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

by George W. M. Reynolds

  The rumour that Colonel Morosino himself was slain, and that a strong body of infantry, provided with cannon, was already advancing from the opposite side of the hill, now spread like wild-fire through the ranks of Richard’s division.

  Vainly did Markham endeavour by his example to inspire the troops with courage. A panic seized upon them: they exclaimed that some villain had betrayed them; and the disorder became general.

  The ducal cavalry which were so lately in full retreat, rallied again: their charge was irresistible; they literally swept the slope of the hill down which they rushed.

  Backed by a small but gallant band that scorned to retreat, and well seconded by Morcar, Richard fought with a desperation which was truly marvellous in one who had never wielded a hostile brand until that day. But a pistol-bullet disabled his right arm; and he was taken prisoner, together with Morcar and several others.

  The Constitutionalists were completely defeated: five hundred fell upon the field of battle; the remainder were dispersed or captured. But scarcely three hundred succeeded in saving themselves by flight.

  And almost at the same moment when this unfortunate expedition was thus overwhelmed with ruin, a Castelcicalan frigate, which had put out from Ossore harbour, shortly after the landing of the Constitutionalists, captured the three vessels which were the last hope of those patriots who had escaped from captivity or carnage.

  From the summit of the hill, whither he was conducted into the presence of the Captain-General of Abrantani, Richard beheld the three vessels strike their colours to the Castelcicalan man-of-war.

  “Treachery has been at work here,” he said within himself; “or else how arose these preparations to receive us?”

  He was not, however, permitted much time for reflection—either in respect to his own desperate condition, or that of the unfortunate fugitives whose last hope was thus cut off by the seizure of the ships; for the Captain-General—an old man, with white hair, but a stern and forbidding countenance, addressed him in a haughty and savage tone.

  “Know you the penalty that awaits your crime, young man?” he exclaimed; “for in you I doubtless behold one of the chiefs of this monstrous invasion.”

  “I know how to die,” answered Richard, fearlessly.

  “Ah!” ejaculated the Captain-General. “What traitor have we here! Some foreign mercenary perhaps. He is not a Castelcicalan, by the accent with which he speaks our native tongue.”

  “I am an Englishman, my lord,” said Markham, returning the proud glance of defiance and scorn which Count Santa-Croce threw upon him.

  “An Englishman!” thundered the Captain-General. “Then is a military death too good for you! What brings a wretched foreigner like you amongst us with a hostile sword? You have not even the miserable subterfuge of patriotism as a palliation for your crime. Away with him! Hang him to yonder tree!”

  “I have one favour to implore of your lordship,” said Markham, his voice faltering not, although his cheek grew somewhat pale: “I am prepared for death—but let me not perish like a dog. Plant your soldiers at a distance of a dozen paces—let them level their muskets at me—and I promise you I shall not die a coward.”

  “No—you are a foreigner!” returned the Captain-General ferociously. “Away with him!”

  Markham was instantly surrounded by soldiers, and dragged to the foot of a tree at a little distance.

  An aide-de-camp of the Count was ordered to superintend the sad ceremony.

  “Have you any thing which you desire to be communicated to your friends in your native country?” asked the officer, who was a generous-minded young man, and who, having beheld Richard’s bravery in the conflict, could not help respecting him.

  “I thank you sincerely for the kindness which prompts this question,” replied our hero; and all I have now to hope is that those who know me—in my native land—may not think that cowardice or dishonour closed the career of Richard Markham.”

  “Richard Markham!” ejaculated the officer. “Tell me—is that your name?”

  “It is,” answered our hero.

  “Then there is hope for you yet, brave Englishman!” cried the officer; and without uttering another word, he hastened back to the spot where the Captain-General of Abrantani was standing.

  Were we to say that Richard was now otherwise than a prey to the most profound suspense, we should be exaggerating the moral strength of human nature.

  We have no wish to make of our hero a demigod: we allow him to be nothing more than mortal after all!

  It was, therefore, with no little anxiety that Markham saw the officer approach the Captain-General of Abrantani, and discourse with him for some moments in a low tone. The aide-de-camp appeared to urge some point which he was anxious to carry: Count Santa-Croce shook his head ominously.

  “Beloved Isabella,” murmured Richard to himself: “shall I never see thee more?”

  His eyes were still fixed upon those two men who appeared to be arguing his life or death.

  At length the Captain-General took a paper from the breast of his profusely-laced blue uniform coat, and cast his eyes over it.

  Richard watched him with breathless anxiety.

  This state of suspense did not last long. Count Santa-Croce folded the paper, replaced it where he had taken it from, and then gave a brief command to the officer.

  The latter hurried back to the spot where Markham was hovering as it were between life and death.

  “You are saved, sir!” cried the Castelcicalan, his countenance expressing the most unfeigned joy.

  “Generous friend!” exclaimed Richard: “by what strange influence have you worked this miracle?”

  “That must remain a secret,” answered the aide-de-camp. “At the same time I can take but little merit to myself in the transaction—beyond a mere effort of memory. You have powerful friends, sir, in Castelcicala: otherwise his lordship the Captain-General,” he added in a whisper, “was not the man to spare you.”

