_We Send Our Cable from Sinope and Then Sail for the
Caucasus, Where Rumor States Revolution and Anarchy
to Be Reigning Unmolested_
After the meal mentioned so enthusiastically in the last chapter, we
rowed ashore in the longboat and effected a landing at a decaying old
pier (which in truth gave the appearance of being little used for the
disembarking of the fish, skins, etc., before mentioned) and were
welcomed (?) by a ragged crowd of open-mouthed, very dirty creatures
that inhabit this interesting coast. Accompanied by Morris, the second
engineer and Stomati, who was practicing his seven languages at once
on such victims as seem to promise hope of intellect, we wound our way
up a street of fallen-down dirty houses toward the telegraph station.
Fortunately Stomati knew the word for “Telegraph Office” in the
language of the country. I never felt quite so much like a brass band
or an elephant as during that short journey to the “Imperial Ottoman
Postal and Telegraph Office.” I am sure any circus that had such a
following in its street parade would count the day a successful one
indeed.
It was with a little dubiousness that I filed my wire, for the Turkish
officials are far more strict in their censorship than those of any
other government. But I hoped that a message originating at this out
of the way place might get on one of the through wires and slip past
the central station, where the censors preyed in Constantinople.
For, as a rule, the actual senders care nothing about the contents
of a dispatch, and, as a matter of fact, generally do not know the
language, simply sending the letters as they read them. So I hoped mine
might slip through the back door, as it were, and never be noticed
by the officious uniformed functionary that sits in the front office
of the Constantinople stations and reads other people’s confidential
communications. This operator knew a little English, and at his first
sign of suspicion as he read over my “story” of the revolutionary
situation in Russia, I handed him a cigar and a golden English
sovereign, which cheered him up so much that he stopped reading my
message and went out and got me a dirty cup of Turkish coffee about as
thick as molasses. Experience has taught me that there are two useful
forms of influence; first, the exchange of pleasantries, accompanied
by a coin of appropriate value, and, secondly, a polite but firm
intimation that the “mailed fist” is available in case of obstreperous
conduct. So, while the coffee was coming I wrote a short commercial
message to the head of our London office, as follows:
Am filing an important press dispatch of 287 words. If
it does not reach you simultaneously with this or shows
signs of being tampered with, have the matter vigorously
investigated by the proper authorities.
I knew that the commercial messages usually went promptly and were
censored leniently, if at all. The operator also knew this fact. Also
did a great light loom upon him as to complications which might arise,
if the message were delayed. So without a word he went into the rear
room, where ticked the instruments and my cable was started on its way.
I learned weeks later, when I finally reached London, that the same
messenger boy had brought both telegrams at the same time, the news
dispatch being 287 words exactly.
As the ground felt pretty solid and comfortable, after the _France_,
and as the coffee was not nearly as bad as it looked, we sat in the
office until the last word had gone, and then engaged the Turkish
operator in pleasant converse. He invited us into a more pretentious,
if even dirtier, apartment (which might be termed his lair), and we
signified that we would be glad to pay the price of the drink of
the country, if his influence could procure the same. More cigars
circulated. Kind words passed freely. After the foundation for and that
peculiar atmosphere particularly adapted to confidences had been firmly
established, we began gently to encourage communication on those
subjects which had been passing over the wire between the Caucasus and
Constantinople. Probably outside of this extremely dirty gentleman in
blouse and red trousers, who now seemed so well disposed, there was
not a soul in town who had any information on any subject that would
have been of the slightest interest outside of the port of Sinope. But
our host, in his leisure moments (which I gathered comprised a fair
share of the twenty-four hours), had noted what the wires were saying.
Once he had become aroused in the subjects of interest along his
line, he had made it a point to interview such seamen and others that
touched the little town. He really knew a lot. When he had finished,
we flattered ourselves that we knew as much as he did anyway as to the
situation up in the Caucasus up to the past ten days, when, as our
friend opined, the extension of the cable into the Caucasus had been
suddenly cut. Anyway, communications thence had ceased abruptly. What
we learned in brief was as follows:
That the strikes and riots which had been prevalent all over Russia
had hit the eastern end of the Caucasus, and hit it hard! Batuum, the
main port at the end of the Black Sea, was in a ferment and filled with
refugees. That the ships had all stopped going there, that the town
was full of sweepings of the entire region plus Cossacks sent there to
keep order. No one seemed to know which side the soldiers would take.
