When we arrived on board the yacht we found that kind thoughts for us had already preceded us there. Flowers, grapes, music, drawings—everything they thought could add to our comfort or pleasure—had been sent on board by these kind people.
The anchor was up, the sails were set, the yacht was only lying-to until we embarked. The sea was as smooth as glass, the light of the rising moon covered the mountains with a tender veil, as we glided slowly away from Soukoum. Not a sound broke the silence of the night but the gentle wash of the water against the bows of the vessel. A soft breeze just filled the sails, and with really sad hearts we watched landmark after landmark disappear, until, on rounding the headland of the bay, the last light of the little town was shut out, and we said farewell, probably for ever, to the loveliest spot we have ever seen.
CHAPTER XVI.
SINOPE.
After leaving Soukoum we had three days of fine weather, though the winds had been somewhat capricious and baffling. Still we had done well, having had a run of 102 miles during the first twenty-four hours, and of 86 during the next; but on the 24th of September the wind began to moan ominously, and a thick fog was drawing up to windward like a curtain. The sea began to heave up and down with a sort of heavy, sullen motion, as if gathering its strength before a battle of the elements began.
Under these circumstances, and having a wish also to see Sinope, we resolved to go there, rather than brave the threatening gale. The helm was therefore put up, and about seven p.m. we made out one high and two low islands, which, on nearer approach, resolved themselves into a very narrow isthmus, that, stretching far away into the sea, terminated in a steep rocky promontory.
On the neck of the isthmus stands Sinope, commanding a beautiful view of the long range of mountains and wooded hills that line the coast. The town itself is a quaint place, tightly squeezed into some old castellated walls, with a fierce little pepper-box of a fort at each corner. Outside the town, a long straggling Greek suburb runs up the hill for a considerable distance, its low red and brown houses looking very picturesque amongst the groups of cypress and fig-trees. The roadstead, though open and exposed to the east, has the reputation of being perfectly secure, and we find ourselves in quite a little crowd of Greek, Turkish, Austrian, and Russian vessels. It seems, therefore, that others besides ourselves have had forebodings of bad weather, and have taken refuge in this, the only safe anchorage on the southern side of the Black Sea. It is singular, however, that the anchorage should be so safe, for it is difficult to believe that a heavy sea would not set into the bay, should the wind come from any quarter between north-east and south. It is said, however, that a vessel has never been known to be driven from her anchor; so the only solution is that these winds never blow here with violence. Certainly during our stay, though a tremendous sea was running about a mile or two out, but little swell ever came up to the anchorage.
On the morning after our arrival, an intimation came from the Pasha (one of the Sultan’s numerous brothers-in-law), that he wished to pay us a visit. Soon after twelve his Highness arrived, attended by a very numerous suite, and accompanied by a Greek gentleman, the Austrian consul.
We were somewhat dismayed at the sight of such a goodly company, as our little cabins could not possibly accommodate so large a party of guests, and a Turk of high rank does not like to remain on deck. All were anxious to come below; it was therefore somewhat difficult to prevent undue crowding, for the Pasha was so interested in all he saw, that he insisted upon visiting every part of the vessel. He appeared an exceedingly intelligent man, and had a vivacity of manner somewhat unusual in a Turk.