We left Erzeroum on the road to Bitlis in sleighs, roughly constructed from unplaned trunks of trees, which we exchanged for saddle-horses at the first station we stopped at.

Shortly after leaving Erzeroum all vestige of roads whatsoever vanished from our ken, and when we came up with a river—for instance, the Tigris, here called the Murad Su or Black Water—it was always a case of being obliged to ford across, for whatever bridges we saw were in ruins. Neither tree, shrub, nor verdure of any kind met the eye—a perfect wilderness, a country in which, as the Germans say, “the foxes bid good-night to each other, as there is nothing to be got for any of them.”

Our Armenian cook Migirditch proved a treasure, more indispensable to us, as it turned out, than our doctor, whose services, fortunately, neither Dr. Hepworth nor I culled into requisition during the whole of our journey. This man would gallop alone ahead and reach our evening’s destination long before us; for our usual rate of progress could scarcely have exceeded three to four miles an hour. Thus we had not to wait when we arrived, but found a well-prepared meal ready for us. How he managed to find his way when there were no visible roads remains a mystery to me to this day. Altogether, the efficiency, the general readiness of this man, the only one of our party who had a notion how to prepare food in European fashion, furnished an excellent illustration of the adaptability of the Armenians. It helped to explain and justify their ambition to rise in the world out of their easy-going surroundings. Indeed, it is only fair to state that throughout our whole journey the Armenians were the only section of the population which seemed to be at all imbued with Carlyle’s gospel of work; which tends to explain their unpopularity with the Turks on economic grounds.

We were not destined to see much of the fauna of the country, which is said to consist of panthers, wolves, hyÆnas, and many species of the feathered tribe, including buzzard and blackcock. Birds of prey we saw in plenty, hovering in the air above us, chiefly vultures, the presence of which was easily to be explained by the occasional carcasses of dead horses and camels we passed on our way. One day a soldier of our escort shot an eagle. It was only winged when it fell, and thus maimed, the soldier brought it into the shed in which we were lying, where it fluttered about, beating its wings. It was not a pleasant sight to see the noble bird, the emblem of imperial power, being beaten to death in our presence.

On our way we had a striking opportunity of witnessing the pride and attachment the Turks feel towards their family, however humble it may be. Some days after leaving Erzeroum we noticed an old man in peasant costume riding along with us over hill and dale through the snow. He wore pointed slippers and looked like some fierce Saracen chief of old. When we halted for the night, Sirry Bey asked us if we would come over into his shed. He wished us to make the acquaintance of his uncle, who was the old peasant referred to, and who had ridden quite alone from his homestead, many miles away, to meet our party. It was a touching sight to see the pride with which Sirry Bey introduced us to his kinsman. He himself boasted the title of Excellency, and was one of the secretaries of the Sultan, coming direct from the Palace in Constantinople, with all the prestige which this fact carries in the eyes of the inhabitants of the provinces, to whom “Cospoli” (Constantinople) and the Sultan are only second in importance to Mecca and the Kaaba; and yet he took a back seat in the presence of the old peasant, his uncle, and thus his senior in the family. It did one’s heart good to see the pleasure with which he introduced us to the old man. We were told by our doctor that when Sirry Bey first met his uncle on the road he embraced him and kissed his hands in token of deference to his age, and to the higher standing in the family given him as uncle in comparison with the nephew.

Our journey through Anatolia also brought us an unforgettable instance of the unselfish fidelity of a Turkish police officer. On starting from Erzeroum he was deputed by the Vali to look after us day and night, to devote himself especially to the care of Dr. Hepworth and myself during our journey from Erzeroum towards Bitlis, as a sacred trust. And faithfully indeed did he carry out his mission. He never let us out of his sight: he brought us in the early morning the water heated over the charcoal fire of the mangal to make our cocoa, helped us on to the horses’ backs on starting, forded the river in front of us to make sure we should have a safe crossing, rode by our side until we arrived at our destination, and often lay down beside us at night. One evening we were told that he was due to return to Erzeroum next morning. We called him into the shed in which Dr. Hepworth and myself were to pass the night. In addition to handing him a letter for Reouf Pasha thanking him for the excellent service his officer had rendered us, we offered him a little purse filled with Turkish gold. It was a poignant spectacle to see this poor fellow, whose miserable pay was probably months in arrear, positively refuse to accept anything from us but the letter in which we had borne testimony to his fidelity. There was mental distress in his manner and in the tone of his voice: he, who had probably never in his life handled as much gold as that we offered him, pleading that he could not accept it. “No, no,” he cried out; “you have given me the letter saying you are satisfied that I have done my duty.” Though Dr. Hepworth was case-hardened by thirty years of American journalism, I saw tears glisten in his eyes.

