The next morning I went with my officers to pay an official call at our embassy. We landed at the Dolma Bagtche wharf, a spot that was to become as familiar to us as our own deck, and engaged two fezzed Levantines to drive us to the embassy in a battered Ford. The streets were crowded with every nationality under the sun; Turks, Russians, French, British, Italians, Greeks, and all the Near Eastern peoples. Everyone wore his national costume so it looked like a fancy dress ball. There were trams, on which the women passengers were segregated many of them being veiled. At the embassy we were met by a gorgeous person who we thought was at least a Turkish general but he turned out to be the kavass, or doorman. I had a pleasant talk with the chief of staff and learned that I was to have charge of all repairs to the ships based here.
The next morning a destroyer came alongside for overhaul and her executive officer turned out to be Taylor, who used to be with me at the Third Naval District. He offered to show me around the Stamboul bazaars that afternoon. We got into my gig — being in command of the Destroyer Squadron I was entitled to my own private power boat — and ran down the Bosphorus and across the harbor through masses of anchored shipping to the landing in Stamboul. The bazaars cover several square miles. They are enclosed overhead and have little open shops on both sides of the streets. There were crowds of beggars and street vendors, some of whom were unpleasantly aggressive. There were beautiful Persian shawls, samovars, brass work, and loads of rugs. You had to haggle and I had no idea of the articles’ value.
I noticed that all the British we met carried arms but nobody else had weapons. Taylor told me that their general had ordered it since a number of British soldiers had been assassinated in the city. I think the British tend to antagonize many people. They carry themselves with an arrogance that annoys anyone not used to it. Of course, at that time they still “owned half of creation” as Kipling boasted and showed it in their behavior.
Except for China, I have never seen such poverty. Homeless and penniless wanderers crowded the streets, most of them Russian women, poor things. Many were in rags and lay in the gutters prepared to spend the night there. Taylor hailed a coach by shouting “Arabatche!” and we drove to a restaurant named the Muscovite which had two enormous Cossacks as bouncers. The patrons were of every race and nation conceivable, some of them decent enough looking individuals while others seemed to be cutthroats. The waitresses were all refugee Russian girls chosen obviously for their good looks. They were all in black with little white aprons. On demand, they had to dance with any man who took a fancy to them, first rolling up their aprons so they would not show. There was something tragic about it, being obliged to entertain a lot of drunken brutes night after night.
The food was excellent but the only drink was vodka which I have never liked. The headwaiter was a reduced Russian gentleman with a black beard who looked like Rasputin and kept assuring Taylor and me that “we could be as wicked as we liked”. After my long voyage over the Atlantic and across the Mediterranean I wasn’t up to being very wicked. It got rougher as it got later and a lot of the men, some in uniform, made fools of themselves. I asked Taylor if all the cafés were like this. He said, “No, this is one of the better ones.” I left as soon as I could, shouted, “Arabatche!” and told the driver, “Dolma Bagtche.” I fell into my gig and nearly embraced the coxswain I was so glad to be there.
I soon found out that in the American colony the women ran everything and no man was supposed to associate with what one lady who took me in charge called “furrinors”. I also discovered that seniors were supposed to dance and talk only to the older women; no associating with any of the young girls, Americans or not. I paid no attention to these rules and as a result was heartily disliked by the ladies’ contingent. They took a petty, and it seemed to me rather a cruel, revenge by writing letters to Polly saying that I was being unfaithful to her with half the female population of Constan and they also did what they could to hurt me with the admiral, claiming that my immoral conduct was disgracing the United States Navy. The admiral never said anything to me although his manner was rather cool, especially when his wife was present as she was not surprisingly influenced by the American ladies’ views.
There was no sultan in Turkey since the last one, with all his lady friends, left for Malta. The highest Turkish official was the Caliph, a sort of Moslem Pope. He was to officiate at a special ceremony at the mosque and we were invited to attend. To my astonishment, I actually had to order the officers on my ship to attend the service. They would rather have attended one of the American women’s parties or sit around playing cards. I felt it was a unique opportunity to see something of another civilization, and it turned out that I was quite right.
Friday is the Turkish Sunday. There were three “Sundays” in Constan: Friday for the Moslems, Saturday for the Jews and Sunday for the Christians. We landed from my gig at Stamboul and went to the mosque which was built in 1460. There was a beautiful gateway where the Caliph was to make his entrance and we waited there. There was an enormous crowd almost entirely Turkish, the women all wearing the veil, although I noticed that the veils of the younger, prettier women were transparent.
Presently there was a great clatter of horses and through the arch trotted two hundred Janisseries. They were big, husky men and wore red breeches, hussar jackets, and Astrakhan hats. At the ends of their lances were little red and green pennants. The Caliph was in an open carriage with four horses and outriders in scarlet and gold. We saluted him and he returned the salute, giving an order to one of his aides. This man came to us and said that we were to be given special places in the mosque. The Caliph had evidently recognized us as Americans and Americans were the only foreigners popular in Turkey at the time; we had never fought them.
