USKUB AND THE SERBS
After our attempt to evade the authorities we were closely watched
until we left Veles, the police, as is their way, pretending to
wait upon us only for our convenience. When we departed two mounted
gendarmes accompanied us to the railway station, though we needed no
protection, and a careful sleuth, with painful politeness, assisted us
in taking tickets for Uskub--an unnecessary courtesy--and went with
us to the train to see, he alleged, that we secured a comfortable
compartment. There was only one first-class compartment in the train,
and this was occupied by a well-dressed officer whose trousers had been
pressed inside out. The Turkish gentleman stood not upon ceremony, as
does his admiring British contemporary on such occasions; he introduced
himself before we had taken our seats, immediately inquired our life
history, and soon divulged what purported to be his. He was no other
than Hamdi Pasha, of Albanian extraction, the youngest general in the
Turkish army, so he informed us, on his way to the Bulgarian border, of
which he was military inspector.
It was raining heavily when we arrived at Uskub; nevertheless, a
picked company of Nizams (regulars) was drawn up in honour of our
travelling companion, and presented arms as the train pulled in. The
pasha alighted, saluted, and, with us on either side of him, sharing
a great white umbrella, proceeded to the Hôtel Turati. Then the
bedraggled band struck up one of several Sousa compositions which have
been Orientalised for the Ottoman army, and the company marched away
through the slush, doing the German ‘goose’ step, acquired from the
Kaiser’s officers in the Sultan’s service, which showy effort spattered
the mud on civil pedestrians on both sides of the narrow street.
Behind the soldiers straggled several hundred Albanians, raw Redifs
(first reserves), who had come up on our train in cattle-cars
marked in bold letters, in a language they knew not of, ‘8 CHEVAUX
OU 48 HOMMES.’ And behind the Arnauts trailed a score of prisoners
protesting violently at being driven to gaol through the mire. These
were Christians impregnated with the sense of free men’s rights. They
were attired in ‘Francs,’ fezzes, and handcuffs--with the exception of
one, a priest, who wore only the manacles in common with the others,
apparently the conductors of a Bulgarian gymnasium temporarily out of
business.
Before the school teachers paraded a grinning gypsy bearing on his back
a bundle of old muskets.
‘See, see!’ said the pasha. ‘They were captured in arms. There are the
guns.’
[Illustration: ‘8 CHEVAUX OU 48 HOMMES’: ALBANIAN RECRUITS.]
But a foreign Consul, wise in the ways of the wily Government, told
us that this gypsy and his parcel of rifles was the ostentatious
advance guard of every detachment of Bulgarian prisoners. The manœuvre
was designed to deceive those representatives of the Powers and
newspaper correspondents who were particularly prying.
Uskub is a stern place with a breath of the mountains upon it. It
is but an eight hours’ journey from Salonica, but, thanks to the
restrictions of travel and intercourse, wholly free of a Levantine
atmosphere. It is peopled principally by Arnauts--as the Turks call the
Albanians--and Slavs, both men of character, though their morals are of
a peculiar code. These Albanians and Slavs are natural enemies, and of
the Slavs again there are Bulgarians and Servians, not good friends.
The Kossovo vilayet, of which Uskub is the capital, has been described
as a prolongation of Albania, Servia, and Bulgaria. The provincial
delimitations of Turkey were undoubtedly designed with a view to
encompassing under the same administration as many hostile elements as
possible.
The differences between the Servians and the Bulgarians of Macedonia
are almost entirely a matter of education. The two races have long
since forgotten the enmity of their ancient emperors, and in five
centuries of similar suffering under a mutual monarch they have at
heart but one desire. They have become assimilated to an extent in
these ages, and in some sections it is difficult to determine one
from the other. Their language, here where the two races blend, can
be spoken of as one. They have duplicate religions, similar ideas,
identical customs. The peasants dress alike, and only the partisans and
propagandists are distinguishable by their attire. A European cut of
clothes is worn by those who attend the Bulgarian gymnasium, while a
military jacket attests the adherents of the rival school.
At one time, prior to 1878, the territorial ambition of the Servians
and that of the Bulgarians did not clash. The Servians aspired to a
confederation of all Serbs, hoping for the annexation of Bosnia and
Hertzegovina and a union with Montenegro. But the Treaty of Berlin
gave a mandate to Austria-Hungary to occupy two Turkish provinces
peopled by Serbs, thereby severing the two Serb States apparently for
all time. Servian nationalists were horrified at this injustice, and
frenzied attempts were made to undo this act of the famous treaty. But
all efforts were unavailing against the power of the great neighbour,
and in desperate fear of being shut in from the sea for ever, a petty,
dwarfed State, the Servians turned from the Adriatic and faced the
Ægean, and sought to acquire a right of way by that route to the world
at large.
