The dowager Queen was a truly proverbial stepmother. She had never been able to reconcile herself to having her stepson inherit the united kingdoms while her own sons had nothing; even during her husband’s lifetime she had attempted to secure the succession of her eldest boy to the throne of Sicily. But King Ferdinand would not listen to this. On his death-bed he had extracted a solemn oath from each member of his family to support the rightful heir, and after his death the widowed Queen had flung herself at her stepson’s feet and promised him her allegiance. That she broke this vow has never been historically verified, the only proofs having been generously destroyed by King Francis himself. It happened in this way. Minister Filangieri had long suspected Maria Theresa of being at the head of a conspiracy to depose the young sovereign and place her son, the Count of Trani, on the throne, and at last succeeded in obtaining certain proof of this. He carried the documents at once to the King; but Francis refused to look at them. Without a glance he flung them into the fire, saying, “She was my father’s wife!”
Maria Theresa afterward indignantly denied this, declaring the whole affair a plot to sow discord between her and the King; but, be that as it may, there is no doubt that she was greatly to blame for Francis’s lack of education and training in early youth and childhood. She had brought him up as if he had been a girl, destined to live in retirement, rather than as a man who had a lofty mission to fulfil, emphasizing his natural awkwardness and timidity, and choosing tutors totally unfitted to prepare his mind for the demands of the times and his future position. His whole nature had been cowed and stunted in order that he might be kept subservient to her will.
She had also attempted these tactics with Maria Sophia, but with less success. The Bavarian Princess was far too self-reliant to submit to any such yoke. She was quite as strong-willed as her mother-in-law, besides being far wiser and cleverer. She also had her own political views, which were directly opposed to those of the dowager Queen. The latter was full of the old ideas of absolutism and had no sympathy with the new spirit of liberty, while Maria Sophia openly proclaimed her liberal opinions and urged the King to grant the country more freedom.
History shows that many women have filled the highest and most important positions with credit and honor. England has her Elizabeth, Russia her Catherine, Austria and Hungary their Maria Theresa, Scandinavia its Margareta. Maria Sophia of Naples is yet another example of feminine ability and judgment in political affairs. King Francis had no abler counsellor than his own wife, and had he followed her advice the issue of events might have been very different. But he was blinded by prejudice, by family tradition, by his education, and by court intrigues. As a child he had witnessed the bloody riots in Naples and been taught to regard such outbreaks as criminal attacks on a divinely instituted form of government. Even before his illness, Ferdinand had taken pains to instill his own principles into his son, and almost with his last breath had urged him never to allow himself to be carried away by the stream of liberalism that threatened to overflow Italy. Much as Francis loved and admired his young wife, therefore, he found it impossible to break away from the despotic ideas in which he had been steeped from his infancy, and not until it was too late did he realize the wisdom of her advice.
Chapter IX
Garibaldi
Meanwhile events were occurring in northern Italy that were to exert a far-reaching influence on the Kingdom of Naples. The throne of Sardinia was occupied by a bold and able sovereign, Victor Emanuel of Savoy, who was fortunate enough to have as his counsellor Cavour, one of the foremost statesmen of the nineteenth century.
Together with Napoleon the Third, Victor Emanuel had inflicted a series of defeats on the Austrians early in 1859, breaking their rule in Lombardy, and thereby giving a tremendous impetus to the spirit of Italian unity. It was as if the whole country had suddenly awakened to a realization of the fact that the various States into which Italy had been divided for centuries really belonged together; and the idea of uniting them seized the popular mind with irresistible force. It is interesting to note that the national movement which occurred some ten years later in Germany had many points of resemblance to this. Both nations had only of late aspired to greater political importance: both were good fighters and governed by princes who knew how to wield the sword themselves, as well as to choose their generals and statesmen. In both cases the right men appeared at the right moment—Von Moltke and Bismarck in Germany, Garibaldi and Cavour in Italy. Cavour had several times attempted to bring about an alliance between Sardinia and Naples during the reign of Ferdinand; but his offers had been treated with scorn by that short-sighted monarch. After his death and the brilliant victory over the Austrians at Magenta, overtures to this end were again made by Sardinia to the new King of Naples.
