Reginald Wyon - The Land of the Black Mountain

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This time he met his deserts, for his uncle, unhurt, returned the
compliment and shot him through the head.

These shots brought the original pursuers to the spot, and seeing
Andreas dead, and shot by his uncle and not by them, they began
abusing the old man for taking their lawful prey from them.

He bared his chest dramatically, saying that as he knew that the
vendetta must continue, they should shoot him then and there and end
the matter. But they would not, and going further found another
relation of Andreas; this time a young man, and the pride of the
family. They shot and wounded him slightly. He fired and mortally
wounded one of his attackers, which was as far as they got.

The gendarmes had come and arrested them all, and these were the men
of both sides, which we had seen that morning.

As we knew several of them personally, we were doubly interested.

CHAPTER XI

Preparations for our tour in the Brda--We start--Where it is not good
to be giddy--A trying ride--Our inn--Nocturnal episodes--The journey
continued--Pleasant surroundings--The Montenegrin _quart
d'heure_--Arrival in Kolasin--We meet the Governor--Visiting--The Band
of Good Hope--The Crown Prince's birthday--We are ashamed.

The preparations for our tour through the mountainous districts of
North-East Montenegro, known as the Brda, took a few days.

We had some difficulty about horses, though ultimately P. and I
secured two good animals for ourselves, but the third, destined for
the bulk of our baggage and Stephan, was a dilapidated apology for the
equine race. As a matter of fact, it stood the trying journey in a
remarkable manner.

Then there were a few pots and pans for cooking purposes to purchase,
some necessary additions with which to supplement our humble fare, and
two days' rations of meat and bread.

It made a formidable pile when we reviewed it one morning at daybreak,
though we had cut down our baggage as close as possible. It took
Stephan about an hour to load up, and when he had finished, he had
left no room on top for himself.

We carried ourselves each a carbine, revolver, and bandolier of
cartridges, and a pair of saddlebags; but what with a camera, camping
utensils, guns and cartridges, sleeping-coats, etc., the pack-horse
was full up. However, there was no help for it, and Stephan had to
walk the first day.

We left Podgorica about 6.30, accompanied by Dr. S., who came with us
partly on business and partly out of friendship. As he knew the
country perfectly, he did much to render our tour more interesting.

The mountains ascend abruptly, and our path was for some hours along
the turbulent Moraca, which we met at the end of the plain. In five
minutes we were surrounded by mountain scenery. Some little way up the
valley a bridge is in the course of construction across the stream,
and will form part of the projected road from Podgorica to Kolasin. On
its completion, we were told, it would be the highest bridge in the
Balkans. Men were working on a loose and steeply sloping bank of
crumbling earth a few feet above a precipitous rock, which overhangs
the Moraca, at a height of two hundred and fifty feet.

"They very rarely fall," said Dr. S. in answer to our unspoken
question.

It made us giddy and sick to watch them. But our own position was
often not much safer. The path see-sawed up and down; one moment we
were splashed by the spray of a waterfall as it dashed into a creamy
pool, and the next we were up on a dizzy height, with one foot hanging
over a precipice, gazing on the foam-flecked mill-race below. Verily,
it is no journey for a giddy man to take. A single false step on the
part of the horse would send both it and its rider to a sudden death.
With the ordinary mountain pony, for the horses are practically only
that, it is not necessary to guide it--in fact it might be dangerous.
The Montenegrin rides with a loose rein over the most ticklish ground,
only tightening his grip on descending a very steep hill to help his
horse when it occasionally stumbles.

Despite a slight nervousness, we were still able to appreciate to the
full the grand scenery of the valley of the Moraca. It turned out to
be quite as fine as anything we saw in the mountains.

About four hours after our start we crossed the stream by a wooden
bridge and dismounted at an inn. Stabling our horses in the ground
floor, we ascended to the upper regions where the human beings live,
and clamoured for food.

