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 infants survive. 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 song of the sailor at the masthead broke the long silence that fell on the group.
“Today is a festa in your country.” Brofferio shook himself and pointed to the “Celtic’s” three flags and extra bunting; “a saint’s day?”