  “To you I proffer my most heart-felt thanks, generous Italian!” cried Richard; “for to you I am clearly indebted for my life. Let me know the name of my saviour?”

  “Mario Bazzano—junior aide-de-camp to Count Santa-Croce, the Captain-General of Abrantani,” was the answer. “But we have no time to parley,” he continued rapidly: “the good news which I have already imparted to you in respect to your life, must be somewhat counterbalanced by the commands which I have received regarding your liberty.”

  “Speak, Signor Bazzano,” said Markham. “You saw that I did not flinch from death: it is scarcely probable that I shall tremble at any less severe sentence which may have been passed upon me.”

  “My orders are to conduct you to Montoni, where you will be placed at the disposal of a higher authority than even the Captain-General of Abrantani,” returned the aide-de-camp. “But, in the first place, my lord’s surgeon shall look to your wound.”

  Then once more did the generous-hearted Castelcicalan hasten away; and in a few minutes he returned, accompanied by the Count’s own medical attendant.

  Richard’s arm was examined; and it was discovered that a bullet had passed through the fleshy part between the elbow and the shoulder. The wound was painful, though by no means dangerous; and the surgeon bandaged it with care and skill.

  “Now, Signor Markham,” said Bazzano, “it is my duty to conduct you to Montoni. I do not wish to drag you thither like a felon—because you are a brave man: at the same time I am answerable to the Count and to another who is higher than the Count, for your person. Gallant warriors are usually honourable men: pledge me your honour that you will not attempt to escape; and we will proceed to Montoni alone together.”

  “I pledge you my honour,” answered Richard, “that so long as I am in your custody, I will not attempt to escape. But the moment you are releas
ed from your charge of my person, my vow ceases.”

  “Agreed, signor,” said Bazzano.

  The aide-de-camp then ordered his own and another horse (for Richard’s steed had been sorely wounded in the conflict) to be brought to the spot where this conversation took place.

  “Signor Bazzano,” said Richard, “you have behaved to me in so noble and generous a manner that I am emboldened to ask another favour of you. A young man accompanied me as my attendant in this unfortunate enterprise: he has a wife and child in his native land; his parents are also living. Should aught happen to him, four others would thereby be plunged into the depths of misery.”

  “Where is this person to whom you allude?” inquired Bazzano.

  “He is a prisoner yonder. There—he is seated on the ground, with his face buried in his hands!”

  And Richard pointed in the direction where the poor gipsy was plunged into a painful and profound reverie at a little distance.

  For the third time the aide-de-camp,—who was a tall, active, handsome, dark-eyed young man,—turned away. Count Santa-Croce had mounted his horse and repaired, with his staff, to view more closely the spot where the conflict had taken place, and to issue orders relative to the interment of the killed and the disposal of the prisoners. Mario Bazzano did not therefore dread the eagle glance of his superior, as he hastened to perform another generous deed and confer another favour on Richard Markham.

  “Young man,” he said, addressing himself to Morcar, “rise and follow me. You are to accompany your master. My good friend,” he added, speaking to the sentinel who stood near, “I will be answerable for my conduct in this instance to his lordship the Captain-General.”

  The sentinel was satisfied; and Morcar followed the officer to the spot where Richard and the Castelcicalan soldiers who had charge of him, were standing.

  A third horse was procured; and in a few minutes the aide-de-camp, our hero, and Morcar rode rapidly away from the scene of carnage, towards Ossore.

  It were a vain task to attempt to describe the joy which succeeded Morcar’s grief and apprehension, when he discovered that his own and his master’s lives were beyond danger, and that Mario Bazzano was evidently so well inclined to befriend them.

  “As I do not wish to keep you in an unpleasant state of suspense, signor,” said the aide-de-camp to Richard, “I must inform you that you have little to dread at Montoni. You have powerful friends there. A short imprisonment—or some punishment of a slight nature, will be all the penalty you will both have to pay for your mad freak—or else I am much mistaken. But more I dare not—cannot say.”

  “Whatever be our fate,” exclaimed Richard, “my heart will cherish until death the remembrance—the grateful remembrance of your noble conduct. But tell me, my generous friend—what will become of those unfortunate prisoners?”

  “The chiefs of the enterprise have fallen in the conflict,” answered Mario; “else the fate of traitors would have been in store for them. As for the mistaken men whom they have led to these shores, imprisonment—a long imprisonment in the citadels of Abrantani, Pinalla, and Estella, will doubtless be the penalty of their treason.”

  The severe terms in which the young aide-de-camp, who was evidently devoted to the Grand Duke’s cause, spoke of the Constitutionalists, pierced like a dagger to the heart of our hero; but delicacy and gratitude towards one from whom he had received such signal obligations, prevented him from making any comment.

  In a short time the little party reached Ossore, at which town they proceeded to an hotel, where they obtained refreshments. There, also, plain clothes were procured for Markham, in order that his uniform (which was different from that of the Castelcicalan officer) might not create unpleasant notice on his arrival at Montoni. Morcar had no uniform to change.

