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CHAPTER XIV. THE SKIRMISH

At last they reached the summit of the Stelvio, and began the descent of the mountain; and what a glorious contrast does the southern aspect of an Alpine range present to the cold barrenness of the north! From the dreary regions of snow, they came at length to small patches of verdure, with here and there a stunted pine-tree. Then the larches appeared, their graceful feathery foliage checkering the sunlight into ten thousand fanciful shapes; while streams and rivulets bubbled and rippled on every side, – not icebound as before, but careering along in glad liberty, and with the pleasant music of falling water. Lower down, the grass was waving as the wind moved on, and cattle were seen in herds revelling in the generous pasture, or seeking shelter beneath the deep chestnut-trees; for, already, even here, the Italian sun was hot. Lower again came dark groves of olives and trellised vines; long aisles of leafy shade traversing the mountain in every direction, now curving in graceful bends, now in bold zigzags, scaling the steep precipices, and sometimes hanging over cliffs and crags, where not even the boldest hand would dare to pluck the ruddy bunches.

Beneath them, as they went, the great plain of Lombardy opened to their view, – that glorious expanse of wood and waving corn, with towns and villages dotting the surface; while directly below, at their very feet, as it were, stretched the Lake of Como, its wooded banks reflected in the waveless water. What a scene of beauty was that fair lake, with its leafy promontories, its palaces, and its Alpine background, all basking under the deep blue of an Italian sky; while perfumes of orange groves, of acacias and magnolias, rose like an incense in the air, and floated upwards!

Even the hard nature of the wild Hungarian – the rude dweller beside the dark-rolling Danube or the rapid Theiss – could not survey the scene unmoved; and, dismounting from their saddles, the hussars moved stealthily along, as if invading the precincts of some charmed region. Frank was in no haste to leave so picturesque a spot, and resolved to halt for the night beneath the shade of some tall chestnut-trees, where they had sought shelter from the noonday sun. Como was at his feet, straight down beneath him was the wooded promontory of Bellagio, and in the distance rose the Swiss Alps, now tinged with the violet hue of sunset Never was there a scene less likely to suggest thoughts of war or conflict If the eye turned from the dark woods of the Brianza to the calm surface of the lake, everything wore the same aspect of peaceful security. Figures could be seen seated or walking on the terraces of the villas; gorgeously decked gondolas stole over the bay, their gold-embroidered ensigns trailing lazily in the water. Equipages and troops of horsemen wound their way along the leafy lanes; not a sight nor sound that did not portend ease and enjoyment.

With all Frank’s ardor for adventure, he was not sorry at all this. His orders to fall back, in case he saw signs of a formidable movement, were too peremptory to be disobeyed, and he would have turned away with great reluctance from a picture so temptingly inviting. Now there was no need to think of this. The great dome of the Milan Cathedral showed on the horizon that he was not thirty miles from the Austrian headquarters, while all around and about him vouched for perfect quiet and tranquillity.

Tempted by a bright moonlight and the delicious freshness of the night, he determined to push on as far as Lecco, where he could halt for the day, and by another night-march reach Milan. Descending slowly, they gained the plain before midnight, and now found themselves on that narrow strip of road which, escarped from the rock, tracks the margin of the lake for miles. Here Frank learned from a peasant that Lecco was much too distant to reach before daybreak, and determined to halt at Varenna, only a few miles off.

This man was the only one they had come up with for several hours, and both Frank and Ravitzky remarked the alarm and terror he exhibited as he suddenly found himself in the midst of them.

“Our cloth here,” said the cadet, bitterly, “is so allied to thoughts of tyranny and cruelty, one is not to wonder at the terror of that poor peasant.”

“He said Varenna was about five miles off,” said Frank, who did not like the spirit of the last remark, and wished to change the topic.

“Scarcely so much; but that as the road was newly mended, we should be obliged to walk our cattle.”

“Did you remark the fellow while we were talking, – how his eye wandered over our party? I could almost swear that I saw him counting our numbers.”

“I did not notice that,” said the cadet, with an almost sneering tone. “I saw that the poor fellow looked stealthily about from side to side, and seemed most impatient to be off.”

“And when he did go,” cried Frank, “I could not see what way he took. His ‘Felice notte, Signori,’ was scarce uttered when he disappeared.”

