embroider and make
everything usually found in a nomadic home, such as felt rugs and
leather goods. Her graceful manners and the attention and respect
she showed older people charmed everyone who knew her, as did
her lovely singing. We were all sorry she was leaving.
As she was so young, she was naturally nervous about what the
future had in store for her. She had heard of the miserable lives of
girls who lost all their freedom once they were married off, and
love for her future husband was tinged with fear and uncertainty
about the unfamiliar house she would be entering. She felt even
more anxious because she was being given away in this secret and
seemingly unlawful manner and being deprived of all the usual
wedding celebrations and fun and games. She tearfully said
goodbye to each of her friends, who were also crying and saying,
‘Oh, it’s so sad! How shall we manage without you?’ And then
Zhamba replied sadly, ‘Dear God, what sin have I committed

29
THE SILENT STEPPE

against You? Why have you made these cruel laws for me and all
the other girls like me, and where have these terrible times come
from? Why am I being carried off from my home in secret, like a
prisoner?’
Her friends told her, ‘Such is the will of Allah! Do we really have
a say in anything? We would do all we could to prevent this
disgrace and injustice, but all wé can do is cry. Instead of
tormenting yourself, darling, accept the way things are. You have
to leave in total secrecy for your parents’ and loved ones’ safety.’
After saying goodbye to the women, my sister crept over to
where her two younger brothers and little sister were sleeping and
started kissing each of us and weeping over us. When she realised
that I was not asleep, she started sobbing even more. Kissing me
and wetting my face with her tears, she whispered, ‘Get Father’s
permission to come and visit me in a month’s time!’ I had no idea
exactly where she was going or how I would get there, but I silently
nodded in reply. Even then I was not allowed to get out of bed and
go outside to see her off.
 Chapter Five

T he Last Autum n o f the N om adic Aul

A t the end of 1930, and in the winter of 1931, the Kazakh

./^ p e o p le ’s age-old nomadic way of life finally came to an end.
The clans were all joined together into collective farms, and each
aul settled in one place for good. Many years have gone by since
then, and we who experienced the joys and freedom of the
wandering way of life tend to remember none of the hardships
involved, but only the good things: the green carpet of meadows
stretching out before us as we arrived at our summer stopping
place, the unforgettable scent of the wild flowers and the blaze of
colour they created all around, and the cool, fresh breeze blowing
from the snowy peaks.
In autumn, when most of the men were busy with harvesting
and haymaking, it was rare for people to come visiting, but once
in a while groups of elders would do so for old times’ sake, and
sit around drinking mare’s milk and discussing the issues of the
day. Mare’s milk was kept chiefly as a drink for guests, and it was
very popular: at less busy times men would ride round the aul in
groups every morning until midday, visiting the yurts with foals

31
THE SILENT STEPPE

tethered outside to quench their thirst. Fermented in a specially

made leather flask called a saba, the milk contains much less fat
than that of cows and goats, and if well prepared has a sourish-
sweet taste.
In 1930, the main topic of conversation was the daily news
brought to the steppe by word of mouth (the so-called uzyn kulak
- ‘long ear’ - of the steppe telegraph), which was our only source
of information. Because we did not have radios or telephones, or
even a postal service, it could take up to a year for information
about new laws or important events to reach the far-flung regions
of the country. The grandiose propaganda campaigns aimed at the
masses had yet to get underway, and any news was passed on from
one person to the next in the form of stories with a great many
embroidered details. But in any case, ordinary people were more
interested in local matters, and simply did not have the time or
inclination to pay attention to things on a grander scale: all the
elders wanted to find out about the new laws and orders issued by
the aul council, since this was, as far as they were concerned, the
highest authority in the land.
‘W hat we used to call a “region” is now going to be called a
“district”.’ Someone in the know would start the conversation
along these lines, having just discovered what had been enacted
two years previously.
‘A n official came to the aul council from this district centre and
gathered together our activists and told them that all the people
and their livestock and property, wives and servants, children and
grandchildren were going to be collectivised and everything would
belong to everyone,’ another would announce to the alarm of
everyone present.
‘I’ve heard that all the people are going to be housed under one
roof,’ a third would say, ‘and everyone’s going to go to bed at the
same time, and eat and drink together and get up at the same
time. Everyone’s going to be taken to work in a formation and
then brought back in one.’ And seeing that he had shocked his
companions even more, he would beam with delight.
‘It’s not like that at all - I heard it with my own ears. They’re

