CHAPTER XX
THE UNKNOWN ROAD
As we stood around the camp fire drinking our cocoa a queer ragged old Albanian crept up and watched us with a smile. He was the owner of the house near by, whose palings we had almost looted. We offered him cocoa, which he liked immensely; and asked him about the road to Tutigne. He said—
"There is a road for carts—I know it."
"Will you show it us?" said Jo.
He gave a wild yell and ran away, waving a stick.
"What ——?!!!! ——"
It was nothing, only the pigs had invaded his cabbage patch. He came back later with an enormous apple, which he presented to Jo.
"Have you apples for sale?"
He shook his head, saying "Ima, ima."
We bought several pounds, arranged with him to guide us later to the carriage road, and hurried into the town to buy provisions.
There we met Colonel Stajitch. "Will you take my boy?"
"Delighted. Are his papers in order?"
The mayor hereupon turned up, and the colonel's face grew longer as they conversed.
"The mayor cannot give me the necessary permits without Government sanction," he said. "I must get it from Rashka by telephone. It will take an hour. Can you wait?"
We spent the time shopping. Each shop looked as empty as if it had been through a Saturday night's sale. One had elderly raisins, another had a few potatoes. We found some onions, bought another cooking pot and kitchen necessaries, and packed them in the carts which had arrived in the town. Nobody would take paper money unless we bought ten francs' worth. After waiting an hour and a half we hunted down the colonel. The telephone official told us he had got leave from the Government. At last we found him in the mayor's office, bristling with papers and the passport.
"I have got you an armed policeman as escort," he said, waving the papers, "and the boy has a good horse, twenty pounds in gold, and twenty in silver."
We found the boy waiting with the carriages. He wore a strange little brown cashmere Norfolk jersey and very superior black riding breeches. Dressed more romantically he would have made an ideal Prince for an Arabian Nights' story. His father accompanied us until our Albanian guide announced—
"Here begins the carriage road."
Their parting must have been a hard thing. The father could not tell how his son's expedition would end, and the son was leaving his father to an unknown fate. They embraced, smiling cheerily, and the boy rode on ahead of us all, blowing his nose and cursing his horse.
In many places the "carriage road" was no road at all. The carts lurched and bumped over rivers, boulders, fields, and the inevitable mud. Several times we had to jump on our carts as they dragged us over deep and rapid rivers. After three hours we stopped at a farm, our mounted policeman called out the owners and autocratically ordered two of the young men to accompany us as guides and guards.
They came, bearing their guns, white fezzed, white clothed, black braided youths with shaven polls and flashing teeth. We began to climb, and for hours and hours we toiled upwards. The carriages lumbered painfully far behind us, led by their elderly and panting drivers.
"If this is what they call a good and easy road," we thought, "it would have been better to harness four horses to each cart, and to have left five carts behind."
The horses came from the plain of Chabatz, and had probably never seen a hill in their lives.
"These horses will die," said the corporal; but he seemed more interested in hunting for water for himself than in the struggles of the poor beasts.
One of our Albanian guides was overwhelmed with the beauty of Cutting's silver-plated revolver.
"How much did you pay for it?"
"Thirty francs," said Cutting, shooting at the scenery.
Jan produced his automatic, but the Albanian scorned it as one would turn from a lark to a bird of Paradise. He turned the glittering object over lovingly, thought, felt in his pockets, drew out a green and red knitted purse, and shook his head.
"I will give you thirty francs."
But Cutting wasn't on the bargain. He pocketed the treasure again, and we plodded on.
"How far are we from Tutigne?" we asked.
"Four hours," said a dignified Albanian, who had joined our party.
"No, two hours," said another.
"Three at most," corrected a third.
The first man lifted his hand. "I say four hours, and it is four hours. With such horses as these we crawl."
We reached a desolate tableland at dusk. Here the horses halted for some while. With the halt came a sudden desire to stay there for good. It seemed as if we should never reach Tutigne. The evening brought with it chilly damp breezes, and the footsore company was getting quite disheartened.
"Let us camp here," said everybody.
But the policeman had a mailbag to deliver that night, and we had to push on. Experienced as we were in Serbian roads, never had we seen such mud. Down, down sank our feet, and we could only extract them again clinging to the carts with the sound of a violent kiss. We tried to escape it by climbing into the thick brushwood, only to find it again, stickier and more slippery, while the bushes grasped us with thorny arms and athletically switched our faces. A moonless darkness came upon us and we had to walk just behind the carriages, peering at the square yard of road illuminated by candles in our penny lanterns.
Occasionally a voice greeted us. We asked how far Tutigne was.
"About an hour," was the invariable answer all along the line.
But the dignified guide was right. After four hours we reached the main street, arriving slowly to the music of incredible clatter as our little carts leapt and jolted over hundreds of big pointed stones laid carefully side by side—Tutigne's concession to Macadam.