It was reported that the Russian officials were besieged in one of the
public buildings. That the troops were disloyal to their officers and
were killing the population promiscuously, and that all of the decent
citizens were shut up in their houses praying for relief. A French ship
had brought out the last word ten days earlier, to the effect that a
railroad strike was on and that towns were burning everywhere, and that
anarchy was blazing in all quarters of the Caucasus. With this boat had
come two hundred refugees, and it was said that there were hundreds
more in Batuum hoping against hope that some ship would come and take
them away. These were just a few of the things that the operator
told us. To be sure, some of the facts conflicted, and a lot of the
statements did seem a bit improbable. But before our interview was half
finished I was convinced that, even though nine-tenths of the tales
might be fabrications, there was enough left in the remaining tenth to
make a cable. When we had pumped our informant dry, my mind was made
up. We would certainly leave that very night for Batuum.
Our trip on the Black Sea thus far had been one of constant hardship,
cold and discomfort, which makes a more unfavorable impression on one
than do active dangers, though these too seemed quite stiff enough.
The news results seemed so far, inadequate to the outlay, in the way
of effort and endurance. One does like to feel in taking chances that
there is to be an equivalent return in some direction. The outlook up
in the Caucasus pleased us all. In the first place, there seemed to
be important news features there, and in the second place, there were
refugees (probably some of them Americans) who were praying for relief.
So it did seem as though we would be justified in taking what risks
presented themselves. After one has been in tight places one’s own self
on various occasions, one has more sympathy for others suffering in a
like manner, and the idea of perhaps getting some refugees as well as
news appealed strongly. So before leaving the telegraph office I sent
a wire home, mentioning briefly the situation and winding up with the
following:
Shall bring off all American refugees would suggest that
our State Department request the Porte (Which signifies
the Sultan’s government) to permit American warships pass
through Bosphorus and protect our interests which appear
to be in danger that place.
I also sent a wire to the American Embassy at Constantinople on the
same lines advising them that if I did not show up within a week to
please make an effort to see what had become of us. After both of these
cables were on the wire I felt that I had taken all precautions for the
future that I could think about, and we returned to the _France_ and
put to sea.
About every day that winter seemed to be the same on those peaceful
waters, as far as storm and stress were concerned. We were running up
the coast of Asia Minor a few miles off shore all of that night and the
next day. It is a bleak and barren shore, with snow-covered mountains
rising abruptly from the ragged rocks, against which the sea beat and
frothed with a boom that came to us at sea, as loud as distant thunder.
It was about noon on the following day that I opened my diary to make
the day’s entry. It was December 24th. Christmas eve! I had even
forgotten that Christmas existed, and for the first time it occurred to
me that we would celebrate rather a dismal day on the little _France_.
It is the season of the year when one’s mind wanders far from wars
and waves and tumult, and my thoughts drifted back across the broad
Atlantic to a certain home, where festivities would be going forward
apace on this day, and little children would be expectantly doing up
bundles and trimming all with green and holly.
I sent Morris forward for the skipper and asked him if there was a
cable station within range of us. Together we pored over the chart
and figured that we might reach Trebizond by four that afternoon, if
all went well, and the course was duly altered. Sure enough, promptly
on the hour we rounded the point and sailed into the mere angle on
the coast they call a harbor at Trebizond. Half a dozen ships lay at
anchor riding the heavy swell that came booming in from the sea, and
then swept on to break with grim fury on the shore a mile or so beyond.
One of these ships was a French mail steamer of 3500 tons, which had
been lying there for ten days waiting for the storm to abate, and the
others had been standing by for varying lengths of time for a similar
purpose.
There was a bit of rotten old stone pier sticking out from the jumble
of houses on the shore. The sea was beating about it with great waves
that hid it intermittently from our view, by the spray and spume
created by their angry lashings. However, there did not seem to be any
other place to land, so we ordered out our biggest boat, and with not a
little difficulty got her into the sea without damage.
Then one by one we piled aboard, each waiting the moment to jump, while
the crew on the _France_ held the dancing shell away with poles. Four
men and Morris formed the escort, and once aboard they gave away with
a will as the close proximity to our tug threatened to upset us any
minute. But once we got her head into the sea, and our four men tugging
in rhythm at the oars, all went well. I had often been in a ship’s boat
in a seaway, but nothing quite like this. Every minute a great sea
would come racing in from the open waters and a mountain black it would
sweep under our stern, lifting us high in the air, and then our little
boat would go sliding back into the valley behind like a cat trying
to climb a steep roof. Down, down we would go into the trough until
our horizon was bounded only by the waves that had swept under us, and
its big black brother following close behind. Each time we would mount
the crest we would see the shore ahead and the _France_ astern of us;
each time we dipped the ridges of spray capped seas would shut them
from sight. But each dip brought us nearer shore. As we approached the
pier I saw that there was a kind of breakwater jutting out from one
side and behind it a still patch of water. Between the pier and the
stone masonry was a channel of perhaps fifty feet. Each moment the seas
would go roaring through this little opening, whose walls were flanked
with clouds of spray breaking on both sides. Then the next second back
would come the wash to meet the next wave. This looked to me to be our
best place to land. In fact, it seemed the only place. Waiting just the
right time and mounted on the crest of a roller we came sweeping down
toward this veritable millrace. Standing up in the stern to steer I
encouraged the crew to pull their hardest. For a moment we hung on the
crest and then like a toboggan we bore down toward the narrow passage,
the sailors pulling their oaken oars till they fairly bent. For an
instant we were in a cloud of spray and ’midst the tumult of the seas
breaking over the masonry at either side, and then we shot into the
quiet waters like a sled gliding over smooth ice.