Raw ham and, of course, eggs were all that was to be had, and, as it
turned out, it was our only meal that day. The flies were terrible,
but Dr. S. comforted us, saying that every hour would bring us to
higher regions and consequently fewer flies. A prophecy which was only
partially fulfilled.

We made the best of our repast, and after an hour's rest we made
another start. We left the river now, and seemed to climb a breakneck
hill for interminable hours. The region was barren and absolutely
waterless, while the heat was tremendous. I only remember one view
during that broiling ride. We had reached a great altitude, and were
crossing a narrow ridge. On one side was the Moraca, and on the other
the Mala, both streams mere threads in the hazy distance.

It was the want of water that tried us more than anything. About
midday we halted for a while at a small village, and under the
refreshing shade of a large tree. Some young men kindly fetched us a
little water in a dirty vessel, which tasted abominably.

Another long climb and we at last found shade, and rode for the rest
of the afternoon through beech forests. If the path had been bad
before, it was worse now, and it was a perfect marvel how the horses
kept their feet. I was somewhat unfortunate in my horse Alat, who was
blind in one eye, so that I always had to guide him over difficult
places. This kept me for ever on the alert, and became trying. At
every hut we pulled up and asked for milk, but invariably got "Nema"
(I have none) for an answer. The Montenegrins are singularly laconic
at times.

Now began a long descent, so atrocious that we had to dismount and
climb down on foot, leaving the horses to pick their way as best they
could, and about seven p.m. we reached the house where we were to
spend the night. It consisted of two rooms, a kitchen and a bedroom,
the sole furniture of the latter consisting of two wooden bedsteads.

There was no food, except a half lamb, which Stephan had brought on
the pack-horse, and its condition was unpleasant from its many hours'
exposure to the sun and attendant flies. It took over an hour to cook,
and by that time our ravenous hunger had passed, stilled by a few
quarts of delicious milk. The inn--for such was the character of the
house--unlike similar institutions of more civilised lands, had
neither accommodation for man nor beast. There was no hay for our
hungry horses, who had to wait for two hours while a man took an
hour's climb up a mountain to the next village and brought back a load
of 45 kilos (100 lbs.) on his back. A little thought can be given to
this fact. Suffice it to say that this lean and athletic man took off
his shirt and literally wrung the sweat from it. This, too, at the end
of a long day's work. Part of the hay served for our beds, and little
enough it seemed too.

P. and I were given the two beds, or rather we were forced to take
them, and I turned in at once, after looking at the mutton broth, and
fell asleep immediately. In the night I was awakened by a child crying
in the room, and in the dim light I was startled to see the
floor--empty when I went to bed--strewn with sleeping figures.

A heap that I rightly guessed was the doctor, moved uneasily.

"Doctor," I said softly, "are you awake?"

"Yes," came the answer. "A small child has evidently mistaken me for
its father or mother. Will you have it?"

I feigned sleep.

Other figures were snoring peacefully and emphatically, but the tiny
inmates of my hay bed were painfully awake and sleep seemed banished.
However, I must have slept again, for when I awoke the room was empty,
except for Stephan, who was packing up. We had a wash in the stream
and made a hurried breakfast, and were off by a fairly early hour.
Stephan had found a horse, which must have come as a blessing to him.
He had walked yesterday about thirty miles. The path was much better
to-day, and we were enabled to make better pace. At a small village
named Lijeva Rijeka we made a long halt to allow the doctor to
transact some official business. We ate up what meat we had left, and
had great fun with the village big-wigs.

Strangers are beings of rare occurrence in the mountains, and we
always came in for much "courteous curiosity." Dr. S. and Stephan
enjoyed answering inquiries as to who we were immensely. One time we
were engineers making plans for the new road; another time we were
enterprising merchants about to open up the country; and once a man
remarked, when he was told that I was the British Minister, "And wears
patched trousers?" He referred to the knee pads of my riding-breeches.

Our arms, as was only natural to this fighting race, attracted great
interest. The carbines, of the Austrian Mannlicher system, invariably
went the round to a chorus of delighted appreciation. Likewise our
field-glasses, through which they would look for hours.

