Devil Storm Page 3

  “And then what’d you say, Lester?” asked Frank Buvens, who never could see when a joke was over.

  Lester winked at him. “I said, ‘Naw, Tom, I couldn’t do that—you know that whiskey’ll kill a man sure as shootin’! I don’t want the W.T.U. accusing me of corrupting our dark-skinned brethren, now, do I?’”

  All of the men laughed louder than ever at this—all but Frank Buvens, who looked mortified; his wife was president of the Bolivar chapter of the Women’s Temperance Union.

  “So old Tom’s come back, has he?” Walter’s father said quietly.

  “Looks that way,” Rupert Bland answered as the men began loading melons into the Barretts’ boat. He lowered his voice. “Lester is inclined to make light of the situation, and I’ll swear he can make a fella laugh, all right. But just between you and me, Richard, if that nigger tramp comes sniffin’ ’round my property, he’s liable to find hisself more trouble than treasure.”

  Mr. Carroll reached back and scratched the nape of his neck meditatively. “Well, now, Rupert, seems to me Tom’s nothing but a harmless old man with a cracked brain. Folks ought to just let him be, that’s what I say.”

  “Hmmph.” Rupert Bland snorted and spewed a stream of brown tobacco juice into the muddy water dockside. “You can say harmless till the cows come home—I wouldn’t trust him fu’ther than I could spit.”

  Walter felt cold all over in spite of the heat.

  I s’pose you heard he eats dogs …

  … mama was one of them cannibal Indians …

  … don’t believe a word of it myself, but there’s those that do … those that do … those that do …

  Chapter 4

  Before midmorning, great billows of gray were crowding all the blue out of the sky. The first raindrops spattered against the Carrolls’ faces as they rattled homeward in the empty wagon.

  “What’d I tell you?” Papa said, pointing at the clouds. “Red sky at morning …”

  “Yes, sir.” Walter nodded absently. “Papa—”

  “What is it, son?”

  “You s’pose old Tom might really be Lafitte’s boy?”

  His father shook his head. “Let it be, Walter; let it be. No sense worrying ourselves with things as don’t concern us.”

  “But if he’s dangerous, shouldn’t that concern us?”

  Papa spat. “Shoot, boy, old Tom’s been showing up on these beaches for as long as I can remember—probably for a lot longer than that; old-timers say he’s been coming ’round for nigh onto forty years, off and on. But I never heard of him doing anybody any harm. People just like to hear themselves talk, that’s all. I’m telling you, just let it be.” Papa stared off into space for a minute. Then he spoke again, a little more gruffly. “And there’s to be no mention of this at home, either. I won’t have your mother all upset over nothing, you hear me …?”

  Rain was coming down in torrents by the time the family sat down to the noonday meal. Little Emily was cutting a new tooth and was fractious. Mama wasn’t much better; storms always set her teeth on edge.

  “Sit up straight, Walter; I do hate to see you slouch so. I wish you could have seen my father. He was a Confederate officer, you know. Never would have caught him slouching.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Walter sighed, doing his best to oblige.

  “Alice, don’t play with your food. You’re too big a girl for that kind of foolishness.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Lightning flashed in jagged streaks out over the Gulf. Thunder boomed like the voice of God.

  Their mother shuddered. “Goodness, I’m nervous as a cat.…”

  “No need to worry, sweetheart,” Papa reassured her. “This storm will blow itself out in no time. Besides, you know we’re perfectly safe in this house.”

  Lillie fingered the black ribbon at her throat. “That’s what you always say.”

  “That’s because it’s the truth, Lillie.” Papa’s voice was patient, but it sounded tired around the edges—disappointed, Walter thought.

  “I like storms,” said Alice, slipping into her father’s lap and winding her arms around his neck.

  “I know, Punkin,” he answered gently. Mama looked away, but Walter caught a glimpse of her eyes. They were red and watery.

  Thunder rumbled again. The house shook with it. Little Emily began to whimper.

  “Come on, baby,” Mama said, picking her up and carrying her off to the rocking chair. “Don’t be afraid.…”

  Walter put down his fork. He wasn’t hungry anymore.

