Story 11-Chapter I
STORY ELEVEN – Ninco Nanco, the Neapolitan Brigand
Who has not heard of Ninco Nanco, the daring cut-purse, and sometimes cut-throat, of the Apennines, who, with his band of fifty chosen men, has long kept in awe the district of Basilicata in the once kingdom of Naples? Certainly, those who have travelled from the Adriatic to the Bay of Naples, across that mountainous region which in the map looks very like Italy’s ankle-bone, will retain a vivid recollection of the curiosity with which they examined every dry stick projecting from a bush or rock, lest it should prove the barrel of one of his followers’ rifles; and the respect which they felt for every shepherd they saw feeding his flocks on the mountain side, lest the said peaceable-avocation-following gentleman should suddenly jump down, joined by many more from among the rocks, who could salute them in the choicest Neapolitan with words, which may be freely translated, “Stand and deliver! Your money or your life!” Yes; Ninco Nanco is not a hero of romance, but a veritable living, unkempt, unwashed, brown-cloaked, leather-gaitered, breeches-wearing, high-peaked-hatted Italian robber. Yet Ninco Nanco had not always been a cut-throat; for it may shrewdly be supposed that he was not born a brigand – that he did not begin life by shooting folks with a small bow and arrow when they crossed the precincts of his nursery.
Ninco Nanco was once a Neapolitan gentleman of the ancien régime, who got into trouble by running his stiletto, through a slight misapprehension, into the ribs of the wrong man, which wrong man having powerful friends, poor Ninco Nanco, bitterly complaining of his misfortune, and of the cruelty of fate in making two men so much alike, was condemned to the galleys for life. Had he killed the right man, no notice, he affirmed, would have been taken of his peccadillo. While thus suffering under the frowns of fortune, he formed the acquaintance of several personages, like-minded with himself, who spent their spare time in grumbling against their hard fate at being placed in durance vile, and in concocting plans for revenging themselves upon those who had been instrumental in depriving them of their liberty. There is a tide in the affairs of all men – that in the affairs of Ninco Nanco turned, so he thought, in his favour. An opportunity occurred of making his escape – he availed himself of it, as did a few choice spirits of his own kidney. They were compelled, to be sure, to knock three or four of their gaolers on the head; but to liberal-minded men, like themselves, that was a trifle. They expected soon to be provided with ample funds to buy absolution for that act, or for any other of a similar character they might be compelled to commit. Once free from the precincts of their prison, they were among friends, and by them assisted, hastened off inland, nor pulled rein till they had placed many a mountain range and dark ravine between themselves and those who ought to have pursued them, but did not. There Ninco Nanco raised his standard, and prepared to set the laws of “meum and tuum” at defiance. He and his associates soon made themselves at home in a hut, which they erected among some rocks, high up on the side of a lofty mountain, where no one was likely to come and look for them. They only mustered nine or ten men, however, and it was agreed that their band must be greatly increased before they could undertake any enterprise of consequence. Each of the party had friends on whom he could rely, so he said, to join them, but as they were rather out of the line of the penny postage, there was some difficulty in getting the letters conveyed to the persons with whom the band desired to communicate. Another difficulty existed in the fact that only Ninco Nanco and Giuseppe Greco, his lieutenant, could write. Their leader, for reasons best known to himself, declined putting his hand to paper; the task of inditing these epistles fell, therefore, on Giuseppe, while another of the band was commissioned to find messengers, by whom to despatch them to their several destinations.
