VELIKAVELIKA
"But why stay here?" I asked.
"Because," he answered, "my brothers live here and I must stay here till I die. If I am not to be found, then my brothers must die for me. It will not last long, for there are many bags of money on my head. My enemy is a rich man."
"But," he went on, "wilt thou ask the Voivoda, who is a good man, to give me a magazine rifle and some cartridges? See my rifle, it is old, and I have but five cartridges left. For thee he will do it, and so I can die fighting a good fight, and perhaps can kill two or three of my enemies first. To-day I have wounded one."
"I will ask the Voivoda," I replied, "though I doubt if I have any influence with him. Ask him thyself."
I did ask the Voivoda, but he said the thing was impossible. He had no rifles to give away. But our fugitive continued his request at intervals for the rest of the time that he was with us.
At Velika, a collection of half a dozen houses, very charmingly situated in a valley, we halted and rested for many hours while the Voivoda transacted business and received reports from a very young officer who held this dangerous command. We commented on his youth, and were told that hisfather, recently dead, had held the position, and that he had inherited it. "Besides," continued our informant, "he is quite up to his work."
As we dismounted, our escort unloaded their rifles, the snapping of locks and breeches bringing the excitement of the last hour or two vividly back to our memory.
The men of Velika were fierce-looking and of great stature. Rifle, handjar, and revolver were carried by all. Our escort were equally fine men, that fearless look so characteristic of the Montenegrin race, being accentuated here. Yet the faces are pleasing, honest, and good-tempered. There is to be found in the world no more splendid specimens of fighting humanity than the Montenegrin borderer. Brave, reckless to a fault, with absolutely no fear of death, inured to every hardship, and able to live and thrive on the barest fare, they are typical of the old Viking, chivalrous and courteous, with the purest blood of the Balkans flowing in their veins.
Our meal was sumptuous. Fish shot in the river by one of our escort on the way, a bowl of ground maize cooked in oil, raw ham, eggs, bread, cheese and onions, the whole washed down in draughts of fiery spirits. Not a feast, I grant you, in an epicurean sense, but highly acceptable in Montenegro. We were waited upon by two women, whowere always most careful to leave the room backwards. Our meal was very jolly, and at its conclusion we took corners in the room and slept. About three p.m. we started again for home, taking the fugitive with us.
He had decided to return to his farm, but as we neared the Gusinje strip of land where he lived the extreme nervous tension of the morning returned to him. Poor devil, it would be difficult to forget the sharp sighs which burst from him, when his control over himself left him for a moment, but it was with a smile and a cigarette between his lips that he left us, bounding over the ground like a deer.
In all probability he is dead by now.
In Gusinje we made a lengthy halt, while the Voivoda settled several boundary disputes between the inhabitants, our escort taking up commanding positions all round us and keeping a very sharp look-out.
It would seem that the Voivoda has right of jurisdiction in this strip of land, though how we were unable to elicit. At any rate Albanians came and stated their cases, bringing witnesses, and amongst great noise the Voivoda gave his judgments, which seemed to be final.
On re-entering Montenegro we dismounted on the bank of the River Lim; the Voivoda pointedout a stone on the opposite side about three hundred yards distance, and taking a rifle he fired at it. In a few seconds we were all shooting at it in turn, the Voivoda acting as umpire with the aid of my field-glasses. It seemed a risky thing to do in a country so easily alarmed, but no rapid firing was allowed.
The shooting was moderately good.
As the last shot had been fired, and some of us already mounted, a corporal from Andrijevica came up at a trot, bringing a telegram for the adjutant. It contained the notification of his promotion to a captain.
This led to a salvo of revolver-shots and cheers, and we proceeded on our way.
At the first khan (Morina) we stopped for coffee, and found two or three hundred men assembled under the command of the district captain. Had anything happened to us, revenge would have come very quickly. Here our additional escort left us, and our long ride home was commenced, which ended in the dark.
It was a nasty ride, for both P. and Stephan's horses came down repeatedly, and the path was constantly about two hundred feet above the Lim. It requires care in the daytime, but in the uncertain light of evening it was distinctly dangerous. Both horses were done up, and Stephan lost his temper,and we saw him in his true colours, as he kicked and beat his unlucky animal. It was not till I took very energetic measures that he would stop, which amused the Voivoda immensely.