There were faint lights in some of the little wooden houses. Others stood dark and unfriendly. We stopped. Curses filled the air. An ox-cart was lying right across the road. After shouting himself hoarse the policeman woke up an old man in a house near by—the owner. He rheumatically grumbled in his doorway; so the gendarme called our Albanians, and in two twos they had turned the cart upside down in a ditch, saying—
"It serves you right."
Voices sounded in the darkness. The carriages lurched on. Presently they left the road and turned on to grass, they seemed to be leaving the village behind. We did not know where they were going, and were so tired that we did not care, if only they would get somewhere and stop, which at last they did. We jumped off into a squelch of water.
"Good heavens, this won't do!"
We searched the whole field for a dry spot, but though it was a hillside, it was a swamp. We chose the least marshy place and built a fire.
"Where is the mayor?" we asked of the strange faces dimly to be seen in the light of our fire.
They pointed to two cottage window lights. We went towards them, at last realizing our proximity by stumbling into a dung-heap and knocking against a pig-stye. There was a narrow stairway, and above it a big landing. A man followed and knocked at a door for us.
The mayor appeared—a little man—square in face, hair, beard and figure.
We explained ourselves and showed our letter. He looked grave at our demand for horses; said we would talk it over on the morrow, and sympathized about the swampy field.
"Would you like to sleep here on the floor?" he said, showing us a clean-looking office. "We regret we have no beds."
We were delighted. His wife, who had gone to bed, appeared in a striped petticoat and a second one worn as a shawl.
"The tables shall be moved and the stove lit," she said. "It will be ready in a few minutes."
We picked our way back to the fire, avoiding the dung-heap and pig-stye, whereby we nearly fell into a cesspool. Cocoa was brewing, one card-house had been erected as a shelter for some of our things. The drivers were crouched round their own fire cooking something. It was difficult to find our bundles in the carts as one only recognized them by the drivers. We climbed in feeling about by the light of a match. Jo found a foot in one.
"How can we find things with people lying on them?" she said to the foot.
It remained immobile; she pulled it—no response. She tugged it. A face lifted itself at the far end of the cart. It was the corporal's wife lying on her own possessions, very tired and rather cross. Jo patted her remorsefully and decamped.
We must have looked like a regiment of gnomes bearing forbidden treasure as we hobbled through the darkness, laden with our bundles of blankets. The light in the office nearly blinded us, and the heat from the stove struck us like a violent blow. The mayor, his wife, two hurriedly dressed children and several other people received us. There was an awkward silence. Jo murmured in the background—
"It is manners here to go up, shake hands, and say one's name."
Very uncomfortably everybody did so, one by one. Another silence. We racked our brains—the weather—our journey—the war. One had nothing sensible to say about anything. Jo asked the children's age. The information was supplied. Silence. We filled the gap by smiling. At last the mayor's wife said we must be worn out, and they all left us.
The mayor crept back. "Don't talk about the military situation," he said; "if these Turks knew it they might kill us all." Then he shut the door.
We flew to a window and opened it, changed our stockings, hung wet boots and socks over the stove, ate bully beef, and rolled up, pillowing our heads on our little sacks—thirteen sleepy people.
The mayor's wife opened the door an inch and peeped at us as we lay, looking, indeed, more like a jumble sale than anything. Mawson wore a Burglar cap tied under his chin, and a collection of khaki mufflers, looking equipped for a Channel crossing. Miss Brindley's head was tied up in a bandana handkerchief; Jo's in a purple oilsilk hood; others shared mackintosh sheets and blankets; West pulled his Serbian cap right down to his mouth. Jan put on the white mackintosh dressing-coat, over that his greatcoat, then he spread out a red, green, yellow and black striped Serbian rug, rolled up in it with many contortions, and pushed his feet into a tent bag. Blease in a Balaklava, showing nose like an Arctic explorer, got into a black oilskin, one corner of which had been repaired with a large yellow patch, he then rolled up in oddments collected from the company, as his own overcoat had been stolen, and bound it all together by tying the many coloured knitted rug around him, after putting the lamp out inadvertently with his head.
In the morning we interviewed the mayor. He read and reread the letter from the Novi Bazar mayor, took an interest in the social supremacy of Stajitch's father, who was a man of birth, but said he had no horses.
Jo appealed to his better feelings. He scratched his head.
"Yes, truly one must try to help the English," he said, but looked very glum.
"I will have the neighbouring hamlets searched for horses."
We thanked him and wandered into the village café. An old man with black sprouting eye-brows à la Nick Winter, was sitting there. He had walked for five days, eating only apples.
"Very good food too," he said. "Here is my luggage."
He pointed to a knotted handkerchief containing a tiny loaf of bread which he had just acquired. His goal was a monastery in Montenegro, where he said they would house and feed him for the winter in exchange for a little work.