Meantime, as gentlemen of the profession these worthies were about to adopt cannot live without food any more than those of a less enterprising character, they proposed making a little expedition along the high road, for the purpose of obtaining funds to supply their immediate necessities. The proposal, emanating from Ninco Nanco himself, was so much to the taste of all, that it was immediately put into execution. True, the band mustered but few men; but they were hungry. They posted themselves on either side of the before-mentioned high road, among some rocks and bushes, and waited quietly for what fortune might send them. The chief injunction Ninco Nanco laid on his followers was, not to fire across the road lest they should hit each other, and rather to aim at the men than the horses, as the horses might prove useful, while the men, objecting to be robbed, might possibly prove troublesome. Before long, a carriage was seen approaching. It had a small body with a hood, and was open in front, and had high wheels. In the centre sat a man, with a chest on either side of him, the butt ends of pistols projecting from the pockets of the carriage, and a rifle across his knees. Ninco Nanco’s eyes brightened. “The Padrone has something worth defending,” he muttered, raising his rifle. He fired, and the traveller fell dead. The rest of the band, not being good shots, missed. The postilion lashed on his horses; but the robbers (the brigands, their pardon is asked), jumping out, stopped them, pulled him from his saddle, and commenced a hurried examination of the contents of the chest, the keys of which they found in their victim’s pocket. The dead man had been steward of the Prince Montefalcone, and was returning to Naples after collecting the rents on his employer’s estates. At the sound of the firing, a horseman who was following the calèche turned to fly; but his steed fell, and he was thrown. He was immediately seized on, and bound back to back with the postillion, while his horse was likewise caught. The brigands were rapid in their proceedings. The carriage was smashed to pieces, and its materials, with the body of the murdered man, being packed on the three horses and the two prisoners, the robbers themselves carrying what could not be thus transported, the whole party struck off up the mountain, their leader stopping behind for a moment to assure himself that no traces of the encounter remained. Having picked up a couple of balls and some splinters, and stamped over some drops of blood, he sprang after his comrades. They had reached a dark and secluded glen, with rocks and trees overhanging, when the chief called a halt. After a little consultation, two graves were dug under the moss. In one the body of the steward was deposited.
“Now, friends,” said the chief, in his mild, bland way, addressing his prisoners, “we require recruits; are either of you inclined to join us?”
“Not I, indeed!” exclaimed the steward’s servant. “You’ve murdered my good master, and I hope to see you all hung – especially you, Signor Ninco Nanco; I remember you in the Bagnio of Castellamare – rogue that you are!”
“Very well, friend, take your way,” said Ninco Nanco, blandly, as before. “And you, Signor Postiglione, what do you say?”
“That I am unprejudiced; but it depends on the offer you can make me, most worthy signori,” answered the postillion.
“You see that grave; one of you two will fill it before ten minutes are over,” said the bandit, with terrible calmness.
“Oh, oh! then I will join you or do anything you wish, most worthy and honourable gentlemen,” exclaimed the poor fellow, trembling in every limb.
“You have selected wisely, friend,” said the bandit, with an unpleasant smile; “but you will understand that we require proof of your sincerity; vows are, like strings of macaroni, easily broken. You will have the goodness to take this pistol, and shoot yonder contumacious slave of the steward of the Prince Montefalcone. I wish that I could have given you the satisfaction of shooting the Prince himself.”
The postillion took the pistol which the brigand handed to him, but hesitated to lift it towards the head of the victim.
“Come, come! we are transacting business,” cried the brigand, with a terrible frown. “If you are in earnest, fire; if not, we will give him his choice of shooting you.”
The servant, who had not seemed till this moment to understand the cruel fate prepared for him, turned an imploring glance at the brigands surrounding him; but no expression of commiseration could he discover in the countenances of any of them. He was in the act of lifting up his hands towards the blue sky above his head, when the report of a pistol was heard, and he fell flat on his face to the ground.
Instantly the outer clothing was stripped off, the pockets rifled, and the yet warm corpse was thrown into the grave and covered up.
“Put on this,” said the brigand, handing the murdered man’s jacket to the postillion; “you’ve made a good beginning, and, as your life is now not worth a half carline if you were to appear in Naples, when you have taken the oath you may consider yourself one of us; but you’ll remember, that if you ever turn traitor, though you were to fly to the centre of the Vatican, or to cling to the altar of Saint Peter’s, you would not be safe from our vengeance. Now, onward, comrades!”
After climbing some way the band reached their huts, where, the remains of the carriage being piled in a heap, a fire was lighted, and they set to work to cook the remainder of their provisions, with the pleasant knowledge that they had now the means amply to replenish their supply. Having eaten and drunk their fill of salt fish, oil, garlic, macaroni, and sour wine, they stretched themselves, wrapped up in their cloaks, at their lengths inside the hut, while one stood sentry at a spot whence he could watch the only approach to this rocky domain. Such was the everyday life of these gentlemen. It would require a curious twist of the imagination to conceive Ninco Nanco a hero, or his followers otherwise than unmitigated villains.
Poor Pietro, the postillion, soon discovered that he was to be a mere hewer of wood to the band.
While awaiting a reply to their letters, Greco and a companion were sent occasionally into the neighbouring village to procure provisions and necessaries, for which they honestly paid, the traders not finding it convenient to give credit to gentlemen of their profession. Only two recruits joined them, invited by Greco, old hands at the trade. No answers were returned to the rest of their epistles.
“We must take other means of recruiting our forces,” exclaimed Ninco Nanco, pulling his moustachios in a way which meant mischief.
