The lay sister was right. The great powder magazine at Monteverde had
been blown up, but by what hands no one has ever surely known. The
destruction was sudden, complete, tremendous, for a large quantity of
dynamite had been stored in the deep vaults. Today, a great hollow in
the side of the hill and near the road marks the spot where the
buildings stood. Many stories have been told of the catastrophe; many
tales have been repeated about suspicious characters who had been seen
in the neighbourhood before the fatal event, and for some of these
there is fairly good authority.
All those who were in the city when the explosion took place, and I
myself was in Rome at the time, will remember how every one was at
first convinced that his own house had been struck by lightning or
suddenly shaken to its foundations. Every one will remember, too, the
long and ringing shower of broken glass that followed instantly upon
the terrific report. Every window looking westward was broken at once,
except some few on the lower stories of houses protected by buildings
opposite.
Giovanni Severi was in the main building over the vaults a short time
before the catastrophe, having just finished a special inspection
which had occupied most of the afternoon. He was moving to leave the
place when an unfamiliar sound caught his ears, a noise muffled yet
sharp, like that of the discharge of musketry heard through a thick
wall. The junior officers and the corporal who were with him heard it,
too, but did not understand its meaning. Giovanni, however, instantly
remembered the story told by one of the survivors from a terrible
explosion of ammunition near Naples many years previously. That
muffled sound of quick firing came from metallic cartridges exploding
within the cases that held them; each case would burst and set fire to
others beside it; like the spark that runs along a fuse, the train of
boxes would blow up in quick succession till the large stores of
gunpowder were fired and then a mass of dynamite beyond. There were
divisions in the vaults, there were doors, there were walls, but
Giovanni well knew that no such barriers would avail for more than a
few minutes.
Without raising his voice, he led his companions to the open door,
speaking as he went.
'The magazine will blow up in two or three minutes at the outside,' he
said. 'Send the men running in all directions, and go yourselves, to
warn the people in the cottages near by to get out of doors at once.
It will be like an earthquake; every house within five hundred yards
will be shaken down. Now run! Run for your lives and to save the lives
of others! Call out the men as you pass the gates.'
The three darted away across the open space that lay between the
central building and the guard-house. Giovanni ran, too, but not away
from the danger. There were sentries stationed at intervals all round
the outer wall, as round the walls of a prison, and they would have
little chance of life if they remained at their posts. Giovanni ran
like a deer, but even so he lost many seconds in giving his orders to
each sentinel, to run straight for the open fields to the nearest
cottages and to give warning. The astonished sentinels obeyed
instantly, and Giovanni ran on. He reached the very last just too
late; at that moment the thunder of the explosion rent the air. He
felt the earth rock and was thrown violently to the ground; then
something struck his right arm and shoulder, pinning him down; he
closed his eyes and was beyond hearing or feeling.
Within three-quarters of an hour the road to Monteverde was thronged
with vehicles of all sorts and with crowds of people on foot. The
nature of the disaster had been understood at once by the soldiery,
and the explanation had spread among the people, rousing that strange
mixture of curiosity and horror that draws the common throng to the
scene of every accident or crime. But amongst the very first the King
was on the spot with half-a-dozen superior officers, and in the
briefest possible time the search for dead and wounded began. The
story of Giovanni's splendid presence of mind and heroic courage ran
from mouth to mouth. The junior officers and the men whom he had sent
in all directions came in and reported themselves to the officer who
had taken charge of everything for the time being. Only one man was
missing--only one man and Giovanni himself. A few casualties amongst
the peasants were reported, but not a life had been lost and hardly a
bone was broken. Yet Giovanni was missing.
With the confidence of men who understood that the magazine must have
been so entirely destroyed at once as to annihilate all further danger
in an instant, the searchers went up to the ruin of the outer wall and
peered into the great dusty pit out of which the foundations of the
magazine had been hurled hundreds of feet into the air. Something of
the outline of the enclosure could still be traced, and the sentinels
whom Giovanni had warned from their post had already told their story.
They found, too, that the missing man himself had been one of the
sentries, and the inference was clear: their commanding officer had
been killed before he had reached the last post.
For a long time they searched in vain. Great masses of masonry had
shot through the outer wall and had rolled on or been stopped by the
inequalities of the ground. Most of the wall itself was fallen and its
direction could only be traced by a heap of ruins. Twilight had turned
to darkness, and the search grew more and more difficult as a fine
rain began to fall. Below, the multitude was already ebbing back to
Rome; it was dark, it was wet, hardly any one had been hurt, and there
was nothing to see: the best thing to be done was to go home.
