Piadena, July 8, 1866.
As I begin writing you, no doubt can
be entertained that some movement is not only in contemplation
at headquarters, but is actually provided to take
place to-day, and that it will probably prove to be
against the Austrian positions at Borgoforte, on the
left bank of the Po. Up to this time the tete-de-pout
on the right side of the river had only been attacked
by General the Duke of Mignano’s guns. It
would now, on the contrary, be a matter of cutting
the communications between Borgoforte and Mantua,
by occupying the lower part of the country around the
latter fortress, advancing upon the Valli Veronesi,
and getting round the quadrilateral into Venetia.
While, then, waiting for further news to tell us whether
this plan has been carried into execution, and whether
it will be pursued, mindless of the existence of Mantua
and Borgoforte on its flanks, one great fact is already
ascertained, that the armistice proposed by the Emperor
Napoleon has not been accepted, and that the war is
to be continued. The Austrians may shut themselves
up in their strongholds, or may even be so obliging
as to leave the king the uncontested possession of
them by retreating in the same line as their opponents
advance; the pursuit, if not the struggle, the war,
if not the battle, will be carried on by the Italians.
At Torre Malamberti, where the general headquarters
are, no end of general officers were to be seen yesterday
hurrying in all directions. I met the king, Generals
Brignone, Gavone, Valfre, and Menabrea within a few
minutes of one another, and Prince Amadeus, who has
entirely recovered from his wound, had been telegraphed
for, and will arrive in Cremona to-day. No precise
information is to be obtained respecting the intentions
of the Austrians, but it is to be hoped for the Italian
army, and for the credit of its generals, that more
will be known about them now than was known on the
eve of the famous 24th of June, and on its very morning.
The heroism of the Italians on that memorable day surpasses
any possible idea that can be formed, as it did also
surpass all expectations of the country. Let
me relate you a few out of many heroic facts which
only come to light when an occasion is had of speaking
with those who have been eyewitnesses of them, as
they are no object of magnified regimental orders
or, as yet, of well-deserved honours. Italian
soldiers seem to think that the army only did its duty,
and that, wherever Italians may fight, they will always
show equal valour and firmness. Captain Biraghi,
of Milan, belonging to the general staff, having in
the midst of the battle received an order from General
Lamarmora for General Durando, was proceeding with
all possible speed towards the first army corps, which
was slowly retreating before the superior forces of
the enemy and before the greatly superior number of
his guns, when, while under a perfect shower of grape
and canister, he was all of a sudden confronted by,
an Austrian officer of cavalry who had been lying
in wait for the Italian orderly. The Austrian
fires his revolver at Biraghi; and wounds him in the
arm. Nothing daunted, Biraghi assails him and
makes him turn tail; then, following in pursuit, unsaddles
him, but has his own horse shot down under him.
Biraghi disentangles himself, kills his antagonist,
and jumps upon the latter’s horse. This,
however, is thrown down also in a moment by a cannon
ball, so that the gallant captain has to go back on
foot, bleeding, and almost unable to walk. Talking
of heroism, of inimitable endurance, and strength
of soul, what do you think of a man who has his arm
entirely carried away by a grenade, and yet keeps
on his horse, firm as a rock, and still directs his
battery until hemorrhage and hemorrhage
alone strikes him down at last, dead!
Such was the case with a Neapolitan Major
Abate, of the artillery and his name is
worth the glory of a whole army, of a whole war; and
may only find a fit companion in that of an officer
of the eighteenth battalion of bersaglieri, who, dashing
at an Austrian flag-bearer, wrenches the standard out
of his hands with his left one, has it clean cut away
by an Austrian officer standing near, and immediately
grapples it with his right, until his own soldiers
carry him away with his trophy! Does not this
sound like Greek history repeated does
it not look as if the brave men of old had been born
again, and the old facts renewed to tell of Italian
heroism? Another bersagliere a Tuscan,
by name Orlandi Matteo, belonging to that heroic fifth
battalion which fought against entire brigades, regiments,
and battalions, losing 11 out of its 16 officers, and
about 300 out of its 600 men Orlandi, was
wounded already, when, perceiving an Austrian flag,
he makes a great effort, dashes at the officer, kills
him, takes the flag, and, almost dying, gives it over
to his lieutenant. He is now in a ward of the
San Domenico Hospital in Brescia, and all who have
learnt of his bravery will earnestly hope that he may
survive to be pointed out as one of the many who covered
themselves with fame on that day. If it is sad
to read of death encountered in the field by so many
a patriotic and brave soldiers, it is sadder still
to learn that not a few of them were barbarously killed
by the enemy, and killed, too, when they were harmless,
for they lay wounded on the ground. The Sicilian
colonel, Stalella, a son-in-law of Senator Castagnetto,
and a courageous man amongst the most courageous of
men; was struck in the leg by a bullet, and thrown
down from his horse while exciting his men to repulse
the Austrians, which in great masses were pressing
on his thinned column. Although retreating, the
regiment sent some of his men to take him away, but
as soon as he had been put on a stretcher [he] had
to be put down, as ten or twelve uhlans were galloping
down, obliging the men to hide themselves in a bush.
