We were the last hope of these poor
people--there were about fifteen hundred of them, whose only
hope now was to face the frightful paths, marshes and
swollen rivers that separated them from Durazzo.
Night was falling; there remained only time to get away.
Cases of preserves were quickly opened. All our bread and
biscuits were used, and some bowls of boiling tea comforted
our guests. But leaving the harbor, the sea grew heavier
and torrents of spray put the finishing touch to the
inextricable disorder that prevailed aboard ship. The storm
stayed with us until we made Brindisi, where we arrived at
seven o'clock on the morning of the twenty-second. When
Italy was sighted, the tiredness and discouragement
disappeared as if by magic. Hand clappings, praise of
France, promises of victory and of revenge, and absurd
efforts to disembark everything at once--passengers and
material. (Journal of Ensign Auge, Commander of the
_Marie-Rose_.)
Is that all? No; it is not. For if French effort is limitless, the
tonnage of the trawlers is not. And, in spite of every effort, they
were unable to get everyone aboard. Down there in the mud at Medua
some Serbs still waited, turning anxious eyes towards the high seas to
see whether or not the tricolor would appear on the horizon.
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