Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel

  CHAPTER XXI. A FOREST RIDE

  Gerald passed a restless, disturbed night. Purcell's words, ever ringingin his ears, foreboded nothing but failure and disaster, while thereseemed something almost sarcastic in the comparison he drew between thePrince Charles Edward's rashness and his own waiting, delaying policy.

  'Is it fair or just,' thought he, 'to taunt me with this? I was not bredup to know my station and my claims. None told me I was of royal bloodand had a throne for a heritage. These tidings break on me as I amworn down by misfortune and broken by illness, so that my shatteredintellects scarcely credit them. Even now, on what, or on whom, do Irely? Has not disease undermined my strength and distrust my judgment,so that I believe in nothing, nor in anybody? Ah, Riquetti, _your_poisons never leave the blood till it has ceased to circulate.'

  There were days when the whole plan and scheme of his life seemed to himsuch a mockery and a deception that he felt a sort of scorn for himselfin believing it. It was like childhood or dotage to his mind this dreamof a greatness so far off, so impossible, and he burned for some realactual existence with truthful incidents and interests. Gloomy doubtswould also cross him, whether he might be nothing but a mere tool in thehands of certain crafty men like Massoni, who having used him for theirpurpose to-day would cast him off as worthless to-morrow. These thoughtsbecame at times almost insupportable, and his only relief against themwas in great bodily fatigue. It was his habit, when in this mood,to mount his horse and ride into the forest. The deep pine-wood wastraversed in various directions by long grassy alleys, miles in extent;and here, save at the very rarest intervals, no one was to be met with.It is not easy to conceive anything more solemn and gloomy than one ofthese forests, where the only sound is a low, sighing cadence as thewind stirs in the pine-tops. A solitary blackbird, perchance, may warblehis mellow song in the stillness, or, as evening closes, the wailing cryof the owl be heard; otherwise the stillness is deathlike.

  Whole days had Gerald often passed in these leafy solitudes, till atlength he grew to recognise even in that apparent uniformity certainspots and certain trees by which he could calculate his distance fromhome. Two or three little clearings there were also where trees had beenfelled and small piles of brushwood were formed; these were his mostremote wanderings and marked the place whence he turned his stepshomeward.

  On the morning we now speak of he rode at such reckless speed that inless than two hours he had left these familiar places far behind andpenetrated deeper into the dense wood. Toward noon he dismounted torelieve his somewhat wearied horse, and walked along for hours, astrange feeling of pleasure stirring his heart at the thought of hisutter loneliness; for there is something in the mind of youth thatattaches itself eagerly to anything that seems to savour of theadventurous. And the mere presence of a new object or a new situationwill often suffice for this. Gradually, as he went onward, his mindcalmed down, the fever of his brain abated; passages of the poets hebest loved rose to his memory, and he repeated verses to himself ashe strolled along, his mind unconsciously drinking in the soothinginfluences that come of solitude and reverie.

  Meanwhile the day declined, and although no sense of fatigue oppressedhimself, he was warned by the blood-red nostrils of his horse and hisdrawn-up flanks that the beast needed both food and water.