Shortly after leaving this village we had a fortunately short but
exceedingly steep hill to climb, which brought us on to a magnificent
plateau of rich green grass, carpeted with wild flowers. From this
point onwards the scenery changed completely. We were in the Alpine
regions. It was very beautiful, the trees covered every hill with a
mass of green foliage, and every here and there a snow-capped mountain
peak would appear. Not only was the scenery different, but the
dwellings of the peasants took quite another style of architecture;
conical thatched roofs of a height out of all proportion to the size
of the house, and a massive verandah or loggia built into the house,
The inhabitants are snowed up for many months every year, and have to
lay in great stores of food. But how delightful it must be here in
winter! What an opportunity for snow-shoeing! The peasants can do the
journey to Podgorica in about half the time on their primitive
snow-shoes.

The ride from here to Kolasin was nearly perfection. We skirted
rushing mountain torrents, through woodland glades and soft green
swards; the air was glorious and cool, for though the sun was powerful
there was an abundance of shade. One drawback, however, a drawback
sufficient to mar our happiness, was not denied us. Every mile or so
we had to plunge through a quagmire, equal to the worst South African
mudhole, which is saying a great deal. Much care had to be exercised
to prevent the horses getting fairly bogged or breaking their legs,
but all passed without an accident, though our condition at the end of
the day was awful. We were bespattered from head to foot.

Several halts at hans were made during the day for rest, food, and
milk, and about three p.m. we struck the River Tara, and had crossed
the water-shed of the Adria and the Black Sea. We followed the Tara
till Kolasin, where we arrived about seven o'clock.

Montenegrins have no idea of judging time and distance, which is
curious. There is another favourite way of describing a distance: by
cigar (cigarette) smoking. You will be informed that the distance is
one cigarette, which means that the traveller has time to smoke one
cigarette on the way. As an ordinary smoker consumes a cigarette in
about ten minutes, the distance would seem small, but it is not so. It
is better to reckon two hours. Quarters of hours and cigarette-smoking
measurements take a lot of learning, and cause much vexation to the
spirit before they are mastered. When the stranger has mastered them,
he ceases to ask, and patiently waits. One word of warning to
intending travellers. If you are told that the next village is _two_
hours away, then rest awhile and eat and drink, for two hours means
"X."

About seven p.m. we clattered up the little street of Kolasin, which
is the capital of the same-named district.

It is a beautiful mountainous tract of country, as unlike to
Montenegro proper as is the sun to the moon, richly wooded with dense
primeval beech forests, full of rushing streams and rich pasturages.
The little town itself is rather uninteresting; it has about 1,500
inhabitants, all Montenegrin, for the Turk has almost entirely
disappeared. Only in a ruined mosque and one or two dilapidated
Turkish houses is the traveller reminded that once the Unspeakable was
master here. The houses are all built with the afore-mentioned high
conical roof and of substantial aspect.

Our inn was a curiosity, and as we drew rein before it we noticed a
crowd of men in the balcony of the first or top floor, for here the
ground floor was devoted to stabling. Doctor S. hastily whispered that
the Governor and General of Kolasin was one of the men upstairs. On
going up the rickety stairs, we were at once introduced to him, and
received most friendlily. He was a small wiry man, and reminded one
strongly in appearance of Lord Roberts. Also, he spoke excellent
German, having studied years ago in the Viennese Military Academy.
Very kindly he promised to assist us during our stay in every way, and
invited us to his house next morning.

We overlooked the Market Square and had real beds, though the only
available room was tiny. Dr. S. and Stephan slept somewhere else.
After the heat of the valley, we found the air very keen up here;
Kolasin lies over 3,000 feet, and is the highest town of any size in
Montenegro.

On the following morning we visited the Governor Martinovic formally
in his house. It is only recently that he has ceased to be the
Artillery General of Montenegro, a post which he held all through the
Turkish war, taking part in all the important engagements.