“He took us for a patrol,” remarked the other, carelessly; and whether it was this tone, or that Frank was piqued at the assumed coolness of the cadet, he made no further remark, but rode on to the front of the party. Shortly after this the moon disappeared; and as the road occasionally passed through long tunnellings in the rock, the way became totally obscured, so that in places they were obliged to leave the horses entirely to their own guidance.

“There ‘s Varenna at last!” said Frank, pointing out some lights, which, glittering afar off, were reflected in long columns in the water.

“That may still be a couple of miles off,” said Ravitzky, “for the shores of the lake wind greatly hereabouts. But, there! did you not see a light yonder? —that may be the village.” But as he spoke the light was gone; and although they continued to look towards the spot for several minutes, it never reappeared.

“They fish by torchlight here,” said Ravitzky, “and that may have been the light; and, by the way, there goes a skiff over the water at a furious rate! – hear how the fellows ply their oars.”

The dark object which now skimmed the waters must have been close under the rocks while they were speaking; for she suddenly shot out, and in a few minutes was lost to view.

“Apparently the clink of our sabres has frightened those fellows, too,” said Frank, laughing, “for they pull like men in haste.”

“It’s well if it be no worse,” said the cadet.

“Partly what I was thinking, myself,” said Frank. “We may as well be cautious here.” And he ordered Ravitzky, with two men, to ride forty paces in advance, while four others, with carbines cocked, were to drop a similar distance to the rear.

The consciousness that he was assuming a responsibility made Frank feel anxious and excited, and at the same time he was not without the irritating sense that attaches to preparations of needless precaution. From this, however, he was rallied by remarking that Ravitzky seemed more grave and watchful than usual, carefully examining the road as he went along, and halting his party at the slightest noise.

“Did you hear or see anything in front?” asked Frank, as he rode up beside them.

“I have just perceived,” said the cadet, “that the boat which half an hour ago shot ahead and left us, has now returned, and persists in keeping a little in advance of us. There! you can see her yonder. They make no noise with their oars, but are evidently bent on watching our movements.”

“We ‘ll soon see if that be their ‘tactic,’” said Frank, and gave the word to his men “To trot.”

For about half a mile the little party rode sharply forwards, the very pace and the merry clink of the accoutrements seeming to shake off that suspectful anxiety a slower advance suggests. The men were now ordered to walk their horses; and just as they obeyed the word, Ravitzky called out, “See! there she is again. The winding of the bay has given them the advantage of us, and there they are still in front!”

“After all,” rejoined Frank, “it may be mere curiosity. Cavalry, I suppose, are seldom seen in these parts.”

“So much the better,” said Ravitzky, “for there is no ground for them to manouvre, with a mountain on one hand, and a lake on the other. There! did you see that light? It was a signal of some kind. It was shown twice; and mark, now! it is acknowledged yonder.”

“And where is the boat?”

“Gone.”

“Let us push on to Varenna; there must be some open ground near the village!” cried Frank. “Trot!”

An older soldier than Frank might have felt some anxiety at the position of a party so utterly defenceless if attacked; perhaps, indeed, his inexperience was not his worst ally at this moment, and he rode on boldly, only eager to know what and where was the peril he was called on to confront Suddenly Ravitzky halted, and called out, “There’s a tree across the road.”

Frank rode up, and perceived that a young larch-tree had been placed across the way, half carelessly, as it seemed, and without any object of determined opposition.

Two men dismounted by his orders to remove it, and in doing so, discovered that a number of poles and branches were concealed beside the rocks, where they lay evidently ready for use.

“They’ve had a Tyroler at work here,” cried an old Corporal of the Hussars; “they mean to stop us higher up the road, and if we fall back we ‘ll find a barricade here in our rear.”

“Over with them into the lake,” said Frank, “and then forward at once.”

Both orders were speedily obeyed, and the party now advanced at a rapid trot.

They were close to Varenna, and at a spot where the road is closely hemmed in by rocks on either side, when the sharp bang of a rifle was heard, and a shrill cry shouted something from the hillside, and was answered from the lake. Ravitzky had but time to give the word “Forwards!” when a tremendous fire opened from the vineyards, the roadside, and the boat. The red flashes showed a numerous enemy; but, except these, nothing was to be seen. “Forwards, and reserve your fire, men!” he cried. And they dashed on; but a few paces more found them breasted against a strong barricade of timber and country carts, piled up across the way; a little distance behind which rose another barricade; and here the enemy was thickly posted, as the shattering volley soon proved.

