"The horse will not."

Jo leapt in the air kicking.

"Do that with your heels," she said.

But we had to send the policeman to help him. He rode hour by hour, hitting his beast with a bent umbrella, and lifting two fat hands to heaven.

"Teshko" (It is hard), he whined.

"Ni je teshko" (It is not hard), said Miss Brindley, cheerfully trudging along.

We wanted to stop at the top of a hill for lunch.

"Horrible," he said. "Here the brigands will shoot us from the bushes," and pushed ahead, being held on by the grinning policeman.

We pulled out some biscuits and margarine, and drank water from our bottles, cigarettes went round, and we charged ahead. In front was the professor falling off his horse and being put on again.

We were very anxious about the frontier. Most of our party were travelling without official permits, as they had known nothing about such things; but we hoped that being English Red Cross and having passports there would not be much trouble. We arrived at a little village, three or four wooden houses. Three pompous old men came to meet us, and we took coffee together outside the inn. They were very surprised to hear we were English, and said that no English had ever passed that way before.

At the frontier, an hour further on, a man and his wife came down from a little house on the hill and stopped us. They examined the papers of the two Serbs, but left us alone, to our huge relief. We breathed again.

Soon after, however, Whatmough rushed up to Jan and Jo, who were talking to a ragged woman.

"Do come and talk. An officer has arrested West and Mawson."

We ran ahead to find a perplexed mounted officer surrounded by our party. He had come upon West and Mawson walking on ahead and took them to be Bulgarian comitaj.

"No, that's not an English uniform," he said, and searched them for firearms. When the others came he wavered. Miss Brindley did not look like a comitaj; and by the time we arrived he began to talk about the military situation in the Balkans, and rode off with the politest of farewells.

If there isn't a telegraph wire to guide, don't take short cuts. Jan, Stajitch, and Jo tried to race the darkness by cutting straight down a ravine. We lost the horses, lost every one else, and we came out again on to a hill crest. No one was to be seen. After a while the professor rode by, led by his policeman, who had been almost suffocated by laughter all day.

"Teshko, teshko," moaned the professor.

"Ni je teshko," we said. "But where are the horses?"

He waved a hand vaguely behind him. Rogerson, Whatmough, and Owen came up. It was getting dark and a mist was rising. So we left the three at the corner to mark where it was and went back. For a long time we stumbled in the darkness, shouting, but no horses could we find. At last we decided to turn back, wondering if they too had lost their way and decided to camp out. There were shouts in the valley beyond. A light flashed and some one fired off a revolver. There was a candle end in Jan's bag, and by its dim light we found a road. It went downwards, so we thought it might be the right one. Suddenly it turned in the wrong direction, but as there were hoof marks on it we decided to follow it as it must lead somewhere—we could not search the whole countryside with a candle. Just as we were in despair the road seemed to shake itself and twisted back again. We heard more shouting and saw a light, and at last found Miss Brindley and Mawson, who were waiting for us.

"We have been to the village," they said.

We asked them about the horses. They said they were all there!!!!

That professor again!

Some one heard trickling water, and with a cry of joy we put our mouths under the jet of water which spouted from a little trough which jutted from the hill. Nothing could be seen of the village when we arrived, but it seemed very long and very stony. An old peasant with a candle led us for what seemed miles between high palisades of wood until we reached the inn.

There was a big room with a stove in the middle and many Montenegrins in uniform were sitting about. Some of our party were already asleep, worn out on the benches. We opened a tin of beef, got some bread and kaimack and woke up the others for their evening meal. While we were eating a Montenegrin staff officer said—

"Your commandant, the professor—"

"What?" said we.

"Your commandant, the professor, has said you will rest here to-morrow."

We told him the professor was no commandant of ours, and that we certainly would not rest there to-morrow.

"Well," said the staff officer, "he has certainly ordered horses for the day after from the captain."

We were too tired to rectify matters at once, and our meal finished, we rolled up on the dirty floor.



CHAPTER XXI

THE FLEA-PIT

Those comfortable folks who have never slept out of a bed do not know how annoying a blanket may be, if there is nothing into which to tuck its folds. Wrap yourself up in one, lie flat and motionless on the floor, and we guarantee that in an hour the blanket has unrolled itself and is making frantic efforts to escape. Every night on the road resolved into a half-dazed attempt to hold on to the elusive wrap. Sleep came in as a second consideration, and when we say we awoke on any particular morning, it really means that we got up, though several of us in the intervals of blanket catching did get in a snore or two.

Well, we got up, then, in good time next day, hoping to rectify the professor's interference, and stumbling along with Stajitch, we reached the high-roofed "Duerer" dwelling where resided the commandant of the village. In the kitchen we found two women with bare feet, two children and a man half undressed. He brought in the captain, also in negligee. Now, mark, we were in Montenegro. We exposed our grievance to the captain and roundly denounced the professor as an interfering old beggar. The captain first gave us coffee, second hurried us to his office, third called in three henchmen and issued rapid orders.

"Certainly, certainly. You shall have all the horses you need. Just only wait one little quarter of an hour. I will give you four policemen to go with you."

We protested that four was too many.

"No, no," he said, "you had better have four."

We went back joyfully to the hotel. Cutting or one of the others had been exploring and had gotten twenty eggs. The hotel people consented to cook them. While we were outside looking at the mosques and wondering when the horses were coming, the professor walked into the bar-room.

"Ah," said he, "eggs."

"They belong to the English," said the hostess.

"Good," said the professor, and swallowed four.

Just then we returned.

"But there are only sixteen eggs," said we.

"The professor has eaten the others," said the woman, pointing.

