"ONE MORE RIBBER TO CROSS"
The Mayor of Alessio had said that there were lots of horses, if we had
Essad's permission; but the Turkish captain said that there were none,
only at San Giovanni were they to be found. It was pelting with rain,
but Blease and we decided to walk over to explore for ourselves. Jan
first wrote a very stiff letter to the Governor of Scutari about the
non-arrival of the telegram, and off we went, having borrowed oilskins
and sou'westers. The Serb captain insisted on coming with us.
In half an hour the storm had made the stony road into a series of deep
ponds which nearly joined each other, so Jo tucked her now ragged skirt
into a bright woven Serbian belt and walked along with the water
streaming from coat to boots. It became rather a pleasure to splash
through ten-inch deep puddles, knowing that one could not possibly get
any wetter, and this joy was intensified by the knowledge that the
Serbian captain was being soaked and didn't like it.
San Giovanni consists of a series of huts, each like Burns' birthplace,
grouped on the shelving side of a stony cliff. The bay itself is
semi-circular, with a long cape jutting out to the south, the extremity
of which almost always is floating in the air, owing to the mirage. In
the bay were two rusty steamers--one the _Benedetto_, which had been
promised to us by the Italian governor--several old wooden sailers, and
a lot of smallish fishing smacks very brightly painted and with raised
poop and prow. A group of Albanians were toiling at sacks which cumbered
the little wooden jetty.
We immediately hunted out Captain Fabiano, the Italian commander of the
wireless telegraph, and found him in a little house at the northern horn
of the bay. He received us gaily. He spoke an excellent French, so that
the Serbian captain could not butt in and interfere, as was his habit.
Fabiano said that it would take a long time to get a wire to Brindisi,
where we had heard were several ships of the English fleet, very bored
and craving for something to do; we had hoped to get into communication
with them. Then Jan had a brain wave.
"Is not the wind good for Durazzo?" asked he.
"Splendid," said Fabiano, "and no submarines to-day."
"Could we not get a fishing boat?"
"I will send and see."
While we were waiting he told us that he was sheltering the crew of the
ship which had been transporting the English mission's kit. The captain
of the little transport had set fire to the benzine which his boat was
carrying, which act so enraged the submarine captain that he fired three
torpedoes into her, and afterwards mounted his conning tower and fired
ten full clips from his revolver at the swimming men. Luckily revolver
shooting requires much practice. The men had clung to an overturned boat
and had all eventually reached shore, after which they had to march a
day and a half without boots or food, often fording rivers which came to
their waists. Fabiano said that he was going to send them home on the
_Benedetto_.
The captain of the port sent back word that we could have a boat
immediately--much to Fabiano's surprise. But most of the party were at
Alessio. We hurried off to see the captain of the port. Explanations,
certainly when the luggage came; and off went Jan with a guide to get
pack ponies. Halfway back to Alessio was the stable, but the steeds were
not ready, so Jan was ushered up into a top room where was a huge fire,
over which an Albanian was stewing a cormorant with all its feathers on.
There were other Albanians and a very old Montenegrin soldier. He
admired everything English, even Jan's tobacco which he had bought in
Pod.
We got to Alessio and packed everything hurriedly, paid the bill, tipped
an old soldier two dinars, and off. As we passed over the bridge the
clerk came running behind us. We had not paid the bridge fees, he said.
"How much?" asked Jan.
He hesitated.
"Two dinars," said he. He had been talking to the soldier.
Meanwhile Jo and Blease had found refuge in the house of the military
commandant. It was a hovel like all the houses, but they were given a
huge log fire which was built on the mud floor. Their stockings were
soon hanging on a line above the blaze, and their shins were scorching,
while they drank wonderful liqueur which was hospitably poured out by
the beautiful old host.
Turkish coffee was prepared for them by a soldier in a bursting French
fireman's uniform.
The captain's fire was the rendezvous of the village. Amiable and
picturesque people came in and talked about the unhealthiness of the
place, the relative bravery of nations with a special reference to the
courage of Montenegrins, and about the submarine raid and of how the
Austrian captain had repeatedly fired his revolver at the sailors of
the boat he had sunk while they were swimming in the water. Their eyes
were streaming, not with emotion, but because in Montenegro one has no
chimneys.
