Sant' Ilario

by F. Marion Crawford

  CHAPTER XIII.

  Sant' Ilario could not realise that the course of events had beenbrought to a standstill at the very moment when his passions wereroused to fury. He could not fight Gouache for the present and Coronawas so ill that he could not see her. Had he wished to visit her, theold-fashioned physician would probably have forbidden him to do so, butin reality he was glad to be spared the emotions of a meeting whichmust necessarily be inconclusive. His first impulse had been to takeher away from Rome and force her to live alone with him in themountains. He felt that no other course was open to him, for he knewthat in spite of all that had happened he could not bear to livewithout her, and yet he felt that he could no longer suffer her to comeand go in the midst of society, where she must necessarily often meetthe man she had chosen to love. Nor could he keep her in Rome and atthe same time isolate her as he desired to do. If the world must talk,he would rather not be where he could hear what it said. The idea of asudden journey, terminating in the gloomy fortress of Saracinesca, waspleasant to his humour. The old place was ten times more grim anddismal in winter than in summer, and in his savage mood he fanciedhimself alone with his wife in the silent halls, making her feel theenormity of what she had done, while jealously keeping her a prisonerat his mercy.

  But her illness had put a stop to his plans for her safety, while therevolution had effectually interfered with the execution of hisvengeance upon Gouache. He could find no occupation which mightdistract his mind from the thoughts that beset him, and no outlet forthe restless temper that craved some sort of action, no matter what, asthe expression of what he suffered. He and his father met in silence attheir meals, and though Giovanni felt that he had the old man's fullsympathy, he could not bring himself to speak of what was nearest tohis heart. He remembered that his marriage had been of his own seeking,and his pride kept him from all mention of the catastrophe by which hishappiness had been destroyed. Old Saracinesca suffered in his own wayalmost as much as his son, and it was fortunate that he was preventedfrom seeing Corona at that time, for it is not probable that he wouldhave controlled himself had he been able to talk with her alone. Whenlittle Orsino was brought in to them, the two men looked at each other,and while the younger bit his lip and suppressed all outward signs ofhis agony, the tears more than once stole into the old prince's eyes sothat he would turn away and leave the room. Then Giovanni would takethe child upon his knee and look at it earnestly until the little thingwas frightened and held out its arms to its nurse, crying to be takenaway. Thereupon Sant' Ilario's mood grew more bitter than before, forhe was foolish enough to believe that the child had a natural antipathyfor him, and would grow up to hate the sight of its father. Those weremiserable days, never to be forgotten, and each morning and eveningbrought worse news of Corona's state, until it was clear, even toGiovanni, that she was dangerously ill. The sound of voices grew rarein the Palazzo Saracinesca and the servants moved noiselessly about attheir work, oppressed by the sense of coming disaster, and scarcelyspeaking to each other.

  San Giacinto came daily to make inquiries and spent some time with thetwo unhappy men without wholly understanding what was passing. He wasan astute man, but not possessed of the delicacy of feeling wherebyreal sympathy sometimes reaches the truth by its own intuitivereasoning. Moreover, he was wholly ignorant of having played a veryimportant part in bringing about the troubles which now beset CasaSaracinesca. No one but himself knew how he had written the note thathad caused such disastrous results, and he had no intention ofconfiding his exploit to any one of his acquaintance. He had of coursenot been able to ascertain whether the desired effect had beenproduced, for he did not know at what church the meeting betweenFaustina and Gouache was to take place, and he was too cunning tofollow her as a spy when he had struck so bold a blow at her affectionfor the artist-soldier. His intellect was keen, but his experience hadnot been of a high order, and he naturally thought that she wouldreason as he had reasoned himself, if she chanced to see him while shewas waiting for the man she loved. She knew that he was to marry hersister, and that he might therefore be supposed to disapprove of anaffair which could only lead to a derogatory match for herself, and hehad therefore carefully abstained from following her on that Sundaymorning when she had met Anastase.