MORINAMORINA
THE FUGITIVE OF VELIKATHE FUGITIVE OF VELIKA
THE VASOJEYIĆKI KOMTHE VASOJEYIĆKI KOM
ALBANIANS AND MONTENEGRINS AT ANDRIJEVIĆAALBANIANS AND MONTENEGRINS AT ANDRIJEVIĆA
P.'s horse was ill—in fact, it was his last journey. A few days afterwards he died from inflammation of the lungs, contracted at Velika that day.
We went for a few days' shooting on the Vasojevićki Kom, and were handed over by the Voivoda to one called Vaso, a rich peasant of the district. He swore to be answerable for our safety, with his head and all that was his, and we lived with him for many days on the side of the mighty mountain.
The shooting was not good, however; it was not the season, but otherwise our stay was very pleasant. The grassy plateau was about five thousand feet high and bitterly cold at night; below us, on either side, stretched great beech forests, and the Kom rose abruptly before us.
Our hut was large and roomy, but draughty to an extreme. At night the icy wind whistled through its crevices, and we had to bury our heads in blankets. The whole family shared it with us, and in one corner stood an unwearied calf, too tender to brave the cold of the outside.
Those evenings which we spent round the fire are impossible to describe adequately. Tired from a long day's tramping and sliding through the forests,often wet to the skin from heavy showers, the peace and warmth of that camp fire were delightful.
The shepherds came from far and near, and asked us many questions: if we carried an apparatus for making banknotes (this is not meant as an insult, but a common belief that Europeans can fabricate their paper-money at will—a belief of which we had sadly to disillusionise them); if our glasses could show us Belgrade, and so on—questions sometimes so difficult to answer that we had to give them up. Then they would talk of themselves; the older men would tell of past deeds, of fighting and bloodshed, and the fitful glow of the fire would light up their animated faces and picturesque costumes.
Great simple children they were, unknown in the art of lying, and yet they repeat stories of bygone battles and slaughter, which they have heard and believed, as gospel truth. Like Esau, with the smell of the field upon them, they love to listen, too, to stories of unknown lands, where the houses are even larger and finer than those of Cetinje or Podgorica, which towns many even have not seen; but too much of the outside world one cannot tell them, for then they look hurt at being deemed so childish. They are curious, too, as are all children, and love to examine the clothes which we strange foreign creatures wear. There they sit on the hard earthen floor, as happy and contented as princes, nay, moreso, for they have no cares to trouble them. They proffer us their tobacco tins, accepting ours in return, touching their caps as they do so; then the cigarette, deftly rolled, is lit by a glowing ember, which they rake from the fire, and the now burning cigarette is handed to us to light from. Again we all touch our caps, for it is rigid etiquette, in accepting a light, to acknowledge the courtesy by a half military salute. In the corner the calf will moan, and we, now half asleep, will stretch out our weary limbs, draw our coats and blankets over us, and to the murmur of the now subdued conversation, find forgetfulness in sweet sleep.
I remember a conversation with a boy of about fifteen, who was out shooting with me, and acting as my guide and beater.
It was nearing sunset, and we sat and rested on a ridge which overlooked both sides of the valleys.
He asked me so many questions that I asked him if he had never even been to Podgorica.
"No," he said, "I shall never go."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I am content here. If I went to that great town, I should be ashamed of my ragged clothes. I should want to buy the beautiful things which they tell me are to be bought in the shops, and not having money I should be sad. No; it is better never to have seen such magnificence."
"But," I argued, "if thou goest to Podgorica, thou wouldst find work. Even I could get thee employment."
"No," he repeated; "my home is in the mountains. In time I would have to return here, and I should be miserable with the remembrance of those happy days."
This boy had been taught at the school, and he told me the capitals of the great countries, which were nothing more than empty names to him. He knew, also, a few words of German, about two phrases, though how he picked them up was hard to make out.
He liked to ask me questions about England, Montenegro's friend in past times of trouble, and seemed surprised to hear that I had seen snow before I came to his land.
His father said that the boy was stupid and a dreamer, but I thought differently of him.
P. joined me, and together we watched the sunset. On our left towered the Kom, and running in an unbroken chain circled a mountain range, ending in the setting sun. Low down an angry bank of clouds hung over the distant peaks, and into this mass of black and grey the sun, in all its glory of yellow and gold, sank slowly. The hills between us seemed wild and mysterious. Away to our left, in gloomy confusion, the Albanian Alps reared their heads, lit hereand there with a red gleam of sunlight. At our feet, shrouded in impenetrable blackness, lay two steep ravines. The sun sank, leaving a weird eerie feeling behind, and we found ourselves strangely cold.
