Castelermo heaved a deep sigh, paused, and then continued:--

"I had in my hands the same consecrated standard which Ximenes, our most

illustrious grandmaster, had, in better days, unfurled against the

infidels of Algeria; I was about to hoist it on the ramparts of Valetta,

and at the point of the sword claim the Isle in the name of the knights

of St. John of Jerusalem, when, lo! the British flag was hoisted on the

turrets of St. Elmo: a cold shivering seized my frame, while my heart

glowed with honest indignation at the grasping nature of England. Slowly

the flag ascended, unrolling its gaudy crosses to the breeze, when the

cheers of the troops, mingling with those of our fickle and perfidious

vassals, were echoed back by the shipping of the allies in our harbour,

and the Sicilians thundered a salute from the bastions of Ricasoli. I

thought of old Villiers de l'Isle Adam, of Diomedes, of John de Valette,

and the glories that had passed away for ever. Sick at heart, and

disgusted with the world, I tossed into the sea beneath me the banner of

Ximenes, and sheathing my sword, quitted for ever the Isle of Malta:

where for two long years I had fought, toiled, and bled; animated by the

proud and chivalric hope, that by restoring to its pristine grandeur the

order of St. John, I should live in story, like those brave warriors who

shine In the glowing pages of Vertot. But, alas! we are falling now, as

the Templars fell of old."

I never interrupted him: the departed glories of his order formed a sad

but favourite theme, and he continued to dwell upon it until we arrived

at Reggio. The white houses of the town, the undulating hills,

palm-groves, and orangeries, formed a very agreeable landscape, sloping

down to the glassy bosom of the dark blue ocean.

"And this is Rhegium, so celebrated in the history of the past."

"Where guilty Circe trod the waves with feet unwetted, and where the

wild warriors of Barbarossa gave all to fire and sword," said the

cavaliere, as we rode over ground strewed with ruins, now rapidly

becoming hidden under luxuriant masses of ivy and vine. "These

shattered walls bear traces of the great earthquake of 1783; which will

never be forgotten until some still greater calamity overwhelms all

Calabria with destruction and horror."

"The Grecian columns yonder----"

"Are the relics of an earlier age: fragments of the great temple of

Minerva. Reggio was once famous for its country villas; of those you

behold only the ruins, which are used as a common quarry by the people;

and here you will look in vain for the city, once so famed for its

extent and opulence: but the sacking and burning of 1544, the convulsion

of 1783, and succeeding wars and woes, have reduced it to what you now

see."

Though some of its streets were new and handsome, they were quiet as

those of a sequestered hamlet at home: impoverished and oppressed by the

invaders, their inhabitants were few, and those poor and dejected in

appearance. The scenery, however, was beautiful; the winding shores,

the dark waters of the Straits, the high mountains of the purest green,

and the variously tinted groves of aromatic trees, all combined to

render the place charming. The smooth bosom of the glassy sea vividly

reflected the landscape: but we looked in vain for that wondrous

phenomenon, the Fairy Morgana; who was so condescending, a few years

before, as to display her coral palaces thrice to the Dominican Fra

Antonio Minaci. Less favoured by the fair mermaid, we beheld neither

inverted fleets, nor submarine cities; and, after a canter along the

Marina, adjourned to the Cafe Britannica to dine.

In the evening, as we sat sipping our wine at the open windows, enjoying

the cool west wind from the Straits, and observing the passers-by--for

the streets became a little more animated, as the men turned out to

smoke their cigars and talk politics, the women to see them and

promenade--a crowd beneath the balcony attracted our attention.

"An improvisatore," said Castelermo, as the notes of a guitar were

heard. "Shall I give him a theme!"

"Certainly: but what shall it be! The Fall of Rhodez?"

"You shall hear: the capture of Scylla."

He drew a card from his case, wrote something on the back of it with a

pencil and threw it over the balcony. In the midst of the crowd stood a

young man, in the common but graceful garb of the province, with a broad

scarlet ribband encircling his hat, the front of which was adorned by a

loyalist cockade of the same hue. His jacket of green plush was gaily

embroidered, a broad white shirt-collar was folded over it, yellow

cotton breeches, a green silk sash and leather gaiters finished his

attire; but there was something very jaunty, intelligent, gay, and

impudent in his rosy face and _tout ensemble_. His mandolin announced

him to be one of the improvisatari: wandering minstrels, or itinerant

storytellers.

I know not whether those men are worthy of the name of inspired poets;

but so wonderful is their talent for versification, that some of the

better class of them have been known to produce, ex-tempore, a five-act

tragedy, and an epic, divided into cantos and having a regular plot,

characters and dialogues: all maintained in octave-syllabic rhyme. I

had often encountered them in Sicily, where, by the wayside and among

the mountains, their songs had cheered the tedium of many a long march,

and had bestowed many a ducat upon them; regarding the wanderers as

representatives of the ancient troubadours or minnesingers, once so

common over the whole of Europe: but the modern minstrel we encountered

at Reggio provoked me extremely.

"Benissimo!"' cried he, while coins of every description showered from

all quarters into the high crown of his inverted hat. "The illustrious

cavalier has given me a gallant theme: Madonna aid me to do it justice!

Signori, you will hear a story of the brave English captain, who took

the castle of Scylla for King Ferdinand, and so gained the love of a

fair Italian signora."

"Bravissimo!" cried the men, and the women clapped their hands

exultingly.

Castelermo glanced at me with a droll smile, and we both burst into a

fit of laughter.

"Impossible! the fellow cannot mean me!" said I.

"You shall hear. Ah! the prelude--hear him--excellent! He excels

Andrea Marone in verse; and our fair Gorilla, the gifted peasant girl of

Pistoia, who, amid the roar of a hundred cannon, was crowned queen of

the gentle art at Rome, could not finger the mandolin more lightly, or

with better taste. Basta! he should make his fortune!"

Imagine my surprise, on hearing the improvisatore give forth, extempore,

to his eager, silent, and gaping audience, a song or poem of some thirty

or forty long verses, in very tolerable _ottiva rima_, descriptive of

the siege and storm of Scylla, in which, under the name of Claudio

Dundazo, I was continually mentioned in a strain of most extravagant

compliment, as the _valoroso capitano_, and most gallant _cavaliere_ in

the world. What annoyed me most, was that the name of Bianca d'Alfieri

had not escaped the minstrel; who made her the heroine of his impudent

epic.

"Oh! Castelermo--by the Lord! this is too ridiculous. I care not about

myself; but Bianca's name to be used thus, for amusing the rabble of

Reggio!" said I, starting up. "How the proud girl's cheek would flush,

if she knew of this! You gave him the theme."

"The theme, merely.--Hush!" added the knight, detaining me, as the

improvisatore concluded, describing our joyous marriage in a splendid

cathedral, with incense burning, bells ringing, and priests praying.

After a grand invocation of all the saints--to whom he described us as

vowing several pounds of excellent wax candle, whilst a magnificent

petticoat was promised to Our Lady of Burello--the bard concluded: once

more he inverted his hat; into which we each threw our mite.

"His profession must be the best in Italy," said I, on beholding the

shower of coins which rained into the amply-brimmed receiver--the

clanking dollar, the ringing carlino, and the tinkling bajocch.

"He has acquitted himself well: Gorilla herself could not have done

better; and, believe me, I pay the wanderer no ordinary compliment in

saying so."

"But he must be cautioned against using the name of the Signora

d'Alfieri in future."

"Already he has gone, signor," replied the knight; "and your threats and

requests he would neither hear nor obey. The improvisatori will find

the celebration of the fall of Scylla the most popular theme in the

Calabrias; where all rejoice that the horse of Naples once more spreads

its wings over the last stronghold of Napoleon in the province. Did you

not observe how his enthusiasm enabled him to acquit himself, and how he

seemed to rejoice in his wondrous art? While describing the night

attack on Scylla, his breast seemed to pant with ardour, and his eyes

sparkled with animation: his swarthy cheek glowed crimson, while his

rapid and liquid words enchained his listening audience. He is a

handsome fellow: at that moment he seemed beautiful, and all the women

were in raptures with him. Yet how still they remained, as if a spell

was upon them, until he concluded; and then burst forth the universal

shout of 'Excellentissimo--oh! most excellent!'"

On our return to Scylla, as I dismounted, throwing the reins to my

groom, he informed me that an Italian general officer was waiting for me

at the house of Signora Pia on some business of importance. Startled by

this communication, I hurried to my billet, and found the supposed

general to be old Zaccheo Andronicus; who, in his gorgeous chasseur's

livery, might easily be mistaken for some officer by Mr. Bob Brown,

whose perceptions of things, beyond the heel-post of the stable, were

none of the clearest.

I joyously welcomed "the old grey Grecian;" who had recovered from his

wound, and was now bearer of a letter from Bianca, in answer to one

despatched the night before Scylla was stormed.

I consigned him, forthwith, to the care of my padrona; and hurried away,

to enjoy, in solitude, the delight of perusing Bianca's first--and, as

it proved, her last--letter.