  Nevertheless he could see that something had occurred in his cousin'shousehold which was beyond his comprehension, for Corona's illness wasnot alone enough to account for the manner of the Saracinesca. It is asocial rule in Italy that a person suffering from any calamity must beamused, and San Giacinto used what talents he possessed in thatdirection, doing all he could to make the time hang less heavily onGiovanni's hands. He made a point of gathering all the news of thelittle war in order to repeat it in minute detail to his cousins. Heeven prevailed upon Giovanni to walk with him sometimes in the middleof the day, and Sant' Ilario seemed to take a languid interest in thebarricades erected at the gates of the city, and in the arrangementsfor maintaining quiet within the walls. Rome presented a strange aspectin those days. All who were not Romans kept their national flagspermanently hung from their windows, as a sort of protection in casethe mob should rise, or in the event of the Garibaldians suddenlyseizing the capital. Patrols marched everywhere about the streets andmounted gendarmes were stationed at the corners of the principalsquares and at intervals along the main thoroughfares. Strange to say,the numerous flags and uniforms that were to be seen produced an air offestivity strongly at variance with the actual state of things, andbelied by the anxious expressions visible in the faces of theinhabitants. All these sights interested San Giacinto, whose activetemperament made him very much alive to what went on around him, andeven Giovanni thought less of his great sorrow when he suffered himselfto be led out of the house by his cousin.

  When at last it was known that the French troops were on their way fromCivita Vecchia, the city seemed to breathe more freely. GeneralKanzler, the commander-in-chief of the Pontifical forces, had done allthat was humanly possible to concentrate his little army, and thearrival of even a small body of Frenchmen made it certain thatGaribaldi could be met with a fair chance of success. Of all whorejoiced at the prospect of a decisive action, there was no one moresincerely delighted than Anastase Gouache.

  So long as the state of siege lasted and he was obliged to follow theregular round of his almost mechanical duty, he was unable to take anystep in the direction whither all his hopes tended, and he lived in astate of perpetual suspense. It was a small consolation that he foundtime to reflect upon the difficulties of his situation and to revolvein his mind the language he should use when he went to ask the hand ofMontevarchi's daughter. He was fully determined to take this bold step,and though he realised the many objections which the old prince wouldcertainly raise against the match, he had not the slightest doubt ofhis power to overcome them all. He could not imagine what it would belike to fail, and he cherished and reared what should have been but aslender hope until it seemed to be a certainty. The unexpected quarrelthrust upon him by Sant' Ilario troubled him very little, for he wastoo hopeful by nature to expect any serious catastrophe, and he morethan once laughed to himself when he thought Giovanni was reallyjealous of him. The feeling of reverence and respectful admirationwhich he had long entertained for Corona was so far removed from loveas to make Giovanni's wrath appear ridiculous. He would far sooner haveexpected a challenge from one of Faustina's brothers than from Corona'shusband, but, since Sant' Ilario had determined to quarrel, there wasno help for it, and he must give him all satisfaction as soon aspossible. That Giovanni had insulted him by entering his lodgingsunbidden, and by taking certain objects away which were practically theartist's property, was a minor consideration, since it was clear thatGiovanni had acted all along under an egregious misapprehension. Onething alone puzzled Anastase, and that was the letter itself. It seemedto refer to his meeting with Faustina, but she had made no mention ofit when he had seen her in the church. Gouache did not suspect Giovanniof having concocted the note for any purposes of his own, a
nd quitebelieved that he had found it as he had stated, but the more the artisttried to explain the existence of the letter, the further he foundhimself from any satisfactory solution of the question. He interrogatedhis landlady, but she would say nothing about it, for the temptation ofGiovanni's money sealed her lips.

  The week passed somehow, unpleasantly enough for most of the personsconcerned in this veracious history, but Saturday night came at last,and brought with it a series of events which modified the existingsituation. Gouache was on duty at the barracks when orders werereceived to the effect that the whole available force in Rome was tomarch soon after midnight. His face brightened when he heard the news,although he realised that in a few hours he was to leave behind him allthat he held most dear and to face death in a manner new to him, and byno means pleasant to most men.

