CHAPTER V
ON THE WAY.
AFTER posting the letter, Frank made several small purchases, and was more than an hour away. On his return he saw a cab standing at the door. As he approached, Beppo came out with a portmanteau, handed it up to the driver, jumped in, and was driven off.
“So Beppo has gone, mother,” he said, as he joined her in the drawing-room.
“Yes. He came in directly you had left. He said that his feelings had been outraged by a servant being placed at the door. He could not say why she was there, but thought it seemed as if he was doubted. He could not but entertain a suspicion that she was placed there to prevent any one listening at the keyhole; after such an insult as that he could not remain any longer in the house. I said that he was at liberty to leave instantly, as his wages had been paid only three days ago. He made no reply, but bowed and left. Mary came up and told me ten minutes later that he had brought his portmanteau down, left it in the hall, and gone out, she supposed, to fetch a cab. I heard the vehicle drive up just now, and the front door closed half a minute ago.”
Signora Forli came into the room as she was speaking. “Mary tells me that Beppo has gone. It is a comfort that he is out of the house. When you once begin to suspect a man, the sooner he is away the better. At the same time, Frank, there can be no doubt that his going will not increase your chances of reaching Genoa without being searched. I should say that he had made up his mind to leave before you did, and he was glad that the fact of Mary being at the door gave him a pretext for his sudden departure. In the first place, he could conduct the affair better than any one else could do, as he knows your face and figure so well. Then, too, he would naturally wish to get the credit of the matter himself, after being so long engaged in it. Of course, you may as well carry out the plan we arranged, to start in the morning; but you may feel absolutely certain that, whatever you may do, you will not throw him off your track. He must know now that he is suspected of being a Neapolitan agent, and that you will very likely change your route and your time of starting.
“I regard it as certain that the house will be watched night and day, beginning from to-morrow morning, an hour or so before the trains leave. There will be a vehicle with a fast horse close at hand, possibly two, so that one will follow your cab, and the other drive at once to some place where Beppo is waiting. As likely as not he will go viâ Calais. If you go that way, so much the better; if not, he will only have to post himself at the station at Paris. It is likely enough that during the last day or two he has had one or two men hanging about here to watch you going in and out, and so to get to know you well, and will have one at each of the railway stations. He may also have written to the agents in Paris to have a look-out kept for you there.”
“But how could they know me?”
“He would describe you closely enough for that; possibly he may have sent them over a photograph.”
Frank got up and went to a side table, on which a framed photograph that had been taken when he was at home at Christmas, usually stood. “You are right,” he said; “it has gone.” Then he opened an album. “The one here has gone, too, mother. Are there any more of them about?”
“There is one in my bedroom; you know where it hangs. It was there this morning.”
“That has gone, too, mother,” he said, when he returned to the room.
“So you see, Muriel, I was right. The one from the album may have been taken yesterday, and a dozen copies made of it; so that, even if you give them the slip here, Frank, you will be recognised as soon as you reach Paris.”
“Well, mother, it is of no use bothering any more about it. I have only to travel in carriages with other people, and they cannot molest me; at worst they can but search me, and they will find nothing. They cannot even feel sure that I have anything on me; for now that Beppo knows he is suspected of listening at doors, he will consider it possible that we may have changed our plans about where we shall hide the money. It is not as if they wanted to put me out of the way, you know; you and the signora agreed that that is certainly the last thing they would do, because there would be a tremendous row about it, and they would gain no advantage by it; so I should not worry any further, mother. I do not think there is the slightest occasion for uneasiness. I will just go by Calais, as I had intended, and by the train I had fixed on; that in itself will shake Beppo’s belief that I have the money with me, for he would think that if I had it I should naturally try some other way.”
“At any rate,” Mrs. Percival said, “you shall not go by the line that we had intended. You would be obliged to travel by diligence from Dole to Geneva, thence to Chambery, and again by the same method over the Alps to Susa. You shall go straight from Paris to Marseilles; boats go from there every two or three days to Genoa.”
“Very well, mother; I don’t care which it is. Certainly there are far fewer changes by that line; and to make your mind easy, I will promise you that at Marseilles, if I have to stop there a night, I will keep my bedroom door locked, and shove something heavy against it; in that way I can’t be caught asleep.”
“Well, I shall certainly feel more comfortable, my dear boy, than I should if you were going over the Alps. Of course, the diligence stops sometimes and the people get out, and there would be many opportunities for your being suddenly seized and gagged and carried off.”
“They would have to be very sudden about it,” Frank laughed. “I do think, mother, that you have been building mountains out of molehills. Beppo may not be a spy, after all; he may have heard you talking of this ten thousand pounds, and the temptation of trying to get it may be too much for him. He will know now that I shall be on my guard, and that, even if I have the money on my person, his chance of getting it is small indeed. I believe that you and the signora have talked the matter over till you have frightened yourselves, and built up a wonderful story, based only on the fact that Mary thought that she caught Beppo listening at the door.”
“How about the photographs?” Mrs. Percival asked.
“Possibly he has a hidden affection for me,” Frank laughed, “and has taken these as mementos of his stay here. Well, don’t say anything more about it, mother; I am not in the least nervous, and with a brace of loaded pistols in my pocket and the fair warning that I have had, I do not think I need be afraid of two or three of these miserable Neapolitan spies.”
Accordingly, Frank started by the morning mail, as they had arranged. The carriage was full to Dover; and at Calais he waited on the platform until he saw an English gentleman with two ladies enter a compartment, and in this he took a vacant corner seat. On his arrival at Paris he drove across at once to the terminus of the railway to Marseilles, breakfasted there, and sat in the waiting-room reading till the door on to the platform opened, and an official shouted, “Passengers for Melun, Sens, Dijon, Macon, Lyons, and Marseilles.” There was a general movement among those in the waiting-room. Frank found that there was no fear of his being in a compartment by himself, for only one carriage door was opened at a time, and not until the compartment was full was the next unlocked. He waited until he saw his opportunity, and was the first to enter and secure a corner seat. In a short time it filled up.
