On the following day Orsino and San Giacinto descended from the train at
the little station of Piedimonte d'Etna, 'the foot of Mount Etna,' as it
would be translated. It is a small, well-kept station near the sea,
surrounded by gardens of oranges and lemons, and orchards of fruit
trees, and gay with vines and flowers, penetrated by the intense
southern light. The sky was perfectly cloudless, the sea of a gem-like
blue, the peach blossoms were out by thousands, and the red pomegranate
flowers had lately burst out of the bud, in splendid contrast with the
deep, sheeny green of the smooth orange leaves. The trees had an air of
belonging to pleasure gardens rather than to business-like orchards, and
the whole colouring was almost artificially magnificent. It was late
spring in the far south, and Orsino had never seen it. He had been on
the Riviera, and in Sorrento, when the orange blossoms were all out,
scenting the sea more than a mile from land, and he had seen the spring
in England, which, once in every four or five years, is worth seeing;
but he had not dreamt of such dazzling glories of colour as filled the
earth and sky and sea of Sicily. It was not tropical, for there was
nothing uncultivated nor unfruitful in sight; it seemed as though the
little belt of gardens he saw around him must be the richest in the
whole world, and as though neither man nor beast nor flower nor fruit
could die in the fluid life of the fragrant air. It was very unexpected.
San Giacinto was not the kind of man to give enthusiastic descriptions
of views, and the conversation on the previous evening had prepared
Orsino's mind for the wild hill country above, but not for the belt of
glory which Sicily wears like a jewelled baldric round her breast hidden
here and there as it were, or obliterated, by great crags running far
out into the sea, but coming into sight again instantly as each point is
passed.
In the heap of traps and belongings that lay at his feet on the little
platform, the two repeating rifles in their leathern cases were very
good reminders of what the two men had before them on that day and for
days and weeks afterwards.
'Winchesters,' observed the porter who took the things to the carriage
behind the station.
'How did you know that?' asked Orsino, surprised at the man's remark.
'As if they were the first I have carried!' exclaimed the man with a
grin. 'Almost all the signori have them nowadays. People say they will
kill at half a kilometre.'
'Put them inside,' said San Giacinto, as they were arranging the things.
'Put them on the back seat with that case.'
'Yes, the cartridges,' said the porter knowingly, as he felt the weight
of the package.
'And God send you no need of them!' exclaimed the coachman, a big dark
man with a stubbly chin, a broad hat, and a shabby velvet jacket.
'Amen!' ejaculated the porter.
'Are you going with us all the way?' asked San Giacinto of the coachman,
looking at him keenly.
'No, signore. The master will drive you up from Piedimonte. He is known
up there, but I am of Messina. It is always better to be known--or else
it is much worse. But the master is a much-respected man.'
'Since he has come back,' put in the porter, his shaven mouth stretching
itself in a grim smile.
'Has he been in America?' asked Orsino, idly, knowing how many of the
people made the journey to work, earn money, and return within a few
years.
'He has been to the other America, which they call Ponza,' answered the
man.
The coachman scowled at him, and poked him in the back with the stock of
his whip, but San Giacinto laughed. Ponza is a small island off the
Roman coast, used as a penitentiary and penal settlement.
'Did he kill his man?' inquired San Giacinto coolly.
'No, signore,' said the coachman, quickly. 'He only gave him a
salutation with the knife. It was a bad knife,' he added, anxious for
his employer's reputation. 'But for that--the master is a good man! He
only got the knife a little way into the other's throat--so much--' he
marked the second joint of his middle finger with the end of his
whip--'and then it would not cut,' he concluded, with an apologetic air.
'The Romans always stab upwards under the ribs,' said San Giacinto.
'One knows that!' answered the man. 'So do we, of course. But it was
only a pocket knife and would not have gone through the clothes, and the
man was fat. That is why the master put it into his throat.'
Orsino laughed, and San Giacinto smiled. Then they got into the carriage
and settled themselves for the long drive. In twenty minutes they had
left behind them the beautiful garden down by the sea, and the lumbering
vehicle drawn by three skinny horses was crawling up a steep but
well-built road, on which the yellow dust lay two inches thick. The
coachman cracked his long whip of twisted cord with a noise like a quick
succession of pistol shots, the lean animals kicked themselves uphill,
as it were, the bells jingling spasmodically at each effort, and the
dust rose in thick puffs in the windless air, under the blazing sun,
uniting in a long low cloud over the road behind.
