I died in 1878. Since then I've been
concentrating all the powers of my mind and spirit on
something very big, grand, wonderful, everlasting -- and
absolutely indescribable. I can't even tell you the first
thing about it, because there are no words a person can wrap
around a thing so vast and beautiful.
It seems like I'd only away for a few minutes when
something interrupted me -- whispers from back home, news
about freedom and democracy returning to parts of the world I
used to know, places where things like freedom and democracy
have been in mighty short supply throughout most of history.
And whispers, too, from Perry County people, my neighbors,
who weren't completely clear on just whatever became of me.
Voices asking things like: "Januarius WHO?"
"Liberator of WHERE?" "He did
WHAT?"
So I broke off Celestial Matters to come down here for a
little while to set the record straight, to tell my story,
and then return from whence I came.
I was born right here in Perry County, over beyond
Bristol, on a little farm atop what used to be known as
Pigeon Roost Ridge. My father was James MacGahan, born in
Ireland and a veteran of the British Navy. He was a sailor on
the vessel that took the prisoner Napoleon to the lonely
island of St. Helena after the great defeat at Waterloo. I'd
like to have heard about that, but I never really knew my
father. He was already an old man when he married my mother
and he died when I was just six years old, leaving us in the
depths of poverty, completely broke and with no prospects.
My mother was a good woman, very religious -- an
Irish-Catholic -- and she did her best for us, my two little
brothers and me. I never forgot how hard those years were.
Later on, when I grew up and earned money in faraway places,
I always sent her the money she needed to live.
I went to school in winter but I also went to work just as
soon as I was able -- hiring myself out to farmers all
through these hills. I worked hard with my hands and my back,
but I worked even harder with my head! I read every book I
could lay my hands on and I dreamed of doing big, wonderful
things. Every night before I went to bed, I'd step outside
and look up at the stars.... so big, so beautiful, so
everlasting! When I was a boy, I wanted to be an astronomer
and study the stars and their movements, so regular and yet
so strange.
When I was sixteen I applied for the job of a schoolmaster
in New Lexington, but the Board of Education turned me down,
said I was too young.
This rejection stung me like a hornet -- oh, I was all
burned up about it then! It seemed like the worst insult that
anybody could have slung at me. Silly, how worked up we get
about a little thing. After that, I felt I couldn't stay on
in Perry County -- because I thought that, if I did, nobody
would ever let me amount to more than a hired hand. Besides,
I itched to see the wide world -- far-off, remote and exotic
places, places where people wore strange costumes and clung
to strange beliefs, places where the people spoke no English
and had never heard of Perry County or Ohio or even America!
Well, I got to those places, all right.
My mother had cousins over in Huntington, Indiana. They
wrote how a fellow could get work over there, even if he was
"only" sixteen! So I went over there, got a job in
a grocery, taught school, and wrote some articles for the
local paper. I gave lectures, too, in public halls -- oh, I
thought I had a lot to say! And that the world ought to sit
up and take notice! And.... eventually, the world actually
did sit up and take notice of what I was saying.... but that
was later. A teen-aged lecturer does not draw much of a crowd
and I must admit I seldom took in enough money to pay for the
rental of the lecture hall.
By the time I was twenty, I'd saved up enough to bring my
mother and brothers to Huntington to live. I got them set up
there and Mother thought we'd all live happily together...
but I got restless again, I felt that time was passing and I
wanted to be DOING something with my life!
I went to St. Louis, studied business, and worked in an
office supply store. I had friends and girl-friends -- but I
stayed clear of cards and billiards and drinking. The things
I liked to do best were to wander in the woods, read the
works of Shakespeare and Charles Dickens, play chess and
smoke good cigars!
Ah, cigars! I'd just about forgotten what a fine thing a
cigar is! I'll tell you! Where I've been lately, folks don't
pay much mind to things like cigars!
I thought about becoming a great actor or writing a great
book. But I had no clear idea of what I wanted to do....
Then, when I was 22, I met General Phil Sheridan and my
life was changed forever. Gen. Sheridan was a great hero of
the Civil War -- you know, statue of him in Somerset. Like
me, he was an Irish Catholic from Perry County -- he and I
were even distantly related! Well, Gen. Sheridan said a
bright young fellow like me ought to go to Europe and study
languages or maybe the law. I had a couple of hundred dollars
saved up... I decided to take the General's advice and go. I
went back to Huntington first, to say goodbye to Mother and
Patrick and John, then took the train to New York and sailed
for Europe.
