The Finger of Fate: A Romance

On opening her eyes, she saw blood on the bandit’s dress, and that the skirt of her own robe was sprinkled with it. It appeared to proceed from a wound in his right arm, and she now recalled the sword in the grasp of the young Englishman, and the gallant use he was making of it. What had been the result of the unequal combat? Had Henry Harding succumbed? Had he been killed? Or was he, like herself, a captive? She had heard the command for him to be taken alive if possible, shouted back by Corvino. She hoped they had obeyed it; but trembled to think he might be dead. It was her first anxiety.

Fully recovering her senses, she looked around, but there was no one near – only the chief standing by, busied in binding up his wound. He had cut open the sleeve of his velvet coat, and was stanching the blood with strips from his shirt. She made no offer to assist him; she could only regard him with horror. His savage aspect, heightened to hideousness by the crimson streaks of blood on his hands, arms, and face, was sufficient to inspire both fear and aversion. She trembled as she lay watching him: for she was still lying upon the ground, where she had been placed like a parcel of goods.

“Be still, signorina,” said her captor, on perceiving she had come to herself. “Have patience till I get my arm slung, and then I shall take you to a softer couch. Sangue de Cristo! The Inglese shall pay for this with the loss of his ears and double the ransom. Now!” he said, having finished slinging his arm; “Alza! Alza! we mustn’t tarry, or that valiant captain may be after us with his soldiers. Come along, signorina. You can walk the rest of the way. Corpo di Bacco! I’ve carried you far enough.”

As he said this, he stretched out his left hand; seized the young girl by the wrist; raised her to her feet; and was about to proceed along the path, when he heard his four comrades coming up behind. He stayed to await their approach.

Presently they appeared filing through the rocks. There was no prisoner along with them!

He waited till the last was in sight; then, letting go his hold upon the captive, he rushed back towards the men, fiercely vociferating as he went.

“Dio Santo!” he exclaimed. “Where is the Inglese? Not with you? Maladitto! What have you done? Killed him?”

With a palpitating heart Lucetta listened for the reply. The men were slow to make answer – as if unwilling to tell the truth. She did not draw hope from this. They might be afraid to confess they had killed him. She remembered the command to take him alive. She trembled as she stood listening.

Another string of mingled oaths and interrogations was terminated by the same demand —

“Have you killed the Inglese? I heard the reports of your pistols; after that a volley from the soldiers. You were firing at him then, I suppose?”

“We were, capo,” answered one of the men.

“Well?”

“He succeeded in taking shelter under the cave, and we could not get at him. His long blade defended the entrance. Of course we could not surround him. If it had been a question of killing, we could have done that long before, but your orders were against it.”

“And you’ve left him alive, unscathed, free?”

“No, capo, we think he must have fallen at our fire. We could not stay to see, for the bullets were raining round us thick as sleet. No doubt he is dead by this.”

By the look and tone, the young girl could tell they were prevaricating. There was still a hope he might yet be alive. The chief equally perceived their evasion, and broke out in a paroxysm of fury. Forgetful of his injured arm, and almost wrenching it from its sling, he rushed upon his defeated followers.

“Cowards! imbeciles!” he cried, striking with his left hand now one, now the other, and tearing the hats from their heads. “Sangue di bacco! four of you conquered by one man – a boy – with the loss of thirty thousand scudi! Vada en Malora!” he exclaimed in agony, as he felt the pain of his disabled arm. “Take hold of the giovinetta, and bring her along. See that she does not escape you as well. Su via!”

Saying this, he strode off, leaving his companions to conduct the giovinetta after him. One of these, roughly seizing her by the wrist, and repeating the words “Su via!” hurried her off after the chief, the other three following sullenly.

The young girl offered no resistance. Any attempt to escape would have been hopeless. Her savage captors had freely flashed their daggers before her eyes, threatening to use them if she resisted; and she accompanied them with a sort of mechanical acquiescence springing from despair. Her thoughts were not with herself; they were directed to the Hermit’s Hill, though she had little hope of rescue from that quarter. Having witnessed the cowardly desertion of her by Captain Guardiola, she knew he would be equally backward in any pursuit; and indeed her captors showed not the slightest apprehensions of it.

