"Zamori, a Calabrian fisherman of Gierazzo, is now in the harbour of
Carine with his little vessel, which, as Catanio informs me, will sail
in the evening; on receipt of my order, Zamori will convey you to any
part in Calabria, or place you on board the British frigate now cruising
in the Adriatic."
"A fisherman's bark will be but a comfortless place on these rough
waters, for the delicate signora. But O, most sincerely have I to thank
your Eminence for the interest you have taken in this matter, and the
kindness you have shown me."
"Captain Dundas, here at least I am a king!" said the old man, whose
broad brow became clouded for the first time. "Though exiled, forgotten
by Britain, and standing on the verge of the tomb, I will yield my
pretensions only with my last breath."
My reply was interrupted by the appearance of six French soldiers, with
a sergeant, coming down the avenue at a quick pace, with their bayonets
fixed. I remembered my encounter with Pepe, the keen glances of Compere
in the church, and all the dangers of my situation flashed upon me: I
stood irresolute whether to fight, fly, or surrender.
"Sir, they are no doubt in pursuit of you," said the cardinal, his aged
cheek beginning to flush: "but will they dare to cross my threshhold?
Alas! what will they not? The invasion of Rome, the expulsion of the
sacred college, and the seizure of Pius himself, are yet fresh in my
recollection. Catanio meet them at the porch, and in the name of God
dare them to enter the house of one of his servants!"
"Alas!" replied Catanio, "let me implore your majesty to pause. We are
but three aged and infirm men, against seven soldiers, armed, insolent,
and rapacious; as the followers of a usurper ever are."
"This is no time for delay. Away, Captain Dundas!" exclaimed York; "you
must fly. Catanio will lead you to the beach ere the house is
surrounded. Farewell, sir! a long farewell to you: we may never meet
again!"
Deeply moved by the old man's manner, I bowed, and, according to the
custom, kissed the hand he extended towards me: a massive ruby ring--the
great coronation ring of our ancient kings--sparkled on his finger.
Catanio hurried me away, and by the most unfrequented paths we reached
the beach; while the soldiers surrounded and searched the villa.
The cardinal died a few months afterwards, at Rome, in the eighty-second
year of his age, and was buried between his father and brother at
Frescati. Henry IX. is inscribed on his tomb; which the genius of
Canova has adorned with the most splendid sculpture. It is a curious
fact, that till the last day of his life, the cardinal was in
communication with many men of rank, wealth, and power, who seemed still
to have entertained the chimerical hope of placing him on the British
throne; and many documents discovered after his decease, and now
preserved in our archives, prove that his family had, even then,
numerous adherents in the three kingdoms: some of them men whom the
Government could little have suspected of such sentiments. Buonaparte,
too--that overturner of kings and kingdoms--is said to have expressed a
wish to place him on the throne; and, as an earnest of his friendship,
robbed him of his French estates: but the star of the Stuarts had set.
George III. kindly and wisely passed over in silence the names of those
whose romantic enthusiasm, or political bias, the papers of the
cardinal-duke had so awkwardly revealed.
I got on board Zamori's little sloop in safety; and, in obedience to the
cardinal's command, the warp was cast off, the sweeps run out, and he
anchored about half a mile from the shore. Catanio left me, promising to
return after dusk with the signora, whom I anxiously awaited; expecting
every minute to see bayonets glittering on the sunny beach, or a boat
filled with armed men push off towards the barque of Zamori.
The latter was a garrulous old fellow, whose tongue gave me very little
time for reflection. Night began to close over Canne; and I beheld its
approach with joy: the day had seemed interminably long. The evening
gun was fired from the French fort, the tricolor descended from its
ramparts, and I heard the evening hymn floating over the glassy sea from
the various craft around us; where many of the sailors lay stretched
upon bundles of sails, smoking cigars, tinkling the mandolin, and
enjoying the rich sunset of their glorious clime. Sinking behind the
mountains, the sun bade us adieu; darkness gradually crept along the
winding shore, and white vapours curled in fantastic shapes from the low
flats and ravines: slowly and brightly the moon soared into view,
bathing land and ocean in a flood of silvery light.