For two years I traveled and learned and grew -- and out
of those experiences I found a career and a far-flung life
that went beyond my wildest dreams.
I set up a kind of headquarters in Paris where I learned
French, the first of nine languages I eventually picked up. I
rambled around the old continent, inspecting great cities,
and tiny villages with quaint old crooked streets, but I
found nothing so strangely fascinating as the old, old
castles of Europe, places where human hearts have loved and
sorrowed, joyed and died, and where now all is ruin and
lonely desolation. Dungeons black as night, splendid courts
now carpeted with richest grass. Arches, corridors and
halls!... but all, all in ruin and decay. And at night in the
hills above the Rhine river I could sometimes hear the sound
of a flute or voices singing from far below, people dancing
away down there among the trees -- and in the stillness, the
voices of young children float up through the enchanted air
until you think that spirits are gliding to and fro in the
misty moonshine.
Europe was marvelous! Everywhere there was poetry and
romance, legends and traditions, woody mountains and rocky
glens haunted by ghosts and goblins!
I took fencing lessons and learned to shoot. I picked up a
little money teaching English here and there, but after two
glorious goose-chase years I had hardly a penny to my name.
Then, in 1870, war broke out between Prussia and France
and I read in the newspapers that my friend General Sheridan
had come over to observe. I looked him up and he introduced
me to some journalists -- they called themselves "war
correspondents" -- these fellows helped me get a job as
a reporter for the New York Herald, covering the battles near
the border of Switzerland between the Prussians and the
doomed French army. I was excited! I was off like a shot to
find that army! I got there as quickly as I could -- but, oh,
they were in a bad way! The French had been so sure of
winning that they had brought along with them maps of
Prussia, but no maps of France! And in just a few weeks, the
French armies were completely defeated, and on French soil!
The foolish French Emperor who had declared war on his
Prussian neighbor was himself captured by his enemies, and
Paris was completely surrounded.
I watched Paris and the French armies surrender and I
wrote up news stories about all of these things and
telegraphed them back to the newspapers.
In a way I was lucky to work for James Gordon Bennett, the
best-known newspaper editor of his time... he used to say
that "a great editor knows where hell is going to break
loose next and how to get a reporter first on the
scene." For the next seven years, I was that reporter...
first on the scene... with the result that I saw more hell
break loose than any other man of my time!
I could speak French, you see? and German and Russian and
Spanish.... and I was strong and young and could go anywhere
and understand what was happening there.
When France surrendered in total defeat to Prussia, the
French people were thoroughly disgusted with their leaders --
and very quickly a full scale revolution erupted in Paris.
French communists armed themselves and set up barricades in
the streets, trying to take over the government. Soldiers
fired on citizens, innocent people were killed, the streets
flowed with blood and I was right in the thick of it. I saw
some terrible things in that time. I saw Death claim a lot of
people and Death came pretty close to me, too. A bullet
passed through my hat, a bombshell burst right behind me and
knocked me out for two days. There were bayonetings and
executions without trials. I walked out of my apartment
building one evening and was promptly arrested by the French
police, who suspected I was a communist. They dragged me off
to a jail but not before I'd gotten a message sent off to the
American embassy in Paris. Lucky for me the embassy came
right away to my rescue.
I wrote it all down in news stories so that the world
would know the dark things that were happening in those
bitter weeks in that beautiful city!
It was then that I made up my mind to tell the truth as a
journalist, no matter how much it may seem against religion
or civilization... and though I was a good Catholic, I made
no excuses for Catholic soldiers or citizens when they
behaved as brutes. I vowed to myself never to allow my
education or religion to blind my eyes to the truth. I vowed
to tell the truth even if I was to be shot for it!
Paris finally calmed itself and I was sent to London,
Brussels, Vienna, Budapest, and down the Danube river,
reporting on all sorts of things. Then I was sent to St.
Petersburg, in Russia, to get a look at the Czar and his
royal family. I made friends with princes, barons and counts
and often went riding with them on their spirited cavalry
horses. They seemed delighted to know a real, live American
who could actually speak their language!