Notwithstanding the fact that in Macedonia only what is known as Old
Servia--that section of Kossovo between Uskub and Servia proper--is
extensively peopled by Serbs, Servian patriots laid claim to all the
Slav elements in the districts to the south, straight away to the
coast, arguing that the Bulgarians, originally a Tartar people, had
been assimilated by the Slavs. The Servians spread their schools
beyond the territory rightly theirs, establishing gymnasiums in
Salonica and Monastir to compete with the Greeks and Bulgarians in
converting the population. But below Old Servia, only purchased support
of their cause was forthcoming from the people, and nowhere south of
Uskub did the Servian campaign seriously worry the two big propagandas.
This business of cornering communities is expensive, and little Servia
would hardly have been able to cast her claims so far except with
monetary aid from one of the ‘interested Powers,’ and the support
of that Power’s agents in the distressed land. When the Bulgarians
began to show an independent spirit, and diplomatic connections with
Russia--which assumed the form of a dictatorship on the part of the
boasted liberator--came to be severed for a term of years, that
‘interested’ Power adopted Servia as its ward, and is still at work
disciplining the other little country that dared to dispute its honesty
of motive. Russia among the Balkan States does a work similar to that
of the Sultan in Macedonia; she aids the weak to rival the strong,
fosters their jealousies, and maintains a dominant influence on the
distress she begets; and, unlike the Sultan, she does this in the guise
of Christian sympathy.
In Uskub the Russian Consul, for ever attired in military greatcoat and
Muscovite cap, and always accompanied by a brace of stalwart bodyguards
bristling with weapons, snubs the retiring little Bulgarian agent, and
on all occasions bestows his pretentious patronage upon the Servian
representative. It was at Russian suggestion that the Servian schools
adopted a distinctive uniform, after the manner of Russians in Finland
and in other lands they have hoped to Russify.
The Austro-Russian accord on Macedonian affairs resembles a thieves’
alliance--without that saving grace, however, the proverbial honour
that exists among thieves. For centuries these partners of the present
have been loitering around the gates of the European estate of the
Ottoman gentleman with the many wives and the torture-chamber. One of
these interested neighbours has been in the habit of rushing in to the
rescue whenever a Christian cry escaped the Bluebeard’s window--always
attempting to get away with something; the other, not so daring, but
quite as designing, waited without the walls and made his burly rival
return the booty or compensate him (the other) under threat of the
police. Three years ago this worthy pair allied agreed to rob the house
no more, but planned to enter--and reform it!--and received a mandate
so to do from the European Powers. But, in spite of the pretensions
of these confederates, neither has forsaken his pet policy, which is
directly opposed to that of the other. While the gallant Russian is
engaged advocating the cause of the Serbs, his Austrian ally-in-reforms
is diligently at work advancing the interests of a rival race.
The Roman Catholic church at Uskub, a feature of the Austrian
propaganda, was decorated one dusty summer day with garlands of
mountain flowers and many flags. A vast Mohamedan banner floated from
one side of the Christian belfry and an equally large emblem of the
Dual Monarchy from the other; and strings of little flags, alternately
Turkish and Austro-Hungarian, streamed away from the tower to the high
mud walls about the churchyard. Over the door, where only the Catholics
who entered could see, hung a large print of Francis Joseph much
bemedalled, and none was visible of Abdul Hamid.
It was the feast of Corpus Christi, and the Englishman and I, attracted
by the Albanians converging upon the place from all directions,
betook ourselves to witness the celebration. The darkened church
was aglow with many candles around the crucified Christ, and the
fourteen ‘stations of the Cross,’ set like little chapels about the
churchyard, contained life-sized pictures of the Saviour’s labour to
the Crucifixion. During the indoor service the Albanian women, veiled
like their Mohamedan sisters, occupied one side of the church, and the
men the other. In the pew of honour sat the Austrian reformajis in
full feather, the brilliant uniform of Count de Salis, chief of the
gendarmerie contingent, relieved and glorified by a Salonica frock-coat
covering the venerable person of the Christian Vali, who sat next.
