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 Modern General Relativity Black Holes,
Gravitational Waves, and Cosmology, 1st
Ed
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Instructor Solutions Manual: Modern General Relativity

Mike Guidry

This document gives the solutions for all problems at the ends of chapters
for the first edition of Modern General Relativity: Black Holes, Gravitational
Waves, and Cosmology by Mike Guidry (Cambridge University Press, 2019).
Unless otherwise indicated, literature references, equation numbers, figure ref-
erences, table references, and section numbers refer to the print version of that
book.
1 Introduction

1.1 From Eq. (1.2), the value of γ is infinite if v = c, so there is no Lorentz transformation
to an inertial frame corresponding to a rest frame for light.
1.2 Since E = mγ, for a 7 TeV proton,
E 7 × 10 12 eV
γ= = = 7460.
m 938.3 × 106 eV
Then from the definition of γ,
s
v 1
= 1− = 0.999999991.
c γ2

This is a speed that is only about 3 meters per second less than that of light.
1.3 This question is ambiguous, since it does not specify whether the curvature is that of
the surface itself (which is called intrinsic curvature) or whether it is the apparent curvature
of the surface seen embedded in a higher-dimensional euclidean space (which is called
the extrinsic curvature). In general relativity the curvature of interest is usually intrinsic
curvature. Then the sheet of paper can be laid out flat and is not curved, the cylinder is
also flat, with no intrinsic curvature, because one can imagine cutting it longitudinally
and rolling it out into a flat surface, but the sphere has finite intrinsic curvature because it
cannot be cut and rolled out flat without distortion. The reason that the cylinder seems to
be curved is because the 2D surface is being viewed embedded in 3D space, which gives
a non-zero extrinsic curvature, but if attention is confined only to the 2D surface it has no
intrinsic curvature. This is a rather qualitative discussion but in later chapters methods will
be developed to quantify the amount of intrinsic curvature for a surface.

1
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though, of course, a Mohamedan woman, wore no veil. The house
was handsome for this part of the country, but depleted even of
furniture. The only pictures on the walls were common paintings on
the plaster now cracked and falling. The harem, where marble
divans for five wives were built in nooks, was filled with newly
harvested grain. A bold rooster, the only lord of the manor, cackled
to half a dozen happy hens and scattered the corn. We helped the
keeper eject the usurper and his feminine following.
A bridge, resembling the Bridge of Sighs, led out of the harem into
the dwelling of the exiled lord, bare like the other house. We climbed
the creaky, dust-covered stairs to a turret at the point of the roof,
which overlooked the surrounding walls and afforded a view of the
encircling mountains. A brilliant southern sun was setting in an
Oriental sky, and a train of three buffalo teams, silhouetted in the
glow, crept along the sky-line.

ALBANIAN WOMEN.
Late in the evening we passed through the long cemetery and
entered Uskub. Lights were out for the night, and patrols paced the
streets. We were halted several times, but our driver’s Turkish rang
true, and we proceeded to the gates of Hôtel Turati, where, after
much knocking, Nicola roused from his slumbers and removed the
bars.
 CHAPTER XI
METROVITZA AND THE ALBANIANS

