 | CHAPTER XIV. The wing-and-wing, or, Le Feu-follet |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
What smitten most proclaims the pride of power,
And arbitrary nod.”
Young.
It is probable that Nelson never knew, precisely, what
passed between Ghita and the lady mentioned in the last
Chapter. At all events, like every other application that
was made to the English admiral, in connection with this sad
affair, that of Ghita produced no results. Even the mode of
execution was unchanged; an indecent haste accompanying
the whole transaction; as in the equally celebrated trial and
death of the unfortunate Duc d'Enghien. Cuffe remained to
dine with the commander in chief, while Carlo Giuntotardi
and his niece got into their boat, and took their way, through
the crowded roadstead, towards the Neapolitan frigate, that
now formed the prison of the unfortunate Caraccioli.
A request, at the gangway, was all that was necessary, to
procure an admission on board the ship. As soon as the
Signor Giuntotardi reached the quarter-deck, he let his
errand be known, and a messenger was sent below, to ascertain
if the prisoner would see two visiters; the name of the
uncle being alone given. Francesco Caraccioli, of the
Princes Caraccioli, or, as he was more commonly called, in
English, Prince Caraccioli, was now a man approaching
seventy; and being a member of one of the most illustrious
of high dignity and command. On his offence—its
apology—the indecent haste of his trial and execution, and
the irregularity of the whole proceedings, it is now unnecessary
to dwell; they have all passed into history, and are
familiarly known to the world. That very morning had he
been seized, and sent on board the Foudroyant; — in the
cabin of that vessel had a court of his own countrymen convened;
and there had he been hastily condemned to death.
The hour of doom was near; and he was already in the
ship where the execution was to take place.
The messenger of Carlo Giuntotardi found this unfortunate
man with his confessor; by whom he had just been
shrived. He heard the request with cold indifference, but
granted it on the instant, under the impression that it came
from some dependent of his family, or estates, who had a
last favour to ask, or an act of justice to see performed.
“Remain here, father, I beseech you,” said the prisoner,
perceiving that the priest was about to retire; “it is some
contadino, or some tradesman, whose claims have been overlooked.
I am happy that he has come; for one would wish
to stand acquitted of injustice, before he dies. Let them
come in, my friend.”
A sign was given, with these words, the door of the cabin
was opened, and Ghita, with her uncle, entered. A pause
of quite a minute followed, during which the parties regarded
each other in silence; the prisoner endeavouring, in vain, to
recall the countenances of his guests, and the girl trembling,
equally with grief and apprehension. Then the last advanced
to the feet of the condemned man, knelt, bowed
her head, and said—
“Grandfather, your blessing, on the child of your only
son.”
“Grandfather!—Son!—and his child!” repeated Don
Francesco. “I had a son, to my shame and contrition be
it now confessed; but he has long been dead. I never knew
that he left a child.”
“This is his daughter, Signore,” replied Carlo Giuntotardi;
“her mother was my sister. You thought us, then,
too humble to be received into so illustrious a connection;
eyes, until we thought our presence might be welcome.”
“And thou comest now, good man, to claim affinity with
a condemned criminal!”
“Not so, grandfather,” answered a meek voice, at his
feet; “it is your son's daughter, that craves a blessing from
her dying parent. The boon shall be well requited, in
prayers for your soul.”
“Holy father! I deserve not this! Here has this tender
plant lived, neglected in the shade, until it raises its timid
head to offer its fragrance in the hour of death! I deserve
not this!”
“Son, if heaven offered no mercies, until they are merited,
hopeless, truly, would be the lot of man. But we must not
admit illusions, at such a moment. Thou art not a husband,
Don Francesco; hadst thou ever a son?”
“That, among other sins, have I long since confessed;
and, as it has been deeply repented of, I trust it is forgiven.
I had a son—a youth who bore my name, even; though he
never dwelt in my palace; until a hasty and indiscreet marriage,
banished him from my presence. I ever intended
to pardon him, and to make provision for his wants; but
death came too soon, to both husband and wife, to grant the
time. This much I did know; and it grieved me that it
was so; but, of his child, never, before this instant, have I
heard! 'T is a sweet countenance, father; it seems the very
abode of truth!”