As Frank stood irresolute what course to take, the Corporal, who commanded the rear, galloped up to say that all retreat was cut off in that direction, two heavy wagons being thrown across the road, and crowds of people occupying every spot to fire from.

“Dismount, and storm the barricade!” cried Frank; and, setting the example, he sprang from his saddle, and rushed forwards.

There is no peril a Hungarian will not dare if his officer but lead the way; and now, in face of a tremendous fire at pistol-range, they clambered up the steep sides, while the balls were rattling like hail around them.

The Italians, evidently unprepared for this attack, poured in a volley and fled to the cliffs above the road. Advancing to the second barricade, Frank quickly gained the top, and sprang down into the road. Ravitzky, who was ever close behind him, had scarcely gained the height, when, struck in the shoulder by a ball, he dropped heavily down upon the ground. The attack had now begun from front, flanks, and rear together, and a deadly fire poured down upon the hussars without ceasing, while all attempt at defence was hopeless.

“Open a pass through the barricade,” shouted Frank, “and bring up the horses!” And while some hastened to obey the order, a few others grouped themselves around Ravitzky, and tried to shelter him as he lay.

“Don’t leave me to these fellows, Dalton,” cried he, passionately; “heave me over into the lake rather.”

Frank now saw that the poor fellow’s cheek was torn with a shot, and that his left hand was also shattered.

“The fire is too heavy, Herr Lieutenant; the men cannot open a way for the cattle,” whispered the old Corporal.

“What’s to be done then?” asked Frank; but the poor Corporal fell dead at his side as he spoke. The brunt of the conflict was, however, at the barricades; for, despairing of any prospect of removing the obstacles, many of the hussars had ridden recklessly at them, and there, entangled or falling, were shot down remorselessly by the enemy. One alone forced his way, and with his uniform bloody and in rags dashed up to Frank.

“Get the cadet up in front of you,” whispered Frank; and Ravitzky, who was now unconscious, was lifted into the saddle; while the hussar, grasping him with his strong arms, held him against his chest.

“Forward, now,” said Frank; on, to the first village, “and see him cared for.”

“But you, Herr Lieutenant, – what’s to become of you?”

“I ‘ll not leave my poor wounded comrades.”

“There ‘s not a living man amongst them,” cried the hussar. “Come along with us, Herr Lieutenant; we may want your help too.”

The firing ceased at this moment; and to the wild shouts and din of conflict there succeeded a dead silence.

“Keep quiet – keep quiet – stand close beneath the rock,” whispered Frank; “here comes the boat.” And, with slow and measured stroke, the skiff neared the shore, about twenty paces from where they stood.

“Pull in boldly,” cried a gruff voice, in Italian; “there’s nothing to fear now: neither man nor horse could survive that fire.”

“Would that the great struggle could be accomplished so easily!” said a softer tone, which Frank almost fancied he had heard before.

Lanterns were now seen moving in the space between the barricades; and crowds pressed down to examine and pillage the dead.

“Have you found the officer’s body?” asked he of the soft voice.

“I suspect the party was under a sergeant’s command,” said another.

“No, no,” rejoined the other; “Giuseppe was positive that he saw an officer.”

“See that he has not escaped, then,” said the other, eagerly. “The tale of this night’s adventure might be told in two ways at Milan.”

“The cadet is dying, sir; his head has fallen back,” whispered the hussar to Frank.

“The lake, Dalton, the lake!” muttered the dying man, as he threw his arms around Frank’s neck. Frank caught him while he was falling, but, overborne by the weight, reeled back against the rock.

“How many are in the boat?” whispered Frank.

“I see but one man, sir,” said the hussar.

“Now for it, then,” said Frank; “place him between us on a carbine, and make for the boat.”

With the energy of a newly inspired hope, the men obeyed in an instant; and, carrying their wounded comrade, moved stealthily along beneath the shadow of the rock. It was only as they emerged from this, and gained the little gravelly beach, that their figures could be seen.

