CHAPTER IX.

POOR LUISA!

Dusk had set in ere his relation concluded, and the exhausted girl had fallen into a deep slumber on his breast. Just as the waiter—who, probably, had heard the whole story through the keyhole—brought in lights, a party of armed horsemen galloped through the Porto Nuovo, and halted.

"Which way, said you?" asked one.

"The Centauro, monsignore," replied a voice: it was that of Da Fossi, our villanous host; and the same party of irregular cavalry we had encountered at the Villa D'Alfieri, wheeled into the inn-yard.

"They come! O, my father—O, my God!" cried the unhappy girl, embracing her parent. "O, Signor Claude!—O, Cavaliere di Castelermo, protect us!"

"My daughter!" gasped the old man. "Ah! the agony of this moment! Signor," he added, addressing me, "intercede for us. As a British officer you may do much: my daughter, she may yet be saved—spared to cheer the little time that is left me."

"On my honour! major, we will stand by you to the last," I replied, while my heart melted at the old man's passionate entreaties. "Let us close up and barricade the door, while a message is despatched to the castle for the inlying piquet."

"Thanks, thanks, Madonna bless you! you may do much—and yet for what can I hope?" he muttered, with an air of distraction, as he laid his half lifeless daughter on the sofa, and looked round him for his sabre.

"Signor Claude," whispered Marco, in an agitated manner; "I can only contemplate with horror the probable issue of this affair. Be wary of using your sword," he observed, as I buckled it on. "Innocent as the signorina may be, appearances are against her; and the Masse carry matters with a high hand."

Ere I could reply, we heard the following orders by the leader of the party:—

"Surround the house, and shoot all who attempt to escape. Unsling carbines!" He at the same time leaped from his horse, and rushed up the staircase. A trampling of heavy boots, a jangling of steel spurs and scabbards succeeded—the door of our apartment was thrown open by our half-frightened, half-officious landlord, bowing humbly, with a candle in each hand; and our acquaintance of the preceding evening, the stern old Barone of Castello di Bivona pressed forward, followed by fifteen or twenty well-armed, but motley garbed troopers.

"Traitress! a devil of a chase you have given us," said he, striking his sword on the floor.

"Ahi! protect me, my father! they are come—those enemies of our peace—of my innocent love. Save me! or kiss me and let me die."

"Die!" reiterated her father, in a dreadful tone.

"Surrender all here, in the name of the king!" said the baron, in a loud voice; "in the name of Ferdinand of Naples and Sicily."

"How now, my lord," I inquired, throwing myself forward; "this is a private apartment, and by what right do you make this intrusion?"

"In right of the name I have mentioned. But who are you that assume this air of authority?" he asked, with a frown of surprise.

"What my uniform proclaims: I am one whom you would do well in addressing more politely."

"And your friend is a cavalier of Malta?"

Marco bowed.

"Well, gentlemen, I am a Neapolitan barone, a chief of the Masse, and commandant of Irregular Cavalry; empowered to capture this unfortunate fugitive, and execute upon her a sentence decreed by the chiefs in council at Cassano: the reward due to treason, and leaguing with the enemy. Signori, well aware as you must be of the utter futility of resisting the authority with which I am vested, it will be wiser to restrain the sorrow of this unhappy parent, than to attempt to defeat the views of justice. The girl must die! As for you, signor," he added, addressing me particularly—perhaps because I did not seem to care much for his "authority"—"we have met before; and if my followers are again obstructed, a formal complaint shall be sent to General Sir John Stuart, and you must abide the consequence. The edicts of the chiefs of the Masse, are, just now, the laws of the land. Seize the woman!"

The soldiers advanced, the poor father threw himself before his daughter; I started; but Marco grasped my arm, and I observed that his dark cheek was turning pale: he bit his nether lip, and said:—

"Resistance is indeed vain."

"Monsignore Barone," cried the old major, in a trembling voice; "for the love of the blessed Madonna, spare my daughter! By the head of the Pope!—by the bones of the Saints!—by God himself!—I swear to you she is innocent. The child that is unborn—yea, the beatified Mary herself was not more pure. 'T is my daughter," he added, in a bewildered manner; "O, the little creature I have nurtured from infancy—and to perish thus! 'T is my daughter—my child—the last of them—she—pity me, Signor Barone—you are very good—her mother was slain by a cannon-ball at Altamurra—my arms were around her when her soul went up to her Redeemer. My daughter is pure—innocent—innocent as Madonna!"

"Poor man! you blaspheme," said the barone.

"Spare her, signor illustrissimo—have mercy: it is good to do so, and pleasant to the eye of Heaven. Think how you may one day crave it at the throne of grace, when the deeds of this hour will stand recorded against you in letters of fire. Spare her, for my sake! Remember all I have endured and done for my country. Behold these scars gained when Macdonald was driven from Terracina: her brothers have all followed their mother; they have gone before me to heaven—they died for Italy! Remember, monsignore, when Ettore Caraffa, the Count of Ruvo, took Andria by storm, and reduced it to ruins and ashes—remember how I saved your life at the risk of my own; how my boy, my dark-haired Battista—O, my God! the last of five—fought for you, and fell at your feet covered with wounds. I dragged you from the press, through flames and balls and bayonets—ha! ha!—you were then wounded, faint, and bleeding; but you promised, in a burst of gratitude, that if ever you could serve me you would do it, even to the peril of your life. Yours I seek not; but the life that I gave—the life of my daughter." Gismondo uttered another sepulchral laugh. "The hour is now come, Signor Barone, and I call upon you to redeem the given promise—the life of my daughter."

