HOFER, though not expecting so sudden a doom, received the announcement of it with fortitude. "Let me see a priest," said he.
Father Manifesti, a dignified and venerable old man, immediately came to him, and remained with him to the hour of his death.
The greater part of the night was spent in devotional exercises; the remainder in conversing on the war; in the course of which, Hofer expressed his firm conviction that the Tyrol must and would eventually revert to Austria. He also penned the following letter to an old friend and neighbour in the Passeyrthal:—
"My very dear Brother,
"It is the will of God, that here, at Mantua, I change a mortal for an eternal state. But, thanks be to God! this step appears as easy to me as if it were to conduct me elsewhere; and He will, doubtless, support me, and conduct me safely to the end, that my soul may join the company of the elect, in that place where it may be permitted to me to implore his mercy towards all those so dear to me here below; those, especially, whose kindnesses have reached me. You, yourself, my very dear friend, and your wife, are included among the latter; and my thanks are yours for the little book, and for many things else. Pray for me!—you and all the dear friends who yet live in the world I am leaving,—pray for me! that I may be delivered from the purgatory where I must otherwise, perhaps, suffer for my sins.
"My very dear wife will take care that mass shall be said, and a requiem sung, in the Chapel of St. Martin, and that prayers shall be put up in the parish churches. The innkeeper will provide meat and soup, and half a pot of wine, for each of my friends and relatives.
"My dear Puhler, go yourself to St. Martin, and tell all to the innkeeper: he will do what is necessary; but do not say a word to any other person of the affair.
"May you, and all whom I leave behind me, be well and happy in this world, till we meet in a better, and praise God for ever. I beg all my friends, and the inhabitants of Passeyr, to remember me in their prayers. Let not my dear wife afflict herself too much on account of my death. I will pray for her, and for all, in the presence of God.
"Farewell, fleeting world! death appears so sweet as to render life unworthy of a tear.
"Written at five o'clock in the morning: and, at nine, I go to God, and the glorious company of the saints!
"Thy beloved in this life,
"Andrew Hofer,
"Of Sand, in Passeyr.
"Mantua, February 20, 1810.
"In the name and by the help of the Lord I shall undertake this journey."
At the appointed hour, he was led from his prison cell to the bastion near the Porta Ceresa. On his way thither, several Tyrolese threw themselves, weeping, at his feet, and besought his blessing: others pressed their anxious faces against their prison-bars, as though to devour him with their eyes, weeping and praying for him aloud. Hofer paused, and begged forgiveness of them all, if, haply, he had led them astray; assuring them he felt confident they would yet be restored to the protection of their loved emperor Franzel, for whom he gave a final hurra.
He had already given into Father Manifesti's charge all that he possessed, consisting of five hundred florins in Austrian bank-notes, a silver snuff-box, and two rosaries, entreating him to convey them, with his last words, to his family.
Arrived at the bastion, the commanding-officer ordered his men to halt. The grenadiers formed a square, open in the rear; twelve men and a corporal then stepped forward, while Hofer remained standing in the centre.
The drummer then offered him a white handkerchief to bind over his eyes, and desired him to kneel down; but, to the first, Hofer replied, "I have been accustomed to look into the mouths of cannon;" and to the second, "No! I am accustomed to stand in the presence of my Creator, and in that posture will I deliver up my soul to Him." There was a simple grandeur in his words and mien that unsteadied the hands of his executioners. He gave a twenty-kreutzer piece to the corporal, recommending him to do his duty well, and pronounced the word "Fire!" in a firm voice. But they all fired ineffectually! A firmer hand, at length, proved successful; and Hofer fell—fell, to rise to immortal fame in this world, and eternal happiness in another! Among the numerous crimes of Buonaparte, none stains him with a greater disgrace than this.
Berthier, who was then at Vienna, excited general indignation by the hypocrisy of his affected pity for him, which led him even to assert that his death would give great pain to Napoleon, who would never have permitted it, could he have helped it.
The spot on which he fell is still regarded as holy ground. His body, instead of being left for some time, as is usual, at the place of execution, was immediately borne by the grenadiers on a black bier to St. Michael's church, where it lay in state, watched by a guard of honour, that the people might see that the famous chieftain was actually slain.
The funeral then took place with all the impressive solemnity of the Roman Catholic ritual, as though, by the honour they paid his remains, the French were anxious to compensate for the injuries they had done him while living.