It was on just such a ride -- and during a very
embarrassing moment! -- that I met the woman who was to
become my wife. You see, we trotted past this carriage that
had two young ladies in it -- one was very beautiful! -- and
then, when we were up the road, well ahead of the carriage,
why, my horse suddenly threw me to the rocky ground and I
badly sprained my ankle. The carriage came right up to me, of
course, and the ladies offered to transport me back to my
hotel. I was too embarrassed and stubborn to accept their
kindness and, pig-headed Irishman that I was, I proudly
turned down their offer. Instead, I rode that horse eight
miles back to my hotel where I fainted dead away and had to
be carried to my room.
Not a very romantic beginning for a love story! For three
weeks I hobbled around on crutches, visiting with young
Russian officers who were curious about the recent war in
France. I found out all I could about the beautiful young
lady in the carriage.
Her name was Barbara Elagin and the other lady was her
sister, with whom she lived and for whom she worked as a
governess. We had many friends in common and, as soon as I
could walk about again, I called upon her. She had soft,
blond hair, a perfect oval face and the bluest eyes I had
ever seen. She was extraordinary! A strong-willed, practical
young woman, a budding writer, with a quick and active mind,
interested in politics, literature and history. She was
completely self-assured and devoted to the idea of freeing
herself from dependence upon her sister.
I had not known her very long when I wagered her that she
would be married before two more years had passed. She
scoffed and said, with a sarcastic tone, that she would make
sure to invite me to her wedding! "Oh!" I burst
out, "but that is understood -- because I will be the
one who will marry you!"
Now this was very improper and she was mightily offended,
but I meant it! I persisted in visiting her and she seemed
more or less to forgive my boldness.
Then the American General Sherman, (yet another Ohioan, by
the way, and now commander of the American army), came to
visit the Czar and most of my time had to be spent writing
stories about that. Still, every moment I could spare, I
sought out the lovely Barbara.
Then Mr. Bennett suddenly sent me to Paris to cover the
angry exchanges between Great Britain and America over the
damage done to British seaports by raiding Confederate ships
during the Civil War. I wrote to Barbara and begged her to
come to Paris and marry me.
Well, she came and we were married. She was 22 and I was
28. Little did we guess that we would have less than six
years together and that, for a great deal of that time, I
would be separated from her, dashing about the globe trying
to be the first to arrive at the places where Mr. Bennett
thought hell would break loose next.
In those days, the one country that could be counted on to
keep things stirred up was ... Russia. And my editor, Mr.
Bennett, kept a close watch on that country. In 1873 word
reached him that the Russian Army was secretly preparing to
capture Khiva, the ancient capital of the Moslems of central
Asia. They had no good reason to capture it. They claimed
that the Turkomans were marauders and had to be checked, but
the fact is that the Russians simply saw that they had a
chance of expanding their domain in the direction of Khiva,
and so they set out to grab it. They wanted to grab Khiva
quick and neat before the world knew what they were up to --
and the last thing they wanted was a bunch of reporters
snooping around. So of course Bennett was all for sending me
in there!
Barbara was dead against it. She wanted me to stay with
her in Paris – and I suppose she was right, too, when I
look back. She was pregnant and my place was there, by her
side. But I knew Bennett for the tyrant he was and I knew
he'd fire me the moment I refused an assignment. To tell the
truth though, it wasn't really the fear of getting fired that
made me go – I wanted to go! I knew it would be an
adventure!
So I kissed her goodbye and off I went to the Russian
border in central Asia, a part of the world about which
little was known -- though the little that was known was bad
enough! Slave markets! Executions of prisoners! Eyes gouged
out! Just thirty years earlier, two British Colonels had been
sent there as diplomats from Queen Victoria, only to be
thrown in a pit and gnawed on by rats and insects before
having their heads chopped off!
I went as far east as I could by train, then continued on
horseback, and finally by a peculiar contraption called a
"tarantass" -- sort of an overgrown baby-carriage
pulled through the cutting blasts of the life-threatening
winter wind by camels.
