Saddle the Wind

by Jess Foley

  ‘Please – signori,’ she addressed them both, ‘– can you tell me – what is to become of the – the dead?’

  One of the soldiers was several years older than the other. He, the nearer of the two, gave a little shrug. ‘They’re to be buried. Graves are being dug. At the English Cemetery – near the port. The bodies are being taken there …’

  ‘The English Cemetery?’

  ‘Yes. They’re digging mass graves.’ He shrugged again. ‘There are so many bodies.’

  The thought went through Blanche’s mind: Marianne, to be buried in a mass grave. She could see pictures, images flashing. They were too horrible, and briefly the thought touched her that it might be possible for Marianne’s body to be taken back to England. After all, if there were ships arriving and taking people away, then perhaps … But then a second later she knew that it was a foolish thought; with so many injured to be taken away, no one would allow valuable space on board ship to be taken up with the transport of the dead.

  The young soldiers were leaning against the side of the cart (they were inured to death now) taking a brief respite from their task. Having discerned from Blanche’s accented Italian that she was a foreigner, they asked her where she was from. England, she replied. They nodded; she should go down to the docks, they said. Perhaps she could find a ship to take her home. Yes, she said, that was her intention.

  They straightened, preparing to get back to work. Briefly turning, Blanche saw that Adriana, Lisa and the two seamen carrying the stretcher had come to a halt and were waiting for her.

  ‘Oh, just a moment, please,’ Blanche said to the soldiers. ‘– Please wait.’

  They halted and she turned and pointed off to the ruins of the villa above the basement kitchen. When would they be going there, she asked them.

  They shrugged. Soon, quite soon.

  She nodded, hesitated for a moment and then began to work at her hand, trying to take off her wedding ring. When it wouldn’t come off she spat on her finger in an effort to ease the ring’s removal. After a few moments the ring was free. Holding it in the palm of her dirty hand she held it out to the soldier nearest to her.

  ‘Please,’ she urged him, ‘take it. Take the ring.’

  He frowned. ‘What for … ?’

  She gestured again to the ruined villa where Marianne lay. In the basement kitchen there, she said, there was the body of a young woman. ‘Please, please,’ she said, ‘be gentle with her.’

  The soldiers looked at her with sympathy. The elder lifted his hand and gently closed her fingers back over the ring.

  ‘No, signora – it’s not necessary. We don’t want your wedding ring. I promise you – we’ll be very gentle with her.’ He patted her hand. ‘Obviously she’s someone close to you …’

  Blanche nodded. ‘– My sister.’

  She stood there with her hand outstretched, the ring closed in her palm. The soldier, lifting his hand higher, softly touched her cheek in a little gesture of comfort. ‘Listen, signora – you’ll get over all this one day. This terrible thing.’

  He smiled at her, a grave little smile, then turned and gave a little nod to his companion. Then together, taking up the stretcher between them, they moved away.

  Wetting her knuckles she pushed the ring back onto her finger and turned and moved back over the debris to where the little procession waited. When she had joined them they set off together towards the docks.

  On arriving at the docks Blanche found the situation to be one of the most incredible chaos. Word that ships were shortly to leave the port had spread and from every direction the survivors, both wounded and able-bodied, were pouring onto the quays, walking, limping, or being carried – all anxious to get away from the scene of the disaster. Many of them were covered only in blankets, while others wore only the remnants of underwear or nightclothes. Once she had seen these quays alive with happy, busy people – seamen going about their work, porters running about with baskets or produce on their heads, tourists and other passengers arriving from an endless stream of ships coming into the once prosperous harbour. Now wherever she looked she could see only despair, anxiety and suffering. Injured survivors were everywhere, some sitting on pieces of debris, others lying on stretchers or on the bare, muddy ground. And still more were arriving at every moment.

  Walking behind Gentry’s stretcher, Blanche held tightly to Adriana’s hand as they were jostled by the surging crowds. Coming to a halt before them, the seamen set the stretcher down and one of them pointed out into the harbour where the British ship, the Blake, rode at anchor. The seaman pointed again, this time to the edge of the wharf where crowds were converging around a lighter. ‘You’ll board from there,’ he said, and then: ‘Wait here. I’ll try to find one of her crew.’

