CHAPTER XIII.
THE FISHERMAN'S HUT.
edit
Andrea Ferrato was a Corsican, a native of Santa Manza, a little port in the arrondissement of Sartene, situated at the back of the southern point of the island. This port and Bastia and Porto Vecchio are the only ones that open on to that monotonous eastern coast of which the sea has gradually destroyed the capes, filled up the gulfs, effaced the bays, and devoured the creeks.
It was at Santa Manza, on that narrow portion of the sea between Corsica and the Italian mainland, and often among the rocks of the straits of Bonifacio, that Andrea Ferrato followed his trade as a fisherman. Twenty years before he had married a young girl of Sartene. Two years afterward they had had a daughter who was christened Maria. The fisherman's calling is a rough one, particularly when to the fishing for fish there is added the fishing for coral, which was to be sought for at the bottom of the most dangerous channels in the strait. But Andrea Ferrato was bold, robust, indefatigable, as clever with the net as with the trawl. His business prospered. His wife active and intelligent, ruled the little house at Santa Manza to perfection. Both of them knew how to read, write, and calculate, and were fairly educated, if we compare them with the 150,000 who can not write their names which statistics now reveal to exist out of the 260,000 inhabitants of the island.
Besides—perhaps on account of this education—Andrea Ferrato was very French in his ideas and feelings, although he was of Italian origin, like the majority of the Corsicans. And at that time this had occasioned some animosity against him.
The canton, in fact, situated at the southern extremity of the island, far from Bastia, far from Ajaccio, far from the chief centers of administration, is at heart very much opposed to everything that is not Italian or Sardinian—a regrettable state of things that we hope to see the end of as the rising generation becomes better educated.
Hence, as we have said, there was more or less latent animosity against the Ferratos. In Corsica animosity and hatred are not very far apart. Certain things occurred which imbittered this animosity. One day Andrea driven out of all patience, in a moment of anger, killed a well-known vagabond who was threatening him, and he had to seek safety in flight.
But Andrea Ferrato was not at all the man to take refuge in the maquis, to live a life of daily strife, as much against the police as against the companions and friends of the deceased, to perpetrate a series of revenges which would end by reaching his own people. Resolving to expatriate himself, he managed to leave Corsica secretly and reached the Sardinian coast. When his wife had realized their property, given up the house at Santa Manza, sold the furniture, the boat and the nets, she crossed over and joined him. They had given up their native land forever.
But the murder, although it was justifiably committed in self-defense, weighed on Andrea's conscience. With the somewhat superstitious ideas due to his origin, he greatly desired to ransom it. He had heard that a man's death is never pardoned till the day when the murderer saves another life at the risk of his own. He made up his mind to save a life as soon as an occasion presented itself.
Andrea did not remain long in Sardinia, where he would easily have been recognized and discovered. Energetic and brave—although he did not fear for himself, he feared for those who belonged to him—he feared that the reprisals of family on family might reach him. He merely waited till he could go without exciting suspicion, and then sailed for Italy, where, at Ancona, an opportunity ottered for him to cross the Adriatic to the Istrian coast, of which he availed himself.
And that is the story of why the Corsican had settled at Rovigno. For seventeen years he had followed his trade as a fisherman, and had become as well off as he nad been. Nine years afterward a son was born to him, who was named Luigi. His birth cost his mother her life.
Andrea Ferrato now lived entirely for his daughter and his son. Maria, then aged eighteen, acted as mother to the little boy of eight. And except the deep and constant grief for the loss of his wife, the fisherman of Rovigno was as happy as he could be in his work and the consciousness of having done his duty. He was respected throughout the district. He was ever ready to help, and his advice was always valuable. He was known to be clever at his trade. Among the long ridges of rocks which guard the Istrian shore, he had no reason to regret the Gulf of Santa Manza or the Straits of Bonifacio. He had become an excellent pilot in those parts where the same language is spoken as in Corsica. From his pilotage of the ships between Pola and Trieste he earned almost as much as from his fishing. And in his house the poor were not forgotten, and Maria did her best in works of charity.
