The porter at the hotel—A little persuasive
force—Trains in Turkey are not very punctual—Two
Englishmen—Snipe-shooting—The railroad takes a circuitous
course—Krupp guns—The Christians are too much for the Turks
in a bargain—Hadem Kui—No horse waiting—The station-master—A
lanky, overgrown lad—Buyuk Checkmedge and Kara Bournu—A
branch railway required—A station-master's salary—The
horse—Attacked by a dog—The defence of Constantinople—A song
in which the Turks delighted—Good-looking Hungarian girls—The
handsome Italian—"I am not a barrel"—The song about the
Turcos—Spontaneous combustion—A special Correspondent—Algeria
is not Turkey, but it does not much signify.
I had ordered the porter at my hotel to call me early on the following
morning, as the train started at seven, and it was quite half an hour's
walk to the station. Luckily I awoke myself, and on looking at my
watch, found it was about half-past six. Hastily dressing, I hurried
downstairs, and found the individual whose business it was to awake me,
fast asleep under a billiard table in the café belonging to the hotel.
He grumbled at being disturbed, and did not fancy the idea of carrying
my box to the station. It was necessary to use a little persuasive
force, so, seizing a billiard cue, I gave him a violent poke in the
side.
"Get up directly! I shall miss the train!"
"Please God you will not," replied the Turk, with a yawn.
I had no time to lose, so, taking the recumbent man by the collar,
I lifted him bodily on his legs, put my bag in his hand, and, with
another push from the billiard cue, precipitated him down the steps
into the street.
"You want me to go to the station, Effendi!" said the fellow, now
thoroughly aroused.
"Yes."
"But the train will be gone."
"Not if we run."
"Run!" replied the porter, very much astonished, "and what will the
Effendi do?"
"Run too."
And with another thrust from the billiard cue, I started him down Pera.
Fortunately for me, trains in Turkey are not very punctual in starting.
On arriving at the railway, about ten minutes past seven, I found that
I had time to take my ticket to Hadem Kui, a small station an hour
and a half from Constantinople. There were two Englishmen in the same
carriage as myself, one of them an old friend whose acquaintance I had
made some years previous in Madrid. They intended to stop at a swamp a
few miles from the city, and spend the day snipe-shooting.
Upon my remarking that the railway seemed to take a very circuitous
course, my friend smiled.
"Yes," he said, "when the line was about to be constructed, the
Government agreed to pay so much per mile,—the result has been that,
although the country is level, the line is not quite so straight as it
might be."
"Poor Turks!" said his companion, "they are always being abused by the
Christians, and yet the latter make a very good thing out of them. Why,
only the other day, a quantity of Krupp guns were brought here. The
cost price was 150_l._ per gun, but the Turks had to pay 750_l._"
"The Christians are too much for them in a bargain," he added.
My fellow-travellers now left the train, which had stopped at the side
of a wide marsh, and before our engine was again in motion, the report
of a gun made me aware that their sport had already commenced.
Half an hour later I arrived at the little station of Hadem Kui. "Is
there a horse waiting for me?" I inquired. "No," was the answer of the
station-master, a Hungarian. "Can I hire an animal?" "No," was the
reply. "How far is it to the village where Colonel H—— is living?"
"Seven miles." "What sort of a road?" "No road at all, but deep
mud up to the horse's girths." "When does the next train go back to
Constantinople?" "Not till seven p.m."
I certainly did not bless my friend H——. To kick my heels about for
twelve hours in a station destitute of a waiting-room, and with nothing
to occupy my time, was not an agreeable prospect.
"I tell you what you had better do," said the station-master, "send a
boy with a note to your friend. There is probably some misunderstanding
about the horse, and the boy will be able to get to the village and
back again in a few hours."
A lanky, overgrown lad volunteered to take the letter, and, tucking
up his ragged trousers till his bare thighs were thoroughly exposed
to view, he took off his boots, and started. In a few minutes I could
see him wading through mud at least two feet deep. A heavy M. F. H.
would have found himself considerably out of his element if suddenly
put down with his field and hounds in that line of country. Imagine
layers of the heaviest Bedfordshire plough-fields all heaped one on
the top of the other, and then you will fall short in attempting to
realize the nature of the soil. If ever an invading army were to make
use of the railway from Adrianople for an advance upon Constantinople,
and the line between Buyuk Checkmedge on the Sea of Marmora, and Kara
Bournu on the Black Sea, be selected by the Turks as a last point
from which to defend the capital, the difficulty in transporting heavy
guns and baggage to the centre of this position would be enormous. The
defenders will have to make a small branch railway in rear of the line
of defence, or it will be impossible for them to supply their army.
The station-master now invited me to sit down in his room, and wait
till an answer to my note arrived. He was suffering from fever, and
complained of the unhealthy nature of the soil. He could not sleep
at night, and what most worried him was the incessant click of the
telegraph dial. It was a very busy time, and any number of messages
were always passing.
"I can read them as they pass, simply by the sound," he continued, "and
that incessant click, click, click, all night, is enough to drive a man
mad. My brain aches. I toss from side to side. I see devils sitting on
the telegraph-box."
"Take my word for it, sir," he added, "there is nothing which breaks a
man down so quickly as being a station-master in Turkey."
"What is your salary?" I inquired.
"Only 80_l._ a year. It is not enough to keep a wife," he added. "If
I had a wife the life would be easier, but there are no women here. I
shall end by hanging myself upon one of my own telegraph-posts—I know
I shall if I stay here much longer."
