Bernard Brooks' Adventures: The Experience of a Plucky Boy

Of course all this was thrown away upon the Italians, who did not understand English, and frowned impatiently while Mr. Sanderson was speaking.

“Give up your money, and that at once,” said the foremost of the banditti.

He spoke in Italian, but Bernard, who had picked up some familiar phrases, understood and interpreted.

“Really this is very disagreeable,” said Cunningham.

“I wish they understood English. I’d argy a little with them,” added the American.

“I am afraid it wouldn’t do much good, Mr. Sanderson,” said Bernard. “They would probably shoot you for an answer.”

The party looked undecided. By way of hastening a decision one of the bandits came up to the door of the carriage, and holding his pistol in one hand, held out his hat in the other.

“I suppose we must surrender at discretion,” said the young Englishman. “They won’t make much of a haul in my case.”

“Nor in mine,” added Sanderson. “I have about enough money to last me as far as Naples, where I intend to call on my banker.”

“We had better give up what we have. It won’t ruin us.”

The American, who was pugnacious and liked to argue, yielded unwillingly. He and his companions emptied their pockets, and passed the contents over to the black-bearded fellow who acted as collector. He looked at the sum and frowned fiercely as he turned to his companions and spoke a few words to them.

“What does he say?” asked Amos Sanderson.

“I don’t understand,” said Bernard. “He talks too fast for me.”

Here Pasquale broke into the conversation.

“He says it isn’t enough,” he explained.

“But it is all we have. Tell him so.”

Pasquale put the message into Italian, and communicated it to his countrymen.

“Well, what does he say?” asked Walter Cunningham.

“He says it is not enough, and that you can get more.”

“Where can we get it?”

“He says you can get it at your bankers’.”

“Bring the bankers along, and we will ask them.”

“The signor will only anger them, and that will be bad.”

“How much in the name of wonder do they want?”

Pasquale repeated the question.

“They want five thousand scudi more,” he reported.

“How much is a scudi?” asked the American, turning to Cunningham.

“A dollar.”

“And the rascals want five thousand dollars? Jumping Jehoshaphat, haven’t they got cheek! Why do they ask so much of three poor travelers?”

Pasquale repeated the question, and received an answer.

“They say you are not poor, that one of you is a great English milord, and that you are a rich American.”

“I’d like to know how they found out I am rich,” said Amos, disgusted. “Have they seen my tax bill?”

“They say all Americans are rich.”

“That’s where they make a big mistake. I know plenty of men in Omaha that wouldn’t be worth a hundred dollars if their debts were paid. As to my friend here being a rich milord, I don’t know but he is. I am not a milord at all, but only a plain American citizen.”

“I am not a milord,” said Walter Cunningham, smiling. “However, I am aware that in Italy every Englishman who has money enough to travel is supposed to be a lord, just as every American is called rich.”

“They don’t say anything about me,” said Bernard. “I wonder whether they take me to be rich or a milord?”

“They don’t take account of you because you are a boy. They think you are related to Mr. Cunningham or myself.”

“I am willing to be overlooked.”

“I wonder if I could pass myself off for a boy,” said the American humorously.

“Hardly. You have lost too much hair.”

“The gentlemen are getting impatient,” said Pas-quale warningly.

“Are they? Well, I guess we shall take our time.”

“It will not be well to provoke them needlessly,” said Walter Cunningham. “You may tell them that we cannot give them five thousand scudi,” he added addressing the vetturino.

The bandits held a conference, but it was not prolonged. Evidently they were incensed at the contumacy of their victims.

After the conference, during which the three travelers were very anxious, they spoke to Pasquale, who communicated their decision.

“They say you must either make arrangements to pay the five thousand scudi, or go with them.”

“Where in thunder do they mean to carry us, Pasquale?”

“I don’t know. They would not tell if I asked them.”

“Tell them to take us along, then,” said Mr. Sanderson, leaning back in his seat and nodding obstinately.

Walter Cunningham seemed to acquiesce, and the answer was returned.

Immediately one of the bandits took his seat beside the vetturino and took the reins from him. The other two walked beside the carriage. The party turned off from the main road, and entered a lane leading up the hill to the left.