In a minute the professor wished that he had not. Jan took the opportunity of saying a few things which had been boiling within him. He accused the wretched man of interference in assuming control of the expedition; he said that he was a mere hanger-on, and a useless and selfish one at that.

The professor wilted. He made a thousand apologies, and finally ran off wringing his fat hands, found with great difficulty four more eggs and cast them into the boiling water.

"There," he said, "you can have your four eggs."

"It's not the eggs," answered Jan, "it's you."

Jo was roaring with laughter. Some of the morning she had been in a woman's house listening to one of the policeman's tales of the professor, and soon the whole village was rocking with amusement at "Teshko."

At last the horses arrived—six miserable-looking beasts, but this time all had shoes. One was commandeered by the professor.

"He is the greatest philosopher in all Serbia," whispered an official to Jan.

"Ah, I guessed there must be some reason," said Jan.

We had a send-off, all the village came to see us go away. The day was a repetition of our previous experiences. A long tramp in the mud. At the top of the highest pass we had yet reached was an old wooden blockhouse.

We came upon it unexpectedly, rounding a corner. Montenegrin soldiers were cooking at a wood fire; but we were surprised to find all round the square log cabin deep rifle pits, the best we had yet seen in Serbia.

"Good Lord, what are those for?" said Jan.

"This is an old Turkish post," said the sergeant. "It has been kept up. We don't know why."

We walked off meditating. Montenegrins do not squander soldiers without reason; and then one's mind went back to the four armed guards who were accompanying us.

We discovered the truth later, let us tell the story here.

Berane, to which we were descending, was once a populous growing Turkish town. After the Balkan war it fell into Montenegrin territories. The Montenegrins chased out all the Turkish landowners, who fled to these mountains, where they formed bands of brigands and caused no little consternation and trouble to the authorities, who could not catch them. The authorities passed a little Act, reinstating the landowners in their territories; but when an attempt was made to put the Act into force, it was found that the authorities themselves were in possession of the lands. What was to be done? The blockhouse was the solution.

We stopped at a primitive cafe and lunched. Jo gave the children some chocolate. They did not know what it was. She smeared some on to the baby's lips, and after that it sucked hard. Soon the little girl licked hers; but the boy, more suspicious, would not eat, holding the lump till it melted into a sticky mass in his fingers. The scenery was very beautiful. There was a faint rain which greyed everything, and the near birches had lost all their leaves and the twigs made a reddish fog through which could be seen the slopes of the opposite hillsides. The professor began to be worried about the rain.

"If this should turn to snow," said he, "we would be snowed up. And I am sure I don't know what I should do if I were snowed up."

We hoped to reach our halting place, which was called Vrbitza, before dark; but it was further away than our informant had said. Once more we found ourselves floundering about in the mud of the village path after dusk. We reached houses which we could not see; walked over slippery poles set over heaven knows what middens. Clambered up creaky steps into the usual sort of dirty wooden room—and there, his stockings off, warming his toes at the blaze of the wood fire, was "Eyebrows."

We were immediately attracted by three paintings on the wall. They were decorative designs, very beautiful. We asked the proprietor who had done them.

"I did," he said.

"Will you sell them?" we asked.

He giggled like a girl. "Ah, who would buy them?" he said.

"We will."

"I couldn't let you have them for less than sixpence," he said. "You see the papers cost a penny each."

Whatmough coveted one, so he had his choice, we took the other two.

The policeman came to tell us that rooms had been prepared in two clean houses. We scrambled out into the dark again, stumbled along in the mud, and at last found an open square of light, through which we came into a room.

There was a red rug over half the floor, and a brasier on three legs filled with charcoal standing in the centre. One or two of our men had already found the place and were lying on the rug. In one corner was a large baking oven like a beehive, half in one and half in the room next door. A wide shelf ran from the beehive almost to the open door. There were two small windows, each about the size of this book wide open. Jan and Jo sniffed. Where had they smelt that odour before?

An old woman in Albanian costume crept up to Jo and caught her by the skirt.

"See," she said, dragging her into the next room, "here is a fine bed. The ladies will sleep with me this night."

Jo looked at the old lady's greasy hair and filthy raiment.

"We always sleep with our own people," she said firmly.

The old lady protested. All the while our men were packing the baggage beneath the shelf. It was a tight fit, but at last it was got in.

The professor entered once more on the scene.

"This house will do very well for the common people," he said, "but the Herr Commandant" (meaning Jan) "and the two ladies will come over to sleep with me."

"No, we won't," said Jan, Jo and Miss Brindley in one voice.

"Then what will you do?"

"We will give you two policemen, or all four if you like. We will pack in here somehow. You can take the other house all to yourself."

"That will not do," said the professor. "If you are all determined to sleep here, I too, will come here. You will need somebody to protect you."

Jo's back went up.

"If you are afraid to sleep in the other house," she said, "you can sleep here with us. But if you are coming here to protect us, we don't require you."

"But you do not understand," said the professor kindly, as if to a child: "there is danger. You will need me to protect you."

"Not in the least," answered Jo. "If you will say that you are afraid, we will offer you our shelter. Otherwise you can have all four policemen at the other house."

The professor was afraid to say that he was afraid, so after stating that we were curious people, he went off with the guards.

With great difficulty we packed in. Cutting and Whatmough were forced to climb on to the shelf and the brazier was pushed out of the room. One by one we rolled up in our rugs, made pillows out of a pair of boots or a cocoa tin, cursed each other for taking up so much space, and at last all were jammed together like sardines. It was like the family in the drawing: If father says turn, we all turn.

