We leave Andrijevica--Our additional escort--The arrival at our
camping-place--In an enemy's country--The story of one Gjolic--Our
slumbers are disturbed--Sunrise on the Alps--We disappoint our
escort--"Albanian or Montenegrin?"--A reconnaissance--The Forest of
Vucipotok--The forbidden land--A narrow escape--We arrive at
Rikavac--Rain damps our ardour--Nocturnal visitors.
We left Andrijevica finally one morning about eight a.m. for our many
days' ride along the Albanian frontier to Podgorica. Everyone turned
out to bid us farewell, from the Voivoda, who expressed his regret
that we had seen no one shot, downwards. The Voivoda's son and a small
party accompanied us to the outskirts of the town, where a quaint
notice-board bears the inscription that, on pain of a fine, shooting
is forbidden within the prescribed limits.
Here, after much hand-shaking and promises to come again, we mounted,
and drawing our revolvers, replied right merrily to the farewell
volleys of our friends. It is a pleasant custom that--shooting at
parting.
[Illustration: THE RAVINE OF TERPETLIS]
We rode for two or three hours along the Perusica valley till we came
to a small and scattered village, Konjuhe, where we dismounted for a
rest. It was the birthplace of the Voivoda, and his brother still
lived there. He was immediately sent for. When he heard of our
proposed tour, he insisted on our taking an additional escort (besides
Dr. S., and Stephan our servant, we had engaged another man, named
Milan, in Andrijevica) of at least two men, as the country was just
now in a very dangerous condition. The necessary guard was soon found,
and after a long halt owing to a heavy shower, we were able to proceed
on our way, first carefully loading our rifles and overhauling our
revolvers. Our two men were quite celebrated for a famous raid into
Gusinje, in which they had played an active part a short time ago.
They had killed several Albanians, and captured two hundred sheep. As
the Albanians would shoot them at sight, they seemed hardly fitted to
act as an escort; but then every man from that part is engaged, more
or less, in a blood feud across the border.
We commenced climbing almost directly, and the ascent lasted for the
rest of the day. The scenery was grand. On our right the majestic Kom,
still covered with snow; falling away precipitously to the left was
the deep ravine of Terpetlis, through which a mountain torrent dashed;
and rising high on the other side, and forming the boundary between
Montenegro and Albania, was a magnificent rocky ridge. We dismounted
at one point to breathe our horses, and made our midday meal off wild
strawberries.
Further on we passed from the Vasovic into the Kuc. These two, the
most warlike clans of Montenegro, were formerly under Turkish rule,
and bitter foes. But when war broke out, they forgot their old enmity
and joined hand-in-hand with Montenegro to drive out the still more
hated Turk. Since then they have lived together in peace and harmony.
On nearing our camping-ground for the night, our two guards ran on to
draw the fire from any concealed Albanians, while we followed more
leisurely. The scenery was wild in the extreme, though differing very
slightly from that which we had experienced during the last few weeks.
Great woods stretched half-way down the mountain to the torrent, and
up again on the further side. Immense boulders, with an occasional
tree growing out of a crevice, and every here and there clumps of
firs, every yard affording excellent cover for a hidden enemy.
Our destination was Carina, a collection of stone huts on an open
green slope, which reaches up to the rocky sides of the Kom. It is the
highest point inhabited in Montenegro by the shepherds in the summer,
and lies over five thousand feet above the sea-level. During this
period of the annual migration to the hills, the district is
comparatively safe. The Albanians do not attack large parties, but
rather stragglers, as larger numbers have an unpleasant habit of
organising themselves into avenging bands to repay the visit with
interest.
Not a soul was to be seen anywhere, not a living being of any
description. In a shower of pelting rain we took possession of the
largest hut. It is decidedly annoying to get thoroughly wet at the end
of a long day, and the prospect of a night in damp clothes was in no
way pleasing. The hut was damp and cold, and it had the chilly feeling
which only comes from a long period of emptiness, and strikes to the
marrow. But our men turned to with a will, cleaning out the hut,
strewing it with very wet rushes, and piling up a big log-fire in the
middle. We were pretty hungry, too, a couple of eggs at six a.m. and a
few strawberries at midday are not much to go on, and we had been in
the saddle for over ten hours. Stephan had brought amongst other
things some raw bacon, which he gave me, but, hungry as I was, I could
not face that. Later on, a happy thought struck me, and I went and
toasted it over the fire. I do not recollect ever relishing food so
much in my life. About a couple of hours later a lamb had been
roasted, and we were able to make a decent meal.
It was getting rapidly dark now, and watch had to be kept outside. The
horses were picketed close at hand for fear of wolves, as well as
Albanians. By the time that we had finished eating, night was upon us.
