the young clerk who helped me so much, has been in my mind all day.
After we left the Preffetura, Pietro went to Messina and married. He had
a good position as an _impiegato_. We have all been anxious about him
since the earthquake. The other day my brother-in-law, walking through a
hospital at Naples, heard some one call, ‘Signor Rudolfo!’ He went up to
the bed the voice came from, but the patient was so bandaged he did not
recognize him. ‘Don’t you know me?’ the man cried. ‘I am Ceccatiello.’
‘We feared thou wast killed,’ said Rudolfo, and put out his hand to take
Pietro’s. The poor fellow held up two maimed swathed stumps. Then he
told his story: after the earthquake Pietro found that he, his wife, and
child, though little hurt, were buried, _sotto le macerie_, three metres
deep. They could not make themselves heard; they could find nothing to
dig with. With his two naked hands Pietro dug his way out of that living
tomb, saved his wife and child. His fingers were literally worn away.
The hands had to be amputated at the wrist, with one foot that had been
crushed.”
We sent Pietro three hundred francs of American money. The messenger who
took it to him warned us not to give money again to those in hospitals,
but to wait rather till they were discharged.
“The miserable one in the next bed to Pietro, who was quite as badly
hurt, wept because I had no money for him--_invidia_ (envy)!”
I told Vera and Patsy Pietro’s story that evening. Vera’s jewelled hands
flashed as she hid her face in them.
“I can’t bear it!” she cried, as if she felt the loss of Pietro’s hands
in hers. “What was that you said to Rosalia--‘look forward, not back’?
Remember the English verse Athol taught us.”
“The inner side of every cloud
Is always bright and shining,
And so I turn my clouds about
And always wear them inside out,
To show their silver lining!”
“Right!” cried Patsy, “look for the silver lining. If every cloud had
one, it’s this that darkens Italy!”
Let us turn the cloud about, dwell no more on Italy’s anguish
unparalleled, but on the silver lining, the love and help her sisters
lavished upon her. If we dwell most upon our country’s share, it is
because we know more of it--not to set it above the others.
The minutes of the meeting of the Ladies’ Auxiliary (I was the
Secretary), held January 9th, contain this entry:
“Mr. Parrish gave an account of an interview with Signor Nathan, the
Syndic of Rome, who expressed the opinion that if the American Committee
had a considerable sum of money at its disposal, it could best be
invested in buying lumber and building houses in the devastated
districts.”
That was the seed,--a good seed that bore fruit. By far the most
important work done by America for the earthquake sufferers was the
building of these houses in the devastated districts. In this enterprise
our Ambassador proved worthy of his high office, of the great trust
imposed upon him; from the moment the plan was decided upon, he devoted
every ounce of energy to furthering it both at home and abroad. The
details of his work do not properly belong to those outside the magic
circle of diplomacy; his was a labor of Hercules--only the old Greek
hero had seven labors, and the young American, seventy and seven. He was
fortunate in having Captain Belknap to carry out the practical part of
the work.
It was to help Belknap that J. left his studio, the terrace where the
tromboni were blowing their golden trumpets, and the bees from the
priest’s hive hummed in and out the wall flowers. Patsy and I stayed in
Rome, worked for our _profughi_, played with our flowers. The Andalusian
carnations, sent from Spain by our friend Don Jaime, were an intense
interest. It seemed at first they would die; with the first touch of the
March sun, they took heart of grace and decided that life was worth
while, even for an Andalusian transplanted to Rome.
Ignazio’s bills had been growing heavier and heavier every month; he had
not grafted the promised number of _innesti_ on the roses; there were
other small grievances. In a moment of exasperation I resolved to put an
end to these things. I surprised him early one morning as he was
changing the earth of the big azalea; he was on his knees, patting the
rich brown loam about the roots.
“Ignazio,” I began firmly, “the time has come when we must part.”
He shook the earth from his slim fingers, sprang to his feet, agile as a
faun, and fixed me with his clear hazel eyes.
“_E vero?_ This is a fount of sorrow to me! Where might your Excellency
be going?”
“It is not I who am going.”
“_Si capisce!_ The Signora will soon join the Signore? Let her be at
ease; everything will go on as if she were at home. Behold the primole
the Signora has asked for these many years! They are not a garden
flower, therefore it was extraordinarily difficult to obtain these wild
things. With infinite labor I got them from the _guardiano_ of the Villa
Caprarola, where they cover the hills like a weed.”