We did not rest well. Thirteen people in a room which would comfortably hold three was a little too close packing. There was a lot of grumbling coming from one corner, and after a while a light was struck.

"Good lord," said somebody, "my pillow's crawling!"

Bugs were cascading down the walls. Stajitch jumped to his feet, and began stamping hard. "Rivers of them," he yelled.

Cutting and Whatmough were groaning about the heat, so we opened the door. Immediately all the dogs of the village, half wolves, hurled themselves at the lighted space. Stajitch slammed it just in time; had they burst in, lying down as we were, we should have been unable to protect ourselves.

A dark face peered in between the baking oven and the wall, a swarthy Albanian face. It looked at us and then silently withdrew.

"It doesn't matter," said somebody at last, "we've got to stick it."

We roused up neither rested nor refreshed. The room seen in the dim light of the morning seemed even more revolting than it had been the night before. We demanded the bill, it was brought—five francs for apples which we had bought. And for the room? Nothing. We gave our host three francs extra, and he bowed, putting his hands to his bosom and kissed our palms.

There was a good stiff clay soil waiting for our tiring feet, and by the time we reached Berane, there was no thought of going further. Almost every one was exhausted.

We reached the shores of the river. The bridge had been washed away, but the inhabitants had made a boat like a sort of huge wooden shoe which they dragged to and fro with ropes. We clambered in and were hauled over. Our baggage had not yet arrived, so Jan and Stajitch ordered lunch for the others and went down to see about it. Just as they were landed on the opposite bank the rope broke. So all the Montenegrins and Albanians who were working the ferry went off to a midday meal, leaving the two with the pangs of hunger growling within, sitting on the bank.

After two hours' waiting the rope was repaired, and they got back to lunch famishing. We then arranged sleeping places and locked up all the baggage in an empty shop. Our room was one of those ordinary Montenegrin bedrooms plastered with pictures. Amongst them was a postcard, and on it was printed large in English in blue crystalline letters, "Never Again."

Whence did it come, this enigmatic postcard, and what did it mean? It seemed almost a solemn warning; yet in a hotel bedroom. What did the hostess think it meant?

"Never Again."

Some of the men came in cheering, having found Turkish delight in one of the shops. We were sadly needing sugar, as our last tin had been stolen along with lots of other things. So we indulged in "Turkish" not wisely.

The professor got up to his old games again. Again he had told the commandant that he was leading the British, and that we would rest the next day, and again Jan had to pick him off his perch.

Some got a bed that night, the others had to sleep "in rows," half under the beds and half projecting out. The people on the beds said it was a funny sight.

When we unpacked at night we found who had been robbing us. The policemen. We had missed many more things, but found that the amount varied in direct ratio to the number of police who guarded us. All our spare boots were now gone, Blease's overcoat, and also Miss Brindley's. Jo had lost her only other coat and skirt, and one or two mackintoshes were missing. Now we knew why the police wore long-skirted coats; but what a disappointment the one must have had who lifted Jo's coat and skirt.

Got off again in good time the next morning. Cutting and three others stayed behind to look after the police. Lucky they did, because one of the horses wore out, and the police would have left it on the road, pack and all. As it was we left the horse grazing, but the baggage was transferred.

There had been a decentish level road made from Andrievitza half way to Berane, and women were working hard on the extension in the hopes of getting it finished for the Serbs; but that they could never do, for there were but few of them. Further on many of the bridges were unfinished, and in one or two places a landslide had carried away the road itself, leaving a deep clinging mud in its place, but we were getting used to mud.

We met "Eyebrows" once more, just at the entrance to the village; but he was going on to Pod, so had finally got a day ahead of us. Found rooms in our old resting place.

The professor was threatening to accompany us to Italy—he was like the old man of the sea. We got a telegram from the English Minister, saying that he did not think we could ever get to Italy from Scutari. We preferred to trust to our luck which so far had been wonderful, especially in the matter of weather. In the evening the captain sent to say that twenty horses would await us the next day. A motor car would have been sent, he added, but almost all the bridges were washed away and they could get no nearer than Lieva Rieka.



CHAPTER XXII

ANDRIEVITZA TO POD

A problem met us in the morning. Willett was quite ill and only fit for bed. But bed was impossible. We had just escaped from the sound of the guns, and did not know which way the Austrians were coming. To wait was too risky; others would certainly get seedy and sooner or later some one might get seriously ill. We felt we must push on to Podgoritza and be within hail of doctor and chemist. But Willett looked very wretched, lying flat and refusing breakfast.

We plied him with chlorodyne; but the chlorodyne did not like him and they parted company. We tried chlorodyne followed by brandy with better effect. Others also showed a distinct interest in the chlorodyne bottle. We felt very anxious: milk was almost unprocurable, other comforts nil.

We finally decided that if he was going to have dysentery he had better have it decently and in order at Podgoritza, than stand the chance of being suddenly surprised by the Austrians and made to walk endless distances. So we heaved him on to a wooden pack, and the other chlorodyney figures of woe climbed on to the remaining queer-looking saddles.

Blease tried a horse which had a thoughtful eye. It kicked him on the knee, and trod on his toe, so he relinquished the joy of riding for the serener pleasure of walking. Jan clambered on to it, whereupon it stood on its forelegs, and as there were no stirrups and the saddle back hit him behind, he landed over its neck, remaining there propped up by a stick which was in his hand. After readjusting himself inside the two wooden peaks of the saddle, he testified his disapproval to the beast, and trotted away in style, leaving a row of grinning Montenegrins and boys behind with the exception of one who clung to reins and other bits of saddlery, imploring him to stop. It would seem as if pack ponies were never meant to trot, but at last he shook off the pony boy, passed Miss Brindley (whose horse was looking at himself in a puddle with such deep and concentrated interest that he pulled her over his head and landed her in the middle of the water), and reached the vanguard of the party, who had deserted their horses for a lift on a lorry—Willett, sitting in front with the driver, was shrunk like a concertina inside his great coat.