At dusk the rest of us arrived. The port captain said "To-morrow," so we
climbed up to the inn, examined the stores, a few tins of tunny,
mackerel, and milk, and the thirteen made the best of the bar-room floor
for the night, booted and ready in case a transport for the _Benedetto_
should arrive.
In the morning the captain said we could have the boat that night, and
in the evening he said we could have it in the morning. His excuse was
that the Borra was blowing its hardest, and no sailor could be found to
venture out; but Fabiano said that this was not true.
The real reason was the sleek Austrian torpedo lying on the beach, for
the Dulcinos are famed on the Adriatic coast because of their timidity.
Time passed drearily. The only amusement we had was to go and annoy the
captain of the port by asking when we could have a boat. The wind was
too cold for constitutionals, and we piled on all our clothes and sat on
our knapsacks in the bar-room--for there was no fire--and talked
wistfully of sausages, Yorkshire Relish and underdone beefsteaks.
We had much time for meditation, and pondered over the downfall of
Serbia. Why had the Serbian Government so resolutely refused to make any
territorial concessions to Bulgaria, when it was obvious that the entry
of Bulgaria into the conflict meant the ruin of Serbia? Why had they
permitted the Austrians to build their big gun emplacements on the
Danube without interruption? Why had they not withdrawn to the hills and
then built proper defences with barbed wire entanglements and
labyrinths? for properly entrenched they might have defied the
Austro-German forces for months. Some day, perhaps, these questions may
have to be answered.
One day a party came in. They had passed through Vrntze much later than
we, and we heard that Dr. Berry and an assistant had been seen hurriedly
nailing boards on to the slaughter-house roof. They, too, had come by
the Novi Bazar route. They said that the other routes were deep in snow
and that the sufferings of the army were terrible. That a great portion
had been hemmed in at Prizren, and that the Bulgars had shelled the
passes so that they could not escape. They themselves had escaped the
advancing Austrians by the skin of their teeth owing to good horses.
[Illustration: UNLOADING THE "BENEDETTO," SAN GIOVANNI DI MEDUA.]
The snow came down, driving along the valleys and whitening all the
hills; the cold grew more intense, and the desire for English beefsteaks
became an obsession: one talked of little else--or of Christmas. Food
was becoming scarce. The tinned mackerel was diminishing; some days we
had no bread. We walked once as far as Fabiano's wireless. The men were
living in a shed made of wattle, and the Borra whistled through the
cracks. There was a stove round which we sat while the men gave us tea;
but the warmth it induced in one's face only intensified the feeling of
cold on the back. Outside in the snow was a long-distance telescope, and
peering through one could see the conning tower of the Austrian
submarine, a faint hump on the sea by the southernmost point. As we
returned to the cold hotel we passed the Montenegrin batteries: cannon
too small to be of any use and the gunners of which were all so ill that
they could not handle them.
Two Frenchmen had been in San Giovanni for ten days, and their anxiety
to go was up to fever point. They took it in turns to stand "pour
observer," wrapped up to their noses, in a doorway, watching the
_Benedetto_ in case she should give them the slip. We called them
Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
One night somebody rushed up to their room. Booted, they jumped out of
bed, and ran about overhead. We thirteen scrambled up and intercepted
them between the stairs and the door. "Pour observer, steam-funnel,"
they shouted, and disappeared into the night, followed by their valet
with two hold-alls. They soon came back, very cold, and announced that
steam had been seen issuing from the _Benedetto's_ funnel. They had
rushed to it in an open boat, and had learnt that the _Benedetto_ was
ordered to be in readiness. She fumed quietly for three days, and then
was commandeered by the Serbian Government.
One day we saw a French aeroplane, an old friend of ours. Immediately
every one working in the port tore up hill, men jumped off the big boats
into little ones and rowed like a cinematograph turned double speed.
The commandant roared reassuringly from his attic window, and an officer
tried to beat the men back. Seeing us convulsed with laughter, they
turned sheepishly; but the little boats wagged on, people jumping into
the water as they neared shore.
