In the middle of the nineteenth century, the three warring khanates of Khiva, Bokhara and Khokand between them ruled the vast region of desert and mountain, half the size of America, which stretched from the Caspian in the west to the Pamirs in the east. But besides these three city-states, there were other towns of importance. One was ancient Samarkand, Tamerlane’s one-time capital, now part of the Emir of Bokhara’s domains. Another was Kashgar, cut off from the others by high mountains, which was then ruled by China. Finally there was the great walled city of Tashkent, once independent, but at that time belonging to the Khan of Khokand.
Tashkent, with its orchards, vineyards, pasturage and population of 100,000, was the richest city in Central Asia. It owed its prosperity not only to its abundance of natural resources, but also to the energy and enterprise of its merchants, and to its proximity to Russia, with which it had long traded. However, it was no secret that its powerful merchant families would only too happily have exchanged Khokand’s rule, with its punitive taxation, for that of the Russians. It was no secret either that the clergy, who also wielded considerable influence, looked to the Emir of Bokhara, ruler of the holiest city in Central Asia, for their salvation. Given the opportunity, the Emir would have been more than willing to oblige them, thereby adding this rich prize to his possessions. In the spring of 1865, such an opportunity arose when he and his old adversary the Khan of Khokand found themselves once again at war.
But there was one other contender – the Russians. It was clear to the commander of the Khokand frontier region, Major-General Mikhail Cherniaev, that Tashkent and its valuable commerce were at risk. Cherniaev, who had had his eye on Tashkent for some time, decided to seize it before the Emir of Bokhara did, and while both rulers were fully occupied by their war. The Tsar and his advisers in St Petersburg were not yet ready to annex Tashkent, however. This was partly because they were unsure, despite Ignatiev’s confident assurances, how the British would react, and partly because they were doubtful whether Cherniaev’s forces, only 1,300 strong, were sufficient to take the city, with its estimated 30,000 defenders. They therefore telegraphed him ordering him not to attack. But suspecting what the envelope might contain, the general deliberately left it unopened, concealing it from his staff. He calculated that if he succeeded in adding this jewel to the Tsar’s crown, at minimum loss of life and expense, his disobedience would be overlooked. Such an action by a British general would have brought the wrath of Parliament and press down upon his head, not to mention that of the Cabinet and his own superiors. In Russia, however, there was only one man ultimately to please or displease – the Tsar himself. The rewards for success could be considerable, moreover. Cherniaev decided that it was a gamble worth taking. There was another reason, too, why he acted as he did. His immediate chief, the Governor-General of Orenburg, was planning to visit the frontier region, and he feared that his chief would rob him of his chance by leading the attack himself.
Leaving word that the advance of Bokharan troops into the Khan of Khokand’s domains posed a serious threat to Tashkent, giving him no alternative, he set out at the beginning of May 1865. On the way he seized the small fort of Niazbek, lying to the south of the city, thereby gaining control of the river which provided most of its water. His engineers now diverted the river so that none of its water reached Tashkent. Cherniaev was joined here by reinforcements which he had called up, bringing his numbers to 1,900, with 12 guns. Together they pressed on towards Tashkent, which they reached around May 8 after defeating a force sent by the Khan of Khokand to intercept them. Cherniaev immediately set about studying the city’s defences, and making contact with those inside the walls who were friendly to the Russians. It was his hope that the latter would be able to persuade the rest of the population to surrender, opening the gates to their liberators, and handing the Khokand garrison over to his troops. But he quickly discovered that shortly before his arrival a small force of Bokharan officers and men had slipped into the city at the invitation of the Emir’s supporters there and had taken over its defences. It also transpired that only a minority of the inhabitants relished the prospect of Russian rule.
There could be no turning back now, however. The humiliation of a Russian retreat would reverberate through Central Asia for years to come. Cherniaev was aware that he himself would face certain court-martial for disobeying orders and bringing disgrace upon the army. Yet his force was far too small for him to consider laying siege to a city surrounded by a high crenellated wall some sixteen miles long. There was nothing for it, Cherniaev knew, but to try to take it by storm. While extraordinarily daring, this was not quite so far-fetched or reckless as it appears. Although the defenders outnumbered his troops by something like fifteen to one, the Russian general knew that here lay their weakness. Provided he could keep the moment and exact point of his attack secret until the very last moment, the defenders were so thinly spread along the many miles of wall that they would be unable to concentrate there in time. Furthermore, not only were the Russians far better armed, trained and led, but they also knew that once they were inside the city they would find sympathisers and helpers among the population.