In a few minutes we pulled up to a flight of stone steps and were
arguing with a stupid Turk about passports. I forget the details now,
but anyway we bluffed him, and ten minutes later I handed in a wire
at the telegraph office to that home across the seas. I was wet, cold
and wondering in the back of my head how in the world we would ever
manage to get back to the _France_ through that surf as I passed in the
two words for home: “Merry Christmas,” and signed my name. Somehow I
felt that the words did not adequately describe my own feelings, but
then no one at home would know the difference, so it would not matter
anyway. I called on the American consul and gathered from him a general
confirmation of the story that I had picked up at Sinope. He was a
nice man and very gossipy. His house was on a bluff overlooking the
harbor. He was surprised to see us at all, and more surprised to learn
that we had come in the _France_, which was plainly visible bobbing up
and down in the harbor like a duck in rough water. His advice was to
remain in port awhile, as we were going to have a big storm, and he
thought the _France_ ridiculously small at best. It was he who pointed
out the French Mail to me and gave her as a precedent for remaining
in port. However, as we had been having storms pretty steadily for a
week, and as we were still intact, I told him that I thought we would
go ahead anyhow. He was very cordial, and so I invited him to dinner
on the _France_, but after verifying his earlier impressions of her by
a careful scrutiny through a spyglass, he politely but firmly declined
the pleasure.
Trebizond stands out in my mind as one of the most wonderfully
picturesque places that I have ever seen. It is the contact point, as
it were, between the East and the West. The setting is Oriental to a
degree, with the streets filled with riff-raff and hodge-podge of a
dozen different races. Here starts that great overland trail, across
mountain plain and desert, that leads far far away into Persia, India,
aye, and it is said even unto Turkestan and China itself. Long trains
of the patient mangy camels, with their trappings of dirty red and
their escorts of strange attendants, come with them from heaven only
knows where, are moving through the streets toward the trail that lies
beyond.
It is with a curious fascination that one watches the slow dignified
movements that carry them over the ground at the rate of but a meager
mile or two an hour. It seems impossible to realize that these
melancholy beasts with their quivering pendulous lips and woebegone
eyes, will keep up that same pace for weeks and months, hour after
hour, until at last they lay them down in their distant terminus in the
far off East that ever stands in our minds as the land of mystery.
Trebizond has a very mongrel population indeed, and it is a constant
wonder to see so many different peoples packed into this one dirty
town. There seems to be many Armenians, and as the reader no doubt
recalls, this little port was freely mentioned in the press a few years
ago as the scene of the ghastly massacres perpetrated on these dismal
people. One always hesitates to criticize with a merely superficial
knowledge, yet the Armenians impress one casually as being about the
most unpleasant people imaginable. They have a genius for conspiracy
and the making of fifty-seven varieties of trouble that is perhaps
unique. The result is that every once in a while some Turk in a genial
mood says, “Come on, fellows, let’s kill-up a few Armenians,” and the
massacre is on. It does seem outrageous to do all these things, but one
who sees the Armenians sometimes wonders if they don’t bring a lot of
trouble on themselves by their own actions and characters.
The good kind missionary whom I met did not think so, and very likely
he knew what he was talking about, while my opinion is merely a shot in
the dark on a subject viewed superficially.
My friend the missionary took me around and introduced me to the
governor, a somewhat besmirched gentleman in a dirty red uniform, who
had eyes like a rat, which wandered over my person until I felt for my
watch. He did not speak English nor I Turkish, so our conversation was
not particularly entertaining. I don’t know what his opinion of me was,
but my opinion of him was that he was about the worst looking specimen
that I had ever seen. He had G-R-A-F-T written all over him in large
letters.
He rather queered his town with me, and I went back to the harbor just
at dusk. The wind had changed and the tide was running out, so that
we managed to get out through the breakwater with nothing worse than
a pretty severe wetting. The barometer (as usual) was falling. So I
decided to have one more square meal before we put to sea. So it was
nine o’clock when the anchor came up and we turned our nose away from
the lights of the town, far more hospitable in appearance, by night
than by day, and headed into the darkness that lay without.