A Call To Arms by Allan Mallinson Page B

silence of the empty Roman plain.
    Their carriage was a more compact affair than they would have had in England, resembling a small hard-roofed landau. Although it was well sprung even by English standards, the carefully dressed stones that had once afforded the legions rapid marching between Rome and Capua were now worn, uneven and broken, so that at times the carriage’s progress was bone-jangling and noisy to the point where talk gave way to near-shouting. But when they were a dozen leagues from the city, the road acquired a surface less cruel; thus conversation was resumed for an hour or so, before a halt for a collazione of spigola brought that very hour from the blue Tyrrhenian which had been in and out of sight for the last dozen miles. And the rough white wine of the hostaria ’s own vineyard, much stronger than either Hervey or Peto had expected, soon induced slumber even as the carriage picked up into a good trot with the new horses. They dozed for a long while in the growing heat of the afternoon.
    The carriage stopped suddenly. Both men awoke abruptly to shouting, angry and insistent. Hervey, now fully alert to danger, reached for the cavalry pistol on the seat by his side. In an instant its muzzle was roofwards, his thumb on the hammer ready to cock – he had primed it as they passed through the city walls – and with his left hand he pulled out his watch, as he did instinctively at any alarm. Four o’clock: they could be anywhere.
    Peto, sitting opposite, facing forward, was likewise ready for action at the offside. ‘What are they saying?’
    ‘I can’t tell. Not a word.’ Hervey crouched by the open window to see where the shouting came from.
    ‘Do we get down?’
    ‘We’re safer inside, I think. The driver may make a bolt for it any second.’
    But the driver had no such thoughts. Hervey saw him and the guard climb down from the box and raise their hands. Before he could even think what to do next, the doors were wrenched open, and big, bearded men crowded both sides of the carriage. They wore brown cloaks, despite the heat of the afternoon, and tall pointed hats with ribbons round the peaks: red, blue, black – fire, smoke, charcoal. ‘ Carbonari? ’ he asked defiantly.
    ‘ Si, signori. Scendete, per favore. ’
    They were courteous enough, thought Hervey. And, curiously, they did not appear to be armed. But he was not minded to threaten his pistol. He motioned to Peto to do nothing but alight.
    ‘ Austrienni? ’ said the biggest of the Carbonari, taller by several inches, and easily in excess of six feet.
    It was a strange thing to enquire of a man’s nationality before robbing him, thought Hervey. ‘ Inglesi .’
    The big man seemed impressed, but then sceptical. ‘ Avete dei documenti per provarlo? ’
    Peto looked puzzled, but Hervey thought he caught the intention.
    ‘ Siamo officiers inglesi. ’
    The big man seemed puzzled by the admixture of French.
    ‘ Caballeria ,’ Hervey explained, pointing at himself, hoping the Spanish would be near enough. ‘ E marinare ,’ he added, pointing at Peto.
    The big man turned and gave what was obviously an order to another behind him. Hervey now saw the butt of a musket sticking out of the bottom of the man’s cloak. He glanced at the others: it was the same with them. These were cool fellows, indeed, not at all anxious to be off with their booty.
    Still the big man looked wary of the two travellers. ‘ Non avete documenti? ’
    But Hervey could only shrug. Then a woman with fierce black eyes pushed her way to the front, her dress as gaudy as the men’s was plain, with red, blue and black ribbons tied around her waist. ‘ Parlez-vous français, monsieur? ’ she asked brusquely.
    Hervey sighed to himself, no little relieved at being in a position to communicate at last. ‘ Oui, madame. Nous sommes officiers anglais. ’ He went on to explain their exact qualifications, taking care not to give any impression that his commission was sold