Bulgarian origin and history--Defeat of Nicephorus I--Luitprand,
the historian--Revolt of Peter and Asan--Sisvan and Amurath--My
friend "Dedo 'Mitri"--The road to Radoïl--Vasil and his
horse--Bulgarian war preparations--His Beatitude Joseph--Advance of
Bulgarian armies--The victories of the Allies--Mr. Asquith's
assurance.
The leading spirit of the Balkan Alliance is Bulgaria, its policy
directed by an able ruler, Tsar Ferdinand, its strategy devised by a
capable Staff, at whose head, as the sovereign's right hand, stands
General Sava Savof. To the Western nations who were indulging in autumn
holidays while the Balkan cauldron was seething to overflowing the war
came as a surprise, was inaugurated with astounding efficiency, and went
its victorious course with bewildering rapidity. That was the impression
made by recent events in the Balkans upon the lethargic Western mind. To
those who happened to have looked behind the scenes there was no
suddenness in the outbreak of hostilities, no surprise at the efficient
organization which led to well-deserved successes in the field.
It has been my privilege to visit Bulgaria several times, and on each
occasion I have returned with a yet higher opinion of the Bulgarian
people, their Tsar, and his advisers.
The first to mention this people was the Armenian historian Moses, of
Koren, towards the end of the fifth century. In his time the Bulgars
occupied the lower reaches of the Volga, and called their capital Bulâr,
Bulghâr; here was the mart where they transacted business with their
neighbours. From the banks of the Volga the Bulgars, a Finno-Ugric race,
and akin to the Turks, moved along the northern shore of the Black Sea
towards the Danube, and had reached Macedonia by the beginning of the
seventh century.
When the country which is now Bulgaria formed part of Dacia Trajana, in
the days of Emperor Aurelian, Goths swarmed in and drove the Dacians
into Moesia, now Servia. They wandered south, much to the discomfiture
of ancient Byzantium. On their westward way the Goths, under Theodoric,
had trampled down the Finno-Ugric people, the Bulgarians, which had come
to the plains of the Lower Danube from the north-east. For a century and
a half all traces of this people disappeared from the historian's ken,
and they were not heard of again until the ninth century. Debarred by a
stronger race from returning northward to rejoin their kinsmen who had
migrated to Finland, their progress westward checked by more powerful
nations, they turned towards the south, and thus began a conflict which
has never ceased, though it may have lain dormant, for over ten
centuries, a conflict which has since broken out afresh and led the
Bulgars to the gates of Constantinople. These people, the Bulgars, found
vent for their military ardour in opposing the inroads of the Eastern
Emperors, and may lay claim to an honour till then appropriated only by
the Goths--that of having slain a Roman Emperor in battle.
It came about in this fashion. Nicephorus I, Emperor of the East
(802-811) had advanced with boldness and success into the west of
Bulgaria and destroyed the Royal Court by fire. But while he lingered on
in search of spoil, refusing all offers of a treaty, his enemies
collected their forces and barred the lines of retreat. For two days the
Emperor waited in despair and inactivity, on the third the Bulgarians
surprised the camp and slew the Emperor and great officers of the
Empire. Valens had escaped insults from the Goths when defeated and
slain at Adrianople, but the skull of Nicephorus, encased with gold, was
made to serve as drinking-vessel.
Towards the end of the ninth century King Boris of Bulgaria brought two
holy men, Cyril and Methodius, originators of the Cyrillic alphabet
adopted by all Slav nations, and Christianity, then introduced, aroused
a desire for learning among the Bulgarians.
The power of Bulgaria increased, and under Tsar Simeon, son of Boris,
extended over Bulgaria of to-day, Wallachia, part of Hungary and
Transylvania, parts of Albania and Epirus, of Macedonia and Thessaly.
Simeon assumed the title of Tsar and Autocrat of all Bulgarians. This
title was retained by all Bulgarian sovereigns until the conquest of
their country by the Turks.
Early in October an extraordinary session of the Sobranje celebrated the
anniversary of Bulgaria's independence and the assumption of the ancient
title by Tsar Ferdinand.