I lay on a bundle of sails listening to the skipper's legends of the
young Count of Caulonia, who fell in love with a mermaid that arose from
her coral cave in the Gulf of Gierazzo, and sat beneath his castle walls
singing as the syrens sung to Ulysses; and of the wondrous demon fish
caught in Naples, in 1722, with a man in armour in its stomach; and
Heaven knows what more. Hearing the dash of oars alongside the
_Echino_, as Zamori's bark was named, and seeing a boat shoot under her
quarter, I leapt up. I went to the side and received Catanio, who
handed up Francesca D'Alfieri. The poor girl was so happy to find
herself free, and entrusted to my care, that she could only weep with
joy; uttering sobs in the depths of an ample satin faldetta which the
abbess had given her, with two rosemary sprigs sewn crosswise in front,
to scare away evil spirits.
"Farewell to you, captain!" said Catanio, or Duncan Catanach; "do not
forget us when you go home to the land we love so well."
"Good-bye: God bless you, old man!" I replied, as the boat was pushed
off and moved shoreward.
The dark grave has long closed over the faithful Catanach and his
illustrious master; but memory yet recalls the old man's visage: I can
see it as I saw it then; clouded by honest sorrow, and its hard wrinkled
features tinged by the light of the moon.
An hour afterwards we were ploughing the waters of the gulf, with the
broad latteen sail of the _Echino_ bellying taut before the breeze as
she cleft the billows with her sharp-beaked prow. Zamori grasped the
tiller with important confidence; the crew, his two athletic and
black-browed sons, remained forward, and I seated myself beside the
signora, who permitting her hood to fall back, the moon shone on her
beautiful features and glossy hair. So dangerous an attraction near old
Zamori disturbed his steering, and the _Echino_ yawed till her sail
flapped to the mast.
"A sweet face!" he muttered, as the boat careened over; "but it will
work mischief, like the mermaids."
"O, signor, I am happy, so very happy!" said Francesca: the richness of
her tone, and the artlessness of her manner moved me. "Shall we soon see
Calabria?"
"That is Capo Trionto," said I, pointing ahead.
"Dear Calabria!" she exclaimed, kissing her hand to the distant coast;
"there was a time when I thought never to behold thee more! Beautiful
star!" continued the enthusiastic girl, pointing to a twinkling orb:
"Signor, is it not lovely? alas! 't is gone: perhaps it is a world!" she
added, clasping her hands, as it shot from its place and vanished. The
increasing roughness of the sea, as we sailed along the high Calabrian
coast, soon made Francesca uneasy: her prattle died away; she became
very sick, and lay in the stern-sheets of the boat, covered up with
Zamori's warm storm jacket, and a spare jib: both rather coarse
coverings for a beautiful and delicate female. At length she slept; and
I was left for a time to my own reflections.
About midnight, I was roused from a sound nap by Zamori.
"Look around you, excellency," said he, in a whisper; "saw you ever
aught so splendid--so terrible?"
Like a vast globe of gold the shining moon was resting on the summit of
Cape Trionto; which, rising black as ebony from the ocean, heaved its
strongly-marked outline against the illuminated sky: its ridge was
marked by a streak of fiery yellow. The water was phosphorescent; the
waves seemed to be burning around us, and we sped through an ocean of
light! The spray flying past our bows seemed like sparks of living
fire; the ropes trailing over the gunnel, and the myriads of animalcules
which animate every drop of the mighty deep, were all shining with magic
splendour. An exclamation of rapture escaped me: at that moment the
moon sank down behind Trionto; in an instant the sea became dark, and
not a trace of all that glorious and magnificent illumination remained
behind.
"Have you seen these often, Zamori?"
