Christmas Morning on the Black Sea.

It is approximately a ninety-mile run from Trebizond to the harbor of Batuum, and for this entire distance there is not an anchorage along the coast. From the time one leaves Trebizond the mountains rise sheer up from the sea, their bases studded with reefs and ragged rocks or else rising in cliffs, going straight up for hundreds of feet above the water. At Batuum there is a bit of a bay with a breakwater across the narrowest part of it, which justifies its being called a harbor. Then the coast reaches on in another bleak and barren stretch of forty miles to another nominal port rejoicing in the name of Poti. And for this distance the mountains march grandly along, reaching an altitude which must be at least six or seven thousand feet. The constant storms of winter had left them mantled deep in the glaring white of winter snows, save where here and there some great black elbow of rock had been stripped of its cloak by the whipping winter winds.

The sea was running strong and the wind high when we put out that Xmas Eve, but in spite of adverse conditions we figured that daylight would find us off the little town of Batuum. As we did not want to get there before the light should show to us the uncertain channel ’midst the rocks and reefs that led to the harbor, we turned the engines down to a conservative ninety revolutions, which kept her going easily into the seas, which she was riding with the serenity of a strong swimmer disporting himself in the surf.

The motion, though a bit too active to permit of continued sleep, was still not vigorous enough to cause any particular anxiety. A large part of the night we spent on the bridge. The moon rose late, and by its intermittent light, as it sailed along behind the ribbon of clouds that spread o’er the heavens, we could see the grim and ghostly line of the mountain range that silvered and darkened as the light of the moon came and went.

The first gray light of Christmas day disclosed a bleakness of coast far more dismal than we had left behind.

We were running along the rim of the Black Sea basin, so near that we could plainly see the coming and going of the clouds of spray that told of the never ceasing struggle of the waves against the relentless cliffs that for centuries have grimly turned the surging waters into foam and noisy tumult. Aye, and long before the dawn the roar rose and fell on our ears as sea after sea dashed upon the sterile sternness that ever hemmed them in.

In the dim half light of the morning I stood by the skipper on the spray showered bridge, and with him through the dissolving darkness tried to pick out the harbor bearings of the port that was to be our Christmas refuge. The man had evidently been drinking during the night, as I gathered, and he was dense in mind and stupid beyond conception. The little engineer, who spoke English, joined us on the bridge, for all realized the general necessity of reaching port within a reasonable length of time, as our coal was running short. We had just about enough, as a matter of fact, to get back to Trebizond, but I had learned on the previous day that none was obtainable there, and hence we were relying on Batuum to replenish our bunkers. By eight o’clock the sky gave promise of a dreary day, and the barometer, with no uncertain index finger, was pointing to worse. In fact, it was creeping down perceptibly each hour, and already recorded the lowest figure that we had read on its ever cynical face since we had come to live in its sinister shadow.

Breakfast, as usual, was out of the question, and anyway we were all eagerly searching the coast line for the harbor mouth that had brought us hence. A new snow during the night had turned the whole landscape white, and with the snowy mountain wall rising up sharply in the background, we could not discover a sign of anything that might be construed into a symptom of a port. Eight-thirty came at last, and the little engineer discovered a mountain elbow on our port bow which he emphatically stated that he knew, and knew well. In his opinion, we had overshot Batuum. The skipper was easily persuaded that this was the case, and so we put about, and with a redoubled watch crept back along the coast. An hour or more we cruised with our eager spyings, rewarded by not a sign which might betoken the longed for haven. In the meantime in the west the evergrowing cloud of black verified the fact that the barometer had not been working in the dark. I was eager enough to reach the harbor in the beginning, but with each minute that I watched that black mass grow and bulge against the western sky, my anxiety increased. I called the Chief and asked for an estimate as to how much coal we had remaining in our bunkers. He was gone fifteen minutes, and his troubled face confirmed my intuitions of uncertainties ahead.

“Not as much coal as we had hoped,” he replied to my look rather than to any spoken word. “We have enough to last until this afternoon, and no doubt we will be in port ere that, unless—” and his bright little eyes swept the western heavens where the great relentless cloud was throwing its sable mantle across the sky.

“Yes, unless—” I replied. It was obvious to us both that we must make that harbor before the storm should shut us in, for once the snow and mist and sleet was upon us, our only hope of reaching port would be gone, and we would have to run for the open sea and ride it out. Not a very hopeful enterprise, this, even with full coal bunkers, but still less alluring with but six or eight hours steaming ability left, and these barren rocks leering at us for ninety miles along the coast.

For an hour we ran west, and then one of the crew picked up a familiar landmark. His statement was verified by others. In our backward run we had again slipped by the port without seeing it! The landmark was on the Trebizond side of Batuum!

Once more we put her head about, and once more cruised back along the coast. We talked it over and all agreed that we must find our refuge within the scanty hour that the storm would be upon us. The crew, too, began to realize our plight. Indeed, it did look grave enough. All that were not on duty in the engine room were peering toward the shore, their trained eyes trying to develop some tangible sign or landmark out of the snowy hillside that rose from the sea and swept backward till its peaks stood dimly outlined against the leaden winter’s sky.

