The Daltons; Or, Three Roads In Life. Volume II

Frank now saw that the poor fellow’s cheek was torn with a shot, and that his left hand was also shattered.

“The fire is too heavy, Herr Lieutenant; the men cannot open a way for the cattle,” whispered the old Corporal.

“What’s to be done then?” asked Frank; but the poor Corporal fell dead at his side as he spoke. The brunt of the conflict was, however, at the barricades; for, despairing of any prospect of removing the obstacles, many of the hussars had ridden recklessly at them, and there, entangled or falling, were shot down remorselessly by the enemy. One alone forced his way, and with his uniform bloody and in rags dashed up to Frank.

“Get the cadet up in front of you,” whispered Frank; and Ravitzky, who was now unconscious, was lifted into the saddle; while the hussar, grasping him with his strong arms, held him against his chest.

“Forward, now,” said Frank; on, to the first village, “and see him cared for.”

“But you, Herr Lieutenant, – what’s to become of you?”

“I ‘ll not leave my poor wounded comrades.”

“There ‘s not a living man amongst them,” cried the hussar. “Come along with us, Herr Lieutenant; we may want your help too.”

The firing ceased at this moment; and to the wild shouts and din of conflict there succeeded a dead silence.

“Keep quiet – keep quiet – stand close beneath the rock,” whispered Frank; “here comes the boat.” And, with slow and measured stroke, the skiff neared the shore, about twenty paces from where they stood.

“Pull in boldly,” cried a gruff voice, in Italian; “there’s nothing to fear now: neither man nor horse could survive that fire.”

“Would that the great struggle could be accomplished so easily!” said a softer tone, which Frank almost fancied he had heard before.

Lanterns were now seen moving in the space between the barricades; and crowds pressed down to examine and pillage the dead.

“Have you found the officer’s body?” asked he of the soft voice.

“I suspect the party was under a sergeant’s command,” said another.

“No, no,” rejoined the other; “Giuseppe was positive that he saw an officer.”

“See that he has not escaped, then,” said the other, eagerly. “The tale of this night’s adventure might be told in two ways at Milan.”

“The cadet is dying, sir; his head has fallen back,” whispered the hussar to Frank.

“The lake, Dalton, the lake!” muttered the dying man, as he threw his arms around Frank’s neck. Frank caught him while he was falling, but, overborne by the weight, reeled back against the rock.

“How many are in the boat?” whispered Frank.

“I see but one man, sir,” said the hussar.

“Now for it, then,” said Frank; “place him between us on a carbine, and make for the boat.”

With the energy of a newly inspired hope, the men obeyed in an instant; and, carrying their wounded comrade, moved stealthily along beneath the shadow of the rock. It was only as they emerged from this, and gained the little gravelly beach, that their figures could be seen.

“Be quiet now, men, and leave that fellow to me,” said Frank, as he cocked his pistol. The clank of the sabres, however, seemed warning enough for the crafty Italian, who jumped at once into the lake. With a rush, the Hungarians sprang into the skiff, while Frank, seizing it by the prow, pushed boldly out. The plunge and the splash had, meanwhile, attracted notice, and several hurried down to the beach. Frank had but time to order his men to lie down, when a crashing volley flew over them. “Now, to your oars, boys, before they can load again.” The light skiff almost rose out of the water to their vigorous stroke: and although the balls tore incessantly amongst them, they continued to row on. Sheets of bright flame flashed across the water, as volley after volley followed; but the Hungarians were soon out of the reach of the fire, with no other loss than some slight wounds.

At first it seemed as if some pursuit were intended; but this was soon abandoned, and the noise of horses and wheels on the road showed that the multitude were departing land-wise. Frank now bethought him what was best to be done. If the country were really in open revolt, the only chance of safety lay in surrendering to something like authority; if this were a mere partial outbreak, in all likelihood the opposite shores of the lake would offer a refuge. A single light, like a star, shone in the far distance, and thither Frank now steered the boat. Ravitsky lay against his knees, his head on Frank’s lap, breathing heavily, and occasionally muttering to himself, while the men kept time to the oars with a low, mournful chant, which sounded at least like a death-wail over their comrade.

