We had just reached the Maiden’s Tower when the gust caught us. Of all the environs of the Bosphorus this is the most dangerous, for the current runs madly out into the Sea of Marmora; and the wind, released from the Asian mountains which hem it in to the point of Scutari, is suddenly set free in all its violence. Hence it arises that, in the immediate neighbourhood of the Maiden’s Tower, more caïques are wrecked during the year than in the whole of the channel; and there we were, every wave dashing angrily against the side of the frail boat, and pouring over us its foaming waters; the wind driving us down the current, and the Turkish boatmen scarcely able to ejaculate their “Mashallàhs!” and “Inshallàhs!” from the terror which made their teeth chatter in their heads.
It was a frightful moment. At one instant we made way; at the next we were carried back by the force of the current; we could not guess how the affair would terminate; but meanwhile the venerable old caïquejhe who pulled the after-oars, amid all his alarm sought to comfort me: “Tell her,” he said perpetually to the dragoman, “tell her that there is no danger; she is a woman, and the fear may kill her. My heart is sick and I can scarcely pull, for my hand trembles, and my breath fails; but console her—tell her that we shall soon be across the channel—that I will put her ashore somewhere—anywhere—tell her what you will, for she is a woman, and I pity her.”
But, grateful as I was for his consideration, I did not require comfort; I had already escaped from so many dangers at sea, that I never for a moment contemplated drowning on the present occasion; and I took some credit to myself for upholding the honour of my sex for courage in the eyes of the kind-hearted old Turkish caïquejhe. With considerable difficulty we at length made the pier at Topphannè, and, a voyage homeward being perfectly out of the question, we ascended the steep hill to Pera, wet and weary as we were; and passed the night under the roof of a worthy and hospitable Greek friend, listening to the wild gusts which swept down the channel, and congratulating ourselves on our escape from a danger as unexpected as it was imminent.
CHAPTER XXII.
The Plague—Spread of the Pestilence—The Greek Victim—Self-Devotion—Death of the Plague Smitten—The Widow’s Walk—Plague Encampments—The Infected Family—The Greek Girl and her Lover—Non-Conductors—Plague—Perpetuators—Vultures—Melancholy Concomitants of the Pestilence—Carelessness of the Turks—The Pasha of Broussa—Rashness of the Poorer Classes—Universality of the Disease in the Capital.
Every one who has even heard of Constantinople is aware that it is a city of Plague and Fires. Of the latter I have already spoken, although slightly; for it is a singular fact that, although several extensive conflagrations occurred during our residence in the East, not only in the Capital but in its environs, it never was our fortune to witness one.
Of the still more frightful visitation of the Plague, I could not perhaps make mention at a more fitting moment than the present (the commencement of September) when, contrary to the prognostics of the soi-disant conversant in such matters, it has broken out with renewed violence in every direction. The Imperial Palace of Beglierbey is deserted in consequence of its having been visited by the Pestilence—The “Seven Towers” have become a Plague-Hospital for the Greeks. We presented ourselves with an order for admittance at the celebrated Seraglio at the Point, and found that here the scourge had preceded us, and that the gates were closed—Even Therapia, seated on the edge of the shore, and open to the healthful breezes from the Black Sea, is adding daily to the list of victims; and we were received by a friend at the extreme opposite end of the sofa on our return thence, (and even that reluctantly,) from a dread that we might prove to be Plague-conductors, and infect her family.
To the honour of our common nature it may be stated that even this direful visitation tends at times to bring out some of the noblest qualities of which frail humanity is susceptible. If man may be pardoned a feeling of absorbing selfishness, it is surely in the hour when he has before him the prospect of one of the most frightful of all deaths; but, even in the short month which has elapsed since the disease deepened, examples have not been wanting of that utter absence of selfishness—that self-sacrifice for the security of others—which gives to the fate of the victim almost the character of martyrdom.