Chapter 80: The Island Vacation: I
Early 1838. Two wealthy Parisians, Viscount Albert de Morcerf and Baron Franz d’Epinay, were killing time in Florence, planning their trip to the Roman Carnival. Franz had lived in Italy for years and agreed to show Albert around. They’d booked rooms at the Hôtel de Londres in Rome, though the proprietor had warned them he only had two rooms left on the third floor at an exorbitant price. They’d accepted anyway.
Albert left for Naples while Franz stayed behind in Florence. After a few days exploring the city’s gardens and attending parties with the local nobility, Franz got restless. He’d already visited Corsica, Napoleon’s birthplace, so why not visit Elba, where the emperor had been exiled?
One evening, Franz untied a sailboat at Leghorn’s docks, wrapped himself in his coat, and told the crew, "Take me to Elba."
The boat cut through the water like a knife. By morning, Franz had disembarked at Porto-Ferrajo, explored the island following Napoleon’s old footsteps, then sailed to Marciana. Two hours later, he landed at Pianosa, where someone had promised him excellent partridge hunting.
The hunt was a disaster. Franz only managed to bag a few birds and returned to the boat in a foul mood.
"If you want real sport, your excellency," the captain said, "I know where you can find it."
"Where?"
The captain pointed at a conical mass rising from the indigo sea. "That island there."
"What is it?"
"Monte Cristo."
Franz frowned. "I don’t have permission to hunt there."
"You don’t need permission. The island’s uninhabited."
"A deserted island in the middle of the Mediterranean?" Franz’s interest sparked. "That’s unusual."
"It’s just a pile of rocks. Not an acre of farmable land on it."
"Who owns it?"
"Tuscany."
"What’s there to hunt?"
"Thousands of wild goats."
Franz raised an eyebrow. "Living on stones?"
"They browse on shrubs and trees growing from the rock crevices."
"Where would I sleep?"
"In the shore caves, or on the boat in your cloak. Besides, if your excellency wishes, we can leave whenever you want. We sail as well at night as by day."
Franz had time to kill and his Roman apartment wasn’t ready yet. "Let’s do it."
The sailors exchanged glances and spoke in low tones.
"What’s wrong?" Franz asked.
"Nothing, excellency. But we must warn you, the island is quarantine territory."
"Meaning?"
"Monte Cristo serves as a refuge for smugglers and pirates from Corsica, Sardinia, and Africa. If anyone learns we’ve been there, we’ll be quarantined for six days when we return to Leghorn."
"Six days! That’s as long as it took God to make the world. Too long."
"Who will say you’ve been to Monte Cristo?"
"I won’t," Franz said.
"Neither will we," the sailors chorused.
"Then steer for Monte Cristo."
The boat changed course. Once the sail filled and the crew settled into position, Franz turned to the captain. "Gaetano, you said Monte Cristo harbors pirates. Aren’t they more dangerous than goats?"
"It’s true, excellency."
"I thought pirates only existed in novels now that Algiers has fallen."
"You’re mistaken, excellency. There are still pirates, just as there are bandits near Rome. Didn’t you hear that the French ambassador was robbed six months ago just outside Velletri?"
"I did hear something about that."
"If you lived in Leghorn like us, you’d hear about merchant vessels and English yachts that never arrive at their destinations. People assume they struck rocks and sank. But the rocks they struck were long narrow boats manned by six or eight men who plundered them on dark, stormy nights."
Franz lay wrapped in his cloak at the bottom of the boat. "Why don’t the victims complain to the French, Sardinian, or Tuscan governments?"
Gaetano smiled. "Because the pirates transfer whatever they want to their own boats, bind the crew hand and foot, tie cannonballs around their necks, chop a hole in the ship’s bottom, and leave. Ten minutes later, the vessel sinks. Do you understand now why no one complains?"