When the uhlans got near the colonel, and when they
had seen him lying down in agony, they all planted
their lances in his body.
Is not this wanton cruelty cruelty
even unheard of cruelty that no savage possesses?
Still these are facts, and no one will ever dare to
deny them from Verona and Vienna, for they are known
as much as it was known and seen that the uhlans and
many of the Austrian soldiers were drunk when they
began fighting, and that alighting from the trains
they were provided with their rations and with rum,
and that they fought without their haversacks.
This is the truth, and nothing beyond it has to the
honour of the Italians been asserted, whether to the
disgrace or credit of their enemies; so that while
denying that they ill-treat Austrian prisoners, they
are ready to state that theirs are well treated in
Verona, without thinking of slandering and calumniating
as the Vienna papers have done.
This morning Prince Amadeus arrived
in Cremona, where a most spontaneous and hearty reception
was given him by the population and the National Guard.
He proceeded at once by the shortest way to the headquarters,
so that his wish to be again at the front when something
should be done has been accomplished. This brave
young man, and his worthy brother, Prince Humbert,
have won the applause of all Italy, which is justly
proud of counting her king and her princes amongst
the foremost in the field.
I have just learned from a most reliable
source that the Austrians have mined the bridge of
Borghetto on the Mincio, so that, should it be
blown up, the only two, those of Goito and Borghetto,
would be destroyed, and the Italians obliged to make
provisional ones instead. I also hear that the
Venetian towns are without any garrison, and that most
probably all the forces are massed on two lines, one
from Peschiera to Custozza and the other behind the
Adige.
You will probably know by this time
that the garrison of Vienna had on the 3rd been directed
to Prague. The news we receive from Prussia is
on the whole encouraging, inasmuch as the greatly
feared armistice has been repulsed by King William.
Some people here think that France will not be too
hard upon Italy for keeping her word with her ally,
and that the brunt of French anger or disapproval
will have to be borne by Prussia. This is the
least she can expect, as you know!
It is probable that by to-morrow I
shall be able to write you more about the Italo-Austrian
war of 1866.
Gonzaga, July 9, 1866.
I write you from a villa, only a mile
distant from Gonzaga, belonging to the family of the
Counts Arrivabene of Mantua. The owners have never
reentered it since 1848, and it is only the fortune
of war which has brought them to see their beautiful
seat of the Aldegatta, never, it is to be hoped for
them, to be abandoned again. It is, as you see,
’Mutatum ab illo.’ Onward
have gone, then, the exiled patriots! onward will go
the nation that owns them! The wish of every one
who is compelled to remain behind is that the army,
that the volunteers, that the fleet, should all cooperate,
and that they should, one and all, land on Venetian
ground, to seek for a great battle, to give the army
back the fame it deserves, and to the country the
honour it possesses. The king is called upon
to maintain the word nobly given to avenge Novara,
and with it the new Austrian insulting proposal.
All, it is said, is ready. The army has been
said to be numerous; if to be numerous and brave,
means to deserve victory, let the Italian generals
prove what Italian soldiers are worthy of. If
they will fight, the country will support them with
the boldest of resolutions the country will
accept a discussion whenever the Government, having
dispersed all fears, will proclaim that the war is
to be continued till victory is inscribed on Italy’s
shield.
As I am not far from Borgoforte, I
am able to learn more than the mere cannon’s
voice can tell me, and so will give you some details
of the action against the tete-de-pont, which began,
as I told you in one of my former letters, on the
4th. In Gorgoforte there were about 1500 Austrians,
and, on the night from the 5th to the 6th, they kept
up from their four fortified works a sufficiently
well-sustained fire, the object of which was to prevent
the enemy from posting his guns. This fire, however,
did not cause any damage, and the Italians were able
to plant their batteries. Early on the 6th, the
firing began all along the line, the Italian 16-pounders
having been the first to open fire. The Italian
right was commanded by Colonel Mattei, the left by
Colonel Bangoni, who did excellent work, while the
other wing was not so successful. The heaviest
guns had not yet arrived owing to one of those incidents
always sure to happen when least expected, so that
the 40-pounders could not be brought to bear against
the forts until later in the day. The damage
done to the works was not great for the moment, but
still the advantage had been gained of feeling the
strength of the enemy’s positions and finding
the right way to attack them. The artillerymen
worked with great vigour, and were only obliged to
desist by an unexpected order which arrived about
two p.m. from General Cialdini. The attack was,
however, resumed on the following day, and the condition
of the Monteggiana and Rochetta forts may be pronounced
precarious. As a sign of the times, and more especially
of the just impatience which prevails in Italy about
the general direction of the army movements, it may
not be without importance to notice that the Italian
press has begun to cry out against the darkness in
which everything is enveloped, while the time already
passed since the 24th June tells plainly of inaction.
