by John Jarvis
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Richard had invited Mario to his cabin as Juliet drew near the northern coast of Italy. Mario’s help had been invaluable, yet he needed to request a further favor. He waited until the meager meal had been cleared and the brandy poured before making his play. Mario had waited patiently.
“Mario, I am aware that you will sign off once we reach Genoa, yet I will need your help or someone you can recommend for further business in Italy,” Richard began.
“And of what nature is this business you require help with?” asked Mario.
“I need to purchase musket barrels from the house of Beretta in Brescia, and the other is rather of a personal matter.” Richard took another sip of brandy and, fortified, pressed on. “I need to contact a certain English lady who is touring Italy escorted by two male cousins.” Richard’s voice trailed off.
“I think, before we proceed, Capitan, there are many things that you should be aware of.” It was Mario’s turn to sip the brandy. “First, there is no Italy, and there never has been. Even under the Romans it was influential tribes that controlled first the senate and later the Emperors until more powerful tribes invaded from the north and east. Today there are no Romans left: they have all been bred out. The Latin peninsular has always been and always will be about families. Almost all outsiders do not understand our family politics and have as much chance of fathoming us, as a deep-water fish could understand a mountain flower. You, Capitan, have the great gift of being able to be adopted by families such as Tubal in Bilbao and from what you have told me, Squanto in the Colonies. You have honor and standing in the family of soldiers and sailors, and I have no doubt you will achieve the same in the states and principalities of what we will call Italy. The first request regarding the Berettas of Brescia is not a problem but a matter of business, and the Berettas will provide you with every courtesy and assistance. The second problem is one of family and honor and much more delicate to arrange; here I will be delighted to be of assistance,” Mario stood up, bowed and then, as an afterthought, offered his hand.
“Thank you, Mario,” was all Richard could manage. After Mario had left, Richard realized that he still did not know what family Mario belonged to.
Richard viewed the armed cutter that intercepted them as they approached Genoa’s harbor with some concern. He became even more concerned as an armed official of some type came aboard and barked out something in Italian. Richard was about to try French when Mario placed a cautionary hand on his arm and addressed the official in Italian. Mario began a long discourse, during which the official visibly relaxed, then finally smiled. He signed the ship’s manifests with a flourish, issued certifications and accepted Mario’s payment of ‘duty’. With a bow towards Richard and a sharp word of command to his men, he flounced over to the rail and with a wave lowered himself into the cutter below.
“What was all that about?” asked an impressed Richard.
“It was all quite simple, Capitan: I told the Assistant Collector of Customs that you had sunk one pirate vessel and damaged two. Genoa was sacked by pirates over seven hundred years ago, but they have long memories here. The reason for your visit to trade with the Beretta family ensured a clearance and a generous payment for bond was appreciated, but you must do two things. One, anchor off the mole by the fortress because you are carrying gunpowder, and the other is allow several hours before anyone disembarks. This will allow time for the Assistant Collector of Customs to gain merit by being the first to spread the story, greatly exaggerated of course, about your destruction of the pirates. Such diplomacy will always pay off, my Capitan.”
Mario disembarked later that evening, and Richard was surprised when he brought so many chests aboard. He was a little less surprised when they were loaded into an expensive coach protected by four mounted troopers. Mario gave a final wave and the coach disappeared into the dark.
The following morning a Senor Gianotti, the Berettas’ representative in Genoa, sent word that he would await instructions from Captain Digby.
Senor Gianotti was a large man with a large moustache that tapered to rapier-like ends. He made it known to Richard that he could negotiate any business through himself in Genoa, but a personal visit to the Beretta Estate in Brescia would be far more valuable if future business was envisaged. Richard, sorely in need of a break from the sea, agreed and the small party rode out the following morning. Richard took Simpson with him, and because of his lack of experience in riding he was sorely needed. Simpson never complained as it became obvious that riding utilizes every muscle in the body. He could not sleep the first night due to groin strain and muscle cramps but was damned if he would show weakness to the two Italian minders who had been added for protection. The protection was a precaution: Lombardy had only recently been freed from Austrian occupation and law and order was still thin outside the towns.
They arrived in the walled city of Brescia at the end of the second day and Richard was appalled at the destruction.
“Did the Austrians do this?” Richard asked Gianotti in French.
“No, Capitan, God perhaps in 1769: the Bastion of San Nazaro was hit by lightning and 200,000 pounds of gunpowder exploded, killing three thousand and destroying one sixth of the city.”
They rode on in silence until they came to huge wrought iron gates emblazoned with the three arrows and circled crest of the Beretta family.
They were expected and met at the portico of a large villa by Giovanni, a younger son of Francesco, the head of the Beretta family.