Written in her pretty little running hand, it began with the usual

address of "caro signor;" but my heart leaped, on finding the fair girl

using the frank and more endearing phrase of "anima mia." The

viscontessa begged to be remembered to me: she had lost an enormous sum

at faro last night, with the last of her suite of brilliants. Luigi was

slowly recovering from the effects of his wound; but his peace of mind

was gone for ever. To hasten his recovery, his mother had thrice vowed

a solemn pilgrimage to the cave of St. Rosalia, in Sicily; but had as

often abandoned the attempt, and vowed candles to San Ugo instead: since

which he had begun to recover more rapidly, and all at the villa had no

doubt that the saint had interceded in his behalf. She applauded my

conduct at Scylla; and, to me, her praise was more valuable, and more

highly prized, than that of the generals. She had perused all the

despatches in the _Gazetta Britannica_, and her heart had leaped

alternately with pride and joy--with fear and horror--at the narration.

"Oh! Claude," she continued, "you know not how proud I am of you: how I

rejoice at your escape! But Francesca, my sister--my unhappy sister!--we

can discover no trace of her: her fate is enveloped in mystery. We have

every horror to fear; for Petronio the Bishop of Cosenza, though deemed

a saint by the peasantry, is a bold and bad-hearted man; and, Francesca

in his power!--oh! Madonna! Would that you could visit us: her loss and

Luigi's illness fill us with perplexity and dismay."

Next day, I despatched an answer by the chasseur, promising to solicit

the general for a few days' leave of absence, to visit the villa. But

this idea was never realized in the manner I expected; as I was

despatched, on urgent duty, to the Adriatic shore, a day or two

afterwards.

*CHAPTER XIV.*

*NAVARRO.--REVENGE!*

Although I had no doubt that this honourable personage, for the purpose

of disgracing me or endangering my life, had, in that true national

spirit of revenge of which every day brought forth some new example,

forged the letter which Gascoigne received; still I had not sufficient

proof of the fact, either to "call him out," or place him under arrest.

We met daily in the garrison, and glances of undisguised hostility from

him were duly answered by those of contempt from me: but such a state of

things, between men wearing swords, could not endure long.

A whisper of suspicion--most injurious to the honour of Navarro, as a

man of courage and loyalty--was circulated through the brigade.

Shunned, scorned, and placed _in Coventry_ by the officers, slighted and

regarded with curious eyes by the soldiers, his baseness recoiled upon

himself: he led a life of solitary wretchedness and misery. But he was

a traitor and Buonapartist at heart, and in close correspondence with

Regnier; to whom he soon deserted: yet not before committing one of

those atrocities which disgraced Italy then, as often as they do a

certain western island now.

Having so many adventures to describe, and so much to relate, I must be

brief. My quarrel with Navarro soon came to a crisis: being sent to him

by the general, with a message relative to the re-fortifying of Scylla,

I was so provoked by his dogged insolence, that I laid my riding switch

pretty severely across his back; a challenge ensued, and we were to

fight next morning, in the most remote part of the fortress.

Cool and determined, though exasperated, I went to bed without the least

anxiety: I had no doubt of coming off victorious; and, hardened as I was

by the bloodshed of service, would have cared no more for shooting

Navarro than killing a partridge. _Now_ it appears to me singular with

what deliberation Castelermo and I made our preparations over-night;

rolling six pistol cartridges, fixing the flints, oiling the springs,

and putting all in order to start by daybreak. After supping as usual,

we retired to bed; each giving the other solemn injunctions not to sleep

too long.

I have already stated, that in consequence of the crowded state of the

billets, we both occupied the same room.

About daybreak, I started, and awoke: the business on hand rushed upon

my memory. I sat up in bed and reflected for a moment on the events

another hour might bring forth: my train of thought was arrested by

observing a current of air agitating the muslin curtains of my couch,

and causing them to float about like banners. I leaped out, and, to my

surprise, perceived the casement unbolted and open; admitting, at once,

the cold sea-breeze, and dull grey morning light.

"Castelermo--signor, rouse! It wants but twenty minutes to the time, by

my watch."

"And ten by mine," said Gascoigne, putting in his head: he was closely

muffled up in his cloak. "What! only turning out; eh, Dundas?"

"It is all very well for you to be in a hurry," said I, pettishly. "You

Irishmen take these affairs quite as matters of course. I'll be ready

in a minute: a chill morning for a shooting party," I added, with a poor

attempt at a laugh, "Where is Macnesia?'

"Below, with his instruments: but your friend, the knight, sleeps

soundly. Hallo, Castelermo!"

There was still no reply. Dressing in haste, I called often, but

received no answer; and supposing that he must have risen, I drew back

the curtain of his sleeping place to assure myself, when a scarcely

articulate exclamation of horror escaped my lips. Imagine my grief and

astonishment, to behold our poor friend lying drenched in his blood,

pale and lifeless!

I placed my hand on his heart; it was cold and still. Gascoigne bent

over the window, and shouted--

"Macnaisha--Macnaisha--you devil you, come here!" The doctor arrived in

a moment, but the cavalier was beyond his skill: there was not the

slightest warmth or pulsation. The gallant, the noble, and chivalric

Castelermo had perished by the hand of a cowardly assassin. Buried to

the very cross-guard, in his heart, a little ebony-hilted poniard, was

struck, with such force that some strength had to be exerted to draw it

forth; and on my doing so a strip of paper, attached to the pommel,

attracted our attention; it contained these words:--

"Let those who would avenge this insolent _Briton_, seek me among the

ranks of the French at Cassano: a word I might have forgiven--a blow

never.--_Pietro Navarro_."

Although boiling with indignation, I shuddered at the fate I had so

narrowly escaped. For me it was that the fatal stroke had been

intended; and I then remembered Castelermo's warning, to beware of the

cowardly Navarro. Clambering up by a garden-wall, the miscreant had

reached our casement, which he had contrived to open noiselessly; but on

entering the room he had mistaken the unfortunate cavalier's bed for

mine, and my friend had thus perished in my stead.

"The blow must have been struck about midnight," said Macnesia.

Only an hour after we retired to rest: perhaps Navarro had been outside

the window during the greater part of the night watching our

preparations for the intended meeting next morning. But with three

hundred of our soldiers we had all a narrower escape from this Italian's

hatred and duplicity: of which the reader shall hear more anon.

The Signoressa Pia was overwhelmed with consternation and dismay on

learning that the knight of Malta had perished under her roof. Followed

by a mob of fishermen, the podesta, with his clerk, arrived and

committed to writing a statement of the facts; while I preserved the

poniard and the assassin's signature for production and evidence, should

a day of retribution ever arrive.

Enraged at this act of sacrilege, the populace searched every nook and

corner in the town; two or three old knights of Castelermo's order, who

resided in the neighbourhood, armed and mounted their followers and

servants, who, in conjunction with those of the podesta, and a

detachment of our light troops, scoured the whole country round: yet

without success. Navarro was nowhere to be found: but we soon after

learned that he had sought refuge behind the lines of his friends, the

French; who still remained entrenched at Cassano, awaiting the slow

advance of Massena.

In the solitary mountain-chapel of San Bartolommeo, poor Castelermo was

interred with military honours: the grenadiers of Sir Louis de

Watteville, drawn up outside the edifice, fired three volleys over it,

while the coffin was lowered down in front of the altar; where he now

lies with his mantle, sword and spurs, like a knight "of old Lisle

Adam's days."

He was one of the last cavaliers of the original order, which for two

hundred and sixty-eight years had possessed the Isle of Malta. Since

1800, when France ceded the Rock to Britain, they have been gradually

declining in power and disappearing; and, although at the petty courts

of Italy a few aged men are sometimes seen with the eight-pointed cross

of the order on their bosoms, the Knights of Rhodes and St. John of

Jerusalem have, in effect, passed away: like Castelermo himself, their

glory is now with the things that were.

Unfortunately I was not present to witness the celebration of my

friend's obsequies. On the close of this day, which had commenced so

inauspiciously, I had returned with the Light Infantry, and wearied by a

long search among the woods and hills, was sitting dejectedly in my

billet alone, when Pierce, the general's orderly, arrived with a

message, that I was wanted by his master. I took up my sabre, and

followed him to the antique mansion where I had first seen Sir John

Stuart, on my arrival at Scylla.

The General was engaged in writing: the table was covered with

despatches, returns, reports, and morning-states; a map of Italy and a

pair of compasses lay close by. The rosy light of the setting sun

streamed through the barred and latticed window on his stern Scottish

features, his silver hairs and faded uniform; and the tarnished

aigulette and oak-leaves, a cross of the Bath, a medal for Maida, and

clasps for other services, all blackened by powder-smoke and the effects

of the weather, gave him a very service-born and soldier-like aspect.

"Pierce, hand Captain Dundas a chair, and wait outside."

"Help yourself, Claude," said he, pushing two decanters of Lacrima and

Zante towards me, after asking a few hurried questions concerning our

fruitless chase after the runaway engineer. "Fill your glass: the Zante

is tolerable; and just excuse me for five minutes, will you?" He

continued writing, and then folded a long and very official-like

document. "A journey is before you," said he; "and as you will have to

start to morrow morning by day-break, light marching order is best."

