My attention turned to José, who lay tossing and turning in his bed. I pulled off the damp blankets that were twisted around his legs. “Paolo, rub his feet. We need to draw down the fever.”
I sat by the head of the bed. José’s breathing was raspy. I put my head to his sweat-drenched chest. It was clear, and his heartbeat steady. I breathed a sigh of relief. The servant, a thin boy whose coal-black hair was cut close to his head, cautiously moved forward. “Madam, is there anything else I can get you?”
“Fresh water…and rags.”
“Tesoro.” My husband groaned in his delirium. “Tesoro.”
“He keeps saying that, but I am not sure what treasure he is referring to.”
“He’s referring to me, Mr. Medici,” I said as I leaned down and tore the hem from my skirt. “I am his treasure.” I used my freshly made rag to wipe the sweat from his brow.
Working through my exhaustion, I spent the evening waging battle with his fever, pressing cool rags to his face. My eyelids began to feel heavy as the night pressed on, but my husband was still delirious with fever.
“Anita!” Feeling disoriented, I sat upright. The room that had been dark had sunshine spilling through the windows. I looked at the bed: José was panicked as he tried to get out of the bed. “Anita, tell me, where are the children?”
I laid a hand on his arm. “They are with your mother and the nurse.”
He eased himself back down onto the pillows. “Thank you, tesoro mio, you have brought me back to life. I will see to it that you are escorted back home.”
“You will do no such thing!”
“But the children need you.”
“You need me! José, I can’t stay there with your mother. I feel like I am going to wither and die.” I took a breath, composing myself. “You have said it yourself: We are safer when we are together.”
“Anita, I know you are used to a certain amount of excitement, but the men here will not be comfortable with a woman present.”
“They will learn to live with me.” I took him by the hand. “Husband, believe me when I tell you this: If you send me away, I will only come back.”
He wiped a hand over his pale face. “I should learn not to argue with you.”
I grinned. “That would be wise.”
He fell against his pillows. “Tell me. What news do you have of my children? Has Teresita succeeded in breaking all of my mother’s valuables?”
“She has been too distracted by the dollhouse Paolo brought for her.” A servant slipped into the room with a tray of bread and meat. “She plays with it all day and sleeps with her dolls in her bed at night.”
José smiled as he bit into a chunk of bread. “And my boys? How are they?”
I took a deep breath. “Menotti is on his way to your old school in Turin.” José stopped chewing and looked at me. “I hope you don’t mind; they extended a personal invitation and, well, it was either that or he goes to the Catholic school your mother tried to enroll him in.”
José tore his cheese and meat into smaller pieces. “No, I don’t mind. He does have to attend school, after all. I just hope they don’t expel him like they did me.”
“Well, he does take after you, dear husband, so it’s only a matter of time,” I said with a knowing grin. “But it would appear that the Garibaldi name has gone up in favor. Every school is honored to have the Great Giuseppe Garibaldi bless them with the responsibility of educating his offspring.”
José laughed. “I never thought I would live to see the day.”
José quickly regained his strength. I could tell he was on the mend because he grew anxious with being confined to his bed. Often, I would walk into his room to find various maps and documents strewn about his bed. On one such afternoon, I found José thoroughly engrossed in a large map that was spread over his lap.
Books had fallen to the floor, spread open, their pages bent, while a slew of papers were crumpled around his legs. I set the lunch tray I had been carrying on the nearby table and straightened up José’s mess.
“Stop that. I need those,” he demanded without looking up at me.
“But they are thrown on the floor.”
“Only because I have no room on the bed.”
I put my hands on my hips. “José, this is ridiculous.”
He met my eyes. “My work won’t wait. If you would let me get out of this damn bed, I wouldn’t have a mess everywhere.”
I sighed. “Do what you want, but if you fall because you overexerted yourself, don’t come crying to me.”
He smiled. “I wouldn’t think of it.”
That night I sat in on a meeting with the Redshirts. I took a spot in the back corner of the common room, hoping I wouldn’t be noticed. Only officers were allowed in the room for the meeting; however, I was immune to most orders given the status of my husband. The tables were pushed together in order to make one large table for the men to spread their maps across. The campaign along the Alps had been successful. Reinforcements had arrived, strengthening our blockade along the northern border. Now José set his sights on the crown jewel of Italy. He spoke animatedly, his hands going everywhere, emphasizing his words. “We need to strike Rome now!”
“Why now? Shouldn’t we wait until we have a stronger force behind us?” Medici was studying the map, his hand under his chin. “We can go in now, but it will be risky.”
“This is war. There are always risks,” José responded. “The Austrians aren’t defending the city; the bulk of their force is up here in the north. They won’t expect us to have the grandi coglioni to take the city.”
“Grandi coglioni, ma sei pazzo? This is madness. I am not going to lead my men into a battle that they will surely lose.” His eyes swept over the map. “Rome is impenetrable. It’s been protected for centuries. The walls are too high.”
“But it has its weaknesses.” José pointed to the map. “Here and here. All we have to do is break in and it’s ours.”
