The launch touched the quay, and the King stepped on shore where he was met by the few city officials who had survived. The spokesman began a halting address of welcome:
“The visit of your august majesty is an honor that we shall never forget, in the name of the city—“
The King cut the good man short with an abrupt:
“Scusi, do not let us talk nonsense,” and in silence led the way to the barracks where hundreds of his brave soldiers had perished.
“Snuffed out,” Bonanno said, “or so we hope, like so many rush candles.” A few steps farther on the King met four soldiers carrying a wounded officer on a litter. The King glanced at the man and a flash of recognition lighted his face.
“Fermate!” he cried. The bearers set down the litter; the King propped the poor head, rolling helplessly from side to side, with a fragment of gray military cloak folded for a pillow, wiped the ashen face, and whispered the one brave word ever on his lips “Coraggio!”
The streets through which the King passed were mountains of rubbish, the houses heaps of ruins, the air pestilential; the fire still burned in many places, and the smell of roasting flesh was simply overpowering. The few survivors who hung about the ruins added to the despair of the scene; some crazed with hunger, thirst, despair, behaved like maddened children; they talked of their dead or lost families with the terrible indifference of the insane; their minds were not strong enough to grasp what had happened. Others, oftenest women, appealed to every passer-by, imploring help in their frenzied efforts to reach some beloved being buried under tons of masonry. A woman tearing desperately with her bare hands at a huge mass of stone it would have taken a regiment of men a week to move recognized the King; she ran as if in frantic haste, threw
MESSINA. THE BARRACKS. [Page 43.]