He had slept most of the way between Calais and Paris, feeling absolutely certain that he would not be interfered with in a carriage with three English fellow-passengers. It was twelve o’clock now, and he would not arrive at Marseilles until seven the next morning, and he wondered where all his fellow-passengers, who were packed as closely as possible, were going, for although he did not wish to be alone, it was not a pleasant prospect to be for eighteen hours wedged in so tightly that he could scarcely move. Then he wondered whether any of the men who might be following were also in the train. He had quite come to the conclusion that his mother and grandmother had frightened themselves most unnecessarily; but he admitted that this was natural enough, after the losses they had had. At Dijon several passengers got out, but others took their places; and so the journey continued throughout the day. The carriage was generally full, though once or twice there were for a time but five besides himself. He read most of the way, for although he spoke Italian as fluently as English, he could not converse in French. When tired of reading he had several times dozed off to sleep, though he had determined that he would keep awake all night.
At ten o’clock in the evening the train arrived at Lyons. Here there was a stop of twenty minutes, and he got out and ate a hearty meal, and drank two or three cups of strong coffee. He was not surprised to find, on returning to his carriage, that all the passengers with two exceptions had left it. These had got in at Macon, and were evidently men of good circumstances and intimate with each other; he had no suspicions whatever of them, for it was certain that men who had any intention of attacking him would appear as strangers to each other. At Vienne both left the carriage. Frank was not sorry to see them do so.
“If there are really fellows watching me,” he said to himself, “the sooner they show themselves and get it over the better; it is a nuisance to keep on expecting something to take place when as likely as not nothing will happen at all.” He examined his pistols. They were loaded but not capped, and he now put caps on the nipples, and replaced them in his pocket.
Just before they had left Vienne a man had come to the window as if intending to enter, but after glancing in for a moment had gone to another carriage.
“HIS ASSAILANT FELL BACK AND DISAPPEARED”
“That is rather queer,” Frank thought. “As I am alone here, there was plenty of room for him. Perhaps he had made a mistake in the carriage. At any rate, they won’t catch me napping.”
The strong coffee that he had taken at Lyons had sharpened his faculties, and he never felt more awake than he did after leaving Vienne. He sat with his eyes apparently closed, as if asleep, with a warm rug wrapped round his legs. An hour later he saw a face appear at the opposite window. At first it was but for an instant; a few seconds later it appeared again and watched him steadily; then the man moved along to the door and another joined him. Frank without moving cocked the pistol in his right-hand pocket, and took a firm hold of the butt with his finger on the trigger. The door opened noiselessly, and the second man thrust in an arm holding a pistol; so it remained for half a minute. Frank was convinced that there was no intention of shooting if it could be avoided, and remained perfectly still; then the arm was withdrawn, and another man, holding a knife in one hand and a roll of something in the other, entered. In a moment Frank’s right arm flew up and his pistol cracked out: his assailant fell back and disappeared through the open door. Frank sprang to his feet as he fired, and stood with his pistol levelled towards the window, where the head of the second man had disappeared as his comrade fell backwards.
“He knows I have the best of him now,” Frank muttered to himself; “I don’t think that he will have another try.”
Advancing cautiously, he pulled the door to, lowered the window, and putting a hand out without exposing his head, turned the handle, and then drew up the window again. His foot struck against something as he backed to his seat in the corner. As he still kept his eyes fixed on the window, he paid no attention to this for a minute or two; then he became conscious of a faint odour.
“I expect that is chloroform or ether or something of that sort,” he said, as he lowered the window next to him; and then, still keeping an eye on the door opposite, moved a step forward and picked up a large handkerchief, steeped in a liquid of some sort or other. He was about to open the window and throw it out, when an idea struck him.
“I had better keep it,” he said: “there may be a beastly row over the business, and this handkerchief may be useful in confirming my story.”
He therefore put it up on the rack, lowered the window a few inches, and did the same to the one opposite to it. Then wrapping the handkerchief up in two or three newspapers he had bought by the way, to prevent the liquid from evaporating, he sat down in his corner again. He felt confident that the attack would not be renewed, now he was found to be on the watch and armed. It was probable that the two men were alone, and the one remaining would hardly venture single-handed to take any steps whatever against one who was certain to continue to be vigilant. He had no doubt that he had killed the man he fired at, and that, even if the wound had not been instantly fatal, he would have been killed by his fall from the train.
“It seems horrid,” he muttered, “to have shot a man; but it was just as much his life or mine as it would have been in battle. I hope no one heard the shot fired. I expect that most of the passengers were asleep; and if any one did hear it, he might suppose that a door had come open, or had been opened by a guard, and had been slammed to. Of course, the man’s body will be found on the line in the morning, and I expect there will be some fuss over it; but I hope we shall all be out of the train and scattered through the town before any inquiries are set on foot. If they traced it to me, I might be kept at Marseilles for weeks. Of course, I should be all right; but the delay would be a frightful nuisance. There is one thing,—the guard looked at my ticket just before the train started from the last station, and would know that I was alone in the carriage.”
In a few minutes the speed of the train began to slacken. He knew that the next station was Valence. He closed his eyes and listened as the train stopped. As soon as it did so, he heard a voice from the next carriage shouting for the guard. Then he heard an animated conversation, of which he was able to gather the import.
“The sound of a gun,” the guard said. “Nonsense; you must have been dreaming!”
“I am sure I was not,” a voice said indignantly. “It seemed to me as if it was in the next carriage.”
The guard came to Frank’s window. “Ah, bah!” he said. “There is only one passenger there, an Englishman. He was alone when we left Vienne, and he is sound asleep now.”
“Perhaps he is dead.”
It was possible, and therefore the guard opened the door. “Are you asleep, monsieur?”
Frank opened his eyes. “My ticket?” he asked drowsily. “Why, I showed it you at Vienne.”
“Pardon, monsieur,” the guard said. “I am sorry that I disturbed you. It was a mistake,” and he closed the door, and said angrily to the man who had called him: “It is as I said. You have been asleep; and I have woke the English gentleman up for nothing.”
A minute later the train moved on again.
“So far so good,” Frank said. “I should think that I am all right now. We shall be in at seven, and it will not be daylight till half-past six; and as I fancy that we must have been about midway between Vienne and Vallence when that fellow fell out, it is not likely that his body will be found for some time. They are sure to have chosen some point a good way from any station to get out of their own carriage and come to mine. Even when they find him, they are not likely to make out that he has been shot for some time afterwards. I hit him in the body, somewhere near the heart, I fancy; I did not feel sure of hitting him if I fired at his head, for the carriage was shaking about a good deal. It will probably be thought at first that he has either fallen or jumped out of his carriage. I suppose, when he is found, he will be carried to the nearest station, and put in somewhere till a doctor and some functionaries come, and an inquiry is held; and as he probably has been badly cut about the head and face, his death will be put down to that cause at first. Indeed, the fact that he was shot may not be found out till they prepare him for burial. I suppose they will take off his clothes then, as they will want to keep them for his identification, if any inquiries should ever be made about him. At any rate, I may hope to have got fairly away from Marseilles before the matter is taken up by the police, and even then the evidence of the guard that I was alone will prevent any suspicion falling especially on me.”
