The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics)

by George W. M. Reynolds

  “Farewell, Richard—farewell, dearest one—my first and only love,” murmured Isabella, as she wept bitterly upon his breast.

  Then they embraced each other with that passionate ardour—with that lingering unwillingness to separate—with that profound dread to tear themselves asunder, which lovers in the moment of parting alone can know.

  “Let us be firm, Isabella,” said Richard: “who can tell what happiness my share in this enterprise may create for us?”

  “Yes—something tells me that it will be so,” answered Isabella; “and that hope sustains me!”

  Another embrace—and they parted.

  Yes—they parted,—that handsome young man and that charming Italian maiden!

  And soon they waved their handkerchiefs for the last time;—then, in a few moments, they were lost to each other’s view.

  Richard returned home to his house at Lower Holloway.

  He had visited the farm near Hounslow a few days previously, and had taken leave of Katherine. The young maiden had wept when her benefactor communicated to her his intended absence from England for some time; but, as he did not acquaint her with the nature of the business which took him away from his native country, she was not aware of the perils he was about to encounter.

  He had now to say farewell to the inmates of his own dwelling. But towards Mr. Monroe, Ellen, and the faithful Whittingham he was less reserved than he had been to Katherine.

  Vainly had the old butler implored “Master Richard not to indemnify himself with other people’s business;”—vainly had Mr. Monroe endeavoured to persuade him to refrain from risking his life in the political dissensions of a foreign country; vainly had the beautiful and generous-hearted Ellen, with a sisterly warmth, argued on the same side. Richard was determined:—they deemed him obstinate—foolish—almost mad; but they knew not of his love for Isabella!

  “I must now make you acquainted with a certain portion of my affairs,” said our hero, addressing Mr. Monroe, “in order that you may manage them for me until my return. I have embarked as much of my capital as I could well spare in the enterprise on which I am about to set out: you will find in my strong-box, of which I leave you the key, a sufficient sum of money to answer the expenses of the establishment until January. Should I not return by that time, you will find papers in the same place, which will instruct you relative to the moneys that will then be due to me from the two respectable individuals who are my tenants. Moreover,” added Richard,—and here his voice faltered,—“my will is in the strong-box; and should I perish in this undertaking, you will find, my dear friend,—and you too, my faithful Whittingham,—that I have not left you without resources.”

  “Richard, this is too generous!” exclaimed Mr. Monroe, tears of gratitude trickling down his cheeks.

  Whittingham also wept; and Ellen’s sobs were convulsive—for she regarded Richard in the light of a dear brother.

  “Render not our parting moments more painful than they naturally are, my dear friends,” said Markham. “You cannot understand—but, if I live, you shall some day know—the motives which influence me in joining this expedition. Mr. Monroe—Ellen—Whittingham, I have one last request to make. You are all aware that on the 10th of July, 1843, a solemn appointment exists between my brother and myself. If I should perish in a far-off clime,—or if a prison, or any accident prevent my return,—let one of you represent me on that occasion. Should it be so, tell my brother how much I have loved him—how anxiously I have ever looked forward to that day,—how sincerely I have prayed for his welfare and his success! Tell him,” continued Richard, while the tears rolled down his cheeks, large and fast,—“tell him that I have cherished his memory as no brother ever before was known to do; and if he be poor—or unhappy—or suffering—or unfortunate, receive him into this house, which will then be your own—console, comfort him! If he be criminal, do not spurn him—remember, he is my brother!”

  Ellen sobbed as if her heart would break as Richard uttered these words.

  There was something fearfully poignant and convulsive in that young lady’s grief.

  But suddenly rousing herself, she rushed from the room; and, returning in a few moments with her child, she presented it to Markham, saying, “Embrace him, Richard, before you depart;—embrace him—for he bears your Christian name!”

  Our hero received the innocent infant in his arms, and kissed it tenderly.

  No pen can depict the expression of pleasure—of radiant joy,—joy shining out from amidst her tears,—with which Ellen contemplated that proof of affection towards her babe.

  “Thank you, Richard—thank you, my brother,” she exclaimed, as she received back her child.

  The old butler and Mr. Monroe were not callous to the touching nature of that scene.

  “I have now no more to say,” observed Richard. “I am about to retire to the library for a short time. At five o’clock the post-chaise will be here. Whittingham, my faithful friend, you will see that all my necessaries be carefully packed.”

  Markham then withdrew to his study.

  There he wrote a few letters upon matters of business.

  At length Whittingham made his appearance.

  “Morcar is arrived, Master Richard,” said the old man, “and it is close upon five.”

  “I shall soon be ready, Whittingham,” answered Richard.

  The old butler withdrew.

  Then Richard took from his strong-box the mysterious packet which had been left to him by Thomas Armstrong; and that sacred trust he secured about his person.

  “Now,” he said, “I am about to quit the home of my forefathers.”

  And tears trickled down his cheeks.

  “This is foolish!” he exclaimed, after a pause: “I must not yield to my emotions, when on the eve of such a grand and glorious undertaking.”