This was my last attempt to part with Ignazio; whatever else is
fleeting, he is permanent. To cover my defeat, I changed the subject and
asked him what he knew of the Sicilians.
“I am from upper Italy, a Sienese; I have naught to do with those of the
south; I do not say there are not brave people among them but they have
too hot blood. They all go armed too, even the women; I have proof of
it--” he glanced half consciously at a scar on his wrist; when he spoke
again an odd note of resentment had crept into his voice, a shadow into
eyes clear as a forest brook. “We who have nothing but our two arms--or
at best a little _gingillo_ of a knife, so long, what can we do against
them? Nothing! It is best to keep away from them, to have nothing to do
with them--enough, I have said it!”
VII
BUILDING THE NEW MESSINA
“_Un soldo! Eh! Signore, un soldo!_” The brown boy, naked as the day he
was born, threw up his right arm with that graceful gesture of asking
that makes it hard to deny the Neapolitan beggar anything.
“Give me the valise, Signore; there is no danger of its getting wet,”
said Antonio, the boatman, an old friend; J. knew him by his gold
earrings and the red scar on his cheek.
“_Un soldo!_” the boy implored. J. tossed a coin into the water; the boy
dived for the money, caught it before it was ten feet below the surface,
and came up snorting like a young grampus, the _soldo_ in his cheek, his
arm raised in that irresistible gesture.
“_Basta!_” cried Antonio, bending to his oars. There is war to the knife
between him and the diver, a share of whose profits he demands. “To the
American war-ship, Signore? Off to Messina again? I would not go in your
place!”
The boat shot out from the Immacolatella and past the small steamer
bound for Ischia, while J. counted his packages. They were pursued by a
boatload of musicians, singing “Santa Lucia.” From the shore came a
whiff of fried fish, just enough to whet the appetite.
“The ‘Celtic’ is close in shore, I believe,” said J., “I suppose I must
give you a franc.”
“Four miles at least, Signore.” Antonio paused in his rowing; “To
another it would be five francs, but we are old acquaintances, let us
say three.”
In six minutes they were alongside the “Celtic,” anchored less than half
a mile away. It was already seven o’clock when J. came on board. He was
received by his chief, Captain Belknap, then turned over to the care of
the ship’s doctor and made welcome by the officers at dinner in the
ward-room. Later he was introduced to Captain Huse, in command of the
“Celtic,” then took a few turns up and down the deck, just to make sure
that Vesuvius was in his old place across the bay, that the sleeping
Queen Capri still slept on the face of the waters; by four bells he was
ready to sleep. The doctor showed him where he was to bunk. There were
already four of them in the “sick bay,” up among the Jackies; not that
any of them were ill, but because it was the only corner on the ship
where there was a place to stow them. Belknap had written Captain Huse
that he and his man were quite prepared to rough it and, if need be,
could sleep between decks. The “Celtic” is a U. S. supply ship carrying
about one hundred and forty men, and bow and stern guns; her officers’
quarters are small, but somehow Captain Huse made Belknap’s party very
comfortable. J.’s bunk was in the sick bay, along with Lieutenant Allen
Buchanan, Ensigns Wilcox and Spofford and Dr. Martin Donelson, all of
our navy. The rest of the party (thirty-four petty officers and enlisted
men from the U. S. S. “Scorpion”) were stowed in different parts of the
ship; the chart-house was assigned to Belknap.
They all slept well. The next morning, as there was only space for one
to dress at a time, J., the last comer, lay in his berth waiting his
turn. He heard a familiar voice outside, and caught a glimpse of Hugh,
the Yeoman, squatting on the slippery iron deck, talking with a
machinist come on board that morning to join the Messina party.
“We was to Suez on the ‘Culgoa’ long about the end of December,” Hugh
was saying, “when we got a message from Roosevelt to get up steam and
push through to Messina, and give them all the food and clothing we
could spare. We had a thousand loaves ready when we sailed into that
Lord-forsaken place! We let it down to ’em in nets. We been hanging
around these parts ever since.”
The machinist asked a question. The Yeoman’s answer was energetic:
“Sure! Didn’t you know? Roosevelt is sending out wood to build three
thousand houses for these Eyetalians, and we’re the Johnnies that’s
going to build ’em. Did you ever hear the likes o’ that? Ain’t he a
wonder!”
