radical religious nationalism.
AFTER ARRIVING BACK at the consulate in Smyrna on August 30, Horton began sending agitated cables to Washington with news of the Greek debacle in the east, near Afyon Karahisar, and his fear that the nationalist army might soon approach Smyrna.
He swept up as much unofficial information as he could about the Greek army, which, he was told, was in rapid retreat and burning towns and villages in its path back to the sea. Most people in Smyrna were unaware of the scope of the Greek losses and remained calm and even festive in the final days of August. “The three big kinema theatres on the north Quay were doing a good business,” observed an Englishman in the city, “and the smart uniforms of the Greek officers were everywhere prominent, and one’s thoughts went back to the amusements of Paris and London during our Great War.” Even as the Greek army was falling back toward Smyrna, an Italian opera company performed Aida in the big theater at the Quayside Sporting Club.
Horton knew better than to assume the city was safe. His cables to Washington grew more anxious. The first, on August 30, reported the break in the Greek lines at Afyon Karahisar. “Turks have advanced along the Casaba Railroad seventy kilometers,” he wrote. By September 2, the Greek army’s setbacks had become public knowledge in Smyrna, though most people thought the Greek command would reconstitute its line to hold the city based on the dispatch of reinforcements by sea. Greek troops were arriving from Thrace, the easternmost province of Greece. On September 2, Horton cabled the State Department with a careful description of the positions of the Greek forces between Smyrna and the collapsing front and wrote:
“My opinion is that the situation is so serious that it can not now be saved. Panic is spreading among the Christian population, foreigners as well as Greek, and many are trying to leave. . . . I respectfully request thata cruiser be dispatched to Smyrna to protect consulate and (American) nationals.”
Anticipating an indifferent response from his antagonistic boss, Admiral Mark L. Bristol, in Constantinople, and possibly from Washington too, he added a postscript: “Urgently request your support.” It would take four days for Horton to get an answer to his plea, and when it finally came, it would leave him disappointed. But disappointment was something he had learned to live with in Smyrna. It had hollowed out his natural idealism and left him bilious and frustrated. He already had made it clear to Washington that he wanted a transfer out of Smyrna. Even those entreaties had gone unanswered.
HORTON HAD BEEN A CONSUL for twenty-nine years. Consul positions at the time were patronage appointments and often went (as Horton candidly put it) to saloonkeepers, broken-down preachers, and political henchmen. Horton had fitted himself into that disreputable list as a former newspaperman. Consuls weren’t diplomats: they were the hod carriers of the foreign service, stamping visas, intervening on behalf of American businesses, and sending commodity prices back to Washington. The pay was low, and a consul could be pulled at any moment to reward someone else with a political favor, but a consul who was a skilled party hack could make the job a sinecure if he chose, and many did. One American consul in the Near East ran a tavern across the street from the consulate. In contrast, Horton took the job seriously.
Horton’s first aspiration had been to become a poet. He had graduated from the University Michigan in 1878 with honors and a passion for Greek poetry. He headed west to Nevada and California, where he had knocked about in odd jobs including, when he was fully broke, teaching school in a frontier town. He wrote verse, married young, and scraped by. It was an adventure that he had relished and, being a natural raconteur, would draw on for years as he told stories about the Wild West. After his young wife
AFTER ARRIVING BACK at the consulate in Smyrna on August 30, Horton began sending agitated cables to Washington with news of the Greek debacle in the east, near Afyon Karahisar, and his fear that the nationalist army might soon approach Smyrna.
He swept up as much unofficial information as he could about the Greek army, which, he was told, was in rapid retreat and burning towns and villages in its path back to the sea. Most people in Smyrna were unaware of the scope of the Greek losses and remained calm and even festive in the final days of August. “The three big kinema theatres on the north Quay were doing a good business,” observed an Englishman in the city, “and the smart uniforms of the Greek officers were everywhere prominent, and one’s thoughts went back to the amusements of Paris and London during our Great War.” Even as the Greek army was falling back toward Smyrna, an Italian opera company performed Aida in the big theater at the Quayside Sporting Club.
Horton knew better than to assume the city was safe. His cables to Washington grew more anxious. The first, on August 30, reported the break in the Greek lines at Afyon Karahisar. “Turks have advanced along the Casaba Railroad seventy kilometers,” he wrote. By September 2, the Greek army’s setbacks had become public knowledge in Smyrna, though most people thought the Greek command would reconstitute its line to hold the city based on the dispatch of reinforcements by sea. Greek troops were arriving from Thrace, the easternmost province of Greece. On September 2, Horton cabled the State Department with a careful description of the positions of the Greek forces between Smyrna and the collapsing front and wrote:
“My opinion is that the situation is so serious that it can not now be saved. Panic is spreading among the Christian population, foreigners as well as Greek, and many are trying to leave. . . . I respectfully request thata cruiser be dispatched to Smyrna to protect consulate and (American) nationals.”
Anticipating an indifferent response from his antagonistic boss, Admiral Mark L. Bristol, in Constantinople, and possibly from Washington too, he added a postscript: “Urgently request your support.” It would take four days for Horton to get an answer to his plea, and when it finally came, it would leave him disappointed. But disappointment was something he had learned to live with in Smyrna. It had hollowed out his natural idealism and left him bilious and frustrated. He already had made it clear to Washington that he wanted a transfer out of Smyrna. Even those entreaties had gone unanswered.
HORTON HAD BEEN A CONSUL for twenty-nine years. Consul positions at the time were patronage appointments and often went (as Horton candidly put it) to saloonkeepers, broken-down preachers, and political henchmen. Horton had fitted himself into that disreputable list as a former newspaperman. Consuls weren’t diplomats: they were the hod carriers of the foreign service, stamping visas, intervening on behalf of American businesses, and sending commodity prices back to Washington. The pay was low, and a consul could be pulled at any moment to reward someone else with a political favor, but a consul who was a skilled party hack could make the job a sinecure if he chose, and many did. One American consul in the Near East ran a tavern across the street from the consulate. In contrast, Horton took the job seriously.
Horton’s first aspiration had been to become a poet. He had graduated from the University Michigan in 1878 with honors and a passion for Greek poetry. He headed west to Nevada and California, where he had knocked about in odd jobs including, when he was fully broke, teaching school in a frontier town. He wrote verse, married young, and scraped by. It was an adventure that he had relished and, being a natural raconteur, would draw on for years as he told stories about the Wild West. After his young wife
Similar Books
