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The Finger of Fate: A Romance

Chapter Thirty Five
Writing under Difficulties

As soon as the captive became convinced that his visitor was gone for good, he lay down upon the fern leaves and gave way to profound reflection – the subject, of course, being what had just passed between him and Popetta. What could be her motive for the advice thus voluntarily given? Was it a trap to betray him? It could hardly bear this construction – for what was there to betray? He was already in the power of the bandits, for life as for death. What more could they want?

“Ah!” thought he, “I see through it now! After all, it may be Corvino’s doing. He may have put her up to this, to make more sure of getting the money for my ransom. He thinks that her counsel, given in this side way, will terrify me, and make me write in stronger terms to my father.”

But the answer to these self-asked questions did not quite satisfy him. What need was there for any scheme of the kind on the part of the bandit chief? He had dictated the letter sent. If stronger terms had seemed necessary, he would have insisted on their insertion. The former conjecture fell through.

Then, supposing Popetta’s counsel to him had been loyal, what could be her motive?

Henry Harding was yet young, and but little experienced in the ways of woman’s heart. He could count but one experience, and that of a different kind. Only by some ill-understood whisperings of Nature was he guided to a suspicion of what this strange woman meant; and he cared not to continue the reflection.

For all that he eagerly seized at her suggestion. It promised to assist him in a design he had already half conceived, though without much prospect of being able to carry it into execution. It was to write to Luigi Torreani in London, and warn him of the peril in which his sister was placed. He could write to his own father all the same, and in more pressing terms – as he had been counselled; for he had now become sensible of a dread impending danger.

The behaviour of the brigands – which for more than a week he had been witnessing – had produced upon him a serious impression – altogether effacing that imbibed by contemplating the stage bandit of picturesque habiliments and courteous carriage. However he might have felt about the representative robber looking at him from the stall of a theatre, he could see there would be no trifling with the real personage, when contemplated by one completely in his power upon the summit of an Italian mountain. Everything around proclaimed the seriousness of his situation. It had become too critical for him to affect further indifference, or feel in any way contented. No longer able to sleep, he watched anxiously for the light of morning.

No sooner did daybreak show itself through the window of his cell, than he spread out the paper with which Popetta had provided him, and commenced writing his letters. His table was the stone-paved floor; his chair the same. He wrote lying flat along the flags. There were two separate epistles. When finished they were as follows – the first to his father: —

“Dear Father, —

“By this time, I presume, you will have received a letter, which I wrote to you eight days ago, and which I have reason to believe was carried to you by special messenger. I have no doubt that its contents will have surprised and perhaps pained you. It was an appeal which, I must confess, I was very little inclined to make; but it was done at the dictation of a brigand, with a pistol held to my head, so there was no help for it. I am writing this one under different circumstances – on the floor of the cell where I am imprisoned; and without being overlooked by my jailers. I can add little to what I have said before – only that I am not now speaking under compulsion. From what I’ve lately learnt, I can assure you that my former communication – though I thought so at the time – contained no idle words. The threat made in it by the brigand chief, he means most surely to execute; and if the sum named be not sent to him, he will. The first part of his performance is to be the cropping off my ears, and forwarding them to your address. The latter he has learned from a strange source, of which I may as well inform you – from our old discharged gamekeeper, Doggy Dick, who happens to be one of his band. How the scoundrel came to be here, I cannot tell. I only know that he is here; and the most hostile to me of the whole fraternity. He remembers the thrashing I gave him, and takes care to keep me constantly in mind of it.

“Now, dear father, I have told you all about how I am situated; and if you deem it worth while to extract your unworthy son from his dangerous dilemma, send on the money. You may think 5,000 pounds rather a high figure to pay for such a life as mine. So do I; but unfortunately I am not permitted to name my own price. If it appear too much, perhaps you would not object to send the 1,000 pounds you promised I should have at your death. Then I shall make the best bargain I can with the rogues who’ve got me in pawn.

“Hoping to hear from you by return of post – this, I believe, is to go by post – I remain your closely guarded son, —

“Henry Harding.

“To General Harding,

“Beechwood Park, Bucks, England.”

Such was the letter from Henry Harding to his father. That to his friend Luigi was shorter, though perhaps more impressive in its suggestions. It ran as follows: —

“Dear Luigi,

“I have only time to say three words to you. I am a prisoner to a band of brigands – the band of Corvino, of whom, if I mistake not, I have heard you speak. The place is in the Neapolitan mountains, about forty miles from Rome, and twenty from your native town. I saw your sister while on my way through it as a captive. I did not know her at the time; but I have since learnt something I almost hesitate to tell you. It must be told, however; and it is for that I write you this letter. Lucetta is in danger – the brigand chief has designs upon her! I learnt it by a conversation between two of the band, whom I chanced to overhear. I need not add more. You will best know how to act; and there is no time to be lost. God speed and guide you!

