Captain Frederick Gustavus Burnaby of the Royal Horse Guards was no ordinary officer. For a start he was a man of prodigious strength and stature. Standing six-foot-four in his stockinged feet, weighing fifteen stone, and possessing a forty-seven-inch chest, he was reputed to be the strongest man in the British Army. Indeed, it was even said that he could carry a small pony under his arm. Another Herculean feat of Burnaby’s was to grasp the tip of a billiard cue between his middle and index fingers, and hold it out horizontally, his arm fully extended and the butt end steady. Nor was this son of a country parson entirely brawn. He also displayed a remarkable gift for languages, being fluent in at least seven, including Russian, Turkish and Arabic. Finally he was born with an insatiable appetite for adventure which he combined with a vigorous and colourful prose style. Inevitably these two latter qualities brought him into contact with Fleet Street, with the result that during his generous annual leaves he served abroad on several occasions as a special correspondent of The Times and other journals, on one occasion travelling up the Nile to interview General Gordon at Khartoum.
It was during one of these periods of leave that Burnaby made up his mind to visit Russian Central Asia, which was then said to be closed to British officers and other travellers. His plan was to journey to St Petersburg and apply direct to Count Milyutin, the Minister of War, for permission to travel to India via Khiva, Merv and Kabul. It was a bold approach, though it appeared to offer little prospect of success, especially at a time when Anglo-Russian relations were anything but cordial. But where the slightest chance of adventure was concerned, Burnaby was willing to try anything. He had carefully avoided doing one thing, however, and that was seeking permission for his journey from the British Foreign Office or from his own superiors. The answer, he knew very well, would be no.
Burnaby, carrying only 85 lbs of baggage, left Victoria by the night mail train for St Petersburg on November 30, 1875. In the Russian capital he was advised by friends that the authorities would never agree to his journey. ‘They will imagine that you are being sent by your government to stir up the Khivans,’ he was told. ‘They will never believe that an officer, at his own expense, would go to Khiva.’ Surprisingly, his friends proved wrong, for the following day he received a reply to his request to Milyutin which gave partial approval for his journey. The Minister informed him that the authorities along his route had been instructed to help him on his way, but that ‘the Imperial Government could not give its acquiescence to the extension of the journey beyond Russian territory’, as it was unable to accept responsibility for his life in regions outside its control. This, Burnaby decided, was ambiguous. Either Milyutin meant that he could not go as far as Khiva, then nominally still self-governing – and certainly not to Merv, which lay outside Russian control – or that he could go there, though strictly at his own risk. Given the circumstances, most people would have taken it that Milyutin meant the former. Burnaby decided to assume he meant the latter. Quite why the Minister agreed to Burnaby travelling in the Tsar’s Central Asian territories at all is puzzling, unless he feared that the British authorities might apply similar restrictions on Russians travelling in India or elsewhere in the Empire, which at present they were free to do.
Burnaby was not the first British officer to have attempted recently to reach Merv, which many felt might very shortly become the flashpoint of an Anglo-Russian conflagration if Kaufman attempted to seize it. The previous year, while travelling in north-eastern Persia, Captain George Napier, an Indian Army intelligence officer, had gathered an impressive amount of strategical and political information on the line of advance likely to be taken by a Russian force marching on Merv from Krasnovodsk, their new base on the eastern shore of the Caspian. Although invited to visit Merv by the Turcomans, who were anxious for British protection from Kaufman’s troops, Napier had reluctantly declined lest this raise the tribesmen’s ‘undue expectations’. Only five months before Burnaby’s arrival in St Petersburg, a second British officer, Colonel Charles MacGregor, who was later to become chief of military intelligence in India, had reached Herat, intending to visit Merv. But at the last moment he had received an urgent message from his superiors in Calcutta ordering him not to proceed. It was feared that a visit to this strategically sensitive oasis by a British officer known to be involved in intelligence work might expedite its seizure by Kaufman. Indeed, on his return MacGregor had been reprimanded for having gone as far as he had, although he, like Napier, had managed to collect much valuable information on this little-known region.
