Part 13 (1/2)

The Archimandrite, or Abbot, soon came down and welcomed us most cordially, conducting us to his room, where we were regaled with the inevitable strong black coffee. He was a big, handsome man, with the long beard and hair which all the priests of the Greek Church wear.

Quiet and benevolent as he looked, he is famed throughout the whole country as a mighty warrior; for in times of war the priests fight with the soldiers for their beloved freedom. Strangely enough, in the last war with Turkey he played an important role in saving the very monastery of which he is now the spiritual head. He was then a colonel, and commanded a battalion. The following story of the rout of the Turks is taken down from his own lips.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE MORACA MONASTERY]

In those years (1876-7) all this district was in the hands of the Sultan, and the Turks had just made an unsuccessful attack upon the Monastery of Ostrog. Their army, under the command of the famous Mehmet Ali Pasha, was retreating on Kolain, pursued by the Montenegrins. On reaching the Monastery of Moraca they halted with the intention of first destroying it, and Mehmet Ali placed a battery in a commanding position on the opposite heights for the bombardment.

Unknown to the Turks, half a battalion of Montenegrins were stationed there as garrison, and the Pasha, thinking that he had but a handful of priests to deal with, sent down a small detachment to effect an entrance. The gate was opened, and they were enticed inside. Hardly had the last man set his foot within the courtyard when the Montenegrins fell upon them and beheaded them every one.

The Turks, deeming all safe, sent a second detachment to a.s.sist in bringing out the booty, and they met with a similar fate. Then Mehmet began to suspect that something was wrong, and made preparations for a bombardment; but it was too late. A brigade of pursuing Montenegrins had come up. They fell upon him from flank and rear, and a horrid slaughter ensued.

It must be confessed that the account seems incredible, and is, doubtless innocently enough, greatly exaggerated. But the worthy Abbot distinctly stated that out of 25,000 Turks only 2,000 or 3,000 escaped. It was indeed ”a terrible tale of a Turk that is ghastly and grim and gory.” The Montenegrins were but men 1,800 strong, just three battalions, one of which was commanded by Michael Doic, the Abbot, and his battalion it was that took the Turks in the rear, throwing them into utter confusion.

To-day the peasants still find heaps of bones in the crevices and hollows of the rocks.

After this very pleasant story, we descended into the courtyard, which is formed in a semicircle. In the centre stands the church. It is built in the shape of a cross, and its porch and interior are gorgeously adorned with the most quaint frescoes; indeed, every particle of the walls and ceiling is covered with frescoes of the most crude design and vivid colouring, and the altar-screen is magnificently gilded. The colours are well preserved, and seem as fresh as when the monks first laid them on, for the painting all dates back to the time of the foundation.

It was somewhat horrifying to find that the frescoes behind the altar-screen were completely scribbled over. At first we put this down to impious tourists who delight in leaving their miserable names on the most historical buildings; but, on closer inspection, we found that they were copious notes in the form of a diary. The Abbot told us that Mitrofan Ban, the Archbishop, had written them during his lengthy abbacy many years ago.

There is another church, or rather tiny chapel, within the monastery which is about a century older than the rest of the buildings, and the interior is likewise covered with frescoes of the same crude and vivid painting. They represent scenes from the life of S. Nicholas, and the chapel is only used once a year during the pilgrimage which takes place on the feast of their patron saint.

Every year large numbers of Montenegrins flock to the monastery to offer prayers and offerings. Just outside the walls stands a small cannon, with a Turkish inscription, which four Montenegrins carried away one night from Kolain when that town was in Turkish hands. Not only the bravado of such a deed, but the athletic feat of carrying such a weighty object over that difficult country, are very characteristic of this people. It is fired annually during the feast of S. Nicholas.

The worthy Abbot was greatly annoyed to find that we had ordered food below, and still more when he heard that we were returning to Kolain the same afternoon. He repeatedly urged us to spend a few days with him, but, enjoyable as the visit would have been, previous engagements forbade our acceptance.

A second priest waylaid us as we were leaving for our meal, and carried us off to his room, where more coffee was served. He had travelled much in Turkey and the Black Sea, and we had a very pleasant conversation, but, after a short time, the pangs of hunger forced us to excuse ourselves. Our humble meal, which we partook of in the best chamber (and only bedroom), was hardly over when the young priest again rejoined us, bringing with him an enormous bottle of wine. Very solemnly he filled our gla.s.ses, and proposed the health of His Majesty King Edward VII. Our surprise was so great that we almost forgot to drink. And then came many questions as to the progress of the Boer war, questions with which, by the way, we were often a.s.sailed by the more intelligent cla.s.ses during our travels.

To quote an instance which happened to myself once in Cetinje. While waiting outside the monastery for the appearance of the Prince, who was attending divine service within, I entered into conversation with a gendarme. We spoke of many things, and to my surprise, for he was but an ignorant peasant, he inquired as to the progress of the war.

He asked the nature of the country, on which subject I was luckily able to enlighten him. Parts of it are not at all unlike Montenegro.

At this he p.r.i.c.ked up his ears.

”Thou hast been to the Transvaal?” he asked with increased interest.

”Are the people brave like we are?”

”They are brave,” I said, ”but not as ye are. They only shoot at long distances, and object very strongly to hand-to-hand fighting.”

The stalwart Montenegrin looked puzzled.

”Shooting is good,” he answered; and after a pause he added, ”at _first_, but that is not fighting. It is an empty glory to shoot one's enemy, if one cannot prove it afterwards.” I knew he was alluding to the decapitating process. ”And then the wild charge, the cutting with the handjar when rifles are thrown away--_that_ is fighting.”

I explained that our soldiers loved the bayonet as much as the Montenegrin loved the handjar.

”But what can you do when the other side won't wait for it?” I asked.

”Then they are cowards,” he answered judicially. ”Are thy countrymen all as big as thou art?” he continued thoughtfully, feeling my biceps and scrutinising me closely.

”Some of them are bigger,” I said.

”Then the Boers will have no chance,” he said emphatically, and at this moment the Prince emerged from the church. This personal allusion to my size I took as a great compliment, for in a land where physical strength is an all-important factor candid appreciation of this kind is not meted out to one and all alike.

Extremely fatigued after our early start and long ride, it was an effort to keep from falling asleep, and noticing this the priest left.