The Flight from Naples
On the fourth of September news was received that Garibaldi was nearing
Naples with a large army, the number of which was enormously
exaggerated, however. The King hastily summoned a council in the middle
of the night. The only remedy for the situation now would have been to
attempt to block Garibaldi’s approach by attacking him at Salerno, which
was connected with Naples by rail; but General Bosco, who was in favor
of this course, was ill in bed, and his views were not shared by the
other commanders, who feared the revolutionists might effect a landing
nearer the city, thus cutting off the troops from a retreat. They all
agreed that it was better to make Capua and Gaeta the centre of
operations against the enemy, and the only dissenting voice was that of
the aged General Carrascosa, who declared to the King, “If Your Majesty
leaves Naples now, you will never return!”
His words made no impression, however. Francis left it to the generals
to decide; but they refused to take the responsibility.
As a last resort, Maria Sophia pointed out to her husband that it was
his duty to prevent his capital from being destroyed by a bombardment;
and in this appeal she was joined by Cardinal Riario Sforza, who
besought the King to save Naples from fire and sword. He was thinking,
no doubt, of the one hundred and eighty churches within the city walls;
but his words had the desired effect, for Francis had the deepest
reverence for anything that concerned religion. The next morning he
summoned Sforza to the palace and informed him that he had decided to
withdraw the army to a strong position between Capua and Gaeta. At the
same time he requested his trusted counsellor, Spinelli, to assist him
in drawing up a farewell proclamation to the people; and after this had
been accomplished, he went out to drive with the Queen in an open
carriage, escorted by two gentlemen of the court. It was their last ride
through the streets of Naples.
Francis, however, did not betray the slightest anxiety over the
important step he was about to take; and as for the Queen, she was
apparently in her usual spirits, laughing and joking with the King and
her two cavaliers: yet how often in those weary years of exile must
their thoughts have reverted in memory to that scene they now looked
upon with such indifference!
At the end of the Strada di Chiaja, directly in front of the court
apothecary’s shop, the royal carriage was stopped by a long line of
loaded wagons. The apothecary had a sign over his door, bearing the
Bourbon lilies, and a man was now mounted on a ladder busily engaged in
removing it. The Duke of San Donato, who happened to be passing, was
furious at the sight and expressed his anger in no measured terms; but
neither Francis nor Maria Sophia showed the least displeasure. They only
looked at each other and laughed at the apothecary’s foresight. The
following morning the King’s proclamation was displayed on every street
corner in Naples. It was calm and dignified in tone, and expressed less
resentment than resignation. At the same time he issued a protest to all
the foreign powers against Garibaldi’s invasion of his territory,
together with an assertion of his rights. It was no small task to
prepare for so sudden a flight, and there was little sleep that night in
the palace. Huge vans were loaded and sent off secretly under military
guard, and their contents carried early the next morning on board two
steamships which lay at anchor in the harbor; but in the hurry, only
personal belongings were taken, and all the treasures of the palace,
such as the vast quantities of gold and silver plate that had been
accumulated during the hundred and twenty-six years of Bourbon rule in
Naples, were left behind and afterwards confiscated by Garibaldi and
turned over to the provisional Government. All that Francis carried away
with him, except for a chest containing various relics and images of
saints, were a painting of St. Peter, a statue and marble bust of Pope
Pius the Ninth, a Titian portrait of Alexander Farnese, and a Holy
Family by Raphael. Of these, the last was undoubtedly the most valuable;
but even this splendid work of art the young sovereigns did not keep.
The Spanish ambassador, Bermudez de Castro, begged Francis to give it to
him, and the good-natured King consented. De Castro afterward tried to
sell it to the Louvre galleries, but was not satisfied with the price
offered. He then sent it to the South Kensington Museum in London, where
by an unskilful attempt at restoration it lost so much of its beauty and
value that no one would buy it. In his will the ambassador returned it
to the exiled King; but neither Francis nor Maria Sophia ever claimed
it, and the painting still remains at South Kensington.
