Chapter XVI: Messina (ave Atque Vale!) 466 (3)

“Signora, it is a cradle but of an unimaginable fineness! Observe the pillow case, it is of linen. This is a blanket for a queen’s son; and these garments, truly they are fit for a queen’s children, no less! They doubtless belonged to that small angel with the eyes of his beautiful mother, whom I saw when I took a letter to the Ambassadress? Consider, Signora, are these magnificences fitting for the infant of a plumber? _Madonna mia!_ It is turning to their account this business of the earthquake! This dress, it is quite new; you yourself could wear it--the color would suit you, or we could have it dyed a dark purple.”

What the Ambassador could not do, the Ambassadress had done. Besides the dainty cradle, the blankets, jackets and other baby luxuries such as neither Lucia nor Agnese had ever dreamed of, there was a little knitted shawl for poor old Rosina, and good warm dresses for the plumber’s wife and mother. Agnese was right; the pretty baby finery belonged to the little son born to the Ambassador during his first months of office in Rome. There is a story that the King, on being told that Mrs. Griscom could not be present at some official reception on account of her baby, exclaimed in astonishment:

“I never before have heard of an Ambassadress with a baby!”

The time had come when the King, the colony, all concerned were thankful that the American Ambassador and Ambassadress were young people, with strong young nerves and generous young hearts.

“Send for Napoleone,” I cried to Agnese. Napoleone the cabman can only be reached through the connivance of a clerk of Fasani, the grocer in the Piazza de Spagna. Napoleone is very “black” and has the superior manners of the “clericals.”

By the time I had my bonnet on, Agnese announced to me that Napoleone was at the door. When we appeared on the sidewalk he was deep in the Popolo Romano, the Vatican organ which he reads so faithfully that J. says he often loses a fare from being too much engrossed in his newspaper.

“To the house in the Via Lamarmora where you took me the other day to visit those unfortunate _profughi_,” I said.

“It appears to me, Signora, that they have become very fortunate people,” said Napoleone, making room for the cradle beside him. He whipped up his strawberry roan, a horse with an action like a crab’s, as unique a figure in our Rome as his driver. Napoleone’s eyes were very kind when he helped me out with the cradle and the big bundle of clothes.

“I will wait for you, Signora, at my own cost, one understands. _Diamini!_ we must all do something for these unfortunate _profughi_.” Napoleone smoothed out the Popolo Romano, put a nosebag of fodder over the roan’s head and prepared to wait for me, at his own expense!

When the porter’s wife looked out from her little den and saw the big bundle, she put down the dish of _carciofi_ she was preparing for her husband’s dinner and came to the rescue.

“_Per carità_, Signora, allow me to carry up that great big bundle; ask the _padrona_ to leave the door open till I come.”

The _padrona di casa_ was smartly dressed and freshly powdered. She wore huge pearl and diamond peasant earrings, and her wonderful hair with its thick regular waves shone like the plumage of the black swan in the Villa Borghese. She recognized me with a smile. “Ah, the American lady! What a pleasure to see her again!” She motioned me to the room where the theatrical costumes had been packed closely together to give more space. The light from a big window struck across the gaunt barn of a place and fell on a group in the center that Andrea del Sarto would have painted as a “Visitation.”

Rosina, the wrinkled old woman, looked a perfect Elizabeth as she stood there, holding her daughter-in-law by the hand: Lucia would have made a lovely Mary. The young woman saw me first. She came towards me slowly, heavily, took my hand in hers and with a strange solemnity kissed me on the mouth; Francesco, her husband (the plumber), followed her example. Caterina, sitting up in the big white bed, smiled at me with a radiant inner lighting of the face, like a young martyr. Rosina mumbled my hand with her withered lips and wiped her eyes upon a black-bordered handkerchief I had given her; all this was before they caught a glimpse of the porter’s wife, toiling upstairs with the gigantic bundle.

I was the first stranger who had come into the new life that was opening before them, after they had passed through that hell of suffering at Messina. The shackles of convention had dropped from them in that elemental experience, that fearful convulsion when the very earth had stoned them. They met me as equals on the ground of our common humanity; they embraced me because I had brought them help from America, the land of hope. When we grow old, I heard a poet say, we count the treasure of unforgotten kisses as a miser counts his gold; In the coming years those kisses, given for my country’s sake, will shine bright in my imperishable hoard.

The next day, Monday morning, January 4th, as we were having early coffee, Agnese brought in a note.

“Anything interesting?” I asked, as J. folded the small sheet of lilac paper and put it back in the envelope. “It looks like an invitation.”

“It is,” said J., “one I shall accept.”

I must have looked incredulous, for he handed me the note. It was from one of the ladies of the Embassy, who wrote to say that volunteers were wanted for a relief ship the American Committee was fitting out. This was the first we either of us heard of the expedition of the “Bayern,” that a few days later thrilled all Italy and America. Ten minutes later we were in Napoleone’s cab, rattling through the Piazza San Bernardo. As we passed the Hotel Europa our friend, Mr. Samuel Parrish, came out of the door. Mr. Parrish, a distinguished New York lawyer, had come to Rome to pass a quiet winter, to improve his knowledge of the language and to study Italian “primitives.” It seemed rather early for him to be about, though I found a possible explanation for this as we passed the flower-stand of the Piazza Mignianelli, brave with deep purple violets and pale winter roses. The early birds get the best of everything; the sunny salon at the Europa, where our friend proposed spending the easy restful days of his “season off,” was always filled with lovely flowers--yes, that was it, Mr. Parrish had come out at this unearthly hour to buy his flowers.

