Читать книгу Adventures of an Aide-de-Camp (Vol. 1-3) - James Grant - Страница 14

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In a little while day dawned, and all the splendour of an Italian sunrise lit up the scenery. The waning moon shone pale and dim as, fading, it disappeared in the azure sky. From the lofty hills I had a view of the Mediterranean; its bright surface gleamed like a sea of polished glass, throwing out in strong relief the dark frigates anchored in the gulf, the gaudy xebecques with their broad lateen sails, swift feluccas, oared galleys, and a swarm of little coasting vessels. These seas, nevertheless, were at times infested by French cruisers and Algerine corsairs; who, darting from behind some cape or isle, pounced upon the unwary merchantman: for this tribe of Mussulman pirates had not then been extirpated or subdued.

As I advanced, fields of rice, of Turkey corn, and even sugar-canes appeared at intervals among the wooded hills; and the road-way was bordered by laurels, myrtles and mulberry trees. A few cottages with picturesque little mills turned by natural cascades, peeped out from among groves of the orange and plum-tree; and ridgy mountains, over whose tall summits the sun poured down his lustre, bounded the landscape. As the sun ascended higher into the blue vault, and his heat and brilliance increased, the scenery became involved in a hazy silver mist, which floated over the face of nature like a veil of the finest gauze, softening and subduing the vivid and varied tints: it was denser on the mountains; from whose giant sides vast volumes of white vapour came rolling down, like avalanches or foaming cascades, into the valleys below.

The wild and rugged nature of the country, and my ignorance of the localities, caused me to progress but slowly. When passing through lonely places, I met more than one scout belonging to various bands of brigands, watching, rifle in hand among the rocks, and exchanging signals by imitating the scream of the owl, the yell of the lynx, or the caw of the rook; but they always greeted me by a wave of the hat, and a cry of "A holy day to you, signor!" permitting me to pass without question. In many of these desert places the wayside was strewn with the dead bodies of French soldiers who had perished from wounds or exhaustion. By this route some of Monteleone's brigade had retreated, and many of the poor stragglers lay in ghastly groups around the rude wooden crosses, (marking the scene of murder) and stone fountains so common by the road-side in Italy. They had been stripped—and some perhaps despatched by the poniards of the plunderers; many were torn by wild beasts, and all were in a loathsome state of decay, lying unburied, blackening and sweltering under a burning sun.

A long ride over rough ground brought me to Policastro. Wearied with so long a seat on horseback under such intense heat, and feeling a langour caused by the hot south wind which had blown all day, I gladly halted at the first albergo that appeared.

Policastro was all in a bustle: the people were holding a festival in honour of St. Eufemio, their patron saint. It was with the utmost difficulty I found quarters in a miserable inn, where I fed and dressed Cartouche with my own hands, while such humble fare as the place afforded was in course of preparation.

The signoressa was very sorry—but the town was in such a bustle, she hoped "Excellenza" would condescend to take what her house afforded—maccheroni, lardo, bread and fruit, with Gioja wine.

"Maladetto!" said I with no very contented air, "let me have the best, signora."

This indifferent repast was soon dismissed, the table cleared, and fruit and wine brought in. Lighting a cigar I drew a sofa close to the open window, and lounged there, observing the fair, or merrymaking, held in honour of the sainted Eufemio. Laces, silver buttons, ribbons, chaplets of beads, knives and bodkins, gaudy pictures of miracles and the madonna, skins of bucks and wolves, real or imaginary relics of holy personages who died in the odour of sanctity, rags, rotten bones, teeth, and innumerable pieces of the true cross, were offered for sale by various ecclesiastics and pious rogues who kept stalls; the first for the benefit of the saint, and the last for their own. Warm choke-priest, pastry, and sour wine (the refuse of the convent cellars) were retailed for the same purposes. Flags waved, and garlands and ribands fluttered on every side; bells were tolling, and men carolling; and women and children were dancing and singing round a richly-attired image of Saint Eufemio, as large as life, erected on the identical spot from which that blessed personage ascended to heaven. Dominicans, Minorites, Servites, Trinitarians, Clerks of Madonna, and I know not how many more of the Padri, with shaven scalps, dark cowls, or shovel hats, clad in sombre tunics girt with cords of discipline, swarmed in the streets.

