The Finger of Fate: A Romance

Chapter Fifty Four

A Terrible Tableau

And treason it was – treason and surprise – almost instantaneously followed by the capture of the whole band of brigands!

First the pagliatta huts were surrounded, and then the house of the chief himself. There was a crowd of men, upon whose persons, despite the darkness, could be seen the bright glitter of arms. There was light enough from the stars and the chamber he had lately quitted to show Corvino that his quarters were completely enfiladed by dark shadowy forms, each holding in his hand a gun, pistol, or sword.

At the same instant was the strife going on among the pagliatta– stray shots and groans, mingled with, profane exclamations that came from the mouths of men dragged suddenly out of their beds, and scarce conscious of the cause of their quick awakening. It was a strife soon brought to its close – even before their chief could take part in it.

During a long career of crime, it was the first time Corvino had ever suffered surprise – the first for him to feel something like despair. And at the very moment, too, when he was indulging in a delightful dream of triumph!

Who could have brought this calamity upon him? Who was the traitor? There must have been treason, else how could his sentinels have been cheated? Who could have had acquaintance with the secret wolf-signal?

There was no time for him to reflect. Thoughts of vengeance must be postponed. It was a question of self-preservation; for the brigand chief found himself reduced to this.

His first impulse was to rush out, and take part in the fight raging between his band and those who had so mysteriously assailed it. But the conflict was scarce entered upon before it was over. It was less a strife than a capture; a seizing of men in their shirts, who surrendered without striking a blow. Even the thundering voice of their chief could not arouse his yawning partisans to the spirit required for a struggle.

It was but an ordinary instinct that impelled him to shut the door, and rush back to the room he had quitted, determined to defend himself to the death.

His first thought was putting out the light. His second, how could the darkness avail him? Sooner or later other lights would be procured – candles or torches; or, if not, his assailants need only wait till morning – now near at hand. It could only be a suspension of his fate – at best, a respite of two or three hours. All at once came an idea, offering a chance, not for triumph, but safety. There was a way by which he might still save his life. Let the light burn! Let his assailants see inside the house! Let them look upon the tableau that had just suggested itself to his imagination!

Quick as thought that tableau was formed, in the centre of the room already illuminated. It consisted of two figures – himself and Lucetta Torreani.

The young girl was in front; the brigand, as a background, behind her. His left arm encircled her waist, with his hand clutching a stiletto, whose point was turned towards her heart! His right arm, still resting in the sling, was powerless to hold her. But he had contrived a strange way of keeping her in her place. His teeth were seen closed upon a coil of her hair!

Outside were the spectators of this singular picture, excited, angry, two of them almost mad. One was the brother of her who formed the female figure in it – the other Henry Harding. Either would have rushed through the window, but the bars forbade them; and although both carried guns and pistols, they dared not discharge them. They stood with a score of others, almost within touching distance of the outlaw; and yet dared not stretch forth a hand, either for his capture or destruction. They were compelled to listen to the parley, which at that moment he had commenced making.

“Signori,” he said, taking his teeth out of the young girl’s hair, but still keeping the plait close to his lips, “I’m not going to make a long speech. I see you’re impatient, and might not care to listen to it. You want my blood; you are thirsting for it. I am in your power, and you can take it. But if I am to die, so shall Lucetta Torreani. Yes; she dies along with me. Stir but a finger, any one of you; either draw a trigger, or make a movement to come inside, and that moment my poniard pierces her breast!”

The spectators stood silent, their breathing suppressed, and their eyes angrily gleaming upon the speaker.

“Don’t mistake what I’ve said for an idle threat,” he continued. “’Tis no time for talking nonsense. I know that my life is forfeit to the laws, and that you would show me about as much mercy as you would a trapped wolf. Be it so; but in killing your wolf, you won’t save your lamb. No! Sangue di Madonna! She shall suffer along with me. If I can’t have her in life, I shall in death!”