Cherniaev struck at first light on June 15. Late the night before, under cover of darkness, his men crept forward into position. The main assault party, carrying long scaling ladders, advanced towards one of the gates where reconnaissance had shown the wall to be at its lowest and the cover good. The wheels of the gun carriages were wrapped in felt to ensure silence as they were moved into position. At the same time a smaller force made its way to another of the city’s gates, several miles to the east, ready to make a feint attack designed to draw off large numbers of the defenders until the storming party was inside. They would then endeavour to join their comrades in the struggle for the citadel.
At 2.30 a.m. volunteers unloaded the scaling ladders from the camels and bore them to the very foot of the walls beside the gate which was to be attacked. As they did so they stumbled over a sleeping sentry, whose presence outside the wall suggested the existence of a secret passage under the wall through which he had come. Rudely prodded by Russian bayonets, the prisoner was forced to reveal its whereabouts. Cleverly camouflaged with grey felt, which exactly matched the colour of the walls, it led upwards to a barbette, or platform, perched beside the gate. Its discovery was an extraordinary bit of luck for the Russians, for just then they heard the sound of heavy gunfire from the direction of the other gate. The diversionary force had begun its attack, immediately drawing large numbers of the defenders to the spot.
Here was the attackers’ chance. Under cover of the noise of the bombardment, the Russians moved swiftly. Some crawling along the secret passage, and others swarming silently up their scaling ladders, they took the defenders totally by surprise. Within minutes, and without loss to themselves, they had seized the gates from inside and forced them open. Led by their chaplain, Father Malov, armed only with a cross, the main party now poured into the city, fanning out to attack the startled defenders manning barricades and the parapets above. At the same time a captain and 250 men fought their way along the wall to try to reach the diversionary force and let them into the city. Resistance at first was fierce, but very soon the superior fire-power and tactics of Cherniaev’s seasoned troops began to tell. Even with their stiffening of Bokharan officers, the defenders lacked the fanatical spirit of resistance which the Russians were used to encountering in the Caucasus. Within an hour or so the diversionary force was also inside the city, and the citadel was firmly in Russian hands. By the middle of the afternoon the Russians were in possession of half the city. Meanwhile, outside the walls, 39 of Cherniaev’s Cossacks had routed 5,000 enemy horsemen, many of whom had been drowned while fleeing across a river.
There was now a brief lull in the fighting as pro-Russian elements among the population tried to negotiate a ceasefire. But this failed to hold and fighting broke out again, continuing into the night. Until then Cherniaev had refrained from using his artillery for fear of destroying the city and threatening the lives and property of those friendly to Russia. By this time, however, after fighting all day, his men were utterly exhausted. He ordered his guns to be brought to bear on the enemy positions so as to keep them at bay. Very soon many of the buildings in the labyrinth of streets around the Russian positions were ablaze, creating a protective ring of fire around them and enabling the troops to snatch some desperately needed sleep and rest.
The next morning fierce fighting flared up again, but by evening the defenders, badly dispirited and now deserted by their Bokharan advisers, could see that further resistance was futile. The city elders realised, too, that unless they wanted to see Tashkent reduced to rubble they had no choice but to submit. A meeting was arranged with Cherniaev at which surrender terms were discussed. These were accepted by him on behalf of Tsar Alexander the following morning, although he had no authority to do so. At the same time, awed by the brilliant and daring generalship which had enabled the Russian to capture their city with so small a force, the elders gave him the honorific title of ‘Lion of Tashkent’. It was indeed an astonishing victory. Russian losses were only twenty-five dead and eighty-nine wounded – a fraction of the casualties they had inflicted on the enemy.
