A modern hero, and our sojourn under his roof--Keco's story--The laws
of Vendetta and their incongruity--We return to Podgorica--The
Montenegrin telephone--An elopement causes excitement--The Sultan's
birthday--The reverse of the picture--A legal anomaly.
"At Fundina," said Dr. S., "you will meet one of the modern heroes of
Montenegro. A man named Keco, whose fame has reached to the uttermost
ends of the land."
We had bidden farewell to our host and were riding past the last
houses and huts of the clan of Zatrijebac on our way to Fundina. The
path tended downwards, and shortly the great plain of the Zeta burst
suddenly into view as we rounded a corner of the mountains. Beyond lay
the Lake of Scutari with its background of mountains.
It was early in the evening when we reined in our horses before a
modest stone house and dismounted. It was Fundina, a straggling
village built on the sloping sides of a mountain from which it takes
its name.
Voivoda Marko, the hero of Medun, defeated the Turks on these slopes
in the first engagement of the last war, successfully inaugurating
the campaigning which secured to Montenegro all the territory through
which we had been riding for so many weeks, including the towns of
Podgorica and Niksic, and the great valley now stretched at our feet.
Podgorica lies like an oasis of green trees on the rolling, but
treeless, plain.
The Albanian border is but a rifle-shot away, and the village of Dinos
and the fortress of Tusi are plainly to be seen.
We decided to spend the night here and hear Keco's story, though
Podgorica was only three hours' distance. It would be a fitting finish
to our mountain tour to sleep on the battlefield of Fundina, and in
the house of a modern hero.
"I warn you," remarked the doctor, "that Keco much belies his deeds by
his appearance."
Keco was not in his house when we arrived, and we had our ceremonial
and inevitable black coffee brought to us on a small natural platform
of rock overlooking the magnificent valley.
Shortly afterwards a small and insignificant man approached us, with
haggard looks and grey hair. He greeted the doctor effusively.
"This is Keco," said Dr. S.
As he took the tobacco tin which was proffered him his hands trembled
so excessively that the rolling of a cigarette was a work of art.
"His nerves are gone," explained the doctor. "He lives in hourly
danger of his life."
Keco soon left us to prepare our meal and quarters for the night, and
it was not till after supper, when we were seated round the fire in
his little house and smoking, that he would consent to tell his story.
Even then he spoke at first reluctantly, but soon warmed to his
subject. His wife was always present and looked anxious. Several men
were in the room.
"Though my hands tremble and my hair is growing white," he began, "yet
I do not fear death. We must all die, and I know that my fate must
speedily overtake me. This house I have built for my wife, and stocked
with what money I had, to provide for her. They shall not kill me
easily. Twice have they tried. The first time I was in the fields when
men fired at me from a long distance. I took my rifle and made a
detour, and, as my enemies recrossed the border, I was there waiting
for them. But I did not hit one. Another time seven men hid themselves
only thirty yards away from my house, in the evening, but they dared
not shoot then, for my wife was by my side."
"You know," explained the doctor, "the life of a woman is sacred;
should a woman by the greatest accident shoot a man, the vendetta
falls on her husband--she may not be touched; or, should a woman be
killed in a vendetta, even by the merest accident, the shame would be
unspeakable. The murderers and their families, or even their clan,
would be blotted out, for in such revenge all would join. Keco's wife
never leaves his side after dusk, and, you see, she has saved his life
once already within his knowledge; who knows how often unawares?"
"Tell us the origin of thy blood-guiltiness," said we. Dr. S. had told
us the story, but we wished to hear it from his lips.
"I had a cow which was my pride," went on Keco. "She yielded more milk
than any other cow and of a far better quality. Men praised the milk
and the cheese when I took it to the market in Podgorica for sale, and
none more than Achmet, a Turk from Dinos.
"One morning I went to milk my cow, and could find her nowhere. My
most treasured possession was gone. I searched for her all that day
and the next on the mountain sides, but in vain. On the next market
day as I wandered gloomily across the market-place of Podgorica,
Achmet, the Turk, accosted me.