The expression upon the brute’s face, as he gave utterance to the threat, was revolting in its very earnestness. No one, who saw it, doubted his intention to do as he said. In fact, a movement at that instant made by him caused a vivid apprehension that he was about to carry out his threat; and the spectators stood transfixed, as if the blood had become frozen in their veins. But no; he was only preparing for further parley.

“What do you want us to do?” inquired Rossi, the leader of the victorious Revolutionists. “I suppose you know who we are. You see we are not the soldiers of the Pope?”

“Cospetto!” exclaimed the bandit, with a scornful toss of the head, “a child could have told that. I had no fear of seeing the brave bersaglieri of his Holiness here. They don’t relish the air of these remote mountains! That’s how you’ve been able to surprise us. Enough, signori. I know who you are; and now for my proposal.”

“Well, what is it?” demanded several of the spectators, chafing with impatience at the continued talk, and indignant at seeing the young lady still trembling in the bandit’s embrace. “Let us hear what you have to propose.”

“Absolute freedom for myself, and such of my men as you have captured. Those you have killed may remain with you; and I hope you will give them Christian burial. And if any have escaped, they can take their chances; I don’t stipulate for them. For myself and comrades, who are your prisoners, I demand release, and a promise that we shall not be pursued. Do you agree to it?”

The leaders outside turned to one another, and commenced discussing the proposal. It was painful to think of accepting such terms, letting the red-handed criminals escape. They had long been the terror of the district, committing outrages of every conceivable kind. Now that they were captured, and could be rooted out, it would be a shame, a disgrace to the Revolutionists – whose natural enemies the bandits had always been – to let them go free again, afterwards to recommence their depredations. Thus spoke several of the party.

On the other side, there was the danger in which stood the young lady – the absolute certainty that she would be sacrificed.

It is needless to say that Luigi Torreani, Henry Harding, and several others, urged the acceptance of the proposal, as also the chief Rossi.

“And if we comply with your demands, what then?” asked the latter.

“What then! Why, the signorina shall be given up. That is all you want, I suppose?”

“Are you ready to give her up now?”

“Oh no!” returned the brigand with a scornful laugh; “that would be delivering up the goods before they are paid for. We bandits don’t make such loose bargains.”

“Then what do you require us to do?”

“You must withdraw your men to the top of the ridge, where the pass leads out northward. Mine, set free, shall go up to that on the south. We can then see one another. You, signor, can yourself remain here with me, and receive the captive. You have nothing to fear, seeing that I have but one hand, and that a lame one. On your part I must have a promise that there shall be no treason.”

“I am willing to give it,” responded Rossi, the signor addressed, and who felt he was speaking the sentiment of his followers. “It must be in the form of an oath.”

“Agreed. I am ready to take it, now.”

“No; not till we have daylight. We must postpone it till the morning. It is near, and you won’t have long to wait.”

This was true enough. The scheme could not be carried out in the darkness, without risking treason on one side or the other. Both parties could perceive this.

“Meanwhile,” continued the bandit, “I must put out the light inside here, else you may contemplate stealing a march on me by trying to get in from behind. I don’t intend to let you surround me; and in the darkness I shall be safe. So, buono notte, signori!”

A fresh thrill of apprehension ran through the veins of the spectators. More especially was this felt by Luigi Torreani and his English friend. The thought of the young girl being left alone in the darkness – alone with the brutal ruffian, even though they were themselves close by – filled them with horrible fears. Once more they were racking their brains for some plan to prevent such a perilous compromise. But they could not think of any that did not also compromise the safety of Lucetta. They had their guns cocked, ready to shoot Corvino down, had a chance presented itself. But there came none; his body was screened by that of the girl – a shot ill-aimed, and she only might receive it.

Half frantic, they saw the bandit stoop towards the lamp, with the intention of extinguishing it. Before he could succeed, a third personage appeared upon the scene – a form that darted quickly through the door behind.

