The boat left the harbour like a seabird leaving its nest and the next day put Franz down in Porto Ferrajo.
He crossed the imperial island, following every trace that the giant’s footsteps had left there, and embarked at Marciana.
Two hours after leaving land, he touched it again, getting off at Pianosa, where he had been assured that he would find infinite numbers of red partridge.
The hunting proved poor. Franz killed barely a handful of thin birds and, like any huntsman who has tired himself out to no purpose, got back into his boat in rather bad humour.
‘Now, if Your Excellency wishes,’ said the boatman, ‘you could have some good hunting.’
‘Where?’
‘Do you see that island?’ the boatman said, pointing southwards and indicating a conical mass which rose out of the sea, bathed in the loveliest indigo light.
‘What is it?’ Franz asked him.
‘Monte Cristo,’ said the Livornan.
‘But I have no licence to hunt on that island.’
‘Your Excellency does not need permission, the island is deserted.’
‘Well I never,’ said the young man. ‘That’s rare: a desert island in the middle of the Mediterranean.’
‘But natural, Excellency. The island is a mass of rock; there is perhaps not so much as an acre of cultivable land on all its surface.’
‘And to whom does it belong?’
‘To Tuscany.’
‘What game will I find there?’
‘Thousands of wild goats.’
‘Which live by licking the rocks, I suppose,’ Franz said, with an incredulous smile.
‘No, by grazing on the heather, the myrtles and the gum-trees that grow between them.’
‘Where could I sleep?’
‘On the ground, in the caves, or on board in your cloak. In any case, if Your Excellency wishes, we can leave immediately the hunt is over: as Your Excellency knows, we can sail as well by night as by day and, if the wind fails, we can row.’
As Franz still had some time before he needed to meet his friend, and as he was assured of their lodgings in Rome, he accepted this proposal to compensate for the disappointment of his previous hunt. On his assent, the sailors exchanged a few words in a whisper.
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What now? Is there some problem?’
‘No,’ said the master of the boat, ‘but we must advise Your Excellency that the island has been designated contumacious.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that, since Monte Cristo is uninhabited and is sometimes used as a staging-post by smugglers and pirates from Corsica, Sardinia or Africa, if there is any evidence of our having stopped there, we shall be obliged when we return to Leghorn to spend six days in quarantine.’
‘The devil we will! That puts a different complexion on it! Six days! The same time that it took God to create the world. It’s a bit too long, my friends.’
‘But who is to say that His Excellency has been to Monte Cristo?’
‘I certainly shan’t!’ Franz exclaimed.
‘And nor will we,’ said the sailors.
‘In that case, ahoy for Monte Cristo.’
The master ordered them to change course for the island and the boat began to sail in that direction.
Franz waited for the manoeuvre to be completed and, when the new course was set, the wind was filling the sail and the four sailors had resumed their places, three at the bow, one at the rudder, he resumed his conversation with the captain. ‘My dear Gaetano,’ he said, ‘I think you just said that the island of Monte Cristo was a refuge for pirates: this is a rather different game from goats.’
‘Yes, Excellency, that’s a fact.’
‘I knew that there were such people as smugglers, but I thought that since the capture of Algiers2 and the destruction of the Regency, there were no pirates left outside the novels of Fenimore Cooper and Captain Marryat.’
‘Your Excellency is wrong. The same is true of pirates as of bandits, who were supposed to have been exterminated by Pope Leo XII, but who nonetheless stop travellers every day right up to the gates of Rome. Did you not hear that barely six months ago the French chargé d’affaires to the Holy See was robbed, five hundred yards from Velletri?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Now, if Your Excellency were to live in Leghorn, as we do, you would hear from time to time that a vessel laden with merchandise, or a pretty English yacht which was expected in Bastia, Porto Ferrajo or Civita Vecchia, has not made port, and that no one knows what has become of it, except that it has doubtless been wrecked on some rock. Well, the rock that it hit was a low narrow-boat, with six or eight men on board, which surprised it and pillaged it, some dark and stormy night off a wild, uninhabited island, just as bandits stop and pillage a mail coach at the entrance to a wood.’
