Devil Storm Page 14

  “No, sir, I’m sorry, I just can’t do it. Nobody in his right mind’s gonna take a boat out in water like that. It’d be the same as suicide.”

  Richard clenched his fists in helpless anger and walked away. The man was right—he knew it; all of the men he had spoken to had said the same thing. The bay was like something out of a nightmare—a great, gray caldron, seething with hostile waves.

  But what else could he do? He had to get home; Lillie would be a wreck by now. Why, she trembled like a leaf over the least little thundershower.… Poor girl, he thought, I guess I haven’t given her much of a life … working hard as she does, worrying about every little thing.…

  Two boys splashed by, pushing bicycles. “Some storm, huh, Mister?” one of them shouted, grinning all over his fat-cheeked face—a face full of freckles, just like Walter’s.…

  Richard gritted his teeth. “You boys ought to be at home!” he shouted back. “I bet your folks are worried sick.”

  “It’s just another overflow—nothin’ to worry about!” the other boy called.

  ‘Y’all go home—you hear me? Just go on home.”

  “Aw, go home yourself, Mister!” the first boy yelled over his shoulder, laughing.

  “I wish I could,” the frightened man muttered, as they turned the corner and disappeared. He stared out at the churning water. “Lord help me, I wish I could.…”

  In the beginning Tom led the way, holding Alice by the hand. Mama followed, carrying the baby; she refused to trust her to anyone else. Walter was in the rear, holding Crockett in his arms. The water was up to his thighs now. It was strangely cold for Gulf water.

  “What about the other animals?” he hollered, as they neared the barn.

  “Open the door!” Tom hollered back. “Nothin’ else you can do for ’em now.”

  Alice started to cry when they came to the henhouse. “My chickens!” she wailed. “My poor chickens!”

  “Don’t you cry, Sister!” Mama shouted at her. “Don’t you dare cry over chickens at a time like this!”

  Tom tugged her along. “Your mama’s right, Missy—no time to cry. You got to be brave!”

  “I’m brave!” Alice glared at him through her tears.

  “Good girl. You stay mad—that keep you strong, help you fight.”

  Mrs. Carroll stumbled and fell. The water had wound her long skirts around her legs, tripping her up. Tom and Walter helped her to her feet.

  “You cain’t walk in them skirts, ma’am,” Tom shouted. “You got to rip ’em off!” She looked horrified.

  “Please, Mama, you got to,” Walter pleaded. “Here—give me the baby for a minute.”

  Mama saw she had no choice. Grimly, she did as she was told.

  No one tried to talk much after that. Shouting wasted too much energy; they needed all of their strength just to keep moving, pushing their way through the water. Every step was a struggle, but at least the wind was mostly at their backs; it would have been impossible to go the other way—to face the blast head on. As it was, just staying together and on their feet was an almost hopeless task. Every few minutes, it seemed, one of them would trip over some unknown obstacle beneath the murky waves. But they managed, somehow, to pick themselves up again and again, to press on as best they could, while all the time, the storm was growing stronger.

  In Galveston at midafternoon the water was still rising. It poured into the Union Passenger Station, covering the first floor, sending all the people clambering up the stairs to the second.

  “Must be a hundred or more in here, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Carroll?” He and Mr. Milam were sitting on the floor, their backs pressed against a wall that shuddered as the wind assaulted it violently from the other side.

  “Yes, sir, I expect so.…” Richard’s voice was low. He had had to come back. There was nothing else he could do, no way to get home.

  “Now, you mustn’t be downhearted,” Mr. Milam said kindly. “Trust in the Lord—that’s what we have to do now.… Are you a religious man, Mr. Carroll?”

  “Well, sir, I try to be.”

  Mr. Milam nodded understandingly. “I suppose that’s as much as any of us can say, isn’t it? Can’t ask more of a man than that.”

  Richard didn’t answer. Maybe, he thought, I just haven’t tried hard enough.