The lorry dropped us just before the first broken bridge. Then we had to leave the road and face mud slush, climbing for hours. We had picked up various friends—a courtly old peasant who was very worried to hear that Kragujevatz had fallen, and feared for the invasion of Montenegro; two barefoot girls, who asked Jo all the usual questions, and an American-speaking Serbian man who had trudged from Ipek, the first refugee on that road from Serbia. He was very mysterious, and contrary to the usual custom, would not tell us about himself nor where he was going.

He was very anxious to stand us drinks, but curiously enough, every one refused. The professor had started before us, with a Greek priest. When we passed him he lifted his hands deprecatingly, "Teshko."

Our hopes of arriving before dark were as usual crushed. The dusk found us still floundering in the mud on wayside paths. It began to pour. The hills above us became white—a straight line being drawn between snow and rain—and our guides wanted us to spend the night at an inn two hours before we reached Jabooka. But it looked very uninviting—we remembered the cheery hostess of Jabooka, the woman who came from "other parts," and knew a thing or two about cleanliness. Every one agreed to go on. Willett was rather better, so we forged ahead in the downpour and the dark, splashing through puddles and singing everything we knew. Our Albanian guides chuckled and chanted their own nasal songs in a different key as an accompaniment.

Far away we saw a tiny light—Jabooka. We stretched our legs and hurried along, but alas! the inn room was full. There was the professor, his face shining from warmth and well-being, crowds of men in uniform, some fat travelling civilians: faces looked up from the floor, from the corners, faces were everywhere, wet boys were steaming in front of the fire, while the hostess and a girl were picking their way as best they could in the tobacco smoke with eggs and rakia.

Full; even the floor! and we were wet through. The professor had announced that we were staying at the dirty inn away back. Oh, the old villain!

He came forward, saying in an impressive voice that a major had taken the inn.

"Bother the major," said Jo. "Something must be done."

The professor smiled. "There is another inn."

There was nothing for it. We had to go to the inn across the road, glad enough to have a roof at all. The rain was tearing down as if the heavens were filled with fire-engines.

But they didn't want us there. We beheld a dirty low-ceiled room filled with filthy people and a smell of wet unwashed clothes.

The owner and his wife received us roughly. "We have no room, we have nothing," they said.

We stood our ground. "We must have a roof to-night."

Outside the road had become a river, our men were nearly dropping with fatigue.

"You can't come here," said the innkeeper, looking at us with great distrust.

The major, whom Jo had "bothered," came in. "You must take these people," he said, and asked various searching questions about the rooms.

Reluctantly the truth came out that if the whole family slept in one room there would be one for us. The major ordered them to do it. Jo wished she hadn't "bothered" him quite so gruffly.

The daughters stamped about, furiously pulling all the blankets off the two beds, while one of them stood in the doorway watching us to see that we did not secrete the greasy counterpanes. Several of the party sat, hair on end, with staring eyes, too tired to shut them.

"Food?"

"Nema Nishta," was the response.

"Can we boil water?"

"No."

"Where can we boil it?"

"Nowhere."

"But there is a fire in the kitchen," we said, pointing to a hooded fireplace where a few sticks were burning.

"Why shouldn't they boil water?" said a kindly looking man.

"Well, I suppose they can," said the old woman, who became almost pleasant over the kitchen fire—telling Jo she was sixty and only a stara Baba (old granny).

Miss Brindley made tea. We cheered as she brought it in. Tea, bully beef, and our last biscuits comprised our dinner, which we ate in big gulps, after which we sang "Three blind mice" as a digestive.

The half-open door was full of peering faces, so somewhat encouraged we gave them a selection of rounds.

We left next morning early in a heavy downpour, after being exorbitantly charged, glad to leave Jabooka for ever.

The professor was before us, an aged red Riding Hood, clad in his scarlet blanket. The day was long and uneventful. Trudge, trudge, splash, splash. The dividing line between snow and rain still was heavily marked, but it sleeted and our hands were quite numbed. We crossed an angry stream on a greasy pole and most of us splashed in. Whatmough stood in the water, remarking, "I'm wet and I'll get no wetter," and helped people across. Again after dark we arrived at Lieva Rieka, to find our dirty old inn again; but it had a real iron stove which gave out a glorious heat, and we crowded around in the ill-lit room, clouds of steam arising from us. We tried to dry our stockings against the stove pipe, but the old mother did not approve. She was afraid of fire. When she ran out of the room, socks were pressed surreptitiously against the pipe with a "sizz," and when she returned, innocent looking people were standing against the wall, no socks to be seen.

The eldest daughter settled down with her head in Jo's hip, having failed to get Miss Brindley alongside. She gazed longingly at Miss Brindley from Jo's lap, and asking for all the data possible as to her life.

"A devoika (girl), free, travelling from a country so far away that it would take three months in an oxcart to get there."

"Oh, how wonderful!"

They gave us a tiny room and two benches—much too small for the whole company; so some slept outside on the balcony.

The professor was in the adjoining inn, so we guessed it must be the best; but a young French sailor, from the wireless in Podgoritza, who came to gossip with us, said there was nothing to choose.