In the Piazza Barberini, where a brisk wind blew the spray of the fountain of the Triton half across the square, we passed Mr. William Hooper of Boston, hurrying along; Mr. Hooper had arrived in Rome a few weeks before with his wife and was established for the winter in the Hotel Regina.

At the office of the American Embassy we were received by the smiling usher, who showed us into the waiting room, threw a lump of soft coal on the fire, and smiled himself out. Shortly after one of the habitues of the Embassy, a Roman American, came in and told us a meeting of the American Relief Committee was going on at the Palazzo del Drago; if we could wait, they were all sure to come round to the office when it was over.

“They have two or three meetings a day,” the Roman American said; “they were up half last night. What with sending and receiving cables from America, holding consultations with the King, Giolitti (the Prime Minister) and Nathan the Sindaco, those men don’t have time to eat or to sleep.”

At last Mr. Griscom came in, passing directly to his private office; a little later Mr. Parrish and Mr. Hooper followed him. Through the open door I caught a glimpse of the Ambassador at his desk, talking with Mr. Nelson Gay and Mr. George Page, both American residents of Rome. These five gentlemen were the Relief Committee, there was only one stranger to us in the group; the naval attaché of the Embassy, Lieutenant-Commander Reginald Rowan Belknap. As we waited in the reception room, most of the American men in Rome passed through; first one, then another of the committee or of the secretaries came in to speak to some visitor. We could not but hear scraps of their conversation as they passed to and fro.

“Griscom couldn’t have chosen his committee better: Parrish and Hooper to help him raise the money in America; Page and Gay to help him spend it; and Belknap--one sees with half an eye he’s a man for an emergency,” said a visitor.

“Of course we shall get the money; I am ready to guarantee it!” exclaimed the treasurer of the committee.

“Parrish is head of the Southampton Red Cross. He has cabled the President,” murmured another.

“The steamer will start from Genoa. Smith, our Consul, is buying up the town to fit her out,” said a young secretary.

“The Ambassadress has collected half a shipload of supplies!”

“All the sterilized milk you can lay your hands on--” This to one who offered contributions.

“Put my money in tobacco; those poor devils need a smoke if ever man did,” said the Roman American.

Waiting in that office was like watching the movement of a vast engine, feeling the throbbing of our country’s mighty heart--our pulses leapt to keep time with it.

“Weston Flint is just the man for you. He is a graduate of our school and speaks Italian well,” said Mr. Carter, director of the American Classical School.

“If you can get Giordano of the Tribuna, he’s your man. He speaks English as well as I do,” said a journalist.

“I know three trained nurses who are ready to go if they’re wanted.”

At last our turn came; Captain Belknap found time to speak to J. The intense concentrated force that we had felt in the atmosphere of that room seemed personified in the naval attaché. To be in his company was like touching an electric battery. Only a few words were exchanged; the upshot of it all was that J. offered his services and was accepted. He said he was ready to go in any capacity, and was then and there appointed interpreter and general handy-andy-man to the expedition. My services were refused; no women except professional trained nurses were wanted.

“Do you know a man with some knowledge of accounts you could get to go with us? He must speak Italian.” Captain Belknap said it lightly enough, as if he were merely dropping a hint. What was it that made that hint more imperative than a command?

“I will try to find one,” said J. As we walked out of the Embassy he exclaimed, “Thompson is our man! This is a sort of press-gang business; we had better drop down on him at once.”

We hurried to the studio in the Via Degli Artisti, where we found Wilfred Thompson at work on his decoration for the English church. After the tense atmosphere of the embassy the studio seemed strangely peaceful. On the easel was a picture, still wet, of the pine trees in the Villa Borghese, with the red sunset light striking between their smooth stems. A little cat rubbed its arched back against my dress purring her friendly song of welcome, “three thrums, three thrums.” We felt like conspirators come to break up our friend’s quiet life. He listened gravely to the proposition that he should volunteer for the relief ship, and took time to consider it. In one sense it was not difficult for him to go, he said; he only had to find a home for the kitten, and, as a lesser consideration, to make a will. The words struck chill; there was danger then! In the end Thompson decided to go; he spoke without enthusiasm; it was evident that having been called upon he felt it his duty to go. His mood was in strong contrast to the enthusiasm of those men at the Embassy; they were on the circuit of the Great Dynamo, they throbbed with the thrill of it, glowed with the Niagara-like power of it. Tuesday morning Thompson offered his services to Captain Belknap. When we met him that afternoon, we knew that he too had come within the magnetic circle, had felt the thrill of the Great Dynamo, for from that time on he toiled like the others with heart and soul, with nerves and body doing double, triple work.

“Thompson’s got the pace,” said J., “a jolly good one too.”

