Chapter XV

At noon of the day following our introduction to the system of keeping the frontier in Roumania, we heard the sound of rifle-firing and the beating of drums in the Servian village of Brza Palanka, and, on landing there, found the place in the liveliest commotion. Scores of men and women were filling gourds at the wells, and hurrying away up the hill-side back of the town. Besides the burden of water, most of the women and a great crowd of children were carrying baskets of bread and cooked food, and kerchiefs full of grapes. The hot and dusty streets were alive with peasants, mostly in white linen garments, with brilliant red sashes on the men, and richly colored aprons on the women. Both sexes wore very clumsy sandals and heavy woollen socks, or leg-wrappings, bound to the ankle by thongs. While we were wondering at the extraordinary activity of the village, we heard the beat of a drum coming nearer and nearer, and soon a militia company of the wildest-looking men who ever carried a rifle came marching up at quick pace, and wheeling into a narrow lane, tramped along in a cloud of dust, and disappeared over the brow of the hill. Another and then another company, each more savage-looking than the last, went through the same manœuvres, and the whole population followed them, we among the rest. When we came out on the hill-top we saw before us the strangest and most barbaric encampment imaginable. The broad, arid plateau was covered with shelters or great huts made of oak-boughs, ranged around in a sort of quadrangle, enclosing a level space of twenty-five or thirty acres. In the shadows of these rude shelters were seated hundreds of men eating their mid-day meal, which was brought to them by the women and children, who, after the men were served, squatted on the dry turf a little distance away, and ate their own frugal dinner. Across the great parade-ground were two long heaps of straw in parallel lines, which were evidently the beds of the men at night. We understood, of course, that we were in the annual camp of the Servian militia, and were not surprised that our appearance caused some little interest and curiosity, as we were the only ones in European dress anywhere in sight. Besides, our costume would doubtless have excited comment anywhere, for Danube mud had so changed its tone, and hard usage had so distorted its shape, that it was now decidedly unique in general appearance. The camp guard halted us, and inquired our business, which we, for want of a better answer, stated to be a visit to the captain, trusting to the probability of there being a number of officers of this rank. The guard seemed perfectly satisfied with our reply, and did not even ask which captain we wanted to see, but let us pass at once. We made the same explanation to various inquisitive militiamen, who seemed to resent our sketching, and we slowly made our way into the enclosure. We had eaten nothing since sunrise, and had paddled twenty miles or more, therefore, after our first curiosity was satisfied, we thought we had better return to the village for luncheon, and come back again to see the afternoon drill. But the moment we began to move away, the suspicions of the whole camp were aroused at once, and from all sides came a chorus of shouts and cries in what seemed to us very violent and angry tones. In another instant we were the centre of an excited

throng of fierce-looking rascals all armed with knives, and several of them with rifles and bayonets. Explanations were now futile, and, indeed, quite impossible, for our small stock of Servian words was soon exhausted, and, after making several attempts to push past the men who blocked our path, we finally yielded, and were marched off to the hut which was apparently the headquarters. Here we found two officers of the regular army, a captain and a lieutenant, who had charge of the encampment, the former being, as we now understood, the only captain in the camp, and therefore the one whom we had declared we were about to visit.

