New Cotton Connections – a Post Script

After publishing the family history of my Cotton forebears from Whittle le Woods in Lancashire, it was great to be contacted by long lost relatives who shared my ancestry. Then, a few weeks ago, some of us managed to meet in person for the first time, in a cosy pub on a miserable day, in Bamber Bridge, Lancashire.

L-R Pauline, Anne and Sheila (2nd cousins), Me, John, Anne and Jane (3rd cousins).

Annie McMellon nee Cotton

It was a great opportunity to find out who knew who in our respective families and to share some old photos.

Pauline, Anne and Sheila are the grand-daughters of Frank McMellon (my Great Uncle). Frank wrote the memoir which told us so much about his mother’s Cotton family (Annie McMellon nee Cotton 1857-1919). See The Cotton Connection – Part 1 and Part 2

My grandfather was John Dunstan McMellon, the younger brother of Frank.

Ross and Winifred Cotton

Meanwhile, John is the grandson and Anne and Jane are the great granddaughters of Ralph (aka Ross) Morris Cotton (1865-1959) via two of his children. Ross was the brother of Annie McMellon. See the chart below to see the relationship more clearly.

Jane told us that her father, John Robinson Cotton, born 23rd January 1922, had been named after Ross and Winifred’s only son, John, who was killed in action on 23rd January 1917, on board the Royal Navy ship HMS Simoom which was torpedoed by a U-boat off the Schouwen Banks, in the North Sea. By an amazing coincidence her father was born 5 years to the day that John had died and so was given his name.

John Robinson Cotton 1922-2020

It was also amazing to find out that John Robinson Cotton was born in Hill Foot Cottage, Whittle le Woods. He then lived in the old farm at Hill Top South until his death in 2020 at the grand old age of 98! Had I knocked on the door when I did my family history tour of Whittle le Woods a few years ago, I would have been so surprised to find a Cotton relative still living there.

 

 

 

The Cotton Relationships

More Family Photos

Pauline later reported back from another family reunion held that weekend, where she found more family photos including one of my grandfather with his brother William dated 1916. Photos of these two are as rare as hen’s teeth!

Brothers John Dunstan and William Leo McMellon 1916

We were also delighted to finally see some pictures of Uncle Jim Cotton, the youngest brother of Annie and Ross. Jim had suffered some sort of fit as a baby which resulted in multiple disabilities (possibly spinal polio?). Notwithstanding the difficulties this must have caused him, he lived with Frank’s family for many years and lived life to the max as colourfully described by Frank McMellon in his memoir. Here’s an excerpt:

Jim Cotton 1914

“I must describe Uncle Jim at some length. He was my mother’s youngest brother and when a baby had had a fit of some kind… He had a useless arm, the right one, and the left one was bent and crippled. He had a thick leg and a very thin one and one shoulder blade was twisted and deformed. He called his dead arm his “swinger”. He was of a very cheerful disposition and because much of his time was spent in reading he became very erudite.   He had a good baritone voice and was in great demand at local concerts. As a little boy, I was taught to do quite a lot of things for him such as cleaning his shoes, putting them on, washing his hands, fastening his coat or reaching things for him. My Father dressed him every morning and undressed him at night.

Jim Cotton (1868-1943)

My Grandfather had built seven cottage houses for him and these gave him a steady income of about thirty-five shillings a week. Uncle Jim, however, notwithstanding his considerable disabilities …. liked his beer and good company, and betted heavily. He mortgaged the property and got so far behind with his payments that finally the houses were lost, thus he was left dependent on my parents. They looked after him well and he had the help and sympathy of everyone in the village.  

It was amazing the things he could do.   He could write, the pen between his teeth and resting on his lame hand.   He could drain a glass of beer by raising the glass with his teeth.   He played bowls with his feet and billiards with his lame arm.   Poetry was a favourite hobby of his and he could quote freely from all the great poets and authors.  He had numerous friends and acquaintances and these were always at his service”. 

A Visit to the Lancashire Archives

And finally, making the most of my trip to Lancashire, I called in at the Lancashire Archives in Preston to look up the Last Will and Testament of my GGG Grandfather Thomas “Lord” Cotton dated 1854 and an Administration Bond for his son William who died just a year after him.

As observed in Part 1 of The Cotton Connection, Tom was an enterprising and very rich man. So it proved from reviewing his will.

To his widow Margaret, he bequeathed his current dwelling (not named but believed to be the large house in Lord St, Whittle le Woods), the furniture, bedding and an annuity of £40, a tidy sum in those days.

To each of his sons, William and John (my GG GF), an annuity of £20 each and the following estate:

To William –

• All cash, securities and debts owed to him
• Livestock and “supplements of husbandry”
• 4 freehold properties in Eaves Lane, Chorley, presently occupied by William Jackson and others
• Dwelling house in Botany Bay (Chorley) occupied by James Wilson
• Dwelling house and outbuildings at Rotheram Top occupied by John Hargreaves.
• Boats and shares thereof…

To John –

• 6 dwelling houses, outbuildings and appurtenances currently occupied by Roger Hilton, Leonard Pearson, Richard Marsden, Mary Banister, James Wilding and Thomas Banister
• The house currently occupied by TC, (A/A presumed to be Lord St) after the death of Margaret, his wife.

To be divided equally between William and John:

• 3 leasehold cottages, dwelling house and gardens and croft in Treales occupied by John Bilsborough, Henry Mayton and William Halsall, held by Indenture of lease from the RH Earl of Derby for Robert Rawlinson and John Rawlinson.

Interestingly, there is no mention of the quarries. It may be that Tom dealt in stone and millstone grit, but did not actually own the quarries. Possibly these were taken on by John at a later date or Tom had passed them on to John on his retirement.

The same applies to the two Hill Top farms and Hill Foot cottage and farm, none of which are mentioned in his will. The 1851 census had shown that William’s family were living in Hill Top and John’s occupied Hill Foot farm. So by the time of Tom’s death in 1854, these properties appear to have already been passed on as freeholds.

The ownership of boats was a surprise. There is a canal in Whittle le Woods that was used to transport the stone from the quarries so it seems probable that this was another little sideline that Tom got involved in.

As to the nickname “Lord”, the family consensus is that as the owner of so much property in the area, he was probably self-styled or considered “Lord o’tt Manor”!

With regard to William Cotton’s estate. He died just a year after his father, but presumably intestate. The Administration Bond of 1855 requires his widow to submit a detailed inventory of his estate for the apportionment of his property (and no doubt a cut to the Crown). The signatories to the Bond were Mary Ann Cotton, his widow, marked with an X, and Henry and James Waring.

I was intrigued to see the name Waring, as this was the maiden name of his brother John’s first wife Jane. A little more digging and it transpired that Mary Ann was in fact Jane’s older sister. The Warings were also involved in the quarrying business. Talk about keeping it in the family!

Acknowledgement and Thanks

A big thank you to my extended family for meeting up and sharing documents, photos and memories. It was so nice to meet everyone and we all hope to do it again some time.

Thanks also to the staff at Lancashire Archives in Preston. The document refs are:

Wills & Probate Records/Archdeaconry of Chester Probate Records:-

Ref. WCW/Supra/C1263/99 – Thomas Cotton, Yeoman, 16 Sept 1854 (Hard copy only).

Ref. WCW/Supra/C1279/41 – William Cotton, Farmer, Whittle le Woods, Leyland, Administration Bond, 24 Sept 1855 (Hard copy only).

Travels in the Caucasus – A Memoir by Frank Xavier Calleja (1922) Part 3: The Competition

The Caucasus Competitors, Nov 1923. Frank is far left back row. Source: Family archive.

Introduction

This is the third and final part of Frank Xavier Calleja’s memoir of 1923, recounting his travels to Georgia and Armenia to take part in a motor competition representing his employer “Maison Berliet”, (the forerunner of Renault).

In this part, he describes setting off on the Georgian Military Road with his French colleagues Merie and Custy and two lorries they have entered in the competition. The route goes from Tblisi to Vladikavkas, (today over the Russian border). 

On their return, they have a couple of day’s rest in Tblisi, then undertake a second journey into Armenia, heading for the capital Yerevan.

Part 3: The Competition

Here we are at last – the 1^st November departure date. We had been instructed the evening before to be at the vehicle park at dawn.

It was only 6 o’clock in the morning but all the competitors were there: each one climbed into his car or lorry and we slowly left the park to take our places at the departure point where Karpinsky the engineer waited for us, flag in hand.

Competitors on the road at the start with Karpinsky holding the flag to wave them off. Source: Family archive 1923.

Competitors waiting to set off 1923. Source: Family archive.

The lightest vehicles were the first to receive orders to leave. Next it was the turn of the heavy goods. It didn’t matter what position was occupied in the column, since it wasn’t a matter of speed but to prove that the vehicles were economic on petrol and would last out in the terrible roads of the Caucasus.  In effect, just as we had surmised during our journey, so many of the roads, with the exception of the Georgian Military Road, were in a deplorable state, broken down with, from time to time, rock masses sticking out from their irregular surfaces. We had on board apart from the driver, a competition marshall and a guide, indispensible on these hazardous roads bordered by precipices and unknown to most of the party. Equally well installed on the sand bags stacked up as cargo in each lorry was a well-armed Soviet soldier. I was in the lorry driven by Merie and had to stay there for the duration of our long drive. Except of course during a few hours relaxation in the villages where we would stay when night fell.

Line up of competitors 1923. Source: Family archive.

As one can understand I was full of enthusiasm for the mission that had been entrusted to me, firmly hoping that this competition, which had only just started, would allow my firm to show once more the robustness of its working products.

Map of the Georgian Military Highway. Source: Eurasia travel

The itinerary fixed by the committee was long and arduous. From Tflis [Tblisi], which we had just left, we had to arrive at Posanaour (sic – Pasanauri about 56 miles north of Tblisi on the Georgian military road) as night fell, leaving again the next day at dawn for Vladicaucase (sic Vladikavkaz), which we had to reach late in the afternoon. On the return journey to Tiflis we had to stop again at Pasanauri [to spend] one or two days rest there and then have a fresh departure for Armenia – only about one month to travel the whole of the Caucasus.

The Georgian Military Road 1901

Our first stage, Pasanauri had to be reached by the evening but at 9 o’clock we were still a long way from our goal. For reasons which we didn’t understand our lorry was losing speed.  We had to carefully navigate a pretty narrow winding road, bordered on the left by the mountains and on the right by a precipice, made even more fathomless by the pitch darkness which surrounded us.  Electric headlights didn’t yet exist on utilitarian vehicles; we had only acetylene headlights.

Georgian Military Road 19th century photo. Source: GeorgiaAbout.com

We were descending when an unusual noise coming from the bonnet obliged us to stop. Merie got down on one side and me on the other to see what had happened. As for the guide and the controllers muffled up in their furs, they didn’t move, trusting in us. As the opening of the bonnet necessitated the breaking of seals we had a penalty followed by a second for the ventilator belt that had just broken and which had made the noise that had made us stop. We would certainly have been disqualified if our two officials could have seen the terrible spectacle opened up to our eyes; a white-hot seized engine, omen of a gear-box completely devoid of oil.  We caught a glimpse of the worst calamities of melted connecting rods and pistons irredeemably damaged etc etc.  The word of Cambronne [le mot de Cambronne popularly known as “muerde” – shit] offered by my friend Merie at the sight of this spectacle, was happily not heard, carried by the wind that was blowing around him. Merie told me on the sly that, being on the descent, he would try and turn the ignition key without being seen. This was not difficult for him thanks to the complete darkness and the sleepiness of our Russian friends. This little stratagem allowed the engine to cool down and to our great relief next morning our lorry, having received its fill of oil, began to hum normally proving that it had not undergone any permanent damage.

Convoy arriving at one of the towns en route (probably Pasanauri). Source: Family archive.

Arriving in Pasanauri much later than the rest of the convoy, we had to give at random some explanations as to the replacement of the belt, explanations which, supported by the guide and the controller, were accepted.

Competitors received by interested locals. Source: FXC family archive 1923.

Passanauri 1870s. Source: Wikimedia Commons.

Pasanauri is a little verdant village surrounded by high mountains, which are covered by thick forests teeming with brown bears. In the little farm where my companions and I had been lodged for the night, a young tame bear roamed among the occupants without bothering anyone; as for me I kept myself apart, too much intimacy with wild animals, even supposedly tame ones never having been to my taste. However during the night to my great terror, the door having no latches, allowed our four-legged co-tenant to come and visit to sniff all of us.

In this little farm, several bear hunters were staying before leaving at dawn to track down these animals and we were enormously interested to see these mountain men make their preparations for the hunt which although functional was not the less dangerous; a few sometimes losing their skins.

In order not to mangle the pelt of the animal, which would lose its value, the hunter uses a long-tapered dagger with which he pierces the heart of his victim; the hunter has his left forearm padded with rags with only his fingers free. As soon as a bear is spotted, the mountain-man goes squarely to meet his prey and begins to provoke it; there follows a kind of boxing match during which the animal tries to clasp his adversary who skillfully evades his grasp. The bear, excited by the battle tries to maul the forearm that the hunter presents to him, but in reality does nothing but maul the padding. Meanwhile the agile fingers [of the hunter] are plunged into the beautiful mouth of the animal, seizing the bear’s uvula, which chokes him. Simultaneously and without losing any time the hunter pierces its heart with the dagger still held in his right hand. [Ed. I find this rather fantastical account hard to believe. Were they winding Frank and his friends up?]

The day after our arrival in Pasanauri, we were up with the sun and after a hearty breakfast we set off for Vladicaucase, our second and last stage north of Tiflis, and where we should have expected to arrive by 4pm; but we couldn’t have foreseen what awaited us.

Mount Kazbek

Ingush family in front of tallest Ingushetian tower.

It was around midday when we arrived at the foot of Mount Kazbek; its white summit twinkling in the sun. We had just passed the little Soviet garrison, sole vestige of humanity in this Caucasian desolation, and found ourselves right in the region inhabited by the Ingushis [Ingush natives of Ingushetia], a wild tribe which lived by extortion and murder. [Frank’s superlatives are excusable given that he had already been shot at twice since his arrival in the country – see Part 2]!

At about 3 o’clock in a narrow gorge, between Kazbek and Lars in view of the little part of of Tchertov, without any warning, our 5 ton lorry shuddered, started and stopped, flatly refusing to go any further, no more petrol in the tank, although the driver was sure he had filled it when we left. Be that as it may, we were really in trouble; all the other vehicles, light and heavy goods, having passed us long ago, we couldn’t hope for any help in that place! After a confabulation held between us three and the guide, he and I decided to walk all the way to Kazbek and see if the military garrison could help us out of our difficulty. So off we went, full of anxiety in that immense Caucasian solitude, but not without any hope as to the outcome of our long-walk.

Bridge border at Lars. Kazbegi old postcard.

Having arrived at the village of Kazbek, we asked to see the Commandant of the little garrison who, to his great regret couldn’t give us any satisfaction as to fuel, having very little himself for his own vehicles. However, he helped us speak on the telephone to the president of the committee of the expedition, Byron, who was already at Vladicaucase. Byron asked us exactly where we were and promised to send help immediately because, he said, we couldn’t spend the night on a road infested by bandits.

Confident that the necessary had been done, we took the path back; another two hours by foot from Kazbek to where we had left the lorry and we arrived at last without having had any mishaps. We shared with our comrades our Sunday of misadventure: it was a dark black night, intensely cold but dry, which made us feel lucky that we hadn’t consumed all the supplies.

Briefly, we had to be patient and keep our spirits up in bad circumstances. If the lorry bringing the fuel had already left Vladicaucase, as Comrade Byron had promised me, it couldn’t take much longer to arrive. To make matters worse the wicks of our headlights had completely burnt down; we had to cut two strips from one of the jute sacks, filled with sand, which constituted our cargo, in order to make more wicks, thanks to which we had a little light.

Time passed and the little lorry which should have been there didn’t arrive. Paralysed with cold, I decided, accompanied by the guide, to take a few steps in order to warm up. The darkness, the great silence filled from time to time by the flight of an eagle or a vulture, and the terrible solitude did nothing to give us courage.

After about a 100 metres we stopped, after having crossed the small Bridge Teherter in order to leave the little gorge in which we found ourselves which ended in the Lars Valley described by Lermanoff [sic] in his famous poem “Tsaritza Tamara” [link to the poem by Mikhail Lermantov].

Daria gorge, Kazbek.

In a cloudless sky the moon, as though hooked on one of the peaks that surrounded us, shed a pale (livid) light on the desolate and ghostly landscape. Not far from there, perched on a rock right in the middle of the valley and seemingly inaccessible, stood the ruins of the castle of Queen Tamara. According to legend at the base of the rock, hidden by luxuriant vegetation was a secret entrance leading into the castle.

In my imagination I carried myself back long ago to the time of Queen Tamara of Georgia, who, tired by the exemplary life which she forced herself to lead in her capital Tiflis came secretly to her isolated castle at Lars, the existence of which none of her subjects doubted, giving free rein to her Messalinic inclinations. 

[Ed. i.e. a woman with a devious and sexually voracious personality. The historical figure of Messalina and her fate were often used in the arts to make a moral point, but there was often as well a prurient fascination with her sexually-liberated behaviour (wikipedia/Messalina).]

An extraordinary beauty, her long black hair covering her like a cloak, Tamara sat on her balcony, as night fell, and in an exquisite voice, accompanied by her lute, sang old ballads which called out to solitary travellers, lost in that immensity. Bewitched by that enchanting voice, the unhappy man let himself be guided by Tamara’s faithful servant, who lying in wait at the beginning of the secret underground entrance, led him to his mistress. After a night of orgy and love, the unfortunate [traveller] is seized by the servants and thrown from the terrace which overhangs the valley carrying with him the terrible secret of the double life of the Queen of Georgia.

At my side the guide, who was probably asking himself what I was dreaming about, pushed me suddenly by the elbow and forced me to return. All along the slope of the mountain on our left in the caves cut into the rock one could see twinkling in the darkness the red lights of cigarettes. “The Ingushis” my guide said to me in an apprehensive voice. “Get back to the lorry quickly, near the others!” No sooner said than done, and all while trying not to show any panic we were on our way back. Once we had turned around, about a dozen Ingushis hidden in the rocks quietly came out of their holes and began to follow us. Without turning around so as not to seem alarmed, even though our hearts beat like a tempest, we heard the rustle of their felt boots on the road. We got close to our lorry and found ourselves surrounded a few instants later by a group of bandits of hardly agreeable demeanour.  They began a conversation and having told them that we were awaiting the rest of the convoy of which we were a part, they went off, not without however, climbing onto the lorry and plunging their daggers into the sacks of cargo to assure themselves that they were not sugar as they suspected. I think that the sight of the Soviet flag and of the soldiers armed with their sub-machineguns as much as the idea that other vehicles would soon be joining us were the cause of their hasty departure.

