The Land of the Black Mountain Part 6

How odd it looked at first to see an Albanian with perhaps a s.h.i.+lling's-worth of field produce spread out before him, and at his side a rifle loaded and c.o.c.ked; or, again, a Montenegrin boy of perhaps fourteen, with his rifle across his knee! To keep order in this formidably armed crowd of men, many animated with the fiercest racial and religious hatred of each other, are some dozen Montenegrin gendarmes, armed, as is every Montenegrin, with but a heavy revolver.

Deadly enemies meet on the market-place, men standing in blood feud with one another, and speak, often expressing a fervent prayer soon to be able to put a bullet into the other at the first opportunity, but--outside the town. Podgorica is mutually held as neutral territory, and is very rarely violated. This is strange where men fear not death.

But, outside, perhaps but half an hour from the outskirts of the town, these men will meet and shoot and kill; for murder, or sudden death, to use their euphemistic way of looking at matters, is by no means uncommon.

There is a great tract of land about an hour's ride from Podgorica characteristically called the "Crna Zemlja" or Black Earth. It is neutral, lying between Montenegro and Albania, and the man who sets his foot on it carries his life in his hands. Men who know, say that every inch is soaked in blood. It is overlooked by some small hills from Albania, and is covered with long pampas gra.s.s, affording good cover for a man, and they shoot there for love of killing.

But to return to Eastertide.

It is a good time to visit Montenegro for first impressions. The Montenegrin outdoes himself in open-handed hospitality; every house is open, and everyone visits his neighbour. The best chamber in the house, as often as not the only living-room among the poorer cla.s.ses, is set out with all the good things the owner possesses. On the table stand meat, eggs, bread, wine, and spirits; and it is a grievous insult to leave that room without tasting, and tasting liberally, of all. This lasts three days, and it is more than enough.

And we were particularly honoured, being Englishmen and strangers: one might say we were painfully honoured. What quant.i.ties we were forced to eat and drink! At one house, that of a poor man, who lived with his wife in a tiny room, we were presented with a bottle of Munich beer, his greatest treasure, given him once by a friend who had travelled.

He doubtless considered it a luxury of a priceless kind, and it cut us to the heart to drink that man's beer. But we had to; he took no denial, barely tasting it himself.

We might have stood it fairly well were it not for those eggs, hard-boiled Easter eggs, the sh.e.l.ls coloured red or blue. This inst.i.tution is a positive torture to the unfortunate digestion, which suffers untold torments at Eastertide.

There is a game played with these hard-boiled eggs which reminds one forcibly of schooldays. Two men each select an egg, and one, holding his egg firmly, allows the other to endeavour to crack it, only the pointed ends being used.

But this harmless if childish custom once led to a vendetta. A man once cracked such an enormous quant.i.ty of eggs, that in the evening he was challenged to show his marvellous egg, which he persistently refused to do. This led to words and words to revolvers, and the man was shot. Then the egg was found to be a clever imitation in stone.

Though Podgorica is the trading centre of Montenegro, business is not carried on in the same brisk way as in other lands.

We once wished to send a parcel of feathers home, and went accordingly to the post office. It was towards evening then, and we were informed that the postmaster was "not at home," and were asked to come next day. The following morning we again visited the post office, when the contents were carefully noted, and long lists filled out which took roughly about half an hour; at the end of which time a head was thrust out of the window, asking us to call in about an hour and pay. This was because no post-office clerk is allowed to receive money; he is strangely enough not always honest, and the postmaster was again out.

At the end of the hour we returned and paid.

Another time I tendered a gulden in payment of a telegram, and had to wait a quarter of an hour while a boy was sent into the town to obtain change.

In matters of business it is well to possess one's soul in patience. A more unbusinesslike set of people is hard to be found, yet in driving a bargain they are remarkably shrewd, to put it kindly.

Even in such trivial matters as purchasing a hen no indecent hurry is shown. Such a transaction may take days. For instance, you wish to buy a hen, and signify the same to a man, and he will say--

"I have a hen which I can sell thee, but it will break my heart. Such a hen, and such eggs! I feel I cannot part with her."

"Very well," you say; "don't make yourself miserable; I'll buy one somewhere else."

"But give me till to-morrow. It is too sudden."

And he goes away. If you are not in a hurry, it does not matter and you wait. It is amusing.

