Engagement with Brigands.
Arrived in Naples, our heroines were quartered in the Molo. This is
an old fortress still used as a barrack in Naples. Its massive,
quadrangular walls were erected in the middle ages, and have withstood
many a desperate siege in the civil wars of Italy.
The detachment from the Messina garrison found the city in a state of
disturbance and confusion. Armed troops paraded the streets, houses
were burning on every side, and bands of revolutionists were running
frantically to and fro through the streets, yelling in the most
unearthly tones their whoops of political antagonism to the Government;
yet it was evident the Government had the upper hand, and the mob
was gradually dispersing; they fled from the city, and order was
restored. In the meantime word was received in Naples that a large
body of these ruffians had settled themselves on the sides of Vesuvius,
and supported themselves by the wholesale plunder and pillage of the
farms and villages on the slopes of the hill. An order was immediately
given that two hundred men should march to the mountain to destroy
this band of brigands. The company selected was that belonging to
Charles and Henry.
The next day found our young heroines on the road to the field of
battle. We can fancy the position and thoughts of those tender,
delicate girls, marching side by side with the rough, bearded soldiers
of Italy--the one rejoicing in the wild dream of her foolish ambition;
the other trembling in her timid heart, and dragged into scenes she
loathed by the irresistible chain of affection which bound her to her
sister.
No wonder the tender frame of girlhood yielded to the severity of the
march--for amongst those who were first to fail was the amiable Henry;
yet there were amongst the troops men whose constitutions were
shattered by the excesses of their youth, and Henry became less
remarkable as a young officer when stalwart men who had felt ere then
the fatigues of war were falling at her side. Charles hired a loose
horse in one of the villages they passed through, and thus arrived
fresh and strong at the place of encampment, a few miles from the
stronghold of the brigands. Henry came up in the afternoon, accompanied
by about thirty men who, like herself, failed under the fatigues of
the march.
Rest under the circumstances was impossible. The brigands were all
around and no one could tell the moment of attack. Some men were sent
on as scouts to explore the hillside; they never returned. This was
sufficient indication of an ambuscade and the captain bravely determined
to march his whole force at once into their hiding-place, knowing,
when they were once surprised, they had no shelter afterwards.
Those who have been to Mount Vesuvius, and who have had the hardihood
to seek the exquisite Lacryma produced on the southwester slopes of
the hill, will remember a peculiar ravine running for nearly a mile
from the sandy part of the cone, and covered with a stunted green
bush of fern-like leaves. It is the nearest green spot to the calcined
cone. It assumes a gentle declivity towards the sea, and is then lost
in the beautiful vineyards and gardens that cover the slopes of the
mountain down to the houses of Torre del Greco. The view from this
spot is magnificent. On the left is the beautiful town of Sorento,
with houses as white as snow, running in detached villas along the
sea-shore up to the smoky and roofless walls of Pompeii, whose unsightly
ruins lend contrast to the scene around. The azure bay seems to borrow
more of the blue of heaven as it stretches far away to the horizon;
the little steamers and innumerable yachts that ply between the islands
give the scene animation and variety. Around to the right we have the
classic hills of Baia, the Campo Santo in its fantastic architecture,
and then the green and leafy plains of the Campo Felice; beneath, the
great city with its four hundred thousand souls, its red tiles and
irregular masses of brick-work, contrasting with the gilded domes of
the superb churches; and above, the terrible cone, vomiting forth its
sulfurous smoke and darkening the sky with clouds of its own creation.
The view that can be had from this place, and the interesting history
of every inch of the country around, render it one of the most romantic
spots in the world. But, alas! it is now, as it was two hundred years
ago, the home and retreat of those desperate Italian robbers known
as brigands. Woe betide the incautious traveller whom curiosity leads
through the vineyards of that lonely scene! The deeds of its outlawed
and daring inhabitants would fill volumes. It was here, too, as far
as we can learn, our heroines found their field of battle.
The troops had scarcely entered this ravine when a sharp, shrill whistle
rang from one side of the mountain to the other. Immediately human
voices were heard on all sides, repeating in every pitch of tone, from
bass to soprano, the word "Rione." For several minutes the mountain
echoed with the weird sound of the brigand war-cry; the troops were
ordered to stand in readiness, and timid hearts like Henry's quailed
at the awful moment.
The earth rumbled under their feet, and dark, bluish columns of smoke
curled in the air from the terrible cone; the sun was setting over the
beautiful Bay of Naples in the color of blood, and the air was
impregnated with the fumes of sulphur. The wilderness of the spot,
and nature's terrors convulsing the elements around, made, indeed,
the moment before battle a dreadful moment for the delicate children
of the French banker.
A few minutes, and the battle was at its height. A long and dreadful
contest ensued. The numbers were about equal on both sides.
Fortunately, the brigands had not time to muster all at once, and the
royalist troops met them in small but desperate bands. No sooner was
one defeated than another and another poured down from the sides of
the mountain and disputed every inch of the way. The brigands fought
bravely, but were outnumbered, and towards midnight the bloodshed
ceased. All sounds had died away save the groans of the wounded and
dying, and now and then a solitary whoop of a brigand chief from the
distant hills, calling together the few straggling and scattered bands
of rebels.
The moment the heat of the combat was over the first thought that struck
Charles was to look for Henry. They were separated in the confusion
of the fight. She ran through the men, but could not find her. Here
and there she could discern in the pale light of a clouded moon some
knot of soldiers binding up their wounds and recounting their escapes
and their triumphs. She hurriedly ran through them, enquiring for her
brother-officer, but none knew anything of her. She scanned every
feature, she called her in every group, but in vain--no Henry was
there. The awful thought struck her--and her heart nearly broke under
its pang--perhaps she is killed! She flew across the bloody path they
had passed; her mournful and shrill cry of "Enrico!" rolled over the
bodies of the slain, and was echoed again and again with plaintive
intensity from the surrounding hills. Sometimes she even fancied the
dying echo of her own shrill cry was the feeble answer of her wounded
sister; and when she would pause to listen again, the valley around
was wrapt in the stillness of death. At length she came to the spot
where the battle first commenced, and there, with a shriek that was
heard in the distant encampment, she found among the first victims of
that bloody night the lifeless corpse of her sister.