‘Listen, my brothers! You must be ready for the Holy War. When you
hear for the second time the voice of public crier Mecho, gather
great and small, of all ages between seven and seventy, and range
yourselves under the banners. Those who have blood debts have
nothing to fear. God and the country pardon them. The Seven
Kings[4] are banded together, but we do not fear them, nor would
they frighten us if they were seventy, or as many more.’
The clans agreed upon a bessa, or truce, blood feuds were declared
off for the time, and the Albanians of Jakova, Ipek, and other
districts neighbouring Metrovitza banded together, great and small,
of all ages, to combat the reforms imposed upon the Sultan by the
Powers.
The feature of the reforms which gave them most offence was the
mixed gendarmerie. The British Consul at Uskub had suggested that
it would be sheer slaughter to create Christian police among the
Albanians. But the arrogant Russian, who at that time played first
fiddle in the opéra comique, opposed this view, probably for no
other reason than that it was English; and the Turks, who make
game of mad methods, agreed to the Austro-Russian demands with
alacrity, and sent six Servian gendarmes to Vutchitrin.
The public crier made his second call. Albanians to the number of
several thousand foregathered and visited Vutchitrin. But arriving
there they found the Turkish kaimakam had sent the sorry Serbs
away to a secret place of safety.
This was not a dire disappointment for the Albanians; they projected
bigger sport for the following day and kept the peace during the
night. Early next morning they set forth for Metrovitza, a short
march, to fulfil a promise, made a year before, to destroy the newly
established Russian Consulate. But, over-confident and swaggering
with pride, they boasted openly of what they would do, and when
they came to the Consular town they found the roads blocked with
infantry and covered by cannon. The Albanians halted, and the
chiefs went forward to parley with the Turkish commander: they
were faithful followers of the Padisha, doing only what he would
desire. But the Turk could not be moved, and threatened to fire if
the Albanians advanced.
The Albanians did not believe that the Sultan’s soldiers would fire on
the faithful, and when the whole force had gathered they marched
boldly upon the town by two roads at the same time. They were met
by a volley from the troops, and, much cut up, retired. A body of
them occupied an old mill across a little stream which bordered the
barracks, and fired upon the garrison from there until shelled out.
Then the whole number, after collecting their dead—with the tacit
permission of the Turks—withdrew to their own towns. But the
Russian Consul was not to escape.
The garrison of Metrovitza, which was largely Albanian, sympathised
thoroughly with the Albanian effort that had failed, and, indeed,
every Mohamedan did. The Government had got more than it
bargained for. The garrison was sore and sullen, and when the
soldiers gathered at the cafés in the evening, it was to deplore the
day’s work and to speculate upon the Padisha’s will.
At one café a fanatic dervish, after working his hearers to frenzied
pitch, exclaimed, ‘And is there not a single Mohamedan who will rid
us of this giaour?’
‘I will,’ said a piping little voice.
‘You! Oh, no, you will not!’ said the dervish scornfully.
‘I will,’ repeated the other.
He was a soldier who had been in the fight, a slim, sickly fellow with
a sad visage. I saw him on trial at Uskub.
The next morning M. Stcherbina, attired in Russian uniform, followed
by a Cossack, two heavily armed kavasses, and a troop of soldiers,
officers, and officials—the Turks doing honour and service against
their convictions—went out to inspect the line of battle, the plan of
which, it was alleged, the Russian had directed. As the Consul in
great state passed, the sentinels presented arms—which the
Russians exact of the Turks. One Mohamedan, required thus to
degrade himself, lowered his gun quickly as the Consul passed
before him at a distance of three paces, and without waiting to aim,
fired a fatal ball into the ‘infidel’s’ body. Then, flinging away his gun,
the soldier started at a mad pace down the slope, over the rocks
toward the mountains of Albania.
The Consul’s retinue, surprised for a moment, were soon after the
fugitive, firing fast; but he travelled a hundred yards before they
wounded him. The Cossack claimed, and no doubt fired, the telling
shot.
At his first trial the murderer was condemned to prison for a term of
fifteen years. Strange to say, Abdul Hamid is averse from capital
punishment. But the Russians were not satisfied with this sentence
and demanded a new trial; and at the second hearing, at Uskub (a
mock affair with the verdict pre-determined) the soldier was
condemned to death. Before he was executed the White Czar
pardoned the murderer of M. Stcherbina! But a few months later, not
only the murderer of M. Roskowsky, Russian Consul at Monastir, but
also a soldier who stood by and saw the deed done, and made no
attempt to prevent it, were hanged at Russian command.
The ways of the Turk and the ways of the Russian are wonderful and
similar.
The display of the Russian dead was truly Russian. The body of M.
Stcherbina was placed on a bier in a goods car, lined and completely
covered with mourning, on each side and each end an immense
white cross. This moving catafalque was dragged from Metrovitza to
Salonica, met along the route by Servian and Bulgarian clergy and
such Consuls as would participate in the demonstration, and opened
for services at the chief stations. At Salonica the body was laid in
state in a new Bulgarian church, from which there was a great
parade to a Russian man-of-war, Consuls all participating, Turkish
soldiers and officials doing honour.
The object of these proceedings seemed to be to impress Turks,
Christians, and Jews alike with the power of Russia. Alas! for the
power of Russia, the Japanese war soon followed, and its result
delighted Turks and Jews and many Christians.

From Constantinople came a commission of holy men with gifts from

the Sultan and arguments from the Koran to conciliate the injured
Albanians. But they would not be reconciled. Abdul Hamid had kept
them armed for generations for his own purposes, had chosen his
bodyguard from among them because of their faithfulness, and now
no amount of backsheesh, or multiloquence about their
transgressing the will of God, would bring them to terms. They were
going to fight. So the Albanian soldiers were brought out of the
Albanian districts and replaced by purely Turkish regiments. More
Anatolians were brought over from Asia Minor in vast numbers, and
mobilised at Verisovitch.
Those who knew the Turkish Government doubted that actual
hostilities against the Albanians would take place. But Russia was
pressing—threatening a naval demonstration with the Black Sea fleet
—and the Sultan fought his faithful friends.
Two small encounters took place. Of course the Albanians, badly
armed and without organisation, were easily defeated. The chiefs
were made prisoners and taken to Constantinople, where they were
decorated, probably pensioned for life, and made altogether better
off than they had been hitherto.
It is supposed that the Sultan ‘fixed’ his Albanian bodyguard before
he sent an army against their brothers, for had not his own safety
been secured, it can be taken he would have preferred war with the
‘Seven Kings.’

Metrovitza, being on the railway, was accessible without the

permission of Hilmi Pasha, and an Englishman, a Dane, and I went
up to see the battle ground. We were invited to visit the Russian
Consulate, and found a Russian kavass awaiting us with a bodyguard
of soldiers.
It was not a far walk from the station to the Consulate, which we
recognised from a distance by the tremendous tricolour that floated
from the balcony, drooping to within six feet of the road beneath.
The Consulate was situated between the barracks and a camp of
Turkish soldiers, and on several sides, immediately about the house,
were small detachments of picked troops.
First to greet us as we entered the door was the Cossack, in bushy
busby, blue dress with large white spots, brown sleeves, leggings,
and many weapons. He was a moth-like creature, hair, beard, and
skin the same sickly pallor, and eyes of a dull blue. The kavasses—
generally swaggering—looked sheepish; they were Albanians—
traitors, in their countrymen’s eyes. But the Consul, M. Mashkov, late
of Uskub, was full of fire, actually pugnacious, and, so he told us,
ready to die in his country’s service.
A telegram arrived a few minutes after we did, containing a warning
that the Sublime Porte had received a letter from the Bulgarian
committajis, informing the Turkish Government of their intention to
assassinate another Russian consul. The object of this telegram—the
origin of which is obvious—I am at a loss to understand, but such
warnings to consuls come constantly from the Turkish Government.
‘They have killed M. Stcherbina,’ said M. Mashkov; ‘they may kill me;
but they cannot kill the Russian Consul!’
The Dane asked the Consul if he really thought he would be
assassinated, and M. Mashkov replied, ‘I expect to leave Turkey as
M. Stcherbina did. If the Albanians do not kill me, the Bulgarians
will.’
But I am glad to record that our entertaining and generous host—
whose ideas and sympathies, I regret, do not agree with mine—was
soon transferred to Egypt, and got away from Turkey alive.
We tramped over the battlefield in the same manner that the dead
Russian had done, with Russian kavasses and Turkish soldiers for our
protection, and a Turkish officer who spoke French as a conductor.
We resembled a Russian commission, and the sentinels rose from
the ground and saluted. Every time we passed one the sins of my
life all came back to my mind.