"No!" said he, shuddering and crossing himself; "but such sights never
bode good. We shall have the French in Lower Calabria soon. 'Tis Fata
Morgana," he added, whispering; "she dwells in the straits of Messina: I
have seen her palace of coral and crystal rise above the waves. She is
a mermaid of potent power: God send that we have no breeze before
morning!"
Cape St. James was in sight when the sun arose from the ocean, revealing
all the glories of the beautiful coast and sparkling sea. After the
stout Calabrians had knelt and prayed to a rudely-carved Madonna nailed
above the horse-shoe on the mast, I partook of their humble breakfast;
which consisted of olives, salt-fish, maccaroni, and sour wine: the
signora was too much indisposed to join us.
I looked forward with pleasure to assuming my important command at
Scylla; but other prospects made me happier still: I welcomed the
freshening breeze, as the little bark rushed through the surging sea
which boiled over her gunnels, and roared like a cascade under her
counter; while the ruin-crowned or foliaged headlands, and the countless
peaks which towered above them, changed their aspect every moment as we
flew on. I thought of my smiling Bianca, and hailed with joy the hills
of Maida. We beheld the evening sun gilding the Syla, and at night were
off Crotona, and saw the lights glimmering in its narrow streets and
gloomy citadel, where Macleod was stationed with his Highlanders.
Anchored close under its ramparts, lay the _Amphion_, and brave
Hanfield's sloop of war, the _Delight_. The sky was dark and lowering,
the sea black as ink: everything portended a rough night, and I was well
pleased that our voyage was over.
My despatch for Captain Hoste required him to bring round the Ross-shire
Buffs without delay to Messina; and the order was forthwith given to
heave short, to cast loose the sails, and lower away all the boats.
My old friend Castagno, with a party of the Free Corps, formed the guard
at the citadel gate; I was immediately recognized, and consigning the
happy Francesca to his care, beat up the quarters of Macleod: I found
him comfortably carousing with Drumlugas and some of his officers, who
were passing a portly jar of gioja round the table with great celerity.
When the curiosity and laughter occasioned by my attire had subsided,
and when the general's order had been read, I related my adventures;
passing over the visits to the vaults, and the discovery of Francesca
D'Alfieri.
An hour before gun-fire the Buffs were all on board the frigate: her
ample canvas was spread to the breezes of the Adriatic, and by sunrise
we saw her vanish round the promontory of Lacinium. The Cavaliere
Benedetto, with four hundred rank and file of the Free Corps, was left
to hold Crotona; while, by Macleod's order, I took command of a company
of those troops which the _Amphion_ could not accommodate: that evening,
bidding adieu to brave Castagno (whom I never saw again), we marched _en
route_ for St. Eufemio, where I was to see them safely embarked for
Messina.
Thanks to Macleod and his officers, my attire had now become a little
more professional: one gave me a regimental jacket, another a tartan
forage-cap, a third a sash, and Drumlugas presented me with a very
handsome sabre; of which he had deprived the Swiss colonel whom he
vanquished at Maida. In this motley uniform, I rode at the head of the
Free Company; which formed a very respectable escort for Francesca and
her sister, who accompanied us: both were mounted on fiery-eyed
Calabrian horses, a breed famous for their strength and endurance.
While so many bayonets glittered around them, the ladies had no fear of
banditti; Ortensia laughing merrily, made her horse curvet and prance,
and lent her soft melodious voice to the jovial chorus with which the
Italian soldiers lightened the toil of their morning march. But
Francesca was reserved; and beneath her veil I often saw tears suffusing
her mild and melancholy eyes.
"Dear Francesca, why are you so sad?" asked her sister; "O, now is the
time for joy! See how brightly the sun shines on the distant sea, and
how merrily the green woods are waving in the breeze. Most unkind,
Francesca! for your sake, I have left my poor Benedetto in that gloomy
castle of Crotona. Laugh and be joyous. Think on the happiness
awaiting us at home, and the embrace of our dear little Bianca, when she
throws her arms around you."