  He then returned to the drawing-room.

  At that moment the post-chaise arrived at the front door of the mansion.

  We will not detail the affecting nature of the farewell scene: suffice it to say that Richard departed with the fervent prayers and the sincerest wishes of those whom he left behind.

  Morcar, the gipsy, accompanied him.

  “Which road, sir?” asked the postillion.

  “Canterbury—Deal,” replied Richard.

  And the post-chaise whirled him away from the home of his forefathers!

  * * * * *

  By a special messenger, on the same day when the above-mentioned incidents took place, the following letter was despatched from London:—

  “TO HER SERENE HIGHNESS THE GRAND DUCHESS OF CASTELCICALA.

  “I have the honour to inform your Serene Highness that the measures which I adopted (and which your Highness condemned in the last letter your Highness deigned to address to me) have enabled me to ascertain the intentions of the conspirators. The three vessels purchased by them are now completely equipped and manned. One has already arrived in the Downs, where the Chiefs of the rebels are to join her. A second sailed from Hull four days ago: and the third left Waterford about the same time. They will all three meet at Cadiz, where they are to take in stores and water. Twelve hundred exiled Castelcicalans are on board these three ships, which are ostensibly fitted out as emigrant vessels for North America. So well have General Grachia, Colonel Morosino, and Mr. Markham planned their schemes, that I question whether even the English government is acquainted with the real destination of those ships, and the object of their crews.

  “Beware, then, noble lady! The last meeting of the Chiefs of the expedition was held last evening; and I was present in my presumed capacity of a stanch adherent to the cause of the conspirators. The reasons which I adduced for not proceeding with them on the enterprise, and for remaining in London, were completely satisfactory; and no one for a moment suspected my int
egrity. Indeed, the confidence which Mr. Markham has placed in me from the beginning, in consequence of the share which I had in saving his life (an incident to which I have alluded in preceding letters to your Highness) on a certain occasion, annihilated all suspicion as to the sincerity of my motives.

  “At the meeting of which I have just spoken, it was resolved that the descent upon Castelcicala shall be made in the neighbourhood of Ossore, which, I need scarcely inform your Serene Highness, is a small sea-port about thirty-five miles to the south of Montoni.

  “And now I have discharged what I consider to be a faithful duty. If I have fallen in your Highness’s good opinion by betraying those with whom I affected to act, I fondly hope that the importance of the information which I have thereby been enabled to give you, will restore me to your Highness’s favour.

  “But remember, my lady—remember the prayer which I offered up to your Highness when first I wrote concerning this conspiracy,—remember the earnest supplication which I then made and now renew,—that not a hair of Richard Markham’s head must be injured!

  “I have the honour to subscribe myself your Serene Highness’s most faithful and devoted servant,

  “FILIPPO DORSENNI.

  “Oct. 16th, 1840.”

  Thus was it that Mr. Greenwood’s Italian valet provided, to the utmost of his power, for the safety of Richard Markham, in case those whom he improperly denominated “conspirators” should fall into the hands of the Castelcicalan authorities.

  CHAPTER CLXXIV.

  CASTELCICALA.

  The Grand-Duchy of Castelcicala is bounded on the north by the Roman States, on the south by the kingdom of Naples, on the east by the Apennine Mountains, and on the west by the Mediterranean Sea.

  It is the most beautiful, the best cultivated, and the finest portion of the Italian Peninsula. The inhabitants are brave, enlightened, and industrious.

  Castelcicala is divided into seven districts, or provinces, the capitals of which are Montoni (which is also the metropolis of the Grand Duchy), Abrantani, Veronezzi, Pinalla, Estella, Terano, and Montecuculi. Each province is governed by a Captain-General (the chief military authority), and a Political Prefect, (the chief civil authority).

  The principal city, Montoni, stands at the mouth of the Ferretti, and contains a hundred thousand inhabitants. It is built on both sides of the river, has a fine harbour, spacious dockyards, and extensive arsenals, and is one of the principal trading-ports of Italy. It is strongly fortified on the system of Vauban.

  The entire population of the Grand-Duchy of Castelcicala is two millions. Its revenues are three millions sterling; and the annual income of the sovereign is two hundred thousand pounds.

  From these details the reader will perceive that Castelcicala is by no means an unimportant country in the map of Europe.

  We shall now continue our narrative.

  It was the middle of November, 1840, and at an early hour in the morning, before sun-rise, when three vessels (two large brigs and a schooner) ran in as close as the depth of water would permit them with safety, on the Castelcicalan coast a few miles below Ossore.

  The boats of these vessels were immediately lowered; and by the time the sun dawned on the scene, nearly twelve hundred armed men were landed without molestation.

  This force was divided into two columns: one of seven hundred strong was commanded by General Grachia; the other of five hundred was led by Colonel Morosino. Richard Markham, as Secretary-General of the Constitutional Chiefs, and attended by Morcar, accompanied General Grachia. The chiefs and their staff were all provided with horses.