San Giacinto smoked in silence, and Orsino kept his mouth shut and his
eyes half closed against the suffocating dust. After the first
half-mile, the horses settled down to a straining walk, and the coachman
stopped cracking his whip, sinking into himself, round-shouldered, as
southern coachmen do when it is hot and a hill is steep. From time to
time he swore at the skinny beasts in a sort of patient,
half-contemptuous way.
'May they slay you!' he said. 'May your vitals be torn out! May you be
blinded! Curse you! Curse your fathers and mothers, and whoever made
you! Curse the souls of your dead, your double-dead and your extra-dead,
and the souls of all the horses that are yet to be born!'
There was a long pause between each imprecation, not as though the man
were thinking over the next, but as if to give the poor beasts time to
understand what he said. It was a kind of litany of southern abuse, but
uttered in a perfunctory and indifferent manner, as many litanies are.
'Do you think your horses are Christians, that you revile them in that
way?' asked Orsino, speaking from the back of the carriage, without
moving.
The man's head turned upon his slouching shoulders, and he eyed Orsino
with curiosity.
'We speak to them in this manner,' he said. 'They understand. In your
country, how do you speak to them?'
'We feed them better, and they go faster.'
'Every country has its customs,' returned the man, stolidly. 'It is true
that these beasts are not mine. I should feed them better, if I had the
money. But these animals consist of a little straw and water. This they
eat, and this they are. How can they draw a heavy carriage uphill? It is
a miracle. The Madonna attends to it. If I beat them, what do I beat?
Bones and air. Why should I fatigue myself? There are their souls, so I
speak to them, and they understand. Do you see? Now that I talk with
you, they stop.'
He turned as the carriage stood still, and addressed the spider-like
animals again, in a dull, monotonous tone, that had something
business-like in it.
'Ugly beasts! May you have apoplexy! May you be eaten alive!' And he
went on with a whole string of similar expressions, till the unhappy
brutes strained and threw themselves forward and back to kick themselves
uphill again spasmodically, as before.
It seemed very long before they reached the town, dusty and white under
the broad clear sun, and decidedly clean; spotless, indeed, compared
with a Neapolitan or Calabrian village. Here and there among the
whitewashed houses there were others built of almost black tufo, and
some with old bits of effective carving in a bastard style of
Norman-Saracen ornament.
The equine spiders entered the town at a jog-trot. Orsino fancied that
but for the noise of the bells and the wheels he could have heard their
bones rattle as their skeleton legs swung under them. They turned two or
three corners and stopped suddenly before their stable.
'This is the master,' said the coachman as he got down, indicating a
square-built, bony man of medium height who stood before the door,
dressed in a clean white shirt and a decent brown velveteen jacket. He
had a dark red carnation in his button-hole and wore his soft black hat
a little on one side.
In the shadow of the street near the door stood five carabineers in
their oddly old-fashioned yet oddly imposing uniforms and cocked hats,
each with a big army revolver and a cartridge case at his belt, and a
heavy cavalry sabre by his side. They were tall, quiet-eyed,
sober-looking men, and they saluted San Giacinto and Orsino gravely,
while one, who was the sergeant, came forward, holding out a note, which
San Giacinto read, and put into his pocket.
'I am San Giacinto,' he said, 'and this gentleman is my cousin, Don
Orsino Saracinesca, who goes with us.'
'Shall we saddle at once, Signor Marchese?' asked the sergeant, and as
San Giacinto assented, he turned to his men and gave the necessary order
in a low voice.
The phantom horses were taken out of the carriage, and the two gentlemen
got out to stretch their legs while the others were put in. The
carabineers had all disappeared, their quarters and stables being close
by; so near, indeed, that the clattering of their big chargers' hoofs
and the clanking of accoutrements could be plainly heard.
'The master is to drive us up to Camaldoli,' observed Orsino, lighting a
cigarette.
'Yes,' replied his companion. 'He is a smart-looking fellow, but for my
part I prefer the other man's face. Stupidity is always a necessary
quality in servants. The master looks to me like a type of a
"maffeuso."'
'With five carabineers at our heels, I imagine that we are pretty safe.'
'For to-day, of course. I was thinking of our future relations. This is
the only man who can furnish carriages between Camaldoli and the
station. One is in his power.'
'Why should we not have carriages and horses of our own?' asked Orsino.
'It is a useless expense at present,' answered San Giacinto, who never
wasted money, though he never spared it. 'We shall see. In a day or two
we shall find out whether you can have them at all. If it turns out to
be possible, it will be because you find yourself on good terms with the
people of the neighbourhood.'
'And turn "maffeuso" myself,' suggested Orsino, with a laugh.
'Not exactly, but the people may tolerate you. That is the most you can
expect, and it is much.'