For an hour we cruised along, every man on the boat chattering his anxiety and apprehension. They are not very strong on danger, these Black Sea sweepings (at least, that was my impression); only Morris grinned imperturbably, though in truth his grin became less and less heartfelt and finally slipped into the grimace type of humor. Yet he would not show his fear.

And ever did the great storm cloud grow in size and blackness in the west.

Faint streaks of green, yellow and purple shot its somber masses, until it grew like an image of Dante’s Inferno in our minds. Though I looked the other way, a dreadful fascination ever brought my eyes back to the rising menace, that steadily, surely, even as the mantle of death swept on toward us.

By nine-thirty the heavens were filled with its suppressed fury, and the wind awed by the impending presence of a far greater force seemed to fade to nothing and slink away before this towering passion that wrapped in silence was sweeping down upon us—a silence that became oppressive, and was broken only by the slap of the waves against our steel sides, and the dreary refrain of the sea rolling monotonously on the rock-bound shore.

“Well, we’re back to our original landmark!” remarked the engineer, half to himself. I looked and sure enough there was the black elbow that he had diagnosed hours before as being beyond Batuum.

We held a hurried council on the bridge. We had cruised this coast now three times, and we knew that three times we had slipped past our haven of refuge, with its landmarks hidden to us by the whiteness of the background. Poti lay perhaps thirty-five miles beyond. The storm was coming up faster, ever faster. Three times we had failed to find Batuum, and there seemed little chance that the fourth would be more successful. So we decided on Poti and called for “full speed.” The France responded promptly to the order from the bridge.

But the decision came too late.

Already the storm was flanking us, and its blackness had swept to seaward of us and rapidly promised to cut off our advance. Some miles ahead of us was a great steel steamer evidently in a similar plight. She too was heading for port, and columns of smoke were issuing from her big black funnel. Presently as we watched, a white cloud of spray crossed her bow and even as a curtain, shut out the beyond. Gradually she came about and started westward down the coast. Her skipper realized just as we did, that naught but wreck and misery lay within that churning cloud that had unloosed its fury upon the deep. Already its steadily rising howl whined and moaned across the waters, not unlike the melancholy wail of the starving timber wolf penetrates the stillness of the night and reaches the lonely trapper in his winter camp and causes him to throw another armful of wood on the fire and whistle to assuage that subtle foreboding of calamity that the thin knife-like cry in the night seems vaguely to predict.

It was hopeless for us to drive further into that storm. Five hours at best would see us out of fuel, and then driven before the wind and sea we would be dashed upon the rocks. We did not even discuss the situation. Involuntarily the man at the wheel brought her head around, and for the fourth time we began our trip down the coast. To the west of us the storm had shut out the mountains. To the north a veritable blizzard was lashing the waves into a frenzy; to the east snow and sleet shut out our progress. Perhaps five miles of shore bare and forbidding remained to us. If we could but find Batuum’s shrouded entrance within that five miles, all would be well, yet thrice had we striven and failed. Somehow my optimistic spirit failed to respond to the occasion. In the meantime every minute was cutting our five miles of open coast line—aye, and cutting it down fast, for the storm was shutting in from both sides and from the sea as well.

The steel steamer was overtaken by the great bank of snow and sleet and disappeared from our view, and I might add from our thoughts, for we had troubles of our own.

The crew were running about frantically. Half of them were on the bridge waving their arms and evidently abusing the skipper. I walked back in disgust and stood by the companion-way that led down into my little saloon and, leaning against the towing post, just aft, I looked across the sea. Morris followed me and for a moment stood silent. He smiled faintly and then murmured:

“Merry Christmas, sir.” And we both laughed, only it was not such a hearty laugh as one generally associates with the day.

There was nothing to do but wait. There seemed no alternative.

What a way to end up! We looked at the rocks and then at the sea, and I wondered what the sensations would be.

Christmas! It seemed almost providential that I had made the effort the day before and got off my message for home. It would be my last word! It seemed hard to realize that it actually was Xmas. I looked at my watch. It was almost the exact hour that they would be having their Christmas tree, away back across the ocean.

“Morris,” I said, “this looks like the end to me. How does it strike you?”

He did not look at me as he replied so low as barely to be audible, “Yes, sir; it looks pretty bad to me, too.”

I looked at him curiously and wondered how he really felt behind that black face of his.

“Morris,” I said again after a moment, “how do you feel about death, anyway?”

He looked at me and then he looked at the sea, and smiled faintly as he answered:

“Well, sir, the water looks cold to me.”

At that moment there was a break in the clouds. Oh, such a little break! Out of it fell a mere handful of sunlight, as rays fall into a darkened room when the blinds are thrown open. The clear, transcendent shafts fell across the waters like a message from heaven, and suddenly there was a shout on the bridge, echoed by every member of the crew that was on deck.

From the whiteness of the hillside, just on our beam, there stood out a golden spot, that seemed no larger than a five dollar gold piece. For a moment it flashed like fire against the white. Then as quickly as it had come it dissolved from view.

It was the dome on the Greek church in Batuum.

The sun for just that tiny space had turned its brazen cupola to liquid light that marked for us the haven of our seeking.

Thirty minutes later we anchored behind the breakwater, and a mountain slid from off our souls.