ADVENTURES OF AN AIDE-DE-CAMP, VOLUME III

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ADVENTURES

OF

AN AIDE-DE-CAMP:

OR,

A CAMPAIGN IN CALABRIA.

BY

JAMES GRANT, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF "THE ROMANCE OF WAR."

IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III.

LONDON: SMITH, ELDER, AND CO., CORNHILL. 1848.

London: Printed by STEWART and MURRAY, Old Bailey.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I.—The Third Penitent.—The Monk II.—The Monk's Story III.—A Narrow Escape IV.—Castelguelfo.—The Wolf of Amato V.—Happiness VI.—The Villa Besieged VII.—The Nuptials VIII.—The Tempest.—The Last of the Hunchback IX.—A Military Honeymoon X.—Wreck of the "Delight" XI.—The Voltigeurs.—The Massacre of Bagnara XII.—A Retreat In Square.—The Prisoner of War XIII.—The Drum-head Court-martial XIV.—Dianora.—The Forfeited Hand XV.—The Monastery XVI.—The Sanctuary Violated XVII.—Unexpected Perils XVIII.—Captured by the Enemy.—The Two Generals XIX.—The Albergo.—The Bandit's Revenge XX.—The Bandit's Cavern.—Recapture XXI.—Joys of a Military Honeymoon XXII.—The Siege of Scylla XXIII.—The Fall of Scylla.—Conclusion

ADVENTURES

OF AN

AIDE-DE-CAMP.

CHAPTER I.

THE THIRD PENITENT—THE MONK.

The escape of a second victim from the vaults caused a great surmising and anxiety at Canne; and although, no doubt, the cardinal suspected that I had a hand in the matter, he never spoke of it. The astonishment of the keeper was boundless, when he discovered his charge vanishing so unaccountably: he was accused of conspiracy, and imprisoned by order of the podesta. The poor man defended himself before the tribunal, by laying the blame upon—whom think you, gentle reader?—VIRGIL; who is regarded by the lower order of Italians less as a poet, than as a conjuror and magician, upon whose guilty head the blame of everything wicked and wonderful is laid.

Among the mountains, he has for ages been deemed the architect of every devilish contrivance, every fathomless cavern, splendid crag, fantastic rock, and ruined tower. A long dispute ensued between two learned lawyers, concerning the question whether it might or might not have been Virgil; and the decision was given for the prisoner, on the testimony of the chiavaro, or smith: who declared that a venerable man with a white beard, meagre aspect, and eyes like living coals, had ordered a set of keys like those produced in court, for which he paid in strange and antique coin; and when he (the chiavaro) looked for them next day, they had vanished from his pouch, showing plainly that they were coins of hell. All present crossed themselves; and the keeper was immediately set at liberty, and restored to his dignity and bunch of keys.

Of the Cavalier Paola, I had intelligence before leaving Canne. Gathering together a band of those bold spirits who infested the wilds of the Brettian forest, he fired the palace of his foe, the bishop; who narrowly escaped with a severe bullet wound, of which he soon after died. For this outrage, Casteluccio had to pay many a bright ducat to the altars of mother church, before he was permitted to resume his place in society; and it was not until the death of Murat that he obtained peaceable possession of his patrimony at Cosenza.

Several days elapsed without the appearance of the Roman courier, and I became very impatient to rejoin my regiment. Notwithstanding the risk of discovery, prompted equally by curiosity and humanity, I made a last visit to those frightful vaults, to free the remaining captive.

The stillness of midnight was around me when I entered, but a noisy singing rang through the echoing cells; the measure was a boisterous sailor's carol, such as I had often heard the fishermen singing, as they sat mending their nets on the shore of Messina.

I beheld in the third captive, an Italian, about forty years of age, possessing a powerful and savage aspect, strongly chained to a large stone which served him for a chair and table, while a pile of straw between it and the wall formed his bed. He was flourishing his arms and snapping his fingers whilst he sang; but ceased on my entrance, and regarded me with a sullen stare of surprise. A large leathern flask, which stood on the stone near him, explained the cause of his merriment.

"Ha! thou cursed owl that pokest about in the night, what seek you here, when you should be snug in the dormitory? Up helm and away, black devil! there's no girl here to confess—no one but Lancelloti of Fruili, a born imp of Etna, who will break every bone in your hypocritical body, if it comes within reach of his grapnels!"

"The pirate—the companion of Petronio!" I exclaimed; "are you that Lancelloti of whom I have heard so much? Astonishing!"