Cherniaev now set about trying to win the goodwill of the people, particularly the religious authorities, by reconciliation and generosity in victory. He called on Tashkent’s principal Muslim leader at his home, bowing respectfully as he entered, and pledged himself to allow the elders to run the city’s affairs as before, and not to interfere in their religious life. Aware of the deep resentment felt over the crippling taxes which the Khan of Khokand had imposed, he absolved everyone from paying any taxes for a year – an immensely popular, if costly, move. He rode alone through the streets and bazaars, talking to ordinary people, and even accepting a bowl of tea from a total stranger. It was an early hearts-and-minds operation by Cherniaev and his troops, and their magnanimity was to win over many of those who had previously regarded the Russians as ogres. It was an admirable policy, but not one that subsequent Russian commanders in Central Asia always adopted.
Having appointed himself Military Governor of Tashkent, Cherniaev sat back to await word from St Petersburg of his own fate. There his report on the city’s capture, and the pacification of its inhabitants, was being perused by his startled superiors, including Tsar Alexander. In it Cherniaev extolled the valour of his troops, singling out a number of officers and men for special praise. Among them was Father Malov, the crucifix-bearing chaplain, who had been in the thick of all the fighting, and who was to remain in Tashkent as a priest for the rest of his life. Cherniaev reasoned that once the imperial flag had been raised over Tashkent the Tsar would be loath to see it hauled down. He therefore recommended that the city should once again become an independent khanate, but from now on under Russian protection.
Cherniaev did not have to wait long to learn that his reckless gamble had paid off. ‘A glorious affair,’ the Tsar called it. Disobedience, it appeared, was acceptable – provided it was successful. For Cherniaev had achieved, with the minimum of fuss and casualties, what Alexander really wanted, but feared could not be achieved without the deployment of a far larger force. The Tsar immediately awarded Cherniaev the Cross of St Anne, while other officers who had distinguished themselves were fittingly rewarded. Other ranks received a bonus of two roubles each. Meanwhile, St Petersburg braced itself for the British protests which, in view of Prince Gorchakov’s recent assurances, seemed inevitable. In a bid to pre-empt these, the official announcement of Cherniaev’s victory published in the St Petersburg newspapers declared the occupation of Tashkent to be no more than temporary, insisting that it had been done strictly to protect Tashkent from Bokharan annexation. Once the danger was over, it would be restored to independence under a khan of its own.
The British government, as expected, duly protested. It pointed out that Tashkent lay far beyond the frontier which Prince Gorchakov had spelt out in his famous memorandum on Russia’s southern limits. Moreover, the seizure of Tashkent, London added, was ‘scarcely consistent with the professed intention of the Russian government to respect the independence of the states of Central Asia.’ But by now no one seriously expected St Petersburg to keep its undertaking to withdraw from Tashkent, any more than it had kept its earlier promise. Nor did it. After waiting for things to calm down, it announced the permanent establishment of a new Governorate-General, that of Turkestan. Tashkent was to be its military and administrative headquarters, as well as the official place of residence of the Governor-General. Beyond declaring that this move had been forced upon it by ‘military expediency’, St Petersburg did not go out of its way to justify it. As Count Milyutin wrote: ‘It is unnecessary for us to beg the forgiveness of ministers of the English Crown for each advance we make. They do not hasten to confer with us when they conquer whole kingdoms and occupy foreign cities and islands. Nor do we ask them to justify what they do.’
Having served his purpose, General Cherniaev, whose impulsiveness and ambition were viewed in St Petersburg as a liability, was recalled, and General Konstantin Kaufman, a veteran of the Caucasus war and a personal friend of Milyutin’s, was appointed the first Governor-General of Turkestan. A soldier of exceptional ability and vision, he was given extraordinary powers by Tsar Alexander. Eventually he was destined to become the uncrowned king of Central Asia, and principal architect of Russia’s empire there. To the dismay of the hawks in London and Calcutta, the British government’s reaction to all this, beyond its initial protest, was surprisingly muted. So, too, was that of most of the press and public. ‘To those who remember the Russophobia of 1838–39,’ wrote Sir Henry Rawlinson, that veteran of the earlier phase of the Great Game, ‘the indifference of the English public to the events now passing in Central Asia must appear one of the strangest instances in modern history.’ The truth was that the Russophobes had cried wolf too often to expect much support this time. The spectre of the Cossacks pouring down through the passes into British India, raised on and off for nearly half a century, had so far not materialised. And yet, as Rawlinson pointed out in a long, anonymous article in theQuarterly Review of July 1865, the relative positions of Britain and Russia in Asia had changed considerably since the days of Wilson, Kinneir, de Lacy Evans and McNeill.
