It was high summer again, and the Roman shore was feverish. In the hot
afternoon Ercole had tramped along the shore with his dog at his heels
as far as Torre San Lorenzo to have a chat with the watchman. They sat
in the shade of the tower, smoking little red clay pipes with long
wooden stems. The chickens walked about slowly, evidently oppressed by
the heat and by a general lack of interest in life, since not a single
grain of maize from the morning feed remained to be discovered on the
disused brick threshing-floor or in the sand that surrounded it. From
some dark recess came the occasional grunt of the pig, attending in
solitude to the business of getting fat before October. Now and then the
watchman's wife moved a chair in the lower room of the tower, or made a
little clatter with some kitchen utensils, and the sounds came out to
the solitude sharply and distinctly.
There had been a flat calm for several days. Forty yards below the tower
the sea lay along the sandy beach like a strip of glistening white
glass, beyond which was a broader band of greenish blue that did not
glitter; and beyond that, the oily water stretched out to westward in an
unending expanse of neutral tints, arabesqued with current streaks and
struck right across by the dazzling dirty-white blaze of the August sun.
Swarms of flies chased each other where the two men sat, settled on
their backs and dusty black hats, tried to settle on their faces and
were brushed away, crawled on the ground, on the walls, even on the
chickens, and on the rough coat of Nino, the dog. He followed the
motions of those he saw before him with one bloodshot eye; the other
seemed to be fast asleep.
From time to time the men exchanged a few words. Ercole had apparently
come over to enjoy the novelty of seeing a human being, and Padre
Francesco, the watchman, was glad to talk with some one besides his
wife. He enjoyed the title of "Padre," because he had once been master
of a small martingane that traded between Civit‡ Vecchia and the south.
In still earlier days he had been in deep water and had been boatswain
of a square-rigger, yet there was nothing about his appearance now to
show that he had been a sailor man. It was ten years since he had left
the sea, and he had turned into a peasant.
Ercole had told Padre Francesco that the second hay crop had been half
spoilt by thunderstorms; also that the price of wine in Ardea had gone
up, while the price of polenta had remained the same; also that a wild
boar had broken out of the king's preserves near Nettuno and was
supposed to be wandering in the brush not far away; also that if Ercole
and Nino found him they would kill him, and that there would be a feast.
Padre Francesco observed that his wife understood the cooking of wild
boar with vinegar, sugar, pine-nuts, and sweet herbs, and that he
himself knew how to salt the hams; he had also salted the flesh of
porpoises at sea, more than once, and had eaten pickled dog-fish, which
he considered to be nothing but young sharks, in the West Indies. This
did not interest Ercole much, as he had heard it before, and he smoked
in silence for a while. So did Padre Francesco; and both brushed away
the flies. Nino rolled one bloodshot eye at his master, every time the
latter moved; and it grew excessively hot, and the air smelt of
chickens, rotten seaweed, and the pig. Yet both men were enjoying
themselves after a fashion, though Ercole distrusted Padre Francesco, as
he distrusted all human beings, and Padre Francesco looked upon Ercole
as a person having no knowledge of the world, because he had never eaten
pickled dog-fish in the West Indies.
After a time, Padre Francesco remembered a piece of news which he had
not yet told, cleared his throat, stirred the contents of his pipe with
the point of a dangerous-looking knife, and looked at his companion for
a full minute.
"Speak," said Ercole, who understood these premonitory signs.
"There has been one here who asked after you," Padre Francesco began.
"What species of Christian?" inquired Ercole.
"He was at the cottage when the blessed soul of the Signora departed, or
just before that. It is a big gentleman with a brown beard and bright
eyes. He looks for things in the sand and in the bushes and amongst the
seaweed. Who knows what he looks for? Perhaps he looks for gold."
"Or the souls of his dead," suggested Ercole with fine irony. "But I
know this Signore who was at the cottage, with the brown beard and the
bright eyes. He sometimes came to shoot quail. He also killed some. He
is a professor of wisdom."