When in a cloud of dust and glory the Caliph and his Janisseries had passed, the aide conducted us to an open coach which was to take us from the gateway to the mosque proper. Apparently half the population of Constan had decided to attend the ceremony for with a wild whoop billy goat carts, old Fords, camels, water buffalos, and everything that had wheels or legs joined our motor car in a rush for the entrance. Our driver did his best to keep ahead of them, and I swear that at times as we cut around corners all four of our wheels were in the air at the same time. Most of the way a racing dromedary had his head resting on my shoulder while some queer animal in front kept decorating my face with mud as it leapt the puddles with careless grace. We passed some little gray donkeys who promptly had hysterics; one of them jumped over a fruit stall and through a shop window, panniers and all. At the mosque’s entrance was a battalion of the Palace Guard in bright scarlet, a battalion of sailors and one of the troops of the line in khaki. In addition, there were three bands and a large number of British, French, Spanish, and Italian officers.
At the mosque, one of the court officers came to greet the foreign contingent and show them to their places. The Europeans treated him with the utmost contempt, why, I have no idea. Perhaps it was with the idea of “keeping him in his place”. When he approached me, his face was frozen with anger and he walked stiffly, trying to control himself. After he had spoken to me, I smiled, bowed, and thanked him. He stared at me unbelievingly and then positively beamed and taking my arm, escorted me in as though I were the guest of honor. I can understand why the Turks don’t like Europeans; they object to being spoken to as though they were dogs.
When the Caliph entered, his horses were decorated with tiger skins and bright silver mountings. The troops presented arms and the bands played. Meanwhile, the Europeans were talking loudly among themselves, pointed to various individuals and remarking, “Look at that old fool” or “Isn’t that a fat one?” If they had behaved this way in a Christian church they would have been immediately put out but the Turks ignored them.
Probably the main reason why the European nations look down on the Turks is because of their chaotic political system. When a sultan dies his son doesn’t bec
ome sultan but his oldest male relative. It hasn’t been unknown for an ambitious man to assist the sultan’s demise. The natural result has been that some of the sultans, when they took office, promptly locked up or killed all possible candidates before the candidates could kill them. One of them kept his only brother locked up for thirty years. Polygamy doesn’t help matters as each wife is eagerly backing her own children for the throne and as they were locked in a harem and had nothing to do except amuse themselves plotting, they were extremely adept at it.
Later that same day I went to the native quarter to see the howling dervishes. I believe this sect has now been abolished; at least they are not allowed to perform their rites in public. I found them most interesting. About thirty men in all styles of turbans and costumes were seated in a circle moving their bodies back and forth and intoning the ninety-nine known names of Allah (the hundredth name he told to the camel and that is why all camels are so haughty). The dervishs kept on and on and then commenced inhaling and exhaling all together until it sounded like the exhaust from a steam engine. Then they went from chant to chant swaying violently with one hand palm up, to receive blessings and the other hand palm down, to give blessings. They swayed their heads so violently it looked as though their necks were dislocated; it seemed to be a form of self-hypnotism.
A brazier filled with glowing charcoal was brought in and they heated irons in it. The priest stripped the upper part of his body and, after licking a red-hot iron, seared his body with it. I could smell the burning flesh. Then he took a sword and struck himself repeated heavy blows on the head. He placed the point against his stomach and, putting the hilt on the ground, rested the whole weight of his body on it. Afterwards he placed the edge across his middle and the others jumped on it. Lastly, he took a spiked iron ball hanging from a chain and beat himself with it.
A wild-eyed, long-haired creature ran across the room and plunged headlong against the wall shaking the entire building. A sick child was brought in, laid down and the priest walked up and down its body. Finally something happened that I know could not possibly be a fake as it took place not four feet from me. The priest put one of his followers against a wall and thrust a long, thin dagger through both of the man’s cheeks and hammered it into the wall. After a while he pulled it out and blew into the man’s mouth. At first there was no sign of blood and then I noticed a slight trickle. I think some of the tricks could have been clever sleight of hand but not this. I could have touched the man nailed to the wall and I know well that I wasn’t hypnotized.
A few days later I was invited to dinner at the home of a Turkish official who had married an attractive Russian woman. Apparently as a tribute to me, the couple had also invited a number of young American women, all the wives of officers. I was wearing a dinner jacket and the women obviously did not know that I was a captain in the Navy for they commenced discussing their husbands’ commanding officers with the greatest of freedom, laughing heartily at those who had paid them any attention and speculating on what they could get for their husbands by encouraging the old fools, at the same time expressing confidence in their ability to “handle them”. It reminded me of the lady in Charlot’s Review who used to sing, “I can’t imagine what he wanted — but he didn’t get it.” Any commanding officer who was fool enough to put himself in the power of that flock of harpies deserved anything he got. Why anybody should bother with this crew in a city teaming with beautiful, intelligent, willing women I can’t imagine.