Later in the morning J. went on shore with the doctor, in search of
sheets and towels. He was much chagrined that he had not brought his
own, and I that I had not sent them--we shall know better next time.
They left Naples that afternoon, and early the next morning (the 22nd of
February) the “Celtic,” her white sides shining, her rigging gay with
bunting in honor of Washington’s birthday, sailed through the Straits
and into the harbor of Messina. As they approached the Faro, the
officers gathered on the poop deck. Belknap’s keen eyes, sailor’s eyes
that see so much more than others, scrutinized the water-front.
“Things are waking up!” he said. “There’s a schooner taking on a cargo
of lemons! That tramp steamer is discharging lumber.”
Half a dozen ships lay in the old harbor of Zancle, unloading all manner
of building materials. Yes, trade had come back to the indispensable
city, as it always has done after every earthquake since the one that
frightened Ulysses and the Greeks of his time; the ancients made stories
and myths about that earthquake that still delight us. Ulysses landed in
Sicily, you remember, with twelve of his men and entered the cave of
Polyphemus, a terrible one-eyed giant who tended his giant sheep on the
slopes of Mt. Etna, the burning mountain that stood over the workshop of
Vulcan; you can see the smoke, sometimes the fire of the smithy, coming
out of the hole at the top of the mountain to this day. The giant
killed and ate six of the adventurers; he would have killed them all but
for the crafty Ulysses, who made the Cyclops drunk and while he slept
put out his single eye with a red-hot pole. Then Ulysses and his six
remaining companions concealed themselves under the bellies of the giant
sheep; and so, when Polyphemus let out his flock to graze, they escaped.
(I myself have seen this adventure pictured in an ancient sculpture at
Palermo.) When the Cyclops found his prisoners were gone, he roared with
anger and pursued them, hurling great rocks after them; but being blind
his aim was not good, and three of the boulders fell into the sea, where
you can find them today by Aci Castello. One has a round hole like an
eye, through which the sunlight shines as it once did through the single
eye of the Cyclops. All this means that some Greek sailors “in the dim
red dawn of man” really were caught in an earthquake and were so greatly
frightened that their descendants not only made myths and legends about
it, but remembered it.
Centuries after, when Theocles, the Greek merchant, drew up his little
fleet of vessels on the
[Illustration: TENENTE DI VASCELLO ALFREDO BROFFERIO. _Page 223._]
[Illustration: LIEUTENANT COMMANDER REGINALD ROWAN BELKNAP, U. S. N.
_Page 223._]
[Illustration: REGGIO. WRECK OF RAILROAD. _Page 151._]
[Illustration: STREET IN REGGIO. _Page 133._]
long sandy point that runs out into the sea below Taormina, and founded
Naxos, the first Greek settlement in Sicily, they still talked about the
troubles of Ulysses. The real danger of the island, these early
adventurers said, was not the Sicans--they were a quiet agricultural
people, no match for the clever Greeks--but Polyphemus, the
Laestrygones, and Hephaestus. They were right; Sicily’s real danger now
as then is the terrible volcanic force, to account for whose havoc the
ancients created those dear giants and monsters, the Cyclops, the
Titans, and a hundred others.
In the lovely crescent-shaped harbor that once was called Zancle
(sickle), then Messana, now Messina, two large deserted fruit steamers
lay swinging idly at their moorings. When there was so much for ships to
do, it was strange to see these splendid freighters idle.
“To whom do they belong?” J. asked. Alfredo Brofferio, Tenente di
Vascello, an Italian navy officer, detailed to help Belknap in his work,
answered:
“To three little children. Formerly they were owned by a great firm. The
partners were all killed; of their families only these infants survive.
The ships may lie there till they rot--who knows if they will ever get
up steam again?”
The “Celtic’s” great anchor splashed in the water, her cables sang as
they slipped through the hawse-holes.
“Do you see that house?” Brofferio pointed to a mass of ruins on the
Marina. “I lived there with my Signora and our children for two years.
On the 22nd of December, six days before the earthquake, I was ordered
away to sea. My wife decided to remain in Messina. ‘We are so
comfortable here,’ she said, ‘the climate suits the children.’ So it was
agreed. The night before I was to leave, there was a slight earthquake
shock, but a mere nothing; we had often felt worse. I thought nothing of
it. Women, however, feel things that we cannot--my wife said to me:
‘This is a warning; tomorrow morning the children and I will depart with
thee for Naples,’ her very words. A sailor’s wife makes long journeys at
short notice; we all left together. If she had not been so wise--“
Brofferio’s steady blue eyes grew troubled, “you see? Not one who lived
in that house is alive today!”