"Ho! ho! what are you talking about?" asked the captive, rolling his great head about. "I tell you, Signor Canonico, that I am Osman Carora, a jovial monk of Friuli—(what am I saying?) yes, Friuli—would I was there again! Never have I seen a prospect equal to the fair Carinthian mountains, and the deep rocky dales through which the Isonza sweeps, on to the Gulf of Trieste. It was my hap to look for many a dreary day through the iron bars of my dormitory on that gulf, and afterwards to sail, with royals and sky-sails set, every rope a-taunto, and the red flag of Mahomet flying at the foremast head. Accursed bishop! I may revenge me yet, if the good friend who brings me this jolly flask every night proves true. Ah, Truffi, though crooked in form and cross in spirit, thou art an angel of light to me!"

"Truffi!" said I; "mean you Gaspare?"

The renegade, moved alternately by brutality, rage, and maudlin sentimentality, burst into a shout of drunken laughter.

"You know him—ha! ha! and are a jolly priest after all. Alla akbar! instead of a prying monkish spy, I find you a comrade. Thou who knowest Gaspare must doubtless have heard of me. He is now in Canne, planning my escape from this cursed cockpit; to which the double-dyed villany of Petronio has consigned me. Gaspare was my stanch gossip in the cloisters of Friuli, and my master-at-arms and fac-totum on board the Crescent: his ingenuity alone saved me when I had nearly fallen into the clutches of the grand bailiff, for slaying the Capitano Batello. Fi! the recollection of that adventure haunts me yet: the glazing eyes, the clenched teeth, the pale visage, and the gleaming sword; the silver hairs, and the old man's blood streaming on the white dress and whiter bosom of his daughter! "O, cursed flask!" said the ruffian, pausing to squeeze the leathern bottle. "May every monk and mollah anathematize thee in the name of Christ and Mahomet; for thou art now empty, useless, and upon thy vacuity I cry anathema! Beautiful wert thou indeed, Paula Batello, and too pure a being for such a serpent as Lancelloti to behold!"

"Caro signor, I would gladly hear her story?"

"And so thou shalt: firstly, because thou art a comrade of our Apollo with the hump; secondly, because I would like to hear thy opinion upon it; and thirdly, because I love to have some one to talk to in this blasted vault, whose walls I would that Satan rent asunder and ruined for ever." And without further preface, he commenced the following story; which deserves a chapter to itself.

CHAPTER II.

THE MONK'S STORY.

The Capitano Batello was an old soldier of the Venetian Republic, who, after an active life, retired to spend the winter of his days among the woody solitudes of Friuli. All the village loved the good old capitano, who made wooden swords and flags for the children, and retailed his campaigns and adventures a thousand times to the frequenters of the cantina, where he was the military and political oracle; and at mass, all made way for the white-haired old man, when he came slowly marching up the aisle, with the Signorina Paula leaning on his arm. The old soldier's doublet was perhaps a little threadbare, or his broad hat glazed at the edge; yet he never forgot his rank, even when struggling for existence with half a ducatoon a day.

But Paula, the gentle-voiced, the blue-eyed and fair-haired Paula, was the admiration of all—the glory of the village; and the old captain watched her as a miser would a precious jewel. Beard of Ali! she would have brought a princely sum at Algiers.

She was beautiful, and her soft blue eyes looked one fully and searchingly in the face with all the confidence of perfect innocence. Her mother was gone to heaven, as the captain said, when he engaged me as tutor to Paula and her brother: an office for which I received a trifle, that went into the treasury of San Baldassare—a trap which swallowed everything. The boy, Rosario, was a chubby little rogue, and for a time I took pleasure in hearing their lisping accents, as they conned over their task in an arbour which Paula's hands had formed at the back of their little cottage.

Thunder! how often have I looked back with astonishment on those days, when on the gun-deck of the Crescent I stood at the head of five hundred of the boldest hearts of Tunis and Tripoli. Who then could have recognised in Osman the blood-thirsty, the hypocritical Fra Lancelloti? Yes! I was ever a hypocrite, and regarded with scorn and detestation the sombre garb which tied me to the monastery. But my fate was not in my own hands: my parents were a son and daughter of old mother church, and I came into the world very unfortunately for both parties. They threw me into the lantern of San Baldassare, where thirty years before my father had been found himself. As a reward for giving me life, my mother died in the dungeons of San Marco; and my father expiated his share in the matter at the first general auto-da-fé: so you see that I come of a martyred family.

