We Find Turmoil in the Caucasus but Celebrate Christmas in Spite of Storm and Stress

It was a close shave for us all that Christmas morning, for in another hour the storm broke in all its fury, and the site of the breakwater was only discernible by the dashing of the spray above it as the great waves rushing in from the sea broke against it until it seemed as though even the masonry must give before the weight of wind and water and leave us in the open once more. Of the steel steamer we had seen the last, for she, less fortunate than the France, was shut in by the storm, and that very afternoon was driven on the rocks a total wreck, though we knew it not until days later when we reached the Golden Horn and the pigmy France, with her two hundred odd tons register, was ordered back to try and make what she could out of the salvage of her big 2500-ton steel sister, that had come to such a bitter end within a few miles of the haven that we had scuttled into that morning.

However, a miss is as good as a mile, and indeed where danger is concerned far better, for one always has that exhilaration of having come through a tight hole, which in itself seems worth the price of admission. Never was there a more enthusiastic crew, and one more replete in the true Christmas spirit than the little handful that beamed cheerfully on the Customs Officer as he came aboard that morning.

The tedious examination which always comes in Russia now ensued more rigorously than ever before. Every locker was pried open in search of bombs or some evidence of some evil intent. The only high light of the occasion was a dispute that one of the examining officers fell into with one of his subordinates. The object of contention was my innocent typewriter sitting on the saloon table. The man with the gold lace and sword was insisting that it was a musical instrument, and as such should be carefully put in bond during our stay in port, as it appears that there is some strange law involving a heavy tax on a number of useful articles that might help the inhabitants of the Caucasus to wile away the time. Next our gorgeously uniformed official tumbled over a case of champagne in one of the lockers. He at once called for seals with which to close up the locker until we departed, as it seemed that drinks too were not to be landed without a tax. I explained patiently in German that these drinks were not for introduction into the Caucasus, but were brought along purely for local consumption. But my explanations were objected to as unworthy of comment and the seals were promptly produced. I explained to the officer that it was Christmas, and that we wanted the wine for our dinner. After much deliberation he admitted that we should have a little refreshment under the circumstances, but decided that one quart of champagne would be all that was good for us. Fancy! Four men, and on Christmas day, too! And the worst of all from a Russian! However, we assented, as Stomati, the ever faithful cook, had whispered that it mattered not for he knew a sliding panel in the back of the locker provided for just such exigencies, so with an easy conscience we watched the red wax and seal being placed on our supply of cheer.

In the meantime I was told, as usual, that I could not leave the boat, and on coming on deck found two bayoneted sentinels marching up and down the decks, just to show that the order meant business. But while I was arguing my case with the officer in charge, a boat, rowed by four uniformed sailors, came alongside. It was the American Vice Consul Stuart, who, seeing the big American ship’s flag flying at the fore, had started out as soon as we had anchored. We nearly embraced on the deck. At least, I did, for it was good to see someone from a civilized land, though I learned that Stuart was an Englishman and only acting consul. He seemed glad to see us, and stated that it was the first American flag that he had seen in behind the breakwater during the eighteen years that he had been in Batuum, an interesting if somewhat depressing bit of information to an American who likes to feel that his country’s flag is at least known by sight in all quarters of the globe.

The consul at Trebizond had given me some grouse to present to Stuart, and after these had been thoroughly investigated and passed upon by the examiner, a permit was given for them to be passed. Stuart evidently had a strong pull with the government, for he quickly arranged with the officer that the sentries were to be withdrawn, and that I and any member of my crew might come and go at our own sweet will. After the dreary inspection was over, my newly acquired friend came down and took lunch with us, and little by little I drew from him fragments of that crazy quilt of actions and counter-actions, assassinations and executions, revolutions and suppressions that in Russia masquerade under the name of current politics.

