Henty George Alfred
Out with Garibaldi: A story of the liberation of Italy
Captain Percival was now placed on the stretcher and carried out; Frank fell in with Signor Forli as he followed the party. “Unless you are going to tell him soon,” he said, “I must go; I cannot stand it, being so close to him.”
“I will tell him as soon as we are alone,” the professor said: “he has calmed down, and that glass of wine will do him a world of good.”
On arriving at the governor’s room, Captain Percival was placed in an easy chair, and the jailors left. Frank went to the window and looked out.
“I can hardly believe that it is not all a dream, Forli. The strangest part is that, while I had hoped to open your prison doors, you have opened mine.”
“You are wrong, Leonard: the same person who opened my doors has opened yours; as you set out to find me, so another set out to find us both.”
Captain Percival looked at him wonderingly.
“Of whom are you speaking, Forli? My head is not very clear at present. But who could have been looking for us both? You don’t mean Garibaldi?”
“No, no, Leonard; truly he has opened the doors to all prisoners, but he was not searching for any one in particular. When I tell you that Muriel sent out to Garibaldi the sum that you had put aside for that purpose, and that she and my wife had never altogether lost hope that you and I were both still alive, whom should she send out with it, and to search for you, but – ”
“You don’t mean Frank? You cannot mean him: he is only a boy at school.”
“He is nearly seventeen now, and there are hundreds of younger lads who, like him, have done their duty as men. Yes, it is Frank. I would not tell you at first; one shock was enough at a time. Frank, my boy, you have your reward at last.”
Frank turned and ran towards his father. The latter rose from his seat.
“My boy, my dear lad!” he cried, as he held out his arms, “this is too much happiness!”
It was some minutes before either father or son could speak coherently; and fortunately, just as Frank placed his father in the chair, one of the attendants brought in a basin of clear soup, two cutlets, an omelette, and a bottle of wine, saying that the governor had sent them from his own table, with his compliments.
Captain Percival smiled faintly when the man left the room.
“It is my last meal in prison, and if it had been sent to me a week ago I should have declined to eat it, for I should have made sure that it was poisoned; however, as it is, I will take it with thankfulness.”
“Yes, and you must eat as much as you can,” Forli said. “You have got a drive before you: we shall take you straight up to Santa Lucia, where we have rooms; the mountain air has done wonders for Frank, who has had a touch of these marsh fevers. It would be difficult to find a place in Capua now, so the sooner you are out of it the better.”
Captain Percival took a mouthful or two of soup and then stopped.
“That won’t do, Leonard – that won’t do; you really must make an effort. Do it in Italian fashion: pour a glass of wine into it; if you will take that, I will let you off the meat.”
“I could not touch it whether you let me off or not. I have not touched meat for two years and a half, and I shall be some time taking to it again.”
He finished the soup, and then, upon the insistence of Signor Forli, took some of the omelette.
“Now,” the latter said, “we will be off. When we came in here, we told the driver to find some place where he could take the horses out and feed them, and then come here and wait for us. I suppose we must get somebody to let us out of the prison.”
Frank rang the bell. When the attendant came in, he said, “Please tell the governor that we are now leaving, and that we shall be obliged if he would send down an official to the gate to let us out.”
The governor himself came in two minutes later; the gate was close by the entrance to his house; and Signor Forli said, – “I will go out first, sir, and fetch our carriage round, if you will be good enough to give orders that the gate is to be kept open until I return, and to order the warder there to allow Captain Percival to pass out with us.” Ten minutes later they were on their way. Captain Percival would not be laid on a stretcher again, but leaning upon his father-in-law and son, was able to walk to the carriage.
“I have a flask of brandy-and-water in my pocket, Leonard, and if you feel faint you must take a little.”
Very few words were spoken on the journey. Frank sat by the side of his father and held his hand in his own, and it was not long before Captain Percival fell asleep. The excitement of the past thirty-six hours had for a time given him a fictitious strength; and now the sense of happiness and of freedom, aided, no doubt, by the unaccustomed meal and the wine he had taken, took the natural effect, and after trying in vain to question Frank as to what had taken place, he dozed off.
