An Armenian Bishop—An economical refreshment—Ramazan—Smoking
in the streets—The Turkish Government is not so bad—The
Koran and a Christian witness—A telegram from the Pacha
at Scutari—A post-horse to Sabanja—Two Zaptieh—Turkish
swords—A horse lost—Four feet of mud—An ox-cart upset in
the mud—Woe-begone drivers—A priest during the Carlist
war—Turks and Christians have an extreme dislike to the
dread ordeal—Circassian Bashi Bazouks—Women ravished and then
butchered by the Russians—Sabanja—Scenery—There was to have
been a railway—A mule in difficulties.
In the evening I called upon an Armenian Bishop. He lived in a quaint
old-fashioned house in the Christian quarter of the town, the Turks
and Armenians inhabiting different districts in Ismid, as in many other
Turkish cities. Refreshments were now brought in on a silver tray, and
several kinds of jam handed round in little silver dishes. The guest
taking a spoonful of jam is expected to swallow it, he then drinks a
glass of water. This is an economical refreshment, a very little jam
goes a long way in the entertainment.
"How do you like it?" said one of the party.
"Very good," I replied, at the same time having that sort of feeling in
my mouth which carried my memory back to boyish days, and to the grey
powders which my old nurse used to administer, "very good."
"We always treat our guests in this manner," said an old Armenian
pompously. "It is the custom of our nation."
Now the conversation turned upon the Turks in Ismid, and it was
pleasant to hear that some of the Turkish officials were well spoken
of, even by the Armenians.
"The chief of the police here is a capital fellow," observed one of
the company. "During the Ramazan, one of our people was smoking in
the streets, a Mohammedan went up to him and struck him with a stick.
The chief of the police, who happened to be passing by, saw this. He
approached and said, 'Why did you strike that man?' 'Because he was
smoking during Ramazan.' 'Did he put his cigarette in your eye?' 'No,'
'Then you had no business to strike him. You shall go to prison and
learn to behave better for the future?'"
"Yes," said another of the guests; "the Turkish papers published the
story, and highly praised the conduct of the official."
"The Turkish Government is not so bad," observed a third gentleman. "It
wishes justice to be carried out impartially throughout the empire,
but, so long as the Cadis refuse to take the word of a Christian
as evidence, it will be difficult for us to live with any degree of
comfort."
"After all," he continued, "this is an abuse which has crept in
amidst the Turkish officers. The Koran says that the testimony of a
Christian witness is to be taken as evidence, but nowadays many of the
Mohammedans have forgotten the Koran."
In the evening a telegram arrived from the Pacha at Scutari. It was to
the effect that nothing had been heard of my horse; however, so soon as
the animal was found he should be sent after me. This would have been
useless. There was no rail beyond Ismid, and I intended to start the
following morning. In consequence of this, I wrote to a friend at the
British Embassy, to ask him, in the event of the horse being found, to
have the animal sold at the market in Constantinople. Meantime I sent
Osman to hire a post-horse to carry my baggage as far as Sabanja, a
small village about twenty miles from Ismid, and on the road to Angora.
Just as we were leaving Ismid, two Zaptieh or mounted police rode up.
They had been ordered by the Pacha to escort me as far as Sabanja.
Smart-looking fellows they were, too, with light blue jackets, red
trousers, and Hessian boots. Each of them carried a repeating-rifle
slung across his shoulder. Revolvers were stuck in the crimson sashes
which encircled their waists. Short scimitars, but with no hilt-guards
to protect the hand, were slung from their sword-belts.
It is singular that the Turkish military authorities, who have adopted
the modern armament in so far as fire-arms are concerned, should be
still so backward in the manufacture of swords. A cavalry soldier armed
with a Turkish sword without a hilt-guard would have very little chance
if engaged in a hand-to-hand encounter with a dragoon supplied with one
of our own weapons.
After riding for about half an hour in the direction of Sabanja,
Radford—who was leading a pack-horse, remarked to Osman,—
"What have you done with the post-horse?"
The Turk did not understand the question. When it was interpreted to
him, he replied,—
"The animal is in front with the Zaptieh."
As it is always as well to put a Turk's statement to the test, I
determined to trot on ahead and look for myself. The Zaptieh had
not seen the horse. It appeared that after loading him, Osman had
started the animal, much in the same way as an Irishman does a pig,
with the object of driving him before our party. We now all dispersed
in different directions, and finally, after a two hours' search,
discovered the animal tied up by the side of a Khan, an old woman who
had observed the horse wandering about having attached him to a post.
The track now became much worse than anything I had previously seen. In
many places there were quite four feet of mud. It reached our horses'
girths, and with the greatest difficulty we were able to force a
passage.
Presently we came to a hollow in the path. Here a cart drawn by four
oxen was at a standstill. The bullocks, with only their necks and
shoulders out of the mud, gazed plaintively before them. The two
drivers had taken off their trousers and under-clothes; their shirts
were tucked up to their armpits; they waded through the black slime,
and goaded the bullocks forward.
