We sail Away from Batuum with a Beat, Official Dispatches, Foreign Mails and a Boatload of Refugees That Keep Us Awake Nights

I had hoped to sail away from Batuum the day after Christmas, but so fierce was the storm that it was impossible to take on coal. All this day and well into the next the roar of the sea on the breakwater sounded in our ears like a never-ending bombardment of big guns. Not in the memory of the oldest inhabitant had such a furious tempest raged within the harbor. Even the buildings along the shore were in danger and the beautiful little yacht clubhouse, a fraction of a mile above the port, was completely carried away by the great waves that broke beyond their accustomed bounds and crushed the frail structure as though it had been but a house of cards. But there is an end of all things and on the morning of the third day the wind abated and only the heavy swell that surged without in the winter sunshine was left to tell the tale of wreck and devastation that had swept the coast during the past days.

By ten o’clock I had two barges of coal alongside and a double crew at work passing baskets over the side and emptying them into the bunker holes in the deck. It was vile stuff that we were getting and the engineer fairly tore his hair as he saw the little better than dust being poured into his bunkers.

“She will never make steam on that rubbish,” he kept crying again and again. Yet it was all that there was in Batuum and we had to take it or leave it. So we took it and at war prices at that. It certainly was a scandal and it broke my heart to pay out fifteen dollars a ton for stuff that in any other market would have gone begging at three dollars. But there was no alternative, so we took it, paid out our Rodwaner gold and smiled.

By noon we were fairly well stocked and ready to put to sea. Then there came to my mind the cable that I had sent not only to my paper but also to the American Embassy at Constantinople. “I propose to bring off American refugees,” they had read. I had talked the matter over with Stuart and it appeared that the only Americans there were Armenians (nationalized in name only) and they for the most part declined to be deported, not even to help me to live up to my cables. I called Morris and explained the situation to him. American refugees was what the contract called for, but lacking the letter of my cable we would have to fill in with any kind of refugees that the market offered. I told him to go ashore and make the necessary arrangements and to pass the word around that we were sailing that very afternoon at four o’clock. In the meantime I ordered up the “Blue Peter” to the foremast head that all ashore might know that we proposed to depart that day for the world that lay without. I went ashore and had lunch with Stuart, who introduced me to a number of the consuls of the Powers that were represented in Batuum, all of whom were eager to get word out to their governments. By three that afternoon I had packages of official dispatches, inscribed in impressive terms and sealed authoritatively, consigned to the governments of Austria, Holland, America and Great Britain, while a fair-sized sack was required to hold the mail that poured in upon us.

Stuart could not leave his office and I bade him farewell at his desk, accepting his cheery promise to “look me up” in America at an early planned visit to my country. Little did either of us think that ere a month would pass an assassin’s bullet would cut him down in the very prime of his life. Yet so it was. I read a few weeks later in the European press my good, kind, cheery friend was shot from ambush by some unknown man, even as he was entering the door of his house. An excellent man was Stuart and a public servant true to his trust in time of trouble; so true, in fact, that in the execution of his official duties he had encountered the opposition of some discontent in that seething vortex, who had availed himself of the cure of all evils in that wild country—assassination. A bare line or two announced his death and he was forgotten. Yet this man was in his way as much of a martyr to his duty as any soldier who falls gloriously in battle.

I made my way down to the landing place that afternoon with my dispatches and the bag of mail. On the pier alongside of which bobbed the little ship’s boat of the France a great crowd was gathered. To me there seemed to be at least five hundred. And such a collection! Every race and nationality that a nightmare might conjure up. Armenians, Georgians, Turks, Jews, Persians, Russians from the Caucasus, Tartars and a dozen other races that resembled nothing that I had ever beheld. Each had his own roll of filthy baggage, mostly done up in sacks. Never had I in my life seen such an heterogeneous gathering nor such an assemblage of men that looked so utterly desperate and woebegone. It took me five minutes to work my way through the mass to the stairs where my boat lay. Morris was there swearing and arguing with the mob that was crowding about him yelling and entreating all at the same time. It sounded like the tumult one hears in the parrot house at the Zoo.