Simeon, son of Boris, was intended for a religious life, but he
abandoned it to take up arms; he inherited the crown of Bulgaria, and
reigned from the end of the ninth to well into the tenth century. His
education was completed at Constantinople, where many other youthful
nobles of his country gathered for the same purpose, and to this day the
custom prevails, for among the students at Robert College, which stands
high on the banks of the Bosphorus, are many of Tsar Ferdinand's young
subjects. Among its former pupils was M. Gueshof, now Prime Minister of
Bulgaria.
Despite his Byzantine education Simeon did not love the Greeks, and
Luitprand, the historian, writes: "Simeon fortis bellator, Bulgariæ
proecrat; Christianus sed vicinis Græcis valde inimicus." This
hostility to the Greeks found frequent expression, and Simeon with his
host appeared before the walls of Constantinople. On classic ground, at
Achelous, the Greeks were vanquished by the Bulgarians, and Simeon
hastened to besiege the Emperor in his own strong City.
Down by the Golden Horn on the plain outside the Gate of Edirné, Tsar
Simeon met Romanus Lecapenus, the Emperor of the East, at the place
where King Crum of Bulgaria had been asked to confer with Leo V, the
Armenian (813-820), and had narrowly escaped the arrows of the archers
treacherously concealed in ambush. Vying with the Greeks in the
splendour of their display the Bulgars took jealous precautions against
a similar surprise, and deep mistrust informed the spirit in which their
sovereign dictated terms of peace. "Are you a Christian?" asked the
humbled Emperor. "It is your duty to abstain from the blood of your
fellow-Christians. Has the thirst for riches seduced you from the
blessings of peace? Sheathe your sword, open your hand, and I will give
you the utmost measure of your desire."
But peace was not for long. Simeon's successors by their jealousies
undermined the strength of the kingdom, and when next the Bulgarians met
the Greeks in battle they were easily defeated by Basil II, called
Bulgaroktonos. A terrible home-coming theirs; through snow and ice the
remnant of Bulgaria's manhood struggled on in little bands of a hundred
at a time, each company following the voice of a single leader, as they
groped their way through darkness--they were blinded. They had escaped
from the clemency of a Christian Emperor, by whose orders only one man
in each hundred retained the sight of one eye.
Then for over a century Bulgaria remained subject to Byzantium, until
two Bulgarian chiefs--Peter and Asan--rose in revolt against Isaac
Angelus (1185-1195), and spread the fire of rebellion from the Danube to
the hills of Macedonia and Thrace. So Isaac and his brother, Alexius III
(1195-1203), were forced to recognize Bulgaria's independence.
Such hopeless rulers as Alexius IV and V and Nicolas Canabas made easy
the conquest of Byzant by the Latins in 1204. Calo John, King of
Bulgaria, sent friendly greetings to Baldwin I, the new Emperor of the
East, but these provoked an unexpected answer. Baldwin demanded that the
rebel should deserve his pardon by touching with his forehead the
footstool of the imperial throne. So trouble broke out again. Again war
was waged, with all its attendant savagery, and Calo John reinforced his
army by a body of fourteen thousand horsemen from the Scythian deserts.
A fierce battle at Adrianople resulted in the total defeat of the
Emperor, who was taken prisoner. His fate was for some years uncertain,
and even the demands of the Pope for the restitution of the Emperor
failed to elicit any other answer from King John save that Baldwin had
died in prison. For years the conflict raged, till Henry, the second
Latin Emperor of the East, routed the Bulgarians. Calo John was slain in
his tent by night, and the deed was piously ascribed to the lance of St.
Demetrius.
[Illustration: Golubaç
The stronghold of Old Servia guarding the Pass of Kasan.]
In the fourteenth century another foe threatened Bulgaria and all
Eastern Europe. Amurath with his Janissaries was closing in upon
Constantinople. He beat the Greek Emperor at Adrianople in 1361, and
made this town his base of operations against Bulgaria, which country he
harried until Sisvan, the Tsar, obtained peace at the price of offering
his daughter in marriage to Amurath. But peace did not ensue, and Sisvan
had to flee before Ali, and surrendered at Nicopolis.
