_We Find Turmoil in the Caucasus but Celebrate
Christmas in Spite of Storm and Stress_
It was a close shave for us all that Christmas morning, for in another
hour the storm broke in all its fury, and the site of the breakwater
was only discernible by the dashing of the spray above it as the great
waves rushing in from the sea broke against it until it seemed as
though even the masonry must give before the weight of wind and water
and leave us in the open once more. Of the steel steamer we had seen
the last, for she, less fortunate than the _France_, was shut in by the
storm, and that very afternoon was driven on the rocks a total wreck,
though we knew it not until days later when we reached the Golden Horn
and the pigmy _France_, with her two hundred odd tons register, was
ordered back to try and make what she could out of the salvage of her
big 2500-ton steel sister, that had come to such a bitter end within a
few miles of the haven that we had scuttled into that morning.
However, a miss is as good as a mile, and indeed where danger is
concerned far better, for one always has that exhilaration of having
come through a tight hole, which in itself seems worth the price of
admission. Never was there a more enthusiastic crew, and one more
replete in the true Christmas spirit than the little handful that
beamed cheerfully on the Customs Officer as he came aboard that morning.
The tedious examination which always comes in Russia now ensued more
rigorously than ever before. Every locker was pried open in search of
bombs or some evidence of some evil intent. The only high light of the
occasion was a dispute that one of the examining officers fell into
with one of his subordinates. The object of contention was my innocent
typewriter sitting on the saloon table. The man with the gold lace
and sword was insisting that it was a musical instrument, and as such
should be carefully put in bond during our stay in port, as it appears
that there is some strange law involving a heavy tax on a number of
useful articles that might help the inhabitants of the Caucasus to
wile away the time. Next our gorgeously uniformed official tumbled
over a case of champagne in one of the lockers. He at once called
for seals with which to close up the locker until we departed, as it
seemed that drinks too were not to be landed without a tax. I explained
patiently in German that these drinks were not for introduction into
the Caucasus, but were brought along purely for local consumption.
But my explanations were objected to as unworthy of comment and the
seals were promptly produced. I explained to the officer that it was
Christmas, and that we wanted the wine for our dinner. After much
deliberation he admitted that we should have a little refreshment under
the circumstances, but decided that one quart of champagne would be
all that was good for us. Fancy! Four men, and on Christmas day, too!
And the worst of all from a Russian! However, we assented, as Stomati,
the ever faithful cook, had whispered that it mattered not for he
knew a sliding panel in the back of the locker provided for just such
exigencies, so with an easy conscience we watched the red wax and seal
being placed on our supply of cheer.
In the meantime I was told, as usual, that I could not leave the
boat, and on coming on deck found two bayoneted sentinels marching up
and down the decks, just to show that the order meant business. But
while I was arguing my case with the officer in charge, a boat, rowed
by four uniformed sailors, came alongside. It was the American Vice
Consul Stuart, who, seeing the big American ship’s flag flying at the
fore, had started out as soon as we had anchored. We nearly embraced
on the deck. At least, I did, for it was good to see someone from a
civilized land, though I learned that Stuart was an Englishman and only
acting consul. He seemed glad to see us, and stated that it was the
first American flag that he had seen in behind the breakwater during
the eighteen years that he had been in Batuum, an interesting if
somewhat depressing bit of information to an American who likes to feel
that his country’s flag is at least known by sight in all quarters of
the globe.
The consul at Trebizond had given me some grouse to present to Stuart,
and after these had been thoroughly investigated and passed upon by the
examiner, a permit was given for them to be passed. Stuart evidently
had a strong pull with the government, for he quickly arranged with
the officer that the sentries were to be withdrawn, and that I and any
member of my crew might come and go at our own sweet will. After the
dreary inspection was over, my newly acquired friend came down and
took lunch with us, and little by little I drew from him fragments of
that crazy quilt of actions and counter-actions, assassinations and
executions, revolutions and suppressions that in Russia masquerade
under the name of current politics.