  As soon as the dinner things were cleared away, he ran out through the rain to the barn and climbed up to the hayloft. It was the best place in the world during a storm. Besides, he had to get out of the house for a while, away from whatever it was that was wrong with his parents. It was as if some invisible thing would spring up between them sometimes, something that sucked up all the air in the house until there was none left for anybody else to breathe.

  Walter shook the water from his hair and clothes and flopped down in the warm straw. The knots in his stomach began to come loose. The rain drummed steadily on the tin roof. Down below, Jane Long was standing in her stall like the smart cow she was. Dowling, on the other hand, might stay out in the rain for days on end and never fathom why he was getting so wet. He was dumb, even for a mule.

  Where did old Tom go when it rained? Walter wondered. The thought of the tramp gave him a creepy feeling up his spine that wasn’t really all that unpleasant now that he was safe in the hayloft. Nothing much ever happened in Bolivar; a little mystery was exciting, made his blood race, like the coming of a storm. Walter lay on his back and stared up at the underside of the roof. Pirates and slave girls and cannibal Indians danced before his eyes—why, that old man was just chock-full of possibilities! Never mind that Papa had insisted he was harmless; Papa had been known to be wrong on occasion.…

  And what of the treasure? Mightn’t there really be a treasure, after all? It was a well-known fact that old Lafitte had been as rich as Croesus—richer, most likely, what with all the gold he stole on the high seas, not to mention the dirty profits he piled up in the slave trade. Rumor had it he’d buried the lot when he got wind of the news that the U.S. government was going to run him off Galveston Island—buried it the Lord only knew where, then set his base afire and sailed away forever. Nobody could say for sure what happened to him, but it was assumed he died the bloody pirate’s death that he deserved and never got around to digging up all that lovely treasure—which meant that it was still out there somewhere, just waiting to be found.…

  Every now and again The Galveston Daily News would run an article on somebody with second sight who had unearthed a handful of old coins or a rusty trinket or two, and then for a while the price of divining rods would run sky-high, and an epidemic of treasure-hunting fever would rage. Nothing ever came of it.

  But who’s to say nothing ever will? Walter asked himself as he lay dreaming in the straw, while the lightning flashed and the thunder crackled and the rain poured just out of reach. Why, anybody might find that old treasure one day—well, sure, why not? Anything’s possible.…

  “Walter! Walter, you up there?” Alice’s shrill voice cut through Walter’s wonderings just as slick as a knife through butter. “Walter!”

  For crying out loud! Not a moment’s peace! “Here I am, Alice—you don’t have to yell so!”

  Alice scrambled up the ladder to the loft and knelt down beside her brother. She was out of breath and wet all over. Her eyes were glittery bright. “I figured you’d be out here. Everybody else is takin’ naps.” She made a wry face. “But I couldn’t sleep. You wanta tell ghost stories?”

  “Maybe,” said Walter. He sat up, smiling dangerously. “Maybe I got somethin’ better than ghost stories—somethin’ true … but I prob’ly shouldn’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause it’s liable to scare the daylights out of you, that’s why not.”

  “Come on,
Walter, tell!” Alice begged.

  Walter shrugged, picked up a straw and started twirling it between his fingers. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he began, lowering his voice. “Old Tom’s back!”

  Alice’s mouth dropped open. “No!” she breathed, her eyes wide as saucers. “Tom the Tramp? But everybody thought he was dead!”

  “Well, they thought wrong. It was all the talk down at the landing this morning. Lester Barrett says he saw him big as life.”

  “Lester Barrett?” Alice looked disappointed. “Aw, Walter, how you know it’s true then?”

  “I just know, that’s all. Think, Sister—who do you s’pose was burnin’ that campfire on the beach last night?”

  Alice drew in her breath. “Not old Tom!”

  Walter nodded darkly. “I’m tellin’ you, it’s a wonder we weren’t killed. What if Tom had thought we were spyin’ on him, tryin’ to steal his papa’s treasure? He’da murdered us for sure!”

  Alice hugged her knees against her chest. “I guess we had a mighty close call, then, didn’t we?”