It is remarked that the bitter gift made by Austria
of the Venetian provinces, and the suspicious offer
of mediation by France, ought to have found Italy in
greatly different condition, both as regards her political
and military position. Italy is, on the contrary,
in exactly the same state as when the Archduke Albert
telegraphed to Vienna that a great success had been
obtained over the Italian army. These are facts,
and, however strong and worthy of respect may be the
reasons, there is no doubt that an extraordinary delay
in the resumption of hostilities has occurred, and
that at the present moment operations projected are
perfectly mysterious. Something is let out from
time to time which only serves to make the subsequent
absence of news more and more puzzling. For the
present the first official relation of the unhappy
fight of the 24th June is published, and is accordingly
anxiously scanned and closely studied. It is a
matter of general remark that no great military knowledge
is required to perceive that too great a reliance
was placed upon supposed facts, and that the indulgence
of speculations and ideas caused the waste of so much
precious blood. The prudence characterising the
subsequent moves of the Austrians may have been caused
by the effects of their opponents’ arrangements,
but the Italian commanders ought to have avoided the
responsibility of giving the enemy the option to move.
It is clear that to mend things the
utterance of generous and patriotic cries is not sufficient,
and that it must be shown that the vigour of the body
is not at all surpassed by the vigour of the mind.
It is also clear that many lives might have been spared
if there had been greater proofs of intelligence on
the part of those who directed the movement.
The situation is still very serious.
Such an armistice as General von Gablenz could humiliate
himself enough to ask from the Prussians has been
refused, but another which the Emperor of the French
has advised them to accept might ultimately become
a fact. For Italy, the purely Venetian question
could then also be settled, while the Italian, the
national question, the question of right and honour
which the army prizes so much, would still remain
to be solved.
Gonzaga, July 12, 1866.
Travelling is generally said to be
troublesome, but travelling with and through brigades,
divisions, and army corps, I can certify to be more
so than is usually agreeable. It is not that Italian
officers or Italian soldiers are in any way disposed
to throw obstacles in your way; but they, unhappily
for you, have with them the inevitable cars with the
inevitable carmen, both of which are enough
to make your blood freeze, though the barometer stands
very high. What with their indolence, what with
their number and the dust they made, I really thought
they would drive me mad before I should reach Casalmaggiore
on my way from Torre Malamberti. I started from
the former place at three a.m., with beautiful weather,
which, true to tradition, accompanied me all through
my journey. Passing through San Giovanni in Croce,
to which the headquarters of General Pianell had been
transferred, I turned to the right in the direction
of the Po, and began to have an idea of the wearisome
sort of journey which I would have to make up to Casalmaggiore.
On both sides of the way some regiments belonging to
the rear division were still camped, and as I passed
it was most interesting to see how busy they were
cooking their ‘rancio,’ polishing
their arms, and making the best of their time.
The officers stood leisurely about gazing and staring
at me, supposing, as I thought, that I was travelling
with some part in the destiny of their country.
Here and there some soldiers who had just left the
hospitals of Brescia and Milan made their way to their
corps and shook hands with their comrades, from whom
only illness or the fortune of war had made them part.
They seemed glad to see their old tent, their old
drum, their old colour-sergeant, and also the flag
they had carried to the battle and had not at any price
allowed to be taken. I may state here, en passant,
that as many as six flags were taken from the enemy
in the first part of the day of Custozza, and were
subsequently abandoned in the retreat, while of the
Italians only one was lost to a regiment for a few
minutes, when it was quickly retaken. This fact
ought to be sufficient by itself to establish the
bravery with which the soldiers fought on the 24th,
and the bravery with which they will fight if, as
they ardently wish; a new occasion is given to them.
As long as I had only met troops,
either marching or camping on the road, all went well,
but I soon found myself mixed with an interminable
line of cars and the like, forming the military and
the civil train of the moving army. Then it was
that it needed as much patience to keep from jumping
out of one’s carriage and from chastising the
carrettieri, as they would persist in not making room
for one, and being as dumb to one’s entreaties
as a stone. When you had finished with one you
had to deal with another, and you find them all as
obstinate and as egotistical as they are from one
end of the world to the other, whether it be on the
Casalmaggiore road or in High Holborn. From time
to time things seemed to proceed all right, and you
thought yourself free from further trouble, but you
soon found out your mistake, as an enormous ammunition
car went smack into your path, as one wheel got entangled
with another, and as imperturbable Signor Carrettiere
evidently took delight at a fresh opportunity for
stoppage, inaction, indolence, and sleep. I soon
came to the conclusion that Italy would not be free
when the Austrians had been driven away, for that
another and a more formidable foe an enemy
to society and comfort, to men and horses, to mankind
in general would have still to be beaten, expelled,
annihilated, in the shape of the carrettiere.
If you employ him, he robs you fifty times over; if
you want him to drive quickly, he is sure to keep
the animal from going at all; if, worse than all,
you never think of him, or have just been plundered
by him, he will not move an inch to oblige you.
Surely the cholera is not the only pestilence a country
may be visited with; and, should Cialdini ever go
to Vienna, he might revenge Novara and the Spielberg
by taking with him the carrettieri of the whole army.
At last Casalmaggiore hove in sight,
and, when good fortune and the carmen permitted,
I reached it. It was time! No iron-plated
Jacob could ever have resisted another two miles’
journey in such company. At Casalmaggiore I branched
off. There were, happily, two roads, and not
the slightest reason or smallest argument were needed
to make me choose that which my cauchemar had
not chosen. They were passing the river at Casalmaggiore.