The lake opposite Varenna is nearly at its widest part; and it was full three hours after the occurrence of the skirmish that they drew near to the light, which they now saw proceeded from a little boat-house belonging to a villa a short distance from shore. A small harbor, with several boats at anchor in it, opened on the water’s edge, and a great flight of marble steps led up to a terraced garden, adorned with fountains and groups of statuary.

Frank saw at once that he had invaded the precincts of one of those princely villas which the Milanese nobility possess on the lake, and was uncertain which course to take. His Austrian uniform, he well knew, would prove a sorry recommendation to their kind offices. For some time back the breech between the Austrians and the Lombards had gone on widening, till at length every intercourse had ceased between them; and even the public places resorted to by the one were sure to be avoided on that account by the other. Scarcely a day passed without Milan witnessing some passages of hostility or insolence, and more than one fatal duel showed how far political dislike had descended into personal hatred.

To ask for aid and assistance under circumstances such as these, would have been, as Frank felt, a meanness; to demand it as a right would have been as insolent a pretension; and yet what was to be done? Ravitzky’s life was in peril; should he, from any scruple whatever, hazard the chances of saving his poor comrade? “Come what may,” thought he, “I’ll claim their succor – theirs be the shame if they refuse it!”

The approach was longer than he suspected, and, as he went along, Frank had occasion to remark the tasteful elegance of the grounds, and the costly character of all the embellishments. He saw that he was about to present himself before one of the “magnates” of the land, and half prepared himself for a haughty reception. Crossing a little bridge, he found himself on a grassy plateau, on which a number of windows looked out; and these now all lay open, while seated within were several persons enjoying the Italian luxury of a “bel fresco,” as the air of the lake gently stirred the leaves, and carried some faint traces of Alpine freshness into the plains beneath. A large lamp, covered with a deep shade, threw a dubious light through the chamber, and gave to the group all the effect and coloring of a picture.

On an ottoman, supported by pillows, and in an attitude of almost theatrical elegance, lay a lady, dressed in white, a black veil fastened in her hair behind, being half drawn across her face. At her feet sat a young man, with an air of respectful attention; and a little further off, in an easy-chair, reclined the massive proportions of a priest, fanning himself with his skull-cap, and seemingly gasping for air. Behind all, again, was another figure, – a tall man, who, with a cigar in his mouth, slowly paced the chamber up and down, stopping occasionally to hear the conversation, but rarely mingling in it.

There was that air of indolent enjoyment and lassitude, that mingled aspect of splendor and neglect, so characteristically Italian in the scene, that Frank forgot himself, as he stood still and gazed on the group, and even listened to the words.

“After all,” said the young man, in Italian, “it is better to let them do the thing in their own way! Catting off a patrol here, shooting a sentry there, stabbing a general to-day, poisoning a field-marshal to-morrow, seems to our notions a very petty war, but it makes a country very untenable in the end!”

“Fuori i barbari! over the Alps with them at any cost!” growled the priest.

“I agree with you,” said the tall man, stopping to brush the cinder from his cigar, “if you can drive them away in a stand-up fight; and I don’t see why you could not! Numerically, you are about five hundred to one; physically, you look their equals. You have arms in abundance; you know the country; you have the wishes of the people – ”

“The prayers of the Church,” interposed the lady.

“Beati sunt illi qui moriuntur pro patriâ,” muttered the padre.

“You and I, father,” said the young man, “would like a little of that beatitude in this world too.”

Frank had now heard more than he had desired to hear; and, unhooking his sabre, he suffered it to clink at his heels as he boldly advanced towards the windows.

“Who have we there?” cried the tall man, advancing to the terrace, and challenging the stranger.

Frank replied, in French, that he was an Austrian officer, whose party had been waylaid near Varenna, and who had made his escape with a wounded comrade and a few others.

“So the shots we heard came from that quarter?” whispered the youth to the lady.

She signed to him to be cautious, and the tall man resumed, —

“This is a private villa, sir; and as yet, at least, neither an Austrian barrack nor an hospital.”

“When I tell you, sir,” said Frank, with difficulty restraining his passion, “that my comrade is dying, it may, perhaps, excite other feelings than those of national animosity.”

