CHAPTER IX
THE HONOUR OF AN ALBANIAN
Passing a long stretch of walled olive-gardens, the travellers arrived at Elbasan. The gate in its high and massive wall stood open. They ran through into a narrow, dirty street, roofed over with matting and dry leaves, scattering the groups of wild, sullen-looking inhabitants, some of whom raised a fierce cry of “Shaitan!”; others put their fingers into their mouths and whistled shrilly, after the manner of English butcher-boys. But the travellers were not molested; they left the town, spun through a barren valley, and crossing the river Skumbi by the high one-arched bridge, found themselves climbing a steep and difficult path that wound along at the edge of clay precipices, so narrow that if they had met another vehicle, or a mule-train, further progress would have been impossible.
They had nearly reached the top, going slowly, as the perilous nature of the path demanded, when they saw, bright against the grey wall ahead, a young man with a rifle in his hand, intently watching them.
“Our first brigand!” said George. “Have your revolver handy.”
“The disarmament is evidently a fiction,” said Maurice. “Sound your hooter; he is stepping into the middle of the path.”
“Better not, in case Slavianski is within earshot. I’ll give him a shout when we come near, and if he doesn’t budge I’m afraid we shall have to bowl him over.”
But at that moment a shot rang out from the hill above. The man gave a cry, staggered, and dropped his rifle, which fell over the precipice, and could be heard clashing against the saplings that grew out of the clayey wall. There was a shout from the hill-top, and a second man scrambled down the steep and rugged slope about two hundred yards away. The wounded man drew his dagger and faced about as if to await the onslaught of his enemy; but as the car came up with him, he seemed to realise that without a rifle his case was desperate, and with a sudden spring clutched at the side of the vehicle and began to run along beside it. His action would have overthrown a motor bicycle, but the gyroscopes kept the car steady.
“Beat him off!” cried George, thinking that the man meditated an attack. It was impossible to shake him off by increasing the speed on such a dangerous path, so he slowed down in order to give Maurice assistance if it were needed. But the man begged him earnestly to proceed, and on the impulse of the moment Maurice leant over the side and helped him to scramble into the car. There was a sharp bend in the path a few yards ahead. As they came to this, a bullet struck the face of the cliff at an angle, and bespattered them with crumbs of hard clay. Next moment they turned the corner, and were out of sight of the man who had now descended to the path.
George, though dubious of the prudence of his brother’s impulsive action, ventured to run a little faster in spite of the risk. Before the car reached a second bend another bullet whistled past, unpleasantly close, and again he increased the speed.
“Go easy,” said Maurice, after a minute or two. “We must be out of reach now. The oaks below there are very picturesque, but I shouldn’t care for a closer acquaintance with them.”
At this point the precipice on their left broke away at the height of several hundred feet, and through a cleft beyond they saw a snow-capped mountain towering into the sky. On the other side, far below, lay a dense oak forest, through which they caught glimpses of a river sparkling like a silver thread.
Mustering his stock of Albanian phrases, Maurice questioned the man.
“You were attacked. Why?”
“For blood, excellence,” was the reply.
Maurice had lived long enough in the Balkans to understand what the man’s answer implied. Either he, or one of his family, perhaps generations before, had injured a man of another family, and there was a relentless blood-feud between them. Maurice did not press the question, but, as dusk was falling, asked the man whether he knew of a han in the neighbourhood where they might put up for the night.
“No han, excellence,” replied the man; “but the house of my family is near; there you will be welcome. You have saved me, excellence. Tan giat tjeter!” (Long life to you!)
They went on for a short distance. Then, at a narrow defile in the hill, they left the track at a word from the Albanian, and climbed up a still narrower path, winding intricately amid dark, overhanging woods. After about half a mile they came to an opening among the trees, where stood a tiny village clustered at the foot of the hill. First was a square three-storied building, with a narrow door in one face, and small windows on two sides. This was the kula, a sort of watchtower for the village, and there, as the Albanian explained, lived his grandfather, his father, two uncles, three brothers, and a cousin, with their families. Beyond were smaller houses, which appeared to be entered through a hole in the wall, approached by ricketty ladders.
At sight of the gyro-car, a child, dressed in a kind of sack, screamed shrilly and fled into the house. George stopped the car; they all alighted, and the Albanian led them to the doorway, paying no heed to the explanations of the neighbours who flocked up.
