CHAPTER VII.

  FRA PACIFICO.

  MICHAEL’S anticipations were not disappointed; there was indeed a great tumult in the Old Market, that uproarious quarter where Masaniello began his revolution, and where all the commotions which have agitated Naples during the last five hundred years have had their origin, just as all the earthquakes which have shaken Résina, Portici and Torre del Greco have proceeded from Vesuvius.

  About six o’clock in the morning of that day the “questing “or collecting brother of the Convent of St. Éphrem was as usual driving his ass before him and descending the long street leading from the convent gate. Both the monk and the ass were in their way remarkable, particularly the monk, who was known to the world as Fra Pacifico. He was a man of about forty years, and six feet in height, muscular and powerful. He wore the brown capuchin robe and hood, and the regulation sandals with wooden soles, which clattered between his feet and the pavement. His head was strictly tonsured, and his waist encircled by the miraculous cord of St. Francis with its three knots, betokening the threefold vow of poverty, chastity and obedience. His beard was black and thick, and his eyes had that terrible expression found in France only in the natives of Nimes and Avignon, and in Italy among the mountaineers of the Abruzzi, descendants of those fierce Samnites whom the Romans conquered with the utmost difficulty, or of the Marsii whom they never conquered at all.

  Fra Pacifico had begun life as a sailor, and was then known as Francis Esposito (the Foundling). He was on board the Minerva, commanded by Caracciolo, when the expedition to Toulon in aid of the French Royalists took place. When the tables were unexpectedly turned by Bonaparte’s capture of the forts and turning their guns on the allied fleets, Caracciolo ordered every stitch of canvas to be set, and Esposito, one of the most active sailors, was sent aloft to get the top-gallant sail spread. He was accomplishing his task satisfactorily when a cannon ball cut away the yard on which he was standing and left him hanging by his hands to the loose sail above him. He could feel the sail giving way, and had to choose between attempting to swing himself clear of the ship into the sea, or falling on the deck and being killed. He chose the former, first making a vow to his patron saint, St. Francis, that should he escape he would forsake the sea and become a monk. Profiting by the rolling of the vessel, he chose a favourable moment and dropped some sixty feet into the sea, and, as luck would have it, within three yards of a boat which Caracciolo had ordered to be on the look out, and rose to find willing hands and oars extended to help him. He was promptly dragged into the boat and put on board again, but when Caracciolo congratulated him on his escape, he appeared so absent-minded that the admiral enquired what was the matter. Esposito told him of his vow, adding that some great evil would befall him in either this world or the next were he prevented from accomplishing it. Caracciolo promised that on their return to Naples he should be set free to fulfil his vow, but on one condition. The day after he had taken the final vows and become a full-fledged monk, he was to return to the ship, wearing the habit of his order, and again perform the wonderful leap which had saved his life, having a boat and crew again in attendance to pick him up as before. Esposito accepted willingly, declaring himself certain that St, Francis would not hesitate to come to his aid a second time, whereupon the admiral ordered him a double ration of grog, and gave him leave to remain in his hammock for the next twenty-four hours. Esposito thanked him, swallowed the grog, and went to sleep in the midst of the infernal uproar made by the furious cannonade from the three forts, in consequence of which the allied ships were making for the open sea as fast as they could, aided by the light of the burning arsenal. In spite of the hostile guns and the terrible storm which overtook the fleet as soon as it was clear of the harbour, Caracciolo brought the Minerva back to Naples with comparatively small damage, and once there, duly signed the dismissal of Francis Esposito, reminding him again of the condition attached, which the sailor again promised to observe.

  On the Feast of St. Francis, October 4th, 1794, Caracciolo, who by that time had completely forgotten Esposito and all about him, was on board his ship, which, fully dressed, was firing salutes in honour of the Prince Royal, whose name-day it was, when the new monk saluted the admiral and reported himself thus: “I am here, my admiral. I come to keep my word.”

  “It is the word of a good sailor,” replied Caracciolo. “On which side do you mean to leap?”

  “To larboard, as before. Besides, it is the side to the quay, and one must not disappoint these good people.”