"And Luigi," added Francesca, unable to restrain her tears.
The path we pursued was different from that which I had travelled
before, and the intense solitude around it was almost oppressive. We
were marching through a dense forest, where not a sound broke its
stillness, save the cry of a solitary lynx or the flap of an eagle's
wing, as he soared to his eyrie in the sandstone cliffs which reared
their rugged front above the woodlands. White wreaths of distant smoke
shot up in vapoury columns through the green foliage, announcing that
the wild contained other human beings than ourselves; but whether these
were poor charcoal-burners, or robbers roasting a fat buck on the green
sward, we knew not. We passed one or two lonely cottages, where the
labouring hinds were separating grain from its husks, by the ancient
modes--trampling the corn under the hoofs of cattle, or rolling over it
a large stone drawn by a team of stout buffaloes.
Calabria was then (and perhaps is yet) widely different from every other
part of Italy: its peculiar situation, its lofty mountains, its dense
forests spreading from sea to sea and intersected by few roads, and its
hordes of banditti, made it dangerous and difficult of access to the
artist and tourist; consequently, until the close of Manhes' campaign of
blood, it was an unknown territory to the rest of Europe. These
circumstances rendered the natives rude in character and revengeful in
spirit; and thus a mighty barrier rose between the lower orders and the
noblesse: who (in the words of a recent writer on Italy) "live wholly
apart from the people--they compose two entirely distinct worlds."
After halting in forests during the sultry noon, cantoning in villages,
and marching in the cool morning and evening for two days, we arrived
near Amato, a little town within a few leagues of the Villa D'Alfieri.
We were traversing a deep pass of the Apennines, when the evening, which
had been serene and fine, became clouded: the lowering sky portended a
coming tempest. We pushed on, at an increased pace, to reach a
castellated villa, the residence of a Calabrian of rank, which we saw
perched on an isolated mass of rock, about a league up the mountains.
Striking and picturesque appeared the Vale of Amato, as the setting sun
poured its last blaze of radiance down the deep gorge between the dark
wooded hills, gilding the crenellated battlements, Saracenic galleries
and Norman keep of the distant castle; and reflected in the river, which
glowed like a stream of molten gold between thickets of sombre cypress
and fragrant orange-trees. Gradually, the hue of the setting orb changed
from bright saffron to deep red; and a flood of crimson lustre fell over
everything, tinging the lofty hills, the thick woods, the glassy river
with a blood-red tint, which rapidly became more sombre as the sun
disappeared behind the pine-clad hills. Then thunder rumbled through
the darkening sky; gloomy banks of cloud came scudding across it, and
volumes of vapour rolled away from the bed of the Amato.
"On, on!" cried Francesca; "O, the storm will be a terrible one: feel
you not the very blast of the sirrocco? Alas! we may die among the
mountains. Yonder is the residence of Guelfo the Buonapartist--ah! the
subtle knave! If we trust ourselves under his roof, say not a word of
Luigi, and mention not our names. Ah! if he should recognise us: you
remember that terrible night with the conciarotti and the mob of
Palermo."
They pushed forward at a gallop, and I followed; after leaving orders
with old Signor Gismondo, who--as I ought to have mentioned before--was
captain of the Free Company, to continue his route double-quick to
Amato, where we would rejoin him by daybreak next day. Gismondo was now
grave, reserved, and melancholy in the extreme: but I was much pleased
at renewing my acquaintance with him. Poor man! it was fated to be of
short duration. We had scarcely separated before the lightning gleamed
between the splintered rocks of the pass; the air became sulphurous,
close, and dense; in five minutes it was dark; we saw the luminous
glow-worms sparkling amid the dewy grass beneath the shady foliage,
while ever and anon the red lightning shot from peak to peak,
illuminating the scenery with its lurid glare. After scrambling up a
steep ascent, the face of which was scarped and defended by four pieces
of _French_ cannon, we reached the gate of this Neapolitan lord; whom I
had no wish to meet again, as his bad political bias had gained him an
unfavourable name in Calabria. Numerous towers and curtain walls of red
stone surrounded the building; few windows were visible outwardly, and
those were far from the ground and well barred with time-worn
stancheons.
