A Call To Arms (11 page)

Three days later

Despite the temptations, they stopped only once along the Via Appia before it became wholly a country road. Ruined sepulchres on either side stood regular and imposing, like street-liners for a procession. Here and there a man looking not much better than a vagabond would importune them to stop and descend some dank, dark, subterranean steps to view a catacomb, but the duchess and others had warned Hervey and Peto very emphatically that
banditi
would fall on them with the utmost savagery if they did, and so Hervey had resolved to come another time, in greater company, to explore these holy vaults. Where they did stop, at Peto’s wish as much as his own, was the tiny church of Domine Quo Vadis. Indeed, so compelling was it, the turning of history in the turning of a single man upon this spot, that to have passed without a prayer, at least, would have seemed to them both a blasphemy. And Commodore Laughton Peto, for all his hardening years aboard men-of-war, stood awed and speechless at the spot for several minutes, half expecting some command or apparition in the silence of the empty Roman plain.

Their carriage was a more compact affair than they would have had in England, resembling a small hard-roofed landau. Although it was well sprung even by English standards, the carefully dressed stones that had once afforded the legions rapid marching between Rome and Capua were now worn, uneven and broken, so that at times the carriage’s progress was bone-jangling and noisy to the point where talk gave way to near-shouting. But when they were a dozen leagues from the city, the road acquired a surface less cruel; thus conversation was resumed for an hour or so, before a halt for a
collazione
of
spigola
brought that very hour from the blue Tyrrhenian which had been in and out of sight for the last dozen miles. And the rough white wine of the
hostaria
’s own vineyard, much stronger than either Hervey or Peto had expected, soon induced slumber even as the carriage picked up into a good trot with the new horses. They dozed for a long while in the growing heat of the afternoon.

The carriage stopped suddenly. Both men awoke abruptly to shouting, angry and insistent. Hervey, now fully alert to danger, reached for the cavalry pistol on the seat by his side. In an instant its muzzle was roofwards, his thumb on the hammer ready to cock – he had primed it as they passed through the city walls – and with his left hand he pulled out his watch, as he did instinctively at any alarm. Four o’clock: they could be anywhere.

Peto, sitting opposite, facing forward, was likewise ready for action at the offside. ‘What are they saying?’

‘I can’t tell. Not a word.’ Hervey crouched by the open window to see where the shouting came from.

‘Do we get down?’

‘We’re safer inside, I think. The driver may make a bolt for it any second.’

But the driver had no such thoughts. Hervey saw him and the guard climb down from the box and raise their hands. Before he could even think what to do next, the doors were wrenched open, and big, bearded men crowded both sides of the carriage. They wore brown cloaks, despite the heat of the afternoon, and tall pointed hats with ribbons round the peaks: red, blue, black – fire, smoke, charcoal. ‘
Carbonari?
’ he asked defiantly.

‘
Si, signori. Scendete, per favore.
’

They were courteous enough, thought Hervey. And, curiously, they did not appear to be armed. But he was not minded to threaten his pistol. He motioned to Peto to do nothing but alight.

‘
Austrienni?
’ said the biggest of the Carbonari, taller by several inches, and easily in excess of six feet.

It was a strange thing to enquire of a man’s nationality before robbing him, thought Hervey. ‘
Inglesi
.’

The big man seemed impressed, but then sceptical. ‘
Avete dei documenti per provarlo?
’

Peto looked puzzled, but Hervey thought he caught the intention.

‘
Siamo officiers inglesi.
’

The big man seemed puzzled by the admixture of French.

‘
Caballeria
,’ Hervey explained, pointing at himself, hoping the Spanish would be near enough. ‘
E marinare
,’ he added, pointing at Peto.

The big man turned and gave what was obviously an order to another behind him. Hervey now saw the butt of a musket sticking out of the bottom of the man’s cloak. He glanced at the others: it was the same with them. These were cool fellows, indeed, not at all anxious to be off with their booty.

Still the big man looked wary of the two travellers. ‘
Non avete documenti?
’

But Hervey could only shrug. Then a woman with fierce black eyes pushed her way to the front, her dress as gaudy as the men’s was plain, with red, blue and black ribbons tied around her waist. ‘
Parlez-vous français, monsieur?
’ she asked brusquely.

Hervey sighed to himself, no little relieved at being in a position to communicate at last. ‘
Oui, madame. Nous sommes officiers anglais.
’ He went on to explain their exact qualifications, taking care not to give any impression that his commission was sold a year ago.

The woman relayed all this to the big man, who relaxed visibly, smiled almost. He asked her several things, some of which she seemed to answer of her own accord, others which she repeated to Hervey in French. The big man wanted to know why they were travelling this route: it was not the usual one to Naples. Hervey said he didn’t know, that the driver was charged with taking them to that city, where his companion’s ship lay at anchor.

Only as he said it did Hervey realize he was upping the ransom price which these brigands might have in mind, for that could be their only object if they were not simply to take all the travellers’ possessions and make off. Yet something in the big man’s manner made him less menacing than he ought to have been. Not once had they threatened violence, nor even revealed their arms.

‘Who are you?’ he asked, in as unruffled a way as possible.

‘He asks who we are,’ relayed the woman.

‘
Siamo Carbonari
,’ replied the big man, with so much pride that the others threw their heads up at the word.

‘First Austrians, and now Carbonari,’ groaned Peto. He thought to raise his voice for clarity. ‘You are very good fellows, but we have no gold worth your taking. We are English officers.’

But the voice that from the quarterdeck could send hands aloft in a howling gale was greeted by indifference.

Hervey turned to him. ‘They asked if we were Austrian. Do you think we’re in Naples already?’

Peto shrugged. ‘There was no customs post on the journey up, as I recall.’