The officers were naturally astonished at seeing two men in boating dress appear at the door of their hut, for the militiamen stood off at a respectful distance and sent us ahead to announce ourselves; however, they received us with great courtesy, gave us the only two chairs they had, and tried to conceal their bewilderment by urgent offers of hospitality. We produced our passports, displayed the great water-mark of the eagle and shield and the arms of the British Empire, and made ourselves as agreeable as possible, all the while wondering what was going to be the result of the interview. They seemed to be in no great hurry to get rid of us, and were evidently puzzled what to do with us anyhow; for there could be no question of the validity of our credentials, and they undoubtedly had received no orders to cover this unexpected episode. The difficulty lay in our inability to explain our business; for although we could understand the greater part of what they said, from the resemblance of the language to Russian, we had a very limited stock of Servian words to use in this emergency. Even if we had successfully managed the philological feat of explaining the object of our trip in comprehensible Servian, we should have found the same difficulty here as at every other place since the beginning of our voyage in convincing them that we were engaged in no commercial enterprise, but were simply on a pleasure excursion. The captain sent men in various directions to find some one who spoke German or Hungarian, and at last a gypsy was brought who was supposed to be a linguist. His German was limited to one phrase, “Was wollen Sie?” and not a word of Hungarian did he know, so he was promptly kicked out again. While they were scouring the camp for another interpreter, it suddenly occurred to us to say we were engineers, believing that this must be a recognized profession along the Danube. The word “Ingenieur” acted like a charm. The captain immediately apologized for his stupidity in not understanding our position sooner, and called a guard to conduct us safely to the lines, saying that he could not let us remain in the camp, for the orders were against it; besides, there would be nothing to see, for the soldiers were going to have their after-dinner nap, and the parade would not take place until evening. We shook hands cordially with both officers, and followed the brawny chested peasant towards the road to the village. As we marched across the parade-ground we could not resist the

temptation to make a little note of the encampment in our sketch-books, but before we could draw a line an excited party of soldiers rushed towards us, the leader brandishing a long knife. It was evident they had all the Oriental fear and aversion to being sketched, and we saw they were disposed to make it unpleasant for us. We promptly put away our books, and one of us, drawing a penknife from his pocket, deliberately opened the smallest blade and flourished it in the air as if in a mocking challenge to the giant with the long dagger. The ridiculous situation was appreciated in an instant; the whole crowd stopped shouting to laugh; the weapons were put up, and peace was declared on the basis of mutual mirth. Once beyond the camp lines we did not attempt to enter again, but waved our adieus from the canoes as we floated off.

Our adventure had been a most interesting one, and the result had not been disagreeable. We could not help thinking that these people were very little understood by those correspondents who are continually fermenting the Eastern question and making it a nauseous topic of ignorant discussion in the Press of the civilized world. Such an encampment, we thought, would be sure to be described as a massing of Servian troops near the Bulgarian frontier, and a similar experience to ours would furnish text for interminable letters on the belligerent character of the people of the Balkan provinces. For our part we could readily picture the excitement in an encampment of militia in the United States or of volunteers in England if two Servians, in native costume and carrying sketch-books, should succeed in penetrating the lines, unable to excuse or explain their presence. It is curious to note that a few days after our visit to the camp we saw an English newspaper, and almost the first paragraph we observed in the column of telegraphic news was headed, “Massing of Servian Troops on the Bulgarian Frontier.”

We did not care to come in contact with the military any more, for the reason that, now the novelty was worn off, we should scarcely find future experiences interesting enough

to compensate us for the great loss of time which they were sure to involve. But we were not far beyond the sound of drums at Brza Palanka before we unwittingly fell into a Roumanian trap by drifting, as we sketched, too near that shore. A hail from the water’s edge caused us to look up, and we saw three men, dressed like ordinary peasants, as well as we could judge, beckoning us to come ashore. Thinking they had fish or some other desirable commodity to sell, we paddled nearer, intending to land just below. As we came up to them we saw they wore military belts, and at the same time we noticed a hut like those at other picket posts under a tree on the bluff above. Our first impulse was to turn our bows down-stream and paddle away, but, on the first move we made to escape, one of the men ran up to the hut, appeared instantly again with rifle and cartridge-boxes, and proceeded to go through significant exercises in the Roumanian manual of arms. We were rather tired of this game, and surrendered with bad enough grace. The soldiers, however, were ready enough to discontinue hostilities the moment they met us on the shore; the corporal examined our passports, declared them all right, and, with the present of the silver effigy of King Charles of Roumania, we stifled effectively what little enmity still lurked under their coarse linen tunics, and paddled away, friends all round. Notwithstanding our efforts, we had not by any means finished with the military yet, for, as darkness came on, and we tried to find a camp-ground, we could discover no practicable place on the Servian side, nor escape the pickets on the opposite bank. At last we decided to make a counter-move against the enemy, and boldly landed and stalked up to a group of pickets before they had time to run for their one rifle, and asked for guidance to a good camping-ground. They advised us to stay where we were, and avoid difficulties with the posts below in the darkness, so we hauled up the canoes close by their shallow well, where the Danube water filtered in through the sand, and soon forgot soldiers and passports and the Eastern question.