"Come and sit round my fire," said the commandant. So we again imbibed
coffee and discussed courage. It was explained to us that none of the
men in the boats were Montenegrins, and we politely agreed.
Hearing that a Red Cross party was in the village people came and asked
for medical aid. We explained that we had no doctors, but they begged
us to come and see the invalids.
Doctors and chemists were unobtainable, and soldiers were dying every
day.
We had no hesitation in tackling the Montenegrin soldiers, for at least
we could do no harm, considering that our whole pharmacopœia was a
little boracic, some bismuth capsules, Epsom salts, quinine, iodine, and
one of the party owned a bottle of some patent unknown stuff, against
fever and many other ailments.
We were first taken to the barracks in the evening, scrambling up a
stony hill. The building looked like the disreputable ruins of
somebody's "Folly." Half the roof was off, and the walls were full of
holes. We stumbled up some black steps and entered a huge dark barn with
four log fires down the centre of the room.
Round these were huddled crowds of men. They pulled some rough planks
out of a hole in the wall to let in the sunset light, and the icy Borra
rushed in, playing with the smoke and setting the men to coughing. Here
and there on the ground were long mounds, covered completely with rough
hand-woven rugs. These were the invalids, who moaned as the rugs were
pulled off their faces. A great many had malaria; others had, as far as
we could see, very bad pleurisy; and one old Albanian with rattling
breath was huddled up in a far corner, too miserable to speak.
Whatmough sent for a dribble of camphorated oil he had stored in his
knapsack, "to cheer them up," said he, and rubbed everybody who had pain
and a cough.
"Give them hot drinks," said Jo, in a large way. "Milk or--"
"Milk! There is no milk in Medua," said the sergeant.
"No tinned milk--eggs to be bought?"
"Nothing, no meat; we have not even enough bread, and that is all we
get."
Very depressed, we sent them the remains of our Bovril and some tins of
milk from the tiny hotel store, and bought the last three eggs in the
place.
"Can't you send for more?" we asked.
"The hens are five hours away," said the proprietor, and didn't see why
he should send for eggs even if we paid heavily for them. He had
malaria--and nothing mattered.
We saw our patients daily, and the ones who weren't going to die got a
little better, so this made our reputation. People poured in from the
hills around, and we were much embarrassed. Our white-lipped waiter
confided to each member of the party that he had a lump on his knee.
Every one became very busy and put off looking at it. We discussed it.
What could a lump on the knee be which did not make a busy waiter limp?
And what on earth could we do for him when he wouldn't rest, and we were
reduced to boracic powder and bismuth capsules? We gave him a tube of
quinine, though, for his next attack of malaria.
The longer we rested in San Giovanni the more hopeless seemed the chance
of getting away from it. The Serbian Government was close on our heels,
and once they caught us up, there would be little left for us. That
evening we were sitting with the Frenchmen, it was Monday. They, too,
were depressed, and at last Tweedledum said--
"We shall never reach Paris, we shall be here for ever and ever."
"Oh," said Jan, rashly, "I think we ought to be home in a week."
Dum put on the superior French air, which is aggravating even in a nice
man.
"Vous croyez?" he said.
"I'll bet on it," said Jan.
"A dinner," answered Dum.
"Good," said Jan.
This lent a new interest to life.
The very next day the Frenchmen told us that the Serb Government had
arrived at Scutari; the Montenegrin Governor had telegraphed to
commandeer and keep back the _Benedetto_. We had been forgotten, and the
French boat was to leave at dawn under escort.
She had been strictly forbidden by her owners to take passengers, but
the Frenchmen had arranged through their minister to go by that boat if
she left the first.
Telegraphic communication with the English minister at Cettinje was
practically impossible; the only thing was to appeal to the captain.
First we rushed up the hill, and interviewed Captain Fabiano, who had
already made various efforts to get us off. He promised to try and
influence the French captain.
Then we flung ourselves into a boat and made for the little steamer.
People were looking at something with opera glasses, and our boatmen
took fright and wanted to row straight for land. Jan cursed them so
much, however, that they began to fear us more than imaginary submarines
or aeroplanes, and brought us alongside the vessel.