“Well, boys, we’re in for it, I s’pose,” said Amos Sanderson. “It’s too bad, I vow. Such things couldn’t be done in America under the Stars and Stripes.”

“Don’t robberies ever take place in the States?” asked Walter Cunningham.

“Well, perhaps so, but these fellows have not only robbed us of all we have, but are carrying us off because we won’t give them more. I’d just like to wrestle with them one by one. If I didn’t throw them, I’d be jiggered, that’s all.”

“I don’t think they would agree to any such plan. They carry pistols, and probably knives. They are more used to them than to wrestling.”

“No doubt you are right, milord,” said Amos, at which Cunningham laughed. “Where do you think they’re going to carry us?”

“They probably have some secret resort somewhere among these hills. We shall find out before long. What do you think of our adventure, Bernard?”

“I wish I knew how it was going to turn out, Walter,” returned Bernard soberly.

“So do I,” said the American. “I shall have to have a good think. I can’t think unless I have a smoke. Will you have a cigar, Cunningham?”

“No, thank you.”

“Or you, Bernard?”

“No, but it might be a good idea to offer cigars to our new friends.”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll act on it.”

Mr. Sanderson took out a cigar, and, lighting it, put it in his mouth. Next he selected three others, offering the first to the man who sat beside the vetturino.

“Will you have a cigar, my friend?” he said.

The bandit took it, and said politely, “Grazia, signor.”

“What’s that?”

“He says ‘thank you,’” returned Bernard.

The other bandits accepted the cigars graciously, and were evidently more favorably inclined to the travelers they were escorting.

“I say, Bernard, we look like a friendly family party,” said Amos, who was amused by the situation.

The new driver was in no hurry. He drove in leisurely fashion, partly because their way ran up hill, partly because his two companions were obliged to walk, and could not otherwise keep up.

“I wish I knew where they were taking us,” said Amos Sanderson.

“To a free hotel,” answered Bernard.

“It’ll have to be free, for they haven’t left us any money to pay for that or anything else.”

“Their hotel can’t be much worse than the one we stopped at last night at Melfa.”

“I wish their bill might not be any larger,” said Walter Cunningham.

The cigars were smoked, and then the party subsided into silence. Even the lively American realized that they were in a difficult and perhaps dangerous situation. All three were busy with their own thoughts, Bernard was anxious, but he was also curious, and excited. He remembered to have read a story three years before in which a party had been surprised by banditti somewhere in Sicily. He forgot how the story ended. When he read it he certainly was very far from thinking that some time a similar adventure would happen to himself.

CHAPTER XXX. IN A TRAP

They proceeded thus for a short distance, when there was a sudden stop. The vetturino was ordered to descend from the driver’s seat, and he and the bandits had a conference.

Bernard was the only one of the party who understood Italian at all, and he failed to get any idea from the rapid words spoken by the four Italians. What they could be talking about not one of the party could conjecture.

At length the conference seemed to be over. One of the bandits took out a few scudi and handed them to the vetturino. The latter looked very much dissatisfied and had the appearance of one who was making a bad bargain.

Then the bandit who had taken the lead came to the door of the carriage.

“Gentlemen, you will descend,” he said.

“What’s that?” asked the American.

“He says we are to get out of the carriage,” interpreted Bernard.

“What’s that for, I wonder?”

“Probably we shall find out after a while.”

When the three travelers had left the carriage their traveling bags were taken from the vettura and placed in their hands.

Then Pasquale mounted the box and drove away. “Where are you going, Pasquale?” asked Walter Cunningham.

“I am obliged to go. The gentlemen will not allow me to go any further.”

“Will you inform the authorities of the outrage that has been perpetrated?” said the American. Pasquale shrugged his shoulders.

“It would be as much as my life is worth,” he replied.

“I suppose,” replied Cunningham, “that the bandits are unwilling to let the vetturino know their headquarters. So they have sent him away.”

“I believe he is in the plot.”

“I don’t think so. He seems an honest sort of fellow. But what can he do single handed? Should he betray these men, it would, as he says, be as much as his life is worth.”

The captives did not particularly enjoy carrying their baggage, and the American in particular grumbled not a little, but there seemed no help for it.