Nicopolis, where King Sigismund of Hungary was vanquished by Sultan
Bajazet, by whose victory the Balkan States became subject to the Porte.
Here there was fierce fighting in 1810, and again in 1877, for the road
to the Pass of Plevna starts from here. Here at Nicopolis are the ruins,
underground, of one of the earliest Christian churches, but its history
is quite unknown.
Recent times have witnessed the rise of Bulgaria from the status of an
Ottoman province to that of an independent kingdom, strong, prosperous,
and determined. And on its southern frontier, and from the banks of the
Struma to the Black Sea shore, the armed forces of Bulgaria strained at
the leash, their eager gaze towards Constantinople, Tsarigrad, the
Castle of Cæsar.
Among those whose eager eyes turned ever towards the south is one (I
hope he still lives) for whom I have the friendliest feelings. His name
is Dedo 'Mitri, and I venture to describe a visit I paid to that worthy.
Like Bill Sloggins of song, Dedo 'Mitri is "a party as you don't meet
every day." The continuation of the verse applies equally:
"He's always hale and hearty,
And he's cheerful in his way."
In itself this condition is a matter for no great wonderment, but you
must know that Dedo 'Mitri has reached the age at which it cannot be
said of many that they are always hale and hearty. Many do not travel as
far along life's journey as Dedo 'Mitri has done; he was well on in the
eighties when I met him a year or two ago. This, of course, accounts for
his being called "Dedo 'Mitri," which, being interpreted, meaneth
"Grandfather Dimitri." The fact of Dimitri being abbreviated to 'Mitri
speaks of his popularity. Several circumstances go towards the making of
Dedo 'Mitri's popularity. His age, of course, has something to do with
it, his cheerfulness still more, and his position adds to his
popularity--he keeps the largest of the two inns in the village, keeps
the only inn that really counts for anything. Probably the most
important ingredient of the recipe for Dedo 'Mitri's popularity is his
past--he is an ex-comitadji.
To have been a comitadji is indeed a matter of great distinction in
those countries south of the Balkans. There it is that Dedo 'Mitri lives
and has his being, there, among the Rhodope Mountains, along which runs
the frontier between Bulgaria and Turkey. Dedo 'Mitri is a Bulgarian, a
splendid specimen of a fine race.
For his country's sake Dedo 'Mitri endured untold hardships, and
committed deeds desperate and daring, deeds that perhaps send their
phantoms crowding round his couch o' nights. Perhaps! though to all
appearances Dedo 'Mitri's looks do not suggest nights spent with the
spectre Remorse. He, like other fighters for a country's liberties, may
rather glory in what he has done, though of this again no word escapes
him. There are others in the village ready to tell you of his exploits.
[Illustration: Dedo 'Mitri]
Songs and legends of the great, of King Crum, Tsar Simeon, and the
Asens, kept alive the intense feeling of Bulgarian nationality during
centuries of Turkish domination. Under the heavy oppression of Ottoman
rule the Church founded by Cyril and Methodius lived on, deeply rooted
in the hearts of the people. So, when Bulgaria awoke in the beginning
of the nineteenth century there were found men like Dedo 'Mitri to take
up arms, to sacrifice all for their country's liberty. He was a baby
when Russia declared war against Turkey in 1827, but still remembers the
depth of feeling that stirred his folk and urged him to take his share
in the work as soon as his arm was strong enough for it. He was in the
full vigour of manhood when his own efforts, and those of other
patriots, had brought about the establishment of a Bulgarian Exarchate
at Constantinople. He rejoiced when the Congress of Berlin ratified the
treaty of San Stefano, making Bulgaria autonomous, and his militant
activity came to an end when Eastern Roumelia was united to his country.
Now Dedo 'Mitri lives at peace with all the world in his quiet little
village among the Rhodope Mountains.
To get to Radoïl, where Dedo 'Mitri lives, two roads are open to you.
You may train from Sofia to Bellova, then drive along the high road
towards Tshamkuria in the mountains. The road is good, because the King
has a shooting-box at Tshamkuria, and he is very particular about the
roads he travels over. Radoïl is half-way to Tshamkuria, and every one
who passes that way stops to bait at Dedo 'Mitri's.