"Sancto Gennaro!" muttered the old barone, in a troubled voice, as he smote his forehead, "what an hour of shame and agony is this! Give me back the lives of two sons now lying dead in the trenches of Cassano, slain by the treachery of your daughter—hear you that, Maggiore Gismondo?—by her leaguing with the enemy!—Away with her to the verandah, and knot a halter, some of you. Povero voi! entreat me not, vile traitress!" he exclaimed, roughly shaking off the horror-stricken girl, who clasped his knees. "Most unhappily for thee, I remember, at this moment, but too poignantly the loss of my gallant sons. Forward, some of you: seize this unfortunate father; he must not see that which is to ensue. Away with him, and secure the daughter! I would to Heaven, some other than Di Bivona had been sent on this cursed hangman's errand!"

"My sabre! my sabre!" cried Gismondo, wildly rushing round the room, and dashing the chairs and tables right and left in his frenzy.

Seized by many powerful hands, the parent and child were torn asunder: the former was borne away, almost senseless, to a neighbouring monastery; happily for herself, the latter lay in a deep swoon.

"Quick!" cried Bivona; "for Heaven's sake! get this affair over as soon as possible."

"Would monsignore wait till she recovers a little, to pray?" said Baptistello Varro, whom I now recognised as one of the troopers, and who alone seemed to recoil with disgust from the task imposed. "Ah! signor, permit her a little time to pray?"

"No, no, Varro; that would be cruelty: we have not a moment to spare for tears and entreaties. Diavolo! if once she opens these blue eyes of hers, we may be bewitched: there is that in their glance—'tis the mal-occhio!—And you, gentlemen," he addressed us, "will do me the favour to remain where you are, or interfere at your peril."

Gladly would we have resisted, to save this poor victim from those stern and unrelenting patriots; but, as our efforts would have been perfectly futile, and a serious compromise of our own safety, we were compelled to become spectators of the horrible scene which ensued—one, of which I willingly give but a hurried description.

From one of the rafters of a covered verandah, or gallery, which projected on rough wooden columns round three sides of the court or quadrangle of the inn, Baptistello suspended a strong cord with a noose: two red torches, streaming in the night wind, were held aloft, and cast their fitful glare around. The picturesque façade of the old palace, with the rude alterations made by Da Fossi—its broad eaves, its gloomy galleries, vine-clad columns and gleaming casements; the motley group of wild-looking volunteers, with their Calabrian troop horses, and glancing buckles and weapons; the dark visages of those who bore the poor girl to the place of death; and the beautiful victim herself, with her pale cheek and paler bosom, and the dishevelled tresses of her long bright hair, which the old man loved to stroke, were illumined by the strong red light poured from the torches, whilst a dusky gloom enveloped the background: the whole scene would have formed a striking subject for the pencil of a Salvator Rosa.

Revived by the cool night wind, the lips of Luisa were beginning to move: she sighed deeply. Ah! it was agony to contemplate that beautiful bosom, now throbbing almost for the last time!—She opened her eyes, but closed them instantly, as a torch close by flashed full upon her face; consciousness was just returning as the detestable cord was placed round her pure and slender throat.

"Madonna—Madonna receive her!" exclaimed Castelermo, as he held his crucifix aloft to heaven. "Mother of mercy, look on her!—O, gran Dio!" he ejaculated, as she was tossed over the balcony.

There was a horrid jerking and cracking sound, as the cord strained with her weight: her blue eyes opened—oh! frightful was their aspect, as the light of the sputtering torches fell on them; and still more frightful were the distortions of that enchanting form—but for a moment only. There it swung round vibrating, then hung still and motionless; the fair head drooped heavily forward, and the long bright ringlets floated in disorder on the passing wind.

"To horse, and away!" cried Di Bivona; and ere his party had clattered through the Porto Nuovo, Marco and I returned to our apartment, sickening with disgust and horror.

"Basta! let us quit this accursed den, and seek some place of amusement," said the knight. "There is surely some gaming-house or merry cantina in Monteleone. Let us go."

"With all my soul," said I. "Some of the Corsican Rangers are in garrison here. I had a brother amongst them once, and know the corps well, having many friends in it."

"Buono: we shall be sure to fall in with the officers somewhere, at the cafés or the promenade."

We left the inn about the same time that two men of the Campagnia di Morti bore away the remains of Luisa Gismondo in a shell, covered by a pall; around it walked six others, carrying torches, and completely enveloped in sackcloth, having even their faces covered by a black hood, which descended to the chin. They formed a grim and mysterious group, as they wound, by the light of their links, through a dark and narrow alley, to the entrance of some obscure and ghastly charnel-house.

"And Luisa was the bosom friend of Bianca!" thought I, as their monotonous chant died away. "What a tale of horror I have to tell the family of Alfieri!"