Burnaby, answerable only to himself, was not a man to allow such considerations to deter him. Travelling part of the way by rail, and the remainder by troika, he reached Orenburg shortly before Christmas. On the way there he had met the Governor and his wife returning to St Petersburg. ‘You must remember’, the Russian had told him, ‘that on no account are you to go to India or Persia. You must retrace your steps to European Russia along the same road by which you go.’ It was all too evident to Burnaby that the Governor had received instructions about him from Milyutin. He made little attempt to conceal his own disapproval of the visit, or to assist Burnaby with advice. It was also clear that he had been warned by St Petersburg that this British officer spoke Russian, something highly unusual in those days, although at their roadside meeting Burnaby had addressed him in English. Nonetheless he made no attempt to prevent Burnaby from continuing to Orenburg, although it was still left somewhat in the air just how far he could proceed from there. He was well aware, however, that wherever he went the Russians would keep a close watch on him, and ensure that he saw nothing he was not supposed to see. At Orenburg he met the former Khan of Khokand, exiled there by the Russians but evidently enjoying his new lifestyle, having recently thrown a ball for the garrison officers and their wives. He also learned that Kaufman had asked for two more regiments to be sent to Central Asia for his unspecified use.
After hiring a Muslim servant, and horses to carry their baggage, Burnaby next set out through the snow by sleigh for the Russian fortress town of Kazala, 600 miles away on the northern shore of the Aral Sea, from where he hoped to reach Khiva, and finally Merv, before crossing into Afghanistan. The winter of 1876 was one of the worst in memory, and the journey southwards proved to be an extremely harsh one as the two men fought their way through blizzards and snow-drifts. Although Burnaby was to make light of it later, he was lucky not to lose both his hands from frostbite, being unwise enough to fall asleep with them exposed. Fortunately some friendly Cossacks he encountered managed to restore the circulation by vigorously massaging his arms with naphtha. ‘If it had not been for the spirit,’ one of the soldiers assured him, ‘your hands would have dropped off, and you might very well have lost both arms.’ As it was, he did not regain full use of his hands for several weeks.
In Kazala Burnaby was cordially received by his Russian fellow officers. However, they informed him with relish that they were greatly looking forward to the coming struggle with the British for possession of India. ‘We will shoot at each other in the morning,’ one Russian told Burnaby, handing him a glass of vodka, ‘and drink together when there is a truce.’ The next morning Burnaby boldly asked the Governor, with whom he was staying, how best he could reach Khiva, 400 miles further south. He was told firmly that he must not proceed there direct, but must go first to the nearest Russian garrison town, Petro-Alexandrovsk, where he could seek permission to visit the khanate. When Burnaby asked him what would happen if he made straight for Khiva, the Governor warned him that the Turcomans who roamed the desert around it were extremely dangerous, as were the Khivans themselves. ‘Why,’ he told Burnaby, clearly hoping to frighten him, ‘the Khan would very likely order his executioner to gouge out your eyes.’
To protect the Englishman from the marauding Turcomans, he offered him a small Cossack escort. But Burnaby knew that the tribesmen had been largely pacified by Kaufman’s troops, and that anyway they were well disposed towards the British, as Captain Napier had discovered, hoping for assistance from them if the Russians advanced on Merv. Having learned what he needed to know, Burnaby was determined to head straight for Khiva, and thence try to make his way, via Bokhara if possible, to Merv. He therefore politely declined the offer of an escort, but found himself instead provided with a guide, whose task it obviously was to ensure that he did not stray from the sleigh-route to Petro-Alexandrovsk. This man, it transpired, had served as guide to the Russian force which had conquered Khiva three years earlier. To someone as single-minded and resourceful as Burnaby, however, his presence was not to represent an insurmountable problem.
Khiva, Burnaby discovered, could best be reached by turning off the trail to Petro-Alexandrovsk at a point just two days short of the latter. On January 12, having hired horses for himself, his servant and the guide, and three camels to carry their baggage, including a kibitka, or Turcoman tent, he left Kazala, ostensibly bound for the Russian garrison town. ‘Although I had hired the camels as far as Petro-Alexandrovsk,’ he wrote afterwards, ‘I had not the slightest intention of going there if it could be avoided.’ He knew that the Russian garrison commander would find a dozen reasons why it was impossible for him to proceed to Khiva, let alone to Bokhara or Merv, and even if he did agree it would be under the strictest supervision. For a start, in order to get his servant on his side, he promised him a 100-rouble note the day they reached Bokhara or Merv, via Khiva. ‘The little Tartar’, wrote Burnaby, ‘was well aware that if we once entered Petro-Alexandrovsk he had but little chance of earning his promised reward.’ Nothing, however, was said to the guide.