"'Where is thy milk?' he asked, 'which is so wonderful, and where are
thy marvellous cheeses?'
"I replied that I knew not, and would have passed on.
"'Make thy mind easy,' continued Achmet, an evil smile spreading over
his face, 'for I have thy cow.'
"'Ah! she has strayed across the border,' I cried. 'Thank God she is
found.'
"'She strayed across the border,' said Achmet, 'but under my guidance.
Thou hast not lied. Her milk is indeed of the good quality that thou
hast boasted. For a Christian dog like thee she is far too good.'
"To this hour I wonder that I did not strike him dead. My rage
rendered me powerless to move or see. It was as if a black cloud
descended over my eyes. When I recovered, Achmet was gone.
"For many weeks I went to the Law Court whenever I visited the market,
demanding the restitution of my cow by legal means, and each time was
I put off by answers and promises. And Achmet was always on the
market-place taunting me with tales of the cow and her calf. For she
had calved. But the law is strict, and I never dared shoot him whilst
in the town, and this the coward knew.
"When I saw that I should get no help from the law, I took two men
from this village. They are here in this room," he said, pointing to
two men seated near us. "And one morning I went across to Dinos. I did
not go at night, like the thief, but when the sun was highest, and
when all could see me. I left my comrades outside Achmet's house, and
went in alone. There I found my cow and her calf, but only the women
were present. So I drove the cow and the calf out of the door towards
my comrades. Then, lest any should think that I was afraid, I fired my
rifle into the air. Very soon the men came running from the fields,
and amongst them Achmet and his son. When they saw me and my cow, they
came towards me firing, but being unsteady from running, the bullets
flew wide. Then I took careful aim and shot Achmet dead, and then his
son. We then ran quickly, and though men pursued us, they were afraid
to come too near lest I should shoot them likewise, and so we came
back to Fundina in safety. Since then the men of Dinos wait for me,
and they will kill me soon, for the insult is very great that I have
put upon them, and the fame of my deed has travelled into all lands."
As he said this his eyes lit with fire, and the spirit of heroism
shone out in the seemingly timid-looking man.
"Must thou stay here, in Fundina?" I asked, "where thy enemies are so
near. Why not go to Cetinje or Niksic?"
"Men know me for a hero," he answered proudly. "What would they say if
I ran away and sought safety elsewhere? I should be a double coward,
for I should leave my brothers to inherit my fate. No, I shall wait
here till they come, and they shall not find me unprepared or
sleeping. See, every night I make my bed in a different place,
sometimes in one room of the house, sometimes in the bushes outside.
They never know where I shall sleep, for these dogs love to kill their
enemy in the night."
Silence fell upon us as Keco finished. The wood fire crackled and
flickered, lighting up fitfully the serious faces of the men sitting
round.
Half guessing our thoughts, Keco said--
"To-night no attack will be made. We shall keep guard outside."
We felt abashed. We confess thoughts of a nocturnal assassination had
not pleased us, and yet these wild mountaineers had already provided
for such a contingency. When we went outside the house before turning
in, Dr. S. pointed out the figure of a motionless sentinel leaning on
his rifle some little distance away.
"It is odd that the women are so respected," I remarked to the doctor,
"when no other law seems recognised. Do they never take part in a
vendetta?"
"Never as a woman," said the doctor. "If it should happen that a woman
is the last surviving member of a family, the rest having been killed
in a vendetta, she may continue the feud, but as a man. She then
assumes the clothes of the opposite sex, procures arms and cuts
herself off from the world, living as a hermit. Do you remember that
Albanian woman at Easter time in Podgorica who kissed me so
fervently?"
We nodded, for we had been much amused at the scene. A wild-looking,
unkempt Albanian woman had kissed the doctor most effusively.
"Though she had assumed the woman's garb for the Easter festival, she
is to all intents and purposes a man, and hence the man's kiss of
peace. She then asked me for a revolver which I had promised her some
time ago."
We turned in soon after, but not before we heard another story.