Hervey asked their interpreter.

She appeared to know, but asked the big man nevertheless.

‘
Si
,’ he nodded. ‘
Sulla frontiera.
’

Perhaps this explained the men’s composure, thought Hervey. They were abroad on the margins of the Pope’s domain and the kingdom of the Two Sicilies, where the writ of both monarchs ran weak, and where the fastness of the mountains to the north offered rapid refuge. But even so, the leisure with which they now proceeded was curious in his military eyes. ‘Since we are not Austrian, and you are honourable men,’ he tried, ‘may we now continue on our way?’

The woman stared at Hervey a while before turning to the big man and explaining.

The man shook his head impassively. ‘
Venite con me
,’ he said, beckoning and turning about, the press of men behind parting for him.

Hervey was vexed, but he was no more than a shade apprehensive, for somehow there seemed no menace in these Carbonari. He thought it strange that no attempt had been made to disarm
the two of them. Perhaps they were covered by many more Carbonari concealed about this lonely stretch of road. It was certainly not a place to make a dash from. A couple of hunting dogs, lurcher types, fell in beside them, as well as several women, none of them older than they themselves.

The growing band climbed the rocky hillside, beneath pines and through scrubby bush. Hervey heard the carriage moving below, and looked back. ‘
Ne vous inquiétez pas, messieurs.
Do not worry at all,’ said the fierce-eyed woman. ‘We take it away to hide, that is all.’

Hervey was sure her French was not the native’s, but it was most convincing.

Peto was becoming indignant. He knew a little French, and now was the time to deploy it. ‘I am Commodore Laughton Peto of the Royal Navy and I demand to know your intention, sir!’

Hervey winced. A commodore, in common parlance an admiral – he would carry a heavy price if the Carbonari were minded to ransom.

The big man bowed in acknowledgement when the woman translated.

‘The comandante says he is honoured to have so exalted an officer in his company, and wishes to offer you our hospitality,’ she explained, throwing out a hand to indicate their encampment.

They had by now come up to the mouth of a cave, big enough to enter without stooping. A fire burned without smoke at the mouth, and a pot hung above it on a tripod. Beyond that there was little sign of camp comforts. ‘Why do you detain us, sir?’ asked Hervey.

The man appeared to understand much of the French, but he would not speak it, and he waited each time for the woman to explain before replying in Italian. ‘Because if I had let you go on you would have run into Austrian patrols. And if you had gone back it would have been the same. I could not risk you telling them of us.’ He took the pot from the tripod with a piece of leather. ‘Would you like coffee, signori?’

There seemed no reason to decline.

‘But we saw no troops of any sort on the road,’ pressed Hervey.

‘That is difficult to believe, signori. There are always pickets along that road, and in strength.’

‘I assure you, sir,’ replied Hervey, shaking his head. ‘We saw not a man. Although I confess we were sleeping for the past hour or so. But they surely would have stopped us?’

The comandante began hurried consultation with the half-dozen other men who had followed them to the cave. His voice had turned more than a touch anxious. He turned back to Hervey. ‘Do you swear, sir, by your soldier’s honour that the road is free of troops?’

Hervey frowned. ‘I repeat, sir, that we saw none at all in our progress. If they lay concealed in the trees, or ditch or I know not, then I cannot say.’

Clearly this intelligence had some effect on the plans of the Carbonari, but in what way Hervey could neither understand nor deduce.

‘What d’ye think agitates them so?’ asked Peto, becoming weary of the business.

‘I can’t tell. Either they’re planning an ambuscade and their birds have flown, or—’

‘You will stay here, signori,’ said the comandante suddenly. ‘And you will stay with them, Maurizia.’

The woman nodded, looking anxious for the comandante.

‘
Venite!
’ he commanded the others.

When they had gone, Hervey glanced at Peto.

The woman saw. ‘Do not try to leave, messieurs. There are men posted. They will shoot.’

Hervey and Peto exchanged looks which postponed the notion of escape. Hervey sipped his coffee, bitter though it was. ‘Your French is excellent, mademoiselle. May I ask how you acquired it?’

‘Why do you wish to know?’ she replied defiantly.

‘I have no motive other than curiosity, mademoiselle. Mine I was taught by a Frenchwoman who lived in England. I did not set foot in France until I was three and twenty.’

She smiled a little. ‘I have not even been to Rome, monsieur.’

‘Then you too had an able teacher.’

‘King Joachim.’

Hervey did not catch her meaning. ‘How so, mademoiselle?’

‘I was his mistress, monsieur.’

Hervey was stunned. Here was both honesty and history in uncommon measure.

Peto had followed the exchange, and looked eagerly for the particulars.

‘Not his only mistress, of course. But I believe he favoured me above the others for a time. Certainly among those who were not of the quality.’

Her candour was wholly disarming. It was not difficult to appreciate what Murat had seen, for her fierce eyes could surely blaze in an altogether different light. Hervey and Peto looked at each other in some confusion. ‘What are you doing here, mademoiselle, with these Carbonari?’ asked the former.

‘The Carbonari fight for our liberty, monsieur. We want no other sovereign but our own, Italian. And perhaps not even a king. We make a beginning here, in Napoli, but in time there will be Carbonari in all of Italy.’

‘And you yourself, mademoiselle?’

She looked at Hervey strangely. ‘I am Carbonara, too, monsieur. And my place is here, with the comandante, my man!’

Hervey was silenced by her passion.

‘From silk sheets to pine needles,’ said Peto, just loud enough for him to hear, and in a tone more of puzzled admiration than reproach.

Hervey was inclined to admire her too, though who could tell her true motives in being here? Perhaps she herself could not. But the life must hold few comforts. ‘Mademoiselle, what is the comandante’s intention here today?’