Khiva lay two weeks’ march away across the frozen desert. The savage wind and cold were so severe at times that Burnaby was forced to abandon his dark glasses, whose metal arms froze to his face, and try instead to peer through the fur of his hat in order to avoid snow-blindness. As they struggled on he recalled the terrible suffering experienced by the Russian troops who had tried to reach Khiva from Orenburg in 1839, only to be driven back by the cold. Later he learned that two unfortunate Cossacks had frozen to death while travelling, at the same time as his own party, between Petro-Alexandrovsk and Kazala, their uniforms offering far less protection against the sub-zero temperatures than the furs and sheepskins worn by himself and his men.
Eventually Burnaby reached the remote spot where the trails to Petro-Alexandrovsk and Khiva divided. Here he set about trying to deflect the guide from the path of duty by exploiting a cupidity which he had detected in him. The man’s brother-in-law, Burnaby was aware, was a horse-dealer dwelling in a village near Khiva. He therefore let it be known that, when they arrived at Petro-Alexandrovsk, he intended to purchase fresh horses, their own now being thoroughly exhausted. The guide was quick to swallow the bait, swearing that far better horses could be obtained from a dealer known personally to him who lived on the way to Khiva. Knowing that the guide would receive a substantial cut from any purchases he made, Burnaby also indicated that he might require fresh camels for his onward journey. At first the man had insisted that the horses and camels be brought from the village for Burnaby’s inspection, but finally, when the Englishman suggested that they press on to Petro-Alexandrovsk, he weakened. Eventually it was agreed that they would bypass the Russian garrison altogether and proceed direct to Khiva. There was one proviso, however. The guide insisted that Burnaby must first obtain the Khan’s permission to enter the capital. The mullah of a nearby village helped to compose a suitable letter, which was sent off by messenger to the Khan. In it Burnaby explained that he was a British officer travelling in the region who wished to visit the renowned city and pay his respects to its celebrated ruler.
A day later, as Burnaby and his companions arrived on the far bank of the frozen Oxus, sixty miles from the capital, they were met by two Khivan nobles who had been sent by the Khan to welcome him. As they entered the city, Burnaby noticed the unmistakable silhouette of a gallows. On this, his companions informed him, convicted thieves were hanged. Murderers were executed by having their throats cut with a huge knife, like sheep. Of the Khan’s executioner, whom the Governor of Kazala had warned might be on hand to prise out Burnaby’s eyes, there was no sign. Any remaining fears the Englishman might have had were quickly dispelled when he found himself installed in the Khan’s state guest-house, a building of great splendour, whose dazzling tiles and ornate style reminded him of the Arab architecture of Seville, and whose living-room was lavishly furnished with fine rugs. Despite it being mid-winter, melons, grapes and other lush fruits were brought to him on trays by servants, and he was told that the Khan had ordered that he was to be given anything that he chose to ask for.
The next morning Burnaby was informed that the Khan would receive him that afternoon, and at the appointed time his horse was brought so that he could ride to the palace. Guards armed with scimitars and wearing long, brightly coloured khalats, or silk coats, stood at its gates, while an excited crowd of Khivans lined the way to see the giant figure of the Englishman pass. For word had spread that he was an emissary from British India, tales of whose stupendous wealth had long ago reached the khanates of Central Asia. Burnaby had been careful to impress upon officials of the Khan that he did not come as a representative of his government or sovereign. They, in their turn, had expressed astonishment that he had managed to evade the Russians, one telling him: ‘They do not much love you English people.’
The Khan, who was seated on a Persian rug, reclined against some cushions, warming his feet before a hearth filled with glowing charcoal. He looked about 28, and was powerfully built, with a coal-black beard and moustache surrounding an enormous mouth filled with irregular but white teeth. To Burnaby’s relief he was smiling, with a distinct twinkle in his eye. ‘I was greatly surprised,’ Burnaby wrote later, ‘after all that had been written in Russian newspapers about the cruelties and other iniquities perpetrated by this Khivan potentate, to find him such a cheery sort of fellow.’ The Khan motioned to Burnaby to be seated beside him, after which tea was brought. When the courtesies were over he began to question his visitor about the relationship between Britain and Russia, and how large and far apart their territories were.