It was a woman of wild aspect, in whose hand could be seen a stiletto glittering under the dim light. With a spring like that of an enraged tigress, she placed herself close behind the bandit; and, uttering a quick angry cry, plunged the poniard into his side.

Relaxing his grasp upon the girl, he turned round to defend himself; but almost on the instant staggered back against the wall.

His captive, finding herself released, glided instinctively towards the window. But it was not the intention of the murderess she should escape; and with the bloody poignard still grasped in her hand, she sprang quickly after.

Fortunately her intended victim had got close up to the bars, and was protected by a score of gun-barrels and sword-blades thrust through – among them the sword that had been snatched from Guardiola.

A volley was succeeded by an interval of deep silence inside the room. When the smoke cleared away, two dead bodies were seen lying upon the floor; which, under the light of the lamp, could be distinguished as those of Corvino and his murderess.

Lucetta Torreani was saved!

Chapter Fifty Five

The Roman Republic

“Long live the Roman Republic!”

Such was the cry resounding through the streets of Rome in the year 1849; and among the voices vociferating it were those of Luigi Torreani and Henry Harding.

But while the young Englishman was helping the cause of freedom abroad, older Englishmen at home were plotting its destruction. At that time a Secret Convention was sitting en permanence, composed of representatives from most of the crowned heads in Europe; its purpose being to arrange ways and means by which the spark of Liberty should be trodden out, wherever it should show itself.

In Hungary it had flared up into a brilliant flame: short-lived; for by the aid of Russian bayonets it was soon stifled. The same result had followed in France – the ends and means being slightly different. Diplomacy again exerted its influence; and backed by British gold – secretly but profusely spent – succeeded in placing upon the Presidential chair a man foresworn to change that chair into a throne. And with this same corrupting metal, and the sinister influence derived from a great historic name, he was but too sure of success. Then a President in name – an Emperor in embryo – encouraged by the secret assistance of the other crowned heads, he was soon to have France at his feet.

It only required a trick to disfranchise the two millions of Houses, and then the French Assembly would be sufficiently conservative to transform the Republic into an Empire! There was still danger to be apprehended from the blouses.

How was this grand disfranchisement to be effected?

An astute diplomacy easily supplied the answer: “Let England snub the French ambassador. Let France recall him. Let there be a pretended attitude of mutual hostility, and while that is maintained the Assembly can take its measures.”

The counsel was followed. The minister was snubbed and recalled. Then while the British bull-dog was barking at Dover, and the Gallic cock crowing at Calais, the betrayed blouses, with angry faces turned towards England, instead of having their eyes upon their own National Assembly, were by this packed parliament speedily stripped of the privilege of voting.

In Hungary the game had been more open; though there, as in France, Liberty fell by the basest of all betrayals.

And again, in Baden the same foul play, though there the Secret Convention decided to settle it by the sword. The perjured King of Prussia was the man called upon to wield it, and his hireling soldiers proved too strong for the patriots of the Schwarzwald.

Once more, at the eleventh hour, another spark of that eternal flame of freedom appeared in an unexpected quarter – the very hotbed of despotism, political and religious – in the ancient city of Rome. And again sat the Secret Convention: an eminent English diplomate the most active of its members – he of all others the most successful cajoler of peoples – he whose long career had been a succession of betrayals. He has gone hence without witnessing their exposure. For all that, history will one day expose them.

Once more then sat the Secret Conclave; and once more went forth the edict for this fresh spark of Liberty, that had sprung up in agonised Italy, to be stifled like the rest. There was no need to use artifice. Slight strategy would suffice for an enemy so insignificant.

It was merely a graceful concession to Catholic Christendom, to make it a pretence of restoring the Pope. The Republic would have been crushed all the same if the Pope had gone to purgatory. The sword was again invoked, and it became a question of who was to wield it. English soldiers could not be sent, for England was a Protestant country, and the thing would have looked queer. But English gold was easily convertible into French soldiers, whose sovereign had no such scruples; and these hirelings were selected to restore the Pope. By them it was ostensibly done; but the act was equally due to the other crowned heads; and its direction specially to the British, diplomate of whom we have spoken. History holds the indisputable proof.