Franz considered this. He wasn’t the type to seek danger, but he wouldn’t back down from it either. "I’ve traveled through Sicily and Calabria and sailed the Archipelago for two months without seeing a single bandit or pirate."
"I wasn’t trying to discourage you, excellency. You asked, and I answered."
"Your conversation is fascinating. Keep heading for Monte Cristo."
They sailed rapidly with strong winds. As they approached, the island rose from the sea, its rocks piled like cannonballs in an arsenal, green vegetation sprouting from the crevices. The sailors appeared calm but alert, scanning the glassy water where a few fishing boats drifted with white sails.
Fifteen miles from Monte Cristo, the sun began setting behind Corsica. The mountain peaks showed in bold relief against the sky, and the island ahead loomed like a barrier, intercepting the dying light. Shadows climbed higher, swallowing the island until it became a dark mass against the darkening sky.
An hour after sunset, Franz thought he saw something at a quarter mile to his left but couldn’t tell what it was. Then a bright light appeared on the shore.
"What’s that light?" he asked.
"Hush," Gaetano said. "It’s a fire."
"You said the island was uninhabited."
"There are no permanent dwellings, but smugglers use it as a harbor."
"And pirates?"
"And pirates," Gaetano confirmed. "That’s why I’ve ordered us to pass the island, the fire is behind us now."
"But wouldn’t men who didn’t want to be seen avoid lighting fires?"
"That fire can only be seen from the sea, not from the other islands."
"So we have unfriendly neighbors?"
"We’ll find out."
Gaetano consulted with his crew. After five minutes of discussion, they executed a maneuver that turned the boat around. Within minutes, the fire disappeared behind an elevation. Then the pilot changed course again, rapidly approaching the island until they were within fifty paces of shore. Gaetano lowered the sail.
Everything happened in silence.
Gaetano stripped off his vest and shirt, secured his trousers. Barefoot, he put a finger to his lips, lowered himself into the sea, and swam toward shore with such stealth that only the phosphorescent trail in his wake revealed his position. The trail soon disappeared.
Everyone on board remained motionless for half an hour. Then the luminous track reappeared, and the swimmer climbed back aboard.
"Well?" Franz and the sailors asked together.
"Spanish smugglers with two Corsican bandits."
"What are Corsican bandits doing with Spanish smugglers?"
"We help each other," the captain explained. "When bandits are pursued by police, they see a vessel and ask for hospitality. You can’t refuse a hunted man. We take them aboard and sail out to sea. It costs us nothing and saves their lives. Later, they return the favor by showing us safe landing spots."
"So you’re occasionally a smuggler, Gaetano?"
The captain smiled. "We must make a living somehow, excellency."
"Do you know these men?"
"Sailors are like freemasons, we recognize each other by signs."
"Is it safe to land?"
"Perfectly safe. Smugglers aren’t thieves."
"What about the bandits?"
"It’s not their fault they’re bandits. They’re only pursued for taking revenge, which is natural for Corsicans."
"Taking revenge... you mean murder?"
"They killed an enemy. That’s different."
Franz considered this. "Let’s ask for hospitality. Will they grant it?"
"Without doubt."
"How many are there?"
"Four smugglers and two bandits. Six total."
"Same as our number. If there’s trouble, we can handle them. Head for Monte Cristo."
"Yes, but allow us to take precautions."
"Of course. Be wise and prudent."
"Silence, then."
Franz understood his vulnerable position. He was alone in darkness with sailors he barely knew, men who’d seen his expensive weapons and the money in his belt. He was about to land on an island inhabited by smugglers and bandits. The stories about scuttled vessels now seemed far more plausible at night. He kept one eye on the crew and one hand on his gun.
The sailors hoisted sail again. Through the darkness, Franz saw the looming shore and then, as they rounded a rocky point, the fire burning brightly with five or six figures seated around it. The blaze illuminated the sea for a hundred paces. Gaetano carefully kept the boat in shadow, then steered toward the circle of light, singing a fishing song while his companions joined the chorus.