With the Khan’s permission, Burnaby produced a map and pointed out the respective positions of India, Russia and the British Isles. The Khan was greatly struck by the disparity in size between Britain and India, between conqueror and conquered, and also by how much larger the Tsar’s domains were than the two of them put together. To demonstrate his point to Burnaby he showed how it took both his hands to cover up Russia on the map, and only one to cover India. To this Burnaby replied that the British Empire was so vast that the sun never set on it, and that only part of it could be included on his map. Furthermore, a nation’s strength did not depend only on the size of its territories. India’s population, for instance, was three times that of the whole of Russia. Moreover, for all its apparent size and might, Russia had been defeated by Britain in one war, and would assuredly be beaten in any subsequent ones. Nonetheless, despite Britain’s great strength, she was a peaceable nation who preferred to be on cordial terms with her neighbours.
After remaining silent for a while, the Khan turned to the question of Russia’s ambitions in Central Asia. ‘We Mohammedans used to think that England was our friend because she helped the Sultan,’ he told Burnaby, ‘but you have let the Russians take Tashkent, conquer me, and make their way into Khokand.’ Their next move, he forecast, would be to seize Kashgar, Merv and Herat. They had many soldiers, but little to pay them with. India, he understood, was very rich. ‘You will have to fight some day, whether your government likes it or not.’ He wanted to know whether the British would come to the assistance of Kashgar if the Russians attacked it. However, Burnaby explained that he was not privy to the secrets of his government on such matters, although he deeply regretted that the Russians had been allowed to seize the Khan’s domains, since this could easily have been prevented.
Despite St Petersburg’s protestations that it had withdrawn all its troops from Khiva, and restored power to the Khan, it was obvious to Burnaby that this was mere sham. The Khan was firmly under the Russian thumb. He was allowed no army of his own, and despite his request that their own troops be withdrawn, the Russians maintained a 4,000-strong garrison at Petro-Alexandrovsk, within easy striking distance of the capital, and commanded by one of their ablest frontier soldiers, Colonel Nikolai Ivanov. In addition, the Khivans had to pay a considerable annual tribute to the Tsar. This Burnaby had seen being counted out in silver coins and rouble notes by the Khan’s treasurer as he passed through the palace on the way to his audience.
The Khan now gave a low bow, a signal that Burnaby’s meeting with him was over. Thanking him for his gracious welcome, and for allowing him to visit Khiva, the Englishman withdrew and rode back to his quarters. By this time word had spread that he had been favourably received by the Khan, and those lining the streets and rooftops bowed respectfully as he and his official escort passed by. The Khan had ordered that Burnaby was to be shown anything in the capital that he wished to see, and the following morning he set out on a grand tour of inspection. Among many other things he was shown were the royal gardens where he saw apple, pear and cherry trees, melon beds and vines, and the summer palace, from where the Khan dispensed justice during June and July, Khiva’s two hottest months. He next visited the prison. ‘Here’, he wrote, ‘I found two prisoners, their feet fastened in wooden stocks, whilst heavy iron chains encircled their necks and bodies.’ They were accused of assaulting a woman, but denied the charge. Burnaby enquired what happened when a man pleaded not guilty to a charge he was known to have committed. ‘Why,’ he was told, ‘we beat him with rods, put salt in his mouth, and expose him to the burning rays of the sun, until at last he confesses.’ This admission said little for St Petersburg’s claims that it had freed its subject peoples from the barbaric practices of the past, its principal justification for their conquest.
The following morning, on returning from a visit to the camel market, Burnaby found two solemn-faced strangers waiting for him in his quarters. One of them handed him a letter which he said was from Colonel Ivanov at Petro-Alexandrovsk. The Russians, it appeared, had discovered that the Englishman had given them the slip. The letter informed Burnaby that an urgent telegram awaited him at Petro-Alexandrovsk. But instead of giving it to the courier to deliver to him, the colonel instructed him to come to Petro-Alexandrovsk to collect it. Thus Burnaby had no way of ascertaining who the mysterious telegram was from, or how important it was. All he could discover was that it had been telegraphed as far as Tashkent, where the overland line to Central Asia at present ended, and then borne 900 miles across the steppe and desert by a succession of horsemen. Clearly the Russians judged its contents important. He could, of course, ignore it, and head quickly for Bokhara or Merv. However, he was informed that Colonel Ivanov had given strict orders to the Khan that if he had already left Khiva he was to be rounded up and brought straight to Petro-Alexandrovsk. Bitterly disappointed, Burnaby could see that he had no choice but to return with the two couriers, his prospects of reaching Bokhara and Merv at an end. For the Russians were unlikely to let him slip through their fingers so easily again.
