Читать книгу The Red Reign - Kellogg Durland - Страница 11

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The journey to the “Oil City”—First view of the Caspian—Armenians and Tartars—Russia’s monstrous misrule—Tiflis blood-stained and battered—How to wield a Caucasian dagger—Daily perils—Chiaroscuro of officers’ life—A stirring departure.

HE officers occupied the first-class compartments of two cars attached to a regular train, run from Moscow to Baku and Tiflis, and the escort of some forty odd Cossacks who accompanied our party were relegated to a fourth-class car somewhere at the rear of the train. The first two cars immediately behind the engine were filled with political prisoners who were being transferred from one prison to another. For the most part conversation among the officers was on topics very remote from the political situation of their country, remote even from the business in hand. Whenever I cared to bring up the subject, however, my questions were always readily and frankly answered. They accepted the revolutionary situation as unfortunate and unhappy, but a situation to be solved through military measures rather than through political concessions or altered civil administration.

I shared a compartment with a dashing young captain, the son of one of the most distinguished families in Caucasia. The father of my friend was at one time the viceroy of the region. In discussing with him his own personal sensations when combating the revolutionary activity, I was startled to have him tell me that “nowadays in shooting at a human being he felt precisely the same as he used to feel when, as a younger man, he used to shoot deer in the mountains.” “The people here,” he added, “are all deserving of what they get.” Thereupon he dilated upon the wicked ways of the Tartars and the Armenians, whose constant feuds were then spattering Baku and Tiflis, and much of the country which lies between, with crimson stains. This same officer who spoke with such carelessness of the taking of human life had all of the instincts and the fineness of a man of refined and poetic temperament. At night, for example, I found him sitting at the car window, hour after hour, entranced with the marvelous beauty of the night; the snow-capped peaks of the mountains, fast receding from us as we sped toward Daghestan; the glorious vault of blue studded with bright, but cold, metallic stars; and as I asked him why he did not sleep, he answered: “I am fond of sleeping but not in the night-time; this beauty attracts me more than my couch.”

The next morning I awoke before the sun. Our way lay close to the shores of the Caspian. My companion was up before me and insisted that I come to the window to watch the beauty of the scene about to be revealed. Presently the whole east was bathed in startling brightness; it was as though the sea tossed crimson waves out there where water met sky, and as the brilliant colors fell toward the dropping heavens, the atmosphere caught their gleams and held them. In another moment sky and sea were indistinguishable one from another, for over all was spread the increasing depth and height of color. Behind us still lay the ashen, somber light of dawn, reluctantly yielding to the brilliance of coming day. The degree of appreciation that I found in my friend of this perfect manifestation of Nature filled me with wonder and admiration. He was touched to the depth of his being by the glories of the beauty we beheld. Afterward I thought often of the man’s emotion at this time, when I came into contact with that other side of his character, which presented only adamant hardness when he turned to the restoration of order in that district which was then, as it had been for months past, in the throes of bitter conflict. “In my heart you see,” he remarked one day, “I am a soldier and I cannot look upon our political situation save from the standpoint of an officer.”

The Armenians in Baku, as indeed throughout this whole region, have small reason for loving Russia. Russia in her treatment of these people has builded herself a monument of ingratitude. Without the support of the Armenians, Russia never would have conquered, even nominally, the Caucasus. Not only did Armenians serve in the ranks, but some of the best generals Russia has ever had have been Armenians—notably General Loris-Melikoff, who was at one time the minister to Alexander the Second and who is popularly supposed to have drawn up the constitution which that monarch might have granted to his people at the time of his death. But having used Armenians to serve its own ends, Russia began, a few years ago, to alter its policy toward them. The changed policy began on the 25th day of June, 1903, when M. von Plehve issued a now historical decree, declaring that as the property of the Armenian church was badly managed and used for political purposes, the state of Russia must interfere and take control of that money. In view of the fact that this money belonged not to the Armenians alone but to the whole orthodox church of which the Armenian is a part, this was considered an affront to the entire church. This arbitrary, high-handed measure converted the whole Armenian population into Russian revolutionists at a single stroke. Prince Galitzin, the then viceroy of the Caucasus, maintained a régime of unprecedented severity toward the Armenians, arresting and punishing them by the hundreds and inaugurating an era of governmental terrorism which had never before threatened these people. From that day until now the Armenians have maintained a constant guerilla warfare against Russia and Russian soldiers. Added to this is the bitter race hatred encouraged by the Russian authorities between the Armenians and the Tartars, which has again and again been traced directly to the Russian administration, for where races are warring one against the other, a military régime finds the complete subjection of both peoples simpler.