One day a Turkish colonel rode over from Bayazid, the furthest eastern Turkish frontier station, situated at the foot of the Ala Dagh (10,000 feet high), where he was in command, to bid us welcome to those distant parts. No small feat of horsemanship was this journey for him—over a pathless mountain range through the snow, into which his horse sank at times up to the belly. He was a splendid example of the strong, pure-bred Turanian Turk, equal to any amount of fatigue and exposure. For though we were in the midst of winter, and the distance he had come could have been scarcely less than a two days’ ride on horseback, he wore no mantle over his uniform, which barely covered his chest from the piercing blast. He was, besides, what would justly be termed a “jolly good fellow.” His saddle trappings, pistol holsters, dagger, and belt were of silver, beautifully inlaid with black and gold—the finest specimens of so-called Circassian, but in reality Armenian, workmanship that I had ever seen, even in the bazaar of Constantinople. Responding to our expressions of admiration, he pressed us to accept the belt and dagger as souvenirs. This we declined to do, as we did not see how we could make him any return. But so determined was he in his generous intentions that he left the articles on my camp-bed, where I found them in the evening. But even then I felt I could not accept such a princely gift from a stranger, and next morning, with Sirry Bey’s assistance, I prevailed upon him to take them back.

It was on this section of our journey that we passed through several Circassian villages. The Circassians are a most interesting race, inasmuch as it has hitherto been impossible to discover their relationship to any other Asiatic race; their origin is also unknown beyond the fact that they inhabited the shores of the Black Sea and the Sea of Azov before the Christian era. Their country was ceded to Russia in 1829 by the Peace of Adrianople, but the repressive measures they were subjected to in wars in the Caucasus led to 300,000 out of a total of 400,000 seeking refuge in Turkey, where they have since lived in separate communities, some of which we passed through. They are reputed to be physically the finest race of men and women in these parts, probably in all Asia. From them are drawn many of the stalwart guards to be seen in the Imperial palaces at Constantinople and St. Petersburg, as well as some of the finest women in the harems of the Sultan and the wealthy pashas. The men we saw certainly bore out their reputation for fine physique. Many of them were well over six feet in height, with remarkably fine features, well-shaped hands, and the smallest feet I have ever seen with such stature. They were dressed in the well-known Circassian costume, with rows of cartridges on either breast and long daggers peeping out of their girdles. They received us with stately hospitality, but are in general credited with being crafty and treacherous.

What with the desolate nature of the country, hardly a soul being met on the road in a whole day’s journey, and the wretched character of our nightly accommodation, this section of our journey included our roughest experiences. The wildness of the conditions was brought home to us in an unpleasant manner by the fierceness of the huge dogs in the villages. They had to be kept at bay with drawn swords by our escort.

We were now well into the mountain fastnesses of Kurdistan—a fact revealed to us by the ever-increasing escort of Kurdish horsemen that joined our cavalcade: a motley gathering of fierce-looking men armed to the teeth, dressed in their national costume, the head covered with a black hood which gave them a peculiarly demoniac appearance. They bade us a kindly welcome to their villages and underground dwellings.

Before we left Constantinople, my friend Ahmed Midhat Effendi had given me a letter written in Turkish characters which he said would ensure us a kindly welcome in every part of the Sultan’s dominions. So indeed it turned out to be on different occasions, notably one evening when we halted in a Kurdish village and passed the night in the underground dwelling of a chieftain. We squatted down on the floor in a circle, when Colonel Rushti Bey brought out Midhat Effendi’s letter, the careful calligraphy of which called forth the admiration of those present, and read its contents out aloud. Therein was set forth how the proprietor of one of the greatest journals in the world, moved by a noble impulse to see that justice was done to the Osmanli, had sent “two fearless, impartial, and, above all, learned men of letters to see things as they were with their own eyes, and to report thereon to the outer world.” It was quite an impressive spectacle to see these men of supposed lawless proclivities listening devoutly to the description of our mission therein set forth, to champion the truth against the slander of the “Frank,” ignorant of the justice of the Turkish cause. As each sentence was read out in a clear, sympathetic voice, the interest of the audience grew visibly, until at the close, as with one voice, those present ejaculated in unison, “May Allah bless and protect them!” It was an impressive scene in its simplicity and evident sincerity.