But the fisherman of Santa Manza had never forgotten his vow—a life for a life! He had taken one man's life He would save another's.
That is why, when the two fugitives presented themselves at his door, guessing who they were, knowing the penalty to which he was exposing himself, he had not hesitated to say to the,. “Come in,” and adding in his thoughts, “And may Heaven protect us all!”
The squadron of police passed the door and did not stop. Sandorf and Bathory could thus fancy they were safe—at least for that night.
The hut was built not in the town itself, but about five hundred yards from its walls, below the harbor and on a ridge of rocks which commanded the beach. Beyond, at less than a cable's length, was the sea breaking on the sands and stretching away to the distant horizon. Toward the south-west there jutted out the promontory whose curve shuts in the small roadstead of Rovigno.
It had but four rooms, two at the front and two at the back, but here was a lean-to of boards in which the fishing and other tackle was kept. Such was the dwelling of Andrea Ferrato. His boat was a balancello with a square stern about thirty feet long, rigged with a mainsail and foresail—a description of boat well adapted for trawling. When she was not in use, she was moored inside the rocks, and a little boat drawn up on the beach was used in journeying to and from her. Behind the house was an inclosure of about half an acre, in which a few vegetables grew among the mulberry- and olive-trees and the vines. A hedge separated it from a brook about six feet broad, and beyond was the open country.
Such was this humble, but hospitable dwelling, to which Providence had led the fugitives; such was the host, who risked his liberty to give them shelter. As soon as the door closed on them, Sandorf and Bathory examined the room into which the fisherman had welcomed them.
It was the principal room of the house, furnished in a way that showed the taste and assiduity of a careful house-keeper.
“First of all you want something to eat,” said Andrea.
“Yes, we are dying with hunger!” answered Sandorf. “For twelve hours we have had no food.”
“You understand, Maria.”
And in a minute Maria had put on the table some salt pork, some boiled fish, a flask of the local wine of the dry grape, with two glasses, two plates, and a white table-cloth. A “veglione,” a sort of lamp with three wicks, fed with oil, gave light in the room.
Sandorf and Bathory sat down to the table; they were quite exhausted.
“But you?” said they to the fisherman.
“We have had our meal,” answered Andrea.
The two famished men devoured—that is the proper word—the provisions which were offered with such simplicity and heartiness.
But, as they ate, they kept their eves on the fisherman, his daughter and his son, who sat in a corner of the room and looked at them back, without saying a word. Andrea was then about forty-two, a man of severe expression, even a little sorrowful, with expressive features, a sunburnt face, black eyes and a keen look. He wore the dress of the fishermen of the Adriatic, and was evidently of active, powerful build.
Maria—whose face and figure recalled her mother—was tall, graceful, pretty rather than handsome, with bright, black eyes, brown hair, and a complexion lightly tinted by the vivacity of her Corsican blood. Serious by reason of the duties she had fulfilled from her childhood, having in her attitude and movements the serenity a reflective nature gives, everything about her showed an energy that would never fail, no matter in what circumstances she might be placed. Many times she had been sought in marriage by the young fishermen of the country, but in vain. Did not all her life belong to her father and the child who was so dear to him?
That boy Luigi was already an experienced sailor—hard-working, brave, and resolute. Bareheaded in wind and rain, he accompanied Andrea in his fishing and piloting. Later on he promised to be a vigorous man, well trained and well built, more than bold, even audacious, ready for anything and careless of danger. He loved his father. He adored his sister.
Count Sandorf had been keenly examining these three, united in such touching affection. That he was among people he could trust he felt sure. When the meal was finished, Andrea rose and approaching Sandorf, said:
“Go and sleep, gentlemen. No one knows you are here. To-morrow we can talk.”
