We rested for a day outside the port of Trebizond. There, to our amazement, was flying the red flag of the Bolsheviks, whose co-operation with Kemal Pasha had evidently not been misreported by the Press. Kemal’s headquarters were in Trebizond. Several boat-loads of Bolsheviks in khaki uniforms and peaked caps came to inspect the ship. Some came on board. They were perfectly civil. No attempt was made to interfere with the passengers, who were strongly urged by the chief officer on board not to risk a landing. We took on board many new passengers here and at a previous stopping-place, the name of which escapes me. These were of various nationalities, chiefly Turks, with their carefully segregated and veiled womankind carrying large quantities of fruit, and themselves hauling on board loads of wonderful Turkey carpets. A few long-bearded Greeks and swarthy Jews were amongst the new-comers, and several fascinating black-eyed children. These people shared the lower deck with the sheep and goats. The sheep were penned, but the goats escaped, leaping all over the deck and chewing to tatters the sailcloth and the ropes, to the anger of the sailors, who, with all their nimbleness, were no match for the goats.
Below in the hold were the horned cattle, bellowing their protest at two days and nights of painful thirst in their hot and crowded quarters. The way in which these poor beasts were treated made us sick. They were hauled from the small boats on to the ship and into the hold suspended by the horns from the ship’s crane. Their eyes bulged out of their heads, their legs beat the air as they swung up and then down, their heavy bodies pulling at their horns. A young Englishwoman expressed her detestation of the performance in a full company, when, with a grin, a facetious foreign gentleman exclaimed with his hand upon his heart: “Ah, mademoiselle, you English, you have pity for ze poor animals but none for ze poor men. We break our hearts for ze mademoiselle and she care not. But ze horses, ze cats and ze dogs, she adores zem. It is desolating.” And he made a frantic gesture of despair.
“What do you say to the idiots who talk like that?” I inquired, sorry for the cause of that angry flush on her pretty face.
“I say nothing,” she replied; “but I begin to feel thankful that our quarrel with the German people is only skin deep.”
One night more and we were in Batoum, beautifully situated on the slopes and at the foot of great, wooded hills which make a sombre background to the white houses. As the noise of the ship’s engines ceased, distant strains of music crept into our ears. It came from the shore, which was black with people. I grew nervous and apprehensive. I opened the cabin door. I strained forward anxiously to hear. I was not mistaken. My first fear was realized. It was the “International,” the song which brought Russia back to mind, the jingling melody that I had heard, at a modest computation, a thousand times in Russia alone!
I rushed to the ship’s side and, borrowing a field-glass, stared out to shore. Yes, yes, it was all there, the familiar circus; the bands, the crowds, the carriages, the flowers, the red flags and bunting, the photographer and cinema operator—all so kind and well-intentioned. I looked at Tom Shaw; he grinned back at me. There was nothing to be done but resign ourselves to the inevitable and look as pleased as we could.
We clambered down the ship’s side on a shaky, swinging ladder to the waiting tender and steamed away to shore. The kindest of welcomes awaited us. Our arms were filled with flowers, and after the usual courteous preliminaries we were led off amidst deafening cheers to receive the official welcome at the City Hall.