I got out there all right, but too late! The Russian army
had already pulled out. The only way I could catch up with
them was to take a shortcut across the "Kyzyl Kum"
-- a 400-mile stretch of some of the deadliest desert in the
world. By camel, the journey would take five weeks. Horses
could make the journey in half that time, but they could not
carry the supplies necessary to survival. Nonetheless, I
determined to go by horse! I cut back my supplies to the
barest essentials -- among which I counted a Winchester
rifle, three revolvers, a knife and a cavalry saber. Terrible
though the Kyzyl Kum desert was, it was not entirely empty of
people and I had to be prepared for chance encounters with
nomadic tribesmen known as the Khirghiz.
For seventeen days I pushed across the desert, as
trackless, hostile and unknown a place as the South Pole.
There were rolling ridges of sand for endless miles and low
mountains of sandstone that crumbled at the touch. There were
clouds of whirling dust and the only animal life was that of
scorpions, tarantulas, serpents and immense lizards six feet
long. Now and again I came upon the rotting bodies of dead
camels.
And I encountered the Khirghiz -- who turned out to be a
noble people, generous, kindly, honest, curious and
hospitable ... and extremely surprised to find me in the
middle of their desert! They fed me their black bread and
roasted duck, their lamb cooked with raisins, apricots and
peaches, washed down with fermented horse milk, goat milk and
camel's milk, all warmed over fire. They sang their strange
songs for me round the campfire and, as for me, well, I gave
them all the cigars I had.
Then I left behind the Khirghiz and pressed on. I was
stiff and sore and bone-weary. At one point I became lost and
could not locate an oasis. I was nearly insane with thirst
until I found a pool of foul water that left my mouth and
tongue coated with an evil slime!
Finally I reached a hilltop from which I could see,
through my glass, a glitter of bayonets, wagons, piles of
baggage, and men scurrying about pitching tents! It was the
Russian Army! And in the very act of preparing for their
attack on Khiva! If I had the selection of the moment when I
should arrive, I could not possibly have chosen a more
favorable one!
I rode into their camp and was hailed by a Russian
officer: "Vui kto?" he called, meaning "Who
are you?" And I, by now a half-starved, ragged, dirty,
shaggy beggar, called back "Americanetz!" I never
saw a look of greater surprise.
Of course, the Russian commander, the Grand Duke Nicholas,
could have pronounced me a spy and had me shot on the spot.
But when they grasped that I had crossed the Kyzyl Kum --
indeed, that I was the first westerner ever to cross the
Kyzyl Kum -- they gave me a hero's welcome.
Khiva was ruled by a chieftain called "the Khan"
-- and he surrendered to the Russians with hardly a fight.
The Russians entered the city and I was with them. We got a
glimpse of the life of an oriental ruler -- the Khan had a
harem of 150 wives! The most beautiful of these were kept in
a secret chamber, deep in the Khan's palace and I set out one
night to find them. I took with me a revolver and a single
candle for light. I dodged the Russian sentries, crossed
large courtyards, passed dimly lighted rooms, climbed stone
stairways, and made my way down long, dark halls. In one
small room I struck a match for extra light and found myself
standing on the very edge of a vast well! I dropped a piece
of mud into it -- it must have been 50 feet deep! In another
room I came upon a strange pile of black dirt in one corner.
I knelt down to examine it more closely, holding the candle
in front of me... I picked up a handful of the dirt and
sniffed it. It was not dirt -- it was gunpowder! And enough
to blow the entire palace to smithereens! And there I was
kneeling in front of it with a LIT CANDLE!
You may be sure I was mighty careful as I stood up and
left the room to continue my wanderings. Finally I heard the
sounds of light chattering and feminine giggles coming from
behind a large door, bolted from within. I rapped on it and
heard a soft girlish voice respond from behind. "Peace
be with you," I said in the Tartar language -- it was
almost the only phrase I knew! The door opened and there
before me was the grand court of the Khan's wives -- a huge
room, 150 feet long, with a ceiling 40 feet high, and
balconies up the sides. The most beautiful of the wives was
the Sultana ... she was dressed in green silk jacket,
embroidered with gold, and a long chemise of red silk
fastened at her throat with an emerald and slightly open. Her
hair was wound about her head in heavy, glossy braids -- she
wore earrings of pearl and turquoise and heavy bracelets
traced with gold!
They were not alarmed at my presence and served me
apricots and bread. We talked briefly and after a time I rose
to go. The sultana also rose and kissed my hands!
The next morning we learned that the Khan had become aware
that a stranger had visited his harem -- it was me! -- and
the Khan removed all the remaining wives from the palace as a
precaution!