Early the next morning, when we departed, our hosts declined to take any payment for their hospitality; on the other hand, they pressed us to accept presents from them—daggers and belts richly inlaid with silver and gold ornamentation, even a horse each to Dr. Hepworth and myself. All these we declined, but I could not refuse the skin of a bear which the chief himself had killed with his dagger in a regular “hand to paw” encounter, as we were assured. It served as a rug in my study for years afterwards. Even when we left, the kindliness of our hosts was not exhausted, for a number of Kurds accompanied us for a long distance on horseback—an attention which was extended to us right through that part of the country wherever we stopped. This escort grew sometimes to such dimensions that on occasions we were accompanied by several hundred horsemen, most of whom belonged to the irregular force of cavalry known by the name of HamidiÈ, already referred to. They rode ahead of us, galloped in circles round us, shouting lustily and firing off their rifles and otherwise demonstrating the festive frame of mind into which the visit of the Padishah’s representatives among his unruly vassals had plunged them. The further we penetrated into the country the more numerous became the native escort which joined and followed us from station to station amid lively demonstrations of good feeling.

One morning, on emerging from the underground mud hut in which we had passed the night as guests of a Kurdish chief, we caught a glimpse of Mount Ararat, towering 17,000 feet out of the clouds in front of us. According to our map this marked the most easterly point of our itinerary, and Mount Ararat can scarcely have been less than forty miles away from us. Our own elevation must have been about 6000 to 7000 feet above the level of the sea; this circumstance, together with the clearness of the atmosphere, enabled us to make out the outline of the giant mountain quite distinctly a long way down to its base. For, unlike all the other mountains we saw on our journey, Mount Ararat stands by itself, rising in the form of a single cone from the plain.

In the further course of our journey, not far from Bitlis we caught a glimpse of Lake Van to our left. Indeed, we almost skirted its shores, though it lay beneath us covered with ice and snow. The lake is situated about 5000 feet above sea-level: thus our own altitude must have been considerably more.

Bitlis is on the caravan road from Erzeroum to Mosul, about ten miles to the south-west of Lake Van on about the same level, namely, 5000 feet, on the banks of the Tigris, with about 39,000 inhabitants. We stayed at the konak of the Governor in the centre of the town, on an elevation which was formerly a fortress, at the foot of which the usual Oriental bazaar stretches through several narrow streets. Bitlis has belonged to the Turks since 1514, when it was occupied by Sultan Selim I. Here we were once more in touch with civilization by means of the post office and a telegraph station, and spent a few days interviewing different people—an English Vice-Consul, some missionaries and Armenians—and choosing horses for the continuation of our journey on horseback to Diarbekir, which took several days and passed without incident.

Diarbekir lies on the Tigris, which is spanned by an old stone bridge, across which we rode, the river itself being navigable only for rafts. Situated nearly 2000 feet above sea-level, the ancient fortress of Diarbekir has an interesting history. At one time a Roman colony, it became the see of a Christian bishop in A.D. 325. Enlarged by the Emperor Constantine in the fourth century, it was conquered and devastated by Timur in 1373 and fell under Turkish sway in the year 1513, when, like Bitlis, it was taken by Sultan Selim I. To-day Diarbekir is much diminished in size and importance, but still possesses about 34,000 inhabitants, twenty mosques, an Armenian school, and a bazaar, in which, however, there was nothing of interest to be seen. There were only three European residents when we came to Diarbekir: an old Franciscan monk, a French Vice-Consul, and an English Consul, Mr. Alexander Waugh, now British Consul in Constantinople. This gentleman bade us a warm welcome, and his hospitality, notably the meals we partook of at his house, one of which was our Christmas dinner, formed the one bright recollection in the dreary record of our stay. The versions given us by Turks and Armenians of what had occurred in connexion with the Armenian disturbances differed little from those we had already heard elsewhere: that the troubles were brought about in the first instance by revolutionary activity, that the authorities had lost their heads, and that finally the population had got out of hand and had joined in an indiscriminate massacre of Armenians, innocent and guilty.