“Yours,

“Henry Harding.”

The letters were ready for the post, long before Tommaso brought in the breakfast.

Without saying a word he slipped them into the breast pocket of his coat, and carried them away with him.

That same night they were on board the mail steamer on the way from Civita Vecchia to Marseilles.

Chapter Thirty Six
A Short Trial

The brigands returned from their raid two days earlier than they had been expected.

The captive became aware of their arrival by the increased clamour outside. On peering through his cell window, he saw the men who had been upon the expedition. They were all in ill-humour, looking sulky, and cursing beyond their usual quantity. They had been unsuccessful in the raid – having found soldiers in the district into which it had been made. They had, moreover, heard a rumour, that a combined force, both from the Roman and Neapolitan territory, was marching upon their mountain retreat.

The captive could hear them talking of treason. He caught sight of Corvino in front of his window. Something special seemed to have enraged the chief. He was swearing at Popetta, and calling her foul names in presence of his followers.

One of the other women – a sort of rival in the regards of the ruffian – was standing by, and appearing to act as instigator. She talked as if she was bringing some accusation against the sposa of the capo.

The prisoner could see that Popetta was in trouble, though he had no clue to the cause. They talked so fast – several clamouring at the same time – that it was impossible for him, with his slight knowledge of Italian, to make out much of what was said.

Soon the colloquy assumed a different phase, Corvino separating from the crowd, and, along with two or three others, coming towards the cell. In an instant the door was dashed open, and the brigand chief stepped inside the dismal apartment.

“So, signore,” he cried, hissing the words through his teeth, “I understand you’ve been very comfortable during my absence – plenty to eat and drink —rocatti, confetti, cordials – the best of everything! Ah! and a companion, too, in your solitude! No doubt, a pleasant companion? I hope you both enjoyed yourselves. Ha, ha, ha!”

The laugh fell upon the ears of the captive with a fearful significance. It boded evil either to himself, or Popetta, or both.

“May I ask what do you mean, Captain Corvino?” coolly inquired the young Englishman.

“Oh! how innocent you are, my beardless lamb – my smooth-faced Adonis. What do I mean? Ha, ha, ha!”

And again the cell resounded with his fierce, exultant laughter.

“Cospetto!” cried the chief, suddenly changing tone, as his eye fell upon a white object lying in the corner of the cell; “what’s this? Una lettera! And carta bianca! And here, pen and ink! So, so, signore! you’ve been carrying on a correspondence? Bring him out to the light!” he vociferated. “Bring everything!”

And with a fierce oath he rushed into the open air, one of his followers dragging the captive after him. Another carried the sheet of paper – surplus of the supply left by Popetta – as also the ink-horn and pen.

The whole band had by this time gathered upon the ground.

“Comrades!” cried the capo, “there’s been treason in our absence. See what we’ve found. Paper, pen, and ink, in the cell of our prisoner. And, look – on his fingers the stain! He’s been writing letters! What could they have been about but to betray us? Examine him. See if they be still upon his person!”

The search was instantly made – extending to every pocket of the prisoner’s dress, every fold where a letter might be concealed. One was brought to light, but evidently not of recent writing. It was the letter of introduction to the father of Luigi Torreani.

“To whom is it addressed?” asked the chief, snatching it from the hands of his satellite.

“Diavolo!” he exclaimed, on reading the superscription. “Here’s a correspondence unexpected!”

Without further delay he pulled the epistle out of its envelope, and commenced making himself master of the contents. He did not communicate them to the bystanders; but the expression that passed over his countenance told them that the letter contained something that strangely interested him. It was like the grim smile of the tiger, who feels that the prey has been already secured, and lies helpless within reach of his claws.

“So, signore!” he exclaimed, once more bending his eyes upon the young Englishman. “You told me you had no friends in Italy. Una menzogna that was. Rich friends you have – powerful friends. The chief magistrate of a town, with,” he satirically whispered, placing his lips close to the captive’s ear, “with a very pretty daughter! What a pity you did not have an opportunity to present your letter of introduction. Never mind; you may make her acquaintance yet – soon, perhaps, and here among the mountains. That will be all the more romantic, signor pittore.”