“Peppino, this is madness!” Medici exclaimed. “Even if we are to find a way in, how are we going to convince the Vatican to unify?”
“We don’t have to,” José responded. “By holding Rome, we hold the power. We can show Austria and the rest of Europe that we are a force to be reckoned with. We will not be bullied any longer.”
“It’s foolish,” Medici countered. “You only want to go to Rome because you want to expel the pope.”
“And what’s so wrong with that? The Papal States are undermining everything we are doing.”
“We need more troops.”
The men stared at the map. “Peppino does make a valid point.” Paolo had kept so quiet during the exchange that everyone, me included, had forgotten that he was there. “We need Rome. That is for sure; without it, we can never become a unified country. Rome is the heart of Italy. We can’t have one sovereign nation within another.” He looked at the men. “And taking it now is a power play. If we can take Rome, we can take the rest of the peninsula.”
Medici huffed. “Just because we can take it doesn’t mean that we should. I doubt we’ll be able to hold it; we don’t have enough men.”
“I can get you more men,” Paolo said.
“How?” Medici eyed him under the messy dark curls that hung over his eyes.
Everyone followed Paolo’s gaze, which landed on me. “Her.”
I squirmed in my seat. “I don’t think I can be of much assistance.”
“No,” Paolo responded. “When you spoke in Genoa you moved the people into signing up. You were our best propaganda.”
“But you don’t need me for that. You have José.”
Paolo looked to his commander. “Think about it, Peppino. You can speak to the people, you can rouse them, but they expect that. Let them listen to your exotic wife talk of your adventures and they will be falling all over themselves to sign up.”
“Exotic?” I looked to Paolo.
“Yes.” Paolo turned to face me directly. “The people of Genoa are still talk
ing about you. The gossip is spreading all over Italy. You are the American they all want to see.”
I struggled to find words.
“She’ll do it,” José said from behind Paolo.
“José—” I began to protest.
“Everyone needs to do their part, and you, tesoro mio, will be responsible for recruitment.”
Fifty
March 1849
For the sake of efficiency, the plan was to recruit as we made our way south to Rome, staying west of Milan and the Austrian forces that still encircled the city. Little white puffs of dandelion seed floated on the lazy summer air that drifted between the people who congregated outside another abandoned castle, of which only the frame remained. Our location sat on a great hill that overlooked an expansive lush valley below. Brilliant hues of green shimmered in the warm sunlight.
A hundred people from the town had shown up to hear what we had to say. They packed in around us with picnic baskets and blankets. Families gathered to see us. I gulped and turned to José.
“Are you sure you want me to speak? These are your people. Won’t they understand you better than me?”
“Tesoro mio, you will be fine,” José said, putting his hands on my shoulders. “The people will love you just like I do.” Tenderly, he kissed my forehead.
“Sir! Sir!” José and I turned to the messenger who was running up to us. “I come with news from Rome.” He paused, trying to catch his breath. “The French have landed. They are in Ostia.”
José cursed. “How many?”
“Seven thousand,” the messenger responded.
“Why?” I asked, looking from José to Paolo. “Why would the French do this?”
“The pope put out a call to all the Catholic nations for assistance,” Paolo answered.
“You know this is only the first wave,” Medici whispered to José. “There are going to be more.”
“This is preposterous!” José began pacing like a caged lion, ignoring everyone around him. “This cannot happen. It has to be the whole peninsula or nothing. We cannot be a country that stands on its own with one of our legs torn out from under us.”
“Do we call it off?” Paolo asked, watching José with uncertainty. “We’ve missed our window. If we attack now, we won’t have enough men. It’s impossible.”
“No. We can’t let the French get a foothold. How many do we have now?” José asked.
“One thousand,” Medici responded. “We’re outnumbered. There is no way we can do this.”
“Then we get more men,” I said, walking to the podium.
A warm breeze rustled through the trees that surrounded us as the sun set in the distance. My eyes scanned the people gathered on the common. They were families in their cleanest clothes, reserved for mass and special occasions, spending their day waiting to hear us speak…to hear me speak.
I cleared my throat. “Buona sera.” I tried to smile. There were twice as many people here as there had been at the café in Genoa.
A small group of children had been playing in front of the stage. When I started to speak, they froze in place, their ball slipping from a boy’s fingers. I leaned down and picked it up.
As the ball passed from my fingertips to the boy, I thought of my own little ones back in Nizza and the future we were building for them. The small child grinned up at me before running back to his family. I smiled. “He is a good, strong boy,” I said to his parents. “Perhaps one day he will play with my children. Maybe they will call each other friends, yes? By the time they meet it won’t matter that your son is from Lombardy and mine is from Piedmont, because by the time they meet we will all be one. We will be Italy.
“My son’s namesake, Ciro Menotti, dared to dream that. He dared to stand up to the Austrians and tell them that they could not oppress us any longer. That there would be an Italy and it would be glorious. But Ciro Menotti paid dearly for that dream. The Austrians killed him, all because he wanted a free fatherland.