The captain was ashore, taking a walk; the crew very sympathetically
made contradictory suggestions as to his whereabouts.
At last we caught him. He was nice, but had strict orders, he said, to
take no one.
"But, monsieur," we said, "if we were swimming in the sea, or cast off
on a desert island, you would rescue us."
He admitted it.
"Well, what is the difference? Here we cannot get away; the food is
growing less and less."
He objected that he had no boats, and no life-saving apparatus.
"That is nothing. We must get away from here. We will give you a paper
saying that it is on our own responsibility. In this country one cannot
telegraph, the telegrams never arrive. You know the Balkans."
He smiled.
"Oui, oui, c'est un pays où le Bon Dieu n'a pas passé, ou au moins il a
peut-être passé en aeroplane."
At last he agreed to take us if we could get a letter from Fabiano, and
so take the responsibility from his shoulders. This we got. Fabiano said
"Au revoir, bon voyage" for the fifth time, and at dawn we got a call,
and quitted the bar-room floor for ever. Fabiano wished us "bon voyage"
for the sixth time in the chilly dawn, and we embarked.
The mate, a little round man, greeted us, and in the moments when they
were not rushing about with ropes and chains the cook explained the
Austrian submarine attack.
"You see, monsieur et dame," said he, "they came in over there. The
_Benedetto_ was lying outside of that sandbank, and that is the torpedo
which is lying on the beach. The one aimed at us came straight, one
could see the whorls of the water coming straight at us, but it just
tipped the sandbank and dived underneath our keel. It stuck in the mud
then, and the water boiled over it for a long while."
The mate cut one of the anchors because they were afraid of fouling the
sunken torpedo, and we steamed slowly out from the shelter of the
sandbank.
No escort was visible, and soon the sailors began to look anxious. They
scanned the horizon anxiously. At last one cried, "There she is." Far
away against the western dawn could be seen a thin needle mark of smoke.
In half an hour we were quite close, an Italian destroyer was convoying
a small steamer. The destroyer swung round under our stern, while the
steamer, its funnels set back, raced for San Giovanni looking like a
frightened puppy tearing towards home. The grey warship surged past us,
and out towards the horizon once more, our captain shouting to them that
he could get to Brindisi by midnight. Far away on the sky-line could be
seen the three funnels of a cruiser.
We breakfasted on tinned mackerel, an unlucky dish. The _Harmonie_,
empty of cargo, was like an eggshell in the water. She bounced and
rolled and bounded from wave to wave, half of the time her screw out of
the water. The breakfast did not nourish many. Far on the horizon could
be seen the destroyer and the cruiser sweeping in gigantic circles.
Half a kilometre away a periscope suddenly appeared, then the submarine
dived, rose once more, showing the rounded conning tower, dived, rose
again, like a porpoise at play.
"See," cried the sailors, "how well are we guarded. Outermost the
cruiser, then the destroyer, and innermost the submarine." The cruiser
and destroyer took big sweeps once more and steamed off behind us
towards Cattaro.
Our boat rolled its way from dawn to dusk. We sought refuge in the coal
hole, some lay down in the little officers' cabin. After dark the sea
grew more rough, and splashing over the deck drove even the most ill to
find shelter. Whatmough staggered to the companion, tripped over
something, and fell the length of the stair accompanied by a hard object
which hit him and made hissing sounds like a bicycle pump. He was too
seasick to investigate, but next morning found the ship's tortoise lying
on its back and feebly waving its feet and head.
Then the engines slowly ceased, and there was silence. What had
happened? The steamer gave four timid hoots. The people in the cabin lay
in the darkness wondering if they had broken down, for it was not nearly
midnight. At last the mate came in.
"Why, you're all in the dark," he said.
Some one asked, "When shall we get to Brindisi?"
"We're there," said the mate.
The steamer rocked on the sea, waiting for an escort through the mine
field, lights were sparkling in the distance, and now and then
flashlights cut the dark blue of the sky. Great black ships surged by in
the gloom, ships with insistent queries as to who we were and whence we
came.
At last an escort came: we were berthed and lay about waiting for the
dawn.