At 11.30 three horses were brought. Three more were promised, so we reluctantly decided to start the next day. There was nothing to do.
Our carriages went. We gave the corporal a card-house to take back to Rashka with little faith that he would not try to stick to it. He had not returned the boots to their owner, so we took them from him and gave them to their rightful owner, and handed over to the corporal a spare pair of our own boots to keep him honest.
At dawn Stajitch, who had been sleeping in style upon a friend's table, came to say we had six horses, but a professor had turned up in the night and was coming with us. He had been so exhausted with the walk that his policeman had carried him most of the way. Not pleased, we went to inspect him. He was small, corpulent, and was sitting with clasped woolly gloves, goloshed feet, and a diffident smile.
He explained to us that he was delicate, and as he was no walker it would be necessary for him to ride one horse. So we packed our food, sacks, blankets, mackintoshes and the card-house as best we could on the remaining five horses.
No sooner had we left the village, and all signs of road or bridle path, with a new policeman and two or three ragged Albanians, than one of the horses broke loose and began to dance—first the tango, then the waltz. The pack, which was but insecurely attached, stood the tango, but with the waltz a bag of potatoes swung loose at the end of a rope, its gyroscopic action swinging the horse quicker and quicker until it was spinning on one toe. Then the girths broke, saddle and all came to the ground. The brute looked round as if saying "That's that," and cantered off, followed slowly by the professor on horseback. We called. He appeared to take no notice. At last he turned round saying—
"The horse will not."
Jo leapt in the air kicking.
"Do that with your heels," she said.
But we had to send the policeman to help him. He rode hour by hour, hitting his beast with a bent umbrella, and lifting two fat hands to heaven.
"Teshko" (It is hard), he whined.
"Ni je teshko" (It is not hard), said Miss Brindley, cheerfully trudging along.
We wanted to stop at the top of a hill for lunch.
"Horrible," he said. "Here the brigands will shoot us from the bushes," and pushed ahead, being held on by the grinning policeman.
We pulled out some biscuits and margarine, and drank water from our bottles, cigarettes went round, and we charged ahead. In front was the professor falling off his horse and being put on again.
We were very anxious about the frontier. Most of our party were travelling without official permits, as they had known nothing about such things; but we hoped that being English Red Cross and having passports there would not be much trouble. We arrived at a little village, three or four wooden houses. Three pompous old men came to meet us, and we took coffee together outside the inn. They were very surprised to hear we were English, and said that no English had ever passed that way before.
At the frontier, an hour further on, a man and his wife came down from a little house on the hill and stopped us. They examined the papers of the two Serbs, but left us alone, to our huge relief. We breathed again.
Soon after, however, Whatmough rushed up to Jan and Jo, who were talking to a ragged woman.
"Do come and talk. An officer has arrested West and Mawson."
We ran ahead to find a perplexed mounted officer surrounded by our party. He had come upon West and Mawson walking on ahead and took them to be Bulgarian comitaj.
"No, that's not an English uniform," he said, and searched them for firearms. When the others came he wavered. Miss Brindley did not look like a comitaj; and by the time we arrived he began to talk about the military situation in the Balkans, and rode off with the politest of farewells.
If there isn't a telegraph wire to guide, don't take short cuts. Jan, Stajitch, and Jo tried to race the darkness by cutting straight down a ravine. We lost the horses, lost every one else, and we came out again on to a hill crest. No one was to be seen. After a while the professor rode by, led by his policeman, who had been almost suffocated by laughter all day.
"Teshko, teshko," moaned the professor.
"Ni je teshko," we said. "But where are the horses?"
He waved a hand vaguely behind him. Rogerson, Whatmough, and Owen came up. It was getting dark and a mist was rising. So we left the three at the corner to mark where it was and went back. For a long time we stumbled in the darkness, shouting, but no horses could we find. At last we decided to turn back, wondering if they too had lost their way and decided to camp out. There were shouts in the valley beyond. A light flashed and some one fired off a revolver. There was a candle end in Jan's bag, and by its dim light we found a road. It went downwards, so we thought it might be the right one. Suddenly it turned in the wrong direction, but as there were hoof marks on it we decided to follow it as it must lead somewhere—we could not search the whole countryside with a candle. Just as we were in despair the road seemed to shake itself and twisted back again. We heard more shouting and saw a light, and at last found Miss Brindley and Mawson, who were waiting for us.
"We have been to the village," they said.
We asked them about the horses. They said they were all there!!!!
That professor again!
Some one heard trickling water, and with a cry of joy we put our mouths under the jet of water which spouted from a little trough which jutted from the hill. Nothing could be seen of the village when we arrived, but it seemed very long and very stony. An old peasant with a candle led us for what seemed miles between high palisades of wood until we reached the inn.
There was a big room with a stove in the middle and many Montenegrins in uniform were sitting about. Some of our party were already asleep, worn out on the benches. We opened a tin of beef, got some bread and kaimack and woke up the others for their evening meal. While we were eating a Montenegrin staff officer said—
"Your commandant, the professor—"
"What?" said we.