“No, Andrea Ferrato, no!” said Sandorf. “Our hunger is now appeased! We have recovered our strength! Let us leave the house this instant, where our presence is so dangerous to yon and yours.”
“Yes, let us leave,” added Bathory. “And may Heaven reward you for what you have done.”
“Go and sleep; it is necessary,” said the fisherman. “The beach is watched to-night. An embargo has been put upon all the ports on the coast. You can do nothing now.”
“Be it so, if you wish it,” answered Sandorf.
“I wish it.”
“One word only. When was our escape known?”
“This morning,” answered Andrea. “But there were four prisoners in the donjon of Pisino. You are only two. The third, they say, was set free.”
“Sarcany!” exclaimed Sandorf, immediately checking the movement of anger that seized him as he heard the hated name.
“And the fourth?” asked Bathory, without daring to finish the sentence.
“The fourth is still living,” answered Ferrato. “His execution has been put off.”
“Living!” exclaimed Bathory.
“Yes,” answered Sandorf, ironically. “They are keeping him till they have got us, to give us the pleasure of dying together.”
“Maria,” said Ferrato, “take our guests to the room at the back, but do not have a light. The window must not show from without that there is a light in the room. You can then go to bed. Luigi and I will watch.”
“Yes, father,” answered the boy.
“Come, sirs,” said the girl.
A moment afterward Sandorf and his companion exchanged a cordial shake of the hand with the fisherman. Then they passed into the chamber, where they found two good mattresses of maize on which they could rest after so many fatigues.
But already Andrea had left the house with Luigi. He wished to assure himself that no one was prowling round the neighborhood, neither on the beach nor beyond the brook. The fugitives could then sleep in peace till the morning.
The night passed without adventure. The fisherman had frequently been out. He had seen nothing suspicious.
In the morning of the 18th of June, while his guests were still asleep, Andrea went out for news into the center of the town and along the wharves. There were many groups talking over the events of the past day. The placard stuck up the evening before relating the escape, the penalties incurred and the reward promised, formed the general subject of conversation. Some were gossiping, some detailing the latest news, some repeating the rumors in vague terms which meant nothing in particular. There was nothing to show that Sandorf and his companion had been seen in the neighborhood, nor even that there was any suspicion of their presence in the province. About ten o'clock when the sergeant and his men entered Rovigno after their night expedition, a rumor spread that two strangers had been seen twenty-four hours before on the Leme Canal. The district from there to the sea had been searched for them in vain. There was not a vestige of their visit. Had they then reached the coast, possessed themselves of a boat and gone to some other part of Istria, or had they crossed the Austrian frontier? It would seem so.
“Good,” said one of the men. “There are five thousand florins saved to the treasury.”
“Money that might be better spent than in paying rascally informers!”
“And they have managed to escape?”
“Escape? Yes. And they are safe on the other side of the Adriatic.”
From this conversation, which took place among a group of peasants, working-men and shop-keepers who were standing in front of one of the placards, it seemed that public opinion was rather in favor of the fugitives—at least among the people of Istria, who are either Sclaves or Italians by birth. The Austrian officials could hardly count on their being betrayed to them.
But they were doing all they could to recover the fugitives. All the squadrons of police and companies of gendarmerie had been afoot since the evening, and an incessant exchange of dispatches was taking place between Bovigno, Pisino and Trieste.
When Andrea returned home about eleven o'clock he brought back the news, which was thus rather favorable than otherwise.
Sandorf and Bathory had had their breakfast taken into their room by Maria, and were finishing it as he appeared. The few hours' sleep, the good food and the careful attention had entirely recovered them from their fatigues.
“Well, my good friend?” asked Count Sandorf as soon as Andrea closed the door.
“Gentlemen, I do not think you have anything to be afraid of at present.”
“But what do they say in the town?” asked Bathory.
“They are talking a good deal about two strangers who were seen yesterday morning when they landed on the bank of the Leme Canal and that concerns you.”
