Читать книгу The Secret Price of History - Gayle Ridinger - Страница 18

In a few minutes Garibaldi will start addressing his men on their defeat and on their imminent retreat from the city, but for Eleonora what matters most is the presence of her men here. She longs to see them once more, though they said their goodbyes already yesterday. These goodbyes are so insignificant, however, that she hardly remembers them as real. What she does recall is Sandor telling her about a three-storey house in Hungary, surrounded by horse pastures and meadows, where two could live once the cause of liberty had been won. She knows what he is leaving unsaid; it is the same thing Goffredo leaves unsaid. She is quite sure that they both have made up their mind to marry her. Of course she has chosen Sandor, and yet it is too painful to tell Goffredo that he is excluded, and so she says nothing to either. In peacetime, she might have pleaded that she was frightened by the idea of—that was to say, by the exclusive and legally intricate nature of—marriage, even when it was for love. But this is wartime, and nothing about love frightens her. Only death does.

The goodbyes yesterday took place down on the banks of the Tiber, among the reeds so that they would be sheltered from view. At first they all acted resolute and cheerful. She gave intense effort to her own pretending. Sandor pulled the gold medallion out of his shirt pocket and tried to give it to her, but she wouldn't hear of it.

"The three of us each keep something. You the medallion, me the vial, Goffredo the whatever-it-is."

"Compass," Goffredo said. "A strange fixed compass without a pin or--."

"You bring it to me next time we meet," she said and kissed Sandor's ear. Her hand wrapped around his, she added, "But I'll keep its red sack." She snatched the sack out from Sandor's pocket and gave it the same sort of tense kiss she'd given his ear.

She believes with all her body, mind, and soul that they will be together again. Even though neither Goffredo nor Sandor knows where Garibaldi is taking them on this escape march, their last words yesterday to her were precisely these.

"Don't worry, Eleonora, you know it'll happen. You know we'll find each other."

So where are they in this square? If she can't manage to find them now, how will she ever manage it in the future?

She moves in closer in order to hear the General, addressing his men from up on his horse. "The ill-fortune we find today is destined to become immense fortune tomorrow!" There is silence, then whistles among the men that jump-start a round of enthusiastic applause. "I leave Rome today. To he who wants to continue the fight against our foreign enemies, I say, 'Come with me'! Soldiers, to those of you willing to follow me, I offer you only hunger, cold, and sun. No pay, no barracks, no weapons, just endless battles, forced marches, bayonet charges—."

At those words the men around her clap all the harder, and some even whistle sharply. Eleonora makes her way in the scorching heat to the front of the crowd. The closest to Garibaldi are the walking wounded—the men without a limb or an eye or bandaged around the chest. Nine or ten mounted officers in red shirts stand at attention behind the General, and on the horse next to his there is his wife, Anita, wearing a cavalry officer's tunic.

Suddenly, without calling attention to herself, Anita dismounts and takes a few tottering steps. To the untrained eye, nothing would seem wrong. Anita might be five months pregnant but she has spent her life in the saddle; she reportedly even taught the General to ride years ago, when he was just a sailor come ashore in Brazil. Eleonora, however, saw her mother take such steps when she miscarried her brother. As Anita collapses on her knees and the mounted officers watch in consternation, Eleonora runs up behind her. Slipping her arms under those of Anita, she eases her forward by a few feet to get out of range of the horses' hooves, then motions to a staring soldier to take her neck scarf to the nearby fountain and wet it. She manages to prop Anita on the marble lip of the fountain pedestal and then run the soaking cold cloth repeatedly over her face until she at last opens her eyes. She is pale in the strange way of the olive-skinned when they are weak and fatigued.

"I want to hear what Giuseppe is saying," Anita is muttering. "Don't tell him anything's wrong." She squints at Eleonora. "I know you."

"Yes. From the hospital. The day you came with the General to see us."

Anita wobbles into a standing position with Eleonora's assistance. "What will happen to the hospital now?" she asks.

"We need to hide the wounded. The French are set to enter the city at dawn tomorrow."

Anita winces—from pain or displeasure. "So we can expect that as we go north the Austrians will try to cut us off."

Eleonora notes Anita's use of "we"—as if she were in any condition to go anywhere.

"Fortunately, the American Consul Brown gave Mazzini a passport this morning so that he can flee," Anita adds. "And there's an American painter here who worked for three days to produce safe-conduct passes for us."

"A certain Freeman?"

"That's the name they said."

"I know him!"

As Garibaldi finishes his speech and dismounts from his horse, the men who have been standing the closest, practically under the snout of his horse, and listening with glistening eyes to every word, tell him what has happened to Anita. Eleonora sees the immense concern on his face as he makes his way to the fountain, his long hair damp from the heat and his beard unkempt and unending.

"She can't travel," she tells him lowly.

"Is it true, Anita?" he asks, taking in her figure from head to foot. He is a man trying to fathom the woman he loves.

"Yes, it's true," Eleonora intervenes. "This is a difficult pregnancy."

"I have to go with you, Giuseppe," Anita says dispassionately. "I'm too prized a prey for them here. Bring me my horse."

"Your horse, n—now?" asks Eleonora, worried.

"Many of these men will die during the march. I have to set an example, do what I can for them." Anita takes heavy steps towards her stallion.

"I thank you for your help," says Garibaldi after a moment, his gaze—like Eleonora's—trained on Anita's belaboured gait.

"No need for that."

Then, as the General turns to follow his wife, she adds, "But sir, I would appreciate having your promise."

His mouth opens slightly in surprise, only to change almost immediately into a chivalrous nod at her to speak her mind.

"There are two volunteer soldiers with you who…I care… deeply about."

"Not one but two?" Despite the circumstances, amusement darts across Garibaldi's face. Then, serious—very serious—, he adds, "And what, Ma'am, can I promise you? Haven't I just promised all there is…blood and death?"

Eleonora bows her head. "That's right, sir, two," she confirms. "I'd just like to hear from you personally, sir, that you will all be back to Rome." Her eyes close, her face collapses, and tears gush forth. She feels Garibaldi embrace her heaving shoulders.

The next time she looks, the volunteers are filing past her on their march out of the city. Her nose is running like the fountain next to her. More tears veil her sight, more volunteers pass.

She sees Luigi's young ardent face again, looking at her from the execution stand. Today is the first time in years she's cried.