"Your commandant, the professor, has said you will rest here to-morrow."
We told him the professor was no commandant of ours, and that we certainly would not rest there to-morrow.
"Well," said the staff officer, "he has certainly ordered horses for the day after from the captain."
We were too tired to rectify matters at once, and our meal finished, we rolled up on the dirty floor.
CHAPTER XXI
THE FLEA-PIT
Those comfortable folks who have never slept out of a bed do not know how annoying a blanket may be, if there is nothing into which to tuck its folds. Wrap yourself up in one, lie flat and motionless on the floor, and we guarantee that in an hour the blanket has unrolled itself and is making frantic efforts to escape. Every night on the road resolved into a half-dazed attempt to hold on to the elusive wrap. Sleep came in as a second consideration, and when we say we awoke on any particular morning, it really means that we got up, though several of us in the intervals of blanket catching did get in a snore or two.
Well, we got up, then, in good time next day, hoping to rectify the professor's interference, and stumbling along with Stajitch, we reached the high-roofed "Dürer" dwelling where resided the commandant of the village. In the kitchen we found two women with bare feet, two children and a man half undressed. He brought in the captain, also in negligée. Now, mark, we were in Montenegro. We exposed our grievance to the captain and roundly denounced the professor as an interfering old beggar. The captain first gave us coffee, second hurried us to his office, third called in three henchmen and issued rapid orders.
"Certainly, certainly. You shall have all the horses you need. Just only wait one little quarter of an hour. I will give you four policemen to go with you."
We protested that four was too many.
"No, no," he said, "you had better have four."
We went back joyfully to the hotel. Cutting or one of the others had been exploring and had gotten twenty eggs. The hotel people consented to cook them. While we were outside looking at the mosques and wondering when the horses were coming, the professor walked into the bar-room.
"Ah," said he, "eggs."
"They belong to the English," said the hostess.
"Good," said the professor, and swallowed four.
Just then we returned.
"But there are only sixteen eggs," said we.
"The professor has eaten the others," said the woman, pointing.
In a minute the professor wished that he had not. Jan took the opportunity of saying a few things which had been boiling within him. He accused the wretched man of interference in assuming control of the expedition; he said that he was a mere hanger-on, and a useless and selfish one at that.
The professor wilted. He made a thousand apologies, and finally ran off wringing his fat hands, found with great difficulty four more eggs and cast them into the boiling water.
"There," he said, "you can have your four eggs."
"It's not the eggs," answered Jan, "it's you."
Jo was roaring with laughter. Some of the morning she had been in a woman's house listening to one of the policeman's tales of the professor, and soon the whole village was rocking with amusement at "Teshko."
At last the horses arrived—six miserable-looking beasts, but this time all had shoes. One was commandeered by the professor.
"He is the greatest philosopher in all Serbia," whispered an official to Jan.
"Ah, I guessed there must be some reason," said Jan.
We had a send-off, all the village came to see us go away. The day was a repetition of our previous experiences. A long tramp in the mud. At the top of the highest pass we had yet reached was an old wooden blockhouse.
We came upon it unexpectedly, rounding a corner. Montenegrin soldiers were cooking at a wood fire; but we were surprised to find all round the square log cabin deep rifle pits, the best we had yet seen in Serbia.
"Good Lord, what are those for?" said Jan.
"This is an old Turkish post," said the sergeant. "It has been kept up. We don't know why."
We walked off meditating. Montenegrins do not squander soldiers without reason; and then one's mind went back to the four armed guards who were accompanying us.
We discovered the truth later, let us tell the story here.
Berane, to which we were descending, was once a populous growing Turkish town. After the Balkan war it fell into Montenegrin territories. The Montenegrins chased out all the Turkish landowners, who fled to these mountains, where they formed bands of brigands and caused no little consternation and trouble to the authorities, who could not catch them. The authorities passed a little Act, reinstating the landowners in their territories; but when an attempt was made to put the Act into force, it was found that the authorities themselves were in possession of the lands. What was to be done? The blockhouse was the solution.
We stopped at a primitive café and lunched. Jo gave the children some chocolate. They did not know what it was. She smeared some on to the baby's lips, and after that it sucked hard. Soon the little girl licked hers; but the boy, more suspicious, would not eat, holding the lump till it melted into a sticky mass in his fingers. The scenery was very beautiful. There was a faint rain which greyed everything, and the near birches had lost all their leaves and the twigs made a reddish fog through which could be seen the slopes of the opposite hillsides. The professor began to be worried about the rain.
"If this should turn to snow," said he, "we would be snowed up. And I am sure I don't know what I should do if I were snowed up."