"For where, Sir John?"

"Crotona: I would not have sent you back there, but Lascelles of yours

has not returned from Cassano, and Lieutenant-Colonel Moore is not

available. Will you believe it? I have received orders from the

ministry to abandon the Calabrias forthwith, or do that which is the

same; to order back the expedition to Sicily, leaving garrisons in the

strong places we have taken. These troops will, of course, become the

prisoners of Massena; who (I am informed by a despatch from General

Sherbrooke) has arrived at Cassano, and is there concentrating a force,

which will soon burst over both provinces like a torrent: so that Maida

was won, the citadel of Crotona taken, and the castles of St. Amanthea,

Monteleone and Scylla all gallantly stormed, for nothing. We might as

well have remained in peace in our barracks at Palermo. But, however

foolish and contrary to my own conviction, those orders must be obeyed.

One of the Sicilian government gallies will take you hence to-morrow,

and put you on board the _Amphion_ in the Adriatic. Give my compliments

to Captain Hoste, with this order to take on board Colonel Macleod's

command from Crotona, and convey it straight to Messina. To Macleod you

will convey these instructions: to deliver over the citadel, with its

cannon and stores, to five hundred of the free Calabri: who will in

future be its garrison, and be commanded by Major the Cavaliere del

Castagno, or any other officer whom that insubordinate fellow the

Visconte Santugo may appoint. A detachment of De Watteville's shall

hold Monteleone; and Captain Piozzi, with a few of the Italian Guards,

the castle of St. Amanthea. I am resolved that as few British troops as

possible shall be sacrificed by the folly of our friends in authority.

Your regiment is the best in Sicily, and a wing, or detachment, of it

will garrison Scylla; which is of the utmost importance to us as a key

to Italy: but if hard pressed by Massena, they can easily abandon it

under the protection of our shipping.

"To-morrow I return to the camp, to embark the main body of our army for

Messina: you will, of course, come round with Macleod's Highlanders, and

rejoin me at Palermo; where I hope we shall spend many a merry evening

in talking over our campaign among the Apennines."

I was in a sort of a maze while the general so good-naturedly explained

his plans and orders: in which I felt very little satisfaction. My

thoughts were at the villa. To leave Calabria at present was, perhaps,

to leave Bianca: a deadly blow to my air-built castles; unless Massena's

legions marched south in time to change the intentions of our leader.

Relying on the general's friendship, I had no doubt that my return to

Sicily might be delayed for a time; therefore I did not hesitate to

solicit the appointment of commandant at Scylla, with the local rank of

major in Italy.

"You are but a young officer, and the charge is a most important one,"

said he, impressively: "but you are getting tired of me, Dundas?"

"Far from it, Sir John; the staff----"

"I am afraid I task you too severely: well, as a punishment for your

discontent, you shall have Scylla to keep, so long as our friend Massena

will permit. His advance will soon scare the garrison out of it. I

cannot refuse you that which you underwent so many toils and risks to

attain: the nomination will appear shortly in general orders," (he made

a memorandum) "but on _one_ condition it is granted, that you do not

spend too much of your time at St. Eufemio."

I coloured at the inuendo, while the old fellow laughed at what he

considered a hit, and held the decanter of glowing Zante between him and

the sunlight. He shook me heartily by the hand, and, buckling up the

despatches in my sabre-tache, I hurried back to my billet to desire my

servant to pack my valise, and have all in order for starting by

daybreak.

*CHAPTER XV.*

*THE CAVALLO MARINO.*

The report of the morning gun had scarcely pealed away from the ramparts

ere Brown appeared by my bedside, and the reveille rang through the

echoing stillness of the castle above me. In barracks there are few

sensations more agreeable than that of being awakened by the reveille on

the dawn of a summer's day: gradually its sweet low wail steals upon the

waking senses, sadly and slowly at first, then increasing in strength

and power till the full body of music floats through the morning air,

redoubled by the echoes of the empty barrack-courts; when as the measure

from the slowness of a Scottish lament increases to the rapidity of a

reel, the drams roll impatiently as if to rouse the tardy sleepers.

"Well, Bob, what kind of morning is it?" said I, scrambling up,

shivering and yawning.

"Cold and raw, sir--the drums sound as if muffled, a sure sign of a damp

morning. The galley's boat is at the castle stairs, sir."

It was chilly and dark daybreak: the ramparts of Scylla looked black and

wet; the sentinels buttoned up in their dark great-coats kept close

within turret and box; a thick fog floated on the surface of the sea,

and rolled in eddying volumes around the caverned rock and the hills of

Milia. With Bob's assistance I soon donned my tight leather breeches and

jack-boots, and shaved hurriedly by candle-light, using the case of my

watch in lieu of a dressing-glass. It was a morning of that kind when

it requires all one's resolution to leave a comfortable bed, and turn

out in five minutes, to face a drizzly fog and cold sea-breeze: so

tightening my waist-belt, I threw my cloak round me, bade a hasty adieu

to my kind Padrona and her dishes of polenta, and sallied forth.

The boat awaited me at the sea stair-case, a flight of steps hewn in the

solid rock, and descending from the castle to the water, which was

rolling in snowy foam on those at the bottom, I threw my portmanteau on

board, and leaped after it. Brown saluted and bade me adieu, while I

warned him, on peril of his head, to attend to Cartouche and see him

duly fed and watered, as I used to do myself.

The boat was shoved off, and we shot away into the mist from the lofty

rock of Scylla; which, with its castled summit, loomed like some tall

giant through the flying vapour. The oars dipped and rose from the wave

in measured time, while the boatmen chanted and sang of the glories of

Massaniello the fisherman of Amalfi, and of the mad friar Campanello,

who led the Calabrian revolters in 1590.

In the pauses of their chorus, I could hear the boom of the waves in the

hollow caverns, sending forth sounds like the howling of dogs and the

roaring of Scylla's ravening wolves, who abode among darkness and

misery, and rendered the spot so terrible to the ancient mariner: but

the noise died away as the distance increased. The fog arose from the

face of the waters, the rising sun began to gild the summits of the

Sicilian and Italian hills, and I beheld the war-galley lying, like a

many-legged monster, on the bosom of the brightening deep. We steered

alongside, the oars were laid in, and the side-ropes and ladder were

lowered into the boat; which two sailors held steady, at stem and stern,

by means of hooks. The galley was named the Cavallo Marino, and a

gigantic sea-horse reared up at her prow: the same emblem appeared

carved upon her quarters, and the name was painted, in large red

letters, on the broad white blade of every sweep. She was a high

vessel, pulled by fifty oars, each of them at least forty feet long and

worked by five miserable slaves, half naked: they were chained by the

wrists to the oar, or else fastened to their seats; between which there

ran, fore and aft, a long plank or gangway, where the boatswain or

taskmaster walked about, applying his lash on the bare shoulders of

those unhappy wretches who did not exert themselves sufficiently.

The sailors of the Cavallo Marino, about fifteen in number, were

stationed forward; she was armed with a large thirty-two pound

forecastle-piece, and manned by two hundred and fifty slaves, the dregs

of the prisons and dungeons of Naples and Sicily: assassins, bandits,

runaway priests, and villains of all descriptions, steeped in guilt of

every imaginable kind. She had a captain, two lieutenants, and a few

petty officers, who wore the government uniform: they were grouped on

her lofty poop when I ascended on board. I was received, according to

the custom of that service, by a cheer from the slaves: but, alas! such

a cheer! It was more like a yell from the regions of darkness; for the

boatswain and his mates used their rattans unsparingly, to increase the

joy of my arrival. Many a bitter malediction was growled by the

Italians, whose eyes gleamed like those of coiled-up snakes; many a

pious cry to God broke from the swarthy Algerines, who were there doing

penance for the slavery to which their countrymen subjected those

unhappy Christians who, by conquest or shipwreck, fell under their

horrible dominion. A Moor of Barbary, or a corsair of Algeria, formed

the fifth slave at every sweep. The poop was armed with a few brass

swivel guns; and the standard, having the arms of Sicily quartered with

those of Naples, was displayed from a tall staff rigged aft, and hung

drooping in deep folds over the water, which it swept at times, when

agitated by the morning breeze.

The officers were the only men on board who wore their side-arms: the

slaves were all too securely chained to be dreaded; notwithstanding

their number.

By the captain, Guevarra, a pompous little Sicilian, I was formally

welcomed on board "His Majesty's galley, _Sea-Horse_" (a phrase he was

very fond of repeating), and invited to breakfast with the officers in

their little den under the poop. Here we were often in darkness, as the

long folds of the standard obscured the windows; but when the wind

wafted it aside, the full radiance of the rising sun glared in through

the openings, on the light blue uniforms, silver epaulettes, and

weather-beaten visages of my entertainers; on the glass cups of smoking

coffee and thick chocolate, a savoury ham, with piles of eggs, pyramids

of bread, and all the appurtenances of the breakfast table.