Next day he will come again and say that he has another hen nearly as good as the first, but, as he loves you and respects you, he will part with his beloved hen at a consideration, and names a price far beyond its worth. You refuse, and state your price for the _good_ hen, the ordinary market price, which he indignantly refuses and departs. In a few hours he will come again, bringing a hen which, almost with tears, he tells you is _the_ hen--his beloved hen.

"Take her," he says, "as a present."

Whereupon you press upon him the market price, which of course he takes, and the matter is finished.

Such little episodes are trying at first. The Montenegrin loves money--it is his curse, or rather the curse of every country on the brink of civilisation--but he also loves to play the gentleman, who hates sordid money transactions. He will often make you a present and afterwards send in an extortionate bill.

But, usually, you make him a monetary present _at once_, which he takes with thanks, at your own price.

If it were not for money, what an ideal race the Montenegrins would be! But then that is the same with a good many people.

CHAPTER VII

Medun--Voivoda Marko--His life and heroism--His part in Montenegrin history--Our ride to Medun--His widow--We visit his grave--The death dirge--Montenegrin customs at death--Target practice--Our critics--The hermit of Daibabe--We visit Spu--A typical country inn and a meal--The Turkish renegade gives his views on warfare--Dioclea.

During our repeated sojourns in Podgorica we made several excursions to places of interest in the neighbourhood, chief amongst which was a visit to Medun, Voivoda Marko Drekalovic's grave.

Medun lies in the heart of the mountains, about four hours' ride from Podgorica, and is the capital (if one can apply such a high-sounding name to a ruined fortress and two or three houses) of the Kuc. The Kuc is a large province inhabited by one of the most warlike tribes of Montenegro, and only recently came under its rule, though their sympathies were never with their Turkish rulers. The fact that it borders on Albania is significant, and accounts for its fighting qualities.

Voivoda Marko was largely instrumental in bringing about the last war with Turkey, which was so successful to Montenegro, when the Kuc, Podgorica, Nikic, the entire provinces of East Montenegro, the Brda, and the sea-coast from Antivari to Dulcigno were won and confirmed to Montenegro.

The famous battle of Fundina was won by Marko and his tribe alone against an overwhelming Turkish army before war had been officially declared with Montenegro.

Beginning life as a shepherd boy, Marko ended his days as Voivoda (or Duke), and his name is famed in many a song and beloved by the Montenegrins as one of their greatest heroes. Many were the stories of his reckless bravery, which one of his relations told us. Before he had reached the age of twenty he had killed many Turks in single encounter, and was in consequence outlawed. He lived for some years in the mountain fastnesses of his land, and together with a handful of adventurers, who had cast in their lot with his, made descent after descent on any bands of Turkish soldiers that happened to pa.s.s through his domain. His fame soon reached the ears of Prince Nicolas, who sent for him and placed him for some years in his bodyguard--that _corps d'elite_ of the Montenegrins.

At the age of twenty-five he returned home and hara.s.sed the Turks to such an extent that he could not show himself openly by daylight. Like another and more famous outlaw in the days of the kings of Israel, all those that were bitter of soul came down unto him, and he became captain over them. By night he descended upon the Turks wherever he could find them, and made great slaughter among them. The Governor of Podgorica, then Turkish, Yussuf Mucic by name, offered a large sum of money for his head, but no one could be found willing to meet that terrible man whom legend and story had endowed with supernatural powers. Finally, a criminal consented to attempt the deed on the promise of his liberty, and this led to one of the most incredible episodes in Marko's life. The criminal lay in wait for him on a lonely part of the road near Rijeka, and as Marko was pa.s.sing along he stepped suddenly on to the road pistol in hand. Marko in no way attempted defence, but simply transfixed the man with a glance. The wretched man in an ecstasy of terror shot himself, so penetrating was the glance which the Voivoda had given him. So runs the story. Suffice it to remark that Marko arrived safe and sound the same evening in Cetinje, and a dead criminal was found on the next day by the roadside. Now Yussuf, the Governor, was himself a soldier of some repute, and when he heard of the failure of his messenger he boastfully expressed a desire to meet the celebrated Marko in single combat. On this challenge being reported to him Marko rode off on a half-tamed steed at midday into the heart of Podgorica, and reined up before the Pasha's house. In fear and trembling the Turks hastily closed their bazaars and houses as that fearful horseman galloped through their streets. In a loud voice Marko cried--

"I am here, Yussuf, to answer thy challenge. Wilt thou now come out and fight with me?"

