CHAPTER XV
THE END OF THE CRUISE
It was now late in the afternoon. The Bucklands were both on the verge of exhaustion after the fatigue and the excitements they had undergone, and since it was impossible to reach Prizren before dark, they decided to float down the stream for a short distance until they came to some secluded spot where they might rest. In little more than an hour they reached a cove in the left bank where they could lie up without the risk of being seen, except from some passing boat, and since they had as yet neither passed nor met a vessel of any kind, it seemed likely enough that nothing would disturb them.
So it proved. Taking turns to watch, they remained throughout the night in the cove, and when day broke felt refreshed by their rest. They breakfasted on the remnants of the food they had brought from Durazzo, and set off about 7 o’clock.
The voyage down the Black Drin was slow and uneventful. Careful navigation was required to avoid the rocks and reefs with which the bed of the river was studded. Here and there they caught sight of villages perched far up on the hillsides. At one point they saw a file of horsemen winding along a path two or three hundred feet above the river, and for a moment feared that they might be Slavianski’s party; but the boat had apparently not been noticed, and the horsemen disappeared.
About 3 o’clock they came to the junction of the Black Drin with the White. Since the united stream flowed from this point westward, they could no longer avail themselves of the current, nor could they proceed up the White Drin without an expenditure of petrol which they did not care to afford. It was time to resume their land journey. The banks of the river were still so lofty that they found no landing-place until they arrived at a many-arched bridge. Here they left the water and took to the road, which was little more than a bridle-track. A few minutes’ run brought them to another bridge, crossing a tributary stream. At the near end of the bridge was a kula, and as the gyro-car came to it a man stepped into the path, holding a rifle.
“Shall we run past him?” asked George.
“I think we had better pull up,” replied Maurice. “We don’t want a bullet in our backs. I daresay he will give us some food if we approach him properly.”
George halted the car, and Maurice gave the man a courteous salutation, and, taking the bull by the horns, asked if he could provide a meal. The man looked amazed at the question, then curious, and finally said gruffly that the strangers might eat if they chose, but he had nothing but bread to offer them. This Maurice accepted, and while eating it asked how far it was to Prizren. Hearing that it was only four hours’ march, he decided to push on at once; and, thanking their reluctant entertainer, the travellers set off again. The road improved as they entered the dusty plain of Prizren. They overtook many people as they sped along—goat-herds, mule-drivers, horsemen, women carrying huge bundles of wood, and here and there an ox-sledge. George was amused to see them skip aside at the sound of the hooter, and many were the cries of consternation and affright as the humming car ran by.
At length the minarets of Prizren came into view, and in a few minutes they passed the guard-house at the entrance to the town. The main street was cleaner than any they had seen since leaving Italy. It was thronged with people, who had come out of their houses, now that the heat of the day was past, to shop in the bazaars and gossip with their neighbours. Here was a tailor’s shop, blazing with colour; there a saddler’s, where hung bright saddle-bags, and horse-trappings with scarlet tassels; in the open spaces were piled vast quantities of luscious fruit, the sight of which made George’s mouth water. But the car was attracting so much attention that Maurice thought it best to find a han at once before they were mobbed. They stopped at the first han they came to, and by that time there was a considerable crowd about them, who looked on in hushed amazement as they alighted.
Entering the place, Maurice was received by a portly hanji, whose guests rose from their seats and courteously saluted the newcomer. George remained outside to keep an eye on the gyro-car. When Maurice explained that he wished the car to be taken to a safe place for the night, the host sent two of his household to wheel it to the stables. Maurice took occasion to explain that anyone who meddled with it would suffer a severe shock, and to emphasise his warning got George to let off a cloud of smoke into the faces of the bystanders, who scuttled away holding their noses. Feeling assured that the car would not be molested, the travellers entered the inn; the innkeeper and his attendants removed their boots and pressed strange drinks upon them, which they politely declined, asking for coffee. Soon they were furnished with an excellent supper—a fowl boiled with rice, maize bread and honey. This was a banquet, compared with the meagre and uncertain meals they had had since leaving Durazzo, and they enjoyed it thoroughly.
