The Cruise of the Gyro-Car by Herbert Strang - HTML preview

CHAPTER XVI
 RECONCILIATION AND REWARDS

It would be too much to say, perhaps, that the receipt of the despatch prevented a European war; but certain it is that within a few days afterwards the troops which had been mobilising on the frontier disbanded, and the British Foreign Office was credited with an unusually successful stroke of diplomacy. Among the telegrams that passed between London and Sofia was one from the Foreign Secretary warmly complimenting Mr. Buckland on his achievement, and another from the editor of a well-known paper asking for a detailed narrative, a request which, by the rules of the Service, Maurice was bound to refuse.

The Bucklands were for a week or two the lions of Sofia society. They were dined, danced, invited to receptions and reviews; George was introduced to the King, who honoured him with two words and a cigarette. Then, in response to an agitated letter from the Honourable Mrs. Courtenay-Greene, he one day left by train for Constantinople, the gyro-car being conveyed on a truck, and thence returned home by steamer.

He had just come down from Cambridge for his first vacation when he received a letter from Maurice that threw Mrs. Courtenay-Greene into a fresh state of agitation. His leave having been cut short in the summer, Maurice had been recompensed with a fortnight at Christmas, and had decided to avail himself of this opportunity to revisit the hospitable Albanian and reward him, or, if his pride forbade the receipt of pecuniary compensation for the losses he had suffered, to thank him in person for the services he had rendered. George at once announced his intention of joining his brother, and despatched a telegram asking where they could meet. Mrs. Courtenay-Greene protested against being left to spend Christmas without her nephew’s society, but George was determined, averring that Christmas in Albania would be much better fun than in London. Sheila called him a pig, but in the next breath said he was quite right, and she only wished she could go too.

The brothers met at Trieste, went thence to Scutari by steamer, and engaging a trustworthy guide, set off on horseback for Giulika’s dwelling in the hills.

It was a bright, cold afternoon when they jogged along the high road from Elbasan. The weather for the last week had been rainy, and George was aware for the first time that mud is not at its worst in London. On the low ground the road was sometimes impassable, and the riders had to pick their way where the mud was at least fathomable. When they came into the hills they found that their journey was scarcely less dangerous than it had been in summer with the gyro-car, for the horses slipped often on the rocky, frosted track, and the riders had to dismount and lead them.

They had nearly arrived at the path leading from the road to Giulika’s little village, and were resting at the top of a steep ascent, admiring the scene of wild grandeur outspread before them, when suddenly their ears were caught by the sound of a shot.

“Blood, excellency,” said their guide with a careless shrug.

They lifted the field-glasses which were slung over their shoulders, and scanned the surrounding country. For some time they saw nothing but the rocks and crags, the dark fir forest below, the snow-clad peaks above. But presently there were more shots, and now they descried, far away, but in the direction of the road they were travelling, several puffs of smoke. Then, a sunbeam lighting the spot, they saw four men crouching behind some rocks, with rifles in their hands.

“I say, Maurice,” said George, “do you see that one of those fellows is a European?”

“D’you think so?”

“I am sure of it. I can’t see his features, but he’s a European by the cut of him. I suppose he’s a traveller attacked by brigands. Hadn’t we better lend a hand?”

“I think you’re right,” said Maurice, after a long look through his glass. “There are some Albanians creeping round the hill above them to take them in the flank.”

“Yes; I see their white caps. Come on. There are not too many of them for us to tackle. The traveller is probably an Englishman; no one else would tour in Albania at this time of year.”

They had dismounted to rest their horses after the climb. Springing to their saddles, they rode down the hill as fast as they dared, in spite of the expostulations of their guide, who declared in much agitation that it would be fatal to intervene between Albanian mountaineers and “blood.”

There was a cessation of the firing. In a few moments the combatants were concealed from view by the craggy cliffs; but hurrying on, the riders came on the scene at a moment when the European and the two Albanians with him were hard pressed by a dozen men, who had surrounded them, and were on the point of charging home. Letting out a shout, Maurice fired his revolver, and with George at his side dashed to the rescue.

The attacking party paused in astonishment. At the same moment the European, whose back had hitherto been towards the riders, turned his head.

“By gum!” ejaculated George.