  “Lower a boat there,” cried the admiral, “to larboard.” And willing to make the scene as imposing as possible, he took his trumpet and ordered: “Man the yards.”

  In an instant two hundred sailors were seen climbing upward like so many monkeys, while the marines quickly fell into battle array on the deck facing the harbour. The spectators on shore clapped their hands, waved their handkerchiefs, and shouted: “Long live St. Francis; long live Caracciolo,” while twelve boats manned by the monks drew up in a long semi-circle beyond the Minerva.

  Caracciolo glanced at his former sailor, and said: “Have you anything to ask in case things go badly?”

  “I would ask your excellency to have a mass said for the repose of my soul. The monks have promised me hundreds, but I know them! Once dead, not one would hold out a finger to help me out of Purgatory.”

  “I will have not one, but ten, said for you.”

  “Thanks, my admiral. I am ready.”

  “Attention!” cried Caracciolo in a voice which reechoed even from the shore itself. This was followed by the shrill sounds of the boatswain’s whistle, which had hardly died away when Fra Pacifico sprang into the rigging, and, notwithstanding his robe, climbed upward with an agility which proved that the sailor was by no means lost in the monk. Mounting rapidly from yard to yard, he ascended even higher than he had promised, and crying “May St. Francis grant me his help,” sprang forthwith into the sea.

  A cry of mingled terror, wonder and admiration came from the gazing crowd, excited by the emotion always caused by the brave performance of a deed in which a man’s life is at stake.

  It was followed by a dead silence, all waiting anxiously to see if the diver would re-appear. Three seconds, which to the expectant crowd seemed three ages, passed without a sound; then the tonsured head appeared and a formidable voice cried, “Long live St. Francis!”

  In another minute the attendant boat reached the monk and hauled him triumphantly on board. The twelve boat-loads of capuchins with one voice thundered out a Te Deum, the crew of the Minerva gave three vigorous cheers, and the spectators on shore applauded with the true Neapolitan frenzy which hails any success whatever, but most particularly the triumph of some favourite saint or madonna.- Needless to say that the capuchins of St. Éphrem immediately became the popular favourites, and Fra Pacifico the popular hero of Naples.

  Naturally, the quest promptly improved under the new “questor.” At first the brother started, as did all the other questing monks, with a simple wallet on his back. But at the end of an hour the wallet overflowed. The next day he took two, and the second was filled in the second hour. Thereupon, Fra Pacifico informed his superiors that if he had an ass he would be able to go much further and bring back food of every kind and of the first quality.

  The heads of the convent assembled and solemnly deliberated on the suggestion, which was unanimously approved, and the ass was voted by common consent. Fifty francs were handed over to Fra Pacifico with the permission to choose and buy the animal himself.

  This resolution was passed on Sunday, and on Monday Fra Pacifico betook himself to the animal market, and soon decided on a sturdy “Neddy “from the Abruzzi. The owner, however, demanded a hundred francs, which the animal, in fact, was worth. Fra Pacifico reminded him that he had only to lay his cord on its back saying “St. Francis,” and the ass would become the saint’s property without more ado, in which case there would be no occasion to pay even the fifty francs so benevolently offered. The unfortunate dealer recognized the claims of St. Francis, but assured the monk that his choice was a most unlucky one, that this ass in particular combined all the faults of the whole family of asses in general, being greedy, obstinate, idle, given to kicking and rolling, objecting to carry anything on his back, and in short so evilly disposed that the only name found suitable to him had been “Jacobino.”

  Fra Pacifico uttered an exclamation of joy. All Naples was aware of the hatred which he bore to the very name of “Jacobino.” From time to time the old Adam re-appeared in him, and he felt an intense longing to quarrel, curse and fight as in his unregenerate days. A vicious donkey called “Jacobino “would be the saving of him; he would at least have something to beat! In attacking, insulting, cursing an animal with such a name he would insult and curse the whole Jacobin party, which, judging by cropped heads and variegated pantaloons, seemed to be gaining ground in Naples. The name settled the matter, and the more the dealer tried to put him off, the more determined he became, until at length, fearing to lose even the fifty francs offered, the dealer gave way, and the ass became the property of St. Francis.