“We will stay here for the night, and go on to-morrow,” said Maurice.
“Is it safe to delay?” asked George.
“Quite, I think. The people here are very suspicious of Austrians, and Slavianski won’t venture to follow us any further. But we’ll start as soon as it is light to-morrow. Is there enough petrol to take us to Sofia?”
“That depends on whether we can make a straight run of it. If we have to double and wind as we have done up to the present, we certainly shall not have enough. It is about a hundred and fifty miles from here to Sofia, I think you said?”
“About that. We shall have to cross the railway. There’s a branch line to Mitrovitza, a few miles from here; a few miles further on there’s the main line running north to Nish and Belgrade; and about forty miles beyond that, across the hills, there’s Kustendil, from which there’s a wretched train service to Sofia; so if we do break down en route, we shall have opportunities of boarding a train. The mischief is that there’s such a poor service that we may be hung up for twenty-four hours or more.”
“Let us hope it won’t come to that,” said George.
Here one of the inn attendants offered him a cigarette which he had just rolled, and another a glass of a liqueur called rosolio. George accepted the former, but declined the latter, which led to a polite inquiry on the part of the host whether his guests were Mussulmans. Before Maurice could reply, there came a tremendous banging at the door, which had been fastened to keep out the crowd. The hanji sprang up and rushed, uttering loud imprecations, to deal with the inquisitive person who he supposed was intruding upon his guests. But on throwing open the door he became suddenly dumb, smiled with great deference, and bowed himself nearly double as a stout Turkish officer in a green-braided uniform clanked into the guest-room, followed by half-a-dozen soldiers similarly attired.
The inmates instantly rose from their stools or the bundles of hay on which they were sitting, and made humble obeisance. Maurice got up and saluted, telling George in a low tone to do the same. Ignoring the obsequious bowings of the company, the officer marched up to Maurice, gravely saluted him, and then, with an air of great importance, addressed him in Turkish.
“The effendi will have the goodness to show his teskereh,” he said.
Maurice smiled as he replied to the man, and produced the document from his breast-pocket.
“Who is the buffer?” whispered George.
“An officer of zaptiehs—a kind of gendarmerie,” said Maurice. “No doubt everybody in the town knows of the arrival of two strangers in a devil machine. We were bound to be questioned.”
The officer proceeded to examine the document with great solemnity, and a frown showed itself on his features as he read. After a minute or two he looked up and said sternly:
“The teskereh is not in order, effendi. You must come with me immediately to the konak.”
“That I must decline to do,” replied Maurice with a smile, “at least until I have finished my meal and washed. We have come a long way, and are, as you see, dirty. We are Englishmen, and we should discredit our nation and dishonour the Chief of the Police if we appeared before him in our present condition. If, therefore, you will be good enough to wait for a few minutes, we shall be happy to accompany you.”
“Very well, effendi,” said the officer, “we will wait.” He spoke to his men, who squatted on the floor in a half circle round the travellers, lighted cigarettes, and stared solemnly at the prisoners.
“What did he say?” asked George, somewhat uneasy.
“He is going to take us to the police station.”
“But he read your passport!”
“I am not at all sure that he did. He held it upside down, from which I infer that he knows no language but his own. A few words with the Chief of the Police will no doubt set things right. But we are disreputable-looking objects, and I’m afraid there are no toilet arrangements here. Unluckily my valise is at Giulika’s kula: we haven’t so much as a comb between us. We must do the best we can.”
Explaining to the host that they desired to wash, they were led to the courtyard behind the inn, where two of the servants poured water over their heads from a tin wine-measure, this performance being stolidly watched by two of the zaptiehs. There was no soap to be had, and the travellers had to be content with this imperfect ablution. They returned to the inn; their battered boots were pulled on, and amid respectful salutes from the hanji and his people, they passed into the street under the escort of the officer and his men.
A slight evening mist was gathering over the city. They marched up the steep cobbled streets towards the konak, perched on a ridge up the mountain side, a motley crowd following at their heels. After a fatiguing climb they came to the courtyard of the konak, guarded by sentries perched on wooden platforms, and, passing these, came to the long untidy building. Mounting a few steps, they reached the great hall, where the officer left them under charge of his men while he went to report their presence.
