“Per Bacco! Signor,” he cried, “there is a steam-launch making all speed for the harbour. She shows no flag yet, but she is as like an Austrian launch that lay in Brindisi harbour yesterday as one egg to another.”
This news was disquieting, in the light of what Maurice had learnt from the hotel-keeper. He had good hope of escaping the pursuit of Slavianski if they once got among the mountains and had only natural difficulties to contend with. These difficulties, of course, were serious enough. Apart from the risks of travelling through a wild and unknown country of rugged mountains, there was the danger of falling among brigands. To this must now be added the probability that the Albanian mountaineers, who would, perhaps, in any case be likely to regard the travellers as fair game, would be egged on by the Austrians to attack them, not merely as travellers, but as enemies of the country. It was the Young Turks that were troubling Albania, and the Young Turks were encouraged by England. Slavianski, if he was in the approaching launch, would not scruple to make use of odium and prejudice to effect his purpose.
Maurice thanked the skipper, and learning from him that the launch would probably not make the harbour for half an hour, decided to leave Durazzo at once. The gyro-car could travel a good distance in half an hour. He told George rapidly what he had heard. They laid in a stock of food and wine—this of a poor quality, but the best, and indeed the only, beverage the hotel afforded—and bought a fez each as a measure of precaution, Maurice saying that if they passed through the country in infidel hats, some fanatical Moslems might be provoked to molest them. Then they prepared to start.
But they were not to get away easily. At the door they were beset by people, old and young, begging the nobili capitani to purchase their wares. Maurice sternly refused, knowing that if he bought from one, the rest would clamour the more persistently. They had mounted into the car, when the bimbashi of the Turkish garrison came up and demanded to see their taskereh. Maurice amiably showed him the passport, and gave him the same explanation about George; whereupon the officer became very friendly, and began to ask questions about the mechanism of the car. It required all Maurice’s tact to make his answers brief without offence; and when at last the car was started, nearly a quarter of an hour had passed.
Maurice felt miserably handicapped by the lack of a map. Monastir, the place he intended to make for, was, he knew, due east of Durazzo, but he did not know how far distant it was, nor could the hotel-keeper tell him with any certainty. The road at first ran over a plain, but it was worse than the worst by-lane in the wildest part of England. To an ordinary motor-car it would have been quite impassable, and even a cyclist would have had to dismount frequently. But over such rough ground the gyro-car had an advantage. Its equilibrium was not easily disturbed; it could even run in a rut that would prove fatal to motor-car or bicycle. Yet it was only at a very modest pace that the travellers were able to pick their way along this apology for a highway. George’s patience was severely taxed when he found it impossible to maintain a higher average speed than about six miles an hour.
The ground rose gradually towards a barren range of hills, along the sides of which ran a track so narrow, that if it had rained there would have been the greatest risk of skidding on the slippery clay soil. George had to drive with infinite care, crawling along at a walking pace, and often applying the brakes. When they had crossed the ridge they saw a broad river winding picturesquely between high cliffs, and a village nestling among olive-grounds. Here Maurice would have liked to engage a guide, but reflected that there was no time to make inquiries, and it would be imprudent to employ a man without recommendation. Maurice knew enough of the Albanian language to ask the way of the keeper of a small han, as the inns are called, and learnt that Tirana, the first town of any size, lay about four hours’ journey across the river. Beyond Tirana, another four or five hours’ march, lay Elbasan, and though its distance from Durazzo could scarcely have been more than forty miles as the crow flies, it was clear that they would be lucky if they reached it by nightfall.
They passed on, and found that the river wound so frequently that they had to ford it eight times before they finally crossed it by a stone bridge. At this point the road was a trifle better, and they were able to drive faster. At another time they might have been interested in the scenes along the road—the luxuriant olive-gardens, the women trudging with heavy bundles on their backs, knitting as they walked; the teams of mules laden with black wool, and driven by black-cloaked men who called upon Allah as the strange vehicle ran past them. But their anxieties forbade more than a fleeting attention to their surroundings. They crossed little streams on crazy plank budges, each one of which gave George a shudder; and as they approached Tirana were amazed at the immense flocks of turkeys that infested the road, and stubbornly refused to heed the warnings of the hooter.
Tirana itself proved to be even more dirty than Durazzo. They were hungry, but wished to reserve for emergencies the food bought at Durazzo, yet hesitated to seek a meal in the wretched-looking hans. Plucking up their courage, they entered that which appeared least offensive, and found themselves in a low room, suffocatingly hot, festooned with cobwebs, and swarming with cockroaches. They made a meal of grapes, the only article of food for which they had any appetite, and left the place in a few minutes, to find the whole population gazing with awe at the gyro-car.
On again, through a broad, undulating plain, and once more into the mountains, covered with beech and oak and a tangle of ferns and creepers. Looking back over the splendid prospect when they reached the crest, they saw, in the valley about four miles away, a party of horsemen following the same track as themselves, and riding at extraordinary speed, considering the nature of the ground. They were too far away to be distinguished, but, strung up to anticipate pursuit, the Bucklands did not doubt that Slavianski and his companions had engaged Albanian guides, and were hot-foot in chase.
“We can go wherever horses can,” said George, “and faster. They daren’t go at more than a walking-pace in these hills. By the time they get here we ought to be a dozen miles away.”