As they wound their way slowly and deliberately through the defiles of the mountain, it might have quickened their steps had they known of the change that had taken place in the garrison of Val di Orno.

Chapter Fifty One

On the Trail

It is scarce necessary to say that the appeal made by the brother and father of the abducted girl found a ready response in the hearts of the Republican volontieri. It came upon them with the force of a double call; for in addition to dictates of humanity, the men looked upon brigandage as a part of the despotic government they had just overthrown. The sindico too had claims upon them; for it was known to their leaders that he had long secretly sympathised with their cause, his oath of office keeping him from any open demonstrations in their favour. Besides, his son, encountered by mere accident as they were issuing from the gates of Rome, had declared along with them, and was now one of themselves. Under such circumstances there could be no desire to withhold assistance from their newly-enrolled comrades. Nor was there any such, but, on the contrary, an enthusiasm coupled with a unanimous determination to take steps for the rescue of his sister.

As soon, therefore, as Guardiola and his troop were disposed of, by being disarmed and placed in charge of a detailed guard, preparations were entered upon for the pursuit of Corvino and his bandits. Luigi Torreani, a prey to the agony of a terrible apprehension, would have started off after them at once, and so too the young Englishman. But the leader of the Republican battalion – Rossi by name – was a man of more prudent impulses, and saw that such a step would only defeat the purpose they had in view. He had been himself an officer in the Neapolitan army, and had plenty of experience in the chasing of banditti. He well knew that any open pursuit of these watchful outlaws could end only in a ridiculous failure. The brigands themselves often witnessing such a result from the crest of some inaccessible cliff, will hail it with taunts and scornful laughter. It is true that in the present case there was an advantage. The rendezvous of the robbers was known. Their late captive could guide the pursuing party to the spot – a chance not often obtained. So far all seemed well; but not to the experienced pursuer of banditti.

“The advantage will be lost,” argued Signor Rossi, “if any attempt be made to approach by daylight. Their vedettes would see us from afar, and give them time to decamp. We must make our march in the night; and now that we know their den, there is some chance of our being able to entrap them.”

Some chance! The phrase fell harshly on the ears of Luigi Torreani, his father, and his friend. It was torture to think of any delay – to contemplate starting only after nightfall, with twenty miles of mountain road between them and the dearest object of their affections, perhaps at that moment struggling in the embrace of a bandit! To the three individuals most interested the suspense was simply agonising; and, to speak the truth, there were many of the others who only affected it, both townsmen and volontieri. Could nothing be done in the way of an immediate pursuit?

All knew well that to follow the five who had carried off the sindico’s daughter would be an idle chase; for much time had elapsed, and with the knowledge the bandits possessed of the mountain passes, they must long since have placed themselves in security. The only hope was in finding them at the rendezvous described by their escaped captive.

Was there no way by which this might be clandestinely approached during the daylight? No. It would be night before the brigands themselves would reach it. It was now midday, and the distance was at least twenty miles. Night would be the time for attack, and it also needed this to cover their approach throughout the intervening twenty miles. Otherwise surprise would be impossible; there would be vedettes along the line – if not brigands themselves, their manutengoli– peasants or shepherds. So said the leader, Rossi, and with reason. Was there any way out of the dilemma – any plan by which the brigands’ nest might be captured that night, and before another crime could be committed? The thought of another crime was in the minds of all – not more the relatives of the abducted girl than those who had volunteered to assist in her rescue?

Who could suggest a feasible plan?

“I,” said a man, stepping forward into the midst of the council, which was held in the open piazza. “If you’ll follow my advice, and accept my guidance, I think I can put you in the way you want. Besides rescuing the daughter of the worthy sindico here, you may capture the whole of Corvino’s band – with whom for many months I have been unwillingly compelled to associate.”

“Tommaso!” exclaimed the sindico, recognising his old retainer.

“Dio Santo!” cried the leader of the Revolutionists, seeing before him a man known as having suffered in the good cause – a victim of the Vatican, who had preferred brigandage to rotting in a Roman prison. “Signor Tommaso, is it you?”