A man may not choose how he shall serve the great Republic, but whatever service is asked of him, that let him render with heart and soul. Though Thompson would not have chosen the post of supercargo--any more than Flint would have asked to be cashier or J. interpreter--once it was assigned him, he threw himself into the work with all his might. The studio saw him no more; the little cat--all the family he had--missed him. He spent his days and most of his nights trying to bring order out of that chaos of supplies, checking bills, making lists and invoices of clothes, food, medicine, tools, all the wonderful things bought for the relief ship. The cargo was got together somehow, anyhow; the thing was done--that was the main point. From morning till night those tireless men and women bought and bought, sewed and sewed, packed and tied up in bundles the stores, clothing, shoes, medicines, for the sufferers. It was Thompson’s duty to try and bring some sort of order out of that chaos. When men and women are dying of cold and hunger, when human life is at stake and the race is with death, haste is the only thing to strive for; waste counts not. So Griscom and his Americans resolutely cut the Gordian knots of red tape that strangle Italy, whenever they came across one, and never counted the cost.

Now that we look back, what they did seems incredible. Remember, it was Sunday morning, January 3rd, that the Ambassador appointed his committee to help him put through the thing he had planned to do; the work of the next three days would not be believed if it could be told. From the beginning Griscom did the impossible--the only thing worth doing in this world. He was told that the idea of fitting out a relief ship was chimerical; every available steamer was already engaged by the Italian Government. Even if a ship could be found, where would the supplies come from? The Roman shops were well nigh sold out. If ship and cargo could be scared up, how to get the cargo to the ship? It took a month to get a box from Rome to Naples! This last argument seemed final!

Every objection was met, every obstacle overcome. In three days the ship was found, the cargo bought, the men and women of the relief crew enlisted, ready, _eager_ to start. Monday Captain Belknap engaged the Austrian Lloyd steamer “Oceania;” she could be ready to sail in nine days. Monday night the North German Lloyd’s agent telephoned, offering the “Bayern” to be ready to sail from Genoa Wednesday, January 6th. This was a saving of six days; the offer of the “Bayern” was accepted, the Austrians handsomely refusing to claim the forfeit of one thousand dollars due them for breach of contract. Who says corporations have no heart? The committee knew they could count on the Germans to do what they undertook to do. The discipline, the steady hammer-hammer of the army drill master has got into the very blood and bones of that nation.

So the ship was found!

As for the cargo: when the committee was not in session, William Hooper, the famous Harvard athlete, Samuel Parrish, the connoisseur of Italian Cinque Cento, Nelson Gay, the historian, George Page, the banker, were working under the lash, buying coats, blankets, shawls, pins, needles, biscuits, cheese, sausages, picks, shovels--all they could lay hands on of these grave-digger’s tools, for still on the eighth, the tenth day after the earthquake, even later, men and women were taken out alive from the ruins. In Genoa, James Smith, American Consul, was gathering together a vast store of hams, beans, potatoes, salt pork, rope, canvas, candles, all the ship wares to be found in the great seaport. It was one thing to put these goods bought in Genoa on board the “Bayern,” but how to get the masses of clothing, tools, food, medicines and bedding, purchased in Rome--a tithe of which cumbered the great hall of the Palazzo del Drago--to the ship?

“If the railroad to the south cannot take the goods to Naples, the railroad to the north shall take them to Civitavecchia; the old papal seaport is as good a place to sail from as from Naples!” Griscom argued; so that knot was cut.

Stein, the shipper, was called in, another of those busy silent Germans who year by year are getting more and more of Italy’s commerce into their strong capable hands. Stein undertook to have the cargo at Civitavecchia on the “Bayern’s” arrival there, and he was as good as his word. The Government gave free transportation to the goods.

Reports are dull reading, statistics worse--there is nothing quite so misleading as statistics--there are a few exceptions to this rule; the reports of the American Relief Committee are among them. The minutes kept by Samuel Parrish lie before me; they are as interesting as a novel. As interesting? Twenty thousand times more interesting. The story is told gravely and concisely, but the romance shines through the conventional terms, transfigures the formal statements; it has the life pulse of an old Greek drama; it moves with the inevitable sequence of history. The titles of Chairman, Secretary, Treasurer, are disguises like the masks worn by the Athenian players. They serve to hide the personality of the actor, leaving him freer to play the role for which he is cast. The characters speak their lines, the play moves steadily from the first lurid scene of the earthquake to the final chorus of Hope. After Nature had done her worst and the greatest disaster of history had stunned the world, the network of nerves with which America has enmeshed the globe, the telegraph wires and submarine cables, flashed the dreadful intelligence from nerve center to nerve center. Whether for good or for ill, we gave the world its nervous system; ours the responsibility for the quickened pulse of life! The cables were kept busy; message after message flashed from the Embassy at Rome to Washington, to New York, Philadelphia, Boston, San Francisco. That cry of the Calabrian exiles: “Do not forget to help Scylla,” touched the public imagination. I hear the thrill of it in all the messages that follow, the committee’s appeal to the American Red Cross, to the Governors of the States, to the people of America. The Ambassador and Mr. Parrish telegraph the President, Mr. Parish cables Governor Hughes and Mayor McClellan, Mr. Hooper calls on Governor Guild of Massachusetts for funds for a relief ship. Time is so precious they do not wait for answers; strong in their faith in America’s generosity, these men assume a personal responsibility for the great sums of money needed, so no time is lost in waiting for answers to their appeals. This is the secret of how the incredible thing was done; it was not only by the labor of these resolute men but by the faith that was in them that the country would “back” them, would make good all they promised.

“Theirs,” said the Roman American, “is an infallibility absolute as the Pope’s; they _know_ that God and the American people are behind them!”

