Майн Рид
The Finger of Fate: A Romance

Chapter Forty One
A Terrible Threat

It would be impossible to depict the expression on General Harding’s face, or the horror that thrilled through his heart, as he stood holding his son’s finger in his hand. His eyes looked as if about to start from their sockets, while his frame shook as though he had become suddenly palsied. Not for long did he keep hold of the ghastly fragment; and as he attempted to lay it on the table, it dropped out of his now nerveless grasp.

It was some time before he could command sufficient calmness to peruse the epistle that had accompanied the painful present. He at length took it up, and spreading it before him, read: —

“Signore, —

“Enclosed you will find the finger of your son. You will easily recognise it by the scar. If, however, you still continue to doubt, and refuse to send the ransom by next post, the whole hand shall be remitted to you, and you can see whether the finger fits. You shall have ten days allowed for your answer. If, at the end of that time, it does not reach Rome, and 30,000 scudi along with it, the next post after will take the hand to you. If that fails to open your borsa we shall conclude you have no heart, and that you decline to negotiate for your son’s life. Do not, therefore, charge cruelty upon us, who, by unjust laws, have been forced to war with mankind. Tracked like wild beasts, we are compelled to adopt extreme means for obtaining a livelihood. In fine, and to close the correspondence, should the negotiation thus fall through, unsatisfactorily, we promise that your son’s body shall have Christian burial. As a reminder of your inhumanity, the head shall be cut off, and sent you by the next steamer that touches at Civita Vecchia. We have paid the post on the finger; we shall do the same with the hand; but we shall expect you to pay carriage on the head.

“And now, Signor General, in respect to the advice already given you. Don’t mistake what is herein written for an idle menace – it has no such meaning. Continue incredulous, and the threat will be carried out to the letter, as stated. Refuse the ransom, and, as sure as you are living, your son will be put to death.

“Il Capo (for himself and compagnos).

“Postscriptum. – If you send the money by post, direct to Signor Jacopi, Number 9, Strada Volturno. If by messenger, he can find our agent at the same place. Beware of treason: it cannot avail you.”

Such was the singular communication that had come into General Harding’s hands.

“My God! my God!” was his exclamation as he finished reading it – the same he had uttered before commencing.

He had no doubt about the truth of its contents. Lying on the table before his face was the fearful voucher – still apparently fresh – the gore scarce congealed upon it, as it came out of the wrapper in which it had been carefully enfolded.

With a trembling hand the General touched the table bell.

“My son Nigel!” he said to the footman who answered; “send him to me instantly.”

The servant went off wondering.

“My God!” once more ejaculated the sorrowing father, “this is terrible – horrible – who would have believed it? Who would have believed it? It is true – true beyond a doubt. My God!”

And bending down over the table, with eyes that showed the agony of his spirit, he once more scrutinised the ghastly object, as if afraid to take it up or touch it. Nigel came in.

“You sent for me, father?”

“I did. Look here – look at that!”

“That – what is it? An odd-looking object. What is it, papa?”

“Ah! you should know, Nigel.”

“What – why it looks like part of a finger! Is it that?”

“Alas, yes!”

“But whose? How did it come here?”

“Whose, Nigel! – whose!” said the General, his voice vibrating with emotion. “You should remember it. You have reason.”

Nigel turned pale as his eyes rested upon the cicatrice, showing like a whitish seam through the slight coating of blood. He did remember it, but said nothing.

“Now do you recognise it?” asked his father.

“As a human finger,” he answered evasively; “nothing more.”

“Nothing more! And you cannot tell to whom it once belonged.”

“Indeed I cannot – how should I know?”

“Better than anybody else. Alas, it is – it was – your brother’s!”

“My brother’s!” exclaimed Nigel, pretending both surprise and emotion – neither of which he felt.

“Yes; look at that scar. You surely remember that?”

Another pretended surprise, another feigned emotion, was all the answer.