Knifesmith with a Mountain man in Tiflis. Source: Dmitri Ermakov

Off they went however; the moonlight helped us to keep our eyes on them and see them re-enter their caves on the lookout for a more promising prey than we ourselves had been.

Old photo of Ossetians in Vladikavkaz, 1881.

For us, this episode, although having ended well to our advantage, still created a bad impression and a lot of anxiety on the subject of what else could still happen to us in the course of the night if the expected help did not arrive.

We were all in the middle of lamenting our fate when a “Who’s there?” came from the other direction from which the bandits had left; resounding in the night. Almost at the same time, the silhouette of a man emerged from the darkness, large, rifle pointed and wearing the uniform of a road inspector. After enquiring as to our identity and as to our presence on the road so late at night, he asked us if we would take him as far as Vladicaucase where he was going. Having briefly told him of our situation he said to us bluntly that we could not spend the night in such a savage place, where we ran the risk of being assassinated by the bands of Ingushis which infested that part of the Caucasus. He told us that in this very same place, hidden behind the rocks was the home of one of his men in charge of the upkeep of this part of the road.

He added that this man was probably also the head (chief) of a band but that having consented to give us hospitality we had nothing to fear. A characteristic of the Caucasian mountain people, little known in Europe, is the sense that one must show hospitality to one’s worst enemy. A long-standing tradition meant that asking to be sheltered was to immediately become sacrosanct and to have nothing to fear as long as one was under their roof, but on leaving the next day one could still be followed and attacked [by your enemy/host].

Vosja Doue our engineer inspector, after having advised us to be patient, left for the ascent of the mountain to look for our eventual hotel. A little goat track notched (out) in the rock lead to a kind of platform which we couldn’t see from where we were. We watched our inspector armed with his torch carefully scale the rock, then disappear.

We waited for a while which seemed to us an anxious century, hunger torturing our guts and shivering with cold. At last the man came back down and told us to our great relief that we were cordially invited. He asked us to follow him. We

took all that we could carry and began to climb the little path in the rock, which lead to the home of our host. After a few minutes our difficult ascent ended and we reached a kind of platform in the middle of which was a tiny single storey house, whitewashed and surrounded by well cared for flowerbeds, full of flowers and climbing plants, which we could see by the moonlight and the light which came from the little house. Through the misted windows could be seen a huge wood fire in the grate and in the corner, our host and his wife in the middle of their “namaz” or evening prayers. Like most Caucasians they were Muslims and courtesy forbade us from interrupting or disturbing their prayers. We had to wait outside. At the end of their prayers they both came out and welcomed us, asking us to accept their modest hospitality.

Ossetian man in traditional dress by Dmitri Ermakov

The man was tall, thin, his size squeezed into his Circassian dress. The woman, small, although moslem her face uncovered. A silk handkerchief covered her hair. Both of them were of quite advanced age. Shortly after the little welcome speech we went into what seemed to be the only room in the lodge. Our hosts sat us on a divan covered with bearskins which covered the whole of one side of the maisonette.

While his wife prepared a supper of maize bread (still hot), goats cheese, milk and honey, her husband asked us a heap of questions, especially of us three strangers. Although he was Caucassian he spoke Russian well and we were thus able to satisfy him with news from Paris and London, two capitals which he seemed particularly interested in. Although he was probably illiterate he showed a fine intelligence and spoke of Paris and London in a way that he had probably heard of from others but we were sure this that this old mountain dweller had never left his native country. Be that as it may he was agreeable, so was his wife, and I will never forget that night spent in a kind of eagle’s nest perched on the side of a Caucassian mountain. We ate what the good woman served us with good appetite, then since we were all dropping with tiredness, the old man rose and lead us to a large room in the middle of which roared a big stove. The room was totally bare of furniture and our host, excusing himself for not having beds to put at our disposal wished us good night. So each one of us accommodated ourselves as best we could on the floor around the big stove. Before we went to sleep the road inspector told us the old Caucassian had sent two of his men to guard our lorry.

We woke very early. The little windows, their panes covered in frost, filtered the first rays of sun. We wanted to go down to our lorry as soon as possible, curious to know if the petrol promised by Byron had arrived during the night. Before taking leave of our old Caucassians, I asked my Russian friends and the engineer if we ought to offer some money to the couple, whose hospitality had possibly saved us from a murderous attack by the Ingushi but certainly from pneumonia. Because it was November, the cold in the mountains, although very dry, was glacial. All threw their arms in the air and said to me that to offer money to a Caucasian in payment of hospitality was the worst of insults. We hadn’t spoken of this the evening before, going up to the old man’s house, but the engineer filled us in on another Caucasian custom that my French friends and I did not know.  If something caught our eye in a Caucasian mountain lodge we must never openly admire its beauty be it a gem, dagger or pistol, because the owner would believe themselves obliged to offer it to you.  However, one must immediately hide any object one has if it attracts the attention of your host, as in the absence of a willing donation the host can follow you on the road and take it from you.

In the light of the above, we warmly thanked our hosts, expressing the hope of seeing them again one day, and we retook the little goat track, which emerged right by our vehicle.

It looks cold! Source: Family archives 1923.

We had only to wait for the whole convoy to return from Vladicaucase because it was clear now that the benzine supplies could not come separately, as set out in our itinerary. The vehicles coming from Vladicaucase the night before, had after a stop of a few hours to leave again at the so-called beauty of the dawn. It was now 9 o’clock, we couldn’t be late to see them arrive and I was curious to know what excuse we would be given for having been thus abandoned at the risk of our lives. One of the registered articles/rules of the competition stipulated that the ambulance with doctors and two nurses must always be the last, in case they were needed to lend help. But this clause hadn’t been respected either in Tiflis to Posanaur nor from the village in Vladicaucase: on the contrary the doctor and the two young and charming nurses were almost the first to arrive at the stage without a care for the duty that rested with them and having no other aim but to have fun and have a ball.  I had firmly decided to point this out to Commandant Byron in the most energetic way.

Towards 9.30 we saw the head of the convoy appear on the Tchertoo bridge. At the head were the light vehicles, with sentries next to the heavy goods lorries. In the first car was the commandant Byron, who on seeing us all alive and in perfect health raised his arms to the sky as if to say “thank God”, (perhaps secretly in his soviet heart but not expressed).

He told us how he had been anxious about us and regretted how he had not been able to keep his promise.As soon as he received our telephone call from Kazbek, he tried in every way to convince the drivers to bring us the help we needed but all refused to venture out into the night in such a dangerous region. I brought up the question of the ambulance: I protested energetically on behalf of la Maison Berliet about the non-observance of this clause and threatened to withdraw from the competition, if, in our second expedition to Armenia the ambulance wasn’t at the tail of the convoy. Byron ruled in my favour and all the other participants were in agreement, because what had happened, luckily without unhappy consequences, could have happened to them. Of course those who were not pleased with this resolution were the doctor and nurses!

Competitors at departure point, 1923 including the doctor and nurses standing left. Source: Family archive.

Competitors en route 1923. Source: Family archive.

We filled up the lorry with petrol and hey presto we all left for Possanauri where we arrived without further disagreement at 16.45 hrs. After having once again spent the night in the village we set out the next day at 8:50 hrs to arrive at Tiflis at 1:20 hrs.

It was the 4 November and although the season was advanced we had been favoured by exceptional weather on the Tiflis – Vladicaucase road that we had traversed. What was most to be feared was the heavy rain. In effect the Georgian Military Road itself carved out of the mountain, is overhung for a good part of the way by enormous rocks, which once detached by torrential rain destroy everything in their path.

We had two days of rest at TIflis, two days of well deserved rest, and of which we made the most of before starting on the road again. The second trek Tiflis – Erevan [Yerevan], capital of Armenia and back, was a lot longer than we had just travelled and a lot harder.

My pleasure on finding myself once more at Hotel Noi [see Part 2] didn’t last long. Having before leaving entrusted my suitcases to the concierge, not having wanted to leave them in the bedrooms that we had retained, I begged the porter to bring them up for me. When he brought them up I realised with surprise that the locks had been forced. Useless to plead with the hotel from whom I would probably have got a shrug of the shoulders. I wracked my brains to try to understand what had happened. I couldn’t work it out. I consoled myself with thinking that if there had been an official raid I had nothing to fear having nothing in my cases that could compromise me. I was, all the same, resolved to find out the truth in any case. On having verified the contents, I concluded not only that nothing was missing but also nothing had been added. It was easy to compromise someone against whom one had a grievance, to introduce into their possessions a paper or a document or whatever, completely fabricated, and you would be irredeemably lost. I was thinking about all that when someone knocked on the door and the female trio who had been our regular companions since our arrival in Tiflis, made an interruption into our apartment. It was the brunette Fatma, the blonde Benedikta and the young Tamara, all three happy to see us again.

I mentioned at the start, the young person who was looking for Comrade Popoff, that strangers arriving in Soviet Russia were approached by young women working for the Tcheka, with the aim of surveillance and to establish a rapport with those they had seen and heard.

That was definitely not the case with the trio I have just named, I had realised that all three were completely inoffensive. They were simply three women looking for adventure perhaps, but certainly to dine well occasionally. They pretended to be widows of officers of the ancien regime killed at the front and seemed to lead a pretty precarious life. This story could have been true or an invention; we had no idea. The fact is however, that we had no cause to regret their good company.

We only stayed at Tiflis for two days, after our first expedition to Vladicaucase, and we set off again for the south, with Erivan (Yerevan) in Armenia as the goal of the second part of the competition.

Map of Armenia (2002) showing the main stops on the route mentioned by Frank.

We therefore left Tiflis on the 6th November. It was very cold, but happily dry weather, during our first stage. We arrived in Ekaterinfeld [now Bolnisi] towards midday, but we hardly stopped before we found ourselves at Vorontsovka [now Tashir] towards evening. Many times during the journey, and during those that followed we thought with regret of the beautiful Georgian Military Road covered in the first part of our journey, rather than the mountain roads where we now found ourselves. Always bordered by fathomless precipices in a deplorable state very often reinforced with boulders emerging out of the beautiful surroundings. Briefly, after a painful journey we arrived, on schedule, at Vorontsovka, just as the sun was setting behind the peaks.

Competitors in the Caucasus, exact position unknown. Source: Family archives.

Molokan farmer. Source: Ivan Semyonov 2001

A surprise awaited us in this village, essentially inhabited by the Malakanis [sic molokan], a Russian sect established for centuries in the Caucasus, expelled by the tsars because of their beliefs and unorthodox rites. The Malakanis had been involved in livestock farming, the production of dairy, of butter and especially of cheese. The most famous being Gruyere, which won them the gold medal at an exposition of their produce in Switzerland, a few years before our arrival in these parts.

These brave villagers, informed how I don’t know of our arrival, had erected at the entrance of the village an Arc de Triomphe decorated with little flags and paper banners of various colours. All around this Arc de Triomphe, at the top of which was a signboard with a few words of welcome, were gathered all the villagers. The noble and imposing aspect of these peasants impressed my companions and me. All of them, tall, thin, with long blonde hair parted down the middle framing the face, wearing relatively well-kept beards and in their long tunics seeming almost Christ-like, in this remote village in the Caucases, something we would not have expected to find. They said they were Christians. They took us to their temple on our arrival, which was a big room, bare, lime washed with neither altar, icons or crucifix, in a word, no exterior sign of the faith to which they claimed to belong.

A long table occupying the centre of the room was covered with various dishes in the middle of which sat an enormous block of Gruyere. Famished as we were, we did justice to this fraternal meal served with such good heart by the villagers.

In a few words, those of the Caucasus Committee who were familiar with the practices of the Malakanis, asked us not to smoke. Smoking and drinking were forbidden to them. Outside these two restrictions rigorously respected by these non conformists, there was a third; which for the occidentals [i.e. Westerners] as much as for the Russians themselves was, if not impossible certainly difficult to follow; absolute chastity until marriage. It was easy to see during the little time that we spent in the village that nobody smoked; as to alcoholic drinks we didn’t see them anywhere. As to the rest, “ma foi”[to tell you the truth]! I can say nothing, and seeing the fresh faces and exuberant health of these young lads nothing that would allow me to doubt the strict observation of their third commandment. [Ed. The Molokan religion is a bit like the Amish in the US].

Passing the night in Voronskova we were all lodged here and there. My two French friends and me were taken to a little farm run by a widow and her two daughters. She told us that her husband, taken by the Bolsheviks right at the beginning of the revolution, had still not reappeared: that was 3 or 4 years ago, and the poor woman was certain that he was no longer alive. We were led to a big bedroom where a wood fire burned, and in the middle of which were three enormous couches placed directly on the floor and composed of three or four feather mattresses. On a little table opposite the brave women had placed a carafe of milk and a bowl of honey. We thanked them for their pains and, mother and daughters having withdrawn for the night, we got ready for bed, looking forward to an early rise in the morning to continue our journey. My two friends, hardened smokers, and dying for a cigarette after several hours forced abstention, disregarding the customs of our hosts and my remonstrances, lit a cigarette thinking that no one would know. It was the wrong move, at the first puff there was a knock at the door and voila! One after the other, the two young girls, each holding a blessed candle followed by the mother with an incense burner, burst into the room. The mother sadly scandalised by our conduct bitterly reproached us for having betrayed the laws of hospitality and demanded my two comrades put out their cigarettes. Then followed by her daughters she started to fumigate the room, pronouncing words unintelligible to us. It had so much the air of an exorcism ceremony at which we assisted as penitents; we excused ourselves by pretending that we didn’t know that it was against the local customs. The good woman made us promise to never start again. Upon that, the three left the room and we were able to go to bed at last.

The next day 7th November, up at dawn, we took our leave of our farmers and assembled in the little village square where we waited for the others. Our convoy took to the road with Alexandropol [aka Gyumri] as our objective.

The route we followed up high in the mountains, at about 2000m was close to Ceusuria, an immense valley that one couldn’t see, enclosed as it was by the high mountain tops which encircle it on all sides. Ceusuria is considered to be the political Switzerland of the Caucasus and a few words of explanation on this subject won’t fail to interest the reader.

When the police of Tbilisi discovered a crime, a nihilist conspiracy or a political attack, leaflets carrying the suspects’ photos were distributed all over the town; thousands of policemen covered the streets and searched the houses.

If in the space of three days no result had been attained the police knew that the delinquents had fled from Ceusuria and all searches stopped immediately.

Ceusuria, [sic Chevsureti or Khevsureti] although not very far from Tbilisi, is a free and independent region. No police in the world dare pursue its victims in this immense region, literally encircled by the high mountains which separate it from the rest of the world and which are blocked by snow eleven months of the year. One single pass exists, known only to the Caucasians of this region and beside which, sealed in the rock is a great ring to which is attached a rope which constitutes, for eleven months the sole means of contact with the outside world for the Ceusurians. During one single month of the year these mountains can be broached across an extremely dangerous pass and it’s probably only across this passage that the first immigrants arrived in Ceusuria. Only one delinquent escaping the police dared to use the rope that I just mentioned. If he wants it, he is welcomed in the Ceusurian community where he is protected from all danger.

When the communists permanently occupied the Caucasus, they set about searching the houses looking for their political enemies who had fled to Ceusuria.

The writer Essad Bey aka Lev Nussimbaum

According to Essai Bey, [sic. the essayist Essad Bey aka Lev Nussimbaum, a controversial and somewhat unreliable essayist] the author of some 12 Caucasian mysteries, the Prince Celocasosli and his entire general staff fled to Ceusuria after having been defeated by the superior Bolshevik forces; they knew the exact location of the cord sealed in the rock and made use of it. Are they still in Ceusuria as political refugees, who could say?

Nobody knew exactly the origin of the Ceusurians but the old clothes that they liked to wear, all bearing on the chest the ancient crusaders’ cross of Malta their banners carrying Latin inscriptions, all making one believe that the crusaders, defeated and pursued by the Turks, found refuge in this valley and founded today’s Ceusarian colony.

Chevsureti tribesmen wearing chainmail.

[Ed. The topography, history and legends Frank describes above actually belong to the Chevsureti region of Georgia. This region lies north of Tblisi and to the east of Mount Kazbek, a long way from the itinerary being described here. While it is true that chain mail was still worn there, the link to the Crusaders has since been largely discredited]. 

Alexandropol (now Gyumri) 1901. Source: Public domain.

We arrived therefore at Alexandropol towards the evening of the same day and were lodged as usual by the local authorities. After a substantial meal we found our way to the places we had been allocated.

Competitors taking a meal, possibly at Dilijan (unlabelled). Source: Family archive.

The 8th November we got up very early as usual and set off for Dilijan where we arrived towards 15.10 hrs. There, the Competition committee directed us towards an immense building constructed on the mountainside and that they told us was a sanatorium for tuberculosis disused for some years. I have got no words to describe this place renowned in all the Caucasus for its beauty, its lush vegetation and pure air.

Dilijan is now part of a National Park and is on the Transcaucasian trail. Source: silkroadarmenia.am

I am sorry to say that this is where Frank’s memoir ends. We don’t know why he didn’t finish it. The photo below, showis that they continued on to Lake Sevan, which was the next place on the route after Dilijan and presumably then went on to the capital Yerevan.

Lake Sevan (Lac Gotchka) at 7,600 ft, Armenia 1923. Source: Family archives.

This image shows the same island on Lake Sevan as in Frank’s photo. There was a writer’s resort there prior to irrigation works in the 1930s that lowered the water level and made the island a peninsular. Source: Owen Hatherley.

Lake Sevan, one of the highest altitude lakes in the world.

The final photo below was in Frank’s collection and appears to show him with a number of the competitors, some holding trophies. So, despite all the false starts and incidents along the way, it looks like his team still achieved a place in the honours. I certainly hope so, it was quite an adventure.

Frank is 4th from R, 2nd row sitting (handkerchief in top pocket). The man sat next to him holding a trophy could be his team mate Custy. Source: Family archives.

Acknowledgements

I must give a big thank you to my third cousin Esmé Clutterbuck for sharing Frank’s papers and photos and undertaking the lion’s share of the translating process. I was just back up and editing! It was an immensely rewarding and enjoyable process for both of us and we shall miss our Sunday morning adventures with Frank.

Sources and Further Information

For more information about Queen Tamara:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tamar_of_Georgia

An interview with one of the last Molakan in Tashir – https://hetq.am/en/article/79209

Another article about the Molakan sect in Armenia : https://www.rferl.org/a/armenia-russian-molokans-society/26907858.html

Essay about the writer Essad Bey (aka Lev Nussimbaum): https://www.historicalmaterialism.org/node/1846

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lev_Nussimbaumhttps://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lev_Nussimbaum

Travels in the Caucasus – A Memoir by Frank Xavier Calleja (1923) Part 2: Adventures in Batumi and Tiflis (Tblisi)

Introduction

In this second part of Frank Xavier Calleja’s memoir of 1923, he recounts his arrival at the port of Batumi in Georgia after sailing across the Black Sea from Istanbul (Part 1). He was en route to an automobile competition in the Caucasus, with his colleagues Merie and Custy and two lorries to be entered into the competition. From Batumi, they made their way by train to the capital of Georgia, Tiflis ( [N.B. This was the international name for Tblisi pre 1936 – it’s the capital and largest city in Georgia), where they would spend a few weeks experiencing the lively hospitality of the Georgians and life under the new Soviet regime before setting off on the competition in early November.

