Майн Рид
The Finger of Fate: A Romance
Chapter Twenty Six
An Unceremonious Dismissal
The side conversation between General Harding and his son was at length suspended by the old soldier facing abruptly towards the stranger, who all the while had been standing quietly apart.
“You’re an impostor, sir!” exclaimed the General. “An impostor, I say!”
“Molte grazie, Signor General!” replied the man, without making other movement than a mock bow. “Rather an uncomplimentary epithet to apply to one who has come all the way from Italy to do you a service, or rather your son. Is this all the answer I’m to take back to him?”
“If you take any back to him, that’s it,” interposed Nigel. “Do you know, sir,” he continued in a threatening manner; “do you know that you’ve placed yourself within the power of our laws; that you can be arrested, and thrown into prison for an attempt to extort money under false pretences?”
“His excellence, the General, will not have me arrested. First, because there are no false pretences; and, second, that to do so would be certainly to seal your son’s doom. The moment the news should reach those who have him in their keeping, that I’ve been arrested or otherwise molested here in England, that moment will he be punished far more than you can punish me. You must remember that I am only a messenger, who have taken upon me the delivery of this letter. I know nothing of those who sent it, except in the way of my profession, and in the cause of humanity. I am as much your son’s messenger as theirs. I can only assure you, Signor General, that it is a serious mission; and that your son’s life depends on my safety, and the answer you may vouchsafe to send back.”
“Bah!” exclaimed the old soldier, “don’t tell a cock-and-bull tale to an Englishman. I don’t believe a word of it. If I did, I’d take a different way of delivering my son from such a danger. Our government would soon interfere on my behalf, and then instead of five thousand pounds, your beautiful brigands would get what they deserve, and what I wonder they haven’t had long ago – six feet of rope around each of their necks.”
“I fear, Signor General, you are labouring under a false delusion. Allow me to set you right on this question. Your government can be of no service to you in this affair, nor all the governments of Europe to boot. It is not the first time such threats have been used against the freebooters in question. Neither the Neapolitan Government, in whose land they live, nor that of his Holiness, upon whose territory they occasionally intrude, can coerce them, if ever so inclined. There is but one way to obtain the release of your son – by paying the ransom demanded for him.”
“Begone, wretch!” shouted the General, losing all patience at the pleading of the procuratore. “Begone! out of my house! Off my premises instantly, or I shall order my servant to drag you to the horse-pond. Begone, I say!”
“And you would rue it if you did,” spitefully rejoined the little Italian, as he edged off towards the door. “Buona notte, Signor General! Perhaps by the morning you will have recovered your temper, and think better of my errand. If you have any message to send to your son – whom it is not very likely you will ever see again – I shall take it upon myself to transmit it for you, notwithstanding the uncourteous treatment, of which, as a gentleman, I have the right to complain. I stay at the neighbouring inn all night, and will not be gone before twelve o’clock tomorrow. Buona notte! buona notte!”
So saying the swarthy little stranger backed out of the room, and, conducted by the butler, was not very courteously shown into the night.
The General stood still, his beard bristling with passion. For a time he seemed irresolute, as to whether he should have the stranger detained, and punished in some summary way. But he thought of the family scandal, and restrained himself.
“You won’t write to Henry?” asked Nigel, in a tone that said, “don’t.”
“Not a line. If he has got into a scrape for want of money, let him get out of it again, the best way he can. As to this story about brigands – ”
“Oh, that’s too absurd,” insinuated Nigel; “the brigands into whose hands he has fallen are the gamblers and swindlers of Rome. They have no doubt employed this lawyer, if he be one, to carry out their scheme – certainly a cunningly-contrived one, whoever originated it.”
“Oh, my son! my wretched son!” exclaimed the General; “to think he has fallen into the hands of such associates! To think he could lend himself to a conspiracy like this, and against his own father! Oh, God!”
And the old soldier uttered a groan of agony, as he sank down upon the sofa.
“Had I not better write to him, father?” asked Nigel. “Just a line to say how much his conduct is grieving you? Perhaps a word of counsel may yet reclaim him.”
“If you like – if you like – though after such an experience as this I feel there is little hope of him. Ah, Lucy! Lucy! it is well you are not here, and that God has taken you to himself. My poor wife! my poor wife! this would have killed you!”
