The Woman in Red

by Diana Giovinazzo

  Looking around at my traveling companions, I could see we weren’t prepared. Our horses were loaded with goods. The women and children who accompanied the regiment didn’t know how to swim. But what could we do? If we went back we would be at the mercy of the Imperial army; if we went forward we were in danger from Mother Nature herself. The only question was: Which fate could we stand?

  The scouts returned an hour later. “Senhor Garibaldi!” they yelled as they came closer. “There is no bridge.”

  “Did you search everywhere? Are you sure?” José sighed. His shoulders fell as he looked around at the rest of us.

  “We are sure.” The scout shook his head. “We looked everywhere.”

  José faced the water. “What are we going to do? We can’t cross here.” He said it as much to himself as he did to the scouts.

  “There’s a section downriver where we could cross.” José turned to the young scout who had spoken. “It wouldn’t be easy, but it’s safer than it is here.”

  “We can’t swim across the river!” one of the men yelled.

  “Well, we can’t stay here!” the scout yelled back. He turned to José. “Senhor, we have no choice, it’s either cross or die. At least if we try to cross we have a better chance at surviving.”

  “Show me,” José said.

  José left with the scouts and two of his officers. He returned some time later. “We’re crossing the river.”

  When we reached the crossing, the horses were unburdened of most of their loads. We could easily let our supplies float across with us; the rest we abandoned. Children clung to the necks of their parents, hanging off their backs like meat shanks. I pulled Menotti out of his solitude under my poncho. At the deepest part of the river, the water would come up to my waist, dangerously close to my son. I held Menotti close to me, saying a prayer as I stepped closer to the ice-cold water. He was two months old and yet he already knew the hardships of a soldier.

  I gasped involuntarily as freezing water stabbed at my ankles and calves. Clutching Menotti high at my shoulder, I made my way slowly through the river. The horses kicked and bucked, sending cold sprays of water through the air.

  It was at the halfway mark that I heard the screams. A little boy lost his grip on his mother. He was too small to tread the water, too light to fight the current. He was swept away. Imelda, the heavyset woman I had met in camp, began to panic. Her older children had already crossed, but it was her young son, no older than three, who floated down the river. She screamed and dove in the water after him. I turned and watched, unable to do anything as she was pulled under and her screams were drowned out.

  “Imelda!” her husband called. He let go of his horse, who started to go wild. It thrashed and kicked, startling everyone around it. In the commotion of the horse bucking, three other men tried to get it under control. Imelda’s husband let the current carry him downriver. “Imelda!” His voice grew shriller as he tried to reach his wife.

  He went under and never came back up. People stumbled and lost their balance, falling into the water. They panicked, their screams choked by the water they thrashed in. Those who could reached down to pull them up to keep them from falling prey to the mighty current. I froze, holding Menotti so tight that I think I would have put him back into my body.

  “Anita!” José was ahead of me by just a few feet. “Keep moving!” He reached a hand out to me. I looked behind me at the commotion. “Anita! Come now!” Slowly I turned back around to face him, moving one foot in front of the other as he impatiently willed me forward. We made it to shore together and helped what was left of the company do the same. In total we lost nearly half a dozen people. A number of goods were washed downstream, and our horses trembled from fright. Nervous horses were dangerous.

  We walked along the level ground for another two miles until we came to the next mountain. José made us walk up the mountain until we found a nice ledge far enough up so that we would be safe from the river. “We camp here for the night!” José ordered.

  Unfortunately, the weather was too harsh to allow us to get more than a few hours of sleep. Rain sliced the air at sharp angles in the bitter, cold wind. We collapsed against the rocks before pulling ourselves up and moving forward.

  We continued on through the piercing rain and frigid wind for another nine days until we reached São Gabriel. I would have been happier had I not been so cold and wet, or if I didn’t have a baby who finally grew fussy from a rash.

  Twenty-Five

  November 1840

  The river that we followed into São Gabriel bloated with brown water, turning the adjoining grasslands into an indistinguishable mush. The sleepy makeshift village, made up of freed slaves and Farrapos, sat on the edge of another of the many properties owned by General Gonçalves. People moved about in their daily chores, tending to cattle, cooking their meals. The ravages of war seemed not to reach us in this rebel haven.

  José claimed a small windowless cabin for us that had one bedroom and a common room that was a combination of parlor and kitchen. I settled into a chair with the door propped open, nursing Menotti and listening to the sounds of birds singing in the morning sun. We’d been here for almost a week and the hut was starting to feel like home thanks to José’s ability to scavenge for us. Later that morning José came in carrying a large box.

  “I found some goods for us.” He dropped the box on the table. “I had more, a heavier blanket and a loaf of bread, but I saw the Rodrigues family. They needed it more than we do. I hope you don’t mind.”

  I set the baby down in the small crate that served as a crib and peered into the box. “This will do just fine. It’s certainly better than what we had on our way here.” I pulled José to me, kissing him gently at first, then letting the passion grow. It had been a long time since we’d had the opportunity to be alone. We took our time as I let José lead me into our little bedroom.