We spent many days with Vaso, shooting with indifferent results, but revelling in the glories of nature.
We left Andrijevica finally one morning about eight a.m. for our many days' ride along the Albanian frontier to Podgorica. Everyone turned out to bid us farewell, from the Voivoda, who expressed his regret that we had seen no one shot, downwards. The Voivoda's son and a small party accompanied us to the outskirts of the town, where a quaint notice-board bears the inscription that, on pain of a fine, shooting is forbidden within the prescribed limits.
Here, after much hand-shaking and promises to come again, we mounted, and drawing our revolvers, replied right merrily to the farewell volleys of our friends. It is a pleasant custom that—shooting at parting.
THE RAVINE OF TERPETLISTHE RAVINE OF TERPETLIS
We rode for two or three hours along the Perušica valley till we came to a small and scattered village, Konjuhe, where we dismounted for a rest. It was the birthplace of the Voivoda, and his brother stilllived there. He was immediately sent for. When he heard of our proposed tour, he insisted on our taking an additional escort (besides Dr. S., and Stephan our servant, we had engaged another man, named Milan, in Andrijevica) of at least two men, as the country was just now in a very dangerous condition. The necessary guard was soon found, and after a long halt owing to a heavy shower, we were able to proceed on our way, first carefully loading our rifles and overhauling our revolvers. Our two men were quite celebrated for a famous raid into Gusinje, in which they had played an active part a short time ago. They had killed several Albanians, and captured two hundred sheep. As the Albanians would shoot them at sight, they seemed hardly fitted to act as an escort; but then every man from that part is engaged, more or less, in a blood feud across the border.
We commenced climbing almost directly, and the ascent lasted for the rest of the day. The scenery was grand. On our right the majestic Kom, still covered with snow; falling away precipitously to the left was the deep ravine of Terpetlis, through which a mountain torrent dashed; and rising high on the other side, and forming the boundary between Montenegro and Albania, was a magnificent rocky ridge. We dismounted at one point to breathe our horses, and made our midday meal off wild strawberries.
Further on we passed from the Vasović into theKuć. These two, the most warlike clans of Montenegro, were formerly under Turkish rule, and bitter foes. But when war broke out, they forgot their old enmity and joined hand-in-hand with Montenegro to drive out the still more hated Turk. Since then they have lived together in peace and harmony.
On nearing our camping-ground for the night, our two guards ran on to draw the fire from any concealed Albanians, while we followed more leisurely. The scenery was wild in the extreme, though differing very slightly from that which we had experienced during the last few weeks. Great woods stretched half-way down the mountain to the torrent, and up again on the further side. Immense boulders, with an occasional tree growing out of a crevice, and every here and there clumps of firs, every yard affording excellent cover for a hidden enemy.
Our destination was Carina, a collection of stone huts on an open green slope, which reaches up to the rocky sides of the Kom. It is the highest point inhabited in Montenegro by the shepherds in the summer, and lies over five thousand feet above the sea-level. During this period of the annual migration to the hills, the district is comparatively safe. The Albanians do not attack large parties, but rather stragglers, as larger numbers have an unpleasant habit of organising themselves into avenging bands to repay the visit with interest.
Not a soul was to be seen anywhere, not a living being of any description. In a shower of pelting rain we took possession of the largest hut. It is decidedly annoying to get thoroughly wet at the end of a long day, and the prospect of a night in damp clothes was in no way pleasing. The hut was damp and cold, and it had the chilly feeling which only comes from a long period of emptiness, and strikes to the marrow. But our men turned to with a will, cleaning out the hut, strewing it with very wet rushes, and piling up a big log-fire in the middle. We were pretty hungry, too, a couple of eggs at six a.m. and a few strawberries at midday are not much to go on, and we had been in the saddle for over ten hours. Stephan had brought amongst other things some raw bacon, which he gave me, but, hungry as I was, I could not face that. Later on, a happy thought struck me, and I went and toasted it over the fire. I do not recollect ever relishing food so much in my life. About a couple of hours later a lamb had been roasted, and we were able to make a decent meal.