A prisoner from my boyhood upwards, I looked upon the world as a realm of light and joy, from which I was for ever debarred by those mysterious vows which the monks had induced me to profess before their meaning was understood. When from my iron grate I looked on the vale of the winding Isonza, blooming with foliage and verdure and bounded by the blue Carinthian hills, and listened to the rushing sound of the free bold river, how intense were my longings to follow its course to where it plunged headlong into the Gulf of Trieste; where for hours I have watched the scudding sails till my eyes and heart ached. O, hours of longing and of agony! To see nature spread before me in all her glory, yet be unable to taste her sweets: to be a prisoner without a crime. And love, or what the world calls love, I knew not what it was; though a secret spirit whispered within me: I longed to look on some fair face, and to hear a gentle voice reply to mine; but love's magic, its mystery, and its madness, I was yet to learn. With a heart thus formed, and open to the assaults of that wicked little god—whom the ancients should have depicted as a giant—you may imagine my sensations on finding myself in the presence of Paula; whose face and form far outshone the famous Madonna of our chapel. A hot blush suffused my cheek: but the fair face of Paula revealed only the rosy tinge of health, and her brow the calm purity of perfect innocence. I was silent and awed in her presence: an Italian monk awed by a girl of seventeen!

With evening I returned to the cloisters; and a chill sank upon my heart as their cold shadows fell over me. I was in my old dormitory, where the truckle-bed, the polished skull, the cross, and rough vaulted roof seemed yet the same: but I was changed. The recollection of Paula's soft gazelle-like eyes and snowy breast never left me for a moment, and I passed a sleepless night.

"O, that I were a soldier or a cavalier, for then Batello would respect, and his daughter might love me: but a priest—a priest—anathema! anathema! there is no hope for me: none! O, malediction! why did I ever behold thee, Paula?"

Thus passed the night. Noon found me again in the arbour of Batello's garden: the golden-haired and ruddy-cheeked Rosario was drawling over his task; but I neither heard nor beheld him. I saw only his sister, who, seated beneath the shadow of the luxuriant rose-trees, was immersed in the glowing pages of the warrior bard, Luigi Tansilla, the brave follower of Piero di Toledo.

The rays of the sun streamed between the foliage of the arbour, lighting up her fair ringlets, which glittered like living gold; her white neck sparkled in the same mysterious radiance: a glory seemed around her, and the soft calm aspect of her downcast face made her seem the very image of our lovely lady, the famed Madonna of Cantarini. Intoxicated with her appearance, I trembled when addressing her, while she entered frankly into conversation with me on the merits of the soldier's poems. Full and calmly her mild eyes gazed on mine, yet no suspicion struck her of the passion which glowed within me; and which I dared not reveal, for death was the doom: on the one hand, her firm father's poniard; on the other, the dungeons of the Piombi or the horrors of the holy office.

By night the ravings of my dreams were heard by the tenants of the adjoining dormitories, Petronio and Truffi the crookback; and they soon learned from my mutterings that I loved Paula, the daughter of the Signor Batello. Petronio—the same accursed Petronio, who from his archiepiscopal palace sent forth the mandate which entombed me here, when, after a tough battle with a Maltese cruiser, I was cast half drowned and bleeding on the beach of Canne—Petronio, whose matchless hypocrisy makes his villany even of a deeper dye than mine, then came to act the part of friend; to counsel me to destruction, and to become the evil genius of the good Batello and his innocent children.

A thorough Italian monk, dark, gloomy, and superstitious, he was my senior by fifteen years, and had secretly plunged into all the excesses of Venice. Like the fiendish hunchback, he was an adept in every dissimulation and debauchery, and boasted of his exploits; till, ashamed of my weakness, I took heart, and burned for distinction in the same worthy fields. I put myself under his guidance and tuition: to effect what? O, innocent Paula!

I had resolved, by every art of reasoning and sophistry, to break down the barriers of religion and modesty, and bend her mind to my purpose. But each successive day when I looked upon her snowy brow, her pure and happy face, blooming with beauty and radiant with youth, my diabolical purpose was left unfulfilled, unattempted; and my heart shrank from the contest.

Sometimes young and handsome cavaliers, from the castle of Gradiska or the citadel of Friuli, came to visit the old capitano; and the gallantry of their air, the glitter of their military garb and weapons, the ease with which they lounged about, strummed on the mandolin, or whispered soft nothings to the fair girl, made my envious heart burn with alternate rage and jealousy. Intensely I longed to be like one of them: and yet I could have slain them all, and Paula too when she smiled on them.