All this festivity displayed the harmless devotion of the Italian character, and its peculiar superstitions; but among the mountains eastward of the town, I became acquainted with deeds of atrocity which revealed all its blacker traits—its proneness to revenge and bloodshed.

"Love," says a popular writer, "is a fiery and a fierce passion everywhere; but we who live in a more favoured land know very little of the terrible effects it sometimes causes, and the bloody tragedies which it has a thousand times produced, where the heart of man is uncontrolled by reason or religion, and his blood is heated into a fever by the burning sun that glows in the heaven above his head." Of this I had many instances during our short campaign among the wild Calabrians.

On entering a little hamlet at the base of the hills which rise between Policastro and Crotona, I found that a marriage had just been celebrated; and all the inhabitants of the place were making merry on the occasion. Rustic tables were spread under the shade of orange-trees; and baked meats, rice, milk, fruit, and other simple viands, were displayed in profusion. The happy peasants welcomed me joyously, and invited me to tarry for a time and partake of the general festivity. I dismounted; and was led forward by a crowd of rustics to the place of honour beside the most respected guest—the parrocchiano, a venerable and silver-haired brother of San Francesco, who had just united the young couple.

After touching our glasses and tasting the wine, we stood up to observe the dancers, who were performing one of their spirited national measures, to the music of the tabor, the flute, and zampogna. The bridegroom, a stout and handsome woodman, arrayed in gala attire—a particoloured jacket, scarlet vest, and green breeches; the knees of which, like his conical hat, were gaily decorated with knots of ribbons—was dancing with his bride, little dreaming that a malignant rival scowled from the orangery close beside them. As usual, the bride was the object of greatest interest; she possessed beauty of form, delicacy of feature, and a soft Madonna-like expression of serenity and modesty which, set off by her smart Italian costume, rendered her quite bewitching. A piece of white linen was folded square on her head, and fell with a fringed edge over her shoulders, half concealing the heavy braids of ebon hair through which shone the gilt arrow, whose bulb would to-morrow be expanded. Large dark, but downcast eyes, a small rosy mouth, and dimpled chin, and a beautiful bosom, were among those charms with which the woodman's bride was gifted—doubtless, her only dower. The old people clapped their hands; while the younger sang her praises, accompanied with the music of flutes and mandolins.

The measure was the provincial tarantella; one which requires the utmost agility, the movements increasing in rapidity as the dance approaches its termination. At the moment when the music was loudest, and the joy of the dancers and revellers at its height, the sharp report of a rifle-shot, fired from the orangery, startled the joyous throng; a wild shrieking laugh was heard, and the unhappy bride fell dead at the feet of her husband!

"Ahi! Madonna mia! la sposa!" burst from every tongue; then all stood for a moment mute—transfixed with horror.

The woodman uttered a yell of rage and grief, and unsheathing his knife, plunged into the thicket with the aspect and fury of a tiger. Then rose shouts of anger.

"Oh, abomination! 't is Truffi, the devil—Gaspare, the hunchback! Malediction and revenge!" The men scattered in pursuit of the assassin, armed with knives, clubs, ox-goads, and such weapons as they could snatch on the instant; leaving the old Franciscan and women on their knees lamenting over the hapless victim of revenge, thus cruelly cut off when her young and buoyant heart was bounding with love and joy.

"Gaspare!" I ejaculated, leaping on my horse to join in the pursuit; "is this devil everywhere? Can this gnome of the woods be dogging my footsteps? Could this death-shot have been intended for me?"

But the Franciscan informed me that the cripple had been a disappointed suitor, and that, ugly and venomous as he was, this overgrown reptile professed love for the village girl, and had made a solemn vow of vengeance on the woodman. I was exasperated beyond measure at this deplorable outrage, and assisted in the fruitless pursuit as long as it was possible for me to do so, consistently with the general's order. Finding that I had far outstripped the villagers and was alone among the mountains, I turned my horse's head eastward, and pursued my journey: not consoled by the recollection that deeds as dark were committed in the wild county of Tipperary when I was quartered there.