We hoped to reach our halting place, which was called Vrbitza, before dark; but it was further away than our informant had said. Once more we found ourselves floundering about in the mud of the village path after dusk. We reached houses which we could not see; walked over slippery poles set over heaven knows what middens. Clambered up creaky steps into the usual sort of dirty wooden room—and there, his stockings off, warming his toes at the blaze of the wood fire, was "Eyebrows."
We were immediately attracted by three paintings on the wall. They were decorative designs, very beautiful. We asked the proprietor who had done them.
"I did," he said.
"Will you sell them?" we asked.
He giggled like a girl. "Ah, who would buy them?" he said.
"We will."
"I couldn't let you have them for less than sixpence," he said. "You see the papers cost a penny each."
Whatmough coveted one, so he had his choice, we took the other two.
The policeman came to tell us that rooms had been prepared in two clean houses. We scrambled out into the dark again, stumbled along in the mud, and at last found an open square of light, through which we came into a room.
There was a red rug over half the floor, and a brasier on three legs filled with charcoal standing in the centre. One or two of our men had already found the place and were lying on the rug. In one corner was a large baking oven like a beehive, half in one and half in the room next door. A wide shelf ran from the beehive almost to the open door. There were two small windows, each about the size of this book wide open. Jan and Jo sniffed. Where had they smelt that odour before?
An old woman in Albanian costume crept up to Jo and caught her by the skirt.
"See," she said, dragging her into the next room, "here is a fine bed. The ladies will sleep with me this night."
Jo looked at the old lady's greasy hair and filthy raiment.
"We always sleep with our own people," she said firmly.
The old lady protested. All the while our men were packing the baggage beneath the shelf. It was a tight fit, but at last it was got in.
The professor entered once more on the scene.
"This house will do very well for the common people," he said, "but the Herr Commandant" (meaning Jan) "and the two ladies will come over to sleep with me."
"No, we won't," said Jan, Jo and Miss Brindley in one voice.
"Then what will you do?"
"We will give you two policemen, or all four if you like. We will pack in here somehow. You can take the other house all to yourself."
"That will not do," said the professor. "If you are all determined to sleep here, I too, will come here. You will need somebody to protect you."
Jo's back went up.
"If you are afraid to sleep in the other house," she said, "you can sleep here with us. But if you are coming here to protect us, we don't require you."
"But you do not understand," said the professor kindly, as if to a child: "there is danger. You will need me to protect you."
"Not in the least," answered Jo. "If you will say that you are afraid, we will offer you our shelter. Otherwise you can have all four policemen at the other house."
The professor was afraid to say that he was afraid, so after stating that we were curious people, he went off with the guards.
With great difficulty we packed in. Cutting and Whatmough were forced to climb on to the shelf and the brazier was pushed out of the room. One by one we rolled up in our rugs, made pillows out of a pair of boots or a cocoa tin, cursed each other for taking up so much space, and at last all were jammed together like sardines. It was like the family in the drawing: If father says turn, we all turn.
We did not rest well. Thirteen people in a room which would comfortably hold three was a little too close packing. There was a lot of grumbling coming from one corner, and after a while a light was struck.
"Good lord," said somebody, "my pillow's crawling!"
Bugs were cascading down the walls. Stajitch jumped to his feet, and began stamping hard. "Rivers of them," he yelled.
Cutting and Whatmough were groaning about the heat, so we opened the door. Immediately all the dogs of the village, half wolves, hurled themselves at the lighted space. Stajitch slammed it just in time; had they burst in, lying down as we were, we should have been unable to protect ourselves.
A dark face peered in between the baking oven and the wall, a swarthy Albanian face. It looked at us and then silently withdrew.
"It doesn't matter," said somebody at last, "we've got to stick it."
We roused up neither rested nor refreshed. The room seen in the dim light of the morning seemed even more revolting than it had been the night before. We demanded the bill, it was brought—five francs for apples which we had bought. And for the room? Nothing. We gave our host three francs extra, and he bowed, putting his hands to his bosom and kissed our palms.
There was a good stiff clay soil waiting for our tiring feet, and by the time we reached Berane, there was no thought of going further. Almost every one was exhausted.
We reached the shores of the river. The bridge had been washed away, but the inhabitants had made a boat like a sort of huge wooden shoe which they dragged to and fro with ropes. We clambered in and were hauled over. Our baggage had not yet arrived, so Jan and Stajitch ordered lunch for the others and went down to see about it. Just as they were landed on the opposite bank the rope broke. So all the Montenegrins and Albanians who were working the ferry went off to a midday meal, leaving the two with the pangs of hunger growling within, sitting on the bank.
After two hours' waiting the rope was repaired, and they got back to lunch famishing. We then arranged sleeping places and locked up all the baggage in an empty shop. Our room was one of those ordinary Montenegrin bedrooms plastered with pictures. Amongst them was a postcard, and on it was printed large in English in blue crystalline letters, "Never Again."
