by Frank Barrett, author of "Fettered for Life," "Lady Biddy Fane," etc.
As published in Strange Doings in Strange Places (Cassell & Company, Ltd.; 1890), originally published in Cassell's Saturday Journal.
I.
My name is Josef Ordioni. You will read of me in your books that I am an "excellent guide on foot; very prudent, but fearing neither rock nor snow; and—a rare thing in Corsica—one who consents not only to walk, but even to carry a bag." That is true.
Well, one morning I was smoking my pipe with old Bocca Lanzi, himself a rare good guide once, and we were talking over our great adventures amongst the mountains, when little Luigi galloped up on a donkey to tell me there were two English at Corsacci who needed a guide and mules to take them over the mountains to Corte.
I have a great liking for these English: they are clever enough to prefer riding on mules or even walking to being stuffed into an abominable diligence, where they can see nothing, and run a great risk of being stuck in the snow or thrown down a precipice; besides that, they pay well. So down I went with a gay heart to Corsacci, bidding Luigi follow after with my best mules, and there I found a young Englishman and his wife at the auberge, regaling themselves on a magnificent repast of bruccio and sausage and eggs—in fact, all the most delicious things to found in the village. But if the sight of these good things made my mouth water, the look of the young wife was a thing to make the eyes sparkle. She was not two metres high, with projecting teeth and long ringlets, like the generality of English women; but small and shapely, with sweet, laughing eyes, and her pretty soft hair arranged as elegantly as any lady's in Ajaccio; and her feet were not long and flat neither, but as wickedly pretty as any I have ever seen dropping down from a saddle. He was a fine fellow, too—the Englishman—like me when I was young, but taller; and his face, instead of being dark, was fair as a young girl's. There was nothing else in him girlish, though; and his light moustache was magnificent. You could see they were newly married by their tender looks at each other when they thought no one was looking.
We poor mountaineers can't be expected to understand real pure French as it is spoken in a great city like London, and so I found it difficult to comprehend him at first; but I made out at last that he wanted me to take them to Corte by the most picturesque route I knew, providing I could get there in three days.
"Very good, sir," said I, in my execrable patois; and you shall see all the best that is to be seen in the world."
"Right—ready in half an hour," said he.
That's their way: short, sharp, decisive.
Half an hour! There was just time to run down to Bocognano and tell my old wife of the good luck that had befallen me, and furnish myself with all I required.
To my surprise, I found a stranger sitting with my wife.
"Josef," said she, "here is a gentleman wishes you to take him to Ajaccio."
"Impossible," said I; "I have just promised to take two charming English to Corte."
"Blessed Saint Bartolomeo!" cried my wife, wringing her hands in despair; "you always send us too much or too little."
"If the gentleman can wait four days!" I suggested.
"Four days!" said the gentleman, in our patois. "Why, you can get to Corte and back in less than two."
"True, sir," said I, "if I followed the direct route, but I have promised to show this amiable pair all the glories of the mountains." And then I told him of all the places I meant to visit in the next three days.
He listened very attentively; then suddenly rising and looking at his watch, said—
"I've just time to get the train to Ajaccio. I must do the journey by road at another time."
And with that he disappeared.
II.
Off we started at ten o'clock—Mr. and Mrs. Lesley Fairfax (I have their visiting cards before me, or I should not remember such a mic-mac of sounds) and myself, each on a good mule, and another mule besides to carry our luggage: they had sent on their great baggage by the diligence to Corte. Mr. had not bated me down a sou from the price I asked him. He gave me a handful of excellent cigars that couldn't have cost less than two sous each, though our own coceioli at two for one sou are delicious; and we were as light-hearted and merry as grasshoppers in June. Don't tell me that the English are melancholy! I say these two were as full of mischief and joy as urchins run away from school. There was no end to their laughter and pleasantries, though I could not make them out by reason of their speaking a language even purer and more incomprehensible than the lady's French.