The scene was more novel to George than to Maurice. The great hall was thronged with people, dressed in every variety of costume and colour. Here was a rough countryman from the hills, there a portly merchant; soldiers marched up and down with clanking heels, or lounged against the wall; messengers elbowed their way through the crowd with shrill outcries. The noise was deafening as the people chatted, laughed, disputed in a score of different dialects. George thought that they were politer than an English crowd would have been, since they paid little attention to the newcomers.
Presently the officer returned, and led the travellers through a curtained doorway into a large room railed off at one end, where a number of officers and secretaries were seated on a divan raised a few inches above the floor. In the centre, cross-legged in an arm-chair, sat the Chief of Police. He rose as the prisoners were led forward, saluted, and signed to them to seat themselves on the divan near him. George was amused at the elaborate ceremony that followed. The whole company rose and saluted, then sat down again, but immediately half rose from their seats in turn, and repeated the salutation. George copied his brother faithfully, thinking what a pleasant description he would make of the ceremony when he got home again.
These preliminaries being concluded, the Chief ordered the officer of zaptiehs to make his report.
“Excellence,” he said, “these men came into the city in a strange machine, that makes a noise like a motor-car, but is such as I have never seen before. They are Austrians, and spies; their presence in this city is very injurious to our Government. The elder has a passport, which I deliver to your excellence, who will no doubt give orders that the spies be lodged in the prison.”
“What have you to say, effendi?” asked the Chief, not looking at the passport, from which Maurice inferred that he, too, was unable to read it.
“I compliment you, excellence,” said Maurice blandly, “on the zeal of your officers. His information is not absolutely correct, but that is a small matter; it is well that in these times every care should be taken. In the first place we are not Austrians, but Englishmen.”
Here there was a rustle of interest among the company.
“How do you prove that?” asked the Chief suspiciously. “You speak Turkish; how should Englishmen do that?”
“I have lived for some time in Constantinople, excellence,” replied Maurice.
“Why are you here?”
Maurice thought it inadvisable to explain either his position in the diplomatic service or the object of his journey. There was in Prizren, as he knew, an Austrian vice-consul, from whose ears he wished to keep these particulars.
“Your excellence knows the singularity of our insular habits,” he said gravely. “We think that travel has a beneficial effect on the mind. Tastes differ, of course, but having a wish to cross the mountains, I came with my brother, a student of mechanics, to test the merits of a car that he has invented. You are doubtless aware that the English are friends of your country, and I assure you that we have none but innocent designs in coming here.”
The Chief of Police stroked his chin.
“You say you are English,” he said at length. “What is the chief town of England?”
“To the best of my belief it is London,” replied Maurice, whereupon the official nodded gravely.
After a few more questions, he announced that the Englishmen were free to return to the inn, but since the hour of business was already past, they must present themselves before the Pasha next day; he would give a final decision. Thereupon a lengthy ceremony of leave-taking ensued, and the travellers were permitted to depart without a guard.
George laughed heartily as Maurice, on the way back, repeated the substance of the conversation; but Maurice was annoyed at the further delay which a visit to the Pasha would involve. Turkish etiquette demanded that he should remain until the Pasha had paid a return visit, and then he would be lucky if he got off without visiting other important men in the town.
“We should have done better to go to Constantinople from Brindisi,” he said.
“My dear chap,” replied George, “I wouldn’t have missed this for anything. To be arrested as Austrian spies, after being chased by Austrians for a thousand miles, is decidedly comic. Of course, if you really want to escape the Pasha we might scoot off in the night, but I confess I’d like to see him, and I’d rather have a good night’s rest and ride in daylight.”
“Well, let us hope the Pasha won’t keep us long.”
On regaining the inn, they found that the only sleeping apartment was a tiny box of a room, approached by a rickety ladder. Here they settled themselves on rugs provided by the genial host, and tumbled off to sleep, unaware that sentries had posted themselves at the door.
Next morning they were awakened by the sound of the ladder being replaced, and rose to see the host and three of his family climbing up, laden with towels and battered wine-pots full of water.