“You are a Hungarian?” asked the youth.

“What of that?” broke in the padre. “Tutti barbari! tutti barbari!”

Meanwhile the tall man leaned over where the lady sat, and conversed eagerly with her.

“You have to think how it will look, and how it will tell abroad,” said he, in English. “How shall we persuade the people that we are in their cause if you make this villa an Austrian refuge?”

She whispered something low in reply, and he rejoined impatiently, —

“These are small considerations; and if we are to be always thinking of humanity, let us give up the game at once.”

“You ‘ll not refuse my comrade the consolations of his Church, at least?” said Frank. “I see a reverend father here – ”

“And you ‘ll never see him follow you one step out of this chamber,” broke in the priest “Ego autem tanquam Burdus, non audiebam,” muttered he, with a wave of his hand.

“But if he be a good Catholic,” interposed the youth, half slyly.

“Let them be confounded who seek to do me evil!” said the priest, with a solemnity that said how deeply he felt for his own safety.

“This discussion is lasting too long,” said Frank, impatiently. “I cannot coerce your humanity, but I can demand as a right that a soldier of your Emperor shall receive shelter and succor.”

“I told you so,” said the tall man, still addressing the lady in English; “first the entreaty, – then the menace.”

“And what are we to do?” asked she, anxiously.

“Let them occupy the boat-house; there are beds in the lofts. Jekyl will see that they have whatever is necessary; and perhaps by to-morrow we shall get rid of them.” Turning towards the youth, he spoke to him for a few minutes rapidly, and the other replied, “You are right I ‘ll look to it.” He arose as he spoke, and bowing politely to Frank, pronounced himself ready to accompany him.

With a few words of apology for his intrusion, as awkwardly uttered as they were ungraciously received, Frank retired from the chamber, to retrace his steps to the harbor.

Little as he was disposed to be communicative, Albert Jekyl – for it was our old acquaintance – contrived to learn, as they went along, every circumstance of the late encounter.

The pliant Jekyl fully concurred in the indignant epithets of cowards and assassins bestowed by Frank upon his late assailants, deplored with him the miserable and mistaken policy of revolt among the people, and regretted that, as foreigners themselves, they could not offer the hospitality of the villa to the wounded man without exposing their lives and fortunes to an Infuriated peasantry.

“What nation do you then belong to?” asked Frank, shrewdly concealing his knowledge of English.

“We are, so to say, of different countries,” said Jekyl, smiling, and evading the question. “The padre is a Florentine – ”

“And the lady?”

“She is a very charming person, and if it were not that she is a little over-devout, a shade too good, would be the most delightful creature in existence.”

“The tall man is her husband, I conclude.”

“No, – not her husband,” smiled Jekyl again; “a person you ‘ll like much when you see more of him. Short and abrupt, perhaps, at first, but so kind-hearted and so generous.”

“And has the villa got a name?” asked Frank, in a voice of some impatience at finding how little his companion repaid his frankness.

“It is called La Rocca,” said Jekyl. “Had you not been a stranger in Italy, you would scarcely have asked. It is the most celebrated on the whole lake.”

Frank thought he had heard the name before; but when, where, or how, he could not remember. Other cares were, besides, too pressing upon him to make him dwell on the subject, and he willingly addressed himself to the more urgent duties of the moment.

The boat-house stood in no need of all Jekyl’s apologies. Frank had lodged in many inferior quarters since he had begun soldiering; there were several excellent bedrooms, and a delightful little salon which looked directly out upon the lake. Ravitzky, too, had rallied considerably, and his wounds, although formidable from the loss of blood, showed nothing likely to prove fatal. Jekyl pledged himself to send a surgeon at once to him; and, adding all kinds of civil speeches and offers of personal services, at last left the friends together to exchange confidences.

“What are our hosts like, Dalton?” said the cadet

“You would call them most patriotic, Ravitzky, for they would scarcely give us shelter. Their only regret seemed that our friends yonder had not done the work better, and finished off the rest of us.”

“It is not pleasant to accept of an ungracious hospitality; but I suppose that I, at least, shall not trouble them long. There ‘s something hot goes on ebbing here that tells of internal bleeding; and if so, a few hours ought to suffice.”