On Christmas, we gave a big party for the refugee orphans, five hundred of them as well as some little Turks. I was somewhat concerned about having the Turkish children attend a Christian festival but no one minded, least of all the children. The Scorpion, our “stationaire” had been moored in the Golden Horn for fifteen years and looked more like a yacht than a war vessel; fine rugs, hangings, and so on, covering her, so I turned the details of the party over to her captain and he did a magnificent job. Officers and men all chipped in to buy the presents. The men had just given five hundred dollars to the Red Cross but when asked to help the children they gave a thousand more, money they could have used having a good time ashore.
The children came out in four of our big boats and the men stationed themselves down the gangway ladder and passed them up from hand to hand. Many of the poor little tots had no shoes and nearly all were in rags. I don’t think any of them were more than six or seven and there were several babies; one boy carried his baby sister all the afternoon. In addition to the presents, we had a tree beautifully decorated and a dinner.
Probably the toughest member of our crew was the blacksmith, an enormously powerful man with a bad temper and a propensity for drink. The week before he had gotten drunk ashore, knocked down several of the military police, then after being locked up, kicked open the jail door and liberated all the prisoners, civil and military, brought them out to the Denebola and presented them to me. During the party he carried one little girl up the ladder who was too small to walk. She was doing her best to be a lady but the excitement proved too much for her and she began to cry. When the blacksmith found out what the trouble was he took her behind the smokestack, took off the offending garment, laid it on the hot metal until it was dry and then pinned it on again. He was under sentence of court martial for his conduct on shore but his case is still “pending”.
The next day I dined with the Leavitts; he was American and she a very charming English woman. They lived ‘way up the Bosphorus, nearly to the Black Sea. On the way there I saw a lot of Russian refugees being put ashore from a British merchant ship. They were in terrible condition, most of the women so denuded of clothing that they were virtually naked. Some of them had been able to retain only a tiny bit of cloth no bigger than a handkerchief and they used these strips of cloth to cover their faces so no one would know who they were. I stopped to see if we could be of any help but the ship’s captain said there was nothing anyone could do. He pointed out a little girl, about ten years old, who had been raped and her right arm pulled out of the socket. I wanted to have her sent to Sick Bay on the Denebola but she didn’t understand English and was afraid to leave her fellow Russians who apparently thought I was trying to kidnap her. The English captain told me, “I don’t know who mistreated them so, but it is unfair to blame all this on the Turks. Nobody could be worse than some of the Near Eastern people who profess Christianity for political purposes.” I went on to my dinner with the Leavitts but was unable to eat. Somehow the sight of a child in pain is far worse than seeing an adult suffer.
A week later I was with a party that went to Maxim’s on Taxim Square, a place run by an American Negro, Thomas, who was in Moscow for many years and was driven out by the Bolshis. I heard that he had done a lot for other refugees and was generally liked and respected. A little later, I saw two drunken Englishmen abusing a Russian attendant. One of them struck the man in the face. He made no effort to strike back. Then the Englishman struck him again and this time the Russian returned the blow. Instantly both Englishmen went into a perfect spasm of fury, yelling and waving their fists in a frenzy of rage. By now Thomas had come up and he asked mildly what the trouble was. One of the men, shaking his fist in Thomas’ face, screamed, “He struck an ENGLISHMAN!” Thomas replied grimly, “You shake your fist in my face again and I’ll strike another.” The Englishman recoiled in open-mouthed astonishment while his friend turned to stare at Thomas unbelievingly. A few seconds later both left the café, still seemingly in a daze.
It was an object lesson to me of the tremendous power Great Britain once had that no one anywhere in the world dared to lay a hand on an Englishman for any reason whatever. If anyone transgressed against this law, the whole enormous force of the British Empire was brought to bear no matter at what cost of men and money. It was in an attempt to emulate this prestige that Roosevelt had issued his famous proclamation, “Perdicaris alive or Raisuli dead.” Today it is hard to believe that any nation could once hav
e had such power.
Our motion picture films were in great demand, not only with the fleet but with American institutions ashore. We were asked by the Woman’s College to send them some films “suitable for young girls”. I instructed the chief petty officer in charge of films to send them something innocuous and he said he would. Fortunately I checked the first shipment. Heading his list was “Damaged Goods”, a picture about venereal infections and how they are spread. I asked him why he picked that one. “Isn’t it about department store distribution, sir?” he asked me.
I saw a great deal of British Army and Navy men, hoping to renew old acquaintances from London and Scotland. They were fine fellows but what a difference from the magnificent men I recalled having seen on our 1903 cruise. All those men had died in the war — the pick of British manhood. I recalled reading somewhere that the French had never recovered from the Napoleonic wars. I believe that everyone of the Old Guard was over six feet. Very few modern Frenchmen reach that height. They are the descendants of the “second raters” that Napoleon rejected.
The Old Navy Page 32