Albania is the most romantic country in Europe, probably in all the

world. It is a lawless land where might makes right, and parts of it
are as forbidding to the foreigner as darkest Africa. In the country
around Ipek, Jakova, and Prisrend, and even Kalkandele, the homes
of men are strongholds built of stone, with no windows on the
ground floors, and those above mere loopholes. At the corners of a
village or estate are kulers, towers of defence, from which the
enemy can be seen far down the road.
The first law of the land is the law of the gun, as it was in the Wild
West. But the country is more thickly populated than was the
American border in the old days, and men have banded together in
clans for offensive and defensive purposes.
There is no education in Albania—the Turks have kept the country
illiterate—and promises have come to be bonds. It is because the
Albanians keep their word that Abdul Hamid has chosen them as his
bodyguard. But the Albanian has no regard for the man he has not
sworn to, and, though the petty thief is despised, it is considered
brave work to kill a man for his money.
Albanian customs are dangerous to break, and are handed down the
generations unwritten as sacredly as are feuds. Some strange
customs exist. To compliment an unmarried woman, for instance, is
provocation for death. A blood enemy is under amnesty while in the
company of a woman. A woman may shoot a fiancé who breaks his
betrothal or call upon the young man’s father to kill him. If a man
commits murder, and, flying for his life, enters the house of another,
friend or foe, he is safe. This is the case, even if he takes refuge in
the house of a brother of the man he has slain. He may not remain
there for ever; but for three days he can live on the best the house
provides. When that time is up, he is shown on his way. Twenty-four
hours is given him to make his escape; after that the bessa is over
and the blood feud begins.
THE ALBANIAN AND HIS KULER. ALBANIAN.
In their national dress the Albanians of the North are always
distinguishable. The men wear baggy trousers, usually white, tight
fitting to the ankle. Down each side of them and over the back is a
broad band of rich black silk cording. Very often a design in rich red
tapers down each leg to the knee. A broad sash (over a leather
belt), between trousers and shirt, serves as holster for pistol and
yataghan. A short, richly worked waistcoat reaches down to the top
of the sash, but misses meeting across the chest by six inches. The
costumes differ considerably in various parts of Albania. In Southern
Albania the men wear pleated ballet skirts like the Northern Greeks.
For headgear the Albanian generally wears a tiny, tight-fitting white
skull-cap which looks in the sun like a bald spot. Some wear caps of
Ottoman red, from which a rich, full, flowing silk tassel of black or
dark blue falls to the shoulders.
The cut of the hair is peculiar. The men of one section will have their
heads closely shaven, except in one circular space about an inch
across. The single tuft curls down underneath the cap like a Red
Indian’s scalp-lock. Others will shave the top of the head where the
cap rests. There is reason in this; as the Mohamedan seldom
removes his fez, the heat over the head is thereby equalised. There
are a dozen other cuts, none of which beautify the Albanian;
nevertheless, he is always of striking appearance.
The Albanians are of pure European origin. They are tall, broad-
shouldered men, with fine faces. They are quite unlike any of the
other people of Macedonia, even speaking a totally different
language. While nothing definite is known of their origin, it is more
than probable that they are the descendants of the ancient Illyrians,
who once occupied all the western side of the Balkan Peninsula, and
were gradually driven to the mountains of Albania by the successive
invasions of Greeks, Romans, Slavs, and Turks.
Albania has never been wholly subdued or civilised. It was partially
conquered by Servian princes in the Middle Ages, and under them
attained a certain civilisation; but at the Turkish conquest it relapsed
into a wild state.
The majority of the Albanians have become Mohamedans, chiefly
because the religion carried with it the right to bear arms and other
privileges. In ‘Turkey in Europe,’[5] there is an account of a
characteristic Albanian conversion. Until about a hundred years ago
the inhabitants of a certain little group of villages in Southern
Albania had retained their Christianity. Finding themselves unable to
repel the continual attacks of a neighbouring Moslem population,
‘they met in a church, solemnly swore that they would fast until
Easter, and invoked all the saints to work within that period some
miracle that would better their miserable lot. If this reasonable
request were not granted, they would all turn Mohamedan. Easter
day came, but no signs from saint or angel, and the whole
population embraced Islam.’ Soon afterwards, the change of faith
was rewarded; they obtained the arms which they desired, and had
the satisfaction of massacring their old opponents and taking
possession of their lands.

