Commanding my feelings and features, I drank a glass or two of wine, while the general, taking pen and ink from his sabretache, wrote a hasty note to Regnier.
"Chataillion," said he, while folding it, "order a corporal and a file of lances."
The vicomte went up to the first regiment of the brigade, and returned with the escort.
"In the charge of these soldiers, you must be sent to Seminara, where I trust your parole will be accepted in consequence of this note: though monsieur le general and monseigneur le marechal are far from being well disposed towards you; especially for the last affair with the voltigeurs of the 23rd. Ah! Regnier's son Philip was shot at Bagnara—poor boy! Adieu! May we meet under more agreeable circumstances;" and giving the letter to the corporal, Compere sprang into his saddle, and left me. His aide-de-camp, the Vicomte de Chataillion, seeing how deeply I was cast down, expressed regret at having been my capturer. "But monsieur will perceive," said he, with a most insinuating smile, "that I was only doing my duty. You cannot travel on foot with a mounted escort—it would be dishonourable; and as I have a spare horse, you are welcome to it: on reaching Seminara, or even the frontiers, you can return it with the corporal.—Adieu!" And we parted.
The frontier! distraction! I could scarcely thank the young Frenchman: but memory yet recalls his gallant presence and commanding features—one of the true old noblesse. How different he was from Pepe, Regnier, Massena, and many others; whom the madness and crimes of the Revolution had raised to place and power, from the dregs of the French people.
With a little ostentation, the lancers loaded their pistols before me, and in five minutes I was en route for Seminara, with a file on each side and the corporal riding behind. I often looked back: Compere's brigade were riding in sections towards the hills, with all their lance heads and bright accoutrements glittering in the sun; while the fanfare of the trumpets, the clash of the cymbals, and the roll of the kettle-drums, rang in the woods of Palmi. They were moving towards Scylla, and my heart swelled when I thought of my helplessness and of poor Bianca; the hope of Regnier accepting my parole alone sustained me: but that hope was doomed to be cruelly disappointed.
By the way we passed many ghastly objects, which announced the commencement of that savage war of extermination which General Manhes afterwards prosecuted in the Calabrias. Many armed peasantry had been shot like beasts of prey, wherever the French fell in with them; and their bodies hung on the trees we passed under, while their grisly heads were stuck on poles by the roadside. Some were in iron cages, and, reduced to bare skulls, grinned through the rusty ribs like spectres through barred helmets; while the birds of prey, screaming and flapping their wings over them, increased the gloomy effect such objects must necessarily have upon one's spirits.
The morning was balmy and beautiful, the sun hot and bright, the sky cloudless and of the palest azure; light fleecy vapour floated along the distant horizon, where the sea lay gleaming in green and azure: but never had I a more unpleasant ride than that from Compere's bivouac. I often looked round me, in the desperate hope that a sudden attack of robbers or loyal paesani would set me free; though warned by the corporal that on the least appearance of an attempt at rescue he would shoot me dead. But Regnier had effectually cleared and scoured the country, and we passed no living being, save an old Basilian pilgrim, travelling barefooted, perhaps on his way to the Eternal City; and once, in the distance, a solitary bandit on the look-out, perched on the summit of a rock like a lonely heron. The bells of the mountain goats, the hum of the bee or the flap of the wild bird's wing, and the dull tramp of our horses on the grassy way, alone broke the silence. My escort were solemn and taciturn Poles, who never addressed a word either to me or to each other; so my gloomy cogitations were uninterrupted till we entered Seminara, when the scene changed.
The town was crowded with soldiers, and all the populace had fled: cavalry, infantry, artillery, sappeurs, voltigeurs, and military artizans, thronged on every hand; shirts and belts were drying at every window, and the air was thickened by pipe clay and tobacco-smoke, while the sound of drums, bugles, and trumpets mingled with shouts and laughter, rang through the whole place—noise and uproar reigning on all sides. The great Greek abbey and cathedral were littered with straw for cavalry horses; the principal street was blocked up by waggons, caissons, tumbrils, pontoons, mortars, and the whole of that immense battering train concentrated for the especial behoof of my brave little band at Scylla: whither it would be conveyed the moment the roads were completed.
A strong guard of grenadiers stationed before the best house in the town, announced it to be the quarters of the general. They belonged to the 62nd of the French line. In front of the mansion stood thirty pieces of beautiful brass cannon: the same which the French threw into the sea on abandoning Scylla, when, in the year following, the British beleaguered it under Lieutenant-Colonel Smith, 27th regiment. I was ushered by the corporal into the general's presence, and found him just finishing breakfast: he had pushed away his last cup of chocolate, placed his foot on the braciere, and was composing himself to resume reading the Moniteur, while his servant, a grenadier in blue uniform, with rough iron-grey moustaches cleared the table. On the wall hung a bombastic bulletin of Napoleon, dated 27th December, 1806:—