I jumped into my boat and called to the crew to “give way” for the France. As soon as I could make my voice heard above the din I asked Morris what in the world it all meant anyway. I nearly fainted when he told me. They were my refugees! Not less than half a thousand, each with his heart set on escape from the country. Their plight was pitiful indeed, for the bulk of them had come from burning villages with only what they could carry in their hands. Driven from place to place they had finally landed in Batuum, which they found the worst of all, what between warring factions and the brutal soldiery, who chased them about the streets like sheep. Morris had done his work too well. It appeared that he had been to every shipping agent and had notices posted up that the France was leaving that very day and would carry refugees out of the Caucasus free of charge. No wonder the mob was on the pier! Morris was in high feather and fairly clicking his teeth with sheer delight. “Yes, sir,” he said, “this is our busy day, sir! There hasn’t been a minute since I came back from shore this noon that Monroe D. Morris hasn’t been attending strictly to business. We are sure going to carry The Mails this trip, sir, and carry them right!” and he took me down in the little saloon where he had hung up a row of gunny sacks. Above them was a crudely printed notice: “Mails Close at 3:30 p. m. to-day.” On each sack was a separate placard which read “Constantinople Mail,” “Russian Mail,” “Trebizond Mail,” etc., on down the line of bags. Much to my surprise each of the bags was pretty well filled and more was coming in every few minutes.

But in the meantime I had to decide about our refugees who were still roaring in the distance, not clearly understanding whether they were to be abandoned entirely or not. I called the skipper and asked him how many we could possibly carry. As a matter of fact there was no room for any save on the deck and in the chain locker forward, as our own crew filled the balance of the France’s very small accommodations. We made an inspection and finally decided that we might stretch our space to hold thirty. Stomati the cook, armed with his seven languages, was sent off in the boat to pick out thirty likely-looking refugees. I instructed him to accept none without passports, which at once cut the total down about half. When the crowd on shore heard that only thirty could go there was a rush for the boat that nearly put the entire front rank into the sea. So after all there was not much of a chance to pick and choose and the boat brought off the first that came to hand, with their sacks and miscellaneous dunnage. Morris and Spero stood at the gangway inspecting passports and hustled the unaccepted passportless back into the boat to be relanded. For an hour the little boat plied back and forth until the France was alive with the human wrecks and their impedimenta.

In the meantime I was entertaining a few friends in my saloon who had come out to say good-by. By four in the afternoon our refugees were all aboard and our papers duly received from the port officials. The sun had gone under a cloud and a stiff wind was blowing in from the sea as with anchor up, we swung around the end of the breakwater, with long blasts from our deep-toned foghorn as a farewell to friends ashore. The flag on the American Consulate was dipped and some enthusiast on the roof let go both barrels of a shotgun, to which we replied by bending our own ensign. In fifteen minutes we were at sea and the top of the Greek Church, the only sign left to us of the little town, to which it had been the first to welcome us from the storm a few days before.

At nightfall we were pounding into a heavy sea that swept across us at every dip. Not that it made any difference to us but it did play the mischief with our refugees quartered out on the deck. The first sea to come aboard was greeted with yelps and squeals from the poor wretches we had undertaken to rescue. In a few minutes it became obvious that the deck would not serve at all and we began to look about us for shelter somewhere on board. Then I began to curse myself for a fool for loading myself and the France down with these thirty irresponsible nondescripts whose only effort to help themselves was to cling to the rails and scream piteously every time we took a sea. Besides this most of them were desperately seasick. Finally, however, we disposed of them in a way. When we had them packed away for the night there was not a spot on the boat that was not occupied, barring my own quarters, as I positively refused to introduce fifty-seven varieties of vermin (which did not have to be imagined) into my little cabin. Anyway I was afraid some of these disreputable creatures might steal what gold I had left from my coal deal in Batuum. In the engine room, stoke-hold, chain locker and on the grating above the boilers were packed refugees, like sardines in a box. As they began to steam and dry out with the heat I wished more than ever that I had let them remain to be eaten alive if need be by the gentle citizens of the Caucasus. About midnight it became very rough and a great fear seemed to seize one and all of my dear passengers. Every little while they would break out of their retreats and rush out on the deck under the impression that we were sinking. Then the first wave that swept us would soak them to the skin and with piercing howls they would scuttle back to the place where they belonged. All night long this kept up until for the first time I felt that shipwreck might not be such an unmixed evil after all. Any change would be preferable to this. By one a. m. I had decided that my refugees should start life anew at Trebizond, and that not one foot further should they go with me. They might get another boat from there if they so desired, but not the France! At daylight they began to beg for food and sat around the head of my companion-way like so many apes watching me eat my breakfast. Above my head were a dozen faces peering eagerly through the skylight. Finally I sent them all to the galley and ordered Stomati to give them breakfast.

