Story of Antonio, the galley-slave : a romance of real life

Front matter

^fie STORY of

ANTONIO

THE GALLEY SLAVE ARRIGHI

Foreword

This book has the appearance of a novel, yet is no fiction but a romance of real life. The events narrated in a somewhat dramatical manner were actual experiences of the narrator. It is perhaps the only book extant which gives autobiographically a correct idea of the life of a galley slave, with its untold sufferings and horrors. As here described they are not drawn from imagination, but are vivid recollections of almost infernal realities.

The whole story forms a chain of extraordinary happenings. It is the veritable record of the life of a valiant young soldier who served as a drummer boy in Garibaldi's heroic struggle for Italian liberty in 1849, and who, after many sufferings and remarkable deliverances, escaped to free America. Here he found friends, a Saviour, and his life work. Returning to Italy, he preached the gospel of peace for nine years in Florence, and since then for thirty years he has been a very successful pastor among his countrymen in New York.

Tens of thousands in the United States and Canada have heard from his lips the thrilling story of his earlier experiences, his Italian songs of patriotism, and his lectures on life in Italy. Now in later years he gives to the world a biographical account 5

FOREWORD of the leadings of Providence throughout his career, in the sincere hope that others may be led to trust in the same overruling care and saving grace of his Divine Friend and Master. Written in a language not his vernacular, this true story is narrated in an ingenuous and spirited style which will interest readers of all ages, and ensure a wide welcome. Personal knowledge of Antonio and his work in both countries makes it a privilege to say this introductory word.

J. H. E.

PART III A Herald of the Cross in America and Italy

XI. The Land of the Free .... 179 XII. The Greater Liberty .... 194

XIII. The Student 211

XIV. Home Again 228

XV. The Church in Florence . . . 254

PART I <o

A Drummer 'Boy with Garibaldi, at the Siege of Rome, 1849

THE STORY OF ANTONIO, THE GALLEY-SLAVE

Chapter I

" / # rONIO! Stop your infernal drumming!— * Do you hear?"

The above words, so crisp and so full of gentle heat, were spoken by my father while at his desk writing a letter for a lovely peasant girl, and it was a — well, guess ! Although I was only six years old when the words were uttered, they still ring in my ears. How true it is that paternal utterances are never forgotten, when uttered in the above manner. My father, the notaro, would often say that " I was born a drummer," for my boyhood ruling passion was drum-playing.

To gather some conceptions of that boyhood, we must go to Italy, and to beautiful Florence, the " city of flowers " and of art. It is autumn of the year 1842, when everything in nature is charming. We are in the Piazza della Signoria, a public square stored with memories of great historic events. We 11 pass to the south of the famous fountain of Neptune, with its colossal statue of the King of the Seas, which stands in the centre of the large basin surrounded by life-sized fiery, swimming horses. This is sacred ground, for here the great reformer, Savonarola, was burned at the stake. As we look to the north, above us, like a grim sentinel, rises the tower-shaped Palazzo Vecchio. To the east we see the matchless Loggia dei Lanzi, with its rare collection of statuary.

We now go through the portal of the municipal palace and are on the banks of the river Arno, whose classic waters are never clear. A short walk to the south brings us to the quaint old Ponte Vecchio, with its array of attractive jewelry stores on each side of the arches of the historic bridge.

Having crossed the river, we turn to the left and follow the Via San Nicola till we come to house Number 3. At the entrance we see a large hanging sign, with but one word inscribed on it in golden letters, " Notaro."

The door of Number 3 is always open, and, entering, we walk along its broad hall till we reach a door which has the inscription "II Notaro, entrate." Encouraged by this invitation, we open the door, and here is what we see :

The room is large, but poorly furnished. A few pictures of no merit hang on the wall. Two large windows overlook Via San Nicola and give plenty of light. Near one of them we see a table with a few books scattered on it, and supplied with a large quantity of writing material.

Seated at the table is a man about forty years of age. Black hair and eyes and a great moustache give him the appearance of a man of unusual strength of character; and a second glance shows him handsome and jovial. He holds in his hand a large quill pen, with which he is writing rapidly. Seated at the same table close to the notaro is a lovely peasant girl, nineteen years of age, wearing a bright dress of many colours in the fashion of the day and country. Her beautiful eyes are watching the quill in the hand of the notaro, and she seems to infuse into every word she dictates all the affection of her heart. When she mentions the name " Peppe " her eyes fairly dance with joy. It needs no penetration to see that the notaro is writing a letter for the maiden.