It was late when a squad of four artillerymen heard a low moan that
came from under a heap of stones close by them. In an instant they
were at work with the pickaxes and spades they had borrowed from the
peasants' houses, foreseeing what their work would be. From time to
time they paused a moment and listened. Before long they recognised
their comrade's voice.
'Easy, brothers! Don't crack my skull with your pickaxes, for Heaven's
sake!'
'Is the Captain there?' asked one of the men.
'Dead,' answered the prisoner. 'He was warning me when we were knocked
down together. Make haste, but for goodness' sake be careful!'
They were trained men and they did their work quickly and well. What
had happened was this. The heavy and irregular mass of masonry that
had pinned Giovanni to the ground by his arm had helped to make a sort
of shelter, across which a piece of the outer wall had fallen without
breaking, followed by a mass of rubbish. By what seemed almost a
miracle to the soldiers, their companion was entirely unhurt, and no
part of the officer's body had been touched except the arm that lay
crushed beneath the stones.
They cleared away the rubbish and looked at him as he lay on his back
pale and motionless under the light of their lanterns. They knew what
he had done now; they understood that of them all he was the hero. One
of the men took off his cap reverently, and immediately the others
followed his example, and so they all stood for a few moments looking
at him in silence and in deference to his brave deeds. Then they set
to work in silence to move the heavy block of broken masonry that had
felled him, and their comrade helped them too, though he was stiff and
bruised and dazed from the terrific shock. As the mass yielded at last
before their strength and rolled away, one of the men uttered a cry.
'He is alive!' he exclaimed. 'He moved his head!'
Before he had finished speaking the man was on his knees beside
Giovanni, tearing open his tunic and his shirt to listen for the
beating of his heart. It was faint but audible. Giovanni Severi was
not dead yet, and a few moments later his artillerymen were carrying
him down the hill towards the road, his injured arm swinging like a
rag at his side.
They did not wait for orders; there were a number of carriages still
in the road and the men had no idea where their superiors might be.
Their first thought was to get Giovanni conveyed to a hospital as soon
as possible.
'We must take him to the White Sisters,' said the eldest of them.
'That is where his brother was so long.'
The others assented readily enough; and finding an empty cab in the
road, they lifted the wounded officer into it and pulled up the hood
against the rain, whilst two of them crept in under it, telling the
cabman where to go.
In less than a quarter of an hour the cab stopped before the hospital
of the White Sisters, and when the portress opened the door, the two
artillerymen explained what had happened and begged that their officer
might be taken in at once; and, moreover, that the portress would
kindly get some money with which to pay the cabman, as they could only
raise seven sous between them.
The Mother Superior had supposed that there would be many wounded, and
had directed that the orderlies should be ready at the door with
stretchers, although the Convent hospital did not receive accident
cases or casualties except in circumstances of extreme emergency. The
hospital of the Consolazione, close to the Roman Forum, was the proper
place for these, but it was very much farther, and the White Sisters
were so well known in all Trastevere that they were sometimes called
upon, even in the middle of the night, to take in a wounded man who
could not have lived to reach the great hospital beyond the Tiber.
Under the brilliant electric light in the main hall, the Mother
Superior recognised Giovanni's unconscious face; his crushed arm,
hanging down like a doll's, and his torn and soiled uniform, told the
rest. He was taken at once to the room his brother had occupied so
long. The Mother Superior herself helped the surgeon and another
Sister to do all that could be done then. Sister Giovanna knew nothing
of his coming, for she was in the wards, where there was much to be
done. The patients who had fever had been severely affected by the
terrible explosion, and most of them were more or less delirious and
had to be quieted. In the windows that look westward every pane of
glass was broken, though the outer shutters had been closed at sunset,
a few minutes before the catastrophe. There were heaps of broken glass
to be cleared away, and the patients whose beds were now exposed to
draughts were moved. Sister Giovanna, who was not the supervising
nurse for the week, worked quietly and efficiently with the others,
carrying out all directions as they were given; but her heart misgave
her, and when one of the nuns came in and said in a low voice that an
officer from Monteverde had been brought in with his arm badly
crushed, she steadied herself a moment by the foot of an iron
bedstead. In the shaded light of the ward no one noticed her agonised
face.