Passing through a gate surmounted by a wolf's head cabossed on a shield,
and surrounded by the collar of shells, with the crescent and ship of
the Knights' Argonauts of San Nicolo, we dismounted in the courtyard.
"Alas! for poor Gismondo and his soldiers!" exclaimed Francesca, as the
gates were closed; and the descending storm burst forth in all its fury.
*CHAPTER IV.*
*CASTELGUELFO--THE WOLF OF AMATO.*
By the barone, a short and meagre little man of a most forbidding
aspect, we were received with all due honour and courtesy, and without
being recognised; but his residence was so full of armed men, that it
could scarcely afford us accommodation, ample though its towers and
corridors seemed to be.
"These are Lucchesi, the most hideous provincials of Italy; those
wanderers who spread over all Europe with organs and monkeys," whispered
Ortensia, as we passed through the court, which was crowded with the
most savage-looking fellows imaginable. Many were half naked, or clad
only in the skins of sheep and lynxes, beneath which might be seen the
remains of a ragged shirt, a tattered vest, or breeches, once red or
yellow; their legs and feet were bare; some had old battered hats, or
red slouched caps: but the greater number had only their shock heads of
hair, bleached by the weather till it was coarse as a charger's mane,
and overhanging their gaunt ferocious visages, grim with starvation and
misery: which ever accompanied French invasion. A few wore the gallant
bandit costume of the south, and all were carousing, and filling the
hollow towers, the dark arcades, and echoing corridors with bursts of
brutal laughter to lighten their work: for all were busy, polishing
rifle and pistol locks, and grinding the blades of sabres, poniards, and
pikes. My fair companions shrank with dismay from the hall windows when
they viewed the assemblage below, and even I did not feel quite at ease;
especially after seeing about two hundred stand of _French_ arms and
accoutrements ranged along the vestibule.
"Signor Barone, you keep a strong garrison here," said I, smiling, while
we surveyed the motley crew of ruffians from a lofty oriel; "do you
expect Massena to pass the Amato soon?"
"That would be superb!" replied he, with a grin, which revealed his
ample and wolfish jaws. "No, no, 't is only my good friend Scarolla,
the valiant captain of four hundred free companions, who is here with
his band: we are bound on a little piece of service together. Ha! ha! if
that fool Belcastro had not poisoned himself instead of the Maltese
Knight, he would have been here too."
At that moment Scarolla approached: I attentively surveyed the
celebrated bandit-chief, whose name, in the annals of Italian ferocity,
stands second only to that of Mammone, "the blood-quaffer." He was
above six feet high, and moulded like a Hercules; dark as that of a
Negro, his mean visage announced him a Lucchese; long black hair hung
down his back, and a thick beard fringed his chin. The band of his ample
beaver, his velvet jacket and mantello were covered with the richest
embroidery, and a silver hilted poniard glittered in his waist-belt.
His brows were knit and lowering, his eyes keen and sinister: the ladies
trembled beneath the bold scrutiny of his glance, and shrank close to my
side for protection while the withered little barone introduced us.
"Signor Inglese, the valiant Capitano Scarolla; brave men ought to know
each other: you are both captains, remember."
"Serving under different leaders," I replied, while bowing, and
repressing a scornful smile.
"Superba!" cried the little barone, laughing and rubbing his hands; but
Scarolla's brows knit closer, and his eyes kindled at my inuendo.