It was Slavianski. His glance was but momentary; he turned about to face his enemy, and the Bucklands noticed that in spite of the peril of his situation he appeared quite unperturbed. His right arm had been wounded; he grasped his revolver with his left hand, and his mouth was set with grim determination. But just as Maurice and George sprang from their horses he swayed, staggered, and fell to the ground. And then from beyond the rocks rushed Giulika, Giorgio, Marko, and the other men of his household. Maurice shouted to them to halt, not before two or three shots had been exchanged between them and Slavianski’s escort.

Hostilities ceased. While some of the men kept a watch on Slavianski, Giulika warmly greeted his former guests.

“Welcome, excellencies,” he said. “You are come in time to see vengeance taken on your enemy and mine.”

“How does he come here?” asked Maurice.

“The Austrian dog, when running down the steep path towards the Drin that day, fell and broke his thigh,” answered the old man. “We did not learn of it until the other day. He has been laid up ever since in the house of a man of Trebischte, who is a famous bone-setter. But it was a bad case, and needed much time, and only now is the cure complete, and one leg will always be shorter than the other.

“A few days ago we learnt by examining the breastbone of a black cock, one of my own breeding, that an enemy would fall into our hands, and we made besa with Leka until this happy event should come to pass. And lo! one told me that the man from Trebischte was taking to Durazzo the Austrian who burnt my kula when he found that you had escaped; and we made an ambush for him here, and we have him, and now he shall die.”

“Let me have a word with him,” said Maurice.

Slavianski was seated on a rock. His escort of two were amicably chatting with Giulika’s party. Maurice, as he went up to him, was struck by his worn and haggard appearance.

“I hear you had an accident, Monsieur le Comte,” he said in French.

“Precisely, Monsieur,” replied Slavianski. “My thigh was broken, and the healing has been long, though the limb was set with marvellous skill by the Albanian yonder. I am not so young as I was.”

“And Major Rostopchin?”

“Is doubtless enjoying himself, Monsieur. He has apparently forgotten me. He left me, intending to make his way with the third member of my party to Trieste.”

“I am sorry to see you in such a plight,” said Maurice, “but, of course, you are in no danger now. My friend Giulika will not be implacable.”

“I am not sure that I thank you, Monsieur,” said the Count bitterly. “I am lamed for life; my failure in that little business in the summer has discredited me with—you know whom; and a bullet through the head would be an easy way out of a hopeless situation. But I should have killed a few of these ruffians first.”

“It was evidently a mistake to burn the kula, Monsieur——”

“But they killed my man,” interrupted the Count. “The mistake was in turning aside on the road to Castellane. If I had got into Brindisi before you it would have been all up with you.”

“Perhaps,” responded Maurice with a smile. “By good luck and my brother’s ingenuity I managed to score a point, and I bear you no grudge. The thing now is to secure your safety. We have come to compensate the old man for the losses his loyalty to us entailed, and I daresay we can persuade him to let bygones be bygones. You had better accompany us to the kula, I think.”

He returned to Giulika, and after a short conversation the old man gave orders to Giorgio and Marko to bring the Count to the kula. The whole party set off, and, striking up the bypath, soon came to the village. The evidences of Slavianski’s vengeance were manifest. The kula was a mere shell. The interior had been burnt out, with all the old man’s furniture and stores. He could not hope to repair the damage until he had reaped the crops of several years. Since the destruction of his property he and his family had lived in the houses of neighbours. The Englishmen were invited to enter one of these, Slavianski being left outside in charge of the young men.

Giulika entertained his guests with the same kindly hospitality as on their former visit. He did not speak of his misfortunes, but begged to have a fall account of their adventures after leaving him at the Drin. Nothing more delighted him than the story of the race at Prizren, and he laughed heartily at the thought of the Pasha’s disappointment when the horseman returned alone.

Maurice had to exercise much circumspection in broaching the object of his visit. The old man was restive at the least suggestion that he should take a reward for his services, or even accept compensation for the losses he had suffered.

“Shall I be paid for keeping my honour unstained?” he said.

“That is not the way to look at it,” replied Maurice. “Your honour was concerned with protecting us as individuals, but through us you were doing a service to our King, to your own Sultan, and to the people of this country and of others. It is on their behalf that I come to you. If I had not succeeded in reaching Sofia, there might have been war.”