Before Burnaby left Khiva, the Khan asked to see him once more. Expressing regret that his visit had been thus cut short, he assured Burnaby that he or any of his countrymen would always be welcome in his capital. ‘He was very kind in his manner,’ noted Burnaby, ‘and shook hands warmly when I took my leave.’ That night they halted at the home of a senior Khivan official who had been sent, in vain, to India to seek help from the British at the time of the Russian attack on Khiva. Despite the failure of his mission, he had been much impressed by what he saw, and by the way he had been received. He, like the Khan, warned Burnaby that India was the Tsar’s ultimate objective. In his view British troops were far better than their Russian counterparts. However, the latter were numerically superior. Were they to invade India, he declared, the Russians could afford to lose as many men as the British had to defend it, ‘and begin again with double the original force’. When Burnaby tried to suggest that the Russians bore the British no ill-will, the official asked him: ‘If they like you so much, why do they prevent your goods coming here?’ Indian teas, for example, were either totally banned, or bore such heavy duty that no one could possibly afford them.
Considering that he had obviously caused the Russian military authorities in Turkestan much inconvenience, not to say embarrassment, Burnaby’s reception at Petro-Alexandrovsk was surprisingly cordial, perhaps because they knew what his telegram contained. Indeed, its contents must have shaken even the intrepid Burnaby. For it was from the Commander-in-Chief of the British Army, Field Marshal the Duke of Cambridge, ordering him to return immediately to European Russia. ‘Too bad, letting you get so far, and not allowing you to carry out your undertaking,’ observed Colonel Ivanov with ill-concealed satisfaction to his British guest. ‘It is the fortune of war,’ replied Burnaby. ‘Anyway, I have seen Khiva.’ The Russian was determined to belittle even that. ‘Khiva, that is nothing,’ he said. It was Burnaby’s suspicion that St Petersburg, never dreaming that he would succeed in reaching Khiva in one of the worst winters on record, had leaned on the British Foreign Office to get him removed from Central Asia. This was strongly denied in the House of Commons, however, the government insisting that it was its own decision to order him out, lest the Russians be led to believe that he was there in an official capacity.
During his brief stay at Petro-Alexandrovsk, Burnaby found Ivanov and his fellow officers full of war-talk, and convinced that hostilities with Britain were inevitable. Merv, they told him, they could take any time they wanted, it only needing St Petersburg’s go-ahead. The mood of these officers, Burnaby noted, was the same as all those he had spoken to in Central Asia. ‘It is a great pity,’ seemed to be the view, ‘but our interests clash, and though capital friends as individuals, the question of who is to be master in the East must soon be decided by the sword.’ It was while Burnaby was at Petro-Alexandrovsk that the Khan of Khiva’s treasurer arrived with the money due to the Russians, and breakfasted with Ivanov, struggling gallantly with a knife and fork, and showing himself not at all averse to French champagne.
With any hope of further travels in Central Asia now dashed, Burnaby was anxious to get home as soon as possible to begin work on a book he was planning about his journey and his views on the Russian threat to India. Ivanov had received strict instructions from Kaufman that this troublesome British officer, who had already been allowed by St Petersburg to see far more than he should, must return by the way he had come. As it happened, two Russian officers and a party of Cossacks were about to leave Petro-Alexandrovsk for Kazala, and it was agreed that Burnaby would accompany them. This arrangement suited him well, for it gave him a unique opportunity to observe, at close quarters and under severe conditions, Cossack troops on the march, thus providing further material for his book. The going was extremely hard, with even the Cossacks complaining, its rigours made a little less unbearable by recourse to the four-gallon cask of vodka they carried. The discipline too was harsh, with punishments meted out for the slightest misdemeanour. One camel driver was flogged for being slow in saddling up, the captain snatching the whip from the Cossack administering it, declaring that it was not hard enough, and completing the task himself. Nonetheless Burnaby formed a high opinion of his companions during the nine days they spent together crossing the great snowy plain. ‘The Cossacks were fine, well-built fellows, averaging about eleven stone in weight,’ he wrote. In the saddle they carried a further seven stone or more, including twenty pounds of grain for their horses, and six pounds of biscuits for themselves, sufficient to feed them for four days. The horses too were impressively sturdy. His own stalwart mount had borne him the best part of 900 miles in appalling conditions, without once going lame or falling sick, despite the twenty stone it had carried all that way. And yet in England, Burnaby noted, due to its modest stature it would have been looked upon as a polo pony.
