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The Finger of Fate: A Romance

Chapter Forty Seven
Wolves in Sheep’s Clothing

The excursionists had reached the summit, and looked into the cave. Lucetta related the legend of the hermit: how he had sojourned there for several years – never descending to the town, but trusting to the shepherds, and others who strayed over the mountains, to furnish him with his frugal fare; how he had at last mysteriously disappeared from the place, no one knowing where he had gone. But there was a story of his having been carried off by the brigands; and another that he was a brigand himself, having kept this post for purposes of observation.

“What did the shepherds say?” asked the Captain Count, by way of showing his superior intelligence. “They should have known something of the fellow’s daily avocations; since, as you say, they provided him with his daily food. But, perhaps, his doings, like those of many others, were in the dark.”

“Suppose you ask them, Signor Captain,” said Lucetta, with a languid smile at the somewhat cloudy insinuation. “There they are, coming up the mountain.”

The young lady pointed to a ravine scarring the hill on the side opposite to that on which lay the town. Along its bed five men were seen driving before them a flock of sheep, as if bringing them up to browse on the mountain. They were already within a hundred yards of the summit upon which stood the spectators.

The men were all dressed in coarse frezadas hanging down to their thighs, with the usual straw hat upon their heads, and sandals upon their feet. They carried long sticks, which they occasionally used in conducting their charge up the ravine. One of them wore the capuce, hooded over his head, a thing that seemed strange under the hot noonday sun.

The officer had promised to respond to the challenge of the signorina as soon as the shepherds should be near enough for conversation. They were coming direct towards the spot where the pleasure party awaited their approach.

“How very odd,” said the young Englishman, addressing himself to the sister of Luigi, “are some of the customs of your country – at least they seem so to me. Your countrymen appear to lack economy in the distribution of labour. For example, with us, in England, one man will easily manage a flock of five hundred sheep, having only a dog to assist him; while here you see five men driving less than a fifth of the number, and not very skilfully, as it appears to me.”

“Oh!” rejoined Lucetta, in defence of the native industry, “our shepherds usually have a much larger flock. No doubt these have more, and have left them on the mountains opposite – perhaps because there would not be enough pasture – ”

The explanation was interrupted by the approach of the sheep, whose tinkling bells drowned the discourse. Soon after the shepherds strode up, leaving their charge to go scattering over the summit. Instead of waiting for the Captain Count to begin the conversation, one of the pastores took the initiative, bluntly opening with the salutation – “Buono giorno, signori. Molto buono giorno, signora bella.” (Good day, gentlemen. A fair good day, beautiful lady.)

The speech was complimentary; but the manner seemed to have a different meaning. There was something in the tone of voice that jarred on the ears of the young Englishman.

“Free speakers, these Italian pastores,” was the reflection he was making to himself, when the spokesman continued —

“We’ve been seeking one of our sheep,” said he, “and have been hitherto unable to find it. We fancy it has strayed to this mountain. Have you seen anything of it?”

“No, my good friends,” answered the officer smilingly, and in a tone intended to conciliate the inquirers, whose rude style of address could no longer be mistaken.

“Are you sure, signore? Are you quite sure of what you say?”

“Oh, quite sure. If we had seen the animal we should be most happy – ”

“Your sheep is not here,” interrupted the young Englishman, who could no longer stand the pastore’s impertinence. “You know it is not. Why do you repeat your questions?”

“You lie!” cried one of the shepherds, who had not yet spoken – he who wore the red hood. “It is here. You, Signor Inglese, are the stray we are in search of. Thank our gracious Virgin, we’ve found you in such goodly company. We shall take back to our flock three sheep instead of one; and one of them such a beautiful young ewe – just the sort for our charming mountain pastures!”

Before the man had done speaking, Henry Harding recognised him. The voice was sufficient; but the capuce, now thrown back upon his shoulders, revealed the sinister countenance of Corvino!

“Corvino!” was the exclamation that passed mechanically from the lips of his late captive; and before its echo could reverberate from the adjoining cave, he was seized by two of the disguised bandits – the other two flinging themselves on the officer, while the chief himself laid hold of Lucetta.

With a desperate effort the young Englishman wrenched his arms free. But he had no weapon; and of what use would be his fists against the two assailants, who had now drawn their daggers, and were again advancing upon him? The young lady was still struggling in the embrace of the brigand chief – her cries loud enough to be heard all over the town. Meanwhile Guardiola was making no resistance, not even to the drawing of his sword, which was still dangling uselessly by his side.

