“What have you to say about it?” said Vera, looking at J.
“I would rather have had this letter than a big commission; we may start any day. You will see the Q.’s? Bonanno is sure to ask news of them,” J. went on.
“Let’s go now,” said Vera. “The Q.’s are far the most interesting of yourprofughi.”
There was still time before sunset, so Vera and I, escorted by Patsy, started to walk to the Q.’s. We crossed the Tiber, pausing on the bridge to watch the soldiers, maneuvering the big awkward pontoons on the river above, the part that makes the curve of the S. It was a gorgeous afternoon; the air was golden, sparkling, full of life.
“‘How tenderly the haughty day fills his blue urn with fire!’”
“‘How tenderly the haughty day fills his blue urn with fire!’”
“‘How tenderly the haughty day fills his blue urn with fire!’”
Patsy quoted. “I bet that was written in Rome!”
On the Lungo Tevere a young officer passed, riding a spirited bay.
“Look out!” cried Patsy warningly. Vera, startled by the prancing horse, sprang aside; the officer saluted.
“It’s Philippus!” I cried, as the bay danced along sidewise like a skittish crab.
“Whoever he is, he ought to give that beast more work and less corn!” Patsy flicked the dust the bay had kicked up from his sleeve.
“No matter about the dust; he’s alive! We shall all be dust soon enough.”
Patsy left us at the gate.
Although there was a nip in the air, we found old Count Q. in the garden.
“Babbo sits out whenever he can,” said Rosalia, oldest of the Count’s seven remaining daughters. “Since the earthquake he knows no peace within.”
When I told them J. was going to Messina, the Count’s drawn face changed; he began to sob pitifully. Rosalia, a faded beauty with tragic eyes (she had lain beneath the ruins oftheir house at Messina for twenty-four hours), put a finger to her lips.
“Speak not of Sicily, I pray!” she whispered, “though in truth he thinks of nothing else. He dreams each night the house is falling.”
The Count is seventy years old, and paralyzed. His house was destroyed with his oldest son’s next door. For days he heard his son’s voice and his little grandchildren’s calling for help. They were buried so deep that when help came it was too late. One of the granddaughters was the girl of the emerald scarab ring Bonanno told us of.
“How goes on the sewing?” I asked Rosalia.
“Famously; a thousand thanks for the machine. All the cotton is made up. The parents now sleep between sheets; we others shall have that luxury soon.”
The Countess and her daughters had worked early and late, making bed linen and underclothes of the cotton cloth sent by our committee. I asked Rosalia if there was any message for Bonanno.
“Tell the Signor Avvocato that we are more fortunate than many—God has sent us friends,” she said. “Would the Signore havethe infinite kindness to carry him a little notepaper, of the most miserable kind, a few envelopes? His last letter was written on a bit of paper torn from the wall. I am sure he has done everything—but if he would write tomaminaand set her mind at rest—tell her the graves are marked, that she will know in which each of them lies—Nonna, Maddelena, Nina?”
“All this shall be related to theavvocatowithout fail. Courage,remember, look forward, not back!”
“Altro!It is what I most desire.” Rosalia fought back the tears. We left her, smiling bravely, at her post beside the poor old paralyzed father.
“Did you ever see a handsomer family?” I asked Vera as we walked away. “Rosalia is still fine, the next four are pretty as pinks, the two youngest real beauties. Which is that at the window? I can’t tell them apart.”
“Not since they’ve begun to smile? That’s the youngest, Beatrice—watch for the dimple when she laughs.”
“Wherever did she get that smart toggery?”
“Some of you soft-hearted Americans! Shewas lovely in her big black hat, the latest fashion. Can any of them do anything to earn money?”
“They could not earn acentesimoamong them all. The Count owned a lot of valuable real estate in Messina; they lived on their rents. In the end something surely will be saved; you can’t wipe out real estate. Such pretty girls are sure to marry.”
“If you had only seen it all, you would understand—it’s chaos! It will take years, a generation perhaps, before things can be straightened out. Meanwhile ‘it is not always May.’”