  He went off, pushing through the throng at the water’s edge, and came back a few minutes later to say that he had talked to one of the Blake’s crew and that there was still a little room on board her if they didn’t wait too long. With his words he and his companion bent to take up the stretcher again. As they did so Blanche said quickly. ‘Wait – please –’ and she turned to Lisa who stood looking lost and afraid. Taking Lisa’s hand, Blanche turned back to the seamen. ‘This young girl has to get to Catania, to her family. I can’t just leave her here.’

  Straightening, one of the men indicated another steamer that lay at anchor a little further to the south. ‘You want the Piemonte,’ he said. ‘She’s an Italian ship and bound for Catania.’ Turning, he cast about with his eyes for a moment and then yelled to a tall, burly seaman who was passing, and who at once came hurrying through the throng. ‘This young girl has to get on the Piemonte,’ said the first sailor. Without wasting a moment the newcomer nodded and reached out for Lisa’s hand. ‘Come with me, young lady,’ he said kindly. ‘I’ll see you get on board.’

  Lisa looked nervously from the seaman to Blanche. Speaking in Italian, Blanche quickly reassured her. ‘Go with the signore, Lisa,’ she said to the girl. ‘You’ll soon be home again.’

  Lisa nodded, her eyes shining with relief, and stepping to Blanche she threw her arms around her neck. ‘Goodbye, signora.’ Then, with a swift goodbye for Adriana, she turned and, escorted by the sailor, was hurried away through the crowd.

  ‘Now,’ said one of the remaining seamen, ‘we must be quick about it. The Blake’ll be weighing anchor soon. And she’s about full as it is.’ With his words he and his companion bent and took up the stretcher again.

  Blanche had never had experience of a crowd such as that which swarmed over the quays at Messina that morning. Of those that were not desperately trying to get on one of the ships that were leaving, there were many who had come simply in search of provisions, and they hurried about crying out for bread, water and clothing.

  Forcing her way through the mêlée and holding tightly to Adriana’s hand, she followed in the wake of the two sailors as they bore Gentry’s stretcher onto the wharf off which lay the Blake.

  As she and Adriana moved towards the edge of the crowd that seethed over the wharf she suddenly found herself confronted by a man who stepped out in front of her and grasped her roughly by the shoulders. Covered in mud and dirt, his rags of clothes hung about his bent form as his fingers dug into her flesh and his mouth opened in a wide, humourless grin. It took a moment for her to realize that it was Edgardo.

  ‘Signora!’ he cried out, and pulling her towards him clasped her in a hard embrace. ‘Signora, signora!’

  ‘Let me go!’ Screaming at him, Blanche struggled to free herself. But she could not, and she felt herself being lifted up and then swung around in some kind of crazy dance while he sang odd snatches of a popular song, his voice cracked and wavering in his insanity. Then, putting her down, but still holding her tightly in a vice-like grip, he leaned towards her and asked: ‘Where is signor Alfredo? Where is he?’

  Blanche had no opportunity to answer. Even as he finished speaking he was releasing his hold on her, and, turning, bending to Adriana, wa
s snatching her up. Then, with the child shrieking in his arms he was turning and dancing away.

  Blanche leapt at him, screaming, clutching at Adriana. And all the while it was happening the people milled about, unconcerned, caught up in their own problems of survival. Edgardo, now on the edge of the wharf, turned on the spot, evading Blanche’s reaching arms, keeping Adriana out of her grasp. Then, breaking away again with the child held in his arms, he started off across the quay.

  As Blanche tried desperately to prevent his escape she suddenly found that there was help at hand. To her indescribable relief a tall British sailor, his attention drawn by the action and Blanche’s cries, suddenly appeared and, barring Edgardo’s way, reached out and took the child from him. Moments later the sailor was at Blanche’s side, Adriana safe in his arms.

