He liked to ask me questions about England, Montenegro's friend in past times of trouble, and seemed surprised to hear that I had seen snow before I came to his land.

His father said that the boy was stupid and a dreamer, but I thought differently of him.

P. joined me, and together we watched the sunset. On our left towered the Kom, and running in an unbroken chain circled a mountain range, ending in the setting sun. Low down an angry bank of clouds hung over the distant peaks, and into this ma.s.s of black and grey the sun, in all its glory of yellow and gold, sank slowly. The hills between us seemed wild and mysterious. Away to our left, in gloomy confusion, the Albanian Alps reared their heads, lit here and there with a red gleam of sunlight. At our feet, shrouded in impenetrable blackness, lay two steep ravines. The sun sank, leaving a weird eerie feeling behind, and we found ourselves strangely cold.

We spent many days with Vaso, shooting with indifferent results, but revelling in the glories of nature.

CHAPTER XV

We leave Andrijevica--Our additional escort--The arrival at our camping-place--In an enemy's country--The story of one Gjolic--Our slumbers are disturbed--Sunrise on the Alps--We disappoint our escort--"Albanian or Montenegrin?"--A reconnaissance--The Forest of Vucipotok--The forbidden land--A narrow escape--We arrive at Rikavac--Rain damps our ardour--Nocturnal visitors.

We left Andrijevica finally one morning about eight a.m. for our many days' ride along the Albanian frontier to Podgorica. Everyone turned out to bid us farewell, from the Voivoda, who expressed his regret that we had seen no one shot, downwards. The Voivoda's son and a small party accompanied us to the outskirts of the town, where a quaint notice-board bears the inscription that, on pain of a fine, shooting is forbidden within the prescribed limits.

Here, after much hand-shaking and promises to come again, we mounted, and drawing our revolvers, replied right merrily to the farewell volleys of our friends. It is a pleasant custom that--shooting at parting.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE RAVINE OF TERPETLIS]

We rode for two or three hours along the Peruica valley till we came to a small and scattered village, Konjuhe, where we dismounted for a rest. It was the birthplace of the Voivoda, and his brother still lived there. He was immediately sent for. When he heard of our proposed tour, he insisted on our taking an additional escort (besides Dr. S., and Stephan our servant, we had engaged another man, named Milan, in Andrijevica) of at least two men, as the country was just now in a very dangerous condition. The necessary guard was soon found, and after a long halt owing to a heavy shower, we were able to proceed on our way, first carefully loading our rifles and overhauling our revolvers. Our two men were quite celebrated for a famous raid into Gusinje, in which they had played an active part a short time ago.

They had killed several Albanians, and captured two hundred sheep. As the Albanians would shoot them at sight, they seemed hardly fitted to act as an escort; but then every man from that part is engaged, more or less, in a blood feud across the border.

We commenced climbing almost directly, and the ascent lasted for the rest of the day. The scenery was grand. On our right the majestic Kom, still covered with snow; falling away precipitously to the left was the deep ravine of Terpetlis, through which a mountain torrent dashed; and rising high on the other side, and forming the boundary between Montenegro and Albania, was a magnificent rocky ridge. We dismounted at one point to breathe our horses, and made our midday meal off wild strawberries.

Further on we pa.s.sed from the Vasovic into the Kuc. These two, the most warlike clans of Montenegro, were formerly under Turkish rule, and bitter foes. But when war broke out, they forgot their old enmity and joined hand-in-hand with Montenegro to drive out the still more hated Turk. Since then they have lived together in peace and harmony.

On nearing our camping-ground for the night, our two guards ran on to draw the fire from any concealed Albanians, while we followed more leisurely. The scenery was wild in the extreme, though differing very slightly from that which we had experienced during the last few weeks.

Great woods stretched half-way down the mountain to the torrent, and up again on the further side. Immense boulders, with an occasional tree growing out of a crevice, and every here and there clumps of firs, every yard affording excellent cover for a hidden enemy.

Our destination was Carina, a collection of stone huts on an open green slope, which reaches up to the rocky sides of the Kom. It is the highest point inhabited in Montenegro by the shepherds in the summer, and lies over five thousand feet above the sea-level. During this period of the annual migration to the hills, the district is comparatively safe. The Albanians do not attack large parties, but rather stragglers, as larger numbers have an unpleasant habit of organising themselves into avenging bands to repay the visit with interest.

Not a soul was to be seen anywhere, not a living being of any description. In a shower of pelting rain we took possession of the largest hut. It is decidedly annoying to get thoroughly wet at the end of a long day, and the prospect of a night in damp clothes was in no way pleasing. The hut was damp and cold, and it had the chilly feeling which only comes from a long period of emptiness, and strikes to the marrow. But our men turned to with a will, cleaning out the hut, strewing it with very wet rushes, and piling up a big log-fire in the middle. We were pretty hungry, too, a couple of eggs at six a.m. and a few strawberries at midday are not much to go on, and we had been in the saddle for over ten hours. Stephan had brought amongst other things some raw bacon, which he gave me, but, hungry as I was, I could not face that. Later on, a happy thought struck me, and I went and toasted it over the fire. I do not recollect ever relishing food so much in my life. About a couple of hours later a lamb had been roasted, and we were able to make a decent meal.