“I do not wish to reproach you for it,” said the General, speaking of the scar; “it is a thing that should be forgotten, and has nothing to do with the misfortune now threatening us. What you see there was once poor Henry’s finger.”

“But how do you know, father? How came it here? How has it been cut off? And who – ”

“Read these letters; they will tell you all about it.”

Nigel took up the bandit’s letter, and ran through its contents – at intervals giving utterance to ejaculations that might be construed either as expressions of sympathy, surprise, or indignation. He then glanced at the other.

“You see,” said his father, as soon as he had finished, “it turns out to be true – too true. I had my fears when I read Henry’s first, poor lad. But, Nigel, you – How could any one have supposed such a thing as this?”

“Why, papa, it appears yet impossible.”

“Impossible!” echoed the General, glancing almost angrily at his son. “Look there upon that table! Look on the truth itself – the finger that points to it. Poor Henry! what will he think of his father – his hardhearted, cruel, unfeeling father? My God! Oh my God!”

And giving himself up to a paroxysm of self-reproach, the General commenced pacing to and fro in an excited manner.

“This epistle appears to have come from Rome,” said Nigel, examining the letter with as much coolness as if it had contained some ordinary communication.

“Of course it came from Rome,” replied the General, surprised, almost angered, at the indifference with which his son seemed to speak of it. “Don’t you see the Roman postmark upon it? And haven’t you read what’s inside? Perhaps you still think it a trick to extort money?”

“No, no, father!” hastily rejoined Nigel, perceiving that he had committed himself; “I was only thinking how it had best be answered.”

“There’s but one way for that; the letter itself tells how.”

“What way, papa?”

“Why send the money at once; that’s the only way to save him. I can tell by the talk of the scoundrel – what’s his name?”

“He here signs his name ‘Il Capo.’ That is only his title as chief of the band.”

“It’s clear, from what the ruffian writes, that he cares for no government – no law, human or divine. This, lying upon the table, is proof sufficient that nothing will deter the scoundrels from carrying out their threat. Clearly nothing will prevent them but the payment of the money.”

“Five thousand pounds!” muttered Nigel; “it is a large sum.”

“A large sum! And if it were ten thousand, should we hesitate about sending it? Is your brother’s life not worth that? Ay, one finger of his hand is. Poor boy!”

“Oh! I did not mean that, papa. Only it occurred to me that if the money should be sent, and, after all done, the brigands should refuse to give him up. There will needs be caution in dealing with such fellows.”

“What caution can there be? There is no time. Within ten days the answer is required. My God! what if the post has been delayed? Look – what is the date of the postmark on the letter?”

“Roma, 12th,” said Nigel, reading from the stamp on the envelope. “It is now the 16th; there are still six days to the good.”

“Six days! – six days are nothing to send a messenger all the way to Rome. Besides, there is everything to be arranged – the money – though, I thank heaven, that need not cause any delay. But there is the going to London, to see Lawson, who may not be at home. There’s not a moment to be lost; I must start at once. Quick, Nigel, give orders for the carriage to be got ready without delay.”

Nigel, pretending an alacrity he was far from feeling, rushed out of the door, leaving his father alone.

“Where’s ‘Bradshaw’?” the General asked of himself, glancing around the library in search of the well-known “guide.” Then, laying his hand upon it, he commenced a traverse of its puzzling pages, in search of the Great Western Railway.

The carriage, not very speedily brought to the door, was yet ready before he had become quite certain about the exact time of a suitable train. This was at length ascertained; and then, flinging aside the book, and permitting the old butler to array him in proper travelling habiliments – not forgetting to put into his large pocket-book the strange epistle, with its still stranger enclosure – he stepped inside the chariot, and was driven towards Slough.

The General’s carriage had scarce cleared the gates of Beechwood Park, when a pedestrian appeared upon the gravelled drive going in the same direction.

It was his son, Nigel. He also seemed in a state of agitation; though its cause was very different from that which had taken his father in such haste along the road to the railway station.