"He asked if I knew you, but of course I said I did not. Why should he
ask? How could I know what he wanted of you. I said that I had never
heard of you."
"You did well. Those who have business with me know where to find me.
What else did he say?"
"He asked if I had seen the young gentleman this year, and he told me
that he had not seen him since the night before he was lost. So then I
knew that he was a gentleman of some kind, since he had been at the
cottage. I also asked if your masters were never coming to the Roman
shore again."
"What did he answer?" inquired Ercole, with an air of utter
indifference.
"He said an evil thing. He said that your young gentleman had gone off
to foreign countries with a pretty peasant from Frascati, whose name was
Regina; that it was she who had nursed him when he was ill, in some inn,
and that out of gratitude, and because she was very pretty, he had
given her much money, and silk dresses and earrings. That is what he
said."
Ercole gazed down at Nino's bloodshot eye, which was turned to him just
then.
"A girl called Regina," Ercole grumbled, in a tone even harsher than
usual.
"That is what he said. Why should he tell me one thing for another? He
said that your young gentleman would perhaps come back when he was tired
of Regina. And he laughed. That is all."
A low growl from Nino interrupted the conversation. It was very low and
long and then rose quickly and ended in a short bark, as the dog
gathered his powerful hindquarters suddenly and raised himself,
bristling all over and thrusting his sinewy forepaws out before him.
Then the growl began again, but Ercole touched him lightly with the toe
of his hob-nailed boot, and the dog was instantly silent. Both men
looked about, but no one was to be seen.
"There is a boat on the beach," said Padre Francesco, who had caught the
faint soft sound of the keel running upon the sand.
They both rose, Ercole picking up his gun as he did so; Nino, seeing
that his master was on the alert, slunk to his heels without growling
any more. A moment later a man's voice was heard calling on the other
side of the tower.
"Hi! Watchman of the tower! A favour! Watchman of the tower! Hi!"
Padre Francesco turned the corner, followed by Ercole. A sailor in
scanty ragged clothes and the remains of a rush hat was standing
barefoot in the burning sand, with an earthen jug in his hand. A
battered boat, from which all traces of paint had long since
disappeared, was lying with her nose buried in the sand, not moving in
the oily water. Another man was in her, very much like the first in
looks.
On seeing Nino at Ercole's heels, the man who was ashore drew back with
an exclamation, as if he were going to run away, but Ercole spoke in a
reassuring tone.
"Be not afraid," he said. "This dog does not eat Christians. He gets
enough to eat at home. He is not a dog, he is a lamb, and most
affectionate."
"It is an evil beast," observed the sailor, looking at Nino. "I am
afraid."
"What do you desire?" inquired Padre Francesco politely. "Is it water
that you wish?"
"As a favour," answered the man, seeing that the dog did not fly at him.
"A little water to drink. We have been pulling all day; it is hot, and
we have drunk what we had."
"Come with me," said Padre Francesco. "Where is your vessel?"
"At Fiumicino. The master sent us on an errand to Porto d'Anzio last
night and we are going back."
"It is a long pull," observed the watchman. "Tell the other man to come
ashore and rest in the shade. I also have been to sea. The water is not
very good here, but what there is you shall have."
"Thank you," said the man gratefully, and giving Nino a very wide berth
as he followed Padre Francesco. "We could have got some water at the
Incastro creek, but it would have been the same as drinking the fever."
"May the Madonna never will that you drink of it," said Padre Francesco,
as they reached the shady side of the tower. "I see that you know the
Roman shore."
"It is our business," replied the man, taking off his ragged rush hat,
and rubbing his still more ragged blue cotton sleeve over his wet
forehead. "We are people of the sea, bringing wine and lemons to Civit‡
Vecchia and taking charcoal back. Evil befall this calm weather."
"And when it blows from the west-southwest we say, evil befall this time
of storm," said Padre Francesco, nodding wisely. "Be seated in the
shade. I will fetch water."
"And also let us drink here, so that we may take the jug away full."