“Well, we are ready,” said the old man with a smile. “We are a free people; we obey none unless we choose; but if there is a war, we flock like butterflies.”

Finding that he was on the wrong tack, Maurice tried again. After a long argument he persuaded Giulika that the King’s honour demanded that he should make some recognition of the services rendered to him by a stranger, and assured the old man that he durst not return to England with the money he had brought. Giulika agreed that if the King’s honour was involved, it would not become him as an honourable man to do anything to smirch it, and consented to accept a sum that would enable him to rebuild his kula and replace the weapons and furniture he had lost.

Having succeeded on this point, Maurice turned to the question of Slavianski. In this, too, he found that “honour” was a good card to play. He pointed out that the Austrian had been entrusted with the duty of obtaining a paper on which his Government set much store; that he had soiled his honour by his failure; and that, by the traditional laws of Lek, the slaying of his man while asleep demanded blood. In this regard the vengeance taken by Slavianski had been moderate. He reminded Giulika that the Austrian was ill and weak, incapable of doing further harm, and for ever disgraced with his employers. By harping on this string Maurice in course of time aroused in the old man’s breast a feeling of sympathy for the Austrian, and he at last declared that he might go free.

While they were talking, a young man entered whom Maurice recognised as Leka, the man who had wounded Giorgio.

“Welcome, excellency,” said the man. “I am glad to see you again.”

“Is there still blood between you and Giorgio?” asked Maurice.

“Why, yes, excellency, there must be. We have besa just now; but when Christmas is past he must look out.”

Giulika explained that, except during besa, Giorgio never left the house unless accompanied by his mother or sister, whose presence protected him from the attack of his enemy.

“And how long is this to last?” asked Maurice.

“Until Giorgio is killed, excellency,” said Giulika simply.

“But why not pay blood-gelt, and end the feud?”

“Giorgio is the innocent one,” replied the old man, indignantly. “He was falsely accused: why should we pay? Besides, we have no money: there are too many to be paid. Leka must have one purse, and the elders of the village another, or else an ox; and the Sultan’s officer another, but we never pay him unless we can help it. Still, we have not money enough for the others, so it is useless to speak of it.”

Inquiry elicited the fact that the total amount came to about £25 in English money.

“It is a pity that two such brave men should be enemies,” said Maurice.

“We are not enemies,” said Giorgio, quickly: “there is only blood between us. In besa we hunt together and are very good friends.”

“Well, I have some money that is lying idle,” said Maurice. “It cannot be better employed than in removing the blood between you. Will you let me have the pleasure and the honour of settling your feud?”

“It is good of you, excellency,” said Giulika. “I think myself that it is foolish that there should be blood between two such fine young men, and if Leka’s honour is cleaned they will be like brothers.”

“I am ready, excellency,” said Leka. “It is a pity I did not kill Giorgio when I shot at him, and then you would have kept your money.”

Maurice smiled as he handed over the necessary piastres. When the payment had been made, Leka and Giorgio kissed each other, and the former promised to buy a new rifle for his friend.

The Bucklands spent Christmas with their Albanian friends, accompanying them for ten miles over the hills to a little church. It was packed with people in bright costumes; a week’s besa had been sworn, so that all the blood foes of the neighbourhood could meet as friends. Hundreds of rifles were stacked against the wall outside. After service there was a wild rush for these, and a shooting competition began, the spectators firing off their rifles out of sheer high spirits. Shots were fired again as the assembly broke up and returned to their several villages, to resume their feuds on the morrow.

Next day the Bucklands started for Scutari, accompanied by Slavianski, for whom a mule had been provided. At Scutari they parted. Maurice had thought of warning the Austrian not to set foot in England again, but the man was so much broken down with illness that he forbore to increase his bitterness of spirit.

He saw him only once again. The course of promotion brought Maurice at length to Vienna. He was one day entering a club with an Austrian officer with whom he was on friendly terms. The door was opened by a man who had once been handsome, but was now worn and haggard, and walked with a limp. He started as he saw Maurice, hesitated a moment, and raised his hand to the salute.

“He knows you?” asked the officer in surprise.

“Yes,” replied Maurice. “I met him during a little trip I made a few years ago in a gyro-car.”

THE END.