"We expect to be attacked by noon," said the officer, in a tone the very reverse of hopeful or encouraging.

"You can hold this pa.s.s against twenty thousand," said M'Caskey.

"We shall not try," said the other. "Why should we be the only men to get cut to pieces?"

The ineffable scorn of the little Colonel as he turned away was not lost on the other; but he made no reply to it, and retired. "We are to have an escort as far as Ravello; after that we are to take care of ourselves; and I own to you I think we shall be all the safer when we get out of the reach of his Majesty's defenders."

"There," cried the Sergeant who acted as their guard,--"there, on that rock yonder, are the Reds. I'll go no further."

And as they looked they saw a small group of red-shirted fellows lying or lounging on a small cliff which rose abruptly over a stream crossed by a wooden bridge. Attaching his handkerchief to his walking-stick, M'Caskey stepped out boldly. Skeffy followed; they reached the bridge, and crossed it, and stood within the lines of the Garibaldians. A very young, almost boyish-looking, officer met them, heard their story, and with much courtesy told them that he would send one of his men to conduct them to head-quarters. "You will not find the General there,"

said he, smiling; "he's gone on in that direction;" and he pointed, as he spoke, towards Naples.

Skeff asked eagerly if the young officer had ever heard of Tony Butler, and described with ardor the handsome face and figure of his friend.

The other believed he had seen him. There was, he knew, a _giovane Irlandese_ who was wounded at Melazzo, and, if he was not mistaken, wounded again about four days back at Lauria. "All the wounded are at Salerno, however," said he, carelessly, "and you are sure to find him amongst them."

CHAPTER LVI. THE HOSPITAL AT CAVA

Had Skeff been in any mood for mirth, he might have enjoyed as rich drollery the almost inconceivable impertinence of his companion, who scrutinized everything, and freely distributed his comments around him, totally regardless that he stood in the camp of the enemy, and actually surrounded by men whose extreme obedience to discipline could scarcely be relied on.

"Uniformity is certainly not studied here," cried M'Cas-key, as he stared at a guard about to be detached on some duty; "three fellows have gray trousers; two, blue, one a sort of canvas petticoat; and I see only one real coat in the party."

A little further on he saw a group of about a dozen lying on the gra.s.s smoking, with their arms in disorderly fashion about, and he exclaimed, "How I 'd like to surprise those rascals, and make a swoop down here with two or three companies of Cacciatori! Look at their muskets; there has n't been one of them cleaned for a month.

"Here they are at a meal of some sort. Well, men won't fight on beans and olive oil. My Irish fellows are the only devils can stand up on roots."

These comments were all delivered in Italian, and listened to with a sort of bewildered astonishment, as though the man who spoke them must possess some especial and peculiar privilege to enable him to indulge so much candor.

"That's not a knapsack," said he, kicking a soldier's pack that he saw on the gra.s.s; "that's more like a travelling tinker's bundle. Open it, and let's see the inside!" cried he to the owner, who, awed by the tone of command, immediately obeyed; and M'Caskey ridiculed the shreds and patches of raiment, the tattered fragments of worn apparel, in which fragments of cheese and parcels of tobacco were rolled up. "Why, the fellows have not even risen to the dignity of pillage," said he. "I was sure we should have found some saintly ornament or a piece of the Virgin's petticoat among their wares."

With all this freedom, carried to the extreme of impertinence, none molested, none ever questioned them; and as the guide had accidentally chanced upon some old friends by the way, he told M'Caskey that they had no further need of him; that the road lay straight before them, and that they would reach Cava in less than an hour.

At Cava they found the same indifference. They learned that Garibaldi had not come up, though some said he had pa.s.sed on with a few followers to Naples, and others maintained that he had sent to the King of Naples to meet him at Salerno to show him the inutility of all resistance, and offer him a safe-conduct out of the kingdom. Leaving M'Caskey in the midst of these talkers, and not, perhaps, without some uncharitable wish that the gallant Colonel's bad tongue would involve him in serious trouble, Skeffy slipped away to inquire after Tony.

Every one seemed to know that there was a brave _Irlandese_,--a daring fellow who had shown himself in the thick of every fight; but the discrepant accounts of his personal appearance and looks were most confusing. Tony was fair-haired, and yet most of the descriptions represented a dark man, with a bushy black beard and moustache. At all events, he was lying wounded at the convent of the Cappuccini, on a hill about a mile from the town; and Father Pantaleo--Garibaldi's Vicar, as he was called--offered his services to show him the way. The Frate--a talkative little fellow, with a fringe of curly dark-brown hair around a polished white head--talked away, as they went, about the war, and Garibaldi, and the grand future that lay before Italy, when the tyranny of the Pope should be overthrown, and the Church made as free--and, indeed, he almost said as easy--as any jovial Christian could desire.

Skeffy, by degrees, drew him to the subject nearest his own heart at the moment, and asked about the wounded in hospital. The Frate declared that there was nothing very serious the matter with any of them. He was an optimist. Some died, some suffered amputations, some were torn by sh.e.l.ls or grape-shot. But what did it signify? as he said. It was a great cause they were fighting for, and they all agreed it was a pleasure to shed one's blood for Italy. "As for the life up there," said he, pointing to the convent, "it is a _vita da Santi_,--the 'life of saints themselves.'"

