What was the next thing to be done? This was the inquiry which Lawson
junior put to himself, as he sat reflecting in his _locanda_.
Should he go back to London, carrying his bag of sovereigns untouched,
and along with it the news of the failure of his mission? This course
might be fatal in its consequences. The letter of the brigand chief,
which of course he had brought with him, plainly stated the conditions.
After ten days from its date the hand of Henry Harding would be sent to
his father, enclosed as had been the finger. Nine of these had already
elapsed. Only one intervened. And now that the go-between, Jacopi, was
no longer in existence, how was he to communicate with those who had
threatened the horrible amputation? "A band of brigands on the
Neapolitan frontier--about fifty miles from Rome." This extract from
Henry Harding's first letter was all the clue he had to guide him to the
whereabouts of the bandits. But the description might apply to the
whole frontier, from the Tyrrhenian to the north-western angle of the
Abruzzi--a line that, from all that he could learn, contained as many
bands of brigands as there were leagues in its extent. For the
Lincoln's Inn lawyer to make a tour along it, discover the locality of
each band, and ascertain which of them held his young countryman in
captivity, might possibly have been done at the hourly risk of being
made captive himself. But even if successful in the search, it could
not be accomplished in time.
In thinking it over, Lawson junior felt himself in a dilemma. Never in
his life had his father's firm undertaken such a case. It bristled with
difficulties, or, to speak more correctly, impossibilities.
What was he to do? He bethought himself of the application that had
been made to the Foreign Office in Downing Street, and the promises
there given to communicate with the Papal Government. Had these
promises been kept? Had any action been taken in the matter? He rushed
to the Vatican to inquire. But the Vatican was now a thing of the
past--the _regime_ of Rome was now in Republican hands. And, to his
inquiries made in official quarters, he could only obtain the answer,
that nothing was known of the matter.
Besides, the new rulers were too busy with their own affairs to take any
interest in his. What was the liberty of one person to that of a whole
nation, threatened by the approach of the two allied armies--Neapolitan
and French--now hastening towards Rome for the destruction of the
Republic? Every one was busy upon the barricades. There was no time to
spare for the chastisement of a score or two of brigands.
The representative of Lawson and Son was terribly perplexed as to his
course of action. It would be no use writing to London for
instructions. His communication could not reach in time. Perhaps by
the same steamer that would carry his letter, another might be
despatched with a packet containing the bloody hand of Henry Harding.
It would be a fearful consummation. But how was it to be shunned? He
could think of no means; and to wait for a return letter of advice from
England seemed like abandoning the captive to his fate. Still there was
no help for it; and he commenced writing the letter--in firm belief that
the return post would bring him the sad news of the brigands having
carried out their atrocious threat. It was less with the hope of
hindering this, than the other menace of a still more terrible event,
that induced him to indite the letter. Before he had finished writing
it, a new idea came into his mind, causing him to desist. What if his
letter should be miscarried? In such times could the post be relied
upon? Besides, why write at all? Why not go himself? He would reach
London as soon as a letter could; and a matter of such importance should
not be entrusted to chance. Further reflection convinced him that he
had best go back; and, tearing up the unfinished despatch, he at once
set out on his return to London.
He had some difficulty in getting through the lines set against the
approach of the hostile forces, that were every hour expected to arrive
before the gates of Rome. But gold, with a good English passport,
smoothed the way; and he at length succeeded in reaching Civita Vecchia,
from which the steamer transported him to Marseilles.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Not much was gained by the return of the emissary to England. Fresh
inquiries were made at the lodgings formerly occupied by the Italian
artist; but no new facts were elicited. Of his later residence there
was nothing known.
There could be nothing done but to despatch the junior partner once more
to Rome; and to Rome he went. But not to enter it. The Holy City was
now besieged by the hireling host of France, acting under Oudinot; and
the London lawyer had to stay outside. He was thus deprived of the
chance of prosecuting his inquiries. Twice were the invaders repulsed,
amidst scenes of carnage, in which the streets of Rome ran blood--the
blood of her gallant Republican defenders, led by that now
world-renowned chief, Garibaldi, who in this struggle first made himself
conspicuous on the page of European history.
But the unequal conflict could not last; the Republicans were defeated
by a base betrayal. When at length the French took possession of the
city, the London solicitor became free to renew his search. He then
succeeded in discovering that a young Englishman had been captured by a
band of brigands under a noted chief named Corvino; that he had
afterwards made his escape from them; that the band had been nearly
annihilated, and its chief killed by a party of Republican volunteers;
that his late captive, acting along with the latter, had returned with
them to the town of Val di Orno, and thence proceeded to Rome, in the
defence of which city he was supposed to have taken part. Whether he
fell, among the slain Revolutionists in the carnage that ensued, there
was no one who could tell. This appeared to have been his fate; since,
beyond the fact of his having returned to Rome along with the
Revolutionists, no trace of him could be discovered.
Even thus far General Harding did not live to learn the history of his
son. From the day on which that epistle had been put into his hands--
the one containing the hideous enclosure--his life had been one
continuous misery. It became intensified on the return of young Lawson
to announce the failure of his first attempt. From that hour the
General lived in a state of excitement bordering upon insanity. He
trembled at each post, expecting by it an epistle with more painful
details--and a still more horrible packet. He even fancied that the
second parcel might have miscarried, and the third would be that
containing his son's head!
The ghastly apprehension, acting upon his excited imagination, threw him
into a brain fever. From this he only recovered to linger a few days in
a state of bodily prostration, and die accusing himself of having killed
his son. With this self-reproach he departed from life. It could
hardly have been a conviction, since the last words spoken by him were
instructions to his solicitor, Mr Lawson, that the search was to be
continued, regardless of cost, until his son's fate should be
ascertained; and, if dead, that the body should be sought for, brought
home, and buried beside his own.
What were to be the conditions if he were found living no one knew,
except Mr Lawson; but that there were conditions might well be
supposed.
The solicitor faithfully carried out the instructions of the deceased
General; and expended a large sum, that had been left him for
prosecuting the search, both upon agents and advertisements.
It was all to no purpose. Beyond what had already been discovered at
Rome, Mr Lawson could get no further intelligence of Henry Harding--
whether living or dead--and in due time the emissaries were dismissed,
and the advertising abandoned.