passed through the
winding channel of the outer port and then out of the
harbor, gliding between the buoys. Then the mine fields were
to be traversed, although the night was black and foggy. As
we approached the Albanian coast the wind freshened, and in
a veritable tempest, with hail and icy rain we entered the
Gulf of Drin, whose water is very turbid. More watchful than
ever, since submarines had been sighted in the neighborhood,
we finally arrived at Medua. Almost blocked off by the sand
bars, the little harbor was further encumbered by a dozen
wrecks, boats which the Austrians had sunk. The question was
where to pass through this mess, on the top of the water,
with masts and spars pointing every way. After having
rounded the line of mines and the _Brindisi_, an Italian
vessel that had struck a mine some days before, we made the
port. Ten houses and a wretched wharf on worm-eaten piling
at the end of a funnel of mountains with terrible rocks is
all there is of Medua.

An empty sailboat was moored to the end of the wharf, which
facilitated our operations. The _Petrel_, which was of
lighter draft than my boat, managed to get alongside and, by
vigorous efforts, we were able to join her. Ashore there
were soldiers in muddy clothes and worn-out shoes. The
gangway and the sailboat were soon filled by a chilly cold
wind, which tried to blow it offshore and which nothing
could restrain. It was impossible to locate any responsible
person and out of the question to make one's self
understood. Everyone thought only of escaping from that
Hell. Finally some Serbian officers came up who succeeded
somewhat in controlling their impatient troops. They made us
bring up the first cannon, which was pushed over the shaking
planks of the wharf. With great effort and by the use of
triple tackles the gun was got aboard the _Petrel_, and the
carriage and wheels on the _Marie-Rose_, whose hatch was
wider. The beginning was slow, but, after the second cannon,
the embarking went along smoothly.

There was not enough time. Everyone stamped in the mud. With
the completely washed out Serbian uniforms mixed the
brilliant colors of those of the Montenegrin guard. Seated
on a stone, King Nicholas sat stoically in the falling rain,
awaiting the arriva