Of the Major Gismondo I shall have to relate more hereafter.

CHAPTER X.

THE SIEGE OF SCYLLA.

Next evening we arrived at Scylla: the Scylla of classical antiquity, hoary and worn with the storms of ages, dark with the lapse of years; the stronghold, successively, of the Greek, the Roman, the fair-haired Goth, the swarthy Saracen, the mail-clad Norman knight, the proud Italian prince, the prouder Spaniard, and, lastly, the grasping Gaul. As we approached it, Castelermo bade me remark the roar of the ocean in the caverns beneath the rock; which rises perpendicularly from the water, and is still of considerable danger to mariners. To the ancients it was terrible, on account of its real and fabled dangers, which occupy so prominent a place in the heroic poems of Homer, Ovid, and others; and famous for the loves of Glaucus, and the magic art of Circe, the daughter of the sun (who transformed the beautiful nymph Scylla into that tall rock, which "bulged the pride of famed Ulysses' fleet") and the roar of whose dogs was so terrible to Æneas and his followers.

Opposite rose the fair and fruitful coast of Sicily, the spires of Messina, and the green ridge of the Neptunian hills; behind which sank the setting sun, whose last rays changed the hue of the ocean from blue to purple: the Straits were studded with craft of every description, from the stately British line-of-battle ship, to the little scampavia, with its red and yellow latteen sail. As we pulled up our horses beside Monte Jaci, to view the splendid prospect, the old tradition came to my remembrance:—

"The Italian shore

And fair Sicilia's coast were one, before

An earthquake caused the flaw: the roaring tides

The passage broke, that land from land divides;

And, where the lands retired, the rushing ocean rides."

Æneas, iii.

 

The roaring of the sea in the cavern of Dragara caused our horses to snort and rear; and the sound was not unlike the cry of some "tremendous pest," or monster, such as Scylla was fabled by the poets of old. But, enough; or the reader will suspect me of that "dull pedantry which finds everything ancient necessarily sublime."

The whole coast bore traces of that dreadful visitation, the earthquake of 1783; when vast masses of the shore fell into the sea, burying gardens, fields, dwellings: at the base of Monte Jaci lay a mighty piece of rock, which had been hurled from its summit to the margin of the Mediterranean.

"On that night of horrors," said Castelermo, "when all Calabria was trembling with the internal convulsions of the world; when the sea exhaled brimstone, and the whole face of the land became changed; when rivers were choked up by the fall of the mountains, or rolled back upon their source; when cities, engulfed in yawning earth, were lost for ever; when hills became lakes, and the last day of dread and judgment seemed at hand;—the ocean heaved up its waters to the height of twenty feet; and, rushing on the coast for the distance of three miles, swept back into the abyss two thousand four hundred and seventy human beings, who had fled to the shore for safety from the crumbling cliffs and falling mountains. The heavens seemed all in flames, and the ocean rolled on, wearing the red tint which the light reflected on it; the promontory of Campala fell into the waves, and not a fragment of it remained: Scylla was split to its foundations, and the solid towers of its castle flung from the rock upon the town below. The eagles screamed and grovelled panting on the ground; whilst the wolves howled with affright in the recesses of the woods. All nature seemed convulsed, paralyzed, and trembling on the brink of destruction."

The castle was the property of Castelermo's uncle, the Cardinal Ruffo, Prince of the ancient house of RufFo Sciglio, and a man of political and military celebrity: it was his principal residence, until ruined and dismantled on his defection; but the skill of French engineers had restored it to more than its former strength and glory. On the south side lay the snug little town, terminated by the castle rock; the cliff descending sheer down to the sea, which rolls two hundred feet below. An ample tri-colour waved heavily over the dark grey keep; and the glittering arms of the sentinels flashed in the setting sun, over the ramparts and embrasures, through which protruded the muzzles of heavy cannon: their fire, during the siege, had scared away all the inhabitants of the town below.

Evening deepened around, as we advanced; and we soon saw the light in the Pharo di Messina shed its tremulous rays across the rushing and now dark waters of the Strait.

The garrison of the French marquis was completely invested, on the land side, by the brigade of my countryman, Colonel (latterly Lieutenant-General Sir John) Oswald; who, at the head of the 20th and 58th Regiments, with five companies of De Watteville's corps, and two four-pound field-pieces, had marched to this part of Lower Calabria, immediately after our victory at Maida. Two days after the battle, he captured the town and castle of Monteleone, took three hundred Frenchmen prisoners, seized all the depot there, and, pushing on by forced marches, laid siege to Scylla; which, at the time of my arrival, had been closely blockaded for nearly twenty days.

The twilight of eve had given place to the more sombre shadow of night, when we entered the town; but no chant of vespers arose from the ruined chapels of its deserted convents: soldiers alone crowded its streets and terraces; where the shattered houses, roofless and desolate, and strewn with broken furniture, exploded shells, splinters, and cannon-shot, gave evidence of the daily work of strife.

The quarters of the general were in an old mansion, the gloomy and antique aspect of which, with its vicinity to a church, declared it to have been once the residence of an ecclesiastic of rank. The jagged archivolts, twisted columns, and grotesque decorations, all displayed the peculiar taste of the Saraceno-Norman architect, who raised the massive walls of the building; which Sir John found a very comfortable shelter from the shot of the enemy's batteries.