‘We have, in the first place, greatly advanced our own frontier,’ he wrote, referring to the annexation of Sind and the Punjab. British India had also extended its political influence northwards into Kashmir. At the same time the Russians had consolidated their position in the Caucasus, after crushing Imam Shamyl, thereby freeing large numbers of troops for deployment elsewhere, and had also begun to make forward moves in Turkestan. In addition to this, Rawlinson observed, the Russians had much improved their communications with Central Asia. A railway now ran all the way from St Petersburg to Nijni-Novogorod (present-day Gorky) on the Volga, while plying the latter, all the way down to the Caspian Sea, were 300 steamships. In time of war these, plus a further 50 vessels on the Caspian itself, could be used to transport men and supplies eastwards towards Afghanistan and India.
Rawlinson, who had retired from Indian government service to enter Parliament as a Conservative MP, next considered the reasons for the public’s apathy. One, obviously, was the memory of the Afghan disaster, and a determination not to let such a thing happen again. Another was a widespread conviction that nothing could prevent the Russian advance and their eventual annexation of Khiva, Bokhara and Khokand. Any attempt by Britain to stop this would merely make them move faster, it was argued. Some doves reasoned that it would be better to have the Russians as neighbours than wild tribesmen, upon whom no reliance could be placed. A settled Central Asia ruled by St Petersburg would bring prosperity to the region, and open up new markets there for British goods. Rawlinson, needless to say, shared none of these views.
Ranged against him and his fellow hawks was the new Whig Cabinet, under Lord Russell, vigorously supported by the Viceroy, Sir John Lawrence, himself an old frontier hand of considerable distinction, and a former Governor of the Punjab. Lawrence was convinced that if the Russians tried to attack India through Afghanistan their troops would suffer the same fate at the hands of the fanatical tribes as the British had in the dreadful winter of 1842. He dismissed as highly improbable the fear that St Petersburg might persuade the Afghans to allow Russian troops to march across their country, or even to join forces with them, in order to attack India. The best way to restrain Russia, he argued, was by means of tough diplomacy from London. The Russian Achilles’ heel, if it came to it, lay within easier reach of London than of Calcutta. Were Tsar Alexander ever to show signs of launching an attack on India through Central Asia or Persia then the immediate dispatch of a British battle fleet to the Baltic would force him to think again. Even so, it was not long before those responsible for India’s defence, including Lawrence himself, began to feel distinctly uneasy.
Looking back now, it is obvious that from the moment General Kaufman took up his new post as Governor-General of Turkestan the days of the independent khanates of Central Asia were numbered. Despite all Gorchakov’s assurances it is clear that their absorption, in one form or another, into the Russian Empire was his principal aim. As we have already seen, there were three main reasons for this. Foremost was the fear of the British getting there first and monopolising the region’s trade. Russian merchants and manufacturers had long had their eyes on the untapped markets and resources of Central Asia, especially its raw cotton. Then there was the question of imperial pride. Blocked in Europe and the Near East, the Russians sought to work off their frustration by demonstrating their military prowess through colonial conquest in Asia. After all, it was no more than the other European powers were doing, or had already done, almost everywhere else in the world. Finally there was the strategic factor. Just as the Baltic was Russia’s Achilles’ heel in the event of trouble with Britain, it had long been obvious that the latter’s most vulnerable point was India. Therefore to have bases in Central Asia from which its frontiers could be threatened greatly increased Russia’s bargaining power.
This is not to say that from now on every Russian move in Central Asia was part of a grand design carefully thought out in St Petersburg, as Khalfin, the Soviet historian, rather suggests. Indeed, there had been considerable disagreement earlier among the Tsar’s ministers and advisers over the wisdom of retaining Tashkent. Those on the spot, notably General Kaufman, had no such doubts, however. For they could see that possession of Tashkent was the key to the conquest of Central Asia. Its occupation by Russian troops effectively drove a wedge between the two territories of Bokhara and Khokand, enabling them to be dealt with in turn. Following his loss of Tashkent to Cherniaev, and the failure of the British to come to his assistance, the Khan of Khokand had concluded a treaty with the Russians which secured Kaufman’s rear and enabled him to concentrate on Bokhara. Nor did he have to wait very long for an excuse to move against the Emir. For in April 1868 word reached Tashkent that Bokharan forces were massing at Samarkand, then lying within the Emir’s domains, with the aim of driving the Russians out of Turkestan.