We were in Athol’s library Wednesday evening when J.’s sailing orders came. The large pleasant room was just light and warm enough. There was a wood fire, there were flowers--blood-red Roman anemones--there were books and pictures, there was Athol himself (the man of whose mellow culture and sensitive taste, the room was an expression) seated in a beautiful Savonarola chair at an ancient, perfectly appointed table, writing despatches with pen and ink on large foolscap paper.

“They have telephoned from the Embassy,” said Agnese, who brought the news, “that the Signore should be at the station at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. The Signora is invited to go as far as Civitavecchia with the Ambassadress and the other ladies to witness his departure--ah! sainted apostles! for that land of death!” Agnese disapproved of J.’s going down to Messina. “Give those unfortunates anything in reason,” she argued, “clothes, food, even a little money! But to go oneself, or even to allow one who is dear to go down to that--that _pozzo d’infezione_, ah! no, there is no reason in that! It is the act of the mad. Mama mia! Are there not enough dead already?”

“You will be too late for Messina,” said Athol, looking up from his despatches. “They don’t like having foreigners about; the English ships from Malta were there a week ago but they found they were not wanted! You will find more than enough to do at the smaller villages; they have been neglected. Have you any flannel shirts?”

“Hundreds,” said J.

“For the _profughi_, yes, but for yourself? You’ll need them and flannel collars; I can lend you some and a hold-all. Have you seen the last subscriptions to the Lord Mayor’s Fund?” He handed J. a London paper with the list of subscribers to the English Earthquake Fund. There was a generous rivalry of “who shall give and do most?” between the Americans and English that was heart-warming.

“You deserve a large share of the credit for this,” J. said; “I hope it will be set down to your account.”

Athol’s telegrams and articles were read by English-speaking people all over the world; they had great influence in raising the Mansion House Fund, and other contributions.

The next morning was gray and mild, a depressing sirocco day. Napoleone who drove us to the station was gloomy as Agnese about J.’s going to Messina. His clerical sympathies made him scoff at the value of all lay relief work.

“Those afflictions that are sent by the Padre Eterno can best be assuaged by the Church,” he grumbled, as he put Athol’s fine English hold-all on the box beside him. Even the strawberry roan was out of spirits and took ten minutes longer than usual between the palace and the station. “What has his Excellency to do with such matters?” Napoleone flung the words over his shoulder. “I tell you frankly, Signora mia, his life is worth more than all the Sicilians put together. It is a pity the island of Sicily did not sink beneath the sea and remain there twenty minutes, long enough to drown all the inhabitants. It would have been a good thing for Italy, magari, and for the rest of the world!”

Wilfred Thompson, who was at the station when we arrived, introduced Weston Flint, the cashier. Mr. Flint wore a leather money bag over his shoulder.

“Ask for the special,” said Flint, as he wrote our names down on a list; “the Government has put a train at the Ambassador’s disposal; they treat us handsomely, you see.”

“That young man came to Rome to study archeology,” said the Roman American, who was going with us. “He will learn more about ruins and excavation in the next few days than he could have learned at school in a lifetime.”

A cab drove up with three neat, plainly dressed, young girls.

“The American nurses, God bless them!” said the Roman American. “There come the English nurses; and there’s Robert Hale, the painter--why have they gone in so heavily for artistic talent?” Then answering his own question: “Because artists are the hardest working people in the world, and the most generous; they always do more than their share of good work; rich people give their money, they give themselves!”

Just then the Ambassador and Mrs. Griscom came up in their motor and we all got on board the train. The journey to Civitavecchia was all too short; we hardly found time to look from the window and were only half conscious of passing the ancient Temple of Minerva Medica, or Ponte Galera, the picturesque, fever-stricken, abandoned town hung in its green shroud of ivy. The artists missed nothing of the beauty of the trip (their search for beauty is as unconscious as breathing); the rest of us had to be forcibly wrenched from the discussion of medicated gauze and flannel bandages when a turn of the road brought a wonderful view before us,--the campagna swimming in an amethyst haze, the blue clear-cut lines of the Alban hills, and far off, a fainter blue stain against the sky, Monte Circeo, home of Circe, daughter of the sun. These things the sons of Mary saw, while the sons of Martha talked of ways and means.

What had been accomplished in the few days since that first meeting of the committee Sunday afternoon seemed a miracle. The men who had worked the miracle were with us, quiet, alert, full of attentions for the comfort of the ladies who were going to see the “Bayern” start on her cruise of mercy. The leader of the enterprise, Lloyd Griscom, and his right-hand man, Captain Belknap, who bore the brunt of all the great work that was to follow, talked together in undertones, discussing the final arrangements. Later Mr. Gay, Mr. Parrish and Mr. Page joined them. The rest of us kept apart, as it seemed they were holding an informal committee meeting, to decide some last weighty matter, and exchanged our news.

“Mr. Griscom saw the King,” said the Roman American, “and offered him the relief ship. The King accepted it and told the Ambassador that nothing could have been devised better than such a gift. The money for the expedition was given by the American Red Cross to Mr. Griscom to spend at his discretion.”

That was wise, for what was needed now even more than money was the good sense to spend it well, ability, organizing power--the thing that is so much harder to get or to give than money--_brains_!