Leaving our horses with the quarter guard, who occupied the lower part of the building, we were ushered up a narrow wheel-staircase to a vaulted room, where we found Sir John and Colonel Oswald seated by a black oak-table, studying a plan of Scylla; which divided their attention with an imposing jar of wine and a case of cigars.

"Welcome, Dundas," they exclaimed. "Good news, I hope? Crotona—"

"Surrendered on last Wednesday evening."

"Glorious fellow, Macleod!"

"We have taken six hundred prisoners, forty pieces of cannon, and all their stores."

"Excellent!" said the general, rubbing his hands; "and your friend—he belongs to the Free Corps, I presume?"

"Santugo's battalion. Allow me to introduce the Cavaliere di Castelermo, of the military order of Malta, who has accompanied me hither from Crotona: no easy journey, Sir John, in such a land as this. The signor is now lord of Scylla and its castle, since the defection and consequent forfeiture of his uncle, the cardinal."

The knight and general bowed.

"We must drink your health as captain," said Oswald, filling the glasses from the grey-beard, and pushing the cigars towards us; "we must also invite some of the brigade and christen your commission—eh, Dundas! Some of the cardinal's wine this—plenty more in the cellars below—(this was the house of his steward)—capital stuff, is it not?"

"And I have to congratulate the general on the rank he has obtained: long may he enjoy it!" said I, alluding to Sir John's recent elevation to the title of Count of Maida, bestowed on him by Ferdinand of Naples.

Muttering an excuse, he tore open the covers, and hastily conned over the despatches of Macleod.

"Capitulated—honours of war—prisoners—um, um—I am afraid we shall not get possession of Scylla so easily. Here we have been for twenty days before this place—a mere tower with outworks—and are not nearer possession than we were at the first hour of our arrival; we have lost many valuable officers and men, and without having gained any advantage to compensate the service for their loss. Massena may advance to relieve the fortress, if the besieged do not soon yield; and Monteleone, the commandant, appears a most determined fellow: in answer to a flag of truce, he sent me his pledged word that he would fight to the last, and then blow up the place; but never surrender it."

"And this man," I observed, "is said to be a countryman of our own."

"You must not say that, Dundas," replied the general; "it is a mere rumour, I suppose."

"He is resolved to die game," said Oswald: "but Dundas, as you have some notion of these things, just look over this plan, will you, and say which you think the weakest point?"

"We were planning an assault," continued the general, "you may examine the features of the place to-morrow; but it is rather dangerous work to reconnoitre within range of their long nines and twenty-four pounders. This is a plan of the fort, sent to me by Francatripa, who found it in the baggage of a French officer killed in the massacre of Sauveria: it appears to represent the place very correctly. Here is the drawbridge, there the téte-du-pont and fosse. You will observe, Claude, that the castle is built on the extreme verge of the cliff of Scylla, which forms the termination of a promontory washed on three sides by the sea. Our friend, the Cavaliere Marco, no doubt, knows the interior well: massive walls encompass the keep, flanked by strong towers, defended by heavy cannon and mortars."

"The curtains are well loopholed for musketry, which will sweep the ditches in every direction," said Castelermo.

"The casemates are vaulted with solid masonry," added Oswald, removing his cigar: "they are in the flanks of the bastions, and capable of containing a company each. No joke to get into a ditch, exposed to such annoyances as these, eh? They have six thirty-twos to sweep the exterior slope of the advanced fosse; in endeavouring to cross which Colonel Ross has lost some of the bravest fellows in the ranks of the 20th. The place is victualled amply, and watered by a cistern, and its garrison are resolute as their leader. So now what say you to all this? It has baffled the bravery of my brigade, and the skill of M. Navarro, our Italian engineer; though he comes of a stock which has achieved great things in its day."

Here the colonel pointed to a little man, clad in the scarlet Neapolitan uniform, who had hitherto sat quietly smoking a cigar behind the shadow of a column, unseen by us.

"Yes, Signor Colonello," said he, coming forward, and placing a finger on the plan. "I am of opinion still, that there is nothing so effectual as a mine under that part of the wall nearest the town: I myself will volunteer to fire the saucisson."

"The place you speak of, is protected by a battery of thirty-two pounders," replied the general: "you are zealous and brave, Signor Navarro, and we thank you; but a party of workmen could never form chambers in a place so rocky and exposed."

"Signor Count of Maida," retorted the Italian, "I think I have served long enough to know something of mines, their capabilities and nature. My ancestor, Pietro Navarro, first introduced the noble art of springing mines, when chief engineer to the Genoese, at the siege of Serezenella in Florence; and they gained the town by means of this branch of the art military, which is as useful as it is wonderful to behold. He also took the castle of the Egg at Naples, when serving with the Spaniards; and I hold the Castel del'Ova to be stronger than the Castello di Sciglio."

"Perhaps so: but our friend the marquis will take care that we do not undermine any part of his premises. Tell me, Claude, what is your opinion?"