A GROUP OF ALBANIANS.
Northern and Southern Albanians are quite different peoples. The
Ghegs and the Tosks they are respectively called. The Tosks are less
turbulent than their Northern brothers. They are ruled by beys, or
hereditary landlords, in a feudal manner. These beys owe an
allegiance to the Sultan. They receive their titles from the Turk, and
unless they do his bidding to the modest extent he demands, a
means of getting rid of them is found.
In the North, however, there is not this handle to whip in proselytes.
A Catholic propaganda is protected by Austria, and, with the
exception of one clan, which is all Catholic, every tribe contains both
Mussulmans and Christians. This demonstrates that there is little
fanaticism among them. The clan is stronger than the religious
feeling.
It would be difficult for the Turks to carry out there the custom of
disarming Christians. But the Ottoman Government has secured the
loyalty of Christian as well as Mohamedan Ghegs by allowing them
to pillage and kill their non-Albanian neighbours to their hearts’
content. They are ever pressing forward, burning, looting, and
murdering the Servians of the vilayet of Kossovo. The frontier line of
Albania has been extended in this way far up into Old Servia. Even
the frontier of Servia proper is not regarded by these lawless
mountain men. They often make raids into the neighbouring State,
as they have done into Bulgaria when quartered as soldiers on that
border.
The Albanians have overrun all Macedonia. They have found their
way in large numbers as far as Constantinople. But beyond their own
borders and the sections of Kossovo from which the Servians have
fled, they are held within certain bounds. In many Albanian districts
the Albanians are exempt from military service, but large numbers of
them join the Turkish army as volunteers. They enlist for the guns
and cartridges.
The Albanian looks down on the Turk. You insult an Albanian and
compliment a Turk if you take either for the other. An Albanian
seldom wears a Turkish fez. Even in the Turkish army the low white
skull-cap is his head-covering.
Sometimes the Albanians show very little regard for their Turkish
officers. Once at Salonica I saw a company refuse to board a train
because some contraband tobacco had been taken from them by the
officials of the foreign monopoly that exists in Turkey. But the Turk is
different; he is fanatically subordinate. On several occasions I have
seen Turkish soldiers stand like inanimate things while their officers
pulled their ears, punched their heads and kicked them.
If they thought their Padisha in earnest the Turkish private and
peasant would never resist a measure of reform. But the Albanians
have always resisted reforms for the reason that reforms would
interfere with their privileges.
The disarming of the Albanians is indispensable to reforms in
Macedonia. The establishment of law courts in Albania was one of
Hilmi Pasha’s additions to the Austro-Russian scheme of reforms! If
this reform is ever applied, both parties in a case will go into court
with all their weapons, and the result will be—no matter which way
the verdict goes—the death of the judge.
Of late years attempts have been made by educated Albanians
residing in Bucharest and in Italy to create an agitation for Albanian
autonomy; but these movements have had no effect as yet on the
Albanians; the Turks are too clever at their control. Should a leader
appear among them who threatens organisation or civilisation, an
emissary of the Sultan arrives with gifts and decorations. If the chief
is not venal, he is enticed or taken secretly by force to
Constantinople, where he may be given authority over a district or
province which will more than compensate him for his loss, but
where he can work the empire no harm.
There is no free Albanian border state, as with the Greeks, the
Bulgarians, and the Serbs, and the Turks are able to prevent the
Albanians from becoming educated. There are Catholic schools in
Northern Albania and Orthodox Greek in Southern Albania, but the
Turks deny the very existence of the Albanian language. The
publication of Albanian books is prevented and Albanian schools are
suppressed. A few years ago some of the wealthier inhabitants of a
certain town started a school to teach their children their own
tongue. One evening the professor disappeared. He was stolen by
Turkish soldiers, deported, and imprisoned. He was held for eight
months without trial, and then as arbitrarily released. He received
the usual Turkish shrug of the shoulders when he asked the reason
for the outrage. This was at Cortia, where the Turk’s rule is not
merely nominal.
The position of the Albanians in Turkey is unique. It is in the power
of the Turks to subdue and govern them; but the Sultans have
preferred to give them licence and to keep the strip of Adriatic land
they occupy a lawless barrier against the West. There is no railway
across Albania, there is only one place along the coast at which
ships stop, and the foreigner is forbidden by both Albanian and Turk.
The Turk protests that he cannot afford the European safe passport
across Albania, and the Albanian has been taught to suspect every
European as a spy come to reconnoitre for a foreign Power.
A few men from civilisation have been to the heart of this romantic
country. In order to get there safely it is necessary to acquire the
friendship and the confidence of the chief of a clan, and to get from
him a promise of safe passport. Only on one occasion, it is said, did
anyone trusting himself to an Albanian chief lose his life. The man,
with all his escort, was killed by the members of a hostile clan, and
to this day a blood feud lasts as a result.
To take the risk of entering Albania without reason seemed
foolhardy, and as we never had adequate excuse, we left the
Balkans without fulfilling our earnest desire to cross it. We touched
the country, however, from the east and from the west, and
encountered Albanians everywhere in Macedonia.
We sailed down the Adriatic from Trieste, bound for Greece, the
mountains of Albania often visible, and we touched, among Italian
and other ports, at Hagio Saranda. The place has as many names—
Albanian, Turkish, Slav, Italian, German—as it has houses. The
Austrian-Lloyd steamer dropped anchor in the bay, and several
queer, unwieldy row-boats—small barges—came up alongside for a
few boxes of Austrian goods. The ship lay at anchor an hour, and we
went ashore. The same cringing, unarmed Christians, the same
swaggering Albanians, the same suspicious officials and ragged
soldiers. The Turks bowed politely as we landed, and asked
questions. We were going down the shore to take a bath.
‘This is a small town, effendi; we are sorry there is no bath here.’
We were not searching a Turkish bath, and we explained by signs
that we were going out to swim.
‘But, effendi, you have not sufficient time.’
We knew we had.
The argument lasted some time longer, until we broke off rudely,
leaving the officials talking. They did not stop us, but ordered all the
soldiers to follow and see what our object really was; and they stood
behind bushes and rocks from which they could watch us, and also
cover any insurgents with whom we might have rendezvous.
 CHAPTER XII
THE LONG TRAIL