“But Beatrice and the other little one—They are lovely!”
“Beauty is a poordote—young kittens soon make old cats! No,cara mia, they have no chance. You Americans can’t understand: you are still primitive. The American carries off his wife as the Indian his squaw. You are at the natural selection stage.”
“Well, we have been—“
“The man assumes the responsibility of the woman’s support?”
“As a rule!”
“It’s bad form for a man to ask a dowry or allowance from the girl’s father?”
“The unpardonable sin.”
“I know; my brother married an American. Her father gave her an allowance, but when she died he never offered to pay her funeral expenses—his own child. We thought this unfeeling—dreadful! Americans tell me it probably never occurred to him.”
“We think it is far better for young people to make their own way,” I maintained.
“The parents who bring a child into the world,” Vera argued, “especially a female child, are responsible for her support. When she marries, they are bound to settle the largest sum upon her they can afford. They must make a sacrifice for their child.”
There is a sort of finality about a disaster like the Q.’s that we Americans can hardly conceive of; with us failure so often spells success. If a young man’s father is ruined, we say of him (we are beginning to say it of his sister)—“This gives him a chance to show the stuff he’s made of!”
After leaving Vera I went back to the terrace, to watch the sun set over Mons Vaticanus.Ignazio was there before me, grafting a new American Beauty rose on the stem of the big Banksia.
“You have three sisters, Ignazio,” I began. “You have told me your father is dead.”
“And in Paradise, I trust, this long time; I have not grudged masses for his soul.”
“A good son! How did he leave his money? Did your sisters have dowries?”
“He divided his money into two parts—my mother already being in glory. A little more than half he left to me, the only son. That was right, for so the greater part of the property remains in thecasa paterna. The other half he divided between my three sisters. The oldest went into a convent; it was her wish, you understand. Her share was paid just as if she had married. The second espoused avigneroloand invested her money in a new vineyard; they have prospered. The little one, Teresina, would go to the convent, where was Maria, the oldest. But that one, she is intelligent, fine, very fine, sent Teresina a letter—God knows how she managed it—telling her on her life not to come to that convent. Soon Teresina found a husband, a baker; he has agood business. Teresina has given him plenty of mouths to feed, three boys and five girls. That is better than a convent. Yes, I believe in the good God, Signora; I am not a free mason, nor an anarchist, but I think a girl can serve Him as well in the world, and far more pleasantly, than in a convent.”
“You have a daughter?”
“With respect, I have four. No convent for them; it is worse than a prison! If my daughter went to a prison I might see her again; but to a convent, never—it is finished.”
“You will give your girls a good dowry.”
“I am a poor man, times are hard, that fellow Cesare, my assistant, is a thief—the Signora knows it—but something I shall do for them.”
Poor Rosalia, poor Beatrice! Who would “do” for them? As Vera said, the Q.’s were my most interestingprofughi. That good Samaritan, Miss Jane Sedgwick, found them soon after they came to Rome. When she first saw them, they were living in one dreadful dark room; the whole family sat like statues of stone around that dismal hole; the old Count’s dreadful sobbing was the only sign oflife they gave. A pitiful smile dawned on the mother’s face when Miss Sedgwick drew out a fifty-franc bill. Here was a visitor who did more than ask questions and write down answers, a committee that committed itself—recklessly perhaps, but effectively—that justified itself not by its statistics but by its work.
On the twentieth of February, J. departed with his chief, Captain Belknap, for Messina, and I was left to devote myself to myprofughi. Before he started we went to take leave of Mr. and Mrs. Griscom; happily we found them at home.
“Don’t you need a suit of clothes?” her Excellency asked J. as she gave him a cup of tea.
“I need several; most of mine have been given away.” He glanced at me. “I must make out with what’s left though—I don’t look too shabby for Messina?”