  There was the sudden sound of splintering glass as a piece of slate crashed through a window at the other end of the room. Several women screamed; a man had been cut on the side of the head. The crowd thronged around him. Someone shouted that he was a doctor and tried to push his way through to the injured man.

  The little girls with the gilded bird cage were sitting on Richard’s left now. The smaller one began to cry.

  “Don’t cry, Judith,” the older child scolded. “You’ll frighten little Bright Eyes.”

  “But, Anne, what if the water comes up and up and up, and Bright Eyes gets drownded!” the child wailed. She was a pretty little thing—a couple of years younger than Alice, Richard judged. He hated to see her cry so.

  “That’s a mighty nice bird you got there, young lady,” he said.

  “I know,” the little girl sniffled.

  “Say thank you to the gentleman, Judith,” Anne reminded her.

  Judith hiccupped. “Th-thank you.”

  “Now, what sort of bird might that be?” he asked, though he knew perfectly well it was a canary.

  “A ca-n-nary.”

  “I see.… Seems to me I heard somewhere that canaries are fair singers.”

  “Y-yes, sir,” said Judith. She blew her nose on the clean handkerchief Anne handed her. “Bright Eyes can sing p-prettier than anything!”

  “Is that right? I’d sure like to hear that.”

  “He won’t sing for you today, sir,” Anne explained politely. “You see, he’s a little upset with the storm and the strange place and all the people.”

  Richard nodded. “I can certainly understand that. I have a few birds of my own at home.”

  “Can they sing?” asked Judith. Her eyes were nearly dry now, her hiccups subsiding.

  He chuckled. “Well, I don’t know as you’d exactly call it singing,” he said. “They’re chickens, you see.”

  “Oh, chickens!” The little girls laughed. “Chickens don’t sing atall,” said Judith. “They just make a racket.”

  “Well now, don’t ever let Sam Houston hear you say that! He’s right proud of his voice.”

  “Sam Houston?” Anne looked confused. “Do you mean the famous general?”

  “Oh, I imagine he considers himself a general, all right. But I don’t believe he’s famous just yet. This Sam Houston’s our rooster.”

  Anne looked shocked. “You named a rooster after General Sam Houston?” She shook her head gravely. “Excuse me, sir, but that isn’t seemly, is it?”

  Richard smiled. “Well, no, not altogether, but I did have my reasons. You see, the real Sam Houston was a fine man—none finer, and that’s a fact. But as I understand it, he was a little inclined to show off now and again—toot his own horn, so to speak. Well, that’s our Sam all over.”

  The little girls giggled.

  “Besides …” He lowered his voice confidentially. “I have it on good authority that the real General Sam was something of a ladies’ man—married three wives, so I’m told. One at a time, naturally. Well, our Sam has him outdone on that score—he’s had so many wives I’ve plumb lost count. We call them all Margaret, just to put a respectable face on the situation.”

  “Why Margaret?” asked Mr. Milam, who had been listening.

  “Well, you see, the real Margaret was the third and last Mrs. Houston—the one who finally managed to tame the old boy. Why, she was so good he even mentioned her in his dying words—you ever hear that?”

  No one had.

  “Oh my, yes—‘Texas, Margaret, Texas!’ That’s what he said, all right. It’s written right on his tombstone for all the world to see.” He winked mischievously. “It’s what we say every time we hav
e fried chicken—just as a sort of final tribute, you understand—‘Texas, Margaret, Texas!’”

  Anne disapproved, but Judith giggled again, and Mr. Milam laughed out loud.

  There was another crash, as a second window shattered. Wind and rain poured into the room. The crowd shifted, cried out in alarm.

  The children held on tightly to each other and looked up at Richard with wide eyes. “Do you think it will be over soon, sir?” Anne asked. “Our papa’s out there, trying to find our big brother.” There was just the barest hint of a tremble in her voice.

  “Everything is going to be just fine,” he said huskily. “This old storm’s bound to get tired of blowing pretty soon—probably before dark, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Milam?”

  “Oh, I expect so, Mr. Carroll. Oh yes, certainly before dark.”