But fear filled the heart of the craven Turk, and he sent a woman to the window to say that he was away from home. Marko knew this to be a lie, and cried so that all should hear him that henceforth the challenge was annulled. "I do not fight with cowards," he said, and again galloped away unmolested.

Such was the power that superst.i.tion had weaved around his person that he was commonly believed to be invulnerable, which belief was afterwards belied by the fact that he carried two bullets with him to the grave.

After this public insult to Yussuf, it was known that he would spare no pains to take Marko's life, and a touching episode is told of the love which Marko's tribe bore to him. His people were ever ready to sacrifice their lives for him, and in this instance it was deemed necessary to remove the obnoxious Pasha. Accordingly a cousin of Marko journeyed to the Podgorican market with a pistol concealed in a load of wood. He lay in wait before Yussuf's house and shot him down as he emerged. The Turkish populace literally cut him to pieces--a fate which the devoted man well knew would befall him.

This and other events led up to the attack made by the Turkish troops on the tribe of Kuc, when, at Fundina, Marko and his small tribe smote the Moslems hip and thigh. The rest is a matter of history. He had died but a few months before our visit, and by his last wish was buried in the little fortress of Medun, which many years ago he had stormed at the head of a handful of men under circ.u.mstances of great bravery.

The ride thither gave us our first taste of the mountains. Rough, stony paths through rocky ravines, sometimes skirting deep precipices, and all round the intensely wild and magnificent mountains, led us to the great gorge where Medun is situated. Perched on a seemingly inaccessible crag, stands the famous ruined fortress, and at its foot Marko's house.

We were made welcome by his widow, a regal woman of middle age, and still strikingly handsome. Her dead husband was not only a great hero, but a poet and historian, and one of the most remarkable features of his life was that, at the age of forty, he taught himself to write, and made his name famous as well in the Serb literary world. He had always treated her as his companion, and not as the average Montenegrin treats a woman--as a being of inferior quality and a better cla.s.s of servant. Marko had a wonderful character; a great athlete, perfect rifle-shot, and a military warrior and leader of men, he brought home during his campaigns over one hundred Turkish heads; but he was also a refined gentleman, a true poet, and merciful to his enemies. He was a notable exception in the matter of prisoners--he always let them go unharmed, sometimes escorting them himself to a place of safety.

Our visit gave much gratification to his widow, who was pleased that strangers from such a distant land should wish to visit her husband's grave, and she was hospitality itself.

After a rest and food in her house, she conducted us herself up the steep winding path to the grave. We came abruptly upon a small plateau in front of a tiny chapel. The scene was striking in the extreme.

There was the grave, with a rough pile of stones at the head, on which were placed the dead man's "handjar," revolver and sword, and many wreaths. Two lighted candles were flickering in the wind, and in a semicircle stood a group of rough, fully-armed mountaineers, the retainers of the Voivoda. It was stormy, and great gusts of wind and rain dashed round the rocky fortress, and in the distance a rugged pile of mountain peaks towered up into the descending mist.

The widow left us, and, kneeling at the grave, quietly kissed the cold stones, praying for a few moments in deep silence. Not a man spoke or moved as we stood with bared heads and waited. Slowly rising, she came to us and led us into the chapel, a bare sh.e.l.l, not even furnished with an altar, and with the original earthen floor.

"My beloved husband wished to be buried in here," said the widow, "but it was not allowed. The Prince wished him to be buried in Podgorica, as he was never courtier and was so beloved and honoured by his people--more than the Prince himself. But my husband called me to his side, and with his last breath made me swear to bury him in this chapel, or at least in front of it. And when the order came that he should be buried below, I swore to shoot myself on his grave, and the men of Kuc swore to take his body up here, even if they had to fight every inch of the way. So it was allowed that he should be buried here, but we shall bury him in the chapel, for that I promised him as he died."

And she took my hand solemnly in hers, ill.u.s.trating her oath to the dying man, and I s.h.i.+vered in that gloomy chamber as her impa.s.sioned voice echoed in its arches.

Suddenly a wailing of women broke upon the utter silence which ensued, and nearer and nearer came that weird singing as it approached the summit. The women were chanting Marko's death dirge. At last, as they pa.s.sed the little window, we went outside and saw four women, dishevelled and weeping, approach the grave, kneeling on one side. The widow left us again and knelt alone opposite.

One woman only sang at a time, a series of extempore verses telling of the life and deeds of the hero--his accomplishments and goodness--in the poetical language of this wild people.