A creaking noise was heard from the ponderous wheels. The four bullocks
put forth all their strength; it was a useless effort, one of them
pulled the cart a little to one side, the next instant it was upset and
half buried in the mire. The two men with naught on them save little
red fez caps and with their tucked-up shirts, presented a doleful
picture. They were not burdened with much flesh, and ribs and shoulder
bones were prominently thrown into relief by the coating of mud which
reached as high as their waists. One poor fellow, wading up to us,
asked Osman to give him a light for his pipe. The other one, looking
more woe-begotten, if possible, than his fellow, had no pipe, and
mournfully asked for a cigarette.
"Effendi," said Osman, "this is a dreadful place. We may be upset. Our
horses will not get through. Better go back to Ismid and wait there
till the mud becomes hard."
"No; go on. Horses can march where bullocks cannot."
Osman turned white, he was riding a little in advance of me, and did
not at all like being sent forward to experiment upon the depth of the
mire.
"He is a poor creature," observed Radford, contemptuously, "Lor,
sir, what else can we expect of them? They don't drink no beer. They
turn hup their noses at wine. Hosman's blood ain't no thicker than
ditch-water—I will lay a pound it ain't."
Our saddle-bags were covered with mud when we gained a footing on
the other side. Osman, riding up to my side, congratulated himself on
having guided us through in safety.
"Your face was very white," I observed.
"Yes, Effendi, my blood had turned to milk. It was not for myself, it
was for the Effendi. I thought that he might be suffocated. Osman is
yours, you can do with him what you like."
All these were very pretty speeches; however, I had been sufficiently
often in the East to know how to appreciate them at their true value.
I felt tolerably certain that if Osman's courage was ever put to the
test, he would be found to value his existence in this world more than
the society of a million beautiful wives in the world to come.
After all, he would have been no exception to mankind in general. I
remember during the last Carlist war hearing a story about a priest
who, on the eve of an expected battle, addressed the soldiers in his
battalion, and informed them that whoever was slain in the morrow's
fight should sup with Nuestro Señor in Paradise. The morrow came, the
battle raged, and the Carlists were beaten—the priest's battalion being
the first to run away, headed by the divine himself, who, tucking
up his cassock, ran as fast as his legs could carry him. A soldier
touched the reverend gentleman on the shoulder, and said, "You told
us, my father, that whoever was slain in to-day's fight should sup
in Paradise, but you are running away." "My son," replied the Cura,
who was very much out of breath, "I, I—never sup—I suffer from a weak
digestion—I only dine." Some people in England believe that a doctrine
of predestination makes the Turkish soldiers indifferent to death. This
may be true in a few isolated instances; but, as a rule, both Turks and
Christians have an extreme dislike to the dread ordeal.
The track became firmer. We overtook some Bashi Bazouks returning
from Bulgaria. They were most of them Circassians, and one could
speak Russian. He was very indignant at having been ordered home, and
brandishing his long lance, with bright steel point at least twelve
inches long, regretted that he had lost the opportunity of transfixing
a few giaour Russians.
"Did you kill many women?" I inquired.
"There were some killed," he replied. "It was a pity. We were sorry for
it; but what would you have our men do? Some of their own mothers and
sisters had been ravished and then butchered by the Russians."
"Have any of your relatives been treated in this way?" I inquired.
"No," he said, "but in a village not far from Gumri, some horrible
cruelties have recently taken place, many women and children were
slain, and all because they wished to leave Russia and go to Turkey."
"If my mother or sister had been killed, I should not be particular as
to how I avenged her," he continued. "These cowardly Russians set us
the example."
There was no sort of similarity in the attire of the Bashi Bazouks.
Each man had dressed himself according to his fancy; the broad
sashes around their waists were stuck full of pistols and daggers.
The fire-arms, too, were of the most primitive kind; some men had
old-fashioned muskets of the Tower pattern, and others were armed
with double-barrelled guns, which had been converted from flint to
percussion. Their horses looked hard and fit for work, they were as a
rule not more than fourteen hands high, and their rough shaggy coats
reminded me a little of the Cossack horses which I have seen in the
neighbourhood of the Don.
The scenery improves as we approach Sabanja. The flat country
previously traversed gives way to rising mountains. They bound our
view towards the West. On my bridle-hand is a wide lake. It lies like
a mirror almost at our feet. Many coloured grasses and shrubs clothe
the slopes which lead down to the limpid water. Acres upon acres
of rich grass-land—such as would make the mouth of a Leicestershire
farmer water with envy—surround Sabanja on every side. We ride into the
village; it consists of about 200 houses, mostly built of dried mud,
and with much difficulty I obtain accommodation for the night.
Long before daybreak we were in the saddle. Our road wound through
mountain passes. Huge clouds of mist slowly rose from the surface of
the lake: they floated away into space, and appeared like icebergs as
seen in the horizon. Now we rode by a place where preparations had been
made for the construction of a railway. Sleepers were lying by the side
of a partly-made embankment. On inquiry, no work had been going on for
two years. There was to have been a railway to Angora, but "Para yoke,
there is no money," was the answer to my questions on the subject.
Presently we came up to a caravan of mules laden with tea and bound
for Angora. The road was very narrow, there was barely room for two
horses abreast. One mule, turning his head towards the bank, blocked
up the entire path; a blow from our Zaptieh's whip recalled him to
consciousness. Backing a few yards he slipped, and rolled with his
burden down the slope. The owner cursed, and the other muleteers coming
up seemed rather to enjoy his discomforture.