The voice of bitter weeping was heard from am Sand. The valleys of the Tyrol were in sorrow. Troops of dejected or indignant peasants were seen hurrying across the mountains, to attend the funeral services in the parish churches of the Passeyrthal. The widow and orphans refused to be comforted. A messenger from the Emperor Francis arrived at am Sand, offering the family an asylum in Austria, with money enough to settle themselves, and a pension of two thousand florins. But, no; Anna Hofer could not bring herself to leave am Sand. She accepted the pension, and the promise to provide for her son; but she herself would never quit the old walls.
Speckbacher was not immediately aware of Hofer's fall. We left him in his mountain fastnesses, dwelling among perpetual snows, and only approaching the haunts of men when impelled by hunger. On one of these occasions, he was cautiously approaching a group of people, consisting of a man, woman, and some children, near the little village of Volderberg, when it struck him that they appeared to be fugitives like himself, and would probably prove unable to assist him in his need.
On approaching them, O joy! he beheld his Maria, with her children and honest Zoppel. They had been driven from their home, and knew not whither to turn, unless to some humble kinsfolk of Zoppel's. Gratitude for their reunion made them, for a time, insensible to their privations. Zoppel's good cousin made them welcome to some out-buildings, where Zoppel supported them for some weeks by the labour of his hands. Even in this poor refuge, they enjoyed sweet, though sorrowful, communion: Maria had the children to occupy her, and Speckbacher carved chamois-horns delicately, and made those exquisite little bassi-relievi of birds, with feathers fastened on paper, for which the Tyrolese are so famous.
At length his hiding-place was suspected; they withdrew to the ruin of an old castle, perched on a dizzy peak. Here, too, his enemies tracked him; so he was obliged to tear himself again from his beloved family, and seek refuge in a cavern on the Gemshaken, one of the most inaccessible heights of the Eisglet Scherr. Taking advantage of a fearful snow-storm, which answered the purpose of effacing his footsteps, he, aided by Zoppel, succeeded in conveying to this dangerous place a stock of provisions, sufficient to last a temperate mountaineer a fortnight or three weeks. When these were exhausted, he could only depend on the wild animals he caught by stratagem, which he was obliged to eat raw, as the smoke of a fire would have betrayed him to his enemies. Endeavour to realize the terrible condition of this man—his solitude, inaction, exposure to intense cold, miserable food, and perpetual danger! And yet, though fallen on evil times, he seems to have bated no jot of heart or hope; but, in the true spirit of a man and a Christian, to have endured.
At the close of winter, when the snow began to melt, he had ventured a few paces from his cavern, when an avalanche from the summit of the Gemshaken suddenly descended with an awful noise, and swept him along with it, down a descent of not less than half a league.
Though to escape with life was marvellous, he had not much reason to exult in his good fortune, for he had dislocated his hip; and, finding himself unable to return to his cavern, he painfully crawled towards the little village of Volderberg, which had formerly given shelter to him with his family. He did not reach the cottage of Zoppel's kinsman, Hans, till after dark. Hans, hearing a slight sound outside, thought a wolf was prowling round the cottage, and approached the door cautiously with his rifle. On beholding a man crouching down, he at first took him for a spy, and was half ready to give him the reception he had intended for the wolf; but on hearing Speckbacher faintly say, "Hans, don't you know me?" he became overwhelmed with joy and grief.
"O master! is it you?" cried he. "O master! master!"
"Draw me in, Hans,—draw me gently,—I have broken some bone, I think—"
"Alas! alas! and we knew not what had become of you—my dame and I. We had given you over as lost. And to think of the poor Sandwirth being shot!"—
"Hold!—"
Speckbacher began to cry like a child. His sobs grew deeper and deeper, till they were terrible to hear. The awe-stricken peasants stood beside him, pressing their hands hard together, without venturing to proffer a word. "Tell me how it all was," said he, at length drying his eyes, and then bursting out anew.
Hans told all he had heard; and Speckbacher continued to weep. At length, the good woman of the cottage got him to bed, tended him carefully, and gave him a warm drink in which she had infused a few drops of the steinbock's blood, that rare and sovereign remedy for all hurts in the mountains!
"This will throw you into a violent perspiration and put you soundly to sleep," said she sapiently; "and after twenty-four hours in bed, you will be quite well. The water in which I have bathed your wounds had had the ball that shot the steinbock boiled in it, for that also is of sovereign virtue in cases such as these."
