"THE CHILDREN"
"The Children" were young men, some of them hardly more than boys, who
had followed the Dictator from Italy. They came from all parts of the
Peninsula, but the wide windy Milanese plain supplied most of them. A
curious exaltation reigned in the camp. It was like the mystic aura of a
new religion. One became infected with it after a few hours among the
troops.
They were already veterans in their own opinion, and, feeling that the
eyes of their General was always upon them, they claimed as their
monopoly all desperate ventures, the front rank in stubborn defences,
the rear-guard in retreat, and they died with an "Evviva, Garibaldi!"
upon their lips. One snatched the standard from a falling comrade that
he might carry it closer to the Prussian lines, only in most cases to
fall in his turn under the fatal steadiness of the needle-gun.
The rest of the army of the Vosges fought under the tricolour of France,
but for "Les Enfants" Garibaldi had devised his own emblem. It was
sufficiently striking and characteristic of the man, but in France at
least it only excited astonishment among the masses, and hatred and
contempt among the clerical and aristocratic party, which was at that
time in a great majority in the provinces. The flag was of a vivid
crimson, darker a little than the "Tatter of Scarlet" I had seen go up
at Aramon when the Communards expelled the troops from the town. There
was no device upon it--only the one word in large letters:
"PATATRAC!"
I saw the rustics gazing open-mouthed upon it every day, yet it was a
word admirably descriptive and one which I have heard in frequent use
among the peasant folk of the South. "Patatrac!" or "Patatras!" the
labourer will exclaim when he lets a bucket fall at a stair-head and
hears it go rumbling down. "Patatrac!" a housewife will say when she
describes how a careless maid drops a trayful of crockery. It is the
crashing sound of the fall that is represented, and in this fashion
Garibaldi had been so accustomed to bring down in thunderous earthquake
ruin all the brood of century-old tyrannies.
It was his well-earned boast that he had made the device good against
all comers (except his special _bete noires_ of the Papacy) until the
fell day at Mentana when the French chassepots rather belatedly gave him
as we say at home "his kail through the reek!"
Yet here he was, only five years after, a broken man, fighting for that
same France, just because she had shaken off the yoke of the tyrant and
become a republic.
Wonderful always to hear the soldiers speak of their leader. They did
not cheer him as did the French corps. They clustered close about his
carriage as he moved slowly along, his thin hand, which had so long held
a sword, touching their heads, and his feeble sick man's voice saying:
"My children--oh, my children!"
Neither of his sons accompanied him on these pilgrimages in the shabby
hired barouche in which he drove out every day, but Bordone was always
with him--watchful, stern, and devoted, the real tyrant of the little
army. Menotti and Ricciotti were always with their troops, perhaps from
jealousy of Bordone, perhaps because they had enough to do licking their
raw levies into some manner of fighting shape.
The winter was bitter even among bitter winters, and the snow soon began
to be trampled hard. The troops, continually arriving, were quartered
all over Autun, and in the villages about. Finally the churches had to
be occupied, and though nothing was done there that would not have
happened with any army of occupation, Garibaldi the polluter was cursed
from one end of France to the other as if he had torn down the golden
cross upon St. Peter's dome. Not that it mattered to the old Dictator.
In silence and solitude he made his plans. He read the reports and
dispatches as they came in. He issued his orders through Bordone, before
driving out in the halting ramshackle barouche, sometimes with two
horses, more often with only one. At every halt he spoke a word or two
to the troops as he passed among them, words treasured by the true
"Children" like the oracles of God. Then he would return to his
lodgings, sit down to his bowl of soup, his loaf of bread, and his glass
of water, exactly as if he were on his own island farm within hearing of
the waves breaking on the rocks of Caprera.
We found ourselves among Ricciotti's fourth corps of Guides. We were
sent to the outfitting captain whose quarters were established in a long
hangar overlooking the river. There we found a little rotund man, very
bright of eye and limber of tongue, who fitted us out with many
compliments and bows. We had brought a letter from the commander
himself.
Our first uniform was the gayest ever seen--too picturesque indeed for
sober British tastes. It consisted of a red shirt, blue-grey riding
breeches, and high boots with jingling silver spurs (for which last we
paid from our own purses). On our heads we wore a fascinating "biretta,"
or cap with a tall feather. The captain of outfitting showed us how to
sport it with a conquering air, and with what a grace to swing the short
red cloak over one shoulder so that we should not be able to pass a girl
in Autun who did not turn and look after us.
This was what the master of the stores said as he stood with his back
against the rough pine door-post of his quarters and rubbed his
shoulder-blades luxuriously. But in practice I looked like a carnival
Mephistopheles, while Hugh Deventer's feather generally drooped over one
eye in a drunken fashion. We were not long in suppressing these gauds,
though we did our duty in them as gallopers for several days. Finally we
went to Ricciotti and begged to be allowed to carry our rifles in one of
the foot regiments. We did not want to leave the foreign troops, knowing
something of the ostracism and persecution which would be our part among
the French regiments. So we were allowed to return our chargers to the
remounting officer, and make another visit to the small rotund outfitter
in his wooden barrack by the river. There of all our gallant array we
retained only our red shirts, and for the rest were rigged out in sober
dark blue, a _kepi_ apiece, and a pair of stout marching shoes on our
feet.
We mounted knapsack and haversack, shouldered our Henry rifles, and in
an hour found ourselves established among the first "Etranger," a
Milanese regiment with three or four mountain companies from Valtelline
and the Bergel.
Now it chanced that I had spent some part of my vacations climbing among
the peaks about Promontonio. There I had taken, more as companion than
as guide, a Swiss-Italian, or to be exact "Ladin"--of my own age or a
little older, by the name of Victor Dor. He was a pleasant lad, and we
talked of many things as we shared the contents of our ruek-sacks on the
perilous shoulder of some mountain just a few feet removed from the
overhang of the glacier.
And here and now, with the chevrons of a sergeant, was this same Victor
Dor, who embraced me as if he had been my brother.
"Oh, the happiness to see you!" he cried. "And among the children of our
father. I know you do not come to save the French who shot us down at
Mentana. You are like us. You come because our father calls, and yet to
think of those long days in the Val Bergel when we never knew that we
were brothers. And yet I do not know. You spoke of the Man who was a
Carpenter at Nazareth, and who called his disciples to follow him. So
our father came, and we followed him. Princes and Emperors scatter
honours. Republics give decorations and offices. But look at our lads
lying on the straw yonder. Where will they be in a week? In the hospital
or in the grave? Some of these men are well off at home, others are
poor. No matter! All share alike, and all are equal before our father.
Ah, that is it! You see there is nothing to be gained except the joy of
following him. Our poor dear father Garibaldi, what has he to offer? He
has nothing for himself but a barren isle, and even that he owes to you
English.[1] The liberty of following him, of seeing his face when he
passes by, of hearing his voice as he calls us his children, the pride
of being his very own chosen, who have shared his perils and never
deserted him to the last. These are our rewards. Tell me if they are of
this world?"
[Footnote 1: See Hamerton's "Round my House."]