Up we went through the Chestnut Woods and over the Col de Vizzavone, and then, as I had previously determined, we turned off from the main route to pass through the defile of Caracuto. Those who follow the straight road don't know what they lose in the turnings. I have gone through the gorge times out of mind for thirty years, and it seems to me to grow more beautiful every time: it is like the face of one's best beloved. I was glad to see that my young English laughed and joked no more. It showed that they appreciated all the loveliness they looked upon. At every turn Mrs. would stop to make her husband admire the new view that opened before us—the purple depths of the ravine, the snowy peaks sparkling in the sun beyond, the great chestnuts that spread their long arms wide over the hills, the slopes, covered with myrtle now just bursting into flower and filling the air with perfume, the deep chasm, where there is nothing but the riven granite with a cascade plunging down from the very heart of the mountain—all these things gave her such delight that, as she stood still once, her pretty eyes grew wet with a tear of joy. I have felt that myself. As for Mr., he smoked his cigar, looking more often at his bride than anything else, as if he found all the beauties of the world reflected and magnified in her. So be it with loving hearts!
"Isn't it about time to have something to eat?" asked Mr., when we had been going now nearly three hours.
"Patience, sir," said I; "a little further there is a hut where we can get wine, and beyond that, not more than half an hour, is the place where we can dine, and you shall see finer things than you have yet set eyes on."
We bought the wine of an Italian woman at the hut, and went on.
"If we had come a week later," I explained to Mr., "we should have had to bring our own wine; that hut would have had nothing in it."
And then I told him how the Corsicans, being too proud to work, sell their trees to the Italians, who come over from Lucca in hundreds at the end of the summer, and they, after cutting and felling all the winter and early spring, go back to Italy the first week in June, absolutely taking all they have brought, together with the timber and good French money into the bargain.
We caught a glimpse of a group of these Italians sitting by a stack of wood on the hillside, and looking like savages, with their tanned skins, their long black beards, their hair hanging down upon their shoulders, and the rags that served them for clothes.
Presently we came to that part where the gorge narrows and the true defile begins, where the rugged granite goes straight up in all its savage grandeur, and the space between is littered with great boulders, around which the mountain stream sweeps, falling from block to block in huge leaps that dash it into thin spray and white foam. A little further the defile opens into an amphitheatre, and here the stream is crossed by a narrow bridge, which once served as an aqueduct to carry the water to a mill where they ground chestnuts for polenta a little lower down; but the mill is abandoned, and a ruin; while the bridge was so far gone that I would not suffer my English to cross it on the mules, but sent the mules on first, and led them over afterwards on foot. There was only room for one to pass at a time, and the single arch depended simply on the key-stone in the middle.
It was now about two o'clock, and the sun reflected from the rocks was excessively hot; but in the old mill there was capital shelter, and there I determined we should refresh ourselves and give the mules a rest before ascending to Vinezza, the village which we were to stay at that night.
"This will suit madam, "I said, waving my hands round to the great mountains.
"It is very grand," she replied, in a tone of awe.
Indeed, those stupendous rocks and the roar of the water were terrible to one unaccustomed to such things. But it was cool there in the shadow of the mill, and this was what we wanted to invigorate us before making the long ascent. I took the saddles from the mules and turned them loose in the long grass; the saddles I arranged as chairs, and before them I spread out the good things we had brought up with us. Presently Mrs., who was exploring the old mill, gave a cry of delight: she had found an old wall covered from top to bottom with maidenhair fern; and she had forgotten her terror in this discovery.
When I returned to the place where I was arranging the dinner, I met Mr., who had strolled off in another direction, and had not heard his wife's cry because of the falling water that made so great a noise. He had his hands in his pockets and a cigar in his mouth, and was as calm as the mountains themselves; but he looked at me in a strange manner that I could not understand before he spoke; then he said—
"How much more is there of this?"
"We shall have four hours to mount before we reach Vinezza, sir," I replied.
"Which path do we take?"
"We return over the bridge, and re-take the path we left."
"There is none other?"
"None that even a goat could take."
He looked at me in silence on hearing this, as if he would pierce my very heart and read its secrets; then beckoning me towards the door, he nodded to the bridge we had crossed and must cross again to continue our route, and asked, sternly—
"What is the meaning of that?"
On the bridge stood a gaunt woodcutter, an old hat shading his face, his black beard descending to his breast, his legs swathed in old rags. He was leaning on the long bright-headed axe used for felling the great trees.
III.
While I looked at this picturesque figure, which seemed placed there just to complete the savage picture, the Englishman regarded me with his cool, practical eye.
"What does it mean?" he asked again.