He had no inclination for sleep, and although he felt certain that he would not again be disturbed, he maintained a vigilant watch upon both windows until, a few minutes after the appointed time, the train arrived at Marseilles. Having only the small portmanteau he carried with him, he was not detained more than two or three minutes there, took a fiacre and drove to the Hôtel de Marseilles, which his Bradshaw told him was close to the steamboat offices. After going upstairs and having a wash, he went down again, carefully locking the door after him and putting the key in his pocket. He then had some coffee and rolls, and while taking these, obtained from the waiter a time-table of the departures of the various steamers from the port, and found, to his great satisfaction, that one of the Rubattino vessels would leave for Genoa at twelve o’clock.
As soon as the steamboat offices were open he engaged a berth, walked about Marseilles for an hour, returned at ten to the hotel, took a hearty lunch, and then drove down to the port. On questioning the steward he found that there were not many passengers going, and with a tip of five francs secured a cabin to himself; having done this, he went on deck again and watched the passengers arriving. They were principally Italians; but among them he could not recognise the face of the agent who had levelled a pistol at him. Both men had, indeed, worn black handkerchiefs tied across their faces below their eyes and covering their chins, and the broad-brimmed hats they wore kept their foreheads and eyes in shadow; and although he watched his fellow-passengers with the faint hope of discovering by some evil expression on his face his last night’s assailant, he had no real belief that he should, even under the most favourable circumstances, recognise him again.
Two or three of the men wore beards, and seemed to belong to the sailor class—probably men who had landed from a French ship, after perhaps a distant voyage, and were now returning home. He saw no more of these, as they at once went forward. There were only eight other passengers in the saloon; seven of these were Italians, of whom three were evidently friends. Two of the others had, Frank gathered from their talk, just returned from Brazil; the sixth was an old man, and the seventh a traveller for a firm of silk or velvet manufacturers in Genoa. The three friends talked gaily on all sorts of subjects; but nothing that Frank gathered, either from their conversation on deck or at dinner, gave any clue as to their occupation. They had evidently met at Marseilles for the first time after being separated for a considerable period—one had been in England, one at Paris, and one at Bordeaux; their ages were from twenty-three to twenty-six. Their names were, as he learned from their talk, Maffio, Sarto, and Rubini. Before the steamer had left the port half an hour, one of them, seeing that Frank was alone, said to him as he passed, in broken English,—
“It is warmer and pleasanter here, monsieur, than it is in London.”
“It is indeed,” Frank replied, in Italian; “it was miserable weather there, when I left the day before yesterday.”
“Per Bacco!” the young man said, with a laugh, “I took you to be English. Allow me to congratulate you on your admirable imitation of——”
“I am English, signor—that is, I was born of English parents; but I first saw light in Rome, and my grandfather was an Italian.”
This broke the ice, and they chatted together pleasantly.
“We are going to Genoa. And you?”
“I also am going to Genoa, and perhaps”—for he had by this time quite come to a conclusion on the subject—“on the same errand as yourselves.”
The others looked at him in some little surprise, and then glanced at one another. That this young Englishman should be going upon such an expedition as that upon which they were bound, seemed to be out of the question.
“You mean on pleasure, signor?” one of them said, after a pause.
“If excitement is pleasure, which no doubt it is—yes. I am going to visit an old friend of my father’s; he is living a little way out of the town at the Villa Spinola.”
The others gave a simultaneous exclamation of surprise.
“That is enough, signor,” the one called Rubini said, holding out his hand; “we are comrades. Though how a young English gentleman should come to be of our party, I cannot say.”
The others shook hands as warmly with Frank; and he then replied,—
“No doubt you are surprised. My father fought side by side with the man I am now going to see, in the siege of Rome, so also did my grandfather; and both have since paid by their lives for their love of Italy. My name is Percival.”
“The son of the Captain Percival who was murdered while searching in Naples for Signor Forli?” one of them exclaimed.
“The same. So, gentlemen, you can perhaps understand why I am going to the Villa Spinola, and why, young as I am, I am as eager to take part in this business as you yourselves can be.”
“Yes, indeed; your father’s name is honoured among us as one of our general’s friends and companions in South America, and as one of his comrades at Rome; still more, perhaps, for his fearless exposure of the horrors of the tyrants’ dungeons. However, it were best that we should say no more on the subject at present. It is certain that the general’s presence at Genoa is causing uneasiness both at Rome and Naples. Rumours that he intends to carry out some daring enterprise have appeared in newspapers, and no doubt Neapolitan spies are already watching his movements, and it may be there are some on board this ship. Our great fear is that Victor Emmanuel’s government may interfere to stop it; but we doubt whether he will venture to do so—public opinion will be too strong for him.”
“No one can overhear us just at present,” Frank said. “Certainly the Neapolitan spies are active. My mother’s house is frequented by many leading exiles; and we have reason to believe that it has been watched by a spy for some time past. I know that I have been followed, under the idea, perhaps, that I am carrying important papers or documents from the general’s friends there. An attempt was made last night to enter the carriage, in which I was alone, by two men, one of whom was armed with a pistol, and the other had a handkerchief soaked with chloroform. Fortunately, I was on my guard, and shot the fellow who was entering with the handkerchief; he fell backwards out of the carriage; I heard nothing more of the other one, and for aught I know he may be on board now.”
“You did well indeed!” Sarto said warmly. “I was in the next carriage to you. I did not hear the sound of your pistol-shot—I was fast asleep; but we were all woke up by a fellow-passenger who declared he heard a gunshot. When we reached Valence he called the guard, who said that he must have been dreaming, for there was only a young Englishman in the next carriage, and he knew that when it left the last station he was alone. When the train went on we all abused the fellow soundly for waking us with his ridiculous fancies; but it seems that he was right after all. You say there was another. What became of him?”
“I saw nothing more of him. He may be on board, for aught I know, for they had black handkerchiefs tied over their faces up to the eyes, and as their hats were pulled well down, I should not know him if I saw him.”