Presently she was able to ask where the officer was, and the Sister
who had brought the news announced that he was in Number Two. It was
Giovanni now, and not his brother, the unhappy woman was sure of that,
and every instinct in her nature bade her go to him at once. But the
unconscious volition of those long trained to duty is stronger than
almost any impulse except that of downright fear, and Sister Giovanna
stayed where she was, for there was still much to be done.
About half-an-hour later the Mother Superior entered the ward and
found her and led her quietly out. When they were alone together, the
elder woman told her the truth.
'Giovanni Severi has been brought here from Monteverde,' she said.
'His right arm is so badly crushed that unless it is amputated he will
certainly die.'
Sister Giovanna did not start, for she had guessed that he had
received some terrible injury. She answered quietly enough, by a
question.
'Is he conscious?' she asked. 'I believe that, by the law, his consent
must be obtained before the operation.'
'He came to himself, but the doctor thought it best to give him a
hypodermic of morphia and he is asleep.'
'Did he speak, while he was conscious?'
The Mother Superior knew what was passing in her daughter's mind, and
looked quietly into the expectant eyes.
'He did not pronounce your name, but he said that he would rather die
outright than lose his right arm. In any case, it would not be
possible to amputate it during the night. He had probably dined before
the accident, and it will not be safe to put him under ether before
to-morrow morning.'
Sister Giovanna did not speak for a few moments, though the Mother
Superior was almost quite sure what her next words would be, and that
the young nun was mentally weighing her own strength of character with
the circumstances that might arise.
'May I take care of him to-night?' she asked at last rather suddenly,
like a person who has decided to run a grave risk.
'Can you be sure of yourself?' asked the elder woman, trying to put
the question in the authoritative tone which she would have used with
any other Sister in the community.
But it was of no use; when she thought of all it meant, and of what
the delicate girl was to her, all the coldness went out of her voice
and the deepest motherly sympathy took its place. The answer came
after a short pause in which the question was finally decided.
'Yes. I can be sure of myself now.'
'Then come with me,' answered the Mother Superior.
They followed the passage to the lift, were taken up to the third
floor, and a few moments later were standing before the closed door of
Number Two. The Mother Superior paused with her hand on the door knob.
She looked silently at her young companion, as if repeating the
question she had already asked; and Sister Giovanna understood and
slowly bent her head.
'I can bear anything now,' she said.
She opened the door, and the two entered the quiet room, where one of
the Sisters sat reading her breviary by the shaded light in the
corner. The wounded man lay fast asleep under the influence of the
morphia, and the white coverlet was drawn up to his chin. He was not
very pale, Sister Giovanna thought; but she could not see well,
because there was a green shade over the small electric lamp in the
corner of the room.
'Sister Giovanna will take your place for to-night,' said the Mother
Superior to the nun, who had risen respectfully, and who left the room
at once.
The mother and daughter turned to the bedside and stood looking down
at the sleeping man's face. Instinctively their hands touched and then
held each other. Experience told them both that in all probability
Giovanni would sleep till morning under the drug, and would wake in a
dreamy state in which he might not recognise his nurse at once; but
sooner or later the recognition must take place, words must be spoken,
and a question must be asked. Would he or would he not consent to the
operation which alone could save his life? So far as the two women
knew and understood the law, everything depended on that. If he
deliberately refused, it would be because he chose not to live without
Angela, not because he feared to go through life a cripple. They were
both sure of that, and they were sure also that if any one could
persuade him to choose life where the choice lay in his own hands, it
would be Sister Giovanna herself. The operation was not one which
should be attended with great danger; yet so far as the law provided
it was of such gravity as to require the patient's own consent.
Neither of the two nuns spoke again till the Mother Superior was at
the door to go out.
'If you want me, ring for the lay sister on duty and send for me,' she
said. 'I will come at once.'
She did not remember that she had ever before said as much to a nurse
whose night was beginning.
'Thank you,' answered Sister Giovanna; 'I think he will sleep till
morning.'
The door closed and she made two steps forward till she stood at the
foot of the bed. For a few moments she gazed intently at the face she
knew so well, but then her glance turned quickly toward the corner
where the other nurse had sat beside the shaded lamp. That should be
her place, too, but she could not bear to be so far from him.