It was getting rapidly dark now, and watch had to be kept outside. The horses were picketed close at hand for fear of wolves, as well as Albanians. By the time that we had finished eating, night was upon us.

It was pitch dark and no moon. Rather reluctantly I turned out to do my share of sentry-go in the bitter cold. But it was decidedly interesting, as one of our party began to tell stories of the usual blood-curdling nature. On emerging from the hut, I thoughtlessly remained standing for a few seconds in the low doorway which, as the fire was blazing brightly inside, showed up my figure strongly against the surrounding gloom. Before I knew where I was I was roughly seized by a man and thrown forcibly into the darkness. He intimated that I must be a fool to court death in that manner. For all we knew, he said, a dozen Albanians might be hiding around us and waiting for such an easy shot. And when I was not allowed to smoke, I realised that we were in an enemy's country.

Watch was kept all night by two men, one sitting on the roof, or on an elevation which commanded it, and the other patrolling round with a sharp eye on the horses. The roof must always be watched, for the Albanians usually creep up and climb on to it--it is always conveniently low--they then remove a board and shoot the sleeping inmates.

During my watch I was told the following story, which brings out many interesting traits of the Montenegrin character.

A certain man named Gjolic, of the tribe of Vasovic, killed two men of his clan over a love affair, and promptly fled to Gusinje, the country just opposite Carina, and inhabited by a tribe of Albanians, famed for their blood-thirstiness and hatred of strangers. The only pa.s.sport to their land is crime, and no one but a fugitive from justice can hope to enter, or leave it, alive. Gjolic swore to have revenge on his clan, and in this respect he was a notable exception. He came repeatedly across the border, often in broad daylight, shooting anyone whom he met. He soon became the terror of the whole Vasovic. In the neighbourhood of Carina he had shot many shepherds, and last autumn he murdered a youth of sixteen. This was too much, and two men laid their heads together. To obtain the necessary right of entrance to Gusinje, they crossed over into Turkey and deliberately stole a cow, taking care at the same time that they should be arrested and sentenced to punishment. Their plan acted admirably, and they effected their escape, fleeing to Gusinje, where they were received in a friendly manner. But Gjolic was away, and for six months they waited for him in patience. At last news came that he was on his way home, and could be expected on a certain day. So the men went out to meet him, and began shooting fish in a river where he must pa.s.s. Fish shooting is a common and favourite sport of the people.

"G.o.d help you," said a voice, "has your luck been good?"

It was Gjolic who spoke.

"Our luck is good," they answered, and following an imaginary fish with their rifles, they turned on him.

Crack! Crack! Gjolic was dead.

That scene I shall never forget. The starless night, all round the land lying enshrouded in impenetrable darkness, the low voice of the Montenegrin which rose with his excitement, but sank again immediately to a hoa.r.s.e whisper, and on the barely discernible roof of the hut a black figure, with rifle at the ready, sitting motionless.

It was eleven o'clock when I turned in, and the next man took his rifle and went outside to relieve one of the watchers. A roaring fire was kept going, for it was very cold, and round it lay the others sleeping, each with his rifle and revolver by his head. "And we are in Europe!" I said to myself, as I lay down to sleep, which, in spite of the mighty snoring of Dr. S., came almost immediately.

It seemed but a few minutes since I had closed my eyes when a shot rang out, bringing me to my knees in an instant. It is not advisable to rise quickly in these huts without taking the roof into consideration, as I had learnt by bitter and repeated experience.

Everyone awoke, except Dr. S., who snored on peacefully. However, I roughly awoke him, and we all dashed out, rifle in hand.

One of our sentries stood peering into the gloom, and swore that he had seen a figure moving. We lay down and waited, but nothing came.

Then slowly the day began to dawn, and with it our anxiety diminished.

I went to get a cup of coffee, preparatory to climbing a part of the Kom. One of our guards, of course, accompanied me. That is the worst of these districts, we could never move a step without being followed.

It was like being under police surveillance. Furthermore, I should have preferred to climb with a good stick; but no. Again that iron control ordered me to take my carbine, and loaded too.

We reached a high ridge just in time to see the sun rise, and it lit up the snow-clad mountain-tops with an indescribable beauty. But so much has been written about the splendours of Alpine sunrises that it is needless to say more about it. Yet it was as beautiful as anything to be seen in Switzerland or the Tyrol. The ridge commanded a view in both directions. The Albanian Alps and the mountains behind the Moraca lay before us in one vast panorama, the latter looming up so close that it was difficult to believe that so many days' hard riding lay between us.

After climbing one of the lower peaks, we descended again to our hut, which we reached shortly after six. Everyone was busy, washing, packing up, or even sleeping, which is an equally important business.

To s.n.a.t.c.h half an hour's sleep here and there is an enviable art, and cannot be overrated. But, perched on a low stone wall, sat a guard all the time. Daylight does not imply safety.