Whence did it come, this enigmatic postcard, and what did it mean? It seemed almost a solemn warning; yet in a hotel bedroom. What did the hostess think it meant?
"Never Again."
Some of the men came in cheering, having found Turkish delight in one of the shops. We were sadly needing sugar, as our last tin had been stolen along with lots of other things. So we indulged in "Turkish" not wisely.
The professor got up to his old games again. Again he had told the commandant that he was leading the British, and that we would rest the next day, and again Jan had to pick him off his perch.
Some got a bed that night, the others had to sleep "in rows," half under the beds and half projecting out. The people on the beds said it was a funny sight.
When we unpacked at night we found who had been robbing us. The policemen. We had missed many more things, but found that the amount varied in direct ratio to the number of police who guarded us. All our spare boots were now gone, Blease's overcoat, and also Miss Brindley's. Jo had lost her only other coat and skirt, and one or two mackintoshes were missing. Now we knew why the police wore long-skirted coats; but what a disappointment the one must have had who lifted Jo's coat and skirt.
Got off again in good time the next morning. Cutting and three others stayed behind to look after the police. Lucky they did, because one of the horses wore out, and the police would have left it on the road, pack and all. As it was we left the horse grazing, but the baggage was transferred.
There had been a decentish level road made from Andrievitza half way to Berane, and women were working hard on the extension in the hopes of getting it finished for the Serbs; but that they could never do, for there were but few of them. Further on many of the bridges were unfinished, and in one or two places a landslide had carried away the road itself, leaving a deep clinging mud in its place, but we were getting used to mud.
We met "Eyebrows" once more, just at the entrance to the village; but he was going on to Pod, so had finally got a day ahead of us. Found rooms in our old resting place.
The professor was threatening to accompany us to Italy—he was like the old man of the sea. We got a telegram from the English Minister, saying that he did not think we could ever get to Italy from Scutari. We preferred to trust to our luck which so far had been wonderful, especially in the matter of weather. In the evening the captain sent to say that twenty horses would await us the next day. A motor car would have been sent, he added, but almost all the bridges were washed away and they could get no nearer than Liéva Riéka.
CHAPTER XXII
ANDRIEVITZA TO POD
A problem met us in the morning. Willett was quite ill and only fit for bed. But bed was impossible. We had just escaped from the sound of the guns, and did not know which way the Austrians were coming. To wait was too risky; others would certainly get seedy and sooner or later some one might get seriously ill. We felt we must push on to Podgoritza and be within hail of doctor and chemist. But Willett looked very wretched, lying flat and refusing breakfast.
We plied him with chlorodyne; but the chlorodyne did not like him and they parted company. We tried chlorodyne followed by brandy with better effect. Others also showed a distinct interest in the chlorodyne bottle. We felt very anxious: milk was almost unprocurable, other comforts nil.
We finally decided that if he was going to have dysentery he had better have it decently and in order at Podgoritza, than stand the chance of being suddenly surprised by the Austrians and made to walk endless distances. So we heaved him on to a wooden pack, and the other chlorodyney figures of woe climbed on to the remaining queer-looking saddles.
Blease tried a horse which had a thoughtful eye. It kicked him on the knee, and trod on his toe, so he relinquished the joy of riding for the serener pleasure of walking. Jan clambered on to it, whereupon it stood on its forelegs, and as there were no stirrups and the saddle back hit him behind, he landed over its neck, remaining there propped up by a stick which was in his hand. After readjusting himself inside the two wooden peaks of the saddle, he testified his disapproval to the beast, and trotted away in style, leaving a row of grinning Montenegrins and boys behind with the exception of one who clung to reins and other bits of saddlery, imploring him to stop. It would seem as if pack ponies were never meant to trot, but at last he shook off the pony boy, passed Miss Brindley (whose horse was looking at himself in a puddle with such deep and concentrated interest that he pulled her over his head and landed her in the middle of the water), and reached the vanguard of the party, who had deserted their horses for a lift on a lorry—Willett, sitting in front with the driver, was shrunk like a concertina inside his great coat.
The lorry dropped us just before the first broken bridge. Then we had to leave the road and face mud slush, climbing for hours. We had picked up various friends—a courtly old peasant who was very worried to hear that Kragujevatz had fallen, and feared for the invasion of Montenegro; two barefoot girls, who asked Jo all the usual questions, and an American-speaking Serbian man who had trudged from Ipek, the first refugee on that road from Serbia. He was very mysterious, and contrary to the usual custom, would not tell us about himself nor where he was going.
He was very anxious to stand us drinks, but curiously enough, every one refused. The professor had started before us, with a Greek priest. When we passed him he lifted his hands deprecatingly, "Teshko."