“Good morning, excellencies,” said the smiling hanji. “Knowing your fondness for water, we have brought plenty for the washing. If you will be pleased to step on to the balcony yonder, and lean over, we will pour the water over your heads.”
The travellers good-humouredly accepted the host’s kind attentions. A crazy balcony ran along at the back of the inn. They stepped on to this, removed part of their clothing, and leant over, while the wine-pots were emptied successively over their heads and bare backs. In the courtyard below, two sentries and a dozen idlers watched the performance with grave interest. When it was over, and the assistants had rubbed them dry, they descended to the common room, to eat a breakfast of the same fare as their supper.
Maurice knew that it was impossible to see the Pasha until midday was passed, so George and he spent the morning in wandering about the streets, always closely attended by the sentries. After an early dinner they set off for the Seralio. At the door an official wanted to pull off their boots, but Maurice objected to this, pointing out that it was not the custom of his countrymen, who showed respect by taking off their hats, whereupon the man pulled aside a heavy curtain over the doorway, and gave them admittance.
They found themselves in a long room furnished in European style. The Pasha, a tall, handsome Turk, gorgeous with medals and decorations, was seated at a small table at a window overlooking the city. Rising at their entrance, he motioned them to seat themselves on chairs beside his own, and offered them glasses of a pink syrup.
“I am exceedingly sorry, Messieurs,” he said in French, “that you have been inconvenienced by the action of our police. When they heard of your arrival, they suspected you to be Austrian spies, but no sooner did the Chief of the Police see you, and perceive your noble appearance, than he felt the groundlessness of his suspicions.”
Maurice made suitable acknowledgment of so handsome a compliment, remembering that he was dirty and tattered, and had several days’ growth of bristles on his chin. He then had a short conversation with the Pasha on the state of the country, the last revolution, the reforms of the Young Turks, and finally asked permission to continue his journey eastward.
“You are travelling on some wonderful machine, I am told,” said the Pasha.
“It is novel, excellency,” replied Maurice, “and if you would care to see it, we shall be most happy to show it to you.”
“You do me great honour,” said the Pasha. “I shall return your visit presently, and shall then be charmed to inspect your car.”
Coffee and cigarettes were brought in, and after the interview had lasted an hour the visitors rose to go. Maurice’s wound had as yet given him little trouble, but he moved somewhat stiffly after remaining seated. The Pasha noticed this, and asked whether Maurice, like himself, suffered from rheumatism. On being told that the lameness was due to a slight accident in the hills, he insisted on summoning his hakim, who immediately discovered that it was a gunshot wound, and reported the fact to the Pasha.
“You were molested on your way?” the Pasha asked. “I will provide you with an escort for the road.”
“It is unnecessary, excellency,” said Maurice quickly. “Our car will go so fast that even horsemen would find it difficult to keep up with us, and we shall rely on our speed for safety.”
“Then we will have a race,” said the Pasha eagerly. “There is a suitable course along the valley of the river. It will amuse me to see a race between a horseman and your car. I will arrange it, and let you know the time fixed.”
No one could have guessed from Maurice’s demeanour that he was annoyed at the proposition. He politely assented, and after having had his wound dressed with strange ointments by the hakim, he returned with George to the inn.
George spent the greater part of the afternoon in overhauling the mechanism of his car. The glass case in which the gyroscopes spun was wrecked, and could not be replaced in Prizren; but the gyroscopes themselves, the motors, and the dynamo were uninjured, and there was quite enough petrol left to make the run to Sofia, if a direct route could be followed. The proposed race, George thought, was rather a nuisance, for it would consume a good deal of petrol, without carrying them a yard on their way. And yet!—an idea struck him that made him chuckle with anticipated delight, and astonished the grave bystanders, who had watched his proceedings in stolid silence.
Maurice meanwhile had found the time drag. Unwilling to leave the inn in case the Pasha called in his absence, he sat in front of the door to watch the passers-by. Down the steep street came hill-men driving pack-animals, women with empty pitchers on their heads, zaptiehs with rifles slung over their backs, long-bearded scribes, gipsy tinkers—but never a sign of the Pasha. Small boys gathered opposite the inn and watched the stranger as he smoked cigarette after cigarette, and rushed forward at intervals to pick up, not the discarded ends, but the matches he had thrown away. After a time Maurice got the hanji to despatch one of his sons to find out if the Pasha was coming; but the youth could get no farther than the sentries at the entrance of the Seralio, who replied to his question with a threat to kick him if he was impertinent.