  Whether out of sympathy for the old master or dislike to the new, Jacobino appeared resolved to justify his name. Fra Pacifico took the halter in order to lead him away, but the ass planted his feet firmly in the ground and absolutely refused to move. All the monk’s efforts were in vain until he suddenly remembered that when cruising on the African coast he had seen camels led by a cord passed through the nostril. He promptly acted on his idea, and when the cord was next pulled Jacobino uttered a snort of pain and unwillingly followed where he was led. Arrived at home, Fra Pacifico’s first care was to provide himself with a stout stick, and what afterwards occurred remained unknown. But the next day the brother with his staff, and the donkey duly bearing his partniers, sallied forth side by side, apparently on friendly terms with each other, except that Jacobino’s hide bore marks which showed that the good understanding had not been attained without considerable protest on his part.

  Fra Pacifico kept his word, and brought back such a profusion of meat, fish, vegetables, and provisions generally that the brothers were able not merely to feed themselves, but to keep a miniature market at their gates of the food they were unable to consume. Nearly four years had passed thus, and the monk and his ass still enjoyed undiminished popularity. In fact, Fra Pacifico had arrived at the point of no longer begging for what he wanted, he simply touched the article with his cord and there the matter ended. If the dealer appeared discontented, the friar produced a horn snuff-box, offered him a pinch of snuff, and generally succeeded in soothing him. But if this were insufficient, then Fra Pacifico’s bronze cheeks became pale, his terrible eyes flashed lightning, and he handled his staff in a manner which promptly appeased even the most obstinate person who failed in giving willing honours to Saint Francis and his messenger.

  On this particular day Fra Pacifico arrived at the Old Market and made his usual collection. As he proceeded he became aware that something unusual must have occurred. Men stood in groups talking, women whispered together, children played unheeded, and more remarkable still, no one paid much attention to himself. Being still in want of meat, he made his way to the butchers’ quarter, where the crowd seemed yet more dense and more excited, and he heard the words “French” and “Jacobins” muttered in angry tones. The particular shop which he intended to tax that morning was crowded with men and women talking and gesticulating violently. They made way for him, however, and the mistress of the shop, exclaiming that God must have sent him, rushed out and led him into the back room, where her husband, the “beccaio,” was lying on his bed with one cheek laid entirely open by a sabre cut.

  The unfortunate man either could not, or would not, give much information. But he had murmured “Jacobins “and “French,” which were enough to cause the wildest conjectures, especially when it became known that another man had been killed, and that two others were wounded, one of whom had died in the night. Everyone had something to say on the subject, but when it was declared that the butcher and his three friends had been peaceably going home after a supper at a tavern, and had been attacked by a gang of fifteen Jacobins near the Lion’s Fountain, our friend Mad Michael, who had been quietly listening and leaning against the door-post, smiled and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say that he knew better, and could tell a good deal if he chose.

  “Why do you laugh at us?” asked a friend of his, generally known as the “Popinjay,”

  “do you know so much more than we do?”

  “It is not difficult to know more than you, Popinjay, who cannot even read.”

  “If I cannot read,” replied the other, “it is because I have not had the chance. You have a foster sister who is rich and is the wife of a learned man, but you need not despise your friends on that account.”

  “I do not despise you at all. You are a good and brave fellow, and if I had anything to tell I would tell it to you.”

  And very likely Michael might have been as good as his word, had not a heavy hand been laid on his shoulder. Michael turned round and started in terror. Behind him stood the dreaded Pasquale di Simone.

  “If indeed you know something about this affair, which I doubt,” Pasquale muttered in his ear, “and if you mention this something to any living soul whatever, you will certainly deserve your nickname of ‘Mad Michael.’ It would be wiser to go and look after your Assunta — she is in the church of the Madonna del Carmine — than to stop here and talk about things you have not seen, and which would only bring you ill-luck if you had.”

  “You are right, signor,” answered Michael, trembling all over. “I will go at once.” And he retired hastily in the direction indicated, saying to himself, “No, indeed, I will not say a word. Master Cutthroat may be sure of that. Still, it is enough to make the dumb talk to hear about fifteen men attacking these assassins, when they were six to one themselves. I don’t love Jacobins, but I love the secret police even less.”