This decrepit representative of the Sultan was playing a game similar
to that of the gaily garbed gendarmes. He was selected by the Porte
several years ago as a co-governor with the Turkish Vali because
of general incapacity and indifference to affairs. His duties were
ostensibly to reform the province, but he was incapable of performing
them or he would not have received the appointment. This day he was
displaying the Christian sympathy of his Sultanic master, just as the
Austrians flaunted their religious zeal before the Catholic Albanians.
At the conclusion of the indoor service on Corpus Christi day, priests
and people left the church chanting, each carrying a lighted candle,
and made a tour of the ‘stations,’ kneeling and praying a few moments
at each. Little flower-girls, dressed in gayest _shalvas_, preceded the
procession scattering rose-leaves. Two proud Albanian boys swung the
incense lamps, and four others bore a panoply of silk over the heads of
the priests. First behind the priests came the Count and the Christian
Vali, and then followed the Austrian Consul and other Austrian officers
and the people. The ordeal of kneeling in the grass was trying to
the trousers of the Count and painful to the rheumatic limbs of the
venerable Christian Vali, whom the Count was required to assist to his
feet on each occasion.
It was a windy day, and the candles, borne gingerly at arm’s length,
sputtered, and spattered the gorgeous uniform and the ample frock-coat.
The delegates at their divine duties, wore on their faces, I must say,
most unholy expressions, and at the conclusion of the ceremony the poor
old Christian with the fez presented the appearance of having eaten
his supper without stuffing the end of a napkin in his collar. Religion
and politics make an unhappy mixture; they war within one like custard
and cucumbers.
The presence of two unsympathetic newspaper correspondents, standing
by at this ceremony, appeared to annoy the official party, and for
some time after that ‘the two English correspondents’ (of whom I was
one) were severely snubbed by the Austrian officers. An imaginary but
effective barrier was thrown across the middle of the dinner-table,
dividing the Englishmen and the Russians from the Austrians and the
Jews, mostly Vienna correspondents.
But there came a day when the latter, overwhelmed by curiosity, were
forced to fraternise again.
A strange female of daring demeanour, unheralded and alone, appeared at
the hotel. Her species had never been seen before in Uskub. Her skirt
was shockingly short, and contained a hip-pocket, from which the blued
butt of a Colt’s 44 protruded. Her hat was a duplicate of mine, and all
her other garments were more like a man’s than a woman’s. Fast on her
heels arrived the ubiquitous policeman with his compliments and his
veiled demands for information. She possessed a _teskeré_, and gave it
to him, but he was not content with this, and would have her passport
with its big red seal.
‘Not much, my fine feller! You can have Abdul’s rag all right, all
right, but this here document belongs to your auntie.’
The gentle police understood her not. Nicola, the Albanian waiter,
attempted to interpret. He spoke a little French, but this was of no
avail. The Turk called in a miserable Christian (she must be Christian)
who spoke, besides Turkish and Albanian, Bulgarian, Servian, Rumanian,
and Greek, but not a word of any kind had he in common with the curious
stranger.
‘Of what use are all my tongues!’ he exclaimed piteously, as he was
kicked out by the Turk. One of the Russians offered his services.
His accomplishments comprised all the languages of Europe, including
English. No use. ‘The woman who speaks no human language,’ he called
her; and the name clung to her.
Nicola saw that the fearful female belonged to none of the known
races, so when she appeared at dinner he seated her with ‘the
English.’ She recognised me at once, and Austrians, Russians, Jews,
and the Englishman, who hailed from Yorkshire, seeing that I was
able to converse with the lady, at once made use of me to present
their compliments and make gentle inquiries. The pragmatical Russian
subsequently developed his witticism, and dubbed me the superhuman
interpreter.
Between meals the unknown prowled the town carrying a small black box
with a covered eye, which flapped at every native she met. Tziganes
fled madly down the roads, Albanian women took fright, covered their
faces and scurried into their houses, and even the Turk of habitual
immobility suffered a rude shock to his equipoise.
Now, the potting of a peasant and the hold-up of a native in the
crowded streets are episodes which do not disturb the tranquillity
of Uskub, but the visit of an apparition from Mars is an event which
does not take place every day. The stranger stalked through the
covered bazaar, putting the place in a panic for the time being, and
climbed the steep hill to the citadel, where the army practised at
range-shooting without cartridges--an economy in ammunition. There
she marched boldly up in front of the line of soldiers blinking at
far-off targets through the sights of empty guns, aimed the eye of her
black box at them, and snapped it. The triggers fell with a unison of
clicks never before accomplished on the rifle-range. An officer of
the garrison, who had been educated in Germany, and was accustomed
to strange sights, emerged from the barracks at a pace Turks seldom
acquire, and established for ever his reputation for bravery by
ejecting the interloper. The artillery barracks was next to receive
the spook, who was caught in the act of aiming her spell-box at the
cannon. She was taken into custody by the commander himself, the troops
refusing to obey orders, and detained until a fast rider could find
the Vali and learn from him whether this were not an Austrian spy in
disguise.