Following him, the travellers mounted a crazy ladder to the top of the house, and found themselves in a vast dark room. At the further end a fire was smouldering under a kind of tent. As their eyes became accustomed to the dimness, they saw nearly a score of persons, male and female, squatting on chests ranged round the walls. Their guide spoke a few words. Instantly there was commotion. A woman threw a faggot on the fire, which flared up, revealing smoke-blackened rafters, from which, as from the walls, hung weapons, field implements, haunches of dried meat, and festoons of smoked fish. Others of the company strewed the floor with sheepskins and cushions for the visitors, and an old man removed a millstone that blocked a narrow window, and shouted: “We have guests; we have guests.” The travellers wondered at this, until they learnt presently that it was a warning to the people of the hamlet: while guests were in the house, blood-feuds were in abeyance.
The family’s reception of their guests lacked nothing in warmth. A kid was instantly cut up in preparation for a meal; rakia, a kind of spirit, was poured from stone pitchers into earthenware goblets; no questions were asked. When the grandson of the old man explained what the strangers had done for him, there were loud cries of praise and gratitude; and hearing that they had come on a devil machine, the whole party trooped out of the house to inspect it. Maurice asked that it might be placed in safety, and it was wheeled into the large chamber that occupied the ground floor, and served as stable and storeroom.
The old man meanwhile attended to his grandson’s injury. He professed to be an expert in the treatment of gunshot wounds. He took the white of an egg and a handful of salt, mixed them together, poured the liquid on the man’s injured arm, and bandaged it. This would suffice for an hour or two, until he had compounded a lotion of rakia and pine resin. While he was doing this he explained to Maurice, who knew enough of the language to follow him, that the man who had fired the shot owned the house opposite. He had accused Giorgio—such was the young man’s name—of setting fire to his haystacks. The charge had been considered by a council of elders, and Giorgio was acquitted. But in Albania acquittal is no bar to a second trial; indeed, the case had been heard two or three times, always with the same result. Then the ill-feeling between the families found vent in a free fight, in which a relative of the accuser had been killed. Now there would be no peace until either Giorgio or one of his family had been slain, and the honour of the accuser “cleaned.” For some weeks Giorgio had not ventured to leave the house alone until this day. If accompanied by a relative he would be safe, but alone he was always in danger. It was only because the enemy had been absent for some days that he had gone out unattended, and evidently he had met the avenger returning home.
While they were eating their supper, Maurice, knowing that, as a guest, he could depend on his host’s friendship, explained briefly, and in halting speech, the circumstances in which he was placed, and his intention of proceeding next day to Monastir. The old man was much troubled. The Inglesi, he said, were disliked in Albania. They were represented by the Austrians as friends of the Turks and the Serbs, whom the Albanians hated and distrusted equally. He recommended that the travellers should call themselves Austrians, and be very free with their money as they passed through the villages in the interior.
They were still talking, when there was the sound of a shot without. The women and children shrieked: the men started up in great indignation at this breach of the besa or truce, which ought to remain inviolate while guests were in the house. One of the sons ran to the door, and soon returned shaking with laughter. The shot had merely been fired by one of their neighbours in sport.
An hour or two later, when the women were preparing for the guests beds of reed mats, felt sheets, and red-cotton pillows, laid on the chests by the wall, a loud voice was heard outside hailing the master of the house. Feeling secure in the besa, the old man once more removed the millstone from the window, and asked who spoke and what he wanted. It was too dark to see. Maurice tried to follow the ensuing dialogue, and understood enough of it to make him desperately uneasy.
“You Giulika, I know you, Christian dog that you are,” cried the man without. “I demand that you give up the English spies, who are overrunning the country on a contrivance of Shaitan himself.”
“What, you Moslem pig, have you come from Elbasan on a fool’s errand? Shall I deliver up my guests? It is no custom of my house to betray those who seek my hospitality. Know that I take what guests I please, and keep them.”
“Hound, they are spies, infidels like yourself. Give them up, or you will suffer a grievous punishment when the Bey hears of it.”
“Get you back whence you came,” cried the old man, “lest evil befall you. Who are you to bid Giulika lose his honour by betraying a guest? Begone! Trouble me no more.”
He spat out of the window and replaced the mill-stone.
Maurice had understood only a part of what had been said. The old man explained to him that the summoner was a swordsmith of Elbasan, a Moslem, and an ill-conditioned fellow. And from the clanking of horses’ bits that he had heard at a little distance he believed that the swordsmith was accompanied by a considerable party. But no matter who they were, or how numerous, he would never defile his honour by betraying his guests.
Begging old Giulika to excuse him, Maurice turned to consult with George, who was looking puzzled and anxious.