  Anne looked reassured. Judith peered in at the canary. “Do you hear that, Bright Eyes? Don’t you be afraid—it’ll be over soon.” She tugged on Richard’s sleeve. “Tell us another story, Mister.…”

  We’ve died and gone to hell, Walter thought, and it ain’t fire and brimstone, atall—it’s wind and water and water and wind … it’s freezin’ cold and raindrops that stab like knives and waves hittin’ on you, washin’ down your throat … it’s bein’ so tired that you’d just as soon die for the rest, but you cain’t, somehow, you keep goin’ and goin’ and goin’.…

  He wondered how Tom could tell where he was leading them; Walter himself had lost all sense of direction. Everywhere he looked there was water—nothing but water.… Doubts slithered like snakes inside his brain—maybe Tom was turned around, maybe they were walking in circles, not getting anywhere.… Surely they should have passed the Buvens’s house long ago, the Vaughans’ … But then, he couldn’t see much of anything through the driving rain. Every now and again salt cedar trees would loom up out of nowhere, contorted into grotesque shapes by the wind, then vanish like ghosts into the swirling gray shroud that surrounded them.…

  Crockett had become unbelievably heavy, but Walter clung to him as if for dear life, taking comfort in his warmth, the good doggy smell of his wet fur. Besides, Mama made no complaint, though Emily must be every bit as heavy, and now Tom was carrying Alice. She had struggled mightily for as long as she could, but the water had been deeper for a good while, the swells over her head.…

  Time seemed to have stopped altogether. Every minute was an hour, every hour an eternity. There was no yesterday or tomorrow; there was only this never-ending now, this infernal, shrieking wind and water, water and wind.… No way to tell how long they had been walking.…

  Except for one inescapable fact … Walter was trying not to think of that. It was too awful to consider … but he had to consider it. It was growing darker. The lighthouse was still nowhere in sight, and it was growing darker. Please, God, let us get there before it’s black night. Don’t leave us out here in the dark—please, God.…

  Even as he prayed, the darkness deepened.

  In another ten minutes, he could barely see the others moving in front of him. In twenty, they were all but invisible.…

  A great swell hit him, and for what seemed an eternity he was under water. His lungs felt as if they would explode. Crockett struggled in his arms, and Walter let him go—maybe he would swim, be all right, somehow.… Walter tried to swim too, but he was tired, so tired.… He thought he could see William running just ahead of him, laughing over his shoulder—“You cain’t catch me, Walter—see how fast I run—you cain’t catch me!” Walter reached out for him, but William really was too fast for him now, too fast.…

  At last the wave passed, and Walter was coughing up salt water, gasping for breath. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness. The others—where were the others? He cried out frantically, but there was no answer. They couldn’t hear him, he couldn’t even hear himself over the howling of the storm … the storm that was the dark animal and Tom’s devil and all hell rolled into one.…

  And then he saw it. The light from the lighthouse, shining before him like a miracle—on again, off again, on again, off again.… And somehow William was in the light now; he had climbed up the tower steps all by himself … and now he was the light … But he was still so far away … still laughing, shouting, “You cain’t catch me, Walter—you cain’t catch me.…”

  The storm seemed to feed on the darkness, grow fat with it, until nothing was safe from its bloated fury. Mighty waves hurled themselves over the land, smashing everything in their path. In Galveston strong brick buildings toppled as if they were made of Emily’s blocks; houses, churches, steel-girdered bridges collapsed like so many matchsticks.

  The crowd in the Union Passenger Station was growing more frantic by the minute. Richard had long since run out of Texas heroes to talk about, but it didn’t matter; there were so many shattered windows now that the wind railing through them made it impossible to hear anyway. The little girls clung to him, Judith on his right, Anne on his left, too frightened to speak, or move, or even cry. Mr. Milam, for a wonder, was sound asleep. There, thought Richard, is a man of faith.