Story 11-Chapter II
A long, low cottage, with broad verandahs, over which luxuriant vines had been taught to creep, stood on the side of one of the numerous ridges of the Apennines, some way to the east of Naples, in the province of Basilicata. It belonged to old Marco Maffei, a contadino, or small farmer, who had nothing very peculiar about him except that he was an honest man, and that he had a very pretty daughter, an only child, born when he was already advanced in life, and now the joy and comfort of his declining years. It was no fault of the pretty Chiarina that she had admirers, especially as she did her best to keep them at a respectful distance. Her heart, however, was not altogether made of stone; and therefore, by degrees, the young, good-looking, and gallant Lorenzo Tadino had somehow or other contrived to make an impression on it, deeper, perhaps, than Chiarina would have been willing to acknowledge, even to herself. From the house could be seen, some way below, the high road already spoken of, which stretches from the Adriatic to the western waters of the Mediterranean. Lorenzo, or ’Renzo, as he was more familiarly called, was standing just outside the entrance-gate of the farm, while Chiarina, distaff in hand, sat within, under the shade of the wide-spreading vines which, supported by trellis-work, formed an arch overhead. Her father had gone to market some miles off, leaving her in charge with an old man, who had been with him for many years, and her serving-maiden as her attendant. In the absence of her father, her sense of propriety would not allow her to admit ’Renzo within the gate; nor did he complain, for Chiarina had confessed that if she ever did such a foolish thing as to fall in love, she should in all probability select him as the object of her affections, provided always that her father approved of her choice. ’Renzo had just gone inside the arbour to thank her, it is possible, for her judicious selection, when their attention was drawn towards the road by the sound of horses’ feet galloping furiously along it. There were three horsemen, wild-looking fellows, each with a carbine or rifle in his hand. As they were passing directly under the house one of the steeds fell, and the rider was thrown with violence to the ground. His companions pulled rein, and dismounted to assist him. He must have been severely hurt; for, after they had tied their horses to a tree, they were seen bearing him up the steep path leading to the cottage.
“You will have the goodness to take care of this cavalier, and to see that no injury befalls him,” said one of them to Chiarina, as they reached the arbour.
’Renzo frowned, but to little purpose, at their impudent manner. It would have been against Chiarina’s gentle nature to refuse to take care of the injured man. There was not another house along the high road for nearly half-a-league, and he would die before he could be carried there.
The men turned their glances uneasily up the road. Some object was seen approaching. They immediately placed their burden on the ground, and were about to make off down the hill at full speed, when Chiarina exclaimed that it was her father.
Old Marco, though he did not look over well pleased at seeing the strangers, after exchanging a few words with them, at once consented to take charge of their wounded comrade. Calling ’Renzo to his aid, he lifted the man from the ground to bear him towards the house.
“Remember, if harm befalls him! – ” exclaimed one of the men, lifting up his finger, as he turned to hurry down the hill.
“If harm befalls him it will be no fault of mine,” answered Marco.
The stranger was carried in and placed on Marco’s own bed, and his injuries carefully looked to; while his comrades, having caught his horse, galloped off with it along the road at the same headlong speed as that at which they were before going.
After some time the stranger opened his eyes and looked about him with a very troubled expression, till they fell on Marco. He then seemed more satisfied.
“What has happened?” he asked.
Marco told him.
“I can trust you, old friend?” he whispered.
“Yes, yes, no fear,” said Marco, turning away; “I would, though, that your shadow had never darkened my doorway.”
Chiarina longed to know who the stranger could he; yet she did not like to ask her father. ’Renzo, left equally in ignorance, at length was compelled to take his departure, not at all satisfied in his mind that all would go well.
Story 11-Chapter III
Had the stranger been a son, Marco could not have tended him with greater care than he did, aided by Chiarina, who, however, never got over the mistrust she had felt of him from the first. ’Renzo came whenever he could, and never before had he been so sensible of making rapid progress in her affections. The truth is, she felt that she required some one on whom she could rely for protection and support. Her father never gave a hint as to who the stranger was, and all she knew was that he looked at her in a way she did not like, and that he spoke in a bold, self-confident tone, which grated harshly on her ears. He had now almost entirely recovered his strength, but, except when the shades of evening came on, he did not go out of doors. The only reason he gave for this was, that the light of day was disagreeable to his eyes. It was evident that Marco wished that he would take his departure. In the first place, Marco could not go to market; in the second, the stranger was making love, in a rough way, to his daughter; in the third, he was eating up his provisions; and, in the fourth place – but that reason, probably stronger than any of the others, he kept to himself. ’Renzo would gladly have volunteered to turn him out crop and heel, but that would not have suited Marco’s notions of hospitality; nor was it likely that such proceeding would have passed by unnoticed in some disagreeable manner by the stranger’s friends.