“Why should we deceive you, grandfather,” rejoined
Ghita, stretching her arms upward, as if yearning for an
embrace; “most of all, at a time like this? We come not
for honours, or riches, or your great name; we come simply
to crave a blessing, and to let you know that a child of your
own blood will be left on earth, to say aves, in behalf of
your soul!”
“Holy priest, there can be no deception, here!—This
dear child even looks like her wronged grandmother; and
my heart tells me she is mine. I know not whether to consider
this discovery a good or an evil, at this late hour;
coming, as it does, to a dying man!”
“Grandfather, your blessing. Bless Ghita, once, that I
may hear the sound of a parent's benediction.”
“Bless thee!—bless thee, daughter!” exclaimed the admiral,
bending over the weeping girl, to do the act she
solicited, and then, raising her to his arms, and embracing
her tenderly; “this must be my child—I feel that she is no
other.”
“Eccellenza,” said Carlo, “she is the daughter of your
son, Don Francesco, and of my sister, Ghita Giuntotardi,
born in lawful wedlock. I would not deceive any—least of
all, a dying man.”
“I have no estates to bequeath—no honours to transmit—
no name to boast of. Better the offspring of the lazzaroni,
than a child of Francesco Caraccioli, at this moment.”
“Grandfather, we think not of this—care not for this. I
have come only to ask the blessing you have bestowed, and
to offer the prayers of believers, though we are so lowly.
More than this we ask not—wish not—seek not. Our
poverty is familiar to us, and we heed it not. Riches would
but distress us, and we care not for them.”
“I remember, holy father, that one great reason of displeasure
at my son's marriage, was distrust of the motive of
the family which received him; and yet, here, have these
honest people suffered me to live on unmolested in prosperity,
while they now first claim the affinity, in my disgrace and
ignominy! I have not been accustomed to meet with wishes
and hearts like these!”
“You did not know us, grandfather,” said Ghita, simply,
her face nearly buried in the old man's bosom. “We have
long prayed for you, and reverenced you, and thought of
you as a parent, whose face was turned from us in anger;
but we never sought your gold and honours.”
“Gold and honours!” repeated the admiral, gently placing
his grand-daughter in a chair. “These are things of the past,
for me. My estates are sequestered—my name disgraced;
and, an hour hence, I shall have suffered an ignominious
death. No selfish views can have brought these good
people, father, to claim affinity with me, at a moment like
this.”
“It comes from the goodness of God, son. By letting
you feel the consolation of this filial love, and by awakening
in your own bosom the spark of parental affection, he foreshadows
the fruits of his own mercy and tenderness, to the
it may bring a blessing on your last moment.”
“Holy priest, I hope I do.—But what says this?—”
Don Francesco took a note from the hand of a servant,
and read its contents eagerly; the world, and its feelings,
having too much hold on his heart, to be plucked out in an
instant. Indeed, so sudden had been his arrest, trial and
conviction, that it is not surprising the priest found in him a
divided spirit, even at an instant like that. His countenance
fell; and he passed a hand before his eyes, as if to conceal a
weakness that was unbecoming.
“They have denied my request, father,” he said; “and
I must die like a felon—”
“The Son of God suffered on the cross, suspended between
two thieves.”
“I believe there is far less, in these opinions, than we are
accustomed to think—yet it is cruel for one who has filled
so high employments—a prince—a Caraccioli, to die like a
lazzarone!”
“Grandfather—”
“Did you speak, child? I wonder not that this indignity
should fill thee with horror.”
“It is not that, grandfather,” resumed Ghita, shaking off
her doubts, and looking up with flushed cheeks, and a face
radiant with holy feelings—“Oh! it is not that. If my
life could save thine, gladly would I give it up for such a
purpose; but, do not—do not—at this awful moment, mistake
the shadow for the substance. What matters it how
death is met, when it opens the gates of heaven? Pain, I
am sure, you cannot fear;—even I, weak and feeble girl
that I am, can despise that;—what other honour can there
be, in the hour of death, than to be thought worthy of the
mercy and care of God? Caraccioli or lazzarone—prince
or beggar—it will matter not, two hours hence; and let me
reverently beg of you, to humble your thoughts to the level
which becomes all sinners.”
“Thou say'st thou art my grand-child, Ghita—the daughter
of my son Francesco?”
“Signore, I am, as all tell me—as my heart tells me—
and as I believe.”