Part 2: Adventures in Batumi and Tiflis

It was only six o’clock when the [S.S.]Moravia dropped anchor. The weather was marvelous and although we were already in autumn it was extraordinarily hot for this season. We could not disembark without passing through customs and so, despite our hurry to set foot on land we had to be patient, to await the pleasure of the port authorities. Whoever has not seen the Soviet customs – at least those of the time when these events took place – has seen nothing.

At about half past eight one boat followed another and then a third left the quayside to join the queue. They rowed nonchalantly towards our boat, the customs boat, the medical boat and the political boat, all were there. At least twenty men armed with rifle, bandolier and red cockade, with enough mines to blow up the whole world.

The first boat approached and the comrade doctor, pot-bellied and wearing a peak cap with ear-flaps, was with great difficulty, attempting the climb up to us. Pulled from above and pushed from behind he finally succeeded in setting foot on the bridge where crew and passengers were assembled.

To our great surprise the large doctor was a woman dressed as a man; wearing badly adjusted long trousers. She was more than round, a veritable balloon, a bear. She asked after our health this lovable comrade; and, by way of thanking her, we stuck out our tongues at her one after the other which seemed to satisfy her immensely. She was, basically, a brave woman this comrade doctor and was, in any case, less tedious than those that followed her.

These, nearly all members of the famous Tcheka, [Cheka was the first incarnation of the Soviet secret police established 1917] had already taken possession of the boat. The galley, captain’s bridge, télégraphiste’s cabin, all were militarily occupied. And this was the long and difficult customs control; the questions without end asked in the tone of an ultimatum. We were subjected to the following questions concerning rations for the crew. How many men? How many days stay in Batumi? Then, “how many grams of sugar per person per day, multiplied by the number of days?” and so on for tea, coffee, salt, pepper and jams. Right! Sort all that out from the galley and cordon off and seal the rest until the day of departure.

We disembarked at last and my first concern was to see our two lorries unloaded and to make sure it was done without mishaps. An employee of ARCOS [All Russian Cooperative Society] who came to meet us and who was well versed in the formalities of the customs took charge of the unloading of the vehicles.

As for us we headed towards the offices of ARCOS where the director Mr Betz was awaiting us. After a few words of welcome he asked for our passports, which would be left with the Tcheka of Batumi up until our departure. Half an hour later he gave us pass-cards that would serve as identification for the time we would be on Soviet territory.

I returned to the port and saw my lorries already on the quayside. The customs officers were in the process of carrying out their duties. It had been established that all the cargo destined for the Caucasus would be allowed entry in the USSR under a temporary customs franchise – but I had to sign a document engaging me to load up the lorries again as soon as the Competition ended.

That done the delegate from ARCOS immediately started to busy himself with getting things underway. He informed me that the train that would take us and the lorries to Tiflis would not leave until the following evening. We had therefore two whole days at our disposal that we could count on filling as agreeably as possible.

We first of all left our bags in the rooms reserved for us by ARCOS. It was a large comfortable well-aired room; three beds and some essential furniture; nothing special but compared to the cabins of the S.S. Moravia, reeking of cheese and seething with vermin, it was almost luxury.

An hotel in Batumi. Source: worldoftopographyart

Once installed and seeing that it was still early we decided to go and explore the town a little. I don’t know what Batumi is like now but in 1922 it certainly could not be called a modern town. Nonetheless the general impression was not disagreeable. Fairly spacious streets lined with palm trees and bananas and behind the trees, small houses of plain stone. There was a strong smell of petroleum everywhere, emanating from the pipe-lines which, coming from Baku [in Azebaijan] crossed the town ending up at the port where the immense reservoirs of l’Azneft were situated. [L’Azneft, a business that integrated the Azerbaijani oil industry was created after the Bolshevik Revolution through the nationalization of the Azerbaijani oil industry].

Although it was already the end of October a quasi-equatorial climate reigned in Batumi; the heat was intolerable, the atmosphere humid as a Turkish bath.

As soon as we had gone out my two comrades, like typical Frenchmen, had a spot of good fortune. They wasted no time in becoming acquainted with a woman; plump and rosy-cheeked and not in the first flush of youth, she was a real Russian baba type whose reputation left a lot to be desired.  Although in principle, the head of our little delegation of three, I was completely ignored by my comrades when I hazarded some advice. Knowing the Russia of the Soviets, and from what had already been seen, I recognised their methods. I merely wanted to put them on their guard. Anyway they were both older than me and I had neither the intention nor the zeal to watch over their morals.

So it was that with the rotund “bonne femme” called Katia who represented for my friends, however badly, the fair sex, the four of us out for a walk.

In the main street we came face to face with the employee from ARCOS who had helped us in the morning. He took me aside and apologising for intruding on what was not his business, put me on guard against this woman. This one, Katia, he told me, was the most dangerous prostitute in Batumi being connected to a great number of sordid characters. I discreetly relayed this to my friends who assured me of their wish to be rid of her as soon as an occasion presented itself.  My friends did not know a single word of Russian; as for me, by avoiding all familiarity, I kept the fact hidden that I knew the language quite well. So the conversation was carried out either in pidgin French [on the part of Katia], and with sign language.

We came by a kind of tavern. Katia made it known that she was hungry, that it was meal-time and, without waiting to heed my opinions, she went into the place dragging her two cavaliers. I followed, in a very bad mood; I could have made myself scarce but, knowing that my friends had no money with them, I summoned up courage against ill fortune and renounced the idea of disappearing, which would have been discourteous on my part.

In this bistro the set-up was indescribable, the atmosphere unbearable. Types with the particular leathery blood-coloured look of “Comrades of the Epoque” were sitting with loose women; all were three or four parts drunk.

We crossed the room and went to occupy the only small alcove still free. I was tired and the idea of being able to sit down and enjoy a small meal, I, rightly or wrongly, presumed to the good. I resigned myself to the disagreeable company that was imposed on me.

The “bonne femme” was telling a string of tall stories to which I paid no attention letting my two companions guess at what she was saying.

Suddenly revolver shots rang out in the room and bullets whistled above my head to lodge in the wooden wall facing me. I turned slowly and saw one of the revellers, a tovarish [a Russian word meaning comrade or ally] in a leather jacket, standing at a certain distance directly behind me. Aiming his revolver in my direction he fired again, the bullet whistled above my head and sunk into the wall. Although I felt my heart beating fit to break I smiled very naturally at him without showing the least panic. Then joining my hands (giving a clap) I gave him to understand that we had enjoyed his fine demonstration of shooting. This seemed to give him great satisfaction and to our great relief, he pocketed his gun.

Under the Soviets, at the start of the revolutionary era, all the Commissaires, the Tcheka and other dignitaries were armed. With a scorn for human life and aided by drink, they took innocent lives daily without any repercussions as they relied on the impunity of belonging to the Party.

As far as it concerns us, we were held in good account thanks to our calm and my diplomatic gesture. Had we got up in panic, protesting we would certainly have had it.

In short having quickly gulped down our meal we left, not without making, despite our real feelings, gestures of friendship towards those who could have been our executioners.

Katia, whom we had not succeeded in shaking off, led us through twisting streets to a small garden, a kind of outdoor café where we sat down for a glass of lemonade. The “bonne femme” began to become enterprising; all of a sudden, she planted an enormous calf on my lap. At the base of her calf was an anklet of string. [A sign that she was available for sex]! It was this that resulted in our getting up to go.

We left the café and stopped at the corner of a sombre and deserted street that she was keen for us to go down. Fortunately for us it was not far from the centre where we could see lights. She put two fingers into her mouth and gave a formidable whistle, which was responded to from the end of the street with an identical one. It took no time to realise that we were on the point of falling into an ambush.

This time, not holding back any longer, I said to her in good Russian what I was thinking. Furious that I had for more than two hours left her tongue twisting on a few French words she stamped on the ground and berated me with a stream of invective I would not know how to translate here.

Turning on our heels we left her there and took, at an accelerated pace, the road to the centre. We turned many times to see if we had been followed.

It was about 11 o’clock when we got back to our lodgings but despite the late hour it was still terribly hot. My comrades expressed the desire to go for a dip in the Black Sea, The beach was practically adjacent; a swim in the sea would certainly refresh us. We headed towards the sea front we had seen at the end of the road. Having reached it, my friends began to be worried that they did not have a bathing suit.

I knew Russian customs from having lived at Odessa before the revolution and knew that nudism was currently practised. On all the beaches everybody wore the costume of Adam and Eve. [There] the beaches had teemed with human bodies often beautiful but more often horrible to look at; skeletal bodies, others apoplectic [i.e. thick set], obese, bodies of young girls with growing breasts and harmonious curves, bodies of very old ladies whose defunct beauties cascaded down almost to their knees. In short a vision of a Dante-esque hell.

The waterfront at Batumi. Source: world topographyart.

I knew that I would rediscover all this and worse perhaps on the beach towards which we were heading. I said nothing and pretended that one could hire bathing costumes on the beach itself. Were I to have told them they certainly would not have been scandalised but I preferred to see their reaction. Arriving at the sea front there was of course, no kiosk or costumes nor a great crowd as it was after midnight. However in the feeble light of the stars one could make out here and there white naked forms. My friends, although surprised, understood and without hesitation we took off our clothes and dived in. The water was lovely and we stayed in quite a long time. What happiness to be able to relax after the fatigues of the day.

We had to go back and take a little rest. The very evening of the day, which had just started, we left Batumi for Tiflis. (Ed. i.e. they got back in the early hours and were leaving later that day).

Given the continual thefts perpetrated on the railway line, Arcos advised us to make the journey from Batumi to Tiflis in our lorries themselves. They were loaded onto two platforms affixed to the rear of the train.

The two mechanics installed themselves comfortably in the cabin of the first vehicle and myself in that of the second. The cabins of the lorries were very comfortable, much more so than the carriages would have been with the stifling heat and alcohol fumes.

Railway station at Batumi. Source: worldoftopographyart

It was three hundred kilometres from Batumi to Tflis; the journey took two days. When I had had enough of reading, dreaming or looking at the beautiful countryside, I would climb over the small space between one platform and the other and visit my two friends.

The rail route from Batumi to Tbilisi highlighted in orange.

We finally arrived in Tiflis, some officials from the competition were there and, after superintending their unloading, they told us to drive them to a park specially reserved for vehicles of the competition. As we did not know the town a guide came with us to show the way. Once in the park, which already contained a fair number of lorries and light wagons, the gates were locked and it was guarded in a military fashion. Nobody was authorised to go in before the beginning of the competition; of which no one yet knew the date.

Competitor line up Nov 1923, place not stated. Source: Family archive.

After having made contact with the authorities of the competition (whose offices were towards the Georgian railway) and made the acquaintance of a fair number of officials it was left to us to wait discreetly for the Competition to begin. Some delay would necessarily take place; some participants had been held up on their way.

I went each day to the office of the engineer Karpinsky – a charming man- as much for the chat as to study the itinerary that would be followed by the vehicles.

Tblisi Old Quarter. Source: Public domain

On our arrival at Tflis we were led to the hotel Noé where the committee of the Competition had reserved for us some rooms. Strangers coming to Russia had no choice and had to stay at the hotels that the authorities assigned them. The hotel Noé, of mediocre appearance, was nevertheless fairly comfortable; but we did not stay very long having had on our first night, the discouraging spectacle of a duel with revolvers in the lift cage. We were on the point of going to sleep when shots rang out in the night. My friends and I leapt up and went out into the corridor to see what had happened.

We saw the proprietor of the hotel, a large elegant man dressed in Georgian national costume crouching on the steps that he was descending one by one whilst firing his Browning across the bannister at someone we couldn’t see and who was probably following him. The bullets whistled from all sides. We thought it prudent to go back into our rooms when one of the chambermaids, in panic, telephoned the police. The fusillade stopped. A lack of ammunition and the prompt arrival of the police and everything became calm again.

Finding ourselves in a country where really everyone was armed and playing with revolvers as if there were no God, began to tell on our nervous systems. The following day I told the engineer Karpinsky what had happened and asked to be transferred to another hotel. The hotel Astoria was telephoned and an apartment comprising a lounge, bedroom and bathroom was put at our disposal!

Astoria Hotel, Tblisi

The two Frenchmen occupied the bedroom while I established my quarters in the vast lounge. Scarcely was I installed and left alone – my comrades had gone out – than there was a discreet knock at the door. Without waiting for an invitation to enter a beautiful, elegantly dressed young woman came in. She was surprised to see me and asked me where Comrade Popoff was. I told her that I did not know Popoff and that probably she had got the wrong floor. She closed the door and fell onto the divan telling me that she was tired and wished to rest for a few minutes. She took a cigarette from the box that was before her and began to smoke nonchalantly. There was no question of Popoff. It was the eternal inquisition, in the manner practised in the Soviet country, and could well still be so today (1970s). Beautiful women, maintained by the Tcheka, were put in contact as if by chance with new arrivals in the country and acted as informers. Unable to glean from me anything but the truth as to my presence in Russia she went – not without telling me that she was charmed to make my acquaintance and that she would return if I so wished.

During one of my visits to Engineer Karpinsky, I was presented to a member of the Tcheka of Tiflis, who had come to make me fill in one of these questionnaires, where frequently the same questions are put differently and to which one can only reply in the same way if one tells the truth and has nothing to hide. These questionnaires, that I have only seen in Soviet Russia include demands for totally personal information and had nothing to do with the reason for our presence in Russia.

“Which political party do you belong to in your country?” I always said I was a Labour supporter. “Did I have in my country, possessions such as a house, capital in the bank etc?” What were the political ideas of my father, my mother?” and so many other questions of the same sort.  At each of my replies Comrade Theodoroff, that was his name, smiled, then transferred them diligently on to the questionnaire he had in front of him, and that I had to sign when all was finished. He was a very sympathetic man, this fellow, but after his departure Engineer Karpinsky said to me confidentially that this smile masked a very dangerous man whom I should not trust.

I ought to say in parenthesis, that nearly all the engineers I had occasion to meet during my stay in the Caucases, belonged to the class of “Bezpath” or “partyless” which the authorities employed all the same, having need of their technical knowledge. These sans-parti had never accepted the regime, but were forced to play the game due to circumstances.

What happened to these good people since this period of transition we don’t know. It is to be presumed that with the years a new generation of engineers born and grown up under the Bolshevik regime have taken the place of the old, who although 100% bourgeois had perhaps to accept the inevitable or who were liquidated.

In this railway office I not only made the acquaintance of officials, engineers and Tchekists but also of a charming Russian woman secretary who occupied the office opposite engineer Karpinsky’s. From the first day of my arrival she didn’t hide her desire to get to know me and found a thousand and one pretexts to come to Karpinsky’s office albeit with a dossier or a document of some sort. Karpinsky having guessed her game introduced me.  From that day I went to the Committee more often and never missed passing by Alexandra Hadimizovna’s room. Within a short while I was waiting for her at the exit and soon we became very good friends.

She told me about her life; she married very young to a commissaire of the people, who abandoned her after a few months of marriage. She now lived with her father, her mother and a younger sister.

It’s thanks to Alexandra that I could give myself an idea of the shabby lives that the working classes led at that time. One must remember that these reminiscences date from 1923 and that since then things must perhaps have changed.

Chervonets banknote 1922 USSR

What, more than any other thing, made the life of the salaried difficult was the instability of the Russian money. A currency had been established – the Tchervonetz [sic Chervonets]. This was related to the stock exchange, much like sterling or the dollar, but like the English guinea, a currency that does not really exist. All the salaries fixed in Tchervanetz were paid monthly in roubles following the stock exchange value of Tchervonetz.

Towards the end of the month, pay day, the Tchervanetz fell on the stock market and the employee earned in roubles much less that it would have been a few days before. Once the government had paid all the salaries, the Tchervonets began again to gradually go up and the price of absolutely everything (being based on the value of this currency), increased each day until the end of the month when the whole comedy started again. I can’t remember ever having bought a box of matches that cost so much.  A pair of slippers or galoshes which cost relatively little, would be sold on hire purchase, but the buyer very often would still be paying for them long after they had disintegrated, things were of such poor quality. Such was the wretched life that reigned in those times.

Now I could no longer do without the company of Alexandra, who had even introduced me to her family. More than once I had been invited to share the modest meal of these good people who couldn’t do enough to put me at my ease. This allowed me to become involved in the intimate life of the low paid.

Alexandra’s father, although very educated and distinguished, was a bill collector in some government department. Although I avoided as much as possible, talking of the past and even less of the present, I understood from snippets of conversation that he had fulfilled one of the highest positions under the Tsarist regime but that he had had to accept a much humbler function in order to sustain his family.

Red Army taking Tblisi in 1921. Source: Public domain

This family of four people lived in a little apartment of two rooms. The room where I was welcomed the first time Alexandra took me home, served as a dining room, a bedroom and judging by the little petrol stove on which the evening meal was being prepared, also a kitchen.

Surrounding the table at the centre of the tiny room were three impeccably clean beds, those of the mother, Alexandra and her young sister, and a commode and on the wall, in the place of honour, was an icon of the Virgin in front of which was burning a little lamp. That’s how it was. Those of the older generation still held, in spite of everything, to their religion called by their materialist government “the opium of the people”.

Although I liked the company of this little family I did the most I could to avoid getting too involved with Alexandra who, having already suffered enough in life, did not deserve that I should inflict a new deception on her by giving birth to false hopes.

I took her two or three times to the Tiflis Opera, to which she had not often occasion to go, but just as two good friends.

National Opera House, Tblisi Francisco Anzola, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

However the 1^st November the date fixed for the meeting approached, and I had to concentrate on what I had to do in order to better fulfil the mission entrusted to me.

I had the time before leaving to satisfy a desire of Alexandra’s to have a photo of myself as a souvenir. In the company of Alexandra, one of her friends, Anna Davidrona, and her brother, we went to a well-known photographer and had a group photo. I had a copy made for each of us. I had, to my great regret had to destroy mine, not wanting it to be found in my luggage. The relations between Soviet citizens and foreigners passing through were the object of very severe controls and many times good people had to pay dearly for an innocent friendship into which entered neither espionage or politics.

 

End of Part 2.

Part 3 concludes with the competition which involves travelling along the old Georgian Military Road to Vladikavkaz then back to Tblisi, and then on to Lake Yerevan in Armenia.

 

Sources and Further Information

Old photos of Georgians who fought Red Army against Russia in 1921: https://georgianjournal.ge/society/32243-february-25-1921-heroic-georgians-who-fought-against-russias-red-army.html

Old photos of Tblisi from the Soviet era: https://georgianjournal.ge/discover-georgia/32381-soviet-tbilisi-shown-through-old-photos.html

 

 

 

 

 

Travels in the Caucasus 1923 (A journey through Georgia and Armenia) – by Frank Xavier Calleja. Part 1: Preparations for Departure

Frank on the right, outside the offices of Berliet House in Istanbul, 1920s. Source: Family archive.