32
 THE LAST AUTUMN OF THE NOMADIC AUL

only going to take away the horses and other working animals to
use as transport, and people are going to get together and plough
the land and sow wheat all together so that there is more wheat in
the country. Maybe, who knows, there’s some truth to it
somewhere? When a lot of people get together to help someone
hard up and work together at haymaking, say, or when a new crop
is being harvested, everyone tries to work faster than the person
next to them, and the work goes like a dream! You know, you’ve
all done it yourselves. If you’ve got all sorts of machinery, and
horses and oxen, and you get everyone to work together, the
results are sure to be very good indeed.’
‘I don’t know about that: when a lot of people get together to
do a job, the result is usually not much good. And when we went
and helped out those people who were hard up, there were some
slackers who didn’t even bother to turn up.’
Yet another of the elders would interrupt, ‘This society uniting
all peasants has already got a name: it’s going to be called a
“commune”. Before he died, Lenin instructed his aides to get all
the peasants to join together. But the people who took over
running the country from him forgot all about his instructions.
Lenin’s widow who, they say, is still alive, went to see Stalin —
that’s his name, apparently - who was left in charge and said to
him: “Why have you comrades-in-arms of Lenin forgotten all
about his instructions? Why aren’t you joining the peasants
together in collective farms and communes? If you don’t obey the
Leader’s orders, you’ll anger his spirit!”.’
After hearing this story, one of the others would offer a logical
conclusion of his own - ‘As always, a woman’s to blame for the
trouble’ - before someone else had the last word:
‘Everything that’s been said here is complete rubbish. And the
bit about the collective farms and communes - they’ve all been
thought up by the aul activists. W hat good is Lenin’s wife to us lot
here when all the power is in their hands? The power’s completely
gone to their heads and made them barking mad because they
have no idea what to do with it. People who have never managed
to run their own affairs are now in charge of people’s lives. How

33
THE SILENT STEPPE

can a society be run by people who never obeyed their

grandfathers or listened to their wisdom? It reminds me of the old
saying, “When there’s no lqrd, a slave with take his place, and
when there’s no dog, a pig will guard the yard!”’
Such was our community’s grasp of the innovations which were
to change our lives in ways we could not even remotely imagine.
I still did not understand much about the events taking place
in my aul, but I must have heard thousands of lengthy
conversations like this one on all sorts of topics. We were always
receiving visits from other people, whether neighbours or relatives
and guests from other regions. This was partly because all our
kinsmen made their mare’s milk in our yurt, and pardy because
people came to pay their respects to my 85-year-old grandmother,
who was held in very high regard.
Since we were frequently on the move, our neighbours kept
changing as well. The summer pastures and winter stopping places
were often far apart, so summer neighbours did not see each other
all winter. To make up for it, kinsmen would meet up in their
regular spring stopping place, and distant relatives and people
from other clans would congregate in camps in the summer
months. People would pay each other visits, exchange gifts and eat
together - the entire aul would put on a big feast for another aul.
In addition, the custom was that any aul recently settled in a new
place had to help and support the next aul to arrive by preparing
a hot meal and carrying it over to them, since they would be too
busy unpacking to cook for themselves.
Our winter stopping place was situated in the territory of a
branch of the Karagerei clan named after the ‘six fair-haired
Naiman’, and outside the lands of our Otei clan. My grandmother
Aksha was an Aknaiman by birth, from the eminent Konakbayev
clan, so as soon as our aul arrived nearly all the most senior
members of the Aknaiman family would visit our home to
welcome her and wish us happiness and prosperity and rich
grazing for our livestock. The village and regional centre of
Kumashkino, now renamed Kurchum, was about twenty
kilometres away, and members of the Aknaiman family would