At Civitavecchia we were received by the Sindaco, the Sub-Prefect, and the Captain of the Port; they all wore black gloves and crape bands on the arm. The general exaltation and excitement that ran like fire through Rome was lacking in the small provincial seaport; there was a sense of hopeless mourning here, more distressing than the tearing passion of Rome.

Two of our ladies disappeared as soon as we reached Civitavecchia. The rest of us, escorted by the officials, were rowed out in small boats to the “Bayern,” a fine steamer of 5000 tons, lying in the outer harbor surrounded by a fleet of lighters.

“Still taking on stores, you see,” said Mr. Stein, who had come in person to see that the goods from Rome were delivered on time. “By four o’clock everything will be on board; they will be able to start without delay.”

“This is Captain Miztloff,” said Belknap (how could he find time for everything?), presenting the big florid typical North-German-Lloyd commander.

“They tell me you shall not with us go?” said the captain. “It is a pity; we shall a moon and a fine weather have, and a good run to Messina make. Will you my quarters visit?”

His calm blue eyes, his smiling undismayed presence were comforting. Here was a man who had not been whirled out of his natural orbit like the rest of us. After we had gone over the “Bayern” with Captain Mitzloff, visited his cabin and admired the portraits of his wife and flaxen-haired children, the expedition began to look more rational, a little less out of the ordinary. His practical sober kindness was somehow reassuring. We went down to see J.’s cabin, an outer room with a good window. The familiar smell of stale sea-water brought a pang of homesickness--of course we were going to sail for America, there never had been any earthquake, it was all a bad nightmare; it was curious how the illusion persisted. It grew even stronger when a pink and white steward announced luncheon, and we made our way to the dining saloon, decorated and furnished in the usual North German Lloyd fashion. The chief steward allotted us our seats--oh, it was just like the beginning, of twenty other trans-atlantic crossings! I recognized the way the table was set, the napkins folded, the bread cut; we were going home--together.

“I shall order green goose and mirabellen--” I announced.

“You are to sit beside the Sindaco of Civitavecchia because you can talk Italian to him,” said one of the committee at that moment; the illusion vanished. I was placed with Mrs. Griscom and the other ladies of the Auxiliary Relief Committee at the captain’s table. J., already separated from me, sat with the nurses, and other assistants, Flint, Hale and Thompson, at the doctor’s table, below the salt as it were. He was under orders; discipline had begun.

Though we were all anxious and sad enough, there was a brave effort at gayety. The Ambassador proposed the health of the King and Queen of Italy in a neat little speech; and the Sindaco, a stout man with red eyes, responded with a toast to the President. He pronounced a few flowery sentences, and then speaking of the six or seven people from Civitavecchia who had escaped the earthquake and come back to their native town beggared and bereft, he faltered, burst into tears and sat down. After luncheon I found my way to the ladies’ saloon, all white and gold and blue brocade, with that faint dreadful under-smell of stale sea-water in its draperies, cushions and carpet. Here I found the nurses unrolling two bundles of stuff.

“You missed us,” said one of the ladies, “and wondered where we went from the station; this is what we were in search of.” She unrolled a piece of ivory-white flannel and another of scarlet cloth.

“Who can cut me out a neat cross? This is all lopsided,” said the chief cutter-out. She held up a badly cut cross of red cloth.

“I know who can make a better one than that,” I cried and went in search of J.

“We shall want a good many, for every one of them must wear the badge on his left arm,” said the chief cutter-out.

“We fly the Red Cross then? It has been arranged?”

The Ambassador had cut another strand of the red tape that strangles Italy. Permission to fly the Red Cross flag had been asked and refused because none of the party belonged to the Italian Society, though several were members of the American Association. When in order to overcome this objection the leaders asked leave to join the Italian Red Cross, the answer was that it would take two weeks for them to be elected. Mr. Griscom passed over the refusal and carried the request to a higher court, where it was granted.

My last impression of the “Bayern” was that scene in the saloon, where Thompson and J. stood patiently cutting out the red cloth crosses and the trained nurses sat stitching them neatly on the ivory cloth bands. At two o’clock Mrs. Griscom and the ladies of her auxiliary committee left the ship and took the train for Rome with Mr. Parrish and Mr. Page.

“Of course I wanted to go to Messina,” said Mr. Parrish, “but somebody had to stay in Rome to attend to this end of the business!”

At four o’clock the “Bayern” sailed,

Captain Belknap having commandeered three small craft against the need of landing on an open beach, for which the ship’s boats were unsuitable. As she sailed out of the harbor of Civitavecchia, past the old lighthouse with the two defending towers, the “Bayern” flew the American ensign at the fore, the German merchant flag aft, and between foremast and funnel on the triatic stay the flag of the whole Christian world, a cross vermilion on a ground white.

IV

THE CRUISE OF THE “BAYERN”

“It looks as if God had put His foot upon it!” said Hugh, the Yeoman. J., watching the pallid sunset from the deck of the “Bayern,” as she swung at anchor in the sickle-shaped harbor of Messina, turned from the sombre Sicilian mountains, rising tier above tier to the wet gray sky, and looked at what men called the “indispensable city” before God had set His foot upon it. The pile of smoking ruins, in some places tall as the wrecked buildings had originally been, in others crushed flat to the earth, looked indeed as if some mighty being had stamped his way with giant strides over the city; you could trace his footsteps in the shattered remnants of the great Sicilian seaport.