When George had satisfied himself that the engines were in good working order, he sought his brother.
“Well, old man,” he said cheerily, “how’s the leg?”
“Quite easy. The hakim’s ointments seem to be effective. But I’m getting very tired of this.”
“What will happen if we don’t wait for the Pasha?”
“We shall have some trouble to get out of the city. They will immediately jump to the conclusion that we are shady characters. The Pasha’s exeat is necessary. The worst of it is that if he has set his heart on this ridiculous race we shall have to waste more time. Probably he won’t be satisfied with one, but will want to keep us racing for hours.”
“Well get over that,” said George, laughing. “I’ve had an idea.”
And then he told his brother of the notion which had occurred to him as he cleaned the engines.
“A very happy thought,” said Maurice. “I’ll question our host and see how the land lies.”
Evening came, but still no Pasha; and at sunset, there being nothing else to do, the Bucklands turned in, expecting to be honoured by a visit in the morning. They had not been long asleep, however, when they were roused by the sound of shots in the street. They sprang up and ran to the hole in the floor, from which the ladder had been removed to secure their privacy. More shots were fired outside; there was a loud banging at the door and a hullabaloo of voices.
By the dim light of a small lamp the guests saw the hanji hurry to the door and throw it open. Instantly he fell forward in an attitude of supplication, to receive a cuff on the head from one of the Pasha’s guard, who entered, followed by the Pasha himself.
“Where are the Inglese effendis?” said the great man. “Acquaint them that I am come to pay them a visit.”
“Great Scott!” ejaculated George, when Maurice told him what was happening. “What a time to come! We can’t receive him here.”
“We must. Roll up these rugs and make some sort of a divan, and for goodness’ sake don’t smile; you must be as grave as a judge, or he’ll be mortally offended.”
The hanji, having placed the ladder in the hole, clambered up with a lamp and announced the august visitor, and descended again, to be soundly cuffed for being so long about it. When the Pasha mounted and entered the room, he found the two Englishmen sitting in state on what had but recently been their bed.
“A thousand regrets, Messieurs, for disturbing you,” said the Pasha, smiling affably, and seating himself on the rugs beside the Englishmen as soon as he had acknowledged their respectful salutations. “I thought it would be quite in the Frankish manner to call on you at this time; such is the custom in Paris and London, I understand, and I did not dream that you would have retired to rest so soon.”
“We are charmed to see you, excellency,” replied Maurice, “and only regret that you should have been troubled to waken our sleepy host.”
He called for coffee. After a little more polite conversation the Pasha broached the matter of the race. Maurice suggested that the starting-point should be some little distance eastward of the city, where the road was not likely to be blocked by traffic, and that the course should be to the railway line and back, a distance of about forty miles, the horseman to be allowed a fresh mount for the second half. To this proposal the Pasha assented the more eagerly because he was by nature somewhat indolent, and would be spared by this scheme the necessity of riding out to a distant winning-post. He said that he would send out swift messengers to forbid any movement of man or beast on the road until the race was over, and to arrange for a horse to be in waiting at the railway line. The hour fixed for the start was 10 o’clock next morning.
Before leaving, the Pasha wished Maurice to accept a fine Roman coin that he wore among his medals; but having no present of equal value to offer in return, Maurice gracefully declined it. The Pasha departed with his guards, and the Englishmen, relieved at having come through the interview without disgrace, unrolled their rugs and devoted themselves again to slumber.
The town was agog next morning. News of the race had penetrated everywhere, and the whole population, dressed in all their finery, wended their way from a very early hour towards the vast plain where, in the year 1389, the Turks won the great victory that established them in Europe. A company of soldiers marched with much bugling and drumming to clear the way for the Pasha, and at 11 o’clock—only an hour late, which was punctuality to a Turk—he rode out resplendent amid his staff. A great throng of boys ran after the gyro-car as it went slowly to the starting-place, a rival crowd following the horseman chosen for the contest, a lithe and sinewy Albanian arrayed in festive colours, and mounted on a superb arab.