Two cairns on the road to Plavnica, and but half an hour from
Podgorica, had often been pointed out to us. They were erected to the
memory of an attack made on four gendarmes in connection with a
long-standing vendetta. A party of Albanians had hidden themselves in
two hollows beside the main road at night and as the gendarmes passed
they fired into them, killing one and badly wounding two others. This
happened shortly before our arrival.
Another scene had been enacted a few days ago which they now related
to us, to prevent us perhaps thinking too much of Keco's story, and
dreaming of it.
The men of the Zeta had sworn revenge for the death of their gendarme,
a famous man and great favourite, but at the time Prince Nicolas had
sternly forbidden reprisals. But such things are not forgotten, and a
man had crossed the Zem into Albania. Coming on a party of men working
in a field, he had fired, but his aim was unsteady, and he only
wounded his intended victim slightly. Then he fled, hotly pursued, and
received a bad wound as he crossed an open space. Still he managed to
elude his pursuers for the time being, and reached the River Zem. Here
his strength failed him and he clung, half fainting from loss of
blood, to the bushes fringing the bank, unable to go any further. In
this position a man of the clan Hotti found him, as he was coming
along the river. Having heard the shots and seeing a bleeding
Montenegrin, he put two and two together and promptly shot him. The
other Albanians, directed by the report, now came up, and literally
hacked the corpse to pieces. So the Zeta peasants are now two deaths
to the bad. In conclusion, we were told that the authorities have
reason to believe that the murdered man had been accompanied by others
on his raid into a friendly country and were seeking for these men
most diligently to punish them severely.
For their violating the border laws?
No, for deserting their comrade, and leaving him to meet his death
alone, and the sentence for this craven deed is ten years.
Next morning we rode into Podgorica, and comparative civilisation,
after a period of roughing it of the hardest description. We had often
gone from five a.m. till seven or eight p.m. on a couple of eggs and
an occasional glass of milk, and had hard going all the time. It
proved to us pretty conclusively how we of civilised lands
disgustingly and habitually overeat ourselves.
We finished considerably harder and more fit than at the start, and we
had lived the whole time as the Montenegrins of the mountains live.
One remarkable gift of which these mountaineers are possessed, and
which deserves special remark, is that of long-distance talking. Men
can speak with each other in the higher altitudes at distances of five
miles and more, where our ears could hardly distinguish a faint sound
of the human voice. Children are accustomed to it at an early age, and
the quaint sight of a mother conversing with her child guarding some
sheep on a neighbouring hillside is often to be witnessed. This gift
must be acquired young, it seems, for Dr. S., who has lived twelve
years amongst the Montenegrins, could neither make himself heard, nor
understand, though he said that he had given himself much pains to
learn the art.
As we rode into Podgorica that morning, we were struck by meeting
several groups of the Turkish inhabitants hanging about outside the
town. Arriving in the town, only Montenegrins were to be seen in the
streets, walking somewhat ostentatiously up and down, their natural
swagger greatly exaggerated. The news of the elopement of another
Turkish maiden soon reached us, and that day at dinner, an officer,
detailed to prove the matter, told us the story.
A young Montenegrin had won the heart of the maiden, and accompanied
by a friend, he had gone to the wall of her house and given a
preconcerted signal. The girl had come, but a dispute now arose
between the men as to who should ultimately marry her, and she, in
great disgust, had told them to go away and settle the matter. It
seems that the girl had no particular wishes as to whom she should
marry. At last the friends arranged matters satisfactorily and the
girl was abducted, if one can call an elopement an abduction. However,
in the eyes of the Turks it was a forcible abduction, and the fact
that the girl was related to the most influential Turk in the town did
not improve matters. The Beg had demanded the restitution of the girl
at once and punishment of the offenders. The Prince had sent officials
to settle the dispute. The girl, however, very naturally refused to be
given back, as she would probably have been killed, and insisted on
her baptism and marriage taking place forthwith.
As the officer said to us--
"This is a free country, and we shall not give back the maiden against
her will."
This had incensed the Turks beyond measure. The town was being
patrolled nightly, and the Beg attempted flight to mark his anger. But
this the Prince would not allow, and the Beg was stopped by gendarmes
as he was entering a carriage one night. Only if he first gave up his
orders, decorations, and his sword of honour, and, furthermore, took
his wives and belongings with him, could he leave the country.