“Do you believe the earthquake was a judgment?” Hugh went on.

Gasperone, the Messinese, shook the rough mane of hair out of his eyes and parried the question with a “_Chi lo sa?_” Then he added: “It was foretold; I myself heard the prophecy, though at the time I laughed, with others who laugh no more. One of the hottest days of last summer a tall Nazarene, a hermit from the hills dressed in sackcloth, went up and down the city, followed by a boy--half naked like himself--ringing a great bell. There on the Marina they stopped at a cross street and the Nazarene cried out like one possessed:

“‘Be warned! Take heed and repent, ye of Messina! This year shall not end before your city is utterly destroyed!’”

“It was a wicked city,” said Hugh; “the Almighty smote this place. What else could ha’ done it? Our chart called for fifty fathom of water, we plumbed and plumbed--two hundred and fifty didn’t fetch it, the bottom had just dropped out. There’s Riggio ‘crost the straits, hit the same way--a double stroke you may say. When you see a city smote like that, you may know it was a wicked city; ’twas the same with ‘Frisco--she got what she deserved. Down to Callao centuries ago ‘twas the same. The people were fighting and killing each other, so the Almighty he shook down the town and out of the water a great high mountain riz right up in the air carrying a big ship as was lying in the harbor with it; I know folks as has seen it! They put an immense cross on the spot; the kings or presidents or whatever there is down there, swore that until that cross was pulled down they would never fight no more. Whenever they’re like to quarrel, some one points to that cross, and then they manage to settle the row without bloodshed!”

“_Awe ri’_,” said Gasperone.

“They say a vile piece of poetry was printed in an infidel paper, asking our Saviour to prove He could work miracles by sending a good earthquake--is that true?”

Gasperone spat over the side and nodded; then he too prophesied.

“There is more to come.” Gasperone shook a warning finger: “Listen! la Sicilia will go down, down, and finally be lost under the sea. Already it has begun; the mountains grow lower and lower; when I was a boy they were much higher than now. The Marina has sunk in some places a metre. You know the ancient _stemma_, the coat-of-arms of Sicily, has but three legs? We have lost one leg, there are but two left. When the next leg goes, it will be finished; the island will topple and sink beneath the sea. I have said it.” He made a gesture as if to wipe the ancient island of Trinacria from the face of the globe.

It was the third day of the cruise of the “Bayern;” all the relief party were on shore, except Wilfred Thompson and J., who had been detained on board by their work. J., who had come up from the hold to take a breath, listened half consciously to the talk of Gasperone and Hugh, the Yeoman. In his confused memories of that time this scrap of their conversation survives.

What has happened since the “Bayern” sailed from Civitavecchia? First one, then another of that strangely assorted ship’s company shall tell the story.

“Immediately on getting under way,” writes Captain Belknap, “the work of arranging our supplies began, so that we might know what, how much, and where to lay our hands on everything. Supplies purchased at Genoa were in the after hold, those from Rome forward; except for this separation everything was mixed together. The Rome purchases had been made by several persons acting independently; marks on many packages had been torn off or obliterated in the hurry of transportation, and the difficulty was increased by the absence of many invoices. Fortunately good weather favored us. The work continued in the fore hold until ten P.M. on Thursday.”

“Worked very hard till dinner getting cargo in order and opening up some stuff. After dinner worked on bills with Flint and Hale,” writes Wilfred Thompson in his diary for January 7th.

A letter from J., of the same date, gives a fuller account of the first day:

“We got straight to work the moment you were all clear of the ship. I didn’t even get a chance to take a snap-shot as we left the harbor of Civitavecchia; indeed, I didn’t even see the town, as I was helping Thompson with his invoices. After that we all went down in the hold and were hunting or moving things and getting them up on deck. Such confusion as there was in the hold, it is impossible to imagine! Everything simply dumped in a heap. I found a lot of things they wanted. We worked down there till dinner just like porters, and I am tired as a dog.”

Friday, January 8th, was a busy day for all on board. In the morning the weather was fine, at noon they passed Stromboli, the burning mountain that rises in a sharp cone from the Tyrrhene Sea. Mr. Thompson notes in his diary the beauty of the Calabrian coast. They passed near enough the shore to see the people of the ruined villages living in tents and shanties.

J.’s letter for that day says:

“After breakfast I went to find sterilized milk in the forward hold. Then I got to work with Hooper, who is a brick, as my partner, and between us we cleaned out that hold. Mr. Griscom came down and saw what we were doing, and tried to photograph us. He approved our efforts, which resulted in our finding many things at the bottom that were supposed to be missing. Such a jumble there never was seen! Everything had been hauled off the lighters and pitched into the holds, without any attempt at order; one and every kind of thing on top of the other and always the thing most needed at the bottom. When I tell you that a bunch of picks and spades had been dropped upon boxes of macaroni, you may get a slight idea of what would naturally happen. I spent the day as Hooper’s side companion--a bully worker, no shirk in him--and we got through about six this evening. It was a splendid day and Thompson, who worked above the water line, had a glimpse of Stromboli as we passed it about noon. At 4.45 we dropped anchor at Messina--what there is left of it, only a heap of ruins, though at first sight the houses didn’t seem to be so utterly destroyed. However, under the searchlights from the ships one could see how complete the ruin is--nothing but heaps of rubbish with walls sticking up above them. As soon as we came to anchor, the Captain of the Port came aboard. I stuck to the Commander like Sherlock Holmes and was his interpreter. He (the Italian port official) wanted to know the kind of things we had on board. Three American officers came aboard with Major Landis and Delmé Radcliffe, Mr. Cutting and Chanler, who seemed quite in his element.... Everyone says what splendid work he has been doing. A little later the Ambassador and the Commander (Belknap), Mr. Lupton, the American Vice Consul, Major Landis, and yours truly, went to see General Mazza on board the ‘Duca di Genova,’ a magnificent Italian liner. It was all very interesting. I went as interpreter. Delmé Radcliffe is quartered on board the staff ship, so he went with us too. He applied to the captain of one of the American ships in the harbor for a boat to take the remains of the English Consul’s wife to the cemetery tomorrow morning, but could not get one promised till three P.M., as the U. S. flagship only arrives in the morning. Mr. Griscom returns on her and brings you this letter. Delmé Radcliffe saw a man taken out alive at six o’clock this afternoon. _A propos_ of boots, they seem to be the things most needed. I fear I have lost my pen in the hold. I am sorry Mr. Griscom is leaving, and Dodge too. D. has been working like a slave. Splendid! I forgot to say that the visit to the General in command was to place the ship with everything aboard at his disposal.”

Captain Belknap’s record for the same day, giving a fuller account of the visit to the “Duca di Genova,” ends with these words:

“General Mazza expressed his warm appreciation of the offer and the spirit that prompted it, and recommended that the ship proceed to Catania and Palermo, possibly also to Syracuse, as these places had received many sick, wounded and refugees, but so far no help in proportion to their needs. At Messina the situation was well in hand and supplies were already available, sufficient for all requirements.”

The next morning, Saturday, the U. S. S. “Connecticut,” flagship of the Atlantic Fleet, Admiral Sperry commanding, arrived at Messina with her tender, the “Yankton,” and the supply ship, “Culgoa.” A conference was held, and the plan of action, the policy of the American relief work in Sicily was doubtless then and there perfected; of this the men in the hold of course knew little or nothing. They only knew that Mr. Griscom, the leader of the expedition, was to leave them and were sorry that he should go.

Admiral Sperry landed two hundred and fifty men to excavate the American Consulate and recover the bodies of the Consul and his wife; the “Yankton” remained at Messina as a base of supplies; and the “Connecticut,” with the Ambassador on board, sailed for Naples Saturday afternoon and left the “Bayern” to coöperate with the supply ship, “Culgoa,” in relief work along the coast.

Several boatloads of supplies for the American Consulate were landed, and a large amount of food and clothes was given with a sum of money to the Archbishop of Messina. About the time the “Connecticut” sailed, a message was received by the Americans that at Reggio, the city on the Calabrian shore that faces Messina, their help would be gratefully received.

While all these official matters were going on, Wilfred Thompson was busy with his invoices and accounts, and J. with his stores in the hold. It was not until the afternoon of Saturday that they went on shore. Gasperone and Hugh, the Yeoman, went with them. In all J.’s notes and letters there is frequent mention of the strange Sicilian servant, Gasperone, who seems to have been half crazed by the earthquake, and of Hugh, the Yeoman, one of the enlisted men who had sailed on the great cruise round the world.

They landed in a pouring rain and made their way to the ruins of the American Consulate. From a shattered window flapped a yellow brocade curtain above a huge mass of stone and plaster, with gaunt beams sticking up against the leaden sky. A detachment of American sailors were working here in shifts day and night. A little farther on the party stopped, rooted to the earth by the sound of a weird lament, like the keening of the mourners at an Irish wake. They soon saw where the dreadful wailing came from. Seated on a pile of debris was an old woman, all huddled together, her head in her hands, her knees drawn up to her chin, swaying slowly backwards and forwards, the movement of her body keeping time to her moans; she might have been one of the ancient cave-dwellers, the attitude, the lament seemed a strange primitive expression of despair, old as the race.

“That is Sora Anna; they have found her son’s head and part of the body,” said Gasperone indifferently. “That girl is Elena, his _fidanzata_; they were to be married this month. They are waiting for the coffin.”

The girl, Elena, stood beside the old woman like a thing of stone. She was a beautiful creature; her face was almost as white as the lint with which her head was bandaged. Silent and dry-eyed, she looked like a statue of revolt. At her feet lay the ghastly fragments of her lover’s body. Two soldiers passed with picks on their shoulders; one of them asked the girl if he could help her. She paid no attention, but stood looking across the sea, stony and silent, while the mother wailed the death song for her son.

“Come,” said Gasperone, “it will be dark in an hour; the sun no sooner gets up than it goes to bed. Madonna! With all the rest, it is too much that the days should be so short. After dark, the wild dogs who come from the mountains to devour the dead are dangerous; in the day, they are more timid, the soldiers have shot so many.”

Gasperone led the way towards the cathedral square. On their way they passed the ruins of the Banca d’Italia, guarded by a strong force of soldiers.

“There is a great treasure here,” said Gasperone, “that must be guarded at any cost, you understand. These soldiers might--but it is always so; gold is worth more than flesh and blood!”

In one of the main streets Gasperone stopped beside a tragic group--a priest, an old woman and a dead man.

