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 embarra.s.sed. 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 bis.m.u.th 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 pa.s.sengers, 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 gla.s.ses, 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 ash.o.r.e, 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 pa.s.se, ou au moins il a peut-etre pa.s.se 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 eggsh.e.l.l 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.