CHAPTER XIV
"THE CHILDREN"
"The Children" were young men, some of them hardly more than boys, whohad followed the Dictator from Italy. They came from all parts of thePeninsula, but the wide windy Milanese plain supplied most of them. Acurious exaltation reigned in the camp. It was like the mystic aura of anew religion. One became infected with it after a few hours among thetroops.
They were already veterans in their own opinion, and, feeling that theeyes of their General was always upon them, they claimed as theirmonopoly all desperate ventures, the front rank in stubborn defences,the rear-guard in retreat, and they died with an "Evviva, Garibaldi!"upon their lips. One snatched the standard from a falling comrade thathe might carry it closer to the Prussian lines, only in most cases tofall in his turn under the fatal steadiness of the needle-gun.
The rest of the army of the Vosges fought under the tricolour of France,but for "Les Enfants" Garibaldi had devised his own emblem. It wassufficiently striking and characteristic of the man, but in France atleast it only excited astonishment among the masses, and hatred andcontempt among the clerical and aristocratic party, which was at thattime in a great majority in the provinces. The flag was of a vividcrimson, darker a little than the "Tatter of Scarlet" I had seen go upat Aramon when the Communards expelled the troops from the town. Therewas no device upon it--only the one word in large letters:
"PATATRAC!"
I saw the rustics gazing open-mouthed upon it every day, yet it was aword admirably descriptive and one which I have heard in frequent useamong the peasant folk of the South. "Patatrac!" or "Patatras!" thelabourer will exclaim when he lets a bucket fall at a stair-head andhears it go rumbling down. "Patatrac!" a housewife will say when shedescribes how a careless maid drops a trayful of crockery. It is thecrashing sound of the fall that is represented, and in this fashionGaribaldi had been so accustomed to bring down in thunderous earthquakeruin all the brood of century-old tyrannies.
It was his well-earned boast that he had made the device good againstall comers (except his special _bete noires_ of the Papacy) until thefell day at Mentana when the French chassepots rather belatedly gave himas we say at home "his kail through the reek!"
Yet here he was, only five years after, a broken man, fighting for thatsame France, just because she had shaken off the yoke of the tyrant andbecome a republic.
Wonderful always to hear the soldiers speak of their leader. They didnot cheer him as did the French corps. They clustered close about hiscarriage as he moved slowly along, his thin hand, which had so long helda sword, touching their heads, and his feeble sick man's voice saying:"My children--oh, my children!"
Neither of his sons accompanied him on these pilgrimages in the shabbyhired barouche in which he drove out every day, but Bordone was alwayswith him--watchful, stern, and devoted, the real tyrant of the littlearmy. Menotti and Ricciotti were always with their troops, perhaps fromjealousy of Bordone, perhaps because they had enough to do licking theirraw levies into some manner of fighting shape.
The winter was bitter even among bitter winters, and the snow soon beganto be trampled hard. The troops, continually arriving, were quarteredall over Autun, and in the villages about. Finally the churches had tobe occupied, and though nothing was done there that would not havehappened with any army of occupation, Garibaldi the polluter was cursedfrom one end of France to the other as if he had torn down the goldencross upon St. Peter's dome. Not that it mattered to the old Dictator.In silence and solitude he made his plans. He read the reports anddispatches as they came in. He issued his orders through Bordone, beforedriving out in the halting ramshackle barouche, sometimes with twohorses, more often with only one. At every halt he spoke a word or twoto the troops as he passed among them, words treasured by the true"Children" like the oracles of God. Then he would return to hislodgings, sit down to his bowl of soup, his loaf of bread, and his glassof water, exactly as if he were on his own island farm within hearing ofthe waves breaking on the rocks of Caprera.
We found ourselves among Ricciotti's fourth corps of Guides. We weresent to the outfitting captain whose quarters were established in a longhangar overlooking the river. There we found a little rotund man, verybright of eye and limber of tongue, who fitted us out with manycompliments and bows. We had brought a letter from the commanderhimself.
Our first uniform was the gayest ever seen--too picturesque indeed forsober British tastes. It consisted of a red shirt, blue-grey ridingbreeches, and high boots with jingling silver spurs (for which last wepaid from our own purses). On our heads we wore a fascinating "biretta,"or cap with a tall feather. The captain of outfitting showed us how tosport it with a conquering air, and with what a grace to swing the shortred cloak over one shoulder so that we should not be able to pass a girlin Autun who did not turn and look after us.
This was what the master of the stores said as he stood with his backagainst the rough pine door-post of his quarters and rubbed hisshoulder-blades luxuriously. But in practice I looked like a carnivalMephistopheles, while Hugh Deventer's feather generally drooped over oneeye in a drunken fashion. We were not long in suppressing these gauds,though we did our duty in them as gallopers for several days. Finally wewent to Ricciotti and begged to be allowed to carry our rifles in one ofthe foot regiments. We did not want to leave the foreign troops, knowingsomething of the ostracism and persecution which would be our part amongthe French regiments. So we were allowed to return our chargers to theremounting officer, and make another visit to the small rotund outfitterin his wooden barrack by the river. There of all our gallant array weretained only our red shirts, and for the rest were rigged out in soberdark blue, a _kepi_ apiece, and a pair of stout marching shoes on ourfeet.
We mounted knapsack and haversack, shouldered our Henry rifles, and inan hour found ourselves established among the first "Etranger," aMilanese regiment with three or four mountain companies from Valtellineand the Bergel.
Now it chanced that I had spent some part of my vacations climbing amongthe peaks about Promontonio. There I had taken, more as companion thanas guide, a Swiss-Italian, or to be exact "Ladin"--of my own age or alittle older, by the name of Victor Dor. He was a pleasant lad, and wetalked of many things as we shared the contents of our ruek-sacks on theperilous shoulder of some mountain just a few feet removed from theoverhang of the glacier.
And here and now, with the chevrons of a sergeant, was this same VictorDor, who embraced me as if he had been my brother.
"Oh, the happiness to see you!" he cried. "And among the children of ourfather. I know you do not come to save the French who shot us down atMentana. You are like us. You come because our father calls, and yet tothink of those long days in the Val Bergel when we never knew that wewere brothers. And yet I do not know. You spoke of the Man who was aCarpenter at Nazareth, and who called his disciples to follow him. Soour father came, and we followed him. Princes and Emperors scatterhonours. Republics give decorations and offices. But look at our ladslying on the straw yonder. Where will they be in a week? In the hospitalor in the grave? Some of these men are well off at home, others arepoor. No matter! All share alike, and all are equal before our father.Ah, that is it! You see there is nothing to be gained except the joy offollowing him. Our poor dear father Garibaldi, what has he to offer? Hehas nothing for himself but a barren isle, and even that he owes to youEnglish.[1] The liberty of following him, of seeing his face when hepasses by, of hearing his voice as he calls us his children, the prideof being his very own chosen, who have shared his perils and neverdeserted him to the last. These are our rewards. Tell me if they are ofthis world?"
[Footnote 1: See Hamerton's "Round my House."]