From a newspaper point of view, the situation was full of interest. No correspondent had been here for weeks, and as the cables were long since out of commission, the cream of it was mine. What I learned in effect in the hour or two that I talked with my guest was that from the Black Sea to the Caspian the entire Caucasus was in a state of convulsion, revolution and anarchy. Street fighting and incendiarism had been rampant in practically all of the cities, both large and small. Only a few days before a mob had been dispersed by machine guns and Cossacks in the streets of Batuum. The latter had become quite lawless, and it was the custom to kill any suspicious character first and investigate afterwards. If the aforesaid killed character proved on investigation to be a reputable citizen—well, then the joke was on him. Anyway, he ought to have stayed at home where he belonged, instead of roaming about the streets like a common Armenian. The latter, by the way, are always the red rag to the government bull, anywhere in this region, and the motto might be well adopted, “When in doubt, kill a few Armenians,” just as one takes a dose of quinine when one gets wet. I gathered that Armenianitis had been having quite a run in Batuum about this time. Not because they were specially offensive just now, but just for luck. Street fighting in Russia is as well recognized a stage of revolution as an increased temperature and a quickened pulse is in typhoid fever. The cure is usually Cossacks and machine guns in hourly doses until improvement is noticed. This street fighting rarely means much except that people are voicing a long repressed sentiment of resentment and finally march in irresponsible bodies and are promptly dispersed with heavy losses. The Russian officers get medals, the dead are buried, and all moves on much as before. This was much what happened in Batuum the week before my arrival. A lot of poor ignorants had been killed. The town was in a state of siege, and people were being murdered in the name of the law every day. Poti (the port we had aimed at and been turned back) was filled with armed revolutionists, who were said to be well organized and preparing to move on Batuum, which was the then center of Russian military strength in the Caucasus. Tiflis, up the railroad line (which had stopped running), was rent with strife and was the stage on which the Armenians and the Tartars were fighting over some involved question among themselves. For a month before these same two peaceful races had been tearing Elizabethpol (a town in the interior) into small fragments with their perpetual fights. Our town was full of refugees, who were stiff with lurid details. It was generally believed that Russian agents had started these inter-race troubles, always at fever heat, to prevent both from combining against Russia. The Armenians and Tartars are always ready to fly at one another’s throats at two minutes’ notice. It was quiet for the moment in Baku, but, as my informant advised me, the lull was merely temporary, as they were gathering energy there for another spasm of fighting. The railroad strike had crippled business and almost extinguished the remaining spark of commercial vitality left in the storm-tossed country. Trains were being run by the revolutionists simply to help their own plans of mobilization. As I wrote in my cable, the general situation was complex. Practically every town in the Caucasus was a situation peculiar only to itself. From Tiflis to the Black Sea the dominating factor was the attitude of the Georgians, who were rebels rather than revolutionists. They were divided into many parties, each of which had aims and ideas that would require a chapter to describe. Some wanted absolute independence, while other factions were aiming at reforms only. All had stopped paying taxes, and the police were absolutely helpless and asked only to be let alone. The Georgians were openly defying these dejected officers of the law, and their boasted strength of 8000 organized men within a radius of forty miles of Batuum made their bluff (if indeed it was one) hold good. It was reported that the authorities at Tiflis were going to try and reopen the line of the railroad by force. The revolutionists replied to this that twenty-four hours after such an attempt should be made the railroad in the Caucasus would be non-existent; in other words, that they would blow it into small pieces. The situation was really depressing to the Russians.

All of these events have long since ceased to be of vital interest, and the semblance of peace and tranquillity have been restored, and once more the volcano which ever lies beneath the surface in that country of never ending turmoil is smoldering for the moment. It is not my intent to go into the history of the endless complications which were then rife further than the brief outline mentioned, as I merely wish to show the nature of the story which we had to gather.

Stuart advised me not to come ashore except unarmed, as he stated that during the past few days being armed had been considered sufficient provocation to administer instant death by the bands of Cossacks that patrolled the streets. Every morning bodies were found lying about in the snow—victims who had not given sufficiently good account of themselves to the half-drunken rowdies that roamed the streets under the name of Cossack patrols.

The storm was raging without, and so we decided to lie in the harbor until the sea had abated sufficiently for me to get some coal barges alongside to replenish our bunkers.

At three that afternoon we went ashore and had a splendid Xmas dinner with the Consul and absorbed the details and the atmosphere of the remarkable conditions that were the sole topic of conversation among the guests, each of whom had personal experiences and ghastly details to add to what I had already learned.

So interesting was the occasion that I had about made up my mind to accept my new friend’s invitation to spend the night ashore to meet some other people, when Morris, with tears in his eyes, begged me to return to the France for dinner, as he said he had a surprise for me. So I told him to have the boat at the landing place at seven that evening, and a few minutes after that hour I was in my little saloon on board the France.

It was a surprise! Morris met me at the foot of the companion-way wreathed in smiles, clad in my dress-suit, and my only clean white shirt. The fact that the trousers came up to his ankles, the sleeves almost to his elbows, and that each breath he took threatened to burst the back from the shoulders down, and that the collar he had squeezed into was nearly choking him to death, in no way seemed to diminish his keen enjoyment of the idea that he was the perfect representation of the most ideal of butlers. For a moment I was annoyed, for somehow one’s dress clothes seem to be too sacred for promiscuous distribution. But his delight was so apparent and his anticipation of my pleasure in his transformation was so genuine that I had not the heart to spoil his little surprise.

Our little table was elaborately set for eight, with carefully prepared menu-cards at each plate. Four sad-looking strangers were seated in a melancholy row on a sofa and the captain and the two engineers, who had been obviously scrubbed, grinned sheepishly as I came in.

Morris, fairly knocking his heels together in sheer delight, swept a profound obeisance and in a ringing voice announced, “Christmas dinner is served, your honor!”

Well, I was surprised and no mistake!

“Who are these men in the corner, Morris?” I inquired.

“Well, sir,” he replied, “I don’t just know exactly much about them, but it did not seem quite the thing to have Xmas dinner with just old man Gileti and the engineers, so these gentlemen, sir, are some that I found ashore to fill in, sir. I am sure you will find them quite satisfactory.”

Perhaps I sighed a little inwardly, but I am sure I showed no outward emotion as I welcomed the shy and reticent quartette on the sofa. Morris had literally “stood by like steel” every minute of the voyage and this was his occasion, and I was bound that my appreciation should not be lacking.

It really was a wonderful dinner.

The faithful Morris as I then learned had been surreptitiously laying in the wherewithal for this banquet at every port. A young live pig at Sulina Mouth, a goose at Sinope, some birds at Trebizond and heaven only knows what besides. With the back panel of the sealed locker carefully slid out we tapped our liquid refreshment and in very truth the dinner proved a great success. Even the imported guests cheered up and by the end of the banquet were drinking toasts to me, the Chicago Daily News, to Morris, aye, and even unto the fat live pig, alive no longer, alas.

It was midnight when we wound up and sent our guests ashore and ourselves turned in for the night after a day perhaps the most varied in experience that I have ever lived through.