34
 THE LAST AUTUMN OF THE NOMADIC AUL

always stay with us on their way to and from the large market and
fair held there every Sunday. And in the spring when our aul was
going back to its clan s territory, there would be a similar influx of
people wishing to say goodbye. This would continue for nearly a
month, until the end of the breeding season.
Similarly, when summer came and we moved up into the hills,
relatives and friends who had not seen each other for a whole year
would start meeting up again. Communities of different families
would live side-by-side during the summer months: the Bur clan
would come from the south, descendants of the Zharke and
Andagul clans from the west, and the Saryzhomart clan from the
east - and they all made special visits to pay their respects to my
grandmother. The most important visitors were treated not only
to mare s milk, but to special portions of our winter stocks of meat
which had been put by.
I remember two guests in particular. One was Mamyr
Altybayev, who had governed the Kumashinko region in pre-
Soviet days; the other was called Yestaulet Yesberdinov. They were
descended from two of our great-grandfather Otei’s sons, and
Mamyr was the same age as Toimbai-ata, while Yestaulet belonged
to my grandfather s generation.
Mamyr was a taciturn, stocky man with a grey-flecked, black
beard and swarthy complexion. In his rare visits to different aul he
was always accompanied by an entourage, just as he had been in
the old days. His countrymen continued to respect him and pay
him homage, though as a governor in tsarist times he had
apparently kept the province on a tight rein, occasionally losing
his temper and cracking his whip, and had not been averse to
receiving gifts’. He was said to be particularly strict when it came
to collecting taxes, and once, when the members of
Administrative Aul Number Seven were late paying, he had begun
confiscating livestock and extracting fines despite pleas for
clemency from some extremely impoverished families. The local
aul poet Meirembai Baspakov had written a poem in response,
saying that the governor had amassed quite enough for himself by
taking extra taxes from the Taz and Zharylgap clans, and

35
THE SILENT STEPPE

extracting more from a small number of very poor members of the

Bur clan would not make him any richer.
Subsequently, in 1926, as a rich landowner, Mamyr Altybayev
had all his stock confiscated and was deported to the town of
Rubtsovsk, 200 miles north of Ust-Kamenogorsk. After escaping
a year later, he secretly gathered together a great many relatives,
including his children and grandchildren, and emigrated with
them to China. According to people who saw him there, he led a
modest life as a poor stock-breeder. One day, on the way to a
neighbouring aul on his only horse, which was harnessed to a cart
carrying his two daughters-in-law, he accidentally drove over the
edge of a local landowner’s crop while turning a fork in the road
and got badly beaten up. The women burst into floods of tears
and wailed, ‘How could that filthy Chinaman dare lay a finger on
you and injure your noble body?’ To which, apparently, Mamyr
replied, ‘Never mind! It’s made me think about the times I used
a whip on the backs of my own countrymen.’
My family, and especially we children, always looked forward to
seeing the other person we all held in great esteem, Yestaulet
Yesberdinov. Every time he visited our yurt, he would bring
grandmother a gift of a large lump of sugar shaped like a horse’s
head. As we hardly ever had sugar or, for that matter, any sweet
foods, this was a great treat for us. Tall and lean, Grandfather
Yestaulet had a long beard and always wore silver-framed glasses. He
used to visit us as soon as our aul setded in the mountain meadows
for the summer. As he stepped through the doorway, he would greet
my grandmother, whom he had known since childhood, with the
words, ‘Hello, my ancient friend! Are you fit and well? ’
Then they would greet each other in a traditional manner
which is hardly remembered any more. My grandmother would
silendy advance towards her guest with her arms outstretched to
the side and palms forward. As they drew near each other
somewhere in the middle of the yurt, they would keep their arms
outstretched like wings and press the palms of their hands
together. Then, their chests touching, they would half-turn their
bodies to the right and left before slowly bringing their arms

36
 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
The Project Gutenberg eBook of
The Boy Scouts at the Panama-
Pacific Exposition
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
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Title: The Boy Scouts at the Panama-Pacific Exposition

Author: John Henry Goldfrap

Illustrator: Charles L. Wrenn

Release date: February 13, 2013 [eBook #42086]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOY SCOUTS

AT THE PANAMA-PACIFIC EXPOSITION ***
 THE BOY SCOUTS
AT THE
PANAMA-PACIFIC
EXPOSITION

BY
LIEUT. HOWARD PAYSON

AUTHOR OF “THE MOTOR CYCLE SERIES,”

“THE BOY SCOUTS OF THE EAGLE PATROL,”
“THE BOY SCOUTS ON THE RANGE,”
“THE BOY SCOUTS AND THE ARMY AIRSHIP,”
“THE BOY SCOUTS’ MOUNTAIN CAMP,”
“THE BOY SCOUTS FOR UNCLE SAM,”
“THE BOY SCOUTS AT THE PANAMA CANAL,”
“THE BOY SCOUTS UNDER FIRE IN MEXICO,”
“THE BOY SCOUTS ON BELGIAN BATTLEFIELDS,”
“THE BOY SCOUTS WITH THE ALLIES IN FRANCE,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY
CHARLES L. WRENN

NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
 Copyright, 1915,
BY
HURST & COMPANY
 CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE
I. Two Scouts on a Motorboat 5
II. Prompt Work and a Rescue 17
III. When Luck Came Their Way 29
IV. A Stunning Surprise 41
V. Headed West 53
VI. A False Alarm 65
VII. Across the Continent 77
VIII. A Shock at Los Angeles 89
IX. Turning the Tables on Two Rogues 101
X. Within the Gates of the Fair 113
XI. Rob Delivers the Goods 125
XII. The People of the “Zone” 137
XIII. A Strange Meeting in the Air 149
XIV. Four Scouts in the Whirl 161
XV. Tubby Is Out of His Element 173
XVI. The Illuminated Fairyland 185
XVII. Prying Fingers 197
XVIII. The Thief Under the Bed 209
XIX. An Enemy of the Past 221
XX. Lots of Excitement 233
XXI. The Mad Dog Panic 247
XXII. Taking in the Sights of the Fair 257
XXIII. Hiram Faces the Music 269
XXIV. A Boy Scout’s Triumph 282
XXV. Homeward Bound 293
 [5]

The Boy Scouts at the

Panama-Pacific Exposition.
 CHAPTER I.
TWO SCOUTS ON A MOTORBOAT.

“Seems to me, Rob, I ought to know that old tub of a

motorboat we’re overhauling.”

“Why, yes, Andy, it’s Captain Jerry Martin’s Sea Gull.

Time was when she had a reputation for speed, but her
engine is a back number now.”

“Huh! that must have been away in Noah’s time, I

reckon, Rob. Why, we could make circles around her, if
we chose to drive our little Tramp to the limit.”

“As we happen to be in no hurry to-day, there’s no use

making the old skipper feel that his boat is down and
out. With vacation opening up before us, I’ve been
trying to settle on some scheme for the scouts of the
Eagle Patrol to have a rousing good time this summer.”

“Well, I know where I’d be if I had the cold cash to pay [6]
my expenses; and, Rob, chances are you feel the same
way about it.”

“Now, I suppose you’re thinking of Tubby Hopkins’ great

good luck in having his uncle, Dr. Mark Matthews, the
famous globe-trotter, carry him off three days ago for an
extended trip to the big show out in California?”
“Just what was on my mind, Rob. I don’t believe I ever
wished so much for anything as a chance to hike away
out to the Pacific. Nothing comes my way any more,
seems like. Some of us scouts were lucky enough to
have our turn down in Mexico that time Tubby’s uncle
was taken sick, and couldn’t get there to meet his old
friend, General Villa, so as to dispose of the cattle on his
ranch before they were stolen by the raiding Mexican
rival armies. How the rest of the boys envied us that
glorious trip, Rob!”

“I admit it was a rare streak of good fortune to have [7]

things come our way as they did,” the boy named Rob
remarked, as he gave a slight turn to the wheel of the
bustling little motorboat, aboard which he and Andy
were the sole passengers. “We ran up against quite an
interesting bunch of experiences, you remember, Andy,
that none of us will ever be apt to forget.”

“As if that wasn’t enough fun for Tubby and Merritt and
you,” continued the boy called Andy at the wheelsman,
“it came about that you all got a chance to go across
the water to England and Belgium late last summer on
an important mission for Merritt’s family, and saw a
heap of what was going on in the fighting zone where
the Germans are up against the armies of France,
[1]
Belgium and Great Britain.”

“We’ve shaken hands with ourselves dozens of times

since, I give you my word, Andy, on account of that fine
streak of luck. Yes, we did encounter a whole lot of
remarkable adventures over there, and saw sights we’ll
never forget. Some of them I wish I could put out of my
mind, because they were mighty unpleasant. But that
page is turned down, Andy; and now the next thing to
consider is what we are going to do this summer to
make the time pass happily.”

“Oh! I suppose I shouldn’t complain,” Andy Bowles [8]

continued, trying to smile away the discontented frown
that had settled across his forehead. “Here, in this good
old Long Island town of Hampton, there are lots of ways
a pack of lively up-to-date Boy Scouts can have good
times during vacation. With the big bay at our doors,
and a bully little motorboat like this to go fishing or
cruising in, there’s no reason for us not to be hustling
most of our spare time.”

“Yes,” Rob Blake went on to add, wishing to soothe the

ruffled spirit of his comrade, “and you know what
glorious camping trips we can have with a lot of the
boys, just as we used to in other summers. There is the
full Eagle Patrol, except our fat chum, Tubby, who’s
gone to see the sights of the Panama-Pacific Exposition,
and Merritt Crawford, who expects to be away for a
month and more with his folks.”