“And thou look'st upon these opinions as unworthy—
and considerest the manner of a death, as matter of indifference,
even to a soldier?”
“When placed in comparison with his hopes of heaven—
when viewed through his own demerits, and the merits of
his Saviour, grandfather.”
“And wilt thou, then, just entering on the stage of life,
with the world before thee, and all that its future can offer,
accompany me to the scaffold; let it be known to the
mocking crowd, that thou derivest thy being through the
felon, and art not ashamed to own him for a parent?”
“I will, grandfather—this have I come to do,” answered
Ghita, steadily. “But do not ask me to look upon thy
sufferings! All that can be done to lessen, by sharing
thy disgrace, if disgrace it be, will I most gladly do; though
I dread to see thy aged form in pain!”
“And this wilt thou do for one thou never beheld'st, until
this hour?—one thou canst hardly have been taught to consider
just to thyself?”
“If I have never seen thee before this visit, grandfather,
I have loved thee, and prayed for thee, from infancy. My
excellent uncle early taught me this lesson in duty; but he
never taught me to hate thee, or any one. My own father
is taken away; and that which he would have been to thee,
this day, will I endeavour to be for him. The world is
nought to me; and it will console thee to think that one is
near, whose heart weeps for thee, and whose soul is lost in
prayers, for thy eternal pardon.”
“And this being, father, is made known to me, an hour
before I die! God punishes me sufficiently for the wrong
I've done her, in letting me thus know her worth, when it
is too late to profit by it. No, Ghita—blessed child, such a
sacrifice shall not be asked of thee. Take this cross—it
was my mother's; worn on her bosom, and has long been
worn on mine—keep it as a memorial of thy unhappy parent,
and pray for me; but, quit this terrible ship, and do
not grieve thy gentle spirit with a scene that is so unfit for
thy sex and years. Bless thee — bless thee, my child.
Would to heaven I had earlier known thee—but even this
glimpse of thy worth, has lightened my heart. Thou find'st
me, here, a poor condemned criminal; unable to provide for
This bag contains gold. It has been sent to me by a relative,
thinking it might be of service, in averting the punishment
that awaits me. For that purpose, it is now useless;
with thy simple habits, however, it will render thy life easy,
and above care.”
Ghita, with streaming eyes, steadily put aside the gold,
though she pressed the cross to her bosom, kissing it fervently,
again and again.
“Not that—not that, grandfather,” she said; “I want it
not—wish it not. This is enough; and this will I keep to
my own last moment. I will quit the ship, too; but not the
place. I see many boats collecting, and mine shall be among
them; my prayers shall go up to God for thee, now thou
art living; and, daily, after thou art dead. There needs no
gold, grandfather, to purchase a daughter's prayers.”
Don Francesco regarded the zealous and lovely girl with
intense feeling; then he folded her to his heart, once more,
blessing her audibly, again and again. While thus employed,
the Foudroyant's bell struck once, and then those of all the
surrounding ships, English and Neapolitan, repeated the
stroke. This, Caraccioli, a seaman himself, well knew
denoted that the time was half-past four; five being the hour
named for his execution. He felt it necessary, therefore,
to dismiss his new-found relative, that he might pass a few
more minutes alone with his confessor. The parting was
solemn, but tender; and as Ghita left the cabin, her condemned
grandfather felt, as he would, had he taken leave,
for ever, of one whom he had long loved, and whose virtues
had been a solace to him from the hour of his birth.
The deck of the Minerva presented a sorrowful scene.
Although the prisoner had been condemned by a court of
Neapolitan officers, the trial was had under the British
ensign; and the feeling of the public was with the prisoner.
There existed no necessity for the hurry in which everything
had been done; for no immediate danger pressed; and an
example would have been more impressive, had there been
less of the appearance of a desire for personal vengeance,
and more of the calm deliberation of justice, in the affair.
Ghita's connexion with the prisoner could not be even suspected;
but, as it was known that she had been in the cabin,
officers manifested an interest in her wishes, and too evident
emotions. An immense throng of boats had assembled
around the ship; for, hasty as had been the proceedings, the
tidings that Francesco Caraccioli was to be hanged for
treason, spread like wild-fire; and scarce a craft, of proper
size, was left within the mole, so eager was the desire to
witness that which was to occur. Either in the confusion,
or bribed by money, the man who had brought off Carlo
Giuntotardi and his niece, was no longer to be found; and
the means of quitting the ship seemed, momentarily, to be
lost.