Our hopes of arriving before dark were as usual crushed. The dusk found us still floundering in the mud on wayside paths. It began to pour. The hills above us became white—a straight line being drawn between snow and rain—and our guides wanted us to spend the night at an inn two hours before we reached Jabooka. But it looked very uninviting—we remembered the cheery hostess of Jabooka, the woman who came from "other parts," and knew a thing or two about cleanliness. Every one agreed to go on. Willett was rather better, so we forged ahead in the downpour and the dark, splashing through puddles and singing everything we knew. Our Albanian guides chuckled and chanted their own nasal songs in a different key as an accompaniment.
Far away we saw a tiny light—Jabooka. We stretched our legs and hurried along, but alas! the inn room was full. There was the professor, his face shining from warmth and well-being, crowds of men in uniform, some fat travelling civilians: faces looked up from the floor, from the corners, faces were everywhere, wet boys were steaming in front of the fire, while the hostess and a girl were picking their way as best they could in the tobacco smoke with eggs and rakia.
Full; even the floor! and we were wet through. The professor had announced that we were staying at the dirty inn away back. Oh, the old villain!
He came forward, saying in an impressive voice that a major had taken the inn.
"Bother the major," said Jo. "Something must be done."
The professor smiled. "There is another inn."
There was nothing for it. We had to go to the inn across the road, glad enough to have a roof at all. The rain was tearing down as if the heavens were filled with fire-engines.
But they didn't want us there. We beheld a dirty low-ceiled room filled with filthy people and a smell of wet unwashed clothes.
The owner and his wife received us roughly. "We have no room, we have nothing," they said.
We stood our ground. "We must have a roof to-night."
Outside the road had become a river, our men were nearly dropping with fatigue.
"You can't come here," said the innkeeper, looking at us with great distrust.
The major, whom Jo had "bothered," came in. "You must take these people," he said, and asked various searching questions about the rooms.
Reluctantly the truth came out that if the whole family slept in one room there would be one for us. The major ordered them to do it. Jo wished she hadn't "bothered" him quite so gruffly.
The daughters stamped about, furiously pulling all the blankets off the two beds, while one of them stood in the doorway watching us to see that we did not secrete the greasy counterpanes. Several of the party sat, hair on end, with staring eyes, too tired to shut them.
"Food?"
"Nema Nishta," was the response.
"Can we boil water?"
"No."
"Where can we boil it?"
"Nowhere."
"But there is a fire in the kitchen," we said, pointing to a hooded fireplace where a few sticks were burning.
"Why shouldn't they boil water?" said a kindly looking man.
"Well, I suppose they can," said the old woman, who became almost pleasant over the kitchen fire—telling Jo she was sixty and only a stara Baba (old granny).
Miss Brindley made tea. We cheered as she brought it in. Tea, bully beef, and our last biscuits comprised our dinner, which we ate in big gulps, after which we sang "Three blind mice" as a digestive.
The half-open door was full of peering faces, so somewhat encouraged we gave them a selection of rounds.
We left next morning early in a heavy downpour, after being exorbitantly charged, glad to leave Jabooka for ever.
The professor was before us, an aged red Riding Hood, clad in his scarlet blanket. The day was long and uneventful. Trudge, trudge, splash, splash. The dividing line between snow and rain still was heavily marked, but it sleeted and our hands were quite numbed. We crossed an angry stream on a greasy pole and most of us splashed in. Whatmough stood in the water, remarking, "I'm wet and I'll get no wetter," and helped people across. Again after dark we arrived at Liéva Riéka, to find our dirty old inn again; but it had a real iron stove which gave out a glorious heat, and we crowded around in the ill-lit room, clouds of steam arising from us. We tried to dry our stockings against the stove pipe, but the old mother did not approve. She was afraid of fire. When she ran out of the room, socks were pressed surreptitiously against the pipe with a "sizz," and when she returned, innocent looking people were standing against the wall, no socks to be seen.
The eldest daughter settled down with her head in Jo's hip, having failed to get Miss Brindley alongside. She gazed longingly at Miss Brindley from Jo's lap, and asking for all the data possible as to her life.
"A devoika (girl), free, travelling from a country so far away that it would take three months in an oxcart to get there."
"Oh, how wonderful!"
They gave us a tiny room and two benches—much too small for the whole company; so some slept outside on the balcony.
The professor was in the adjoining inn, so we guessed it must be the best; but a young French sailor, from the wireless in Podgoritza, who came to gossip with us, said there was nothing to choose.
He was champing, as the Government were commandeering the wireless company's motor cars right and left using them to cart benzine; and now they were going to send a refugee Serb officer's family to Podgoritza in his motor, leaving him sitting.
We spent the next morning waiting for the motor, not knowing if it would arrive or no. The professor sailed away in the French one, being one up on us again. It still rained, so we sat contemplating the possibilities of lunch. No sooner was it on the boil than the biggest automobile in Montenegro, a covered lorry, turned up.