It was pitch dark and no moon. Rather reluctantly I turned out to do
my share of sentry-go in the bitter cold. But it was decidedly
interesting, as one of our party began to tell stories of the usual
blood-curdling nature. On emerging from the hut, I thoughtlessly
remained standing for a few seconds in the low doorway which, as the
fire was blazing brightly inside, showed up my figure strongly against
the surrounding gloom. Before I knew where I was I was roughly seized
by a man and thrown forcibly into the darkness. He intimated that I
must be a fool to court death in that manner. For all we knew, he
said, a dozen Albanians might be hiding around us and waiting for such
an easy shot. And when I was not allowed to smoke, I realised that we
were in an enemy's country.
Watch was kept all night by two men, one sitting on the roof, or on an
elevation which commanded it, and the other patrolling round with a
sharp eye on the horses. The roof must always be watched, for the
Albanians usually creep up and climb on to it--it is always
conveniently low--they then remove a board and shoot the sleeping
inmates.
During my watch I was told the following story, which brings out many
interesting traits of the Montenegrin character.
A certain man named Gjolic, of the tribe of Vasovic, killed two men of
his clan over a love affair, and promptly fled to Gusinje, the country
just opposite Carina, and inhabited by a tribe of Albanians, famed
for their blood-thirstiness and hatred of strangers. The only passport
to their land is crime, and no one but a fugitive from justice can
hope to enter, or leave it, alive. Gjolic swore to have revenge on his
clan, and in this respect he was a notable exception. He came
repeatedly across the border, often in broad daylight, shooting anyone
whom he met. He soon became the terror of the whole Vasovic. In the
neighbourhood of Carina he had shot many shepherds, and last autumn he
murdered a youth of sixteen. This was too much, and two men laid their
heads together. To obtain the necessary right of entrance to Gusinje,
they crossed over into Turkey and deliberately stole a cow, taking
care at the same time that they should be arrested and sentenced to
punishment. Their plan acted admirably, and they effected their
escape, fleeing to Gusinje, where they were received in a friendly
manner. But Gjolic was away, and for six months they waited for him in
patience. At last news came that he was on his way home, and could be
expected on a certain day. So the men went out to meet him, and began
shooting fish in a river where he must pass. Fish shooting is a common
and favourite sport of the people.
"God help you," said a voice, "has your luck been good?"
It was Gjolic who spoke.
"Our luck is good," they answered, and following an imaginary fish
with their rifles, they turned on him.
Crack! Crack! Gjolic was dead.
That scene I shall never forget. The starless night, all round the
land lying enshrouded in impenetrable darkness, the low voice of the
Montenegrin which rose with his excitement, but sank again immediately
to a hoarse whisper, and on the barely discernible roof of the hut a
black figure, with rifle at the ready, sitting motionless.
It was eleven o'clock when I turned in, and the next man took his
rifle and went outside to relieve one of the watchers. A roaring fire
was kept going, for it was very cold, and round it lay the others
sleeping, each with his rifle and revolver by his head. "And we are in
Europe!" I said to myself, as I lay down to sleep, which, in spite of
the mighty snoring of Dr. S., came almost immediately.
It seemed but a few minutes since I had closed my eyes when a shot
rang out, bringing me to my knees in an instant. It is not advisable
to rise quickly in these huts without taking the roof into
consideration, as I had learnt by bitter and repeated experience.
Everyone awoke, except Dr. S., who snored on peacefully. However, I
roughly awoke him, and we all dashed out, rifle in hand.
One of our sentries stood peering into the gloom, and swore that he
had seen a figure moving. We lay down and waited, but nothing came.
Then slowly the day began to dawn, and with it our anxiety diminished.
I went to get a cup of coffee, preparatory to climbing a part of the
Kom. One of our guards, of course, accompanied me. That is the worst
of these districts, we could never move a step without being followed.
It was like being under police surveillance. Furthermore, I should
have preferred to climb with a good stick; but no. Again that iron
control ordered me to take my carbine, and loaded too.
We reached a high ridge just in time to see the sun rise, and it lit
up the snow-clad mountain-tops with an indescribable beauty. But so
much has been written about the splendours of Alpine sunrises that it
is needless to say more about it. Yet it was as beautiful as anything
to be seen in Switzerland or the Tyrol. The ridge commanded a view in
both directions. The Albanian Alps and the mountains behind the Moraca
lay before us in one vast panorama, the latter looming up so close
that it was difficult to believe that so many days' hard riding lay
between us.
After climbing one of the lower peaks, we descended again to our hut,
which we reached shortly after six. Everyone was busy, washing,
packing up, or even sleeping, which is an equally important business.
To snatch half an hour's sleep here and there is an enviable art, and
cannot be overrated. But, perched on a low stone wall, sat a guard all
the time. Daylight does not imply safety.