The apostrophe was spoken in a low, muttered tone, and after Nigel had left the room – the latter having gone out apparently with the intention of writing the letter intended to reclaim his erring brother.
It was written that night, and that night reached the hands of the strange procurator, to whom it was entrusted for delivery; and who, next day, true to his word, remained at the roadside inn till the hour of twelve, to receive any further communication. After midday he was seen driving off in the inn “fly” toward the Slough Station; thence to be transported by rail and steam to his home in the Seven-hilled City.
Chapter Twenty Seven
Brigand Domestic Life
For several days Henry Harding was kept confined in his cell, without seeing a face, except that of the brigand who brought him his food – always the same individual.
This man was a morose wretch, and as uncommunicative as if he had been an automaton. Twice a day he would bring in the bowl of pasta– a sort of macaroni porridge boiled in bacon fat, and seasoned with salt and pepper. He would place the vessel upon the floor, take away the empty one that had contained the previous meal, and then leave the captive to himself, without saying a word to him.
The repeated attempts of the young Englishman to bring him to a parley were met either by complete inattention or rude repulse. Seeing this, they were abandoned; and the captive ate his pasta, and drank his cold water in silence.
Only at night was there quiet in his cell. All day long, through the slender-slit window, came noise enough. Just in front of it seemed to be the favourite loitering place of the brigands, where they passed most of their time. This was spent almost exclusively in gambling, except during intervals when quarrelling took the place of playing. Those intervals were not rare. Scarce an hour elapsed without some dispute, ending either in a fight between two individuals, or a general row, in which more than half the band appeared to take part. Then would be heard the voice of the capo, thundering in authoritative tones, as he delivered curses and cudgel blows right and left among the quarrellers.
Once there was a report of a pistol, followed by groans. The young Englishman believed that a summary punishment had been inflicted on some offender: for after the groans there was an interval of solemn stillness, such as might be observed in the presence of death. If such were the dread impression upon the scoundrels it did not last long: for soon after they were heard resuming play, and the cries, “Cinque y cinque o capo,” and “Vinti y vinti croce!” the game being that common among the Italian peasantry called, “Croce o capo” and which differs but little from the English “Heads or tails.”
By standing on tiptoe, the prisoner could see them playing at it. The gaming-table was simply a level spot of turf in front of his cell, and nearly opposite the window. The brigands knelt or squatted in a ring: one held an old hat from which the lining had been torn out. In this were placed a number of coins, odd – usually three. These were first rattled about the hat, and then thrown down upon the turf; the hat, as a dice-box, still covering them. The bets were then made upon capo or croce (head or cross), and the raising of the hat determined who were winners or losers.
It is in this game that the bandits find their chief source of distraction, from a life that would otherwise be unendurable, even to such ruffians as they. Capo o croce, with an occasional quarrel over it; plenty of pasta, confetti, fat mutton, cheeses, roccate, and rosolio; a festa when wine and provisions are plenty; songs usually of the most vulgar kind; now and then a dance, accompanied by some coarse flirting with the half-dozen women who usually keep company with a banda– these, and long hours of listless basking in the sun, compose the joys of the Italian brigand’s domestic life.
When on a foray to the peopled plains, he finds excitement of an altogether different character. The surprise, the capture, the escape from pursuing soldiers, perhaps an occasional skirmish while retreating to his hill fortress – these are the incidents that occur to him on a plundering expedition: and they are sufficiently stirring to keep his spirit from suffering ennui.
This last only steals upon him when the divided plunder, which is generally in the shape of denaro di riscatta (ransom money), has by the inexorable chances of the capo o croce become consolidated in a few hands – the universal result of the game.
Then does the bandit become dissatisfied with listless idleness, and commences to plan new surprises; the sack of some rich villa, or what is much more to his mind, the capture of some galantuomo, or gentleman, by whose ransom his purse may be again replenished, again to be staked upon “Heads or tails.”
Unseen himself, the young Englishman had an excellent opportunity of studying the life of these lawless men.