“The idea! It’s only that—I have a tailor—he makes really very well—I thought you might order a suit—“
“Do, I beg!” interrupted the Ambassador. “That Sicilian tailor has made me six suitsalready—I can’t use any more—he makes too well—they’ll never wear out!”
“How is your plumber doing?” asked Mrs. Griscom.
“Not so well as your tailor. He can’t follow his trade in Rome; if I could only send him to America, where plumbing is a fine art and takes the place of bric-a-brac!”
“And the new baby?” How could she remember that Lucia Calabresi had a baby!
Though aching to go to Sicily, Patsy remained in Rome to help me with myprofughi. I had some of my “cases” from Countess Pasolini, some from Miss Noble Jones (her brother, our old friend Wallace Jones, was once Consul at Messina), others I read of in the papers. Patsy was studying counterpoint with a professor of music, Dante with a professor of literature, Arabic with a professor of Oriental languages—all late of the University of Messina.
“The professors and schoolmasters are having the roughest time of all,” he declared. “The devil and the lawyers look after their own. Theavvocatosand themedicosall over Italy have organized to help their fellows—butthese poor teachers!” He had just ferreted out a new professor and family. “They receive one franc and a half a day from the general committee—that keeps the breath of life in ’em—but the father, the only one capable of earning asoldo, has to stand in line and wait for hours every day to draw the money. If you could have seen their room! I spent those two hundred francs on chairs, beds and blankets. ‘Who gives promptly, gives twice,’ Mr. Parrish says. Isn’t he a corker? Don’t let ’em get discouraged—that’s his argument; it’s the delay that breaks their hearts. Those who have the stuff left in them ought to be kept hard at work, nose to the grindstone.”
Mrs. Griscom’s Ladies’ Auxiliary was the best committee I ever served on because it had the least red tape. Like the old vigilantes of the West, it was created for an urgent need, lived a short life with the maximum of work, the minimum of talk. My colleagues, Mesdames Samuel Abbott, Winthrop Chanler, and Nelson Gay, worked each according to their lights, meeting with the Ambassadress from time to time to compare notes and vote supplies. The work was quietly done, with little fuss orfeathers. Everysoldowas well spent, and passed direct from the treasury to the sufferer. Jane Sedgwick and Luella Serrao were my right and left hand (Luella is the widow of our dear Teodoro, for years the lawyer of the Embassy, always the friend of the Americans in Rome), Patsy was my flying Mercury, Elinor Diederich took the Q.’s and otherprofughiunder her wing.
Luella had a patriarchal family from Bagnara in her care, an old man and woman with a screed of children and grandchildren. She had been telling me about them one afternoon as we were walking together; just as we turned out of the Piazza Venezia, into the Via Nazionale, a clear voice hailed us:
“Mia grande Signora!” Luella, delicate as a windflower, paused. A great gaunt woman, wearing a black kerchief over her head and a quaint short skirt, stood before us. She touched her fingers to her lips; then with the graceful Oriental gesture stooped and touched the hem of the “grande Signora’s” garment, and passed on.
“That was Sora Clara from Bagnara,” Luella explained. “She was discharged from the hospital yesterday.”
We were now passing the fine old palace of the Preffetura. “How well I remember coming to see you there!” I said, looking at the stern façade, “when the Prefect had that stroke of apoplexy. It was said the nursing of his American daughter-in-law saved his life.”
“Strange you should speak of that!” said Luella. “Pietro Ceccatiello, 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 animpiegato. 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 notmake 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 cloudIs always bright and shining,And so I turn my clouds aboutAnd always wear them inside out,To show their silver lining!”
“The inner side of every cloudIs always bright and shining,And so I turn my clouds aboutAnd always wear them inside out,To show their silver lining!”
“The inner side of every cloudIs always bright and shining,And so I turn my clouds aboutAnd 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 theplan 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 ourprofughi, 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 ofinnestion the roses; there were other small grievances. In a moment of exasperation I resolved to put an end to thesethings. 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 theguardianoof 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 littlegingilloof 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!”
