A LANDSLIP IN THE HILLS
On the eastern side of the swamp the ground rose so gradually that it
was possible, for the first time since the escape from the _kula_, to
start the engine. The car’s easy motion surprised and delighted the
Albanians, who ran along beside it with cries of admiration. Giulika
himself, old as he was, kept as good a pace as the younger men, and
when Maurice invited him to enter the car he declined.
“Never in my life have I been carried by anything but a horse,” he
said, “and I am too old to try new things. Nothing but a horse shall
carry me until I am borne to my grave.”
After a time the path again became steep and rough, and the pace had to
be moderated.
“How far are we from the river?” asked Maurice.
“About an hour’s march,” replied Zutni, who was more familiar with this
part of the country than Giulika. “The track is very bad.”
“Shall we not come to a valley?”
“No, excellence. The river runs between high rocky cliffs. There are
but few places where we can get to the water.”
“And will the horsemen come to the track we are following?”
“They must. But it is a long way round, and, if we do well, we may
reach the river before they discover us. But it is a very bad track.”
It proved, indeed, to be even more difficult than any they had formerly
traversed. Again their progress was checked at every few yards, either
by an abrupt bend that demanded the most careful manœuvring, or by a
narrowing of the path between a perpendicular wall on one side and a
yawning chasm on the other. To keep the engine going was only a useless
expenditure of petrol, except when mounting an incline. At one spot
the ascent was so steep that the car had to be lifted by the whole
party and hoisted over a sharp ridge. Progress was terribly slow. The
sun was now high in the heavens, and its rays were reflected with
scorching heat from the rocks. The Englishmen began to feel sick and
dizzy. Their boots, soaked through during their passage of the morass,
were torn into shreds by hard marching over the rugged ground, and both
felt that if they did not soon gain the river, they would be incapable
of continuing their journey without a prolonged rest; then all hope
of escaping Slavianski must be abandoned, and when once again in his
clutches they would hardly win release.
They struggled on. Then, rounding a bend in the narrow track, they saw
themselves faced with an insurmountable obstacle. To the right was a
craggy precipice, to the left a steep and rugged hill-slope. A mass of
earth, loosened, apparently, by rains, had slid down the slope across
the path, blocking it to the height of several feet. Even the Albanians
were aghast.
“It is God’s will,” said Giulika, with the fatalism of his race. “God
sent rain that washed the earth down. The way is blocked for ever. No
man will reach the Drin by this path again.”
“Is this the path by which the Austrians must come?” asked Maurice.
“Certainly it is; there is no other,” was the reply. “We must go back
and meet them, or, if you please, stay here and shoot; we can kill a
good many of them before we ourselves are killed.”
Maurice consulted with his brother.
“The question is, are you willing to be collared again?” said George,
when he understood the position. “I am not, I tell you frankly. There
will have to be a fight, and it’s not our fault; they fired at us. If
any of these fellows have pluck enough to keep Slavianski off while the
rest of us work, I don’t see why we shouldn’t cut a way through this
obstruction--it’s loose earth.”
Maurice put the suggestion to Giulika and Zutni, and with them examined
the position. It was clear that, posted behind the rocks at the bend
in the path, a few bold spirits could hold a regiment at bay. Screened
from sight themselves, they would have the enemy in full view, and as
these approached the bend they would be completely at the mercy of the
hidden marksmen. The Albanians, accustomed to mountain warfare, grasped
the possibilities of the situation; their only doubt was whether the
obstructing bank of earth could be cut through in time, but they were
ready to make the attempt.
Accordingly a division of the party was made. Zutni and a few of the
best marksmen posted themselves behind convenient rocks; the rest, with
assistance from the Englishmen, set to work with knives and rifles
to cleave a way through the obstacle. It was arduous work, lacking
proper implements, and with the sun beating upon them in all its midday
strength. As George pointed out, the gyro-car needed only a narrow
passage, and if the enemy could be held off for an hour or two the task
might be accomplished.