If you wish to see more of people and country than is possible from the
train, another way to Radoïl is preferable. Take a seat in the motor
which goes to Tshamkuria every other day. The chauffeur is a young
Englishman, who has a good deal to say if you ask him about the state of
the road. It is in parts a very bad road indeed. In fact, but for the
trees that line it with more or less regularity on either hand, you
might mistake the road for a dried-up watercourse. The first part of the
road is not so bad, quite good, in fact, but it suddenly becomes
incredibly bad, about eight or ten miles from the small town of
Samakov, and the streets of that town are quite Oriental in their
uselessness as such. You stop at Samakov to let the engine cool down a
bit, and find it quite an Oriental town. Here and there an old mosque, a
Turkish fountain, and mules, donkeys, heavy-going buffaloes drinking at
it. The costumes of the people you meet are Oriental, though the women
go unveiled. Samakov has a garrison; it is not far from the Turkish
frontier, and the uniforms of the fine-looking Bulgarian soldiers strike
a Western note. But on the whole the aspect of the town is Oriental, the
smells intensely so.
The road improves as it leaves Samakov, it becomes really quite a good
road, and carries you upwards into the mountains. There on a high
plateau embowered in a forest of pines lies Tshamkuria. It is a
hot-weather resort--everybody who is anybody in Sofia comes here for the
summer. But we are not concerned with such fashionable matter, we have
set out to visit Dedo 'Mitri at Radoïl, so start at once.
We have arranged for the hire of a conveyance the evening before with a
Jew. If the weather be fine we will drive away at seven in the morning,
keep the conveyance for the day, and pay the son of Israel seven francs.
The morning mist among the mountains made one or two unsuccessful
attempts to turn into rain; we thought the weather fine enough, the Jew
did not think so, and therefore thought fit to demand double the amount
arranged for. This was not to be borne, so we looked about for some
other means of conveyance, and in our search met one Vasil. Vasil, a
stout Bulgarian peasant wearing a dubious cotton shirt, his thick cloth
baggy breeches upheld by a cummerbund of faded crimson, his coat of the
same brown cloth, black braided, slung over his shoulders, promised to
convey us to Radoïl in great comfort as soon as he should have caught a
horse. It appeared there were several horses over which Vasil disposed,
but they happened to be out in the forest in search of breakfast. After
a delay of an hour or so Vasil returned with what he described as a
horse. The likeness was there, though very remote, and the
unhappy-looking scraggy pony was tied by assorted strings to a
two-wheeled trap--once upon a time something like a dogcart; a
head-stall and odd bits of harness were then artistically arranged about
this anatomical study, Vasil wiped the damp seat with a wet cloth,
handed me his whip, and intimated that all was ready for a start. All
was not ready, however, for the horse had gone to sleep, and my attempt
to crack the whip flung the lash into the bushes, whence it had to be
retrieved, then refastened. In the meantime the horse realized that
something unusual was toward; he woke up, shook off some bits of
harness, and went to sleep again while they were being readjusted. Then
Vasil woke him up again, gave him a gentle lead, and so we really
started. There was no difficulty about finding the road, or chance of
losing your way. The road leads broad and smooth in zigzags down into
the valley where Radoïl lies. On either hand dense forest, where wolves
prowl during the winter months and bears are no infrequent visitors.
Huge pines send straight shafts up into the morning sky, their dark
green striking a sombre note among the rich green of birch and oak. Here
and there honeysuckle trails over masses of rock in sweet profusion, and
the voice of a tinkling stream lightens our way with music. Now and
again at an angle of the road we were granted a glimpse of the distant
country below, wide expanses of fertile plains, and beyond them again
the purple lines of mountains far away. The sun had broken through the
mountain mist and called forth the songs of birds.
Those angles of the road were rather too much for the horse. The trap
boasted of no brake, the wheels revolved in a manner suggesting the
infirmity of extreme old age, yet they took charge and guided our
course, and with senile spite attempted to hurl us into the depths
below. But we were saved by the fact that our speed was not excessive.