“It does concern us,” answered Bathory. “A man, a salt-worker in the neighborhood, has seen and reported us.”
And Andrea Ferrato was told of what had passed at the ruined farm while they were in hiding.
“And you do not know who this informer was?” asked the fisherman.
“We did not see him,” replied Sandorf; “we could only hear him.”
“ That is a pity,” said Ferrato. “But the important thing is that they have lost trace of you, and if it is supposed that you have taken refuge in my house, I do not think any one would betray you. The promise of one is binding on all in these parts.”
“Yes,” answered Sandorf, “and I am not surprised at it. A fine lot of fellows are the people of these provinces! But we have to do with the Austrian officials, and they will not leave a stone unturned to retake us.”
“There is one thing in your favor,” said the fisherman, “and that is the pretty general opinion that you have already crossed the Adriatic.”
“And would to Heaven they had!” added Maria, who had joined her hands as if in prayer.
“That we shall do, my dear child,” said Sandorf, in a tone of entire confidence, “that we shall do with Heaven's help—”
“And mine, count,” replied Andrea. “Now I am going on with my work as usual. People are accustomed to see us getting our nets ready on the beach, or cleaning up the balancello, and we must not alter that. Besides I must go and study the weather before I decide what to do. You remain in this room. Do not leave it on any pretext. If necessary you can open the window on to the yard, but remain at the back of the room and do not let yourselves be seen. I will come back in an hour or two.”
Andrea then left the house accompanied by Luigi, and Maria busied herself with the housework as usual.
A few fishermen were on the beach. As a matter of precaution he went and exchanged a few words with them before beginning on his nets.
“The wind is pretty steady now,” said one of them.
“Yes,” answered Andrea, “that last storm cleared the weather for us.”
“Hum!” added another, “the breeze will freshen toward evening and turn to a storm if the bora joins in with it.”
“Good! Then the wind will blow off the land, and the sea will not be so lively among the rocks.”
“We shall see!”
“Are you going fishing to-night, Andrea?”
“Certainly, if the weather will let me.”
“But the embargo?”
“The embargo is only on big ships, not on coasting boats.”
“All the better; for we have got a report that shoals of tunnies are coming up from the south, and there is no time to lose in getting out the madragues.”
“Good,” said Andrea. “But we shall lose nothing.”
“Eh? Perhaps not.”
“No, I tell you, if I go out to-night I shall go after bonicous, out Orsera or Parenzo way.”
“As you like. But we will set to work to get the madragues out at the foot of the rocks.”
“All right.”
Andrea and Luigi then went after their nets, stowed away in the outhouse, and stretched them out on the sand so as to dry them in the sun. Then, two hours later the fishermen came back, having told Luigi to get ready the hooks for the bonicous, which are a sort of fish with a brownish-red flesh belonging to the same genus as the tunnies and the same species as the anxides.
CHAPTER XIV.
CARPENA'S OFFER.
edit
Ten minutes later, after a smoke at his door, Andrea rejoined his guests in the room, while Maria continued her work about the house.
“Count,” said the fisherman, “the wind is off the land, and I do not think the sea will be rough to-night The simplest way, and consequently the best way to avoid observation, is for you to come with me. If you think so, it would be better to get away to-night about ten o'clock. You can then get down between the rocks to the water's edge. No one will see you. My boat will take you off to the balancello, and we can at once put to sea without attracting attention, for they know I am going out to-night. If the breeze freshens too much I will run down the coast so as to set you ashore beyond the Austrian frontier at the mouths of the Cattaro.”
“And if it does not freshen, what are you going to do?” asked Sandorf.
“We will go out to sea,” answered the fisherman, “and I will land you on the coast of Rimini or at the mouth of the Po.”
“Is your boat big enough for a voyage like that?” asked Bathory.
“Yes; it is a good boat, half-decked, and my son and I have been out in her in very bad weather. Besides we must run some risk.”
