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,
[Illustration: STROMBOLI FROM THE “BAYERN.” _Page 121._]
[Illustration: THE AMERICAN AMBASSADOR AND RED CROSS NURSES ON “THE
BAYERN.” _Page 114._]
[Illustration: MESSINA. ITALIAN MILITARY ENCAMPMENT. _Page 54._]
[Illustration: MESSINA. ITALIAN OFFICERS AND MEN. _Page 54._]
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: