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Alalá contains about eight hundred inhabitants. The land surrounding it is thickly cultivated with rice and tobacco. Neither are, however, exported in any quantity, the difficulties of transport to Astará or Enzelli being so great. It is somewhat puzzling to a stranger to get at the names of places on the southern shores of the Caspian.
The latter is under the care of Persians, who light it, or not, as the humour takes them. This is, on dark nights, a source of considerable danger to shipping; but, though frequently remonstrated with by the Russian Government, the Shah does not trouble his head about the matter. All things considered, we resolved to land at Astará, even at the risk of a ducking.
Our steamer is called the Astara, of the Caucasus and Mercury Company. She is a big paddle steamer, making three trips a week from coast to coast. She is a very roomy boat, designed to carry a large cargo, and the builders have thought considerably more of the cargo than of the passengers. After all, there is not much to make a fuss about in a day's voyage.
There is a noisy crowd on the quay of people who are going off, and people who have come to see them off, recruited from the cosmopolitan population of Baku. I notice that the travelers are mostly Turkomans, with about a score of Europeans of different nationalities, a few Persians, and two representatives of the Celestial Empire. Evidently their destination is China. . The Astara is loaded up.
Did the Chinaman speak the language of Boccaccio? The Twentieth Century ought to know, and it would know. Madame Caterna arose, very pale, and Monsieur Caterna, a model husband, followed her on deck. The dinner over, leaving Ephrinell and Miss Bluett to talk of brokerages and prices current, I went for a stroll on the poop of the Astara. Night had nearly closed in.
The western coasts of the Caspian are flat and monotonous. There are two ports of call between Baku and Enzelli Lenkorán, a dismal-looking fishing-village of mud huts, backed by stunted poplars and a range of low hills; and Astará, the Russo-Persian frontier. Trade did not seem very brisk at either port. We neither landed nor took in cargo at either.
Evidently this fat man is an old hand at this sort of thing, and I should not be surprised if he did not arrive at his destination. However, the Astara is under way, her powerful paddles are at work, and we are soon out of the harbor. About a quarter of a mile out there is a sort of boiling, agitating the surface of the sea, and showing some deep trouble in the waters.
We had been at the table for a quarter of an hour, and nothing had happened. The traveler with the smooth complexion and his blonde companion seemed to listen to us when we spoke in French. It evidently pleased them, and they were already showing an inclination to join in our talk. I was not mistaken, then; they are compatriots, but of what class? At this moment the Astara gave a lurch.
The wind has hauled a point to the eastward, and the Astara will soon be sticking her nose in the feathers." His way of expressing himself shows that "Monsieur Caterna" if that was his name was a sailor, or ought to have been one. That explains the way he rolls his hips as he walks. The pitching now becomes very violent. The majority of the company cannot stand it.
The large one in the possession of Prince Dondoukoff Korsákoff, mentioned in the first chapter, was shot within a few miles of the place. We arrived off Astará about 6.30 that evening. It was too dark to see anything of the place, but I had, unfortunately for myself, plenty of opportunities of examining it minutely a couple of days later.
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