He was champing, as the Government were commandeering the wireless company's motor cars right and left using them to cart benzine; and now they were going to send a refugee Serb officer's family to Podgoritza in his motor, leaving him sitting.

We spent the next morning waiting for the motor, not knowing if it would arrive or no. The professor sailed away in the French one, being one up on us again. It still rained, so we sat contemplating the possibilities of lunch. No sooner was it on the boil than the biggest automobile in Montenegro, a covered lorry, turned up.

We persuaded the driver to lunch with us, and packed ourselves and our dingy packages on to the wet floor. The motor buzzed up and downhill, incessantly twisting and turning: what we could see of the view from the back waved to and fro like Alpine scenery seen in the cinematograph. Stajitch became violently seasick with the fumes of benzine, which arose from two big tanks we were taking along, and lay with his head lolling miserably out of the back of the car.

Pod once more, sleepy, inhospitable Pod.

We bargained for rooms at our old inn—mixed beds and floors. The owner was asking more than ever; he shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands.

"The war—increasing prices."

So we took what we could, put Stajitch to bed, saw the prefect, our old friend from Chainitza, who promised us a carriage for Cettinje in the morning.

Miss Brindley, joyfully ready to see Cettinje and anything else that might turn up, joined Jo and Jan in the old shandrydan carriage which lumbered along for seven hours to Cettinje.

"We are going to find Turkish delight," said the others, as they disappeared down a side street, revelling in the idea of a rest.

Cettinje was inches deep in water. We assured the Count de Salis that much as we needed money to continue the journey, we needed baths more.

This was a weighty matter and needed much thinking out, petroleum being very scarce. The huge empty Legation kitchen stove was lit and upon it were placed all the kettles, saucepans, and empty tins in the place; the picturesque old baggy-breeched porter, his wife, and little boy stoking hard, and asking lots of questions. One by one we were ushered into a room, not the bathroom but a room containing the sort of comfortable bath which makes the least water go the longest way, and also a beautiful hot stove. This solemn rite occupied a whole afternoon. We had not taken our clothes off for sixteen days and had been in the dirtiest of places. A change of underclothing was effected. None too soon! for at Lieva Rieka we had picked up lice.

We compared notes on this part afterwards. "Happy hunting?" we inquired like Mowgli's friends. It was good to sit by the big kitchen stove holding bits of dripping clothing to the blaze; the downfall at Cettinje the evening before having completely drenched our damp things again.

Next day outside the world was white and silent, the snow covering the little city and its intrigues with a thick whitewash.

The minister was the kindest of hosts and could not do enough for us during our stay. Cettinje had not changed much. The hotel-keeper showed an intense and violent anxiety to leave Montenegro. Never had his native Switzerland seemed so alluring and never was it so unattainable. The chemist, who owned a little one-windowed shop, was engaged to the king's niece, quite a lift in the world for her, as she was marrying a man of education.

Penwiper, the dog, was still in sole possession of the street, and again went mad with joy at the sound of English women's voices, and accompanied us everywhere, generally upside-down in the snow, clutching our skirts with her teeth.

Jan was in and out of the Transport Office door while Miss Brindley and Jo were being followed around the streets by a jeering crowd of children, who seemed to think that Miss Brindley's india-rubber boot-top leggings and Jo's corrugated stockings and safety-pinned-up skirt out of place. We bought some bags from a woman we afterwards heard was suspected of being an Austrian spy.

Poor old Prenk Bib Doda was in our hotel. He was Prince of the Miridites. As a boy he had been kidnapped by the Turks and haled off to Constantinople. Grown to a middle-aged man in captivity, he was restored to his tribes during the Young Turk Revolution, only to be abducted by the Montenegrins, and to be kept practically a prisoner in Cettinje. We don't know if he disliked it, possibly not, for his walk in life seems to be that of a professional hostage, if one may say so. His ideals of comfort were certainly nearer to the cabarets in Berlin, than to the wild orgies of his own subjects. In fact he was civilized.

A passage across the Adriatic seemed problematic. The Transport Minister hoped we might catch a ship that had tried to leave Scutari three times, but had always been thrown on the beach by storms. The great difficulty was crossing the lake of Scutari. One steamer had been mysteriously sunk and another damaged. He promised to arrange a motor for us directly he should be able to put his hand on a boat to take us across the lake.

Jan and Jo simultaneously began to wish they had not eaten sardines at Rieka. The attack was very violent, and next day Jo stayed in bed, refusing the page boy's efforts to tempt her with lunch.

"See," he said, bearing in a third dish, "English, your i risshkew."

Jo pretended to be pleased, and made Jan eat the Irish stew after his lunch, so that the page boy's feelings should not be hurt.

Suddenly word came from the Transport Minister that a carriage was coming for us. We were to go to Pod, and pick up the others. So Jo stopped tying herself into knots and had to get up and go. We arrived at Pod to find everybody ill. Two days' sedentary life and Turkish delight were responsible for this. We suggested castor oil. One had just missed pleurisy—Whatmough had acted as nurse.

The professor had been trying to pump Stajitch as to our future plans, as he was again alone and rudderless. Stajitch said—

"Mr. and Mrs. Gordon alone know, and they are in Cettinje."

"Now that's not kind to keep a fellow countryman in the dark," said the professor.

Stajitch assured him he knew nothing; but the professor walked away, murmuring that the English were undermining a good Serb boy's character.

And that was the last of the professor.