  Afterward, from the comfort of my warm bed, I watched as José got dressed. “Why must you leave?” He turned and smiled that lopsided boyish grin that I loved.

  “I want to be with the other generals when Rossetti arrives. It’s the first place he’ll go.”

  “It’s still fairly early, he may have been delayed by the weather.”

  “He should be arriving any day now, he wasn’t that far behind us.” He leaned over to kiss me. “I won’t be gone long.”

  * * *

  One week later I stood next to José at the doorway of our tiny shack watching the rain pour down. Breathing in, I took in the smell of damp grass and earth. Every day at precisely two in the afternoon the heavens opened and continued to saturate us until after sundown.

  Anxiety ate at José. He moved from the bed to the table and back to the bed, unable to stand still.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said. I turned to look at him as he began to make another circuit through our cabin. “They should have been here by now.”

  “You know how long it took us to get here. The roads are probably worse for them than they were for us. Don’t worry. They will be here in a few days.” I grabbed José by the shoulders and moved him off to the side so that I could get to the pot collecting the raindrops that leaked through our ceiling. “He probably stopped for his printing press.”

  “Possibly.”

  “And he probably picked up the people we left behind. I’m sure they slowed him down as well.”

  José took a deep breath. “You’re right.” He returned to the doorway, shutting me out as he kept vigil.

  * * *

  Another week went by with still no word from our other garrisons. One night as the rain poured outside José sat at our table waiting for his dinner. He shook one of his legs, jostling his knee up and down. The noise got louder and louder until I rested a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  As we settled in to eat we heard a knock at our door. José bounded to it in two steps. General Canabarro stood there, soaking wet. His clothes were covered in mud, with smears of blood on
his chest and pants. His eyes were rimmed in red and he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. “May I come in?”

  “Where’s Rossetti?” José asked.

  “That’s why I’m here.” Canabarro swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with exaggeration. “I am sure you came across many hardships in your journey.”

  “Canabarro, get to it. Where is Rossetti?” José growled.

  Canabarro shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “He’s dead.”

  José took an involuntary step back, knocking over the wooden chair. It hit the ground with a clatter, waking up Menotti in his crate. “No,” José croaked.

  “José, there were few survivors,” Canabarro responded almost in a whisper. “The roads were bad. He had to stop and readjust his printing press. Moringue caught up with them.”

  José’s knees buckled. I caught him by the elbow as he tried to grasp the table with his other hand. “How?”

  “Bayonet, through the stomach,” Canabarro answered in a small voice.

  “General, you said there were few survivors. How many?” I asked.

  “Two. Moringue wanted them to bear witness and to deliver a message.”

  “What was the message?” I dared to ask.

  “‘The republic is dead.’”

  “Damn that bastardo and his printing press!” José threw the dish off the table. It crashed against the wall, shattering into a million little pieces. “He was always thinking of his glory.” José’s voice choked. “I have to go. Excuse me.”

  José slipped out of the cabin, leaving Canabarro looking at me in shock. “Should we go after him?”

  I sighed. “No, it’s best to let him grieve in his own way.” I picked up Menotti from his crate, holding him close as he settled down. I looked beyond Canabarro to the door that still stood wide open, letting the rain splatter inside. Emotion did not serve my husband. It led him to rash behavior. I kissed Menotti’s head, letting my lips linger on his scalp.

  “Is that your son? I haven’t seen him yet. He’s beautiful.” Canabarro tickled Menotti, who decided to play shy and snuggle in closer to me. “I remember when mine were that young. They grow up too fast, senhora. Hold on to him for as long as you can.”

  “General, would you like to stay for supper? Sit and warm yourself for a while.”

  “No, I should go.” Canabarro started to leave but paused. “Oh, I have something.” He reached into his satchel. “We found this next to his body. I thought your husband would want it.” He set a book on the table. Flipping it open, I could see the thin scratch of Rossetti’s handwriting. It was his journal.

  “Thank you,” I said. “José will appreciate this.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Canabarro said, placing his hat back on his head before venturing out into the rain.

  Rossetti deserved better than this. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but we were able to find common ground in our love for José. He and José shared a dream. Now my husband would have to forge a unified Italy without him.

  As the days dragged on, I watched José. Every smile that he showed to our soldiers was a farce to try to keep up morale. His opinions, which were usually strong, were verbalized with a shrug and “Whatever you think is best.” He slunk about the camp with Rossetti’s book in hand.

  I discovered that the one way I could bring him back to life was to make him interact with Menotti. Our son excelled where others failed. At even the slightest giggle or coo from Menotti, José would light up. It’s how I knew the fire in him wasn’t gone. If our son could coax it out of him, there was hope. In my attempt to get my husband back I talked him into doing the washing with me.

  “But washing is women’s work.” José whined as I gathered my supplies.

  I looked up at him with a start. “I suggest you rephrase that, dear husband. Now where did I put that lye?” I turned around in a circle, checking to see where I might have set it down. “Aha!” I found it sitting on top of a cabinet. “If anyone asks, you can just tell them that your wife was forcing you to spend time with your son. Which is what you will be doing,” I said, dropping the lye into the basket.