“Unsoldo! 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, thesoldoin 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 witha 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 whitesides 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 tothis 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
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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 infantssurvive. 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 Flying Dutchman sailed away, oh yes, oh!He tried to enter Table Bay a hundred years ago!”
“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 afestain 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 herfazoletto—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 Calendarof 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 thefestaof 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.
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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 dropin 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 paintedcarrettito 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 thecarts; 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 tencentesimopiece 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 amartello, 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; thatwas 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 rushwill 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.
“February 26th: I got up at six o’clock this morning and went ashore for the first time since we arrived. I have been drawing the plans for the houses, making working drawings and tracings, and literally have not had one moment to call my own. I made a photograph this morning of the first house, one of the forty-nine portable houses Massachusetts sent. I don’t want to quit this job till it’s finished and it’s only just begun. In a way it’s much harder work than the ‘Bayern’ because it’s head work. I have had to design an hotel two stories high, to remodel entirely the plans sent from America—a difficult task—to design a church on a primitive plan. The high altar end is to be in a little house but the main body of the church is to be roofed in only, no sides. I have in mind the ‘only place where the cannibals are!’ Do you remember the great shed in the Midway Pleasance at the Chicago World’s Fair, where the King of Dahomey sat? Chanlerturned up this morning, lunched on board, and left this afternoon for Reggio with his little band. I was glad to see him, but quite glad he didn’t stay as that would have meant one more in our cabin, and we can only dress one at a time. I had to make a set of drawings for Chanler to take to Reggio to show the General; but after I hadswattedfor an hour and a half to get them finished for him, he went off and forgot them. Rome seems like a dream; I feel as if I had always lived on board ship!
“February? I think this is the last day of the month. I know it is Sunday, but all days are alike and all go so quickly. I literally have no time for anything unless I steal it as I am doing now. I never felt so sorry for architects before. It seems to me I have made hundreds of drawings (of course I haven’t) and all of them have to be changed either by the prefect, the Capo Ingegnere, the captain, or the carpenters; but it’s all in the day’s work. One cannot make such a good showing, however, when one drawing after another is either altered or discarded. I am sitting down to write this—the first time I have sat down, except to eat, since I came aboard. The sailors squat on thedeck and write letters, using their knees as a desk. It looks all right but, as the decks are made of iron, one’s feet will slip away from one. Letter day on board is a sight to be seen. Remember that post cards have a peculiar fascination for sailor men, who haven’t been home since Lord knows when, many of them; we shipped a lot, forty or so, who were on their way home from the Pacific cruise, and brought them here. It’s blowing great guns, and all the ships are strengthening their moorings to keep from being blown into their neighbors. Hugh has just looked in to bring me a letter from you. Captain Belknap is in a hurry to get the hotel design finished. Most of the changes that are made are to save wood, so as to have enough to build with; but if rafters, composts, floor-beams, studs, and even sills, are cut out continually, a day’s work soon disappears in respacing them. I hope you will carry out your plan of coming down to Taormina. The hotels are all closing for lack of business, sending their guests to one (‘The Timeo’), and even that is not half full. You ought to see Sicily, you ought to get some idea of the earthquake’s work, for no matter how wild your idea may be, it will be tame beside the real thing. Wood and Bowdoin are at Taormina, working like slaves to relieve the villages between here and there—they suffered fearfully—and you could see and do much. We have had quite a lively time since I began this. It is blowing a gale and things are happening. Our anchor lost its hold and dragged until we were not more than six metres from the bows of the steamer alongside of us. I didn’t know anything out of the way was happening till I heard quick commands and sailor men running; when I looked out and saw they had sent the steam launch over to an Italian man-of-war with a hawser, which was made fast on board of her and the other end was hauled in by the donkey engine, and we were pulled away just in time to prevent a collision—how they did it all without my assistance, I can’t quite make out! They are getting over another anchor now for safety’s sake, and they will probably need it as the wind seems little inclined to quiet down. It’s very warm here; I haven’t worn my overcoat since the first day. I doubt if you will be able to see much of me if you come, butthey will probably let me come to Taormina for a day. In about ten days we go ashore and live in the first twelve houses, and this ship goes away. The ship’s doctor went ashore and found a spring of water up a hillside near the camp, and it will be brought down in breakers every day, in a dear little painted donkey cart like the one I brought you from Palermo, and not so much bigger. The first bag of mail, sent on to Messina by the ‘Scorpion,’ was returned by the postal authorities here, hence the long delay in hearing from Rome.