Riot, destruction of property, bloodshed, murder, were all a part of each day’s work in Baku. The vast oil wells which are the mainstay of the city, were burned, the great tanks wrecked, and on every hand mountains of wreckage and debris were patrolled by Cossacks. Near to the station as we alighted from the train a murdered Armenian was lying in the gutter. Blood still oozed from his head. What immediately struck me was that no one gave him the slightest heed. Passers-by stepped over the corpse as if it were the carcass of a dog. My Armenian courier alone seemed troubled. He remarked: “The trouble, sir, here in the Caucasus, is all due to the Russian government. The Russian government first stirs up the fights and then it does not allow us to finish them as we would.” “How would you manage it?” I asked. “Manage it, sir?” he replied, “Give the Armenians guns, leave them alone and in ten days there would not be a Tartar left north of the Persian frontier.” Although naturally peaceful, the Armenians are good soldiers and strong fighters; they shoot well and are by no means cowards, although by nature they prefer the peaceful walks of life. In this respect they are different from the Georgians, their near neighbors, who are natural warriors, proud of their prowess and of the distinguished officers that from time to time their race has produced.

Not only was the Armenian church robbed of its treasure, but at the same time the Russian government deprived the Armenians of their national schools, thus treading upon the finest flowers of nationality, and forever engendering the hatred of the Armenian people. During the long and biased administration of Prince Galitzin the Armenians were constantly persecuted, while the Tartars were allowed greater liberties. The Tartars were not slow in appreciating this situation, and a depot for the importation of arms was established that they might prepare themselves for the uprising soon to take place. As nearly as can be gathered the plan upon which the Tartars were acting was to slaughter all of the Armenians in eastern Caucasia. The authorities unquestionably were aware of this plot, but did nothing whatever to prevent it during all of the preliminary stages. Indeed the authorities themselves frequently circulated reports that an Armenian-Tartar war would presently break out, and the Tartars were constantly spurred on to greater activity by the reports that were allowed free circulation—that the Armenians would one day attack them. That this plan did not culminate was due probably to the turn of events in the far East; for when Russia began its retreat, beaten at every point by the little yellow men of the Mikado, every nationality held in subjection by the Czar began to count anew upon the realization of the dreams of nationalism. The removal of Prince Galitzin from the Caucasus in July, 1904, doubtless saved the situation there, for Count Vorontzoff-Dashkoff, who followed as viceroy of the Caucasus, was a man without the strong prejudices of his predecessor, and did much to reconcile the Armenians, although it was under his régime that the frightful massacres of February, March, and May, 1905, occurred. The massacre of February 19, 1905, was only one of a whole series of massacres planned by the Russian administration. The details of this dastardly affair are still unforgotten, and inasmuch as no one knows when there may be another, the whole populace is kept in a state of almost perpetual panic.

Prince Nakashidze, a Georgian nobleman, one of the lieutenants of Prince Galitzin who had assisted in the confiscation of the Armenian church property, was at this time governor of Baku.

A group of Armenian Journalists waited upon the governor and heard from his excellency’s own lips a strange theory of a hypothetical feud between the Armenians and the Tartars which might result in a pogrom, or massacre. The dangers of such an outbreak, he declared, lay in the fact that he did not have troops enough at his command to suppress any such trouble, and that the police could not be relied upon, owing to the fact that so many of them were themselves Tartars. It was afterward pointed out that the report of the governor, of the outbreak which actually took place, corresponded almost word for word with the supposition advanced by Prince Nakashidze to the journalists previous to the massacre. The massacre actually occurred as a result

Arrest of suspected working-men—an hourly incident in Baku

Devastated oil-fields. Baku

of a trifling incident. The body of a murdered Armenian, named Babaieff, was being carried in funeral procession past the Tartar quarter of the city. The sight of this procession aroused the Tartars; and the incident which had led to the death of this man—a purely personal vendetta affair—was taken as an excuse for an attempt to massacre all the Armenians in the city. The Armenians defended themselves for a time, but owing to the fact that the Tartars were in superior numbers and much better armed, the casualties among the Armenians were very heavy. During this attack of the Tartars upon the Armenians, the authorities refused absolutely to bestir themselves or make the slightest effort to end the fight. Prince Nakashidze practically turned a deaf ear upon the delegation of Armenians who appealed to him for help, declaring he had no troops at his command, although there were two thousand men stationed near by, which could easily have been employed to quell the disturbance in its early stages.

According to the stories gathered at the time and which have never been contradicted, it appears that the governor himself took pains to openly encourage the Tartars and to stimulate them to greater activity in the fight. The massacre went on for four days, until both sides were ready to quit through sheer exhaustion. In the meantime some three hundred and fifty men and women had been killed and very many wounded. Although it was recognized everywhere that the government was directly responsible for this massacre, the amount of race hatred which was occasioned by this attack has not to this day subsided, and probably will not disappear for years to come. Periodic outbreaks occurred from that time on, and at the time that our party passed through Baku and around the easterly spur of the Caucasus, and turned our faces toward the Nucha district and on to Tiflis, we passed through regions devastated and bare, now placed under military guard; heavy Cossack patrols guarding the piles of debris—for actually more attention was given to guarding the wreckage than had previously been given to guarding the lives of the people.