“It is I, Captain Rossi; thank heaven, no longer compelled to skulk away among the hills and conceal myself from the sight of old friends, herding, as I have done, with the vilest scum of mankind; thank heaven and Giuseppe Mazzini! Long live the Republic!”

A general shaking of hands between Tommaso and the volontieri succeeded, many of the latter being old acquaintances, who had known him during his residence in the city of Rome.

Not less friendly was the grasp given by the young Englishman, who was now certain that his mysterious correspondent, the donor of the knife, was no other than Tommaso. But there was no time to be wasted in idle congratulations. It was not the occasion for them, with a cloud still hanging over their hearts, and Tommaso was not the man to need prompting.

“Follow me,” he said, speaking to Rossi, the sindico, and his son. “I know a way by which we can reach the place without being seen, and before sunset if need be. But they will not get home until midnight; and, by that time, we shall have them all in a trap – completely surrounded, and leaving no loophole of escape. Now, we must start at once. There is no time to linger; for the path we are to take is long and difficult.”

None hesitated to accept his proposal, or sought further explanation; and in less than ten minutes after, the Republican volontieri, leaving sufficient of their number to guard their soldier-prisoners, marched out of Val di Orno. They took their way towards the Neapolitan frontier, under the guidance of Tommaso, still wearing the garb of a brigand.

Chapter Fifty Two

A Suffocating Drink

It wanted an hour of midnight when the brigand vedette stationed at the mountain foot heard the howl of the Apennine wolf three times repeated.

“Il capo, I suppose,” he muttered, as after answering the signal, he stood up to take note of who was making approach. Himself concealed, he could see any one coming, time enough to sound another signal to the sentry on the summit of the hill. This would communicate the character of the approaching party – whether friendly or hostile; which by him above would in turn be telegraphed on to the quarters of the band.

The vedette soon perceived that his conjecture was correct. The chief came up, stopping only to mutter some inquiry, and then passed on. He was closely followed by a woman, whose fine silken skirt, seen under the coarse frezada that hung down from her shoulders, told she was richly robed; while her drooping head and slow unwilling step proclaimed her a captive. The capuce drawn over her head concealed her face from the eyes of the sentinel, who could tell, however, by her dress, and the small white hand grasping the folds of the frezada, that she was a signorina. Four other men – bandits in the disguise of shepherds – going in single file, followed after. The wolf-howl was uttered as they passed; its notes preceding them up the gorge, and receiving a response from the sentry at the summit. And then silence succeeded, broken only by an occasional rumbling noise, as some fragments of rock, detached by the feet of the ascending bandits, came rolling back down the declivity.

“That’s the new wife, I take it,” soliloquised the sentry, as soon as the party had gone past. “I should have liked a squint at her face. No doubt it’s a pretty one, or our dainty capo wouldn’t have taken all this trouble to secure her. His arm in a sling, too! The bird hasn’t been caught without a scuffle. I wonder if it be that sindico’s daughter there’s been such talk about. Like enough it is. Enfedi mia! Corvino strikes at high game. Well, after all, what’s better than to be the cara sposa of a brigand? Plenty of jewellery, rings, chains, lockets, and bracelets; plenty of confetti and kisses. What more can a woman want? And plenty of cuffing if she don’t properly deport herself.” Chuckling at his coarse jest, the vedette once more resumed his seat upon the rock; and, folding his frezada around him, relapsed into silence.

About an hour after, he was again startled from his sedentary attitude by the well-known wolf-howl. As before, the signal came from the outside – from the scorza that led toward the Roman frontier.

“E cosi!” he muttered; “what others are abroad to-night? I only remember the capo and his party. Now I think of it, Tommaso went out in the morning – on some fool’s errand. I wonder the capo trusts Master Tommaso, after that ugly disclosure about his cara Popetta. Poverina! if she were alive to see what’s going on, wouldn’t there be trouble in the camp! Corpo di Bacco! there again! Don’t be in such an infernal hurry, Signor Tommaso. Let me gather my breath for the answer. Wah-wah-oouah!” he howled out in response, giving the lugubrious signal; “now you may come on.”