‘But in that case,’ said Franz, still lying back in the boat, ‘why don’t the victims of these accidents complain and bring down the vengeance of the French, Tuscan or Sardinian governments on the head of the pirates?’
‘Why not?’ Gaetano asked with a smile.
‘Yes, why not?’
‘Because first of all they unload everything that is worth taking off the ship or the yacht and put it in their boat; then they tie the hands and feet of the crew, tie a cannonball round the neck of each man, make a hole as big as a barrel in the keel of the captured vessel, go back up on deck, batten down the hatches and return to their own boat. Ten minutes later, the ship starts to moan and groan, then bit by bit it founders. First one side, then the other goes under; then it rises up, then dips down again, slipping lower and lower each time. Suddenly, there is a noise like a cannon shot: that’s the air bursting the deck. Then the vessel struggles like a drowning man, getting heavier with every movement that it makes. Soon the water, trapped under pressure inside, bursts out of every opening, like the spouting liquid from the air-holes of a gigantic whale. Finally it gives its death-cry, rolls over on itself and goes under, leaving a huge funnel in the deep which spins for an instant, then gradually fills and eventually disappears altogether. The result is that in five minutes only the eye of God Himself could see a trace of the vanished ship beneath the calm surface of the sea.
‘Now do you understand,’ he added, smiling again, ‘why the ship does not return to port and the crew does not lodge a complaint?’
If Gaetano had told him this story before suggesting their expedition, Franz would quite probably have thought twice before agreeing to it; but they were on their way, and he felt it would be cowardly to go back. He was one of those who do not court danger but who, if it presents itself, retain all their composure in confronting it; he was one of those calm-willed men who consider a risk in life as they do an opponent in a duel, measuring his movements, studying his strength, and breaking off long enough to catch their breath, but not enough to appear cowardly. Such men, assessing all their advantages with a single glance, kill with a single blow.
‘Huh!’ he continued. ‘I have crossed Sicily and Calabria, I’ve sailed around the archipelago for two months, and never yet have I seen a trace of any bandit or pirate.’
‘But I did not say that to Your Excellency in order to suggest that you should alter your plans. Your Excellency asked me a question and I replied, nothing more.’
‘Yes, my dear Gaetano, and your conversation is most interesting. So, as I want to enjoy it as long as possible, let’s go to Monte Cristo.’
However, they were quickly nearing the end of the journey. They had a fresh wind in their sails and the boat was making six or seven knots. At their approach, the island seemed to rise up out of the sea. Through the clear atmosphere of the dying rays of the sun they could see, like cannonballs in an arsenal, the mass of rocks piled up, one above the other, with between them the dark red of the heather and the light green of the trees. Though the sailors appeared perfectly calm, it was clear that they were watchful, scanning the vast mirror across which the boat was slipping,
its horizon interrupted only by the white sails of a few fishing boats which hovered like seagulls on the crests of the waves.
They were scarcely more than fifteen miles from Monte Cristo when the sun began to set behind Corsica, the mountains of which rose up to their right, darkly serrated against the sky. The mass of stones rose threateningly in front of the boat, like the giant Adamastor,3 its crest gilded by the sun which was concealed behind it. Little by little the shadowy figure came up out of the sea and appeared to drive before it the last ray of the dying day, until at last the shaft of light was driven to the very tip of the cone, where it paused for a moment like the flaming plume of a volcano. Finally the darkness, still rising, progressively swept across the summit as it had previously swept across the base, and the island had only the appearance of a mountain, growing constantly a darker shade of grey. Half an hour later, everything was pitch black.