Having a little smattering of engineering, I examined the plan attentively, and found that it was almost impossible to execute Navarro's project of a mine: but by using the compasses and scale, and by an observation made when approaching the place, I discovered that the fortress was completely commanded by a neighbouring hill; by carrying guns to the scarp of which, the outer and inner defences would be easily battered, and a breach effected. It gave me no great opinion of Navarro's skill, that he had not discovered this very simple and obvious method before.

The general gave an exclamation of delight when I proposed and explained my mode of attack; but the eyes of the little Italian, of course, gleamed with malice and anger: which, for the present, he chose to conceal, although he pulled fiercely at his cigar, and kicked with his heels against the column behind him.

"Now, then, Sir John, what ordnance have you?"

"Two curricle guns, four pounders only: they are of little use; but Sir Sidney Smith has lent us eight thirty-sixes from his frigate, for the especial behoof of the marquis and his garrison. To drag them to the scarp of the hill is no easy task: but it shall be done, and this night too! Scylla must be ours, at all risks. Its position at the gorge of the Strait renders it of the greatest importance as a defence against shipping."

"A little Gibraltar," said Castelermo.

"And ours it shall be, if it costs us as much trouble as ever old Gib. did," replied Stuart. "Hallo, Pierce!"

His orderly appeared.

"Give my compliments to Gascoigne, the brigade-major; tell him to get three officers and one hundred and fifty privates from each regiment, to drag the frigate's guns to the top of the hill yonder, where they must be in a position to open at daybreak; and desire him—or stay—I had better give you a note, perhaps."

He scribbled one hastily on the back of a guard-report, or some such valuable document; and Pierce, who had stood erect as a ramrod, raised his hand to his forehead, wheeled sharply round as if upon a pivot, and withdrew. Immediately afterwards a bugle sounded, and in the course of ten minutes the parties went off at a rapid pace with pickaxes, crow-bars, shovels, and ropes; the former to clear the way, and the latter to drag the cannon up the rocky, rough, and steep hill-side.

"Finish the contents of the jar, gentlemen," said Sir John, filling Castelermo's glass, and passing the ample graybeard; "mend the fire, somebody."

Oswald gave the smoky fire-pan a kick, causing its contents to blaze up and diffuse a very little heat, and a great deal of smoke through the apartment; which, like most in Italy, being without fire-place or chimney, was warmed by a panful of burning olive-husks, impregnating the atmosphere with a disagreeable odour.

"O, for the coal fires of old England!" said the general.

"Or the snug parlour of Dunnikeir!" chimed in Oswald; thinking, doubtless, of his comfortable mansion in the east neuk of Fife.

After half an hour's conversation, maintained principally by myself, in describing the journey from Crotona, we adjourned to the scene of operations; where four hundred and fifty soldiers were toiling along a narrow and rugged road, dragging the heavy guns from the beach towards the mountain.

"Beware of that little fellow Navarro!" said Castelermo, tapping me on the shoulder; "he regards you with no friendly eye, for the exposé you made of his ignorance. He is Sicilian bred, and the Sicilians are slippery dogs."

A party provided with hatchets, pickaxes, and spades, moved in front, and cleared the way by cutting down trees and hedges, levelling walls and fences, and removing all obstacles to the progress of those who brought the cannon; some pulling the ropes attached to the clumsy ship-carriages, whilst others urged the little creaking wheels by applying crow-bars behind. It was a task equally slow and laborious; but the officers, with proper zeal, set an example to the soldiers, by sharing in the toil, and working among them without their coats. On the hill all traces of road or track had disappeared, and thickets of olives, wild vines, ruined walls, masses of sandstone, ruts, and gorges, obstructed the way so much, that the hour of two in the morning arrived ere the guns were posted and ready for service.

Our little party of artillery, assisted by some of the infantry of the line, had them loaded, depressed, and prepared to open fire, the instant day began to brighten the Straits of Messina.

Meanwhile, the marquis and his garrison were not idle: by the noise in the town below, they became aware that something unusual was going on; and blue balls were burned on every battlement and pinnacle, until all Scylla seemed wrapped in livid flames: a ghastly glare lighted up the ocean to the west, and the mountains to the east; the clouds above us floated in sulphury blue; and even the spires of Fiumara and Messina glimmered in the cold, unearthly lustre shed from those lofty ramparts. The castle was so distinctly revealed, that we could have counted every stone in the massive keep, and every bar in the grated windows; but the night was so dark as effectually to conceal our operations. They fired a few rounds of shot and shell at random, killing a few of the guards who blocked up the avenues of the place, but otherwise without effect; and I have no doubt they were a little disconcerted, when dawning day revealed to them eight thirty-sixes on the mountain-side, and opposed to the weakest part of their works. A commotion was immediately observable among them; and a still greater one when, on firing our first salvo, a mass of the outer bastion, above the cordon, fell into the ditch below.

Encouraged by this, our artillerymen plied the cannon with might and main, working in their shirt-sleeves (it was a broiling morning); but after an hour's firing, the carronades became heated, and began to "kick" and recoil so much, that they were compelled to cease operations for a time, and permit them to cool: a process which the French usually facilitate by introducing sponges steeped in vinegar, when it can be had; which is not often, on service.