Introduction

In 1922 or 23,  my grandfather’s cousin Frank, (a member of the Maltese Levantine community living in Istanbul, Turkey) took part in a motoring competition across what was known as the Caucasus region, in Georgia and Armenia. 

In Ancient Greece, Georgia was known as Colchis, the land of the golden fleece, destiny of Jason and the Argonauts. These wild and beautiful lands had been taken over by the Bolsheviks in 1917 and then in 1922 became part of the newly formed USSR. Very few foreigners travelled or were indeed welcome there and much of the Western world had little idea of what life was like under that regime. Secret police and informers were everywhere and foreigners who got picked up by them were pretty much on their own. Frank’s account of his adventures there, form a fascinating first hand account of what it was like for people living under the soviet regime, while his encounters with many indigenous tribal communities describe lands rich in history, myth and culture.

Frank had indicated in his memoir that the expedition had taken place in 1922 but at another point says 1923. After some deliberation I have concluded that it must have been 1923 as his account includes a discussion on the Soviet state’s manipulation of workers’ salaries using the Chernovets currency. This coinage did not come into being until November 1922.

The original manuscript for this memoir was handwritten in French in the early ’70s and was found with Frank’s effects after he died.  It has been translated by Frank’s grand-niece and God-daughter Esmé Clutterbuck and edited and transcribed by Esmé and I. Most of the photographs also came from Frank but have been supplemented by a few photos and illustrations found on the internet. The text has been edited into 3 parts for ease of publishing. Additional information and editor’s notes are shown in parentheses in italics.

Countries bordering the Black Sea, with Istanbul, the former capital of Turkey, at the western end and Georgia at the furthest point east. Source: Public domain.

MEMOIRS OF CAUCASIA (1923)

Part 1 – Preparations for Departure

By Francis Xavier Calleja 

Horrified by the dull life I had been leading for some time I began to long for some kind of adventure. A trip anywhere, it didn’t matter, as long as it would change absolutely the monotonous course of my existence and like a bolt of lightening wrest me from my torpor.

I had just emerged – as usual bruised and disabused – from a ridiculous love affair, the most extraordinary I had known up until then. All my energy and joy of living felt stripped out of me.

An equally important factor, and one which I cannot omit to mention here, is that of my birth. I came into the world one Monday 27^th June, in a year of grace, sometime around eight o’clock in the evening.

Those who know even a little astrology must be aware that the date, day and hour come under the sway of Cancer; and are intimately connected to the moon. They will also know that although those born under this sign are typically calm, thoughtful and go about things in a slow but sure way, the moon confers on them a love of change, of the bizarre and of journeying. They are (or love) in consequence, travellers, artists and perhaps lunatics.

It will then be easy for amateur students of the science of the stars to understand my restless state, my wanderlust. To envisage a fine visa on a brand new passport, the packed labeled luggage ready to be conveyed by the porters. I adore that. A boat weighing anchor, the departure whistle of a train, the engine of a plane that starts up and waits for me and then the inexpressible feeling when this train, this boat and this plane leaves without me.

It is of this that I never ceased to dream. But little did I know, this September 14^th 1922 that I would be leaving the following night [sic 1923, see note above].

The following morning whilst looking at myself in the mirror I was surprised to notice that my lower lip had more or less regained its former elasticity. This coincided by chance with the fact that I was no longer obsessed by its misshapenness. And now the look of a grumpy child, which had become my normal mien, had completely disappeared.  I began to smile and caught myself whistling a popular tune.

What could all this mean? This change in me, which seemed so intimately connected with my whole make-up, was certainly a good omen. I had a premonition that something new might well be coming. Light footed and heart full of hopes I went back to the Maison Berliet office where I worked.

[Ed. Berliet was a French automobile manufacturer and the forerunner of Renault]¹.

It was only eight o’clock in the morning and contrary to habit I was the first to arrive. I set to work immediately, although it must be said without great enthusiasm. The unknown happening, that I had an inkling of and that I hoped for with all the force of my being, absorbed my thoughts.

Outside it was a ravishing autumn day; the trees caressed by a light breeze from the Bosphorus; were shaking their rust coloured locks. The air was pure and perfumed and on the road in front of our office the pylons supported high-tension electric cables that sang their song. Thus witnessing the perfect harmony that can sometimes exist between nature and modern science.

I gave myself up to my dream, my thoughts running towards new and distant horizons; eager for freedom, wide open spaces and adventure.

All of a sudden ‘Brrrr’, the telephone, I lifted the receiver. It was the strongly burred voice (Fr. grasseyant) of my friendly boss, calling me to his office.

What could it be, this directorial summons so early in the morning? The car delivered the night before hadn’t satisfied him? Was the secretary ill so that Monsieur the director had no one to dictate his letters to? Or perhaps he was going to inform me of the imminent arrival of an inspector from Lyons with the usual recommendation….”And above all make sure everything is in order.” A recommendation that anyway is useless since we all know this paradoxical truth; i.e. that being an inspector means that one inspects nothing at all whether one comes from Paris, London or Timbuctoo.

But I was soon going to have the key to the mystery. I knocked on the door of my boss’s office and after a resonant sonorous and joyful “Come in”, I found myself in the presence of the Director for the Orient of the Berliet company in Lyon.

It is about fifty years since that morning but, nonetheless, I have only to close my eyes and I can still picture my boss of that time. Dressed in a well pressed, good quality suit enhanced by the joyous cascade of a vibrantly coloured pocket handkerchief. He was small in size, of ruddy complexion and had waxed hair, groomed close and sticking to the temples. His prominent eyes and eyebrows had a faintly Chinese quality. These were the main characteristics of the boss.

Monsieur T…. was getting ready to go out or so one would have believed. For he was winding a large silk scarf round his neck and an overcoat was carelessly draped over one of the armchairs.

“My dear friend, I am so happy for you”, he said shaking my hand and giving me a note to read. “The Director at Lyons has decided to name you as his delegatory representative at the Competition on Lorries and Light Wagons held in the Caucasus and organised by the Soviet government. I know you too well to have even the slightest doubt as to the excellence of the director’s choice or to the success – given your commercial knowledge and tact – that you will not fail to pull off.”

There followed a small homily on the nature or causes of success. A durable, solid, universally reputed commodity is not always enough. Knowhow is needed, diplomacy and tact; the ability to work things out and take decisions. He spoke for at least 10 minutes but I no longer heard him.

Through the half open casement window my thoughts flew far and away into the distance. I saw myself already departed; driving down unknown roads and crossing new lands. I climbed mountains with precipices giving into the new, to success and forgetfulness.

(The sound of) Mr T’s pen falling on the glass top of his desk shook me from my reverie. There were yet more instructions and advice. I thanked Mr T. and then found myself at my work table completely taken aback by what had happened.

With an ardour new and up to that point, unknown, I set to work. I had only eight days in which to organise things.

Lorry from Berliet in production from WW1 to 1932. Source: Janmad @ wikimedia commons.

The two lorries that were to take part (as exhibits) in the Competition, along with the chosen mechanics, had already left the factories at Vénissieux [near Lyon, France] and would be arriving in Istanbul by the end of the week.

I had to concern myself with them, so that all was in order; have them checked one last time in our workshops and get ready the spares/equipment that we were taking with us.

At last, oh joy! I had to get the passports and Soviet visa, which at that time was not easy to obtain. No matter how much of a struggle it was, no difficulties existed for me, I could no longer see any obstacle. My firm resolve to set off, take part in the Competition and, above all, to overcome our rivals was like a kind of steam roller which brushed aside or crushed all obstacles leaving the way beautiful and clear.

As we shall see I was more than a little mistaken here.

As expected the lorries and the two mechanics arrived towards the end of the week. I went to meet them at the Galata quay and the impression I gained of them, at first glance, was excellent.

New Quay, Galata. Image c/o LHF.

With the prospect of three or four months of Communist life ahead I would have felt sore-pressed had there been no friends.

Custy was a brave French foreman/petty officer type. He was of medium build, rather stout with red hair and a Charlie Chaplin moustache. Although not that young he was terribly shy and when one spoke to him his clear blue eyes seemed to shine even more under the circumflex accents of his eyebrows.

The second, Merie, was absolutely the opposite. Brown haired, thin, a rather hard stare; he seemed imbued with great willpower and a very fine intelligence.

The 2 lorries in Frank’s team. The man far left may be Merie, behind him Custy, then Frank in the flat cap next to the man in the fur Great coat. Source: Family archives (not labelled).

Both from the factories at Vénissieux, had been chosen for this competition as much for their political colour as their technical skill.

They had advanced ideas, as one called it then, and occupied the spectrum of political opinions; a place between “pink” and clear, not too subversive as we will see. [Ed. meaning politically left of centre].

However this charming pink hue, though only slightly pronounced, would completely disappear after a week’s stay in the USSR. It was to be with practically no (political) colour that my two erstwhile communists would depart for home after their return to Istanbul four months later.

The Comrade Isaac Abramovitch

In the few days that followed, our cargo was checked and equipment sorted out! With all the paperwork ready – the usual sort that accompanies this kind of expedition – we had only now to concern ourselves with our passports.

To get into Soviet Russia at that time was a great event; one could not enter as one pleased. It was only after numerous enquiries and counter-enquiries, made on one’s behalf by the French authorities and the Soviet Consuls that one was granted or refused a visa according to the case.

Having been invited to participate in the conference by the Soviet Government through the intermediary of ARCOS [ARCOS All Russian Cooperative Society]² at Istanbul – I had no doubt as to the ease with which my comrades and I would obtain visas.

I must say, however, that it occurred to few people to want to go to Russia at this time. Rightly or wrongly, trade was not free there, as was the case elsewhere in such dreadful countries.  It was exclusively in the hands of the government – all commercial transactions were dealt with by official bodies such as ARCOS (Istanbul), l’Unerstag, l’Azneft etc installed in the principal European capitals. It was through this network that we were involved in the expedition. We were supplying a good number of useful vehicles to the Soviet cause through the medium of ARCOS at Istanbul and I knew personally certain members of this institution.

The invitation to Berliet to participate in the Caucasian Competition had come from this place and I had no doubt as to the help that we would be granted.

Having phoned to ask for a meeting explaining that it was a question of our passports, I was told that I should go along straight away with my two Frenchmen. We lost no time and, at the agreed hour, we presented ourselves in the antechamber of Comrade Tanglich, Chief of ARCOS. I knew Tanglich very well having approached him many times on the subject of vehicle arrangements.

He was a robust man in his sixties with grey brush-like hair who, putting his hand on his heart used to say to whoever would hear (or wanted to hear) that he was at the end of his tether. At least he pretended to be so. For, several months later, we learned that from on board a Transatlantic liner (of which he had booked a passage), several minutes before it was due to go out, Tanglich had sent to the Comrade Ambassador his resignation as director of the Istanbul based Soviet delegation, his communist party membership card and advised that he had taken with him the delegations’s funds.

Some time later we learnt that before the [Russian] Revolution, Tanglich had been the owner of important factories in Danetz – at Rostov to be more exact – and had been completely dispossessed of his belongings by the Communists.

With a view to saving his skin and with the firm intention of regaining possession of, if not all, then at least a part of his fortune, he embraced the communist cause and was registered as a member of the party. Thanks to his connections and knowhow he became an influential member and was sent to Istanbul to act as director of ARCOS.

He profited by the presence of large sums of money in the coffers of ARCOS, to which he had sole access and which would afford him some comfort in his old age, recalling the old phrase “Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is God’s.”

To return to my tale, while we waited in the antechamber to be received by Comrade Tanglich, he sent word that he was very busy and regretted he could not see us. An obsequious employee gave us a note of introduction for the Soviet Consulate where we were to go for our visas.  This employee informed us that all was in order and that the Comrade Consul would be informed of our imminent visit by telephone.

Russian Consulate in Istanbul

At Chichli in a remote district we had all the trouble in the world to find the small villa, jealously guarded, where Comrade Isaac Abramovich Faltken mysteriously fulfilled his function as Consul for all the Russians.

At this time, the Soviet government had not yet been officially recognised by the “Grande Turc”; the organisations of White Russians were springing up everywhere and there was not a single day when a Soviet functionary was not beaten up by refugees. Comrade Isaac Abramovich had had his share some time before when a certain number of refugee Cossack officers had surprised him and set about him. The Turkish police had, not without difficulty, succeeded in pulling him out wounded and whimpering at the hands of his aggressors.

He still bore, quite visibly, the scars of this terrible encounter and had the air of a tragic beast, which, despite all his skill in hiding his feelings, he could not cover up.

Being told the object of our visit he told us that, in fact he had been waiting for us. Comrade Tanglich had telephoned him about the matter.

All his sympathy centred, from the start, on my two companions of whose situation he said: “These are two proletarian French” – this he pronounced with obvious satisfaction – “who are going into Soviet Russia as mechanics to drive lorries”. “As for you”, he said to me not without irony, “your case is different; you have a Spanish name and yet you are a British subject. You pretend to want to go to the Caucasus to participate at a Competition of vehicles, yet I know, pertinently that you are going there for journalistic purposes. An enquiry made on your account has given me proof that you are ‘affiliated’ to Reuters in London.” 

In his imagination, probably tainted with persecution mania, Reuters became a sect, a Mafia, with which I was somehow affiliated. [Servet Yanatma (2020) argues that the Reuters news agency was indeed viewed with some suspicion by the Ottoman government as well as other foreign powers]³. 

For a moment I watched Comrade Abramovich, completely stunned. What to say? What was going to happen? The first instant of stupor passed. I began, composedly, to formulate my defence.

“So what of it if my name be Spanish?” – I said to him – “It does not alter the fact that I am a proper British subject to which my passport bears witness.  If we were to use names as a basis for establishing the nationality of someone we would we lose our Latin identity.”  I looked him straight in the eyes and Isaac Abramavich Zaltkin, Consul for all the Russians with a Yiddish name, understood me.

The blow had carried but the evil smile he directed at me also had its effect and a cold shiver ran down my back. I had made myself an enemy.

However I continued: “It is absolutely true that I collaborated with the Reuters agency a good many years ago. I have now no relation whatsoever to this agency and, I assure you, I have never worked as a journalist and have not the slightest intention of doing so in Russia. [This was not strictly true, Frank is actually listed as an employee at the telegraph agency for Turquie-Havas-Reuter in the Annuaire Oriental business directory for 1922⁴, the year before these events took place. He may have forgotten when he came to write this memoir some 50 years later]!

Listing in the Annuaire Oriental for 1922 showing employer and domicile for Frank aka Severino Calleja. Source: SALT Research, Istanbul.

“I am, as you well know, one of the agents of Berliet House which, invited to participate in the Caucasian Competition, has sent me there to represent it.”

“One never breaks with one’s past young man” – he said to me – “and furthermore there are other reasons which forbid me to give you your visa. Just this morning, in Istanbul, the Allies arrested a certain number of Soviet officers. It was scarcely a diplomatic act and will indubitably incite reprisals in Russia on foreign subjects. I can hardly give you a visa that could well be the source of grave trouble for you.”

I was beginning to feel nervous. I knew that arrests of Russian Navy Commandants had taken place that same morning.

At this moment in the débacle of General Wrangel, all the main Russian flotilla had passed through the Bosphorus straits and the Dardenelles. Not a single boat was left to the Bolsheviks in the North Sea [i.e. Black Sea, which lies north of the Bosphorus].

General Pyotr Wrangel Source: Public domain

[General Pyotr Wrangel 1878-1928, nicknamed the Black Baron, for his penchant for black uniforms and his aristocratic upbringing, took over as leader of the White Russians in 1920 in their last bastion of power in the Crimean Peninsular⁵. The White Russians were the principal opposition force to the Bolsheviks (the reds) in the Russian Revolution. At the end of 1920, the reds finally broke through the defences in the Crimea, so Wrangel organised the evacuation of 100,000 refugees to the Dardanelles, which included taking the entire Russian naval fleet with them (i.e. the “Wrangel affair” Frank alludes to. He goes on below to recount how the Bolsheviks tried to reverse this]. 

General Wrangel in Istanbul 1920. Source: LHF

There, secret agents from Russia, tried to persuade the captains of these vessels to return their ships to Russian ports by offering them large sums of money as inducements and assured posts in Russian maritime establishments. 

Were these promises kept to those who succeeded in eluding the vigilance of the Allies? I don’t know about that.

The fact is that Russian boats found themselves in the Bosphorus that day and that letters addressed to Commandants had been seized. It became apparent that three boats had completed the formalities ready for off and were making ready to go back up the Bosphorus to go to Russia.

The French authorities who, since the occupation of Istanbul, had run the business of the port, knew all this and two torpedo boats waited for the fugitives in the Black Sea at the exit of the Bosphorous. A few hours later they returned to Istanbul escorting the fugitives. It was to this that Comrade Isaac Abramovich was alluding.

White Russian fleet 1921, in Bizerte, Algeria, its final destination.

I insisted again, using all possible arguments, to try and convince him. But nothing would work. He arose to bid us take our leave. He asked me to call another time and promised to do his best to allow me a visa one day if the political situation permitted.

I was literally furious. The lorries were on the point of being loaded on board S.S. Moravia and I absolutely had to depart. It was nearly the end of September and we had to be in Georgia at the beginning of October.

In one fell swoop I saw my dreams vanish. Berliet House had to be represented at the Competition and would not be stopped by the fact that I could not leave.

Although it was difficult, at the last minute, to find someone who spoke Russian, this was essential since all the officials who I later had occasion to meet, spoke no foreign language. I went back to the office and told my boss the gist of what had happened.

What to do now? We suddenly thought of Monsieur Ganvier – apparently delegated by the French Government to protect French interests in Russia – but in reality, chief of the counter espionage service.  He personally knew all the members of the Soviet Mission and could be useful to us.

I asked Monsieur Ganvier for an interview which he immediately granted. I went to find him and told him in detail all that had happened between the Russian consul and us. He listened attentively to me and then, offering me a cigarette, said pointedly “Haven’t you understood that sending you to the Russian Consul was, so to speak, a manoeuvre the aim of which was to get to know a little of your ideas and to see what your reaction would be to certain questions. As I see it, it is not a question of what goes or doesn’t go with the Russian Consul because, when it comes down to it, you are not going to Russia but to the Caucasus; and there is the Transcaucassienne for the passport formalities for this region.”

Monsieur Ganvier had reasoned perfectly. The Bolshevists know that our port of embarkation was Batann [aka Batumi] and the Competition would take place in Georgia and Armenia. They would have to, therefore, let us pass by the Transcaucasian.  Crisply Monsieur Ganvier bade me farewell promising to do his best to smooth over this little incident.