Any attempt at steering the horse by the usual method led to a dead
stop, on which occasion the head-gear would fall off. All these matters
put much incident into our journey. After a couple of hours the "passage
perilous" down the mountain was behind us and we were on a fairly
straight and level road. An occasional gentle rise met us; this caused
the horse to stop for contemplation of the awful task before him; he
would shake his head at our wild proceedings and patiently wait until
the whip-lash had been recovered. Our progress, though not marked by any
undue haste, roused interest where we passed. Slow-stepping oxen
dragging a plough, a primitive implement, little more than an iron-shod
staff, would stop to watch us with big wondering eyes. At last--a turn
of the road brought us in full view of the village and we rattled down
the stone-paved street. Stone-paved--that is, large stones were placed
about at irregular intervals, the interstices being pools of muddy
water. Across a bridge, over a turbulent mountain stream, and we pulled
up in front of Dedo 'Mitri's hostelry.
[Illustration: Radoïl
Dedo 'Mitri's Hostelry.]
Dedo 'Mitri himself stands outside his front door. The house projects
above it, thus forming what might be a verandah were it not on a level
with the road. Dedo 'Mitri was in shirt-sleeves, as becomes a busy man.
The twinkle in his eyes might be that of a hospitable welcome, though
having heard of his antecedents it may be suspected of suggesting old
predatory instincts slow to die. We advised our host that we meant to
take the midday meal with him, and while he prepared it we had a look
at the village, took a sketch or two which meant to give a better idea
of the place than word-painting can do.
The accessories to the repast prepared by Dedo 'Mitri were simple in the
extreme, it was also necessary to wipe your fork carefully before using
it. However, the food was good, wholesome grey bread and a quaint mess
of eggs and cream-cheese. Then Dedo 'Mitri was called upon to supply
cheese by itself; this he did without demur, but a demand for clean
plates puzzled him, though he complied. On being asked for a clean knife
he had no cause to vanish again into his dark kitchen, but produced a
murderous-looking clasp-knife from out the pocket of his voluminous
breeches; we preferred our own knives. An excellent if somewhat rough
red wine accompanied the repast.
In the meantime the village had assembled. Stalwart men stood round us
watching intently, others sat drinking wine a little way off. The
village priest in passing, seeing something unusual in progress, stepped
in and found the time suitable for refreshment. A background of children
completed the circle. When it became evident that sketching was the next
event Dedo 'Mitri's authority was evidenced. I pointed out a small fair
child with dark-lashed eyes--Dimitra--she was called up to stand
perfectly still. This she did in solemn wonder. A well-built maiden
moved with graceful steps to the village fountain opposite the house. On
my noticing her Dedo 'Mitri's powerful voice rang out, "Helenka," and
she too remained motionless until released. There were urgent demands
from the spectators to be taken one after another, but time was short,
so only one smart buck, his short jacket slung jauntily across his
shoulders, figures in my sketch-book.
Then Vasil was called for. He appeared leading the horse, both
stumbling--the horse from the infirmity of old age, Vasil from an undue
indulgence in the red wine. He had also regaled himself freely on
garlic; the afternoon sun drew an indescribable aroma from him.
Farewell to Dedo 'Mitri and promises to return, farewells and much
handshaking to all the assembled village, a discriminate distribution of
small copper coins, a courtly salute from the priest, and we turned our
horse's head towards the mountains whence we came.
Slower than ever was our progress, as Vasil in his sleep was constantly
falling off the back seat, and the horse, once stopped, was loath to
move on again. The whip-lash was lost for ever, yet there was the broad
road up into the mountains all before us.
We left Vasil and his conveyance in the road and turned afoot into a
track which used to be the only means of communication in earlier days.
A very unsafe one too, for it offered splendid opportunities to those
who pursue guerilla warfare. Here and there were masses of boulders
whence marksmen could command the track and then vanish in the
impenetrable forests.