Frank did his best to rally his poor comrade; but the task is a difficult one with those whose fear of death is small.

“You’ll have to write to Milan, Dalton,” said he, suddenly.

“I should rather say, to hasten thither at once,” said Frank. “I ought to report myself as soon as possible.”

“But you mustn’t leave me, Dalton; I cannot part with you. À few hours is not much to you; to me it is a life long. I want you also to write to Walstein for me; he ‘ll take care to tell my mother.”

Frank knew well the breach of discipline this compliance would entail, and that he could scarcely be guilty of a graver offence against duty; but Ravitzky clung to his wish with such pertinacity, throwing into the entreaty all the eagerness of a last request, that Frank was obliged to promise he would remain, and let the result take what shape it might. While he, therefore, gave orders to his only unwounded comrade to hold himself in readiness to set out for Milan by daybreak, he proceeded to write the brief despatch which was to record his disaster. There are few sadder passages in the life of a young soldier than that in which he has to convey tidings of his own defeat. Want of success is so linked and bound up with want of merit, that every line, every word, seems a self-accusation.

However inevitable a mishap might appear to any witnessing it, a mere reader of the account might suggest fifty expedients to escape it. He knew, besides, the soldierlike contempt entertained in the service for all attacks of undisciplined forces, and how no party, however small, of “regulars” was esteemed insufficient to cope with a mob of peasants or villagers. Any contradiction to so acknowledged a theory would be received with loud reprobation, and, whatever came of it, the most inevitable result would be the professional ruin of him unlucky enough to incur such a failure.

“There’s an end of the career of the Lieutenant von Dalton,” said Frank, as he concluded the paper. “Neither his uncle, the Field-Marshal, nor his sister, the Princess, will have favor enough to cover delinquency like this.” It did, indeed, seem a most humiliating avowal, and probably his own depressed state gave even a sadder coloring to the narrative. He accompanied this despatch by a few lines to the Count, his grand-uncle, which, if apologetic, were manly and straightforward; and, while bearing a high testimony to Ravitzky’s conduct, took all the blame of failure to himself alone.

He would gladly have lain down to rest when this last was completed, but the cadet pressed eagerly for his services, and the letter to Walstein must be written at once.

“The surgeon tells me that there is internal bleeding,” said he, “and that, should it return with any degree of violence, all chance of recovery is hopeless. Let us look the danger boldly in the face, then, Dalton; and, while I have the time, let me tell Walstein all that I have learned since we parted. The letter I will confide to your safe keeping till such time as it can be forwarded without risk of discovery.”

“Is there necessity for such precaution?” asked Frank.

“Can you ask me the question?”

“Then how am I to write it?” said he.

“Simply from my dictation,” replied the other, calmly. “The sentiments will not be yours, but mine. The mere act of the pen, for which these fingers are too weak, can never wound the susceptibility of even your loyalty. You are not satisfied with this?”

Frank shook his head dubiously.

“Then leave me where I am. I ask no companionship, nor friendship either, – or, if you prefer it, hasten to Milan and denounce me as a traitor. My character is well enough known not to need corroboration to your charge; the allegation will never hurt me, and it may serve you, Ay, Herr Lieutenant, it will prove an opportune escape for the disgrace of this unlucky night. They will forgive you much for such a disclosure.”

Frank’s temper would have been insufficient to bear such an insult as this, had not the words been spoken by one already excited to the madness of fever, and whose eye now flashed with the wild glare of mania.

It was long before Frank could calm down the passionate excitement of the sick man, and fit him for the task he wished to execute; and even then Ravitzky undertook it in a sullen, resentful spirit that seemed to say that nothing short of the necessity would have reduced him to such a confidence. Nor was this all. Pain and nervous irritability together made him difficult, and occasionally impossible, to understand. The names of people and places of Hungarian origin Frank in vain endeavored to spell; the very utmost he could do being to follow the rapid utterance with which the other at times spoke, and impart something like consistency to his wild, unconnected story.