During Burnaby’s brief halt in Kazala, he heard that 10,000 more Russian troops were being moved from Siberia to Tashkent in preparation, it was rumoured, for a campaign against Yakub Beg in Kashgaria. On his way northwards to Orenburg he encountered the commander of one of these units travelling in a large sleigh with his family many miles ahead of his troops. He also heard that there had been serious trouble recently in some of the Cossack regiments, and that a number of the ringleaders were to be shot. On reaching London at the end of March 1876, he immediately set about the task of writing his book. He also found himself lionised, for everyone, including Queen Victoria herself, wished to hear of his adventures and listen to his views on the Russian menace. He was received by the Commander-in Chief, the Duke of Cambridge, who had been leaned on by the Cabinet to order him out of Central Asia. Afterwards, writing to the secretary of state for war, the Duke declared: ‘I saw Captain Burnaby yesterday, and a more interesting conversation I never remember holding with anybody. He is a remarkable fellow, singular-looking, but of great perseverance and determination. He has gone through a great deal, and the only surprise is how he got through it.’ He strongly recommended that the secretary of state should listen to what Burnaby had to say, and that the Foreign Office and India Office should do likewise.
Burnaby’s graphic, 487-page narrative of his adventures, which included lengthy appendices on Russian military capabilities and likely moves in Central Asia, appeared later that year under the title A Ride to Khiva. Its strongly anti-Russian flavour caught the mood of the moment, and it was to prove a bestseller, being reprinted eleven times in its first twelve months. While the Foreign Office deplored it, for it did little for Anglo-Russian relations, the hawks and the largely Russophobe press were delighted by its jingoistic tone. Flushed by the book’s success, and by a £2,500 advance on his next, Burnaby set his sights on Eastern Turkey, a wild and mountainous region where Tsar and Sultan shared an uneasy frontier. His aim was to try to discover what the Russians were up to in this little-known corner of the Great Game battlefield, and how capable the Turks were of holding out against a Russian thrust towards Constantinople from their Caucasian stronghold. For relations between the two powers were deteriorating rapidly in the wake of a serious quarrel over Turkey’s Balkan possessions. War appeared imminent, and likely to involve Britain.
The trouble began in the summer of 1875, with an uprising against Turkish rule in a remote village in Herzegovina, one of the Sultan’s Balkan provinces. From there it quickly spread to Bosnia, Serbia, Montenegro, and Bulgaria. Whether it was a genuinely spontaneous movement, or the result of Russian intrigue, is uncertain. In May 1876 the crisis deepened when Turkish irregular troops, known as bashi-bazouks, put 12,000 Bulgarian Christians to the sword in a frenzy of blood-letting. This massacre was to result in almost universal condemnation of the Turks, and to bring the likelihood of war between the Tsar, who claimed to be the protector of all Christians living under Ottoman rule, and the Sultan even closer. In Britain the Russophobes, Turcophiles almost to a man, tried hard to pin the blame on the Tsar, whom they accused of fomenting the trouble in the first place. Disraeli, the Prime Minister, dismissed first reports of the Bulgarian massacres as ‘coffee-house babble’. Gladstone, on the other hand, demanded that the Turks be cleared ‘bag and baggage’ out of the Balkans.
With the storm clouds gathering once more over the East, Burnaby set out from Constantinople in December 1876 to ride the length of Turkey. His arrival in the capital was not to go unnoticed by the astute Count Ignatiev, the Russian ambassador, and when he reached the important garrison town of Erzerum, in Eastern Turkey, a friendly official confided to him that the Russian consul there had received a telegram ordering him to keep a close watch on the British officer. ‘Two months ago,’ it declared, ‘a certain Captain Burnaby left Constantinople with the object of travelling in Asia Minor. He is a desperate enemy of Russia. We have lost all traces of him since his departure from Stamboul. We believe that the real object of his journey is to cross the frontier into Russia.’ The consul was ordered to discover the whereabouts of Burnaby, and at all costs prevent him from entering Russian territory. A portrait of Burnaby, he was also to discover, had been posted prominently at all Russian frontier posts. Having seen all he needed to of Turkey’s ill-preparedness against a sudden attack, Burnaby cut short his 1,000-mile ride and caught a steamer back along the Black Sea coast to Constantinople, from where he returned hurriedly by train to London to start work on his book before events overtook it. Entitled On Horseback Through Asia Minor, it was even more anti-Russian than his previous book. In April 1877, while he was still writing it, news reached London that the Russians had declared war on Turkey, and had begun their advance on Constantinople through the Balkans, while simultaneously marching into eastern Anatolia.