With a quick eye Henry Harding perceived it; and, dashing between the two brigands who were closing upon him, he caught the weapon by the guard. Plucking it out of its sheath, he turned like a tiger upon his special opponents. The cowards shrank back; as they did so drawing their pistols, and firing at random. Neither of their shots took effect; and, in another instant, the swordsman was by the side of Corvino.

With a cry the brigand chief let go his struggling prize, and turned to receive the attack – flinging off his frezada and drawing a revolver – for this weapon had found its way into the hands of the Italian banditti. As good luck would have it, the first cap missed fire; and, before he could draw trigger upon a second, the sword of Guardiola, wielded by a more skilful hand than that of its owner, had rendered the brigand’s arm idle, and the revolver dropped to the ground.

Alas! it was to no purpose. Before Henry Harding could follow up the thrust with one more deadly, he was assailed from behind by four fresh adversaries: for the two in charge of Guardiola had let him loose, and the Captain Count was now running down the mountain slope as fast as his scared legs could carry him.

With the young Englishman it was now one against five, or rather one to four; for the brigand chief, on seeing his four satellites engaged with a single adversary, threw his left arm around Lucetta, and, raising her aloft, hurried off towards the ravine, up which, as a shepherd, he had ascended.

Chapter Forty Eight
Four to One

Half frenzied by the sight of Lucetta borne off in the brigand’s arms, Henry Harding would have rushed instantly after, but the way was barred by two of the band while the other two assailed him from behind. He had enough on hand to defend himself from their quadrilateral attack; and only by the activity of an ape, borrowed from an excellence in athletic sports, often displayed at Eton and Oxford, was he enabled to show front to all four. Fortunately, they had all emptied their pistols upon him, without doing him any serious injury. By good luck, too, these were not revolvers, their chief alone being thus provided. They now assailed him with their less dangerous daggers; and, but for their number, he might have fought them with success. He struggled to reduce it, but the bandits were as active as he, and his sword thrusts and lunges were spent upon the air. Full five minutes did the desperate strife continue. He was fast losing breath, and must in the end have succumbed. So was he thinking, when his eye fell on the hermit’s cave, towards which the strife had been tending. By an effort he broke through the circle of his assailants, and placed himself in its entrance. A simultaneous cry of disappointment escaped from the brigands as they saw the advantage he had thus gained. With his sword he might now defend himself against a score of stilettos.

As if by instinct, one and all resheathed their daggers, and commenced loading their pistols. It was a fearful crisis; and the young Englishman felt that his time was soon to come. The four men were in front of him, guarding the only pass by which he might retreat. It was a narrow gorge leading up to the entrance of the cave. He could not possibly penetrate through the line without encountering their stilettos, ready to be regrasped. Their pistols once charged, and his doom would be sealed; for the cave was a mere alcove in the rock, where he was placed like a statue in its niche. He had given himself up for lost, but he would not be tamely slaughtered.

He was about to spring upon his assailants, and run the gauntlet of their daggers, when shots and shouts came ringing from below, accompanied by a shower of bullets that struck the rocks around him. Startled by this unexpected volley, the four robbers turned quickly round; and, without waiting to complete the loading of their pistols, ran like scared hinds away from the cave.

The young Englishman saw that he was no longer in danger from their bullets, but from those of the soldiers now seen coming up the slope. Regardless of this, he rushed out, and started after the retreating brigands. They had already entered the ravine at the back of the mountain; and far away, scaling the steep on the opposite side, he could see Corvino, with a white shape lying over his left arm. He knew Lucetta Torreani. She was motionless, no longer making any struggle, the skirt of her dress trailing on the loose stones that strewed the mountain path. No cry came back – was she fainting, or dead?

The soldiers came up, with Guardiola at their head. They halted at the top of the pass, reloading and firing at the few retreating brigands, now far beyond the carry of their antiquated carbines. Already Corvino was out of sight, carrying his captive along with him; and the others soon after disappeared among the rocks.

Surely the soldiers would follow them? Who thought of asking this question? It was Henry Harding, who wondered at the long halt they were making by the head of the ravine. In a loud voice he repeated it. Still there was no reply, and the pause continued. For the third time he made the appeal in frenzied tones, addressing himself to Captain Guardiola.

“You are mad, Signor Inglese,” replied the officer, with a coolness that came only from his cowardice. “I can understand your folly. As a foreigner you cannot know the ways of these Neapolitan bandits. All you have seen may be an artifice to draw us into a trap. As likely as not, over yonder,” he pointed to the pass through which the brigands had disappeared, “there are two hundred of the rascals lying ready to receive us. I am not such a fool as to have my followers sacrificed in such an unequal encounter. We must wait for reinforcements from the city.”