From a newspaper point of view, the situation was full of interest.
No correspondent had been here for weeks, and as the cables were long
since out of commission, the cream of it was mine. What I learned in
effect in the hour or two that I talked with my guest was that from
the Black Sea to the Caspian the entire Caucasus was in a state of
convulsion, revolution and anarchy. Street fighting and incendiarism
had been rampant in practically all of the cities, both large and
small. Only a few days before a mob had been dispersed by machine guns
and Cossacks in the streets of Batuum. The latter had become quite
lawless, and it was the custom to kill any suspicious character first
and investigate afterwards. If the aforesaid killed character proved
on investigation to be a reputable citizen—well, then the joke was on
him. Anyway, he ought to have stayed at home where he belonged, instead
of roaming about the streets like a common Armenian. The latter, by
the way, are always the red rag to the government bull, anywhere in
this region, and the motto might be well adopted, “When in doubt, kill
a few Armenians,” just as one takes a dose of quinine when one gets
wet. I gathered that Armenianitis had been having quite a run in Batuum
about this time. Not because they were specially offensive just now,
but just for luck. Street fighting in Russia is as well recognized a
stage of revolution as an increased temperature and a quickened pulse
is in typhoid fever. The cure is usually Cossacks and machine guns in
hourly doses until improvement is noticed. This street fighting rarely
means much except that people are voicing a long repressed sentiment of
resentment and finally march in irresponsible bodies and are promptly
dispersed with heavy losses. The Russian officers get medals, the
dead are buried, and all moves on much as before. This was much what
happened in Batuum the week before my arrival. A lot of poor ignorants
had been killed. The town was in a state of siege, and people were
being murdered in the name of the law every day. Poti (the port we had
aimed at and been turned back) was filled with armed revolutionists,
who were said to be well organized and preparing to move on Batuum,
which was the then center of Russian military strength in the Caucasus.
Tiflis, up the railroad line (which had stopped running), was rent with
strife and was the stage on which the Armenians and the Tartars were
fighting over some involved question among themselves. For a month
before these same two peaceful races had been tearing Elizabethpol
(a town in the interior) into small fragments with their perpetual
fights. Our town was full of refugees, who were stiff with lurid
details. It was generally believed that Russian agents had started
these inter-race troubles, always at fever heat, to prevent both from
combining against Russia. The Armenians and Tartars are always ready
to fly at one another’s throats at two minutes’ notice. It was quiet
for the moment in Baku, but, as my informant advised me, the lull was
merely temporary, as they were gathering energy there for another spasm
of fighting. The railroad strike had crippled business and almost
extinguished the remaining spark of commercial vitality left in the
storm-tossed country. Trains were being run by the revolutionists
simply to help their own plans of mobilization. As I wrote in my cable,
the general situation was complex. Practically every town in the
Caucasus was a situation peculiar only to itself. From Tiflis to the
Black Sea the dominating factor was the attitude of the Georgians, who
were rebels rather than revolutionists. They were divided into many
parties, each of which had aims and ideas that would require a chapter
to describe. Some wanted absolute independence, while other factions
were aiming at reforms only. All had stopped paying taxes, and the
police were absolutely helpless and asked only to be let alone. The
Georgians were openly defying these dejected officers of the law, and
their boasted strength of 8000 organized men within a radius of forty
miles of Batuum made their bluff (if indeed it was one) hold good.
It was reported that the authorities at Tiflis were going to try and
reopen the line of the railroad by force. The revolutionists replied
to this that twenty-four hours after such an attempt should be made
the railroad in the Caucasus would be non-existent; in other words,
that they would blow it into small pieces. The situation was really
depressing to the Russians.
All of these events have long since ceased to be of vital interest, and
the semblance of peace and tranquillity have been restored, and once
more the volcano which ever lies beneath the surface in that country of
never ending turmoil is smoldering for the moment. It is not my intent
to go into the history of the endless complications which were then
rife further than the brief outline mentioned, as I merely wish to show
the nature of the story which we had to gather.