With the British bracing themselves once again for war over Constantinople, and anti-Russian feeling running at an all-time high, Burnaby’s new book was assured an eager readership, being reprinted in all seven times. Its author now set off for the Balkan front where, although ostensibly a neutral observer, he managed to obtain unofficial command of a Turkish brigade fighting against those recent travelling companions of his, the Cossacks. At this point, however, having achieved his self-appointed task of drumming up public opinion at home against the Russians and in favour of the Turks, Burnaby makes his exit from this narrative.
‘If the Russians reach Constantinople, the Queen would be so humiliated that she thinks she would abdicate at once.’ So wrote Queen Victoria herself to Disraeli, urging him to ‘be bold’. To the Prince of Wales she declared: ‘I don’t believe that without fighting . . . those detestable Russians . . . any arrangements will be lasting, or that we shall ever be friends! They will always hate us and we can never trust them.’ Her sympathies were shared by the masses, even if few of them had a very clear idea of where either Bulgaria or Herzegovina were, let alone any grasp of the issues involved. But their mood was well summed up in the words of a jingoistic song which was then doing the rounds of the music halls. It went like this:
‘We don’t want to fight,
But, by jingo, if we do,
We’ve got the men, we’ve got the ships,
We’ve got the money too.
We’ve fought the Bear before,
And while we’re Britons true,
The Russians shall not have Constantinople.’
Against all expectations, the Russian advance towards the Ottoman capital was slow. For five months it was held up by the gallant and resolute defence by the Turks of their stronghold at Plevna in Bulgaria, which cost the invaders 35,000 lives and the Romanians, who had been persuaded to join them, a further 5,000. In the east, too, despite initial successes, the Russian Caucasian forces found themselves facing tougher opposition than St Petersburg had anticipated, as well as nationalist uprisings among the Muslim tribes behind their own lines. Finally, however, Turkish resistance crumbled, and in February 1878 the Russian armies stood at the gates of Constantinople, their age-old dream seemingly about to be realised, only to find the British Mediterranean fleet anchored in the Dardanelles. It was a blunt warning to the Russians to proceed no further. War now seemed certain.
Meanwhile, having foreseen such a possibility, in Turkestan General Kaufman had been assembling a 30,000-strong force, the largest ever to be deployed in Central Asia. The moment war broke out it was his intention to strike against India through Afghanistan. At the same time he sent a powerful military mission, led by Major-General Nikolai Stolietov, to Kabul to try to obtain Afghan co-operation against the British. Ideally Kabul would be the springboard for the attack, with the Khyber Pass as the principal point of entry. Ahead of the invasion force, which it was hoped would consist of both Russian and Afghan troops, would go secret agents to prepare the way. They would be well supplied with gold and other inducements. For Kaufman was convinced that the Indian masses were ripe for revolt, and that once it was known that a large Russo-Afghan force was on its way to liberate them, the powder-keg would ignite. Although not yet aware of what Kaufman was planning, to the British a joint Russian-Afghan thrust at India represented the ultimate nightmare.
In the event, confronted by the prospect of another war with Britain, and to the immense disappointment of the hawks on either side, Tsar Alexander backed down. With the Russian armies only two days’ march from Constantinople, a hasty truce was agreed between the Russians and the Turks. This gave Bulgaria independence from Ottoman rule and the Russians large tracts of eastern Anatolia. Immediately the British objected. They feared Bulgaria would merely become a satellite state of St Petersburg, giving the Russians a direct overland route to the Mediterranean. This, like their threatened occupation of Constantinople, would enable them to menace India’s lines of communication at will in time of war. Thus, despite the ending of hostilities between Russia and Turkey, the threat of war between Russia and Britain had not lessened. Not only had Austria-Hungary now allied itself with Britain over the issue of Bulgaria, but 7,000 British troops had been moved to Malta from India in an effort to induce the Tsar to withdraw his own forces from before Constantinople. In the end, however, the crisis was settled without recourse to war. In July 1878, at the Congress of Berlin, the contentious treaty was revised to the satisfaction of all the major powers except for Russia. The Tsar, under strong pressure, agreed to withdraw his troops in exchange for some limited gains from the Turks. The Sultan, on the other hand, had two-thirds of the lands he had lost in the war restored to him. For their parts, the British occupied Cyprus while the Austrians acquired Bosnia and Herzegovina. So it was that St Petersburg saw its costly victory wrenched from its grasp by the other major European powers, with the British playing a key role.