Noiselessly she brought a chair to the bedside and sat down so that
she could look at his face. Since she had been in the room she had
felt something new and unexpected--the deep, womanly joy of being alone
to take care of the beloved one in the hour of his greatest need. She
would not have thought it possible that a ray of light could penetrate
her darkness, or that in her deep distress anything approaching in the
most distant degree to a sensation of peace and happiness could come
near her. Yet it was there and she knew it, and her heart rested. It
was an illusion, no doubt, a false dawn such as men see in the
tropics, only to be followed by a darker night; but while it lasted it
was the dawn for all that. It was a faint, sweet breath of happiness,
and every instinct of her heart told her that it was innocent. She
would have, been contented to watch over him thus, in his sleep, for
ever, seeing that he too was momentarily beyond suffering.
It seemed, indeed, as if it might be long before any change came; his
breathing was a little heavy, but was regular as that of a sleeping
animal; his colour was even and not very pale; his eyes were quite
shut and the eyelids did not quiver nor twitch. The tremendous drug
had brought perfect calm and rest after a shock that would have
temporarily shattered the nerves of the strongest man. Then, too,
there was nothing to be seen and there was nothing in the room to
suggest the terrible injury that was hidden under the white
coverlet--nothing but the lingering odour of iodoform, to which the nun
was so well used that she never noticed it.
Hour after hour she sat motionless on the chair, her eyes scarcely
ever turning from his face. He was so quiet that there was absolutely
nothing to be done; to smooth his pillow or to pass a gentle hand over
his forehead would have been to risk disturbing his perfect quiet, and
she felt not the slightest desire to do either. For a blessed space
she was able to put away the thought of the question which would be
asked when he wakened, and which he only could answer. It was not a
night of weary waiting nor of anxious watching; while its length
lasted, he was hers to watch, hers alone to take care of, and that was
so like happiness that the hours ran on too swiftly and she was
startled when she heard the clock of the San Michele hospice strike
three; she remembered that it had struck nine a few minutes after she
had sat down beside him.
Her anxiety awoke again now, and that delicious state of peace in
which she had passed the night began to seem like a past dream. In a
little more than an hour the dawn would begin to steal through the
outer blinds--the dawn she had watched for and longed for a thousand
times in five years of nursing. It would be unwelcome now; it would
mean the day, and the day could only mean for her the inevitable
question.
She sat down again to watch him, for she had risen nervously in the
first moment of returning distress; and she felt the cold of the early
morning stealing upon her as she became gradually sure that his
breathing was softer, and that from time to time a very slight
quivering of the closed lids proclaimed the gradual return of
consciousness. He would not wake in pain, or at least not in any acute
suffering; she knew that by experience, for in such cases the nerves
near the injured part generally remained paralysed for a long time.
But he would wake sleepily at first, wondering where he was, glancing
vaguely from one wall to another, from the foot of the bed or the
window to her own face, without recognising it or understanding
anything. That first stage might last a few minutes, or half-an-hour;
he might even fall asleep again and not wake till much later. But
sooner or later recognition would come, and with it a shock to him, a
sudden tension of the mind and nerves, under which he might attempt to
move suddenly in his bed, and that might be harmful, though she could
not tell how. She wondered whether it would not be her duty to leave
him before that moment. It was true that he would recognise the room
in which he had so often spent long hours with his brother; he would
know, as soon as he was conscious, that he was in the Convent hospital
and under the same roof with her; then he would ask for her. Perhaps
the surgeon would think it better that he should see her, but she
would not be left alone with him; possibly she might be asked by the
Mother Superior or by Monsignor Saracinesca, if he chanced to come
that morning, to use her influence with Giovanni in order that he
might submit to what alone could save him from death. It was going to
be one of the hardest days in all her life--would God not stay the dawn
one hour?
It was stealing through the shutters now, grey and soft, and the
wounded man's sleep was unmistakably lighter. Sister Giovanna drew
back noiselessly from the bedside and carried her chair to the corner
where the little table stood, and sat down to wait again. It might be
bad for him to wake and see some one quite near him, looking into his
face.
At that moment the door opened quietly and the Mother Superior stood
on the threshold, looking preternaturally white, even for her. Sister
Giovanna rose at once and went to meet her. They exchanged a few words
in a scarcely audible whisper. The Mother had come in person to take
the nun's place for a while, judging that it would not be well if
Giovanni wakened and found himself alone with her.
The Sister went to her cell, where she had not been since the
explosion on the previous evening. The brick floor was strewn with
broken glass and was damp with the fine rain, driven through the
lattice by the southwest wind during the night. Even the rush-bottomed
chair was all wet, and the edge of the white counterpane on the little
bed. It was all very desolate.