“The Flying Dutchman sailed away, oh yes, oh!
He tried to enter Table Bay a hundred years ago!”
The song of the sailor at the masthead broke the long silence that fell
on the group.
“Today is a _festa_ in your country.” Brofferio shook himself and
pointed to the “Celtic’s” three flags and extra bunting; “a saint’s
day?”
“Why, yes!” said J.; “you may call it so. Three years ago today I went
down to the North End (Boston’s Little Italy) in search of Parmesan
cheese; an Italian grocer at the corner of North and Cross Streets sells
the real kind in solid nubbles, hard as a brickbat, not that paltry
grated stuff in bottles. As I passed the Catholic church, I saw a poor
Italian woman trying to get in. She knocked, pounded, even kicked the
church door; but nobody paid any attention. Then she took off her
_fazoletto_--from her dress she was Abbruzese--spread it on the church
steps, knelt, folded her hands, and began to pray:
“‘_O Santo Washingtone mio, non hanno aperto la chiesa_’ (O my Saint
Washington, they have not opened the church!), her prayer began. You see
she added Saint Washington, the patron of her new country, to her
Calendar of Saints; she had come to say a prayer, perhaps light a
candle to him, but the church, open on all other saints’ days, was
inexplicably closed on this!”
A boatload of Italian naval officers and port officials now came on
board to offer the usual courtesies; Brofferio explained to them the
reason for the “Celtic’s” three flags and extra bunting; soon after this
all the Italian navy ships in the harbor hoisted their masthead flags.
“You see?” said J., “they too are celebrating the _festa_ of Santo
Washingtone!”
“And the weather?” Brofferio asked an Italian officer, “always the
same?”
“You may say so! Per Bacco, this is the fifty-sixth day since the
disaster; on forty-five of these blessed days it has rained as in the
time of the deluge!”
“The Quartermaster reports a steamer standing in towards the harbor,
flying the American flag and a white pennant with the words:
‘Headquarters of the U. S. Carpenters.’”
When he heard that, J. ran for his kodak, just in time to photograph the
“Eva,” the first American lumber ship, as she dropped anchor close in
shore.
[Illustration: AMERICAN VILLAGE, MESSINA. GRAND HOTEL REGINA ELENA.
_Page 237._]
[Illustration: ARRIVAL OF THE “EVA.” _Page 226._]
[Illustration: AMERICAN VILLAGE, MESSINA. FRAME OF FIRST HOUSE. _Page
230._]
“Gosh!” said Hugh, the Yeoman, scanning the “Eva’s” decks, “there are a
couple of Boston cops aboard. Wonder who they’ve come for?” The American
Carpenters’ uniform was very like the Boston policeman’s.
With the arrival of the “Eva,” we began to see the tangible results of
all that telegraphing between America and Italy, the Ambassador’s
despatches, Mr. Hooper’s appeal to Boston (never appealed to in vain),
Mr. Parrish’s correspondence with Mr. Taft, President of the American
Red Cross. They had not let the grass grow under their feet at home;
when they understood that wood and building material for houses was what
was most wanted in Italy, our people, acting through Congress and
through the American Red Cross Society, “came up to the scratch” nobly,
gave with two hands and never counted the cost. Here was the “Eva,” the
first timber ship, as a living proof. No time, no expense, had been
spared in fitting her out; as she lay alongside the dock in New York,
the stevedores worked day and night, in double shifts, loading her with
the good sweet-smelling Carolina pine. There was but one bitter drop in
that cup; the “Eva” was a British steamer--when, oh, when shall we do
our own carrying by sea?
Wednesday, February 23rd, though a drizzling rain was falling, the work
of discharging the “Eva’s” cargo began at seven o’clock. Ensign Spofford
was in charge of the men. He had a dozen “Scorpions” to help him
discipline the shrieking, gesticulating mob of Sicilian stevedores and
carters. The precious lumber, tools, glass, roofing paper, hardware, all
the priceless materials for the American Village must be guarded from
the poor homeless Messinesi, who thought they were only taking their own
when they helped themselves. That first rainy day the task must have
looked long and hard to officers and men. Belknap, fearful of demurrage,
just touched them with his restless spur--it was enough, more than the
rowelling of another--and they sprang with ardor to their task. The
carts for transporting the lumber from the Marina were of every
description, from gay little painted _carretti_ to lumbering ox wains.