By this time the sindico had come up; too late to see his daughter as she was carried in Corvino’s arms over the crest of the opposite hill – perhaps fortunate in being spared the spectacle. With agonised heart he urged on the pursuit, joining his appeal to that already made by the young Englishman. Appeals and reproaches were uttered in vain. The cowardly commissary of the Pope – false lover that he had proved himself – thought more of his own safety than that of the maiden to whom he had dared to address his perjured speeches. With grief and disappointment the father was beside himself; whilst those of his acquaintances who had come up along with him were endeavouring to comfort him. The young Englishman added his word of encouragement, with an appeal to the townsmen that sounded strange in their ears.

“There are enough of you,” he cried, “to pursue them to their lair! Have you not spirit to go after these brigands, and rescue the daughter of your sindico?”

The proposal, thus plainly made, was new to them. It caught like an electric spark, and was hailed with a chorus of evvivas. For the first time in their lives were these citizens inspired with an idea of making resistance to banditti.

“Let the town be consulted,” was their rejoinder; “let us first speak to our fellow-citizens.”

And, with this intent, they turned down the hill, headed by the sindico; while Captain Guardiola and his troops continued gazing across the ravine at the rocks and trees that concealed the retiring foe – feared even in his retreat!

Chapter Forty Nine
Evviva Ella Republica!

On returning to the town, a surprise awaited the sindico and his friends. Men, women, and children were running to and fro; the children screaming, the men and women giving utterance to loud shouts and exclamations. There had been a similar fracas on the first alarm of the brigands, but it had subsided as the soldiers started off to ascend the hill. What had caused it to break forth afresh? This was the question hurriedly exchanged between the returning townsmen. Could it be the robbers who had entered from the opposite side, and taken possession of the place? Was the skirmish on the hill only a feint to draw the soldiers out of the town? If so, it had succeeded; and the shouts now heard, with the rushing to and fro, were signs of a general pillage.

With sad hearts, they hastened on into the streets. They soon came in sight of the piazza. A crowd was collected in front of the sindico’s house – another by the albergo. Both were composed of armed men, not in any uniform, but in costumes of varied kind: peasants, proprietors, and men in broad-cloth habiliments of city life, all carrying guns, swords, and pistols. They were not citizens of Val di Orno; they were strangers, as could be seen at a glance. Neither did they appear banditti, though several of the soldiers who had lagged behind were now seen standing in the piazza, guarded as their prisoners! What could it mean? Who could the strangers be?

These questions were answered as the returning townsmen came near enough to distinguish the cries: “Evviva ella Republica! Abasso tyranni! Abasso il Papa!” At the same time a tricoloured flag shot up on its staff, proclaiming to the citizens of Val di Orno that their town was in possession of the Republicans! And so, too, was Rome at that moment. The Pope had fled, and the triumvirate – Mazzini, Saffi, and Aurelli – held rule in the Holy City.

A fresh surprise awaited the sindico on reaching his own house; his son Luigi stood in front of it – one of those who was vociferating the watchword of Liberty.

A hurried greeting passed between father and son. With a quick glance, the latter caught the expression of grief on his father’s countenance.

“What is wrong?” he asked. “There have been brigands here – where is my sister?”

A groan was the answer; this, and a hand raised in the direction of the hills.

“O God!” exclaimed the young man; “too late! Have I come too late? Speak, father! Tell me what has happened – where is Lucetta?”

“Poverina! – mia povera figlia! – gone, Luigi! Borne off by the brigand Corvino!”

The words were gasped out with the choking utterance of grief. The bereaved parent could say no more. He sank into the arms of his son.

“Friends!” cried Luigi Torreani to those who stood around listening; “comrades, I may call you! But for absence in a foreign land, I should have been one of you. I am one of you now, and henceforth. Here is my father, Francesco Torreani, the sindico of this town. You heard what he has said. His daughter – my sister – carried off by the brigands! And that with a hundred soldiers supposed to be protecting the place! This is the protection we get from the valiant defenders of the Holy Faith!”

“Defenders of the devil!” came a voice from the crowd.

“Worse than the brigands themselves,” added another. “I believe they’ve been in league with them all along. That’s why the scoundrels have so often escaped.”

“Quite true!” cried a third. “We know it. They’re in the pay of the Pope and his Majesty of Naples. That’s one of the ways by which our tyrants have controlled us.”

“You will stand by me, then?” said the young artist, his face brightening with hope. “You will help me to recover my sister? I know you will.”

“We will! we will!” answered a score of earnest voices.