“Be quiet now, men, and leave that fellow to me,” said Frank, as he cocked his pistol. The clank of the sabres, however, seemed warning enough for the crafty Italian, who jumped at once into the lake. With a rush, the Hungarians sprang into the skiff, while Frank, seizing it by the prow, pushed boldly out. The plunge and the splash had, meanwhile, attracted notice, and several hurried down to the beach. Frank had but time to order his men to lie down, when a crashing volley flew over them. “Now, to your oars, boys, before they can load again.” The light skiff almost rose out of the water to their vigorous stroke: and although the balls tore incessantly amongst them, they continued to row on. Sheets of bright flame flashed across the water, as volley after volley followed; but the Hungarians were soon out of the reach of the fire, with no other loss than some slight wounds.

At first it seemed as if some pursuit were intended; but this was soon abandoned, and the noise of horses and wheels on the road showed that the multitude were departing land-wise. Frank now bethought him what was best to be done. If the country were really in open revolt, the only chance of safety lay in surrendering to something like authority; if this were a mere partial outbreak, in all likelihood the opposite shores of the lake would offer a refuge. A single light, like a star, shone in the far distance, and thither Frank now steered the boat. Ravitsky lay against his knees, his head on Frank’s lap, breathing heavily, and occasionally muttering to himself, while the men kept time to the oars with a low, mournful chant, which sounded at least like a death-wail over their comrade.

The lake opposite Varenna is nearly at its widest part; and it was full three hours after the occurrence of the skirmish that they drew near to the light, which they now saw proceeded from a little boat-house belonging to a villa a short distance from shore. A small harbor, with several boats at anchor in it, opened on the water’s edge, and a great flight of marble steps led up to a terraced garden, adorned with fountains and groups of statuary.

Frank saw at once that he had invaded the precincts of one of those princely villas which the Milanese nobility possess on the lake, and was uncertain which course to take. His Austrian uniform, he well knew, would prove a sorry recommendation to their kind offices. For some time back the breech between the Austrians and the Lombards had gone on widening, till at length every intercourse had ceased between them; and even the public places resorted to by the one were sure to be avoided on that account by the other. Scarcely a day passed without Milan witnessing some passages of hostility or insolence, and more than one fatal duel showed how far political dislike had descended into personal hatred.

To ask for aid and assistance under circumstances such as these, would have been, as Frank felt, a meanness; to demand it as a right would have been as insolent a pretension; and yet what was to be done? Ravitzky’s life was in peril; should he, from any scruple whatever, hazard the chances of saving his poor comrade? “Come what may,” thought he, “I’ll claim their succor – theirs be the shame if they refuse it!”

The approach was longer than he suspected, and, as he went along, Frank had occasion to remark the tasteful elegance of the grounds, and the costly character of all the embellishments. He saw that he was about to present himself before one of the “magnates” of the land, and half prepared himself for a haughty reception. Crossing a little bridge, he found himself on a grassy plateau, on which a number of windows looked out; and these now all lay open, while seated within were several persons enjoying the Italian luxury of a “bel fresco,” as the air of the lake gently stirred the leaves, and carried some faint traces of Alpine freshness into the plains beneath. A large lamp, covered with a deep shade, threw a dubious light through the chamber, and gave to the group all the effect and coloring of a picture.

On an ottoman, supported by pillows, and in an attitude of almost theatrical elegance, lay a lady, dressed in white, a black veil fastened in her hair behind, being half drawn across her face. At her feet sat a young man, with an air of respectful attention; and a little further off, in an easy-chair, reclined the massive proportions of a priest, fanning himself with his skull-cap, and seemingly gasping for air. Behind all, again, was another figure, – a tall man, who, with a cigar in his mouth, slowly paced the chamber up and down, stopping occasionally to hear the conversation, but rarely mingling in it.

There was that air of indolent enjoyment and lassitude, that mingled aspect of splendor and neglect, so characteristically Italian in the scene, that Frank forgot himself, as he stood still and gazed on the group, and even listened to the words.

“After all,” said the young man, in Italian, “it is better to let them do the thing in their own way! Catting off a patrol here, shooting a sentry there, stabbing a general to-day, poisoning a field-marshal to-morrow, seems to our notions a very petty war, but it makes a country very untenable in the end!”

“Fuori i barbari! over the Alps with them at any cost!” growled the priest.