“Here is a boat, close to our gangway,” said the officer
of the deck, who had kindly interested himself in behalf of
so interesting a girl, “with a single man in it; a few grani
would induce him to put you ashore.”
The fellow in the boat was of the class of the lazzaroni,
wearing a clean cotton shirt, a Phrygian cap, and cotton
trowsers, that terminated at the knees; leaving his muscular
arms and legs entirely bare; models for the statuary, in their
neatness, vigour and proportions. The feet, alone, formed
an exception to the ordinary attire, for they were cased in a
pair of quaint canvass shoes, that were ornamented a little
like the moccasins of the American Indian. Carlo caught
the eye of this man, who appeared to be eagerly watching
the frigate's gangway, for a fare, and, holding up a small
piece of silver, in a moment the light boat was at the foot
of the accommodation-ladder. Ghita now descended; and,
as soon as her uncle and she were seated, the skiff, for it
was little more, whirled away from the ship's side, though
two or three more, who had also been left by recreant boatmen,
for better fares, called out to him to receive them, also.
“We had best go alone, even though it cost us a heavier
price,” quietly observed Carlo, to his niece, as he noted this
occurrence. “Pull us a short distance from the ship, friend;
—here, where there are fewer boats; and thou shalt meet
with a fair reward. We have an interest in this solemn
scene, and could wish not to be observed.”
“I know that well, Signor Carlo,” answered the boatman;
“and will see that you are not molested.”
Ghita uttered a faint exclamation, and, looking up, first
Yvard. As her uncle was too unobservant, in general, to
detect his disguise, he made a sign for her to command herself,
and continued rowing, as if nothing had occurred.
“Be at ease, Ghita,” said Carlo; “it is not yet the time,
and we have twenty good minutes, for our aves.”
Ghita, however, was far from being at ease. She felt all
the risks that the young man now ran, and she felt that it
was on her account, solely, that he incurred them. Even
the solemn feeling of the hour, and the occasion, was disturbed
by his presence; and she wished he were away, on
more accounts than one. Here he was, nevertheless, and in
the midst of enemies; and it would not have been in nature,
for one of her years and sex, and, most of all, of her feelings,
not to indulge in a sentiment of tender gratitude towards
him, who had, as it were, thrust his head into the very lion's
mouth, to do her a service. Between Raoul and Ghita, there
had been no reserves, on the subject of parentage; and the
former understood why his mistress was here, as well as the
motive that brought her. As for the last, she glanced timidly
around her, fearful that the lugger, too, had been brought
into the throng of ships that crowded the anchorage. For
this, however, Raoul was much too wary, nothing resembling
his little craft being visible.
The reader will have understood that many vessels of war,
English, Russian, Turkish and Neapolitan, were now anchored
in the bay. As the French still held the Castle of
St. Elmo, or the citadel that crowns the heights, that, in their
turn, crown the town, the shipping did not lay quite as close
to the mole as usual, lest a shot from the enemy above might
do them injury; but they were sufficiently near to permit all
the idle and curious of Naples, who had the hearts and the
means, to pull off and become spectators of the sad scene
that was about to occur. As the hour drew near, boat after
boat arrived, until the Minerva was surrounded with spectators,
many of whom belonged even to the higher classes of
society.
The distance between the Neapolitan frigate, and the ship
of the English rear-admiral, was not great; and everything
that occurred on board the former, and which was not actually
hidden by the sides and bulwarks of the vessel itself,
Foudroyant lay a little without the circle of boats; and in
that direction Raoul had pulled, to avoid the throng, resting
on his oars, when about a third of a cable's-length from the
British admiral's stern. Here it was determined to wait for
the awful signal, and its fatal consequences. The brief
interval was passed, by Ghita, in telling her beads, while
Carlo joined in the prayers, with the devotion of a zealot. It
is scarcely necessary to say, that all this Raoul witnessed
without faith, though it would be doing injustice to his nature,
as well as to his love for Ghita, to say he did so without
sympathy.