“The next day, U. S. S. ‘Celtic,’ Messina: Nothing has happened since I wrote you except one rather severe earthquake, which I thought was the ice machine. I am making drawings for the whole outfit, and duplicates to send to various places where our wooden palaces are desired. I am at this moment supposed to be making three tracings and an entirely new scheme for an hotel. One is entirely worked out, with four bathrooms, capable of putting up a hundred people or more, with a great big dining-room and restaurant, thirty by forty feet, with all the kitchen quarters. I try to keep copies of the plans for you, but they aresnatched away from me, naturally enough, as soon as they are finished. I am to have my innings in building the duckiest little kitchen you ever dreamt of and a whole carpenter to help me. Chanler blew over yesterday and lunched with us. In the evening he left for Naples on business; he returns in a couple of days; they all adore him.
“‘Celtic,’ next day: Chanler blew back from Naples at seven o’clock this morning, and went back to Reggio about an hour later. He is looking awfully well and is full of business. I am sending a film to the photographer to be developed of the first portable house, and another of the work-shop and houses in course of construction at the end of the first week. It has rained a great deal and Hooper’s rubber coat has been of immense use to me—tell him when you see him, and do show him the photos.
“March 6th: Mr. Bicknell, of the Red Cross, came today with his secretary, anavvocato, Donati by name. A Roman, of the real old Roman type, he looks like that bust in the Vatican, the one you always say is so modern—just like the sort of man who takes you in to dinner.
“Wednesday, March 9th: I don’t know how much longer I stay—if I see it through, it will be the first of May before I get away. I am terribly rushed as I have to get out a set of drawings for Queen Elena, of the houses we are to put up at her village. That is to say, I am arranging where they are to go. I took the Duca d’Ascoli, the Queen’s gentleman-in-waiting, over the land at the Villaggio Regina Elena yesterday. I am trying to get the drawings done for the Queen, and translating employment forms, and things happen every minute as well. I am well and happy and working like anything. The hotel is accepted. The Queen wants me to make designs for a schoolhouse for her; and I am trying to do it, but there are usually anywhere from two to four people in the chart-house, and I get my elbow poked just as I am almost successfully through an ink drawing.
“U. S. S. ‘Celtic,’ March 11, 1909: It’s 8.45A.M.Belknap went over to Reggio this morning at seven and doesn’t get back till lunch time, and I have a great stunt before me. Saturday we go out to live in our first batch of twelve houses, which are finished. The watersupply comes from a mountain stream, away above where the town supply comes from. It has been analyzed by the doctor (who goes with us) and piped by the ‘Celtic’s’ plumber to the camp. The work that has been undertaken is simply immense. The houses are spotting themselves over the surface of the earth, like flies on sticky fly-paper, as thick and fast. Yesterday was a tremendous day; I had to get out the hotel plan for the engineer, to give our estimate of how much wire would be needed for electric lighting of it, and the Duca d’Ascoli took off at five o’clock a bundle of drawings for Queen Elena; and all the time I was being joggled and jostled by people coming in and out, and many of them staying in the chart-house. I cannot imagine where you got the idea of cold. I wrote a long time ago that I had never had occasion to wear my overcoat since I came down, and it’s been very much in the way in these cramped quarters. Bill o’ the Bilge’s rubber coat has been my greatest boon; though I have sweltered in it, it has kept me dry. Twice we have had dinner on the quarter-deck; we did last night. Captain Huse gave a dinner for the Duca d’Ascoli, the