We persuaded the driver to lunch with us, and packed ourselves and our dingy packages on to the wet floor. The motor buzzed up and downhill, incessantly twisting and turning: what we could see of the view from the back waved to and fro like Alpine scenery seen in the cinematograph. Stajitch became violently seasick with the fumes of benzine, which arose from two big tanks we were taking along, and lay with his head lolling miserably out of the back of the car.
Pod once more, sleepy, inhospitable Pod.
We bargained for rooms at our old inn—mixed beds and floors. The owner was asking more than ever; he shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands.
"The war—increasing prices."
So we took what we could, put Stajitch to bed, saw the prefect, our old friend from Chainitza, who promised us a carriage for Cettinje in the morning.
Miss Brindley, joyfully ready to see Cettinje and anything else that might turn up, joined Jo and Jan in the old shandrydan carriage which lumbered along for seven hours to Cettinje.
"We are going to find Turkish delight," said the others, as they disappeared down a side street, revelling in the idea of a rest.
Cettinje was inches deep in water. We assured the Count de Salis that much as we needed money to continue the journey, we needed baths more.
This was a weighty matter and needed much thinking out, petroleum being very scarce. The huge empty Legation kitchen stove was lit and upon it were placed all the kettles, saucepans, and empty tins in the place; the picturesque old baggy-breeched porter, his wife, and little boy stoking hard, and asking lots of questions. One by one we were ushered into a room, not the bathroom but a room containing the sort of comfortable bath which makes the least water go the longest way, and also a beautiful hot stove. This solemn rite occupied a whole afternoon. We had not taken our clothes off for sixteen days and had been in the dirtiest of places. A change of underclothing was effected. None too soon! for at Liéva Riéka we had picked up lice.
We compared notes on this part afterwards. "Happy hunting?" we inquired like Mowgli's friends. It was good to sit by the big kitchen stove holding bits of dripping clothing to the blaze; the downfall at Cettinje the evening before having completely drenched our damp things again.
Next day outside the world was white and silent, the snow covering the little city and its intrigues with a thick whitewash.
The minister was the kindest of hosts and could not do enough for us during our stay. Cettinje had not changed much. The hotel-keeper showed an intense and violent anxiety to leave Montenegro. Never had his native Switzerland seemed so alluring and never was it so unattainable. The chemist, who owned a little one-windowed shop, was engaged to the king's niece, quite a lift in the world for her, as she was marrying a man of education.
Penwiper, the dog, was still in sole possession of the street, and again went mad with joy at the sound of English women's voices, and accompanied us everywhere, generally upside-down in the snow, clutching our skirts with her teeth.
Jan was in and out of the Transport Office door while Miss Brindley and Jo were being followed around the streets by a jeering crowd of children, who seemed to think that Miss Brindley's india-rubber boot-top leggings and Jo's corrugated stockings and safety-pinned-up skirt out of place. We bought some bags from a woman we afterwards heard was suspected of being an Austrian spy.
Poor old Prenk Bib Doda was in our hotel. He was Prince of the Miridites. As a boy he had been kidnapped by the Turks and haled off to Constantinople. Grown to a middle-aged man in captivity, he was restored to his tribes during the Young Turk Revolution, only to be abducted by the Montenegrins, and to be kept practically a prisoner in Cettinje. We don't know if he disliked it, possibly not, for his walk in life seems to be that of a professional hostage, if one may say so. His ideals of comfort were certainly nearer to the cabarets in Berlin, than to the wild orgies of his own subjects. In fact he was civilized.
A passage across the Adriatic seemed problematic. The Transport Minister hoped we might catch a ship that had tried to leave Scutari three times, but had always been thrown on the beach by storms. The great difficulty was crossing the lake of Scutari. One steamer had been mysteriously sunk and another damaged. He promised to arrange a motor for us directly he should be able to put his hand on a boat to take us across the lake.
Jan and Jo simultaneously began to wish they had not eaten sardines at Riéka. The attack was very violent, and next day Jo stayed in bed, refusing the page boy's efforts to tempt her with lunch.
"See," he said, bearing in a third dish, "English, your i risshkew."
Jo pretended to be pleased, and made Jan eat the Irish stew after his lunch, so that the page boy's feelings should not be hurt.
Suddenly word came from the Transport Minister that a carriage was coming for us. We were to go to Pod, and pick up the others. So Jo stopped tying herself into knots and had to get up and go. We arrived at Pod to find everybody ill. Two days' sedentary life and Turkish delight were responsible for this. We suggested castor oil. One had just missed pleurisy—Whatmough had acted as nurse.
The professor had been trying to pump Stajitch as to our future plans, as he was again alone and rudderless. Stajitch said—
"Mr. and Mrs. Gordon alone know, and they are in Cettinje."
"Now that's not kind to keep a fellow countryman in the dark," said the professor.
Stajitch assured him he knew nothing; but the professor walked away, murmuring that the English were undermining a good Serb boy's character.
And that was the last of the professor.