His ambition is to see the road connecting his district with Podgorica
finished, which would bring the two towns within a six hours' drive
of each other, instead of the present two days' very hard riding. The
benefit to Kolasin is obvious. At present the vast beech forests,
literally rotting, could be utilised, for wood is dear in the barren
districts of Montenegro. Pyrite, too, is found in great quantities. In
fact, Kolasin is cut off from the rest of the country. Everything must
be painfully carried on horses or mules, and for a woman, other than a
peasant, it is a journey of great difficulty. Side saddles are things
unknown, and we heard of one lady, the wife of a foreign minister, who
bravely undertook the journey, spending six days on the way from
Podgorica. The Governor gave us a graphic description of the
difficulties that he had experienced when he brought his family up
here.

We also visited the local doctor, a most extraordinary individual with
a crank. He had started a Montenegrin temperance society, called the
"Band of Good Hope." At present, I believe, the three hundred odd
members were all from Kolasin, and it was meeting with very little
encouragement. The cultivation of plums for the manufacture of spirits
is a staple industry, and these peasants wish to know what they shall
do with their fruit. Besides, as the Montenegrins very rarely get
drunk, it seems rather an unnecessary movement, and the Prince himself
does not favour it.

Bismarck once said that England's greatness began to diminish when the
"three-bottle man" died out; perhaps Prince Nicolas has like thoughts
of his hardy subjects, who certainly can consume enormous quantities
of alcohol with impunity. Besides, it would destroy a large source of
the revenue, which Montenegro cannot afford to do. In the meantime the
gallant three hundred feel very unhappy.

The few days that we spent in Kolasin were passed pleasantly in daily
excursions into the surrounding country shooting, though with
indifferent results. The Crown Prince Danilo's birthday came one day
during our stay, and Governor, staff, and officials went to church
attired in glorious raiment. They literally sparkle in gold lace
embroidery, orders, and decorations, and for a gorgeous but absolutely
tasteful effect commend me to the gala dress of the Montenegrin high
official. It is the most artistic blending of gold, crimson, blue, and
white.

After the service spirits were served out free on the market-place
(what agonies must the three hundred have suffered!), and a dance was
formed. The national dance--in this instance the "kolo"--is usually
performed by men, though the women do sometimes join in, and it is a
slow and stately measure.

[Illustration: THE KOLASIN MARKET PLACE]

[Illustration: THE KOLO]

The men place their hands on each other's shoulders and form a
ring, which, however, is never completed. New men can join in, but a
space is always left open. One step is taken sideways to the left, and
then three to the right, and the movement is accompanied by singing.
The singers are three or four men on the opposite horns of the circle,
who alternately chant verses in honour of the Prince.

The ring of men slowly danced their way from the Market Square to the
Governor's house, where more spirits were given, and an accordion
player joined the ring.

Loud cries of "Zivio!" followed the cessation of every movement. We
followed and went in to the Governor, to offer our congratulations and
drink His Royal Highness's health. The room was quite full, two or
three men being rough peasants, relations of the Governor. There is
very little class distinction in Montenegro. Often the humblest
peasant can claim relationship with the Voivoda, or Duke, of the
province, and will always be cordially received.

We felt quite ashamed of our appearance--leather coats, collarless
shirts, and so forth--amongst such rich costumes. The complete outfit
of a Montenegrin dandy costs over forty pounds, and takes a bit of
beating.

Carefully tucking our rough riding-boots under our chairs, to avoid
marking the contrast with our host's resplendent jack-boots of
patent-leather, and buttoning up our coat collars, we endeavoured to
make ourselves as inconspicuous as possible in this brilliant
assembly. But in spite of our tramp-like garb, we were always highly
honoured guests.

CHAPTER XII

Montenegro's oldest building--The ride to the Moraca Monastery--A
perilous bridge and ascent--The Abbot's tale--We inspect the
monastery--The health of the King is drunk--The relative merits of
Boers and Montenegrins--The Abbot makes us presents--We visit a
peasant's house and a Homeric feast--A feu-de-joie--Departure from
Kolasin--We are mistaken for doctors again--Raskrsnica.