Nigel had no intention of going so far; nor was he at the moment even thinking of the peril in which his brother was placed.

His thoughts were given to one nearer home – one far dearer to him than that brother. He was simply proceeding to the residence of the Widow Mainwaring, where for three months – partly owing to a taboo which his father had placed on it – he had been but an occasional and clandestine visitor.

Chapter Forty Two
An Unknown Correspondent

After the atrocious cruelty that deprived him of a finger, two days more of gloomy imprisonment was passed by Henry Harding in his prison. The coarse fare by day and hard couch by night, even the loss he had sustained, were not to be compared with the anguish of his spirit.

In this lay the pangs of his captivity. The chagrin caused by his father’s refusal to ransom him was bitter to bear. His brother’s letter had placed the refusal in its worst light. He felt as if he had no friend – no father.

He suffered from a reflection less selfish, and yet more painful – an apprehension for the safety of his friend’s sister. There could be no mistaking what Corvino meant by the words whispered in his ear during that fearful scene; and he knew that the savage tragedy then enacted was but by way of preparation for the still more distressing episode that was to follow.

Every hour, almost every minute, the captive might have been seen standing by the window of his cell, scrutinising what might transpire outside – listening with keen ear, apprehensive that in each new arrival at the rendezvous, he might discover the presence of Lucetta Torreani.

Himself a prisoner, he was powerless to protect, even to give her a word of warning. Could he have sent her but one line to apprise her of the danger, he would have sacrificed not only another finger, but the hand by which it was written. He blamed himself for not having thought of writing to her father, at the time that he sent the letter to Luigi. It was an opportunity not likely to occur again. He could only hope that his letter to Luigi might be received in time – a slender reed to depend upon. He thought of trying to effect escape from his prison. Could he succeed in doing this, all might be well. But he had been thinking of it from the first – every hour during his confinement – thinking of it to no purpose. He made no attempt, simply because there was no means of making it. He had well examined the structure of his cell. The walls were stout masonwork of stone and stucco; the floor was a pavement of rough flags; the window a mere slit; the door strong enough to have withstood the blows of a trip-hammer. Besides, at night a brigand slept transversely across the entrance; while another kept sentry outside.

A bird worth 30,000 scudi was too precious to be permitted the chance of escaping from its cage. His eyes had often turned upwards. In that direction seemed the only chance of escape at all possible. It might have been practicable had he been but provided with two things – a knife in his hand and a stool to stand upon. Strong beams stretched horizontally across. Over these was a sheeting of roughly-hewn planks, as if there was a second story above. But he knew it could only be a garret; for the boards were damp and mildewed, from the leaking of the roof over them. They looked rotten enough to have been easily cut through, if there had been but a chisel or knife to accomplish it. There was neither. Right and left, behind and before, below and above, egress appeared impracticable.

On the second night after losing his little finger, he had ceased to think of it; and, with his mutilated hand wrapped in a rag, torn from the sleeve of his shirt – the only surgical treatment it received – he lay upon the floor, endeavouring in sleep to find a temporary respite from his wretchedness.

He had to some extent succeeded; and was beginning to lose consciousness of his misery, when something striking him on the forehead startled him to fresh wakefulness. It was a hard substance that had hit him; and the blow caused pain, though not enough to draw from him any exclamation. He only raised himself on his elbow, and waited for a repetition of the stroke, or something that might explain it. While listening attentively, he heard a sound, as if some light missile had been flung through the window, and fallen on the floor, not far from where he lay.

He looked to see what it could have been. There was no light, save what came from a star-lit sky – sent still more sparingly through the narrow aperture in the wall – so, of course, the floor of the chamber was in deep obscurity. Notwithstanding this, an object of oblong shape was revealed upon it, distinguishable by its white colour. The captive, on clutching it, could tell it was a piece of paper, folded in the form of a letter. Supposing it to be one, he was hindered for the time from perusing it; and he remained holding it in his hand, but without making any movement. Meanwhile he kept his eye upon the window, through which it had evidently come, to see whether anything else should enter by the same aperture.