  Between two and three o'clock on Sunday morning Gouache found himselfstanding in the midst of a corps of fifteen hundred Zouaves, in almosttotal darkness and under a cold, drizzling November rain. His teethchattered and his wet hands seemed to freeze to the polished fittingsof his rifle, and he had not the slightest doubt that every one of hiscomrades experienced the same unenviable sensations. From time to timethe clear voice of an officer was heard giving an order, and then theranks closed up nearer, or executed a sidelong movement by whichgreater space was afforded to the other troops that constantly came uptowards the Porta Pia. There was little talking during an hour or morewhile the last preparations for the march were being made, though themen exchanged a few words from time to time in an undertone. Thesplashing tramp of feet on the wet road was heard rapidly approachingevery now and then, followed by a dead silence when the officers'voices gave the order to halt. Then a shuffling sound followed as theranks moved into the exact places assigned to them. Here and there ahuge torch was blazing and spluttering in the fine rain, making thedarkness around it seem only thicker by the contrast, but lighting upfragments of ancient masonry and gleaming upon little pools of water inthe open spaces between the ranks. It was a dismal night, and it wasfortunate that the men who were to march were in good spirits andencouraged by the arrival of the French, who made the circuit of thecity and were to join them upon the road in order to strike the finalblow against Garibaldi and his volunteers.

  The Zouaves were fifteen hundred, and there were about as many more ofthe native troops, making three thousand in all. The French were twothousand. The Garibaldians were, according to all accounts, not lessthan twelve thousand, and were known to be securely entrenched at MonteRotondo and further protected by the strong outpost of Mentana, whichlies nearly on the direct road from Rome to the former place.Considering the relative positions of the two armies, the odds wereenormously in favour of Garibaldi, and had he possessed a skill ingeneralship at all equal to his undoubted personal courage, he shouldhave been able to drive the Pope's forces back to the very gates ofRome. He was, however, under a twofold disadvantage which more thancounterbalanced the numerical superiority of the body he commanded. Hepossessed little or no military science, and his men were neitherconfident nor determined. His plan had been to create a revolution inRome and to draw out the papal army at the same time, in order that thelatter might find itself between two fires. His men had expected thatthe country would rise and welcome them as liberators, whereas theywere received as brigands and opposed with desperate energy at everypoint by the peasants themselves, a turn of affairs for which they wereby no means prepared. Monte Rotondo, defended by only three hundred andfifty soldiers, resisted Garibaldi's attacking force of six thousandduring twenty-seven hours, a feat which must have been quiteimpracticable had the inhabitants themselves not joined in the defence.The revolution in Rome was a total failure, the mass of the peoplelooking on with satisfaction, while the troops shot down theinsurgents, and at times even demanding arms that they might join insuppressing the disturbance.

  The Rome of 1867 was not the Rome of 1870, as will perhaps beunderstood hereafter. With the exception of a few turbulent spirits,the city contained no revolutionary element, and very few whosympathised with the ideas of Italian Unification.

  But without going any further into political considerations for thepresent, let us follow Anastase Gouache and his fifteen hundredcomrades who marched out of the Porta Pia before dawn on the third ofNovember. The battle that followed merits some attention as having beenthe turning-point of a stirring time, and also as having producedcertain important results in the life of the French artist, which againreacted in some measure upon the family history of the Saracinesca.

  Monte Rotondo itself is sixteen miles from Rome, but Mentana, which onthat day was the outpost of the Garibaldians and became the scene oftheir defeat, is two miles nearer to the city. Most people who haveridden much in the Campagna know the road which branches to the leftabout five miles beyond the Ponte Nomentano. There is perhaps no moredesolate and bleak part of the undulating waste of land that surroundsthe city on all sides. The way is good as far as the turning, but afterthat it is little better than a country lane, and in rainy weather isheavy and sometimes almost impassable. As the rider approaches Mentanathe road sinks between low hills and wooded knolls that dominate it onboth sides, affording excellent positions from which an enemy mightharass and even destroy an advancing force. Gradually the countrybecomes more broken until Mentana itself appears in view, a formidablebarrier rising upon the direct line to Monte Rotondo. On all sides areirregular hillocks, groups of trees growing upon little elevations,solid stone walls surrounding scattered farmhouses and cattle-yards,every one of which could be made a strong defensive post. Mentana, too,possesses an ancient castle of some strength, and has walls of its ownlike most of the old towns in the Campagna, insignificant perhaps, ifcompared with modern fortifications, but well able to resist for manyhours the fire of light field-guns.