Our further journey from Diarbekir was also devoid of any incident, and on the evening of December 31 we rode into the picturesque old town of Biredschik, and were quartered in a fairly comfortable konak.

Biredschik is situated about 600 feet above sea-level, on the left bank of the Euphrates, which is navigable here for boats of considerable size. It is surrounded by a fairly preserved wall, protected by a castle built on rocks. Biredschik is the most renowned of the places, known to both the Romans and the Seleucides, which were used for crossing the Euphrates, a purpose for which Biredschik has been much in use down to the present day. It numbers several thousand Armenians among its inhabitants. Here we saw the New Year in, and started next morning for Aintab, crossing the Euphrates, which is here very broad, with our saddle-horses, in large shallow-bottomed pontoon-boats. The country offered a marked contrast to that which we had hitherto traversed. For whereas we had not seen a tree for weeks together, or a road of any kind for an even longer period, here we suddenly found ourselves among groves of olive-trees and fig-trees, besides other indications of a Southern clime—an agreeable change from the treeless wilderness we had passed through ever since we left Erzeroum.

Not far from Biredschik we rode past Nisib, a village noteworthy through the battle of that name (June 24, 1839), in which the Turks under Hafis Pasha were signally defeated by the Egyptians under Ibrahim Pasha. The renowned Moltke, then a plain Prussian captain, was a looker-on with the Turks on this occasion, and it is said that they owed their defeat to having neglected his advice in the disposition of the troops in that battle.

Our road now took us through a flat country, and our spirits rose under the improved conditions. At mid-day we used to make a halt, tie up the horses, light a fire, and take an improvised lunch in the open. One day we rested beside a stream on the opposite bank of which one of the soldiers had placed a winebottle as a target. The Sultan had presented us each with a revolver on starting, and our Turkish escort were firing away with them at random, without, however, “driving the centre.” Dr. Hepworth and I stood aside, looking on somewhat amused, which made the situation rather awkward when Sirry Bey suggested we should join in and have a shot. This, however, we hesitated to do, for the good reason that we had previously tested our revolvers on board ship and found that we could not hit a haystack with them. Finally, Dr. Hepworth also urged me to try my luck; so, not wishing to appear churlish, I took a haphazard aim, and, to my intense surprise, down came the bottle. The others were much impressed, and begged me to repeat the exploit. This, however, I firmly declined to do, preferring to leave them under the impression of my dexterity. Few things struck me more forcibly on that journey than the lack of practice with firearms right through this supposed warlike population. We never came across a single rifle-range on the whole of our journey, and on one occasion when we attended an improvised shooting competition among the Kurds their marksmanship was of a very inferior order, and the behaviour of the competitors so excited that I gained the impression they might resent anybody excelling them at their sport.

We had met few horsemen since we left the land of the Kurds; but after Biredschik they again appeared on the scene. Now, however, they were Syrians, men in white flowing garments—bournous—resembling the Arab costumes familiar through Schreyer’s pictures of Algerian life, wielding spears of twelve to fifteen feet in length. They gave us an equally warm reception, and, like the Kurds, accompanied us for hours on our way.

The rest of our journey to Aintab was now plane-sailing. The road was tolerable and the traffic such as gave evidence of some degree of commercial activity. We counted over 1200 camels laden with merchandise which we passed in one day.

Aintab is a town of some 20,000 inhabitants, and they are made up of Greek and Armenian Christians and Kurdish Mohammedans in about equal numbers. It is the capital of the Syrian vilayet, and is situated on the River Sadjur, a tributary of the Euphrates. Like Biredschik, Aintab includes an old mountain fortress, which was already known at the time of the Crusades—when it was taken by Saladin, and again in the year 1400 by Timur the Tartar. To-day it is the seat of wool and cotton manufactures, a commercial depot of leather, cloth, honey, and tobacco.