The Khan was a courteous host to his conquerors and he
treated me as well as the Russian officers. He had never
heard of America and was amazed to learn that I was not an
Englishman! I told him about our country but the most amazing
thing, to him, was that the ruler of America ruled for only
four years! He could not understand this!
On the last night before the Russian Army left for home,
at the height of the victory celebrations, the soldiers
suddenly seized their leader, the Grand Duke, and tossed him
ten feet in the air, bouncing him up and down by means of a
dozen soldiers grasping the edges of a huge rug and using it
like a trampoline! This is a peculiar way the Russians have
of showing their admiration and affection. I stood there
laughing with the rest, watching the Grand Duke fly up and
back down fully ten times before his troops lowered him to
the ground to grope his dizzy way back to his seat of honor.
Then someone roared out, "Americanetz!" and the
next thing I knew it was myself who was being tossed
cartwheeling through the air. I survived and when I got to my
feet, the Grand Duke slapped me on the back and said
"The hug of the Russian bear is rough, but it is
hearty!"
But when the main Army left, things turned ugly. The
semi-regular Cossacks began to plunder the countryside
surrounding Khiva -- which, unlike the Kyzyl Kum, was lush,
fertile and prosperous. They rode into little villages and
massacred the inhabitants and stole their valuables. I rode
after them in disgust, uselessly protesting. In one village
where they had raided, I found a little girl of about three
years, standing beside the bodies of two slain tribesmen,
dazed with shock. I swept her onto my saddle before the
pitiless Cossacks noticed her and took her back to my camp
where I found a Turkoman woman who took charge of her without
a word. Often I have wondered what became of that girl.
At length I returned to Paris and to Barbara. She had lost
her baby and had changed in a way that alarmed me -- she was
sad and exhausted, and slow to recover. Again, my place was
by her side, but again I left -- this time for America where
I gave lectures on my adventures in central Asia -- one of
which was attended by General Sherman who said he had come to
hear "his friend MacGahan" -- he called me
"his friend!"
I visited Mother in Indiana and then sailed back to Europe
where I learned that Barbara was pregnant again. We settled
in London to await the arrival of the baby and I wrote my
first book there, all about the Russian campaign to Khiva.
A month after the book was published Russia pronounced me
a Knight Grand Companion in the Order of St. Stanislaus --
the highest honor they could give -- I was the first American
ever to be honored in this way. The medal was beautiful! A
gold and crimson enameled Maltese cross with a white eagle
and crossed sabers.
Soon after that I was sent to Spain where a remarkable man
named Don Carlos had raised an army to try to reclaim the
throne for himself. From birth it seemed to Don Carlos that
he had been destined to rule Spain and if ever a man looked
the part of a King, it was him. He was active and powerful,
young and brave, six feet three inches tall, and every inch,
the old fashioned hero-king. The ragged and barefoot peasants
that flocked to his banner were gay and optimistic. The whole
enterprise reminded me of nothing so much as Robert E. Lee
and his Army of Northern Virginia. And like Lee and his army
of heroes, they were equally doomed to defeat.
I dashed back and forth between Spain and Biarritz, where
Barbara was awaiting the arrival of our child, and by great
good luck, I was with her when our son was born. Since the
boy had a Russian-born mother and an Ohio-born father, we
felt we needed a name for him that would be equally
recognizable in Russia and in America -- and we settled on
the name "Paul."
Oh, he was a fine, handsome little lad ... but I was soon
off to Spain again.
The Carlists, as the army of Don Carlos called themselves,
were valiant and proud and I myself was proud to learn their
language and even to wear parts of their uniform. This,
however, was the height of foolishness on my part and it
wasn't long before I was captured by the Republican Army who
opposed the Carlists -- captured wearing the boots and spurs
and hat of a Carlist soldier! I was thrown into a narrow
dungeon, and expected to be shot any moment. But once again,
just as in Paris during the Communist rebellion, word reached
the American embassy and I was soon released, only to be
accosted on the road by robbers who took my watch and all my
money!
I was lucky -- unbelievably lucky, I realize, looking
back. The star of my good fortune burned brightly! It was not
so with the Carlists. I had boldly predicted in print that
they would capture Madrid and put Don Carlos on the
throne.... Well, I was wrong. They met with utter defeat and
Don Carlos fled to permanent exile.
