At Cava they found the same indifference. They learned that Garibaldi had not come up, though some said he had passed 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 shells 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 circumstantial.
“He's always singing; that's how he passes his time,” said the Frate.
“Singing! how strange! I never knew him to sing. I never heard him even hum a tune.”