After breakfast, luxurious with toasted bacon, I emerged from the hut
to find an excited group outside, one of whom was even lying down and
aiming.
"He is watching us. It is far better that we should finish him now
than allow him to go on and report our movements," said the man,
fingering his trigger lovingly.
On looking I saw an Albanian about six hundred yards away, half hidden
behind a boulder. The idea of shooting a man in this way did not seem
quite sporting, and Dr. S. agreed with me. The men were extremely
disappointed at our refusal to allow them to shoot. "He will follow us
till we reach the wood," they said, "and then we shall repent it." The
Albanian shortly afterwards disappeared, and we proceeded with our
packing.
About eight o'clock we left Carina, and had rather an unique
experience in riding across several large snow fields which were quite
hard, though the horses decidedly disliked the experiment. About an
hour's ride brought us to a tiny church, solidly built of stone and
standing on a ridge overlooking the whole country. It is used by the
shepherds who migrate annually to the pasturages in this district.
Only a few months ago the Albanians had broken into it and utterly
dismantled it. On the iron door and on the shutters huge dents and
even bullet splashes were plainly visible. Our Albanian we found here
awaiting us, which was a plucky thing to do. Our guards hailed him
with the cry of "Albanian or Montenegrin?" But he answered, "Friend."
I think that our men showed him our rifles rather ostentatiously, and,
as we were all armed with magazines and had plenty of ammunition, he
must have thought that we should scarcely afford the desired sport. We
did not see him again, though he took the same path which we were
going to take. This incident put us very much on our guard, and we
made preparations for the further journey with mixed feelings. Before
us lay the dense wood of Vucipotok, which is the most ill-famed spot
in Montenegro. It stretches unbrokenly down to Gusinje, and the bridle
path which traverses it is the border line between the two countries.
It was then settled that a guard and myself should climb a small hill
overlooking the wood and its approach. However, we saw nothing, and
soon rejoined our party. Before entering the wood, in the open, were
two or three stones erected to murdered men--it is customary in
Montenegro to put up either a pile of stones or a slab of rock where
the body has been found. Inscriptions on the stones are very rare, the
Vucipotok is too dangerous to waste much time in it, but wherever
these stones are seen, a dead man, as often as not headless, has been
found. Such memorial stones are to be found all over the country, but
not in such plentiful profusion as we saw them now.
Everyone dismounted, and with rather uncanny feelings we entered the
forest. First of all went one of our escort, and then in single file,
about ten paces apart, we followed. Rifles were held at the ready, and
every boulder and tree carefully scanned. The path was atrocious,
strewn with great stones, so that walking was no easy matter. When a
particularly large boulder was reached, we would halt under its
shelter to enable the horses to come up--they were following behind
under the charge of one man. We did not exactly stroll through that
wood.
Every few paces stood a memorial stone. There was one put up to the
memory of ten Montenegrins who were all shot down without seeing their
enemy. Everyone shoots at sight here, and had we met our Albanian
friend of the early morning, matters would have gone sadly with him.
At one point I insisted on taking a photograph--much to everyone's
disgust. The spot was where a famous Kuc general had been murdered.
His head was taken in triumph to Scutari. Oddly enough, we ate our
midday meal at his grave, for his friends took his body away from
here and buried it in an open place directly overlooking the valley of
Gusinje. I was rather hurried over the operation, as the Montenegrins
distinctly objected to standing still, but they were all very tickled
about it.
[Illustration: THE PATH THROUGH THE VUCIPOTOK]
The Vucipotok is used by young Montenegrins as a means of showing
their bravery. They go straight through it alone, with their rifles
over their backs, smoking cigarettes. This constitutes an act of
reckless daring in their eyes. Some even go through, at some distance
from the path, on the Albanian side. We met one young man leading his
horse and strolling along as unconcernedly as though he were in
Cetinje--so that we almost felt that we were being unduly impressed
with a sense of danger. But afterwards we met another party who were
proceeding with greater caution than we were. And then there were
those memorial stones.
At last the wood ceased, and in a clearing we made a halt. Our
Montenegrins looked relieved. For themselves they have no fear, but
had one of us been hit, the disgrace for them would have been
unspeakable. It would have necessitated a raid into Albania of the
most extensive kind, and hundreds might have fallen; the Montenegrins
guard their visitors as they guard their honour, and in that case,
life is only a secondary matter.
We now climbed a very steep hill. At the top we had to dismount, as a
narrow path, just wide enough for a horse, skirted along a great
precipice, looking straight down about one thousand feet. It was a
wonderful view, but not to be recommended to those suffering in any
way from giddiness.