This was too much for the Turks; business was already at a standstill,
and the garrison completely demoralised. The Vali ordered out his
state coach forthwith, and with four outriders in the shape of trusty
troopers unafraid of man or superman, made his way to the British
Consulate. The preliminary compliments were cut unusually short, and in
less than ten minutes the governor of Kossovo got to business.
‘It will be shot, O exalted Consul,’ said the Vali, ‘if it roams
at large another day. I have assigned police to follow it for its
protection, but I fear even they will be powerless to preserve it. Can
you not persuade it to depart?’
The Consul tapped his head and rolled his eyes, after the manner best
understood of the Moslem, and the Moslem heaved a comprehending sigh,
expressed his gratitude, and took his departure.
Next day all Uskub knew that it was mad, and Moslem and Christian alike
bowed low in holy reverence as it passed.
‘Well,’ said my countrywoman, after she had shaken hands with Russians,
Jews, Austrians, and English, coming last to me, ‘you can bet your
sweet life I ain’t sorry I hit on somebody in this benighted land who
can speak plain United States.’
Uskub is ordinarily a quiet and sober town, and well might it be; it
is nestled in a valley of death. Tombstones are always the prominent
feature of a Turkish town, but Uskub resembles an oasis in a desert
of dead. Acres of them in general disorder, a few erect but mostly
toppling or fallen, surround the town and stretch long arms into it;
they flank the main road and dot the side streets, and far out into
the country lone deserted stones stand where no man’s hand has been
for ages. The sight is gruesome, and one’s mind is wont to picture the
many massacres that have made this sea of silent slabs. But a large
proportion of the graves are those of Mohamedans, and history records
no general slaughter of them since the battle of Kossovo, more than
four centuries agone. This is the explanation--Christians plant bones
on top of bones, but the six feet of earth allotted to the dead Turk
generally remains his until Judgment Day. In many Turkish towns you
will find streets turned out of their natural course to leave the grave
of a Turk undisturbed.
[Illustration: GRAVES OF DEAD COMMITTAJIS.]
[Illustration: THE OLD TURKISH SEXTON WHO LIVED IN A GRAVE.]
The old sexton of a cemetery in Uskub, who lives in a cave burrowed
under the ground like the abodes of those he watches, was in a terrible
dilemma after the American adventuress had snapped his photograph,
because she, a giaour, tramped back to the road over the resting-place
of believers.
On one side of the Hôtel Turati is a Turkish cemetery, and not
far behind it is a Christian burial-ground; and almost daily a
funeral procession passes the hotel to one or the other of these
burial-grounds. The body of a Turk is borne on a litter on the
shoulders of his friends, each of them taking a turn for a few minutes
as pall-bearer. If the deceased was very popular, and the distance from
his home to the grave very short, there is a continual commotion about
the corpse, friends giving place rapidly to one another as the body is
borne along.
The Christians do not carry their dead on their shoulders, but they,
also, convey the corpse on a litter to lower it into a wooden coffin
in the grave. Priests precede the funeral parade on foot in full
vestments, chanting as they march, and the friends follow the body, one
carrying the coffin-lid.
A strange sacrifice for the dead takes place quarterly in the Christian
cemetery. The peasants gather from far and near bringing cakes and pans
of boiled wheat, of the best they can afford, and place them on the
graves of the dead. Candles are stuck about the food and tinsel paper
cut in fine shreds arranged over it. Priests pass from grave to grave
praying with the peasants for the souls of the departed, and sons of
the priests, who serve as acolytes, swing censers. At the conclusion
of the ceremony the sacrificial food is distributed to the poor--or
rather the poorer--and lazy gypsies gather with many naked babies at
the borders of the cemetery.
Leaving the ceremony the foreigner is beset by these beggars,
especially the naked urchins. They follow one to the gate of the hotel.
One brat is too large to go unclad, according to the requirements of
decency regarded by the Turks, so his mother’s apron is tied around
his waist. But he hopes to elicit a piastre by cutting capers, one of
which is a somersault. As his arms and head go down the single garment
drops over them, and the high half of his anatomy is exposed like the
double-headed dolls in the Strand. But we give them nothing. We have
seen these fellows count their day’s collection, and knowing the day’s
wages of a field labourer in Turkey to be infinitely less, we give to
the latter. The Tzigane maims a brat, and by its begging the family
is supported. And it is the fool Christian who gives; it is a part of
his religion to pay by ‘charity’ the way of deceased souls through the
golden gates.