One day, at noon, as Marco was working in his fields, and had just been joined by Chiarina, who came to tell him that his dinner was ready, they saw in the distance a cloud of dust, out of which shortly emerged a troop of dragoons. Chiarina remarked her father’s agitation as he hurried towards the house. Their guest, on hearing who was approaching, instantly retired to his room, telling Marco to say, if any inquiries were made, that there was a sick man up-stairs with an infectious fever. “Invite the officer to come in and prescribe for me,” he added, laughing.
The body of cavalry halted under the house, but only an officer dismounted and came up the hill. He entered the house, and asking carelessly for a jug of wine, inquired of Marco whether he had been annoyed by the brigands.
“Ah, signore! I am, happily, too small game for them to fly at,” he answered; “yet I love them not, nor wish to have any dealings with them.”
The officer looked satisfied, and Marco hoped that he would ask no further questions.
“Have you other inmates besides yourself and daughter?” asked the officer.
“Assuredly, yes – a sick man up-stairs, who has been earnestly begging that any gentleman who has a knowledge of the healing art, passing this way, would come and see him,” answered Marco, with all the calmness he could command. “His fever, he says, may be infectious; and, at all events, I wish to have as little to do with him as possible. Perhaps, if you have a surgeon with your troop, you could send him up; or, if you have any skill, signore, you would see him.”
“I! My skill is to kill, not to cure,” said the officer, laughing at his own wit, and completely deceived.
It was with no small satisfaction that Marco saw him again moving on at the head of his men.
The stranger soon after appeared.
“I owe you a good turn, Marco Maffei,” he said, with more cordiality than he generally exhibited. “The day may come when I can repay it. I shall not much longer trouble you with my society.”
Marco did not say what he thought – that the sooner he was gone the better.
Day after day, however, passed by, the guest employing his time in making love, as before, to Chiarina, to her evident annoyance, though at this he seemed in no way disconcerted.
At length, one evening after dark, a loud knock was heard at the door, and, when Marco opened it, an unshorn countenance was thrust in.
“Come, signore, we have been watched, and shall have no little difficulty in rejoining our comrades if there is any delay,” said a gruff voice from out of the hair-covered mouth. “You have been here too long as it is.”
The stranger, without demanding any explanation of the last remark, jumped up, shook Marco warmly by the hand, and, endeavouring to bestow a kiss on Chiarina’s cheek, which she narrowly escaped, disappeared through the doorway.
“A good riddance of bad rubbish!” thought Marco, as he muttered something between a blessing and a curse between his teeth.
Chiarina was thankful that the stranger was gone, yet she was not happy; for ’Renzo had not been to the cottage for three days, and she could not tell what had become of him. She no longer concealed from herself that she loved him very dearly.
Story 11-Chapter IV
’Renzo was one day on his way over the mountains to visit Chiarina, when before him appeared the barrels of three or four rifles, and a voice in an authoritative tone ordered him to stop. As he knew that rifle bullets were apt to travel faster than he could run, he obeyed, and presently, found himself in the hands of a party of especially savage-looking bandits.
After proceeding for a couple of leagues or more, ’Renzo found himself in a wild rugged part of the mountains, into which, though so near his home, he had never penetrated. Here a large band of ragamuffins were collected, all armed; to the teeth, some of them being peasants whom he knew by sight. He was welcomed by name as a future comrade.
“Your comrade, indeed! I will be the comrade only of honest men,” he answered boldly.
At this reply there was a laugh.
“We’ll see what persuasions our brave chief, Giuseppe Greco, can employ,” exclaimed one of the band.
“He our chief? What do you mean, Oca? Our chief is Ninco Nanco, and no one else,” cried another.
“Then he should show himself, – he may be dead, or captured, for what we know,” said a third.
“We want a clever leader, like Greco, who can at will increase the number of the band, and lay the whole country under contribution.”
“Who will bring traitors among us, and make enemies on every side,” muttered an old brigand, who had followed the craft from his earliest days.
From all he heard ’Renzo knew that there was a division in the camp of the brigands, and soon ascertained that Greco was plotting to depose his absent chief. This was satisfactory, as he hoped it might be the means of breaking up the confederacy. It did not make him the less anxious to effect his escape. In vain he watched for an opportunity all night.