Some ten minutes after they had begun work, there was a crack from
Zutni’s rifle. Slavianski and his party, approaching on horseback
in single file, at once came to a halt. The Albanians among them
recognised that they had the worst of the position, and though as
yet only one shot had been fired, they guessed that there were
other marksmen lurking behind the rocks. They dismounted and held a
consultation, their perfectly-trained horses standing stock-still.
Presently the man next to Zutni caught sight of the muzzle of a rifle
edging round the bend, and then the arm of the Albanian holding the
weapon. Keeping his eye fixed on the slowly-moving objects, the
watcher bided his time. Then there was a crack and a flash: the rifle
dropped from the hand of the advancing enemy on to the path. The arm
disappeared. But in a few moments the fallen rifle was drawn slowly
backward by an unseen hand.
Save for the noise of the shots, and the sounds made by the men in
clearing the path, the silence of that mountain solitude had hitherto
been scarcely broken. Now an eagle, which had been startled by the
crack of the rifles, flew over the place with a hoarse scream, and
there broke in upon it the voice of Count Slavianski urging the
Albanians, in their own tongue, to make a dash upon the fugitives.
Maurice smiled when he heard the answer, roared in so loud a tone that
it was plain the Count was some distance behind his vanguard.
“You are our leader, excellence,” cried the men. “We follow you.”
It was not surprising that the mountaineers were reluctant to advance.
They knew from what had happened already that the first man to show
himself round the corner would be shot before he could see his enemy
to make a target of him. And there was a delicious irony in the man’s
retort that pleased Maurice. The Count, however courageous he might
be--and the Englishmen had had no reason to doubt his courage--was
debarred from undertaking the office of leader by the narrowness of the
path. It was blocked by the men and horses of his party, and no change
could be made in the order of their advance, unless they were willing
to retrace their steps for some distance, to a spot where a cleft in
the rocky hill-side would permit them to turn without falling over the
precipice. But this plan had apparently not yet occurred to them, for
Slavianski continued his exhortations, which led to an altercation that
became increasingly acrimonious.
Meanwhile the men of Giulika’s party had been working like navvies,
or rather, with much more alacrity than George had ever seen English
navvies display. The discussion beyond the bend was still proceeding
when a narrow passage for the gyro-car was completed.
“It is done, praise God!” cried Giulika, who, in spite of his years,
had toiled as hard as any of the younger men. “Now I will tell my
English friends what they must do. We cannot all go at once, because
when those Moslem pigs beyond discover our absence they will follow at
once, and we shall have gained nothing. It will be best for you to go
on with your machine, while we remain to hold the path. Giorgio, poor
unlucky one, is no good as a fighter until his wounds be healed: he
will guide you.”
“Is it much further to the Drin?” asked Maurice.
“Not a great way, and presently the road will be easier. This track
runs into a broader path when you come within sight of the Drin, and
you will be able to make your machine buzz.”
“And you can hold the path behind us?”
“Surely we can. You have seen how slow those infidels are to face our
bullets. Without doubt we can keep them back until our cartridges are
all spent.”
Clearly the plan suggested by the old man was the best in the
circumstances. George vaulted into the car to manipulate the brakes,
the path now becoming a gradual descent, and Maurice and Giorgio walked
ahead.
For some two miles they threaded their way between bluffs and
precipices. There was no sound of firing behind them, which Maurice
regarded as a favourable sign. But to his surprise Giorgio became more
and more uneasy. Every now and again he stopped to listen, and to scan
the path behind and the country around, where a view was possible.
“What are you troubled about?” asked Maurice.
“Why are there no shots, excellence?” Giorgio asked, in return.
“I suppose our pursuers are still considering whether to try to force
the pass or not.”
“Ah no! Look!” cried Giorgio, pointing to the left.
Following the direction of his outstretched finger, George and Maurice
saw, far above them on the skyline, perhaps a mile distant, a series of
specks moving in the same direction as themselves.