I went, of course, for the same purpose, somewhere
else. Any place was good enough so
I thought, at least, then. New adventures, new
miseries awaited me some carrettiere, or
other, guessing that I was no friend of his, nor of
the whole set of them, had thrown the jattatura on
me.
I alighted at the Colombina, after
four hours’ ride, to give the horses time to
rest a little. The Albergo della Colombina
was a great disappointment, for there was nothing
there that could be eaten. I decided upon waiting
most patiently, but most unlike a few cavalry officers,
who, all covered with dust, and evidently as hungry
and as thirsty as they could be, began to swear to
their hearts’ content. In an hour some
eggs and some salame, a kind of sausage, were
brought up, and quickly disposed of. A young
lieutenant of the thirtieth infantry regiment of the
Pisa brigade took his place opposite, and we were soon
engaged in conversation. He had been in the midst
and worst part of the battle of Custozza, and had
escaped being taken prisoner by what seemed a miracle.
He told me how, when his regiment advanced on the Monte
Croce position, which he practically described to
me as having the form of an English pudding, they
were fired upon by batteries both on their flanks
and front. The lieutenant added, however, rather
contemptuously, that they did not even bow before
them, as the custom appears to be that
is, to lie down, as the Austrians were firing very
badly. The cross-fire got, however, so tremendous
that an order had to be given to keep down by the
road to avoid being annihilated. The assault was
given, the whole range of positions was taken, and
kept too for hours, until the infallible rule of three
to one, backed by batteries, grape, and canister,
compelled them to retreat, which they did slowly and
in order. It was then that their brigade commander,
Major General Rey de Villarey, who, though a native
of Mentone, had preferred remaining with his king
from going over to the French after the cession, turning
to his son, who was also his aide-de-camp, said in
his dialect, ’Now, my son, we must die both
of us,’ and with a touch of the spurs was soon
in front of the line and on the hill, where three
bullets struck him almost at once dead. The horse
of his son falling while following, his life was spared.
My lieutenant at this moment was so overcome with hunger
and fatigue that he fell down, and was thought to
be dead. He was not so, however, and had enough
life to hear, after the fight was over, the Austrian
Jagers pass by, and again retire to their original
positions, where their infantry was lying down, not
dreaming for one moment of pursuing the Italians.
Four of his soldiers all Neapolitans he
heard coming in search of him, while the bullets still
hissed all round; and, as soon as he made a sign to
them, they approached, and took him on their shoulders
back to where was what remained of the regiment.
It is highly creditable to Italian unity to hear an
old Piedmontese officer praise the levies of the new
provinces, and the lieutenant took delight in relating
that another Neapolitan was in the fight standing
by him, and firing as fast as he could, when a shell
having burst near him, he disdainfully gave it a look,
and did not even seek to save himself from the jattatura.
The gallant lieutenant had unfortunately
to leave at last, and I was deprived of many an interesting
tale and of a brave man’s company. I started,
therefore, for Viadana, where I purposed passing the
Po, the left bank of which the road was now following
parallel with the stream. At Viadana, however,
I found no bridge, as the military had demolished
what existed only the day before, and so had to look
out for in formation. As I was going about under
the porticoes which one meets in almost all the villages
in this neighbourhood, I was struck by the sight of
an ancient and beautiful piece of art for
so it was a Venetian mirror of Murano.
It hung on the wall inside the village draper’s
shop, and was readily shown me by the owner, who did
not conceal the pride he had in possessing it.
It was one of those mirrors one rarely meets with
now, which were once so abundant in the old princes’
castles and palaces. It looked so deep and true,
and the gilt frame was so light, and of such a purity
and elegance, that it needed all my resolution to
keep from buying it, though a bargain would not have
been effected very easily. The mirror, however,
had to be abandoned, as Dosalo, the nearest point
for crossing the Po, was still seven miles distant.
By this time the sun was out in all its force, and
the heat was by no means agreeable. Then there
was dust, too, as if the carrettieri had been passing
in hundreds, so that the heat was almost unbearable.
At last the Dosalo ferry was reached, the road leading
to it was entered, and the carriage was, I thought,
to be at once embarked, when a drove of oxen were
discovered to have the precedence; and so I had to
wait. This under such a sun, on a shadeless beach,
and with the prospect of having to stay there for
two hours at least, was by no means pleasant.
It took three-quarters of an hour to put the oxen
in the boat, it took half an hour to get them on the
other shore, and another hour to have the ferry boat
back. The panorama from the beach was splendid,
the Po appeared in all the mighty power of his waters,
and as you looked with the glass at oxen and trees
on the other shore, they appeared to be clothed in
all the colours of the rainbow, and as if belonging
to another world. Several peasants were waiting
for the boat near me, talking about the war and the
Austrians, and swearing they would, if possible, annihilate
some of the latter. I gave them the glass to look
with, and I imagined that they had never seen one
before, for they thought it highly wonderful to make
out what the time was at the Luzzara Tower, three
miles in a straight line on the other side. The
revolver, too, was a subject of great admiration,
and they kept turning, feeling, and staring at it,
as if they could not make out which way the cartridges
were put in. One of these peasants, however,
was doing the grand with the others, and once on the
subject of history related to all who would hear how
he had been to St. Helena, which was right in the
middle of Moscow, where it was so very cold that his
nose had got to be as large as his head. The
poor man was evidently mixing one night’s tale
with that of the next one, a tale probably heard from
the old Sindaco, who is at the same time the
schoolmaster, the notary, and the highest municipal
authority in the place.