"Nothing, but that this woodcutter, who has possibly not looked at decently clothed men for half a year, has come down from the wood up there to see what we are doing."
"All right. Let us go in and sit down at once to dinner. I don't want my wife to see that figure. She's frightened already with the desolation of the place and the stories of brigands she has heard in Ajaccio."
I saw now why he had looked so keenly at me: he suspected I had led him into an ambush, and that the woodcutter was one of our Corsican bandits. At first I was disposed to resent this mistrust—bearing as I do such an unblemished character for honesty—but when we had drunk wine together my good humour returned. Nevertheless, my thoughts returned again and again to the man on the bridge, and I felt that if there existed any danger from marauders, I had certainly done an unwise thing in bringing my English out of the road into a place where all escape could be cut off in a moment.
Suddenly my ear, accustomed to the monotonous noise of falling water, caught a sound that filled me with dread—the sharp clink of metal striking stone. Feigning anxiety about my mules, I rose and went to the door. The man on the bridge was striking away the key-stone with the back of his axe. I thought of my mules and my poor English, and with a cry I dashed along the path towards the bridge to stop the wretch. I thought he had received a sun-stroke and was doing this thing in madness, no villainy of such a kind having occurred before within my remembrance. But I was speedily undeceived as to that, for before I had gone half a dozen steps a hand was stretched out from the wild growth of long grass.
I was caught by the ankle and fell full length. Then up sprang half a dozen woodcutters from amidst the tall lavenders, myrtles, and heaths, where they lay concealed, and in a minute my knife was taken away and my arms bound closely to my side. The bridge fell with a crash as they lifted me up, and I saw the Italian standing in a cloud of dust holding a long pole, which he had used to dislodge the stone he had loosened.
Bleeding from a wound on my forehead I had got by a sharp rock in falling, I was led back to the mill. The door was guarded by two villainous Italians: one armed with an adze, the other with an axe. Within, the young Englishman was standing with his arm about his wife. She was terribly pale, but quite self-possessed. One could see that she was doing her best to give him confidence and courage. Before them stood a square, broad-shouldered Italian, with a coloured handkerchief about his head, his left hand resting on his axe, his right on a billhook carried in the folds of the ragged scarf about his waist.
They had been talking and had come to a stand—neither speaking a language that the other could understand; that is why I had been brought back, we Corsicans speaking both Italian and French.
"Tell the signore," said the brigand, "that we are poor woodcutters going back to our country, and we beg him to give us some of his superfluous wealth in charity."
"How much does he want?" asked the Englishman.
"Say that we shall be satisfied with fifty thousand francs," replied the Italian.
I thought the man was joking, but he stuck to his demand firmly. When I told the Englishman this, he smiled. Then taking off his watch and chain and his rings, he threw them on the ground, adding afterwards his purse.
"That's all they can get out of me, for that's all I have," he said, bitterly.
"This is nothing," said the Italian, after examining the contents of the purse. "Explain to the signore. The money he offers is not sufficient to save us from the pursuit of justice. We should be ruined if we accepted it, for we could never again dare to return to Corsica as woodcutters, nor stay even in our own country. A thing of this kind is not done every day, and we should not have ventured upon it without the assurance of success. We have trustworthy information that the Signor Fairfax is one of the richest of Englishmen. He can give the sum we ask and never feel the loss. There are ten of us—fifty thousand francs gives us each five thousand. That will enable us to go to America and make our fortunes. Not a sou less than that will satisfy us. We do not expect that the signore carries his money with him. We have the address of his brother: here it is." He drew a greasy purse from his pocket and handed a slip of paper. "Let him write to his brother, ordering that the sum shall be sent to him at the Hôtel Brittanique, Livourne. When it comes he shall be set at liberty. Until then he must be our prisoner."
The Englishman and his young wife were astounded when they heard this and saw the paper. They spoke together a few minutes, and then he wrote some lines in his note-book, tore out the leaf, and, giving it to me, said—
"Let him send that to my brother."
The Italian took it, bowed, and in the most gracious manner assured him through me that though we must be kept in confinement for at least a week, everything should be done to make our imprisonment endurable. Then he went, leaving the sentinels before the door.
In half an hour he returned in a fury.