Between them and their chief there appeared to be but slight distinction. As a general rule the spoils were shared alike, as also the chances of the game; for Corvino could at any time be seen in the ring, along with the rest, staking his piastres on the capo or croce.
His authority was only absolute in the administration of punishment. His kick and cudgel were never disputed; for, if they had been, it was well understood these modes of castigation would be instantly changed for a stab of his stiletto, or a shot from his pistol.
His chieftainship may have been derived from his being the originator of the band, but it was kept up and sustained by his being its bully. A chief of low courage, or less cruelty, would soon have been dispossessed, as not unfrequently happens among the banditi.
One thing caused Henry Harding much wonder, as, standing on tiptoe, he looked out of the little window – the women, the bandite.
In the band there was nearly a score of these ladies. He had at first taken them for boys – beardless members of the gang! There was but little in their dress to distinguish them from the men. They wore the same polka jacket, vest, and pantaloons, only with a greater profusion of ornaments around their necks, and a larger number of rings upon their fingers.
Some of them were absolutely loaded with jewels of all kinds – pearls, topazes, rubies, turquoise-stones, even diamonds sparkling among the rest – the spoils drawn from the delicate fingers of many a rich signorina.
The hair of all was close cropped, like that of the men; while several carried poignards or pistols, so that only by a certain rotundity of form could they be distinguished from their male companions, and not all of them by this. They were not allowed to take part in the gaming, as they never got share of the riscatta. For all that, most of them shared in the perils of every enterprise, accompanying the men on their expeditions.
At home they laid aside the carbine to take up the needle; though they were seldom called upon to wet their fingers in the washing-tub. That is regarded as an occupation beneath the dignity of a bandita; and is left to the wives of those peasants in communication with the band, and who are termed manutangoli, or “helpers.” These are well paid for the labour of the laundry – a clean shirt costing the bandit almost the price of a new one! It was not often that any of Corvino’s band cared to incur the expense; only its damerini or dandies, and they only upon the occasion of a festa.
Most of these observations were made by the English captive, during the first few days of his captivity. He saw many strange scenes through the little window of his cell. He might have seen more, had the window been lower in the wall; but, high up as it was, he was obliged to stand on tiptoe, and this becoming tiresome after a time, he only assumed the irksome attitude when some scene more exciting than common summoned him from his lair of dried fern-leaves.
Chapter Twenty Eight
Unpleasant Information
Several days had elapsed without any change either in the prisoner’s prospects or situation. He had come to the conclusion that his capture was no longer a farce, nor his imprisonment likely soon to terminate. The stories of brigand life he had heard told during his short sojourn in Rome, and which like others of his incredulous countrymen he had been loth to believe, were no longer doubted. He was himself a sad example of their reality, and could almost feet angry at his friend Luigi for having given him that letter of introduction, which had introduced him to such a pitiful dilemma. It was still upon his person; for, beyond robbing him of his slender purse and other metallic movables, the brigands had left everything untouched.
By way of passing the time, he took the letter out and re-read it. One paragraph, which he had scarcely noticed before, now particularly impressed him. “I suppose my sister Lucetta will by this time be a big girl. Take good care of her till I come back, when I hope I shall be able to carry all of you out of that danger we dreaded.”
When Henry Harding first read these words on his way to Rome – for the letter of introduction was an open one – he thought nothing of their signification. He supposed it could only refer to the straitened circumstances of his family which the young artist expected at some time to relieve, by the proceeds of his successful pencil. Besides, Belle Mainwaring was too much in his mind to leave room for more than a passing thought of anything else, even for the little sister of Luigi, big as she might be at the writing of the letter – since still unknown.
Now, however, reflecting in his lone cell, with the image of that fair face first seen on the day of his captivity, and since constantly recurring to his thoughts, he began to shape out a different interpretation to the ambiguous phrase. What if the danger spoken of was less of poverty than peril – such, in short, as appeared to threaten that young girl, the daughter of the village sindico? To reflect even upon this gave the captive pain. How much more would he have been pained to think that the sister of his dear friend, Luigi Torreani was in like peril.
Sunset, declaring itself by the increasing gloom of his cell, caused him to refold the letter, and return it to his pocket. He was still pondering upon its contents, when voices outside the window attracted his attention. He listened – anything to vary the monotony of his prison life – even the idle talk of a brace of bandits; for it was two of these who were speaking outside. In less than ten seconds after he was listening with all his ears; for in the midst of their conversation he fancied he heard a name that was known to him.