  “Nobody ever had a closer and lived to tell it.”

  “My,” she murmured, shivering appreciatively. “I wish I’da seen him, though. Tell about that time you seen him, Walter. Tell how he looked.”

  “Well, I guess he was about the ugliest thing I ever laid eyes on, that’s all. There he was, walkin’ down the beach, draggin’ that old sack behind him.… You know they say he keeps dead bodies in there, case he feels the hunger comin’ on him.”

  “Weren’t you scared?”

  “Naw, not all that much, ’cause I could see the blood dribblin’ out the side of his mouth, so I knew he was just done eatin’. A headhunter’s like a lion or a bear that way—he won’t bother you if he’s got a bellyful. But if you was ever to meet him when he’s hungry, you got to offer him food right away or he’ll gobble you up in nothin’ flat.”

  “My,” Alice said again, though she had heard it all a hundred times before. “What happened then, Walter? What’d you do then?”

  “Well, I was just gettin’ ready to follow him, to see if he’d lead me to his treasure, but then Mama started callin’ for me to come help her with something, so I had to go. But I tell you what, next time just might be a whole different story.”

  Alice looked thoughtful. “Walter,” she said after a moment, “why do you s’pose it’s takin’ old Tom so long to find that treasure anyhow? Seems like if he was really the pirate’s boy, wouldn’t be any trouble atall.”

  Walter shrugged. “Likely on account of the curse.”

  “What curse?”

  “Why, there’s always a curse on pirate’s gold ’cause of the sinful way they get it. I never heard yet of the pirate that lived to enjoy himself for long—nor any of his family, neither.” Walter’s eyes shone as another thought struck him. “Course, now, if we were to find it, it’d be a whole nother thing; our blood’s not tainted, you see, so the curse couldn’t work on us.”

  “It couldn’t?”

  “Oh, no—the treasure’d be ours, free and clear. All the people it was stole from are bound to be long dead, so it’s just finders, keepers now.”

  “And then we’d be rich, wouldn’t we?”

  “Well, I should say.” Walter leaned back in the straw, his hands behind his head. “Richer’n anybody.”

  “What would you do then, Walter? What would you do if you were rich?”

  Walter closed his eyes and smiled as he imagined his mother’s face when she read the headline in the News: BOLIVAR YOUTH FINDS LAFITTE’S FABULOUS FORTUNE—WALTER CARROLL DISCOVERS RICHES BEYOND BELIEF! “Oh no, Walter—you didn’t really!” she would say, and he would laugh and say oh yes, he did, and then he would reach into the golden casket—the small one with the red velvet lining that had been hidden at the very bottom of the big chest—and pull out the most precious treasure of all, a necklace made of diamonds and emeralds and rubies and pearls and, oh, any number of nice things. And he would slip it around her neck, and she would be so proud and happy that she would untie that old black ribbon once and for all and never, ever be sad anymore.…

  “Come on, Walter, what would you do?”

  “I’m thinkin’, I’m thinkin’.…” And then he’d never have to look at another watermelon for as long as he lived. Oh no, he’d give up farming altogether and take the whole family to live in the mansion he’d buy for them in Galveston. Why, he knew the very one—grand as a castle, with balconies and towers and turrets and all.… And there’d be a sailing boat for Papa, and pretty play-toys for the baby, and music lessons for Alice, who would learn to be a lady and forget all her rag-tag tomfoolery.… And by and by he himself, Walter Carroll, Esquire, would be looking so fine and rich that Fanny Kate Vaughan was bound to pass him on the street one day and wonder who the handsome young swell might be.…

  “Walter!”

  Walter opened his eyes. They glistened in the dim light that spilled through the cracks in the wall. “Oh, I don’t know, Sister. No tellin’ what I’d do.”

  “Well, I know what I’d do,” said Alice. “I’d ride the train to High Island every blessed day, and eat ice cream at the Sea View Hotel, and never do a lick of work, and give up school altogether.”

  “Why, then you’d be ignorant!”

  “Maybe,” Alice admitted, “but I’d be so rich, nobody’d care.”