  It was past midday when Gouache's column first came in view of theenemy, and made out the bright red shirts of the Garibaldians, whichpeeped out from among the trees and from behind the walls, and werevisible in some places massed in considerable numbers. The intention ofthe commanding officers, which was carried out with amazing ease, wasto throw the Zouaves and native troops in the face of the enemy, whilethe French chasseurs, on foot and mounted, made a flanking movement andcut off Garibaldi's communication with Monte Rotondo, attacking Mentanaat the same time from the opposite side.

  Gouache experienced an odd sensation when the first orders were givento fire. His experience had hitherto been limited to a few skirmisheswith the outlaws of the Samnite hills, and the idea of standing up anddeliberately taking aim at men who stood still to be shot at, so far ashe could see, was not altogether pleasant. He confessed to himself thatthough he wholly approved of the cause for which he was about to firehis musket, he felt not the slightest hatred for the Garibaldians,individually or collectively. They were extremely picturesque in thelandscape, with their flaming shirts and theatrical hats. They lookedvery much as though they had come out of a scene in a comic opera, andit seemed a pity to destroy anything that relieved the dismal graynessof the November day. As he stood there he felt much more like theartist he was, than like a soldier, and he felt a ludicrously strongdesire to step aside and seat himself upon a stone wall in order to geta better view of the whole scene.

  Presently as he looked at a patch of red three or four hundred yardsdistant, the vivid colour was obscured by a little row of puffs ofsmoke. A rattling report followed, which reminded him of the dischargesof the tiny mortars the Italian peasants love to fire at their villagefestivals. Then almost simultaneously he heard the curious swingingwhistle of a dozen bullets flying over his head. This latter soundroused him to an understanding of the situation, as he realised thatany one of those small missiles might have ended its song by cominginto contact with his own body. The next time he heard the order tofire he aimed as well as he could, and pulled the trigger with the bestpossible intention of killing an enemy.

  For the most part, the Garibaldians retired after each round,reappeari
ng again to discharge their rifles from behind the shelter ofwalls and trees, while the Zouaves slowly advanced along the road, andbegan to deploy to the right and left wherever the ground permittedsuch a movement. The firing continued uninterruptedly for nearly halfan hour, but though the rifles of the papal troops did good executionupon the enemy, the bullets of the latter seldom produced any effect.

  Suddenly the order was given to fix bayonets, and immediatelyafterwards came the command to charge. Gouache was all at once awarethat he was rushing up hill at the top of his speed towards a smallgrove of trees that crowned the eminence. The bright red shirts of theenemy were visible before him amongst the dry underbrush, and before heknew what he was about he saw that he had run a Garibaldian through thecalf of the leg. The man tumbled down, and Gouache stood over him,looking at him in some surprise. While he was staring at his fellow-foethe latter pulled out a pistol and fired at him, but the weapon onlysnapped harmlessly.

  "As the thing won't go off," said the man coolly, "perhaps you will begood enough to take your bayonet out of my leg."

  He spoke in Italian, with a foreign accent, but in a tone of voice andwith a manner which proclaimed him a gentleman. There was a look ofhalf comic discomfiture in his face that amused Gouache, who carefullyextracted the steel from the wound, and offered to help his prisoner tohis feet. The latter, however, found it hard to stand.

  "Circumstances point to the sitting posture," he said, sinking downagain. "I suppose I am your prisoner. If you have anything to do, praydo not let me detain you. I cannot get away and you will probably findme here when you come back to dinner. I will occupy myself in cursingyou while you are gone."

  "You are very kind," said Gouache, with a laugh. "May I offer you acigarette and a little brandy?"

  The stranger looked up in some astonishment as he heard Gouache'svoice, and took the proffered flask in silence, as well as a couple ofcigarettes from the case.

  "Thank you," he said after a pause. "I will not curse you quite asheartily as I meant to do. You are very civil."