After breakfast, luxurious with toasted bacon, I emerged from the hut to find an excited group outside, one of whom was even lying down and aiming.

"He is watching us. It is far better that we should finish him now than allow him to go on and report our movements," said the man, fingering his trigger lovingly.

On looking I saw an Albanian about six hundred yards away, half hidden behind a boulder. The idea of shooting a man in this way did not seem quite sporting, and Dr. S. agreed with me. The men were extremely disappointed at our refusal to allow them to shoot. "He will follow us till we reach the wood," they said, "and then we shall repent it." The Albanian shortly afterwards disappeared, and we proceeded with our packing.

About eight o'clock we left Carina, and had rather an unique experience in riding across several large snow fields which were quite hard, though the horses decidedly disliked the experiment. About an hour's ride brought us to a tiny church, solidly built of stone and standing on a ridge overlooking the whole country. It is used by the shepherds who migrate annually to the pasturages in this district.

Only a few months ago the Albanians had broken into it and utterly dismantled it. On the iron door and on the shutters huge dents and even bullet splashes were plainly visible. Our Albanian we found here awaiting us, which was a plucky thing to do. Our guards hailed him with the cry of "Albanian or Montenegrin?" But he answered, "Friend."

I think that our men showed him our rifles rather ostentatiously, and, as we were all armed with magazines and had plenty of ammunition, he must have thought that we should scarcely afford the desired sport. We did not see him again, though he took the same path which we were going to take. This incident put us very much on our guard, and we made preparations for the further journey with mixed feelings. Before us lay the dense wood of Vucipotok, which is the most ill-famed spot in Montenegro. It stretches unbrokenly down to Gusinje, and the bridle path which traverses it is the border line between the two countries.

It was then settled that a guard and myself should climb a small hill overlooking the wood and its approach. However, we saw nothing, and soon rejoined our party. Before entering the wood, in the open, were two or three stones erected to murdered men--it is customary in Montenegro to put up either a pile of stones or a slab of rock where the body has been found. Inscriptions on the stones are very rare, the Vucipotok is too dangerous to waste much time in it, but wherever these stones are seen, a dead man, as often as not headless, has been found. Such memorial stones are to be found all over the country, but not in such plentiful profusion as we saw them now.

Everyone dismounted, and with rather uncanny feelings we entered the forest. First of all went one of our escort, and then in single file, about ten paces apart, we followed. Rifles were held at the ready, and every boulder and tree carefully scanned. The path was atrocious, strewn with great stones, so that walking was no easy matter. When a particularly large boulder was reached, we would halt under its shelter to enable the horses to come up--they were following behind under the charge of one man. We did not exactly stroll through that wood.

Every few paces stood a memorial stone. There was one put up to the memory of ten Montenegrins who were all shot down without seeing their enemy. Everyone shoots at sight here, and had we met our Albanian friend of the early morning, matters would have gone sadly with him.

At one point I insisted on taking a photograph--much to everyone's disgust. The spot was where a famous Kuc general had been murdered.

His head was taken in triumph to Scutari. Oddly enough, we ate our midday meal at his grave, for his friends took his body away from here and buried it in an open place directly overlooking the valley of Gusinje. I was rather hurried over the operation, as the Montenegrins distinctly objected to standing still, but they were all very tickled about it.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE PATH THROUGH THE VUCIPOTOK]

The Vucipotok is used by young Montenegrins as a means of showing their bravery. They go straight through it alone, with their rifles over their backs, smoking cigarettes. This const.i.tutes an act of reckless daring in their eyes. Some even go through, at some distance from the path, on the Albanian side. We met one young man leading his horse and strolling along as unconcernedly as though he were in Cetinje--so that we almost felt that we were being unduly impressed with a sense of danger. But afterwards we met another party who were proceeding with greater caution than we were. And then there were those memorial stones.

At last the wood ceased, and in a clearing we made a halt. Our Montenegrins looked relieved. For themselves they have no fear, but had one of us been hit, the disgrace for them would have been unspeakable. It would have necessitated a raid into Albania of the most extensive kind, and hundreds might have fallen; the Montenegrins guard their visitors as they guard their honour, and in that case, life is only a secondary matter.

We now climbed a very steep hill. At the top we had to dismount, as a narrow path, just wide enough for a horse, skirted along a great precipice, looking straight down about one thousand feet. It was a wonderful view, but not to be recommended to those suffering in any way from giddiness.

We overlooked the great Vucipotok wood through which we had just pa.s.sed, and the whole valley of Gusinje. When we reached a place where we were able to turn round with comfort, we stopped for the view. A long, narrow valley, inclosed by the Procletia or "d.a.m.nable Mountains," through which a river could be seen flowing, lay at our feet. This was Gusinje, the forbidden land. With the aid of field-gla.s.ses the town of Gusinje itself could be just distinguished, a square and apparently walled-in town.[4] Very picturesque it looked in the bright sunshine, the great green woods in the foreground, the solemn and majestic snow mountains and the peaceful valley. Yet it is inhabited by the most villainous and treacherous cut-throats in Europe, an absolutely untameable tribe, who would die to the last man to preserve their independence.