"Tell the Englishman," said he, "that we are not such idiots as he thinks us; this letter, as you see, won't do. He must write another if he values his life. "I took the returned note and read the translation, written in a fine Italian hand between the lines. "Dear Jack," it ran, "we have fallen into the hands of a pack of Italian scoundrels. We are held prisoners in the defile of Caracuto between Bocognano and Corte. Stir up the Foreign Office, and hunt down these rascals as you value the life of poor Mary and your brother Lesley."
That there should be one amongst these scoundrels capable of translating his letter was as much a matter of astonishment to Mr. Fairfax as their possession of his brother's address.
"Tell them," said he, "I can do nothing else. They have told me their position: I will as truthfully tell them mine. I am a Government clerk; my salary is five thousand francs a year. I was married three weeks since, and we came here to spend our honeymoon. Beyond what is in the purse I have given up, my personal baggage at Corte, and our return tickets to London, we have nothing in the world."
I could not believe this myself, for it is impossible that a practical people like the English should marry with nothing at all, and every one knows that no one is poor in England. However, I did my duty, and translated this to the Italian.
He grinned contemptuously. "Let him write to his brother as I directed; the money will come," he said.
"But the money will not come," insisted the Englishman. "My brother is no richer than I. If I ask him to send me fifty thousand francs he will think I am joking."
"We shall take means to show him you are not joking."
"How?"
"If the money does not come, we shall repeat the demand, and send the signore's ear to prove we are in earnest."
Madame, hearing this, could not repress a cry. The Italian was too terribly earnest to be misunderstood.
"We will send two ears if necessary," added the brigand. "Only that will take time—this delay is dangerous. We cannot wait here more than fifteen days."
"And if you do not get the money then?" asked the Englishman, coolly.
The Italian shrugged his shoulders, drew his finger across his throat expressively, and said, "We must put you away where you will not be found, and go away disappointed."
IV.
Mr. Fairfax wrote a letter in accordance with the Italian's directions, but I saw that he did so to gain time, and had no hope of the sum being sent which he demanded. Indeed, I perceived that he had actually told the truth, and that neither he nor his brother was any richer than he represented. He was an eccentric that's all; and these two had married for love, as one reads of in the old romances, without care for the future, incredible as it sounds.
The Italians, being satisfied with this letter, did their utmost to make us comfortable (except setting us at liberty). We had bruccio and roast kid, good bread and wine, as much as we needed; tobacco as well, and dry litter to lie on. But I have no space to tell of all this, nor of our desperate attempt to escape, and many other things which together would fill up a good book. I must come at once to that terrible night when Pietro, or Pero, as he was called, who seemed to be the chief of the gang, took me out of the mill, and, showing me a letter written on English paper, said—
"We have got a reply from the signore's brother. He treats it as a jest, this demand for 50,000 francs. No wonder—the thing is unusual. However, we must make him understand that this is real. The signore must write another letter telling all the facts without naming places or names, and with the letter we must send a little parcel to convince him of the truth. You understand"—he pulled his ear significantly—"his ears must go to-morrow morning. Tell him so. But as we have come to be very fond of the lady, and would spare her feelings, he may make some excuse and come outside for the operation, that she may not see or hear. Go, and make him comprehend all this."
This was a sad duty for me, who had come to love this young Englishman and his wife like my own children. However, it had to be done; and so, when the wife was asleep and Mr. and I were sitting with our cigars outside the mill—a privilege allowed us in the evening—I told him all that Pero had said.
"Well," said he, with a sigh, "my ears must go, though they will fetch me nothing. I might as well ask poor Jack to send me St. Paul's. It will give us another week, at any rate, and we must make one more attempt to break away. Of course I'll have it done outside. But poor Mary!" He paused, his cigar dropped, and, though I heard no sound and saw nothing, I knew the tears were running down his face, and that his heart was breaking.
"We'll get away, Mr.," I said, cheerfully; "they will at the worst not take our lives. Madame has won their hearts with her sweetness and bravery under adversity; and they will neither murder her nor you!"
"We will hope for the best," he said, in a thick voice. "At the best, then, I shall only lose my ears—he paused again. "Disfigured for life! I can never show my head again in society; and for her sake I hoped—" again he stopped; and then, in a smothered tone of passion, he said, "My worst enemy could not have contrived a more dire vengeance—to spoil my prospects for life—to rob me of my wife's love. No, no! she will love me still, though I am but an object of ridicule to all the world beside. Yes, if my bitterest enemy had planned this—"
"May he not?" I asked. "Have you not an enemy who might have done this--giving a report of your wealth that does not exist--luring on these men to--"
"Good Heavens! I never thought of that!" he said, interrupting me. "It might be Scopetta!"