So we watch the beautiful girl, as she whispers sweet words into the ear of the writer, and see how, now and then, her face becomes aglow, as if a flame from her heart has set on fire all the blood in her veins. Then there is a change; sadness causes a sigh to break forth. As she thinks of her promcsso sposo far away in distant America seeking his fortune, there comes an expression of such longing for him, that it is clear she would fly to her beloved on the wings of the morning if only she could. At the thought of the great distance between her and her lover, a tear flows down her cheek and drops on the hand of the notaro, who stops writing and looks up, saying, " Nita, what is the matter ? "

"Oh! Signor Notaro," replies the girl, "I was thinking of the great distance, and of that cruel ocean which separates me from my dearest Peppe."

" Well," says the notaro, " do you want me to write that the ocean has separated your love from him? "

" Not for the world," cries the young lady, " but rather tell him that my love is as deep as the ocean, and that I am dying to see him."

Before the notaro takes up his quill to write again, he looks towards a closed door at one side of the room, and, standing before this door, we see a little boy. The lad has on a suit of frustagno, a very common article of wear in Italy. His head is covered with jet-black hair, falling in ringlets over his shoulders. You will observe that this boy is using the door in lieu of a drum, beating it strenuously with spoons which he holds in each hand. The notaro looks at him with an expression of annoyance, and gives utterance to the exclamation with which this story began, adding, " Tonio, come here and stand by the table ! "

The lad obeys quickly, and, as he turns round, we see a childish face perfectly Italian in all its features. His black hair accentuates the lustre in the black eyes. He has a smile upon his lips, which seems to emanate from a soul full of sunshine.

Ready to obey that which seems to him right, but quick to resent anything which seems wrong, we see in him the qualities that make a courageous lad.

At his father's command, he comes quickly to his side, and for a few moments is quiet. His father makes use of the opportunity to send his pen scratching vigorously over the paper. The boy, however, longs to be drumming, and for lack of something better, his imagination seizes the noise made by the scratching of his father's quill as a substitute. But, judging by the look of growing disgust on his face, it is very unsatisfactory. He becomes restless and finally breaks out in a loud voice :

" Papa ! let me teach you how to play the drum."

Then he strikes the table with great force with his fists, causing a blot of ink to drop upon the letter his father is writing, almost ruining the page.

The notaro throws down his pen and makes the child know the experience of being taken across an angry father's knees. The tender-hearted girl, moved to compassion by the blows descending thick and fast upon the struggling person of the boy, cries out, " Signor Notaro, have mercy ! I will pay for the damage done by the bambino." At her pleading the notaro puts his son down on the brick floor, and tells him to sit there and not move. The poor boy, with his eyes full of tears, obeys; but the lovely peasant girl takes him on her lap, smoothing his curly hair and pressing him to her bosom. This quiets him and he is soothed into a refreshing sleep.

A few minutes later Tonio awakes and, thinking his father still angry with him, slides down from the young lady's lap and sits on the floor. The notaro, however, smiles and says, " Well, my boy, it will be rather hard for you to drum on the brick floor. Now keep quiet, and when I am through I will give you a soldo."

In those days, in some parts of Italy the people wore shoes, the soles of which were made of hard wood, and only the uppers of leather. The clatter of these on the paved streets sounded much like the galloping of an army of horses. Our drummer boy has on his feet wooden shoes, and after a while his restless spirit overpowers the determination to remain quiet, for his desire to drum is stronger than ever. He moves his feet quickly and the slippers striking against the bricks make a sound pleasing to his ears. In a second off come the shoes and soon, with one in each hand, he is making the room resound with his drumming.

The notaro calls out, " Tonio, you annoy me so that I cannot write. Stop your racket; go to the window and look at the people as they pass by."

The boy runs to the window and begins to look at the passers-by, but soon becomes tired of this occupation. Unconsciously his fingers begin drumming lightly on the window panes. His enthusi-

1 7 asm grows until he makes the window panes rattle. People in the street, attracted by the noise, look up and smile at the lad.

The notaro, exasperated beyond control, lays down his pen and starts for the noisy child, but the young lady prevents a second punishment by taking him away from the window and holding him in her arms until the letter is completed.