Shortly after, a figure was seen stealthily approaching through the darkness, but with a step that showed a thorough acquaintance with the path.

“Chi e’ la?” hailed the sentry, as if some presentiment had increased his caution.

“Amico!” responded the person approaching; “why do you hail? I am Tommaso.”

“Ah! Signor Tommaso! I had forgotten that you were out. I thought you had gone in along with the others.”

“What others?” inquired Tommaso, with interest he endeavoured to conceal under a pretence of ill-humour.

“What others?” echoed the unreflecting sentinel; “why, Corvino himself, to be sure, and the party of pastores that went abroad with him. You were at the rendezvous when they left?”

“Ah, true,” carelessly remarked Tommaso. “But I thought they had got back before night. How long since they passed up?”

“About an hour ago.”

“Well, have they made anything by their sheep-driving?”

“A lamb. A young ewe, I take it, from what I could see of her wool. Dio Santo! there must have been sharp horns in the flock from which they have separated her. Our capo has had a thrust from some old ram. I could see blood upon his shirt.”

“Wounded, you think. Where?”

“In the right, arm. He was nursing it in a sling. There must have been a fight, I suppose. Did you hear nothing of it outside?”

“How could I? I’ve been too busy, and in a different direction.”

“I hope you’ve not been so busy as to hinder you from filling your flask, Signor Tommaso.”

“Por Bacco, no!” answered the latter, evidently more pleased than offended by the reminder. “I always find time for that. You want a pull, I suppose?”

“You’re right there, compagno; it’s a bit chilly upon post to-night, and a gill of rosolio would give me an infinite amount of comfort.”

“You shall have it. I can’t accommodate you with a cup. Can I trust the bottle in your hands?”

“Che demonio! yes. You don’t suppose, signor, I am going to rob you? A single pull will content me.”

“Here, then,” said Tommaso, handing over the leather bottle. “I’ll give you a good chance. You can swig away while I am counting twenty. Will that suffice?”

“Mille grazzie! yes. You are very generous, Signor Tommaso.”

The man, laying aside his carbine, caught hold of the proffered flask, from which Tommaso had already removed the stopper. Then, with the exclamation, “Oh me felice!” he took the neck between his lips. Turning his countenance skywards, he commenced imbibing the delicious liquor in long, copious draughts.

Tommaso had watched for this opportunity; and, suddenly stepping forward, he seized hold of the flask with his right hand, while with his left he grasped the brigand by the back of the neck. Then kicking his feet from under him, he flung the fellow back downwards on the grass, at the same time falling on top of him.

The vedette, thus taken aback, was hindered from resisting through sheer astonishment. He at first supposed it to be a joke, and that Tommaso was too generous of his liquor. Then he became doubtful about the designs of such rough handling; and then angry. He would have called out, but the bottle filling the whole cavity of his mouth, and the rosolio running down his throat, put a stopper to his speech. A few choking sounds escaped him; but, before he could free himself to give a good shout, or utter the oaths he would have done, four other assailants – already summoned by a low whistle from Tommaso – came quickly upon the ground. These, flinging themselves upon the prostrate body of the vedette, soon put an end to his struggles. It ended in their inserting a piece of stick between his teeth, and pinioning his arms to his sides; so that he was not only gagged and speechless, but powerless to stir from the spot.

A large body of men – for whom Tommaso had gone back some distance along the scorza– now came filing past; and, led by the ci-devant brigand, climbed quickly but silently up the gorge – their demeanour showing them bent upon an enterprise requiring the utmost caution.

Chapter Fifty Three

Courtship with a Captive

By this time, Corvino, his captive, and four followers had passed up the ravine, crossed the ridge, and descended into the crater.