A round and ragged brown urchin who blacks boots before the hotel and
swallows the money he receives, bettered his position one day through
the favour his funny face had found with the foreigners at the hotel.
On calling for the bootblack one morning he appeared leading a blind
beggar. But nobody patronised him now, and the two departed jabbering
viciously. Next morning the brat was back again with his blacking-box,
shining boots and swallowing small coins.
There is a Tzigane quarter in every large town in Turkey, and it
generally stands somewhere near the circle of graveyards. It is
always the most squalid quarter, holes in old walls, shanties made of
flattened petroleum tins, caves in hillsides, serving the gypsies as
abodes. They are a filthy people, and a burden to the community. They
seldom till the soil, object to work, and live for the most part by
begging or stealing. They stand alone in the world as a people without
a religion, and their primitive instincts lead them to follow the
natural bent of man to prey upon others. They came into Europe on the
heels of the Turk, and remained in some of the countries from which
he has been compelled to recede. In one of the Balkan States they are
exempt from military service, as they cannot be held to routine; in
the others they are generally assigned to duty in the bands because of
their talent for music.
Across the old stone bridge, on the road that leads up to the citadel,
are many curious booths. A questionable character of doubtful race sits
Turkish fashion in one the size of a draper’s box, before him a pot of
writing fluid, several wooden pens, some slips of common paper, and a
pepper-box of sand, also a constant cup of coffee, a tobacco-box, and
a flint. Natives pass up this hill to the market place behind the old
fort, and on market days the man of letters is very busy. Christians
do not patronise his talents, for in every Christian community, thanks
to the propagandas, there are several peasants who can read and write;
but Mohamedans, faithful to the wishes of the Padisha, abstain from the
corruption of education, and thereby make the letter-writer necessary.
A veiled lady presents a letter at the booth.
‘From whom?’ asks the sage of cipher.
‘Our husband,’ the veiled lady replies.
‘“Most beloved of my wives,”’ the flattering fellow begins to read, ‘“I
am well. I wish you are well. The weather is well. The buffaloes are
well....”’ Here the wise man studies the document closely, and asks:
‘What is your husband’s name?’
‘Almoon, effendi.’
‘Ah, yes; Almoon.’
[Illustration: THE HORSE MARKET.]
[Illustration: SWEARING TO A BARGAIN.]
The woman pays two metaleeks.
A few weeks later the same woman appears with another letter.
‘From whom is it?’ again the question.
‘Our husband,’ again the reply.
‘“Most beloved wife,”’ by way of variation, ‘“the weather is well. I am
well. I wish you well.” What did you say your husband’s name is?’
‘Almoon.’
‘Ah, yes; Almoon. Your husband’s writer does not form his letters well.’
The woman pays two more metaleeks.
Some time later she returns again. The intelligent man of letters
recognises her this time, and employs his trained memory.
‘“Most beloved of my wives,”’ he begins, ‘“I hope you are well. I
am----”’
‘Effendi,’ the woman interrupts, ‘this letter, I think, is from my
sister.’
‘Ah, you should have told me!’
Another hole in the wall, the keeper clinking coin--no doubt as to his
race, he deals in money. He charges a piastre (twopence) for changing a
lira, but silver coins are bought by him at current value. In Turkey a
gold piece seems to have no fixed value; but actually it is the price
of silver that varies. In Constantinople a pound Turkish is worth 103
piastres, in Salonica only 101, but in Uskub it brings 105, and in
Monastir 107 or 108. Obviously the thing to do is to buy silver coin
in Monastir and sell it in Salonica. Imagine getting twenty-three
shillings in change for a pound in Liverpool, twenty-two in Manchester,
and twenty in London!
Over the opening of a larger booth bunches of blood-coloured skull-caps
hang by long black or blue tassels a foot or more in length, resembling
at no great distance the scalps and scalp-locks of Red Indians. White
Albanian caps and Turkish fezzes are also on sale, and a row of heavy
brass blocks, like closed mouth of cannon, line the front of this
formidable-looking shop. These last are presses for fezzes, which are
put in shape for two metaleeks.