Long after day came the doctor, who passed us, and we stepped ashore
saying--
"Thank God we are back in Europe once again."
Two days later San Giovanni was bombarded by an Austrian cruiser, and
all the shipping was sunk, _Benedetto_ and all.
We were heartily welcomed in Brindisi by the English colony, and at the
consul's office learned that the submarine was an Austrian, and that the
cruiser had made the sweep to chase it away. Jo, Miss Brindley, and Jan
went to Rome, where they ere feasted by more English, while at
Milan--where the rest of the party spent the night--a whole theatre
stood and cheered them when they came in.
Jan won his bet by four minutes.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: Route Map of the Authors' Wanderings]
INDEX
Albania, 109, 154, 185
Alessio, 351, 355-359, 362
Andrievitza, 126, 128, 133, 326
Belgrade, 228, 229
Berane, 114, 291, 294, 295, 326
Brindisi, 360, 374
Cattaro, 94, 156
Cettinje, 48, 64, 78, 85, 91, 92, 96, 121, 123, 139, 205, 297, 336, 337
Chabatz, 229
Chainitza, 42, 49, 52, 53, 66
Danilograd, 87
Dechani, 147, 152, 157, 158, 190
Dormitor Mountains, 64, 74, 75
Dreina, 57
Durazzo, 350, 356, 360
Ebar River, 250, 267, 268
Gorazhda, 57, 59
Gotch, 236
Gussigne, 122
Ipek, 114, 122, 124, 132, 134, 143, 144, 145, 154, 175, 294, 330
Jabliak, 64, 70, 74
Jabooka, 129, 131, 330, 331
Jakovitza, 114
Kolashin, 132
Kossovo, 176, 178
Krag, Kragujevatz, 198, 209, 212, 213, 223, 224, 238, 243, 252, 262,
280, 330
Kralievo, 213, 241, 242, 262, 282
Krusevatz, 7, 24, 25, 194, 196, 237, 241
Lapovo, 259
Liéva Riéka, 134, 327, 334
Lim River, 36
Macedonia, 154, 184, 185
Metalka, 51
Mitrovitza, 155, 175, 176, 255, 261, 262, 275, 280, 288, 291, 292, 298
Morava, 1
Negbina, 35
Nickshitch, 66, 80, 83
Nish, 10-14, 20, 21, 40, 190, 235, 236, 275, 279
Novi Bazar, 68, 230, 239, 262, 275, 280, 284, 288, 292, 294
Novi Varosh, 33, 35, 36
Obrenovatz, 228
Plavnitza, 107, 116, 341
Plevlie, 38, 41, 43, 62, 72, 77, 80, 114, 165, 171, 294
Plav, 122
Pod, Podgoritza, 64, 85, 88, 89, 90, 101, 124, 125, 127, 189, 326, 328,
335, 339
Posheravatz, 229
Prepolji, 36, 37, 54
Prizren, 349
Rashka, 257, 259, 265, 275, 279, 300, 308
Rieka, 99, 124
Rudnik, 172, 223
Salonika, 15-17, 20, 44, 46, 190, 193
San Giovanni di Medua, 346, 351, 355, 360
Sanjak, 87, 96, 114, 154, 294
Soutari, 76, 84, 92, 94, 97, 101, 105, 107, 108, 110, 112, 113, 114,
122, 147, 217, 275, 326, 344
Shavnik, 76, 84
Shar Dagh, 180
Sofia, 64
Studenitza, 249, 278
Tara, 68
Tarabosch, 103
Trsternick, 25
Tutigne, 295, 299, 303, 304
Uskub, 14, 18, 180, 182, 183, 184, 186, 225, 238, 275, 288, 291
Uzhitze, 1, 3, 27, 28, 38, 40, 48, 277
Valievo, 295
Vela, 236
Velika, 137
Virbazar, 117
Voinik Mountains, 75
Vranje, 235, 236
Vrbitza, 319
Vrnjatchka Banja, Vrntze, 2, 18, 26, 27, 190, 194, 196, 198, 227,
245, 261
Zaichar, 13, 236
Zlatibor, 31, 33
THE END
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Luck of Thirteen, by Jan Gordon
Cora J. Gordon