Then the notaro asks, " Nita, shall I read you the letter ? "

" Please, Signor Notaro," replies the girl. " I should like to hear it read, not only once, but every moment of the day."

Tonio, still upon the girl's lap, watches her face during the reading of the long letter. He sees many queer changes on her features which the little fellow cannot understand. He does not know why the young lady gives him now and again such a tight squeeze, and so frequently kisses him. The letter finished, the notaro asks, " How do you like it, Nita?"

" Oh! it is grand," she exclaims. " It seems to me that even the Holy Madonna could not write a better letter."

At this remark the notaro makes a graceful bow and his face lights up.

" It says," continues the girl, " just what I feel in my heart. I thought I should melt into sweetness while I was listening to it."

Just then, the door at which we first saw the boy, opens, and the child's mother enters the room. She is about thirty-five years of age. Snow-white hair crowns a face that seems to overflow with motherly kindness, and when she looks at her son we can plainly see that she loves him better than life; for she is self-sacrificing and even overindulgent. Her voice is soft and tender, a voice once heard never to be forgotten. Tonio rushes into her outstretched arms, saying, " Cara Mamma, I am so hungry; please give me an egg cooked in the ashes."

" Yes, carino, right away," and she places an egg in the midst of the ashes in the fireplace, carefully covering it over. It is soon ready, and no delicacy could please the boy more.

At the time of the above incident I was the youngest of five children, the pet of the family, and dearly beloved by my kind and affectionate mother. The neighbours often warned her that she would spoil me with her indulgence. She would reply that I was the idol of her heart, and, even though I was at times naughty, she had not the heart to punish me. My mother would often entertain her friends by relating some of the mischievous pranks I was ever indulging in. Of one story she was especially fond. It happened one day that we had Don Michele, the cappellano of our church, visit us and take dinner at our table. After dinner all retired to the parlour. I was left at the table alone. While there, it came into my head that I would like to drum, but there was nothing I could drum on. My ingenuity, however, supplied the article needed. Unfortunately it happened to be a beautiful crystal bowl, perfectly round and rather thin. It was the bowl from which my father the notaro drank his " vin di Chianti." I drew the bowl up, struck it lightly with my ringers, and was overjoyed with the clear ringing tone it gave out. Then for drumsticks I took a knife in each hand. My heart was thrilled with the fine music I made. Soon I forgot myself and drummed so furiously that there was a crash, with the sound of broken glass flying all over the table.

At the noise my father and mother rushed into the dining-room and saw what I had done. My father cried out in angry tones, " Tonio has broken my beautiful and costly drinking bowl," and made a move to lay his hands upon me. But instantly my mother had me in her arms, and started for the parlour, where sat the cappellano. The cappellano asked what was the trouble, and my father, still very angry, replied, " That bad boy has broken into a thousand fragments my glass drinking bowl. I did so enjoy drinking Chianti from it."

Poor man, he felt really sad and when I saw it I went to my father, threw my arms around his neck, and said, " Papa, I am very sorry I broke your drinking bowl, but, papa, I will buy you another. I have yet that soldo you gave me when you were writing the letter for Nita," and I handed the soldo to him. He had to smile at the childish idea that a penny could buy a bowl which cost five lire.

The cappellano, a man of extremely dark complexion, did not like children, and lectured me on disobedience to parents. Among other things, he said that the children of Protestant parents were very disobedient. I, who had never heard the word " Protestant," asked who were the Protestants, and the cappellano answered, " Children of the devil."

" Oh, Signor Cappellano," said I, " we have a picture of the devil in our church and he looks very black, so his children of course must be black."

This pleased the cappellano very much. But I went on, " Signor Cappellano, why do you look so black ? Are you a Protestant ? "

This observation from a child made the cappellano very wroth and he pulled my ears, saying, " Do you talk so to me ? You are a very bad boy."

It might be of interest to explain why there were in Italy in my boyhood so many notari, or letterwriters. Illiteracy abounded, and few could read, or write. It was estimated that in Florence, the most cultured of all the cities in Italy, about eighty per cent, of its two hundred thousand population, were illiterate. Therefore, in those days notari were common; more so than lawyers in America to-day. Schools were few, and only those who intended to follow some profession attended them.

No educational provision was made for the masses. Therefore, multitudes depended on these notari to write letters and legal documents.