At nine we anchored in Trebizond and I sighed with relief, for it seemed to me that my troubles with the refugee problem were over, if nothing else pleasant ever happened again.

After their rough night at sea mingled with fear and seasickness my passengers were as eager to disembark as we all were to get rid of them, and even before we anchored they were crowded at the gangway waiting to land. But alas! We had reckoned without our host! The rat-eyed governor saw a chance to display his authority. When I went ashore to arrange for relieving myself of the refugees he promptly replied that it could not be done. After an involved argument which accomplished nothing I appealed to the acting consul who lived on the bluff and accompanied by him and the missionary who lived in town, we made another assault on the potentate who was giving himself such airs. Finally he agreed to go out to the France and look over my importations. All of these negotiations had taken time and the refugees had become restless and anxious as to their fate and when they saw the governor’s boat with armed soldiers coming out toward them a panic seized them, or at least some of them, which I thought curious at the time, but saw a possible reason for before the day was over.

With as much dignity as though he had been the Sultan himself our dirty visitor climbed over the side and demanded that the men from the Caucasus be placed in line before him and show their passports. He evidently thought that he had me there, and that none would be forthcoming, for his face fell visibly when each and every one of the trembling wretches produced the frayed and filthy rags of paper from mysterious pockets in their garments. Some underling that belonged to the governor inspected the first passport and a long debate in Turkish ensued between the officials. The governor’s countenance brightened perceptibly and with great dignity he spoke to the consul and then turned around and glared at me, no doubt feeling my lack of reverence for his august person.

“What does he say?” I asked the consul impatiently, for I was anxious to be off.

“He says,” replied the consul, with just the shade of a deprecating smile, “that inasmuch as these passports have not been properly visÉd in Batuum, it will be quite impossible for him to allow them to land here. You should have had the Turkish representative there inspect and countersign all these papers.”

I was certainly indignant.

“Do you mean to say,” I retorted with some heat, “that he insists on a visÉ from a port that is in a state of siege with people being killed in the streets? These men don’t live in Batuum anyway and most of them have come from towns in the interior and barely escaped with their lives. Besides some of them actually live here in Trebizond!” My reply was translated but my expression did not need an interpreter. The governor distinctly had the upper hand and sneeringly replied that the situation in Batuum was not due to him and that he did not care a rap whether the town was in a state of siege or not. “No visÉ no landing” was his ultimatum. I asked him what he expected me to do with them, to which he shrugged his shoulders scornfully and prepared to leave. I was too angry to engage in further discussion and as I watched him go over the side an inspiration broke upon me. So I merely remarked politely that I would think the matter over and would advise him later as to my decision. This obviously did not please him as he apparently did not see where I had any particular decision coming my way. So he only growled a surly reply as he rowed away.

As soon as he was gone I called a council of war in my saloon and proposed my plan. I figured on sailing from Trebizond to the mouth of the Danube and thence back to Russia, and it was obvious that there would be no welcome to my passengers in either of these places. My idea was that we would say no more about it but make all of our preparations to depart and just before we weighed anchor put all our refugees in our two ship’s boats with their equipment of oars and just simply leave them in the harbor. If the governor wanted to keep them adrift there with no food—well, then that would be his affair and not mine. He could drown them if he thought best, once they were off my hands. No one but Morris sympathized with my project, but I was running the enterprise, and issued the ultimatum and went ashore to send a cable before leaving.

But once again my plans were changed for there was an urgent cable awaiting me from Chicago: “Return Constantinople give up France proceed quickest possible St. Petersburg investigate Witte’s charges against our correspondent there whom he asserts has misquoted him.” So here was my whole program upset once more and for the first time my scheme for marooning my passengers began to seem injudicious. I could make no excuse for disobeying the governor at Trebizond if my next call was to be at a Turkish port. I thought a minute and my pet project evaporated. I would take them to the Golden Horn. But to forestall difficulties there I cabled Mr. Peter Jay, then chargÉ at our Embassy in Constantinople, that I was coming with refugees and to arrange to have the authorities take delivery of same on my arrival. Then I went back to the landing. The missionary, who was a lovely man and sympathized strongly with me, had been pleading with the governor for the refugees. While that mighty man stood bashfully by playing coyly with his sword tassels, the missionary delicately intimated to me that his Excellency on account of his good impression of me and of his desire to oblige, would waive the formalities of the pass-port visÉs and allow the unfortunates to land if I could see my way clear to defray his trouble in the matter for the sum of five pounds sterling per refugee. The old swine! I was indignant! I told the missionary that he could tell his fat friend that I would see him sizzling first and that I was going straight back to Constantinople, where I knew a general who was close to the Sultan and I would stay there a month if necessary but I certainly intended to get him “fired” for a rotten old grafter. I could not speak his language and the missionary declined to translate—so I left. I am afraid the Turk never really knew all I thought of him, but he did know that his generous offer was turned down, for his face flushed crimson and he spun on his heel and went to his office. I decided not to wait for him to make another move and so I jumped into the boat and pulled for the France. As soon as I was within calling distance I shouted to the skipper to get up the anchor, and as I stepped over the side, her engines were already turning over and her nose coming around toward the sea. I had sent Morris directly from the cable office to buy food of the refugee type and we brought off a boatload of cabbages and green things which should keep them until we could put them ashore at Constantinople.