“Well, you have struck the first blow in the war, and I regard it as a good omen; but you must be careful to-night, for if the fellow is on board he is likely to make another attempt; and this time, I should say, he would begin by stabbing you. Are you in a cabin by yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Then one of us will sit up by turns. You must have had a bad night indeed, while we slept without waking, except when I was aroused by that fellow making such a row.”
“Oh, I could not think of that!”
“It must be done,” Rubini said earnestly. “However, I will lay the mattress of the spare bed of your cabin against the door, and lie down on it—that will do just as well. It will be impossible then to open the door; and if any one tries to do so, I shall be on my feet in a moment. I shall sleep just as well like that as in my berth. I have slept in much more uncomfortable places, and am sure to do so again before this business is over.”
“Thank you very much. I will not refuse so kind an offer, for I doubt greatly whether I could keep awake to-night.”
“Now let us say no more about it, for we may be quite sure that the man is still on your track, and there may be other Neapolitan agents on board. We cannot be too careful. It may be that old man who was sitting facing us at the table, it may be that little fellow who looks like the agent of a commercial house, and it may be one of the two men who say they come from South America; there is no telling. But at any rate, let us drop the subject altogether. We have said nothing at present that even a spy could lay hold of, beyond the fact that you are going to the Villa Spinola, which means to Garibaldi.”
They did not go up on deck again after dinner, but sat chatting in the saloon until nine o’clock, when Frank said that he could keep his eyes open no longer. After allowing him time to get into his berth, Rubini came in, took off his coat and waistcoat, pulled the mattress and bedding from the other bunk, and lay down on it with his head close to the door.
“Will you take one of my pistols, Rubini?” for by this time they called each other simply by their surnames.
“No, thank you; if the scoundrel tries to open the door and finds that he cannot do so, you may be sure that he will move off at once. He has been taught that you are handy with your weapons.”
Frank was sleeping soundly when he was woke by Rubini’s sharp challenge, “Who goes there?” It was pitch dark, and he was about to leap from his bunk, when Rubini said,—
“It is no use getting up. By the time I got this bed away and opened the door, the fellow would be at the other end of the boat. We may as well lie quiet. He is not likely to try again; and, indeed, I should not care about going outside the door, for it is pitch dark, and he might at the present moment be crouching outside in readiness to stab you as you came out. However, he is more likely to be gone now, for directly he heard us talking he would know that his game was up.” He struck a match. “It is just two o’clock,” he said; “we may as well have four hours’ more sleep.”
In a few minutes Frank was sound asleep again, and when he awoke it was daylight. Looking at the watch, he found that it was seven o’clock. “Seven o’clock, Rubini!” he said.
The Italian sat up and stretched his arms and yawned. “I have had a capital night. However, it is time to get up; we must turn out at once. We can’t be far from Genoa now; we are due there at eight o’clock, so we shall just have comfortable time for a wash and a cup of coffee before going ashore.”
Frank dressed hastily, and then ran up on deck, where he stood admiring the splendid coast, and the town of Genoa climbing up the hill, with its churches, campaniles, and its suburbs embedded in foliage. They were just entering the port when Maffio came up to him.
“Coffee is ready,” he said. “You had better come down and take it while it is hot. We shall have the custom-house officers off before we land, so there is no hurry.”
After making a meal on coffee with an abundance of milk, rolls and butter, Frank went up again. He then, at the advice of Rubini, drew the charges of his pistols and placed them in his portmanteau.
“We must go ashore in a boat,” Sarto said. “I have just heard the captain say that the wharves are so full that he may not be able to take the vessel alongside for a couple of hours.”
“Are you going anywhere in particular when you land?” Frank asked.
“We all belong to Genoa, and have friends here. Why do you ask?”
“Could you spare me an hour of your time to-day? I should not ask you, but it is rather important.”
“Certainly; we are all at your service,” Rubini said in some surprise. “At what hour shall we meet you, and where?”
“I am going to the Hotel Europa. Any time will suit me, so that it is a couple of hours before dusk. I will tell you what it is when you meet me; it is better not to speak of it here.”
The young men consulted together. “We will go to our friends,” Rubini said, “take our things there and spend an hour, and will call upon you, if convenient, at eleven o’clock.”
“Thank you; and you will see, when I have explained my reason for troubling you, that I have not done so wantonly.”
They landed at the step of the customs. “Have you anything to declare?” the official asked Frank, after his passport had been examined and stamped.
“I have nothing but this small portmanteau, which contains only clothes and a brace of pistols. I suppose one can land with them on payment of duty.”
“Certainly, monsieur; but why should an Englishman want them?”
“I intend to make a walking tour through Italy”—speaking as before in English; “and there are parts of the country where, after dark, I should feel more comfortable for having them in my pockets.”
“You are strange people, you Englishmen,” the officer said; “but, after all, you are not far wrong, though it seems to me that it would be wiser to give up what you carry about you than to make a show of resistance which would end in getting your throat cut.” He glanced at the pistols, named the amount of duty chargeable; and when this was paid, Frank nodded to his companions, who were being much more rigorously examined, took one of the vehicles standing outside the custom-house, and drove to the Hotel Europa.
CHAPTER VI.
THE VILLA SPINOLA
AFTER taking a room and seeing his portmanteau carried up there, Frank went out for an hour and looked at the shops in the principal street; then he returned to the hotel, and stood at the entrance until his three friends arrived. He had again loaded his pistols and placed them in his pocket, and had engaged an open vehicle that was now standing at the door.
“Let us start at once,” he said; “gentlemen, if you will take your places with me, I will explain the matter to you as we drive along.”
They took their seats.
“Drive to the Strada de Livourno,” he said to the coachman; “I will tell you the house when we get there. Now, my friends,” he went on, as the carriage started, “I will explain what may seem singular to you. My mother has sent out a letter which contained, I may say, a considerable sum to be used by the general for the purposes of this expedition. It had been intended that I should bring it; but when we discovered that there was a spy in the house, and that our cabinets had been ransacked and our conversation overheard, it was thought almost certain that an attempt would be made to rob me of the letter on the way. Finally, after much discussion, it was agreed to send the letter by post to the care of the Countess of Mongolfiere, who is an old friend of Signora Forli, my grandmother; she was convinced that I should be watched from the moment I landed, and advised me not to go to see the countess until I could take three of Garibaldi’s followers with me, and that after accompanying me to her house, they should drive with me to the Villa Spinola. Now you will understand why I have asked you to give up a portion of your first day to come to aid me.”