The gallant garrison strove hard to interrupt these successful operations; but as we were rather beyond the range of musketry, and their battery-guns could not be pointed to such an elevation as that on which we were situated, they had recourse to mortars: these, however, were so ill-managed that the bombs generally fell short, and either sank into the turf or rolled down the hill to the sea-shore and exploded among the breakers.

When again our battery opened, we heard the French band playing the old republican carmagnole—a piece of mere gasconade.

"I will bet a dozen of wine we change their tune in an hour," said the general, who was watching the operations through his telescope. "We will humble them yet."

"Ha! what can that be?" I exclaimed; "a sortie?"

"No; but the devil seems to have jumped over the castle-wall into the town below," said Oswald. An unusual bustle took place amongst our soldiers, who were seen running through the streets in confusion, and exposed to the enemy's musketry, which instantly opened on them.

An enormous carcass, 230-pounds weight, had been blown from a mortar into Scylla; with the intention of setting it on fire. The combustibles which compose this amiable engine of modern warfare, are pitch, tallow, powder, saltpetre, oil, broken barrels of muskets, loaded grenades, bars of iron, chains, and broken bottles, all hooped together in one globular mass; through these, fuse-holes are bored, and to which lighted matches are applied the moment before the bomb is shot forth.

This ponderous affair descended through the roof of the general's temporary quarter; where, luckily, there was no wood-work to burn: but the house was shattered to its foundations, unroofed, and blown to ruins in a moment.

"Basta!" exclaimed Cavaliere Marco, as the carcass exploded, without doing further harm; "a rare fellow is this marchese! He will fight to the death-gasp, I warrant; and Scylla will never fall while his hand can hold a sabre."

"Then we will leave the castle in a worse predicament than the earthquake left it," replied Sir John, closing his telescope sharply.

"You may blow it into the sea, for aught that I care, gentlemen," said the Italian; "its late lord, my uncle, was ever a niggard of his ducats to me, and I have no great love for his old house. Many an unhappy heretic and infidel has perished in the obscurity of its dungeons. I know something of them. Will you believe it, Signor Claude? the old bashaw once lodged me in them for a week, because I interfered with his friendship for a certain fair damsel of Reggio: cardinals are not to be trifled with!"

"Well, sir," said the general, "you may join the assault to-night, if the breach is practicable." The eyes of the brave cavalier sparkled.

"With heart and hand, excellency! I bear as much hatred to our foes in Scylla, as a Christian man may bear to others. They are the false, tyrannical, and oppressive French! I have not forgotten that when Napoleon's fleet appeared off Malta, the knights of Provence, Auvergne, and all the French langue, abandoned the banner of the order, instead of fighting like L'Isle Adam of old, as long as stone wall and steel blade remained true to them."

The general bowed, and smiled slightly at the Italian's enthusiasm.

"Thank Heaven, the carcass did no more damage," said he: "the effect of one, properly shot, is indeed tremendous. I saw one fired when Moore took the Mozzello fort. Ah! Dundas, it was your poor brother, Frank, and I who led on the stormers there: he was a brave and dashing fellow, and would have been a glory to his profession but for that dog of a German—Kranz."

Before sunset a tolerable breach was effected in that part of the bastions next the town; and by way of filling up the interval of time till dusk, our battery played on the keep with such success that a great part of the wall repaired by the French fell down, and thus weakened the fort considerably. But the marchese kept his soldiers steadily at work the whole day, although exposed to our fire; and, with billets and facines, endeavoured, in the usual manner, to repair the breaches: they, however, were reported fully practicable by the officer in charge of the battery, and at eleven o'clock that night an assault was ordered to take place.

CHAPTER XI.

THE FORLORN-HOPE.

At sunset the following notice was circulated:—

"Brigade Orders.—Officers desirous of leading the forlorn-hope are requested to send in their names, without delay, to Brigade-Major Gascoigne."

After turning over this invitation in my mind for some time, and weighing the chances of promotion against those of escape, I resolved not to send in my card to Gascoigne; notwithstanding that longing for fame and distinction—a secret craving to be the first man among the multitude, which, in fact, is the true sentiment that makes us buckle on the sword at first: but to lead a forlorn-hope is to throw away one's life.

Just when the troops were getting silently under arms in a sheltered place, near an old, gloomy, and empty convent, I went to the rallying post. The spirited Cavaliere di Castelermo earnestly requested the general to allow him the honour of heading the dangerous enterprise; but his services, his high courage and birth, and his commander's cross, availed him nothing in the present instance. Sir John politely thanked him; and hinted, as delicately as he could, that a British officer alone could lead where British soldiers were to follow.

"Signor Count," replied the Italian bitterly, "there was a time when the cross of St. John was valued more highly—when its wearers followed none; but alone led the way. It has pleased Fate to try us sorely, like the Templars of other days: we have been deprived of our ships, our castles, and our possessions, of all but our name and glory; yet I trust there is a time to come when once more the banner of Malta will be what it was—what it has been ever since the accursed Mussulmans captured Rhodez: the shield of the Christian mariner, and the terror of the African barbarian!"

The restoration of his order to all its chivalric glory and military power, was one of Castelermo's darling themes; and one about which he bored me for many a long hour. Poor Marco! he was doomed never to behold the realization of those gay visions of his bold and heroic fancy.

