We left Astrakhan at eight in the evening, and were ferried across the Volga in a four-oared boat. It took us more than an hour to cross the river, its breadth opposite the town being more than 2000 yards. When we reached the opposite bank we might have fancied ourselves transported suddenly to a distance of a hundred versts from Astrakhan. Kalmucks, sand, felt tents, camels, in a word, the desert and its tenants were all that now met our view. We found our britchka waiting for us; our officer and the dragoman got into a telega or post chariot, and the bells began their merry jingling.
Nothing can be more dismal than the route from Astrakhan to Kisliar. For two days and two nights our journey lay through a horrid tract of loose sand, with nothing to be seen but some half-buried Kalmuck kibitkas, serving for post stations, and a few patches of wormwood, the melancholy foliage of which was in perfect harmony with the desolate aspect of the landscape. The heaps of sand we passed between exhibited the most capricious mimicry of natural scenery. We had before our eyes hills, ravines, cascades, narrow valleys, and tumuli; but nothing remained in its place; an invisible power was ceaselessly at work, changing every shape too quickly for the eye to follow the rapid transformation.
On the evening of the day after our departure, we had an opportunity of testing the prowess of our travelling companion, the hawk. The first theatre of his exploits was a little pond covered with wild ducks and geese, that promised a rich booty.
At a signal from my husband the Tatar officer unhooded the bird, and cast him off. Instantly the hawk darted off like an arrow, close along the surface of the ground, towards the pond, and was soon hidden from us among the reeds, where his presence was saluted with a deafening clamour, and a scared multitude of wild geese rose up out of the sedges. Their screams of rage and terror, and their bewildered flight backwards and forwards, and in all directions, were utterly indescribable, until the arrival of the officer put them to the route, and delivered their assailant from their obstreperous resentment. The moment the hawk flew off, the Tatar followed him at a gallop, all the while beating a small drum that was fastened to his saddle. When he reached the pond he found the bird planted stoutly on the back of a most insubmissive victim, and waiting with philosophic patience until his master should come and release him from his critical position.
The officer told us, that but for his presence, and the noise of the drum, the geese would in all probability have pummelled the hawk to death with their beaks, in order to rescue their companion. In such cases, however, the hawk braves the storm with imperturbable coolness, and adopts a curious expedient when the attacks are too violent, and his master is too slow in appearing. Without quitting hold of his victim, he slips himself under the broad wings of the goose, which then become his buckler. Once in that position he is invincible, and the blows aimed at him fall only on the poor prisoner, whose cruel fate it is to be forced to protect its mortal enemy. When the falconer comes up, the first thing he does is to cut off its head and give the brains to the hawk. Until that operation is completed, the latter keeps fast hold on the quarry, and no efforts of its master can induce it to relax its gripe.
The hawk made two or three more successful flights before we reached Houidouk, and supplied us with a good stock of provisions, which were not a little needful to us in that miserable post station.
During this journey we passed several times very close to the Caspian, but without perceiving it.