In fine weather, few things are more delightful than a Mediterranean voyage—particularly one’s first. Our first few days were glorious; all my companions were Italians, and had many stories to tell—some true, some not, but all interesting. One had fought in Greece with Canaris, another—a Venetian—had commanded Byron’s yacht, and the tales he told accorded well with what one might expect of the author of Lara.
Time went on, but we got no nearer Leghorn. Each morning, going on deck, my first question was, “What town is that?” and the eternal answer was, “Nizza, signor, still Nizza.” I began to think that the charming town of Nice had some sort of magnetic attraction for our boat.
I found out my mistake when a furious Alpine wind burst down upon us. The captain, to make up for lost time, crowded on all sail and the vessel heeled over and drove furiously before the gale. Towards evening we made the Gulf of Spezzia, and the tramontana increased to such a pitch that the sailors themselves trembled at the captain’s foolhardiness. I stood by the Venetian, holding on to a bar and listening to his maledictions on the captain’s madness, when suddenly a fresh gust of wind caught the boat and sent her over on her beam-ends, the captain rolling away into the scuppers.
In a flash the Venetian was at the tiller, shouting orders to the sailors, who were by this time calling on the Madonna:
“Don’t bother about the Madonna now,” he cried, “get in the sails.”
The sails were reefed, the ship righted, and next day we reached Leghorn with only one sail, so strong was the wind.
A few hours after, our sailors came to the hotel in a body to congratulate us on our escape. And, though the poor devils hardly earned enough to keep body and soul together, nothing would induce them to take a farthing. It was only by great persuasion that we got them to share an impromptu meal. My friends had confided to me that they were on the way to join the insurrection in Modena; they had great hopes of raising Tuscany and then marching on Rome.
But alas for their young hopes! Two were arrested before reaching Florence and thrown into dungeons, where they may still lie rotting; the others, I heard later, did well in Modena, but finally shared the fate of gallant and ill-starred Menotti.
So ended their sweet dream of liberty.
I had great trouble in getting from Florence to Rome. Frenchmen were revolutionists and the Pope did not welcome them warmly. The Florentine authorities refused to viser my passport, and nothing but the energetic protests of Monsieur Horace Vernet, the director of the Roman Academy, prevailed on them to let me go.