On nearing the cluster of houses, they had been again challenged; this time by the regular sentinel of the rendezvous – of which there were two, one on each side. There was not much fear of these being found asleep. They had been lately taught a lesson well calculated to keep them on the alert, having seen two of their comrades summarily shot for neglect of watch-duty. They were the two who had suffered the English captive to escape. These had been tried, condemned, and executed, all within an hour’s time, after Henry Harding had been missed. Such is the code of the banditti – its stringency being their best safeguard against surprise and capture. A member of the band, placed over a prisoner, answers for the keeping of him with his own life. No wonder the escapes of riscattati are so rare – scarcely ever occurring.

No dog’s bark hailed the chief’s return; only the wolf-howl of the sentinel, three times repeated. Nobody came forth to welcome him. One of his followers opened the door of the capo’s house, entered, and struck a light, which he left burning in the chamber. The man then came out, and the four sham shepherds scattered off to their respective pagliattas.

Corvino was alone with his captive.

“Now, signorina,” he said, pointing to the house; “behold your future home! I regret I have not a grander mansion to receive you in; but such as it is, you are its mistress. Allow me to conduct you to your chamber.”

With an air of assumed courtesy, he offered his arm, which the captive made no movement to take.

“E cosi!” he exclaimed, taking hold of her wrist, and drawing her up the stone steps. “Don’t be so shy, lady. Step inside! You’ll not find it so uncomfortable. There’s a chamber specially fitted up for you with a sofa. You must be fatigued after your long march over the mountains. Be seated, while I find something sweet to refresh you. Can you drink rosolio? Stay, here’s better: a bottle of sparkling Capri.”

As he was talking, with his back turned to the door, a third individual entered the apartment – a woman of considerable beauty, but with that bold, fierce look that tells a sad tale. She had walked into the room without noise, stealthily and catlike; and, still remaining silent, she stood just inside the door – her glance fixed upon Lucetta Torreani, her eyes scintillating, as though at each moment they emitted sparks of fire. It was the woman who had betrayed Popetta, with the ambitious aim of being her successor. At the sight of this new arrival, her hopes seemed extinguished, and the look of concentrated rage with which she regarded the young girl was fearful to behold. It caused the latter to utter a cry of alarm.

“Chi senti?” asked the brigand, turning suddenly around, and for the first time perceiving the intruder. “Ah! you it is! Che tu sia maladetta! Why are you here? Off to your own apartment! Off, I say! Largo! Largo! This instant, or you shall feel the weight of my arm!”

The woman, awed by the threatening gesture, backed slowly out of the room; but as she passed into the shadow of the corridor, the fierce flashing of her eyes, accompanied by some words, low muttered, might have told Corvino that there was danger in what he was doing. He was too much engrossed with his evil design to think of it.

“Only one of my domestics, signorina,” he said, turning once more towards his captive. “She should have been to bed hours ago. ’Tis for that I have scolded her. Don’t let our little home-troubles make you unhappy. Drink this – it will refresh you.”

“I have no need of it,” replied the girl, scarce knowing what to say, at the same time pushing aside the proffered cup.

“But you have, signorina. Come, my fair girl – drink! Then for some supper. You must be hungry, as well as fatigued.”

“I cannot drink. I am not hungry. I cannot eat.”

“What would you then? To bed? There’s a couch in the next room. I am sorry I have no maids to help undress you. She whom you have just seen is not used to that kind of duty. You would prefer at once going to rest? Is that it, signorina?”

There was no reply. The young girl sat on the sofa with her head drooping down, till the chin touched her snow-white bosom. This was partially exposed – the buttons having been torn from her bodice as she was dragged along in the company of her captors.

There had been tears upon her cheek; but they were now dried, their traces only remaining. She could not again weep. She had reached that crisis of agony no longer to be relieved by tears.

“Come!” said the brigand, affecting an air of sympathy, like some cunning serpent in the act of fascinating its victim. “Cheer up, signorina! I acknowledge the rude fashion by which I have made you my guest; but who could resist the temptation of having so beauteous a damsel under his roof? Ah, Lucetta! though you knew it not, I have long been your admirer; long been enslaved by your charms – that are celebrated far beyond the mountains of the Romagna. I’ve myself heard speak of them in the salons of the Holy City. Ah! fair lady! being your captive, can you blame me for making you mine?”