Fifty-Three

August 1849

Retreats are hardly ever organized. They are sloppy; they are chaos in its purest form. Before we made our way into Rome so many months ago, José had made a point of showing me the lone house on the northernmost point of Janiculum Hill.

“If we are separated, we will meet here,” he’d said, motioning toward the abandoned villa. Birds made nests in the windows as ivy climbed up the side over the exposed brick. The house had clearly been neglected for decades.

“How would we be separated?”

He just shook his head. “Always prepare for the worst, tesoro mio. It may not happen, but we will survive even if it does.”

Now as I stood on that crumbling embankment watching José lead a group of men toward us, I began to feel sick. Nothing was going as planned and I could feel a pain, sharp like a knife, cutting through my right temple. I winced, placing my hand to the side of my head. Closing my eyes, I could see a multitude of stars burst before my lids.

The men had abandoned the horses and swiftly marched toward us. When all fifteen hundred of us had gathered on the property José climbed upon the nearest ledge and called out to them. “Soldiers, I release you from your duty to follow me, and leave you free to return to your homes. But remember that although the Roman war for independence has ended, Italy remains in shameful slavery.” He waited, but none of the men left. “Very well. We stay in the woods, north of the road. We make no noise unless you want to be a special guest of the French.” Without further warning he moved forward, expecting the rest of us to follow. Silently we walked as the orange rays of the sun filtered through the leaves. Only after we had traveled for miles and the deep blackness of night had set in around us did we stop. I curled up next to a tree and slept. I didn’t wait for José. I couldn’t.

I awoke to José shaking me gently. When I turned to look at him, he put a finger to his lips and beckoned for me to follow him. We stood well within the tree line as we gazed down to the road below. It was infested by the French. Silently we gathered up our small group and crept away, finding our way to the river. I was relieved when our soldiers suggested they would take the boats from a nearby house so that we could sail instead of walk. My limbs ached with exhaustion and my headache had expanded. The pain had spread behind my eyes, stretching from temple to temple. My vision crackled around the edges.

As our boat sliced through the calm water, I could feel the blackness attempting to creep into my sight. “Sir, we are going to need to go ashore,” one of the weathered soldiers said. “There are shallows ahead; we won’t be able to make it through.”