Kaufman immediately set out for Samarkand with a force of only 3,500 men, all that could be spared. He met with little resistance, however, for the Bokharan troops, whose commanders were divided among themselves, fell back at his approach. The following morning a deputation from the city came to Kaufman saying that the troops had all left and that they wished to surrender. Thus, on May 2, 1868, Samarkand was absorbed into the Russian Empire, at a cost of two lives and thirty-one wounded. To the Russians its fall had a special significance. For it was from here, nearly 500 years earlier, that the great Mongol commander Tamerlane had launched his fateful attack on Muscovy. The capture of this legendary city, with its dazzling architectural splendours, including the tomb of Tamerlane himself, was seen as the settling of an ancient score. Nor was the significance of its surrender lost on the people of Central Asia, on whom it was to have a crushing psychological effect, adding to the growing Russian reputation for invincibility.
Leaving behind him a small garrison to occupy Samarkand, Kaufman now set off in pursuit of the main Bokharan force, catching up with it at a spot 100 miles short of the Emir’s capital. Despite the great disparity in numbers, Kaufman’s superior tactics and seasoned troops won the day, putting the Bokharans to flight. But he was unable to pursue them further, for a second Bokharan force, which had managed to escape his notice, had attacked the Russian troops left to hold Samarkand. At the same time many of the townspeople joined the attackers, having surrendered merely to save their city from destruction. The plight of the Russians, who had withdrawn to the citadel, was becoming more desperate by the hour. Finally, rather than surrender, they decided to blow up the magazines – and themselves. But prompt action by Kaufman saved them. Racing back to Samarkand, he drove the attackers off, but not before 50 of the defenders had been killed and nearly 200 wounded.
Thrice defeated, and fearing for his capital, the Emir had little choice but to accept Kaufman’s harsh surrender terms. These reduced him to a mere vassal of the Tsar’s, and made his once-powerful kingdom a Russian protectorate. In addition Russian merchants were guaranteed free passage through his domains, and allowed to appoint local agents there. Russian goods, moreover, would be taxed at a favourable rate, thereby giving them an advantage over imports from India. Force had achieved what, ten years earlier, Ignatiev had tried and failed to obtain through negotiation – though the intelligence he returned with was now proving invaluable to Kaufman. Finally, in addition to paying a large indemnity, the Emir was obliged to surrender to the Russians the crucial Zarafshan valley, which controlled Bokhara’s water supply, thereby giving them a permanent stranglehold on the capital. In return, so long as he abided by the terms of the treaty, the Emir was allowed to retain his throne. The Russians also gave vague assurances that once stability had been restored to the region they would return Samarkand to the Emir. But this, like their earlier undertaking over Tashkent, they never did, and the respective situations of the two cities were to remain unchanged until the Bolsheviks came to power, when Bokhara was ‘liberated’ and fully incorporated into the USSR.
Only the Khan of Khiva, in his remote desert fastness, continued to defy the might of the Tsar. Kaufman in Tashkent, and Ignatiev in St Petersburg, realised that if they were to absorb Khiva into Russia’s new Central Asian empire they must greatly improve their lines of communication in the region. Troops could only reach Turkestan after a long and arduous march from Orenburg, while Khiva, as previous expeditions had shown, was even more difficult of access. What was needed was a direct route from European Russia, along which troops and supplies could be moved, as well as better communications within Turkestan to tighten Russia’s grip on it. The most obvious way to link Central Asia to European Russia was by building a port on the eastern shore of the Caspian. Men and supplies could then be shipped down the Volga and across the Caspian to this point. They could also be ferried there from the Russian garrisons in the Caucasus. Eventually, when Khiva had been conquered and the troublesome Turcomans pacified, a railway could be constructed across the desert to Bokhara, Samarkand, Tashkent and Khokand.