It was about nine-thirty that night as we were spinning merrily along over a fair sea, when the chief engineer came into my saloon. His face was like putty.

“What is wrong?” I asked with some apprehension, for he was the pluckiest of the lot.

For reply he threw on the table two large coils of fuses, the type one uses to set off a bomb or dynamite cartridges. I recognized them at once, for I had used the identical thing in a little dynamiting enterprise of my own a few years before.

“Where did these come from?” I asked sharply, looking at his white face.

“One of the stokers found them in the coal bunkers,” he replied quietly, and then added tensely, “and he nearly put them in the furnace with the coal.”

“Well, these are only fuses,” I said to reassure him. “They won’t do any thing but fizzle a bit.”

He smiled a bit sadly.

“Yes, I know that,” he replied, “but has it occurred to you that the man who carries fuses is apt to have the caps and the charge that they are meant to explode? And has it occurred to you that whoever put the fuse in the bunker probably put in the bomb as well? And has it occurred to you that at any moment they may go into the furnace by mistake with the coal? And has it occurred to you that when they do we will all go to Kingdom Come?”

This was certainly a new idea. No, it had not occurred to me at all. However, it did strike me as being a pertinent thought now that he spoke of it and I sat on the edge of my berth, with the shoe I had been removing still in my hand. Finally something else occurred to me as well and after a moment’s deliberation I replied, “You go right back to the stoke-hold, Chief, and explain the whole situation to the stokers. If they put a bomb in the furnace they will all be scalded to death beyond a shadow of a doubt. The rest of us have a chance to get away. Not a big one—but still it is a chance anyway. The stokers down there have not the most remote hope if they should make a blunder like that. Explain it carefully to them and then you go to bed. For it is my guess that under the circumstances they won’t put anything in the furnace to-night that does not bear a very decided resemblance to good black coal.”

The Chief thought a little and then went and did as I had suggested. In fifteen minutes he returned with the word that the day shift of stokers had turned out and, assisted by the balance of the crew not otherwise occupied, were making a careful personal inspection of every shovelful that went into the furnace. We both laughed a little and decided that we could safely turn in and sleep soundly.

But before I did so I called the skipper in for council. We talked it all over and decided that someone of our refugees had had the explosives on him and when we got into the row with the governor at Trebizond and it looked as though there were to be an examination of passengers, the guilty man had become panic stricken and, prying up the bunker lid on the deck, had dropped the damaging evidence against himself into the bunker, never doubting that he would be well ashore at Trebizond before the France was at sea again. He must also be passing a restless night knowing what was in the bunkers.

This time I was more than indignant!

It seemed a poor return for all the pains that I had taken in behalf of these wretched people. I called in Morris and told him that I wanted him to watch the refugees carefully from this time on, as I suspected that one of them at least, might be a desperate man, and the Lord only knew what he might be up to before we landed back in the Golden Horn.

“Now, Morris,” I told him, “I am going to assign you to watch these men just as carefully as you know how and if you see the slightest sign of a single one of them making any move which in your judgment is going to endanger the France and the lives of any of us I want you to shoot him on the spot!” And I gave him my big army Colt.

The black man’s face shone with excitement and his teeth gleamed, as he replied:

“Yes, sir; yes, sir. I’ll do just as you say, sir. And if I see anything suspicious, I’ll shoot him right through the head, sir,” and he went on deck to look for symptoms.

But it proved unnecessary. Whether anything more was in the bunkers or not we never knew. Suffice it to say that we did not blow up, but kept blithely on our way towards the mouth of the Bosphorus, whence we had steamed nearly two weeks before.