On this part of the river villages are infrequent, uninteresting, and almost all on the Servian side. The native architecture is neither imposing nor tasteful, but the houses are comfortable, and often very neat inside and out. The frame is made of roughly hewn poles nailed or pegged together, and skilfully wattled all over with sticks about an inch in diameter, which serve to hold the mud with which all the walls and the ceilings are thickly plastered. An open porch or veranda, often occupying nearly the whole front of the house, serves as a nursery, work-room, and general sitting-room for the women in summer, and there is often a raised platform at one side, where the men sit in Turkish fashion and smoke, and drink coffee. This latter feature of native architecture is found at all country inns, and becomes an indispensable adjunct to most houses a little farther down, within the limits of former European Turkey. The Servian houses, as well as the Roumanian structures, which are built on much the same plan, are generally whitewashed, and either roofed with red tiles, or thatched with reeds or straw. Tiles are more commonly used in most parts.

The Roumanian bank had now become flat, monotonous, and apparently deserted by everybody except the pickets. For many miles we saw not even a fishing hamlet on either shore, and when, after rather a dull forenoon, we came to the great, white, straggling village of Radujeváç, on the right bank, we found it to be the last Servian river town above the Bulgarian frontier, and, fortunately for us, the most picturesque and characteristic place we had seen for days. Few shops, and those of the most primitive order, disturb the rustic simplicity of the streets. Farm-houses

with great court-yards enclosed by high wattled fences are half hidden among the trees on either side the broad, dusty highways, and the part of the village near the river is still surrounded by an oaken stockade eight or ten feet high, a relic of the days when such a defence was necessary.

On every veranda and in every farm-yard the women sat

in the shadow spinning and weaving wool, and their lively gossiping voices mingled cheerily with the clatter of the looms and the whir of the reel. Large-eyed, gray-coated oxen lay and peacefully chewed the cud at the very elbows of the women as they worked. Bright scarlet peppers and great piles of husked Indian-corn made rich splashes of color against the cool shadows of the whitewashed walls, and everywhere brilliant touches of red in the peasant costume flashed among the foliage or gleamed in the sunshine. A few idlers were assembled under the rude awning in front of the wine-shop, to drink the rank plum brandy or thin acid wine; but, with the exception of these drones of the busy hive, everybody was actively engaged in harvest-work or in some domestic manufacture. The bi-weekly Danube steamer touches at the landing at every trip up and down; freight is delivered, produce shipped and sent to some convenient market; but the little community is as far away from civilization as if steamers did not exist, and life there is still quite as primitive as in the days before the enterprising

scouts of modern commerce began to corrupt the native taste of the peasantry with the crudities of modern productions.

In the long reaches below Radujeváç a wider landscape meets the eye. Far to the north the high Carpathians raise their noble heads in grand array, and stretch away to the eastward until their forms are lost in the shimmering distance across the Roumanian plain, while to the south the bold outlines of the Balkans may be faintly distinguished, half hidden by summer clouds. The river takes longer and more stately curves, and flows with somewhat sleepy current. No obstacles now impede its course, no cliffs and crags narrow its channel, and it winds peacefully along without a check until it pours its great flood through a dozen outlets into the Black Sea. Nor is this peaceful stream without its own peculiar charm and beauty. The sunny, smiling landscapes never tire the eye or fatigue the mind, for the majestic stream opens new vistas at every bend, and discloses ever-varied combinations of shore and stream and distance.