He watched for a full half hour; and, as nothing more seemed likely to be thrown in to him, he turned his attention to that which had at first startled him, and which he now imagined might be something projected into his cell after the fashion of the folded sheet. Groping over the floor, he became convinced of it. His hand came in contact with a knife! He felt that its blade was in a sheath, a covering of goat-skin, such as he had seen carried by the brigands. Without comprehending the intent of the unexpected presents, or from whom they had come, he could not help thinking there was a purpose in them; and, after watching the window another hour or so, he began conjecturing what this purpose might be.

He was not very successful. A variety of hypotheses came before his mind, but none that satisfied him. Under the circumstances the gift of a keen-bladed knife suggested suicide; but that could hardly be the intent of the donor. At all events, the recipient, wretched as he was, did not feel himself reduced to quite such a state of despair. No doubt there was writing on the paper, and no doubt, could he have read it, it would have enlightened him. But there was no chance to do so, nor would there be until morning. His sense of touch was not sufficiently delicate to enable him to decipher it in the darkness, and there was no help for it but to wait for the dawn.

He did wait till dawn, but not one instant after. As the first rays of the aurora came stealing through the aperture, he stood close to it, spreading the unfolded sheet upon the sill. There was writing. The words were Italian, and, fortunately, written in a bold, clerkly hand, though evidently in haste. In the translation it ran thus: —

“You must make your escape upwards, towards the zenith. There is no chance towards the horizon on any side. The knife will enable you to cut your way through the roof. And take care to slide off the back of the house, the sentry being in front. Once out, make for the pass by which you came up. You should remember it. It lies due north. If you need guiding, look for the Polar star. At the head of the gorge there is a picket. You may easily steal past him. If not – you have the knife! But, with proper caution, there need be no occasion for your using it. His duty is not much by night. He has only to listen to any signal that may be given from below. And his post is not in the gorge, but on the summit – to one side. You may easily creep into the ravine, and past, without his seeing you. At the mountain foot it is different. The sentry placed there is only for the night. In daytime he would be of no use – as the place can be seen from above in time to give warning of any approach. This man will be awake, as his life would be forfeited by his being found asleep. He would be concealed upon the edge of the ravine. You cannot pass, without his seeing you; and you must then use the knife. Don’t try to pass; he would have the advantage of seeing you first. Instead, conceal yourself in the ravine, and remain there till morning. At daybreak he will leave his post – as it is then no longer necessary to keep it. He comes up to the rendezvous. Wait till he has passed you; and also till he has got to the head of the gorge – longer if you like. Then make your way off as you best can. Go with all speed, for you will be seen and pursued. Make for the house where you stopped on your way hither. Save yourself! Save Lucetta Torreani!”

The astonishment caused by this strange epistle hindered the reader from perceiving that there was a postscript. He saw it at length. It ran as follows: —

“If you would also save the writer, swallow this note as soon as you have read it.”

Having run it over again, to make sure of its meaning – and to memorise the instructions it contained – the postscript was almost litre rally complied with; and when the jailer entered the cell, bearing the usual breakfast of boiled macaroni, not a scrap of paper could be seen, nor anything to create suspicion. The prisoner only spoke of hunger; and began masticating the macaroni as though the tasteless stuff was the most savoury of dishes.

Chapter Forty Three
Cutting a Way Skyward

His jailer once gone out of the cell, the captive was left undisturbed to consider the plan of escape so unexpectedly proposed to him. The first question that occurred was: Who could the unknown writer be? It was evidently some one of a refined intelligence; the writing proved this, but more the method in which the instructions were conveyed. These were so cunningly conceived, and so clearly expressed, as to be quite intelligible to him for whom they were intended.

At first he thought of its being some plot on the part of Corvino – a ruse to give the chief a chance of recapturing him, and so taking him in the act of attempting to escape.

