The Luck of Thirteen Part 30

But the policeman had a mailbag to deliver that night, and we had to push on. Experienced as we were in Serbian roads, never had we seen such mud. Down, down sank our feet, and we could only extract them again clinging to the carts with the sound of a violent kiss. We tried to escape it by climbing into the thick brushwood, only to find it again, stickier and more slippery, while the bushes grasped us with th.o.r.n.y arms and athletically switched our faces. A moonless darkness came upon us and we had to walk just behind the carriages, peering at the square yard of road illuminated by candles in our penny lanterns.

Occasionally a voice greeted us. We asked how far Tutigne was.

"About an hour," was the invariable answer all along the line.

But the dignified guide was right. After four hours we reached the main street, arriving slowly to the music of incredible clatter as our little carts leapt and jolted over hundreds of big pointed stones laid carefully side by side--Tutigne's concession to Macadam.

There were faint lights in some of the little wooden houses. Others stood dark and unfriendly. We stopped. Curses filled the air. An ox-cart was lying right across the road. After shouting himself hoa.r.s.e the policeman woke up an old man in a house near by--the owner. He rheumatically grumbled in his doorway; so the gendarme called our Albanians, and in two twos they had turned the cart upside down in a ditch, saying--

"It serves you right."

Voices sounded in the darkness. The carriages lurched on. Presently they left the road and turned on to gra.s.s, they seemed to be leaving the village behind. We did not know where they were going, and were so tired that we did not care, if only they would get somewhere and stop, which at last they did. We jumped off into a squelch of water.

"Good heavens, this won't do!"

We searched the whole field for a dry spot, but though it was a hillside, it was a swamp. We chose the least marshy place and built a fire.

"Where is the mayor?" we asked of the strange faces dimly to be seen in the light of our fire.

They pointed to two cottage window lights. We went towards them, at last realizing our proximity by stumbling into a dung-heap and knocking against a pig-stye. There was a narrow stairway, and above it a big landing. A man followed and knocked at a door for us.

The mayor appeared--a little man--square in face, hair, beard and figure.

We explained ourselves and showed our letter. He looked grave at our demand for horses; said we would talk it over on the morrow, and sympathized about the swampy field.

"Would you like to sleep here on the floor?" he said, showing us a clean-looking office. "We regret we have no beds."

We were delighted. His wife, who had gone to bed, appeared in a striped petticoat and a second one worn as a shawl.

"The tables shall be moved and the stove lit," she said. "It will be ready in a few minutes."

We picked our way back to the fire, avoiding the dung-heap and pig-stye, whereby we nearly fell into a cesspool. Cocoa was brewing, one card-house had been erected as a shelter for some of our things. The drivers were crouched round their own fire cooking something. It was difficult to find our bundles in the carts as one only recognized them by the drivers. We climbed in feeling about by the light of a match. Jo found a foot in one.

"How can we find things with people lying on them?" she said to the foot.

It remained immobile; she pulled it--no response. She tugged it. A face lifted itself at the far end of the cart. It was the corporal's wife lying on her own possessions, very tired and rather cross. Jo patted her remorsefully and decamped.

We must have looked like a regiment of gnomes bearing forbidden treasure as we hobbled through the darkness, laden with our bundles of blankets.

The light in the office nearly blinded us, and the heat from the stove struck us like a violent blow. The mayor, his wife, two hurriedly dressed children and several other people received us. There was an awkward silence. Jo murmured in the background--

"It is manners here to go up, shake hands, and say one's name."

Very uncomfortably everybody did so, one by one. Another silence. We racked our brains--the weather--our journey--the war. One had nothing sensible to say about anything. Jo asked the children's age. The information was supplied. Silence. We filled the gap by smiling. At last the mayor's wife said we must be worn out, and they all left us.

The mayor crept back. "Don't talk about the military situation," he said; "if these Turks knew it they might kill us all." Then he shut the door.

We flew to a window and opened it, changed our stockings, hung wet boots and socks over the stove, ate bully beef, and rolled up, pillowing our heads on our little sacks--thirteen sleepy people.