“I agree with you,” said the tall man, stopping to brush the cinder from his cigar, “if you can drive them away in a stand-up fight; and I don’t see why you could not! Numerically, you are about five hundred to one; physically, you look their equals. You have arms in abundance; you know the country; you have the wishes of the people – ”

“The prayers of the Church,” interposed the lady.

“Beati sunt illi qui moriuntur pro patriâ,” muttered the padre.

“You and I, father,” said the young man, “would like a little of that beatitude in this world too.”

Frank had now heard more than he had desired to hear; and, unhooking his sabre, he suffered it to clink at his heels as he boldly advanced towards the windows.

“Who have we there?” cried the tall man, advancing to the terrace, and challenging the stranger.

Frank replied, in French, that he was an Austrian officer, whose party had been waylaid near Varenna, and who had made his escape with a wounded comrade and a few others.

“So the shots we heard came from that quarter?” whispered the youth to the lady.

She signed to him to be cautious, and the tall man resumed, —

“This is a private villa, sir; and as yet, at least, neither an Austrian barrack nor an hospital.”

“When I tell you, sir,” said Frank, with difficulty restraining his passion, “that my comrade is dying, it may, perhaps, excite other feelings than those of national animosity.”

“You are a Hungarian?” asked the youth.

“What of that?” broke in the padre. “Tutti barbari! tutti barbari!”

Meanwhile the tall man leaned over where the lady sat, and conversed eagerly with her.

“You have to think how it will look, and how it will tell abroad,” said he, in English. “How shall we persuade the people that we are in their cause if you make this villa an Austrian refuge?”

She whispered something low in reply, and he rejoined impatiently, —

“These are small considerations; and if we are to be always thinking of humanity, let us give up the game at once.”

“You ‘ll not refuse my comrade the consolations of his Church, at least?” said Frank. “I see a reverend father here – ”

“And you ‘ll never see him follow you one step out of this chamber,” broke in the priest “Ego autem tanquam Burdus, non audiebam,” muttered he, with a wave of his hand.

“But if he be a good Catholic,” interposed the youth, half slyly.

“Let them be confounded who seek to do me evil!” said the priest, with a solemnity that said how deeply he felt for his own safety.

“This discussion is lasting too long,” said Frank, impatiently. “I cannot coerce your humanity, but I can demand as a right that a soldier of your Emperor shall receive shelter and succor.”

“I told you so,” said the tall man, still addressing the lady in English; “first the entreaty, – then the menace.”

“And what are we to do?” asked she, anxiously.

“Let them occupy the boat-house; there are beds in the lofts. Jekyl will see that they have whatever is necessary; and perhaps by to-morrow we shall get rid of them.” Turning towards the youth, he spoke to him for a few minutes rapidly, and the other replied, “You are right I ‘ll look to it.” He arose as he spoke, and bowing politely to Frank, pronounced himself ready to accompany him.

With a few words of apology for his intrusion, as awkwardly uttered as they were ungraciously received, Frank retired from the chamber, to retrace his steps to the harbor.

Little as he was disposed to be communicative, Albert Jekyl – for it was our old acquaintance – contrived to learn, as they went along, every circumstance of the late encounter.

The pliant Jekyl fully concurred in the indignant epithets of cowards and assassins bestowed by Frank upon his late assailants, deplored with him the miserable and mistaken policy of revolt among the people, and regretted that, as foreigners themselves, they could not offer the hospitality of the villa to the wounded man without exposing their lives and fortunes to an Infuriated peasantry.

“What nation do you then belong to?” asked Frank, shrewdly concealing his knowledge of English.

“We are, so to say, of different countries,” said Jekyl, smiling, and evading the question. “The padre is a Florentine – ”

“And the lady?”

“She is a very charming person, and if it were not that she is a little over-devout, a shade too good, would be the most delightful creature in existence.”

“The tall man is her husband, I conclude.”

“No, – not her husband,” smiled Jekyl again; “a person you ‘ll like much when you see more of him. Short and abrupt, perhaps, at first, but so kind-hearted and so generous.”

“And has the villa got a name?” asked Frank, in a voice of some impatience at finding how little his companion repaid his frankness.

“It is called La Rocca,” said Jekyl. “Had you not been a stranger in Italy, you would scarcely have asked. It is the most celebrated on the whole lake.”