At Aintab we changed our mode of travelling for the last time; for we disposed of our saddle-horses and proceeded to the coast in the same type of tumble-down conveyance as that in which we left Trebizond. Dr. Hepworth was very sorry to part with his sure-footed little grey mount, which had carried him from Bitlis without a single mishap or stumble. Altogether our experience of the Anatolian horse was one to be remembered with gratitude: never seeming to tire, tractable, docile, and sure-footed as a goat, this breed of horse, which is to be found throughout the Turkish Empire, is truly a friend of man. It is the only horse I have ever known which stands at the bidding of its master for hours together without being tied up. Also, I never once saw a horse treated unkindly during the whole of our journey.

The monotony of riding day by day on horseback at a snail’s pace for weeks in silence, from early dawn till sunset, over an endless succession of undulating roadless hills and vales, with occasional spells of dreadful jolting in springless carts and carriages, had told on our spirits. Thus we all had good cause to rejoice over our arrival at Alexandretta. The sight of the sea once more, as from a high ridge of hills we first beheld the blue waters of the Mediterranean, after passing nearly two months in a wild, almost treeless and pathless country, was a thrilling sensation. Cut off from all the comforts of civilization, which lifelong usage causes us to take as a matter of course, their true value came home to us. Dr. Hepworth involuntarily recalled the famous episode in Xenophon’s “Retreat of the Ten Thousand” where the Greeks at last greeted the sea—in their case, the Black Sea—with the cry: “Thalassa! Thalassa!”

Here, for the first time since leaving Trebizond, we beheld an inn. We were shown into a bedroom and were delighted to see what we had gone without for so long, and thus learned to appreciate as a luxury—a bed, a water-jug, a washing-basin, a table, and a chair.

Founded by Alexander the Great, Alexandretta is picturesquely situated, but otherwise a poor place, bearing all the signs of Oriental neglect; even the harbour, at which various steamers call, looked deserted and dilapidated. The town itself is surrounded on the land side by swamps, to the fever-breeding character of which the many white gravestones in the large cemetery seemed to offer eloquent testimony, inasmuch as the place has only about 1500 inhabitants. Thus the European colony gives it a wide berth, for its members reside ten miles away in the pleasantly situated town of Beilan. The vegetation, however, is very rich, almost tropical in character: beautiful palms and giant cactus plants flourish in abundance.

In summarizing the incidents of our journey, which had now come to an end, our Hungarian doctor turned to Dr. Hepworth and myself and said: “Now that we are well out of it I think we can congratulate each other all round. For I do not mind telling you that there was hardly a day, or rather a night, on this terrible journey in which we were not exposed to the risk of catching smallpox or typhus.” At Erzeroum several of us had been vaccinated, by the advice of the British Consul, though it was only with the greatest difficulty that lymph above suspicion was procured in the town.

Another, and by no means a trifling, danger which we luckily escaped was one which had been foretold us in Constantinople as the most serious possibility of our journey, namely, snowstorms and heavy rains producing floods. Had we encountered either of them in an awkward place it might have delayed us for days, even for weeks, in a country without roads or bridges. Fortunately, we met with neither the one nor the other. During the whole eight weeks we were on the road it never rained, and only snowed now and then for short periods.

Shortly after leaving Erzeroum our leader, Sirry Bey, was taken seriously ill with an internal inflammation, which only yielded to the application of ice. On this account we were obliged to remain several days in a village on the road to Bitlis until he got better. But even then he had to be borne between two poles fastened to two horses. But for our Hungarian doctor he would probably have succumbed.

We were obliged to leave our Roumanian interpreter behind us in a hospital at Alexandretta, as he had contracted erysipelas in a Turkish bath at Erzeroum. This complaint developed into an infectious disease of a tuberculous character termed sycosis, which necessitated shaving off all the hair on his body. Thus afflicted he had accompanied us all the way, and we often had to put up with his sleeping on the ground close to us.

After staying a couple of days in Alexandretta and partaking of the hospitality of the United States Vice-Consul we embarked on board a steamer bound for Constantinople. During the uneventful voyage we had ample leisure to review the impressions gained on our expedition, some of which, though they are not free from sundry repetitions, I have jotted down in the following chapter.