“Besides,” continued Andy Bowles, as though the fact [9]

gave him more or less solid satisfaction, “all the other
patrols are full—eight each in the Hawk, the Black Fox
and the Badger, with a new one forming in the bargain.
Boy Scout activities are at flood-tide around Hampton
these days.”

“One reason for that, I take it,” mused the skipper of

the little Tramp, “is the fact that through our activities in
the past we have managed to keep our troop in the
public eye, more or less. People know what the Eagles
have done, and on the whole they favor their boys
joining the newer patrols. There’s been a big change in
the young fellows of Hampton, I’m told, since this Boy
Scout movement first came to town.”

When the young leader of the Eagle Patrol made this

modest assertion, he certainly hit the truth squarely on
the head. During the last two years the members of the
Eagle Patrol had made a name for themselves in Boy
Scout annals—as the new reader will find out for himself
if he cares to read the earlier books of this fascinating
series.

Among other things they had, through a happy chance, [10]

become associated with certain scientific gentlemen
connected with the United States Government, who
were experimenting with a new and secret model for a
big airship patterned somewhat after the famous
Zeppelins of the Germans.

On another occasion they had been enabled to assist in

saving the design of a wonderful submarine, also
intended for the use of the Government, and the secret
of which it appeared was coveted by emissaries of a
nation supposed to be hostile to the United States, and
desirous of learning all about such an important
discovery that was apt to play an important part in
future ocean warfare.

Some of the scouts later on were given a chance to pay

a visit to the wonderful canal that was then being dug
across the Isthmus—at Panama; and the record of how
they made themselves exceedingly useful while down
there will always be a bright page in the history of the
Hampton Troop.

Mention has already been made by Andy Bowles, the [11]

bugler of the troop, of the trip to Mexico, with its
attendant adventures; and also of the foreign tour
undertaken by several of the Eagles on the previous
summer, just when hostilities had broken out between
the nations of Europe; and Belgium, where they were
compelled to visit, was torn from end to end with the
mad struggles of warring factions.

Yes, surely the Eagles could rest upon their laurels from
this time on, and history would accord them the laurel
wreath as the most enterprising patrol known to the
Boy Scouts of America.

Still, what boy is ever satisfied with what has happened

in the past? The present and the near future is what
engages his attention and excites his interest. Even
sensible Rob Blake secretly sighed when he
contemplated having to put in the whole summer
around the home town while Tubby Hopkins was having
such a glorious time out there on the Coast; and his
other chum, Merritt Crawford, was up in Canada with
his folks at a camp.

It was a beautiful and warm day in the early summer. [12]

The sun shone from an unclouded sky, but there was
enough sea breeze to fan their heated brows, and to
make them think that there could be few things equal to
being in a speedy little motorboat, spinning over the
surface of that lovely land-locked bay, with the ocean
booming on the outer edge of the sandy strip to the
south.

They could have quite an extended view from far out in

the bay, with the houses scattered along the shore, and
the white sails of pleasure craft or fishing and clamming
boats dotting the water far and near.
Just ahead of them the old launch that had seen better
days was churning up the water with its noisy propeller,
though not making remarkable headway at that. As the
two scouts gradually drew up on the Sea Gull, they
made out that besides the ancient skipper there was
just one passenger aboard.

“Why,” said Andy Bowles presently, as this person

chanced to turn his face toward them by accident, “that
must be the old gent I saw drop off the nine-thirty train
from New York this morning when I was heading for
your house. Yes, and now I think of it, I heard him ask
Dan Trotter at the station where Judge Collins lived, and
how he could get to his house at the Point.”

“Some friend of the Judge, then,” suggested Rob; “and I [13]

guess he has a host of them here and abroad; for he’s
wealthy, and interested in all sorts of scientific matters.
They say that at his city house in the winter he
entertains, at times, all the big guns from the different
colleges of the world.”

“Which reminds me, Rob. There was an odd twang in

this old fellow’s manner of speech that made me think
of Sandy Ferguson, the Scotchman who has the
bagpipes, you remember, and always insists in marching
in all the parades in Hampton.”

“Then, perhaps, he’s some famous Scotch professor,”

observed the skipper of the Tramp, “who wants to see
the judge so much that he’s chased away out here to
his summer home on invitation.”

“He has a red face, wears big glasses, and is scrawny [14]
enough for a Scotchman, anyway,” chuckled Andy, “but
do you know I always like to listen to one of the
Highland folks talk. It was the ‘burr’ in his speech that
made me stop and listen as far as I did. He’s got it
down pat, Rob.”