“That is the best thing for him,” Signor Forli said in low tones, when he saw that Captain Percival was asleep, “I hope he will not wake up till we arrive at Santa Lucia. He has borne it better than I expected. It has, of course, pulled him down a great deal more than it did me. A strong and active man must naturally feel solitary confinement much more than one who seldom takes any exercise beyond half an hour’s walk in the streets of London; who is, moreover, something of a philosopher, and who can conjure up at will from his brain many of his intimate friends. I have no doubt he will sleep soundly to-night, and I trust – though of this I do not feel quite sure – that he will be a different man in the morning. Of course it may be the other way, and that when the effect of the excitement has passed off he will need a great deal of careful nursing before he begins to gain strength. At any rate, I shall go into Naples to-morrow and send a telegram to your mother, and tell her to come over with my wife at once. It would be of no use going down to Caserta; the wires will be so fully occupied by the military and royal telegrams that there will be little chance of a private message getting through. They are sure to start directly they get my message, and may be here in three or four days. I shall advise them to come viâ Marseilles; for, as the train service is sure to be upset, they might be a good deal longer coming by land, besides the annoyance of long detentions and crowded trains; for you may be sure that there will be a rush from the north to come down to witness the king’s entrance into Naples.”
“I think that will be a very good plan indeed,” Frank agreed; “and the knowledge that they are coming will, I should think, do a great deal of good to my father.”
Darkness had fallen long before they reached Santa Lucia. The village was still full of soldiers. As he leapt out from the carriage Frank called to four of them standing near to help in carrying his father upstairs; and so soundly was Captain Percival sleeping, that this was managed and he was laid on the bed without his fairly waking, though he half opened his eyes and murmured something that Frank could not catch.
“We will not try to take his things off,” Signor Forli said, “but just throw a blanket lightly over him now. I will remain here while you go down and get some supper. You had better stay in the room with him all night; there is no getting hold of another bed, but – ”
“I shall do just as well without a bed,” Frank said; “since I landed at Marsala I have hardly slept in one; besides, I don’t fancy that I shall sleep much, anyhow. I have plenty to think about and to thank God for, and if my father moves I shall be at his bedside in a moment. It is likely enough that he will not have the least idea where he is.”
“Quite so, Frank. When you come up from supper bring an extra candle with you: you had better keep a light burning all night.”
Captain Percival, however, did not wake up until it was broad daylight. He looked round in a bewildered way until his eyes rested upon Frank, who was seated close to his bedside.
“That settles it,” he said with a smile, holding out his hand to him. “I could not make out where I was. I remember leaving Capua in a carriage, and nothing more; I must have slept like a log, as you got me out of the carriage and up here without my waking.”
“I think it was the professor’s fault chiefly, father, in making you take that second glass of wine in your soup. You see you were altogether unaccustomed to it, and being so weak, that and all the excitement naturally overpowered you. However, I think it a capital thing that it did. You had twelve hours’ good sleep, and you look all the better for it. I will tell Signor Forli you are awake. He has peeped in three or four times to see how you are going on.”
He went out for a minute, and a little later the professor came in with a large cup of hot milk.
“You are looking fifty per cent. better, Leonard,” he said. “You had better begin by drinking this, and then I should recommend you to get rid of those rags you have on, and to have a good wash. I am going into Naples, and will bring you some clothes. You certainly could not get into my coat, but I will lend you a shirt, and that is all that you will want, for you had better lie in bed to-day and listen to Frank’s account of his adventures, having a nap occasionally when you feel tired, and taking as much soup as you can get down, with perhaps a slice of chicken.”
“What are you going to Naples for?”
“I am going to send the good news to Muriel, and to tell her and my wife to come over at once and help you to build up your strength again. I won’t say come over to nurse you, for I think you can do without that, – all you want is building up.”
Before he started the professor showed them the telegram he had written out.
“It is rather long,” he said, “but a pound or two one way or the other makes little difference.” It ran: “Prepare yourself for good news, and don’t read farther till you have done so. Thank God, Frank’s search has been successful. I dared not tell you when I last wrote that I had found a clue, lest it should only give rise to false hopes. However, it led us to our goal. Leonard is recovered and free. He is weak, but needs nothing but good food and your presence. Start with Annetta at once; come straight to Marseilles and take the first steamer to Naples. You will find us at the Hotel d’Italie, where I shall have rooms ready for you.”
After Signor Forli left, Frank told the story of his adventures bit by bit, insisting upon his father taking rest and food three or four times.
The professor returned late in the evening. “I have got rooms at the hotel,” he said; “and it is lucky that I did not put off going down till to-morrow, for telegrams are coming in from all parts of Italy to secure accommodation. However, fortunately there were still some good rooms left when I arrived there, and I need not say that I did not haggle over terms, outrageous as they were on the strength of the coming crowd. Your father is going on all right, I hope?”
