I was at Mora, where my battalion was to remain, if the jokers about camp were to be believed; an absurd rumor, for wherever a vigorous blow was to be struck the Italians never failed to come in for their share. I had formed a close friendship with Lieutenant Polidoro, a reckless individual, but one of the best-hearted fellows in the service. He was from Milan, and had commenced life as a choir-boy. A reverendissimo, almost unknown to him, was in the habit of sending him from time to time fifty scudi by way of pocket-money. The day he received this little remittance was a gala-day for the whole battalion. Wine flowed through the camp. Not a man was forgotten. The next day he was without a sou, but he had had his fun, and drunk many times to the health of Monsignor Capellini, as he called his friend.
His father was unknown to him, and often would he cry, twirling his shako on his sword, when asked why he did not assume the paternal cognomen:
"Why should I recognize an old fellow who shows so little pride in having a grenadier of my height for a son?"
The gayety of Polidoro, the friendship of his comrades for him, the attachment of his men, whose enthusiasm was excited by his bravery and liberality, inspired me, at last, with the most unlimited confidence in him; and, well satisfied with never having to inflict the slightest punishment, thanks to the excellent reports he always brought me of the company, I placed matters of mere discipline entirely in his hands.
Suddenly, one fine morning, at roll-call, not one of my men, with the exception of the Sous-Lieutenant Brocard—a Frenchman like myself—appeared on the parade-ground. He, sad and crest-fallen, informed me that our company had filed away during the night toward Batea, to the north of Casserras, on the Arragon frontier. At the same time he handed me a letter addressed to me by Polidoro. Judge of my astonishment when I cast my eye upon its contents:
"Captain: It is certainly an ill proceeding on my part to leave Mora, with your whole company, without first informing you of our intention. Life in Mora is not very lively, and our men were growing shockingly tired of it. I am responsible for their health, and found myself forced to adopt violent measures to preserve it. We are going a league from here to Batea, where they say good wine abounds. It is even reported that there is a guerilla roving through the mountains, and that he has been joined by some disbanded soldiers of Sarsfield and Campoverde. What a chance for fun! We will thus be enabled to indulge in a little diversion while waiting for the march on Tarragona. I do not ask you to put yourself at the head of our expedition. I suppose, even, that, if you were ordered to bring us back, your honor would only permit you to speak to us through the throats of muskets. Be good enough, however, to advise our brave colonel of our departure, and tell him that, whatever may happen, we are all devoted to him, for life and for death, and that each one of us (I was always remarkable for foresight) has ten rounds of cartridge at his service. If we are let alone, be assured that the entire company, including your humble servant, will be en route for Lareda at the first roll of the drum.
"Your faithful friend,
"The Lieutenant Polidoro."
This letter filled me with consternation. I felt that I had been guilty of weakness and negligence. I was not only puzzled; I suspected perfidy, treason. I did not yet understand the singular forms which insubordination often takes among Italian troops. The Russian soldier is little more than a savage; the German, when he quarrels with his officers in the field, becomes gross and brutal; the Frenchman pushes familiarity to insolence; the Spaniard heroically disbands, placing every reverse to the account of the ignorance or cowardice of his officers, and then sets about making head individually against the enemy in some defile of his mountains; the Englishman shows himself, in war as in everything else, a close calculator, weighing the pros and cons long together, and, above all others, complains of the insufficiency or bad quality of his provisions, as witness the mutiny of the fleet in the reign of George III., when it became necessary to hang an admiral, and which was only suppressed by the coolness of Pitt. But, when the Italian mutinies, he does it with incredible niceness, and, unless he has some vengeance to execute, (which he will carry out with uncommon ferocity,) he remains an artist to the last.
"Corbleu!" cried I to Brocard. "We are in a pretty box; exposed, too, to the ridicule of our comrades. And I thought this Polidoro my friend!"