“Don’t say anything more now, Andy; we’re drawing up

pretty close, and he might not like it if he thought we
were talking about him. That old motor does make lots
of noise, but sometimes it misses, and then there’s a
lapse, you know.”

“But they’re heading straight for the Point where the

Collins Castle is located, you notice, Rob, so I guess
Cap. Jerry is ferrying him across. I only hope the old tub
doesn’t take a notion to founder before it gets to the
dock a mile away from here.”

“Oh! it’s stood lots of pounding, and only has to be

bailed out frequently on account of leaking like a sieve,”
Rob said in a low tone. “Jerry has all that down to a fine
point, and just once in so often he gets busy and lowers
the bilge water with the pump he keeps rigged handy.”

“Excuse me from running around in such a trap,” [15]

muttered Andy, who was rather inclined to be “fussy”
with regard to everything he handled, and tried to have
his possessions kept up to top-notch condition—what he
himself called “apple-pie shape.”

“The professor is like most Englishmen, for he loves his

pipe,” remarked Rob, as he watched the passenger
aboard the old launch filling his little black pipe with
tobacco taken from a rubber pouch. “I hope, when he
strikes that match, and then throws it away after
lighting up, he knows enough about motorboats to see
that it goes overboard, and not into the bottom of the
craft. Sometimes a leak will spread a film of gasolene
over the bilge water, and there’s always more or less
danger of an explosion.”

“Yes,” added Andy seriously, “there have been a number

on the bay the last three seasons, and two people that I
can remember were so badly burned that they died
after being rescued.”

Both of the boys watched with more or less interest, [16]

and possibly with suspended breath, while the red-faced
passenger in Captain Jerry’s old launch puffed several
times at his pipe, then tossed the match aside.

“Oh! it didn’t go overboard, for a fact, Rob!” gasped

Andy; but there was no time to say another word, for
suddenly they saw a flash of flame spring up aboard the
old Sea Gull, and in an instant it seemed as though the
launch was aflame from stem to stern!
Suddenly they saw a flash of flame spring up aboard the
old Sea Gull.

[17]
 CHAPTER II.
PROMPT WORK, AND A RESCUE.

Fortunately Rob Blake had wonderful presence of mind

in a sudden emergency. Some boys would have been so
badly shocked by what was happening near at hand,
that for the time being, they must have been unable to
make any move toward rendering first aid to the
afflicted.

No sooner did the leader of the Eagle Patrol see that

terrible outburst of fire than he started his little motor
on at full speed, heading straight toward the imperiled
launch.

“Quick! get hold of that fire extinguisher we carry!” he

called out to his companion, who was staring, with open
mouth and awe-filled eyes, at the scene of commotion
close by.

“But, Rob, will the fluid put out a gasolene fire?”

exclaimed Andy, though at the same time hastening to
throw back the lid of a locker and snatch out the brass
tube which had been lying there for just such a time of
sudden need.

“Yes, that’s one of its best uses,” Rob told him hastily. [18]
“It seems to form a coating over everything it touches
that the fire can’t break through. It kills fire. That’s
where it gets its name. Be ready now to make use of it
when we come up as close as I dare go.”

“Both of the men are overboard, Rob!” announced Andy

excitedly, “and hanging on to the side of the boat. Wow!
but isn’t she blazing, though? I can begin to feel the
fierce heat even here!”

“Ready to get busy now!” cried the skipper, as he

manipulated his engine in such a way as to reverse the
propeller, and bring the Tramp to a stop close to the
blazing launch.

Andy was no coward, and could keep a pretty level head

when it came down to doing things; though often he
had to be told what to attempt by someone more
masterful than himself. As soon as Rob shouted to him
to start operations, he worked the fire extinguisher with
might and main, and was considerably astonished to
discover that just as Rob had said, wherever the
magical fluid struck, it seemed to dishearten the
conflagration, for the flames immediately died out.

“Whoop! it’s doing the whole business, that’s right, [19]

Rob!” cried the pleased amateur fire-fighter, as he
continued to make judicious use of his apparatus. “Why,
I tell you nothing can hold out, Rob, against this dandy
contraption. Look at it do the work, will you? Oh! it’s
sure worth its weight in gold when you need something
to save your boat with.”

Indeed, to judge from the magical way in which the

threatening fire was extinguished aboard the old launch,
Rob Blake had certainly made no mistake when he
purchased that little fire-fighting contrivance, even
though it did cost him close on ten dollars.

Rob, seeing that all danger of the fire communicating to

the Tramp was now past, slowly started toward the
other boat. His intention was to rescue the two elderly
men who were in the water. To tell the truth, Rob was
very much afraid the passenger may have been
seriously burned, and that in his panic he might release
his frenzied grip on the gunwale of the boat.