Then came the reflection, Cui bono? Corvino could not want an excuse for taking his life. On the contrary, he had every reason for preserving it – at least until some definite answer about the ransom. If the demand should be again refused, the captive knew this would be plea sufficient for putting him to death. The threat of the brigand had been backed by the assurance given him in his conversation with the unfortunate Popetta. He no longer doubted of its being in earnest.

It could not be Corvino who had furnished him with the means of escape. Who then? Certainly not his own countryman. The renegade was his bitterest enemy – ever foremost in persecuting him. Of all the band, his thoughts now turned to Tommaso, simply because there was no other who had shown him the slightest sign of sympathy. Tommaso had done so, during the two days of his attendance; but then he presumed it to be at the instance of the signorina. She was dead; and her influence must have perished along with her. What further interest could the man have in him?

True, he seemed something different from his outlawed associates. He at least appeared less brutal than they – as if he had seen better days, and had not fallen so far below the normal condition of humanity. Henry Harding had noticed this during the slight communication held with him. Beside, there was evidence of it in the conversation he had heard under his window – in relation to the vile designs on Lucetta Torreani. But then – Tommaso’s motive for assisting him? And at such risk to himself! Death would be the reward of any of the band who might aid him in escape, or even connive at it – death sure and cruel. Why should Tommaso place himself in peril? What had he, Henry Harding, done to deserve the sympathy of this man? Nothing.

The last word in the letter of instruction now occurred to him – not the postscript, but the closing sentence of the epistle itself – “Save Lucetta Torreani!”

Was this the explanation? Could this be a clue to Tommaso’s conduct? If so, Tommaso was indeed the writer.

It was at all events an injunction calculated to stimulate the prisoner to action. The thought of the girl’s danger was never for a moment out of his mind. Now that this scheme was brought before him, he ceased his conjectures, and gave himself up to considering how he should carry out the design suggested in such a mysterious manner.

Plainly he could do nothing before night. Any attempt during daylight might be detected by his jailer, coming in with his food. The last meal having been brought him would be the cue for commencement.

During the day he was not idle. He made careful survey of his cell, chiefly the woodwork overhead. The boards appeared in a dilapidated condition, as if they would easily give way to the blade of a knife. His chagrin was great in discovering that the ceiling was too high to be reached – nearly a foot beyond the tips of his fingers, held aloft to their fullest stretch. This was indeed something to disconcert him.

He looked despairingly around the cell. There was nothing on which he could stand – neither stool nor stone – nothing to give him the necessary elevation. The chapter of instructions had been written in vain; the writer had not contemplated this difficulty in their fulfilment.

For a moment the captive believed he would have to abandon the scheme. It seemed impossible of execution.

Ingenuity becomes quickened under circumstances of dire necessity. In Henry Harding’s case this truth was illustrated. Once more scanning the floor of his cell, he perceived the litter of fern leaves that formed his stye-like couch. It might be possible to collect them into a lump, and so obtain the standpoint he required. In his mind he made a calculation of the quantity, and the probable height to which they would elevate him. He did not experiment practically, by massing the litter and so making a trial. Any disturbance of things might excite suspicion. That would be a task easily accomplished, and could be left to the last moment.

And to the last moment it was left. As soon as the morose attendant took his departure for the night – though without even the salutation “Buono notte” – the captive set about carrying out his design.

The fern leaves were collected into a heap and placed near the middle of the floor. He took great care in packing them, so as to form a firm cushion, and confining them within a small space, to increase the elevation. He had also observed the precaution, to select a spot under that part of the ceiling that appeared most assailable.