There was excuse for us to cross Macedonia. Twenty-five thousand

peasants from Turkey had taken refuge in Bulgaria, and no
correspondent had personal knowledge of the state of affairs that
caused this exodus. The Man of Yorkshire and I got together again
and appointed a day to start on the journey we had planned long
since. We instructed Alexander the Bulgar to appear on the morning
with a pair of socks in his pocket. Alexander had the temerity to ask
the reason for luggage. We gave him no hint. Alexander was not
safe enough to be trusted with the secret. Again we hired a carriage
with a Turkish driver to take us to Kalkandele; and again we
succeeded in getting out of town while the Turks dozed, bound in an
opposite direction.

WAYFARERS AT A ROADSIDE FOUNTAIN: TURKS.

To Egri-Palanka, the frontier town at which we proposed to leave the
carriage and take to our legs, was a two days’ journey. We spent the
intervening night at a lone khan, miles away from any other
habitation. The Turk protested, and attempted to draw up at a
Turkish blockhouse, but by vigorous methods we got the horses past
this danger spot at a pace which did not give the Turkish officer time
to make up his mind.
Stable for beast and stable for man were one and the same at the
khan, and the Turk declared the Christian food unfit to eat. We had
eggs which had seen better days, gritty black bread, and goat’s milk
with wool in it. Alexander and the Turk consumed a quantity of
heady wine and advised us to do so, but we liked not the stuff.
Supper over, we stretched ourselves out for the night, one upon the
table, the rest on benches, the other alternative being the floorless
ground. There were no rugs for us to lie on and no covering, and no
one thought of undressing.
We had hardly laid ourselves down in this unholy place than the
‘plagues of Egypt gat about us.’ Even across the table from which we
had supped half an hour before they came at us in battalions.
Alexander and the Turk, insensible with drink, groaned and tossed,
but snored nevertheless; sleep, however, was impossible for us. We
shook ourselves, unbarred the doors, and escaped to the still high
road, which we paced most of the night. It was too cold to sleep.
Through the windows we saw the sleepers by the dim light of a
taper, tossing and fighting. This was some comfort to us.
‘I’m glad,’ said the Man of Yorkshire when Alexander the Bulgar
emerged much scarred from the battle of the night, hundreds of the
enemy lying dead upon the expanse of his sturdy chest, ‘I am glad
all was not peaceful with you and the Turk.’
‘You mistake,’ said Alexander; ‘we slept profoundly.’
‘Why, we saw you tossing all night long, and your groans were
pitiful.’
‘Ah, monsieur, we drank well at supper; and though the arms moved
and the mouth talked the eyes remained closed.’
After vast deviations to ford streams and avoid bridges, we arrived
at Egri-Palanka. As we expected, a smiling police officer awaited us
on the outskirts of the town. Our escape from Uskub had been
discovered, our direction traced, and instructions to turn us back had
been wired on. After many gracious bows and compliments, the
policeman invited himself into our carriage, and never again left us
until we left Egri-Palanka. He conducted us to the khan, where he
was joined by several gendarmes. The polite chief introduced us to
the others, announcing that they were for our service and safety,
and we all salaamed and shook hands.
After a meal, a wash, and a short rest, we went, followed by the
gendarmes, to visit the gypsy quarter, the kaimakam, and other
sights. When we left the town to climb to the Bulgarian monastery a
troop of soldiers suddenly appeared to augment our following. The
Englishman and I could have outstripped the ill-conditioned Turks in
a mile, but it was part of the game we were playing to pretend to
despise walking, and we stopped a dozen times to rest, feigning
fatigue.
The high road to Uskub was without a crossing, and when we
departed the following day, bound back the way we had come, the
authorities of Egri-Palanka seemed relieved and assured. Considering
our foreign susceptibilities, our escort did not surround us; it
followed at a distance of half a mile.
We pulled up the hood of the carriage—not because of the sun—and
hustled the driver. At every stiff hill we got out, to relieve the horses
and to get a sight of the party in the rear. They were suffering,
apparently, from the pace we were setting. It was extremely hot,
and we left them further and further behind. After an hour of this we
were quite a mile in the lead.
We had packed our few effects in shape to sling over our shoulders,
one sack for Alexander. At a convenient bend in the road we halted
our shandrydan, passed Alexander his pack, and handed a letter to
the driver. The letter was to be delivered at Uskub that night without
fail, and upon the presentation of it he was to receive his fare. Had
we paid him he would have gone to Palanka again to pick up
another load. This much through the mouth of the equally
bewildered Alexander, who was then dragged from the box and
hustled through three acres of standing barley before he knew what
had got him.
It came off! How we slogged through that corn and down into the
valley, looking back, with the perspiration streaming off our faces, to
see our driver toiling away through the dust, presenting a large and
discreet carriage hood to the unsuspecting escort. Presently a kindly
hill shut out the road, and we struck our route by the map and the
sun.
Three or four miles up the road the driver would come to the military
post already mentioned, where he would halt to feed his horses; the
escort would overtake him, and he would tell of our flight. A couple
of hours was the most we could count on before the pursuit was
started.
What a day of dodging roads and skirting villages, of scrambling up
perpendicular mountain sides, and peering for Turkish patrols on the
red line of high road below! It was fun the first day. We made a
wager of a mijidieh, the optimistic Man of Yorkshire betting that we
would not be caught before the night. I lost. I was glad to lose—the
first day. We renewed the wager for the following day.
We spied a snug, secluded little village—Christian, because there
was no minaret—and dropped down to it at dark. It was Servian,
and the Servian schoolmaster gave us supper and shelter.
‘The peasants think you are Bulgarian,’ he said.
‘Committaji?’ we asked.
‘Yes,’ he said.
We told the schoolmaster to persuade them we were not.
There was little danger that they would bring the soldiers down
upon us, knowing the habit of the Turk to visit vengeance upon the
town that harbours committajis. But we learned that there were
three families of Turkish peasants living in the village, and this,
indeed, alarmed us. It was quite on the cards that they would trot
over to Kratovo, half an hour away, and come back with a cheery
gang of Anatolians or Albanians, whose habit in dealing with
insurgents is to fire the house in which they are and shoot them as
they emerge from the flames.
So we sent our compliments to the Turks (Mohamedans must be