"Per Baccho!" said the captain--who, though a little man, was armed with

a prodigious sabre, and wore a most extravagant pair of

moustachios--"per Baccho! signor," he continued, with a most bland

Sicilian smile, "it would have been a particular favour had the general

sent you off to us last night: by this time we should have doubled

Spartivento; and, as there is some word of a French line-of-battle ship

being up the Gulf of Tarento, his valour who commands the _Amphion_ will

be impatient to be joined by his Majesty's galley

_Sea-Horse_.--Lieutenant, I'll trouble you for the maccaroons.--We shall

have some rough weather before evening, and these double-banked galleys

ship every sea that strikes them.--The muffins? with pleasure,

signor.--And, truly, one is safer anchored close by the Tower of the

Lantern, than exposed to a lee shore and all the damnable currents that

run round Spartivento in the evening. But, believe me, signor, that his

Majesty's galley _Sea-Horse_--Boy! pass the word for more coffee."

"Si Signor Capitano," replied a little olive-cheeked urchin in shirt and

trousers, who vanished with the silver coffee-pot.

"Considering the beauty of the morning, and the unclouded splendour of

the sun, I trust," said I, "with all due submission to your better

judgment, that you may prove a false prophet."

"Impossible, signor!" replied the Sicilian; who was doing ample justice

to all the good things before him. "I have sailed in--an egg, thank

you--in his Majesty's galleys, for forty years, and know every shoal,

current, rock and sign of the Italian seas, better than the boasted

Palinurus of old--Better? said I. Bah! I hold him to be an arrant

blockhead, and no seaman, to resign his helm to Signor Morpheus; whose

'Stygian dew' I believe to have been a big-bellied flask of most potent

Gioja or French brandy."

"But Palinurus was an accursed heathen, like his master, misnamed the

'pious AEneas;' and having no saint to patronize him, could expect

nothing else than mishaps," said one of the lieutenants.

"Right, Vinoni," replied the captain; "but we, sailors of his Majesty of

Sicily, are the Madonna's peculiar care. Faugh! a tarantella in the

cream-pot and fire-flies in the marmalade. Yes, Signor Dundas," he

continued, resuming his former theme, "there is a regular hurricane

gathering; though from what point I cannot quite determine. Last night

the yellow moon rose above the Calabrian hills, surrounded by a luminous

halo; a sure sign of a tough gale, which Madonna avert: what is worse,

we may have it in our teeth, blowing right a-head, before we round

yonder Capo del Armi. On our voyage from Palermo, yesterday, as we

passed through the Lipari Isles, they were covered by a white vapour; a

sure sign of a north-east wind: but though the shore lies on our lee,

his Majesty's galley can always use her sweeps, and give it a wide

berth."

"But did you not remark, signor," said Vinoni, "that before we came in

sight of the Pharo, the mist had floated away from the Lipari, and the

mouth of Stromboli threw clear flames across the sky, whilst the waves

smoked and growled with a remarkable noise? all sure tokens of a land

breeze."

"Right, Vinoni!" said the captain, whose opinion was generally formed on

that of his lieutenant; "right: corpo! I feel it blowing down the

Straits at this moment, and the white foam that curls before it on the

water, announces a coming squall."

Leaving these weatherwise Italians to settle the matter as they chose, I

walked forward to observe the accommodation and construction of this

peculiar vessel. She was now under weigh; and though strained from stem

to stern by every stroke of the sweeps, she moved through the water with

a motion so easy and rapid, that her officers had little occasion to

dread either contrary winds or tides.

The broad-bladed sweeps brushed the ocean into foam, which roared in

surf beneath the sharp bows, boiling away under the counter, and leaving

astern a long white wake in the glittering sea. The sun was now up, and

his rosy morning light cast a warm glow over land and ocean.

Captain Guevarra stood beside me on the poop, and pointed out the

different towns, mountains, and headlands, as we moved down the Straits:

his observations proved amusing, from the strange compound of knowledge

and ignorance, religion, superstition, and vanity they exhibited.

We were soon in mid-channel: the fruitful shore of old Trinacria,

studded with innumerable towns and villages, nestling on the green

hills, embosomed among the richest foliage or shining along the sandy

and sunny beach, rose in succession on the view, while piles of

picturesque mountains closed the background; and soon, chief amongst

them all, gigantic Etna reared up its mighty cone, appearing to rise

from the watery horizon on our starboard bow. From its yawning crater a

lengthened column of light vapour ascended into the pure air, in one

steady, straight, and unbroken line, piercing the pale-blue immensity of

space, and rising to an altitude, where, in the soft regions of upper

air, it was for ever lost to the eye.

As the range of the Neptunian hills, and the town of Messina with its

large cathedral--its numerous churches and convents, its terraced

streets sweeping round swelling eminences, and its busy harbour crowded

by a forest of masts--closed, lessened, and sank astern; the bay of

Reggio, on the other hand, opened to our view, with all the spires and

casements of its town gleaming in the beams of the morning sun: the high

peaks of its hills behind covered to the summit with dark green pines,

and fragrant orange or citron trees. The galley-slaves were now pulling

with all their strength, to make headway against the strong current

which runs towards Cape Pelorus; but we soon got clear of the eddies,

and moved through the water with astonishing speed.

*CHAPTER XVI.*

*THE RACE.--GALLEY-SLAVES.*

"Yonder is Rhegium, signor," said the Captain Guevarra; "where Eolus

dwelt before he removed his government over to Sicily; and where he sold

fair winds to mariners, and tied the foul ones up in paper bags--the

cursed heathen! And yet it would be some advantage if such commodities

could be purchased in these vulgar modern days. I have known the time

when I would have given sixty pieces of gold for a single puff of fair

wind: but that was before I had the honour of commanding his Majesty's

galley _Sea-Horse_ and all those stout rogues who work it.--Ah! Madonna

mia!" he ejaculated, crossing himself, as we walked on the weather side

of the poop; "what is all this I have been saying? Our Lady of Sicily

forgive me the thought, and keep me contented with such winds as pass

over the sea, without buying from heathen, heretic, or devil!--Viva! how

bravely the old _Sea-Horse_ shoots through the water! Believe me,

Signor Dundas, there is not another galley in the service of his

Sicilian Majesty equalling this, for strength, speed, and beauty of

mould."

"Yet there is a little vessel yonder, cracking on under every stitch of

canvass, which seems able and disposed to beat you."

"Beat the _Sea-Horse_--beat his Majesty's galley!" cried the little

commander, stamping his feet on the deck. "Corpo di Baccho! if any man

on board, save yourself, signor, had even hinted that such a thing was

possible, I would have dropped him from the yard-arm with a forty-pound

shot at his heels: I would, this instant--I, Gandolfo Guevarra."

After this outburst, I did not venture on another remark; and we walked

up and down in silence. Between us and Cape Pillari, a swift little

Maltese schooner, of a most rakish cut, was flying through the water,

with her snow-white canvass shining in the sun, and bellying out to the

breeze; while her flashing sweeps were moving, stroke for stroke, with

those of the galley, which she was evidently leaving astern. She was

low-built, almost level with the water, which she cleft like an arrow.

"Ola! the boatswain," cried Guevarra, perspiring with rage, which made

every fibre of his little body quiver, while he twisted his long

moustachios and looked fierce as a rat at bay. "By the blood of

Gennaro! that villainous craft is leaving us astern. Shall a runaway of

Malta, laden with base merchandize, beat his Majesty's galley the

_Sea-Horse_? No, no--Madonna! Quick, rascal, there! fly-flap the

shoulders of the oarsmen, or your own shall smart before sunset.--And

you, signor--master-gunner."

"Si signor illustrissimo."

"Ready--the gun there, forward; to teach these vagabonds to keep their

distance, and not attempt to rival those who sail under his Majesty's

pennant."

The forecastle-piece was double-shotted and cleared away for action;

while the boatswain and his mates flew from stem to stern, lashing

unmercifully the bare shoulders of the slaves, with as little remorse as

one would the flanks of a vicious horse. Tremendous curses and horrible

blasphemies followed this application of the rattans, and the unhappy

wretches toiled until their swarthy skins were deluged in perspiration,

which mingled with the blood streaming from their lacerated backs. The

storm of maledictions soon died away, their exhausted strength requiring

that they should work in silence; and I looked on, in pity and disgust,

while the miserable beings toiled at the ponderous oars, with measured

action which strained every muscle to its utmost power of tension. On

glancing along the rows of black-browed, unshaven, and lowering visages,

I read one expression in them all--a fearful one! Of what demoniac

minds were those stern eyes the index! A thirst for vengeance, rather

than for freedom, animated their savage Italian hearts: every bosom was

a hell of pent-up passion; every man a chained fiend.