That night I could not close my eyes; I could only ask myself anxiously if I would succeed in setting off or if, as usual, I would see my dreams go up in smoke.

The following day Monsieur Ganvier called me on the telephone. From his cheerful tone I understood that the situation was not as desperate as I had thought. He asked me if I would repeat to him, word for word, the conversation I had had the day before with Isaac Abramovich, informing me that Comrade Tanglich was at his house, ready to listen. I repeated faithfully, all that I had said to him the night before, omitting nothing. When I finished there was several seconds silence, then Monsieur Tanglich himself spoke to me. He would expect me at around 10 o’clock in his office at ARCOS.

We were there as soon as we could and were immediately led into a large waiting room. We were apparently alone so hoped to be received quickly. Above us from their portraits, the Commissaires of the People looked at us more or less benignly. Lenin with an baleful eye and high cheekbones, faced the bearded Leon Trotsky, and the Russian Tchitcherine appeared to be hailing the Tovarish Litvinoff. [Tchitcherine and Litvinoff were prominent Marxists and successive Peoples Commissioners for Foreign Affairs in the Soviet government].

Popular tryptych image of the Bolshevik leaders, Lenin, Stalin and Trotsky.

We were so absorbed in looking at the worthy sons of the Russian Revolution that we did not immediately see that a further visitor had come to fill out our small group. A dishevelled man wearing an old khaki uniform was there, nose in the air, under the large portrait of Lenin. In a high voice he poured forth invective and shook his dirty fist at the dictator. My two French comrades took him for a madman.

As for me this incident, banal enough to another’s eyes, took on a particular significance. We were the subject of a gross provocation; we, no strangers to the test the night before at Comrade Isaac Abramovich’s hands. It was besides, the current Bolshevik system to try to find out the opinions of those who, for one reason or another, came into contact with them.

From time to time the so-called visitor, probably a member of ARCOS, looked at us from the corner of his eye. Apparently he was inviting us to join in his little anti-Soviet demonstration but really he was looking to see what effect it had on us.

I whispered a few words to my two companions putting them on their guard and we took up again the reading, for a moment interrupted, of revues and magazines which exalted the delights of the communist paradise, the natural beauties of the Caucasus and the monstrous progress of Soviet industry. I was however not reading but flicking though my journal keeping a furtive eye on this novel Don Quixote. And he, seeing us indifferent to his manoeuvres, turned smartly on his heels and left the room.

I was no stranger to this kind of thing. This incident reminded me of when, on previous visits, certain employees of the delegation that I knew by sight – armed with hat and brief-case – came to mix with the public gathered in the antechamber and tried to pick up bits of conversation which would then be used to establish “a File of Confidential Renseignements’ [information] of nearly everyone who had anything to do with the Soviets.

The dull sound of a bell, and an employee came to tell us that Comrade Tanglich was waiting for us.

The man who was as he said “organised to his very fingertips” [Fr. “range jusque au bout des ongles”] received us amiably. He apologised for the error of the day before. But what were we seeking at the Russian Consulate anyway when we were bound for Batann, then to Tiflis [Tblisi] and then the Caucasian mountains; in other words the “free” republic of Georgia? It was therefore only the Transcaucasian Mission that could give us our visas. Who had sent us to Zaltkin and why? He could not understand who had made this mistake. A well-acted comedy! He rang and a young secretary came in. He gave the order to accompany us to the Transcaucasian [Mission], which was to be found elsewhere in the same building.

Preceded by the young man we made our way into a salon where at a desk, sat a Georgian lady whom I knew by sight. Without too many questions, this time, the Caucasian visas were stamped on our passports.

At last we were ready for the great adventure.

Even fifty years ago, to go into Russia was something that captured the imagination and was considered very dangerous. Foreigners that were obliged to go there signed a document at their respective consulates, which absolved the institutions from all responsibility for what might happen to their person or their possessions. I could no longer restrain myself and phoned the office with the good news. The S.S. Moravia was leaving not the next day but the day after that, in the afternoon. We had, therefore, more than twenty-four hours to finish what remained to be done; a few visits and a last once-over of our luggage.

On Board the Moravia

The weather was splendid when we embarked; one beautiful day in September. It was about five o’clock when a boat took us out to the Moravia, a small cargo boat of around two thousand tons – flying a British flag even though the entire crew was Greek with the exception of the English captain imposed by Lloyds with whom the boat was insured.

We were the only passengers on board except for a certain Monsieur Benjamin who had hired the boat to go load up with manganese at Batumi.

In so much as he was the hirer M. Benjamin occupied the only cabin worthy of that name saving those occupied by the officers on board.

As for us three, we were put, with profuse apologies, in a kind of cubby hole containing four bunks situated above and across the galley. Due to such a neighbour our “cabin” reeked of olive oil, spices, salted fish and the cheese. Oh my God! Those emanations of Greek cheese were to accompany us throughout the voyage.

Such as it was we settled into our cabin as well as we could; it looked out on to the poop deck where our two beautiful lorries were placed; they rested blithe and majestic in their mooring, seeming to be conscious of what awaited them; of what we expected of them. It was success, the stupendous financial killing mentioned in the prospectus, the perpetuation of a name already universally known. Their large headlights had the appearance of enormous metallic eyes which, lit up by the setting sun and facing towards me, seemed to say: “Go, fear nothing, you can count on us.”

It was with an appetite stimulated by the keen air – a breeze which after a precarious start had gathered speed – that we took our meal on board! The cuisine was simple, but good and tasty. The old English Commander sat all alone at his table, while his second, Captain Dimitri – the effective captain of the boat since the Englishman was no more than a façade – kept us company. He told us that it was he who fulfilled the functions of captain, that he with his subordinates had charge of the boat and that the other was there solely for formality’s sake and to justify the presence of the English flag.

The old Englishman read novels, smoked his pipe constantly and cared for his health in an almost religious way. Quite often having left the table followed by a waiter he returned a few minutes later and was served with an omelette or some such thing.

We did not understand at all this supplement to an already considerable meal; it intrigued us so much that finally I questioned Captain Dimitri. He burst out laughing and, making sure that the old Englishman was absorbed in his omelette and could not hear him, gave us this unlikely explanation.

Captain Johnson had, like everyone else, an idiosyncrasy. His was a fixed idea that after each meal his waist and stomach measurement should exactly agree with a determined number of centimetres. The boy that followed him, with wolf like step, was the carrier of a tape measure. Once in the cabin the old man lay down on his bunk and was measured. If he was a centimeter short he went back [to the dining room] and ate something extra. This true story amused us greatly and although many years have now elapsed, I can scarcely forget this old soft-headed sea dog and this Sancho Panza stomach measurer.

The days went by slowly and monotonously on board the Moravia; it took six or seven days to reach Batumi. I passed my time reading, writing and pacing up and down the deck.

My comrades were more fortunate, each being occupied with his lorry; keeping them up to scratch tightening a nut or bolt here or there. In short they were kept busy and the time seemed for them less long!

The day passed not so badly, but the nights! Oh dear, the nights were terrible; especially the first, but one got used to it.

This type of annex to the galley where we slept, among the varied perfumes of which I have already spoken, was infested with cockroaches. They were everywhere. Along the walls; marching in formation across the white ceiling; on our blankets, our pillows, and even in our bags.

At first we did not know of their disagreeable presence, these beasts remained hidden during the day. The first evening after a tiring emotional day I was happy to be able at last to extinguish myself, firmly deciding to sleep like a log! Alas, as soon as our lights were out I felt something cold and very light cross my nose and run across my cheek; then there were other movements in my hair; the little table next to my bunk was shaking with indescribable pullulations of insects in two boxes of sweets given to me on leaving. I switched on the light immediately and……horror! We were covered, invaded with cockroaches. They were everywhere, hundreds of thousands. My comrades also could not sleep for the same reason. We were armed with our slippers. And it was a pitiless carnage that earned us a severe dressing down from the maître d’hotel. He was furious and could hardly find words to describe the stupidity of our action. “How could we have massacred these little beasts that one had pains to bring to the cabin from the kitchens where they flourished. These small inoffensive beasts were enemies of poisonous spiders;  it was thanks to them that one could sleep in one’s own bunk without fear of being bitten.” Bites!  They were all on board this S.S. Moravia! 

Not convinced by this explanation as to the enmity existing between cockroaches and poisonous spiders, henceforth we did not make any efforts to help our undesirable nocturnal companions by ensuring there were no biscuits or sweets about.

So it was with on one hand the old Commander, touched by stomach mania and on the other, the cockroaches, eaters of poisonous spiders, that we arrived one beautiful morning at Batumi – the first stage of our journey to the USSR.

End of Part 1

Further Information and Sources

¹  Website about the Berliet automobile company, in French and English, with many archive photographs of early vehicles:  https://www.fondationberliet.org/ressources-documentaires/archive-article-dossier-camion-berliet/histoire-camions-berliet-gdh-gdr-tdm

²  Wikipaedia information on the All Russian Cooperative Society (ARCOS): https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/All_Russian_Co-operative_Society

³ Yanatma, S. (2022). Dominance, collaboration and resistance: Developing the idea of a national news agency in the Ottoman Empire, 1854–1914. Journalism, 23(2), 569–585. https://doi.org/10.1177/1464884920924174

⁴  SALT Research – Year books for the Annuaire Oriental commercial directories: https://archives.saltresearch.org/handle/123456789/2301

⁵  From the website “Russia Beyond”, more on the White Russian generals including Wrangel: White Russian Generals

 

Learning on the Local: Mum’s early career as a reporter on The Bucks Herald

Before the age of social media, just about everything you wanted to know about what was going on in your local community came from the local newspaper. From major events like ‘The Great Train Robbery’ to the minutiae of the everyday; local sports, the WI, births, marriages and deaths, all were to be found in the paper.

And it was the training ground for nearly all our national reporters and broadcasters too.

Its diminution has come to pass almost without us noticing, so relentless has been the rise of social media since the turn of the century. Yet, it is worth pausing for a while and looking back at what we’ve lost.

In the late 1950s my Mum, Vivien Leeming nee Callus, trained as a journalist and spent the next 30 years, on and off, working in various roles on a number of local papers, the most important one of which was The Bucks Herald. This was a broadsheet newspaper covering mainly mid Buckinghamshire (England).

Turning the tables on Mum, in Sept 2022 I interviewed her with a sound recorder, to find out what it was like to be a young trainee, female reporter for the local newspaper in the 1950s. It was a strange experience for her, being on the other side of the interview. She was not used to being the interviewee!

To listen to the broadcast, just click on the Soundcloud file below. The interview is about 39 minutes long. More information about The Bucks Herald, photos of Aylesbury in the 1950s and useful links are posted below.

AngelaF · Learning on the Local: Mum’s early career as a reporter in the 1950s

The Bucks Herald Printworks in 1966.

“The Bucks Herald Office. That is exactly as it looked when I joined the staff. Usually there were several bicycles propped up against the front of the building as most people cycled everywhere – cars were a luxury in those days and cost a lot of money.

The editor did have a car but even he cycled to work except on Fridays, the day the newspaper went on sale, and most of the staff – seniors, anyway, went for a drink in the Bell Hotel that lunchtime, and if you did not have a job to cover you had the afternoon off. On that day the editor, Mr Gareth Harry brought his car as he reckoned he would be safer behind the driving wheel of a car than on his bike after a few drinks!!!

Breathalysers were unheard of then!  You could be arrested for being drunk in charge of a bicycle – and of course a car, but probably he drove very sedately to avoid such an embarrassment!

In the photograph you can see a window right above the front door, that was where I sat in the reporters’ room.  The editor’s office was on the ground floor, on the left, so you had to tiptoe past it if you were late and hope the creaking floorboards and stairs did not give you away!

The office was very near the railway station with its steam trains and as a junior I was sometimes sent down to the buffet with senior reporters’ orders for cream buns etc. Between the station and our office was a coal yard. The printing machine was right at the back of the office, down some stairs and past the “stone” where the type was set in heavy metal forms (page size).

The printers were very skilled selecting the letters in the size and type-face stipulated by the editor and sub editor. If one was dropped and all the little letters fell out it was called a printer’s pie – a disaster!

Behind this area were the compositors who worked on huge smelly hot metal machines (lino-type machines).  The men sat at these machines with our typewritten (or handwritten!) stories and tapped them into the machine which disgorged all these words on long strips of paper.

These long strips were pasted onto a mocked-up “page” by the editor and sub as they chose to design it, along with photos and headlines – all this known as “cut and paste”.  It all had to fit perfectly, alongside advertisements which the men also dealt with. Very fiddly!

When I turned up to work there with my Convent education I was shocked to find the lino-men’s domain had walls covered with pin-ups, mostly nude!

Anyway, hope that gives you an idea what went on in that modest-looking building!”

The Bucks Herald in Great Western St 1956. By Ron Adams.

Mum at Kimble c. 1959 on a reporting job with the press photographer.

Mum at work at a function c 1959.

A function at The Bull’s Head in Market Square, Aylesbury (demolished to make way for the Hale Leys shopping arcade). L-R: Vivien, my Dad Gerard, Harry Webber, photographer from “the opposition” The Bucks Advertiser, Moyra (other photographer’s wife) and Jenny Hogarth, senior reporter at the BH. c. 1960.

Acknowledgements and Thanks

First and foremost, thanks to my mum, Vivien Leeming for agreeing to take part in this interview. We were both a bit nervous but ultimately really enjoyed the journey and hope to do more. Thanks also to my brother, Gregg McKella for a whistle-stop tour of Garageband and media editing tools! Thanks also to Maria David and Richard Atkin for encouraging me to try out this new media for my family history, I hope I’ve done it justice.

Further information

Photos by Ron Adams: Street scenes of Aylesbury in 1956

More information on The Bucks Herald newspaper: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bucks_Herald

The Bucks Herald today: https://www.bucksherald.co.uk

Back issues of the Bucks Herald including 1950s’ editions: https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/titles/bucks-herald

Another account of working for this paper has been turned into a book by Mum’s senior colleague Jenny Hogarth (now Jenifer Selby-Green):

Selby-Green, J., (2013), To Bed on Thursdays, Mosaique Press: Kenilworth

 

The Cotton Connection: The Whittle Quarry Masters – My Lancashire ancestors – Part 2

Whittel quarries

Welcome to the second part of the family history of the Cotton family of Whittle le Woods, the forebears of my Great Grandmother Annie McMellon nee Cotton. This chapter focuses on Annie’s father and the lives of those in the quarrying business. For much of the detail, I am indebted to the memoir of my Great Uncle Frank McMellon with thanks to his family for allowing me to share it here.

John Cotton (GG GF 1819-1897)

John Cotton was born in Whittle le Woods and baptised in Brindle. He lived with his parents at Hill Top Farm until he married Jane Waring, his first wife, in 1844. At this point he moved to Hill Foot Farm at the bottom of the lane in Whittle le Woods. Jane died about 1852, possibly at or shortly after the birth of their youngest child, Ralph. At the time of her death the couple had 5 children under the age of seven!

John Cotton’s first family with Jane Waring

This must have been such a difficult time for John, trying to keep his enterprises going, grieving for his late wife and with a household full of tiny children. Then in April 1854, his father also died. So in October 1854, he married again to Mary Cooper (my GG GM), by whom he had another 6 children including my Great Grandmother Annie!

John Cotton’s second family with Mary Cooper

 

Mary Cooper was born in Chipping near Longridge in Lancashire in 1828. In the 1851 census, she appears in Whittle le Woods, working as a house servant to a local shopkeeper called Margaret Craven.

Mary’s father, Thomas Cooper (1793-1869), was a master stonemason and plasterer, who originally came from Inglewhite, a hamlet near Chipping. He was the son of Peter and Mary Cooper, who will have been born around 1770.

Mary was baptised at Chipping and Leagram RC Chapel. As an interesting side note, my ancestors on my father’s maternal side, the Carrs, lived in Chipping at the same period and were  baptised in the same chapel. An entry in the 1822 Baines trade directory for Chipping, lists a small number of local businesses. One of these is James Carr, clockmaker (my 3 x Gt Grandfather). A bit further down you can see also Peter Cooper, stonemason. This could be Mary’s grandfather (4x Gt Grandfather) or certainly another close relation of her father Thomas’s. It is quite possible therefore that the Carrs and the Coopers knew each other!

Excerpt from the Baines directory 1822 for Chipping, Lancs

The Whittle Quarry Masters – John Cotton and Sons

According to the Historic Town Survey for Chorley, by the late eighteenth century, there was an important stone quarrying industry producing sandstone ashlar, flagstones and millstones

 

Information sign in Whittle le Woods

Further information supplied by the Chorley and South Ribble History blog site argues that the quarries were rather small in scale, most employing no more than about 20-30 quarrymen. Their expansion was limited by the lack of transport infrastructure. Stone had to be taken by cart to nearby Preston or the Lancaster branch of the Leeds and Liverpool canal which passed through the hamlet of Rip Row.

John Cotton inherited a comfortable living from his father, Tom Cotton, which included a number of farms, rental properties and also the quarrying and millstone making business. As the occupiers of Hill Top Farm, it seems probable that the Cottons owned Hill Top quarry and maybe others too. A review of Tom Cotton’s will is needed to confirm this. The quarrying side expanded and four of his sons, William Henry, Thomas, Ralph Morris “Ross” and Richard “Dick” followed him into the business.

By the 1880s, John’s sons by his first marriage appear to have moved to Alston (now part of Longridge), which is the other side of Preston. There was a much bigger quarrying business at Longridge so their moves may have been in response to better prospects. In 1881, William was a stone quarry foreman living in Chatburn Lane in Alston. He was married to a farmer’s daughter, Mary Walmsley, and they had 2 sons, Hugh and John. However William died quite young as in the 1901 census, his widow Mary was living with William and Annie McMellon in Bamber Bridge.

Annie’s other half-brother, Thomas, moved to Swarbrick Court (now part of the Swarbrick Arms pub in Longridge). He was also a quarry master, married to Margaret and had 4 children; John William, Ellen, Thomas Lord (after his grandfather) and Mary Caroline.

Ross Cotton, John’s son by his second wife, continued the business in Whittle le Woods while  living at Hill Foot Farm with his wife Winifride Rainford. Interestingly, it appears that Winifride’s parents and brother became the occupiers of Hill Top Farm after the Cottons moved out, so this may be how she and Ross met.

They had five children, 4 daughters and a son; Ann, John, Margaret, Eleanor, and Winifrida. The picture below is of Hill Foot farm as it was in about 1915. Although the photo is not labelled, the people shown are almost certainly Winifride and her daughters.

Hill Foot Farm c.1915 with Eleanor, Ann, Winifride and Margaret Cotton. Source: Boyd Harris

Hill Foot Farm today. Source. Boyd Harris

In 1917, the family suffered the loss of their son John during WW1, when his naval destroyer HMS Simoon was torpedoed in the North Sea. His name is on the war memorial in Whittle.

Meanwhile Dick’s involvement in the quarrying business appears to have been somewhat temporary. It may have been the result of his father’s retirement and his receiving a share of the family business.