A solemn and expecting silence reigned in all the neighbouring
ships. The afternoon was calm and sultry, the
zephyr ceasing to blow, earlier than common, as if unwilling
to disturb the melancholy scene, even with its murmurs. On
board the Minerva, no sign of life—scarcely of death—was
seen; though a single whip was visible, rigged to the fore-yard-arm,
one end being led in-board, while the other ran
along the yard, passed through a leading-block, in its quarter,
and descended to the deck. There was a platform fitted, on
two of the guns, beneath this expressive, but simple arrangement;
but, as it was in-board, it was necessarily concealed
from all but those who were on the Minerva's decks. With
these preparations Raoul was familiar, and his understanding
eye saw the particular rope that was so soon to
deprive Ghita of her grandfather; though it was lost to her
and her uncle, among the maze of rigging by which it was
surrounded.
There might have been ten minutes passed, in this solemn
stillness, during which the crowd of boats continued to collect;
and the crews of the different ships were permitted to
take such positions, as enabled them to become spectators
of a scene that it was hoped might prove admonitory. It is
part of the etiquette of a vessel of war to make her people
keep close; it being deemed one sign of a well-ordered ship,
to let as few men be seen as possible, except on those occasions
when duty requires them to show themselves. This
rigid rule, however, was momentarily lost sight of, and the
teeming masses that floated around La Minerva, gave up
their thousands, like bees clustering about their hives. It
of the boatswain was heard piping the side, on board the
Foudroyant, and four side-boys lay over on the accommodation-ladder,
a mark of honour never paid to one of a rank
less than that of a captain. Raoul's boat was within fifty
yards of that very gangway, and he turned his head in idle
curiosity, to see who might descend into the gig that was
lying at the foot of the long flight of steps. A stranger, with
two epaulettes, came first, showing the way to two civilians,
and a sea-lieutenant; when all descended in a line, and
entered the boat. The next instant, the oars fell, and the
gig whirled round under the Foudroyant's stern, and came
glancing up towards his own skiff. Four or five of the
strong man-of-war jerks, sufficed to send the long, narrow
boat as far as was desired, when the men ceased rowing,
their little craft losing her way within ten feet of the skiff
occupied by our party. Then it was that Raoul, to his
surprise, discovered that the two civilians were no other than
Andrea Barrofaldi, and Vito Viti, who had accompanied
Cuffe and Griffin, their companions in the gig, on a cruise;
of which the express object was to capture himself and his
vessel.
Another man would have been alarmed, at finding himself
in such close vicinity to his enemies; but Raoul Yvard was
amused, rather than rendered uneasy, by the circumstance.
He had faith in his disguise; and he was much too familiar
with incidents of this sort, not to retain his self-command
and composure. Of course, he knew nothing of the persons
of the two Englishmen; but, perfectly aware of the presence
of the Proserpine, he guessed at their identity, and very
correctly imagined the circumstances that brought companions,
so ill-assorted, together. He had taken no precautions
to disguise his face; and the red Phrygian cap which
he wore, in common with thousands on that bay, left every
feature and lineament fully exposed. With Ghita, however,
the case was different. She was far better known to the
two Elbans, as indeed was the person of her uncle, than he
was himself; but both had veiled their faces in prayer.
“I do not half like this business, Griffin,” observed the
captain, as his gig entirely lost its way; “and wish, with all
my heart, we had nothing to do with it. I knew this old
treason, it is not easy to say who is, and who is not a traitor,
in times like these, in such a nation as this.—Ha!—I believe
my soul, this is the same old man, and the same pretty girl,
that came to see Nelson, half-an-hour ago, about this very
execution?”
“What could they have to do with Prince Caraccioli, or
his treason, sir?—The old chap looks bookish; but he is not
a priest; and, as to the girl, she is trim-built enough; I fancy
the face is no great matter, however, or she would not take
so much pains to hide it.”
Raoul muttered a “sacr-r-re,” between his teeth, but he
succeeded in suppressing all outward expression of feeling.
Cuffe, on the contrary, saw no other motive for unusual discretion,
beyond the presence of his boat's crew, before whom,
however, he was accustomed to less reserve, than with his
people in general.
“If she be the same as the one we had in the cabin,” he
answered, “there is no necessity for a veil; for a prettier,
or a more modest-looking girl, is not often fallen in with.
What she wanted, exactly, is more than I can tell you, as
she spoke Italian, altogether; and `miladi' had the interview
pretty much to herself. But her good looks seem to have
taken with this old bachelor, the justice of the peace, who
eyes her as if he had an inclination to open his mind to the
beauty. Ask him, in Italian, Griffin, what mare's nest he
has run foul of, now.”