  It was a rare occurrence to chance upon the tiniest stream in thesetracts, so that he had nothing for it but to push forward and trust thatafter an hour or so he might issue beyond the bounds of the wood. Againin the saddle, his mettled horse carried him gallantly along withoutany show of distress; but although he rode at a sharp pace there seemedlittle prospect of emerging from the wood; tall avenues of dark stemsstill lined the way, and the dusky foliage spread itself above his head.If he had but preserved a direct line he was well aware that he mustbe able to traverse the forest in its very widest part within a day, sothat he now urged his horse more briskly to gain the open country beforenightfall. For the first time, however, the animal showed signs offatigue, and Gerald was fain to get down and lead him. Half dreamilylost in his own thoughts he moved unconsciously along, when suddenly ablaze of golden light startled him, and looking up he saw he had leftthe wood behind him and was standing on the crest of a grassy hill,from which he could see miles of open country at his feet, backed by theMaremma Mountains, behind which the sun was fast sinking. It was thattrue Italian landscape which to eyes only accustomed to the scenerynorth of the Alps has always a character of hardness, and evenbleakness; but as by time and frequency this impression dies away, suchscenes possess an attractiveness unequalled by all other lands. Therewas the vast plain, traversed by its winding rivulet, its course onlytraceable by the pollard willows that marked the banks; while forestsof olives alternated with mulberry plantations, around and betweenwhich the straggling vines were trellised. On the hot earth, half hid byflowers of many a gorgeous hue, lay great yellow gourds and pumpkins, asthough thrown to the surface in a flood of rich abundance; and far awayin the distance the mountains closed in the view, their summit cappedwith villages, or, perchance, some rugged castellated ruin, centuriesold.

  How was it that Gerald stood and gazed at all these like onespell-bound? Why was that scene not altogether new to his eyes? Why didhe follow out that little road, now emerging from the olives and nowlost again, till it gained the stream, which was spanned by a rudewooden bridge? How is it that the humble mill yonder, whose laggardwheel scarce stirs the water, seems to him like some old familiar thing.And why does he strain his sight in vain to see the zigzag road up thesteep mountain-side? It was because a flood of old memories were rushingfull upon his mind, bringing up boyhood and 'long ago.' That was thevery path by which he set out to seek his fortune, when scarcely morethan a child he fled from the villa; there was the wide plain throughwhich he had toiled weary and foot-sore; in that little copse offruit-trees, beside the stream, had he slept at night; there, where alittle cross marks a shrine, had he stopped to eat his breakfast; aroundthe head of that little lake had he wended his way toward the mountains.

  If at first these memories arose faintly, like the mere outlines of adream, they grew by degrees bolder and stronger. His boyish life at theTana then rose before him; the little room in which he used to sit,and read, and ponder; then the narrow stair by which he would creepnoiselessly down to stroll out at night and wander all alone besidethe dark lake; and then the dusky pine-wood, through whose leafy shadesGabriel would saunter as the evening closed in.

  'I will see them all once more, cried he aloud; 'I will go back overthat scene, calling up all that I can remember of the past; I will tryif my heart has kept the promise of its boyish hopes, and see if I havewandered away from the path I once destined for myself.' There wasa marvellous fascination in the reality of all he saw and all therecollections it evoked, after that life of fictitious station and mockgreatness in which he had been living of late.

  He who has not tried the experiment for himself cannot believe theextent of that view obtained into his own nature from simply revisitingthe scenes of boyhood. Till we have gone back to the places themselves,we can never realise the life we led there; how we felt in that longago; what we thought of, what we ambitioned.

  Wonderful messengers of conscience are these same old memories! thelittle garden we used to dig; the narrow bed we slept in; our old benchat school, deep graven on the heart, with all its thrilling incidents ofboyish life; the pathway through the flowery meadow down to the stream,where we used to bathe; the little summer-house under the honeysuckles,where we heard or invented such marvellous stories. Rely upon it, thereis not one of these unassociated with some high hopes, some generousnotion, some noble ambition; something, in short, which we meant to be,but never realised; some path we intended to follow, but strayed from inthat wild and tumultuous conflict we call life.

  Guided by the little river, on which the setting sun was now sheddingits last lustre, Gerald walked along beside his horse, and just as thenight was falling reached the mill. To his great surprise d
id he learnthat he was full fifty miles from Orvieto, for though he had parsed anentire day, from earliest dawn, on the way, he had never contemplatedthe distance he had travelled. As it was no unusual occurrence forspecial couriers with despatches to pass by this route toward the Tuscanfrontier, his appearance caused little remark, and he was invited to sitdown at the miller's table when the household assembled for supper.