"Scopetta! That is an Italian name. Tell me all about him without reserve."
"Yes; he is a rich Italian merchant living in London. He offered his hand to my wife; she refused him and married me. He vowed she should repent her choice."
"Where did you see him last?"
"At Ajaccio; a week before we left. He followed us like a shadow."
"Wait!" said I, terribly excited with the crowd of ideas that rushed into my head. "Is this Scopetta a tall, spare man with a hooked nose, a big moustache, and a beard cropped close like a Parisian's?"
"Yes, that is he;" and he added other particulars.
"Then," said I, "I saw Scopetta the morning we left Boccgnano, and he learnt from me the route we were to take. This is his doing, for a verity."
"It looks like it. He must know these men and their ways, for he himself is from Lucca. But it makes matters no better for me," he added, ruefully.
"I am not so sure of that, Mr.," said I. "You say he is rich?"
"One of the richest foreigners in London." We did not separate until I had learnt all the young Englishman could tell me about his vindictive enemy. Afterwards I walked about till daybreak, thinking of this affair, and how I might turn my knowledge to advantage. Then I lay down and fell asleep.
A little before seven Pero awoke me by touching my shoulder.
"Fetch the signore," said he.
I went and tapped on the planks that shut off that part of the mill in which my poor English slept.
"The time has come!" I said, in a low voice, when he appeared.
Then we went outside, where all the Italians, with Pero in advance, stood. The young Englishman was pale, but quite calm. In his hand he held the note, asking for money, which was to be sent to his brother with that dreadful proof of earnestness. Casting my eyes over the group of Italians, I detected one more than the usual number, and that extra one was the man who had interrogated me before we left Bocognano. It was Scopetta, who had come to triumph in the disfigurement and ruin of his enemy.
"Are you ready?" asked Pero.
The Englishman handed the letter and nodded. Then one of the Italians, with a long sharp knife in his hand, stepped forward beside Pero. At that moment we heard madame's pretty voice singing lightly within one of the songs which these rough woodcutters never failed to hear with delight. A little murmur rose amongst them, for all knew how tenderly these two loved, and foresaw that this was the last song the poor wife would sing.
There was savage exultation in the face of Scopetta as he stood in the rear, and at that moment met the eye of the unhappy young Englishman.
"Pero," cried I, "send a guard to the bridge; there is a traitor amongst you!"
With a look of alarm he spoke to his own brother, who quickly ran to the plank that crossed the ruined. bridge, and stood there, axe in hand, ready to cleave any one who attempted to escape.
"Speak!" said I to Mr. Fairfax. "Who is that man?" and I pointed out the Italian.
"Giacomo Scopetta!" answered he.
Then, with all the eloquence my passion aroused, I told the Italians the whole truth; and how Scopetta had deceived them as to the Englishman's wealth, in order to make them the instruments of his vengeance. "When he has done that," I added, "he will leave you to get out of the mess you are in as best you may. But you will have this crime to answer for. You are ruined; your only escape is flight to America. To do that you need money; that you may get from Scopetta, by serving him as he would have made you serve his happier rival. The experiment is worth the trial; but it will cause you another week's delay, so I suggest that you double Scopetta's ransom, and make him pay one hundred thousand francs!"
I cannot spin this out; I am too excited. I must tell you the result at once. My advice was adopted. Scopetta was seized and forced to write to his bankers, whose address Mr. Fairfax knew. A week passed, and the money came.
"Tell the Englishman he is free!" said Pero.
"Yes," said I; "but what recompense will you make him for the torture he and his sweet wife have been put to?"
Pero reflected a moment; then he said, with a ferocious grin, "He shall have it!"
He went into the mill where Scopetta was still confined; and the next minute, above the noise of the waters, I heard two terrific yells.
Pero came out to me. His hands were covered with blood. He carried a great green leaf in his hand: upon it lay--two human ears!
"Give these to the signore; and tell him Scopetta will never show his head again in the same city with him!"