There was nothing to detain us in Baku. A condition of utter lawlessness prevailed so far as the people were concerned, and even more outrageous lawlessness on the part of the military. It is always so under martial law. A diary of daily events in the Caucasus for the five weeks I was there would fill a large book. I can only speak of significant events, and incidents, which throw light on the whole confused situation. Among ourselves—the officers of my party—there was ceaseless merriment and good fellowship. We lived comfortably, we dined well, we wined much, we were as happy and care-free as though we were on a holiday. About us were the most horrible conditions: dire poverty, distress, a veritable carnival of all the elements of wickedness and suffering of which this world knows.

For the hopeless people of Baku I envied the nomads of the Daghestan hills who tended their cattle and sheep along the steep hillsides, knowing nothing of, and caring nothing for, anything in the world save their own daily bread. At least they were not a part of the perpetual brawl of the town; at least they were not yet belabored by Russian police or military oppressors. Sometimes we saw long camel trains creeping across the sands of Nucha from Persia (lying just below the southern horizon). The dreamy leisureliness of the plodding camels, the calm indifference of the merchants, afforded an illusion of relief from the hostile atmosphere through which

Tiflis. Showing result of artillery fire on town

Note the wall pierced by a solid shell

we moved. From a hilltop out of Baku we looked strainingly through the haze to the snow mountains of the south Caucasus, one peak of which is called Ararat. No longer does the dove fly forth from this ancient mountain, to return with a sprig of olive. The waters of the earth no longer threaten this region, but the terrible tides of men—waves of oppression, oceans of misery, seas of shame—ever and always menace all who here pitch their tents. It is the oldest region of the world, if the Scriptures be true, yet in reality to-day it is the least civilized. Here Christianity first took root, yet to-day the entire region is given over to cruel and diabolical practices worthy of pagans and barbarians.

Tiflis lay torn and battered on both banks of the river Kur, revealed by the lifting of the early morning mists, as our train crept slowly down from the heights to the center of the town. Tiflis, the ancient capital of Georgia, has been the battle-ground of many a fight and conflict ever since it was first established by Vakhtang Goroslan, King of Georgia, in the fifth century. Occupying as it does a point of considerable strategic importance, commercially as well as geographically, it is one of the cities of the world which must ever remain a natural capital, whether vested with the rights of empire or not. It commands the highway from the Black Sea to the Caspian, the main route to Persia, and the only road which leads over the Caucasus to Europe.

The Tartar and Persian quarters of Tiflis were in a frightful mess. The Tartars, as Ivan, my indomitable Armenian courier, explained to me, had taken possession of a slight elevation near their section of the city, and begun firing upon the Armenians, whose quarter was a little way removed. Between the Armenian quarter and the hill occupied by the Tartars, was the Persian quarter. The innocent Persians, unhappily, received many of the bullets from both sides, with the result that most of the Persian merchants had fled in panic. The fighting continued for several days until the Russian troops came up and fired indiscriminately upon the three sections, using light artillery. I photographed some of the demolished houses, securing one or two interesting pictures of the walls of houses which had been burst through by solid shells.

All the time I remained in Tiflis Ivan was suspicious of my associates, the officers. “Bloody Russians,” he called them, and he had no use for them whatever. Being one of the race who had been victimized by Russian treachery so often since the confiscation of the church property, and the abolition of the schools in 1903, he could no more put faith in any man representing the government of the Czar. He was most thoughtful of me, however, and after we had got to know each other better, he proved himself measurably loyal. Early in our acquaintance, he had taught me how to use my dagger. For he insisted that since I carried a dagger, I should know how to handle it when occasion demanded. He told me how to grasp the handle with my hands and to thrust it into the bowels of my opponent, giving it the right twist so as to make short work of my enemy, after the manner of his own countrymen. “But, sir,” he added, “you are to use it this way only when you are forced to meet your man face to face. It is better for you to get behind your enemy and to plant your dagger between his shoulders when he is not looking.” Ivan’s fighting ethics were built upon a wholly practical basis. He knew no other standard. In this, he was like all the peoples of Caucasia.

Besides the demolished foreign quarters of Tiflis, there were evidences a-plenty of riot and revolt in all sections of the town; whole blocks of houses sometimes with windows broken, as a result of a recent bomb; telegraph lines down; traffic interrupted; streets torn up and day by day reports came in of clashes between the peoples, and sometimes between the populace and the authorities, and never a day without murder or assassination.