"Do you know my friend Tony the Irlandese?" asked Skeff, eagerly.

"If I know him! _Per Bacco!_ I think I know him. I was with him when he had his leg taken off."

Skeff's heart sickened at this terrible news, and he could barely steady himself by catching the Fra's arm. "Oh, my poor dear Tony," cried he, as the tears ran down his face,--"my poor fellow!"

"Why did you pity him? Garibaldi gave him his own sword, and made him an officer on the day of the battle. It was up at Calanzaro, so that he 's nearly well now."

Skeff poured in innumerable questions,--how the mischance occurred, and where; how he bore up under the dreadful operation; in what state he then was; if able to move about, and how? And as the Fra was one of those who never confessed himself unable to answer anything, the details he obtained were certainly of the fullest and most circ.u.mstantial.

"He's always singing; that's how he pa.s.ses his time," said the Frate.

"Singing! how strange! I never knew him to sing. I never heard him even hum a tune."

"You 'll hear him now, then. The fellows about curse at him half the day to be silent, but he does n't mind them, but sings away. The only quiet moment he gives them is while he's smoking."

"Ah, yes! he loves smoking."

"There--stop. Listen. Do you hear him? he's at it now." Skeff halted, and could hear the sound of a full deep voice, from a window overhead, in one of those prolonged and melancholy cadences which Irish airs abound in.

"Wherever he got such doleful music I can't tell, but he has a dozen chants like that."

Though Skeff could not distinguish the sounds, nor recognize the voice of his friend, the thought that it was poor Tony who was there singing in his solitude, maimed and suffering, without one near to comfort him, so overwhelmed him that he staggered towards a bench, and sat down sick and faint.

"Go up and say that a friend, a dear friend, has come from Naples to see him; and if he is not too nervous or too much agitated, tell him my name; here it is." The friar took the card and hurried forward on his mission. In less time than Skeff thought it possible for him to have arrived, Pantaleo called out from the window, "Come along; he is quite ready to see you, though he doesn't remember you."

Skeff fell back upon the seat at the last words. "Not remember me! my poor Tony,--my poor, poor fellow,--how changed and shattered you must be, to have forgotten me!" With a great effort he rallied, entered the gate, and mounted the stairs,--slowly, indeed, and like one who dreaded the scene that lay before him. Pantaleo met him at the top, and, seeing his agitation, gave him his arm for support. "Don't be nervous," said he, "your friend is doing capitally; he is out on the terrace in an armchair, and looks as jolly as a cardinal."

Summoning all his courage, Skeflf walked bravely forwards, pa.s.sed down the long aisle, crowded with sick and wounded on either side, and pa.s.sed out upon a balcony at the end, where, with his back towards him, a man sat looking out over the landscape.

"Tony, Tony!" said Skeffy, coming close. The man turned his head, and Skeff saw a ma.s.sive-looking face, all covered with black hair, and a forehead marked by a sabre cut. "This is not my friend. This is not Tony!" cried he, in disappointment. "No, sir; I'm Rory Quin, the man that was with him," said the wounded man, submissively.

"And where is he himself? Where is Tony?" cried he.

"In the little room beyond, sir. They put him there when he began to rave; but he's better now, and quite sensible."

"Take me to him at once; let me see him," said Skefif, whose impatience had now mastered all prudence.

The moment after, Skefif found himself in a small chamber, with a single bed in it, beside which a Sister of Charity was seated, busily employed laying cloths wet with iced water on the sick man's head. One glance showed that it was Tony. The eyes were closed, and the face thinner, and the lips dry; but there was a hardy manhood in the countenance, sick and suffering as he was, that told what qualities a life of hardship and peril had called into activity. The Sister motioned to Skefif to sit down, but not to speak. "He's not sleeping," said she, softly, "only dozing."

"Is he in pain?" asked Skefify.

"No; I have no pain," said Tony, faintly.

Skefif bent down to whisper some words close to his ear, when he heard a step behind. He looked up and saw it was M'Caskey, who had followed him. "I came here, sir," said the Colonel, haughtily, "to express my astonishment at your unceremonious departure, and also to say that I shall now hold myself as free of all further engagement towards you."

"Hush, be quiet," said Skefif, with a gesture of caution.

"Is that your friend?" asked M'Caskey, with a smile.

Tony slowly opened his eyes at these words, looking at the speaker, turning his gaze then on Skeff, gave a weak, sickly smile, and then in a faint, scarce audible voice, said, "So he _is_ your G.o.dfather, after all."

Skeff's heart grew full to bursting, and for a moment or two he could not speak.

"There--there, no more," whispered the Sister; and she motioned them both to withdraw. Skeff arose at once, and slipped noiselessly away; but the Colonel stepped boldly along, regardless of everything and every one.

"He 's wandering in his mind," said M'Caskey, in a loud, unfeeling tone.

"By all that's holy, there's the scoundrel I 'm dying to get at,"