It turned out otherwise, however, for Scotch grit held [20]

good, and Rob soon had the satisfaction of helping both
men aboard the Tramp.

They had received a number of burns, and presented

rather a peculiar appearance, since their eyebrows and
beards had been badly singed.

“Fire’s all out, Rob!” announced Andy, at this juncture.

“Then fix it so that we can tow the Sea Gull behind us,”
the other told him, “and we’ll change our course for the
Collins Point yonder.”

“It is verra kind of ye to go to all that trouble,” remarked

the elderly man, looking the young skipper of the
rescuing boat over from head to toe, “and I wull not be
the one to forget the favor, I assure you, my fine
laddie.”

“I hope you are not seriously burned, sir?” remarked

Rob, who saw that there were signs of the other’s
clothes having been afire before he tumbled overboard,
possibly urged to this last resort through the energetic
efforts of old Captain Jerry Martin.
“I sincerely hope not myself,” replied the other, as he [21]
felt of his body, and then put up a hand to his
blackened face. “I believe I’ve been well singed, and
that until I grow a new crop of eyebrows I will look like
a scorched rat; which is verra unfortunate, since I am
on a most important errand over in your country. But,
indeed, I should be ashamed to complain, for it might
have been a deal worse.”

“And how about you, Captain Jerry?” asked Rob, turning

to the subdued looking old skipper of the disabled
motorboat, who had once been an oysterman, though
of late years rheumatism had compelled him to seek
another less strenuous means for making a living on the
famous bay.

“Nawthin’ to count much, Rob,” grunted Captain Jerry,

“but I’m afraid I’ll jest hev to git a new engine aboard
the Sea Gull arter this accident. I knowed she leaked a
mite in the connectin’ feed pipe, but I never thought
anybody would throw a lighted match down thar! I’m
glad to be alive still; and I hopes as how the duckin’
ain’t agoin’ to fotch on my rheumatiz agin.”

“As I’m altogether to blame for the accident, Captain,” [22]

said the passenger, “I shall insist on doing my part
toward helping you put in that new motor. The chances
are I will be marooned at my friend’s place now for
weeks, until I’m presentable; though what’s to be done
about getting that valuable shipment out to our exhibit I
am unable to say. Perhaps Judge Collins may be able to
help me decide. It’s a verra odd time to introduce
myself, laddies, but I want to know more of ye, and so
permit me to say I am Professor Andrew McEwen, from
Edinburgh University, Scotland.”
“My name is Robert Blake, and my father is connected
with the bank at Hampton. My chum here is of the same
name as yourself, professor, Andrew; but his last name
is Bowles. I think his family came originally from
Scotland. We are Boy Scouts, and out for a little cruise
just to pass the time away.”

“Which was a lucky thing for myself, I am sure,”

remarked the elderly gentleman, as he squeezed a hand
of each of the young fellows. “And if you will land me at
Judge Collins’ dock, you will increase the obligations
under which you have placed me.”

“We are heading straight that way, sir,” Rob told him. [23]

Somehow he liked the stranger from the start. He had

shrewd, gray eyes that had been wont, no doubt, to
twinkle under bushy eyebrows; but with these now
missing his thin face had an almost comical appearance.
Still, there was a kindly expression to be detected there,
as well as the keen look of a savant. And from the way
in which Professor McEwen from time to time watched
Rob, it was evident that he had also conceived a great
fancy to the fine, manly looking boy who seemed to be
able to master a crisis so ably.

Presently they drew in at the dock, where Judge Collins

was awaiting them. From the fact that the gentleman
gripped a pair of marine glasses in his hand, and had an
anxious look on his face, Rob jumped to the conclusion
that he must have been on the lookout for the coming
of the celebrated scientist from abroad, and might have
witnessed the details of the accident and the rescue.

“I dinna doobt but that ye will have some difficulty in [24]

recognizing me, Judge Collins,” called out the Professor,
falling back more than ever into his Scotch dialect in his
mingled amusement and chagrin. “My ain brother
wouldna know me with this blackamoor face, sans
eyebrows, sans beard, and fortunate to have saved my
eyesight. I am a fearsome sicht, and feel unco’-
unpleasant in the bargain. But thanks to these braw
laddies we were saved from a watery grave, for which
baith feel thankful.”

