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Updated: June 3, 2025
Mazzini, who had spent most of his days in different European garrets, hiding from the Austrian police, was the public agitator, while Garibaldi, with his band of red-shirted rough-riders, appealed to the popular imagination. Mazzini and Garibaldi were both believers in the Republican form of government.
Captain Bunce, smoking a freshly lit cigar, emerged to witness a shocking sight the good and godly Mr. Todd, with an intense expression on his somber countenance, holding a match to a black pipe and puffing vigorously, while through the ports and over the rail red-shirted men, dripping wet and scowling, were boarding his brig.
When Garibaldi rode into camp, with the lady on the crupper, the six red-shirted ones in waiting were not surprised. They were never surprised at anything their master did. They believed in him as they believed in God only more so. And so they asked no questions for Garibaldi was one of the men that common men never interrogated.
Northward, the wilderness; eastward, green fields of sugar-cane paling and darkling in the breeze; southward, the wide harbor of Fredericksted, the town, and the black, red-shirted boatmen pushing about the harbor; westward, the setting sun; and presently, everywhere, the swift fall of the tropical night, with lights beginning to twinkle in the town and the boats in the roadstead to leave long wakes of phosphorescent light.
In Italy now, when you see a red-shirted brigade, do not imagine it is a volunteer fire-company out for a holiday it is merely a company of militia called "The Garibaldians." Garibaldi became a sort of superstition in South America. His appearance on land or sea, at seemingly the same time, his sudden sallies and miraculous disappearances, carried out the idea that he was the Devil incarnate.
Who could say that this man might not any day make just such a lion's leap into the world's arena as Garibaldi had made, and startle the nations as Garibaldi had done? What was that red-shirted scourge of tyrants that this man might not be? Sailor, soldier, hero, patriot, prisoner!
Just as the stars began to glint forth and the traveller and horse felt willing perhaps to confess to a little weariness, they saw the light of the expected cabin fire in the distance. Cæsar gave a low whinny of approval and hastened on. Two or three red-shirted, long-bearded men gave them a rude welcome. They blanketed and fed Cæsar, and picketed him under a low shed built of logs.
He was about to pour out a torrent of words telling how grateful he felt, when to the great relief of the boy a shout arose that drowned everything else out. "Here comes the engine at last! Now watch the boys get busy!" A roar went up as the red-shirted firemen with their helmets and their waterproof garments came rushing into the grounds.
The next morning would often find me, a delicate little girl of six, with the further disability of a curved spine, standing in the doorway of the village blacksmith shop, anxiously watching the burly, red-shirted figure at work. I would store my mind with such details of the process of making wheels as I could observe, and sometimes I plucked up courage to ask for more.
Motte the young man who had been left behind at Panama! "Strangers," announced the red-shirted spokesman for the camp, to Mr. Adams, "if you've found the Golden West, here's the owner of it, an' I reckon she'll thank you for your trouble. The hull camp's' back of her, so you'd better talk peaceable. Ain't that so, boys?" "You bet!" came the resounding cheer.
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