He had just been thinking of Luigi Torreani. This was not the name that passed from the lips of the bandit; but one of like signification – Lucetta. He knew it was the name of Luigi’s sister, of which he had just been reminded by the letter.
Henry Harding had often heard his friend speak of this sister – his only one. It was not strange, therefore, he should listen with quickened attention; and so did he, grasping the solitary bar of his window, and placing his ear close up to the sill. True there might be scores of Lucettas in that part of the country; but, for all this, he could not help listening with eager interest.
“She’ll be our next riscatta,” said the brigand who had pronounced the name; “you may make up your mind to that.”
“E por che?” inquired the other. “The old sindico, with all his proud name and his syndicate to boot, hasn’t enough to pay ransom for a rat. What would be the object of such a capture?”
“Object! Ah, that concerns the capo, not us. All I know is that the girl has taken his fancy. I saw it as we passed through the town the other night. I believe he’d have then carried her off, only for fear of Popetta. She’s a she-devil, is the signora; and, though generally she takes kindly to her kicks and puffings, she wouldn’t if there was a woman in the case. Don’t you remember when we had the dancing-bout down in the valley of Main? What a row there was between our captain and his cara sposa!”
“I remember. What was it all about? I never heard?”
“About a bit of kissing. Our capo was inclined upon a girl; that coquettish little devil, the daughter of the old charcoal-burner Poli. The girl seemed kindly. He had slipped a charm round her neck, and I believe had kissed her. Whether he did that or no, I won’t be certain, but the charm was seen and recognised by the signora. She plucked it from the girl’s neck; as she did so almost dragging her off her feet. Then came the scene with the capo.”
“She drew a stiletto upon him, did she not?”
“Ay, and would have used it, too, if he had not made some excuse, and turned the thing into a laugh. That pacified her. What a fury she was while the fit was on her. Cospetto! Her eyes glittered like hot lava from Vesuvius.”
“The girl stole away, I think?”
“That did she, and a good thing for her she did; though if she had stayed I don’t think Corvino would have dared look at her again that night. I never saw him cowed before. He lost both his sweetheart and his gold charm; for his Cara Popetta appropriated that to herself, and wears it regularly whenever he holds festa among the peasant girls, by way of reminder, I suppose.”
“Did the captain ever see Poli’s daughter again?”
“Well, some of us think he did. But you remember, after you left us we moved away from that part of the country? The soldiers became too troublesome about there, and there was a whisper that the signora had something to do with making the place too hot for us. After all, I don’t think Corvino cared for the carbonero’s daughter. It was only a short-lived fancy, because the girl showed sweet upon him. This of the sindico’s chicken is a very different affair; for I know he’s fond of going in that direction, and shouldn’t wonder if we get into danger by it. Danger or no danger, he’ll have her sooner or later, take my word for it.”
“I don’t wonder at his fancy; she a sweet-looking girl. One likes her all the better for being so proud upon it.”
“Her pride will have a fall, once Corvino gets her in his clutches. He’s just the man to tame such shy damsels as she.”
“Povera! it is a pity, too.”
“Bah, you’re a fool, Thomasso. Your sojourn in the Pope’s prison has spoilt you for our life, I fear. What are we poor fellows to do, if we don’t have a sweetheart now and then? Chased liked wolves, why shouldn’t we take a slice of lamb when we can get it? Who can blame the capo for liking a little bit of tender chick? And such a sweet bit as Lucetta Torreani.”
Henry Harding, who had been all this time listening with disgust to the dialogue between the two brigands, felt as if a huge stone had struck him. The presentment that had just commenced shaping itself in his mind appeared all at once to be circumstantially confirmed. The young girl spoken of was Lucetta Torreani. It could be no other than the sister of Luigi, whom he had seen standing in the balcony at Val di Orno, and who so often since had been occupying his thoughts.
It was a singular collocation or coincidence of circumstances, and painful as singular. Under the blow, he relaxed his hold of the bar, and staggering back, sank down upon the floor of his cell.
