The Voivoda's invitation--Concerning an episode on our ride to
Velika--The fugitive from a blood-feud and his story--We arrive at
Velika--The men of Velika--The menu--Border jurisdiction--A
shooting-match--The Kom--Pleasant evenings--A young
philosopher--Sunset.
One evening the Voivoda invited us to ride with him on an official
visit to Velika, an offer which we eagerly accepted.
Velika is a narrow strip of Montenegrin territory lying practically in
Albania, or rather Gusinje, for the men of Gusinje owe and give no
allegiance. Velika is not cut off from Montenegro, but the mountain
connecting it with, so to speak, the mainland is steep and almost
inaccessible, besides entailing a long and weary detour of many hours.
Therefore our path to-day would lead us across an intervening strip of
Gusinje territory.
Next morning at an early hour saw us in our saddles, the Voivoda
having first ascertained that our arms were in good order. "Not that
there is any danger," he said. "But we never know if anything may
happen, and it is well just to be prepared."
Besides the Voivoda, we were accompanied by his adjutant, a
lieutenant in the standing army, who had studied in Italy, and an
escort of about six men, armed with modern magazine rifles. Later on,
this escort was materially increased.
About three hours' ride up the magnificent valley of the Lim brought
us to a khan, and here we found another half-dozen men awaiting us,
and another officer. These preparations seemed rather formidable for a
journey of about an hour through a friendly country, but we knew
already the uncertainty of the Albanian temper, and did not wonder.
As we led our horses across a rickety wooden bridge, the Voivoda
called to us and said we were now about to enter Albania, and spoke of
the temporary armed alliance between England and Montenegro, which
remark seemed to please him greatly. A great cairn of stones marked
the border, and the adjutant reined in his horse, for we were going to
ride in single file, to tell us that it would be better to unsling our
carbines. "It looked better," he said. Many Albanians could be seen
working peacefully in their fields, and huts dotted the
mountain-sides. It was a scene of agricultural peace, enhanced by
magnificent scenery.
Suddenly, at some distance, two rifle-shots were distinctly heard, and
the calm of the picture was as rudely and suddenly disturbed as if an
earthquake had happened. The peaceful peasants stooped, throwing away
the spade, and in exchange each had a Martini rifle in his hand, which
he rapidly loaded from the bandolier of cartridges round his waist.
Men rushed out of the slumbering cottages, and a great shouting
commenced.
"It is nothing," said the adjutant. "They become excited like this
very often."
But I noticed our escort closing in, and every man's face wore a look
of great interest. Still we rode on, just as if nothing unusual were
happening.
To our left the hill ascended to a great height, and about one-third
of the way up a belt of trees commenced, stretching to the top.
Towards this wood ran hundreds of Albanians, and disappeared from
view. I confess that I had a most uncomfortable feeling that I was
being covered by many unseen rifles. We should have stood a poor
chance had they begun firing at us, for there was practically no cover
near.
But our pace, that of a smart walk, neither increased nor decreased,
and it ill became me to show my innermost feelings to these fearless
mountaineers who so evidently considered this sudden excitement a most
everyday occurrence.
The noise of the shouting, however, continued, and was answered by men
in all directions. It was a regular pandemonium of yelling fiends, for
the Albanians are not beautiful to look upon.
Suddenly a man appeared from some bushes close to our little party and
headed straight for us, running like a deer.
He had barely reached us and seized my stirrup leather, on which he
hung, panting heavily, when from the woods emerged a pursuing crowd,
brandishing their rifles as they ran. Within a few minutes we were
surrounded by about a hundred and fifty Albanians, whose gestures were
not to be misunderstood.
They wanted to kill the man at my stirrup, who looked beseechingly up
to me for protection. Why he selected me I have no idea, and I did not
relish the compliment at all. Our escort formed a meagre ring around
us, and we were forced to halt.
"Are they going to shoot?" I asked the adjutant, who was next to me,
in excusable excitement, "because if so, I would like to dismount."
It was not a pleasant feeling, perched up on a horse within fifty
yards of reputed good marksmen.
"Oh no," answered the officer, "they only want the man, not you."
"Still, you are not going to hand back the man, are you?" I asked in
Italian.
"We must hear what the Voivoda says," said the adjutant, shrugging his
shoulders.
I looked at the man, while an excited conversation was carried on by
our party and the Albanians, and found him a pleasant-looking young
man; his breath was coming in great gasps from his heaving breast, but
otherwise he showed no traces of excitement.
"Save me," he said in broken Serb. "They fired at me as I was working
in my field. I am blood-guilty."
All this time his pursuers were evidently debating if our lives must
be sacrificed as well, for to shoot the man meant killing some of us
at any rate.
At this juncture several Albanians came to us and ranged themselves on
our side, and amidst still greater excitement we began again moving
forward.
"It is all right," laughed the adjutant, who throughout preserved the
same air of utter indifference. "They daren't shoot, the cowards, and
we shall take him to Velika with us, and then decide what to do with
him."
"You don't seem to mind this sort of thing much," I said, "but for a
beginner like myself it appears rather nervous work."
"Oh no," he answered. "I live here, and have been in many border
fights. They always make a noise like that, and they very seldom shoot
at big people."
"But if they do?" I queried.
"Oh, well, we must all die once," he laughed.
In another half-hour we passed the second landmark, and were informed
we were again in Montenegrin territory. Our friendly Albanians left
us, and rifles were more carelessly carried.
"What hast thou done?" I asked the fugitive at my stirrup. "Tell me
thy story."
"I am a doomed man; my days are numbered," he said, smiling, and
rolling a cigarette. "But life is sweet, and I wish to live a little
longer."
Strange, this man who was at death's door barely an hour ago, was
smiling and smoking happily as he walked by my side. He had a most
fascinating smile and laughing eyes, and now that the immediate danger
was over he had forgotten it.
"Some months ago in my village, many hours from here, a woman fell in
love with me," he said. "She was beautiful and I loved her too, but
not so much as she loved me, for I feared her. She hated her husband,
who beat her. One evening she came to me when her husband was away and
told me that she loved me and that we would fly together. 'I love thee
as I hate my husband, and see, if thou wilt not do this, I will break
my spinning-wheel before thee.' And I trembled, for now I knew that my
life was doomed. For should I not take her, she must kill me as sure
as there is a God in heaven, and if I fled with her, her husband and
his relations would surely track me down. And she was very beautiful,
and we must all die. So we fled here that same night. What could I
do?" he asked, smiling again.
[Illustration: VELIKA]
"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 his father, 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, who were 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 pointed out 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.
[Illustration: MORINA]
[Illustration: THE FUGITIVE OF VELIKA]
[Illustration: THE VASOJEVICKI KOM]
[Illustration: ALBANIANS AND MONTENEGRINS AT ANDRIJEVICA]
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 Vasojevicki 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, more so, 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 here and 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.