They ascended a rising ground, and then made a descent to a plain. After an hour’s walking, quite spent with fatigue, they reached a large, irregularly built stone house, which was in a state of partial ruin. It was very old, dating back probably to the middle ages.

“I wonder whether that is the bandits’ retreat?” said Bernard.

“At any rate, it is an improvement upon the hotel where we spent last night.”

The question was soon settled. Through a doorway the bandits led the way into a courtyard, and; crossing it, one of them took out a huge key and opened an oaken door.

He signed to the captives to follow him.

They did so, and found themselves in a spacious room nearly twenty-five feet square. The floor was of stone, and it was nearly bare of furniture. In one corner there was a heap of bedclothes. Along one side was a bench, on which Amos Sanderson seated himself without asking permission.

“I feel about ready to drop,” he said. “My valise is as heavy as yours and Bernard’s together.”

“Have you a dress suit?” asked Bernard, laughing. “If our captors should give a ball in our honor you might need it.”

“It doesn’t seem like a very gay place. I have never been in jail, but this room carries out my idea of a dungeon cell.”

The room was indeed a gloomy one. There were windows, it is true, but so high up that they only admitted a limited amount of sunshine.

“Now, how long are they going to keep us? That is what I would like to know; and what object have they in detaining us?”

“I suppose,” said Cunningham, “they will keep us till they get the five thousand scudi.”

“Then they’ll wait a long time, I reckon.”

The bandits left the room, taking care to fasten the door on the outside.

“Boys,” said Amos Sanderson, “I don’t mind admitting that I have never been more hungry in the whole course of my life.”

Bernard and Walter Cunningham agreed that their feelings harmonized with his.

“Suppose we order dinner,” said Bernard humorously.

“They will be sure to feed us,” observed Cunningham. “They won’t kill the goose from which they expect golden eggs.”

He proved to be right. In a short time the door was opened, and one of the bandits appeared, bringing a large loaf of black bread, with a small dish of olives, and a supply of macaroni. A quart bottle of sour wine completed the generous collation.

It was not very tempting. It was worse than, they had fared at any of the poor inns where they had lodged, yet Amos Sanderson’s face brightened when he saw the food, and he did full justice to it.

“I am so hungry that I really believe I could eat shoe leather,” he said.

Bernard and Walter Cunningham also ate with zest.

“Now I suppose they will bring in the bill,” said Amos Sanderson grimly.

But when the meal was over they were left to themselves for a time.

“Now that I have eaten I feel sleepy,” said the American. “I suppose that heap of rags in the corner is meant for a bed. I will make one.”

He picked up a narrow mattress, which had been rolled up before it was laid away, and spread it out on the floor. Then he selected a quilt, and, stretching himself out, spread it over him.

“That walk with my valise quite tuckered me out,” he said. “Just call me when the carriage is ready.” Bernard and Walter Cunningham could not so readily throw off the burden of anxiety. They sat together upon the bench and discussed the situation.

“We are in a bad scrape, Bernard,” said his friend, “and I have led you into it.”

“I think we will get out of it after a while,” said Bernard, trying to be cheerful.

“Yes; if absolutely necessary, I will persuade Mr. Sanderson to join me in paying the ransom, though I should hate to let these rascals reap the reward of their knavery.”

They were served with supper at six o’clock. Scarcely was this over when the three bandits entered the room, accompanied by a man of thirty-five or thereabouts, who looked like a clerk or bookkeeper. It was soon evident that he was present as an interpreter.

“Gentlemen,” he said, in tolerable English, “my friends here, who are not acquainted with your language, have asked me to act as interpreter. They wish to confer with you about your release.”

“That’s the talk,” said Amos Sanderson, with alacrity. “A release is what we are anxious about.”

“I may say that you won’t have to stay here any longer than you desire.”

“Then we’ll go now, and thank you for your consideration.”

“Upon conditions.”

Walter Cunningham smiled. He quite understood that there would be conditions.

“I suppose you want us to keep your secret,” said the American. “We’ll do it.”

“That is not quite all,” replied the interpreter. “My friends want to be paid for their trouble.”

“They needn’t have taken any trouble. We didn’t ask them to.”

The interpreter frowned slightly. He began to-think Mr. Sanderson “too fresh.”