That Ravitzky had been employed in secret communications with some of the Hungarian leaders was plain enough, and that he had held intercourse with many not yet decided how to act was also apparent. The tangled web of intrigue was, however, too intricate for faculties laboring as his were; and what between his own wanderings and Frank’s misconceptions, the document became as mysterious as an oracle. Perhaps Frank was not sorry for this obscurity; or, perhaps, like the lady who consoled herself for the indiscretion of keeping a lover’s picture by the assurance that “it was not like him,” he felt an equal satisfaction in thinking that the subject of his manuscript could never throw any light upon any scheme that ever existed. Now it ran on about the feelings of the Banat population, and their readiness to take up arms; now it discussed the fordage #of rivers in Transylvania. Here was an account of the arms in the arsenal of Arad; there a suggestion how to cut off Nugent’s corps on the Platen See. At times it seemed as if a great Sclav revolt were in contemplation; at others the cause appeared that of the Hungarian nobles alone, anxious to regain all the privileges of the old feudalism. “At all events, it is rebellion,” thought Frank; and heartily glad was he when the task was completed, and everything save the address appended. It was now sealed, and by Ravitzky’s advice deposited within the linings of Frank’s pelisse, till such time as a safe opportunity might offer of forwarding it to Walstein.

The task occupied some hours; and when it was completed, so tired was Frank by former exertion and excitement, that he lay down on the floor, and with his head on the sick man’s bed, fell fast asleep. Such had been his eagerness to finish this lengthy document, that he had never perceived that he was watched as he wrote, and that from the little copse beside the window a man had keenly observed him for several hours long.

Ravitzky, too, fell into a heavy slumber; and now, as both slept, a noiseless foot crossed the floor, and a man in the dark dress of a priest drew nigh the bedside. Waiting for some seconds as if to assure himself of the soundness of their sleep, he bent down and examined their features. Of the cadet he took little notice; but when his eyes fell upon Frank’s face, pale and exhausted as he lay, he almost started back with astonishment, and for several minutes he seemed as if trying to disabuse himself of an illusion. Even the uniform appeared to surprise him, for he examined its details with the greatest care. As he stood thus, with the pelisse in his hand, he seemed suddenly to remember the letter he had seen placed within the lining; and then, as suddenly drawing out his penknife, he made a small aperture In the seam, and withdrew the paper. He was about to replace the pelisse upon the bed, when, by a second thought, as it were, he tore off the envelope of the letter, and reinserted it within the lining.

A single glance at it appeared to convey the whole tenor of its contents, and his dark eyes ran over the words with eager haste; then, turning away, he moved cautiously from the room. Once in the free air again, he reopened the paper, his sallow features seeming to light up with a kind of passionate lustre as he traced the lines. “It is not – it cannot be without a meaning that we are thus forever meeting in life!” cried he; “these are the secrets by which destiny works its purpose, and we blindly call them accident! Even the savage knows better, and deems him an enemy who crosses his path too frequently. Ay, and it will come to this one day,” muttered he, slowly; “he or I, – he or I.” Repeating this over and over, he slowly returned to the villa.

CHAPTER XV. A VILLA AND ITS COMPANY

Having told our readers that the villa was called La Rocca, it is perhaps needless that we should say that the lady was our old friend Lady Hester, who, under the spiritual guidance of the Canon of the Duomo, was now completing her religious education, while Lord Norwood was fain to escape the importunity of duns and the impertinence of creditors by a few weeks’ retirement in this secluded region. Not that this was his only inducement. For some time back he had pressed his claim on various members of his Government for place or employment. He had in vain represented the indignity of a peer reduced to beggary, or the scarcely better alternative of play for support He had tried – unsuccessfully, however – every sort of cajolery, menace, and flattery, to obtain something; and after successively offering his services for or against Carlism in Spain, with Russia or against her in the Caucasus, with twenty minor schemes in Mexico, Sicily, Greece, and Cuba, he at last determined on making Northern Italy the sphere of his abilities, wisely calculating that before the game was played out he should see enough to know what would be the winning side.

An accidental meeting with D’Esmonde, which renewed this old intimacy, had decided him on taking this step. The Abbé had told him that the English Government of the day was secretly favorable to the movement; and although, from the necessities of State policy and the requirements of treaties, unable to afford any open or avowed assistance, would still gladly recognize his participation in the struggle, and, in the event of success, liberally reward him.