“We must run some risk,” said Count Sandorf; “our lives are at stake, and nothing is more natural. But for you, my friend, to risk your life—”
“That is my business, count,” answered Andrea, “and I am only doing my duty in wishing to save you.”
“Your duty?”
“Yes.”
And Andrea Ferrato related that episode in his life on account of winch he had left Santa Manza, and told how the good he was about to do would be a just compensation for the evil he had done.
“You are a splendid fellow!” exclaimed Sandorf, much affected by the recital.
Then continuing:
“But if we go to the mouths of the Cattaro, or the Italian coast, that will necessitate a long absence, which, on your part, will astonish the people of Rovigno. After have put us in safety, there is no need for you to return and be arrested—”
“Never fear,” answered Andrea. “Sometimes I am five or six days at sea. Besides, I tell you that is my business. It is what must be done, and it is what shall be done.”
So that the only thing to do was to discuss the scheme, which was evidently a good one, and easy of execution, for the balancello was quite equal to the voyage. Care would have to be taken in getting on board; but the night was sure to be dark and moonless, and probably with the evening one of those thick mists would come up along the coast which do not extend far out to sea. The beach would then be deserted. The other fishermen, Ferrato's neighbors, would be busy, as they had said, among their madragues on the rocks, two or three miles below Rovigno. When they sighted the balancello, if they did sight her, she would be far out at sea, with the fugitives under her deck.
“And what is the distance in a direct line between Rovigno and the nearest point of the Italian coast?” asked Bathory.
“About fifty miles.”
“And how long will it take you to do that?”
“With a favorable wind we ought to cross in twelve hours. But you have no money. You will want some. Take this belt, it has three hundred florins in it, and buckle it around you.”
“My friend—” said Sandorf.
“You can return it later on,” replied the fisherman, “when you are in safety. And now wait here till I come back.”
Matters being thus arranged Ferrato went to resume his usual occupation, sometimes on the beach and sometimes about his house. Luigi, without being noticed, took on board in a spare sail provisions for several days. There seemed no possibility of suspicion that might alter Ferrato's plans. He was even so careful in his precautions as not to see his guests again during he day. Sandord and Bathory remained in hiding at the back of the room in which the window remained open. The fisherman was to call them when it was time for them to go.
Many of the neighbors came in to have a chat during the afternoon about the appearance of the tunnies and the fishing. Andrea received them in the front room and offered them something to drink as usual.
The greater part of the day was thus passed in going backward and forward and in talk. Many times the subject of the prisoners cropped up. There was a rumor that they had been caught near the Quarnero Canal on the opposite side of Istria—a rumor winch was soon afterward contradicted.
All seemed working for the best. That the coast was more closely watched than usual by the custom-house men, the police, and the gendarmes, was certain; but there would probably be no difficulty in evading the guard when night came on.
The embargo, as we know, had only been put on the long-voyage ships and the Mediterranean coasters, and not on the local fishing-boats. The balancello would thus be able to get under sail without suspicion.
But Andrea Ferrato had not reckoned on a visit he received in the evening. This visit was a surprise at first and made him anxious, although he did not understand the meaning of the threat until after his visitor's departure.
Eight o'clock was on the point of striking, and Maria was preparing the supper, and had already laid the table in the large room when there came two knocks at the door. Andrea did not hesitate to go and open it. Much surprised, he found himself in the presence of the Spaniard, Carpena.
This Carpena was a native of Almayati, a little town in the province of Malaga. As Ferrato had left Corsica, so had he left Spain, to settle in Istria. There he found employment in the salt-works and in carrying the products of the western coast into the interior—a thankless occupation that barely brought him enough to live upon.
He was a strong fellow, still young, being not more than five-and-twenty, short of stature, but broad of shoulder, with a large head covered with curly, coarse black hair, and one of those bull-dog faces that look as forbidding on a man as on a dog. Carpena was unsociable, spiteful, vindictive, and a good deal of a scoundrel, and was anything but popular. It was not known why he had left his country. Several quarrels with his fellow-workmen, a good deal of threatening with one and the other, followed by fights and scuffles, had not added to his reputation. People liked Carpena best at a distance.