CHAPTER XXIII

INTO ALBANIA

We caught the mayor in the morning. He was in his shirt-sleeves and he said that the auto had been arranged for. It came and we packed in. On the back perched a boy who outsmelt any Serb we had ever found. It seemed impossible that a human could so smell and yet live. Suddenly the boy drew a packet from his pocket and the smell became intolerable. He unwrapped a piece of cheese and, gasping for breath, we watched it disappear. When it had gone we breathed more freely, but the odour still clung to the youth, and we were not sorry when the auto pulled up at the village of Plavnitza on the edge of the lake. A man, who said that he had been sent to help us, dragged us to the telephone office. He worried the instrument for a while and announced that the boat would be here in two hours. It would have come earlier, but somehow they couldn't make steam get up. We expected it to come in four, and so went off to get something to eat.

The lake was very high, coming right up to the road. All the low fields were covered with water as far as one could see. The girl at the inn was shuddering and shivering with malaria, and we gave her some quinine. At last the steamer came.

We had to pack into one of those cockhat boats, as the quay was separated from the village by half a mile of water. When we got to the steamer, the captain leaned over the side and shouted—

"Where are the mattresses?"

"What mattresses?" said the harbour-master.

"When are you going to start?" demanded we, clambering on board.

"When I get the mattresses," said the captain.

"But what mattresses?" replied the harbour-master.

"I was sent to get mattresses," said the captain, "and here I wait till they come."

This was a nuisance, nobody had said anything about the mattresses.

"I shan't go till to-morrow anyhow," said the skipper.

"I think we'd all better go back to Podgoritza and come again to-morrow," said the man in charge.

"We don't move from here," said Jo, firmly. "If he won't go we'll sit on this boat—which was sent for us—and sing songs all night so that he shan't sleep."

The captain refused to move without the mattresses and we refused to go back, so a violent argument ensued. We remained adamant. At last in despair the harbour master said that he would go and telephone. Night was coming on, the deck was chilly, so Jan went to explore. The quay was half under water, but by jumping from stone to stone one could get about, and Jan discovered an entrance into the stone storehouse. The door was boarded up, but he forced his way in, discovering a huge empty interior banked up well above the water. At one end was a platform made of boards on tubs. An ideal bed. He called the company and they arranged themselves on the planks, though some were dismayed at the prospect of getting no supper. The boards were loose and as each took his place they bobbed up and down. Miss Brindley said that it seemed like sleeping on the keyboard of a piano. We did not expect to see anything before morning of the harbour-master or of Stajitch who had gone with him; but just as we were settled and beginning to snore and the rats were running about, Stajitch poked his head through the window and said that the boat was going immediately. We reluctantly got up, for we were really rather cosy, packed again and hopped in the moonlight from stone to stone till we got to the ship—which was the same old Turkish gunboat on which we had travelled once before. The thing was then explained—a telegraphic mistake. The captain had been ordered to fetch the strangers: but strangers and mattresses are only one letter different, "n" or "m," this letter had been transposed.

Luckily it was a beautiful moonlight night. The lake was wonderfully romantic. A fat Serbian captain, who seemed to know Stajitch, made a request. He said that he had been cut off from his division, which was at Monastir, and that he was going to try and rejoin them. He ask us if he could join our party, as it would come cheaper at the hotels and he could get transport.

It was pretty cold on the lake, but we wrapped ourselves in our blankets and said the view was lovely. Hunger was also gnawing within us, so we were glad when at last the rumbling old engines halted and the steamer gave three hoots. We waited anxiously, and at last a large rowboat came sideways against the steamer. Four carriages were waiting in the bazaar. A very polite Montenegrin doctor welcomed us at the hotel and we got some much desired food.

Bed was beginning to be a mere commonplace now, but we enjoyed it for all that, and slept well into the morning.

Scutari wore its usual air of "the ballet" when we arose. The ladies dressed all in their best clothes, and with great flowing veils and wide skirted coats were hobbling to church. The shopkeepers, with their long black and white legs and coloured shirts, were lounging about the low counters of their shops, smoking and drinking coffee brought them (on little swinging trays) by boys.

The British consul had taken up his quarters at the "Maison Piget." The house was gated, as are all Albanian houses, but this gate was like an old feudal portal. The doors were wonderfully carved and were opened by our old friend the Wolf. We had thought him to be a servant of Suma's, but it appeared that he belonged to the British Empire.

The house was crammed full of arms: a little cannon threatened us on the stairway, swords, claymores, creeses, falchions, scimitars, glaives, dirks, and yatagans were nailed on all the walls, and there were muskets of every sort and size, heavy arquebuses from the north and gas-pipe guns and Arab horsemen firelocks with polished stocks like the handle of a corkscrew, all inlaid with gold, silver, and mother-of-pearl.

"Yes," said the consul, gazing reflectively, "he had a taste for weapons. And also for old cookery books."

The consul said that he thought that there was a boat at San Giovanni. We cheered, for our luck seemed to be holding, and while he went off to the Italian consul we went to the governor to beg for transport. Neither consul nor governor was in, but we caught the Italian consul in the afternoon. He admitted that there was a boat, but warned us that it was no nosegay. He said that two Frenchmen who had thought of taking it had sent him back a telegram which had quite unnerved him.

"Et je n'ai jamais dit qu'elle etait une Transatlantique," he said, waving his arms.

He said that the archbishop had told him that a party of English had come into the town last night, "en haillons," but that he had not believed it possible. However, he had seen two of us in the street that morning, and had realized that it was true.

We said that any boat would do. He warned us of the danger of submarines.

At the consul's house we found the captain of the Miridites awaiting us. He was a heavy-looking man with European clothes and a fez. After the ceremonious coffee he made a set speech, saying that he was paying his duties to the great British Empire, and that England was their only hope. The consul sat rather wishing that he wouldn't, and that his servant had said that he was not at home. In common with most of the Christian rulers of Albania this gentleman seemed to have spent most of his time in exile.