On the twenty-fourth of June, 1859, Victor Emanuel sent Salmour, one of his ablest and most trusted diplomats, to Naples. He reminded Francis of the ties of blood that bound him to the house of Savoy, and pointed out the fact that an alliance between the two kingdoms would be security for the independence of Italy. The plan had been warmly supported by the press of northern Italy and its popularity was testified to by the enthusiasm with which Salmour’s arrival was hailed in Naples. But, on the other hand, it met with powerful opposition at court, especially on the part of the dowager Queen, who, as an Austrian archduchess, was bitter against Sardinia for the defeats her native land had suffered at its hands, and used all her influence to prejudice the weak young King against the plan. As a result, Salmour was obliged to return without accomplishing his object and the diplomatic transactions were never made public. But though Francis might reject the offer of such an alliance, he could not prevent the idea of a union between northern and southern Italy meeting with popular favor; and it spread with such lightning rapidity throughout the two kingdoms that soon only a spark was needed to kindle public enthusiasm into a blaze. In less than a year from the time that Francis refused Victor Emanuel’s proposal, that spark appeared in the form of Garibaldi.
On the sixth of May, 1860, Garibaldi embarked at Genoa with a thousand volunteers, and on the eleventh landed at Marsala, on the west coast of Sicily. Brave and hardy as his followers were, it was a hazardous undertaking to attempt, with such a force, to attack an army of over one hundred thousand regular troops; but Garibaldi knew his adversary and hoped for assistance from the people. On the fourteenth of May he assumed the dictatorship of the island in the name of Victor Emanuel, and the next day, with the aid of some hundred revolutionists, defeated General Laudi’s force of three thousand men who were occupying the heights of Calatafimi. When the Garibaldians lit their watchfires that night on the field of victory, they had good cause for rejoicing. The first battle had been fought and won. The Neapolitan troops were fleeing in confusion toward Alcamo. The people’s leader had shown that he could defeat a king’s army, and the Neapolitans had learned to fear the tri-colored banner and the red shirt. While the Neapolitan generals were vainly searching for Garibaldi in the mountains, he was already pressing on towards Palermo, the capital, meeting with strong support from the people everywhere. After three days of hard fighting before that city, it capitulated, and was occupied by the revolutionists, although two weeks elapsed before the dictator could follow up his victory. At the end of that time he again took the war-path and at Melazzo surprised the columns of General Bosco, who was in command of the finest and best disciplined troops in Sicily.
On the twenty-eighth of June the Neapolitans were forced to evacuate Messina, and a few days later the “red shirts,” whose force had now increased to about twenty thousand men, camped in the streets of that city, from Taormina to Capo del Faro. Sicily was won. Garibaldi now turned his glances toward the mainland, whose mountains towered threateningly above him across the straits, and on the evening of the twenty-first of August the banner of Italy floated above the fortifications of Reggio, the strongest post in Calabria. The defence of Reggio was the last effort of the royalist army south of Naples. Defeated and disheartened, they retreated northward, leaving the fortified towns to vie with one another in throwing open their gates to the conquerors. The fleet, too, seemed paralyzed. It made no effort to prevent the passage of Garibaldi’s men from Sicily, but proceeded northward to Naples without having fired a gun. Europe was dumb with amazement at the audacity of these champions of liberty. Garibaldi’s march from the southern extremity of Italy to Naples appeared at that time, as it still does, like a tale of the imagination. It seemed incredible that the splendid army created by King Ferdinand with the labors and sacrifices of thirty years could go to pieces like a building in an earthquake. Of course there were many reasons for this, but the chief one was Garibaldi himself. No man could have been better fitted for the leadership of such a movement. Glowing with patriotism and love of liberty, inspired with the idea of Italian unity, yet at the same time a true democrat, friend of the oppressed and foe to tyranny, disinterested, self-sacrificing, bold, and daring, a knight without fear and without reproach, he seemed created to be an ideal popular hero. Wherever he appeared in his red shirt and black felt hat he aroused the wildest enthusiasm; and popular fancy soon invested him with a halo of glory almost equal to that of William Tell in Switzerland or Joan of Arc in France.