Chapter IV Heading]
THE WATCH TOWER
I
A rough, lumbering ox-cart was crawling slowly up a steep windinghill-track in Southern Macedonia. The breath of the two panting oxenformed steam-clouds in the frosty air; slighter wreaths of vapour clungabout the heads of the two persons who trudged along beside them. Onewas an old man, tall, broad, and vigorous, his hair straggling beneathhis fur cap, his long white beard stiff with the ice of his congealedbreath. The other was a boy, whose face, ruddy with health and cold,showed scantly under a similar cap much too large for him, and above aconglomeration of warm wrappings reaching to his feet and giving him theappearance of a moving bundle, thick and shapeless.
"I am tired, grandfather," murmured the boy, pausing at the foot of asteep ascent.
"Tchk!" the old man ejaculated, emitting a puff of white breath whichthe north-east wind from behind carried over the head of the nearest ox."Put your shoulder to the wheel, Marco. Show yourself worthy of yourname."
The boy obediently went round the cart and set his shoulder to the heavywooden wheel on the off side. His grandfather shoving at the other,they helped the labouring oxen to drag the vehicle up the ascent, andthen stopped to rest.
"That was well done, little son," said a woman of some thirty years,sitting in the forepart of the cart. She handed the boy a cake. Behindher the cart was piled high with bits of furniture and bundles ofhousehold gear. The boy seated himself on a rock and nibbled his cake.The oxen moved their heads about as if in search of provender.Straightening his tall form, the old man turned his back, and in thefull blast of the bitter wind scanned the country to the north-east. Afaint boom sounded far away in that direction. The woman started.
"Do you see anything, Father?" she asked, anxiously.
"Nothing, Nuta. But we must on. It will be two hours or more before wecan call ourselves safe."
Smacking the heaving flank of the near-side ox, he set the beasts inmotion, and the cart creaked and jolted on over the rough track. Thiswas lightly covered with snow, which showed traces of those othertravellers who in this December of 1915 had journeyed over the sameroute. Snow lay deeper in the hollows on either side, and on theheights in the distance. It was a bleak and desolate landscape, itsrugged features somewhat softened, however, by the blanket of snow. Hereand there dark patches stood out in the surrounding white, representingbushes or trees; but there was no house or cottage, no sign of life.
Old Marco, a small Serbian landed proprietor, had postponed his flightfrom before the invading Bulgars until all the other inhabitants of hisvillage had departed. To the last he had hoped that the French andBritish forces would arrive in time to save him. His son was awayfighting, as were all the men from the little estate. Having loaded allhis portable possessions on to the cart, he waited with hisdaughter-in-law and grandson until the ever-approaching boom of gunswarned him that further delay would mean ruin, and then set offsouthwards, to gain, if possible, protection from the Allied forces thatwere said to be retreating on Salonika.
The old man's pride was wounded. He traced his descent from that MarcoKralevich who, towards the end of the fourteenth century, struggled tomaintain the independence of Serbia against the Turks, and whose nameand knightly prowess live to-day in song and story. He had never tiredof relating to young Marco the heroic deeds of his great ancestor, andit cut him to the heart that he was compelled, in the wreck of hiscountry's fortunes, to abandon the homestead where he had kept alive thetraditions of Serbian valour. Even now, old as he was, he would haveborne a part in the national struggle but for the claims of his dearones upon his protection.
The cart lumbered slowly on. From time to time the old man glancedanxiously behind, appealing to the boy--did he see anything movingthere, or there? On one such occasion, when they stopped to restthemselves and the oxen, and the old man was looking to the rear, youngMarco suddenly pricked up his ears, and stood intently listening.
"A strange sound, Grandfather," he said. "Where?"
The boy nodded towards the east. "What is it?"
"Like the hum of a bee far away."
The old man came to the boy's side and listened.
"I cannot hear it," he said after a few moments, adding impatiently,"Tchk! This is not the time of bees."
"But I hear it still," persisted Marco. "It is louder."
He looked around, puzzled to account for the unaccustomed sound.
"I hear nothing," said his mother.
"Look!" he cried, pointing excitedly into the grey sky.
The eyes of his elders followed his outstretched hand, but they sawnothing.
"It has gone," sighed the boy after a little. "But I did see something.Perhaps it was an eagle. I think it flew just behind the hills there."
His eyes ranged the horizon, where the rugged line of white indented thesky. A spot of blue appeared in the pale vault, and a ray of sunlighttrickled through.
"Look!" cried Marco again, stretching out his hand this time to thenorth. "There is something moving on the snow."
The old man gazed northward, rubbed his eyes, shook his head.
"Can you see anything, Nuta?" he asked.
"Dark specks, miles and miles away--yes, Father, they are moving. Thereare more of them. They are like ants."
"The Bulgars!" muttered the old man. "Come, we must haste."
Returning to the cart, he whipped up the oxen, and the patient beasts,heaving their load out of the drift into which its wheels had settled,hauled it, creaking and groaning, towards the brightening south.