I started in the ferry boat with them
at last. While crossing they got to speak of
the priests, and were all agreed, to put it in the
mildest way, in thinking extremely little of them,
and only differed as to what punishment they should
like them to suffer.
On the side where we landed lay heaps
of ammunition casks for the corps besieging Borgoforte.
Others were conveyed upon cars by my friends the carrettieri,
of whom it was decreed I should not be quit for some
time to come. Entering Guastalla I found
only a few artillery officers, evidently in charge
of what we had seen carried along the route.
Guastalla is a neat little town very proud of
its statue of Duke Ferrante Gonzaga, and the Croce
Rossa is a neat little inn, which may be proud of
a smart young waiter, who actually discovered that,
as I wanted to proceed to Luzzara, a few miles on,
I had better stop till next morning, I did not take
his advice, and was soon under the gate of Luzzara,
a very neat little place, once one of the many possessions
where the Gonzagas had a court, a palace, and a castle.
The arms over the archway may still be seen, and would
not be worth any notice but for a remarkable work
of terracotta representing a crown of pines and pine
leaves in a wonderful state of preservation. The
whole is so artistically arranged and so natural,
that one might believe it to be one of Luca della
Robbia’s works. Luzzara has also a great
tower, which I had seen in the distance from Dosalo,
and the only albergo in the place gives you an
excellent Italian dinner. The wine might please
one of the greatest admirers of sherry, and if you
are not given feather beds, the beds are at least
clean like the rooms themselves. Here, as it
was getting too dark, I decided upon stopping, a decision
which gave me occasion to see one of the finest sunsets
I ever saw. As I looked from the albergo
I could see a gradation of colours, from the purple
red to the deepest of sea blue, rising like an immense
tent from the dark green of the trees and the fields,
here and there dotted with little white houses, with
their red roofs, while in front the Luzzara Tower rose
majestically in the twilight. As the hour got
later the colours deepened, and the lower end of the
immense curtain gradually disappeared, while the stars
and the planets began shining high above. A peasant
was singing in a field near by, and the bells of a
church were chiming in the distance. Both seemed
to harmonise wonderfully. It was a scene of great
loveliness.
At four a.m. I was up, and soon
after on the road to Reggiolo, and then to Gonzaga.
Here the vegetation gets to be more luxuriant, and
every inch of ground contributes to the immense vastness
of the whole. Nature is here in full perfection,
and as even the telegraphic wire hangs leisurely down
from tree to tree, instead of being stuck upon poles,
you feel that the romantic aspect of the place is too
beautiful to be encroached upon. All is peace,
beauty, and happiness, all reveals to you that you
are in Italy.
In Gonzaga, which only a few days
ago belonged to the Austrians, the Italian tricolour
is out of every window. As the former masters
retired the new advanced; and when a detachment of
Monferrato lancers entered the old castle town the
joy of the inhabitants seemed to be almost bordering
on delirium. The lancers soon left, however.
The flag only remains.
July 11.
Cialdini began passing the Po on the
8th, and crossed at three points, i.e., Carbonara,
Carbonarola, and Follonica. Beginning at three
o’clock in the morning, he had finished crossing
upon the two first pontoon bridges towards midnight
on the 9th. The bridge thrown up at Follonica
was still intact up to seven in the morning on the
10th, but the troops and the military and the civil
train that remained followed the Po without crossing
to Stellata, in the supposed direction of Ponte
Lagoscura.
Yesterday guns were heard here at
seven o’clock in the morning, and up to eleven
o’clock, in the direction of Legnano, towards,
I think, the Adige. The firing was lively, and
of such a nature as to make one surmise that battle
had been given. Perhaps the Austrians have awaited
Cialdini under Legnano, or they have disputed the crossing
of the Adige. Rovigo was abandoned by the
Austrians in the night of the 9th and 10th. They
have blown up the Rovigo and Boara fortresses,
have destroyed the tete-de-pont on the Adige, and
burnt all bridges. They may now seek to keep
by the left side of this river up to Legnano, so as
to get under the protection of the quadrilateral,
in which case, if Cialdini can cross the river in
time, the shock would be almost inevitable, and would
be a reason for yesterday’s firing. They
may also go by rail to Padua, when they would have
Cialdini between them and the quadrilateral. In
any case, if this general is quick, or if they are
not too quick for him, according to possible instructions,
a collision is difficult to be avoided.