  José sighed, knowing he had lost the argument, and picked up Menotti from his cradle, a drawer I’d lined with old clothing and blankets. “It’s best you learn now, little one, that when you have a wife, she’s the boss.” Menotti gave him a toothless grin as he shoved a drool-covered fist into his mouth. “Ah, bambino, we men have to stick together, don’t we?” He kissed the baby’s bald head as we set out for the river.

  It was late November, and the spring warmth promised that a pleasant summer was on its way. The golden sun shone down on us, making the water glisten. I worked in the river beating and wringing out our clothing. José laid the baby on a blanket in front of him. As I worked, José sang to Menotti in Italian.

  “A bi bo, goccia di limone, goccia d’arancia, o che mal di pancia!” José reached out and tickled our son’s belly. That’s when we heard another voice call out.

  “Punto rosso, punto blu, esci fuori proprio tu!”

  José and I looked at each other in bewilderment. There was a rustling in the bushes next to us. José went rigid. I took a step onto the shore. I could grab the baby if José had to fight in our defense.

  A tall man with wavy brown hair that fell over his hazel eyes fought his way out of the bushes like he was clumsily beating back a wild animal. “Buon pomeriggio.” He shook the leaves out of his hair and smiled at us. In that moment, he reminded me of an overgrown puppy. “I heard you singing and I had to stop by. I couldn’t help myself. Another Italian! I love when I get to meet a compatriot on the other side of the world.” José and I continued to stare at him in disbelief. “Oh, I’m sorry.” He wiped his palm on his leg. “I am Francesco Anzani, but everyone calls me Anzani.”

  “Giuseppe Garibaldi,” José said, clasping his hand. José still sat on the ground with Menotti, so he had to stretch a bit to reach our new comrade.

  “The Giuseppe Garibaldi! As I live and breathe!” he exclaimed, pumping my husband’s hand up and down. “It is a pleasure, no, I mean an honor! You are the reason why I am here.” He still shook my husband’s hand with a vigorous force. “Well, not here exactly, but you are the reason why I do what I do. You are my hero!”

  José smiled as he was finally able to remove his hand from Anzani’s grasp.

  “I was just a boy when you were exiled. I heard all of your stories. How you stole your father’s ship to take it for a ride along the Amalfi Coast. How you cornered a group of Austrian soldiers, disarmed them, and then left them chained to a post with no clothing on for the whole town to see. That has to be my favorite.”

  José blushed a little. “I was a mischievous youth.”

  “Mischievous youth? There are some things in this life that don’t change,” I said with a wry smile.

  “And you must be his wife, Anita. It’s a pleasure to meet the lovely Senhora Garibaldi.”

  “Come sit down and tell me about yourself,” José said, adjusting himself so that he could better see Anzani.

  Anzani launched into his story. “Well, where do I begin? Let’s see.” He thought for a moment as he sat down. “I was orphaned as a child. My mother died in childbirth and my father was taken from me by the Austrians. Thusly, I was raised by my uncle Filippo. He was a stern man, he required I do nothing but study.”

  “Where did you grow up?” José asked as he absentmindedly bounced Menotti in his arms.

  “Pavia.”

  “Really? That’s not that far from Genoa.” José looked to me. “Pavia is a lovely little village, right on the Ticino River.”

  “My uncle’s home had a beautiful view of the Ticino. I know because I sat at the window daydreaming about sailing away when I was supposed to be doing my lessons. My uncle was a permanent bachelor and he thought of me as his protégé.” Anzani shrugged. “I suppose that’s why the Carbonari were so fascinating to me. You and your friends represented freedom. I
could be a scholar and a warrior for my country. Just like the Great Garibaldi and his men. You know, I hid your newspaper clippings in my textbooks. I especially like the ones written by Luigi Rossetti. Is he here with you?”

  José immediately looked down, becoming overly distracted by Menotti. “You had to have been awfully young when the Carbonari disbanded,” I said. These were the men José had fought with for the unification of Italy before he was exiled.

  “I was, but that didn’t keep me out of trouble. First I went to Greece to fight for their independence, then I became a Spanish soldier.” He smiled as he seemed to recall fond memories. “While there I stumbled upon a wonderful Italian family. Like me, they were in exile. I loved them so much I had to make myself a part of their family.” He blushed slightly. “Luckily for me they had a beautiful daughter, Luisa. She has followed me all over and is my rock.”

  “A woman like that is hard to find. Cherish her. I know I cherish mine,” José said with a sideways glance up to me.

  “Oh, believe me, I do. It was quite a coup that I married her. She was supposed to marry someone else.” He pulled a face. “After the wedding we stayed in Spain for her to have our firstborn, then I came to Brazil. I’ve been helping the Rio Grande do Sul army for the latter half of the war.”

  “You’ve been helping with the Ragamuffin War? How have I not met you?”

  “I have trailed behind, keeping mainly to the south, but alas, my time here has come to an end.”

  “You are leaving?” José asked, looking sad.