So it was that, in the winter of 1869, just eighteen months after the submission of Bokhara, a small Russian force set sail from Petrovsk, on the Caucasian side of the Caspian, and a few days later landed in a desolate bay on its eastern shore. The spot was known as Krasnovodsk, and it was here that the Oxus was said to have once flowed into the Caspian. The whole operation was highly secret, for the Russians’ task was to construct a permanent fortress there, and St Petersburg did not wish the British to learn of the move until it was complete. For this reason the officer in command had strict instructions to avoid clashing with the Turcomans, lest the British come to hear of this through the native spies they were known to have among the tribes of the region. Despite this, it was not long before news of what was going on at Krasnovodsk reached British ears. It was to cause considerable alarm in both London and Calcutta.
Until now, still pursuing its policy of masterly inactivity, the British government had done no more than protest to St Petersburg over its recent forward moves in Central Asia, pointing out that they ran contrary to its own official pronouncements. London was uneasily aware, moreover, that what the Russians had done in Central Asia differed little from what Britain had already done when adding Sind and the Punjab to its Indian possessions, and had tried but failed to do in Afghanistan when it placed Shah Shujah on the throne. To protest too vociferously would be to invite charges of hypocrisy. However, the construction of a Russian fortress on the eastern shore of the Caspian, and the garrisoning of troops there, was altogether more disturbing, for it was seen as posing a threat to Afghanistan. Not only would it enable the Russians to launch an expedition against Khiva, thereby adding it to their domains and dependencies in Central Asia, but it would also bring them within striking distance of Herat, strategic key to India.
For some time the forward school, with Sir Henry Rawlinson as its principal spokesman, had been urging the British government to abandon its policy of masterly inactivity. Rawlinson had even proposed that Afghanistan should be made a ‘quasi-protectorate’ of Britain’s so as to keep it out of Russia’s grasp. Some of those who had previously supported the government’s passive policies now began to question their realism. Even the Viceroy, Sir John Lawrence, began to have second thoughts. The Russians, he advised, should be warned not to interfere in the affairs of Afghanistan or any other state sharing a frontier with India. It should be made clear to St Petersburg, moreover, that ‘an advance towards India, beyond a certain point, would entail her in war, in all parts of the world, with England’. Lawrence proposed that Central Asia should be divided into British and Russian spheres of influence, the details of which should be worked out between the two governments.
The opportunity for some plain talking with the Russians arose shortly afterwards when Lord Clarendon, the British Foreign Secretary, met his opposite number, Prince Gorchakov, at Heidelberg. Clarendon enquired bluntly, of Gorchakov whether Russia’s recent Asiatic conquests, which went so far beyond what he himself had spelt out in his celebrated memorandum, had been ordered by Tsar Alexander, or were the result of commanders on the spot exceeding their instructions. It was an embarrassing question, and it required an answer. Gorchakov chose to blame the soldiers, explaining that they thereby hoped to win distinction for themselves. Even now, though, the British were probably no nearer the truth than before, or than scholars are to this day. At the same time Gorchakov assured Clarendon that his government had no intention of advancing any further into Central Asia, and certainly harboured no designs on India.
The British had by now become used to such assurances and promises, and to seeing them broken. Pursuing Lawrence’s expedient of trying to put a fixed limit on further Russian advances, Clarendon therefore proposed to Gorchakov that their two governments should establish, not so much spheres of influence in Asia, but a permanent neutral zone between their two expanding empires there. The Russian immediately suggested that Afghanistan would serve this purpose, his own government having no interest of any kind in it. The latter, if it could be believed, was welcome news to the British, and Clarendon assured Gorchakov that his government had no territorial ambitions there either. For a time the prospects for such an agreement looked quite promising, and discussions and correspondence continued between London and St Petersburg. In the end, however, they were to grind to a halt over the question of where precisely Afghanistan’s remote and unmapped northern frontier ran, especially in the almost totally unexplored Pamir region. For it was here that the most advanced Russian military posts lay closest to British India.
Hitherto, British strategists had always worked on the assumption that the Khyber and Bolan passes were the most likely entry points for a Russian invasion of India. But now they were awakening to the uncomfortable realisation that further to the north, in a region that they knew virtually nothing about, there were other passes through which the Cossacks might one day pour down into India. For this unwelcome piece of intelligence they had to thank two British explorers who, lucky to be alive still, had just returned from Chinese Turkestan after a highly adventurous journey. And if that were not enough, they also brought back with them alarming tales of Russian intrigues there. The diplomatic process might have reached an impasse, but the Great Game certainly had not.