“It’s very unfortunate that we are here,” said the elder brother. “The old fellow refuses to give us up, but I’m afraid he’ll suffer for it. The man who summoned him is a Moslem; he’s a Christian himself; and though the Christians and Moslems live peacefully enough as a rule, they fight like tiger-cats if they’re set by the ears. I’ve no doubt that Slavianski has hired a lot of ruffians who’ll commit any sort of outrage for pay, and if he works up the anti-English feeling, we may have a whole tribe attacking us. We’ve no right to involve the old man and his family in our difficulties.”
“Couldn’t we slip away in the darkness? One of the family might guide us.”
“I’ll ask him. My good friend,” he said to the old man, “we thank you for your hospitality, but we know what trouble we may bring upon you. We wish to go to Monastir; could one of your sons or grandsons guide us, if we slip out of the house by-and-by?”
Giulika reflected, and spoke to his sons.
“It is not wise, stranger,” he said at length. “My honour is engaged, by the law of Lek, to protect you for a day after you leave my house. By night, it is true, you could go up into the hills, and be safe: but when it is light, you would be seen, and your presence would be shouted from hill to hill, until the whole country was roused. That is certain if you proceed to Monastir by Ochrida.”
“Could we not go some other way?” suggested Maurice. “I wish ultimately to reach Sofia.”
“Yes, there is a long and difficult road to the north. It would be safe, perhaps, to travel by way of Prizren. The people of the north do not love the Austrians: it is only they of the south that are flattered and deluded by them. They do not love the Serbs nor the Montenegrins, but they have no wish to change bad neighbours for worse masters. Do they not remember what has befallen the Bosnians?”
“It is a very long way to Prizren, and thence to Bulgaria,” objected Maurice.
“True; it is farther than to Monastir, and more hilly. But I tell you, friend, it is safer.”
“How could we go?”
“Along the banks of the Black Drin. It is a bad road; but not impossible.”
At this an idea struck Maurice. If they could gain the bank of the river, they might float down the current on the gyro-car without any expenditure of petrol. The river would only take them a short distance in the direction they wished to go, because it swept westward towards the Adriatic; but a river journey would have the advantage of keeping them off the frequented roads, and probably out of sight from the pursuers.
“How far is it to the river?” he asked.
“About five hours’ march to Struga, by the main road: about seven hours to the Drin below Struga, by the mountain paths. Why does my friend ask?”
“The machine you saw is a boat. Could we take it over the paths you mention?”
“You have brought it from Elbasan, by the mercy of God,” said the old man with a smile. “Why should you not take it to the Drin? For myself, I would not trust my life to it; but the Inglesi are great adventurers. The mountains to the north are higher than those you have passed, but I know of a pass that avoids the highest summits. The track begins but a little way behind this house; it climbs the hill, and then winds in and out among the lower slopes of the mountains above the Drin.”
All this time the old man had preserved a cheerful demeanour, evincing no anxiety as to what might be going on outside. The silence there seemed to Maurice suspicious. Slavianski had shown such persistence hitherto that he was hardly likely to draw back when, to all appearance, he had his quarry in a trap.
Suddenly there was a great commotion without. Shots rang out, followed by fierce cries. Then came from below a crash as of some heavy body driven against the massive door, which had been closed and bolted at nightfall.
“They are trying to break in!” cried George.
The old man showed no trace of alarm. Some of the younger members of his family climbed up a ladder in a corner of the room, leading to the roof, where a store of stones and combustibles was kept for just such an occasion as this. George, thinking of the safety of the gyro-car, snatched up a rifle and cartridges and hurried down the ricketty ladder to the ground floor. Maurice followed him, gripping his revolver; and Giulika took a rifle from the wall and descended the steps more slowly.
The Bucklands had just reached the door when it was burst in, yielding to a tremendous blow from something of the nature of a battering-ram. They fired at the crowd beginning to swarm in. In darkness themselves, they were able to take good aim at the enemy by the glare of combustibles flung down from the roof. The shots from the black doorway checked the rush. The assailants shrank back, into a shower of stones hurled at them from above. At the same time, to Maurice’s surprise, they were met by a fusillade from the opposite house—the dwelling of the man who owed “blood” to Giorgio, and had that very day attempted his life. It was one of the inconsistencies of this strange people. As a private person Giorgio was the man’s deadly enemy, to be stalked and shot down without remorse as a family duty. But as a fellow-villager, attacked by men of another place and another religion, he was to be helped even at personal risk. “Blood” was forgotten in face of a public danger.
Taken thus between two fires, and battered by the falling stones, the assailants were utterly discomfited. The crowd fell apart, they flitted away into the blackness beyond, and in the fitful light of the fireballs from the roof, Maurice caught a glimpse of Slavianski and his party hastening after the Albanians.