The stage erected, he mounted on it, knife in hand. He could just reach the boards with his blade; but this appeared enough, and he commenced making an incision. As he conjectured, the wood was half decayed with damp, or dry rot, and gave way before the knife, which by good luck was a sharp one. But he had not worked long, when he found his support sinking gradually beneath him; and, before he had accomplished the tenth part of his task, the fern footstool had become so flattened that he was unable to proceed. He descended to the floor, rearranged it, and then recommenced his cutting and carving. All in silence, or with the least noise possible; for there was his knowledge of a sharp-eared sentry in the ante-chamber, and another keeping guard close by the window of his cell.

Again the cushion sank, with only another fraction of the task accomplished. Again was it repadded; and the work proceeded for another short spell.

A new idea now helped him to keep on continuously. He took off his coat, folded it into a thick roll, placed it on the summit of the fern heap, and then set his feet upon it. This gave him a firmer pedestal to stand upon, enabling him to complete the task he had undertaken. In fine, he succeeded in cutting a trap-like hole through the floor-boards, big enough for his body to be passed through.

It was done before twelve o’clock. He could tell this by the brigands still keeping up their carousal outside. Hitherto the sound of their voices had favoured him, drowning any noise he might have made, otherwise audible to the sentries. Moreover, these were less on the alert during the earlier hours.

About midnight all sounds ceased, and the band seemed to have gone to sleep. It was time for him to continue the attempt at escape. Putting on his coat, he caught hold of one of the joists, and drew himself up through the hole he had cut. Above, as anticipated, he found himself in a sort of garret-loft.

He commenced groping around for some means of egress. At first he could find none, and supposed the space to be enclosed without any aperture. His head coming in contact with the roof, he perceived it to be a thatch of either straw or rushes. He was planning how he should cut his way through it, when a glimmer of light came under his eye, falling faintly along the floor.

Approaching the aperture where it was admitted, he discovered a sort of dormer window, without glass, but closed by a dilapidated shutter. There was no bar, and the shutter turned open to the outside. He looked cautiously through, and scanned the ground beneath, as also the premises adjoining. He saw that it was the back of the house, and that there were no others in the rear. There was no light, or anything, to show that human beings were astir.

He could perceive a clump of trees standing a short distance off, and others straggling up the sides of the mountain. If he could succeed in getting under this cover, without disturbing the men who kept guard over his cell, he would stand a good chance of escape, at least so far as the first line of sentries was concerned. As to those keeping the pass, that would be an enterprise altogether distinct. To get clear of his prison was the thing now to be thought of; and he proceeded to take his measures. How to creep through the dormer window and let himself down outside were naturally the first questions that suggested themselves.

The night was dark, though with a sky grey and starry. It was the sombre gloom that in all its obscurity shrouded the extinguished crater. He could not see the ground beneath; but, knowing how high he had climbed into the garret, the descent could not be a very deep one, unless indeed the house stood on the edge of some scarped elevation. The thought of this caused him to hesitate; and, once more craning his neck over the sill, he endeavoured to penetrate the obscurity below. But he could not see the ground, and as it would not do to remain any longer, he turned face inwards, and, backing through the window, let his legs drop down the wall. A wooden bar placed tranversely across the sill, seemed to offer the proper holding place for his hands. He grasped it to balance his body for the fall; but the treacherous support gave way, and he fell in such fashion as to throw him with violence on his shoulder.

He was stunned, and lay still – in what appeared to be the bottom of a drain or trench. Fortunate for him his having done so. The crack of the breaking bar had been heard by the sentries, who came running round to discover the cause.

“I’m sure I heard something,” said one of the two.

“Bah! nothing of the kind. You must have been mistaken.”

“I could swear to it – a noise like a blow with a stick, or the fall of a bundle of fagots.”

“Oh, that was it! there’s the cause then, over your head; that window-shutter flapping in the wind.”

“Ah! like enough it was. To the devil with the rickety old thing! What good does it do there, I wonder?”

And the satisfied alarmist, following his less suspicions comrade, returned to the front. By the time they regained their respective posts, the prisoner had crept out of the dark ditch, and was skulking cautiously towards the cover – which he succeeded in reaching without further interrupting the tranquillity of their watch.