  When the repast was terminated, Lieutenant Bazzano ordered a post-chaise and four; and in a short time the little party was whirling rapidly along the high road to the capital.

  During the journey Richard and the aide-de-camp rose higher in each other’s esteem, the more they conversed together; and by the time they reached their destination, a sort of friendship, which circumstances had tended to invest with unusual interest, already existed between them.

  Bazzano assured our hero that the contemplated invasion of the Constitutionalists had been communicated some time previously to the Captain-General of Abrantani; but whence that information had emanated the young officer was unable to state. Preparations had, however, been in existence for at least a fortnight to receive the invaders when they set foot on the Castelcicalan territory. These assurances confirmed Richard in the opinion which he had already formed, that treachery had existed somewhere on the side of the patriots.

  CHAPTER CLXXV.

  MONTONI.

  It was nine o’clock at night when the post-chaise entered the capital of Castelcicala.

  In spite of his unfortunate position,—a prisoner, defeated in his grand aims, and with all his hopes apparently blasted,—Richard could not help feeling a glow of pleasure when he thus found himself in the sovereign city which was the birth place of his well-beloved Isabella.

  But, oh! in what a state did he now enter its walls!

  Instead of accompanying a victorious army to proclaim Alberto Grand Duke of Castelcicala,—instead of the society of the patriotic Grachia and the heroic Morosino,—instead of hearing the welcome voices of a liberated people echoing around,—the young man was in the custody of a subaltern, and, for aught he knew, on his way to a dungeon!

  Then—Grachia, Morosino, and the other chiefs of the enterprise—where were they?

  Numbered with the dead—or captives in the hands of a savage conqueror!

  Oh! how were Markham’s fondest hopes blasted! how were his elysian dreams dissipated by the mocking reality of disaster and defeat!

  Now, too, how much farther than ever was he removed from the sole object of his toils,—the only hope of his existence,—the hand of Isabella!

  Her father, who had all along discountenanced the projects of the Constitutionalists, but who would naturally have pardoned them had they succeeded, could not for a moment be expected to forgive the survivors of that terrible defeat!

  All these gloomy ideas annihilated in a moment the temporary glow of pleasure which our hero had experienced on entering Montoni.

  The chaise traversed the southern part of the metropolis, crossed the Ferretti by a noble bridge, and entered the most fashionable and imposing quarter of that portion of the city which stands on the northern side of the river.

  At length it stopped at an hotel.

  “We shall alight here,” said Mario Bazzano.

  “But this is not a prison!” exclaimed Richard.

  “I never told you that you were on your way to such a place,” returned the aide-de-camp, laughing.

  “Did you not hint at imprisonment, signor?” said our hero, surprised at the kind forbearance shown towards him—captured, as he had been, with arms in his hand against the reigning Prince.

  “That may, or may not happen,” replied Bazzano. “At all events, here we will alight: and, remember, while in my charge, you are on your parole. It is not necessary to let the gossips of this tavern know who you are, or why you are here with me.”

  “My honour is pledged, and the vow will be punctually fulfilled,” said Markham.

  They then descended from the vehicle, and were conducted to a private apartment in the hotel.

  Bazzano ordered refreshments: then, as soon as he himself had drunk a glass of wine and eaten a mouthful of food, he left the room, simply observing, “I may be absent nearly an hour; but I will thank you not to retire to rest until my return.”

  Markham bowed an acquiescence with this request; and, as soon as the door had closed behind the aide-de-camp, he exclaimed, “If Signor Bazzano be a
fair specimen of the Castelcicalans generally, they are a glorious race!”

  “Some kind power seems to protect you in this country, Mr. Markham,” observed Morcar.

  “I candidly confess that I am at a loss to interpret these occurrences,” returned our hero. “At the moment when the cord is round my neck, the mention of my name saves my life, and converts an enemy into a stanch friend. Even the ferocious Captain-General of Abrantani relaxes all his natural severity in my behalf. Then, instead of being chained, I am scarcely guarded: instead of being placed between two soldiers with loaded muskets, I am allowed to remain upon parole. He who has charge of me, leaves me for an hour, with a simple request not to retire to rest until his return! Yes—some secret power protects me. It is true that a few years ago I once met her who now occupies a seat on the Grand-ducal throne,” he continued, rather musing to himself, than addressing his words to Morcar; “but she can scarcely remember—or, even if she do—could not be supposed to interest herself in one so obscure, so humble as I!”

  Then he paced the room—lost in conjecture, and giving way to the immense variety of reflections which his position was calculated to engender.

  In an hour the young aide-de-camp returned.

  “Signor Markham,” he said, “you will have the kindness to accompany me whither I shall conduct you. You,” he added, addressing himself to Morcar, “must await our return here.”

  Richard signified his readiness to follow Bazzano; and they left the hotel together.

  It was now past eleven o’clock; and, though the shops were all closed, the streets of Montoni were resplendent with the lustre which streamed from the windows of the cafés, restaurants, and club-houses.

  Markham could not help observing to his companion that there appeared to be numerous patrols of military moving about in the capital, and that the sentinels were posted along the streets at very short intervals.