At Civitavecchia we were received by the Sindaco, the Sub-Prefect, and the Captain of the Port; they all wore black gloves and crape bands on the arm. The general exaltation and excitement that ran like fire through Rome was lacking in the small provincial seaport; there was a sense of hopeless mourning here, more distressing than the tearing passion of Rome.
Two of our ladies disappeared as soon as we reached Civitavecchia. The rest of us, escorted by the officials, were rowed out in small boats to the “Bayern,” a fine steamer of 5000 tons, lying in the outer harbor surrounded by a fleet of lighters.
“Still taking on stores, you see,” said Mr. Stein, who had come in person to see that the goods from Rome were delivered on time. “By four o’clock everything will be on board; they will be able to start without delay.”
“This is Captain Miztloff,” said Belknap (how could he find time for everything?), presenting the big florid typical North-German-Lloyd commander.
“They tell me you shall not with us go?” said the captain. “It is a pity; we shall a moon and a fine weather have, and a good run to Messina make. Will you my quarters visit?”
His calm blue eyes, his smiling undismayed presence were comforting. Here was a man who had not been whirled out of his natural orbit like the rest of us. After we had gone over the “Bayern” with Captain Mitzloff, visited his cabin and admired the portraits of his wife and flaxen-haired children, the expedition began to look more rational, a little less out of the ordinary. His practical sober kindness was somehow reassuring. We went down to see J.’s cabin, an outer room with a good window. The familiar smell of stale sea-water brought a pang of homesickness—of course we were going to sail for America, there never had been any earthquake, it was all a bad nightmare; it was curious how the illusion persisted. It grew even stronger when a pink and white steward announced luncheon, and we made our way to the dining saloon, decorated and furnished in the usual North German Lloyd fashion. The chief steward allotted us our seats—oh, it was just like the beginning, of twenty other trans-atlantic crossings! I recognized the way the table was set, the napkins folded, the bread cut; we were going home—together.
“I shall order green goose and mirabellen—” I announced.
“You are to sit beside the Sindaco of Civitavecchia because you can talk Italian to him,” said one of the committee at that moment; the illusion vanished. I was placed with Mrs. Griscom and the other ladies of the Auxiliary Relief Committee at the captain’s table. J., already separated from me, sat with the nurses, and other assistants, Flint, Hale and Thompson, at the doctor’s table, below the salt as it were. He was under orders; discipline had begun.
Though we were all anxious and sad enough, there was a brave effort at gayety. The Ambassador proposed the health of the King and Queen of Italy in a neat little speech; and the Sindaco, a stout man with red eyes, responded with a toast to the President. He pronounced a few flowery sentences, and then speaking of the six or seven people from Civitavecchia who had escaped the earthquake and come back to their native town beggared and bereft, he faltered, burst into tears and sat down. After luncheon I found my way to the ladies’ saloon, all white and gold and blue brocade, with that faint dreadful under-smell of stale sea-water in its draperies, cushions and carpet. Here I found the nurses unrolling two bundles of stuff.
“You missed us,” said one of the ladies, “and wondered where we went from the station; this is what we were in search of.” She unrolled a piece of ivory-white flannel and another of scarlet cloth.