The beasts of burthen included mules, carriage horses, saddle horses,
infinitesimal donkeys. The carts must needs keep within hailing distance
of each other, for the Viale San Martino, leading to the site of the
future village, was a slough of despond, a sea of liquid mud. The poor
animals floundered, the wheels sank hub deep in the dreadful mire. Time
after time the beasts from three or four carts must be hitched to a
wagon stuck in the mud.
The motley stream of carts, each under the guard of a “Scorpion,”
crawled at a snail’s pace from the Marina, up the Viale San Martino, to
the Valley of the Mosella, a lemon grove on the outskirts of the old
city. The site assigned to the Americans (as beautiful a site as heart
could wish) was on the farther side of the Torrente Zaera, a deep water
course. At the Valley of the Mosella--usually called the Zona Case
Americana--Lieutenant Buchanan, Ensign Wilcox and two American
carpenters received the lumber. The Americans watched the leisurely
Sicilians unload the first two carts.
“At this rate,” said Buchanan, “we shall pass the rest of our lives in
Messina. Here, all you Scorpions!” Then followed an object lesson those
Messinesi never forgot.
“Half a dozen of our sailor men,” writes Belknap, “led by Dougherty, the
gunner’s mate, ran up and took possession of one of the carts; they
tipped the load off sidewise in three shakes. The natives looked on and
gaped a bit, but they took the hint and we had no further delay of that
kind. Sometimes our sailors were even able to infuse into their gangs
the spirit of a regular coaling-ship hustle.”
Later Belknap had the happy thought of presenting each carter with a ten
_centesimo_ piece at the end of every trip; it was wonderful how many
more trips they managed to make after that. In a few days a contractor
was found who furnished a set of fine solid carts, drawn by beautiful
red Sicilian oxen; the work now went on rapidly. Friday night,
forty-eight hours after the “Eva” hove in sight, the first American
portable house was put together, and the frame of the first cottage was
set up.
Gasperone, who found J. out the very day he reached Messina, hovered
about the neat little yellow cottage with its green blinds, well-fitted
doors and windows, its convenient handles and latches. He felt the even
clapboards, rattled the handle of the door, tried the hinge of a
shutter; then, running both his hands through his mop of hair,
exclaimed:
“It’s a miracle! Piff, paff, two taps of a _martello_, and behold, a
house!”
Saturday the rain, that till then had come in fitful showers, settled
into the regular earthquake downpour to show what it could do. It was
impossible for the carpenters to work under this deluge.
“Belknap didn’t let a little thing like that stop him,” writes J. “He
put the Americans to work and in ten hours built the great workshed,
sixty-four feet long, where from that time on, rain or shine, work was
always going on.”
The different members of the party were now working with the regularity
of the cogs of a well-oiled machine. Brofferio was busy making those
official visits to the civil, military and naval authorities, which did
so much to make everything run smoothly; from the first Brofferio knew
no other duty than to serve the interests of the expedition to which he
was attached; in this way he could best serve his country. Here, there,
always where he was most needed, was Belknap. He and his men were from
first to last smart in their dress, as if they had been on duty at
Annapolis; that was one of the great lessons they taught the
demoralized Sicilians. Neat, well set up, clean shaven, with
spick-and-span linen, the Americans did their work, the work of giants
it seemed to the slow Sicilians, and never for one moment was their
discipline relaxed.
The chart-house of the “Celtic” became a sort of Box and Cox apartment.
By night Captain Belknap slept there; by day J. stood at his
drawing-board and worried out the plans for America’s part of the New
Messina. His letter diary, written on odd scraps of paper, gives little
flashes of side-light on the enterprise. On the 22nd of February he
writes:
“I have just had breakfast; the coffee with rich American cream is a
dream. I am having a glorious time designing a hotel. Tomorrow the ship
arrives with the first lot of houses to be put up here. Mr. Billings,
representing the Massachusetts Committee, (interesting man), and those
two delightful men from Taormina, Bowdoin and Wood, that I met before,
lunch on board.
“February 23rd: The first American timber ship, the ‘Eva,’ is dropping
anchor at this moment close by. Tomorrow the real rush will begin.
Everything is all so new on board a ship like this that I enjoy it
thoroughly. I am treated like a king. I have been designing a little
outside kitchen, a very primitive arrangement; I hope it will work.