My journey properly ends at Relizane, since this is the last halting-place in Oran, the last Spanish province of Algeria. But we set foot on Algerian soil just as the first shock of earthquake had spread a panic throughout the length and breadth of the country, and I will give a page or two to that most terrible time.
Never shall I forgot our journey from Relizane to Algiers. We were happily under no apprehension about those dear to us at Algiers, as we had received telegrams from them assuring us of their safety, but every one we met had some fearful story to tell of the loss of life and property in the villages of the Metidja. We knew these villages well, having spent many days there not twelve months back; and our hearts failed us at the thought of what we were now to see in place of the peace and plenty we had seen then.
The first town within the devastated circle, Milianah, stood intact, though the prevailing panic was something indescribable. All the women were looking white and wan, some had lost friends and relatives in the Metidja, others had taken to their beds from sheer fright, a few awaited a final shock which was to be the ‘crack of doom.’ Wherever we went we heard descriptions of the terrible event, all more or less exaggerated. According to one, the Zakkar, a mountain as high as Snowdon rising to the north of Milianah, had rocked to and fro, emitting flames of fire; according to another, many houses had been split and shaken by the shock.
If the former account were true, we found the mouth of the Zakkar shut close enough, and its sides had grown marvellously green again since the catastrophe, though happening only a few days back. We walked round and round the town and saw no houses that had taken any harm. The shock was, nevertheless, awful, as we gathered from the plain, unvarnished account given us by the prefêt. He had expected at the time nothing more nor less than the entire destruction of Milianah.
The shock had been severely felt at Algiers and Blidah, but it was a little cluster of villages in the Metidja, by name, Bou-kika, Mouzaiaville, El-Affrom, and La Chiffa, that had suffered most. Our way lay straight through that village; and so recent was the calamity, and so inaccurate the accounts of it, that we set off to Algiers without in the least knowing where we could break the journey. Some people said, “Bou-kika is unharmed; you will find every accommodation at Bou-kika;” others said, “You will have to go right to Blidah, and break your journey there. Blidah is recovering itself, and you will find the hotels much the same as if nothing had happened.” A third said, “Blidah is as empty as a plundered place. There isn’t a crust of bread to be had there.”
In this uncertainty we set off. It was a superb moonlight night, and as we passed along, we saw woeful things.
We had talked of sleeping at Bou-kika, but Bou-kika was as dead and silent as if death were in every dwelling. Every one, in fact, was encamped outside the village, and a knot of soldiers, gathered round a watch-fire, guarded the deserted houses. Here the ruin had been partial; but soon we came to great, ghastly spectres of what, a week ago, had been thriving little towns—each with its church, its hotel, its shops and cafés. Here and there, above great heaps of brick and mortar, stood out a chimney, a wall, or a doorway, or, indeed, a whole house, split like a pomegranate; but the place had collapsed like a child’s cardhouse. One must tread upon the heels of an earthquake to understand what it is—the suddenness of it—the despair of it—the desolation of it.[14]
More than a hundred souls had been buried alive here; and what testifies to the paralysing nature of the shock is the great proportion of young children. Mothers were so horrified that they rushed out of doors, leaving their sleeping babies behind!
We reached Blidah early in the morning, and found the town as deserted as if stricken by a plague. The large, prosperous hotel where we had often stayed before, was shut up. The streets were silent, the shops were all closed; thankful enough were we to get a little coffee and a morsel of bread at a little cabaret before taking the early train to Algiers. All Blidah was encamped outside the town, and the long lines of tents, and the unwonted aspect of hundreds of wealthy families turned out of house and home, and shifting for themselves in the best way they could, was sad and strange. It was breakfast-time. Coffee was boiling on every little camp-fire, children were running about borrowing a neighbour’s cup or pitcher; ladies were making their toilettes as best they could; men were wandering hither and thither, smoking away their disturbed thoughts.
The Arabs alone looked unmoved. “It is the will of God,” they say when any evil happens, and they resign themselves to it, outwardly calm as statues.