“You may depend upon that, Signor Torreani,” said a man of imposing aspect, who was evidently the leader of the Republican troop. “The brigands shall be pursued, and your sister saved, if it be in our power. Nothing shall be left undone. But first we must dispose of these hirelings. See! they are coming down the hill. Into the houses, compagnos! Let us take them by surprise. Here, Stramoni, Giugletta, Paoli! On to the end of the street. Shoot down any one who attempts to go out and give them warning! Inside, compagnos! – in, in!”

In a score of seconds the piazza was cleared of the crowd, the strangers hurrying inside the houses, forcing along with them the soldier-prisoners whom they had taken. Half-a-dozen men hastened towards the suburbs, to cut off any communication that might be attempted between the citizens and soldiery, who were now returning en masse down the mountain slope, their captain at their head. Such of the townsmen as chose were allowed to remain in the streets, with a warning that any attempt at treason, made either by word or sign, would draw the fire of the Republicans upon them. Few of them stood in need of it. Under the administration of such a sindico, there were not many of the inhabitants of Val di Orno who did not secretly exult at the new order of things. They had already hailed with acclamation their deliverers from the city, and were joyed at the prospect of a Republic.

On came Guardiola at the head of his troop. The soldiers were marching in straggling disorder. The captain was not himself in the best of spirits. False as his love had been, he felt bitter chagrin at the girl having been carried away. His own recreance too, there was something to regret about that. Now that the excitement was over, he could not help thinking of it. With soiled shield and trailing pennon, he was returning into the town. He cared little for the sentiment of the citizens; less now that she was no longer among them. But his own followers had been witnesses of his cowardly conduct, and he would hear of it perhaps at headquarters. Captain, subalterns, and troop tramped back towards the town, observing neither rank nor caution. Little did they dream of the trap into which they were advancing. The measures of the Republican leader had been well taken. On each of the four sides of the piazza he had placed a portion of his force – distributed into nearly equal parts. Hidden by the blinds inside, they commanded the whole square, and could rake it with their fire through the windows and doors. The soldiers would have no chance. Once within the piazza they would be at the mercy of the Revolutionists. And into the piazza they came, utterly unconscious of the fate that awaited them. They had noticed the silence pervading the place, and wondered that their comrades, left behind, came not forth to greet them.

They were reflecting on the strangeness of these things when a loud voice, issuing from the inn, summoned them to surrender.

“Rendate, Capitano! Yield up your sword to the soldiers of the Republic!”

“What’s the meaning of this impertinence?” cried Guardiola, facing the albergo, and endeavouring to discover from whom proceeded the voice. “Sergeant,” he continued, “drag that man out into the street, and see that he has a score of blows upon the back – heavily laid on.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the voice, while the laughter was loudly echoed from the four sides of the square, and again the demand was repeated.

The carabineers unslung their firelocks, and faced in different directions, ready to make havoc among the jeering citizens, as they supposed them to be. They only waited for the word to fire into the windows and doors.

“We don’t want to spill your blood,” said the same stentorian voice, speaking from the albergo; “but if you insist upon it, we shall. Soldiers of the Pope! you are surrounded by soldiers of a higher power – the Republic. Your master is no longer in Rome. He has fled to Gaeta. Mazzini rules in the city, and we intend to rule here. You are completely in our power. The first of you that draws a trigger will be answerable for the sacrifice of your whole troop; for we shall not leave a man of you standing. Be wise, then, and surrender, as we tell you. Put down your arms, and we shall treat you as prisoners of war. Use them, and you shall have the treatment you more deserve – that accorded to hirelings and brigands!”

Guardiola and his troop were astounded. What could it mean – this summons so impudently and yet so confidently spoken? They stood irresolute.

“Compagnos!” cried the voice from the albergo, speaking as if from the interior of some Delphian shrine, and loud enough to reach the four sides of the square; “these worthy gentlemen seem to hesitate, as if they doubted the truth of my words. Convince them of it by showing the muzzles of your guns. When they have counted those, perhaps they will be less incredulous.”

Quick following upon this speech came the clanking noise of gun-barrels brought in collision; and, to the consternation of Guardiola and his carabineers, a score of windows around the piazza glistened with dark iron tubes that could not be mistaken for aught else than what they were. There appeared to be at least two hundred. One-fourth of the number would have been sufficient.

The soldiers saw that they were in an ambuscade – that the Revolution, long threatened, had at length come; and, without waiting for the sanction of Captain Guardiola or his subalterns, they flung their carbines to the ground, and declared themselves agreeable to a surrender.

In ten minutes after they were standing under the tricolour flag, and crying “Evviva ella Republica!” while their captain, swordless and looking very uncomfortable, was pacing a chamber floor in the albergo, to which but three days before he had consigned Henry Harding as a prisoner.

He was now himself a prisoner to the soldiers of the Republic.