  Blanche told him that they were to board the Blake, and the man said sharply, ‘Then you’d better hurry up, lady.’ He tipped his head towards the wharf. ‘The lighter’s just about full. I don’t know if there’ll be room for you.’

  Turning, he hoisted Adriana high in his arms and moved to the crowd. On its edge he said sharply to Blanche, ‘Hold on to my belt.’ And she did so and the next moment he was moving forward, thrusting his way through the dense throng.

  It was a struggle but they came at last to the water’s edge where the crowded lighter was moored and a few last passengers were hurriedly being taken on board. There was a feeling of great nervousness and tension in the air as the last few anxious evacuees were helped down into the boat as it rode gently up and down on the swell of the waves. A number of armed sailors stood guard at the wharf’s edge, standing between the vessel and the general crowd, preventing the more desperate from pouring onto the boat and swamping her as they were in danger of doing.

  Already the large, flat-bottomed barge was packed to bursting with survivors lucky enough to have been granted a place. They stood or sat in every available space, while in the centre, cheek by jowl, lay several stretchers. Blanche’s anxious eyes saw with relief that Gentry’s was there among them.

  As she stood nervously behind the sailor at the wharf’s edge, her heart thudding in her chest, the air around her was filled with a cacophony of wails and cries coming from the other desperate survivors clam-ouring to be allowed on board. Blanche felt sure that the only reason she was being allowed on the lighter was because she was English. She didn’t care. Standing beside their protector, the young English sailor, she watched as he held Adriana out in his arms and she was taken into the arms of another sailor who stood in the barge. The next moment Blanche herself was being helped down from the wharf. Then she and Adriana were standing holding one another in the crowded boat. One or two other passengers were helped on board and then to a chorus of protests from the wretched people on the wharf, the men were casting off and the boat was slipping out into the water. She turned, looking into the crowd to seek out the figure of the young sailor, at least to call out her thanks to him, but already he had melted into the crowd at the water’s edge.

  Some minutes later when the lighter reached the Blake the passengers were helped from it onto the gangway and up onto the deck of the ship. The survivors on stretchers were the last to be brought on board, and Blanche, with Adriana beside her, stood watching, anxiously waiting for Gentry’s stretcher to be lifted up and carried onto the deck. But then at last he was there, his stretcher carried by two sailors and set down at a spot near the ship’s rail where several other stretchers had been placed. Holding Adriana tightly by the hand, Blanche pushed through the throng to Gentry’s side. She got there just as a young medical attendant from the ship was bending over Gentry, lifting his eyelid and peering into his eye. He turned to Blanche as she and Adriana came to his side.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘I am English.’

  He gave a grave little smile then looked down at Gentry. ‘You’re with this gentleman, are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He nodded, looked into Gentry’s still face. ‘He looks as if he’s concussed, is he?’

  ‘I – I think so, yes.’

  ‘How long has he been like it? Since the quake?’

  ‘No – it happened later. Yesterday evening.’

  The man sighed. ‘Well – let’s hope he’ll be all right. At least he’ll get some treatment once you get him to Naples. How about you? Are you all right? And your little girl?’

  ‘Yes, we’re all right. We were lucky.’

  ‘Lucky … Yes …’ He nodded, then: ‘You’re all going back to England, are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ll be put in touch with the British consul at Naples. They’ll help you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He shrugged. Turning to Adriana he said: ‘Are you hungry?’

  She nodded.

  He touched her gently on the cheek. ‘We’ll bring you some food in a minute. Be patient.’ With a little smile at her and then at Blanche he straightened, turned and moved away.

  Blanche crouched beside Gentry and looked into his still face. He lay perfectly still, only his regular breathing showing that he was still alive. At the edge of the bandage the blood had dried in his hair. She put her hand to his grime-covered cheek, gently stroked it. She called his name two or three times, but he made no response, gave no sign that he had heard. The terrifying thought came to her that perhaps he would remain unconscious; she had heard of people remaining in comas for days – eventually dying without ever regaining consciousness.