When the Carlist cause collapsed, it was back to my
Barbara and my little Paul for me. But I could not be
content. I paced the apartment like a caged cat, waiting for
my next assignment -- and soon it came! It was off to the
vicinity of the North Pole, in search of remnants of the
ill-fated Franklin expedition.
Have you heard of the Franklin expedition? Do you know the
grim story of how Sir John Franklin set off in 1845 to try to
find a route to China by sailing over the top of the earth?
His ship became lodged in ice – for three years! The
crew died one by one. And finally what was left of the crew
set out on foot in a desperate attempt to reach warmer, safer
climates to the south. Not one of them survived. They left
scattered fragments of their doom, but the most important of
these -- Sir John's personal log book -- was never found.
Sir John's wife, Lady Franklin, refused to give up hope
that her husband and at least a few of his men had survived
and were living with Eskimos somewhere, awaiting rescue. And
so, ship after ship was sent out in search of the lost
expedition or of the precious log book.
And it was on one of these ships -- the Pandora -- that my
next assignment took me.
We left the homes of men, the swarming cities, the smoky
atmosphere, -- for a world of pure air and savage freedom,
the home of the reindeer and the walrus, the haunts of the
white bear.... and soon we came upon icebergs!... with all
their weird phantasmagoria of shape and color, the cold green
water dashing around their feet, gurgling through caverns it
has worn deep into their icy hearts!
I quickly became a regular sailor... and could run up the
rigging to the very top of the masts like any of the rest of
the crew. I spent many an hour in the crow's nest, watching
the icebergs.
Icebergs! Huge and unbelievably complex! You look at their
fantastic Gothic carving and delicate tracery, never equaled
in beautiful irregularity of design by anything carved by man
... they look remarkably like old castles of ice, with
broken, ruined towers, battlements and loopholes... but also
they have shapes like huge mushrooms, trees and foliage,
shapes that look like giant dragons, lions eagles, and swans
with long slender necks.
In all my travels, I saw nothing that amazed me more than
icebergs -- unless it was the Eskimos -- the people who had
adapted to live in that hostile region. Think of it! Finding
food, fire, light, clothing, arms and implements, and all
from a single animal -- the seal! -- just as the Sioux had
done with the buffalo. And then to manage to be light-hearted
and happy in such a relentless environment.
Icebergs are astounding, to be sure -- but there is
nothing else so amazing as human beings, after all.
As the weeks slipped by, we journeyed ever further north
and the arctic became oppressive, weighing us down like a
weight upon the chest. We are accustomed to look upon the
world as a place that has been made for our particular
convenience and use. We think that the Earth brings forth its
fruits for us and teems with plenty, the flowers bloom for
us, the sun rises and sets for us... the moon revolves around
the Earth only because we need a moon, the stars adorn the
sky for us to look at.... But here, in the arctic, is a world
uninhabited and uninhabitable by man -- a world that can
never have been made for him, that has been created without
the slightest regard for his wants and necessities -- a world
that will not afford him sustenance for a single day. Here,
Nature, wrapped up in her own silent, desolate, mysterious
sorrow, ignores our existence, she is indifferent whether we
live or die. You begin to feel that you are only an
accidental atom, an insect, and that it is a wonder you have
not perished long ago.... and this gives way in turn to a
stupefying feeling of blank terror.
We traveled 8000 miles and then came the day when our
course was blocked by the very ice barricade that had
entrapped Sir John Franklin's expedition 27 years earlier. An
immense plain of ice lay before us and we were in danger of
being locked in its death grip, just as Franklin had been.
There was no possibility of continuing the journey and so we
retreated, our mission a failure.
Our return journey was swift and I was soon in Paris once
again, reunited with Barbara and little Paul -- how he had
grown!
In those few months I wrote a book about my arctic travels
and thought of giving up the life of a foreign correspondent
and settling into a peaceful family life. But even as I was
playing with my little son, Fate was making other plans for me.
The year was 1876. Mark Twain published “Tom Sawyer” that year. Alexander
Graham Bell invented the telephone. Ohioan George Armstrong Custer and 264
troopers of the 7th Cavalry were massacred by the Sioux above the Little Big
Horn River in Montana. President U.S. Grant, also an Ohioan, officially
opened the American celebration of one hundred years of freedom and
independence.