Lemonade booths, faced with rows of huge bottles containing green,
red, and yellow drinks--limes, blood oranges, and lemons corking the
respective bottles--and other permanent shops line the hill road and
flank the covered bazaars. But the real fair is held only once a week
on the open space above, where the Turkish garrison performs its silent
target practice.
Tuesday is the market day in Uskub, and the scene behind the ancient
fortress above the Vardar, in view of the surrounding country for
many miles, is alone worth going to Turkey to see. The vast hilltop
is littered with native goods for sale or exchange, and crowded with
men and women in gay and gruesome garbs. Albanian shepherds and their
lean dogs mind flocks of fat-tailed sheep, their spectral wives,
in faded ghost gowns, sit selling hand-worked waistcoats of gaudy
hue; Christian peasants who have come afoot or on asses or driving
primitive ox-carts, display all sorts of country commodities, from new
grain to ice (in the summer time) from the white peaks in the distance;
Turks have a little rough lumber (there is not much in Macedonia); and
Turkish soldiers, among the most ragged men in the concourse, dispose
of horses, old boots, hunks of bread, gathered--who knows how? Tziganes
are always on the horse market. A photograph shows a bargain being
made, a third man, a Turk, swearing a Bulgarian and a gypsy to an
exchange of cows.
* * * * *
Our defeat at Istip had not been forgotten. Since then we had awaited
only a reasonable excuse for taking a reasonable risk. One of the
Austrians came in with the account of a combat between a Servian band
and a Turkish regiment, which had taken place two days before at a
spot in the mountains above a hamlet named Pschtinia, several hours’
ride towards the Bulgarian border. This was justification for breaking
the Turks’ cordon about us. Our papers had sent us many miles at heavy
expense, and we must have exclusive news. Better reading, to be sure,
is the cool, considered report of reports written at headquarters,
but the true correspondent always prefers to date his stuff at the
firing-line.
To assure ourselves that we were taking no unnecessary risk, that there
was no chance of securing permission to seek the scene of this fight,
we called on the Governor-General, who had duped and deceived us many
times--no doubt to his quiet satisfaction, though he was always too
much of a gentleman to display delight in our dilemma.
‘Ah,’ said Hussein Hilmi Pasha, as we sipped his coffee, ‘you went to
Istip, and were prevented from visiting Garbintzi. I sent orders to
turn you back. As I have often told you, effendi, it is dangerous in
the interior; one cannot say where a “brigand”’--his excellency meant
a Bulgarian insurgent--‘may be lurking to shoot the European. I have
letters from the chiefs threatening to kill a consul. As you know, they
hope to make trouble for us with the Powers.’
‘But, excellency, you may give us an escort.’
‘Even with escort one is unsafe. They can fire at you from a mountain
side high up above. They are fiends, these brigands; they do not care
if they are killed themselves.’
‘But we were permitted to cross a most lawless section of the country,
and were stopped only when we sought to visit the scene of a fight.
Surely, your excellency, this is a mistaken policy on your part; we
must gather that there is something to hide from correspondents.’ We
had put down this argument before.
‘There is nothing to hide. Come to me, and I shall tell you the truth
about all affairs. But I can permit no more travelling in the interior.’
The same old story. We left the pasha’s presence pretending
disappointment. But his threat of Bulgarian ‘brigands’ did not disturb
us, and we were willing to take the chance of encountering Albanians.
We were going to Pschtinia. The game was not difficult; it required
simply coolness and courage and a knowledge of the ways of the Turk.
The Englishman possessed sufficient of the first two requisites, and I
had dealt with the Ottoman authorities for more than a year.
Late that evening we sent our dragoman for a Turkish coachman, and
hired him to be on hand the following morning at nine o’clock, Turkish
time, to take us to Kalkandele, an Albanian town about the same
distance off as is Pschtinia, but in the opposite direction. We knew
the native coachman’s ways.
A jingle of many bells announced the arrival of our carriage next
morning at ten o’clock Turkish (about 5.30), the hour at which we
planned to leave. The bells were for the purpose of warning other
vehicles coming the opposite way along steep roads, but they would also
have the effect of disturbing sleeping guardhouses and apprising them
of the fact that we were bound on a country journey. The danger of
collision was the minor risk, and we ordered the driver to relieve his
ponies of their noisy necklaces. The Turk protested, and commenced to
discuss the matter, but there was no time for argument. Having got the
bells safe under a seat, we told him to drive to Pschtinia.
‘You hired me to go to Kalkandele.’
‘We have changed our minds.’
‘But I have told the police you were going to Kalkandele.’
Exactly; and without doubt the first guardhouse on the road to the west
had instructions to turn us back.