"You shall also drink here." The old watchman went into the tower.
"The last time I passed this way, it was in a west-southwest gale," said
the man, addressing Ercole, who had sat down in his old place with his
dog at his feet.
"It is an evil shore," Ercole answered. "Many vessels have been lost
here."
"We were saved by a miracle that time," said the sailor, who seemed
inclined to talk. "I was with a brigantine with wine for Marseilles.
That vessel was like a rock in the sea, she would not move with less
than seven points of the wind in fair weather. We afterwards went to Rio
Janeiro, and it was two years before we got back."
"So it was two years ago that you passed?" inquired Ercole.
"Two years ago May or the beginning of June. She was so low in the water
that she would have swamped if we had tried to carry on sail, and with
the sail she could carry she could make no headway; so there we were,
hove to under lower topsail and balance-reefed mainsail and storm-jib,
with a lee shore less than a mile away. We recommended ourselves to the
saints and the souls of purgatory, and our captain said to us, 'My fine
sons, unless the wind shifts in half an hour we must run her ashore and
save the cargo!' That is what he said. But I said that I knew this Roman
shore from a boy, and that sometimes there was no bar at the mouth of
the Incastro, so that a vessel might just slip into the pool where the
reeds grow. You certainly know the place."
"I know it well," said Ercole.
"Yes. So I pointed out the spot to our captain, standing beside him, and
he took his glasses and looked to see whether the sea was breaking on
the bar."
"The bar has not been open since I came here," said Padre Francesco,
returning with water. "And that is ten years."
The men drank eagerly, one after the other, and there was silence. The
one who had been speaking wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and
drew a long breath of satisfaction.
"No, I daresay not," he said at last. "The captain looked all along the
shore for a better place. Then he saw a bad thing with his glasses; for
they were fine glasses, and though he was old, he had good sight. And I
stood beside him, and he told me what he saw while he was looking."
"What did he see?" asked Ercole, watching the man.
"What did he see? I tell you it was a bad sight! Health to us all, as
many as are here, he saw one man kill another and drag his body into
some bushes."
"Apoplexy!" observed Ercole, glancing at Padre Francesco. "Are there
brigands here?"
"I tell you what the captain said. 'There are two men,' said he, 'and
they are like gentlemen by their dress.' 'They shoot quail,' said I,
knowing the shore. 'They have no guns,' said he. Then he cried out,
keeping his glasses to his eyes and steadying himself by the weather
vang. 'God be blessed,' he cried--for he never said an evil word, that
captain,--'one of those gentlemen has struck the other on the back of
the head and killed him! And now he drags his body away towards the
bushes.' And he saw nothing more, but he showed me the place, where
there is a gap in the high bank. Afterwards he said he thought he had
seen a woman too, and that it must have been an affair of jealousy."
Ercole and Padre Francesco looked at each other in silence for a moment.
"Did you hear of no murder at that time?" asked the sailor, taking up
the earthen jar full of water.
"We heard nothing," said Ercole promptly.
"Nothing," echoed Padre Francesco. "The captain was dreaming. He saw
trees moving in the wind."
"Don Antonino had good eyes," answered the sailor incredulously.
"What was the name of your vessel?" asked Padre Francesco.
"The _Papa_" replied the sailor without a smile. "She was called
_Papa_."
Ercole stared at him a moment and then laughed; and he laughed so rarely
that it distorted the yellow parchment of his face as if it must crack
it. The sound of his laughter was something like the creaking of a cart
imitated by a ventriloquist. But Padre Francesco knit his bushy brows,
for he thought the sailor was making game of him, who had been boatswain
on a square-rigger.
"I went to sea for thirty years," he said, "but I never heard of a
vessel called the _Papa_. You have said a silly thing. I have given you
water to drink, and filled your jar. It is not courtesy to jest at men
older than you."