“Very well indeed, I think. I only talked for about half an hour at a time; he has slept a good deal, and he has eaten well, his voice is stronger, and there is a little colour in his cheeks; he was terribly white before.”
“That was from being kept in the dark, Frank, as much as from illness.”
They went upstairs together. “I hear a good account of you, Leonard,” the professor said, “so I will give you what I have in my pocket, which I should otherwise have kept till to-morrow morning.” He took out a piece of thin paper, handed it to Captain Percival, and held the candle close, so that he should read the contents. It was but a few words, but it took some time in the reading, for the invalid’s eyes were blinded with tears. When he had read it, he dropped it on the coverlet and put his hands over his face, while the bed shook with his deep sobs. Frank took up the paper and ran his eye over it.
“The good God be praised for all His mercies! Oh, my husband, I can say no more now. Mother and I start to-night for Marseilles. – Your most happy and loving wife.”
Two days later the party left for Naples. That morning Garibaldi, to whom Frank had sent a message on the morning after his return from Capua, drove up to Santa Lucia to see his old friend.
“I am almost as pleased, Percival,” he said, after a silent hand-grip had been exchanged, “to have freed you as I am to have freed Italy, a matter in which the money your wife sent me in your name had no slight share. You have reason to be proud of your son: he has shown throughout the expedition a courage and coolness equal to that of any of my veterans. He captured the first Neapolitan standard that was taken, and has rendered me innumerable services as my aide-de-camp. You are looking better than I expected.”
“I should be an ungrateful brute, if I were not getting better, after all my son has gone through to rescue me, and the feeding up that I have had since I came here.”
“You must have suffered intensely, Percival?”
“It has been pretty hard. I have all the time been in solitary confinement in filthy holes, where scarce a ray of daylight penetrated. I have had nothing but either the blackest of bread or roasted maize to eat, but I have been kept up throughout by the conviction that ere very long there must be an upheaval: things could not go on as they were. I knew that my own letters had excited a general feeling of horror at the accounts of the dungeons in which political prisoners were confined, and I determined to make the best of matters. A year ago – at least, I suppose that it is about a year, for I have lost count of time – a fresh hope was given me, when one of my jailors, who was at heart a good fellow, and occasionally ventured to say a few words to me, told me that the Sardinians, with the help of France, had recovered Lombardy from Austria, and that Tuscany and other Papal States had all revolted and joined Sardinia. That gave me fresh hope and courage. I felt that things could not long remain so, and that the south would soon follow the example of the north. I felt sure that you had borne your part in the struggle with the Austrians, and that, just as you headed the Roman insurrection, you would certainly throw yourself heart and soul into a rising in the south. I hear now, from my son, that in fact the whole has been entirely your work.”
“I have done what I could,” Garibaldi said, “and well have I been rewarded by the gratitude of the people. But I see already that the jealousy of the Piedmontese is carrying them beyond all bounds, and that I shall soon be back in Caprera. But that matters not: I shall be happy in the thought that I have earned the gratitude of all Italy, and that the work I have done can never be undone. The king is a brave and gallant gentleman, but he is prejudiced by the lies of the men round him, who cannot forgive me for having done what should have been their work. It is a pity, but it matters but little. I fought for the cause and not for myself, and my only regret is that my brave companions should suffer by the jealousy and ill-humour of a handful of miserables. I shall be in Naples in a few days, and hope to find a still further improvement in your condition.”
The long drive to Naples had no ill effect whatever, and Captain Percival was able to walk from the carriage up to his room, leaning upon Frank’s arm. They learned that it would be two days before the next steamer from Marseilles arrived, and these were passed by Captain Percival in the carriage, driving slowly backwards and forwards along the promenade by the sea, sometimes halting for an hour or two, while he got out and walked for a time, and then sat down on a seat, enjoying intensely the balmy air and the lovely view. He was now able to dispense altogether with Frank’s assistance. His hair had been cut short, and his face clean-shaved with the exception of his moustache, for, as he said, “he hardly knew his own face with all that hair on, and he wanted his wife to see him again as he was when he left her.” His cheeks were still very thin and hollow, but the sun and sea air had removed the deadly pallor, and the five days of good feeding had already softened the sharpness of the outlines of his face.
