MESSINA. A FUNERAL BARGE. [Page 42.]
THE KING AND THE WOUNDED OFFICER. [Page 43.]
in the “Stella del Mare,” one of the few boats spared by the tidal wave that had made total wrecks of most of the fishing smacks along the coast.
As the “Vittorio Emanuele” neared the shore those on board saw the white façade of the palazzata through the gray rain—for still it rained and always rained a fine cold rain, “not quite like any other rain,” as Rosina Calabresi had said. “Earthquake rain” I remember she called it. At first sight it seemed as if the palazzata—the splendid row of palaces two miles long, that lined the sickle-shaped harbor fronting the straits—was little damaged. As they came nearer they saw that the outer wall, with its sculptured façade of graceful reclining goddesses, was an empty shell.
“There were three shocks,” Rosina said. “One from side to side, one up and down as if the earth jumped under us, one round and round; that was the worst, the very earth groaned with the pain of it.”
These three shocks that reduced the beautiful city of Messina to a heap of ruins, lasted just thirty-two seconds! The sidewise movement threw down the side walls; then the first, second, third, fourth, and fifth floors, with all that in them lived, dropped one over the other in awful chaos to the bottom of the cellars. Along the water front high in air hung a cloud of dun smoke; for after earthquake and tidal wave came fire. That drifting smoke was the only thing in sight that moved as the King approached; it might have been the soul of Messina hanging over the dead city.
The King’s launch made its way through the harbor’s dreadful debris,—there were floating corpses everywhere,—and drew up at the heavy stone quay; here the land looked like the waves of the sea, in some places it had sunk six feet below the water, in others it had been heaved high in air. A long line of unrecognized dead had been laid out for identification; naked and helpless the poor disfigured corpses washed to and fro with the tide, while those among the survivors who had the heart and courage tried to find a name for each. Our friend the Avvocato Bonanno (he had spent the night of the 28th in Taormina and so escaped destruction) was helping make up the tragic rollcall.
“That is Maddalena, youngest daughter of Count Q.; I danced with her on Christmas Day. This is her old grandmother, yes, I am sure, I remember the little mole on her cheek. And this—might be Nina, the eldest daughter; look for an emerald scarab on her left hand. Ah, God, the human brutes!” The emerald ring, the finger it had graced were both gone, cut off by ghouls that rob the dead.