  He himself had tried to pray, but no words would come—only pieces of pictures that tore at his heart, closed his throat—Walter’s skinny arms, just beginning to flesh out a little around the muscles, Alice’s pointy chin, the baby’s ear, the small brown mole at the back of Lillie’s neck.… Mutely, Richard lifted them up to heaven, as if to say, “You see, Lord—You see.…” It was the best he could do.

  He kept expecting the train station to come thundering down around his ears any second; surely nothing made by human hands could stand such a beating much longer. The waves were leaping up so high now that their tips sprayed through the second-story windows, fifteen feet above the ground. With every wave the building lurched horribly, threatening to give way. Richard had already planned what he would do if worse came to worst—how he could take a child under each arm and try to make it to the nearest window, where they might be able to jump clear. But somehow the station kept holding together, though the storm raged on and on.…

  It was the noise that was most unbearable, the god-awful noise of the wind. It was ten times louder than any freight train, more terrible than anything he had ever imagined. He had been through bad storms in his days at sea, heard hellish winds, but never anything like this—never, ever anything like this.

  Sometime after eight o’clock there was just the hint, the barest suggestion of a lull in the wind, and a few people dared to hope, but Richard only shook his head. It’s the eye of the storm, he told himself, and he steeled himself for the final onslaught.…

  It came, sure enough, the mightiest wind of all. It shifted direction and blew vengefully straight out of the heart of the monster. Caught in its teeth, the iron roof of the station tore away with a hideous rumbling and roaring, showering debris on the people inside. The whole building trembled violently, as if shaken by a giant’s hand. Surely this is the end, he thought. May God have mercy on us all.…

  But an hour passed, and then another, and another, and instead of death, there came a great quiet. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the wind diminished. At midnight it was no more than a strong gale. By two A.M., it had stopped altogether. In the stillness Richard could hear the sound of the waves slapping against the walls without, the sound of human sobbing within.

  Mr. Milam sat up, awakened by the calm. “Well,” he said, “that’s better, isn’t it?”

  Judith looked at Richard. “Is it over, sir?” she asked.

  He nodded. “It’s over, sweetheart.”

  She sighed and buried her face in his shoulder. Her hair shone with a strange, silvery light.…

  Vaguely it occurred to him that he could actually see her hair—see everything around him, in fact, more clearly than he had seen for hours and hours.… He looked up. Through the gash in the roof, a full moon was shining.

  Bewildered by its brilliance, Bright Eyes began to sing.

  BOOK THREE

  The Lord on
high

  is mightier than the noise

  of many waters, yea,

  than the mighty waves of the sea.

  —PSALM 93:4

  Chapter 17

  Richard Carroll opened his eyes and looked straight up into blue sky. He closed them again, confused—surely he was dreaming; the sky didn’t belong inside his bedroom.… He would rest a few minutes more and then go hitch Dowling to the wagon. There was a load of melons he ought to get over to the Landing first thing.… The baby was crying. He wondered if Walter had seen to the milking yet. Emily must want her milk.… Poor little Emily—don’t cry, baby girl.… Get the baby, Alice.… Lillie, the baby’s crying.…

  No. That isn’t Emily.… Richard opened his eyes again, and this time when he saw the blue sky through the gaping hole in the station roof, he understood. He remembered. God help him, he remembered.

  He had to get home. How could I have slept even for a little while? he wondered; I have to get home.…

  Carefully, so as not to disturb the two little girls, who were still asleep, he got to his feet. One arm was numb where Judith’s head had pressed against it.

  “Good morning, Mr. Carroll.” Mr. Milam was already awake. All around the debris-strewn room people were moving dazedly, speaking in muted tones, some tending to the injured, some praying.

  “Good morning.” Richard rubbed his arm to get the circulation back in it.

  “We’re alive, praise the Lord.”

  “Praise the Lord.… Mr. Milam, I have to go now, find a boat, see if my family’s safe—”

  The old gentleman nodded. “Of course.”

  “These little girls—can you watch out for them, help them find their father?”

  “I’ll tend them as if they were my own. You go on now.”

  Richard put out his hand. “Good-bye, Mr. Milam.”