“That is why there are no shots, excellence,” said Giorgio. “They must
have gone back to a narrow gorge that runs up into the mountains, a
very bad path, but shorter than this one. It leads to the road my
grandfather spoke of. If they get there first they can block our way
to the Drin. But the road there is pretty good, and if you make the
machine buzz loud, you can dash into them and throw them over the
cliff, horses and all.”
“We had better get there first, if we can,” said Maurice, repeating to
George what he had just heard.
“We must make a dash for it, and take our chance,” said George. “I’m
not going to be collared again. Get into the car, old boy, and Giorgio
too. The path isn’t so bad as it was, and if we don’t get a puncture we
shall do very well.”
Maurice mounted to his seat beside his brother. There was no proper
accommodation for a third person in the car, but Giorgio crouched in
the narrow space between the seats and the gyroscopes. George started
the engine, and the car began to gather away. The Albanian, stolid and
iron-nerved as he was, gasped with dismay as the vehicle ran down the
incline, bumping a little when, in spite of George’s careful steering,
it crossed a hollow or a knob of rock. The path began to switchback.
Then it was a series of rushes at the up grades and scrambles down the
slopes on the other side, with the brakes hard on. George knew well
that a few yards of specially bumpy ground might break a spring or
puncture a tyre; but the risk seemed to him negligible by comparison
with the greater risk of being intercepted. More than once he felt the
indescribable movement of the rear wheels that betokened skidding, and
he could not repress a shudder as he recognised how the swerving of an
inch or two to the right must plunge them over the chasm. But he set
his teeth and kept a firm grip on his levers, and after nearly half an
hour of this perilous driving he saw with joy that the path left the
rocky face of the cliff, and ran into a wider and more level track.
They looked ahead. No one was in sight. They looked behind, along
the narrow track by which the pursuers must come. There was no sign
of them. But they heard shouts from the heights above them, long,
vociferous, howling calls that must have made great demands on the
lungs of the shouters. To Giorgio’s dismay these shouts were answered
on their right. It seemed as if they would have to reckon with enemies
on both sides of them. But at present on neither side was an enemy
visible.
The path being now less rugged and tortuous, with no yawning precipice
at its edge, George increased the speed of the gyro-car. Giorgio said
that they would soon come in sight of the Drin. All at once George was
conscious of a lack of power in the engine. He opened the throttle, to
no effect.
“We are done for,” he said in despair. “Something is wrong.”
He brought the car to a standstill and leapt out. The explanation was
immediately obvious. A trail of petrol lay behind the car, stretching
out of sight.
“The outlet plug of the tank has fallen out,” he cried, “and I haven’t
another.”
He ran back, searching the path for the missing plug. Maurice sprang
after him, snatching up Giorgio’s rifle, in case the enemy came in
sight. George hurried to the spot where the trail of petrol began, but
there was no plug.
“What an ass I am!” he cried. “We were going at a good speed, and of
course the plug might be carried some yards. Hunt back along with me,
Maurice.”
So many stones lay on the path that they almost despaired of finding
the plug. But Maurice’s foot by-and-by struck against something which
the instinct acquired in searching for lost golf balls told him was not
a stone. He stooped, and picked up the missing plug.
“Good man,” said George. “It’s lucky we’ve plenty of petrol left, for
the tank is as empty as a drum, you may be sure.”
They ran back to the car, replaced the plug, and filled the tank from
one of the tins. Then they started again; the accident had cost them
more than five minutes. The shouts from the hill-tops sounded nearer.
Giorgio now and again flung out his hand on one side or the other, to
signify the exact direction from which the shout came. Like a batsman
who has just been “let off” in the long field, George seemed to become
reckless. He drove the car at a speed that made Giorgio cling in terror
to the back of the seat, and even provoked a remonstrance from Maurice.
“All right, old man,” said George jubilantly. “We’ve got another life,
and----By Jove! Is that the Drin?”
“Yes, yes,” shouted Giorgio in wild excitement. “It is the Black Drin.
We have won the race.”