The next day the band moved some leagues farther to the east. He found himself strictly guarded, but not otherwise ill-treated; while his companions used every means to impress him with the pleasures and advantages of the life they led.
“I confess I do not perceive them,” he answered. “You have to live up in the mountains; often like wild beasts, hunted from spot to spot. Your fare is coarse, and often scanty. Every day you run a chance of being shot. If taken, you will be hung, or sent to the galleys for life; and, without scruple, you kill your fellow-creatures, if they attempt to defend their property.”
“Make the fellow hold his tongue,” cried a voice near them; it was that of Greco, who had approached unperceived. “We must induce you to change your mind, friend ’Renzo,” he remarked. “I want a sturdy fellow like you as a lieutenant.”
Greco was doing his utmost to increase the number of the band, hoping thus to overpower the adherents of Ninco Nanco. Small parties were constantly sent out, therefore, who returned either with prisoners, or recruits as they were called, or some booty and provisions. What was poor ’Renzo’s grief and horror when, one day, he saw Marco Maffei, the father of his dear Chiarina, brought in a prisoner, mounted on his mule! He looked pale and alarmed. Greco seemed highly satisfied at seeing him.
“Ah! ah!” he exclaimed, “you refused me your daughter in honourable marriage three years ago. I have waited ever since then to be revenged on you, and now I have the opportunity.”
The band was at this time collected in a hollow, with rocks and trees around, effectually concealing its members from the world beyond. The only approach was by the pathway up which Marco had been led.
“Now, friend ’Renzo, the moment has arrived to decide whether you will become one of us!” exclaimed Greco, in a harsh tone. “I want yonder old man put out of the world – to you I award the task.”
’Renzo’s heart sank within him. He resolved, however, to make every effort to save the life of his old friend. He pleaded and argued. He might as well have talked to the surrounding rocks.
“Give him a rifle,” at length exclaimed Greco, losing patience. “See that you use it as I direct.”
’Renzo took the weapon, and ascertained that it was loaded properly. The old man had been allowed to sit on his mule. ’Renzo approached him.
“Friend, forgive me for the deed I am compelled to commit,” he said aloud; then he hurriedly whispered, “I will draw off the attention of the villains, and, as I do so, dash down the mountain. Your beast is trusty, and will not fall.”
Once more he retired nearer to Greco, and again pleaded earnestly for the old man’s life.
“Fire!” cried Greco, stamping on the ground.
“Ay, I will!” exclaimed ’Renzo, swinging himself round so as to cover the would-be chief of the band.
At that moment a report from another quarter was beard – a bullet whistled through the air, and Greco fell, shot through the head.
“Fly, father, fly!” cried ’Renzo, springing towards Marco, and urging on his mule.
The unexpected appearance of Ninco Nanco himself, who leaped down from the rocks among them with three well-armed followers, drew off the attention of the brigands from ’Renzo’s proceedings. Those who had openly sided with Greco grasped their weapons, expecting to have to fight for their lives.
“Nonsense! No fighting among friends,” said Ninco Nanco. “I heard of all that fellow was doing, and have settled scores with him pretty sharply. In future you’ll all follow my orders.”
Loud vivas greeted this address, and it was not for some minutes that the brigands discovered that their prisoners had fled. Some proposed following them.
“No, no! To the old man I owe a debt; it were an ill way of paying it if I slew him,” exclaimed Ninco Nanco. “Though I love not the other, I can afford to be generous, and so let him go also. I can trust them. They dare not betray us.”
This act of the chiefs was looked upon as the very acme of heroic generosity; and certainly nothing more worthy of praise has been recorded of Ninco Nanco, the Brigand.
Having inspired the inhabitants of the surrounding districts with a wholesome terror of his name, Ninco Nanco soon discovered that the easiest way of collecting his revenue was to write a letter to any wealthy proprietor he might fix on, demanding the sum required, or horses, or provisions, as the case might be; and he seldom, fails to obtain what he demands.
Marco and ’Renzo reached home safely, when Chiarina, who had been almost heart-broken at their absence, in the exuberance of her joy at their return, threw herself into the arms of her father, and then into those of ’Renzo, quite forgetting all rules of propriety.
The young couple married soon afterwards; and, if they are not perfectly happy, it is that they dread lest Ninco Nanco should some day pounce down on them, and insist on ’Renzo joining his band. They, therefore, very reasonably hope to hear some day that that gentleman has been shot, or hung, or sent to the galleys, or has been induced to accept a situation under the Government, or been disposed of in some no less satisfactory manner.