Since the unity of Italy was effected in 1870, free schools, supported by the government, have been established in every city, town and hamlet, and parents are compelled by law to send their children to these schools a certain number of hours each day. This has wrought a real transformation of the people in the way of education. It is to be doubted if one can now find in Florence ten per cent, of the population that cannot read or write. The present generation is being educated, thanks to the wise action of the Italian government. Letterwriters have now entirely disappeared, except in some parts of southern Italy. In those days of darkness, the Church fully realized its cherished motto, " Ignorance is the mother of devotion," but should not have forgotten the fact that " Ignorance is the destroyer of the mental faculties."

Chapter II

WHEN I was ten years old my father sold out his business in Florence and moved his family to the beautiful city of Barga, some forty miles away, a town of seven thousand people.

He chose Barga for his future home because his two brothers lived there. The three brothers were the only members of the family that remained since it emigrated from Corsica, their original home.

Barga is beautiful for situation, and is known throughout Italy as the " Queen of Panoramas," because from its throne-like site an enchanting view of the surrounding beauties of her kingdom can be had.

The city is built upon a high, round-topped hill. It is walled on three sides, north, west and south. On the east there is no need of a wall, for that entire side is bordered by a precipice called La Ripa, which descends five hundred feet to the valley below. The precipice is perpendicular, and, with the three walls, makes the town almost impregnable. It is the natural Gibraltar of Italy.

At the top of the hill on the east side is a level plateau, about two acres in extent, and on this the cathedral of Barga stands. From this plateau the city slopes gradually toward the north, west and south, with the appearance of gigantic steps. On these descending slopes the houses are built.

The cathedral, or Duomo, deserves our attention, for its interior is very beautiful, being lined with alternate black and white blocks of marble. It looks as if draped in mourning, but the effect is pleasing to the eye. The pulpit is a marvel. It is built of the same material as the church, and its enclosure is supported by four marble columns. The two front columns rest upon the backs of full-sized figures of lions. Under the lion on the right side is a monster serpent, the head of which has been broken off, so that the design cannot now be understood. Under the lion on the left, between its forelegs, is the body of a man lying on his back. With one hand he holds the lower jaw of the beast and with the other the handle of a dagger, the blade of which he has plunged into the lion.

On three sides of the pulpit are carved the figures of the twelve apostles, with their faces turned upwards, as though listening to the preacher. In this church are to be seen masterpieces in terra cotta by Luca della Robbia. There is a large square in front of the church, and the panorama from this point, once seen, is never to be erased from the memory. Let us look carefully at it.

At our feet lies the city with its many churches, palaces, squares, streets and houses. Beyond the wall of the city we see the beautiful plain of Barga, which at first is about a mile in width, but spreads in fan shape until it reaches the river Serchio, four miles away, where it broadens to six miles. The soil of this plain is very fertile and as many as three crops are raised during the summer season. Vineyards, olive groves and fruit trees of all kinds abound.

As we look to the south and west, beyond the plain, the gaze meets high mountains, rugged and wild, holding this beautiful plain and quaint city of Barga in their embrace. From the square as many as twenty-four towns and villages are to be seen, some of them on the plain, others nestling on the sides of the mountains, some even on the summits, all doing homage to Barga.

To the south we see Monte Ragno, so called because of its spider-like shape. This mountain is the home of millions of bees. The sides of the mountain are of solid rock, so nearly perpendicular that they cannot be easily scaled. There are multitudes of fissures in these rocks, which, as they extend, grow larger and form caves of considerable size. These fissures serve as entrances for the bees, and in them immense quantities of honey are deposited. As the hot sun shines upon the rocks and they become heated, the honey in the caves melts and flows through the fissures down the face of the rocks. The contadini come with pails, and catch the delicious liquid as it drops and carry it home or to the market. Italy might truly be called a land which flows with milk and honey.

As we look to the west from the square we see La Pania, a mountain so called because it is a bold, solid rock. From the base to its highest peak on the east side not a blade of grass or any tree or bush is visible. However, on this barren mountain with its rocky peaks the most remarkable freak of nature in the country is to be seen. It is the Natural Bridge of Italy. This can be distinctly seen by the naked eye from the square before the Duomo twelve miles away.