Our Turk soon learned that we were no meek and native Christians, and
rather than lose his job altogether he obeyed our commands. We drove
quietly through the deserted streets, the ponies’ hoofs pattering
softly in the thick cushion of dust, the lucky beads on their harness
rattling, one wheel of our shandrydan maintaining a rhythmic creak--but
no one speaking. Drowsy patrols who had fallen asleep by the wayside
looked up from the corners as we drove by, but our Turk on the box
served us as a passport. Even the guardhouse at the far side of the
Vardar was content to let us pass at this sleepy hour, seeing that our
team was not equipped with country bells. We passed under the barracks
observed only by the sentinel on the crest of the cliff, who blinked
his heavy eyes and stared stupidly down like a waking owl, his head
swinging a mechanical half-circle as we came into view and passed out
again. A mile and a half through a million gravestones, stretching
from the crooked roadway on either side across the sweep of a broad
plateau--this was nerve-racking. We were in full view from the citadel,
the barracks, the Konak, and several minarets--a black beetle crawling
along a crooked chalk line drawn through a never-weeded prairie of
white stone stalks and sheaves. We urged the driver to lay on the lash
and crawl quicker, and we took turns in casting sly glances behind.
But the end of this drear graveyard came at last. We switched sharply
on a waggon trail to the left, and plunged into the hills, in a stroke
clipping dreamy Uskub from the scene. We breathed freer; we were fairly
started on our journey long before the guardhouse on the road to
Kalkandele had given us up and reported our failure to pass their way.
From time to time our driver became unruly, slowing his pace and
refusing to use his whip, protesting that his horses would not last
to Pschtinia at the rate at which we were going. We promised to let
him give them a long rest at our destination, to drive back to Uskub
at his own pace, and to raise his fee a mijidieh, all of which, with
occasional promptings, kept the horses to their fugitive gait. Our
rattle-trap dashed through the cornfields, terrified the peasants in
their harvesting, drew the shepherds’ dogs, and scattered grazing
sheep, rolled down the mountain sides, making desperate swerves, and
climbed up empty, assisted by its passengers. We passed Albanians and
Bulgarians, who may have been brigands and insurgents, and questions
were asked our driver, but he was out of temper and did not stop
to reply. We made Pschtinia at eleven--the wonder, only a trace
broke!--the Turk in a rage, and the sweat pouring from his panting
steeds.
We chuckled at the expense of Hilmi Pasha, and drew visions of
his wrath; he would permit us to see no more of the interior for
ourselves. We grew bold here and planned to march on foot across
Macedonia, from Uskub east to Djuma-bala, and from there on the
Bulgarian border to Drama near the sea, a distance, all told, of three
hundred miles, and you shall see whether we carried out this resolution.
The inhabitants of Pschtinia, many bandaged and limping, gathered
round us and kissed our hands, thinking we were foreign Consuls come
to inquire into their grievances. After the fight the Turks had passed
through Pschtinia on their way back to barracks at Koumanova, stopped
and beaten the peasants for having harboured the insurgents (which they
protested they had not), and carried off the headmen to prison at the
town. The old men insisted on showing us the welts on their backs and
bruises on their legs, inflicted by the Turks with heavy sticks, and
said that the villagers worst mauled had been taken to Koumanova to the
doctor, and were now in the gaol there.
When we had eaten of the eggs and brown bread, and drunk of milk
provided by different villagers, we climbed to the battlefield with two
guides who had escaped mauling. It was a forlorn place for a last stand
against overwhelming odds--a vast gravel dome, barren but for dwarfed
yellow shrubs, and out of sight of every human habitation, even the
village it sheltered. The band had been discovered some distance to the
north, and chased by an ever-increasing pack of pursuers until driven
to bay at this high peak. The insurgents attempted evidently to reach
a forest on a neighbouring height, but the Turks cut them off before
they could reach it. Little piles of stone a foot high, showing the
haste with which they had been thrown together, were still standing,
behind each a dark brown spot, a bloody rag or two, a scattering of
empty Mauser cartridge-cases. On the slope of the dome we picked up
Martini cases. ‘Turk,’ said the peasants. That was evident. The calibre
was stamped in Turkish characters. Holes in the pink earth, with bits
of cast iron firmly embedded in the rock, marked the places where the
dynamite bombs had struck at the last charge, when the soldiers stormed
the crest and the end of the insurgents was a matter of seconds.