Baron Ricasoli has left Florence for
the camp, and all sorts of rumours are afloat as to
the present state of negotiations as they appear unmistakably
to exist. The opinions are, I think, divided in
the high councils of the Crown, and the country is
still anxious to know the result of this state of
affairs. A splendid victory by Cialdini might
at this moment solve many a difficulty. As it
is, the war is prosecuted everywhere except by sea,
for Garibaldi’s forces are slowly advancing in
the Italian Tyrol, while the Austrians wait for them
behind the walls of Landaro and Ampola. The Garibaldians’
advanced posts were, by the latest news, near Darso.
The news from Prussia is still contradictory;
while the Italian press is unanimous in asking with
the country that Cialdini should advance, meet the
enemy, fight him, and rout him if possible. Italy’s
wishes are entirely with him.
Noale, near Treviso, July 17, 1866.
From Lusia I followed General Medici’s
division to Motta, where I left it, not without regret,
however, as better companions could not easily be
found, so kind were the officers and jovial the men.
They are now encamped around Padua, and will to-morrow
march on Treviso, where the Italian Light Horse have
already arrived, if I judge so from their having left
Noale on the 15th. From the right I hear that
the advanced posts have proceeded as far as Mira on
the Brenta, twenty kilometres from Venice itself,
and that the first army corps is to concentrate opposite
Chioggia. This corps has marched from Ferrara
straight on to Rovigo, which the forward movement
of the fourth, or Cialdini’s corps d’armee,
had left empty of soldiers. General Pianell has
still charge of it, and Major-General Cadalini, formerly
at the head of the Siena brigade, replaces him in
the command of his former division. General Pianell
has under him the gallant Prince Amadeus, who has entirely
recovered from his chest wound, and of whom the brigade
of Lombardian grenadiers is as proud as ever.
They could not wish for a more skilled commander,
a better superior officer, and a more valiant soldier.
Thus the troops who fought on the 24th June are kept
in the second line, while the still fresh divisions
under Cialdini march first, as fast as they can.
This, however, is of no avail. The Italian outposts
on the Piave have not yet crossed it, for the reason
that they must keep distances with their regiments,
but will do so as soon as these get nearer to the
river. If it was not that this is always done
in regular warfare, they could beat the country beyond
the Piave for a good many miles without even seeing
the shadow of an Austrian. To the simple private,
who does not know of diplomatic imbroglios and
of political considerations, this sudden retreat means
an almost as sudden retracing of steps, because he
remembers that this manoeuvre preceded both the attacks
on Solferino and on Custozza by the Austrians.
To the officer, however, it means nothing else than
a fixed desire not to face the Italian army any more,
and so it is to him a source of disappointment and
despondency. He cannot bear to think that another
battle is improbable, and may be excused if he is
not in the best of humour when on this subject.
This is the case not only with the officers but with
the volunteers, who have left their homes and the comfort
of their domestic life, not to be paraded at reviews,
but to be sent against the enemy. There are hundreds
of these in the regular army-in the cavalry especially,
and the Aosta Lancers and the regiment of Guides are
half composed of them. If you listen to them,
there ought not to be the slightest doubt or hesitation
as to crossing the Isongo and marching upon Vienna.
May Heaven see their wishes accomplished, for, unless
crushed by sheer force, Italy is quite decided to carry
war into the enemy’s country.
The decisions of the French government
are looked for here with great anxiety, and not a
few men are found who predict them to be unfavourable
to Italy. Still, it is hard for every one to believe
that the French emperor will carry things to extremities,
and increase the many difficulties Europe has already
to contend with.
To-day there was a rumour at the mess
table that the Austrians had abandoned Legnano, one
of the four fortresses of the quadrilateral. I
do not put much faith in it at present, but it is
not improbable, as we may expect many strange things
from the Vienna government. It would have been
much better for them, since Archduke Albert spoke in
eulogistic terms of the king, of his sons, and of
his soldiers, while relating the action of the 24th,
to have treated with Italy direct, thus securing peace,
and perhaps friendship, from her. But the men
who have ruled so despotically for years over Italian
subjects cannot reconcile themselves to the idea that
Italy has at last risen to be a nation, and they even
take slyly an opportunity to throw new insult into
her face. You can easily see that the old spirit
is still struggling for empire; that the old contempt
is still trying to make light of Italians; and that
the old Metternich ideas are still fondly clung to.
Does not this deserve another lesson? Does not
this need another Sadowa to quiet down for ever?
Yes; and it devolves upon Italy to do it. If so,
let only Cialdini’s army alone, and the day
may be nigh at hand when the king may tell the country
that the task has been accomplished.
A talk on the present state of political
affairs, and on the peculiar position of Italy, is
the only subject worth notice in a letter from the
camp. Everything else is at a standstill, and
the movements of the fine army Cialdini now disposes
of, about 150,000 men, are no longer full of interest.
They may, perhaps, have some as regards an attack on
Venice, because Austrian soldiers are still garrisoning
it, and will be obliged to fight if they are assailed.
It is hoped, if such is the case, that the beautiful
queen of the Adriatic will be spared a scene of devastation,
and that no new Haynau will be found to renew the deeds
of Brescia and Vicenza.
The king has not yet arrived, and
it seems probable he will not come for some time,
until indeed the day comes for Italian troops to make
their triumphal entry into the city of the Doges.