The hall was now lighted by several tall candelabra; their lustre was
reflected from the gilded columns and pendants of the lofty roof, and
the frames of dark, gloomy, and mysterious portraits of the ancient
Guelfi; who seemed scowling from their pannels on their degenerate
descendant and his unworthy confederate.
That ancient apartment, when viewed as I beheld it, one-half bathed in
warm light, and the other sunk in cold shadow, seemed the very scene of
a romance; to which the graceful figures of the Signora del Castagno and
her sister, and the picturesque garb of the tall Scarolla gave
additional effect. Now were appropriate sounds wanting; for a storm
raged in the valley below, thunder growled in the mountains above, and
the rain rushed like hail on the casements; the painted traceries of
which were often lit by fitful gleams of the moon or the blue forked
lightning, as it shot from hill to hill.
Uneasy in the presence of Scarolla, the ladies, after a slight
refreshment, withdrew to repose; promising to be up with the lark for
our journey to-morrow.
When travelling, or on active service, one is compelled to accommodate
oneself to every kind of society, place, and circumstance; and upon this
philosophical principle, I made myself quite at home, and supped merrily
with the barone and bandit: of whom the servants stood in the greatest
awe. Supper over, wine was produced: however abstemious the Italians
may be, I saw no sign of the national trait that night, at Castelguelfo;
where we drank the richest continental wines, emptying the decanters in
rapid succession, as if we had been three Germans drinking for a wager.
Rendered mellow by his potations, our host became talkative; and, in
spite of the nods and contemptuous frowns of the impatient Scarolla,
informed me that he was collecting men to make a political
demonstration, of which I should soon hear at Palermo--an attack on a
powerful feudatory, with whom he had a deadly quarrel, which the
presence of our army only smothered for a time.
"It will be superb," grinned the barone. "I hate him with the stern
bitterness of a thorough old Calabrese. Thrice has he crossed me at
court: he caused Ferdinand to regard me with coldness and jealousy, and
when all the nobles of the province received the order of San
Constantino, I alone was left undecorated; and my name, the oldest in
Naples, was forgotten. We have now the country to ourselves; and taking
advantage of the lull, all Italy, from Scylla to the Alps, shall ring
with my retribution. Yesterday, Crotona was abandoned to the Calabri;
the soldiers who fought and won at Maida have all withdrawn, and there
is no one to mar my revenge. O, it will be signal! In their king's
service, the followers of my foe are all in garrison at Reggio; and his
residence is unprotected. I have a hundred sbirri well mounted, armed
and faithful; Scarolla has four hundred of the bravest rogues that ever
levelled a rifle. Superba! Loyal visconte, beware the fangs of the
Wolf! Per Baccho! there shall be a modern feud between the Guelfi and
Alfieri, famous as that they had of old--ha! ha!"
"The Villa D'Alfieri is then the point of attack," said I.
"Superba!" screamed the little barone, who was becoming more inebriated:
"yes; I will clothe its walls in flames; and if blood can quench them,
then so shall they be quenched. Yea, in blood, shed where my ancestor's
yet cries for vengeance. Viva Guesippe Buonaparte!"
"One alone shall be spared, excellency;" remarked Scarolla, who was also
becoming excited.
"So I have promised you, prince of rogues, as the price of your
services. The plunder of the villa belongs to your followers; and to
you falls that glorious prize, the theme of our improvisatori, the pride
of the Calabrias----"
"Bianca D'Alfieri!" added Scarolla, his eyes lighting with insolent
triumph.
"Superb! is she not?" laughed the barone.
"God curse you both," I muttered; instinctively feeling for my sabre,
and gulping down my wine, to hide the passion that boiled within me. I
thanked Heaven that they knew not of Gismondo and his company; by whom I
hoped the villa would be saved from this revengeful rebel.
"When does the attack take place, signor?"
"To-morrow, at midnight. We will burn a light at St. Eufemio that will
astonish the good citizens of Messina, and scare Fata Morgana in her
ocean palace. You are on your way to Palermo?"