It was getting rapidly dark now, and watch had to be kept outside. The horses were picketed close at hand for fear of wolves, as well as Albanians. By the time that we had finished eating, night was upon us. It was pitch dark and no moon. Rather reluctantly I turned out to do my share of sentry-go in thebitter cold. But it was decidedly interesting, as one of our party began to tell stories of the usual blood-curdling nature. On emerging from the hut, I thoughtlessly remained standing for a few seconds in the low doorway which, as the fire was blazing brightly inside, showed up my figure strongly against the surrounding gloom. Before I knew where I was I was roughly seized by a man and thrown forcibly into the darkness. He intimated that I must be a fool to court death in that manner. For all we knew, he said, a dozen Albanians might be hiding around us and waiting for such an easy shot. And when I was not allowed to smoke, I realised that we were in an enemy's country.
Watch was kept all night by two men, one sitting on the roof, or on an elevation which commanded it, and the other patrolling round with a sharp eye on the horses. The roof must always be watched, for the Albanians usually creep up and climb on to it—it is always conveniently low—they then remove a board and shoot the sleeping inmates.
During my watch I was told the following story, which brings out many interesting traits of the Montenegrin character.
A certain man named Gjolić, of the tribe of Vasović, killed two men of his clan over a love affair, and promptly fled to Gusinje, the country just opposite Carina, and inhabited by a tribe ofAlbanians, famed for their blood-thirstiness and hatred of strangers. The only passport to their land is crime, and no one but a fugitive from justice can hope to enter, or leave it, alive. Gjolić swore to have revenge on his clan, and in this respect he was a notable exception. He came repeatedly across the border, often in broad daylight, shooting anyone whom he met. He soon became the terror of the whole Vasović. In the neighbourhood of Carina he had shot many shepherds, and last autumn he murdered a youth of sixteen. This was too much, and two men laid their heads together. To obtain the necessary right of entrance to Gusinje, they crossed over into Turkey and deliberately stole a cow, taking care at the same time that they should be arrested and sentenced to punishment. Their plan acted admirably, and they effected their escape, fleeing to Gusinje, where they were received in a friendly manner. But Gjolić was away, and for six months they waited for him in patience. At last news came that he was on his way home, and could be expected on a certain day. So the men went out to meet him, and began shooting fish in a river where he must pass. Fish shooting is a common and favourite sport of the people.
"God help you," said a voice, "has your luck been good?"
It was Gjolić who spoke.
"Our luck is good," they answered, and following an imaginary fish with their rifles, they turned on him.
Crack! Crack! Gjolić was dead.
That scene I shall never forget. The starless night, all round the land lying enshrouded in impenetrable darkness, the low voice of the Montenegrin which rose with his excitement, but sank again immediately to a hoarse whisper, and on the barely discernible roof of the hut a black figure, with rifle at the ready, sitting motionless.
It was eleven o'clock when I turned in, and the next man took his rifle and went outside to relieve one of the watchers. A roaring fire was kept going, for it was very cold, and round it lay the others sleeping, each with his rifle and revolver by his head. "And we are in Europe!" I said to myself, as I lay down to sleep, which, in spite of the mighty snoring of Dr. S., came almost immediately.
It seemed but a few minutes since I had closed my eyes when a shot rang out, bringing me to my knees in an instant. It is not advisable to rise quickly in these huts without taking the roof into consideration, as I had learnt by bitter and repeated experience. Everyone awoke, except Dr. S., who snored on peacefully. However, I roughly awoke him, and we all dashed out, rifle in hand.
One of our sentries stood peering into the gloom,and swore that he had seen a figure moving. We lay down and waited, but nothing came.
Then slowly the day began to dawn, and with it our anxiety diminished. I went to get a cup of coffee, preparatory to climbing a part of the Kom. One of our guards, of course, accompanied me. That is the worst of these districts, we could never move a step without being followed. It was like being under police surveillance. Furthermore, I should have preferred to climb with a good stick; but no. Again that iron control ordered me to take my carbine, and loaded too.
We reached a high ridge just in time to see the sun rise, and it lit up the snow-clad mountain-tops with an indescribable beauty. But so much has been written about the splendours of Alpine sunrises that it is needless to say more about it. Yet it was as beautiful as anything to be seen in Switzerland or the Tyrol. The ridge commanded a view in both directions. The Albanian Alps and the mountains behind the Morača lay before us in one vast panorama, the latter looming up so close that it was difficult to believe that so many days' hard riding lay between us.
After climbing one of the lower peaks, we descended again to our hut, which we reached shortly after six. Everyone was busy, washing, packing up, or even sleeping, which is an equally importantbusiness. To snatch half an hour's sleep here and there is an enviable art, and cannot be overrated. But, perched on a low stone wall, sat a guard all the time. Daylight does not imply safety.
