Should he go back to London, carrying his bag of sovereigns untouched, and along with it the news of the failure of his mission? This course might be fatal in its consequences. The letter of the brigand chief, which of course he had brought with him, plainly stated the conditions. After ten days from its date the hand of Henry Harding would be sent to his father, enclosed as had been the finger. Nine of these had already elapsed. Only one intervened. And now that the go-between, Jacopi, was no longer in existence, how was he to communicate with those who had threatened the horrible amputation? “A band of brigands on the Neapolitan frontier—about fifty miles from Rome.” This extract from Henry Harding’s first letter was all the clue he had to guide him to the whereabouts of the bandits. But the description might apply to the whole frontier, from the Tyrrhenian to the north-western angle of the Abruzzi—a line that, from all that he could learn, contained as many bands of brigands as there were leagues in its extent. For the Lincoln’s Inn lawyer to make a tour along it, discover the locality of each band, and ascertain which of them held his young countryman in captivity, might possibly have been done at the hourly risk of being made captive himself. But even if successful in the search, it could not be accomplished in time.
In thinking it over, Lawson junior felt himself in a dilemma. Never in his life had his father’s firm undertaken such a case. It bristled with difficulties, or, to speak more correctly, impossibilities.
What was he to do? He bethought himself of the application that had been made to the Foreign Office in Downing Street, and the promises there given to communicate with the Papal Government. Had these promises been kept? Had any action been taken in the matter? He rushed to the Vatican to inquire. But the Vatican was now a thing of the past—the régime of Rome was now in Republican hands. And, to his inquiries made in official quarters, he could only obtain the answer, that nothing was known of the matter.
Besides, the new rulers were too busy with their own affairs to take any interest in his. What was the liberty of one person to that of a whole nation, threatened by the approach of the two allied armies—Neapolitan and French—now hastening towards Rome for the destruction of the Republic? Every one was busy upon the barricades. There was no time to spare for the chastisement of a score or two of brigands.
The representative of Lawson and Son was terribly perplexed as to his course of action. It would be no use writing to London for instructions. His communication could not reach in time. Perhaps by the same steamer that would carry his letter, another might be despatched with a packet containing the bloody hand of Henry Harding. It would be a fearful consummation. But how was it to be shunned? He could think of no means; and to wait for a return letter of advice from England seemed like abandoning the captive to his fate. Still there was no help for it; and he commenced writing the letter—in firm belief that the return post would bring him the sad news of the brigands having carried out their atrocious threat. It was less with the hope of hindering this, than the other menace of a still more terrible event, that induced him to indite the letter. Before he had finished writing it, a new idea came into his mind, causing him to desist. What if his letter should be miscarried? In such times could the post be relied upon? Besides, why write at all? Why not go himself? He would reach London as soon as a letter could; and a matter of such importance should not be entrusted to chance. Further reflection convinced him that he had best go back; and, tearing up the unfinished despatch, he at once set out on his return to London.
He had some difficulty in getting through the lines set against the approach of the hostile forces, that were every hour expected to arrive before the gates of Rome. But gold, with a good English passport, smoothed the way; and he at length succeeded in reaching Civita Vecchia, from which the steamer transported him to Marseilles.
Not much was gained by the return of the emissary to England. Fresh inquiries were made at the lodgings formerly occupied by the Italian artist; but no new facts were elicited. Of his later residence there was nothing known.
There could be nothing done but to despatch the junior partner once more to Rome; and to Rome he went. But not to enter it. The Holy City was now besieged by the hireling host of France, acting under Oudinot; and the London lawyer had to stay outside. He was thus deprived of the chance of prosecuting his inquiries. Twice were the invaders repulsed, amidst scenes of carnage, in which the streets of Rome ran blood—the blood of her gallant Republican defenders, led by that now world-renowned chief, Garibaldi, who in this struggle first made himself conspicuous on the page of European history.
But the unequal conflict could not last; the Republicans were defeated by a base betrayal. When at length the French took possession of the city, the London solicitor became free to renew his search. He then succeeded in discovering that a young Englishman had been captured by a band of brigands under a noted chief named Corvino; that he had afterwards made his escape from them; that the band had been nearly annihilated, and its chief killed by a party of Republican volunteers; that his late captive, acting along with the latter, had returned with them to the town of Val di Orno, and thence proceeded to Rome, in the defence of which city he was supposed to have taken part. Whether he fell, among the slain Revolutionists in the carnage that ensued, there was no one who could tell. This appeared to have been his fate; since, beyond the fact of his having returned to Rome along with the Revolutionists, no trace of him could be discovered.