Frank McMellon’s Account of the Local Quarrymen

Lancashire quarrymen

My Great uncle Frank had much to say about the Whittle quarrymen, so without further ado, let us get back to his glorious anecdotes which brings everything so much back to life:-

I knew many old Whittle folk and often listened to their somewhat lugubrious recounting of incidents and stories of the older generation. One was forced to the conclusion that it is only in comparison with our modern sophisticated standards, and we should not be over critical in our judgement, they were simple and honest and their pleasures and amusements were entirely homemade. They asked and got very little out of life and there was nothing soft or sloppily sentimental in their make-up.  

As a little lad I have seen quarrymen come into the farm kitchen of my Uncle Ross’ house with gaping cracks on their knuckles and fingers.   My Aunt Winifred used to get a stick of resin and lighted candle.   They would hold their bent fingers and she would drop flaming, melted, sizzling resin in the wounds and stick a piece of linen on each would so treated.   I used to feel sick in the stomach at this crude surgery but to them it was just an ordinary routine procedure.

They were hard drinkers and in those days, when ale was a penny and was much stronger than our present-day strong ale, it was quite possible to gloriously drink for sixpence.

Crosskeys pub on the corner of Carwood Lane and Old Chorley Road

Among my Grandfather’s employees were several notable pub champions. The pub most frequented by the quarrymen was the Cross-Keys in Higher Whittle.  I have heard it said that my Grandfather would often go in on Saturday night and put two golden sovereigns on the bar and time the gathered company as to the speed with which they could spend it.   Sometimes Jim Falding would sing and when the room…[missing text]…accompanied by small showers of saliva which were distributed in various directions across the taproom.

Then there were the stories told. These were always extremely vulgar and generally concerned with the more intimate aspects of personal hygiene and anatomy.

Vice was certainly not camouflaged as it is today. Divorce was unknown and there was very little sympathy for the mother of an illegitimate child. [Ed. This memoir was written before 1975, which may be telling]!  It was amidst such surroundings that my Grandfather’s family grew up.

They were looked upon by the village people as people of slightly superior class or as my Mother would say, “The better end of the poor”.

The Demon Drink

My Grandfather, who possessed many of the qualities of my Great Grandfather [i.e. Tom Cotton], had a large family by two wives. He ran both farms and the quarries but he had one great failing, a love for strong drink and for this reason he never became very rich, though he provided very well for his family.

My Uncle Jim used to relate many stories of my Grandfather. For instance, he had a great fondness for going “on the spree”. He would be teetotal for three or four months and then he would go to Chorley and draw £50 form the bank and disappear. The family was never unduly perturbed by these occurrences and just waited for the usual sequel.

In a week or two a letter would arrive from the landlord of some obscure country inn saying that Mr Thomas [i.e. John] Cotton was there, in a condition of complete insolvency and kindly requested that someone should bring him home.

Horse drawn gig, source: Gail Thornton

My Uncles Dick or Ross [Richard and Ralph Morris Cotton – Annie’s brothers] would then take the gig, if the distance was not too great, and home would come Grandfather in a chastened and repentant mood, vowing that he had seen the last of drink and that he would henceforward devote his entire time and energies to rebuilding the family fortunes.

Thus a sort of semi-vicious circle was formed, periods of heavy drinking followed by periods of equally heavy repentance.

Though all this was somewhat sordid and vulgar there were what might be called amusing interludes: For instance the incident when coming home late one Saturday night from Preston in his gig filled with good will towards all mankind and good Scotch whiskey. His horse knew the way home as well as he, and at the top of Clayton Brow, it decided to do a bit of private grazing on the grass verge of the road. By this time my Grandfather was sound asleep and the hours of an early summer morning found them still there. [Your] Grandad Mac, [i.e. William McMellon, Frank’s father/Annie’s husband], walking home came on the scene and with a sense of perverted humour, promptly unharnessed the pony, backed up the gig to a tree and reharnessed the horse so that the tree was growing up between the horses’ rump and gig. When my Grandfather woke, sometime later, he found a little group of amused spectators speculating as to how this remarkable phenomenon had occurred. It took some time before his bemused wits could be brought to bear fully on the situation and when this had been accomplished, the Sabbath morn was sadly marred by a stream of very effective profanity.”

End Days

As a little boy, Frank McMellon witnessed the passing of his grandparents, Victorian style (1897). He found it a bewildering and distressing experience:

I remember my Grandfather’s death and how I was taken into a front parlour where he lay dying.   He looked a little old man propped up among pillows and wearing a nightcap.   I was terribly frightened.   I had no conception of death, and when they put a lighted candle in his hand or held it for him, and said the prayers for the dying and then finally laid him back flat on the bed, I think I cried with fear. Accompanying details still remains most vividly fixed in my memory. My Mother could never give me a reasonable explanation as to why I should have been present at such a solemn event. My Grandmother lived two years longer and then the house and property was sold.   By this time we were back again in Bamber Bridge at Brownedge Lane and my Uncle Jim came to live with us.

Diverging Paths

Running a family business requires brains as well as brawn. Three of John’s offspring took a different career direction becoming teachers and kicking off a new dynasty.

Richard “Dick” Cotton became a teacher and went to work at Birkdale Reformatory school in Southport. Then for a time he worked in the quarrying business. However in the end he moved permanently to Southport where he worked for the tramways as a cashier. He married Clara Hooley and had 4 children.

Annie Cotton (G GM) was born in 1857, the eldest child of John’s second family. She grew up in Whittle le Woods but by the time of the 1881 census, she had left home to work as a pupil teacher in Wigan. She took up lodgings with the young family of a joiner called Ignatius Hague, whose wife, on the day of the census had just given birth to a baby son the day before. It was very common practice in those days to take in lodgers, no matter how small the dwelling, in order to provide a valuable source of extra income. On the day of the census, there was also a visitor at this household, Elizabeth Cooper, age 61. This must have been Annie’s aunt, who originally came from Wigan. Having relatives in Wigan may well have been a factor in Annie going there for her teacher training.

Annie was close to her family and would return home for the holidays. In this way, she came to meet William McMellon (G GF). He was a schoolmaster at Birkdale Reformatory School in Ormskirk where her brother Dick was an assistant schoolmaster. He was also, by this time, a widower, with a young daughter who was being raised by his sister. Dick invited William to come to stay in Whittle le Woods during the holidays and so this was how he and Annie met. They married in 1888 at St Bede’s RC Chapel in Chorley.

Annie and William moved to 45, Brownedge Lane in Bamber Bridge near Preston, when he was offered the post of headmaster at the local primary school.

Annie McMellon nee Cotton with her class at Brownedge St Mary’s RC Primary School in Bamber Bridge. Source: Family archives.

In addition Annie’s younger sister Mary Ann Cotton known as ‘Polly’, was also a school mistress.

In the long run, it was a far more secure and sustainable profession than farming or quarrying and certainly a whole lot cleaner! Frank, the author of this memoir also became a teacher and a headmaster.

The exceptions to these two occupational trajectories were Annie’s brothers Peter and Jim. Peter became a cobbler and moved to Preston. Jim was unable to work due to his quite profound physical disabilities which will be apparent from Frank’s account below.

Uncle Jim

And so for the last words by Frank in this chapter, I must let him tell you about Annie’s youngest brother ‘Jim’, or James Cotton, born in 1869.

“I must describe Uncle Jim at some length. He was my mother’s youngest brother and when a baby had had a fit of some kind. My Grandmother and Grandfather had taken him to Holywell but no cure was affected. He had a useless arm, the right one, and the left one was bent and crippled. He had a thick leg and a very thin one and one shoulder blade was twisted and deformed. He called his dead arm his “swinger”. He was of a very cheerful disposition and because much of his time was spent in reading he became very erudite.   He had a good baritone voice and was in great demand at local concerts. As a little boy, I was taught to do quite a lot of things for him such as cleaning his shoes, putting them on, washing his hands, fastening his coat or reaching things for him. My Father dressed him every morning and undressed him at night.

My Grandfather had built seven cottage houses for him and these gave him a steady income of about thirty-five shillings a week. Uncle Jim, however, notwithstanding his considerable disabilities led a rather gay life [Ed. in this context meaning “jolly” or “fun”].   He liked his beer and good company, and betted heavily. He mortgaged the property and got so far behind with his payments that finally the houses were lost, thus he was left dependent on my parents. They looked after him well and he had the help and sympathy of everyone in the village.   It was amazing the things he could do.   He could write, the pen between his teeth and resting on his lame hand.   He could drain a glass of beer by raising the glass with his teeth.   He played bowls with his feet and billiards with his lame arm.   Poetry was a favourite hobby of his and he could quote freely from all the great poets and authors.  He had numerous friends and acquaintances and these were always at his service. 

I soon acquired the technique of dressing him. First I would pull his trousers up, tuck his shirt in and button the braces. Then came the socks. I had to turn them partly inside out and pull the feet on. His fat leg used to give me most trouble. Sometimes I cut his toenails or washed his feet.   When I put his jacket and waistcoat on, I had to lift his dead arm and push it down the armhole but after a time I could do this with great dexterity. His collar and tie were always difficult and he would often swear at me and even …[text missing].

I sometimes had to stitch buttons on his shirt and trousers. It was always a mystery to me as to whether he had any feeling in his dead arm. I tested this once when I was stitching a button on his shirt sleeve. I jammed the needle in his arm and he jumped about six inches into the air. ”What the hell did you do that for?” he shouted.   “I wanted to see if you had any feeling in your arm” I replied meekly.   He then swung his dead arm round with great force and the flapper caught me smack in the face.   It was very painful indeed.   “Now”, he said, “could you feel it?”   I abandoned all thoughts of trying the experiment on his thin leg.

He used to get a fair amount of drink and came in pretty late at night. He could get to bed if someone came in with him and took his collar and tie off, unlaced his shoes and unbuttoned his trousers. He would sit on the side of the bed and wriggle his pants off. On one occasion I had stitched a trousers button on and I stitched it through his shirt also. That night he had had too much to drink and his efforts to get his trousers off were very prolonged and interesting. I thought so as I lay in bed, pretending to be asleep. His first attempt caused him to shoot off the bedside and the wall brought him up, jerky and finally, having got one leg out, he crawled in bed with the remaining leg still clothed.

On rare occasions I was allowed to go with him on a fishing expedition to Whittle.   These expeditions required great preparations.I had, under his directions to make the bait. This was composed of boiled potato and flour kneaded into a sticky paste with a drop or two of aniseed added. I also had to get nine little red worms and baked wasp maggots and put them among wet moss in a tin box. Then there were his hooks and lines to be got out and examined. On the morning of the adventure I had to be up at three o’clock and the rest of the party would come to our house to collect us. My mother usually had packed sandwiches in a clean cloth and possibly a slice of currant cake. There would be Billy Wakefield, Joe Jackson, Tom Jackson and a man called Stead, I never knew his proper name.

Those warm summer mornings were beautiful and the walk to Clayton Green was always delightful.   The nearer we got to Whittle the further school was behind.   I always feel that I was in my “Promised Land” we walked down Radburn Brow and climbed onto the canal embankment at Nick Brindle yard. On our left was Denham Hill, always grim and mysterious to me, with its faces of yellow sandstone and its heathery ?   and hollows. It looked lonely and sad and I always connected it with the scene of some of Grimms Fairy Tales.

My Uncle and Billy Wakefield would sing duets or discuss the prospects of the days’ fishing.   I remember one jingle he would always sing:

When the wind is in the north

Then the fisher foes not forth

When the wind is in the south

It blows the bait in the fishes mouth

When the wind is in the east

It’s neither fit for man nor beast

When the wind is in the West

That is when the wind is best.

We would finally reach Whittle Bank.   Here the canal widened out into a large sheet of deep water and, of course, here were to be found the largest fish, eels, roach or perch.

Rods and tackle were prepared, hooks baited and soon the whole party would be seated on the bank, patiently watching their floats.

I remember on one occasion, my Uncle sending me to a house in Red [sic – Rip] Row to inform a man called Thomas that we had come. I found the house and a very untidy woman invited me in and gave my message to the aforesaid Thomas, who immediately went out. The woman invited me to sit down and after I had told her who I was, she began to give me what might be called an informal chat. I was rather shocked when she referred to my Grand-dad as Old Young Cotton and gave me certain details regarding his drinking capabilities. I didn’t quite understand what she meant when she called my Aunt Polly a “stuck up bitch” and after some further anecdotes about the remaining members of the family I began to feel somewhat ashamed of my relationship.

She was making apple pies and her technique in this homely operation both horrified and fascinated me. She had a great pile of dough at one end of the table and an astounding number of shallow pie dishes. She rolled out the bottom layer and lined the dishes and filled these with sliced apple and sugar.   She then rolled out and cut the lids.   Next she licked the first three fingers of her right hand, rubbed the pie around the edge and stuck the lid on.   My stomach gave a peculiar wriggle and like the mercury in a thermometer my breakfast kept rising up my gullet. She finally put the pies in a large oven remarking that I would soon be able to sample them. It was the most untidy house I have ever seen. There was a long dresser or chest of drawers along the wall opposite the fire and on it was every conceivable kind of household odds and ends, all mixed up in an amazing higgelty-piggelty fashion. There were jam jars, pickle bottle, cups, tin plates, candlesticks, loaves, cakes and endless small articles. The floor was flagged and the ashes from the grate spread out over the hearthstone. Two cats and a dog were sprawled on the hearthrug and a linnet sat dejectedly in a tiny cage hanging in front of the window.

Mrs Snape was extremely fat. Her bare arms were like two immense sausage balloons and her blouse sleeves seemed to cut deeply into them. Her partially bare and ample bosom seemed to throb and shake every time she made a movement and she appeared to be fighting for every breath she took.

Presently the first batch of pies was ready and out of the oven they came, hot and golden and smelling divinely. She got a plate and cut me a large portion from one of them. My hunger and that appetising odour conquered my knowledge of the spittle-moistened lids and I ate the pie. It was certainly good and I had no hesitation in finishing a second piece. Presently my Uncle Jim and his friend came to the house and after helpings of apple pie and tea, we prepared to make our way home.

I remember telling my mother a few of the things Mrs Snape had said about our family and how she nattered at Uncle Jim for having allowed me to visit what she called such disreputable folk. 

Many were the times that I went on these fishing expeditions and always went to see fat Mrs Snape and generally sample her apple pie.

Conclusion

So at this point I will conclude.

Frank’s memoir continues with stories of his own upbringing which is then taken up by his son Leo, who describes Frank’s own career further. This is a story for another day.

I have been unable to find any photos of Jim or other members of the family. If any Whittle folk read this and are able to tell me more, I would love to hear from them.

Sources & Acknowledgements

My thanks to Pauline Giddins and her family for sharing Frank’s memoir and family photos. Also thanks to Boyd Harris for photos of Hill Foot Farm and information on Ross Cotton’s family.

Sources used for vital records (Births, Marriages and Deaths):

FREEBMD – http://www.freebmd.org.uk/cgi/search.pl

International Genealogical Index at FamilySearch – http://www.familysearch.org/eng/search/frameset_search.asp?PAGE=igi/search_IGI.asp&clear_form=true

Lancashire BMD – http://www.lancashirebmd.org.uk/

Lancashire Online Parish Clerk – http://www.lan-opc.org.uk/Search/indexp.html

Census Records at Ancestry.co.uk – http://search.ancestry.co.uk/group/ukicen/UK_Census_Collection.aspx

Census Records FREECEN – http://www.freecen.org.uk/cgi/search.pl

Historical sources referenced above include:

Baines Trade Directory 1822 for Chipping parish

Lancashire County Council & Egerton Lea Consultancy, Feb 2006, Chorley -Historic Town Assessment Report – http://www.lancashire.gov.uk/environment/documents/historictowns/ChorleyComplete_LowRes.pdf

Article on the history and geology of quarrying in Whittle – http://chorleysouthribblehistory.blogspot.com/2017/04/why-are-quarries-in-whittle-le-woods.html

The Cotton Connection: Lancashire ancestors from Whittle le Woods – Part 1

Mill stones at Whittle le Woods, Lancashire

To date, all my family history stories have been about people from my maternal ancestry, many of whom came from outside the UK (the ‘Levant’ part of the story). While there are many more stories yet to tell from this side, I do not want to neglect my paternal ancestry which largely comes from the north of  England, especially around Lancashire, as well as Ireland and Scotland. So today, I am starting a chapter on what, I suspect, is a little known strand concerning the family origins of my Great Grandmother (my father’s paternal grandmother), Annie McMellon nee Cotton.

Annie Cotton was born in 1857 in Whittle le Woods, a small village near Chorley in Lancashire. She came from a large close-knit family, the eldest child of her father’s second marriage. Her father’s family were heavily involved in the quarrying industry of the area and the manufacture of millstones from millstone grit. Originally however the family were farmers and handloom weavers.

Annie was a school teacher. She married William McMellon, a widower and fellow school teacher, while he was working at Birkdale Reformatory School near Southport, with her brother Dick, who at that time was also a school teacher. They met when Dick brought William home with him during the school holidays. William and Annie had a daughter who died in infancy, then 3 boys who survived into adulthood; Frank, William and John “Jack” who was my grandfather. It was Frank McMellon (my Great Uncle) who wrote a memoir about Annie’s family history which I have drawn on for this first chapter focusing on her earliest forebears. I will return to Annie’s own time in the next chapter.

Annie’s Ancestors

Most of Annie’s forebears came from hamlets and villages around Chorley, in Lancashire, including Whittle le Woods, Brindle and Heapey.

 

http://www.chorleyheritagecentre.co.uk

The chart below shows the first 3 generations found of my Cotton/Cottam lineage and their relationship to me. Annie is the grand-daughter of Thomas Lord Cotton.

Annie Cotton’s Family Tree Chart

(Click on the image to see in new tab, then select option to expand to full size)

Our story however begins with her Great Grandfather John Cottom or Cotton (my 4 x GGF).

John Cotton the Weaver c. 1757

The first Cotton ancestor I have any meaningful data on is John Cotton born July 1757 in Leyland, Lancs. Known as John Cottom, he was the third son of Thomas Cottom and Agnes Mackerel, daughter of a Leyland yeoman called William Mackerel or Mackrell. (It should be noted that at this time most people were illiterate so surname spellings were often not fixed but spelt phonetically by whoever was scribing a document).

John married Jane Hodgkinson, daughter of Thomas and Aterah (nee Wadsworth) in the Church of St James in Brindle in 1781. They had 5 sons; Tom the eldest (my GGG GF), then William, John, Joseph and Samuel. Two of their sons died young; John at 22 , while the youngest Samuel died as an infant.