On the day when the steamer was due he remained down at the sea until she was sighted. Then he returned to the hotel with Signor Forli, leaving Frank to meet the ladies when they landed and to bring them up to the hotel. Garibaldi had run down to Naples on the previous day, and spent some hours in endeavouring to smooth matters between the contending factions, and had given Frank an order to the officers of the custom-house to pass the baggage of Signora Forli and Mrs. Percival unopened. The greeting between Frank and his mother and the Signora was a rapturous one. Not many words were spoken, for both ladies were so greatly affected that they hurried at once into the carriage. Frank saw the small amount of baggage that they had brought handed up, and then jumped in.
“How is he looking?” Mrs. Percival asked anxiously.
“Of course he is looking thin, mother. He was very weak when we found him, five days ago; but he has picked up a good deal since then, and in another fortnight he will be walking about with you just as of old.”
“You are looking thin yourself, Frank – very thin. My father mentioned in his letter that you had had a touch of fever.”
“Yes, it was rather a sharp touch; but, as you see, I am all right now, though I have not yet returned to duty. I was able to take a part in the battle of Volturno, but collapsed after it was over.”
“And your grandfather has not changed much, you said?” the Signora asked.
“He has borne it marvellously,” Frank said. “As I told you in my letter, he has kept himself up by going through all the authors he knew by heart. You know what a marvellous memory he has, and of course that helped him immensely. Of all the prisoners we have released, there was not one who was so well and strong as he was. I really don’t think that you will find any change in him since you saw him last – except that, of course, his hair is rather greyer. Father is a good deal greyer, mother. I think that, perhaps, it is the result of there being so little light in the places where he has been kept. Here is the hotel. Now I will take you up to them, and will leave you there while I come down and see after your traps. I should doubt whether any English ladies ever arrived at Naples before with so little luggage.”
He spoke cheerfully, for both his mother and the Signora were so much agitated that he was afraid of their breaking down before they got upstairs. On reaching the door he opened it, and, closing it quickly behind him, went away. It was a quarter of an hour before he returned to the room. All had now recovered from the effects of their first meeting.
“We have already settled, Frank, that we will start for home at once. Your grandfather says that he has ascertained that a steamer will leave to-morrow for England; and we mean to go all the way by sea. It will do your father good, and you too, for your grandfather says the doctor told him that, although you have got rid of the fever altogether, you need change to set you up thoroughly, and that a sea voyage would be the best thing for you. And, as we are all good sailors, it will be the pleasantest way as well as the best. Fortunately your work is done here. The fighting is over, and even if it were not, you have done your share. You have not told us much about that in your letters, but Garibaldi spoke of you in the highest terms to your father; and your grandfather learned, from some of your comrades, what you really did at Calatafimi and Palermo.”
“I did just what the others did, mother, and was luckier than most of them, though I was laid up there for a month with the wound I got; but I don’t see how I could start to-morrow without leave, and, at any rate, without thanking Garibaldi for his kindness.”
“Well, then, you must run over to Caserta and see him this evening. The railway is open, is it not? It is only a run of half an hour or so.”
“Very well, mother, I will do that; and very likely he will be over in the morning. He comes here nearly every day, and if he had not intended doing so to-morrow, I am sure he would come, if only to see you and the signora, and to say good-bye to father and the professor. About what time does the steamer start?”
“At one o’clock.”
“Oh, that will leave plenty of time; the general is always up at three in the morning.”
Frank was not mistaken: at eight o’clock Garibaldi arrived at the hotel and spent half an hour with them. He delighted Mrs. Percival by the manner in which he spoke of Frank, saying that no one had distinguished himself more during the campaign.
The voyage to England was pleasant and uneventful, and by the time they arrived at home, Captain Percival was almost himself again, while Frank had entirely shaken off the effects of his illness. It had been agreed that he should not return to Harrow; six months of campaigning had ill-fitted him for the restrictions of school life, and it was arranged that he should be prepared for Cambridge by a private tutor. He finally passed creditably, though not brilliantly, through the University. He and his family had the pleasure of meeting Garibaldi when the latter paid a visit to London, four years after the close of the campaign; and the general, in spite of his many engagements, spent one quiet evening with his friends at Cadogan Place.
Four years later Frank married, and his father settled upon him his country estate, to which, since his return to England, he had seldom gone down, for, although his general health was good, he never sufficiently recovered from the effects of his imprisonment to be strong enough again to take part in field sports. He lived, however, to a good old age, and it is not very long since he and his wife died within a few days of each other. The professor and Signora Forli had left them fifteen years before.