“I think your friends were very right in giving you the advice, Percival. After the two attempts that have been made—I will not say to kill you—but to search you and your luggage, it is certain that Francisco’s agents must have obtained information that you were carrying money, and perhaps documents of importance, and that they would not take their eyes off you until either they had gained their object or discovered that you had handed the parcel over to the general. I have no doubt that they are following you now in some vehicle or other.”
On arrival at the villa of the Countess of Mongolfiere, Frank sent in his card, and on this being taken in, was at once invited to enter. The countess was a lady of about the same age as Signora Forli.
“I am glad to see you, Signor Percival,” she said. “I have received the letter from Madame Forli with its enclosure.”
“I have brought you another note from her, madame la contessa,” he said, presenting it, “as a proof of my identity; for the matter is of importance, as you may well suppose, from the manner in which this letter was sent to you, instead of by the post direct to me.”
“So I supposed, signor. Signora Forli said that it concerned the good of the cause; and the manner in which she begged me to lock it up at once on my receiving it, was sufficient to show that it either contained money for the cause or secrets that the agents of the foes of freedom would be glad to discover. The mere fact that she gave no particulars convinced me that she considered it best that I should be in the dark, so that, should the letter fall into other hands, I could say truly that I had not expected its arrival, and knew nothing whatever of the matter to which it related.”
“It contains drafts for a considerable sum of money, signora, for the use of Garibaldi. The general, being ignorant of my father’s death, had written to him, asking him to join him, and recalling his promise to assist with money. My father, unfortunately, could no longer give personal service, but as he had for years put by a certain portion of his income for this purpose, my mother had it in her power to send this money. It was intended that I should bring it; but we found that all our doings were watched, and that, therefore, there was considerable danger of my being followed and robbed upon the way; and Signora Forli then suggested that she should send it direct to you, as possibly a letter addressed to me here might fall into the hands of the Neapolitan agents.”
“It was a very good plan,” the countess said. “And have you been molested on the way?”
“Attempts have been made on two occasions—once in the train on my way to Marseilles, and once on board the steamer coming here.”
“You must be careful even now, signor. If you are watched as closely as it would seem, you may be robbed before you can hand this letter over to the general. There is nothing at which these men will hesitate in order to carry out their instructions. You might be arrested in the streets by two or three men disguised as policemen, and carried away and confined in some lonely place; you might be accused of a theft and given in charge on some trumped-up accusation, in order that your luggage and every article belonging to you might be thoroughly searched, before you could prove your entire innocence. I can quite understand that, when you first started, the object was simply to search for any papers you might be carrying, and if this could be done without violence it would be so effected, although, if murder was necessary, they would not have hesitated at it; and even now, guessing as they will that you have come here, directly you have landed, to obtain some important document, they would, if they could find an opportunity, do anything to obtain it, before you can deliver it to Garibaldi.”
“I quite feel that, signora, and have three young Garibaldian officers waiting in a carriage below for me, and they will drive with me to the Villa Spinola.”
“That will make you perfectly safe,” and she then rose from her seat, opened a secret drawer in an antique cabinet, and handed him the letter. “Now, Signor Percival,” she said, “this has been a visit of business, but I hope that when you have this charge off your mind you will, as the grandson of my old friend Signora Forli, come often to see me while you are here. I am always at home in the evening, and it will be a great pleasure to me to hear more of her than she tells me in her letters.”
Thanking the countess for her invitation, and saying that he should certainly avail himself of it, he went down and again took his place in the carriage.
“Have you found all as you wished?” Sarto asked.
“Yes; I have the letter in my pocket.”
“That is good news. Knowing what these secret agents are able to accomplish, I did not feel at all sure that they might not in some way have learned how the money was to be sent, and have managed to intercept the letter.”
Having given instructions to the driver where to go, they chatted as they drove along of the proposed expedition.
“None of us know yet,” Rubini said, “whether it is against the Papal States or Naples. We all received the telegram we had for some time been hoping for, with the simple word ‘Come.’ However, it matters not a bit to us whether we first free the Pope’s dominions or Francisco’s.”
“Will you go in with me to see Garibaldi?”
“No; we have already received orders that, until we are called upon, it is best that we should remain quietly with our families. Were a large number of persons to pay visits to him, the authorities would know that the time was close at hand when he intended to start on an expedition of some kind. The mere fact that we have come here to stay for a time with our friends is natural enough; but we may be sure that everything that passes at the villa is closely watched. It is known, I have no doubt, that an expedition is intended, and Cavour may wait to prevent it from starting, until the last moment; therefore I should say that it is important that no one should know on what date Garibaldi intends to sail until the hour actually arrives. How we are to get ships to carry us, how many are going, and how we are to obtain arms, are matters that don’t concern us. We are quite content to wait until word comes to us, ‘Be at such a place, at such an hour.’”
“I would give something to know which among the men we are passing are those who have been on your track,” Sarto remarked. “It would be such a satisfaction to laugh in their faces and to shout, ‘Have you had a pleasant journey?’ or, ‘We congratulate you,’ or something of that sort.”
“They feel sore enough without that,” Maffio said. “They are unscrupulous villains; but to do them justice, they are shrewd ones, and work their hardest for their employers, and it is not very often that they fail; and you have a right to congratulate yourself that for once they have been foiled. It is certainly a feather in your cap, Percival, that you and your friends have succeeded in outwitting them.”
They had now left the city and were driving along the coast road towards the Villa Spinola. There were only a few people on the road.
“You see, it is well that we came in force,” Sarto remarked; “for had you been alone, the carriage might very well have been stopped, and yourself seized and carried off, without there being any one to notice the affair. I have no doubt that even now there is a party somewhere behind a wall or a hedge, in waiting for you; they would probably be sent here as soon as you landed, and would not be recalled, as, until you left the house of the countess, all hope that you would drive along this road alone would not be at an end.”
“We shall call and see you this evening, and we all hope that you will use our homes as your own while you are staying here,” Rubini said. “We can introduce you to numbers of our friends, all of our way of thinking, and will do our best to make your stay at Genoa as pleasant as possible. It may be some time before all is ready for a start, and until that is the case you will have nothing to do, and certainly Garibaldi will not want visitors.”