“We are on the brink of seeing that dream come true. We are the lucky few who can stand here today and bear witness to the creation of a country. If you are lucky enough to see the hairs on your head go white or for your bones to creak, you can sit with your grandchildren on your knee and you can tell them you were here. You can tell them that you did something that mattered, that because of you they have a future. A future that is full of hope. A future that is free.”
The crowd erupted into loud cheers. “Will you stand by and watch while others bear the burden of history, or will you rise up so that your children can go forth with pride, so that they can say, ‘This is who I am. This is where I come from.’ So that they can say, ‘I am an Italian.’”
“Viva Italia!” The crowd erupted. “Viva Italia!”
I walked back to José and the other men. “You’re welcome.” I kissed José on the cheek as he took my place at the podium.
I listened to José as he rode on the energy of the crowd. For a while, he chanted with them. “Viva Italia! Viva Italia!” He grinned like he had on the day Menotti was born. He held up his hand and immediately the crowd stilled. “My compagni, wasn’t my wife something? You can see why I stole her from Brazil, yes? As she so eloquently stated, we need unification.” He looked around the crowd. “But France has determined that Rome should be its own country. That they shall not take part in our dream of Italy. How can we be unified when we have a country within a country? If your son is missing, do you not search for him? Do you not bring him back into the fold of the family hearth?
“While in exile I prayed, nay, implored God that I would see Rome one more time. The cradle of our civilization. The birthplace of everything we are. Everything we hope to be is controlled by a man who dares elevate himself to the level of sainthood. Who calls himself pope.” Gasps rippled through the crowd. “Yes, I said it. The pope is only a man. For how can he call himself the voice of God when he does not want equality for every Italian, regardless of the color of their skin, their gender, or their religion? Pope Pius seeks to stifle us. Every day he passes edicts that restrict the Romans’ freedom. That creates inequality. Join me! Together we will march on Rome and say, ‘No more!’ We are one people united by our devotion to justice! To freedom! To Italy! Together we will tell the world that we will no longer stand for other countries interfering in the business of this peninsula!”
The crowd cheered. Every able-bodied man signed up for José’s war effort. Together, new recruits blended in with our soldiers. As a great mass we marched south, stopping to speak in more cities. Bringing more people with us. Until we found ourselves at the doorstep of Rome, a great horde ready to take back the heart of our country.
Fifty-One
April 1849
On the morning before we left on our campaign for Rome, José pulled me aside. “I should tell you that it would be a good idea for you to go back to Nizza to be with the children.”
“And I should tell you, you are a fool to think that after all this time I would actually listen to an order like that.”
José snorted. “I know, but I thought I would try anyway. I don’t know how we are going to get you in the ranks.”
“You’re the general; they have to listen to you.”
At this point my husband openly laughed. “Not in this matter they won’t. You are a woman; they won’t accept you.” He kissed me on the forehead. “I have to inspect the munitions. I’ll see you this afternoon.”
I absentmindedly stroked my loose hair as I watched my husband leave. As my fingers slipped through the strands a thought occurred to me. I searched through the supplies for a pair of scissors. Finding one, I took a deep breath and cut.
That afternoon I slipped into the stables while the men loaded provisions for the battle. My hair was cut short and I wore men’s clothing. None of the soldiers looked twice at me. “Boy, can you pick up…” José paused and looked at me, his eyebrows furrowed. “Anita?”
I saluted him. “Private Garibaldi at your service.”<
br />
“Your hair!”
“I know.” I beamed. “None of the soldiers even noticed me.”
He led me outside by my elbow. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I had to, if I wanted to come with you. I’m not going back to Nizza. I was thinking I could have a medical station.”
He wiped a tired hand over his face. “All right.”
As we progressed toward Rome we picked up every able-bodied person we could, but it still wasn’t enough. Our numbers, all dressed in red, totaled only 6,300.
“It’s not enough,” Medici warned as we prepared to leave for the city. “The French still have seven thousand plus a full battalion of field guns. I know the French general, Oudinot, will take advantage of every opportunity he can.”
“Oudinot is cocky,” José said. “He believes the Italians can’t fight, and that’s where he’s wrong. We’ll surprise him with our strength.”
Medici opened his mouth to argue, but a young man spoke up. “Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
José and Medici turned to this boy, who stood before them in an old blue coat that was too long in the arms. He pushed back the sandy blond hair that fell over his face. “And who are you?” José asked with his hand on his sword.
“Angelo Puglisi. I’m the commander of the student brigade.”
“Commander?” Medici let out a burst of a laugh. “You have barely left your mother’s breast. How old are you?”
Puglisi stiffened. “Eighteen, sir.”
“Eighteen,” Medici repeated. “This is not a game, child. Go back to your toy soldiers.”
“We weren’t treated like children when we rebelled against King Ferdinand. Trust me, Lieutenant Colonel Medici, this is not the first war we’ve seen,” Puglisi insisted. “I brought with me one thousand lancers. We are all students from Sicily.”
José grinned as he clapped Medici on the back. “Rome is going to be ours.”
* * *
My small garrison, made up of Redshirts who had followed us to Italy from Montevideo, made its way to Rome to set up our makeshift hospital. We crested the hill, and I saw Rome spread out before me.
The Woman in Red Page 30