After breakfast, luxurious with toasted bacon, I emerged from the hut to find an excited group outside, one of whom was even lying down and aiming.
"He is watching us. It is far better that we should finish him now than allow him to go on and report our movements," said the man, fingering his trigger lovingly.
On looking I saw an Albanian about six hundred yards away, half hidden behind a boulder. The idea of shooting a man in this way did not seem quite sporting, and Dr. S. agreed with me. The men were extremely disappointed at our refusal to allow them to shoot. "He will follow us till we reach the wood," they said, "and then we shall repent it." The Albanian shortly afterwards disappeared, and we proceeded with our packing.
About eight o'clock we left Carina, and had rather an unique experience in riding across several large snow fields which were quite hard, though the horses decidedly disliked the experiment. About an hour's ride brought us to a tiny church, solidly built of stone and standing on a ridge overlooking the whole country. It is used by the shepherds whomigrate annually to the pasturages in this district. Only a few months ago the Albanians had broken into it and utterly dismantled it. On the iron door and on the shutters huge dents and even bullet splashes were plainly visible. Our Albanian we found here awaiting us, which was a plucky thing to do. Our guards hailed him with the cry of "Albanian or Montenegrin?" But he answered, "Friend." I think that our men showed him our rifles rather ostentatiously, and, as we were all armed with magazines and had plenty of ammunition, he must have thought that we should scarcely afford the desired sport. We did not see him again, though he took the same path which we were going to take. This incident put us very much on our guard, and we made preparations for the further journey with mixed feelings. Before us lay the dense wood of Vučipotok, which is the most ill-famed spot in Montenegro. It stretches unbrokenly down to Gusinje, and the bridle path which traverses it is the border line between the two countries.
It was then settled that a guard and myself should climb a small hill overlooking the wood and its approach. However, we saw nothing, and soon rejoined our party. Before entering the wood, in the open, were two or three stones erected to murdered men—it is customary in Montenegro to put up either a pile of stones or a slab of rockwhere the body has been found. Inscriptions on the stones are very rare, the Vučipotok is too dangerous to waste much time in it, but wherever these stones are seen, a dead man, as often as not headless, has been found. Such memorial stones are to be found all over the country, but not in such plentiful profusion as we saw them now.
Everyone dismounted, and with rather uncanny feelings we entered the forest. First of all went one of our escort, and then in single file, about ten paces apart, we followed. Rifles were held at the ready, and every boulder and tree carefully scanned. The path was atrocious, strewn with great stones, so that walking was no easy matter. When a particularly large boulder was reached, we would halt under its shelter to enable the horses to come up—they were following behind under the charge of one man. We did not exactly stroll through that wood.
Every few paces stood a memorial stone. There was one put up to the memory of ten Montenegrins who were all shot down without seeing their enemy. Everyone shoots at sight here, and had we met our Albanian friend of the early morning, matters would have gone sadly with him. At one point I insisted on taking a photograph—much to everyone's disgust. The spot was where a famous Kuć general had been murdered. His head was taken in triumph to Scutari. Oddly enough, we ate ourmidday meal at his grave, for his friends took his body away from here and buried it in an open place directly overlooking the valley of Gusinje. I was rather hurried over the operation, as the Montenegrins distinctly objected to standing still, but they were all very tickled about it.
THE PATH THROUGH THE VUČIPOTOKTHE PATH THROUGH THE VUČIPOTOK
The Vučipotok is used by young Montenegrins as a means of showing their bravery. They go straight through it alone, with their rifles over their backs, smoking cigarettes. This constitutes an act of reckless daring in their eyes. Some even go through, at some distance from the path, on the Albanian side. We met one young man leading his horse and strolling along as unconcernedly as though he were in Cetinje—so that we almost felt that we were being unduly impressed with a sense of danger. But afterwards we met another party who were proceeding with greater caution than we were. And then there were those memorial stones.
At last the wood ceased, and in a clearing we made a halt. Our Montenegrins looked relieved. For themselves they have no fear, but had one of us been hit, the disgrace for them would have been unspeakable. It would have necessitated a raid into Albania of the most extensive kind, and hundreds might have fallen; the Montenegrins guard their visitors as they guard their honour, and in that case, life is only a secondary matter.