“I shall be pleased indeed to avail myself of your kindness,” Frank said. “It will be a great pleasure to me to see something of Italian society, and I should find time hang very heavy on my hands at the hotel, where there are, I know, very few visitors staying at present.”
“That is the villa,” Rubini said, pointing to a large house surrounded by a high wall.
“Will you take my vehicle back?”
“No; we shall walk. I should advise you to keep the carriage, however long you may stay here. These fellows will be very sore at finding they have failed, after all the trouble they have taken in the matter. I don’t say that they will be watching for you; but if they should come across you in a lonely spot, I think it is very probable that they would not hesitate to get even with you with the stab of a knife between your shoulders.”
Alighting, Frank rang at the bell. His friends stood chatting with him until a man, after looking through a grill in the gate, came out; and then, feeling that their mission was safely accomplished, they started for their walk back in high spirits.
“I do not know whether the general is in at present, signor,” the man said, as Frank was about to enter. “May I ask your business?”
“If you will take this card to him, I am sure that he will see me.”
In three minutes the gates were opened. Frank entered on foot, and would have left the carriage outside; but the porter said,—
“It had better come in, signor; carriages standing at a gate attract attention.”
Garibaldi was seated in a room with two men, who were, as Frank afterwards learned, Bixio and Crispi. Garibaldi had risen from his seat and was looking inquiringly at the door as the lad entered.
“Welcome, Signor Percival! You have come, doubtless, on the part of my dear friend your father. Has he not come with you? I trust that he is but delayed.”
“I come on the part of my mother, general,” Frank replied. “I lost my father more than a year ago.”
“And I had not heard of it!” the general exclaimed. “Alas! alas! for my friend and comrade; this is indeed a heavy blow to me. I looked forward so much to seeing him. Oh, how many friends have I lost in the past two years! And so your mother has sent you to me?”
“She bade me give you this letter, general.”
The letter was not a long one. Mrs. Percival briefly told how her husband had set out to endeavour to find where Professor Forli was imprisoned, how he had been attacked and killed by brigands, and how she, knowing what her husband’s wishes would have been, had sent her son. “He is young,” she said, “but not so young as many of those who have fought under you. He is as eager and enthusiastic in the cause of Italian liberty as was his father, having, as you may well suppose, learned the tale from my husband and myself, and my father and mother. As you will see, he speaks Italian as well as English, and I pray you, for the sake of my husband, to take him on your staff; or, if that cannot be, he will shoulder a musket and march with you. He does not come empty-handed. My husband has for years laid by a certain amount to be used in the good cause when the time came. He will tell you where it is to be obtained, and how. I wish you success with all my heart, and if the prayers of two widowed women will avail aught, you will have them daily. It is my only son I give you, and a widow cannot give more. The money is from my husband; the boy is from me.”
Garibaldi’s eyes filled with tears as he read the letter.
“Your mother is a noble woman indeed! How could she be otherwise, as the daughter of Forli and the wife of my brave comrade? Surely you will be most welcome to me, young man—welcome if you came only as your mother’s gift to Italy.”
Frank opened the envelope, which was directed to himself, and took out five slips of thin paper.
“These are bills, general,” he said, handing them to him. “They are drawn upon a bank at Genoa, and are each for two thousand pounds.”
“Francs, you must mean, surely?” Garibaldi said.
“No, general; they are English pounds.”
Exclamations of surprise and gratification broke from Garibaldi and his two companions.
“This is a royal gift!” the former cried. “My brave comrade is not here to help us; but he has sent us a wonderful proof of his love for the cause. It is noble!—it is superb! This will indeed be aid to us,” he went on, holding out his two hands to Frank. “We are strong in men, we are strong in brave hearts, but money is scarce with us, though many have given all that they possess. I know, lad, how you English object to be embraced,—were it not for that, I would take you to my heart; but a hand-clasp will say as much.”
The two officers were almost as much excited as Garibaldi himself, for this gift would remove one of the obstacles that lay in their way. By means of a subscription contributed in small amounts by patriots all over Italy for the purchase of arms, twelve thousand good muskets had been bought and stored at Milan, together with ammunition. When, a few days before Frank’s arrival, Crispi, with some other of Garibaldi’s officers, had gone to fetch them, they found that Cavour had placed a guard of royal troops over the magazine, with orders that nothing whatever was to be taken out. Heavy though the blow had been, the Garibaldian agents were already at work buying arms, but with no hope of collecting more than sufficient for the comparatively small force that would sail for Sicily. Even this addition of funds would not avail to supply that deficiency, as it was very difficult for the general’s agents, closely watched as they now were, to purchase military weapons.
For some time the conversation turned entirely upon the steps to be taken, now that the war-chest had been so unexpectedly replenished. Then Garibaldi put aside the papers on which he had been taking notes, and said,—
“Enough for the time, Signor Percival. I shall, of course, write myself to your good mother, expressing my heartfelt thanks, and telling her that if success attends us, she can be happy in the knowledge that it will be largely due to her. You will, naturally, yourself write home and tell her what joy her gift occasioned, how much it added to our hopes and relieved us of our difficulties. Tell her that I have appointed you as a lieutenant on my staff, and that I shall trust you as I trusted your noble father.”
“I thank you greatly, general; I hope to prove myself worthy of your confidence.”
“And now, sir, will you advise me as to your own movements?”
“I have put up at the Hotel Europa.”
“At present it will be best for you to stay there. We are anxious that there should be no appearance of any gathering here, and my friends will not assemble until all the preparations are completed. How did you come over here?”
“I drove, General; the carriage is waiting for me.”
“Then it must wait for awhile; or, better still, it can carry my two friends here to the town, where they have much to do. In future it will be best for you to walk over; ‘tis but a short distance, and I know that you English are good walkers. Of course, the authorities know that I am here; there is no concealment about that. As long as they do not see any signs of preparations for a movement, they will leave me alone. As probably your prolonged stay at the hotel may excite curiosity, it is well that you should visit the galleries and palaces, and take excursions in the neighbourhood. It may be as well, too, that you should mention casually at the table-d’hôte that you know me, as your father was a great friend of mine when we were together in South America, which will account for your paying visits here frequently. We know that we are being closely looked after by government spies, and must therefore omit no precaution. Now I wish you to take lunch with me, as I have many questions to ask you. I had heard, of course, of Signor Forli being missing, and of the correspondence between your government and that of Naples on the subject.”
