I gasped, lifting a hand to my mouth, which encouraged José to go on. “Now, one would think that with all those targets, Cook would be able to hit one, just one of those soldiers on horseback, but he couldn’t do it!”

“No, surely he at least shot a horse?” I asked in amazement, looking from José to John Griggs. “I was five years old when I picked up my first gun and I could certainly hit the large targets.”

Both men laughed and shook their heads. “What is the saying you have in Nord America?” José asked.

“He couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn,” Griggs said, still laughing. “We could have a target as big as a ship and still he would miss!”

“What happened then?” Ruthie asked Griggs.

“Well, yours truly came to the rescue. We wrangled up the horses, just after realizing they were a distraction,” Griggs said with a grin as he wrapped an arm around Ruthie. “My men were able to scare away those Austrian bastards.”

“Yes, you scared them, right into the surrounding buildings. Some of them even went into the outhouses!” José said, getting control of his laughter. “They thought they could hide in there and fire on us.”

“Joke was on them, though,” Griggs said. “Still, I always look twice before going into the outhouse.”

“Bloody Austrians.” Garibaldi sneered. “The outhouses were too good for them.”

“Why do you hate the Austrians?” I asked.

“The Austrians have my homeland by the neck, like a chicken being readied for slaughter. They take everything from us, leaving my brethren with scraps not even fit for dogs. To the Austrians we are second-class citizens, at best. If they have their way, all that is good about my home will be destroyed.”

“Hear! Hear! Death to Austria!” We turned to see Rossetti looking up briefly from his book. “May the devil have pity on their souls, because they will find none with the Italians,” he said before going back to his writing. “Gli stronzi,” he muttered. Assholes.

“What is he doing?” I asked, motioning toward his notebook.

“Recording his great memoirs. So that when we have a unified Italy they will know of his sacrifice,” José responded with a half smile. “It’s a bit of an obsession.”

“Why?”

José stood up, reaching a hand out to help me. “His one true love is Italy. She is his damsel in distress to be rescued from the dragon. Come, it’s getting cold out here in the open.”

José led me to his spacious canvas tent, set apart from the others to allow some privacy. To the left sat a neatly made bed. Clothing spilled out of the trunks that rested beside it. To the right was a table surrounded by four chairs, covered with maps and papers. In the center I admired a large oak desk that had thick books piled on it.

Shortly afterward an attendant arrived with a tea tray. He set it on the table and then slipped away. I watched as José picked a box wrapped in cloth off his desk. As if it were a fragile egg, he slowly unwrapped it. He opened the tin and scooped mate into his gourd, then shook it vigorously.