  She closed her eyes for a moment in a little gesture of despair. When she opened them again she found Adriana looking into her eyes, her gaze shadowed with concern. ‘It’s all right, darling,’ she said. ‘I’m all right.’ She patted a corner of Gentry’s blanket. ‘Here – come and sit down. Get some rest.’

  Adriana sat down on a corner of the blanket that covered Gentry. Blanche straightened and stood at the rail. Every inch of space of the deck around her was taken up with survivors. There were hundreds of them, injured and uninjured, standing, sitting and lying over all the decks.

  Sounds of commands among the ship’s crew rang out. Beneath Blanche’s feet the deck gave a little shudder. She felt relief pour over her as slowly the Blake began to move. She stood looking out over the water, and over the swarming quays to the scene of destruction beyond. The view of the city as it lay in front of her was a wide panorama of complete and utter devastation. In whichever direction she cast her eyes she could see nothing but ruin; wherever she looked she could not see one building standing whole.

  Beside her a little old woman wrapped in a blanket murmured to no one in particular, ‘Messina is finished. Messina is finished.’ Blanche silently nodded agreement. The Messina she had known for that brief space of time was gone for ever.

  The ship with her melancholy cargo moved slowly out of the harbour, each second leaving the devastation further behind. Gone were Messina’s luxurious hotels – not only Gentry’s hotel, the Metropole, but also the Victoria, the Trinacria and the France. Gone were the factories; gone were the theatres, the Vittorio Emanuele and the Munizione. Gone was the Civic Hospital, its patients calling out for their nurses as the walls had collapsed around them. Gone the university, the convent of San Gregorio, the museum of the Castel Durante, the Bank of Italy, the American consulate, the Municipal Palace, the Central Station. And in that once prosperous city of some 112,000 souls, over 80,000 had perished, while a similar number had died in Reggio on the other side of the Straits and in the surrounding towns and villages.

  As Blanche looked back towards the shore she saw a large crowd of crazed survivors attacking one of the customs buildings which still stood partly intact, breaking down its doors. She looked away.

  The ship moved out of the harbour, past the sickle-shaped tongue of land on which stood the lighthouse and where lay the remains of the Cimitero Inglese – the English Cemetery, where bands of soldiers were to be seen at work, digging. And the thought went th
rough Blanche’s mind: Marianne will be buried there today … She tried to close her mind to the thought; there would be a time later for remembering …

  As the shore receded with its view of the devastation growing more and more indistinct there were no sounds of jubilation; there were no words or cries of relief from the passengers who huddled on the decks. For the most part they lay or sat or stood in silence, gazing dully ahead, only the occasional moans of the injured breaking the melancholy silence.

  Turning from the rail, Blanche looked down at Adriana where she sat on the blanket at Gentry’s side. Adriana had not asked again for Alfredo, but it would be only a matter of time before she did. And then Blanche would have to give her some kind of answer. But perhaps, she told herself, news of Alfredo’s death might not come as such a dreadful shock; for Adriana as for everyone else in the devastated city, death and destruction were the norm.

  From Adriana, Blanche’s glance moved to Gentry. He had nothing now. His factory had gone. As had his hotel. All of it reduced to piles of rubble. As had Alfredo’s properties. All gone. Totally destroyed along with everything else in the city.

  Moving on from Gentry’s still face, Blanche looked around her at the other passengers, and she realized dully that there was no way of knowing who had been rich, who had been poor. Now for the most part they were all the same. Men who had once been millionaires now sat side by side with those who had had nothing; hardly any of them now were able to claim more than the blankets or ragged clothes that covered their nakedness.

  How transitory everything was, Blanche thought. One could spend a lifetime searching for some kind of security and it could be lost in a moment. Could nothing material be depended upon? In a single night a whole city had been wiped out, and along with it the happiness and hopes and fortunes of thousands upon thousands of people had been destroyed. And so many dead. She thought again of Alfredo. And it seemed now that perhaps she could understand him. Ever since she had known him he had been constantly driven to recover what, through his lack of ability, he had lost. And his desperation had wrought changes in him that had almost destroyed him even before the wave had taken him.