Poor Mazzini, and Saffi, and Aurelli! If there had not been a voice in all Rome against you – in all Italy – you could not have triumphed!

The decree had gone forth for your destruction. Your doom had been pre-ordained, and was pronounced in the very hour of your victory; even while the streets of Rome, cleared of the rotten rubbish of despotism, were ringing with that regenerating shout, “Long live the Republic!” For three months did it resound through the stradi of the classic city – the city of the Caesars and Colonnas. It was heard upon bastion and battlement, from behind battery and barricade, amidst scenes of heroic strife that recalled the days of Horatius. It was heard in the eloquent speeches of Mazzini – in the exciting war-cry of Garibaldi!

All in vain! Three short months – and it was heard no more. The Republic was overthrown, less by bayonets than by betrayal; but the rule of the bayonet succeeded, and Chasseur and Zouave, Spahi and Turco– all ruffians of the truest type – from that day to this have stood guard over the fettered limbs of Roman liberty.

In these troublous times, of three months’ duration, Luigi Torreani took part with the Republic. So did his friend, the young Englishman. So, too, did Luigi’s father; for the sindico, shortly after the affair with the brigands, had transferred his household gods to the city, which then promised a safe retreat from the insecurity he had long experienced.

But with the Republic at an end, and despotism once more triumphant, Rome itself was only safe for the foes of freedom. As Francesco Torreani was not one of these, another move became necessary. In what direction was it to be made? There was no part of Italy that offered an asylum. The Austrians still held Venice. Carlo Alberto had been beaten in the north, and the brigand’s king ruled the Neapolitans with a rod of iron. Turn which way he would, there was no home on Italian soil for a suspected patriot.

Like men similarly situated, his thoughts turned towards the New World; and, not long after, a bark sailed down the Tyrrhenian Sea, and on through the Straits of Gades, bearing him and his to the shores of a far western land.

Chapter Fifty Six

Number Nine, Strada Volturno

General Harding was not slow in transacting the business that carried him to London. It was too important to admit of delay. Even the old lawyer acknowledged this, after reading the quaint letter of the brigand, and scrutinising its still more quaint enclosure.

Mr Lawson’s Italian tour had given him experience to comprehend the case – peculiar as it was – as also enabling him to recommend the steps necessary to be taken.

Five thousand pounds could not well be entrusted to the post; nor yet the management of such a delicate affair – in reality, not a matter of mere fingers and hands, but of life and death. Even a confidential clerk seemed scarce fit for the occasion; and after a short conference between the lawyer and his client, it was determined that the son of the former – Lawson fits – should go to Rome and place himself en rapport with “Signor Jacopi.” Who Signor Jacopi was could only be guessed at: in all likelihood, that strange specimen of humanity who had presented himself at Beechwood Park, with a reckless indifference either to kicking or incarceration.

The first train for Dover carried young Lawson en route for Rome, with a portmanteau containing five thousand pounds in gold coin, stamped with the graceful head of England’s young Queen.

He thus went fully armed for an interview with Signor Jacopi.

Rome was reached, in due course, by rail and steam; and, within the ten days stipulated for in the letter of the brigand, the Lincoln’s Inn lawyer might have been seen with a heavy bag in hand perambulating the streets of the Eternal City, and inquiring for the Strada Volturno.

He found the place in some disorder. Instead of the cowled monks and sleek silken-robed cardinals usually seen there – instead of grand galantuomos and gaily-dressed ladies – with here and there a sprinkling of impertinent sbirri and gendarmerie– he met men brave, of bold aspect – honest withal – bearded, belted, in costumes half civic, half military, armed to the teeth, and evidently masters of the situation.