The signing of the armistice—The voyage home—The Dardanelles—The Straits of Messina—Turkish opinion on the war—Ada Kalé—Review of present situation.

AFTER November 17th a period of inactivity set in outside, by the lines of Chatalja, the heavy sound of guns ceased to accompany the daily round of work or pleasure which makes the life of Constantinople, Pera, and Galata. Refugees still moved with their creaking waggons and sought the shelter of the mosques, or camped on open spaces. Some pitched their wandering tents round a dilapidated monastery on the heights whereon stands the wireless telegraphy station. The golf-links are on this open space—here you may see intent Englishmen, who have snatched an hour or so between work and their voluntary duties at the hospitals, stalking after the elusive golf-ball, in their wake a listless caddie, preceding them a ragged urchin with a flag to mark the next green.

In the meantime rumours floated about the City, tales of atrocities committed by the Greek soldiery at Saloniki, accounts of the solemn reconsecration of the Agia Sophia in that town by its Metropolitans and the one of Athens. Reports came of the sufferings of those Jews who had lived contentedly under Turkish rule at Saloniki since the days when Ferdinand and Isabella expelled their forebears from Spain, still retaining the Spanish language written in Hebrew characters. Then was borne another rumour, which grew, assumed the air of certainty, and then emerged as an accomplished fact—it concerned the negotiations for{319} an armistice to be concluded between the Porte and the Allies.

An historic event that meeting between representatives of the Sultan’s army and the enemy who had been clamouring for admittance without the lines of Chatalja, so near the capital of the Sultan’s Empire. They met at four o’clock on December 4th, at a place between the outposts of the armies. The delegates came by rail as far as a point where the line was broken at Batchekeui. Where the broken line resumes its road to Constantinople the train bearing Nazim Pasha and his suite awaited the delegates. Nazim Pasha descended from his saloon car and went on foot to meet the delegates, Bulgarians, to represent Servian and Montenegrin interests as well as their own, Greeks to speak for themselves. They all entered the saloon car, which the Greek representatives left again after a little while. The sitting of the Bulgarians and Turks, conducted with great secrecy, lasted till 8.15 p.m. Turkish officers were sitting round a huge camp-fire which lit up the tents of their army’s head-quarters at Hademkeui, the smoke curling up into the sky of a cold, damp winter’s evening; these officers discussed the probable results of the conference, and hoped for a continuance of the war. A shrill whistle heralded the return of Nazim Pasha’s train. He alighted, gave an order to one of the officers attending him, and soon the news spread that an armistice had been arranged. By the lines of Chatalja, the last defences of Constantinople, the Ottoman army agreed to a cessation of hostilities with the former subjects of so many victorious Sultans.

The armistice soon broadened out into a desire for peace proposals, and London was chosen as the place where they should be discussed.

When the Ottoman delegates left Constantinople for England my work was done, and I turned homewards.{320} It was a cold, cloudy morning when my ship swung slowly out from her moorings at Galata, and the smoke of the city hung over it as a heavy canopy into which the cypresses pointed warning fingers. Slowly we moved past the mighty warships of foreign nations, round Seraglio Point out into the Sea of Marmora. A slight breeze arose and disturbed the canopy of smoke, broke the heavy banks of clouds, and admitted rays of hopeful sunlight through the rifts. Here and there light broke upon the moving waters, called forth glittering reflections from the portholes of some sombre man-of-war, or tipped the muzzle of a gun with flashing silver. Under the uncertain sunshine Seraglio Point stood out white against the dark cypresses, whose outlines were blurred by the heavy mass of crowded Galata and Pera, crowned by the tower. The sun shone out stronger as we ploughed through the steel-blue waters, throwing up the gleaming brasswork on the dome of St. Sophia like a bright star in a murky night. The yellow buildings of the Palace of Justice stood out bravely from their commanding position, and the distant towers of Yedi Koulé showed up against the heavy background of shadowed, undulating country. As the sun rose higher in the heavens the snow-clad mountains of Asia gloriously reflected its victorious rays.

We arrived early in the morning at the Dardanelles, and there we had one more experience of Turkish procrastination. Without any apparent reason, the tug appointed to pilot us through the mine-fields failed to answer to our signals, and kept us waiting several hours. Then she came bustling up, went about, and bade us follow her. Ours was the first of a string of ships; we were followed by a fretful-looking Roumanian mail-steamer, and behind her came several patient tramps, thumping leisurely along. Everywhere along the European side of the{321} Dardanelles, to which we kept quite close, were evidences of military preparations against attack; machine-guns were artlessly concealed by dry brushwood among the green undergrowth of the cliffs, old field-guns stood out lonely behind insufficient earthworks, here and there were groups of soldiers, sentries—one I noticed with his back to the sea—and patrols of cavalry scurried along the road. The daylight brightened as we sailed on past ruined castles and obsolescent earthworks into the blue ?gean Sea, losing sight of the Turkish fleet—grey and heavy, and listlessly at anchor by the old towers of the Dardanelles. No sooner had our ship put her nose out into the open than we saw black clouds of smoke hurrying along the skyline: Greek destroyers on the look-out for any ships coming out of the Dardanelles.

There was one more evidence of war as we drew near to Tenedos, with its medi?val fortress. Greek destroyers were lying under the ancient walls, and one of them dashed out to hold us up in the approved style. First a blank shot across our bows and then a boarding-party of Greek sailors, who wandered about our ship in what seemed to me a very aimless manner. Then we sailed on again southward, past many islands, till we turned into the Mediterranean Sea. A strong breeze came off the land, where cloud shadows were chasing each other over rocky promontories, foam-tipped waves were playing at the foot of steep cliffs, and little white-winged sailing vessels came dancing over the sea.

There was “Festa” at Reggio and Messina, for it was Sunday, and myriads of lights cast fitful reflections on the waters of the straits as we sailed through them. Then came a day of tumbling seas, roused by the wind that sweeps across from the Gulf of Lions, and then sunshine on the southern coast of France, lighting up the stern walls{322} of Chateau d’If, and shining on Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde, over the busy port of Marseilles. Then a furious rush through fair Provence, to Paris, thence through Normandy, and then again the sea, green under a grey sky, boisterous as the free winds that whistled in the rigging, as the smart little turbine packet thrust her saucy nose into the waves and tossed them over her back, pitching, rolling, until fitful gleams of sunlight lit up the chalk cliffs of England.

In the meantime the fate of a broken Empire was being decided in London. Not at first with the dignity which such an event demands, so deeply important in the world’s history; rather was it characterized by the methods of the Oriental bazaar, and its small, haggling spirit. While Adrianople was starving, while the Sultan’s troops shivered............