treated with deference) and requested them to call; which they did,
and were convinced that we were not Bulgarians. Nevertheless, we
spent a most uncomfortable night. We lay on the rough gallery rolled
in rugs, watching the fireflies and listening for the ‘fire brigade,’
falling asleep from dead weariness and starting out of it at every
sound.
We got away from the Servian village early the following morning,
taking a guide for the direction in which we were bound, but not
divulging our destination. We shook him off when we got the lay of
the country and were certain of our maps again.
About noon we dropped, as intended, into the monastery of
Lesnova. We sat down by a fountain in the courtyard, the brown-
timbered structure enclosing three sides, and over the mud wall on
the fourth stretched the valley into the blue distance. A palsied
beggar in a filthy state devoured food like a ravenous wolf, washing
it down unchewed with great gulps of water. The old abbot who
came out to greet us said they could do nothing for the man’s
ailments; there are no doctors in the country, and folk who become
ill die.
Here we got the first news of events which had driven the Christian
peasants to Bulgaria. The story was the same we had heard so often
before; nothing new except the details of tortures. Of these there
are sufficient in later chapters; for this, the adventure of our long
trail.
The monks gave us a good meal, and we slept for an hour on a
comfortable divan, for we were footsore already. The soles of my
boots and those of Alexander’s—whom we had now come to call
‘Sandy’—had gone, and we were driven to native charruks—which,
from their absence of heels, caused me to walk as on eggs for many
miles, and made my insteps very sore. The Englishman’s clumsy
foot-gear outlasted mine by many hours; still, I do not believe in
British boots.
Shortly after one o’clock we were on the climb again, up a decent
path for once, which led over a big hill towards the town of Sletovo.
A delightful town it appeared, as we looked down from behind a
bush at the top of the hill. It was surrounded by tents, with even
barracks to add a charm. The first sight of us from one of those
tents by any intelligent soldier, and our trekking was over! By great
luck a trail led off to the right, which seemed to skirt the tents
entirely, and we picked our way cautiously down it, concealed by a
shoulder of the hill. At the bottom the trail turned straight into the
town. There was another path somewhere to the right leading away;
but how to get to it? Just as we had made up our minds for a dash
through some corn we came on the connecting link, a dry
watercourse, and we were soon on the circular tour. But now, while
keenly watching the tents to the left, an ancient tower—probably of
Roman antiquity—appeared on our right front. Outside this, with his
rifle leaning against the wall, squatted a sentry, dirgeing a dismal
Oriental lay. He was not more than two hundred yards off, and
commanded a view of our heads and shoulders above the corn; but
there was nothing for it except to go ahead. I am confident that I
watched that songster with one eye and the town on the opposite
side with the other. For five minutes our fate hung on the balance.
Our hats were unmistakable; no one but a man from civilisation
wears anything with a brim to it in that part of the country. Once his
dull eye was caught by our headgear we were booked. But the
amiable creature sang on, his mind probably back in Anatolia; and
we dropped out of sight to the next stream and took a big drink.
Late that afternoon a few drops of rain came down, a delightful
sensation to the parched and dusty ‘foot-slogger’; but presently this
increased to sheets of water driven before a cold wind, and for half
an hour we clung, soaked, to the slimy face of a bank, with little
mud waterfalls dribbling down our necks. Then the storm blew over.
The path, awkward at any time, was like a switchback skating-rink,
down which we slid and staggered with horrible swoops and
marvellous recoveries, to a boiling yellow torrent below, about as
fordable as the Mississippi in flood. We had hoped to do a greater
distance this day, but neither of us was sorry—though neither of us
admitted it—that we had to seek shelter on this side of the stream.
There was an attractive-looking place near at hand, but a forbidding
minaret stood high above the poplars; and we pushed on to the first
Christian village.
We had slogged for two days, travelled for four; we were sore in
every joint and muscle, wet to the skin, and chilled to the bone. We
began to lose temper with each other, and vented our feelings upon
Sandy. We spoke seldom, except at meals, when our spirits revived,
and in the fresh hours of the morning. Now we were sour and
snappish, and each disagreed with whatever the other proposed.
The constant strain and the heavy marching were beginning to tell
on our dispositions. And we had hardly begun our journey. I was
sorry I lost the bet. Perhaps the other man was too.
IN A MOUNTAIN VILLAGE: BULGARIAN PEASANTS DANCING
THE HORO.
The headman of a Bulgarian village received us with the hand-shake
that is the sign of friendship. He thought we were insurgents. They
were harbouring one in the village. Sitting on a wooden platform
under the low thatch of his roof, we pulled off our wringing things to
the last stitch, half the village looking on, absorbed and unabashed.
Clad in our ‘other’ shirts (which were fortunately dry), we scrambled
through the stable to an opening through which we could discern a
fire burning. Our host’s wooden sandals were not easy to keep a
balance on. With smarting eyes I groped through the smoke towards
the ‘window,’ a two-foot hole for chickens in the wall on the ground
level, and sat, feet outstretched towards the wood fire in the middle
of the hard earth floor. By degrees I made out the hostess hanging
up our garments to dry. The other man crawled towards me, and we
sat coughing and blinking at the native bread-making. A flat, round,
earthen dish was made red hot on the fire, then taken off and the
dough slapped into it. A lid was then buried in the embers, and,
when hot enough, put on the top of the dough. This primitive oven
turns out a fine crust, but the middle of the loaf is very pasty.
Sandy now appeared with an armful of wet things, and hung the
hats on a bundle of clothes and wrappings by the fire, which began
to squeal. We discovered that this was the youngest member of the
family, fast approaching a score in number.
After the row had died down we gathered that our ‘room’ was
prepared. This consisted of the usual mud floor and walls, with a
straw mat and home-made rugs to sleep on, and a couple of red
bolsters. Here we sprawled and supped under the interested eyes of
a donkey and a bundle of torch-lit natives who squatted outside the
door.
In the morning our toilets caused much amusement. The assembly—
which, for aught I know, watched us through the entire night—was
much puzzled over what it seemed to think was an attempt on my
part to swallow a small brush greased with pink paste. It broke into