Returning to the hotel Jan found that Jo had been purchasing, and he dragged her and Miss Brindley off to see the archbishop. The cathedral still carries the scars of the first bombardment. The archbishop, a large flat man, gave us each a hand as though he expected us to kiss it; he had a huge archiepispocal ring and a lot of imperiosity. He seemed more political than bishopy, though most of the Churchmen are; and there is the tale of one who said, "I would rather people went to drill than to church." There were a lot of wealthy looking Albanians sitting round and being respectable. The archbishop spoke no French nor German, only Italian. But Jan, with the help of a lot of old musical terms, and an imperfectly forgotten Spanish, managed to convey to him some intelligible compliments and sentences. We got out at last, and his eminence accompanied us to the top of the stairs and gave us the difficult problem of bowing backwards as we went down. This visit was necessary, as we might have had to get a "Besa" from him if we meant to go through to Durazzo.

The Serbian captain who had been on the Turkish gunboat met us in the street. He dragged us into a cafe and began to order beer by the half-dozen. He presented Jo with a small Turkish gold coin, which was valued at five shillings, as a bribe to allow him to join our party. As he already had permission it seemed superfluous.

Some of our party were still pretty seedy. Two had gone to a shop in search of castor oil. A very old and withered chemist, who spoke bad French, invited them in and asked for an account of their adventures, interrupting them with explosions of "Ah poves, poves, poves, poves." "Ah, poves, poves, poves, poves," between every incident and also at the final request for the medicine. He showed them to the door and suddenly burst into unexpected English.

"Good naite, vairey good. I am your poppa."

In the hotel cafe we found two French aeroplanists, for four had arrived that day, sailing down over the city, to the great terror of the inhabitants. They seemed to be afflicted with the same idea as "Quel Pays."

"Ah, monsieur et dame," said they, "quel pays."

We asked them how things were.

"We have just come from Prizren. The Serbs are in a dreadful condition. All the roads are covered with starving and dying people. The troops are eating dead horses and roots. There have been violent snow blizzards all over the mountains. We saw some of your people, too, doctors and nurses, they were going off to Ipek, 'dans une condition deplorable.' We came across the mountains; one of us is lost. Awful country, nowhere to land if anything went wrong and one of our machines has not arrived. God knows what has happened to them. The rest of us are all coming along on foot. We burnt fifty motor cars yesterday, monsieur, that made a blaze."

We asked them what sort of a time they had had in Serbia; but much of their answer is unpublishable.

"Each time we ascended every Serbian regiment fired at us. Once we came down over a battalion and the whole lot fired volleys, and when we landed and stood in front of our machine holding up our hands," they pantomimed, "they continued to fire at us. Then they came and took us prisoners, and were going to shoot us, although one of us had a military medal. A schoolmaster recognised us as French and rescued us. Our machine was broken; but we could get no transport and had to walk thirty kilometres back to our base without food.

"Another time we were chasing an Austrian, the Serbian batteries fired at us, monsieur, not at the enemy. Our officers had to send from the aerodrome to tell them to stop."

As we were going to bed the Montenegrin doctor came in.

"I am sent by the governor, monsieur," said he. "We do not consider it safe, this boat idea. Austrian submarines are everywhere, and the governor would feel it as a personal responsibility if you were drowned. We will provide carriages to Alessio and thence arrange horses—only one day and a half on to Durazzo. Thence Essad Pasha will give you his motor boat and you can easily get to Valona."

Our men groaned at the thought of more journeying. They were all thoroughly fed up with the road, though personally we rather liked the idea. We had heard that Durazzo was very interesting, and would have liked to have met Essad, though we did not know just how his politics were trending. We decided to see the Italian consul once more.

Next day we hunted up the mayor, Mahram Beg, a Turk, for he also could give us a "Besa" if necessary. He was at last discovered, a little crumpled looking man in an office. We were not allowed to interview him in private, but a Montenegrin was there and all conversation had to pass by him like through an imperfect telephone. We gave the mayor a greeting from Colonel P——and little else. A very disappointing interview.

Jan went off to see the governor, who received him kindly. He said that he would arrange everything, but that it was difficult for him with the Italian consul, as the Powers did not recognize the Montenegrin occupation.

"You see, monsieur, here I am the law, and yet the law does not recognize me."

The Italian assured us that the Montenegrins were wrong, and that of course the boat would be escorted, and the danger reduced to its least possible amount. Just after we had left him we heard two things which made us jump.

A body of English officers had landed at Medua, and ninety English refugees from Serbia were en route for Scutari. Could we not catch the transport and at the same time leave room for the others? Suma came in, and we consulted him. He was doubtful if the horses could be got at Alessio for us.

"You see, it is Albania and not Montenegro," he repeated.

We accordingly hunted up the doctor. He promised us horses for the morrow. The carriages had all gone to fetch the English officers. We asked him about Alessio, and he assured us that the telephone message had been received saying that they were waiting. We asked him several times until he grew angry and said—

"Do you doubt my honour, then?"

Before we went to bed the hotel proprietor came to us.

"Do you pay or the Government?" asked he; and seemed very relieved when we told him that we paid. The Montenegrins are neither loved nor trusted here.