The sweeps were moved by each gang rising simultaneously from their

bench, and then resuming the sitting position; again rising, and again

sitting, without a moment's respite from toil; and if any man failed to

exert himself sufficiently, every slave at that particular sweep

received the same number of blows as the delinquent. Such, Guevarra

informed me, was the unjust rule in his Majesty's galleys. One poor

wretch dropped dead; and while a shower of blows was distributed to his

four comrades, to make them work harder, the iron-hearted boatswain,

unlocked with a master-key the padlock which held the chain, and the

body was flung into the deep. Many a glance of envy followed it, as it

disappeared beneath the bright green water; and once more groans of

grief and growls of smothered rage broke forth: but, though the slaves

toiled on till the galley seemed to fly through the water, the little

scampavia still kept ahead of her.

"Work! work! or beware the scurlada," cried the boatswain, who now

flourished a gigantic whip, beneath the whisk of which every slave

cowered instinctively. "Ahi, Fra Maso, different work this from

mumbling latin at Palermo," he cried, bestowing a burning lash on the

back of one who had been a priest; "work, work, sloths, if you wish not

your hides flayed off. Ola! you, there, with the nose like Ovid, and

face like the O of Giotto, dost think thou art selling paste buckles at

Messina once more? Bend to the oar Maestro Naso, or feel that!"

A yell burst from the unhappy Israelite, as the terrible lash ploughed

up his tender skin, while the task-master continued:--"Work, work! pull

away larboard and starboard: give way, my beauties, if you would have

life left you to behold the sun set. Bravo, my merry little devil at the

bow-oar; you seem a very Cicero, and look as if born with the sweep in

your hand."

A laugh, rising into a yell, at the bow, attracted my attention, and on

going forward I perceived the hunchback, Gaspare Truffi, tugging away at

the first oar, which he pulled in conjunction with three men: his

strength being deemed equal to that of two slaves.

As I stepped along the gangway, scowling and imploring glances were cast

upon me, by the swart and naked oarsmen. I could not resist saying, in

a low voice,

"Poor men! truly I pity you!"

These words were not thrown away.

"Madonna bless thee, Signor Inglese," said he who had been called Fra

Maso; "like thy countrymen, thou art merciful!"

"Merciful! bah!" cried Truffi; "have I not seen them scourge their brave

soldiers like dogs--even as we are now scourged!"

I watched the exertions of the powerful hunchback with surprise: he

toiled away with what appeared most decided good-will, without receiving

a single blow from the boatswain, although his conical hump and shaggy

breast presented prominent marks for the taskmaster's scourge. His

aspect was grotesque beyond description, as he tugged away and strained

until every muscle in his deformed body seemed about to snap; his matted

black hair overhung his fierce twinkling eyes, and a forest of the same

material fringed his capacious mouth, which every instant sent forth a

yell or a shout of laughter. On my approach, he bent to the oar with

redoubled fury, raving and howling, while he spat towards me in token of

hatred and undying enmity. With more astonishment than commiseration,

with more disgust than pity, I regarded this curious little desperado;

whose hideous form contrasted so strongly with the powerful and

herculean frames of the other slaves: their bodies, naked to the waist,

and having every muscle hardened to rigidity by excessive toil,

presented in almost every instance perfect models for the artist and

sculptor.

A half-stifled sob--a hurried exclamation--caused me to turn towards a

fine-looking old slave, to whose antique contour of head and face

additional dignity was lent by a venerable beard, which swept his

breast. Never shall I forget the glance with which his keen dark eyes

regarded me: his features had all that noble regularity and proud

contour which are often found in old Italian portraits; but there was a

stern expression of care in them, and the hard contracted lines of his

face showed a long acquaintance with grief, or an exquisite degree of

mental agony. It was the Major Gismondo! Alas! how changed now was the

brave old cavalry officer--the once gay cicisbeo of the fashionable

viscontessa!

"Here! you here?" I exclaimed.

"Well may you wonder that I survive," said he, the blood suffusing his

temples when our eyes met: but he was compelled to turn away; the whip

of the boatswain at that moment descended on his shoulders, and I

returned to the poop. My heart bled for the unmerited misery and

degradation of the poor old man: but to converse with him was quite

contrary to etiquette and orders. On questioning Guevarra concerning

him--

"I trust, signor," said he, "you will excuse me; but it is impossible

for a captain of his Majesty's galleys to know the biography of every

rogue who tugs at the benches." He coloured with manifest confusion.

"A droll fellow that hunchback who pulls the bow-oar."

"Ah!" replied Guevarra, "a perfect imp of Etna: I am very much indebted

to my good friend, the Visconte Santugo, for sending him off to me

yesterday. He was caught lurking near the villa D'Alfieri by the

soldiers who guard it. Per baccho! I was half frightened when I saw

him on board--ha, ha! he has all the aspect of a stunted Cyclope, and

works so well that he has a fair prospect of being promoted to the rank

of task-master. He laughs, chuckles, and sings incessantly; but for what

reason is beyond my comprehension, as there is nothing here but hard

work, heavy blows, and scanty provender--unless we except the honour of

serving in his Majesty's galley _Sea-horse_. Diavolo!" he cried, rushing

to the other side of the poop, "the Maltese schooner has passed us. Pull

rascals--give way ye lubberly Padri--give way fore and aft! Shall the

gallant Cavallo Marino, the flower of our galleys, and the peculiar care

of our thrice blessed Madonna, be beaten by a d----d scampavia?" He

bowed and crossed himself with great devotion before a little gilt

figure of the Virgin, which occupied a niche in the centre of a row of

brightly painted buckets, ranged along the top of the poop. But Madonna

was sued in vain. Again the whistling rattans were flourished on all

sides: even Gaspare Truffi did not escape, and his elfish yell sounded

shrill as the whistle of a steam-engine when the blows descended on his

naked hump.

On--on shot the scampavia, and the lofty galley toiled after her in

vain: the former carried a press of canvass sufficient to run her under

the water, which flashed like blue fire before her sharp prow: and she

shipped sea after sea, as we rounded the Capo del Armi, and the

snow-clad summit of Etna sank beneath the dim horizon astern: the water

was getting rough, the breeze increasing, and it was evident that she

must take in sail or be capsized. A half-smothered cheer arose from her

crew, who crowded her side, as they saw us rapidly dropping astern.

Boundless was the wrath of Guevarra: he stamped about the deck, while

his long sword became entangled at every stride with his little bandy

legs; he curled his bushy whiskers, fumed and blasphemed like a pagan.

Save the slaves, all on board, more or less, partook of his chagrin:

while smiling at his rage, even I could not avoid a feeling of

annoyance; for one becomes jealous of being passed at sea, or beaten by

a rival mail, or getting the "go-by" from a friend's team on a country

road.

"By the miraculous blood of Gennaro! I will teach these mongrel curs,

these Arabian Maltese, to beware how they try speed with his Majesty's

galley. Is the gun ready there forward?"

"All ready, Signor Capitano," replied the gunner, taking the tompion

from the lofty forecastle-piece, and lighting his match.

"Then give them a shot between wind and water. Madonna speed the

ball--fire!"

The helmsman brought the galley's head round, and the thirty-two pounder

was levelled and fired. The _Sea-Horse_ shook with the concussion: the

shot whistled over the water; a breach was made in the low bulwarks of

the Maltese, and a shower of white splinters flew away to leeward. The

schooner was immediately thrown in the wind: down came her fore and main

topsails, her jib and staysail, like lightning on her deck; while the

scarlet flag of Britain was run up to her gaff-peak. The galley shot

ahead: her great latteen sail, that tapered away and aloft, was braced

sharp up, and once more we flew forward; while the Maltese did not again

begin to make sail, until she was a league or so astern.

"Bravissimo, _Sea-Horse_!" said Guevarra, clapping his hands in glee.

"Now we are leaving her hand over hand."

In the ardour of the race he had not been paying due attention to his

course; and, in keeping to seaward of the scampavia, which was probably

bound for the Venetian Gulf, the galley was further from the land than

she ought to have been: her head was turned northward; and, as we slowly

approached the Apennine chain, the promontory of Hercules rose gradually

on the view.

We now made but little progress: the breeze had died away; the heat of

the day was intense, for the sirocco was abroad, and the air was

flittering with sulphury particles, blown, probably, from the peak of

Etna. Wearied with their late exertions, the over-tasked slaves,

exposed to the broiling sun, sat gazing listlessly, with their glaring

and bloodshot eyes, on the glassy sea; and even the rattan of the drowsy

and perspiring boatswain failed to rouse them from their apathy. The

little way we made was solely owing to the large square mainsail; and,

though the galley lay close to the scarcely perceptible current of air,

our progress was not a mile an hour: yet, long before the setting sun

began to redden the blue Ionian Sea, Guevarra had the mortification to

see the little Maltese pull with her sweeps round the promontory and

disappear.

During the weary noon of that scorching day, while the wretched slaves

sat naked at their oars, exposed to the fierce bright sun, Guevarra and

his officers were seated under a cool awning on the poop, enjoying their

siesta, after a luncheon of light fruits and lighter wines; while the

boatswain, his mates, the gunner and his mates, chewed their maccaroni

and drank cold water under a similar contrivance on the forecastle.