  'You are bound for St. Stephano, I 'll warrant,' said the miller, as hestood looking at Gerald, who bedded down his tired beast.

  Gerald assented with a nod, and went on with his work.

  'If I were you, then, I 'd not take the low road by the Lago Scuro atthis season.'

  'And why so?'

  'Just for this reason: they have got malaria fever up in the mountains,and the refugees who live up there, for safety against the carabinieri,are obliged to come down into the plains, and they troop the roadshere in gangs of twenty and thirty, making the country insecure afternightfall.'

  'They are brigands, then?' asked Gerald.

  'Every man, ay, and every woman of them! They respect neither priestnor prefect. What think you they did three weeks ago at Somarra? Atravelling company of players coming through the town obtained leavefrom the Delegato to give a representation. The theatre was crammed, asyou may well believe, such a pleasure not being an everyday one. Well,the orchestra had finished the symphony and up drew the curtain, when,instead of a village fete with peasants dancing, the stage was crowdedwith savage-looking fellows armed to the teeth, every one of whom helda blunderbuss levelled at the audience. Meanwhile the doors of the boxeswere opened, and the people inside politely requested to hand out theirmoney, watches, jewels, in fact, all that they had of value aboutthem, the pit being treated exactly in the same fashion, for none couldescape, as all the doors were held by the bandits. They carried awayforty-seven thousand francs' worth for the night's work. Indeed, theDelegato has never risen from his bed since it happened, and expectsevery day to be summoned to Rome, or sent off to prison at Viterbo.'

  'And why does the Pope's government not take some steps against thesefellows? Why are they suffered to ravage the whole country at theirwill?'

  'You must ask your master, the Cardinal, that question,' said themiller, laughing. 'It would be easy enough to hunt them down, now thatthey 've got the fever in the mountains, if any one cared to do it;but the "Pastore," as they call their captain, pays handsomely for hispatent to rob, and he never kills where it can be avoided.'

  'And who is this Pastore--what was he?'

  'He was a friar. Some say he was once a monsignore; and he might havebeen, from his manners and language.'

  'You have seen him, then?'

  'Seen him! _per Bacco!_ that have I, and to my cost! He comes himself totake up his "due de Pasqua," as he calls his Easter-dues, which are notthe lighter that he assesses them all before he sits down to supper.'

  'Do you mean to tell me that he would sit down to table with you?'

  'Ay, and be the merriest at the board too. So full of pleasant storiesand good songs was he one night that one of my boys could not resistthe fascination of his company, but started off the next morning to joinhim, and has never returned.'

  If Gerald's curiosity was excited to learn many particulars of thiscelebrated bandit chief, the miller was only too happy to be questionedon a theme he loved so well. In his apprehension the Pastore wasno ordinary robber, but a sort of agent, partly political, partlyfinancial, of certain great people of Rome. This was a theory hewas somewhat vain of having propounded, and he supported it withconsiderable ingenuity.

  The Pastore himself was described as a happy-looking, well-to-do man,past the prime of life, but still hale and vigorous; and, if not veryactive in body, with considerable acuteness and a ready wit. He stoodwell in the estimation of the peasantry, who were always ready to renderhim little services, and to whom in return he would show his gratitudeby little presents at the fete-days or scenes of family rejoicing. 'Andas for the Cure,' said the miller, 'only ask him who sent the handsomestchaplet for the head of the Madonna, or who gave the silver lamp thatburns at the shrine of St. Nicomede?'

  This strange blending of devotional observance with utterlawlessness--this singular union of _bon homme_ with open violence,were features that in all his intercourse with life Gerald had nevermet with; and he was not a little curious to see one who could combinequalities so incompatible.

  'I should certainly like to see him,' said he, after a pause.

  'Only ride that black mare through the pass of the "Capri," to-morrow;let him see how she brushes her way through the tall fern and neverslips a foot over the rocky ledges, and I'll lay my life on't you 'llsee him, and hear him too.'