He, however, had a sufficiently good opinion of himself and his person—as we shall see—and was ambitious of becoming Ferrato's son-in-law. The fisherman, it must be confessed, did not give his overtures a cordial reception. And that will be understood better when the man's pretensions have been disclosed in the conversation that followed.
Carpena had hardly set foot in the room when Andrea stopped him short with—
“What have you come here for?”
“I was passing, and as I saw a light in your window I came in.”
“And why?”
“To visit you, neighbor.”
“But your visits are not wanted, you know!”
“Not usually,” answered the Spaniard; “but to-night it will be different.”
Ferrato did not understand and could not guess what such enigmatic words meant in Carpena's mouth. But he could not repress a sudden start, which did not escape his visitor, who shut the door behind him.
“I want to speak to you!” said he.
“No. You have nothing to say to me.”
“Yes—I must speak to you—in private,” added the Spaniard, lowering his voice.
“Come, then,” answered the fisherman, who during this day had his reasons for not refusing any one admittance. Carpena, at a sign from Ferrato, crossed the room and entered his bedroom, which was separated only by a thin partition from that occupied by Sandorf and his companion. One room opened on to the front, the other on to the back of the house. As soon as they were alone—
“What do you want with me?” asked the fisherman.
“Neighbor,” answered Carpena, “I again come to appeal to your kindness.”
“What for?”
“About your daughter.”
“Not another word.”
“Listen then! You know that I love Maria, and that my dearest wish is to make her my wife.”
And in fact Carpena had for several months been pursuing the girl with his attentions. As may be imagined, these were due more to interest than to love. Ferrato was well off for a fisherman and, compared to the Spaniard, who possessed nothing, he was rich. Nothing could be more natural than that Carpena should wish to become his son-in-law, and on the other hand nothing could be more natural than that the fisherman invariably showed him the door.
“Carpena,” answered Ferrato, “you have already spoken to my daughter and she has told you no. You have already asked me and I have told you no. You again come here to-day and I tell you no for the last time.”
The Spaniard's face grew livid. His lips opened and showed his teeth. His eyes darted a ferocious look at the fisherman. But the badly lighted room prevented Ferrato from seeing that threatening physiognomy.
“That is your last word?” asked Carpena.
“That is my last word, if it is the last time you ask me. But if you renew the request you shall have the same reply.”
“I shall renew it! Yes! I shall renew it,” repeated Carpena—“if Maria tells me to do so.”
“She do so!” exclaimed Andrea. “She! You know she has neither friendship nor esteem for you!”
“Her sentiments may change when I have had an interview with her,” answered Carpena.
“An interview?”
“Yes, Ferrato. I wish to speak to her.”
“When?”
“Now! You understand—I must speak to her—I must—this very night!”
“On her behalf I refuse.”
“Take care what you are doing,” said Carpena, raising his voice. “Take care!”
“Take care?”
“I will be revenged.”
“Oh! Take your revenge, if you like, or if you dare!” answered Ferrato, who was getting angry in turn. “All your threats won't frighten me! And now get out, or I'll throw you out!”
The blood mounted to the Spaniard's eyes. Perhaps he thought of attacking the fisherman! But he restrained himself and, making a snatch at the door, he dashed out of the room and out of the house without saying another word.
He had scarcely gone before the door of the other room opened and Count Sandorf, who had lost none of the foregoing conversation, appeared on the threshold. Stepping up to Andrea, he said to him in a low voice:
“That is the man that gave the information to the sergeant of gendarmerie. He knows us. He saw us when we landed on the bank of the Leme Canal. He followed us to Rovigno. He evidently knows that you have sheltered us in your house. So let us be off at once or we shall be lost—and you too!”