  "Do not mention it," replied Gouache. "I wish you a very good-morning,and I hope to have the pleasure of your company at dinner to-night."

  Thereupon the Zouave shouldered his rifle and trotted off down thehill. The whole incident had not occupied more than three minutes andhis comrades were not far off, pursuing the Garibaldians in thedirection of a large farmhouse, which afforded the prospect of shelterand the means of defence. Half a dozen killed and wounded remained uponthe hill besides Gouache's prisoner.

  The Vigna di Santucci, as the farmhouse was called, was a strongbuilding surrounded by walls and fences. A large number of the enemyhad fallen back upon this point and it now became evident that theymeant to make a determined resistance. As the Zouaves came up, led byCharette in person, the Reds opened a heavy fire upon their advancingranks. The shots rattled from the walls and windows in rapidsuccession, and took deadly effect at the short range. The Zouavesblazed away in reply with their chassepots, but the deep embrasures andhigh parapets offered an excellent shelter for the riflemen, and it wasno easy matter to find an aim. The colonel's magnificent figure andgreat fair beard were conspicuous as he moved about the ranks,encouraging the men and searching for some means of scaling the highwalls. Though anxious for the safety of his troops, he seemed as muchat home as though he were in a drawing-room, and paid no more attentionto the whistling bullets than if they had been mere favours showeredupon him in an afternoon's carnival. The firing grew hotter everymoment and it was evident that unless the place could be carried byassault at once, the Zouaves must suffer terrible losses. Thedifficulty was to find a point where the attempt might be made with agood chance of success.

  "It seems to me," said Gouache, to a big man who stood next to him,"that if we were in Paris, and if that were a barricade instead of anItalian farmhouse, we should get over it."

  "I think so, too," replied his comrade, with a laugh.

  "Let us try," suggested the artist quietly. "We may as well have madethe attempt, instead of standing here to catch cold in this horriblemud. Come along," he added quickly, "or we shall be too late. Thecolonel is going to order the assault--do you see?"

  It was true. A loud voice gave a word of command which was echoed andrepeated by a number of officers. The men closed in and made a rush forthe farmhouse, trying to scramble upon each other's shoulders to reachthe top of the wall and the windows of the low first story. The attemptlasted several minutes, during which the enemies' rifles poured down amurderous fire upon the struggling soldiers. The latter fell back atlast, leaving one man alone clinging to the top of the wall.

  "It is Gouache!" cried a hundred voices at once. He was a favouritewith officers and men and was recognised immediately.

  He was in imminent peril of his life. Standing upon the shoulders ofthe sturdy comrade to whom he had been speaking a few minutes before hehad made a spring, and had succeeded in getting hold of the topmoststones. Taking advantage of the slight foothold afforded by thecrevices in the masonry, he drew himself up with catlike agility tillhe was able to kneel upon the narrow summit. He had chosen a spot forhis attempt where he had previously observed that no enemy appeared,rightly judging that there must be some reason for this peculiarity, ofwhich he might be able to take advantage. This proved to be the case,for he found himself immediately over a horse pond, which was sunkbetween two banks of earth that followed the wall on the inside up tothe water, and upon which the riflemen stood in safety behind theparapet. The men so stationed had discharged their pieces during theassault, and were busily employed in reloading when they noticed theZouave perched upon the top of the wall. One or two who had pistolsfired them at him, but without effect. One or two threw stones from theinterior of the vineyard.

  Gouache threw himself on his face along the wall and began quickly tothrow down the topmost stones. The mortar was scarcely more solid thandry mud, and in a few seconds he had made a perceptible impression uponthe masonry. But the riflemen had meanwhile finished reloading and oneof them, taking careful aim, fired upon the Zouave. The bullet hit himin the fleshy part of the shoulder, causing a stinging pain and, whatwas worse, a shock that nearly sent him rolling over the edge. Still heclung on desperately, loosening the stones with a strength one wouldnot have expected in his spare frame. A minute longer, during whichhalf a dozen more balls whizzed over him or flattened themselvesagainst the stones, and then his comrades made another rush,concentrating their force this time at the spot where he had succeededin lowering the barrier. His left arm was almost powerless from theflesh-wound in his shoulder, but with his right he helped the first manto a footing beside him. In a moment more the Zouaves were swarmingover the wall and dropping down by scores into the shallow pool on theother side.