“You seem to have found something to look at, beside the
Minerva, Signor Podestâ,” observed Griffin, in an under-tone;
“I hope it is not Venus.”
“Cospetto!” grunted Vito Viti, nudging his neighbour,
the vice-governatore, and nodding towards the other boat;
“if that be not little Ghita, who came into our island like a
comet, and went out of it—to what shall I liken her sudden
and extraordinary disappearance, Signor Andrea?—”
“To that of le Feu-Follet, or ze Ving-y-Ving,” put in
Griffin; who, now he had got the two functionaries fairly
afloat, spared none of the jokes that come so easy and natural
to a man-of-war's man. “She went out, too, in an `extraordinary
disappearance,' and perhaps the lady and the lugger
went out together.”
Vito Viti muttered an answer; for, by this time, he had
discovered that he was a very different personage, on board
the Proserpine, from what the other had appeared to consider
him, while in his native island. He might have expressed
himself aloud, indeed; but, at that instant, a column of
smoke glanced out of the bow part of the Minerva—a yellow
flag was shown aloft—and then came the report of the signal-gun.
It has been said that vessels of war, of four different
nations, were, at that time, lying in the Bay of Naples.
Nelson had come in, but a short time previously, with seventeen
ships of the line; and he found several more of his
countrymen lying there. This large force had been assembled
to repel an expected attack on the Island of Minorca;
and it was still kept together in an uncertainty of the future
movements of the enemy. A Russian force had come out
of the Black Sea, to act against the French, bringing with
it a squadron of the Grand Signor; thus presenting to the
world the singular spectacle of the followers of Luther, devotees
of the Greek church, and disciples of Mahomet, uniting
in defence of “our rights, our firesides, and our altars!”
To these vessels must be added a small squadron of ships
of the country; making a mixed force of four different
ensigns, that was to witness the melancholy scene we are
about to relate.
The yellow flag, and the signal-gun, brought everything,
in the shape of duty, to a stand-still, in all the fleets. The
hoarse commands ceased—the boatswains, and their mates,
laid aside their calls, and the echoing midshipmen no longer
found orders to repeat. The seamen gathered to the sides
of their respective vessels—every part glistened with expectant
eyes—the booms resembled clusters of bees, suspended
from the boughs of a forest—and the knight-heads, taffrails,
gangways, and stretchers of the rigging, were garnished with
those whose bright buttons, glazed hats, epaulettes, and
dark-blue dresses, denoted to belong to the privileged classes
of a ship. Notwithstanding all this curiosity, nothing like
the feeling which is apt to be manifested, at an exhibition of
merited punishment, was visible in a single countenance.
An expression resembling a sombre gloom, appeared to have
settled on all those grim warriors of the deep; English,
sympathies for the sufferer, rather than for the majesty of
justice. Still, no murmur arose—no sign of resistance was
made—no look of remonstrance given. The unseen mantle
of authority covered all; and these masses of discontented
men submitted, as we bow to what is believed to be the fiat
of fate. The deep-seated and unresisting habit of discipline,
suppressed complaint; but there was a general conviction
that some act was about to be committed, that, it were better
for humanity and justice, should not be done; or, if done at
all, that it needed more of form, greater deliberation, and a
fairer trial, to be so done as to obtain the commendation of
men. The Turks, alone, showed apathy; though all showed
submission. These subjects of destiny looked on coldly;
though even among them, a low rumour had passed, that a
malign influence prevailed in the fleet; and that a great and
proud spirit had gotten to be mastered by the passion that so
often deprives heroes of their self-command and independence.
Ghita ceased her prayers, as the report of the gun broke
rudely on her ears, and, with streaming eyes, she even
dared to look towards the frigate. Raoul, and all the rest,
bent their gaze in the same direction. The sailors, among
them, saw the rope at the fore-yard-arm move, and then
heads rose slowly above the hammock-cloths; when the prisoner
and his attendant priest were visible even to their feet.
The unfortunate Caraccioli, as has been said, had nearly
numbered his threescore and ten years, in the regular course
of nature; and his bare head now showed the traces of
time. He wore no coat; and his arms were bound behind
his back, at the elbows, leaving just motion enough to the
hands, to aid him in the slighter offices about his own person.