Such was the state of affairs on our return. At night we went armed,
and really had hopes of seeing a street fight. One evening a shot was
fired in the town, and in the twinkling of an eye men turned out rifle
in hand. Nothing came of it, and the crowd of several hundred armed
Montenegrins slowly dispersed. Had further shots been fired, we were
told, the peasants from far and near would have taken up the alarm,
and in an hour thousands would have flocked into the town. No wonder
the Turks were chary of taking revenge into their own hands.[8]
[Footnote 8: Again, since writing the above, this statement has been
fully proved. In February, 1902, a party of Turkish soldiers, half
starved in their frontier block-houses, attempted a raid into
Montenegro. They were accompanied by a brother of the famous Achmet
Uiko; whose story has been related elsewhere. In spite of the caution
which the raiders displayed, the news reached Podgorica as soon as
they had crossed the border and seemingly eluded the vigilance of the
Montenegrin frontier guards. A party of Montenegrins lay in wait for
them in Dr. S.'s summer garden (a spot where we had often spent many
pleasant hours) and the Turks were challenged. As an answer the
marauders fired at their unseen challengers, doing no harm, but an
answering volley killed two of them. The rest were captured, one only
making good his escape, and were brought into the town. But the
volleys had alarmed the whole district, hundreds of men pouring into
Podgorica from all the neighbouring villages and hills, till many
thousands had assembled.
--Cetinje, March, 1902.]
But the mischief done was great. Many families emigrated, much to
Prince Nicolas' anger, for he encourages by every means in his power
the extension of the Turkish population. They bring trade and
cultivate the lands far more diligently than the Montenegrin warriors.
So it was that we witnessed during these few days the festival of the
Sultan's birthday, which seemed strangely incongruous considering the
mixed feelings of the inhabitants.
In the morning, all the town officials called on the Turkish Consul.
The militia were formed up and the whole, led by the Montenegrin War
Banner, proceeded in solemn procession to the principal mosque. On
their return, a royal salute was fired from a bastion of the old wall,
and in the evening the town was illuminated.
It was an extraordinary sight, and one not easily to be forgotten. All
the houses stuck candles in every window, by order of the Prince; the
market-place and the War Memorial were covered with lamps, but the
most striking feature of all was the illumination on a small hill
immediately behind the old town. This hill overlooks the town, and was
covered by rows of lamps. In the streets Turks, Albanians, and
Montenegrins jostled each other; at peace, at any rate, for one
evening.
A day or two later, a very different spectacle could have been
witnessed. The main street leading to the church on the outskirts of
the town was lined by waiting Montenegrins, and not a Turk was to be
seen. Soon a carriage drove rapidly from the church, with a blushing
Montenegrin girl and a gold-embroidered Montenegrin at her side. It
was the late Turkish maiden, now a radiant Montenegrin bride and
Christian. Several Turks had been caught endeavouring to approach the
church with revolvers concealed, but were promptly turned back.
And so ended an eventful week.
One day, quite by accident, we discovered the arrest-house, or place
where prisoners are detained pending their trial and sentence. We were
passing a door which led down by a few steps into a courtyard, when an
acquaintance of ours accosted us.
We went inside and spoke to him for some minutes. He was a merry
individual and a clerk in a Government office.
He requested us to bring our camera and photograph him on the next
day. Then he moved and a chain clanked. Neither of us had realised
that this was a prison till that moment, though we had passed that
door many times.
Next day we came again, and took a picture of our genial friend, whom
we found seated and playing the gusla to a crowd of other prisoners,
some exceedingly heavily chained.
One or two guards came up and we spent an hour in a pleasant chat.
Our friend was only "in" for a few days for making a rude remark about
the Chief of Police. The chained men were mostly murderers, if we may
use such a harsh term for those who are compelled to kill their
enemies by the relentless laws of the vendetta, and who would be
punished by the laws of man should they prove themselves guilty of
cowardice.
The vendetta in Montenegro is a legal anomaly. Men are punished in
either case.