This setback was not to go wholly unavenged, however. Although Kaufman’s planned invasion of India was called off when the risk of war with Britain receded, he nonetheless allowed the mission to Kabul to proceed. This was partly due to pique, for Kaufman was aware of the anguish it would cause the British, and partly to explore the possibilities of a joint invasion in case it ever became necessary to revive the plan. Intelligence that the Russian mission was on its way to the Afghan capital reached India through native spies while the Congress of Berlin was still deliberating. The Emir, Sher Ali, was said to have tried to persuade the Russians to turn back, only to be told by Kaufman that it was too late to recall his men, and that he would be held personally responsible for their safety and for ensuring them a cordial reception. When challenged about the mission by the British, the Russian Foreign Ministry denied all knowledge of it, insisting that no such visit was being contemplated. Once again St Petersburg was vowing one thing while Tashkent was doing precisely the reverse.
Lord Lytton, the Viceroy, was by now well aware of the truth, and was incensed by Sher Ali’s apparent duplicity. Having repeatedly refused to receive a British mission to discuss relations between the two countries, the Emir was now secretly welcoming a Russian one. What the Viceroy did not fully appreciate was the degree of pressure being applied by the Russians on the Afghan ruler, who was already in a state of profound distress over the death of his favourite son. Kaufman had warned him that unless he agreed to a treaty of friendship with the Russians, they would actively support his nephew and rival for the throne, Abdur Rahman, then living under their protection in Samarkand. Fearing the might of Russia more than that of Britain, Sher Ali reluctantly yielded. Having accomplished his task, and leaving some of his subordinates to work out the details, General Stolietov left Kabul for Tashkent on August 24. Before departing he cautioned the Emir against receiving any British missions, at the same time promising him the support of 30,000 Russian troops if the need arose.
By now Lord Lytton, with London’s telegraphed approval, had decided to dispatch a mission to Kabul, using force if necessary. The officer chosen to lead it was General Sir Neville Chamberlain, an old frontier hand who was known to be on excellent personal terms with the Emir. He was to be accompanied by a senior political officer, Major Louis Cavagnari, and an escort of 250 troopers of the Corps of Guides – precisely the same number of men as had gone with General Stolietov. On August 14, the Viceroy wrote to the Emir announcing his intention of sending a mission to Kabul and asking for a safe conduct for it from the frontier. The letter remained unanswered. Chamberlain was now ordered to proceed to the entrance to the Khyber Pass. From there Major Cavagnari rode forward with a small escort to the nearest Afghan post and demanded leave to enter the country. However, he was informed by the officer commanding it that he had received orders to oppose the mission’s advance, by force of arms if necessary, and were Cavagnari not an old friend he would already have opened fire on him and his party for illegally crossing the frontier.
Angered by the Emir’s rebuff, Lord Lytton now urged the Cabinet to waste no further time and to authorise an immediate declaration of war. But London decided that a final ultimatum should first be presented to the Emir. This warned him that unless, by sundown on November 20, he had apologised in full for his discourtesy in refusing a British mission while welcoming a Russian one, military operations would begin against him forthwith. In the meantime, to exacerbate matters, the Russian Foreign Ministry, which had earlier denied all knowledge of Stolietov’s mission, had come up with a highly unsatisfactory explanation, insisting that it was purely a matter of courtesy and in no way conflicted with their former assurances that Afghanistan lay outside their sphere of influence. It did little to subdue Lytton’s fear of what they were really up to in Afghanistan, or his suspicion that Britain was being made a fool of.
By the time the ultimatum to Sher Ali expired on November 20, no answer had been received from him. The following day three columns of British troops began their advance on Kabul. Ten days later a letter arrived from the Emir agreeing to the dispatch of a British mission. But it failed to offer the apology also demanded by the Viceroy. Anyway it was far too late now, for the Second Afghan War had already begun. Lytton was determined to teach the Emir a lesson he would not easily forget, and at the same time make it perfectly clear to St Petersburg that Britain would tolerate no rivals in Afghanistan.