Some time after the soldiers had withdrawn, and the dome was desolate
again, a few peasants ventured to the top. They found the bodies of
twenty-four Servians, battered and disfigured, and completely stripped;
the Turks had taken away their own dead. Not so much of value as an old
shoe remained on the battlefield. The next day the strong outfits of
the insurgents, which had come from Belgrade, were sold by the soldiers
on the market place at Koumanova. The peasants of Pschtinia rolled the
bodies in coarse striped buffalo blankets, carried them down to the
village, and buried them in the cemetery, the village priest performing
the burial service. A rough wooden cross was raised over each grave.
The villagers said the soldiers came back to Pschtinia and tore the
crosses down; but they reared them again when the Turks were gone.
‘Are you Servians?’ we asked the peasants.
‘Bulgarians, effendi.’
‘Then this band was an enemy to your party?’
‘But they were Christians.’
On descending to the village we found our Turk already harnessing his
team. He had been fed, and so had his horses, and they were all in a
more tractable mood. The villagers, hale and halt, gathered around our
carriage as we prepared to start, and poured forth their blessings on
our Christian heads. Several small boys brought us dirty little fried
fish, about two inches long, as a parting gift. We took the fish,
rewarding the young villagers, and, as we crossed the stream, deposited
the smoky carcases whence they had been drawn wriggling an hour before.
Our driver took us home by a different route, more direct, he said,
with a great ‘something’ to see. He had noted that the Englishman
gave backsheesh, and was wont to put us in his countrymen’s way. He
himself belonged to the world-fraternity of cab-men, whose instincts
vary nowhere, East or West; but his cousin, to whom he took us, was a
Turkish peasant, a man who, when the spirit of war is without his soul,
is as true a gentleman as Occident or Orient produces.
In crossing a trackless moor to the road that led where our Turk would
take us, we lost the road, and for an hour wandered aimlessly till
we met an armed man with a woman who covered her face at sight of
us. The armed man asked the usual questions of our Turk, and gave him
directions.
It was five o’clock when we arrived at a great wall of mud bricks,
infinitely higher and better built than those surrounding the average
Macedonian dwelling, but dilapidated and showing long want of care.
The walls enclosed a vast irregular area, and entirely obscured the
view within. We drove round wondering and asking questions of our
Turk, which he ignored with a smile. Finally, we approached a high
gate designed after the fashion of that leading to the Sublime Porte.
Our driver stood up on the box and began a hallooing, which burst like
trumpet blasts on the still surroundings. It was some time before
a far-off answer came over the walls. The call and the reply were
continued, the latter drawing gradually nearer, and after some minutes
a man spoke through a keyhole not less than five inches high. Our Turk
descended from the carriage-box, was recognised by him within, and told
to wait until the key was fetched. We then peered through the keyhole,
and after a brief interval spied the inmate returning from the house
toiling under the weight of an iron key of robust diameter and a foot
and a half long.
The huge oak gate was swung back, and we entered, greeted with a
dignified salaam and a shake of the hand. There are no social classes
among the Turks across which the hand-shake is debarred. Deference is
shown superiors only in the salaam, a pasha receiving a lower bow with
an extra twist of the hand than that given a bey, and a bey a lower dip
of hand and head than a bimbashee, a bimbashee than an ordinary mortal
effendi.
The Turk who welcomed us was the keeper, and, with his wife, the only
occupant of this vast estate, the empty home of an exiled bey. The
house was shown to us by both the keeper and his wife, who, though,
of course, a Mohamedan woman, wore no veil. The house was handsome
for this part of the country, but depleted even of furniture. The
only pictures on the walls were common paintings on the plaster now
cracked and falling. The harem, where marble divans for five wives were
built in nooks, was filled with newly harvested grain. A bold rooster,
the only lord of the manor, cackled to half a dozen happy hens and
scattered the corn. We helped the keeper eject the usurper and his
feminine following.
A bridge, resembling the Bridge of Sighs, led out of the harem into the
dwelling of the exiled lord, bare like the other house. We climbed the
creaky, dust-covered stairs to a turret at the point of the roof, which
overlooked the surrounding walls and afforded a view of the encircling
mountains. A brilliant southern sun was setting in an Oriental sky, and
a train of three buffalo teams, silhouetted in the glow, crept along
the sky-line.
[Illustration: ALBANIAN WOMEN.]
Late in the evening we passed through the long cemetery and entered
Uskub. Lights were out for the night, and patrols paced the streets.
We were halted several times, but our driver’s Turkish rang true, and
we proceeded to the gates of Hôtel Turati, where, after much knocking,
Nicola roused from his slumbers and removed the bars.