And far away from America, in parts of the world few Americans had even
heard of, terrible things were happening in obscure places on the eastern
side of Europe .... deep in the Balkan mountains the Bulgarian people, after
almost 500 years of suffering under the harsh rule of the Ottoman Empire,
were rising against their Turkish oppressors -- but their pleas for freedom
were being answered with savage and brutal attacks!
The Bulgarian rebels, like the Carlists in Spain, were pathetic and
glorious -- they dressed in shabby, hand-made wool uniforms, wore black fur
hats and carried flags that displayed a lion trampling a crescent -- the
crescent has always been the symbol of Islam, just as the cross is the
symbol of Christianity -- and enscribed on their flag were the grim words
“Freedom or Death.”
The Turkish response to this defiance? Death. Death, and government by
yataghan. Let me show you a yataghan ... (display a curved Turkish saber).
This was the sword that ruled the Turkish empire. And it was the sword with
which mobs of hired killers on horseback, called “Bashi-bazouks” swept away
the rebellion. They rode into the quiet mountain villages of Bulgaria and
they slaughtered everyone in sight -- men, women and children, hundreds of
them, thousands of them! Many Bulgarian fathers shot their own families to
death and then shot themselves, rather than let them fall prey to the
dreaded Bashi-bazouks.
Some defended their villages as best they could -- but they had no
leaders with military experience, few weapons and little gunpowder. The
village of Batak was promised mercy if they would surrender to the
Bashi-bazouks -- but when they surrendered, there followed three days of
horror in which every inhabitant was slaughtered. More than 70 villages were
thus destroyed and more than 15,000 villagers were thus murdered.
When word reached the rest of the world, the first reaction was
disbelief. Modern European nations could not bring themselves to believe
that such atrocities could be committed in our modern, civilized time. But
they did not reckon with the ferocity of the Bashi-bazouks who bayoneted
babies before their very mother’s eyes -- and all with the blessing of the
Turkish government.
As you may guess, Mr. Bennett sent me to investigate -- I took a train to
Bulgaria, and then a horse, and as I drew near the village of Batak, I began
to realize that of all the horrible things I had seen in my years as a war
correspondent, this was to be, by far, the worst.
I rode into the mountains, along crude roads and rugged paths, and came
at last to a magnificent green valley with thick carpets of pasture and a
clear mountain stream tumbling through it. The hillsides were covered with
golden fields of wheat and corn, so ripe that the heavy ears of corn had
broken their stalks and lay on the ground.
Something was wrong. At first I couldn’t figure out what it was.
Everything looked all right. Then it came over me what it was ... it was the
silence.
There were no sheep or cattle anywhere in sight, nor any farmers. The
only activity was that of a few wild dogs, dragging hideous meats alongside
them.
As I drew near the town, a sense of horror mounted within me. A human
skull lay at the edge of the road. Then a skeleton. Then another. Bones were
everywhere and the rotting flesh gave rise to a smell so foul that I had to
hold a handful of sharp tobacco against my nose. Then I came to actual heaps
of skulls -- hundreds of them -- heads that had been laughing and praying
only weeks before, severed by the merciless Turks and then piled like
cannonballs. Everywhere there were skeletons without skulls.
Batak had been a town of nine hundred houses and 8,000 people. And now it
was an empty ghost of its former self, a city of the dead.
The harvest was rotting in the fields because those who would have been
the reapers were rotting, unburied, on the streets of Batak.
For day after day I witnessed such horrors as can hardly be imagined. And
everywhere I went, I told the surviving peasants and their leaders: “Before
a year has passed, you shall see the soldiers of the Czar here to fight for
your freedom!”
The Bulgarians were cousins of the Russians and Russia stood ready to
exact a revenge from Turkey. But Russia could not attack Turkey without
powerful Great Britain agreeing to “look the other way,” something Britain
would not do. Britain felt that Russia and Turkey ought to balance each
other and the Prime Minister of Great Britain scoffed at the reports of
atrocities, saying they were exaggerated!
Well, I wrote ten dispatches for the London Times which changed Britain’s
mind. Even Queen Victoria took note. And the Prime Minister was, in effect,
fired by his own people because he did not respond quickly enough to the
atrocities I had reported.