The mayor's wife opened the door an inch and peeped at us as we lay, looking, indeed, more like a jumble sale than anything. Mawson wore a Burglar cap tied under his chin, and a collection of khaki m.u.f.flers, looking equipped for a Channel crossing. Miss Brindley's head was tied up in a bandana handkerchief; Jo's in a purple oilsilk hood; others shared mackintosh sheets and blankets; West pulled his Serbian cap right down to his mouth. Jan put on the white mackintosh dressing-coat, over that his greatcoat, then he spread out a red, green, yellow and black striped Serbian rug, rolled up in it with many contortions, and pushed his feet into a tent bag. Blease in a Balaklava, showing nose like an Arctic explorer, got into a black oilskin, one corner of which had been repaired with a large yellow patch, he then rolled up in oddments collected from the company, as his own overcoat had been stolen, and bound it all together by tying the many coloured knitted rug around him, after putting the lamp out inadvertently with his head.

In the morning we interviewed the mayor. He read and reread the letter from the Novi Bazar mayor, took an interest in the social supremacy of Stajitch's father, who was a man of birth, but said he had no horses.

Jo appealed to his better feelings. He scratched his head.

"Yes, truly one must try to help the English," he said, but looked very glum.

"I will have the neighbouring hamlets searched for horses."

We thanked him and wandered into the village cafe. An old man with black sprouting eye-brows a la Nick Winter, was sitting there. He had walked for five days, eating only apples.

"Very good food too," he said. "Here is my luggage."

He pointed to a knotted handkerchief containing a tiny loaf of bread which he had just acquired. His goal was a monastery in Montenegro, where he said they would house and feed him for the winter in exchange for a little work.

At 11.30 three horses were brought. Three more were promised, so we reluctantly decided to start the next day. There was nothing to do.

Our carriages went. We gave the corporal a card-house to take back to Rashka with little faith that he would not try to stick to it. He had not returned the boots to their owner, so we took them from him and gave them to their rightful owner, and handed over to the corporal a spare pair of our own boots to keep him honest.

At dawn Stajitch, who had been sleeping in style upon a friend's table, came to say we had six horses, but a professor had turned up in the night and was coming with us. He had been so exhausted with the walk that his policeman had carried him most of the way. Not pleased, we went to inspect him. He was small, corpulent, and was sitting with clasped woolly gloves, goloshed feet, and a diffident smile.

He explained to us that he was delicate, and as he was no walker it would be necessary for him to ride one horse. So we packed our food, sacks, blankets, mackintoshes and the card-house as best we could on the remaining five horses.

No sooner had we left the village, and all signs of road or bridle path, with a new policeman and two or three ragged Albanians, than one of the horses broke loose and began to dance--first the tango, then the waltz.

The pack, which was but insecurely attached, stood the tango, but with the waltz a bag of potatoes swung loose at the end of a rope, its gyroscopic action swinging the horse quicker and quicker until it was spinning on one toe. Then the girths broke, saddle and all came to the ground. The brute looked round as if saying "That's that," and cantered off, followed slowly by the professor on horseback. We called. He appeared to take no notice. At last he turned round saying--

"The horse will not."

Jo leapt in the air kicking.

"Do that with your heels," she said.

But we had to send the policeman to help him. He rode hour by hour, hitting his beast with a bent umbrella, and lifting two fat hands to heaven.

"Teshko" (It is hard), he whined.

"_Ni_ je teshko" (It is not hard), said Miss Brindley, cheerfully trudging along.

We wanted to stop at the top of a hill for lunch.

"Horrible," he said. "Here the brigands will shoot us from the bushes,"

and pushed ahead, being held on by the grinning policeman.

We pulled out some biscuits and margarine, and drank water from our bottles, cigarettes went round, and we charged ahead. In front was the professor falling off his horse and being put on again.

We were very anxious about the frontier. Most of our party were travelling without official permits, as they had known nothing about such things; but we hoped that being English Red Cross and having pa.s.sports there would not be much trouble. We arrived at a little village, three or four wooden houses. Three pompous old men came to meet us, and we took coffee together outside the inn. They were very surprised to hear we were English, and said that no English had ever pa.s.sed that way before.

At the frontier, an hour further on, a man and his wife came down from a little house on the hill and stopped us. They examined the papers of the two Serbs, but left us alone, to our huge relief. We breathed again.