John was a hand-loom weaver, at a time when this was a booming industry in Britain. According to the 2006 Historic Town Survey for Chorley (Lancashire Records office), the textile industry around Chorley started to develop in the seventeenth century, producing linen and woolen cloth as well as felt for the hatters, a by-product of the woolen cloth. By the early eighteenth century Chorley had grown to become a fairly important local trading centre for cloth. In particular there was a big expansion in the weaving of cotton cloth on hand-looms, which by the end of the century was starting to be supplemented by the development of the big industrial cotton spinning mills. The industry was supported by the building of the southern branch of the Lancaster Canal in 1797.  By 1816, there were 720 hand-looms in the town while the White Horse Inn in Chorley became the cloth traders’ regular meeting place.

Weavers cottages in Brindle. Loom rooms were usually semi basements.

John and Jane would have lived in a hand-loom weavers’ cottage like the one illustrated on the right. These were usually two storeys high and had a cellar with an earth floor which provided the moist atmosphere needed to house the looms. Some of these houses were quite substantial, holding up to 6 looms and normally the whole family would be involved in the weaving.

While John Cotton’s family originated in Brindle, at some point they moved to Whittle le Woods a few miles down the road. Whittle had 3 housing areas colonised by weavers, one being a hamlet called Rip Row, which was locally known as “The Rip”. Some of the weaver houses are still standing there too.

Unfortunately from around 1810 the profitability of hand-loom weaving for the cottage worker started going into a steady decline. Doug Peacock, in his website “Cotton Times” argues that this was due to a number of important factors. Firstly, there was an economic recession caused by the Napoleonic Wars and secondly there had grown a general perception that weaving was ‘easy money’ which had encouraged a flood of new entrants, such as Irish immigrants, into the market-place. Both factors led to a lowering of prices and the depression of wages. The other major factor was the emergence of steam powered looms and factory production which were far more efficient and  required little skill to operate which meant that factory owners could easily employ people and get away with paying them a pittance.

When John Cotton was in his prime, hand-loom weaving around the 1790s, earnings in parts of Lancashire were as much as £1, 10 shillings a week. By 1808 a weaver’s earnings were down to 8 shillings for an 84 hour week! Over the next decade, protests and riots started breaking out as destitute weavers took to the streets to demand better wages. During this period for instance, there emerged the Luddites, who broke machinery, while angry weavers engaged in ‘vitriolic attacks’ where cloth was ruined by the squirting of vitriol through factory windows. In the end power loom weaving pretty much put them all out of business. By 1861, there were 400,000 power looms in Britain and a mere 7,000 hand-looms.

John Cotton may have been one of the more successful operators but even so, it appears that his family took the opportunity to invest savings and diversify at an early stage. His sons, Tom, William and Joseph initially followed him in the weaving business but all three later became farmers. However Joseph had the smallest farm and only continued with it a few years before he and his family took employment at one of the cotton power mills. Eventually he moved his family permanently to Addlington where they lived in the factory houses belonging to the cotton mill there.

Next Generation and Rising Affluence – Thomas Cotton 1784 – 1854

Thomas “Lord” Cotton, (my GGG Grandfather) was the eldest son of John, born in Whittle-le-Woods and baptised at St Barnabas Parish Church in Heapey in 1784.

In June 1810, aged 26,  he married Margaret Morris, the second eldest daughter of Ralph Morris, and Ann nee Hodskinson or Hodgkinson. In Frank’s memoir, he states that Ralph was a man of some standing being a local landowner and attorney. I have been unable to find any records to substantiate this latter claim. I have located his marriage register entry but this cites Ralph as a husbandman, not as an attorney.

In a family history by John Harrison, he also mentions a Ralph Morris, “Gentleman of Upholland” whose daughter Anne married Dr John Rigby. He cites the Chorley Land Tax Assessment records as showing that in 1811 Ralph Morris owned a farm on Eaves Lane (Chorley) and in 1822 Kay’s Farm, which appears to be near the reservoir at Anglezarke. At the northern end of the reservoir there is another farm called ‘Morris Farm’ which may also have had some connection. However I do not think this is the same Ralph Morris. Our Morris is quite feasibly the landowner of these farms but it seems unlikely that anyone from the landed gentry would allow their daughter to marry a lowly weaver which is all that Tom was at that point in time!

Also while Ralph Morris may not have been gentry, the status of husbandman does not necessarily mean that he was not a landowner or literate. Historically a husbandman was considered slightly lower social status than a yeoman but the two labels gradually became merged into a more generalised concept of farmer. There is also an assumption that a husbandman had a lower income than a farmer or yeoman but in fact some research I once read (and have sadly lost the reference for!) found that this was not necessarily the case.  Either could be land owners or tenant farmers and their incomes could likewise be higher or lower than their counterparts. In addition, Ralph signed his own name on the marriage register, suggesting he was literate, whereas most of his peers in the register just placed a mark.

The claim that he was an attorney is a bit of a puzzle though.  Our modern definition of the legal profession makes it difficult to reconcile this with a parallel career as a farmer! Yet it is also not the sort of mistake you would expect a family to make in its oral history, particularly when the events recounted were within that generation’s living memory. However William Savage (2018) explains that in the 18th and 19th centuries the term “attorney” did not have the same association with the regulated profession as today and was more indicative of a trusted legal representative, in the way that today for instance, we give “power of attorney” to family members to safeguard the interests of our loved ones when they become older and more vulnerable. At a time when many tenant farmers and husbandmen were illiterate, they might not go and appoint a lawyer to act on their behalf but would instead engage a local man who could read and write to act as their agent. These locally appointed “attorneys” would then negotiate or draw up contracts and business dealings on behalf of their peers for a fee (Savage, 2018). It was pretty lucrative work. It is my feeling that perhaps this was how Ralph acquired his standing in the community and supplemented his income to an extent that enabled him to become a landowner. More research is needed however to be sure.

Ralph and Ann had 8 children, all daughters bar one son, William, who died in infancy. They were obviously close to the Cotton family because their third daughter Grace, married Tom’s brother William Cotton in 1811. I wonder also whether Ralph’s wife Ann was related to Tom’s mother Jane. Both had a similar sounding maiden name, Hodgkinson/Hodskinson.

Ralph Morris’s family tree

Frank McMellon believed that Tom and Margaret only had one child; his grandfather John, who inherited everything. In fact they had 4 children; Jane born 1811, died a few weeks old, Jane (2nd) born 1813, died aged 2, William born 1815, died aged 39 and John the youngest born 1819.

Growing Affluence

Frank describes Tom as a force of nature and a true entrepreneur, thus:

“He must have been a very enterprising man, for besides being a yeoman farmer he opened sandstone quarries at Whittle Hills and also employed hand-loom weavers and dealt in cotton cloth and yarn. He had a pew in Brindle Church and was Warden.

On Saturdays he drove his smart gig to Preston market and must have looked very substantial in his knee breeches and shoes with silver buckles.”

Indeed his career and growing affluence can be followed in the records.

In 1819 he was a weaver (Ref. baptism record for son John).

The 1824 Baines Directory cites Tom Colton (sic), as a mill stone maker.

The following notice in an 1832 edition of The London Gazette, illustrates his early involvement in the quarrying business.

Although this notice refers to the dissolution of his partnership with Richard Withnell, (incidentally a witness at Tom’s marriage), his quarrying business continued for many more years as “Thomas Cotton & Co”, (e.g. his successors supplied stone for the enlargement of St Mary’s church in Bamber Bridge by Pugin in 1891).

Between 1835-50 he appears in the Poll books for the Northern Division of Lancaster – Leyland Hundred. These Poll books are registers of persons (i.e. men!) entitled to vote by virtue of their income or landowning interests. Tom’s qualification was as the occupier of land and buildings with a rental income upwards of £50. Across all the entries he holds Hill Top Farm and Narwoods. Intriguingly, in 1837 it also states Rothram Top and coach and horses. The former is a very large farmhouse in Whittle but I cannot work out whether coach and horses refers to a pub or inn or actual horses! There was a Wagon and Horses inn in Whittle but never a Coach and Horses as far as I can tell.

In 1840 he has 28 plots across Whittle registered as tithe apportionments, ranging from arable fields, pasture meadows, woodland, crofts, barns, cottages and farmhouses. Some of these he farmed himself but others were let out, providing a substantial rental income.

Hill Top farm (South), Whittle le Woods

In 1841 he is recorded as a farmer, while in the 1851 census, he is a millstone maker, living at “Hill Top” in Whittle le Woods, (also the name of one of the Whittle quarries). In fact there are two farms at Hill Top; Hill Top North and Hill Top South, we don’t know which one he occupied, but according to Frank, he ran both as well as operating the quarrying business alongside his ongoing cloth-making interests. His various occupations in the censuses did not keep up. There probably wasn’t enough room to record multiple entries so the enumerator just chose one!

Frank also recalled that his uncles Ross and Jim said Tom was known locally as Tom “Lord” Cotton. It is intriguing to know where this nickname came from. There is a little cul-de-sac near the canal in Whittle called Lord Street which contains a smart stone-faced house built in 1839 by Tom. Above the front door is an inscription “C T&M 1839″, which must surely stand for Tom and Margaret Cotton. Interestingly, in the 1850 Poll book, Tom is cited as owning a freehold house and land and his abode is given as “Manor House, Whittle le Woods”. I have been unable to locate any property of this name anywhere in or around WlW but surely the freehold house is the one in Lord Street? According to the 1851 census, Tom’s eldest son William became the occupier of Hill Top Farm, suggesting that Tom had retired at some point in the 1840s and presumably moved in to his new house on Lord Street. The 1851 census just states that Tom and Margaret lived in Rip Row but Lord Street is within this neighbourhood. It’s a nice house but clearly a long way shy of any standard for a manor house!  So could Tom “Lord” have come from his rise to affluence and some delusion of grandeur on his part, or is there some other connection with the name of the lane?

House built by Tom Cotton, Lord Street, WlW

Key stone C T&M 1839 (Cotton Tom Margret) Lord St, WlW

After Tom and Margaret died, the house was passed down to Frank’s grandparents. He recalled visits there from his childhood:

“There was a large yard and orchard behind the house and a kind of small yard where there was always a large heap of clean sand. I used to weigh out this sand in an old fashioned pair of copper scales. Sometimes my Grandmother would let me grind starch in a small copper mill.   I would be taken among the gooseberry and blackcurrant bushes or given a piece of peeled apple or pear.

The cul-de-sac in front of the house had a sandy surface and a little stile, with three steps cut into the rubble wall.   Over the stile was the narrow path, which ran over the shoulder of the hill. This path had a peculiar fascination to me.   It led to my terra incognita, and it was strictly forbidden to go over the stile.

I used to stand and look up towards the hills and watch the great white clouds, which came sailing over their green tops. These hills had many quarries cut into them and they were great masses of bare weathered rocks.

One day I climbed over the stile and made my way up the steep hillside. I wanted to see what was over the top of the hill and did not bother to keep to the winding path. I got among the clumps of whin [sic. winberry] bushes and gorse and finally sat down in a little hollow among some rocks. I must have fallen asleep for after a time I was surprised to find a number of people standing round me.

There were my Mother and Grandma and several neighbours, all talking and chattering and trying to look both severe and relieved. I got my bottom smacked and was carried home and given cakes and butterdrops.”

The house at the end of Lord Street, with “three steps cut into the rubble wall..” leading to Frank’s “Terra incognita”. One of the Lord St neighbours confirmed this description of the location.

Tom died in 1854 and Margaret in 1860. Both are buried at St Andrew’s Parish Church in Leyland. It would appear likely that he split his estate between his two sons, William and John (my GG GF). However William died just a year after Tom in 1855. His widow, Mary Ann, continued to manage Hill Top Farm’s 18 acres with 3 young daughters. She later moved to Clayton le Woods as an annuitant, suggesting she may have sold up some portion of the estate.

I think Hill Top Farm and the nearby Hill Foot Farm (occupied by John Cotton from c.1851) must have been freeholds held by Tom. In later years, the cottage attached to Hill Foot Farm was occupied by a descendant of Tom’s brother so these properties may even have originally been passed down by Tom’s father.  Tom’s will is held in the Lancashire Archives in Preston and there is also an administration bond for the following year for William. I have not yet managed to look at these but I am hoping they may shed more light on some of these questions. 

In the next chapter, I will draw further on the memoir written by Frank to tell the story of John Cotton, Tom’s only surviving son, who took over the reins and in particular, built up the stone quarrying business.

Acknowledgements and Thanks

This history and family pedigree is drawn from the memoir written by my Great Uncle Frank McMellon, which was transcribed by his son Leo McMellon. I am indebted to Leo’s family and especially my second cousin Pauline Giddins for sharing family photos and the manuscript and allowing me to re-edit parts of it here. 

Sources and Further Information

An excellent source for parish records is at Lancashire Online Parish Clerks Project:  https://www.lan-opc.org.uk/

Historic Town Survey – Chorley (2006) obtainable from Lancashire Records Office: https://www.lancashire.gov.uk/council/planning/historic-environment-record/

Doug Peacock (2007), Cotton Times: Understanding the Industrial Revolution. http://www.cottontimes.co.uk/workers/

Another excellent blog article on the cotton industry in Whittle le Woods can be found at:   https://chorleysouthribblehistory.blogspot.com/2017/08/the-cotton-industry-in-whittle-le-woods.html

Jones Family Chronicles and Connections – cross references the Morris and Seddon families of Chorley who married into the Cottons:     https://thommont.com/page5.html

Harrison, John (2010), Dr John Rigby:  the founder of a Chorley medical dynasty, Chorley Historical and Archeological Society. This article links John Rigby’s father in law, Ralph Morris, Gentleman of Upholland, to the land tax records citing the owner of Eave’s Farm and Kay’s Farm in Chorley. However I think my ancestor Ralph Morris is a stronger contender as owner of these two farms and was unrelated to the Upholland gentleman. Neither claim is proven though!

http://www.chorleyhistorysociety.co.uk/articles_01/john_rigby_01.htm

William Savage, (2018), The Eighteenth Century Attorney: in The Pen and Pension blog: 

https://penandpension.com/2018/02/21/the-eighteenth-century-attorney/

Reference to Thomas Cotton and Co Whittle quarries in “Taking stock – Catholic Churches of England and Wales: https://taking-stock.org.uk/building/bamber-bridge-st-mary/

Poll books for the Northern Division of Lancaster – Leyland Hundred (1538-1893) for the years 1835, 1837, 1840, 1845, 1850 – available online at www.Ancestry.co.uk

Lancashire Record Office Archives:

Tithe apportionment entries for Whittle le Woods (found online via Ancestry)

Wills & Probate Records/Archdeaconry of Chester Probate Records

Ref. WCW/Supra/C1263/99 – Thomas Cotton, Yeoman, 16 Sept 1854 (Hard copy only)

Ref. WCW/Supra/C1279B/41 – William Cotton, Farmer, 24 Sept 1855 (Hard copy only)

 

Callus – Ancient Origins

Old Map of Malta -Source: http://www.discusmedia.com/authors.php?id=31106

This article was originally published on my Callus page in May 2014. I have moved it here as a standalone post due to the need for a sitemap on the Callus page for all my Callus articles.

Ancient Origins

In Malta, the Callus surname is pronounced Cal-oos, whereas in the UK, it is sounded Cal-us. The spelling of the name has remained remarkably consistent since the 1400s. This suggests that the families bearing this name were literate from a very early period as surnames generally tended to be spelled with many variations, i.e. phonetically, until mass literacy was achieved with the introduction of universal education in the nineteenth century.

The name is believed to originate from Byzantine Greek. Some historians have suggested that families with Byzantine Greek sounding names in Malta might have first arrived with the Knights of St John after their expulsion from the island of Rhodes by the Turks in 1530. In 1472, the Holy Roman Empire of Byzantium fell to Mehmed II, also known as Mehmed the Conqueror. Christian families fled across the Mediterranean. The Ottomans then also attempted to capture the island of Rhodes, then the home of the Knights of St John or Knights Hospitallers. They failed on this attempt but in 1522 they attacked again and this time succeeded. The Knights were expelled and went first to Crete (then under Venetian control), then Sicily. In 1530, Emperor Charles V granted them the islands of Malta and Gozo and the city of Tripoli in Libya.

However, the oldest records for the Callus name in Malta come from a militia roll of 1419 and an ‘Angara roster‘ from the 1480s, held in the archives of Mdina cathedral (Wettinger, 1968)¹, proving that the Callus line predates the coming of the Knights. The Angara roster is thought to be a roster for work on the bastions of Mdina or some other unpaid public work. Participation in the militia and Angara rosters was compulsory for all able-bodied men on the island regardless of class excepting the clergy. The rolls therefore give a good indication of the distribution of surnames across the whole island at that time.

In 1419, the militia roll showed that there were two men (or families) named Callus from the parish of Zurrieq (Zurico) and one in Civitas. Civitas was the ancient name for the Citadel of Mdina, which was the capital at that time. The surrounding town was called Rabat.

In the Angara Roster from the 1480s, there were six Callus men from Zurrieq and one from Sigeui (Siggiewi).

In fact, the vast majority of vital and census records for CALLUS across the following centuries, show that this surname remained concentrated in the southern part of Malta, with most coming from Zurrieq and the surrounding villages of Safi, Siggiewi, Qrendi and later Zebbug.

Sources and Further Information

 ¹ Wettinger, G., (1968), The Distribution of Surnames in Malta in 1419 and the 1480s, Journal of Maltese studies, 5 (1968), pp 25-48

http://melitensiawth.com/incoming/Index/Journal of Maltese Studies/Journal of Maltese Studies. 05(1968)/1968orig04 wettinger.pdf

 

Last updated: January 2019

Italian Threads in Constantinople

Messina, Sicily. Source: Wikimedia Commons

It was always rumoured that my Polish Great Grandmother, Christina Callus nee Pouhalski (aka Puchalski), had Italian heritage and it turns out that this is true. According to Christina’s baptism record, her mother was Angela Ainis who came from Messina in Sicily.  Angela’s burial record suggested she was born around 1836, which meant that she was aged just 16 or 17 when she married in Constantinople and had Christina, her first child. So who was she, why was she in Turkey and what kind of family did she come from?

My Great Grandmother’s ancestry has been extremely difficult to trace from the outset and picking up the maternal side of her family proved no exception. The Messina civil records² showed that there were 3 baby girls born between 1836-7 with exactly the same name. How on earth was I to track down which one was my Great Great Grandmother! The solution was found by following some rather convoluted threads.

The name Ainis turns out to be quite rare and in the 19th century was almost entirely confined to Sicily, specifically around Messina, apart from a few families in Naples and Northern Italy, the USA and a small concentration found also in Indonesia! This provided a much narrower field to search in.  Spelling variations are found in other parts, e.g. Aines/Ainesi in France, or Ainissi in the USA.  Only one further Ainis name appeared in the Constantinople parish records with Angela. In 1867, the Godfather to her fourth child, Leonard Roman Puchalski, was Placido Ainis. The likelihood was that Placido was a blood relative to Angela so if I could find any further records for him, I might be able to establish which family Angela belonged to.

