It is evening, we have just put in at Hango, a Finnish port. No one is
allowed off the ship, by order of the Port authorities. Finland is not
yet at peace with Russia, and Kameneff would probably be arrested if he
set foot on shore. The last time that he walked into Finnish territory
in 1917, not knowing that the Whites were in possession of the town, he
was put in prison for three months, and by a miracle was not shot. So
far we have had a pretty good journey; the little boat has hugged the
coast of the Aland islands. We have had to put into Hango for the night,
because we can only steam by day on account of the floating mines
between here and Reval that have not yet been cleared.
I have spent half the day in my cabin sleeping, the other half on deck
talking. I have lost all track of days and dates; we seem to have been
journeying for ever.
There are no pleasure trippers or any of the idle curious on board.
Everyone practically is bound for Russia, and we look at one another
curiously, wondering what each other’s mission is. There are Comrades
returning, and there are journalists, traders and bankers; people who
hope to get through from Reval, people who probably _will_, and others
who certainly will not.
Kameneff is watched by everyone, and we have made innumerable
acquaintances. Already there is around us a little group of friends,
whom one has the feeling of having known a long time. To-morrow we go on
to Reval. It seems to me too wonderful and unbelievable that I am really
on this boat of fears and dreams: fears of not getting on board, and
dreams of the world into which it would sail with me.