The Balkan Trail

by Frederick Ferdinand Moore

The Turkish fire department is a curious institution. Modern machinery cannot be brought into Turkey except by bribing the Custom-house. As it profits officers of the Government nothing to bribe themselves, the municipal fire brigade is still equipped with the primitive hand-pump. Electricity, like steam, is also barred, and the alarm system is distinctly original and truly alarming. From the ancient tower of Galata and from the Seraskier Tower in Stamboul, watchmen keep a look-out for fires. When one is discovered half a dozen swift runners grab long, sharp spears, descend several hundred ruined stone steps through the darkness slowly with the aid of a tallow taper, dart out into the crowded streets, and scatter in various directions, shouting at the tops of their voices and stabbing dogs. They make a tour of the mosques, from the minarets of which the volunteer firemen are called to duty. Meanwhile guns have begun to boom on the Bosphorus, and in a short time the streets are swarming with frenzied creatures, dashing along like maniacs, shrieking hideously, and also prodding dogs out of their way.

It is not an uncommon sight to see these strange firemen come down the streets from a five-mile run with nothing on but a pair of pants, or perhaps a skirted vest—sometimes only a fez; and then you will see others dressed like soldiers marching in a leisurely and orderly manner. The energetic individuals are the volunteers; the others are members of the regular ‘paid’ fire department.

The ambition of every chief of volunteers worthy of the name is to bring his brigade to the scene of the conflagration first, as the reward of the first arrivals is the choice of the plunder. Should he find there is no loot to be had, he searches out the owner and bargains with him while his band prepares to pump—if a satisfactory price can be agreed upon. This work must be done hurriedly, of course; not that there is any danger of the ‘paid’ brigade arriving before the fire is out, but other volunteers are pouring in; competition grows rifer, and rows and fights with rival crews more and more furious. Finally, the ‘paid’ department does arrive, and the volunteers are driven from the ruins like hungry wolves from a carcass. The ‘paid’ firemen will accept no gratuities; they are soldiers of the Sultan, and have many months’ salary due to them.

Many regiments of the garrison of Constantinople, however, are well paid, for they constitute a part of that vast organisation maintained by Abdul Hamid for the express purpose of his own safety. This, indeed, seems to be the first purpose of the whole Turkish Government—the safety of the Sultan, for which Mohamedan and Christian of the Imperial Ottoman Empire suffer alike. The difference in the attitude of the ‘infidel’ and that of the ‘faithful’ is simply that one resents the needless hardships inflicted upon him, whereas the other sits and suffers, resigned to the will of Allah. The word ‘Islam’ means ‘I am resigned.’ The Sultan is recognised as Mohamed’s vicegerent on earth, and to his will all faithful followers bow.

The Padisha, however, does not appear to accept the doctrine of fatalism with the same good grace as do the faithful of his Mohamedan subjects. Extraordinary precautions are taken for his safety. At a Selamlik, or public visit to a mosque for prayer, which I attended, Abdul, who professes to the Mohamedan belief that no bullet could pierce his flesh until the moment prescribed in the Great Book, came to worship surrounded by a bodyguard so solid that the ball of a modern rifle could not have reached him through it. His escort arrived running, massed about his victoria, the hood of which is said to be of steel. In former years foreign guests, for whom Ambassadors and Ministers would vouch, were permitted, in a pavilion crowded with detectives, to see this ceremony. But since the recent explosion of an infernal machine in the neighbourhood during a Selamlik, this privilege has been abolished. An army corps, gathered from every part of the variegated empire, surrounded the palace.

CONSTANTINOPLE: MOSQUE OF YÉNI-DJAMI ON THE BOSPHORUS.

Constantinople is full of stories about precautions within the walls of Yildiz Kiosk. It is said that the Sultan tests his meals on his servants before he touches them himself, and, for obvious reasons, his favourite dish is œufs à la coque. A tale from his harem gives it that, one day when his nerves were unusually unstrung, he drew his revolver and with his own hand shot a wife who caused his suspicion by a sudden change of posture. It is told that an American lady who pointed out to the Sultan a way by which he could be assassinated received a handsome present, and it is well known that there is an army of spies employed solely to run down plots against the Sultan’s life. These unprincipled servants often find conspiracies where they do not exist, often only in order to display to their master their activity, and again for the rich rewards such ‘discoveries’ bring.

Once in Paris I met a Greek who had served for two years as a private secretary at Yildiz. Greeks and other non-Moslems occupy many posts in the Sultan’s service where cleverness and an understanding of European character are imperative. This particular Greek incurred the Sultan’s suspicions, and was clever enough to escape from Constantinople. I was indeed glad to get the opportunity to talk with a man who had been of the Sultan’s household, and many of the tales I had heard, which needed proof, I repeated to him. He said they were mostly true—in principle. He did not believe that the Sultan had faith in one word of the Koran; certainly he was no fatalist. The Greek went on to say that while the Sultan is crazed on the one point of plots against his life, he is remarkably clever at handling men. He seems to have an uncanny power over men. When they first meet him they are surprised at his sanity and his gentility, which is a good beginning; and he gradually weaves his web of influence about old and tried ambassadors. The only people who have been thoroughly equal to him are the Russians; they play his own game. They have played on his weak point and made a treaty with him—according to this gentleman—guaranteeing his throne to him for the rest of his life in return for certain privileges which allow them to take inventory of his estate. ‘Après moi, le déluge!’ But the Sultan is not quite all of his Government, and for the others the entire indemnity for the war of 1878, as it is paid in annual instalments, is set aside—so my informant says—for distribution at Constantinople. The Palace and the Porte probably receive from Russia retaining fees larger than their salaries.

I happened to be in Constantinople again at a time when the Russians were meeting with defeat in Manchuria. The town was much interested in the contest, and the Turk in the street, who is ignorant, was rejoicing in his dignified way at the reverses of his country’s enemy. But suddenly the Russians turned the tables and won several astounding victories over the Japanese, and the Moslems were unhappy. This is how it happened. ‘The Palace’ had discovered that the sensibilities of the Russian representatives in Turkey were being tried severely by the reports of their defeats in the Far East, and that individual of marvellous imagination, the Turkish censor, was put to work to lighten their distress, which he did most generously.