On the morning of the sixth of September, Francis sent for the commander
of the National Guard, and after expressing his thanks for their loyal
support, repeated the comforting assurance that the troops had received
strict orders to protect the capital. He had prepared a list of those of
his court whom he wished to accompany him to Gaeta; but when the time
came to leave, the royal master of the horse, Count Michaëlo Imperiale,
was the only member of the royal household present. The King was so
touched by his devotion that he presented him on the spot with the Grand
Cross of the Order of San Fernando.
About four o’clock in the afternoon the ministers repaired in a body to
the palace to take leave of their sovereign, whose hand they were to
kiss for the last time under his own roof. Francis tried hard to control
himself, speaking kindly to all, and tenderly embracing his two most
devoted friends, Torella and Spinelli. But the number present was
pitifully small. Those who had received the most favor at the hands of
their sovereigns were as usual the first to desert them. Nor were there
any special manifestations of regret and sympathy among the populace at
the departure of the King and Queen, which was regarded merely as a
measure for assuring the safety of the city, while Garibaldi’s approach
was anticipated with mingled hope and fear.
About half-past six Francis and Maria Sophia left the palace on foot, he
in uniform as usual, she in an ordinary travelling dress and large straw
hat trimmed with flowers. Accompanied by several ladies and gentlemen of
the court, they walked through the palace gardens and down the long
flight of steps that led to the arsenal, the Queen leaning on her
husband’s arm, gay and cheerful as ever in spite of the ominous cloud
that shadowed their departure. Below them lay the Gulf of Naples, smooth
and bright as silver; but in the distance the bare, sombre peak of
Vesuvius rose like a menace amid the smiling beauty of nature. The
firemen of the ship in which the royal party was to embark had had to be
kept on board by force, and some advised the King to place himself under
the protection of some foreign flag, or to escape from the city
secretly. Undecided, as usual, Francis knew neither what he could do,
nor what he ought to do; but the captain of the vessel, who was
thoroughly loyal, finally persuaded him to go on board, urging that it
would be beneath the King’s dignity to flee from his capital like a
criminal.
Only one Italian vessel accompanied the King, but with it were two
Spanish warships carrying the Austrian, Prussian, and Spanish
ambassadors. The journey was most depressing. It had been decided upon
so suddenly that no one thought of taking such ordinary things as food
or even the few necessaries that would have made them comfortable. It
was a wonderfully beautiful night, and the Queen sat on deck until ten
o’clock, when it grew cold. Worn out with the fatigues and excitement of
the last twenty-four hours, she went into the little deck cabin and lay
down on a sofa. The King did not go to bed at all. Except for a few
words now and then with the Captain, he spent the night silently pacing
up and down the deck, watching the shores of Naples gradually fade from
view, and thinking, who knows what?
About two o’clock he asked whether the Queen had retired, and when told
she was still asleep in the little cabin he went in and stood for a long
time gazing down at her. Then removing his own cloak he gently spread it
over her to protect her from the chill of the night air, and returned to
his silent watch. Early the next morning they entered the harbor of
Gaeta, and were met at the landing by Maria Theresa and her children
with Father Borelli, her confessor. Francis had consulted this priest
some months before as to the advisability of granting his subjects a
more liberal form of government, and Father Borelli had merely echoed
the views of the deceased King, declaring that such a course would only
hasten a revolution, and warning him against it.
“I believe you are right,” Francis answered, “but fear it will be
impossible for me to follow your advice.”
“Then Your Majesty may perhaps remember this day as the last on which I
shall kiss the hand of a King of Naples,” returned the priest.
This conversation now recurred to them both, as Borelli came forward to
greet the King, kissing his hand again and again with tears in his eyes.
“Father,” said Francis, with a melancholy smile, “do you remember what
you said to me on St. John’s Day at Portici?”
“Ah, Your Majesty,” replied Borelli, “even though you should no longer
be a King on earth, you may yet become a saint in heaven.”