  'You mean to say that he 'd soon replace me in the saddle,' said Geraldhalf angrily.

  'I mean to say that the horse would change owners, and you be never thericher of the compact.'

  'A bullet will overtake a man, let him ride ever so fast,' said Geraldcalmly; 'and your Pastore has only to lie in ambush till he has coveredme, to make me a very harmless foe; but I was thinking of a fairmeeting--man to man----'

  A gesture of scornful meaning by the miller here arrested Gerald'swords, and the young man grew crimson with shame and anger together.

  'It is easy enough to say these things, and hard to disprove them; butif I were certain to meet this fellow alone and without his followers, I'd take the road you speak of to-morrow without so much as asking whereit leads to.'

  An insolent laugh from the miller, as he arose from his seat, almostmade the young man's passion boil over.

  'You asked about the "Capri" pass--that's a picture of it,' said he,as he pointed to a rude representation of a deep mountain gorge, alongwhich a foaming torrent was wildly dashing. Stunted pine-trees lined thecrags, and fantastically-shaped rocks broke the leafy outline, on one ofwhich the artist had drawn the figure of a brigand, as with gun in handhe peered down into the dark glen.

  'That is a spot,' said the miller half laughingly, 'the Carabinieri ofthe Holy Father have never fancied; they tried it once--I forget howmany years ago--and left eleven of their comrades behind them, and sincethat it has been as sacred for them as St. John of Lateran.'

  'But I see no road; it seems to be a mere cleft between the mountains,'said Gerald.

  'Ay, but there is a road--a sort of bridlepath; it rises from the valleyand creeps along up yonder where you see a little railing of wood,and then gains that peak which, winding around it, reaches a widetable-land. I have not been there myself; but they tell me how from thatyou can see over the whole Maremma, and in fine weather the sea beyondit, and the port of St. Stephano and the islands.'

  The miller was now launched upon a favourite theme, and went on todescribe how the smugglers, who paid a sort of blackmail for theprivilege, usually took this route from the coast into the interior. Itsaved miles and miles of road, and was besides perfectly safe againstall molestation. As it led direct to the Tuscan frontier, it was alsoselected by all who made their escape from Roman prisons. 'To be sure,'added he, 'it is less frequented now that the Pastore is likely to bemet with; for as it is all chance what humour he may have on him, nonelike to risk their lives in such company.'

  Though Gerald was aware that 'brigandage' was a Roman institution--aregularly covenanted service of the State, by which no inconsiderablerevenue reached the hands of some very exalted individuals--he had neverbefore heard that these outlaws were occasionally employed as actualagents of the Government to arrest and detain travellers against whomsuspicion rested, to rifle foreign couriers of the despatches theycarried to the Ministers; now and then it was even alleged that they hadbroken into strong places to destroy documents by which guilt could beproved or innocence established--all of these services being of a naturelittle likely to reward men for the peril, had they not acted underorders from above! There might possibly have been much exaggerationin the account the miller gave of these men's lives and functions, butthere was that blending of incident
and fact with his theorisings thatcertainly amazed Gerald and interested him deeply. It was, to be sure,no small aid to the force of the narrative that the yellow moonlightwas now streaming full upon one side of the very scene where thesecharacters acted, and that from the little window where he sat he couldlook out upon their mountain-home.

  'See,' said the miller, pointing toward a high peak, 'where you see thefire yonder there is an encampment of some of them! You can judge nowhow little these fellows fear being surprised. As Gerald continued togaze, a second and then a third flame shot up from the summits of otherhills farther off, suggesting to the miller that these were certainlysignals of some kind or other.

  'There! rely on it, they have work on their hands up yonder to-night,said the miller; and having pointed out his room to Gerald, he arose toretire. 'It will, maybe, cost many a penance, many a pater, to wipe offwhat will be done 'twixt this and daybreak '; and with this pious speechhe left the room.