  Arrived at the church, Michael had some difficulty in discovering his beloved among the crowd of worshippers, but at last found her kneeling before the altar of St. Francis. Assunta was the daughter of an old fisherman called Basso-Tomeo, who did not regard Michael’s suit with any favour, and had told him he would never give him his daughter until he had some honest and lucrative calling, or had inherited a fortune. Michael replied that in Naples no calling could be at once honest and lucrative, and pointed out that Basso-Tomeo and his three sons spent eighteen hours a day in the exercise of their own perfectly honest trade, and in the fifty years that the father had been at it had never succeeded in saving as much as fifty ducats. He therefore waited in hopes of the heritage, and meanwhile, as Basso-Tomeo and his sons perforce spent the six hours which remained to them in sleep, there was no great difficulty in his seeing Assunta.

  The fishing during the last three days had been so desperately bad that old Tomeo had made a vow to burn twelve tapers at the altar of St. Francis, and had ordered his daughter to spend the whole morning in prayer before the altar, where Michael at length found her. She beckoned to him to come and kneel beside her, and, as the nets would have been drawn by that time, they ventured to intersperse the prayers with a little loverlike conversation. Assunta explained her presence in the church, and Michael in return told her of the affray at the Lion’s Fountain and the general commotion in the Old Market, whereupon Assunta, true daughter of Eve, quickly finished her prayers, made her reverence to the altar, dipped her finger in the holy water and offered the same to Michael, then took his arm and hurried away to see for herself what might be happening.

  The old fisherman’s trust in St. Francis had not been misplaced; the catch had indeed been a marvellous one. The nets were so heavy that at first the fishers greatly feared lest they might be bringing a dead body to the surface — a terrible omen; but as the nets rose more and more it became evident that they contained large fish which were making desperate efforts to escape. Two of the sons leaped into the water, which was up to their necks, and succeeded in getting behind the net and holding it up while Tomeo and the other brother exerted themselves to drag the net on to the shore, where a large crowd quickly assembled to see the result of the night’s work. It really seemed as if the saint had, in acknowledgment of the twelve tapers, bestowed on his votaries specimens of every sort of fish found in the Bay. Chief among them was a magnificent tunny, so large and heavy that it seemed as if only a miracle could have prevented his breaking through the net, and thereby opening a way of escape for the rest. The old man was overwhelmed with joy, and recounted to the lookers on how the catch was entirely due to the favour of St. Francis. The hearers crossed themselves, and cries of “All hail to St. Francis “echoed along the shore.

  All this took place in front of a fine house overlooking the quay, which was known as the Palazzo della Torre, and which belonged to the duke of that name. A young man elegantly dressed, with hair unpowdered and cut short in the Parisian style, stood at one of the first-floor windows and idly surveyed the crowd beneath him. He was Don Clemente Filomarino, the duke’s younger brother, in disfavour with the Court on account of his liberal opinions. He had, in fact, been recently imprisoned during eighteen months, which, far from causing him to alter his views, had only strengthened them. Having been declared innocent, he rashly concluded he had nothing to fear, and had become one of the habitués of the French Embassy.

  His imprisonment had nearly driven his elder brother frantic. The duke, fully twenty-five years older than Don Clemente, had two objects in life. He loved his brother, who had been left an orphan at five years old, with an overpowering devotion, and he was a most enthusiastic collector. The Royal Library itself contained nothing that could compete with the duke’s nearly perfect set of Elzevirs, and his collection of autographs was the finest in the world. That very morning he had received information that one of the Elzevirs, hitherto wanting on his shelves, had been found, and he hastened off to the bookseller who announced the fact in order to secure the precious volume. On his way downstairs he entered his brother’s room in order to impart this excellent piece of news, and bade him an affectionate farewell. Don Clemente returned to his window, from whence he could observe the excitement caused by Tomeo’s wonderful catch, and could also see something which the fisherman, surrounded by an admiring crowd, could not see.