A peculiar phenomenon is caused by this natural bridge, giving the people of Barga an opportunity of witnessing two sunsets in one day. When the sun has gone down behind the summit of the mountain, and the sunset has become twilight brooding over towns and plains, suddenly a great flood of light illumines the valley and brightens the entire landscape. It is the sun behind the mountains, shining under and through the arch of the great bridge, reminding one of an immense searchlight. This second sunset lingers only long enough to say good-night to Barga. Then the departing sunbeam creeps up the sides of the mountain from crag to crag, until it has reached the highest summit and disappears. On the other side of this mountain stretches the blue Mediterranean.

North and east of Barga is another range of the Apennines, covered by a fine growth of chestnut trees. These are kept in good condition for the crop of nuts they produce, and to the Italians these are a great food commodity. Portions of the mountains and valleys where these trees abound are rented to the mountaineers, who in the fall of the year gather the nuts and put them into mctati, for the purpose of drying them. The metato is a small building of stone covered with tiles. About four feet above the stone floor is a platform made of narrow beams, which are round and reach from wall to wall. These beams are so laid that there is a space of about a quarter of an inch between them to permit the heat from below to pass through. The nuts are placed on the platform, underneath which a fire is made in the centre of the stone floor and kept burning very low for forty days. At the end of this time the nuts have become dry and hard. The fire is then put out, some of the beams are removed, and the nuts fall upon the stone floor. They are then placed in a long bag, and threshed by being pounded upon a block of smooth, round wood. The outer shell is thus removed, the inside shell pulverized, and the whole is then winnowed, leaving the pure white meat of the nut, which has become almost as hard as stone. The nuts thus prepared are taken to the grist mill and ground into flour, then cooked into polenta, a chestnut mush, and prepared for eating in various ways. Millions of Italians live upon this kind of food, which, because of its wholesomeness and nutriment, gives health and strength. The people dread a failure of the chestnut crop more than anything else, for such a misfortune would cause poverty and distress in many parts of the land. In the city of Barga, surrounded by such charming scenery, I passed my boyhood.

My passion for drumming seemed to grow stronger and stronger, keeping step with my physical growth as the years went by. No sooner was I settled in our new home than I went about the house seeking something to drum on. From room to room I would go, drumming on the doors, tables and windows, or anything that would respond with a sound. In the garret I found the barrels used for transporting the family goods from Florence, but even these were not satisfactory. I was about to leave the garret when I saw in the corner of the room a round object of the shape of a barrel about two feet high and made of a smooth, thin wood. In the side of it was a small opening. I struck it with a stick, and it made a noise very delightful to my ears. It seemed even pleasanter than the sound made by a real drum. I tried it again and again, and was so rejoiced at the treasure I had found that my heart beat in tune with it.

" Now," said I, " I must have drumsticks," and I rushed out of the house into the garden, climbed a cherry tree, and broke off several branches covered with unripe cherries. Having found what I wanted I returned to the garret and used the sticks on the improvised drum. Just as I was in the midst of my glory and full of delight, a big black cat rushed out of the hole in the side of the barrel, with blazing eyes, mewing and spitting furiously, and ran out of the room. I felt curious to look under the article on which I had been drumming; so I turned it over and found the under side open. As I looked in, my eyes were fixed and the drumsticks fell from my hands. I saw something I had never seen before. I was not frightened, and yet I could not stir. What was it? There were four beautiful black kittens, which had not yet opened their eyes. I took them up very tenderly and patted them, and waited for the cat to come and feed them, but after a while I put them down, for I heard my father's angry voice calling me to come down without delay. I obeyed. The notaro took hold of me in a not very gentle manner, led me into the garden to the cherry tree, and demanded in a stern voice, " Who has done this, I want to know? Do you hear?" As I had never heard the story of George Washington and the cherry tree, I assumed a very innocent expression and looking into my father's face, said, " Father, I did not do it."

" Boy, tell me the truth ! Your mother saw you with her own eyes."

I felt compelled to admit my guilt, confessed my fault and received the severe punishment I deserved.

The next day I went of course to the garret to the kittens; but to my great sorrow never again did I see either cat or kittens.

On Christmas day of that year the notaro made me the present of a real drum. In the wide world that morning of general rejoicing there could not have been found a heart which contained more joy than mine. As my father handed me the present and I realized that it was a real drum, I was like one transfixed. All I could do was to dance around the idol of my heart. I am afraid I even forgot to thank my father for the gift. I looked at the brass bands and tried the cords. I took the sticks in my hands and very gently and carefully tapped the drumhead. The sound was more than I could bear, and I cried for very joy.