Luckily the sailors were in familiar waters and knew every last rock in the Tuscan archipelago; otherwise, in the midst of this blackness that had enfolded the boat, Franz might not have been altogether easy in his mind. Corsica had vanished entirely and even the island of Monte Cristo had become invisible; but the sailors seemed to have the lynx’s faculty of seeing in the dark, and the pilot, sitting at the rudder, did not show the slightest hesitation.
About an hour had passed since sunset when Franz thought he could see a dark shape, about a quarter of a mile to the left. It was so difficult to distinguish what it could be that, rather than risking the sailors’ mockery by mistaking some passing clouds for land, he said nothing. But suddenly a great light appeared on the shore: the land might resemble a cloud, but this fire was not a meteor.
‘What’s that light?’ he asked.
‘Hush!’ said the boatman. ‘It’s a fire.’
‘But you said that the island was uninhabited.’
‘I said that it had no permanent inhabitants, but I also mentioned that smugglers sometimes put in there.’
‘And pirates?’
‘And pirates,’ said Gaetano, repeating Franz’s words. ‘That’s why I gave the order to sail past the island: as you can see, the fire is behind us.’
‘But surely,’ Franz said, ‘it seems to me that this fire should reassure us rather than otherwise. People who were afraid of being seen would not have lit a fire like that.’
‘Oh, that means nothing,’ said Gaetano. ‘If you could judge the position of the island in the darkness, you would see that the fire is sited in such a way that it cannot be seen from the coast, or from Pianosa, but only from the open sea.’
‘So you suspect that this fire indicates unwelcome company?’
‘That’s what we must find out,’ said Gaetano, keeping his eyes fixed on the terrestrial star.
‘How can we do that?’
‘You’ll see.’
At this, Gaetano had a few words with his comrades and, after they had talked for five minutes, they carried out a manoeuvre which allowed them instantly to reverse their course. In this way they were sailing back in the direction from which they had come and, a few moments later, the fire disappeared, hidden behind some outcrop on the land.
At this, the pilot altered course yet again with the rudder, and the little boat came visibly closer to the island, until it was only some fifty yards off-shore. Gaetano lowered the sail and the boat remained stationary.
All this had taken place in the most profound silence; indeed, since the change of course not a word had been spoken on board.
Gaetano, having suggested the expedition, had taken full responsibility for it on himself. The four sailors kept peering at him, preparing the oars and evidently getting ready to row to shore which, thanks to the darkness, was not difficult.
As for Franz, he was inspecting his weapons with the characteristic sang-froid we have mentioned. He had two double-barrelled guns and a rifle, which he loaded. Then he cocked them and waited.
Meanwhile the master had taken off his shirt and jacket, and secured his trousers around his waist; as he was barefoot, he had no shoes or stockings to remove. Once dressed – or, rather, undressed – like this, he put his finger to his lips to show that they should observe complete silence and, after slipping gently into the sea, swam towards the shore, but so cautiously that they could not hear the slightest sound. His path could be followed only by the phosphorescent trail he left in his wake. Soon even this disappeared, and it was clear that Gaetano had reached land.
For half an hour everyone on the boat remained motionless. Then the same luminous furrow reappeared near the shore and came towards them. In a moment, with two strokes, Gaetano was alongside.
‘Well?’ Franz and the four sailors asked simultaneously.
‘Well,’ said Gaetano, ‘they are Spanish smugglers, and they only have with them two Corsican bandits.’
‘What are two Corsican bandits doing with Spanish smugglers?’
‘Bless my soul!’ said Gaetano, in tones of the most sincere Christian charity. ‘We are here to help one another, Excellency. Bandits are often hard-pressed on land by the gendarmes or the carabinieri, so they find a boat with good fellows like us in it. They come and request the hospitality of our floating house. How can one refuse to succour a poor devil with men on his tail? We take him in and, for greater safety, put out to sea. This costs us nothing and it saves the life – or, at least, the freedom – of one of our fellow men who, as it happens, acknowledges the service we have done him by showing us a good spot to put off our cargo where it is safe from prying eyes.’