'And if not, I am never to move without a squad of carabineers to take
care of me, I suppose.'
'You had better go armed, at all events,' said San Giacinto, quietly.
'Have your revolver always in your pocket and take a rifle when you go
out of the house. The sight of firearms has a salutary effect upon all
these people.'
The fresh horses had been put in, very different from the wretched
creatures that had dragged the carriage up from the station, for they
were lean indeed, but young and active. San Giacinto looked at them and
remarked upon the fact as he got in.
'Of course!' answered the philosophical coachman; 'the road is long and
you must drive up as high as paradise. Those old pianos could never get
any higher than purgatory.'
'Pianos?'
'Eh--they have but three legs each, and they are of wood, like a piano,'
answered the man, without a smile. 'You also heard the music they made
with their bones as we came along.'
The master mounted to his seat, and at the same moment the carabineers
came round the corner, already in the saddle, each with his canvas
bread-bag over his shoulder and his rifle slung by his stirrup. They
were mounted on powerful black chargers, well-fed, good-tempered
animals, extremely well kept, and evidently accustomed to long marches.
The carabineers, foot and horse, are by far the finest corps in the
Italian army, and are, indeed, one of the finest and best equipped
bodies of men in the world. They are selected with the greatest care,
and every man has to prove that neither he nor his father has ever been
in jail, even for the slightest misdemeanour. The troopers and the men
of the foot corps rank as corporals of the regular army, and many of
them have been sergeants. In the same way each degree of rank is
reckoned as equal to the next higher in the army, and the whole corps is
commanded by a colonel. There are now about twenty-five thousand in the
whole country, quartered in every town and village in squads from four
or five, to twenty or thirty strong. The whole of Italy is patrolled by
them, day and night, both by high roads and bridle-paths, and on the
mainland they have effectually stamped out brigandage and highway
robbery. But in Sicily they are pitted against very different odds.
The road rises rapidly beyond Piedimonte, winding up through endless
vinelands to the enormous yoke which unites Etna with the inland
mountains. Orsino leaned back silently in his place, gazing at the
snow-covered dome of the volcano, from the summit of which rose a thin
wreath of perfectly white smoke. From time to time San Giacinto pointed
out to his companion the proposed direction of his light railway, which
was to follow the same general direction as the carriage road. The
country, though still cultivated, was lonely, and the barren heights of
Etna, visible always, gave the landscape a singular character. To the
westward rose the wooded hills, stretching far away inland, dark and
mysterious.
They halted again in the high street of a long, clean village, called
Linguaglossa, and some of the carabineers dismounted and drank from a
fountain, being half choked with the dust. The master of the vehicle got
down and dived into a quiet-looking house, returning presently with a
big, painted earthenware jug full of wine, and a couple of solid
glasses, which he filled and held out, without a word, to San Giacinto
and Orsino. The wine was almost black, very heavy and strong. They
quenched their thirst, and then the man swallowed two glasses in
succession. San Giacinto held out some small change to him to pay for
the drink. But he laughed a little.
'One does not pay for wine in our country,' he said. 'They sell a
pitcher like this for three sous at the wineshops, but this is the
house of a very rich signore, who makes at least a thousand barrels
every year. What should one pay? One sou? That is as much as it is
worth. A man can get drunk for five sous here.'
'I should think so! It is as strong as spirits,' said Orsino.
'But the people are very sober,' answered San Giacinto. 'They have
strong heads, too.'
They were soon off again, along the endless road. Gradually, the
vinelands began to be broken by patches of arid ground, where dark stone
cropped up, and the dry soil seemed to produce nothing but the poisonous
yellow spurge.
It was long past noon when the dark walls and the cathedral spire of
Randazzo came into sight. They found Basili's house, and the notary,
whose daughter was already famous in Rome, was at work in his dingy
study, with a sheet of governmental stamped paper before him. He was a
curious compound of a provincial and a man of law, with regular features
and extremely black eyebrows, the rest of his hair being white. Orsino
thought that he must have been handsome in his youth.
Everything was prepared according to the orders San Giacinto had
written. Basili handed over a big bunch of keys, most of which were
rusty, while two of them were bright, as though they had been recently
much used. He hardly spoke at all, but looked at his visitors
attentively, and with evident curiosity. He called a man who was in
readiness to go with them.
'Shall we find anybody at the house?' enquired Orsino.
'Not unless someone has been locked in,' was the answer. 'Nevertheless,
it might be safer not to go straight to the door, but to get under the
wall, and come up to it in that way. One never knows what may be behind
a door until it is open.'