"Excuse me," answered the man politely. "May it never be that I should
jest at such a respectable man as you seem to be; and, moreover, you
have filled the jar with your own hands. The brigantine was called as I
say. And if you wish to know why, I will tell you. She was built by two
rich brothers of Torre Annunziata, who wished much good to their papa
when he was old and no longer went to sea. Therefore, to honour him,
they called the vessel the _Papa_. This is the truth."
Lest this should seem extravagantly unlikely to the readers of this
tale, I shall interrupt the conversation to say that I knew the _Papa_
well, that "she" was built and christened as the sailor said, and that
her name still stood on the register of Italian shipping a few years
ago. She was not a brigantine, however, but a larger vessel, and she was
bark-rigged; and she was ultimately lost in port, during a hurricane.
"We have learned something to-day," observed Ercole, when the man had
finished speaking.
"It is true," the man said. "And the name of the captain was Don
Antonino Maresca. He was of Vico."
"Where is Vico?" inquired Ercole, idly scratching his dog's back with
the stock of his gun.
"Near Castellamare," answered Padre Francesco, willing to show his
knowledge.
"One sees that you are a man of the sea," said the sailor, meaning to
please him. "And so we thank you, and we go."
Ercole and the old watchman saw the two ragged sailors put off in the
battered boat and pull away over the bar; then they went back to the
shade of the tower and sat down again and refilled their pipes, and were
silent for a long time. Padre Francesco's old wife, who had not shown
herself yet, came and stood in the doorway, nodded to Ercole, fanned
herself with her apron, counted the chickens in sight, and observed that
the weather was hot. Then she went in again.
"It is easy to remember the name of that ship," said Ercole at last,
without glancing at his companion.
"And the master was Antonino Maresca of Vico," said Padre Francesco.
"But the truth is that it is none of our business," said Ercole.
"The captain was mistaken," said Padre Francesco.
"He saw trees moving in the wind," said Ercole.
Then they looked at each other and nodded.
"Perhaps the Professor was mistaken about the girl, and the silk dress
and the gold earrings," suggested Padre Francesco, turning his eyes
away.
"He was certainly mistaken," asserted Ercole, watching him closely. "And
moreover it is none of our business."
"None whatever."
They talked of other things, making remarks at longer and longer
intervals, till the sun sank near the oily sea, and Ercole took his
departure, much wiser in regard to Marcello's disappearance than when he
had come. He followed the long beach for an hour till he came to the gap
in the bank. There he stopped, and proceeded to examine the place
carefully, going well inside it, and then turning to ascertain exactly
where Marcello must have been when he was struck, since at that moment
he must have been distinctly visible from the brigantine. The gap was so
narrow that it was not hard to fix upon the spot where the deed had been
done, especially as the captain had seen Marcello dragged quickly away
towards the bushes. Every word of the sailor's story was stamped with
truth; and so it came about that when Corbario believed himself at last
quite safe, a man in his own pay suddenly discovered the whole truth
about the attempted crime, even to the name of the principal witness.
It was only in the quail season, when there were poachers about, during
April, May, and early June, that Ercole lived in his straw hut, a little
way from the cottage. He spent the rest of the year in a small stone
house that stood on a knoll in sight of Ardea, high enough to be
tolerably safe from the deadly Campagna fever. Every other day an old
woman from the village brought him a copper conca full of water; once a
month she came and washed for him. When he needed supplies he went to
Ardea for them himself. His dwelling was of elementary simplicity,
consisting of two rooms, one above the other, with grated windows and
heavy shutters. In the lower one he cooked and ate, in the upper chamber
he slept and kept his few belongings, which included a plentiful supply
of ammunition, his Sunday clothes, his linen, and his papers. The latter
consisted of a copy of his certificate of birth, his old military
pass-book, showing that he had served his time in an infantry regiment,
had been called in for six weeks' drill in the reserve, had been a
number of years in the second reserve, and had finally been discharged
from all military service. This booklet serves an Italian throughout
life as a certificate of identity, and is necessary in order to obtain a
passport to leave the country. Ercole kept his, with two or three other
yellow papers, tied up in an old red cotton handkerchief in the bottom
of the chest that held his clothes.