The streets of the town were never safe. A bomb was liable to drop in the vicinity of any official at any time, and robbery was a commonplace of the night. In Tiflis I found a state of actual and continuous guerilla war. Nothing spectacular or dramatic happened, but every day some one was killed, a building wrecked, a consignment of government money stolen. Political arrests were hourly scenes. Workmen were taken from their work; private citizens were snatched from their homes; newspapers that appeared one day were suppressed the next; officials who had to move from place to place were accompanied by heavy escorts. The atmosphere was electric with unrest. Tiflis quivers and cowers through miserable days and hideous nights—all because Russia’s civil policy is as it is, often in open violation of the usual customs of nations and of humanity. Tiflis, olden capital of ancient Georgia, Tiflis the lovely, the beautiful, the fair—I found a city of inquisition, of fire and blood, of despair. Yet through it all we—my officers and I—were established in the comfortable Hotel de Londres. At night we were merry, and oblivious to everything about us. Sometimes we went to a café chantant called the Bellvue, where lovely Georgian girls sang brisk American songs (done into Russian) and painted Armenian maidens danced languorous, lascivious dances....

For a time I was fascinated by this paradoxical life. How human beings could drink champagne through long nights when horrible starvation besieged every window and door; how the officers of the busiest army in the world could squander hours and days and weeks, when mutiny and sedition were daily eating into the ranks; how men of such excellent camaraderie spirit could look upon suffering with a cool shrug—all this was new to me, and made me wonder greatly. But after a time the reports coming in from Kutais, to the west of Tiflis, were so startling that I grew more and more impatient to witness what an army of “pacification” reveals. There in Kutais, the dreaded and hated General Alikhanoff was pushing forward the grim work of repression.

My good friend Prince Andronnikov secured for me the necessary permission, and one memorable Monday evening I ordered Ivan to be ready to start for Kutais that evening.

Kutais lies to the west of Tiflis, about eight hours’ journey on the railroad. The train I planned to take left Tiflis a little before midnight. Ivan insisted that we leave the hotel more than an hour before train-time. I thought this an unreasonable margin of time, but before we reached the station I realized that it is always safe to allow ample time for the unexpected in Caucasia. We had crossed the bridge spanning the Kur and had turned into a dark unlighted street, running toward the station, when suddenly the cries of “Stoi! Stoi!” (Halt! Halt!) rang out in the darkness. Five soldiers sprang out of the shadow and stopped our carriage, while a sixth leveled a bayonet at my breast, so close that when I threw open my bourka (a long hairy cape extending from the shoulders to the ground), and reached for my passport and credentials, it brushed against the steel point. My uniform was only distinguishable under the bourka. The officer in charge of the search-party spoke

Caucasian types

French and, upon examining my credentials, promptly permitted us to continue on our way. We had not proceeded two blocks, however, when once more the imperative shout of “Stoi! Stoi!” stopped us. This time a larger party of soldiers surrounded us. Two infantrymen sprang to the heads of the horses, bringing them to an immediate standstill. The officer in command of the second party proved an ignorant fellow and we found it somewhat difficult to satisfy him as to our legality, for a man wearing the uniform of a Cossack officer provided with an American passport was an unusual phenomenon, even in Tiflis, the very center of strange and mysterious men and circumstances. At last, however, he appeared satisfied that we were known to the authorities and that our credentials were genuine, and once more we started for the still distant station. We were nicely settled and on our way when once again the cry of “Stoi! Stoi!” startled us. This time, however, it came from behind. Impatient at these repeated delays and fearful lest after all we miss the train, Ivan, giving one quick glance behind, foolishly thought to take a long chance at escape. The soldiers were twenty yards or more to the rear, so Ivan called to the driver to go on quickly. The driver cracked his whip and the horses strained forward to a gallop. A perfect volley of “stois” followed us. I looked back to see how the soldiers would take this,—just in time to see the men raising their guns to their shoulders to fire. Springing to my feet I shouted in Russian, “All right; all right!” my arms raised to signify that we were in their hands. The sound of my voice warned the driver to stop the horses. The soldiers rushed upon us and at first were inclined to be rough, for they naturally thought we had tried to elude them. The officer was exasperatingly deliberate in examining our papers and he was so persistent in his questions that had he delayed us two minutes longer than he actually did we would have lost our train, in spite of the hour to spare that Ivan had insisted upon.

On the train we found many passengers relating their experience with the search-parties. Nearly all had been stopped at least once, and many twice, so we knew that the city was being searched with extraordinary thoroughness that night for weapons, bombs, and contraband of war that continuously and mysteriously find their way into Tiflis to enable the people to maintain their perpetual fight against their oppressors.