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soldiers since, and every newspaper article, every proclamation issued by the government was rife with anti-Armenian propaganda.
    In the evenings the captain had taken to walking the long stretch of beach lapped by the waters of the Black Sea, and it was here he came in contact with the girl again. She was coming towards him, her skirts flapping noisily and her hair blowing in wisps around her face. Despite the ugly headscarf and tattered clothes, he could see she was attractive and possibly beautiful. It fascinated him that she should walk alone, especially after what had happened. On the pretext of asking after the young farm boy, the captain made discreet enquiries about her in the village. He discovered that she worked for the local doctor, an American missionary by the name of Stewart, and helped out at the school run by his wife. This was unusual as Turkish girls married young and were not allowed work outside the home. He found himself looking out for her and began to discover just how unconventional she was. There were times he noticed her clothes and hair were wet, as though she had been swimming, but he never actually saw her in the water and was careful never to approach. That first time he had passed her on the beach he had made an effort to say hello in his few words of Armenian, but she didn’t acknowledge him, and her hostility was like a cold breeze blowing against him. He didn’t blame her. He could hardly have expected her to be in any way approachable, but he was sorry for it nonetheless.

 
    Diary of Dr Charles Stewart
     
    Mushar
     
    Trebizond
     
    May 6th, 1901
    Today was one of the longest, most irritating, back-breaking days I have ever spent in a saddle, and one I hope not to repeat for a long time. But I’m running ahead of myself.
    Some months have passed since we came to Constantinople and much has happened in that time. Hetty and I have made good friends; we’ve learned Turkish and a smattering of Armenian and Greek; and we are the proud parents of a baby boy, Thomas George Stewart. Three weeks ago, we said goodbye to Elias Riggs and the Morgenthaus, before setting out for Trebizond. Hetty was sorry to leave, and I suppose it is daunting bringing a small baby into the wilds of eastern Turkey, but, I have to admit, I was impatient to get started. We’ve had to bring almost everything we need with us, and I spent weeks organising the shipment of furniture, medical equipment and supplies, as well as provisions for the journey. It was the usual exhaustive round of permits and bribes, but finally it got done and we were under way.
    A small coastal frigate by the name of
Mesudiye
brought us along the Black Sea to Trebizond. The Circassian captain told us that the town derived its name from the Greek word
trapezous
meaning ‘table’, and, as he guided the boat into the bay, we could see the ramparts of the old city, built on the flat hilltop, surrounded by a buttressing medieval wall. It was a surprisingly large town and not the backwater I had been expecting. At the dock, a crowd gathered on the quay, and a line of mules and their handlers stood to one side. Waiting for the boat were pedlars, customs officials, baggage handlers, caravan hamals and hangers-on of every description and persuasion. A full head and shoulders above these was a tall, foreign-looking man, whom I guessed to be our contact, an Englishman Elias had arranged wouldmeet us. But in pride of place, standing at the foot of the gangway, was a local dignitary. He was dressed in a long khameez, with a green girdle wound around his substantial waist, and traditional Turkish slippers. On his head was a turban like a miniature minaret, and his fingers sparkled with a dazzling display of jewelled rings. Two servants held a striped awning above his head, and a rug had been unrolled beneath his feet. He barely glanced at Hetty, but his black eyes never left my face. I was used to people staring by this time, but under this man’s gaze I