“You talk too much,” he said curtly. “They have fixed your ransom at five thousand scudi. That is certainly small for such wealthy and illustrious signors.”

“Look here, my friend, five thousand scudi is a great deal of money.”

“Not for millionaires.”

“Who said we were millionaires?”

“All English and American signors are rich.”

“How are we to get the money to pay you? You, or your friends, rather, have taken all we have.”

“You can get some from your bankers in Naples.”

“You seem to have got our affairs down fine. Well, let us go to Naples – you can go with us if you like – and we’ll, see whether our bankers will let us have the money.”

“The signor takes us for fools.”

Here Mr. Cunningham thought it time to interfere, as the American was likely to anger their captors and upset all negotiations.

“Even if we have money,” he said, “it would probably be necessary for us to see our bankers. They do not know us, and might not give the money to a messenger.”

“Just what I said,” put in Mr. Sanderson.

The bandits conferred together, and then the interpreter spoke again.

“To whom does the boy belong?” he asked.

“To me,” answered Walter Cunningham.

“Is he known to your bankers?”

“No. He has never been in Naples.”

“Are you fond of him?”

“Very much so.”

“If he should go to Naples with a letter from you, could he get the money?”

“I am not sure.”

“Then I am not sure about your release.”

“Mr. Sanderson, will you join me in paying the ransom this gentleman has mentioned?”

“No, I’ll be jiggered if I will!”

“Then I am afraid you will have to remain here.”

“If you will pay three thousand scudi we will release you and the boy,” said the interpreter.

“What, and leave me here?” exclaimed the American.

“It is your own fault, signor.”

After considerable conversation a plan was agreed upon, in which Amos Sanderson unwillingly acquiesced.

CHAPTER XXXI. WALTER CUNNINGHAM’S MISSION

It was decided that Cunningham himself should go to Naples, carrying with him not only his own letter of credit, but Amos Sanderson’s as well. He was to draw three thousand scudi on his own account, and two thousand on account of the American, and come back with this sum, on the receipt of which the three would be released.

“If you don’t come back,” said the interpreter, “this gentleman and the boy will have to take a long journey.”

“Where?” asked Amos Sanderson, with some curiosity.

“To the next world,” answered the interpreter grimly.

“Mr. Cunningham, you will not fail us?” said Sanderson nervously.

“You may rely on me. What do you take me for?”

“I thought perhaps when you found yourself at liberty you would choose to remain so. You have no particular interest in me.”

“Even if that were so, do you think I would leave Bernard exposed to danger?”

“Enough said. I am sure now that you will return. But,” continued the American, who was inclined to be suspicious, “perhaps these gentlemen, when they get the money, will keep us and demand another ransom.”

This was interpreted to the bandits, who looked angry.

“Tell the signor,” said the chief proudly, “that we are men of honor. When we give our word we keep it.”

“I have heard that there is honor among thieves,” muttered Sanderson.

“What does he say?” asked the chief suspiciously.

“What did you say, signor?” inquired the interpreter.

“I said that you looked like men of honor.”

“That is well. You will not be disappointed.”

In half an hour Walter Cunningham was on his way to Naples. The door was again bolted on the outside, and Bernard and Amos Sanderson were left to their reflections.

“This ain’t exactly cheerful, Bernard,” said Amos. “Here we are, free born American citizens, locked up as if we were criminals. It ain’t very creditable to any country to have such things going on. I’d like to have a short interview with the king of Italy.”

“What would you say to him?”

“What would I say? I’d give him a piece of my mind. I’d tell him that he didn’t know how to govern.”

“Probably he can’t stop this brigandage.”

“Then he ought to resign, and let somebody fill his place that could stop it. Do you think if old General Jackson were king that he would let these rascals stop and plunder travelers? However, the time will come when there will be a different government.”

“Do you think so, Mr. Sanderson?”

“Yes, I do.”.

“When will that be?”

“When Italy is under the Stars and Stripes.” Bernard looked surprised.

“Surely you don’t think that will ever happen?”

“I am sure of it,” said Amos Sanderson, in a positive tone. “It’s the manifest destiny of the United States to annex the rest of the world. Within fifty years England will form a part of the great American republic.”