When he got home after his visit to Padre Francesco he took the package
out, untied the handkerchief, and looked through all the papers, one by
one, sitting by the grated window in the twilight. He could read, and
had once been able to write more or less intelligibly, and he knew by
heart the contents of the paper he wanted, though he had not unfolded it
for years. He now read it carefully, and held it some time open in his
hand before he put it back with the rest. He held it so long, while he
looked out of his grated window, that at last he could see the little
lights twinkling here and there in the windows of Ardea, and it was
almost dark in the room. Nino grew restless, and laid his grim head on
Ercole's knee, and his bloodshot eyes began to glow in the dark like
coals. Then Ercole moved at last.
"Ugly animal, do you wish me well?" he asked, rubbing the dog's head
with his knotty hand. "If you are good, you shall go on a journey with
me."
Nino's body moved in a way which showed that he would have wagged his
tail if he had possessed one, and he uttered a strange gurgling growl of
satisfaction.
The next morning, the old woman came before sunrise with water.
"You need not bring any more, till I let you know," Ercole said. "I am
going away on business for a few days, and I shall shut up the house."
"For anything that is in it, you might leave the door open," grumbled
the hag, who was of a sour temper. "Give me my pay before you go."
"You fear that I am going to America," retorted Ercole, producing an old
sheepskin purse from the inside of his waistcoat. "Here is your money.
Four trips, four pennies. Count them and go in peace."
He gave her the coppers, and she carefully tied them up in a corner of
her ragged kerchief.
"And the bread?" she asked anxiously.
Ercole went to the blackened cupboard, took out the remains of a stale
loaf, drew a big clasp-knife from his pocket, and cut off a moderate
slice.
"Eat," he said, as he gave it to her.
She went away grumbling, and Nino growled after her, standing on the
door-step. When she was a hundred yards from the house, he lay down with
his jaw on his forepaws and continued to watch her till she was out of
sight; then he gave a snort of satisfaction and immediately went to
sleep.
Ercole left his home after sunset that evening. He locked both the upper
and lower doors and immediately dropped the huge key into a crevice in
the stone steps, from which one might have supposed that it would not
be easy to recover it; but he doubtless knew what he was about. He might
have had one of the little horses from the farm if he had wanted one,
for he was a privileged person, but he preferred to walk. To a man of
his wiry frame thirty or forty miles on foot were nothing, and he could
easily have covered the distance in a night; but he was not going so
far, by any means, and a horse would only have been in the way. He
carried his gun, from force of habit, and he had his gun-licence in his
pocket, with his other papers, tied up in the old red handkerchief.
There was all that was left of the stale loaf, with the remains of some
cheese, in a canvas bag, he had slung over his shoulder, and he had
plenty of money; for his wages were good, and he never spent more than
half of what he received, merely because he had no wants, and no
friends.
Under the starlight he walked at a steady pace by familiar paths and
byways, so as to avoid the village and strike the highroad at some
distance beyond it. Nino followed close at his heels and perfectly
silent, and the pair might have been dangerous to any one inclined to
quarrel with them.
When Ercole was in sight of Porta San Sebastiano it was past midnight,
and he stood still to fill and light his little clay pipe. Then he went
on; but instead of entering the gate he took the road to the right
again, along the Via Appia Nuova. Any one might have supposed that he
would have struck across to that highroad some time before reaching the
city, but it was very long since Ercole had gone in that direction;
many new roads had been opened and some old ones had been closed, and he
was simply afraid of losing his way in a part of the Campagna no longer
familiar to him.
[Illustration: "ERCOLE LEFT HIS HOME AFTER SUNSET THAT EVENING"]
A short distance from the gate, where the inn stands that goes by the
name of Baldinotti, he took the turning to the left, which is the
Frascati road; and after that he walked more slowly, often stopping and
peering into the gloom to right and left, as if he were trying to
recognise objects in the Campagna.