Dedo 'Mitri knows them well, that track, those piles of rock that offer
cover to the sniper, those giants of the forest, and the thick
undergrowth that covered his retreat. But Dedo 'Mitri no longer goes to
see his old acquaintances the rocks and forest trees. His country is
free, free as the wind that howls on wintry nights up the valley to join
chorus with the wolves. From mountain and valley, from town and village,
the Crescent had faded away to the south, and Bulgaria, a strong young
kingdom, forced its way out of Turkish oppression. They are old men now,
those who are left, who like Dedo 'Mitri spent the best years of their
life in the cause of freedom. But the story has never been forgotten,
the traditions of Bulgaria's former greatness live strong in a
regenerate Bulgaria. The sons of Bulgaria looked down from the Rhodope
Mountains, over the rolling plains, their gaze bent on Constantinople,
Tsarigrad, the Castle of Cæsar. They have knocked at the gates of that
City before.
With consummate skill Tsar Ferdinand kept his plans secret while the
Balkan League was forming to overthrow the last of Ottoman power in
Europe. For many years all Bulgaria had been preparing for this great
stroke, arming, organizing, making sacrifices as a nation must do when
in pursuit of a high ideal, so when the moment came it found a strong
people, trained to arms, determined to snatch success from before the
cannon's mouth and crown its standards with laurel victory. With a
possible war strength of over three hundred thousand men and four
hundred and fifty guns Bulgaria stood ready to take the field.
The massacres of Kochana gave impetus to the avalanche which was ready
to descend over the hills and vales of Thrace. Bulgaria had been making
steady propaganda in Macedonia and had drawn within the folds of its
nationality a great number of those nondescripts, Slavs, who form the
major portion of the inhabitants of that quondam Turkish province. This
propaganda was actively supported by the Bulgarian Church under its
enlightened high-priest, His Beatitude Joseph, Exarch of Bulgaria.
I first met the Exarch some years ago while on a visit to Bulgaria. His
Beatitude had left Constantinople, where the interests of his flock in
Macedonia require that he should reside, and was taking a holiday in a
remote village near Sofia, a village nestling among the mountain range
of Vitosa, by the banks of a mountain torrent along which a broad
military road leads to the Turkish frontier. We discussed the state of
Macedonia, and though I may not divulge all that was said to me, I
gained an even higher opinion of Bulgarian thoroughness and efficiency.
We also discussed the schism between the Greek and Bulgarian sections of
the Orthodox Church; this is a purely political matter, and was freely
used by the Porte to foster racial animosity in Macedonia. When the
Greeks gained their independence the Bulgarians of Macedonia were
encouraged to build schools and were allowed to endow several new
bishoprics; when the Greeks were temporarily disabled by the war of 1898
the Porte thought fit to persecute the Bulgarians of Macedonia, assisted
in this by Pomaks, Bulgarians converted to Islam some centuries ago. The
Turks overdid this policy, and their measures only served to crystalize
the different non-Turk racial and religious elements of Macedonia. Bands
of comitadjis were formed, they assisted nationalist propaganda by
primitive methods, and finally, the Porte being weakened by revolution
and the vacillations of a farcical Parliament terrorized by esoteric
militarism, strengthened the arms of those who sought freedom from
Turkish rule.
The occasion arose over the massacres of Kotchana, which sent a wave of
fierce indignation over Bulgaria. Reforms in Macedonia and the
punishment of those concerned in the outrages were demanded by Tsar
Ferdinand and refused by the Porte, which, feeling itself strong enough
and ignoring the strength and stability of the Balkan Alliance, declared
war on Bulgaria. Forthwith the armies of Bulgaria, already assembled in
battle array on the frontier, poured into Thrace and overran that
province, driving the Ottoman forces before it.
War was declared by Turkey against Bulgaria and Servia on October 17th,
on the same day Greece sent a similar declaration to the Porte. Then the
highly organized forces of the Allies marched. While the Greek navy put
to sea to capture islands in the Ægean and invaded Turkey from the
south, the Bulgarians entered Thrace in three columns under the Tsar and
General Savof, General Hanof capturing Kurt Kalé and Mustapha Pasha on
October 18th. On the following day Turkish cruisers made a futile
attempt on the Bulgarian coast, bombarding Varna and destroying an
inoffensive monastery. By this day all the four Allies had invaded
Turkish territory. The mountain passes were in the hands of the
Bulgarians by October 20th, and the army marching on Adrianople;
Adrianople, where the Bulgars had vanquished Emperor Nicephorus and his
troops by the banks of the Maritza in 811.