Parisi ties

By complete coincidence, I eventually discovered the link through searching another name, Parisi, connected to a completely different branch of the family. My Great Grandfather’s sister Elise Callus married Joseph Calleja. His mother was Maria Parisi whose family were tailors originating from Syracuse in Sicily. While searching on Parisi in Constantinople however, I came across Giuseppe “Placido” Parisi, a tailor originally from Messina in Sicily, who was Godfather to Placido Ainis in 1844. Records from the Consulate of Naples in Constantinople then revealed that the parents of Placido Ainis were Domenico Ainis, a tailor from Messina, and his wife Nicoletta Allegra (Geneanet)¹. These were an exact match for one of the Angela Ainis in the Messina birth register.

It was probably the tailoring trade and a shared home town and nationality which connected the Godfather, Placido Parisi, to the Ainis family, but they could well have known each other from before they migrated. He does not appear to be related to Maria Calleja nee Parisi, but it is quite a coincidence that both family branches of Parisi were tailors and came from Sicily. A further Parisi, Emanuele de Paris (French spelling), appeared as a witness at the marriage of my Great Grandparents, Henri Callus and Christina Puchalski.

The Ainis of Messina

And so, we can now return to the source family.

Domencio Ainis was the son of Rosario Ainis (my GGG GF) and was born about 1795. He was a tailor [It. sartore]. His wife Nicoletta Allegra, was born about 1809. Both were illiterate. Their marriage does not appear to have been recorded in the civil records, but it may not have been a requirement at that time. It would probably have been about 1824, (assuming Nicoletta was aged about 16 the year before the birth of her first child).

Domenico and Nicoletta had 6 children according to records found to date. Three daughters and a son were all born in Messina. These were; Concetta about 1825, Carmela 30/12/1834, Angela 18/2/1836 and Gaetano about 1838. Two further children were born in Constantinople in Turkey; Giovanna in 1842, who died aged 10, and Placido in 1844.

Their address when Angela was born was in Via Santa Pelagia in the San Giuliana district of Messina, Sicily, which is quite central and close to the port. This street is adjacent to the Palazzo del Monte di Pietà. Two years earlier they lived in the parish of the cathedral (il Duomo) on Strada Pianellari. I have not been able to locate this but many places were renamed when the city was rebuilt following the 1908 earthquake and the precise spelling is difficult to decipher.

Location of Messina in Sicily.

It is possible that the two other Angela Ainis born in Messina around the same time as my GG Grandmother were in some way related. One was born in September 1837 to Giuseppe Ainis  and Santa de Francesco. This Giuseppe was born 1798, the son of Rosario, so could have been a brother of Domenico. His occupation was a trafficante (which I think translates as dealer).  At least one descendant from this family emigrated to the USA in the 1880s or 90s and are thought to have been involved in the textile industry (Citiforum)³.

The other Angela, also born September 1837 was the daughter of Rosario Ainis and Emilia Nascio. His occupation is given as proprietor (property or business owner). This family moved to Naples between 1838 and 48.

There was also a major industrialist in Messina called Gaetano Ainis, born 1840 (father Gaetano, mother Francesca Mancuso). According to the Italian National Biography⁴, he ran a very large textile business, established in the 1830s by his father, which established trade links in the Middle East in the 1860s.

No firm link to the other Ainis families above has been proven, but it is interesting to see the same first name choices recurring in each family and to note that they all seem to be in some way involved in textiles.

Migration from Messina to Constantinople

The socio-economic conditions of life in southern Europe provide the most obvious reason for the family’s emigration to Turkey, in “the Levant”. In the nineteenth century, around 70% of the Sicilian population worked on the land, only about 20% were employed as craftsmen or artisans and the level of education was very poor. In the early part of the century, Sicily was ruled by the Bourbons and amalgamated with Naples to become the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. About this time, the feudal system was abolished which should have improved conditions for the agrarian workers but mismanagement and corruption by the clerics and local officials meant land reforms did not benefit them and sowed the seeds for the emergence of the Cosa Nostra or Mafia.

One of my original theories was the possibility that Angela’s parents joined the 1848 Sicilian Revolt and ended up as refugees in Turkey (see The Forty-Eighters). In 1848, a wave of revolution swept across Europe from France to Hungary, with one of the first taking place in Sicily, in particular around Palermo and Messina.  There was a Polish contingent supporting the Italian Revolt, which might have provided a link to Angela’s future husband, Theodore Puchalski. It is now clear from the birth dates of Angela’s siblings that the family migrated to Turkey between 1838 and 1842 which means this theory can be completely discounted.

However by the mid to late 1800s, there were mass migrations from Italy and Sicily to the USA, Argentina and Brazil. A small but significant number migrated to the Ottoman Empire in the 1830s and 40s. As set out in my previous article on the Maltese migrations, the western seaboard of Turkey drew many western migrants responding to the offer of capitulations to those wishing to settle and trade in the East. The capitulations were the result of trading contracts agreed between the Ottoman Sultan and various Western powers which conferred special rights for subjects settling in the Empire. These included exemption from local taxes, laws, house searches and conscription and the right to be bound by the jurisdiction of their home countries.

What was life like for the Ainis tailors?

An interesting article by Pam Inder⁵ describes conditions in the 19th century rag trade. It was fairly reliable work because all clothes were bespoke and all but the poorest in society attempted to keep up with fashions and look as presentable as possible. Although women’s fashions changed fairly frequently from one decade to the other, the fashion of the day was pretty standard. The basic cut of an outfit was the same for everyone. The differences were to be found in the fabrics and embellishments.

Nevertheless, labour was cheap and fabric was expensive. Sewing machines were not available until around the 1850s so an outfit took many hours to construct by hand. In order to keep clothes affordable, tailors and dressmakers had to put up with small profit margins. They also often employed family members including children and relied on apprentices who paid for their training.

Another interesting aspect of this work was that tailoring, along with shoe-making, had been  Guild trades since the Middle Ages, so throughout Europe these occupations were well organised and had good networks of mutual support. When Domenico decided to move his family to Constantinople this perhaps explains how he formed friendships with other tailors from the Italian community who would have helped him get established. Community and family were strong values that perhaps trumped rivalry and competition.

The grand-daughter of Domenico, (my Great Grandmother Christina), became a dress designer in the 1870s for a prestigious department store called Maison DeMilleville at 303, Grande Rue de Pera in Constantinople. It specialised in outfits for the ball and theatre and advertised itself as being bang up to date with all the latest Parisian fashions. Clearly, Christina must have learnt her craft from her mother and grandfather. (Her grandmother Nicoletta died when she was 2). Her sister Sophie was also employed as a seamstress and milliner.

Advert for Maison DeMilleville

Department stores emerged in the 1870s and most had workrooms and accommodation on and off site for staff. Christina’s address in 1872 written on the back of a photograph indicates that she lived in at Maison DeMilleville. Working conditions were much better even though the hours were just as long but wages for women, especially skilled dressmakers and designers in the more prestigious establishments, could be really quite good.

It would be good to find out how Domenico Ainis fared when he moved from Sicily to Turkey. My guess is that their lives did indeed improve. Messina was a busy port and industrial city that would have provided regular but much workaday business. Constantinople was a huge cosmopolitan capital city and the district of Pera was the centre of the European community there. Pera was considered the ‘Paris of the East’ full of wealthy entrepreneurs, diplomats and the rich and famous who passed through as tourists, arriving by steamship or the Orient Express, with money to burn in their pockets. It must have been a fabulous opportunity for the family.

Further information and sources

¹ Records from the Consulate of Naples in Constantinople were collated by Marie Anne Marandet Legoux and published on Geneanet at: https://en.geneanet.org/

² Civil Record Archives for Messina at: http://www.antenati.san.beniculturali.it/v/Archivio+di+Stato+di+Messina/Stato+civile+della+restaurazione/Messina/Inventario/

³ Citi-data forum, Ainis discussion thread at: http://www.city-data.com/forum/genealogy/97377-ainis-relatives-messina-sicily-3.html#post46176146

⁴ Italian National Biography at: http://www.treccani.it/enciclopedia/gaetano-ainis_(Dizionario-Biografico)/

⁵ Inder, P. (2017), Stitching the Fashions of the 19th Century, History Extra: BBC History magazine at: https://www.historyextra.com/period/victorian/stitching-the-fashions-of-the-19th-century/

 

The Polish Partitions, Revolts and Great Migration – My ancestral odyssey

Flag of the Polish November Uprising. Source: Wikimedia Commons

This post is the first chapter in a series on my Polish ancestry. It is linked to my main Puchalski/Pouhalski page which provides an initial introduction and overview.

The true story of how my Polish ancestors ended up in Ottoman Constantinople in the mid 19th century has long been an intriguing mystery and even today after so much has been discovered, we still do not know exactly where the family originally came from. Despite the errors and embroidery however, it appears my family recollections are not without substance after all.

Our story begins with the Polish Partitions…

Background to the Partitions of Poland

“The Polish national movement had the longest pedigree, the best credentials. the greatest determination, the worst press, and the least success.”

(Norman Davies, 1996).

A weak constitution and a civil war in Poland in 1768 made the country vulnerable to attack by its neighbours, the powerful states of Russia, Prussia and the Habsburg Empire. In 1772, each moved into Poland to take over some of its territory in an act that became known as the First Partition.

Territorial Changes of Poland 1772 by Esemono – Own work, Public Domain, Link

Despite efforts in Poland to strengthen their constitution and defend the nation against further incursions, two further Partitions were made in the 1790s which completely absorbed Poland into its neighbour’s territories and extinguished Poland as a sovereign state, a position it was not able to reverse until the end of World War 1 (Online Encyclopedia Britannica).

Territorial Changes of Poland 1795 by Esemono – Own work, Public Domain, Link

In 1807, part of Poland briefly re-emerged when Napoleon Bonaparte created the Duchy of Warsaw as an independent Polish state out of the Prussian part of Poland. This became the focal point for nationalist efforts to restore Poland’s former boundaries.

Napoleon’s Polish lancers by J. Chelminski. Source: Pinterest.

The Code Napoleon was adopted in Poland and the French model imposed for its constitution. The Poles started to pin their hopes on Napoleon for the restoration of their homeland. Many were fervent admirers and Polish troops some of his most loyal legions. In fact, the Poles are the only people in the world to sing about Bonaparte in their national anthem (Nieuwazny, A, 1998)!

There is a story in our family that one of our Puchalski ancestors was a Count who fought and died for Napoleon in one his Polish cavalry legions at the Battle of Waterloo! The most likely candidate would be Theodore Puchalski senior, the father of my Great Great Grandfather, Theodore Puchalski, born about 1812.

There was indeed a Polish officer at Waterloo called Puchalski but his first name was Joseph and he was the Inspector of Military Hospitals (The Army of Grand Duchy of Warsaw)!

Polish lancers bearing a captured standard

However there is another potential candidate referred to just as “Capitaine Puchalski”, who in the 1807 Dirschau campaign (on the west bank of the Vistula) was awarded the Legion d’Honneur (D. Chlapowski, 1908). This Puchalski was a member of the Polish legion under Dombrowski, who fought with Napoleon in his earliest campaigns in Italy. Dombrowski was one of Poland’s most famous generals and a cavalry expert.

However, records confirm that this was in fact an Edmund Puchalski not Theodore, so it’s back to the drawing board in terms of finding a forebear in the Polish Lancers.

Unfortunately for the Poles, when Napoleon’s campaign in Russia failed, their own fate was sealed. After Napoleon’s defeat, 8 of the major powers met at the Congress of Vienna in 1815 to decide how Napoleon’s conquests would be divided among them. (These were Russia, Prussia, Austria, Great Britain, France, Sweden, Spain and Portugal). It was eventually decided that the Russian and Prussian areas of Poland would be given up to create the Congress Kingdom of Poland which was to be a nominally autonomous kingdom under Tsar Alexander I of Russia. The Duchy of Warsaw was made a separate kingdom under the sovereignty of the Tsar.

The First Polish Revolt 1830-1

In July 1830, a popular Revolt broke out in Paris. Despite Napoleon’s downfall, Poles still regarded the French as their allies so when Tsar Nicholas I sought to help suppress the Revolt by using his Polish troops, a secret society of cadets in Warsaw staged an uprising and attempted to assassinate the Tsar’s brother, Grand Duke Constantine, who was their Commander in Chief. This was the beginning of the Polish revolt know as the November Uprising of 1830.

The cadets had only partial success but their actions inspired others and the rebellion extended across the former Congress Kingdom of Poland as far as Belarus and Ukraine. Unfortunately for them, although the much smaller contingent of about 40,000 Polish insurgents fought some brave battles (among them many civilians and even women), they did not manage to capitalise on their gains and eventually the superior might of Russia crushed the Revolt, culminating in an attack on Warsaw in September 1831 which caused the insurgents to retreat to Prussia and finally to surrender (Encyclopedia Britannica).

The Great Migration

Meeting of Polish exiles in Belgium c. 1830 Xylograph. Public Domain.

Thus began what is known in Poland as ‘The Great Migration’ which lasted between 1831-70.  Many exiles fled to the UK. As an interesting aside, Len Goodman, the celebrity judge on ‘Strictly Come Dancing’, appeared on BBC1’s ‘Who Do You Think You Are’ genealogy programme in 2011 and found out that his Great Great Grandfather, Wincenty Sosnowski, was one of the anti-Tsarist Poles who took part in the 1830-1 uprising and ended up in the UK in 1834 after a year in a Prussian prison!  The vast majority of emigres however, made their way to France. In total, it has been estimated that 6000 Poles became political emigres between 1830-70 (Zubrzycki, J. Wikipedia).

Among these exiles was my Great Great Grandfather, Theodore Puchalski. The evidence for this is contained in an almanac published in Paris in 1837 by the Comte de Tabasz-Krosnowski. The Count produced this important document to bear witness to all the Poles forced into exile.  In his introduction he says:

“Several thousand Poles vegetate in exile.  One day history and posterity will send their names. Today even our compatriots left on the native soil want to know the names of those exiles who did not shrink from this sacrifice. To snatch, to forget these martyrs of the most holy cause, to offer their names to the esteem of the nations and to the hope of the country, is the goal which I proposed to myself by publishing this historic Almanach or Souvenir of Polish emigration which contains the list of Polanais spread abroad.  And, above all, in France, in that noble France, which, in the midst of our disasters, remembered its old friendship, and extended to us protective arms. The warriors of the empire will here find brothers in arms emulated by their glory. Twenty five years have triumphed for the same cause on the same battlefield. We also owe a deep gratitude to the other nations, all rivaled with zeal for goodwill in welcoming the Poles. The difficulties which I have had to overcome in the execution of this and the lack of official documents, it was necessary to have recourse to the Poles themselves, but several of them for personal reasons did not wish to appear on this list….”

Paris 3 May 1837. (Translation excerpt c/o Google Translate).

The almanac is arranged by name, place of birth (where known), rank, unit and the town exiled to. There are many individuals with no rank cited suggesting they were civilians. However Theodore is listed as an officer. He was exiled to Troyes in the Aube/Champagne region of France along with 30-40 others.

How can I be certain this Theodore was my Theodore? In truth I cannot be categorical but the circumstantial evidence fits with the stories we have inherited. Previous researches I have commissioned from the Russian State Archives have found no other person of this name during this period, suggesting that while the surname may be common, the combined first name and surname are not.

A Government in Exile – Hôtel Lambert, Paris

Prince Adam Jerzy Czartoryski c. 1830. Public domain.

The Polish government in exile was based in the Hôtel Lambert in Paris and was established by Prince Adam Jerzy Czartoryski, its leader, with embassies in London and Istanbul. The Hôtel Lambert was a grand mansion townhouse, on the Quai Anjou on the eastern tip of the Île Saint-Louis, in 4th arrondissement of Paris, bought by Czartoryski in 1843. The Hôtel Lambert’s political agenda was in support of the liberal democratic principles of the 3 May 1791 Polish-Lithuanian Constitution and keeping the plight of the Polish cause on the international stage. It also became a safe house for emigres and dissidents. 

Hôtel Lambert, Paris, by Tangopaso (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

The Hôtel Lambert also created a centre for the preservation and promotion of Polish culture. Key figures among the emigres were Frédéric Chopin, Zygmunt Krasiński, Alphonse de Lamartine, George Sand, Honoré de Balzac, Hector Berlioz, Franz Liszt, Eugène Delacroix, and Adam Mickiewicz. In fact, Chopin’s “La Polonaise” was composed expressly for the Polish ball held there every year (Wikipedia-Hotel Lambert).

Ball at Hotel Lambert, Paris, with Chopin playing and Prince Czartoryski observing. Teofil Kwiatkowski [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Another important institution created by the exiles was the Polish Library in Paris. It was founded in 1838 and still exists today on the Quai d’Orleans, a short walk from the site of Hôtel Lambert. It also accommodates, next door, 3 small museums to Chopin, Mickiewicz and the sculptor Biegas. It houses over 145,000 books and many thousands of other important historical artefacts relating to Polish history and culture.

Polish Library, 8, Quai d’Orleans, Paris.
By Cancre (Own work) [GFDL], via Wikimedia Commons

A Temporary Refuge

Many emigres such as Theodore did not stay in France. When in 1848, a series of revolutions swept across Western Europe, he and many of his compatriots, once again joined the cause in the hope that in the process, Russia, Prussia and Austria would be pushed back out of Poland and Polish national identity and culture restored. This is the subject of my next post.

Further Information and References

Davies, N. (1997), Europe: a History, (New ed. 1997), Pimlico: London.

Nieuwazny, A. (1998), Napoleon and Polish Identity, in History Today, Vol. 48, Issue 5, 5 May 1998.

For an extensive and very good overview of Polish military history, this website is hard to beat: http://napolun.com/mirror/napoleonistyka.atspace.com/polish_army.html

https://www.britannica.com/event/November-Insurrection

Chlapowski, Desire,  Memoires sur les guerres de Napoleon 1806-1813. Traduits par M.M. Jan V. Chelminski et le Commandant A. Malibran. (3rd ed., 1908), Plons-Nourrit, Paris (N.B. This is a big file to download as it is the entire book in pdf, patience is needed as it can be slow)!

Tabasz-Krosnowski, Adolphe (Comte de), (1841) Almanach historique; ou Souvenir de l’emigration polonaise.

 

Website for the Polish library in Paris at: http://www.bibliotheque-polonaise-paris-shlp.fr/index.php?id_rubrique=1125

My thanks to Stephen H Smith for the following information on the Legion d’Honneur following my enquiry of the Napoleon Series Forum:

Puchalski, Edmund, kpt. P. 1p., K. [LdH] 9.iii.1807 [[award nr.]15021] ([for] Tczew.). : p. 68 – #1453 : Stanisław Łoza. Legia Honorowa w Polsce 1803-1923. 1923. 90 p.

Gembarzewski. Wojsko Polskie – Ksiestwo Warszawskie, 1807-1814. 1st edition. 1905.
p. xxxiii: Puchalski Edmund, kap. adj. gen. br. Axamitowskiego; uwoln. 29.viii.1808.