“You must come up to the house at once and wash up,”

said the judge feelingly. “Then I shall ease any suffering
with some magical pain extractor that I chance to have
and can recommend. No, please stay with me a little
while, boys, unless you are in a great hurry. I want to
hear your side of the story as well. And Captain Jerry,
what can I do to make you comfortable? An old sailing
mate of yours is in the boathouse at work, and if you
will join him shortly I will send something comforting
out to you.”

Rob looked at Andy, who nodded his approval of this [25]

idea. Andy had never before met with a chance to see
the inside of the judge’s house on the Point, which,
being built of stone, and boasting a few turrets, had
come to be called the “Castle” by most of the baymen.
Such a golden opportunity might not come along again;
and, besides, they certainly were in no hurry, so they
could oblige the judge without putting themselves out at
all.

Shortly afterward they found themselves in the library.

Rob had been here before and even spent some hours
examining the myriads of curious things among the
collections which Judge Collins kept at his country
house, where he spent more than half the year
entertaining visitors.
Here the judge made an examination of the burns of
the little Scotch scientist. It was found that beyond a
few painful red marks, and the loss of the hair that had
once been on his face, Professor McEwen was all right.

He seemed to take his mutilation greatly to heart. [26]

“It would ha’e been peetifu’ eno’ at any time to be

transformed into such a scarecrow as this; but think of
me on the way out to join some of my fellow workers in
the avenues of science, and taking with me the balance
of our delayed valuable exhibit. Aweel, aweel, the best
laid plans o’ mice an’ men gang aft aglee. I shall ha’e to
hide my diminished head until Nature restores my looks.
Ya maun rest assured I shall not let my friends see me
in this way; they wouldna doobt but that it was the
Missing Link come to light.”

“I shall be delighted,” said the judge impulsively, “to

have you stay with me as long as you can spare the
time, Professor. It will gladden my heart more than I
can tell you, for the profit is bound to be all on my side.”

“But whatever am I to do aboot getting that exhibit out [27]

to our concession at the Exposition, now that I shall be
utterly unable to attend to it myself? I wish I could
solve that problem; my own discomfort I wouldna
consider so much. In fact, I have undertaken this trip
under protest. I care not a rap or a bawbee as to
whether I see the Exhibition or not, if only I could make
positive that my errand had been successfully carried
out.”

“Surely you can send what you are taking there by

express, and it will arrive safely?” suggested the judge.
“But I gave my solemn word,” expostulated the Scotch
professor, who seemed to possess all of the stubborn
qualities with which those of his land are said to be
afflicted, “not to let the valuable packet go out of my
possession for a minute, unless I gave it in charge of an
equally responsible messenger. Money would be no
object, judge, I assure you, if only you could find me a
gude mon; nane ither would I trust.”

The judge seemed to be pondering. When Andy caught

him looking in a serious fashion in the direction of
himself and comrade, somehow he felt a queer thrill
pass through his system, though he did not exactly
know why it should be so.

Then he saw a smile begin to creep over the face of [28]

Judge Collins, as he nodded his head slowly. Whatever
had flashed into his mind, it seemed to afford him
considerable satisfaction.

“Professor McEwen,” he said slowly, but earnestly, “if

you are looking for some trustworthy persons to whom
you can delegate your mission, and do not mind what
expense there may be attached to carrying it out, I
believe I can suggest a couple of dependable young
chaps who might fill the bill; they are the wide-awake
Boy Scouts who were concerned in your rescue this very
morning. How would you like to talk over that business
with Rob Blake and Andy Bowles, here, Professor?”

[29]
 CHAPTER III.
WHEN LUCK CAME THEIR WAY.

Andy fairly held his breath in suspense when Judge

Collins made that astonishing suggestion to the little
Scotch professor. He had always known that the judge
was a firm believer in the uplift of the Boy Scout
movement, for he had never failed to assist the
Hampton Troop by every means possible. That he would
go so far as to recommend two of the scouts to his
friend as responsible enough parties to be entrusted
with such an errand filled Andy with both amazement
and delight.

Professor McEwen’s eyes twinkled as he surveyed first

the boys and then their earnest sponsor.

“I ha’e no doobt but that they are responsible and [30]

trustworthy, just as ye say, Judge Collins,” he proceeded
to remark presently, with lines of perplexity visible
across his forehead, “and if it were but an ordinary
errand I wouldna hesitate a single instant aboot
entrusting it to them. But I ha’e to consider well before
makin’ up me mind. The property belangs to ithers than
mesil’, ye ken; and it is of a scientific value beyond
compare. In fact, it could not well be replaced if lost in
transit; money wouldna be any consideration in
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