* * * * * * * *
Francis and Maria Sophia had no sooner left the capital than a
deputation was sent out to welcome the liberator, while the former
minister of foreign affairs prepared an address to Garibaldi, declaring
that Naples was waiting with impatience to greet him as the deliverer of
Italy, and lay the fate of the kingdom in his hands. They did not have
long to wait. The popular hero hastened his advance, and arrived so
quickly that there was barely time to prepare for his reception. There
was little sleep that night in Naples, and the first rays of the morning
sun found the whole city astir. The principal thoroughfares were
thronged with men, most of them armed, for fear of a reactionary
movement. Windows, balconies, even the roofs of houses were crowded with
spectators. Everything conspired to surround Garibaldi and his men with
a halo of romance. Their picturesque garb, rapid conquests, and fiery
proclamations appealed to the imagination of the hot-blooded southerners
and roused them to wildest enthusiasm. Guards had been placed at all the
exits of the railway station, where a large number of prominent citizens
had assembled to welcome the hero. Presently a bell was heard, and a
train drew in. A great shout arose; but it was found to contain only a
band of foreign mercenaries who had recently joined the victorious
party. At noon another bell sounded, and Garibaldi’s approach was
signalled. The train stopped. Thousands of voices joined in the shout of
“Long live Garibaldi!” as two men in red shirts appeared. They were
embraced with such vehemence by the excited Neapolitans that one of
them, who was taken for Garibaldi, barely escaped alive. The great man
himself had gone out by another door, however, and when this was
discovered there was a general stampede to find him. This time they were
successful.
Garibaldi’s entry into Naples was as brilliant and spectacular as the
rightful sovereign’s departure had been quiet and unnoticed. A huge
national flag had been unfurled, bearing the arms of the house of Savoy,
with the white horse of Naples and the lion of Venice; and Garibaldi
kissed this with tears rolling down his cheeks, declaring, “Soon we
shall all be united brethren!” while many of the spectators also wept.
He and a few of his companions then entered the open carriages that were
waiting to convey him to the city. Eight thousand of the royal troops
had been left in the citadel and a few outposts to maintain order; but
they had received no orders to resist the revolutionists, and even had
such been the case, it is doubtful if they would have obeyed, so carried
away were they by the tide of popular enthusiasm, as, amid deafening
cheers, the waving of hundreds of tri-colored banners and showers of
blossoms from every window, Garibaldi entered in triumph the gayly
decorated city, while even the skies seemed to share the joy of the
people and smile upon the liberator of “La Bella Napoli.”
He refused to occupy the royal palace which had been so lately vacated
by the sovereigns, but drove on to a smaller one, generally used for the
accommodation of foreign princes, where he took up his quarters. Vast
crowds surged about the building, shouting for the Dictator, till at
length one of the revolutionists appeared on a balcony, then another,
and finally the hero himself. Again a storm of cheers broke forth, and,
unable to make himself heard above the uproar, he leaned over the iron
railing and gazed down at the throng below. His usually ruddy face was
pale with emotion, and wore a look of sadness curiously in contrast to
the feverish joy of his admirers; but there was a gleam in his eye that
betrayed the fires that glowed within. He lifted his hand to command
silence, then began in tones so clear and distinct that not a syllable
escaped the ear:
“Neapolitans! This is a solemn and memorable day. After long years of
oppression under the yoke of tyranny, you are to-day a free people. I
thank you in the name of all Italy. You have completed a great work, not
only for your countrymen but for all mankind, whose rights you have
upheld. Long live freedom! the dearer to Italy, since she, of all
nations, has suffered the most. Long live Italy!”
The shout was taken up by thousands of throats and, their “Viva Italia!”
could have been heard from one end of the city to the other.
That afternoon Garibaldi visited the cathedral and was greeted with even
greater enthusiasm than in the morning. At night every house was
illuminated, and a torch-light procession paraded through the principal
streets, which were filled with excited throngs rushing about, every man
with a flag in one hand and a sword or a knife in the other, shouting
and embracing one another for joy. Garibaldi was the idol of the hour,
and Naples was his completely.
But here and there were still a few who remained loyal to the reigning
family and were anxious as to their fate. Francis, in his haste, had
neglected to remove his private fortune of eleven million ducats—the
dowry Queen Maria Christina had brought with her from Sardinia—from the
Bank of Naples where it was kept. When Garibaldi learned this he sent
for the man to whom the receipt had been entrusted, an officer of the
royal household named Rispoli, and forced him to give up the document,
which, afterward, he handed over to the new government.
Poor Rispoli, who was devoted to his master, was so overcome at being
deprived of his trust that he was stricken with apoplexy and died the
following day.