We now climbed a very steep hill. At the top we had to dismount, as a narrow path, just wide enough for a horse, skirted along a great precipice, looking straight down about one thousand feet. It was a wonderful view, but not to be recommended to those suffering in any way from giddiness.
We overlooked the great Vučipotok wood through which we had just passed, and the whole valley of Gusinje. When we reached a place where we were able to turn round with comfort, we stopped for the view. A long, narrow valley, inclosed by the Procletia or "Damnable Mountains," through which a river could be seen flowing, lay at our feet. This was Gusinje, the forbidden land. With the aid of field-glasses the town of Gusinje itself could be just distinguished, a square and apparently walled-in town.[4]Very picturesque it looked in the bright sunshine, the great green woods in the foreground, the solemn and majestic snow mountains and the peaceful valley. Yet it is inhabited by the most villainous and treacherous cut-throats in Europe, an absolutely untameable tribe, who would die to the last man to preserve their independence.
[4]This, however, is not the case, as we afterwards learnt.
[4]This, however, is not the case, as we afterwards learnt.
When the path broadened out slightly our two guards left us and returned home. Both emptied their magazines into the air at parting, which we answered, and the din was tremendous. Below uswas a small village or collection of shepherds' huts, and, in that moment, confusion reigned supreme. The men seized their rifles, the women rushed into the huts, dogs barked, and horses stampeded. It seemed rather thoughtless to thus alarm the village, but, on being remonstrated with, the men only laughed and fired another shot. Had it been a town below us the result might have been more serious.
A little further on, we stopped for rest and food at a narrow pass overlooking Gusinje on the one side and Montenegro on the other. The murdered Kuć general, whose memorial stone we had seen earlier in the day, was buried here. Strange that his body should find its last resting-place overlooking the home of his murderers.
By using the Montenegrin telephone (the art of talking at great distances), we ordered some milk from the village below, and drank it with that enjoyment which is only known to a thoroughly hungry and thirsty man.
Our afternoon's ride was again particularly stiff. Climbing one hill, Dr. S., who was leading, missed the path, a very easy thing to do, so undefined as it sometimes is. He got on to a very steep and rocky bit of the hill and his horse lost its footing. It began stumbling and slipping about in a most alarming manner. We held our breath for the next few seconds, for a long fall was in store for him,and certain death. He tried to dismount, and succeeded in getting off his horse, but his foot stuck in the stirrup, the horse still sliding on. Fortunately, the animal recovered its balance, and Dr. S. extricated himself, but it was a nasty moment. That is the worst of the Montenegrins; they rely so implicitly on the sure-footedness of their ponies that they ride up anywhere, only condescending to dismount for very steep descents. And accidents often happen when horse or man, or even both, are killed; but this presumable laziness affords no example to others.
About five p.m. we began anxiously inquiring the whereabouts of our night quarters. The usual Montenegrinquart d'heurewas given—and rightly enough. A sharp descent, lasting over an hour, made painfully on foot, saw us in a great hollow basin among the mountains, with the pretty lake of Rikavac at the further end and a small collection of wooden huts.
To these we proceeded and were met by the village Fathers. Dr. S. was well known here and they had recognised him coming down. Five dear old boys they were, who kissed Dr. S. most affectionately, one unshaven old ruffian including me in his salute. I do not appreciate the Montenegrin custom of kissing among men; it is not pleasant. An empty hut was immediately put at our disposal. Itwas the most primitive and tumble-down habitation that we had had as yet. Of course it rained. It was almost the first rain on the trip, and we had to lie up here a whole day as P. was unwell and unable to ride. Everyone turned out to make the hut comfortable, but it was not a success. I lay down outside and promptly fell asleep, when a sharp thunderstorm came on and drove me inside. There was not a dry corner to be found. The rain came through in steady rivulets everywhere. There was no getting away from those persistent little streams, either head, body, or feet had to suffer—and the fire refused to burn. Added to that, the whole population crowded in to look at us. It was no fun at all Stephan stood cursing in German that he could not get near the fire to cook, and that he would not cook at all if the mob were not cleared out. This Dr. S. refused to allow, as it would be considered inhospitable.
In course of time the rain stopped and our visitors left us, but only temporarily. Stephan cooked and we went outside to dry ourselves. The food was then ready, and after putting away a good meal we were able to view the world with more equanimity.