“Captain and Senors your horses will be taken care of and a valet will show you to your quarters; I sincerely hope you will find them suitable. My father has invited you all to dine with him this evening at nine thirty.” Giovanni gave a slight bow.
Richard almost fell asleep in the giant bath but roused himself to dress in his best and present himself at the house at nine fifteen. He was admitted and allowed to wander the great hall until dinner was announced. Richard was admiring three magnificent arrows mounted alongside three ancient arquebus barrels when a deep voice interrupted.
“They were the last three arrows we manufactured and the first three barrels we produced. Forgive me for startling you; I am Francesco Beretta.”
Richard turned and bowed to a large formally-dressed man with jet-black hair and shining black eyes that held a twinkle of amusement.
“Good evening, Senor Beretta; I was admiring the workmanship of the arrows compared to the more business like qualities of the gun barrels,” said Richard.
The twinkle in Francesco’s eyes grew into light.
“Indeed, Captain Digby, may I put to you a question? Those arrows, especially if loosed by archers such as your English bowmen, could travel up to 300 yards. Their penetration is great: I have seen them lodged into three inches of oak and their rate of fire is from six to eight a minute. I believe that is why your King Henry the Eighth armed his Mary Rose with the latest culverins but maintained archers for his stern and forecastles. Even the slower crossbow was effective at shorter ranges and was once banned along with catapults because of their danger to the hitherto armor-protected knights. Witness the death of your Richard the Lion-hearted as a result of a wound from a bolt. My question is: if an arrow can fly three times the distance of a musket ball, if it has three times the depth in penetration and can fire three times faster, why was it replaced by the inferior musket?”
Richard thought hard.
“Was it to do with training, Senor?”
“Ah, Captain, I like your reasoning.” Francesco took hold of Richard’s arm and guided him into the dining hall. “It takes what, five years to train an archer, yet perhaps five weeks to train a musketeer, supply and demand, Captain Digby.”
The meal that followed family introductions was sumptuous, spicy and supported by the crisp white wine that Lombardy was famous for. Richard had brought the last two bottles of cognac left on board and they were savored after the ladies had departed.
“Ah, Captain Digby, in Lombard
y we do not like the French or anything French for historical reasons, but we make an exception for their cognac.” Francesco remarked.
There had been no mention of business: that would be for the morrow.
In the morning Francesco was all business. After reading Wentworth the elder’s letter of introduction and recommendation, he listened intently as Richard outlined his problem with the availability of barrels and the lack of time to be placed on a waiting list.
“Hostilities are never coincided with supply and demand,” Richard suggested.
Francesco smiled and began on a different tack.
“Senor Wentworth mentions you are already familiar with our barrels, Captain: may I see your pistol?” Francesco asked.
“It is in my saddle-bags with the horses, Senor, and still loaded for the road,” explained Richard.
Francesco threw a look at his son Giovanni who then left the room. A few minutes later a muffled shot was heard and Giovanni returned, cleaning Richard’s pistol. He handed it to his father who examined it closely, then laid it on his desk with a sigh.
“You purchased it in New York, I believe?” asked Francesco. Richard nodded an affirmation. “I wonder what happened to its twin?” he mused. “We supplied the barrels for a matched set of dueling pistols commissioned by the Duke of Elba; he was never one for ostentation and fell during the War of Succession. This is the first time I have seen the finished weapon. May I retain this for a time?”Francesco asked and Richard again nodded affirmation. “Excellent. Now for a tour of our factory.” The party left Francesco’s office and moved to several buildings that smelled of iron particles and coal.
“The basic principles are: rolling, boring and grinding!” yelled Francesco over the din, “but we still produce by hand-forging fire webbing strips of flat iron over a mandrel. The secret is in the temperatures and the quality of the ore. Our grinders are of the best.” They had moved on to two huge wheels eight feet in diameter and weighing over four tons. Water poured in from the top to power the wheels and keep the grinding rods cool. The grinders worked on a first floor landing to allow the huge wheels clearance and the excess water to drain out through the floor and back into the river Oglio. “Let us return to the office; this is giving me a headache,” yelled Francesco. Richard noted that they had only toured one part of several factories: commercial sensitivity, perhaps, in one of the oldest gun foundries.
After they had wiped the grime from their faces and hands and taken refreshments, Francesco put Richard at his ease.
“There will be no problem in supplying your barrels, Captain; we have a cancelled export order. Now is not an opportune time to supply ordnance to the Austrians,” Francesco smiled.
The paper work was completed within the hour, prices agreed to, purchase forms, bank checks signed and receipts given. Richard was back on the road after a celebratory lunch in the afternoon minus his pistol. A mounted messenger near dusk intercepted them. Mario had requested they detour to Milan where they would be contacted later in the week.