We present an extract from Aftershock, the new novel by Liz McSkeane.
A sweeping historical novel set in 18th-century Lisbon in the aftermath of the 1755 earthquake, Aftershock is a gripping story of one of the worst natural disasters in European history - and one man's rise from the ruins of disaster to reshape a nation. It's a page-turning exploration of disaster, power, and the immense cost of restoring order in a time of national crisis.
All Souls' Day, November 1st, 1755
Bairro Alto, Lisbon
At last, the earth is still. The ground underfoot is stable and, to all appearances, calm. But for how long? And who can know what new disasters will befall this wretched city before day’s end?
A solitary figure contemplates a vista that is no more. This outcrop on the prettiest of Lisbon’s seven hills commands a panorama of the city, the mighty river Tagus and the shimmering sea beyond that never fails ‒ failed ‒ to warm his heart and soothe his unquiet mind. Now he stands rigid, immobile. The church spires, the patchwork of roofs, houses and shops that straggle down from the Bairro Alto, past the convent of Carmo towards the grand square of the Rossio below have all vanished, swallowed in a dense cloud of dust. A thick fog covers the sky, blots out the sun.
After a time, the cloud dissipates, dispersed by a north-east wind gusting in from the river. A faint outline of the city appears. Broken spires; heaps of stones piled high as the tallest building; masonry that an hour before was the stuff of palaces and convents and churches where the faithful had gathered to celebrate one of the holiest days of the year. There must be people crushed to death, buried beneath those rocks. Survivors, too, how many? And how many dead?
At last, he moves. A sharp-eyed observer ‒ were there a single soul left with attention to spare ‒ would see him reach beneath his cloak, draw out his silver timepiece (a valued gift from a well-disposed minister when he was assigned to the embassy in London) and a fine linen handkerchief, which he uses to wipe the watch face clean of dust.
A few minutes past ten o’clock. So, the third tremor ceased about a quarter-hour before. The last of three massive convulsions of the earth, a minute apart, each lasting about sixty seconds, perhaps a little more.
As the dust floats off on the wind, Dom Sebastião José Carvalho e Melo, His Majesty’s Minister of War and Foreign Affairs, beholds a vision from Hell, a spectacle that recalls those terrifying paintings created with the singular intention to display images of horror: severed limbs, half-naked victims of disaster or war trampling over corpses, women and men alike kneeling, arms raised to the heavens, intoning Aves and Acts of Contrition to a merciless God indifferent to their sufferings. The Day of Judgement. The Apocalypse.
Moving away from the edge of the outcrop, he surveyed the buildings in the immediate vicinity. About a quarter of them were down. In the western area of the Bairro Alto, things might be worse. The rua Formosa had survived almost intact and although it was too soon to know for certain, structures on higher ground had most likely suffered less devastation than those in the low-lying centre, where all the buildings around the Rossio and as far as the river looked to be destroyed.
Was the Royal Palace gone? The Opera House? The Hospital of All Saints, which he himself helped to restore after that terrible fire, years ago? A thorough inspection of the entire city would be needed. This very day, if possible. Or tomorrow, perhaps, when the threat of more tremors subsided. If it subsided. Moreover, there was yet no telling the scale and extent of the devastation, or the turmoil it had provoked amongst the people. This was intelligence that the king and his government would need in the coming days. Also: the exact time and duration of the tremors, their direction, the behaviour of the tides…
Under happier circumstances, the sharp-eyed observer might wonder at the appearance of this strange fellow, uncommonly tall, not young, who has just passed the last few minutes planted like a statue on the edge of a famous viewing spot, peering out on a cloud of black dust. Some might mock him as he trips on a loose bit of paving ‒ his wig only slightly askew but covered with dust, his voluminous cloak in the way, though offering some protection from the wind just got up from the Tagus. And is that a sword! Of what use is a sword, here, now, when there are no streets left to speak of? But this must be a person of quality, if he is indeed wearing the sword by right.
And yet. Any person who mocked him would do well to be discreet. For this man’s stillness deceives. It is a stillness that absorbs everything, understands everything, forgets nothing.
A horse would never pass through this chaos. In the absence of a clear route, the only recourse might be to walk to Belém. If it came to that, he could borrow a horse from the king’s stable for the return journey.
As he pauses for breath, a pinprick stings his forehead. A mosquito? In November? He inspects his finger. Ash. Hot ash, floating up from Rossio square. Those faint glimmers flickering through the dust, born of church candles and hearth fires, are gathering strength, making their way skywards, fanned by that spiteful north-east wind. The earth is not the only element to attack the city today.
If the streets to the west, then south, were in better condition than here, the mare might be led downhill, towards the coast road. Thence the ride to Belém was not above half an hour at a trot. He had done it in twenty minutes at a canter, many times, when the roads were dry and there was no wind.
There was no time to lose. The king must hear all, all there was to know of the catastrophe. For there was no telling what other disasters might yet be visited upon the ruined city.
Aftershock is published by Turas Press