In Montenegro there are, strangely enough, with one famous exception,
no buildings of any great antiquity. This, however, can be easily
accounted for by the repeated invasions of the Turks, who ravaged the
land with a merciless fury. Montenegro was the only Balkan state which
they were unable to bring to obedience, and the struggle, which began
after the battle of Kossovo, has, perhaps, not reached its final stage
yet, though other enemies have supplanted the Turk.

Far away in the heart of the mountains, and perched on the top of a
high cliff, at whose feet the turbulent mountain torrent Moraca races
past, there is situated a monastery, which takes its name from the
river below.

This monastery is the only building that has escaped the scourge of
the Turk, and, though often attacked, only once has it been partially
burnt. Like its famous sister at Ostrog, it is constructed in a
position where Nature has provided the best means of defence, and
this the hand of man has skilfully utilised and improved. It was
founded in the year 1252 by one of the sons of the famous Servian
king, Stephan Nemanja, and dedicated to S. Nicholas. Right well has
the saint watched over and protected his feof.

During our stay at Ostrog the Archbishop of Montenegro impressed upon
us most strongly the necessity of visiting Moraca before leaving the
country. He himself had lived there many years as the Archimandrite,
and was besieged by the Turks during his sojourn within its walls.

So, accompanied by a guide, with whom the Governor of Kolasin had
provided us, we made an early start one morning for the monastery. We
had a perfect ride through dense beech forests, skirting a noisy
little stream, of which we were able to obtain a glimpse every now and
then through a break in the trees. On either side of the ravine the
hills rose steeply to some height. We soon passed a lonely cross in a
small clearing, erected to the memory of five Montenegrins who had
been surprised and murdered there by the Turks.

It is always so in Montenegro, when the traveller is filled with a
sense of peace at the grandeur of the wild mountainous scenery, or the
beauty of a sylvan forest glade, a rough cross, or cairn of stones,
will be pointed out where men have met a sudden and violent death.

[Illustration: A TYPICAL ROAD]

Once, as our path led up a steep incline, our guide told us
graphically how that, a few weeks ago, both a horse and its rider had
fallen down the one hundred feet into the river below. The path was
very narrow, and he strongly advised us in passing to take care, which
remark seemed slightly superfluous after the vivid description with
which he had just favoured us.

Crossing the stream we dismounted, and climbed to a small grassy
plateau on which a church is being built for the shepherds of the
district. It commanded a beautiful view. The path now ascended to a
great height, and much walking had to be done, for a ridge of hills
lay between us and our destination. At the top the valley of the
Moraca could be seen with a magnificent background of rugged
mountains. A breakneck descent of two and a half hours, most of it on
foot, brought us to the river, which was crossed by a picturesque and
broken-down bridge. On a cliff opposite stood the monastery.

While leading my horse over the bridge I chanced to rest for a moment
on the central arch to enjoy the view. The guide, who was behind me,
thrust me unceremoniously forward. It is not always safe to admire
scenery from Montenegrin bridges. Certainly, on inspecting the bridge
from below, he seemed to have shown no unnecessary caution. Two of
the arches had completely given, and may collapse at any moment.

A very steep and dangerous path leads up to the plateau on which the
monastery is situated. It was nearly the cause of a serious accident
to me, for my saddle gave, and began to slip backwards. Had the horse
made one false step at this critical moment I should have been dashed
over a precipice of eighty feet. Just before the gates stands a small
inn, where we left our horses and proceeded on foot.

The monastery strongly resembles a fortress, for the massive walls
surrounding it are liberally loop-holed, and it can be entered from
one side only. We entered a large courtyard with buildings on all
sides. At the back a great mountain ascends obliquely, and in front an
inaccessible precipice descends to the river. It was doubtless a tough
morsel for the Turks in the olden days, though modern artillery would
make very short work of it.

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.

[Illustration: 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 Kolasin, 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 assist 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.

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