After supper it came on to rain again and damped us thoroughly before going to bed. I was very annoyed to find, after having discovered as I fondly imagined a dry corner, that one of my pockets wasfull of water. I should not have been so irritated had my tobacco been in another pocket; it was a leather coat and held the water beautifully. Then we tried to go to sleep. My pillow was a stone, like Jacob's, and though I tried covering it with my coat it was of no avail, since the cold forced me to put it on again. I do not mind a hard bed, but a hard pillow is distinctly objectionable. We were just on the point of sleeping when in stalked two men for an after-supper smoke and chat, and one of them, to P.'s intense disgust, sat on his feet. It cost Dr. S. all his diplomacy to hint that we had been up since three a.m. and were disinclined to talk.
Punctually at eight a.m. next morning we took an affectionate farewell of the Fathers, though I mounted hurriedly first to avoid the repetition of the welcoming chaste salute.
Our path lay for two hours over a rocky and barren country similar to the naked Katunska district round Cetinje. Gone were the rich green pasturages and wooded valleys in exchange for a waste of grey rocks. But a large wood was ultimately reached, only a little less dangerous than the wood of Vučipotok. Similar precautions were observed in passing through—in fact, our carbines were carried loaded again all day. The Albanian border was never more than a rifle-shot away. Numerous gentle reminders of the dangers of the path existed in the shape of memorial stones all the way along. We met several families, all fully armed of course, driving their flocks before them to the mountain grazing-grounds of the Kom.
It was about one o'clock when we emerged on alarge barren plateau. On the further side, just across the border, lay the Albanian village of Korito, which Dr. S. knew, and where we intended spending the rest of the day and night.
Half-way across, a sudden storm of rain and hail came down, and I have never got wet through so quickly in my life. Within five minutes, the water was running out of my boots. My leather coat, though waterproof, let regular rivers down my neck. It was a rain that would not be denied, and icy cold.
In that waterspout we sat and waited while Dr. S. hunted up his friends; but apparently they had all left, with their flocks. A few Albanians appeared, and by the dint of much persuasion Dr. S. induced them to show us an empty hut. As soon as they had done this they left us, looking at us in an unfriendly and suspicious manner. We got our baggage in as quickly as possible, and by this time we were shivering with cold. No wood could be seen, and Dr. S. again sallied forth, and by the aid of small bribes some wood was brought and we soon had a fire burning.
However, our natural buoyancy rose again with the fire, and we made a very light meal off the food that we had with us. It was not more than a few mouthfuls apiece, but nothing could be got here. Then we solemnly stood round the fire and driedourselves, the steam rising like pillars of cloud, and hiding our figures from each other. The warmth was very agreeable and comforting.
Several Albanians now crowded in, examining our arms, and were so unfriendly, not to say threatening, that we hastily reconsidered our plans. Firstly and foremostly, we had no food, watch would have to be kept all the time, over the horses and at the hut, using up two men, so the prospect was not pleasing.
So we saddled up and left about three for Zatrijebać, four hours' distance, happy to be rid of our unwilling hosts.
The difference between the treatment of strangers by Albanians and Montenegrins was very marked.[5]
Our path led us through the great wood of Kostice, and, owing to the recent heavy rain, the track, never very plain, was in parts entirely obliterated. Twice we lost ourselves, and once more a drenching shower came on, repeating the morning douche. Still we plodded on with stumbling horses over the slippery way till we emerged on the great plain or plateau of Zatrijebać. Zatrijebać is an Albanian clan several thousand strong who live under Montenegrin rule. They serve as Montenegrin subjects in the army, give no trouble except in occasional border fights with rival Albanian clans, and their bravery is proverbial. Further, they are Roman Catholics. Thecountry is most curious, great slabs of stone lying about in a promiscuous fashion as if it had once rained them, and the path was certainly the most vile of the whole trip, which is putting it as strongly as possible.
[5]I have since learnt differently.—R.W.
[5]I have since learnt differently.—R.W.
It was climbing or rather scaling a small rock that my long-expected fall came. Alat, my horse, floundered badly at an angle of forty-five degrees and lost his balance completely. The doctor, who was behind, shouted to me to pull him up, but as I was sliding off his back with a broken girth at an ever-increasing velocity, I was unable to follow this very excellent advice. Down I came heavily on the stones, luckily on the high side of the path, landing on my back with my legs all mixed up in Alat's. My saddle and saddlebags followed me in quick succession, and something hit me violently over the head—that was my carbine. Providentially Alat stood still, and my cartridge belt saved my back.