Frank went out and told the driver that he should not be returning for some time, but that two gentlemen would go back in the carriage in a few minutes. “As I took the carriage from the hotel, the hire will, of course, be charged in my bill; but here are a couple of francs for yourself.”
In two or three minutes the Italian officers came out, and thanking Frank for the accommodation, drove away, while the lad himself re-entered the villa.
“The meal is ready,” Garibaldi said, when he entered the room where he had left him. “It is very pleasant to me to turn my thoughts for once from the subject of my expedition.”
The meal was a very simple one, though the general had ordered one or two extra dishes in honour of his guest.
“Now,” he said, when they had sat down, and the servant had retired, “tell me first of all about the loss of my dear friend.”
Frank related the story of his father going out to search for Signor Forli, and how he had been captured and killed by brigands. As the general listened, his kindly face grew stern and hard, but he did not speak until Frank brought the tale to an end.
“Cospetto!” he exclaimed, “he may have been killed by brigands, but I doubt not the Neapolitan government were at the bottom of it. I would wager any money that they hired the men of the mountains to disembarrass them of one who was exposing the horrible secrets of their prisons. And you say that his body could not be found. Was the search made for it simply by the carabinieri?”
“It was made by them, sir, but the secretary of our legation accompanied them, and wrote that, although he had himself searched everywhere in the neighbourhood of the hut, he could find no traces whatever of a newly made grave. I may say that Signora Forli still believes that my father was not killed, but was, like her husband, carried off to some dungeon.”
“It is possible,” the general said, “though I would not encourage you to hope; the ways of these people are so dark that there is no fathoming them. Since his grave could not be found, I regard it as certain that he was not buried there, for his captors would not have troubled to carry his body far, but would have dug a hole close by and thrown the earth over the body; and in that case, when the band returned, one or the other of the men who did the work would most likely have carelessly pointed to the spot, and said, ‘There lies the Englishman.’ But though I believe that he did not die there, he might have died elsewhere. His wounds were evidently very severe, and they may have proved fatal after he was carried off by those who took him away from the brigands; if they were not fatal, he may have been murdered afterwards.”
“Signora Forli thought, general, that it was more probable that he had been taken to one of the prisons, and that, just as they hunted down the brigands in order that none of these should have power to betray them, so they might have preferred putting him in prison to having him murdered, because in the latter case the men employed might go to the British legation and accept a large sum for betraying the secret.”
“It may have been so,” the general said; “and if we succeed, perhaps you will find both your father and grandfather. But do not cherish false hopes. Even if both were once in the Neapolitan dungeons, they may before this have succumbed to their treatment there. You have mourned them as dead; do not buoy yourself up with hope, for if you did so, the chances are all in favour of your suffering a terrible disappointment.”
“That is just what my mother impressed upon me, general. She said that from the first she had never allowed herself to think of my father as in prison; and it was not until she received your letter, and thought that at last there was really a chance that the inmost cells of all the prisons would be opened, she would admit a possibility of my father still being alive.”
“At least, she and you will have the consolation that if you do not find those dear to you, you will have aided in restoring fathers and husbands to hundreds of other grieving wives, mothers, and children.”
“May I ask how large a force you are likely to take over with you, general?”
“If the government had remained neutral and not interfered with me, we could have found men for the twelve thousand muskets they have seized; as it is, we have been obliged to write letters to all parts of Italy, stopping the volunteers who were preparing to join us. Some of these letters will doubtless fall into the hands of the authorities, and we have therefore so worded them that it may be supposed that the expedition has been altogether given up. A thousand men is the utmost that we can hope to embark secretly. These will be all picked men and gallant fellows who fought under me in the Alps, or men who have, like myself, been for years living as exiles. These thousand I have chosen, every one; they will die fighting, and will never turn their back to an enemy. Would that I had them all safely landed in Sicily, and had surmounted all the difficulties and dangers that are caused by the hostility of the government, which will, however, be glad enough to take advantage of our work.”
“My mother thought that you would probably form the Neapolitan States, if you conquered them, into a republic.”
“That was my dream when I was fighting at Rome but I see now that it is impossible. I am for a republic on principle, but I must take what I can get. I cannot conceal from myself that my experience of Mazzini and other enthusiasts is that they are not practical, they commit terrible blunders, and the matter ends in a dictatorship, as has twice been the case in France. Mazzini would sacrifice the practical to gain his ideal. I care nothing for theory—I want to see Italy free; and this can only be done under Victor Emmanuel. He is popular and energetic. His father suffered for his devotion to the cause of freedom. The son is a stronger man; but at present he is forced by Cavour and the other temporisers who surround him to curb his own impetuosity.
“I don’t like Cavour—he gave up my birthplace, Nice, to France; but, at the same time, I respect his great ability, and am sure that as soon as he feels the opportunity has come, he will grasp it, and the king will not hesitate to accept the possessions that I hope to gain for him. With Victor Emmanuel King of Northern and Southern Italy, the rest is simple. Then Italy can afford to wait its opportunity for driving the Austrians from Venezia, and becoming, for the first time since the days of the Romans, a united kingdom. When I hoist my banner in Sicily, it will be as a soldier of Victor Emmanuel, King of Italy.”
Frank was pleased to hear this. His father, though an advanced liberal in matters connected with Italy, was a strong conservative at home; and Frank had naturally imbibed his ideas, which were that the people of a constitutional monarchy, like that under which he lived, were in every respect freer and better governed than under any republic, still more so than they could be under a republic constituted according to the theories of Mazzini or those of the authors of the first and second French revolutions.
“By the way, you must have found it a terrible responsibility carrying so much money with you.”
“I did not carry it, general. The bills were, with the letter to you, sent by post to the care of the Countess of Mongolfiere, who was a friend of Signora Forli.”
“That was hazardous, too,” the general said, shaking his head. “To trust ten thousand pounds to the post was a terrible risk.”
“It was the best way that we could think of, general. The courier who was with my father when he was killed came over to see my mother at her request, as she wished to hear every detail about my father’s last days. He professed a great fear of returning to Italy, as, having given evidence against the brigands, he would be a marked man.”
“There is no doubt that is so,” Garibaldi put in. “His life would not have been worth a day’s purchase. These scoundrels have their agents in every town, men who keep them informed as to persons travelling, whom it would be worth while to capture, and of any movements of the carabinieri in their direction.”