Speckbacher did not lack faith; and, exhausted by sorrow, pain, and fatigue, he soon justified his hostess's prediction by sleeping profoundly, and for many hours. When he woke, it was with a heavy heart. Hans had called in a village doctor to see to the dislocated hip-joint; the case required inaction, but spies were abroad, and Hans did not believe his safety from them could be reckoned on for a moment. When night closed in, therefore, these two faithful men took the tall Speckbacher in their arms, and carried him through by-paths to his own cottage at Rinn, two good leagues off, where they deposited him in the stable.
Zoppel, sleeping in the loft, drowsily called out—
"I say! who's there?" Then, peering down upon them, "Why, Hans! is it you?"
"Hist!" says Hans. "We've brought home your master, and laid him on the straw; and now we must be off, or day will break and we shall be seen, which will spoil all."
"Oh, what joy!" murmurs Zoppel, somewhat incoherently, as he slips on his clothes. He hastened down to Speckbacher, and they had a long talk together, before they could well see one another's faces.
"But, master," says Zoppel, "I can't think how on earth we shall manage, for Hans little guessed we have some Bavarian soldiers quartered upon us, who are lounging in and out all day, expecting you to be hanging about your home. But I know what I'll do! I'll dig a trench for you underneath where the cattle stand, but beyond the reach of their hoofs, and lay plenty of straw in it. Into this I will lift you, and then cover you well up with straw, only leaving you just room to breathe—"
"But, Zoppel, I should like to see my wife first—"
"No, no, master! no!—let her be, I advise ye. Women are soft-hearted, and she would be distressed beyond measure to see you in such a place, and would always be fidgeting about, wanting to make you more comfortable, and the soldiers would naturally ask themselves, 'Why does the woman go so often into the stable?' and so you would be found out. No, no—leave her to me, master; I'll find the right time to tell her you're safe and not far off; but if I told her how near you were, you wouldn't be safe long!"
All this while, Zoppel was digging the trench with might and main; and, as soon as it was finished, he lifted his master into it, and covered him well up: having previously given him a piece of bread and a good draught of milk. It was well he had lost no time in these proceedings; for scarcely had day dawned, when a couple of Bavarian soldiers lounged into the stable to look after their horses, and began to talk to Zoppel while he appeared to be busy cleaning some harness.
Speckbacher remained in this agreeable position seven weeks! un vivo sepolto—unable to change his position, and only taking such food as his servant could administer to him thus recumbent. But it was better than the cavern of Gemshaken—here he had bread instead of raw meat, and milk instead of snow-water: warmth instead of cold—society instead of solitude—proximity to his family instead of being beyond all ken of them—knowledge of the affairs of the world without, instead of ignorance and anxiety.
He could hear the hens cluck and the geese cackle; could look into the oxen's large, patient eyes, without fear of their betraying him; could now and then hear Maria's voice, Anderl's laugh, and the baby's cry. One day Anderl and his little sister had quite a long gossip just outside the stable, within a yard of Speckbacher's ear. At other times, he slily listened to the Bavarians; through whom, as they cleaned their horses, he learned a good deal of news that was not intended for him: among other things, that they were heartily sick of their present life.
His posture became almost intolerably irksome and painful; but it effected one good thing; an entire cure of his dislocated joint; and, when he found himself growing impatient, he thought of Him who was born in a manger.
At length, just as he was beginning to feel he could bear it no longer, the soldiers ran in, began saddling their horses, and, as he gathered from them, were about to depart. In about an hour, Zoppel came in, full of suppressed joy. After carefully securing the door, "I am now going to dig you up," said he, "wash you, dress you, and trim your hair and beard; for if your wife were to see you as you are, she would take you for a wild beast."
Poor Speckbacher was quite a log in his hands; for long inaction had deprived him of the use of his limbs; and it was not in less than two or three days that he was able to quit the stable. Meanwhile, however, Zoppel, having finished his task much to their mutual satisfaction, sought Maria, and told her the wonderful secret. The joy of the meeting, when she flew into the stable, need hardly be described.
It was felt, however, that the Tyrol could not shelter him; therefore, as soon as he regained the use of his limbs, he reluctantly gave the children his farewell embrace and blessing, and started at dusk towards the Styrian Alps, accompanied the first league by his faithful wife.