‘Oh, I see!’ said Franz. ‘And are you a bit of a smuggler yourself, then, my dear Gaetano?’
‘What do you expect, Excellency!’ he replied with an indescribable smile. ‘One does a bit of everything. A man must live.’
‘So you know where you stand with the present inhabitants of Monte Cristo?’
‘More or less. We sailors are like freemasons, we recognize one another by certain signs.’
‘And you think we shall have nothing to fear if we disembark here in our turn?’
‘Nothing at all. Smugglers are not thieves.’
‘But what about the two Corsican bandits?’ Franz insisted, trying to allow for every possibility.
‘Good Lord!’ said Gaetano. ‘It’s not their fault if they’re bandits, it’s the fault of the authorities.’
‘How can that be?’
‘Of course! They are being hunted down because they made their bones, nothing more. As if revenge wasn’t in a Corsican’s nature…’
‘What do you mean by “making their bones”? Having killed someone?’ Franz asked, still curious.
‘I mean killing an enemy,’ said the master. ‘That’s quite different.’
‘Well then,’ the young man said, ‘let’s go and ask for the hospitality of these smugglers and bandits. Will they welcome us?’
‘No doubt at all.’
‘How many of them are there?’
‘Four, Excellency; with the two bandits, that makes six.’
‘Just the same as us, in fact. And if these gentlemen should prove unfriendly, then we are in a position to keep them at bay. So, one last time, let’s land on Monte Cristo.’
‘Yes, Excellency. But will you allow me to take a few extra precautions?’
‘What, my good fellow! Be as wise as Nestor and as cautious as Ulysses. I not only allow it, I beg you.’
‘Silence!’ said Gaetano; and they all fell silent.
For someone like Franz, who considered everything in its true light, the situation, while not dangerous, still gave pause for serious thought. He was here, in the most profound darkness, in the middle of the sea, with sailors who did not know him and who had no reason to be loyal to him; who, moreover, knew that he had a few thousand francs in his belt and who had ten times examined his guns, at least with curiosity, if not envy: they were fine pieces. In addition to that, escorted by only these men, he was about to land on an island which certainly had a very religious name,
but which appeared to offer Franz no greater hospitality than Calvary did to Christ, in view of the smugglers and the bandits. Then those stories of scuttled ships, which he had thought exaggerated by day-light, seemed more believable in the dark. So, caught between this – perhaps imaginary – double danger, he did not take his eyes off the men or his hand off the rifle.
During this time, the sailors had once more raised their sails and resumed their previous course. Through the darkness, Franz, whose eyes were already becoming somewhat accustomed to it, could see the granite giant beside which the boat was sailing; then finally, as they came round a rock for the second time, he saw the fire burning more brightly than ever, and around it five or six seated figures.
The light extended some hundred yards across the sea. Gaetano sailed just outside its reach, keeping the boat in the unlit darkness beyond. Then, when he was directly across from the bonfire, he turned the bow towards it and sailed boldly into the circle of light, singing a fisherman’s song and taking the main part himself, while the crew joined in with the chorus.
At the first words of the song the men sitting around the fire got up and walked across to the landing-stage, keeping a close watch on the approaching boat so as to assess its size and intentions. They soon appeared to have satisfied themselves and went back to their places around the fire, where a kid was roasting – apart from one, who remained, standing on the shore.
When the boat was about twenty yards from land, the man on the shore mechanically gestured with his carbine, like a sentry greeting a returning patrol, and shouted: ‘Who goes there?’ in Sardinian patois.
Franz cocked his repeating rifle unemotionally.
At this, Gaetano exchanged a few words with the man, which Franz could not understand, though they clearly concerned him.
‘Does Your Excellency wish to be named,’ the master asked, ‘or would he prefer to go incognito?’
‘My name must be entirely unknown to these men,’ Franz said. ‘So just tell them that I am a Frenchman who is travelling for his own amusement.’