The next morning the horses came, but very late. In the crowd watching our departure was an old Albanian without a moustache. That was a strange sight; we looked harder. It was a woman. She must have been one of those who had sworn eternal virginity, and so achieve all a man's privileges, even eating with them instead of getting the scraps left over from the meal. But the punishment of death awaited her if she failed her vow. Here was one, chuckling and grinning at some of us in our attempts to mount the weird saddles and weirder steeds which had been provided. The Serb captain had a carriage, and another carriage took all our baggage, which had now sadly dwindled owing to the continued depredations of the police. We straggled out of the town and through the crowded bazaar, for it was a Saturday. Passed the Venetian fort and the river from which stuck the funnel of the steamer so mysteriously sunk one night. We had heard that the Turkish gun flat which had transported us had burst her boilers, so now the Montenegrins had no steamers left.

The road was level and better than many we had come over, though once or twice the carriages were hopelessly mired, and had to be pushed across. West's horse had ideas about side streets, and bolted down each as he came to it.

We met the Adriatic Commission. Mr. Lamb and Mr. George Paget, returning after so long an absence, were in the first carriage. We recognized Mr. Paget at once, for though either of them might have liked old arms, only one would have collected old cookery books. The rest of the commission came along later. They stopped us. We expected questions about the Serbs; but no. They said—

"Can one buy underclothing in Scutari?"

Their baggage transport had been sunk by an Austrian submarine and they had only what they were wearing. We wished each other luck and went on. There was no hope of arriving at Alessio that night, we had started too late. As evening was falling, we came to an Albanian inn and decided to put up.

There was a stable full of manure on the ground floor, through which one had to pass, and in the dark one was continually slipping into the midden or running one's head unexpectedly into horses' hindquarters. Up a rickety stair were two rooms. The floor rocked as we walked over it, and every moment we expected to go through and be precipitated into the manure below. The walls and floor were so loosely made that the wind blew through in all directions, and we called it the "castle in the air." We supped on chickens which we had brought from Scutari, and Whatmough and Elmer made a fire in the yard and got us cocoa. By this time we were all getting fed up with romantic surroundings, and wanted something more solid. The swarthy countenances about the bonfire, the queer costumes in the flickering fire, left us unmoved.

Sleep was impossible. The wind caught one in every corner, threatening lumbago. Stajitch fled and camped outside in one of the carriages, despite the rain.



We started as early as possible—dawn. Whatmough, Cutting, Jo and Jan lost the road, but were eventually rescued by a policeman. About eleven one of the carriages broke down, and we had to repair it with tree and wire. Here the houses were again like fortresses, and everybody stared at us as though we came from the moon.

We reached the bank opposite Alessio—a small Turkish-looking village divided between a mud-bank and a hillside. We were about to turn over the bridge when news was brought that a motor-boat belonging to Essad was in San Giovanni harbour. We sent a policeman galloping on to stop it, and followed as fast as our meagre horses would allow. We also heard that a submarine had been in the port the day before and had tried to torpedo the ships lying there—but had missed.

We cantered on, pressing along a stony road which was almost level with the salt marshes on either side. San Giovanni appeared after about an hour and a half. We rode down on to the beach. The motor-boat was getting up anchor. We yelled to the skipper, but he understood no Serb; so we translated through a Turk who was lounging about. The skipper said that he could not embark us there as it was Montenegrin territory, but that if we would go back to Alessio he would wait for us at the mouth of the river and take us down that very night. This seemed too good to be true and we hurried back, passing an Austrian torpedo which had run up on the brown sand—a present from yesterday's raid. We turned the others and cantered ahead to get a boat; reached the bridge once more and crossed into Albania. Officials ran from all sides to stop us, but we ignored them, dismounted, and ran to the side of the river where boats were loading, overloading with passengers. The boatmen refused to take us if we had no passes from the governor.

We hunted the governor's office up the hillside, panting in our haste. We burst in upon him. He was a dirty man in an unclean shirt and unkempt trousers.

"We want to go by the motor-boat," we explained.

"Who are you?" he asked, picking his teeth.

"We are the English about whom the governor of Scutari has telegraphed."

"I don't know anything about you," he said. His manner was ungracious.

"But," we said, "they assured us that they had telegraphed from Scutari."

The telegraph clerk was brought, and denied that any message had come.

"Anyhow," said the governor, "the motor-boat is for Albanian soldiers only, and has gone twenty minutes ago. I can do nothing for you without authority from Durazzo."

We wandered dismally back through the town and were immediately arrested by the bridge officials because we had not paid the toll rates. We paid double to get rid of them.

We found an inn. It was the usual sort of building only of stone, and so dirtier than the others. Some travelling show seemed to have left its scenery in lieu of its bill, for bits of painted canvas did duty as partitions.

There was a room with six beds, but one was reserved for an Albanian officer. We took the rest. We loitered about all the afternoon, and in the evening the Albanian officer came in. He was a beaky-faced, unpleasant-looking man, but he procured us some bread, which we sorely lacked. The hotel had little food, so we gave them our rice. By this time fleas had got into it, and seeming to like it had bred in quantities. Still as we had nothing else it had to be cooked, and we picked out the boiled fleas as well as we were able. The Serbian captain started drinking with the Albanian, and soon both were well over the edge of sobriety.

They came up long after we had turned in, fell over Cutting, who cursed them without stint, and tumbled on to the beds which we had left for them. The Albanian made some remarks about the ladies, which from the tone were insults; but we were unable to chastize him, or we should all have been put into prison.

They snored and coughed all night, and spat about in the dark. Those who were sleeping near cowered beneath the mackintosh sheets and prayed for luck. But in the morning we found that they had been spitting on the wall.



CHAPTER XXIV

"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.



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 pharmacopoeia 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 ou le Bon Dieu n'a pas passe, ou au moins il a peut-etre passe 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.



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

Lieva Rieka, 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.