Once across the Alps, he was no longer in danger; and, after a fatiguing and painful journey, he reached Vienna, where he was joined a few months afterwards by his Maria and the children. Here they remained quietly, till the Tyrol reverted to Austria, when they returned to spend the remainder of their days in their beloved country. Speckbacher lived till 1820, when he died at the age of fifty-two, and was buried with military honours. His brave son Anderl was recently, and may be now, superintendent of the iron-works at Jenbach.
Father Joachim, after hiding in various quarters, and leading a life of great peril for nearly a year, at length succeeded in crossing the Bavarian Alps to the Lake of Constance. By way of St. Gall, he reached the abbey of Einsiedeln, in Switzerland. From thence he passed into the estates of Venice; and, by way of Friuli and Carinthia, he at length reached Vienna, where he found Speckbacher. He received a golden cross and a sum of money from the emperor, in acknowledgment of his loyal service; and for some years afterwards, he officiated in different cures in Lower Austria.
In 1848, the cry went through the Tyrol, "The Rothbart is up again!" and eager volunteers flocked round the old man, who was once more, as field-chaplain, on his way to the battle-field in Italy. Danger seemed to threaten the empire from that quarter; and the Tyrolese, with their old fidelity, were again ready to fight for Austria.
In 1856, the veteran had quarters assigned him in the imperial summer-palace at Salzberg, with a pension of a thousand florins per annum. There, on fine days, he might be seen, scarcely more than a year ago, sitting under the majestic trees in tranquil meditation. His hair was silver-grey; he was slightly lame, a little deaf, and very chary of his speech: but, if spoken to of the Year Nine, his cheek would kindle, his eye would light up, and the old man would speak of his comrades and their stirring deeds as if they were but of yesterday. His jubilee,—the fiftieth anniversary of his priesthood,—was held last September. Soon afterwards, the venerable Capuchin was gathered to his fathers.
In the autumn of 1810, a wedding-train might have been seen issuing from the little church of St. Martin, and proceeding to am Sand. It was not a gay, but a sympathetic festival, for many of Hofer's companions in arms were there; and, though several spies mingled among them, they were on their guard, and would not be tempted by them to pledge the dangerous toast, "Freiheit Zur Tyrol!" But they drank health and happiness to Rudolf and Theresa, and many an old allusion was safely made, with a sigh, under the breath, and standing apart; and they felt they all loved one another the dearer for having suffered together in a generous though lost cause.
In 1824, a tardy act of justice was done by the Emperor of Austria. The remains of Hofer were removed to Botzen; and thence, in solemn procession, to Innsbruck, where they were interred in the imperial church, on the day following the fourteenth anniversary of his execution. The Tyrolese flocked to join the funeral in astonishing multitudes. The governor of the Tyrol took part in it; the nobles and dignitaries of the land swelled the train; long columns of imperial troops slowly marched to the solemn strains of music that befit a soldier's funeral. Then came the priests in their sacred vestments, with crosier and crucifix borne aloft. On the coffin lay Hofer's hat, sword, gold chain, and medal. Twelve of his brother innkeepers bore the pall, and many of his companions in arms followed in the procession. The Abbot of Wiltau pronounced the funeral benediction,—a requiem was chanted; and then—they left his perishable remains with all the honours that perishable men have to give.
A monument has since been erected over his tomb, which is not far from that giant-guarded one of the Emperor Maximilian, and excites as much interest, though of a different kind. His statue well represents him in his accustomed peasant-garb, his face turned heavenward, one hand grasping the national banner, the other holding the barrel of the rifle slung from his shoulder. His sword-belt bears his initials, and the date of the Year Nine. The whole embodies your conception of the man.
His name continues to be a dangerous spell. It is spoken under the breath, if spoken at all. Gold cannot buy any memoir of his life in the Tyrol. The German accounts of him are in the highest degree depreciating. His poor relics in the Innsbruck Museum were at one time deemed too exciting to be seen. But his spirit still lives among the mountains: his name will never perish.
It was soon after the statue had been erected, that a couple of men might have been seen attentively gazing upon it. The taller and elder of the two leant strongly on the shoulder of the younger—the likeness they bore one another bespoke them father and son.
Speckbacher gazed long and earnestly—then dashed away a tear. "'Tis himself," murmured he, in a low, emphatic voice; "as like as stone can be to flesh and blood. See, Anderl! how a plain, homely, upright man may achieve fame! But yet this sinks into nothing, compared with his heavenly reward."
THE END.
R. CLAY, PRINTER, BREAD STREET HILL.