"Yet, signor," he continued, "if I cannot lead in the assault, I will endeavour to be the second man within the breach."

"Young Morley, of the 20th, has sent in his name," said Gascoigne; who at that moment approached, with a number of notes in his hand. "The little fool!" muttered the general; "poor boy—he has seen little enough of life yet to be in such a hurry to quit it. Does he lead the stormers?"

"No—Dundas, of ours," replied Gascoigne, who was a 62nd man. "So you mean to lead 'the lost children' to-night," he added to me.

"No, faith! a company is not got every day, and——"

"Your name is on my list as a volunteer, though!"

"The deuce it is!" I exclaimed, gravely; "I never sent it to you."

"Amazing!" said he, handing me a note, written in a hand and signed with a signature so like my own—having every blot, turn, and dash—that I was confounded and nonplussed.

"I never penned this note, gentlemen! Never! I pledge my honour: it is a forgery, to lead me into unnecessary danger."

"Singular!" said the brigade-major, puzzled.

"'T is the roguery of Navarro," whispered Marco: "I will wager a hundred crowns to a carlino, this is a piece of his revenge."

"Dundas, there is no time for inquiry or exposure just now," said Colonel Oswald. "What do you propose—to withdraw your name?"

"No, I will lead the assault; and tomorrow, if I survive, shall expose this cowardly Sicilian forger, who is a disgrace to the uniform he wears;" said I, exasperated to find myself compelled, in honour, to undertake this most perilous and deadly duty, where the chances of escape with life were as one to a hundred, without the glorious credit of being a willing volunteer.

"Fall in—the stormers," cried Gascoigne.

"Gentlemen—to your posts," cried Sir John; and I was left almost alone. The time of attack was so close at hand, that luckily I had little time for reflection: yet, for a few minutes, I became grave and melancholy enough. Life, death, home, Bianca, wounds and agony, all floated in confusion before me: but these misgivings were stifled, and a chivalric recklessness—a desperate hope—a glow of courage that would make one face the devil, took possession of my breast, when the stormers, two hundred in number, selected from volunteers of the 20th, threw off their knapsacks, blankets, and canteens, and were handed over to me by their adjutant. For my heavy cocked-hat, with its long staff plumes, I substituted a light foraging cap; for my tasselled hessians, a pair of large jack-boots. I buckled my waist-belt tighter, examined the blade and hilt of my sword, threw away my cigar, and gave the word—

"Attention! Mr. Morley you will inspect the rear-rank."

The pouches were opened, the flints and ammunition examined by the light of the diamond-like stars; the orders to fix bayonets, and load with ball-cartridge, followed. The ramrods went home on the charges with a sullen, muffled sound; the muskets rattled, and then the ranks became motionless and still. The bell of some distant campanile tolled the eleventh hour, and as the sound floated away, I could hear my own heart beating, through all its thickening pulses.

My subaltern, poor lad, looked very pale: I could perceive it by the starlight.

"Morley!" I whispered, in a tart tone of surprise.

"I am thinking of my mother—she is far away, at home;" he faltered, and colouring deeply, added, "I cannot help these thoughts."

"Few of us will hear twelve strike," thought I, whilst closing the ranks, and lowering the point of my sabre to the general, to intimate that we were ready.

"Success to you, Dundas," said he. "Move on by sections: you know the breach—at the top, the main street. The fellows begin to scent our purpose already. You will be ably supported: Oswald, with the 58th; Ross, with the 20th; de Watteville's corps is the reserve. Forward!"

We moved off, and at the same moment the French guns again opened on the town, worked with renewed energy and rapidity. The rock of Scylla was shaken to its sea-worn foundations; and the lights, flashing from battlement and embrasure, revealed the parapets lined with stern faces and bristling bayonets, the lofty keep crowded with men, and its giant outline towering over the whirling smoke which issued from the guns of the lower works.

The windings of the shore, the peak of Monte Jaci, and the caverns below us, rang with continual discharges of the artillery; and the intervals were filled by the roar of the seething surf, and its booming in the yawning depths of Dragara, where

"Scylla bellows from her dire abodes!

Tremendous pest! abhorred by men and gods!

Hideous her voice, and with less terror roar

The whelps of lions in the midnight hour."

Odyssey, Book xii.

 

The night was close and still; the frequent flashes of the fire-arms reddened the gathered clouds, and lightened the bosom of the ocean: the scene was grand and impressive. But we had very little poetry in our hearts as we stumbled up the rough dark street, over which the thirty-twos and long nines whistled incessantly; one moment dealing death and mutilation amongst us, and the next bringing some ruined gable or ponderous balcony thundering down on our perilous line of march. With the utmost speed we pressed forward, while Oswald followed with his corps, and without much loss we passed the houses, and debouched upon the ridge, when the whole outline of the fortress burst at once upon our view. We rushed forward to the breach under a tremendous fire, which rained from every parapet, point, and loophole. Magnificent and terrible was the aspect of the castle at that moment: once more, innumerable blue lights shed their livid and sepulchral glare on town and fortress, land and sea; enabling the defenders to direct their fire steadily upon us. The musketry rolled in one voluminous blaze over breastwork and palisade, while the batteries played with incessant rapidity, loading the air with the sound of thunder; for the echoes, thrown back by the hills, were redoubled by the resounding caverns of the rock. From the summit of the keep to the lower walls, every point seemed to swarm with men; and was either blazing with light or shadowed by smoke, and bristling with lines of flashing steel.

