Part 7 (2/2)
The inn at Spu, where we dined, was as other country inns (or krcma, or han, as they are locally termed from the Turkish): earthen floor, a bench, a few primitive stools and beds in the only reception-room. The table is invariably rickety, so are the stools; but a tablecloth, knives and forks are always mysteriously produced for guests even in the most out-of-the-way places.
While our repast was being prepared we had a revolver shooting compet.i.tion outside the door, to which the whole village flocked. One of the men made a very fine shot from his saddle at a tree-stump in the river, about two hundred and fifty yards away, and _hit_ within a few feet. It proved the accuracy and carrying distance of the Montenegrin revolver.
[Ill.u.s.tration: SPU]
After our meal, consisting of raw ham, eggs (oh, those everlasting eggs!), and a peculiar and nondescript kind of meat, about which we asked no questions, the village captain called on us and bore us off to his house for coffee.
This man, a Turkish renegade, was one of the most interesting men whom we met. He was a marvellous talker--in fact, he never stopped during our visit. How the subject came up has pa.s.sed my memory, but suddenly he rushed out of the room and brought back a handful of little medals.
”Look,” he said, ”each medal represents a human life, a head. We have these given us for every head we bring back in war. Do you think I am proud of them, and there are more than fifty? No, I weep when I see them. When I had seized my foe by his hair preparatory to cutting off his head, a vision of his mother, his wife, and his sisters appeared before me, and I could have wept as I struck off his head. Why should I kill this man? I asked myself. I know him not, he has done me no harm, yet because it is war, arranged by princes and kings, we must become murderers. And why should I kill him? because others would misconstrue my act of mercy if I did it not, and brand me a coward, aye and worse, a traitor. Why should _I_ make that mother childless?
why must _I_ rob that loving wife of her husband? Why _I_ be the means of making those little children fatherless and orphans?”
I confess the picture that he conjured up of solemnly and with streaming eyes cutting off his enemies' heads--and he had owned to over fifty--as he thought of dest.i.tute homes and weeping women and children, seemed decidedly tragi-comic; but the old man was earnest enough, and was quite unconscious of the grim humour of the situation.
”Why,” he went on, excitedly pacing the room, ”why do not the German Emperor and the King of England fight out their quarrels _alone_? Why drag thousands of men from their homes and farms to fight _their_ quarrels?”
Again the idea of our King fighting a solemn duel, with perhaps Maxims, over a question of an island in the Pacific, with the German Emperor, while admiring millions looked on and applauded, caused a smile which we with difficulty repressed from diplomatic reasons.
He took his scimitar now in his hand.
”Look, too, at the generals,” he said excitedly, ”directing battles from safe places, while hundreds of innocent lives are thrown away in an a.s.sault which that general has ordered from his place of safety.
Once,” he went on--”I was fighting for the Turks then, and commanded a body of soldiers--a general came to me, saying, 'Storm that hill,' and I answered, 'No; thou art our leader, lead us to the a.s.sault.' And he refused, saying, 'How can I direct the battle if I lead this attack--who shall take my place if I fall?' And I drew my sword”--and here he suited his action to his words--”and said I would kill him if he did not take his true position as leader of men and lead us to the attack--then I and my men would follow wherever he went. And the general, who was a brave man, led us to the a.s.sault and fell--but we took the hill and the battle was won.”
It was strange talk to hear from such a man, little better than a savage, yet unlike any of his adopted countrymen. That man in a civilised country would have made himself known and even celebrated.
Not far from Podgorica, at the junction of the rivers Moraca and Zeta, lie the remains of the once famous Dioclea or Dukla, as it is locally called. The town is of Roman origin, and was surrounded by a complete moat, which the Romans formed by digging a channel between the rivers.
It must have been a place of immense strength in the olden days, but successive generations of warfare, which raged so pitilessly in this district, have levelled it to the ground, and to-day little or nothing can be seen from the adjoining roadway. On approaching there is also very little to be seen, here and there a wall, and small fragments of mosaic floors. Coins and other relics are still found in large quant.i.ties, and it seems a pity that excavation, which could do so much, has been only carried on in a very halting and desultory manner.
Legend and history relate that the famous Roman Emperor Diocletian was born here, and gave his name to the town. The district of Dioclea, which was one of the seven confederate Serb states formed by Heraclius to repel the attacks of the Avars, is in reality the germ of modern Montenegro.
CHAPTER VIII
Achmet Uiko tells his story--Sokol Baco, ex-Albanian chief--Shooting on the Lake of Scutari--Our journey thither--Our frustrated nap--Arrival at the chapel--The island of Vranjina--The priest--Fis.h.i.+ng and fishermen--Our visitors--We return to Podgorica.
One market day, walking through the streets of Podgorica, we overheard a strange conversation. A Montenegrin Turk was sitting on a stone, when two Albanians approached him. Touching his revolver, one of the Albanians said--
”Sooner than own the whole of Montenegro, would I empty _this_ into thy body.”
The Turk, a small man, with slightly grey hair, looked up, and said indifferently--
”And thy desire is mine.”
So they separated.
Almost immediately an acquaintance joined us, and we asked him the meaning.
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