  “I s’pose not.…” Walter stretched a mighty stretch and sat up. “Listen!” he said, putting his head to one side.

  “What is it?”

  “The rain,” said Walter. “It’s stopped.”

  It had been just a baby of a storm, after all. The sunlight was blinding when they came out of the barn, the sky blue again but for some little rags of cloud that were blowing away down the beach. Every leaf stood out sharply, greener than green, dripping brightness. An unreasoning joy sprang up in Walter’s soul and bubbled over to the whole, fresh-washed world. Even Alice looked good to him. “Come on!” he shouted, and his legs began to run of their own accord. “Let’s go down to the beach!”

  And then for an hour there was nothing in the universe but the two of them and the sea and the sky, the blue, blue sky and the blue-green sea, great swells of it, rushing wave over wave, with the little fish called shiners flashing silver all through it, and the mullets leaping high above, and the gulls swooping low to see what the storm had churned up for their supper. And Walter swam like a great fish himself, all his awkwardness vanished as if by some magic in the water, while Alice knelt in the shallows and laughed, her knees making muddy valleys in the warm, wet sand.

  Off down the beach a little way, hidden from view by the sand hills, the old man crouched in the tall grass, watching. He watched the children as a cat watches a bright object swung at the end of a string, but unlike a cat, he made no move to pounce. The children played, and he watched, and that was all. The dog, Crockett, sat beside him, shivering with pleasure as Tom scratched him slowly behind the ears.

  Chapter 5

  Mr. Carroll had business to attend to in Galveston the next day. The children rode in the wagon with him down to the depot to await the arrival of the Gulf & Interstate, the two-year-old steam engine that would carry him to town. Walter had hoped to go along, as he was allowed to do every so often. Those were the finest of days, what with riding the great black train as it chugged down the peninsula, stopping to let off passengers here or pick up others there, ending up at Port Bolivar, where the railroad cars would be loaded on the barge L. P. Featherstone and shoved through the waters to Galveston by the tug T. W. Terry. And then there was the island city itself. Walter loved the noise of the wharves and the confusion of the markets—the shouting, clattering, churning wonder of it all.

  Papa never wanted to dawdle and gaze, however. He seemed uncomfortable in town, out of place, even in his best clothes. He would take his son’s hand—Walter’s face would burn with the shame of it, big as he was, but there was no escaping that iron grip; it was as if
his father thought Galveston might gobble the boy up if he gave it half a chance—and steer him through the busy streets until they reached the four-story building at Strand and Twenty-second, where Mr. Carroll did his banking. That done, father and son would ride the mule-drawn trolley as far as it went (Walter yearned after the modern electric ones, but Papa considered electricity a dangerous fad), then walk the rest of the way to the home of their Galveston relatives. Cousin Jack Carroll was a big, good-natured, red-headed fellow with a booming voice, a wife named Mary Agnes, and a whole bunch of red-headed babies that Walter couldn’t for the life of him learn to tell apart; he had counted something like three sets of twins, but they were never still long enough for him to be certain. He and Papa would eat the spectacular dinner that Mary Agnes always prepared for them, spend the rest of the evening listening to Cousin Jack’s interminable stories, and then go to sleep in beds vacated by assorted children, who obligingly doubled up to make room for their guests. The next day would generally be the first over again, but reversed, ending up with a late afternoon homecoming. Full to overflowing with so much excitement, Walter would sigh contentedly at the sight of the quiet fields and the white house on the beach, and vow never, ever to leave home again—until the next time he was allowed.

  Today was not to be one of those times.

  “I’d rather you stay here, son,” Papa had told him privately. “I’d feel better knowing there was a man at home, with these wild stories about old Tom floatin’ around. Not that I think there’s a thing in the world to worry about,” he had added quickly, seeing the look on Walter’s face.

  “Yes, sir,” Walter had said. He could hardly help feeling flattered at being called a man, but he was sorry to miss out on the trip all the same.

  “Now, Alice,” Papa went on, as the wagon pulled up to the depot, “you be a good girl and help your mother.” He handed the baby to her big sister. “And I’ll try to bring you all something pretty from town.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Alice, her eyes shining.