Am filing an important press dispatch of 287 words. If it does not reach you simultaneously with this or shows signs of being tampered with, have the matter vigorously investigated by the proper authorities.
I knew that the commercial messages usually went promptly and were censored leniently, if at all. The operator also knew this fact. Also did a great light loom upon him as to complications which might arise, if the message were delayed. So without a word he went into the rear room, where ticked the instruments and my cable was started on its way. I learned weeks later, when I finally reached London, that the same messenger boy had brought both telegrams at the same time, the news dispatch being 287 words exactly.
As the ground felt pretty solid and comfortable, after the France, and as the coffee was not nearly as bad as it looked, we sat in the office until the last word had gone, and then engaged the Turkish operator in pleasant converse. He invited us into a more pretentious, if even dirtier, apartment (which might be termed his lair), and we signified that we would be glad to pay the price of the drink of the country, if his influence could procure the same. More cigars circulated. Kind words passed freely. After the foundation for and that peculiar atmosphere particularly adapted to confidences had been firmly established, we began gently to encourage communication on those subjects which had been passing over the wire between the Caucasus and Constantinople. Probably outside of this extremely dirty gentleman in blouse and red trousers, who now seemed so well disposed, there was not a soul in town who had any information on any subject that would have been of the slightest interest outside of the port of Sinope. But our host, in his leisure moments (which I gathered comprised a fair share of the twenty-four hours), had noted what the wires were saying. Once he had become aroused in the subjects of interest along his line, he had made it a point to interview such seamen and others that touched the little town. He really knew a lot. When he had finished, we flattered ourselves that we knew as much as he did anyway as to the situation up in the Caucasus up to the past ten days, when, as our friend opined, the extension of the cable into the Caucasus had been suddenly cut. Anyway, communications thence had ceased abruptly. What we learned in brief was as follows:
That the strikes and riots which had been prevalent all over Russia had hit the eastern end of the Caucasus, and hit it hard! Batuum, the main port at the end of the Black Sea, was in a ferment and filled with refugees. That the ships had all stopped going there, that the town was full of sweepings of the entire region plus Cossacks sent there to keep order. No one seemed to know which side the soldiers would take. It was reported that the Russian officials were besieged in one of the public buildings. That the troops were disloyal to their officers and were killing the population promiscuously, and that all of the decent citizens were shut up in their houses praying for relief. A French ship had brought out the last word ten days earlier, to the effect that a railroad strike was on and that towns were burning everywhere, and that anarchy was blazing in all quarters of the Caucasus. With this boat had come two hundred refugees, and it was said that there were hundreds more in Batuum hoping against hope that some ship would come and take them away. These were just a few of the things that the operator told us. To be sure, some of the facts conflicted, and a lot of the statements did seem a bit improbable. But before our interview was half finished I was convinced that, even though nine-tenths of the tales might be fabrications, there was enough left in the remaining tenth to make a cable. When we had pumped our informant dry, my mind was made up. We would certainly leave that very night for Batuum.
Our trip on the Black Sea thus far had been one of constant hardship, cold and discomfort, which makes a more unfavorable impression on one than do active dangers, though these too seemed quite stiff enough. The news results seemed so far, inadequate to the outlay, in the way of effort and endurance. One does like to feel in taking chances that there is to be an equivalent return in some direction. The outlook up in the Caucasus pleased us all. In the first place, there seemed to be important news features there, and in the second place, there were refugees (probably some of them Americans) who were praying for relief. So it did seem as though we would be justified in taking what risks presented themselves. After one has been in tight places one’s own self on various occasions, one has more sympathy for others suffering in a like manner, and the idea of perhaps getting some refugees as well as news appealed strongly. So before leaving the telegraph office I sent a wire home, mentioning briefly the situation and winding up with the following:
Shall bring off all American refugees would suggest that our State Department request the Porte (Which signifies the Sultan’s government) to permit American warships pass through Bosphorus and protect our interests which appear to be in danger that place.
I also sent a wire to the American Embassy at Constantinople on the same lines advising them that if I did not show up within a week to please make an effort to see what had become of us. After both of these cables were on the wire I felt that I had taken all precautions for the future that I could think about, and we returned to the France and put to sea.
About every day that winter seemed to be the same on those peaceful waters, as far as storm and stress were concerned. We were running up the coast of Asia Minor a few miles off shore all of that night and the next day. It is a bleak and barren shore, with snow-covered mountains rising abruptly from the ragged rocks, against which the sea beat and frothed with a boom that came to us at sea, as loud as distant thunder.
It was about noon on the following day that I opened my diary to make the day’s entry. It was December 24th. Christmas eve! I had even forgotten that Christmas existed, and for the first time it occurred to me that we would celebrate rather a dismal day on the little France. It is the season of the year when one’s mind wanders far from wars and waves and tumult, and my thoughts drifted back across the broad Atlantic to a certain home, where festivities would be going forward apace on this day, and little children would be expectantly doing up bundles and trimming all with green and holly.
I sent Morris forward for the skipper and asked him if there was a cable station within range of us. Together we pored over the chart and figured that we might reach Trebizond by four that afternoon, if all went well, and the course was duly altered. Sure enough, promptly on the hour we rounded the point and sailed into the mere angle on the coast they call a harbor at Trebizond. Half a dozen ships lay at anchor riding the heavy swell that came booming in from the sea, and then swept on to break with grim fury on the shore a mile or so beyond. One of these ships was a French mail steamer of 3500 tons, which had been lying there for ten days waiting for the storm to abate, and the others had been standing by for varying lengths of time for a similar purpose.