San Giacinto laughed rather dryly, and Orsino looked hard at Basili to
discover a smile.
'But, indeed,' continued the notary, 'there are too many bushes about
the house. If I might be so bold as to offer my advice, I should say
that you had better cut down the bushes at once. You will have time to
begin this evening, for the days are long.'
'Are they unhealthy?' enquired Orsino, not understanding in the least.
'Unhealthy? Oh, no. But they are convenient for hiding, and there are
people of bad intentions everywhere. I do not speak of Don Ferdinando
Pagliuca, believe me. But there are persons of no conscience, who do not
esteem life as anything. But I do not mean to signify Don Ferdinando
Pagliuca, I assure you. Gentlemen, I wish you a pleasant journey, and
every satisfaction, and the fulfilment of your desires.'
He bowed them out, being evidently not inclined to continue the
conversation, and they drove on again, the man whom he had sent with
them being beside the padrone on the box. He had a long old-fashioned
gun slung over his shoulder, evidently loaded, for there was a
percussion cap on the nipple of the lock.
Orsino thought Randazzo a grim and gloomy town in spite of its beautiful
carved stone balconies and gates, and its Saracen-Norman cathedral, and
he was glad when they were out in the country again, winding up through
the beginning of the black lands. San Giacinto looked about him, and
then began to get out one of the Winchesters, without making any remark,
Orsino watched him as he dropped the cartridges one by one into the
repeater and then examined the action again, to see that all was in
working order.
'You understand them, I suppose?' he asked of Orsino.
'Yes, of course.'
'Then you had better load the other,' said the big man quietly.
'As you please,' answered Orsino, evidently considering the precaution
superfluous, and he got out the other rifle with great deliberation.
They were going slowly up a steep hill, and the carabineers were riding
close behind them at a foot pace. The two gentlemen could, of course,
not see the road in front. The padrone and Basili's man were talking in
a low tone in the Sicilian dialect.
Suddenly, with a clanging and clattering, two of the troopers passed the
carriage at a full gallop up the hill. The sergeant trotted up to San
Giacinto's side, looking sharply ahead of him. Basili's man slipped the
sling of his gun over his head in an instant, and laid the weapon across
his knees, and Orsino distinctly heard him cock the old-fashioned
hammer. San Giacinto still had his rifle in his hand, and he leaned out
over the carriage to see what was ahead.
There was nothing to be seen but the two carabineers charging up the
steep road at a gallop.
'There was a man on horseback waiting at the crest of the hill,' said
the sergeant. 'As soon as he saw us he wheeled and galloped on. He is
out of sight now. They will not catch him, for he had a good horse.'
'Have you had much trouble lately?' asked San Giacinto.
'They killed one of my men last week and used his uniform for a
disguise,' answered the soldier, gravely. 'That fellow was waiting there
to warn somebody that we were coming.'
The troopers halted when they reached the top of the hill, looked about,
and made a sign to the sergeant, signifying that they could not catch
the man. The sergeant answered by a gesture which bade them wait.
'Touch your horses, Tatò,' he said to the padrone, who had neither moved
nor looked round during the excitement, but who immediately obeyed.
The carriage moved quickly up the hill, till it overtook the
carabineers. Then San Giacinto saw that the road descended rapidly by a
sharp curve to the left, following a spur of the mountain. No one was in
sight, nor was there any sound of hoofs in the distance. To the right,
below the road, the land was much broken, and there was shelter from
sight for a man and his horse almost anywhere for a mile ahead.
When Orsino had finished loading the rifle, he looked about him, and saw
for the first time the black lands of which Vittoria had spoken,
realising the truth of what she had said about the possibility of a man
hiding himself in the fissures of the lava, to fire upon a traveller in
perfect security. With such an escort he and his companion were
perfectly safe, of course, but he began to understand what was meant by
the common practice of carrying firearms.
It is impossible to imagine anything more hideously desolate and
sombrely wild than the high ground behind Mount Etna. The huge
eruptions of former and recent times have for ages sent down rivers of
liquid stone and immeasurable clouds of fine black ashes, which have all
hardened roughly into a conformation which is rugged but not wholly
irregular, for the fissures mostly follow the downward direction of the
slope, westward from the volcano. All over the broad black surface the
spurge grows in patches during the spring, and somehow the vivid yellow
of the flowers makes the dark stone and hardened ash look still darker
and more desolate. Here and there, every two or three miles, there are
groups of deserted huts built of black tufo, doorless and windowless,
and almost always on the edge of some bit of arable land that stretches
westward between two old lava beds. The distances are so great that the
peasants move out in a body to cultivate these outlying fields at
certain times of the year, and sleep in the improvised villages until
the work is done, when they go back to the towns, leaving the crops to
take care of themselves until harvest time. In the guerilla warfare
which breaks out periodically between the carabineers and the outlaws,
the stone huts are important points of vantage, and once or twice have
been the scene of hard-fought battles. Being of stone, though roughly
built, and being pierced with mere holes for windows, they are easily
defended from within by men armed with repeaters and plentiful
ammunition.
