THE journey with my father into exile was my first great adventure.
Father's announcement, coming so suddenly, threw our home into excited commotion. While we children hung around, bewildered and half frightened, mother gathered together the few things father and I needed for the journey. Father's warning that the police might appear at our door at any moment made her frantically anxious to have him safely out of the house.
One of father's friends, a close associate who was also a crusader in the liberal movement, stood guard. He was to accompany us. I learned years later in America that both he and my father were heavily armed, for they had resolved not to be taken alive by the police officers of the Crown.
At the last minute my mother clung desperately to us, afraid to let us either go or stay. "Send me word at once, Filippo," she kept repeating. "I cannot rest until I hear. As soon as you send me word, I will come."
Father caught up Liberta and kissed her, then Giuseppe. "Giuseppe Garibaldi," he said, "you are the little man now. You must bring mother and sister to us."
We set off, walking quickly through gloomy, unlighted back streets to the railroad station. The secrecy of this leave-taking, my delight at being permitted to go, thrilled me more than anything that had ever happened to me. I trotted along silently, well aware