We overlooked the great Vucipotok wood through which we had just
passed, and the whole valley of Gusinje. When we reached a place where
we were able to turn round with comfort, we stopped for the view. A
long, narrow valley, inclosed by the Procletia or "Damnable
Mountains," through which a river could be seen flowing, lay at our
feet. This was Gusinje, the forbidden land. With the aid of
field-glasses the town of Gusinje itself could be just distinguished,
a square and apparently walled-in town.[4] Very picturesque it looked
in the bright sunshine, the great green woods in the foreground, the
solemn and majestic snow mountains and the peaceful valley. Yet it is
inhabited by the most villainous and treacherous cut-throats in
Europe, an absolutely untameable tribe, who would die to the last man
to preserve their independence.
[Footnote 4: This, however, is not the case, as we afterwards learnt.]
When the path broadened out slightly our two guards left us and
returned home. Both emptied their magazines into the air at parting,
which we answered, and the din was tremendous. Below us was a small
village or collection of shepherds' huts, and, in that moment,
confusion reigned supreme. The men seized their rifles, the women
rushed into the huts, dogs barked, and horses stampeded. It seemed
rather thoughtless to thus alarm the village, but, on being
remonstrated with, the men only laughed and fired another shot. Had it
been a town below us the result might have been more serious.
A little further on, we stopped for rest and food at a narrow pass
overlooking Gusinje on the one side and Montenegro on the other. The
murdered Kuc general, whose memorial stone we had seen earlier in the
day, was buried here. Strange that his body should find its last
resting-place overlooking the home of his murderers.
By using the Montenegrin telephone (the art of talking at great
distances), we ordered some milk from the village below, and drank it
with that enjoyment which is only known to a thoroughly hungry and
thirsty man.
Our afternoon's ride was again particularly stiff. Climbing one hill,
Dr. S., who was leading, missed the path, a very easy thing to do, so
undefined as it sometimes is. He got on to a very steep and rocky bit
of the hill and his horse lost its footing. It began stumbling and
slipping about in a most alarming manner. We held our breath for the
next few seconds, for a long fall was in store for him, and certain
death. He tried to dismount, and succeeded in getting off his horse,
but his foot stuck in the stirrup, the horse still sliding on.
Fortunately, the animal recovered its balance, and Dr. S. extricated
himself, but it was a nasty moment. That is the worst of the
Montenegrins; they rely so implicitly on the sure-footedness of their
ponies that they ride up anywhere, only condescending to dismount for
very steep descents. And accidents often happen when horse or man, or
even both, are killed; but this presumable laziness affords no example
to others.
About five p.m. we began anxiously inquiring the whereabouts of our
night quarters. The usual Montenegrin _quart d'heure_ was given--and
rightly enough. A sharp descent, lasting over an hour, made painfully
on foot, saw us in a great hollow basin among the mountains, with the
pretty lake of Rikavac at the further end and a small collection of
wooden huts.
To these we proceeded and were met by the village Fathers. Dr. S. was
well known here and they had recognised him coming down. Five dear old
boys they were, who kissed Dr. S. most affectionately, one unshaven
old ruffian including me in his salute. I do not appreciate the
Montenegrin custom of kissing among men; it is not pleasant. An empty
hut was immediately put at our disposal. It was the most primitive
and tumble-down habitation that we had had as yet. Of course it
rained. It was almost the first rain on the trip, and we had to lie up
here a whole day as P. was unwell and unable to ride. Everyone turned
out to make the hut comfortable, but it was not a success. I lay down
outside and promptly fell asleep, when a sharp thunderstorm came on
and drove me inside. There was not a dry corner to be found. The rain
came through in steady rivulets everywhere. There was no getting away
from those persistent little streams, either head, body, or feet had
to suffer--and the fire refused to burn. Added to that, the whole
population crowded in to look at us. It was no fun at all Stephan
stood cursing in German that he could not get near the fire to cook,
and that he would not cook at all if the mob were not cleared out.
This Dr. S. refused to allow, as it would be considered inhospitable.
In course of time the rain stopped and our visitors left us, but only
temporarily. Stephan cooked and we went outside to dry ourselves. The
food was then ready, and after putting away a good meal we were able
to view the world with more equanimity.
After supper it came on to rain again and damped us thoroughly before
going to bed. I was very annoyed to find, after having discovered as I
fondly imagined a dry corner, that one of my pockets was full of
water. I should not have been so irritated had my tobacco been in
another pocket; it was a leather coat and held the water beautifully.
Then we tried to go to sleep. My pillow was a stone, like Jacob's, and
though I tried covering it with my coat it was of no avail, since the
cold forced me to put it on again. I do not mind a hard bed, but a
hard pillow is distinctly objectionable. We were just on the point of
sleeping when in stalked two men for an after-supper smoke and chat,
and one of them, to P.'s intense disgust, sat on his feet. It cost Dr.
S. all his diplomacy to hint that we had been up since three a.m. and
were disinclined to talk.