I got up when I could sort out my legs, making remarks to Dr. S. about that girth which he said afterwards were quite artistic. Many, many years ago the girth may have been good and strong, and it had undoubtedly seen better days. Next I sought one named Stephan. He had always assured me that it would last another week. Montenegrins are careless about such things.
The rest of the way I had to walk, which dried me,as the path was steep and tiring. At the house of Dr. S. in Podgorica we had met a young Franciscan monk, a Neapolitan and a great student. He at once invited us to visit him in Zatrijebać, where he is the spiritual shepherd, and to spend a few weeks with him. On approaching a roofless church, in the course of rebuilding, we espied this young monk rushing to meet us. With all the fervour of his race, he embraced and kissed us repeatedly, welcoming us to his home. He gave me his bed, and the other remaining one was put at P.'s disposal, and he would not hear of our leaving next day or the next.
There are but two other Roman Catholic churches in Montenegro, in Antivari and Dulcigno,[6]in fact only where the Albanians are in sufficient evidence.
[6]The Austrian Legation in Cetinje has also its own chapel.
[6]The Austrian Legation in Cetinje has also its own chapel.
We had intended to visit Zatrijebać at the beginning of our mountain tour, but the district was considered unsafe at that time. A quarrel over the appointment of a new captain had led to the relations of the disappointed candidate shooting the brother of the new captain. Two boys, aged fifteen and sixteen respectively, had ambushed their victim, and put no less than seven bullets into him at a distance of four hundred yards, which is pretty good shooting. The boys got away across the border, but wholesale arrests took place, and it is not well tovisit districts thus excited. The young Franciscan repeated to us the story that evening round the kitchen fire, where we spent very many happy hours. He spoke of it sadly.
"The vendetta is a terrible thing," he said. "It respects neither the laws of God nor man."
Our host would not rest till he had shown me the famous view, and Dr. S. accompanied us. As one stands outside the church, a magnificent panorama is spread out, seemingly without a break. But should one wish to ascend the mountains opposite so temptingly near, a great ravine must be first descended. Ten minutes' walk brings one to the edge of a precipice 2,400 feet deep, so appalling and so sudden that one's breath is momentarily taken away. It is a spot to sit and meditate on the grandeur of the work of the Master of all architects. The majesty of that mighty ravine is, indeed, awe-inspiring.
At the bottom, a mere tiny thread, flows the Zem, a river which has often run blood, and whose source is hardly known as it rises in the unknown Procletia, "the Accursed Mountains" of history. A wall of mountains rises beyond. Steep and precipitous as is the descent on the Zatrijebać side, still a path trodden daily by mountaineers winds and zigzags down to the bottom. Then as we seated ourselves on a carefully selected and safe ledge and gazed on this uniquepicture, the monk told us of a bloody battle fought not so very many years ago by the men of Zatrijebać and the clan of Hotti who inhabit the opposite mountains. It was a quaint illustration how questions of boundary lines are settled without the aid of expensive Courts of Arbitration.
When the new frontier was laid down at the conclusion of the late war, the River Zem was Montenegro's limit. On the hill beyond lies a grazing-ground which has been used as a summer pasturage by the Zatrijebać from times immemorial. Though technically now belonging to Albania, and in particular to the clan of Hotti, the Zatrijebać still continued to drive their flocks across the ravine. The Hotti remonstrated, and finding this of no avail, took possession of the plateau. Their opponents coming over found the rival clan posted in a seemingly impregnable position on every point of vantage on that steep ascent. Though armed with inferior rifles (in those days), they attacked at once, and by reckless bravery came to hand-to-hand conflict. Then a terrible encounter ensued, men seized each other and threw themselves over the cliffs, and to complete the utter discomfiture of the Hotti, the Kuć came to the assistance of their neighbours and the Hotti were nearly annihilated. Since then no questions have been asked, and annually the cattle and sheep of Zatrijebać graze in peace in Albania.
It was a very similar dispute which has happened so very recently at Mokra near Andrijevica.[7]
Supper gave us a much needed change of diet. Boiled fowl and vegetables came as a luxury after days of tough and stringy lamb. We sat at a table again too, on chairs, and felt quite ashamed of our recently acquired habits.
The evenings round the kitchen fire were just as delightful as our hut experiences, and if possible, more novel. Here we had fierce Albanians, with their half-shaven heads and scalping lock, and a scholar, a student of philosophy, a man of wonderful ideals, in the form of the young Franciscan, instead of unkempt shepherds.