  The army presented a somewhat motley aspect, the officers alone appearing in uniforms. The entire force was, however, well provided with weapons; and every heart beat high with hope and patriotism.

  The banners were unfurled; an excellent brass band struck up an enlivening national air; and the two columns marched in the direction of Ossore.

  It was deemed most important to possess this seaport without delay; as its harbour would afford a safe refuge for the three ships to which the Constitutionalists (as the invaders termed themselves) could alone look for the means of retreat, in case of the failure of their enterprise.

  But of such a result they entertained not the slightest apprehension.

  And now the peasants in the farm-houses and hamlets near which they passed, were suddenly alarmed by the sounds of martial music: but the rumour of the real object of the invaders spread like wild-fire; and they had not marched three or four miles, before they were already joined by nearly a hundred volunteer-recruits.

  The hearts of the Constitutionalists were enlivened by this success; for while the male inhabitants of the district through which they passed hastened to join them, the women put up audible prayers to heaven to prosper their glorious enterprise.

  Ossore was in the province of Abrantani, which had for nearly a year groaned under the tyranny of the Captain-General, who governed his district by martial law, the jurisdiction of the civil tribunals having been superseded by the odious despotism of military courts. The Constitutionalists, therefore, entertained the strongest hopes that Ossore would pronounce in their favour the moment they appeared beneath its walls.

  The Constitutionalists were now only three miles from Ossore, which was hidden from their view by a high hill, up the acclivity of which the two columns were marching, when the quick ear of General Grachia suddenly caught the sound of horses’ feet on the opposite side of the eminence.

  Turning to one of his aides-de-camp, he said, “Hasten to Colonel Morosino—tell him to take that road to the left and possess himself of yonder grove. Our landing is known—a body of cavalry is approaching.”

  These words were delivered in a rapid but firm tone. The aide-de-camp galloped away to execute the order; and General Grachia proceeded to address a few brief but impressive words to the patriots of his division, telling them that the moment to strike a blow was now at hand.

  “Markham,” said the General, when he had concluded his harangue, “we shall have hot work in a few minutes.”

  Scarcely were these words uttered, when a large body of cavalry made its appearance on the summit of the hill. A general officer, surrounded by a brilliant staff, was at their head.

  “That is Count Santa-Croce, the Captain-General of Abrantani!” exclaimed Grachia, drawing his sword. “Parley with him were vain—he is devoted to the Grand Duke. My friends, before us lies death or victory!”

  The Constitutionalists gave a deafening cheer in answer to the words of their commander.

  Then, like an avalanche bursting from its rest on the Alpine height, and rolling with dread and deafening din in its precipitate path, the ducal cavalry thundered down the hill.

  But they were well received; and a terrific contest ensued.

  The ear was deafened with the report of musketry and the clang of weapons. Bullets whistled through the air; and as the serried ranks on either side poured forth volumes of smoke,—the Constitutionalists with their muskets, and the cavalry with their carbines,—the shouts of the combatants and the groans of the dying announced the desperate nature of the conflict.

  But, alas! the Constitutionalists were doomed to experience a sad blow!

  General Grachia,—a patriot whose memory demands our admiration and respect,—was slain at the commencement of the battle. He died, fighting gallantly at the head of his troops; and not before the enemy had felt the weight of his valiant arm.

  Almost at the same moment the ensign who bore the Constitutional banner was struck to the earth; and an officer of the ducal cavalry seized the standard.

  But scarcely had he grasped it, when Richard Markham, who had vainly endeavoured to protect his chief and friend from the weapons of the enemy, spurred his steed with irresistible fury against the officer, hurled him from his seat, a
nd snatched the banner from his grasp.

  Then, waving the flag above his head with his left hand, and wielding his sword in the right, Richard plunged into the thickest of the fight, exclaiming, “Vengeance for the death of our general!”

  The moment that Grachia fell, a sudden panic seized upon the Constitutionalists of his division; and they were already retreating, when that gallant exploit on the part of Markham rallied them with galvanic effect.

  “Vengeance for the death of our general!” was the cry; and our hero was instantly backed by his faithful Morcar and a whole host of Constitutionalists.

  The conflict was desperate—both sides fighting as if all idea of quarter were out of the question, and victory or death were the only alternatives.

  Fired by the loss of General Grachia,—conscious of the desperate position in which defeat would place the invaders,—and inspired by the image of Isabella, Richard fought with the fury of the Destroying Angel.

  He who had only been looked upon as possessing an able head in administrative matters, now suddenly appeared in a new light,—a gallant warrior, who in his bravery had succeeded in rallying a panic-struck army.

  Already were the ducal cavalry retreating;—already had the Captain-General, who surveyed the conflict from the summit of the hill, disappeared with his staff-officers on the opposite side;—already were the Constitutionalists of Richard’s division shouting “Victory,”—when Colonel Morosino’s corps, which had been engaged by another body of cavalry, was observed to be in full retreat—dispersing in disorder—flying before its triumphant foes.