When the new Prime Minister made it clear that Russia could attack Turkey
without fear of British interference, the Czar ordered his troops forward
and the Russo-Turkish War commenced.
I covered every detail of that war -- the massing of the Russian troops,
the crossing of the Danube River, the capture of the passes through the
Balkan Mountains -- 5,000 feet high -- I rode right alongside when the
Russian Cossacks took the Turks by surprise -- and then the march to the
Turkish capital of Constantinople.
The brave Bulgarians begged for rifles and gunpowder from the Russians --
and these were given -- and Bulgarian units joined the army as it surged
forward.
It was a terrible war, though all wars are terrible ... full of heroic
charges, blundering generals, cold and hunger, and the needless loss of
thousands of young lives. For a while the Russians and Bulgarians were
winning, then the Turks made a stand at a place called Plevna -- and for a
while the Turks seemed to be winning ... The Russians re-grouped and planned
a major attack on the Czar’s birthday -- no matter that a heavy rain was
falling on that particular morning -- it was the Czar’s birthday! And the
attack must be carried out.... which it was, and it was a complete disaster.
Such folly! Then the Russians re-grouped again and attacked in favorable
weather with 90,000 men!
It’s been said that nobody ever really sees a battle. The soldier is too
excited and enveloped in smoke. The general is too far away from the actual
conflict, too busy with messages arriving from different parts of the
battlefield. But there is one person who really sees a battle -- and that is
the Correspondent who is daring enough.
I saw battle after battle -- death and illness everywhere. I could have
cried for pity of this hapless human race, slaughtering each other by the
thousands in countless murders, skirmishes, massacres, battles and wars.
Finally the white flag of surrender was hoisted by the Turks, Bulgaria
was given its independence and the war came to an end -- but too late! No
sooner was the war over when that ravaged land turned to face the onset of a
deadly winter. I was exhausted, stricken with a fever in a country where
sickness and death were so common that the land had come to resemble a vast
graveyard. At almost every step on almost every road, one came upon the
frozen corpses of dogs, horses, oxen and people -- frozen stiff in every
posture of suffering.
I found the body of a child of four or five years old, lying in the snow
as if asleep. I thought of the little girl I had rescued in Khiva and, ill
as I was, I got down from my horse, thinking the child might still have a
flicker of life. I laid my hands on the little face and it was hard and cold
as ice. There were no marks of violence. The little girl had evidently
frozen to death.
I thought of my own family, far away and I resolved to change my career
and re-order my life so that I could be near my Barbara and my little Paul.
In seven years time I had covered wars in France, Spain and Turkey and made
an arctic expedition! The people of Bulgaria called me their “savior.” What
other American could make such claims?
I had had enough adventures to fill many books and to hold spellbound
many a lecture hall audience and to entertain children and grandchildren for
years to come.
Barbara and Paul joined me at the American headquarters in Turkey -- and
Barbara was shocked at my appearance. My good health, that had seen me
through so many experiences, had finally left me. I was thin and worn and
feverish and I couldn’t seem to get better.
Then I heard that a friend of mine, a young American lieutenant named
Francis Greene, had fallen seriously ill after visiting the Russian
headquarters. Even though I was ill myself, I went to the English hospital
where he lay, spent several days caring for him, and even passed a night at
his bedside trying to ease his chills and fever. It was typhoid fever, a
deadly disease that follows wherever there are refugees, glutted sewage
systems, and contaminated water. But far worse was another, similar disease
called typhus, a disease that has taken more soldiers’ lives than all the
blades and bullets combined.
Barbara begged me to take care of myself first, but my only thought was
for my friend. I felt worse and worse, my fever was rising.
I fell into an empty bed in a room at the hospital and lapsed into a fog
.... and then, as I said at the start of our brief time together, I began to
concentrate on something very big and wonderful. Something I want to get
back to now that I’ve told my story.
Barbara! Paul! How did you manage after I left you?
And the old, old human world ... have you found a way of living together
in peace in the years since I left?
What can I say in conclusion? I came a long way from my Perry County
boyhood. My life was shorter than most ... but the truth is that, through
most of it, I had the best of luck and the best kind of work. For the most
part, I had good health, good pay, a loving family and even a little glory.
Who among us can ask of life more than these?