“Ah, behold!” he cried, “they have just found Padre Antonio’s twin brother. He and his mother were the only ones saved of a family of fourteen.”

The priest, haggard and wild looking, with his arm in a sling, began to read aloud a prayer. His mother stood beside him, swaying backwards and forwards. As the prayer ended, the mother joining in the benediction, _In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritûs Sancti_; a newspaper reporter fixed his camera on a tripod and photographed the pathetic group. The rain, that had stopped for a moment, now came down again in torrents and drenched them all to the skin.

“It was raining like mad most of the time,” J. writes, “I can well understand how your poor old woman, Rosina, kept harping on the rain. Anything more dismal it is hard to imagine. I have only been made uncomfortable by it; but there are hundreds of poor people camping out wherever there is a clear space big enough to run up a primitive shelter with boards, if they have them, or sails rigged on poles. I saw one ambitious family roofing roughly with tiles they had collected from the streets. They seemed to be the first to make the attempt, though the streets are literally strewn with tiles. In these poor shelters, and in the miserable little tents (some of them about half big enough for a man to crawl into and lie down, and which do not reach the ground by about a foot and a half) the water had flooded everything. The suffering from this cruel rain that these poor souls endure must be cruel beyond words.”

Mr. Thompson writes under the same date:

“Worked early getting off the goods the Vice Consul had asked for. The Ambassador and the rest of the party, except Elliott and myself, went on shore; weather very wet and stormy. Lunched early and went on shore with Elliott, passing the ‘Connecticut’ with the Ambassador on board. Went to temporary Consulate and met Deputy Vice-Consul, Mr. Cutting, and the acting English Consul. Then Elliott and I went out to see the town, wearing our red crosses. The sights were terrible; we realize now what an earthquake means. We walked along the Marina, the former chief water-front street. It has in places sunk beneath the water level, and is full of huge cracks. Here and there we passed a house but little damaged, but nearly all have the roofs fallen in; and, curious to say, at short intervals are houses that have been utterly and entirely smashed for no particular reason that one could see. The American and British Consulates are a case in point. Italian soldiers were digging and the party from the ‘Culgoa’ working all day under the driving rain, looking in vain for the bodies of the American Consul and his wife. Constantly saw soldiers with spades passing along. The city is under martial law and we saw many soldiers on guard. A few people living in wooden shanties or among the ruins with the rain soaking in upon them. Made our way inland to the cathedral which looks, as far as one can judge, as though the façade must have been fine. The ruins of the cathedral are well guarded by soldiers, on account of the great treasure buried there. The streets around the duomo are so ruined that we climbed over debris level with the second and third floors. The presence of the dead was all too obvious at every few yards. It will take two or three years to clear what is left of the city, and I should think it was a hopeless task and that Messina must be abandoned. Some of the

remains, broken beds and chairs, tawdry candlesticks, torn dresses were very pathetic. One of the sentries stood on guard under a black silk lace-trimmed parasol. So fearfully wet we returned to the Consulate and found Mr. Griscom. About four P. M. we went down on the beach to wait for the boat. Grand and terrible storm over Calabrian coasts. Flashes of lightning lit up the shipping in the harbor and the dreary shore with its broken barrels and all kinds of rubbish. Fell in with an officer from the ‘Culgoa.’ Frightful rain and flashes of blinding lightning. When it was dark but for these, the launch from the ‘Bayern’ at last arrived with a boat in tow. The boat was cut loose, but the fool men did not know how to manage it and tried to beach it on the shelving shore over a huge iron grating. Every wave filled the boat and the men let her get broadside on and almost swamped her. To my relief Mr. Cutting was on board and jumped into the water over his knees. Cutting ordered the men to carry the bales and cases of stores ashore. The goods were full of water and some were in consequence almost too heavy to carry. Quite dark except for the lightning. I sent a man back to the Consulate for a lantern, which helped somewhat. Finally Cutting and the men went off and left me to guard the goods. When all but the heaviest were taken away I went to the Consulate, taking my officer. Found various men and we had hot coffee, which was welcome and I think saved me. My coat so heavy with water I could hardly move under the weight. Great difficulty in getting the German sailors (of the ‘Bayern’) to carry up the heavy cases to the Consulate. If Cutting had not spoken German we never could have done so. Finally got it done and started to walk about a mile to where the launch and boat were waiting for us. Weird effects! Lights of ships in the harbor over inky black water and sky. At last got launch and got to our ship. Tired out but felt better after dinner. Dreams full of earthquake and huge waves. The desolation of those hours in the drenching rain, waiting for the boat, will remain always in my mind!”

“January 10th: Left Messina about 7:30 A.M. in rain. Came over to Reggio and lay there all day. Commander Belknap heard from the Italian cruiser, ‘Napoli,’ that they wanted stores there, so we had a hard and busy day getting them out. Officers and boats came about three P.M. to fetch them. So rushed had hardly time to look at coast and Reggio, but it did not seem so badly damaged as one would expect from the newspaper accounts. The ‘Napoli’ is to distribute our stores to the small towns along the coast. Tired out and bruised by fall. Thick wet evening. At dark got all boats on board and got up anchor and went back to Messina, and lay there for the night about a mile off shore (there is no anchorage at Reggio). Woman said to have been taken out alive from debris at Messina but to have died later.”