Stuart advised me not to come ashore except unarmed, as he stated that
during the past few days being armed had been considered sufficient
provocation to administer instant death by the bands of Cossacks that
patrolled the streets. Every morning bodies were found lying about
in the snow—victims who had not given sufficiently good account of
themselves to the half-drunken rowdies that roamed the streets under
the name of Cossack patrols.
The storm was raging without, and so we decided to lie in the harbor
until the sea had abated sufficiently for me to get some coal barges
alongside to replenish our bunkers.
At three that afternoon we went ashore and had a splendid Xmas dinner
with the Consul and absorbed the details and the atmosphere of the
remarkable conditions that were the sole topic of conversation among
the guests, each of whom had personal experiences and ghastly details
to add to what I had already learned.
So interesting was the occasion that I had about made up my mind to
accept my new friend’s invitation to spend the night ashore to meet
some other people, when Morris, with tears in his eyes, begged me to
return to the _France_ for dinner, as he said he had a surprise for
me. So I told him to have the boat at the landing place at seven that
evening, and a few minutes after that hour I was in my little saloon on
board the _France_.
It was a surprise! Morris met me at the foot of the companion-way
wreathed in smiles, clad in my dress-suit, and my only clean white
shirt. The fact that the trousers came up to his ankles, the sleeves
almost to his elbows, and that each breath he took threatened to burst
the back from the shoulders down, and that the collar he had squeezed
into was nearly choking him to death, in no way seemed to diminish
his keen enjoyment of the idea that he was the perfect representation
of the most ideal of butlers. For a moment I was annoyed, for somehow
one’s dress clothes seem to be too sacred for promiscuous distribution.
But his delight was so apparent and his anticipation of my pleasure in
his transformation was so genuine that I had not the heart to spoil his
little surprise.
Our little table was elaborately set for eight, with carefully prepared
menu-cards at each plate. Four sad-looking strangers were seated in a
melancholy row on a sofa and the captain and the two engineers, who had
been obviously scrubbed, grinned sheepishly as I came in.
Morris, fairly knocking his heels together in sheer delight, swept a
profound obeisance and in a ringing voice announced, “Christmas dinner
is served, your honor!”
Well, I was surprised and no mistake!
“Who are these men in the corner, Morris?” I inquired.
[Illustration: GENERAL NOGI—THAN WHOM NO FINER GENTLEMAN EVER DREW THE
BREATH OF LIFE]
[Illustration: MORRIS INSPECTING OUR CHRISTMAS DINNER]
“Well, sir,” he replied, “I don’t just know exactly much about them,
but it did not seem quite the thing to have Xmas dinner with just old
man Gileti and the engineers, so these gentlemen, sir, are some that
I found ashore to fill in, sir. I am sure you will find them quite
satisfactory.”
Perhaps I sighed a little inwardly, but I am sure I showed no outward
emotion as I welcomed the shy and reticent quartette on the sofa.
Morris had literally “stood by like steel” every minute of the voyage
and this was his occasion, and I was bound that my appreciation should
not be lacking.
It really was a wonderful dinner.
The faithful Morris as I then learned had been surreptitiously laying
in the wherewithal for this banquet at every port. A young live pig at
Sulina Mouth, a goose at Sinope, some birds at Trebizond and heaven
only knows what besides. With the back panel of the sealed locker
carefully slid out we tapped our liquid refreshment and in very truth
the dinner proved a great success. Even the imported guests cheered up
and by the end of the banquet were drinking toasts to me, the Chicago
_Daily News_, to Morris, aye, and even unto the fat live pig, alive no
longer, alas.
It was midnight when we wound up and sent our guests ashore and
ourselves turned in for the night after a day perhaps the most varied
in experience that I have ever lived through.