a general laugh when I parted my hair, being sure I was combing it
for another reason.
One of the patrols which was sent out after us—we learned later—
arrived at this village an hour after we left; but the peasants had no
idea whither we had gone.
The torrential stream had subsided into a babbling brook when we
forded it, about eight o’clock, and boldly took the high road to
Kotchana. We were weary of rough mountain paths, and kept this
course until within dangerous proximity of the town, then struck off
into the fields—this time rice fields. It was the season when the
fields were flooded, and the only way across was by the tops of the
embankments, which held us high to the view of anyone in the
neighbourhood. We had gone too far to retrace our steps when we
discovered we were in Turkish fields. We came suddenly to a dry
patch of ground. A score or more Turkish women, their veils slung
back over their shoulders, their loose black cloaks laid to one side,
were working the ground in their gaudy bloomers. At sight of us
there was a wild flutter for veils—but not a sound.
We maintained our well-drilled blankness of expression and passed
on, soldiers three, single file. I was in advance breaking through the
weeds when I stumbled upon the husband of the harem. The bey
was lying supine upon his back in the grass, a great umbrella
shading his face. The rotund gentleman grunted, and slowly opened
his eyes. He seemed uncertain for a moment whether I was man or
nightmare, but when I spoke he knew he was awake. He scrambled
to his feet, drew a great, gaudy revolver, and levelled it full in my
face. Of course I did not pull my gun. I fell back, shouting quickly, as
I had done on a previous occasion, ‘Inglese, Inglese effendi.’
Alexander to the rescue! That worthy, from a covered position in our
rear, informed his Majesty the Mohamedan that we were English, as
I had said. That we were foreign Christians was evident from the
fact that we carried arms. The old Turk seemed rather ashamed of
the fright he had displayed, and, slyly tucking his revolver into his
red sash, stepped to one side and bowed us the right of way.
This day we encountered many pitfalls. How we escaped one after
another seemed so incredible to the Turkish authorities, when we
were finally rounded up, that they seriously suspected we had come
by an ‘underground’ route.
We were afraid that the bey would hurry into Kotchana and inform
the authorities that two strange Franks had passed, but as long as
we could see him he still maintained his post, watching his women
work. About three hours later, however, while we were enjoying a
refreshing and much-needed wash in a cool mountain stream,
Alexander keeping watch, a cavalry patrol of half a dozen men came
up at full gallop. We had just time to duck behind a sandbank,
almost beneath their horses’ hoofs.
Towards midday Sandy waxed mutinous. He was a most submissive
servant while we travelled like gentlemen, but his spirit rankled
under the dangers into which he was led like a lamb. ‘If you are
killed,’ he would frequently remark, ‘your parents will receive much
money, but what will the Turkish Government give my poor mother?’
We had not been fair to Sandy.
In skirting Vinitza the boy lay down in a corn patch and refused to
budge. The soles had again gone from his shoes, and now the soul
could go from his body. He was resigned; all Bulgarians must be
martyrs. The Turks could take him.
Threats availed nothing; pleading was of no use. Finally we took his
pack and carried it as well as our own, and promised to get a horse
for him, by pay or intimidation, from the first unarmed Bulgarian we
encountered. On this condition he struggled to his feet. Poor Sandy!
the worst, for him, had not yet come.
The peasants along our route this day were numerous, for it was
market day at Vinitza, and we had no difficulty in hiring a horse for
Alexander. Then, however, we became too conspicuous. We
gathered fellow-travellers to the number of probably fifty, both
Bulgars and Turks, who asked the usual innumerable questions.
Sandy, in spite of all admonitions, would tell all he knew to whoever
asked. We heard him say ‘Skopia,’ ‘Palanka,’ ‘Kratovo’ in his soft Slav
way. We cussed Sandy, and he lied. He said he had not told them
whence we had come. But he knew no more than the natives
whither we were bound!
A party of Turkish peasants, much armed, spurned Sandy, and would
speak with us direct. When they discovered their dilemma their tone
became surly and insulting.
We passed through a long, narrow defile most fragrant with
honeysuckle and wild roses, and occasional cool breaths from the
pines on the slopes above came down to us. A sense of peace
pervaded the place, and, growing accustomed to our company, we
enjoyed the relief of a comparatively good road and no towns or
encampments. But the pass came to an abrupt termination, and
there at its mouth sat a band of twenty soldiers! For a few minutes
things looked rather nasty, but our British and American passports,
with their huge red seals, were so impressive to the ignorant soldiers
that they feared to lay hands on us. They asked whither we were
going, and we replied, ‘Towards Pechovo.’ But on falling behind the
next hill in that direction we deserted our peasant following and
struck off on our own route.
This was the longest day’s track we made. We covered thirty miles in
ten hours; during which our midday meal was off a loaf of bread
bought for a metaleek from a peasant Turk. I gave him a piastre and
he insisted on giving me change.
We encountered a Bulgarian who lived on a hillside about an hour
off, joined him, and wended our way to his hut for our last night in
hiding. I owed the Man of Yorkshire still another mijidieh.
We slept in the open, under a tree; the hut was too full.
We rose very early in the morning and started off on three miserable
ponies gathered by our host from neighbouring mountain men. We
had hardly proceeded two hundred yards when we were challenged
by a Turkish post. A dilapidated blockhouse stood at the foot of the
hill on which we had slept, and our slumbers would not have been
so peaceful had either we or the Turks known of the others’
presence. The soldiers were unofficered and could not read, and an
attitude of assurance, supported by our red seals, again passed us
on.
The man who accompanied us to bring back the horses had just
returned from Bulgaria, whither he had fled leaving a pretty wife and
six small children.
‘Brute!’ observed the Man of Yorkshire.
‘Ah, well! One can always get another wife!’ said Sandy.
The mountain men had been able to give us only bread to put into
our packs, but as we skirted Tsarevoselo, the peasant—who could
enter the place without being noticed—went in and procured two
large lumps of sugar. Sweetened bread and cool water from a fall
made our lunch; after which we plodded on, until an hour after
nightfall we entered Djuma-bala.
 THE TURKISH QUARTER: DJUMA-BALA.
‘How long do you give the police?’ asked the Man of Yorkshire.
‘Fifteen minutes,’ I replied.
The first of them arrived in five.