At the starting-point the soldiers had much trouble in keeping back the immense assembly of spectators, who shouted and gesticulated in great excitement, every now and then letting off a rifle fully charged. The Englishmen wondered that no one was injured in this promiscuous firing; the expenditure of cartridges in Albania in mere festive sportiveness is enormous.
It was clear that horse and gyro-car could not start side by side, for the animal reared and plunged at the sound of the engine, evoking shrieks of mingled terror and delight from the boys. Maurice suggested that the horseman should have a hundred yards start. With the car behind him the horse would not be alarmed, though perhaps he might be spurred on by the humming sound. This plan approved itself to the Pasha, who appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself, and told Maurice in a confidential aside that, whether he won or lost, he was to be entertained at a magnificent banquet that night. The course was cleared; the competitors took their places on the road; and at the sound of a whistle, followed instantly by a wild discharge of firearms, the race began.
The horseman set off at a furious gallop. George contented himself with a moderate pace, smiling at the frenzied cries that broke from the spectators lining the road. On each side extended the plain, the soil cracked by the summer heat, the scattered hawthorn scrub burnt brown. Clouds of dust flew from the horse’s hoofs, and still denser volumes behind the gyro-car. At one spot a line of bullock-carts loaded with maize was drawn up beside the road, and the drivers burst into shouts of applause for the horseman, and derision for the gyro-car dropping behind moment by moment.
“It’s a shame to take in the Pasha; he’s a decent old boy,” said George, when, after about five miles, the spectators being now out of sight, he quickened pace.
“The King’s business must be attended to,” said Maurice sententiously; “we have wasted quite enough time.”
As the gyro-car made up on the horseman, he made desperate efforts to keep his lead. When almost upon his heels, George reduced speed, and allowed him to draw away for a few minutes; then quickened again. At length, ten miles having been covered, and all danger of pursuit being at an end, George thought it time to put in practice the idea which had occurred to him at the han. He opened the throttle, increased his speed to fifteen, twenty, thirty miles an hour, caught up the horse, and as he passed, let out a volume of smoke. Startled by the noise and the fumes, the horse broke from the control of his rider, and dashed madly across the plain. By the time that he again answered the bit, the gyro-car was far ahead, concealed in a cloud of whirling dust.
Still further increasing the speed, George drove the car over the undulating plain until suddenly the railway line came in sight. A group of horsemen were halted there, with a led horse among them. George steered a little to the left to avoid them, slackened pace when he approached the line, and when the car had bumped over the rails, set off again at full speed, heedless of the shouts of the waiting party.
“The horseman is not in sight,” said Maurice, glancing back.
“At any rate he’ll win the prize,” said George with a laugh. “I hope the Pasha will give it him.”
On they went, across the Morava river, across the main line from Salonika to Belgrade, past stockaded villages, over low dusty hills, never checking the pace until, about 5 o’clock, the domes and minarets of Sofia hove into view. Soon they entered the city, slowing down as they ran through the street. They passed shops where cheese and onions lay on open counters, larger establishments where silk hats and French gloves were on sale, dodged electric cars, and a gendarme who was too much amazed to call on them to stop.
“There’s the Italian agent,” said Maurice, indicating a frock-coated gentleman crossing the street. “He won’t recognise me.”
They drove through a crowd of wondering market-people, and finally halted at a large building, surrounded by trees, that might have passed for an English country-house.
“Here we are,” said Maurice, heaving a sigh of relief. “Now I’ll deliver my despatch, and then for a bath, a meal, and bed.”
The door-keeper stared as Maurice alighted from the car and approached him. A puzzled look appeared on his face, then a smile of recognition. He saluted; Maurice stepped into the hall. In a few minutes he returned with his chief, who listened with amazement to the outlines of his adventures. Maurice introduced him to George, who had remained in the car. Then, lifting the bonnet, George produced a soiled envelope which had lain concealed in the mechanism.
“The despatch, sir,” he said, handing the document to the agent.