Miserable was the plight of the poor unpitied slaves: chained to the

oaken bench, which formed their seat when they toiled and their bed when

they slept; and on which they were alternately exposed by noon to the

broiling heat of an Italian meridian, and by night to the chill blasts

of the ocean; half naked, continually suffering castigation, fed on the

worst and coarsest food, and packed so closely that dreadful diseases

were continually breaking out among them.

The day became closer: not a breath stirred the languid breezeless air;

the sea-birds floated on the still bosom of the glassy deep, and the

mainsail flapped heavily on the mast as the galley rolled on the slow

heaving ground swell. She was drifted shoreward by the currents: in the

afternoon we were close to the land, and I began to fear that my journey

to Crotona would be of longer duration than the general expected.

*CHAPTER XVII.*

*THE REVOLT OF THE GALLEY SLAVES.*

It was night--beautiful night! The cold pale moon gleamed on the waste

of waters, on the silent shore, on the hills of Magna Graecia, and on

the wide Ionian sea. Ten thousand luminous animalculae glittered in its

briny depth, as if to rival the bright stars above; while the white

columns on a distant promontory--the last relics of a people, a power,

and a creed that have passed away--the wooded mountains and the pebbled

beach, and Albanian Bova, the towers of Theodosia, LaBianca, and other

towns, rose in succession on our view, all glittering in the radiance of

that broad and lovely moon.

A guitar broke the silence, accompanied by a clear voice: it was young

Vinoni chanting a verse of Pignotti's Novella, beginning with "Donne

leggiadre, allorche," &c.

"Woman enchanting! when I look on thy form,

And behold the soft graces of lip, cheek, and hair;

And thy bosom of snow, nature's loveliest charm,

Ah! who would not kiss it, and love to die there?

"Sweet to behold the unsullied snow!

The dark eye that rolls----"

"Come, come, caro tenente, stop your twangling, and make sail on the

galley!" cried Guevarra, starting up from the sleep he had enjoyed under

the awning since dinner. "Corpo di Baccho! here comes the breeze at

last," he continued, snuffing it over the quarter; "and the

tunny-fish--ah! the fine fellows, see how they are passing us in

shoals."

Humming "Donne leggiadre," &c., the lieutenant relinquished his guitar,

and looked intently over the quarter.

"Ha! Signor Guevarra, I knew that the clear fires of Stromboli

betokened something--behold!" As he spoke, a heavy and dense bank of

clouds spread from the northern horizon, and gradually veiled the whole

sky; the moon disappeared, or shot forth her lustre only at times on the

whitening waves: the sea became black, and the land loomed close and

high. The mainsail filled as the breeze freshened, and the boatswain

warned the slaves to prepare for hard work.

The darkness was now dense; and I felt, I knew not why, considerable

anxiety as to the issue of the night. The little captain generally

about this time retired to his cabin, to enjoy, alone, his cigar and a

glass of lacrima; resigning the command to Vinoni. The features of the

young lieutenant were clouded with care, or by some gloomy presentiment:

he often walked to windward to watch the weather and look at the waves,

which the rushing breeze edged with white. Suddenly he ordered the

great mainsail to be furled, and all made snug for the night.

"Out sweeps: give way there forward!" The shrill pipe of the boatswain

echoed his command, and a commotion immediately took place among the

slaves, who had hitherto been sitting silent and motionless in the dark.

From the bosom of the startled deep a fierce yell arose. Imagine my

astonishment and the horror of Vinoni, on beholding the galley-slaves,

instead of resuming their monotonous labour at the oar, spring up at

once from their benches, and rush, some forward and some aft, shouting

like devils or maniacs broken loose.

A desperate but momentary conflict ensued: most of the seamen were

tossed overboard, while the rest were driven below the forecastle.

Vinoni, brave to rashness, sprang to the front of the poop, and drawing

from his belt pistols (which the galley-officers were never without) he

fired, and a slave fell bleeding on the deck; then rushing to the

swivel-guns he slued them round to sweep the waist: but they were

without matches and useless. Instinctively I drew my sabre; but old

Gismondo threw his arms around me.

"Madman!" he exclaimed, "would you tempt the unfettered fury of two

hundred and fifty ruffians--the fiercest in Italy: men whom years of

slavery, tyranny, and toil have transformed into demons? Sheath your

sword, signor--I alone can protect you." I returned my sabre to its

scabbard: but a groan burst from me on beholding what followed.

"Corpo di Baccho! what is all this?" cried the captain, rushing upon the

poop; "eh! a mutiny,--a revolt in his Majesty's----" in a moment he was

borne over, and dashed to the deck by the hunchback, who instantly

brained poor Vinoni with one blow of a handspike. With one of his

elfish laughs he was rushing upon me, whirling his club aloft; and, but

for the stern intervention of Signor Gismondo, my campaign and my days

had ended together. By what agency he exercised authority over these

lawless spirits, I know not; but the most forward of them slunk away to

continue the work of slaughter elsewhere: and frightful were the

outcries and din around us, as the taskmasters and mariners perished

beneath the weaponless hands, and even the teeth, of those over whom

they had so long tyrannized. In one minute the galley was in the

possession of the slaves; and the unfortunate captain, his boatswain,

and two or three Sicilians of his crew, were dragged along the benches

bound with cords.

"Follow me--this way, signor--ere worse come of your remaining on deck!"

said Gismondo, hurrying me into a cabin and shutting the sliding door.

"I will forget," he added, with an icy smile, "how coldly and cruelly

you stood by while my--my daughter was murdered by that high-born

ruffian, Bivona. May his race perish, or be followed by a curse to its

latest generation!"

"Keenly at this moment do I feel the reproach--yet what could I do?"

"Had you not a sabre?" he asked, with fierce contempt. "Her death--it

slaked not the thirsty vengeance of our accursed chiefs--they sent me to

these galleys----" he threw himself on a locker and covered his face

with his hands.

How full of excitement and of agony was that time to me! Sad were the

cries for pity, uttered to the pitiless--for mercy from those who had

never received it, and knew it not--which mingled with the hideous

uproar that reigned on the creaking deck above us. I heard plunge after

plunge, as the corded victims were flung overboard by the desperate

revolters; who, to refine upon cruelty, tied them back to back, and so

hurled them into the seething waves, without the least chance of escape.

At last all was silent: the plunges were heard no more, and the last cry

of despair had died away on the wind; I heard the heavy sweeps once more

dipping in the water, and knew by the straining of the timbers and

clatter of the thole-pins, that the _Sea-Horse_ was under weigh again.

"I hope, major, your late companions do not mean to carry me off a

prisoner!"

"No," he replied, gloomily; "and your life is safe. These unhappy men

have no cause to be your enemies--you will be shortly sent ashore."

"But how were you all enabled to break loose, as if by magic?"

"The little hunchback, whom I verily believe to be satan, possessed

strength sufficient to wrench his fetters in two; he then stole the

master-key from the belt of the boatswain, as he slept beside the

windlass: it was handed along the banks of oars--up the larboard and

down the starboard benches--each slave in succession unlocking his

manacles, until it came to me; when I opened the accursed padlock, and

flung it, fetters, key and all, into the ocean."

"And these ruffians----"

"Will form no mean recruit to Francatripa, Benincasa, or some of those

other robber chiefs who divide the hills and forests of Calabria among

them."

At that moment we heard the splash of a quarter-boat, as it was hastily

lowered down from the davits.

"Signor," said Gismondo, rising, "the boat awaits you; and the sooner we

separate the better. A den such as this, crowded with these poor

wretches, whom servile labour and the lash have degraded to the

condition of brutes, cannot be agreeable to one in the honourable

station of a cavalier--a soldier--such as I once was in happier days.

Adieu!" he pressed my hand, and led me to the side of the galley, where

the boat was held close to the ladder by Fra Maso and three other

slaves, who had chosen to land on that part of the coast.

"You accompany me, of course, Signor Major?" said I.

"Never! Broken in spirit--degraded as I am--this naked body--these

scars: away, leave me to my misery! leave me! These poor men, at least,

will not shrink from--adieu! Signor Dundas--adieu! Fra Maso--shove

off!"

Before descending into the boat, I was compelled to deliver up my watch

and purse: my sabre-tache was searched, but returned to me when found to

contain only military letters and papers. I should probably have been

deprived of my epaulettes, but as they were my fighting pair, they had

become so tarnished by smoke and weather, that the searchers allowed

them to pass unnoticed.

Gaspare Truffi had now succeeded poor little Guevarra in command of "His

Majesty's Galley," as the reward of his strength and cunning. He was

seated in Madonna's niche, on the poop, kicking his heels, swinging his

long arms like the sails of a mill, shrieking, swearing, and drinking

from a flask of lacrima, by turns. About twenty sweeps were manned; but

the greater number of slaves were busy, rummaging every lockfast place

in search of plunder.

The night was black and stormy: not a star was visible, and the dark

outline of the land rose up high and gloomily above us. We heard the

boom of the white breakers, as they rolled on the rocky and silent

shore; and their echoes mingled with the dash of the long sweeps, as the

galley was pulled away and disappeared in the obscurity around us.

When again I met the Signor Gismondo, it was under very different

circumstances: more fortunate than myself, he reached Crotona next day,

and was protected by the Duke di Bagnara; who gave him a command in his

battalion of the Free Calabri.