The whispered insinuation, as also the satirical tone in which it was made, passed like a poisoned shaft through the heart of Henry Harding. Every hour, since the first of his captivity, his interest conceived for the sister of Luigi Torreani had been growing stronger, while that hitherto felt for Belle Mainwaring had passed altogether out of his mind.

Stung by the speeches of the brigand, he made no reply. Anything he could have said would have served no purpose, even had there been opportunity to say it. But there was not. The tormentor thought not of listening to any response from his prisoner; and, without waiting for one, he continued: —

“Compagnos!” cried he, addressing himself to his band, “you have here before you the proofs of treason. No wonder the soldiers are gathering upon our track. It remains for you to discover who have been the traitors.”

“Yes, yes!” cried a score of voices. “The traitors! Who are they? Let us know that, and we’ll settle the score with them!”

“Our prisoner here,” continued the chief, “has written a letter – as you can all see for yourselves. It has been despatched, too: since it is not upon his person. To whom has it been sent? Who carried it? Who supplied him with pen, ink, and paper? These are the questions to be considered.”

“Who was left to keep guard over him?” inquired one of the men.

“Tommaso!” answered several.

“Where is Tommaso?” shouted a score of voices.

“I am here!” responded the brigand who bore that name.

“Answer us then. Did you do this?”

“Do what?”

“Furnish the writing materials to our prisoner?”

“No,” firmly replied Tommaso.

“You need not waste your time questioning him,” interposed a voice, recognised as that of Popetta. “It was I who furnished them.”

“Yes,” said the rival brigandess, speaking aside to several members of the band, “not only found them, but carried them to the cell herself.”

“Tutti!” cried the chief, in a voice of thunder, that stilled the murmurs produced by this communication. “For what purpose did you supply them, Cara Popetta?”

“For the common good,” replied the woman, seemingly with the intent to give justification for what she had done.

“How?” shouted a score of voices.

“Cospetto!” exclaimed the accused, “the thing is simple enough.”

“Explain it! Explain it!”

“Buono! buono! Listen, and I will. Well, like yourselves, I want to procure the riscatta. I didn’t think the Inglese would get it for us. The letter directed by him wasn’t strong enough. While you were gone, having nothing else to think of, I prevailed upon the galantuomo to write another. What harm was there in that?”

“It was to his father, then?” asked one of the spokesmen.

“Of course it was,” replied Popetta, with a scornful inclination of the head.

“How was it sent?”

“To the posta at Rome. The young man knew how to address it.”

“Who carried it to Rome?”

To this question there was no answer. Popetta had turned aside, and pretended not to hear.

“Compagnos!” cried the chief, “make inquiry, and find out who of those left behind has been absent while we were gone.”

A man was pointed out by the accuser of Popetta. He was a greenhorn – one of the recent recruits of the band, not yet admitted to the privileges of the “giro.” The cross-questioning to which he was submitted soon produced its effect. Notwithstanding the promise of secrecy given to her who had selected him for a messenger, he confessed all. Unfortunately for Popetta, the fellow had been taught to read, and knew enough arithmetic to tell that he carried two letters instead of one. He was able to say that one was for the father of the prisoner. So far, Popetta had spoken the truth. It was the second letter that condemned her. That had been directed to Signor Torreani.

“Hear that!” cried several of the brigands, as soon as the name was announced, and without listening to the address. “The Signor Torreani! Why, it is the sindico of Val di Orno! No wonder we’re being beset with soldiers! Every one knows that Torreani has never been our friend!”

“Besides,” remarked the brigandess who had started the accusation, “why such friendship to a prisoner? Why has he had all the confetti, rosalio, the best things in the place – to say nothing of the company of the signorina herself? Depend upon it, compagnos, there has been treasonable conspiracy!”

Poor Popetta! her time was come. Her husband – if such he was – had found the opportunity long wanted – not to protect, but get rid of her. He could now do so with perfect impunity – even without blame. With the cunning of a tiger he had approached the dread climax; with the ferocity of a tiger he seized upon the opportunity.

“Compagnos!” appealed he, in a tone pretended to be sad; “I need not tell you how hard it is to hear these charges against one who is dear to me – my own wife. And it is harder to think they have been proved. But we are banded together by a law that cannot be broken – the law of self-preservation. That must be mutual among us. To infringe this law would lead to our dissolution – our ruin – and we have sworn to one another, that he, or she, who does aught contrary to it, shall suffer death! Death, though it be brother, sister, wife, or mistress. I, whom you have chosen for your chief, shall prove myself true. By this may you believe me.”

While in the act of speaking the last words, the brigand sprang forward, until he stood by the side of his accused wife – Popetta. Her cry of terror was quickly succeeded by one of a different intonation. It was a shrill scream of agony, gradually subdued to the expiring accents of death, as the woman sank back upon the grass, with a poniard transfixed in her heart!

