_Christmas Morning on the Black Sea._
It is approximately a ninety-mile run from Trebizond to the harbor of
Batuum, and for this entire distance there is not an anchorage along
the coast. From the time one leaves Trebizond the mountains rise sheer
up from the sea, their bases studded with reefs and ragged rocks or
else rising in cliffs, going straight up for hundreds of feet above
the water. At Batuum there is a bit of a bay with a breakwater across
the narrowest part of it, which justifies its being called a harbor.
Then the coast reaches on in another bleak and barren stretch of forty
miles to another nominal port rejoicing in the name of Poti. And for
this distance the mountains march grandly along, reaching an altitude
which must be at least six or seven thousand feet. The constant storms
of winter had left them mantled deep in the glaring white of winter
snows, save where here and there some great black elbow of rock had
been stripped of its cloak by the whipping winter winds.
The sea was running strong and the wind high when we put out that Xmas
Eve, but in spite of adverse conditions we figured that daylight would
find us off the little town of Batuum. As we did not want to get there
before the light should show to us the uncertain channel ’midst the
rocks and reefs that led to the harbor, we turned the engines down to
a conservative ninety revolutions, which kept her going easily into
the seas, which she was riding with the serenity of a strong swimmer
disporting himself in the surf.
The motion, though a bit too active to permit of continued sleep, was
still not vigorous enough to cause any particular anxiety. A large part
of the night we spent on the bridge. The moon rose late, and by its
intermittent light, as it sailed along behind the ribbon of clouds that
spread o’er the heavens, we could see the grim and ghostly line of the
mountain range that silvered and darkened as the light of the moon came
and went.
The first gray light of Christmas day disclosed a bleakness of coast
far more dismal than we had left behind.
We were running along the rim of the Black Sea basin, so near that we
could plainly see the coming and going of the clouds of spray that
told of the never ceasing struggle of the waves against the relentless
cliffs that for centuries have grimly turned the surging waters into
foam and noisy tumult. Aye, and long before the dawn the roar rose and
fell on our ears as sea after sea dashed upon the sterile sternness
that ever hemmed them in.
In the dim half light of the morning I stood by the skipper on the
spray showered bridge, and with him through the dissolving darkness
tried to pick out the harbor bearings of the port that was to be our
Christmas refuge. The man had evidently been drinking during the night,
as I gathered, and he was dense in mind and stupid beyond conception.
The little engineer, who spoke English, joined us on the bridge,
for all realized the general necessity of reaching port within a
reasonable length of time, as our coal was running short. We had just
about enough, as a matter of fact, to get back to Trebizond, but I had
learned on the previous day that none was obtainable there, and hence
we were relying on Batuum to replenish our bunkers. By eight o’clock
the sky gave promise of a dreary day, and the barometer, with no
uncertain index finger, was pointing to worse. In fact, it was creeping
down perceptibly each hour, and already recorded the lowest figure that
we had read on its ever cynical face since we had come to live in its
sinister shadow.
Breakfast, as usual, was out of the question, and anyway we were all
eagerly searching the coast line for the harbor mouth that had brought
us hence. A new snow during the night had turned the whole landscape
white, and with the snowy mountain wall rising up sharply in the
background, we could not discover a sign of anything that might be
construed into a symptom of a port. Eight-thirty came at last, and the
little engineer discovered a mountain elbow on our port bow which he
emphatically stated that he knew, and knew well. In his opinion, we had
overshot Batuum. The skipper was easily persuaded that this was the
case, and so we put about, and with a redoubled watch crept back along
the coast. An hour or more we cruised with our eager spyings, rewarded
by not a sign which might betoken the longed for haven. In the meantime
in the west the evergrowing cloud of black verified the fact that the
barometer had not been working in the dark. I was eager enough to
reach the harbor in the beginning, but with each minute that I watched
that black mass grow and bulge against the western sky, my anxiety
increased. I called the Chief and asked for an estimate as to how much
coal we had remaining in our bunkers. He was gone fifteen minutes, and
his troubled face confirmed my intuitions of uncertainties ahead.
“Not as much coal as we had hoped,” he replied to my look rather than
to any spoken word. “We have enough to last until this afternoon, and
no doubt we will be in port ere that, unless—” and his bright little
eyes swept the western heavens where the great relentless cloud was
throwing its sable mantle across the sky.
“Yes, unless—” I replied. It was obvious to us both that we must make
that harbor before the storm should shut us in, for once the snow and
mist and sleet was upon us, our only hope of reaching port would be
gone, and we would have to run for the open sea and ride it out. Not a
very hopeful enterprise, this, even with full coal bunkers, but still
less alluring with but six or eight hours steaming ability left, and
these barren rocks leering at us for ninety miles along the coast.
For an hour we ran west, and then one of the crew picked up a familiar
landmark. His statement was verified by others. In our backward run we
had again slipped by the port without seeing it! The landmark was on
the Trebizond side of Batuum!
Once more we put her head about, and once more cruised back along the
coast. We talked it over and all agreed that we must find our refuge
within the scanty hour that the storm would be upon us. The crew, too,
began to realize our plight. Indeed, it did look grave enough. All that
were not on duty in the engine room were peering toward the shore,
their trained eyes trying to develop some tangible sign or landmark out
of the snowy hillside that rose from the sea and swept backward till
its peaks stood dimly outlined against the leaden winter’s sky.
