The Finger of Fate: A Romance

“Enclosed you will find the finger of your son. You will easily recognise it by the scar. If, however, you still continue to doubt, and refuse to send the ransom by next post, the whole hand shall be remitted to you, and you can see whether the finger fits. You shall have ten days allowed for your answer. If, at the end of that time, it does not reach Rome, and 30,000 scudi along with it, the next post after will take the hand to you. If that fails to open your borsa we shall conclude you have no heart, and that you decline to negotiate for your son’s life. Do not, therefore, charge cruelty upon us, who, by unjust laws, have been forced to war with mankind. Tracked like wild beasts, we are compelled to adopt extreme means for obtaining a livelihood. In fine, and to close the correspondence, should the negotiation thus fall through, unsatisfactorily, we promise that your son’s body shall have Christian burial. As a reminder of your inhumanity, the head shall be cut off, and sent you by the next steamer that touches at Civita Vecchia. We have paid the post on the finger; we shall do the same with the hand; but we shall expect you to pay carriage on the head.

“And now, Signor General, in respect to the advice already given you. Don’t mistake what is herein written for an idle menace – it has no such meaning. Continue incredulous, and the threat will be carried out to the letter, as stated. Refuse the ransom, and, as sure as you are living, your son will be put to death.

    “Il Capo (for himself and compagnos).

“Postscriptum. – If you send the money by post, direct to Signor Jacopi, Number 9, Strada Volturno. If by messenger, he can find our agent at the same place. Beware of treason: it cannot avail you.”

Such was the singular communication that had come into General Harding’s hands.

“My God! my God!” was his exclamation as he finished reading it – the same he had uttered before commencing.

He had no doubt about the truth of its contents. Lying on the table before his face was the fearful voucher – still apparently fresh – the gore scarce congealed upon it, as it came out of the wrapper in which it had been carefully enfolded.

With a trembling hand the General touched the table bell.

“My son Nigel!” he said to the footman who answered; “send him to me instantly.”

The servant went off wondering.

“My God!” once more ejaculated the sorrowing father, “this is terrible – horrible – who would have believed it? Who would have believed it? It is true – true beyond a doubt. My God!”

And bending down over the table, with eyes that showed the agony of his spirit, he once more scrutinised the ghastly object, as if afraid to take it up or touch it. Nigel came in.

“You sent for me, father?”

“I did. Look here – look at that!”

“That – what is it? An odd-looking object. What is it, papa?”

“Ah! you should know, Nigel.”

“What – why it looks like part of a finger! Is it that?”

“Alas, yes!”

“But whose? How did it come here?”

“Whose, Nigel! – whose!” said the General, his voice vibrating with emotion. “You should remember it. You have reason.”

Nigel turned pale as his eyes rested upon the cicatrice, showing like a whitish seam through the slight coating of blood. He did remember it, but said nothing.

“Now do you recognise it?” asked his father.

“As a human finger,” he answered evasively; “nothing more.”

“Nothing more! And you cannot tell to whom it once belonged.”

“Indeed I cannot – how should I know?”

“Better than anybody else. Alas, it is – it was – your brother’s!”

“My brother’s!” exclaimed Nigel, pretending both surprise and emotion – neither of which he felt.

“Yes; look at that scar. You surely remember that?”

Another pretended surprise, another feigned emotion, was all the answer.

“I do not wish to reproach you for it,” said the General, speaking of the scar; “it is a thing that should be forgotten, and has nothing to do with the misfortune now threatening us. What you see there was once poor Henry’s finger.”

“But how do you know, father? How came it here? How has it been cut off? And who – ”

“Read these letters; they will tell you all about it.”

Nigel took up the bandit’s letter, and ran through its contents – at intervals giving utterance to ejaculations that might be construed either as expressions of sympathy, surprise, or indignation. He then glanced at the other.

“You see,” said his father, as soon as he had finished, “it turns out to be true – too true. I had my fears when I read Henry’s first, poor lad. But, Nigel, you – How could any one have supposed such a thing as this?”

“Why, papa, it appears yet impossible.”

“Impossible!” echoed the General, glancing almost angrily at his son. “Look there upon that table! Look on the truth itself – the finger that points to it. Poor Henry! what will he think of his father – his hardhearted, cruel, unfeeling father? My God! Oh my God!”

And giving himself up to a paroxysm of self-reproach, the General commenced pacing to and fro in an excited manner.

“This epistle appears to have come from Rome,” said Nigel, examining the letter with as much coolness as if it had contained some ordinary communication.

“Of course it came from Rome,” replied the General, surprised, almost angered, at the indifference with which his son seemed to speak of it. “Don’t you see the Roman postmark upon it? And haven’t you read what’s inside? Perhaps you still think it a trick to extort money?”

“No, no, father!” hastily rejoined Nigel, perceiving that he had committed himself; “I was only thinking how it had best be answered.”

“There’s but one way for that; the letter itself tells how.”

“What way, papa?”

“Why send the money at once; that’s the only way to save him. I can tell by the talk of the scoundrel – what’s his name?”

“He here signs his name ‘Il Capo.’ That is only his title as chief of the band.”

“It’s clear, from what the ruffian writes, that he cares for no government – no law, human or divine. This, lying upon the table, is proof sufficient that nothing will deter the scoundrels from carrying out their threat. Clearly nothing will prevent them but the payment of the money.”

“Five thousand pounds!” muttered Nigel; “it is a large sum.”

“A large sum! And if it were ten thousand, should we hesitate about sending it? Is your brother’s life not worth that? Ay, one finger of his hand is. Poor boy!”

“Oh! I did not mean that, papa. Only it occurred to me that if the money should be sent, and, after all done, the brigands should refuse to give him up. There will needs be caution in dealing with such fellows.”

“What caution can there be? There is no time. Within ten days the answer is required. My God! what if the post has been delayed? Look – what is the date of the postmark on the letter?”

“Roma, 12th,” said Nigel, reading from the stamp on the envelope. “It is now the 16th; there are still six days to the good.”