  The fight was short but desperate. The enemy, driven to bay in thecorners of the yard and within the farmhouse, defended themselvesmanfully, many of them being killed and many more wounded. But theplace was carried and the great majority fled precipitately through theexits at the back and made the best of their way towards Mentana.

  An hour later Gouache was still on his legs, but exhausted by hisefforts in scaling the wall and by loss of blood from his wound, hefelt that he could not hold out much longer. The position at that timewas precarious. It was nearly four o'clock and the days were short. Theartillery was playing against the little town, but the guns were lightfield-pieces of small calibre, and though their position was frequentlychanged they made but little impression upon the earthworks thrown upby the enemy. The Garibaldians massed themselves in large numbers asthey retreated from various points upon Mentana, and though theirweapons were inferior to those of their opponents their numbers madethem still formidable. The Zouaves, gendarmes, and legionaries,however, pressed steadily though slowly onward. The only question waswhether the daylight would last long enough. Should the enemy have theadvantage of the long night in which to bring up reinforcements fromMonte Rotondo and repair the breaches in their defences the attac
kmight last through all the next day.

  The fortunes of the little battle were decided by the French chasseurs,who had gradually worked out a flanking movement under cover of thetrees and the broken country. Just as Gouache felt that he could standno longer, a loud shout upon the right announced the charge of theallies, and a few minutes later the day was practically won. TheZouaves rushed forward, cheered and encouraged by the prospect ofimmediate success, but Anastase staggered from the ranks and sank downunder a tree unable to go any farther. He had scarcely settled himselfin a comfortable position when he lost consciousness and fainted away.

  Mentana was not taken, but it surrendered on the following morning, andas Monte Rotondo had been evacuated during the night and most of theGaribaldians had escaped over the frontier, the fighting was at an end,and the campaign of twenty-four hours terminated in a complete victoryfor the Roman forces.

  When Gouache came to himself his first sensation was that of a fierystream of liquid gurgling in his mouth and running down his throat. Heswallowed the liquor half unconsciously, and opening his eyes for amoment was aware that two men were standing beside him, one of themholding a lantern in his hand, the rays from which dazzled the woundedZouave and prevented him from recognising the persons.

  "Where is he hurt?" asked a voice that sounded strangely familiar inhis ears.

  "I cannot tell yet," replied the other man, kneeling down again besidehim and examining him attentively.

  "It is only my shoulder," gasped Gouache. "But I am very weak. Let mesleep, please." Thereupon he fainted again, and was conscious ofnothing more for some time.

  The two men took him up and carried him to a place near, where otherswere waiting for him. The night was intensely dark, and no one spoke aword, as the little party picked its way over the battle-field,occasionally stopping to avoid treading upon one of the numerousprostrate bodies that lay upon the ground. The man who had examinedGouache generally stooped down and turned the light of his lantern uponthe faces of the dead men, expecting that some one of them might showsigns of life. But it was very late, and the wounded had already beencarried away. Gouache alone seemed to have escaped observation, anaccident probably due to the fact that he had been able to drag himselfto a sheltered spot before losing his senses.

  During nearly an hour the men trudged along the road with their burden,when at last they saw in the distance the bright lamps of a carriageshining through the darkness. The injured soldier was carefully placedamong the cushions, and the two gentlemen who had found him got in andclosed the door.

  Gouache awoke in consequence of the pain caused by the jolting of thevehicle. The lantern was placed upon one of the vacant seats andilluminated the faces of his companions, one of whom sat behind him andsupported his weight by holding one arm around his body. Anastasestared at this man's face for some time in silence and in evidentsurprise. He thought he was in a dream, and he spoke rather to assurehimself that he was awake than for any other reason.

  "You were anxious lest I should escape you after all," he said. "Youneed not be afraid. I shall be able to keep my engagement."

  "I trust you will do nothing of the kind, my dear Gouache," answeredGiovanni Saracinesca.