The scene that followed calls for no description. There was sign of neither weeping, nor woe, in that savage assemblage. There may have been pity; but if there was, it did not declare itself. The murderous chieftain strode quietly away to his quarters, and there sought concealment. He was too hardened to have remorse. Some of his subordinates removed from the spot the ghastly evidence of his crime – burying the body of the brigandess in a ravine close by. But not until they had stripped it of its glittering adornments – the spoils of many a fair maiden of the Campagna.

The prisoner was carried back to his cell, and there left to reflect on the tragedy just enacted – on the fate of poor Popetta. To his excited imagination it appeared but the foreshadowing of a still more fearful fate in store for himself.

Chapter Thirty Seven
A Tough Amputation

During three days succeeding the tragical event recorded, there was tranquillity in the bandit quarters – that gloomy quiet that succeeds some terrible occurrence, alike telling that it has occurred.

So far as Henry Harding saw, the chief kept himself indoors – as if doing decent penance for the brutal crime he had committed.

On the fourth day there transpired an event which roused the rendezvous to its usual activity. There was an excitement among the men, under which the late sanguinary scene was likely to be buried in oblivion.

A little before sunrise, the signals of the sentinel announced the approach of a messenger; and shortly afterwards a man came into the quarters. He was in peasant garb – the same who had carried the requisition on the landlord of the lodgings, and brought back the three-score scudi. This time he was the bearer of a dispatch of somewhat portentous appearance – a large envelope, enclosing a letter, with still another inside. It was addressed to the brigand chief, and to him delivered direct. The captive knew of the arrival of the messenger by much excited talking outside, which also proclaimed it to be an event of importance. He only learned that there was a letter, when the brigand chief burst angrily into his cell, holding the opened epistle in his hand.

“So!” cried the latter in fierce vociferation. “So, Signor Inglese, you’ve quarrelled with your father, have you? Well, that won’t help you. It only shows, that for being such an undutiful son you deserve a little punishment. If you’d been a better boy, your worthy parent might have acted differently, and saved you your ears. As it is, you are about to lose them. Console yourself with the thought that they are not going out of the family. They shall be cropped off with the greatest care, and sent under cover to your father. Bring him out, comrades! Let us have light for this delicate amputation.”

Doggy Dick was ordered by the chief to go into the house for a knife; while two others retained the captive in their grasp, holding him as if to keep him steady for an operation. A third knocked his hat from his head, while a fourth pulled his long brown curls up over his crown, leaving his ears naked for the knife. All seemed to take delight in what they were doing, the women as well as the men – more especially she who had been instrumental in causing the death of Popetta. There was anger in the eyes of all; they were spited at not receiving the riscatta. The renegade had told an exaggerated story of the wealth of the captive’s father, and they had founded high hopes upon it. They charged their disappointment to the prisoner, and were paying him for it by gibes and rough usage. They could see his ears cut off without a single sentiment of pity or remorse.

In a few seconds the knife-blade was gleaming against his cheek. It was raised to the left ear, which in another instant would have been severed from his head, when the captive, by a superhuman wrench, released his left hand, and instinctively applied it over the spot. It was a mere convulsive effort, caused by the horror of his situation. It would have been utterly unavailing, and he knew it. He had only made the movement under the impulse of a physical instinct. And yet it had the effect of preserving the threatened member.

Corvino, who stood near superintending the amputation, uttered a loud shout, at the same time commanding the amputator to desist. The cry was called forth at sight of the uplifted hand, or rather the little finger.

“Diavolo!” he exclaimed, springing forward and seizing the captive by the wrist. “You’ve done yourself a service, signore – you’ve saved your ears, at least for this time. Here’s a present for your father much more appropriate. Perhaps it will point out to him the line of his duty, which he has shown himself so inclined to neglect. ‘The hand to guard the head’ – that’s the motto among us. We shall permit you to adopt it to a proportionate extent, by allowing your little finger to be the protector of your ears. Ha! ha! ha!”

The brigands echoed the laughter of their chief, without exactly comprehending the witticism that had called it forth. They were soon enlightened as to the significance of the jest. The scarred finger was before their eyes. They saw it was an old cicatrice, sure to be recognised by any father who had taken the slightest interest in the physical condition of his son. This was the explanation of Corvino’s interference to stay the cutting off of their captive’s ears.