“I wonder what Mr. Cunningham would say to that?”

“He would deny it, it’s likely. These Britishers are mighty conceited.”

“Perhaps he would think it more likely that we should belong to Great Britain.”

“Never! England tried to conquer us twice, and she got whipped each time.”

“I am glad of one thing,” said Bernard, smiling.

“And what is that?”

“That we shan’t have to stay here till the Stars and Stripes float over Italy.”

“I don’t know as I should care to wait, myself. I don’t say it will be soon. You may be an old man before it happens. But it’s bound to come some day.”

“I wonder how soon we may expect Mr. Cunningham back. Do you know how long it will take to go to Naples?”

“No, but it isn’t very far. Perhaps we shall see him back in three days.”

“I don’t expect him so soon. He will have to see the bankers.”

“Look here, Bernard,” said the American, after a pause, “I have been thinking that we might find some way of escape.”

Bernard shook his head.

“What good would it do?” he rejoined. “Mr. Cunningham wouldn’t know of it, and he would bring the money. When he does that we shall be released at any rate.”

Amos Sanderson was impressed by this consideration, and no longer allowed his mind to dwell on plans of escape.

Meals were served to the captives twice a day. This was probably as often as the bandits ate themselves, for of all nations Italians are perhaps the least fond of the pleasures of the table, and probably eat scarcely more than half as much as an average Englishman or American. They treated their captives as well as themselves, but this did not satisfy Amos Sanderson, who from his boyhood had been a hearty eater.

“They might as well feed us on bread and water and be done with it,” he said. “When I get through eating I am just as hungry as before. It’s as bad as prison fare.”

“Well, Mr. Sanderson, we are prisoners, are we not?”

“But not convicts. They might remember that we are gentlemen.”

Bernard was not as much disturbed by the scanty fare as his companion. True, he would have liked more abundant meals, but he had patience and reflected that the present inconvenience would probably last only a short time. Nevertheless, he and Amos Sanderson counted the days, and every morning said to each other: “One more day is past. It won’t be long before Mr. Cunningham returns, and we are released.”

“If he does come back,” suggested Sanderson.

“Do you doubt that he is honorable?” asked Bernard angrily.

“Well, no; but the temptation is great. If he stays away he will be five thousand scudi in, and be his own master besides.”

“Would you yield to any such temptation?”

“No.”

“Then you doubt whether he is as honorable as yourself?”

“Don’t get riled, Bernard. I can’t help thinking how much depends on your friend’s return.”

“He will return. You needn’t be afraid.”

But when the sixth morning came, and Mr. Cunningham was still absent, even Bernard became somewhat anxious.

“Well, he isn’t here yet,” said the American significantly.

“No.”

“Do you still have confidence in him?”

“Certainly.”

“All I can say, then, is that he isn’t hurrying much. Why, it isn’t far to Naples. If I had gone I’ll guarantee I would have been back within three days.”

Bernard did not answer.

“I notice you don’t look so chipper as you did.”

“No. I have just as much confidence in Mr. Cunningham, but he may have met with some accident.”

“Very likely,” said Amos Sanderson sarcastically. “Or, he may have fallen into the hands of another gang of bandits on his way here.”

“It won’t be very lucky for us if he has. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

There was another cause for anxiety. The bandits, who, during the first three or four days, had treated their captives politely and even courteously, now wore a different expression. They looked gloomy and frowned ominously when they entered the apartment where their captives were confined. They made no conversation with them, but their looks were hostile. Finally – it was on the morning of the seventh day – they entered the room in a body, accompanied by the interpreter.

They took seats, and the interpreter addressed himself to Mr. Sanderson.

“Signor,” he said, “your friend has not returned.”

“I know it, and I am blamed sorry for it.”

“This is the seventh day since he started.”

“Correct, squire. It seemed as much as seven weeks to me.”

“Naples is not far off,” continued the interpreter significantly.

“That’s so.”

“Don’t you think he has had time to go there and return?”

“Yes, I do,” blurted out Sanderson. “I think he’s been infernally slow. If you’d only let me go instead of him I’d have been back long ago.”

“I see the signor agrees with me. He has been gone much longer than is necessary.”

“I think so, too.”