A letter now arrived from Captain F——, a friend of H——'s, to say
that, in the absence of the latter, he had opened my letter, and in
consequence had sent me a horse. Such a horse as he was too, with
no shoulders, and only about thirteen hands high; when I mounted the
animal and had let out the stirrups to their last hole they were too
short. I had the cramp. When I rode without stirrups my legs were in
the mud. It was a choice of evils—the cramp or the mud, and the mud
gained the day.
At last I came to the little village where Colonel H—— and his friend
were residing. An Armenian servant now informed me that his master was
busy surveying, but that he would soon return. The other officer, who
had sent me the horse, was also out, but was shortly expected home.
In about three hours both of them arrived. H—— had lost his way in
the dark. He had been attacked by a dog; the savage brute had bitten
his boot, and H—— had only saved himself by using his revolver. He had
ordered a man to bring me a horse, but from the officer not being able
to speak Turkish his instructions had been misunderstood.
The room was not a large one, and only a few feet square. There was no
other, so we shared it between us, I being accommodated on the floor.
We were up at daybreak, and rode over the position, a succession of
rising slopes, which looked as if nature had made them especially for
the defence of Constantinople. The distance from the Sea of Marmora to
the Black Sea is twenty-four or twenty-five miles;[4] but each flank,
being covered by lakes and rivers, could be easily watched and secured.
The extent of the real fighting-ground would be by these features
reduced to nine or ten miles of plain, but with favourable undulations
affording a good command over the front. Batteries could be so arranged
as to enfilade each other at every point, and should fifty thousand
reliable troops ever make a stand at this position, it would be a very
difficult one to carry.
This time my friend had mounted me on a different sort of animal to
the one which I had ridden on the previous day. He was a stout grey
cob, with good shoulders: when I mounted him the first thing which he
did was to try and run away. I turned his head towards a neighbouring
height, and let him gallop through the deep mud. To my astonishment on
arriving at the summit he continued pulling. There was evidently some
good stuff in that horse, and I determined to buy him. His owner was
not in the village, so I left word that if he would send the cob to
Constantinople, I would give 10_l._ for the animal—a very fair price
taking into consideration the market price of horses in the capital.
Meantime, after having said good-bye to my hospitable entertainers, I
turned my face towards the railway-station. A line of telegraph-posts
served me as a guide, and I arrived at the booking-office in time to
catch the train.
An acquaintance, a friend of the silk-merchant, called upon me later in
the evening. He proposed that we should go together to a café, and hear
a song which a French girl sang every night, and one in which the Turks
delighted.
The café, or rather music hall, was a fine building, crowded with
men of all nationalities. Good-looking Hungarian and Italian girls
took the place of waiters, and bustled about, receiving orders from
the more than usually excited true believers. Many of the latter,
in spite of the Prophet's injunction, were freely partaking of raki.
Volumes of smoke from the cigarettes and chibouks of the spectators
had created a dense atmosphere in the building. Some of the attendants
were remarkably handsome girls. Indeed, as I subsequently learnt, the
proprietor of the café would not engage an ugly woman, his idea being
that the Turks, his chief customers, came quite as much to look at and
talk to his waitresses, as to see the performance. It must have been
a hard trial for the digestive organs of the better-looking of these
girls. One in particular, a tall and very handsome Italian, with large
dark eyes and an innocent expression, which probably her character
belied, was in great request, the Turks always inviting her to share
the raki or the coffee which she brought them. The performance lasted
from eight p.m. till about two in the morning; it was a wonder that
her constitution could stand the trial. I called for a cup of coffee,
and when she handed it to me, I asked in Italian what she would like
for herself. The girl's eyes sparkled on being addressed in her native
tongue.
"Nothing, signore," she said; "I am not a barrel, although the Turks
think I am; but you are not a Turk. However, I cannot afford to offend
them, for the proprietor pays us no wages; all I have is what the
visitors give me. It is a dreadful life, signore. Chocolate, raki, and
beer. I only sip, but I have to swallow a little all the same; then
there is lemonade, coffee, mastic, and occasionally, when gentlemen
like yourself come here—champagne. It is such a mixture. I have a pain
sometimes," she continued, at the same time pointing to the bodice of
her dress, "I wish to cry, but I have to run about, smile, wait upon
the visitors, and drink with them—it is a dreadful life. Oh, if I could
only return to Florence!"
A Turk seated near me, and who was eagerly gazing at the girl, made a
sign to her.
"I must go," she said. "He is a friend of the proprietor—I dare not
offend him."
Presently she was sipping some punch from his glass. My friend caught
my eye, and laughed.
"Yes," he said, "she is adding punch to the other mixtures. Poor child,
it will be a wonder if she does not go off by spontaneous combustion
some day. But, hush! the famous singer is just going to give us the
song about the Turcos."
A tall and rather stout French girl now came upon the stage. Some long
black tresses were hanging down her back. Her dress, which was made of
white muslin, was very low in front, and a flaming red sash encircled
her waist. The song had reference to the bravery of the Turcos, how
they died for France, and how France loved them.
The girl had a good voice. As the last notes died away in the hall, the
Turks became greatly excited. Shouts of applause resounded through the
building. Close to my table were two Englishmen. One of them appeared
to be a correspondent of some newspaper. His pocket-book was open on
the table. He was taking notes. "Patriotic song," he remarked to his
companion, "capital scene for a graphic letter—sympathy between French
and Turks—you see she says France loves the Turks." "Nonsense," said
his companion, "she is singing about the Turcos in Algeria, not about
the Turks—you have written it all wrong." The Special changed colour
for a moment, and then muttered, "Confound it! yes! Algeria is not
Turkey, but it does not much signify." And he went on writing.