His neck was bare, and the fatal cord was tightened sufficiently
around it, to prevent accidents, constantly admonishing
its victim of its revolting office.
A low murmur arose among the people in the boats, as
this spectacle presented itself to their eyes; and many bowed
their faces in prayer. The condemned man caught a ray
of consolation from this expression of sympathy; and he
looked around him, an instant, with something like a return
of those feelings of the world, which it had been his effort
of Ghita, and learned that his last request — that of
changing his mode of punishment—had been denied. That
was a fearful moment, for one like Don Francesco Caraccioli,
who had passed a long life in the midst of the scene
that surrounded him—illustrious by birth, affluent, honoured
for his services, and accustomed to respect and deference.
Never had the glorious panorama of the bay, appeared more
lovely than it did at that instant, when he was about to quit
it for ever, and this by means of a violent and disgraceful
death. From the purple mountains—the cerulean void above
him—the blue waters over which he seemed already to be
suspended—and the basking shores, rich in their towns,
villas and vines, his eye turned toward the world of ships,
each alive with its masses of living men. A glance of
melancholy reproach was cast upon the little flag that was
just waving at the mizzen-mast-head of the Foudroyant;
and then it fell on the carpet of faces beneath, that seemed
fairly to change the surface of the smooth sea, into an arena
of human countenances. His look was steady, though his
soul was in a tumult. Ghita was recognized by her companion,
and by her dress. He moved towards the edge of
his narrow scaffolding, endeavoured to stretch forth his arms,
and blessed her, again, aloud. The poor girl dropped on
her knees, in the bottom of the boat, bowed her head, and in
that humble attitude did she remain, until all was over; not
daring once to look upward, again.
“Son,” said the priest, “this is a moment when the earth,
and its feelings, must be forgotten.”
“I know it, father,” answered the old man, his voice
trembling with emotion, for his sensations were too powerful,
too sublime, even, for the degrading passion of fear—“but
never before did this fair piece of the creation seem so lovely
in my eyes, as now, when I am about to quit it for the last
time.”
“Look beyond this scene, into the long vista of eternity,
son; there thou wilt behold that, which mocks at all human,
all earthly means, to equal. I fear that our time is but
short—hast thou aught yet to say, in the flesh?”
“Let it be known, holy priest, that in my dying moment
I prayed for Nelson, and for all who have been active in
untempted, to condemn; but he is wiser, as he is safer, who
puts more reliance on the goodness of God, than on his own
merits.”
A ray of satisfaction gleamed athwart the pale countenance
of the priest—a sincerely pious man, or fear of personal
consequences might have kept aloof from such a scene—
and he closed his eyes, while he expressed his gratitude to
God, in the secret recesses of his own spirit. Then he
turned to the prince, and spoke cheeringly.
“Son,” he said, “if thou quittest life with a due dependence
on the Son of God, and in this temper towards thy
fellow-creatures, of all this living throng, thou art he who is
most to be envied! Address thy soul in prayer, once more,
to Him, whom thou feelest can alone serve thee.”
Caraccioli, aided by the priest, knelt on the scaffold; for
the rope hung loose enough to permit that act of humiliation,
and the other bent at his side.
“I wish to God, Nelson had nothing to do with this!”
muttered Cuffe, as he turned away his face, inadvertently
bending his eyes on the Foudroyant, nearly under the stern
of which ship, his gig lay. There, in the stern-walk, stood
the lady, already mentioned in this Chapter, a keen spectator
of the awful scene. No one, but a maid, was near her,
however, the men of her companionship not being of moods
stern enough to be at her side. Cuffe turned away from
this sight, in still stronger disgust, and just at that moment,
a common cry arose from the boats. Looking round, he
was just in time to see the unfortunate Caraccioli dragged
from his knees, by the neck, until he rose, by a steady, man-of-war
pull, to the end of the yard; leaving his companion
alone on the scaffold, still lost in prayer. There was a
horrible minute, of the struggles between life and death,
when the body, so late the tenement of an immortal spirit,
hung, like one of the jewel-blocks of the ship, dangling passively
at the end of the spar, as insensible as the wood which
sustained it.
| CHAPTER XIV. The wing-and-wing, or, Le Feu-follet | |