The heat continues intense, and this
explains the slowness in advancing. As yet no
sickness has appeared, and it must be hoped that the
troops will be healthy, as sickness tries the morale
much more than half-a-dozen Custozzas.
P.S. I had finished writing
when an officer came rushing into the inn where I
am staying and told me that he had just heard that
an Italian patrol had met an Austrian one on the road
out of the village, and routed it. This may or
may not be true, but it was must curious to see how
delighted every one was at the idea that they had found
‘them’ at last. They did not care
much about the result of the engagement, which, as
I said, was reported to have been favourable.
All that they cared about was that they were close
to the enemy. One cannot despair of an army which
is animated with such spirits. You would think,
from the joy which brightens the face of the soldiers
you meet now about, that a victory had been announced
for the Italian arms.
Dolo, near Venice, July 20, 1866.
I returned from Noale to Padua last
evening, and late in the night I received the intimation
at my quarters that cannon was heard in the direction
of Venice. It was then black as in Dante’s
hell, and raining and blowing with violence one
of those Italian storms which seem to awake all the
earthly and heavenly elements of creation. There
was no choice for it but to take to the saddle, and
try to make for the front. No one who has not
tried it can fancy what work it is to find one’s
way along a road on which a whole corps d’amee
is marching with an enormous materiel of war in a
pitch dark night. This, however, is what your
special correspondent was obliged to do. Fortunately
enough, I had scarcely proceeded as far as Ponte
di Brenta when I fell in with an officer
of Cialdini’s staff, who was bound to the same
destination, namely, Dolo. As we proceeded
along the road under a continuous shower of rain,
our eyes now and then dazzled by the bright serpent-like
flashes of the lightning, we fell in with some battalion
or squadron, which advanced carefully, as it was impossible
for them as well as for us to discriminate between
the road and the ditches which flank it, for all the
landmarks, so familiar to our guides in the daytime,
were in one dead level of blackness. So it was
that my companion and myself, after stumbling into
ditches and out of them, after knocking our horses’
heads against an ammunition car, or a party of soldiers
sheltered under some big tree, found ourselves, after
three hours’ ride, in this village of Dolo.
By this time the storm had greatly abated in its violence,
and the thunder was but faintly heard now and then
at such a distance as to enable us distinctly to hear
the roar of the guns. Our horses could scarcely
get through the sticky black mud, into which the white
suffocating dust of the previous days had been turned
by one night’s rain. We, however, made
our way to the parsonage of the village, for we had
already made up our minds to ascend the steeple of
the church to get a view of the surrounding country
and a better hearing of the guns if possible.
After a few words exchanged with the sexton a
staunch Italian, as he told us he was we
went up the ladder of the church spire. Once
on the wooden platform, we could hear more distinctly
the boom of the guns, which sounded like the broadsides
of a big vessel. Were they the guns of Persano’s
long inactive fleet attacking some of Brondolo’s
or Chioggia’s advanced forts? Were the guns
those of some Austrian man-of-war which had engaged
an Italian ironclad; or were they the ‘Affondatore,’
which left the Thames only a month ago, pitching into
Trieste? To tell the truth, although we patiently
waited two long hours on Dolo church spire, when
both I and my companion descended we were not in a
position to solve either of these problems. We,
however, thought then, and still think, they were
the guns of the Italian fleet which had attacked an
Austrian fort.
Civita Vecchia, July 22, 1866.
Since the departure from this port
of the old hospital ship ‘Grégeois’
about a year ago, no French ship of war had been stationed
at Civita Vecchia; but on Wednesday morning the steam-sloop
‘Catinat,’ 180 men, cast anchor in the
harbour, and the commandant immediately on disembarking
took the train for Rome and placed himself in communication
with the French ambassador. I am not aware whether
the Pontifical government had applied for this vessel,
or whether the sending it was a spontaneous attention
on the part of the French emperor, but, at any rate,
its arrival has proved a source of pleasure to His
Holiness, as there is no knowing what may happen In
troublous times like the present, and it is always
good to have a retreat insured.
Yesterday it was notified in this
port, as well as at Naples, that arrivals from Marseilles
would be, until further notice, subjected to a quarantine
of fifteen days in consequence of cholera having made
its appearance at the latter place. A sailing
vessel which arrived from Marseilles in the course
of the day had to disembark the merchandise it brought
for Civita Vecchia into barges off the lazaretto, where
the yellow flag was hoisted over them. This vessel
left Marseilles five days before the announcement
of the quarantine, while the ‘Prince Napoleon’
of Valery’s Company, passenger and merchandise
steamer, which left Marseilles only one day before
its announcement, was admitted this morning to free
pratique. Few travellers will come here by sea
now.
Marseilles, July 24.
Accustomed as we have been of late
in Italy to almost hourly bulletins of the progress
of hostilities, it is a trying condition to be suddenly
debarred of all intelligence by finding oneself on
board a steamer for thirty-six hours without touching
at any port, as was my case in coming here from Civita
Vecchia on board the ‘Prince Napoleon.’