Frank thought he had heard the name before; but when, where, or how, he could not remember. Other cares were, besides, too pressing upon him to make him dwell on the subject, and he willingly addressed himself to the more urgent duties of the moment.

The boat-house stood in no need of all Jekyl’s apologies. Frank had lodged in many inferior quarters since he had begun soldiering; there were several excellent bedrooms, and a delightful little salon which looked directly out upon the lake. Ravitzky, too, had rallied considerably, and his wounds, although formidable from the loss of blood, showed nothing likely to prove fatal. Jekyl pledged himself to send a surgeon at once to him; and, adding all kinds of civil speeches and offers of personal services, at last left the friends together to exchange confidences.

“What are our hosts like, Dalton?” said the cadet

“You would call them most patriotic, Ravitzky, for they would scarcely give us shelter. Their only regret seemed that our friends yonder had not done the work better, and finished off the rest of us.”

“It is not pleasant to accept of an ungracious hospitality; but I suppose that I, at least, shall not trouble them long. There ‘s something hot goes on ebbing here that tells of internal bleeding; and if so, a few hours ought to suffice.”

Frank did his best to rally his poor comrade; but the task is a difficult one with those whose fear of death is small.

“You’ll have to write to Milan, Dalton,” said he, suddenly.

“I should rather say, to hasten thither at once,” said Frank. “I ought to report myself as soon as possible.”

“But you mustn’t leave me, Dalton; I cannot part with you. À few hours is not much to you; to me it is a life long. I want you also to write to Walstein for me; he ‘ll take care to tell my mother.”

Frank knew well the breach of discipline this compliance would entail, and that he could scarcely be guilty of a graver offence against duty; but Ravitzky clung to his wish with such pertinacity, throwing into the entreaty all the eagerness of a last request, that Frank was obliged to promise he would remain, and let the result take what shape it might. While he, therefore, gave orders to his only unwounded comrade to hold himself in readiness to set out for Milan by daybreak, he proceeded to write the brief despatch which was to record his disaster. There are few sadder passages in the life of a young soldier than that in which he has to convey tidings of his own defeat. Want of success is so linked and bound up with want of merit, that every line, every word, seems a self-accusation.

However inevitable a mishap might appear to any witnessing it, a mere reader of the account might suggest fifty expedients to escape it. He knew, besides, the soldierlike contempt entertained in the service for all attacks of undisciplined forces, and how no party, however small, of “regulars” was esteemed insufficient to cope with a mob of peasants or villagers. Any contradiction to so acknowledged a theory would be received with loud reprobation, and, whatever came of it, the most inevitable result would be the professional ruin of him unlucky enough to incur such a failure.

“There’s an end of the career of the Lieutenant von Dalton,” said Frank, as he concluded the paper. “Neither his uncle, the Field-Marshal, nor his sister, the Princess, will have favor enough to cover delinquency like this.” It did, indeed, seem a most humiliating avowal, and probably his own depressed state gave even a sadder coloring to the narrative. He accompanied this despatch by a few lines to the Count, his grand-uncle, which, if apologetic, were manly and straightforward; and, while bearing a high testimony to Ravitzky’s conduct, took all the blame of failure to himself alone.

He would gladly have lain down to rest when this last was completed, but the cadet pressed eagerly for his services, and the letter to Walstein must be written at once.

“The surgeon tells me that there is internal bleeding,” said he, “and that, should it return with any degree of violence, all chance of recovery is hopeless. Let us look the danger boldly in the face, then, Dalton; and, while I have the time, let me tell Walstein all that I have learned since we parted. The letter I will confide to your safe keeping till such time as it can be forwarded without risk of discovery.”

“Is there necessity for such precaution?” asked Frank.

“Can you ask me the question?”

“Then how am I to write it?” said he.

“Simply from my dictation,” replied the other, calmly. “The sentiments will not be yours, but mine. The mere act of the pen, for which these fingers are too weak, can never wound the susceptibility of even your loyalty. You are not satisfied with this?”

Frank shook his head dubiously.

“Then leave me where I am. I ask no companionship, nor friendship either, – or, if you prefer it, hasten to Milan and denounce me as a traitor. My character is well enough known not to need corroboration to your charge; the allegation will never hurt me, and it may serve you, Ay, Herr Lieutenant, it will prove an opportune escape for the disgrace of this unlucky night. They will forgive you much for such a disclosure.”