We were soon amidst the surf; and as the boat shipped sea after sea, we

were quickly drenched to the skin. While I sat shivering in the stern

sheets, the four rescued slaves pulled on in silence, and with all their

strength; lifting the light shallop out of the water at every stroke, in

their eagerness to tread on earth once more. How joyously and strongly

they seemed to stretch their now unfettered limbs! Having the tiller

ropes, I steered the boat towards a piece of sandy beach which we

discerned through the gloom; and, not without fear of crashing on some

concealed rock, I saw its head shoot into a narrow creek, between two

jutting crags, against which the eastern current of the Ionian sea was

running in mountains of angry foam. In consequence of the boat's

headway, the fury with which she was pulled, and the strength of the

current, she was run up high and dry on the beach, with a concussion

that nearly tossed us all out on the sand. The rowers leaped up with a

triumphant shout of "Buon viaggio, Signor Inglese!" and springing away

towards the hills, left me to my own reflections.

Behold me, then, in a most desolate condition: landed at midnight on the

sea-shore, in a remote part of Calabria--the lawless land of robbery and

outrage--then "the _terra incognita_ of Europe"--minus my valise and

purse, and without a guide. The rogues had stripped me of everything,

save Bianca's dear little ring; the diamond of which my thick leathern

glove had concealed from their prying eyes.

*CHAPTER XVIII.*

*THE THREE CANDLE-ENDS.*

For some time I sat by the sea-shore, reflecting on what course to

pursue; until the increased howling of the wind, the roar of the surf,

and a drop or two of rain splashing on my face, announced that a rough

morning was coming on. Not knowing whom I might encounter, I regretted

the want of my pistols. Stumbling landward from the rocky beach, I

succeeded in discovering a rude flight of steps, hewn in the basaltic

rocks which faced the sea; but so obscure was all around, that on

gaining the summit I knew not whether the dark chaotic masses before me

were a bank of clouds or the termination of the long chain of the

Apennines.

In a short time I perceived a light twinkling through the gloom, and

could discern a little bay or harbour, where three small craft lay at

anchor close under the lee of the high land. A narrow path brought me

to a neat little cottage, over the low roof of which the vines

clambered, mingling with the orange trees, which raised their rich

foliage and golden fruit above the sea-beat promontory. The wind was

increasing, the clouds began to whirl and break, the rain to descend,

and a single star, red, bright, and fiery, sparkling on the dark and

distant horizon, was lost at times, as the billows of the Ionian main

tumbled and rolled between it and me. Gladly I knocked at the cottage

door; and after a long delay an aged domestic appeared at a loop or

slit, through which the rays of her lamp shot forth, radiating into the

gloom: she seemed unable to understand and unwilling to admit me.

"Open the door," said a man's voice, "should it be a robber, what have

we to fear? I never harmed the brigands, and they dare not to meddle

with me."

I expected, from this defying and confident tone, to behold some very

ferocious personage when the door was opened; and was, therefore,

agreeably surprised on being welcomed by a reverend old man, with silver

hairs, and a most patriarchal beard flowing from a pleasing and

benevolent countenance. It was my old friend the Basilian priest of

Squillaci; and we immediately recognised each other. On my apologizing

for disturbing him at an hour so unreasonable, he replied,----

"Say no more, signor; I am the priest of this district, and my door is

open to all: from the great lord to the poor lazzarone, all are equally

welcome here. But thrice welcome the soldier; for, though now but a

poor padre, I have borne arms in my youth, and fought in the wars of

Charles of Parma; and I love the sight of a soldier for the sake of the

thoughts of other years."

In the snug room of the Basilian, with my feet on the fire-pan of

charcoal, I partook of a slight supper, and related the seizure of the

galley and the destruction of her officers and crew: a tale which filled

the gentle old Greek with horror. I then recurred to the urgent nature

of my despatches, and the dilemma in which I found myself in consequence

of being stripped of everything requisite to enable me to pursue my

journey.

"Keep yourself easy, signor," said my host; "a little craft, bound

northward, put into the harbour below, a few hours after sunset, to

repair some damage sustained at sea; and I have no doubt her master

will, at my request, be happy to land you at Crotona."

I was well pleased to hear this. After a little more conversation, the

Basilian retired; and I slept till sunrise upon his sofa, with my cloak

over me.

The skipper of whom he had spoken came to breakfast with us, and I

discovered he had charge of the scampavia which had suffered from the

_Sea-Horse's_ forecastle-gun. Her starboard bulwark and part of her

mainmast had been so much injured, that he had run into the little cove

for the double purpose of repairing the damage and waiting till the

threatened squall blew past.

Maestro Maltei was, as his name imports, a thorough Maltese,

quick-sighted, polite, and intelligent. His features displayed all the

national peculiarities of his race; the black, shining Arabian eyes,

thick lips, and swarthy visage. He was a stout man, upwards of thirty,

and clad in a yellow cotton shirt, embroidered on the breast and

sleeves; over it he wore an ample vest of red velvet, adorned with

innumerable little silver buttons; a long silk scarf encircled his

waist, and retained his sheathed knife; and on his head he wore a long

tri-coloured woollen cap, which hung down his back below the waistband

of his white cotton breeches. He had rings in his ears, and a rosary

round his neck: altogether Maestro Maltei, though he had much of the

pirate in his aspect, was, in reality, as smart a nautical dandy as one

could see in these days lounging about the galley-arches at Malta.

After breakfast, he returned on board, promising to send for me when

ready to put to sea. Anxious to proceed, I watched from the windows of

the priest's house the operations of the carpenter busy at work; though

the weather was lowering, and torrents of rain fell at intervals during

the day, which dragged on slowly. I soon became heartily tired of the

Basilian; who bored me, for six consecutive hours, with an essay he was

writing on the lives of two eminent ancients: Quintius Ennius, a

Calabrian, the friend of Scipio and Laelius, author of eighteen books of

metrical annals, and tragedies, epigrams, and satires innumerable; and

Aurelius Cassiodorus, a Roman patrician and minister of Theodric, who

founded a great monastery near Squillaci, where he wrote a history of

the Goths.

Politeness compelled me to endure complacently the learned pedantry of

the reverend father, to whose hospitality I was so much indebted; but I

rejoiced when the bare-legged mate of the _Santelmo_ approached with the

information that she was ready to put to sea. Immediately after dinner I

went on board, with my ears ringing with the Grecian's sonorous voice,

and the epigrams, satires, and witty sayings of the immortal Quintius:

whom I had never heard of before, and have seldom heard of since.

The weather, which had been alternately cloudy and sunny, now settled

down into a dull grey evening: the whole sky became canopied by dusky

vapour, which towards sunset was streaked with a pale stormy yellow; the

saffron sun was seen for a few minutes, as it sank behind the hills of

Oppido; and, as the light died away, the sea turned gloomy and black.

The wind blew in gusts, and the billows rolled on the beach with a

hollow sound: everything betokened a rough night; but the Maltese were

ready for sea, and the warps were cast off. I had some misgivings about

sailing in such weather, but concealed my anxiety. The other two craft,

a xebecque and a sloop, remained at anchor; and their crews showed no

sign of preparing for sea. I spoke of this to Maestro Maltei, and asked

if he thought they expected rough weather.

"Probably they do, signor," said he, removing his cigar, as we walked to

and fro on the weather side of the quarter-deck; while the fleet

schooner flew onward, straining under her bellying canvass. "The masters

are timid Venetians, and the sailors tremble for their share of the

cargo."

"Then stormy weather _is_ expected?"

"Doubtless we shall have a dirty night: but, having repaired all the

damage done by that cursed shot, and, moreover, having received from my

very good friend, the Basilian father, three sacred wax candles, which

have burned before the shrine of Our Lady of Bova, after being duly

blessed and sanctified by the Bishop of Cosenza----"

"And with these----"

"We light our binnacle, and no danger can overwhelm us."

"On the faith of these you put to sea on a stormy night!--three old

candle-ends----"

"Undoubtedly, signor," said he, turning away abruptly, while I was

equally annoyed by his folly and ignorance.

The _Santelmo_, as she was named, was a smart little schooner, with a

lofty tapering mainmast; she was broad in the beam, but sharp at the

bows, where an image of her saintly patron spread his arms above the

deep. Her well-scrubbed decks were flush and white; while the brass

plates on her four carronades, her binnacle-lamps, and the copper on her

sides, were all polished and shone like burnished gold. She was gaudily

painted, and straight as a lance from stem to stern. With all her snowy

canvass set, we ran along the coast, favoured by the land-breeze, and

soon saw the lights of Gierazzo and the Locrian temples of Palepoli

vanish behind us in the dusk. Upon a wind the _Santelmo_ sailed

admirably, and midnight saw us far beyond the Capo Stilo; but the breeze

had increased so much that, notwithstanding his intense faith in the

candle-ends, Maltei was obliged to take in sail. Still more tough grew

the gale; the night became darker: the high outline of the Calabrian

hills could be discerned no more, and the breaking sea was covered with

white foam. The miraculous candles had been lighted in the binnacle

with great formality, by the cabin-boy on his bare knees; imploring, at

the same time, in the names of St. Elmo and St. John of Malta, a

peaceful night for the master and crew.