“We don’t wish to be unnecessarily cruel,” continued the chief in a tone of mock mercy; “no more do we wish to spoil such a pretty countenance as that which has made conquest of Popetta, and might have done the same for,” – here he leant close to his captive, and hissed spitefully into his ear – “Lucetta.”

The cutting off of one ear, of both of them, would not have given Henry Harding so much pain as the sting of that cruel whisper. It thrilled him to his heart’s core. Never in all his life had he felt, as at that moment, the despair, the absolute horror of helplessness. His tongue was still free, and he could not restrain it. He would speak, though he knew the words might cost him his life.

“Brute!” he vociferated, fixing his eye full upon the brigand chief; “if I had you upon fair ground, I’d soon change your sham exultation to an appeal for mercy. You dare not give me the chance. If you did, I would show these ruffians around you that you’re not fit to be their captain. You killed your wife to make way for another. Not you, madame,” he continued, bowing derisively to the betrayer of Popetta, “but another, whom God preserve from ever appearing in your place. You may kill me – cut me into pieces, if you will – but, depend upon it, my death will not go unavenged. England, my country, shall hear of it. Though you now fancy yourselves secure, you will be tracked into the very heart of your mountain fastnesses – hunted up, and shot down like dogs – like wolves, as you are – That’s what will come to every one of you.”

Ha was not allowed to proceed. Three-score angry voices breaking in upon his impetuous speech put an end to it.

“What care we for your country,” cried they. “England, indeed!”

“Damn England!” shouted Doggy Dick. “Inglaterra al inferno!” vociferated others. “France and Italia the same! The Pope, too, if you choose to throw him in. What can they do to us? We are beyond their power; but you are in ours, signore. Let us prove it to him!”

A score of stilettos, suddenly and simultaneously drawn, were gleaming in the eyes of the captive as he listened to these words. He had half repented his hasty speech – believing it would be his last – when he saw the brigand chief interfering. He saw this with surprise: for Corvino had quailed before his challenge with a look of the most resentful malice. His surprise was of short duration. It ended on hearing what the chief had to say.

“Hold!” shouted he, in a voice of thunder. “Simpletons that you are, to care for the talk of a cur like this. Your own captive, too! Would you kill the goose that is to lay us golden eggs – a nest of them worth thirty thousand scudi? You’re mad, compagnos. Leave me to manage the matter. Let us first get the eggs, which, by the grace of God and the help of the Madonna, we shall yet extract from the parental bird, and then – ”

“Yes, yes!” cried several, interrupting this figurative speech of their leader; “let’s get the eggs! Let’s make the old bird lay them! Our comrade Ricardo here says he’s rich as King Croesus.”

“That do I,” interposed Doggy Dick. “And I should know something about the eggs he’s got, since once on a time I was his gamekeeper.”

At this jeu d’esprit, which seemed rather dull to his Italian audience, though better understood by the captive, the renegade laughed immoderately.

“Enough,” cried Corvino; “we’re wasting our time, and perhaps,” he added, with a ferocious leer, “the patience of our friend the artist. Now, signore! we shall leave that handsome head unshorn of its auricular appendages. The little finger of your left hand is all we require at present. If it don’t prove strong enough to extract the eggs we’ve been speaking of, we shall try the whole hand. If that too fail, we must give up the idea of having an omelette.”

A yell of laughter hailed this sally.

“Then,” continued the jocular ruffian, “we shan’t have done with you. To prove to the grand Inglese, your father, that we are not spiteful, and how far we Italians can outdo him in generosity, we shall send him a calf’s head, with skin, ears, and everything attached to it.”

Boars of laughter succeeded this fearful speech, and the stilettos were returned to their respective sheaths.

“Now,” commanded the chief, once more calling the knife into requisition, “off with his finger. You needn’t go beyond the second joint. Cut off by the knuckle, which I’ve heard is in great request among his countrymen. Don’t spoil such a pretty hand. Leave him a stump to fill out the finger of his glove; when that is on, no one will be the wiser of what’s wanting. You see, signore,” concluded the wretch, in a taunting tone, “I don’t wish to damage your personal appearance any more than is absolutely necessary for our purpose. I know you are proud of it; and considering what has happened with Popetta, I should be sorry at any mutilation that might debar you from a like success with Lucetta.”

The last speech was delivered in a satanic whisper, again hissed into the ear of the captive. It elicited no reply; nor did the young Englishman make either remark, or resistance, when the cruel executioner caught hold of his hand, and severed from it the little finger by a clean cut of the knife-blade!

The amputation was the cue for terminating this strange scene. As soon as it was over, the captive was conducted back to his gloomy chamber, and left to the contemplation of a hand rendered unsymmetrical for life.