But I soon found a more powerful auxiliary to my love, than either Petronio's sophistry or Truffi's villany could furnish: and where think you? In Paula's own heart. Ho! ho! a young girl soon discovers that which is the sole object of her thoughts by day, and her dreams by night—a lover! There is a mysterious emotion so pleasing to her heart, so flattering to her fancy, and altogether so peculiarly grateful to her mind in being beloved, that she gives way to all the fervour of a first passion with joy and trembling. Ha! thou knowest the hearts of our Italian girls: warm, tender, and easily subdued; what more can lover wish?

The garrisons were marched to the Carinthian frontier, and the cavaliers came no more to the cottage of Batello: he spent the most of his time detailing his battles and reading the Diaries and Gazette at the wine-house; while his old housekeeper (whom my cowl kept in awe) was always occupied in household matters. I kept Rosario close to his task, and therefore had the dear girl all to myself.

What could she hope for in yielding to such a passion? Remorse, despair, and madness! But of these the young damsel thought not then. Ha! I was then graceful and well looking, and we both were young and ardently in love. My eyes at one time, my tremulous tones at another, had informed her of the mighty secret which preyed upon my heart; and which my lips dared not reveal until the rapturous moment when I perceived the mutual flame that struggled in her bosom. Then, but not till then, did I pour forth a rhapsody expressive of my love; when yielding to its burning impulses, all the long-concealed ardour of my heart burst at once upon her ear. Love lent a light to my eyes, a grace and gesture to my figure, and imparted new eloquence to my tongue: I was no longer myself; no more the cold, cautious friar, but the impetuous Italian lover. The monk was forgotten in the man; my vows in the delight of the moment; and the lovely Paula sank upon my shoulder overcome with love and terror. O, hour of joy! when I first pressed my trembling lip to that soft and beautiful cheek. Long years of penance and of prayer—of dreary repining, of soul-crushing humiliation and sorrow—were all repaid by the bliss of that embrace: which I have never forgotten. No! not all the years that have passed since then; not all the dark villanies I have planned and perpetrated: and they are many; not all the dangers I have dared: and they are countless as the hairs of your head; not all the toils and miseries of a life can efface it from my memory. I was happy then: I who, perhaps, have never been so since. * * * * *

A footstep aroused us, and the blushing girl shrank from me as the little boy Rosario came gamboling towards the arbour with a chaplet for her hair. I cast a fierce glance of hatred upon him. Even Paula was piqued, and refused to receive the flowers; upon which the child wept, and pulling my cassock, prayed me to lecture his sister for being so coy.

"Scold her, Father Lancelloti!" said he, rubbing his glittering eyes with his plump little hands; "for she will neither kiss me nor receive my roses to put among her pretty hair, as she used to love to do."

"Give me the flowers, child," said I; "shall I kiss sister Paula for you, Rosario?"

"O, yes, yes," cried the little boy, "or sister Paula will kiss you, and then me."

Our lips met, and the agitated and infatuated Paula embraced the child, who laughed and clapped his hands with innocent glee; and yet he knew not at what. At that moment the long sword of the captain jarred on the gravel walk, and his heavy tread rang beneath the trellis of the garden. Aware that, as a priest, I had wronged him in the declaration made to his daughter, and that I had committed a deadly sin before God, I shrank from meeting him; and, leaping over the garden-wall, returned to the monastery, where, not without sensations of triumph, I recounted my conquest to Petronio and the hunchback.

Three days I visited her as usual, and rejoiced in the success of my amour; for I loved her tenderly and dearly. My air was so sanctified that the most jealous guardian would not have suspected me; then how much less the good Batello, who, by his profession, had been accustomed to intercourse with men of the strictest honour, and suspected no man of duplicity, because his own brave heart was guileless.

My rose-bud of love was just beginning to bloom, when matters were doomed to have a terrible crisis.

One bright forenoon, when Rosario had finished his task, I was about to return to Friuli, and merely bowed to Paula, because her father was present.

"Brother Lancelloti," said he, grasping my cope, "hast heard the news? The senate is about to declare war against the Turks, and the capeletti are to be doubled. Brave news for an old soldier, eh! I may be a colonello, with Rosario for captain! Come hither, thou chubby rogue—wouldst like to be a captain?"