After the little excitement caused by the pursuit of the unknown rider,
two of the troopers rode before the carriage, and three followed it,
while all got their rifles across their saddle-bows, ready for action.
They knew well enough that as long as they kept together, even a large
band of brigands would not attack them on the open road, but there were
plenty of narrow places where the earth was high on each side, and where
a single well-directed volley might easily have killed many of the
party. Since the outlaws' latest invention of shooting the carabineers
in order to disguise themselves in their uniforms, the troopers were
more than ever cautious and on the alert against a surprise.
But nothing happened. The single horseman had disappeared altogether,
having probably taken to the broken land for greater safety, and the
carriage jogged steadily on across the high land, towards its
destination, with a regular jingling of harness bells, and an equally
rhythmic clanking of sabres.
'A little quicker, Tatò,' said the sergeant to the padrone, from time to
time, but no one else said anything.
Both San Giacinto and Orsino were weary of the long drive when, at an
abrupt curve of the road, the horses slackened speed, to turn out of the
highway, to the right.
'There is Camaldoli,' said Tatò, turning round to speak to them for the
first time since they had started. 'You can see the Druse's tower above
the trees, and the river is below.'
So far as the two gentlemen could see there was not another habitation
in sight, though it was no very great distance to the village of Santa
Vittoria, beyond the next spur of Etna. The ancient building, of which
only the top of one square black tower appeared, was concealed by a
dense mass of foliage of every kind. Below, to the right and towards the
mountain stream which Tatò called a river, the land was covered with
wild pear trees, their white blossoms all out and reflecting the
lowering sun. Nearer the building, the pink bloom of the flowering
peaches formed a low cloud of exquisite colour, and the fresh green of
the taller trees of all kinds made a feathery screen above and a compact
mass of dark shadow lower down. The narrow drive was thickly hedged with
quantities of sweetbrier and sweet hawthorn, which increased as the road
descended, till it filled everything up to a man's height and higher.
The way was so narrow that when the carabineers tried to ride on each
side of the carriage, they found it impossible to do so without being
driven into the tangle of thorns at every step. The whole party moved
forward at a quick trot, and Orsino understood what Basili the notary
had said about the bushes, so that even he laid his rifle across his
knees and peered into the brambles from time to time, half expecting to
see the muzzle of a gun sticking through the green leaves and white
flowers.
The avenue seemed to be about half a mile long. In the middle of it the
trees were so thick as to make it almost gloomy, even in the broad
afternoon daylight. The road was rough and stony.
Suddenly the horse of one of the carabineers ahead stumbled and fell
heavily, and the other trooper threw his horse back on its haunches with
an exclamation. Almost at the same instant, the sharp crack of a rifle
rang through the trees on the right; and the bullet, singing overhead,
cut through the branches just above the carriage, so that a twig with
its leaves dropped upon Orsino's knees. Another shot, fired very low
down, struck a spoke of one of the carriage wheels, and sent the
splinters flying, burying itself somewhere in the body of the vehicle.
Another and another followed, all fired either far too high or much too
low to strike any of the party. As the shots all came from the same
side, however, the sergeant of carabineers sprang to the ground and
plunged into the brush on that side, his rifle in his hand, calling to
his men to follow him. San Giacinto stood up and knelt on the cushion of
the carriage, though he knew that he could not fire in the direction
taken by the carabineers, lest he should hit one of them by accident.
'Keep a lookout on your side, too!' he cried to Orsino. 'Shoot anybody
you see, and do not miss. They may be on both sides, but I think not.'
Strangely enough, from the moment the soldiers entered the brush, not
another shot was fired. Clearly the assailants were beating a hasty
retreat.
At that moment something black stirred in the bushes on Orsino's side.
Instantly his rifle was at his shoulder, and he fired. San Giacinto
started and turned round, bringing up his own weapon at the same time.
'I believe I heard something fall,' said Orsino, opening the door of the
carriage. Tatò had disappeared. Basili's man had followed the soldiers
into the brush.
In an instant both the gentlemen were in the thicket, Orsino leading, as
he followed the direction of his shot.