But, although telegrams were wanting, discussions
on the course of events were rife on board among the
passengers who had embarked at Naples and Civita Vecchia,
comprising a strong batch of French and Belgian priests
returning from a pilgrimage to Rome, well supplied
with rosaries and chaplets blessed by the Pope and
facsimiles of the chains of St. Peter. Not much
sympathy for the Italian cause was shown by these gentlemen
or the few French and German travellers who, with three
or four Neapolitans, formed the quarterdeck society;
and our Corsican captain took no pains to hide his
contempt at the dilatory proceedings of the Italian
fleet at Ancona. We know that the Prussian minister,
M. d’Usedom, has been recently making strenuous
remonstrances at Ferrara against the slowness with
which the Italian naval and military forces were proceeding,
while their allies, the Prussians, were already near
the gates of Vienna; and the conversation of a Prussian
gentleman on board our steamer, who was connected
with that embassy, plainly indicated the disappointment
felt at Berlin at the rather inefficacious nature
of the diversion made in Venetia, and on the coast
of Istria by the army and navy of Victor Emmanuel.
He even attributed to his minister an expression not
very flattering either to the future prospects of
Italy as resulting from her alliance with Prussia,
or to the fidelity of the latter in carrying out the
terms of it. I do not know whether this gentleman
intended his anecdote to be taken cum grano salis,
but I certainly understood him to say that he had
deplored to the minister the want of vigour and the
absence of success accompanying the operations of
the Italian allies of Prussia, when His Excellency
replied: ’C’est bien vrai.
Ils nous ont tromps; maïs que
voulez-vous y faire maintenant?
Nous aurons lé temps de les faire
égorger âpres.’
It is difficult to suppose that there
should exist a preconceived intention on the part
of Prussia to repay the sacrifices hitherto made,
although without a very brilliant accompaniment of
success, by the Italian government in support of the
alliance, by making her own separate terms with Austria
and leaving Italy subsequently exposed to the vengeance
of the latter, but such would certainly be the inference
to be drawn from the conversation just quoted.
It was only on arriving in the port
of Marseilles, however, that the full enmity of most
of my travelling companions towards Italy and the
Italians was manifested. A sailor, the first man
who came on board before we disembarked, was immediately
pounced upon for news, and he gave it as indeed nothing
less than the destruction, more or less complete,
of the Italian fleet by that of the Austrians.
At this astounding intelligence the Prussian burst
into a yell of indignation. ’Fools! blockheads!
misérables! Beaten at sea by an inferior
force! Is that the way they mean to reconquer
Venice by dint of arms? If ever they do regain
Venetia it will be through the blood of our Brandenburghers
and Pomeranians, and not their own.’ During
this tirade a little old Belgian in black, with the
chain of St. Peter at his buttonhole by way of watchguard,
capered off to communicate the grateful news to a group
of his ecclesiastical fellow-travellers, shrieking
out in ecstasy:
’Rosses, Messieurs! Ces
blagueurs d’Italiens ont été rosses
par mer, comme ils avaient
été rosses par terre.’ Whereupon
the reverend gentlemen congratulated each other with
nods, and winks, and smiles, and sundry fervent squeezes
of the hand. The same demonstrations would doubtless
have been made by the Neapolitan passengers had they
belonged to the Bourbonic faction, but they happened
to be honest traders with cases of coral and lava
for the Paris market, and therefore they merely stood
silent and aghast at the fatal news, with their eyes
and mouths as wide open as possible. I had no
sooner got to my hotel than I inquired for the latest
Paris journal, when the France was handed me, and I
obtained confirmation in a certain degree of the disaster
to the Italian fleet narrated by the sailor, although
not quite in the same formidable proportions.
Before quitting the subject of my
fellow-passengers on board the ’Prince Napoleon’
I must mention an anecdote related to me, respecting
the state of brigandage, by a Russian or German gentleman,
who told me he was established at Naples. He
was complaining of the dangers he had occasionally
encountered in crossing in a diligence from Naples
to Foggia on business; and then, speaking of the audacity
of brigands in general, he told me that last year
he saw with his own eyes; in broad daylight, two brigands
walking about the streets of Naples with messages
from captured individuals to their relations, mentioning
the sums which had been demanded for their ransoms.
They were unarmed, and in the common peasants’
dresses, and whenever they arrived at one of the houses
to which they were addressed for this purpose, they
stopped and opened a handkerchief which one of them
carried in his hand, and took out an ear, examining
whether the ticket on it corresponded with the address
of the house or the name of the resident. There
were six ears, all ticketed with the names of the
original owners in the handkerchief, which were gradually
dispensed to their families in Naples to stimulate:
prompt payment of the required ransoms. On my
inquiring how it was that the police took no notice
of such barefaced operations, my informant told me
that, previous to the arrival of these brigand emissaries
in town, the chief always wrote to the police authorities
warning them against interfering with them, as the
messengers were always followed by spies in plain
clothes belonging to the band who would immediately
report any molestation they might encounter in the
discharge of their delicate mission, and the infallible
result of such molestation would be first the putting
to death of all the hostages held for ransom; and next,
the summary execution of several members of gendarmery
and police force captured in various skirmishes by
the brigands, and held as prisoners of war.
Such audacity would seem incredible
if we had not heard and read of so many similar instances
of late.