While in the west the Servian army was continuing its victorious march
on Üsküb, while the Montenegrin northern army under Prince Danilo moved
from Berane to the capture of Plava and Gusinje, and their southern army
commenced the siege of Scutari by attacking Tarabosh, the Bulgarian
armies drove the Turks from the Arda River west of Adrianople, and
General Dimitrief completed the easterly turning movement by attacking
the Ottoman forces at Kirk Kilisse. Here the battle raged to and fro
with varying success until the Turks, under Abdullah Pasha, were finally
routed on October 24th. At the same time Bulgarian troops occupied
Vasiliko on the Black Sea; the Servians, under General Yankovitch, had
already captured Prishtina on the 20th, and others commanded by General
Ziskovitch had entered Kralovo and Novi Bazar. On the day which
witnessed the defeat of Abdullah Pasha at the hands of General Dimitrief
at Kirk Kilisse, the Servians, led by their Crown Prince in person, won
the decisive battle of Kumanovo.
The tale of disaster continued; on October 25th the Turks evacuated
Küprölü in the west; in the eastern theatre of war the Bulgarians
opened the bombardment of Adrianople. On the following day King Peter
entered Üsküb, the former residence of Servian Kings, in solemn state,
and Küprölü, Drama, and Koziani were captured by the forces of the
Allies.
Further Ottoman losses occurred on October 27th, when Istip fell and the
Bulgarians captured Baba Eski, occupied Bunar Hissar, and took the
Kresna Pass in the Struma Valley. All this time the Greeks were gaining
ground towards Janina, and by October 30th had captured Veria and
Thasos, preparatory to marching on Saloniki. By October 31st fighting
was general all along the line in Thrace, the Allies were marching on
Saloniki, and the northern and southern armies of Montenegro had closed
in upon Scutari.
By the beginning of November the Western Powers had awakened from the
dreams of the soporific _status quo_ and began to realize that that
formula no longer applied to the Near East. On November 9th Mr. Asquith
solemnly announced that the Allies must have secured to them the fruits
of victory. I wonder what Power, or group of Powers, however prominent
the capital P, would dare to rob these gallant young nations of what
they have won by bravery and devotion such as no older nation has
exhibited in recent history. The Allies had continued along the path of
conquest; Serbs had occupied Prilep and begun their advance on the
Albanian coast, and Saloniki had surrendered before Mr. Asquith's
sententious statement. Fighting continued, and step by step the Allies
pressed their old enemy towards the sea, the Greeks occupying more
islands in the Ægean, the Bulgars pressing on towards Chatalja,
hammering insistently on those outer defences of Constantinople till the
Porte saw no help for it but to arrange an armistice.
So while the great men of the Great Powers were beginning to realize
what was happening next door, and were working the cumbrous machinery of
diplomacy too late for any practical purpose, the Allies, four young
nations, unspoilt by luxury and great possessions, inspired by a high
ideal, crossed their borders, drove the Ottoman forces before them from
many a sternly contested field, and forced them to offer terms within a
day's march of the Turkish capital.
There is great glory in this crusade of the Allies against the heavy
obstacle to progress which centres in Constantinople. Great glory for
Western civilization by which these young kingdoms were informed when
they set their house in order and united their forces to bold endeavour.
Great glory to the faith they profess, which makes union possible and
thus leads to victory. Greater glory still to those of all the other
European nations who, seeing the plight of Christianity's old enemy,
hastened to assist him. Here in Constantinople they are at work, these
bearers of Western culture, under Red Cross or Red Crescent, helping
where the Turkish authorities have proved helpless, saving thousands
from death by wound or disease while their own stand by and let the
mosques, built to commemorate the victories of Islam, overflow with
untended sufferers.
Yes, it is a great and glorious victory this last crusade begun by the
young kingdoms of the Balkans, informed with high purpose, trained by
Western thought and action, completed by those soldiers of the Cross who
risked their lives in fighting dread diseases, seeking no reward, moved
by that mainspring of their faith, Charity.