We had done half our journey—the hardest half. We were certain of

the rest. We expected some difficulty with the Turks, and we had
much.
Sandy disappeared. We knew where to look for him. We went to the
gaol and demanded his release. And the Turks released him. They
were positive that he was the committaji who had brought us
through their country, and they refused to let him proceed with us.
After discussion by wire—which required several days—instructions
came from our old friend Hilmi Pasha to send us back, without our
Sandy. But we refused to go without Sandy. This deadlock lasted for
a week. Meanwhile we telegraphed to the British Consul-General at
Salonica, signing the telegrams in one instance ‘Moore and Booth,’ in
another ‘Booth and Moore.’ Translated into Turkish the signatures
arrived at the Consulate ‘Mor-o-bos’ in one case, ‘Bot-o-more’ in the
other. We were known to our friends by these names thereafter.
The Consul visited Hilmi Pasha (who was then in Salonica), and got
permission for us to proceed with our dragoman. Hilmi had some
hard words for us, the least of which were ‘Ces vagabonds!’
We received a telegram in Turkish from the Consul, and took it to
the kaimakam for interpretation. The kaimakam read, ‘Monsieur Boot
et Monsieur Mo-ré, you may depart for Drama, as you desire, but
your interpreter must be left behind.’
We felt somewhat sick.
Another telegram to the Consul-General.
The reply came at midnight. In the morning we took it to a
Christian. We told him nothing of the kaimakam’s interpretation of
the first. He puzzled over the characters for a few minutes, then
wrote in French, ‘Telegraphed to you yesterday, Hilmi Pasha gives
permission to proceed to Drama and take interpreter.’
We went back to the kaimakam. He offered us chairs, but we
declined to sit. He offered us cigarettes, and we declined them.
‘Kaimakam Bey,’ said we, ‘we are going out of here to-morrow
morning and our interpreter is going with us. Good-morning.’
We turned on our heels and left without salaaming to the bey or to
any of his sitting satellites.
The kaimakam jumped to his feet and followed us to the door
shouting, ‘Ce n’est pas ma faute, messieurs. Ce n’est pas ma faute!’
An hour later an officer who had been attached to us during our
sojourn at Djuma was ushered in by Sandy. He came to present the
kaimakam’s compliments and to say that by a strange coincidence
the permission we sought had just arrived from the Governor-
General.
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