CHAPTER XII
THE HIGHWAY OF MONTENEGRO—II
Jan awoke nearly dry, or in a sort of warm dampness, at 4.30 a.m. Not a soul was about, and we packed by candle. There was a purple dawn, and the towering cliffs behind the minarets glowed a deep cerise for at least ten minutes ere the light reached the town. The streets were still and deserted, but at last an old man with a coffee machine on his back, and a tin waistbelt full of pigeon-holes containing cups, took a seat at a corner. At six he was surrounded by groups of Albanian workmen drinking coffee, and he beckoned us to come and take coffee with him, but we were suspicious of the cleanliness of his crockery. A miserable-looking woman in widow's weeds was loitering about the door of the post office, and with her was a tattered girl surrounded by trunks, suit-cases, and bandboxes, so we guessed they were there to be fellow passengers. A waggon loaded with boxes halted before them, but the widow declined to let her baggage go by it.
At last the post waggon came. It was a small springless openwork cart with a rounded hood on it, so that it could roll when it upset—which was the rule rather than the exception—luggage accommodation was provided only for the "soap and tooth-brush" type of traveller; but the widow insisted upon packing in all her movables, and after that we four squeezed into what room was left. The seat was low, one's chin and knees were in dangerous proximity, and a less ideal position for travelling some thirty-five miles could not be imagined. The widow's portmanteau, all knobs and locks, was arranged to coincide with Jo's spine. The tattered maid was loaded with five packages on her knees which she could not control, so we looked as cheerful as we could and said to ourselves, "Anyway it will do in the book."
At the start Jan was rather grateful for the squash, for the air was chilly; soon the damp, exposed parts of his clothing cooled to freezing point, and it was lucky that they were not more extensive.
As we rolled over the craters and crests of the—what had once been—stone-paved streets, the driver halted, here to buy a large loaf of bread, there to purchase smelly cheese, and finally to pick up a gold-laced officer, whom we took to be the post-guard. The driver, who sat back to back with Jan, grumbled at him because he took up too much room. But Jan replied that it was his own fault for not making the carriage bigger, and that his knees were not telescopic. We received the post of Montenegro, for this was the only road out; it consisted of three letters and a circular, so we judged that Montenegrin censorship was pretty strict.
The road was flat, the surrounding country covered with little scrubby oak bushes, in and out of which ran innumerable black pigs who had long cross pieces bound to their necks to prevent them from pushing through hedges into the few maize fields. As the miles passed Jan slowly began to dry, his temperature went up and his temper became better. The widow, we discovered, was the relict of a Greek doctor who had died of typhus in Plevlie, and she was returning to her native land.
Presently we came to a small inn, a hut like all others, and the driver commanded us to get out. By this time we were accustomed to the sight of nobles kissing market women relatives, and it did not surprise us to see the officer embrace the rather dirty hostess of the inn and kiss all the children; but when he took his place behind the bar and began to serve the coffee!... It was a minute before we realized that he had not been guarding the three letters and the circular, but merely was returning home.
At the Montenegrin frontier, which was some hours on, a soldier asked us for a lift, as though he could not see that we were already bulging at all points with excess luggage; at the Serbian frontier Jan was asked for his passport, and as they did not demand that of the widow, we concluded that they imagined her to be Mrs. Gordon, and Jo and the tattered one, two handmaids.