Before us lay the breach, foredoomed to be the deathbed of many; it was an immense mass of loose stones, and the ascent to it was most troublesome, with such obstacles as we had to contend with. Fascines and chevaux-de-frise were thrown across the gap; and in rear of this crowded the garrison, who were firing on us with deadly coolness and precision.

Morley fell dead at my feet! An indescribable sensation—a kind of frenzy possessed me. I shouted and rushed up, brandishing my sabre and holding aloft in my left hand the little standard, which I had undertaken to place on the walls of Scylla or die in the attempt: it was blown to ribbons by the storm of balls. Navarro was forgotten: I thought only of glory and Bianca!

"Forward, 20th! Remember Egmont! On, on! Hurrah!"

"Hurrah! hurrah!" cried the wild stormers, as they scrambled up the breach in a mob, encumbered by the killed and wounded, who were falling every second under their feet. A shower of hand-grenades, thrown by the grenadiers of the 20th, who were posted in rear of a low wall close by, drove the enemy back from the chevaux-de-frise, and shattered it to pieces. These military engines, which are now most unaccountably laid aside, were followed by a few round shot from our battery: their discharge created great confusion among the French; so much so that we reached the summit of the breach without suffering half the slaughter I had anticipated.

A new engine was now brought into operation, the effect of which will never be forgotten by me, while life and memory remain.

"Push on, for God's sake! O, my brave fellows! trust now to the bayonet, and the bayonet only!" I cried.

"Viva Ferdinando nostro e la Santa Fede!" shouted Castelermo, springing to my side; but the Calabrian war-cry was almost lost in the cheers of the 20th, and the terrific din around us: the ear was stunned with one continual roar of frightful sounds. But the groan, the stifled gasp, the agonizing cry were unheard or unheeded: we made the corpses of our dearest comrades stepping-stones, and through the shot and shell-splinters, which swept around us like a hail-storm, we rushed on, to close, to grapple with, and overwhelm the enemy. At their head we perceived the marquis, a noble-looking fellow, on whose broad breast the stars and medals of his achievements were shining in the light from the muskets and bursting bombs.

At that instant I reached the summit of the breach, and laid my hand on the chevaux-de-frise to vault over, when the earth heaved and yawned beneath our feet; a tremendous explosion and a dreadful crash ensued: a hundred of my party were blown to atoms in a moment, and I was thrown over the barrier, falling headlong in the midst of the enemy.

Unseen by us, after dusk, a caisson des bombes, or tub filled with loaded shells, had been secretly sunk under the stones of the breach, and being slightly covered over by fragments of masonry, lay concealed until the moment we trod upon it; when the French fired it by means of a saucisson, and produced a frightful catastrophe. There was a pause for a moment; but a moment only.

The few survivors of the storming party recoiled, and I saw Castelermo clinging with all the desperation of a dying man to a cope-stone of the shattered battlement. The stone yielded and gave way; there was a cry of "Basta!" and the poor knight vanished; but whether into the fosse or the sea beneath the cliffs, I knew not: in either case, I was sure he must have perished.

A yell of triumph burst from the French; it was echoed by one of defiance from our stormers, who once more rushed forward, led on by Colonel Oswald. His tall and stately figure afforded a prominent mark for the fire of the besieged; but he miraculously escaped. With all the courage that desperation could inspire, I used my sabre among the French, with a strength and energy they were unaccustomed to; but my efforts to clear the barrier and rejoin our stormers were perfectly ineffectual. At the very moment that Oswald sprang, sword in hand, over the now shattered blades of the chevaux-de-frise, followed by the 20th, thirsting for vengeance, I received a blow from the butt of a musket, and felt as if crushed beneath the weight of a mountain; the light of a thousand stars seemed to dance before me; then all was dark, horribly dark! My God! I faltered, and sank to the earth: the French, supposing me dead, trod over me as they rushed forward to the conflict.

The fatal breach was now passed, and our soldiers fought like lions to retain their ground within it. The conflict was maintained, hand to hand, with resolute valour: swords and ponderous musket-butts were whirling about like sticks at Donnybrook fair.

My head swam with the effects of the blow; yet I contrived to crawl from among the legs of the French—whose red breeches and leather leggings I shall not soon forget—and drew near Oswald. Then starting up, half blinded with blood, smoke, and confusion, I rushed upon the French commandant. I had not exchanged half a dozen passes with him, ere a heavy dizziness came over me: I staggered backwards, and, sinking, clung to a cannon for support. He had raised his sabre aloft to cleave my head in two; but, like a gallant soldier as he was, he spared me, and engaged Oswald, in whom he found no common adversary; for the colonel was stout of heart and strong of hand as any kail-supper that ever came out of the famous "kingdom" of Fife.

Short but desperate was the combat that ensued: a stroke across the temple laid the famous marchese, whose name was so terrible to the Neapolitans, prostrate before his conqueror; and he was trodden to the earth among the gory corpses which cumbered the breach; while the whole 58th, with their black standards in front, swept over us.