The blessed candles burned and sputtered merrily; the bushy-whiskered

and grim-visaged timoniere hitched up his cotton breeches, twitched down

the net which confined his long black hair. and grasped the helm in

confident silence. But harder blew the wind: it roared through the

rigging, and the _Santelmo_ was soon flying through the rolling sea,

stripped of half her canvass.

The mate slung himself from the spritsail yard; and, when endeavouring

to place a candle in the hand of the image on the cutwater, dropped

overboard, and (poor fellow!) was seen no more. The sailors now became

excited.

"Clew up the fore-topsail--in with the forestaysail! Saints and devils!

be quick, will you!" yelled Maltei, through his speaking-trumpet. "Close

reef the foresail, and take in everything else fore and aft. Per

Baccho!--Our blessed Lady!--Devil in hell! Look sharp, will ye!--Quick,

there, or I will shoot the last man off the deck. Away, aloft, while ye

can get out on the yard!" But not a man would venture, and Maltei might

as well have roared to the wind.

"Corpo! you blundering asses, let all go by the sheets, then. Apostles

and angels! Quick, cowards!--let fly, or the masts will go by the

board."

The order was obeyed: the cordage rattled, the blocks shrieked; the

canvass flew to leeward, split to ribbons, which crackled and lashed the

rigging, as they flapped on the furious wind: but we escaped a capsize,

and the schooner skimmed along under her close-reefed foresail; while

Maltei took the tiller and strove to keep her to her course, swearing

and praying by turns.

The loss of the mate and the increasing tempest rendered all gloomy and

discontented. Anon, there was a cry. I instinctively grasped the

bulwarks. A tremendous sea was shipped; it swept over the whole deck,

washing three sailors, the long boat, all the spare booms and spars,

overboard: also the binnacle, with the compass and--horror of

horrors!--the three miraculous candles; which were extinguished in an

instant.

A howl of dismay burst from the Maltese, who from that time seemed to

abandon all hope and exertion. For a moment the schooner staggered and

stood still: had such another sea burst over her she must have

foundered; but saved by her buoyancy, as the water ran off her deck, she

again plunged forward on her perilous path. A groan burst from Maltei

on beholding the candles washed overboard: he quitted the helm and

abandoned the schooner to her fate.

"Signor Maltei--Padrone di Vascello--madman and blockhead!" I exclaimed,

rushing towards the tiller, which snapped its ropes and was dashed to

pieces in an instant. The _Santelmo_ fell away round, and yawing from

side to side, flew at a fearful rate before the wind. There was a

crash! the foremast went by the board, bringing the maintopmast down

with it; the wreck fell to leeward, and was swept away astern; while the

vessel lay a helpless log upon the sea, tossing about like a cork, and

exposed continually to the waves, which hurried on in successive

mountains as if to overwhelm the shattered ship, rolling with fury over

the deck, and burying her far into the deep dark trough of the midnight

sea. A torrent of water pouring down the companion-hatch filled the

cabin; others succeeded: the vessel became water-logged, and the wood

lumber in her hold alone prevented her from sinking.

"Holy Saint Elmo! blessed Madonna! and O Thou, who walked on the

waters--who said to the storm 'Be still,' and it was still--look upon

us!" cried the survivors of the crew.

"Master Maltei," said I, bitterly, "you have thrown away your vessel,

and the lives of all on board, by your despicable ignorance and want of

seamanship. Your crew are cowards, and unworthy to sail under a British

flag!" He made no reply; but, sunk in gloomy apathy, remained lashed to

the capstan, while I secured myself similarly to the windlass: from stem

to stern the bulwarks were totally gone, save a fragment which afforded

me shelter at the bow.

When the storm lulled a little, I prevailed on the sailors to rig a sail

forward with some canvass and two spare spars brought up from below; and

a jury foremast was soon set up, with a dexterity which showed what the

men were capable of if properly directed. Now, once more before the

fierce hurricane, the sharp schooner drove on with the speed of a

galloping horse: but whether running in full career against the rocks of

Stilo, or away into the Ionian sea, we had not the least idea. The seven

survivors began to work at the pumps, and we all took heart anew as

daylight slowly approached, and the long night, with its excitement and

horror, passed away.

It came, the sunless morning--a grey sky, a black sea--a cold gloom

everywhere. Afar off we discerned land on the larboard-bow: but there

was not a sail in sight, save a ship which rode securely under the coast

with her top-gallant-masts struck. I had no doubt it was the _Amphion_

anchored off Cape della Colonna, the promontory so close to the place of

my destination.

We were drenched to the skin, and had been so all night: we were without

food, yet continued to toil at the pumps; which soon, to our great

dismay, brought up clear water. The sea having torn away stern-post and

rudder, the pumps were our only chance of safety; and the Maltese,

encouraged by my example (more than that of their skipper), worked until

they were sinking with fatigue. On, on we flew before the sweeping

wind, and soon lost sight of

"Fair Lacinia, graced with Juno's fane."

Once more the mountains sank beneath the horizon; and soon nothing but

sea and sky were around us, as we flew before the blast into the Gulf of

Tarentum, where we were at the mercy of the wind and tide during the

whole of that miserable day. The sailors became dejected: three quitted

the pumps and betook themselves to prayer, and the leaks gained on us.

Four men still continued to toil, exposed to every wave that washed over

the defenceless deck, which was then almost level with the ocean; and

the planking was so slippery that we were in continual danger of being

carried away to leeward.

"The sunless day went down;" night began to darken sea and sky, and we

contemplated its approach with gloomy forebodings and absolute horror.

The _Santelmo_ now made less way, in consequence of the thoroughly

wetted state of her cargo, which buried her to the chain-plates in the

water, where she lurched and pitched heavily. When it was dark, the gale

increased; not a star was visible, and the dense gloom thickened in

every direction around us.

By breaking through a bulk-head, the carpenter contrived to get up a keg

of brandy from the forehold, and with a reckless shout the sailors

crowded around him. They drank copiously, and the liquor rendered them

mad: they yelled and screamed, shaking their clenched hands at the storm

in defiance, reviling the Basilian and his candles, and cursing St.

Elmo; whose head the carpenter clove with his hatchet.

In the midst of this ghastly merriment, while they were dancing

furiously, hand in hand, over the slippery deck, a tremendous sea took

us right amidship. I saw it coming on, dark, heaving, and terrible--a

roaring mountain of liquid blackness--and embraced the windlass with all

the strength with which despair and love of life endued me. In

irresistible fury, the stupendous wave rolled its mighty volume over the

wreck: when it passed away I was _alone_. It had swept, into the

boiling sea, every one of them. A cry came feebly on the bellowing

wind, and all was over: I heard only the hiss of the dashing spray, and

the plunging of the wreck, as alternately it rose on the crest of a

wave, and thundered down into the yawning ocean. I had bound myself

securely to the windlass with my sash, and my principal fear was that

the water-logged hull might sink; for in such a sea, and when so far

from land, swimming would be unavailing.

O, the multiplied horrors of that dismal night! How gladly, amid that

intense ocean solitude, I would have hailed the sound of a human

voice--a glimpse of the distant shore--a gleam from a lonely star.

Strange visions of home and happiness--of sunny fields and green moving

woods--floated before me. Then came other scenes and sounds: the boom

of cannon and the roll of the drums. Now I was leading on my stormers

at Scylla; anon I was with Bianca--I heard her soft low voice, her sweet

Italian tone, and her gentle hand clasped mine-- * * * *

*CHAPTER XIX.*

*WHO IS HE?*

From a state of dreamy apathy--a delirium between sleeping and waking:

the very fever of desperation--the increased roar of ocean aroused me.

Through the sullen gloom I discerned, a-head, a mighty barrier of rocks,

against which the sea was running with incredible fury, casting the foam

of its breakers to the clouds, and hurrying the wreck onwards to total

destruction. I heard my heart beat: the critical moment was come, for

safety or destruction. I drew off my boots, buttoned up the despatches

in the breast of my coat, and casting another glance at that frowning,

sable, and appalling barrier of rock, felt my heart sink within me: yet

that heart had never quailed in the breach, or on the battle-field.

An exclamation of sincere piety escaped my lips, and suppliantly my

hands were raised to Heaven. Next moment there was a frightful crash!

the parting wreck sank beneath me, the deck split under my feet, and I

was struggling breathlessly in the dark water amid the dashing breakers;

which were covered with froth and foam, and fragments of spare masts,

yards, ribs, cargo, planks, &c.: from these I received more than one

severe blow; while blinded with spray, sick at heart, and trembling in

every nerve, I swam towards this black and terrible shore. Thrice my

hand touched the slippery rocks, and thrice the greedy waves sucked me

back into their whirling vortex: but one flung me headlong forward on a

ledge, and I grasped, convulsively, the strong tough sea-weed which grew

on its beetling face.