For an hour we cruised along, every man on the boat chattering his
anxiety and apprehension. They are not very strong on danger, these
Black Sea sweepings (at least, that was my impression); only Morris
grinned imperturbably, though in truth his grin became less and less
heartfelt and finally slipped into the grimace type of humor. Yet he
would not show his fear.
And ever did the great storm cloud grow in size and blackness in the
west.
Faint streaks of green, yellow and purple shot its somber masses, until
it grew like an image of Dante’s Inferno in our minds. Though I looked
the other way, a dreadful fascination ever brought my eyes back to the
rising menace, that steadily, surely, even as the mantle of death swept
on toward us.
By nine-thirty the heavens were filled with its suppressed fury, and
the wind awed by the impending presence of a far greater force seemed
to fade to nothing and slink away before this towering passion that
wrapped in silence was sweeping down upon us—a silence that became
oppressive, and was broken only by the slap of the waves against our
steel sides, and the dreary refrain of the sea rolling monotonously on
the rock-bound shore.
“Well, we’re back to our original landmark!” remarked the engineer,
half to himself. I looked and sure enough there was the black elbow
that he had diagnosed hours before as being beyond Batuum.
We held a hurried council on the bridge. We had cruised this coast
now three times, and we knew that three times we had slipped past our
haven of refuge, with its landmarks hidden to us by the whiteness of
the background. Poti lay perhaps thirty-five miles beyond. The storm
was coming up faster, ever faster. Three times we had failed to find
Batuum, and there seemed little chance that the fourth would be more
successful. So we decided on Poti and called for “full speed.” The
_France_ responded promptly to the order from the bridge.
But the decision came too late.
Already the storm was flanking us, and its blackness had swept to
seaward of us and rapidly promised to cut off our advance. Some miles
ahead of us was a great steel steamer evidently in a similar plight.
She too was heading for port, and columns of smoke were issuing from
her big black funnel. Presently as we watched, a white cloud of spray
crossed her bow and even as a curtain, shut out the beyond. Gradually
she came about and started westward down the coast. Her skipper
realized just as we did, that naught but wreck and misery lay within
that churning cloud that had unloosed its fury upon the deep. Already
its steadily rising howl whined and moaned across the waters, not
unlike the melancholy wail of the starving timber wolf penetrates the
stillness of the night and reaches the lonely trapper in his winter
camp and causes him to throw another armful of wood on the fire and
whistle to assuage that subtle foreboding of calamity that the thin
knife-like cry in the night seems vaguely to predict.
It was hopeless for us to drive further into that storm. Five hours
at best would see us out of fuel, and then driven before the wind
and sea we would be dashed upon the rocks. We did not even discuss
the situation. Involuntarily the man at the wheel brought her head
around, and for the fourth time we began our trip down the coast. To
the west of us the storm had shut out the mountains. To the north a
veritable blizzard was lashing the waves into a frenzy; to the east
snow and sleet shut out our progress. Perhaps five miles of shore bare
and forbidding remained to us. If we could but find Batuum’s shrouded
entrance within that five miles, all would be well, yet thrice had we
striven and failed. Somehow my optimistic spirit failed to respond to
the occasion. In the meantime every minute was cutting our five miles
of open coast line—aye, and cutting it down fast, for the storm was
shutting in from both sides and from the sea as well.
The steel steamer was overtaken by the great bank of snow and sleet and
disappeared from our view, and I might add from our thoughts, for we
had troubles of our own.
The crew were running about frantically. Half of them were on the
bridge waving their arms and evidently abusing the skipper. I walked
back in disgust and stood by the companion-way that led down into my
little saloon and, leaning against the towing post, just aft, I looked
across the sea. Morris followed me and for a moment stood silent. He
smiled faintly and then murmured:
“Merry Christmas, sir.” And we both laughed, only it was not such a
hearty laugh as one generally associates with the day.
There was nothing to do but wait. There seemed no alternative.
What a way to end up! We looked at the rocks and then at the sea, and I
wondered what the sensations would be.
Christmas! It seemed almost providential that I had made the effort
the day before and got off my message for home. It would be my last
word! It seemed hard to realize that it actually was Xmas. I looked at
my watch. It was almost the exact hour that they would be having their
Christmas tree, away back across the ocean.
“Morris,” I said, “this looks like the end to me. How does it strike
you?”
He did not look at me as he replied so low as barely to be audible,
“Yes, sir; it looks pretty bad to me, too.”
I looked at him curiously and wondered how he really felt behind that
black face of his.
“Morris,” I said again after a moment, “how do you feel about death,
anyway?”
He looked at me and then he looked at the sea, and smiled faintly as he
answered:
“Well, sir, the water looks cold to me.”
At that moment there was a break in the clouds. Oh, such a little
break! Out of it fell a mere handful of sunlight, as rays fall into a
darkened room when the blinds are thrown open. The clear, transcendent
shafts fell across the waters like a message from heaven, and suddenly
there was a shout on the bridge, echoed by every member of the crew
that was on deck.
From the whiteness of the hillside, just on our beam, there stood out a
golden spot, that seemed no larger than a five dollar gold piece. For
a moment it flashed like fire against the white. Then as quickly as it
had come it dissolved from view.
It was the dome on the Greek church in Batuum.
The sun for just that tiny space had turned its brazen cupola to liquid
light that marked for us the haven of our seeking.
Thirty minutes later we anchored behind the breakwater, and a mountain
slid from off our souls.