“My mother, therefore, took him into her service,” Frank went on; “but two days before I started, she discovered that he had been acting as a spy, had been opening her desk, examining her letters, and listening at the door. She and Signora Forli had no doubt whatever that he had made himself acquainted with the contents of your letter, and believed that I was going to carry this money to you.”
“The villains!” Garibaldi exclaimed, bringing his clenched hand down upon the table: “it is just what they would do. I know that many of my friends enjoyed your father’s hospitality; and no doubt it would be a marked house, and the secret police of Francisco would keep an eye over what was being done there, and would, if possible, get one of their agents into it. This man, who had no doubt acted as a spy over your father when he was in Italy, would be naturally chosen for the work; and his story and pretence of fear served admirably to get him installed there. If he had learned that you were about to start to bring me ten thousand pounds, and perhaps papers of importance, it would have been nothing short of a miracle had you arrived safely with them.”
“That was what Signora Forli and my mother thought, sir. They were afraid to send the letter directed to me at the hotel where I was to stop, as the man would doubtless telegraph to agents out at Genoa, and they would get possession of it; so instead of doing so, they enclosed it in a letter to the countess. I posted it myself, and there was therefore no chance of the letter being lost, except by pure accident.”
“But if the spy did not know that you had sent the letter off by post, it would render your journey no less hazardous than if you had taken it with you.”
“My mother and the Signora were both convinced that an attempt would be made to search me and my baggage on the way, but they did not think that they would try to take my life; for after what had happened to my grandfather and father, there would be no question that my murder was the work of Neapolitan agents, and a storm of indignation would thus be caused.”
Garibaldi nodded. “No doubt they were right, and if the scoundrels could have got possession of what you carried without injury to you they would have done so. But they would have stuck at nothing in order to carry out their object; and had you caught them while they were engaged in searching your clothes or baggage, they would not have hesitated to use their knives. I cannot now understand how you have come through without their having meddled with you. It might have been done when you were asleep in an hotel, or they might have drugged you in a railway carriage, or in your cabin on board the steamer coming here. The secret police of Naples is the only well-organised department in the kingdom. They have agents in London, Paris, and other cities, and from the moment you left your mother’s house you must have been watched. Are you sure that, although you may not know it, you have not been searched?”
“I am quite sure, sir. We were so certain I should be watched that I made no attempt to get off secretly, but started by the train I had intended to travel by. I did not stop a night at an hotel all the way, and made a point of getting into railway carriages that contained other passengers. It happened, however, that at Vienne the last of those with me alighted. It was one o’clock in the morning when we left the station, and I felt sure that if an attempt was made, it would be before we stopped, especially as a man looked into the carriage just before we were starting, and then went away. I had a loaded pistol in each pocket and a rug over me, and I sat in the corner pretending to be asleep. An hour later a man came and looked in; another joined him. The door was partly opened, and an arm with an extended pistol pointed at me, but I felt perfectly sure that he had no intention of firing unless I woke.
“Half a minute later his comrade entered the carriage. He had an open knife in one hand, and a cloth in the other; but as he came in I shot him; he fell back through the carriage door. Whether in doing so he knocked his comrade down or not, I cannot say; but, at any rate, I saw no more of him. The man whom I shot had dropped what he held in his hand on to the floor. It was as I had expected—a handkerchief, soaked with chloroform. It was seven when I arrived at Marseilles. Fortunately, a steamer left at twelve. When I went on board I made the acquaintance of three young men, who were, I guessed, on the same errand as myself; their names were Rubini, Sarto, and Maffio. We soon became very friendly, and I found that my conjectures were correct. This being so, I told them what had happened; and as there was no one besides myself in my cabin, Rubini most kindly laid a mattress across the door and slept there. As I had not had a wink of sleep the night before, and only dozed a little the one before that, I should have had great difficulty in keeping awake. In the course of the night some one did attempt to open the door; but he was unable to do so on account of the mattress placed there, and we heard no more of him. I asked these gentlemen to come to the Hotel Europa at eleven, for I was really afraid to come along the road here by myself. They drove with me to the house of the countess, and then here, so that I was well guarded.”
“I know them all well,” Garibaldi said. “Rubini is a lieutenant in the Genoese company of my cacciatori; the others are in his company. You have done well indeed, my friend; it needed courage to start on such a journey, knowing that Francisco’s police were on your track. You have a right to feel proud that your vigilance and quickness defeated their attempt. It is well that you met Rubini and his friends; for as the spies would know directly you entered the palazzo of the countess that you had gone there for some special purpose, probably to obtain documents sent to her, I doubt whether you would have been able to come safely alone, even if the road had been fairly well thronged.”
“I should not have gone to the countess’s unless I had an escort, general. My intention was to come to you in the first place, and ask that three of your officers might accompany me to get the letter; but, of course, after having found friends who would act as my escort, there was no occasion to do so. I suppose there is no fear of my being further annoyed?”
“I should think not,” Garibaldi said; “now they know that your mission has been carried out, you will cease to be of interest to them. But at the same time, it would be well to be cautious. If the fellow you shot was the leader of those charged to prevent the supplies and letter coming to me, we may consider that there is an end of the affair. His death will give a step to some one, and they will owe you no ill will. If, however, the other man was the chief of the party, he would doubtless owe you a grudge. He is sure to be blamed for having been thus baffled by a lad; whereas had he succeeded, he would have received the approval of his superiors. I think, therefore, if I were you, I should abstain from going out after nightfall, unless with a companion, or if you do so, keep in the great thoroughfares and avoid quiet streets. That habit of carrying a loaded pistol in your pocket has proved a valuable one, and I should advise you to continue it so long as you are here. If you see Rubini, tell him that I thank him for the aid he and his friends rendered you. He and the others have all been instructed not to come here until they receive a communication that the time for action has arrived. My followers send me their addresses as soon as they reach Genoa, so that I can summon them when they are needed. It would never do for numbers of men to present themselves here. The authorities know perfectly well that I am intending to make an expedition to Sicily; but as long as they see no signs of activity, and their spies tell them that only some half-dozen of my friends frequent this villa, they may be content to abstain from interference with me; indeed, I do not think that in any case they would venture to prevent my sailing, unless they receive urgent remonstrances from Austria or France. Were such remonstrances made, they would now be able to reply that, so far as they can learn, I am remaining here quietly, and am only visited by a few private friends.”