CHAPTER XVIII
BACK INTO THE STORM
The rising waters forced him again to seek safety. He struggled through them and reached dry land. He was almost exhausted. He had had no food since supper time the night before. For hours he had been exposed to wind and water. He had almost reached the limit of endurance. He staggered on, not knowing what to do or where to go. A boy scout came hurrying by.
“Where could I get a bite to eat?” asked Roy. “I’m nearly dead.”
“Go to the Red Cross headquarters in the First Presbyterian Church,” replied the scout, and directed Roy how to find the church.
Roy staggered on. He was so nearly exhausted that he could hardly make his way up to the church. Other refugees, like himself, were heading for the place. It was a sorry procession. At length the church was reached. There was food in abundance and coffee steaming hot. Roy ate as though famished. He drank cup after cup of coffee. Never had he tasted anything so good. The coffee warmed and stimulated him. His strength returned to him as he rested and ate. He watched the Red Cross women as they ministered to other refugees. He admired the cool, skilled way they did their work, the quiet manner in which they cared for others when perhaps their own homes were imperiled. The thought was like a galvanic shock to Roy. This was no place for him, this warm and comfortable church. He had a duty to perform, too. His duty was out there in the storm. And again he thought of those white faces at the windows.
Back into the storm he plunged, seeking where he might be most helpful. In no time he was at the water’s edge again. Scores of persons were still marooned in their houses. They must be gotten out or they would be drowned. The water was almost at its highest and the storm was licking up dwelling after dwelling. Roy looked about him. Four white faces were peering from a near-by house. Roy waded toward it. The water crept up around him but he gained the building. The sea had broken open a door. Roy entered, found the stairway, and went up to the terrified inmates. They were a mother and three little girls.
“Come quick,” he said, “or it will be too late.”
The children held back, afraid to step into the water. “Get on my back,” said Roy, picking up the largest child.
He went down the stairs and struggled to land. The water was waist-deep and running like a mill-race.
“Wait here until I bring the others,” said Roy as he placed the child in a sheltered doorway.
Again he waded through the flood. The water nearly swept him off his feet. He got another child on his back.
“Come,” he said to the woman. “If you do not leave at once you can never get ashore. I will come back for the baby.”
The woman hesitated. “You are risking everything,” said Roy. “We’ll all be drowned if you do not come at once.”
The woman began to sob hysterically. She refused to move. Roy was sadly perplexed. Something must be done at once. But how? Into Roy’s mind flashed the thought of his commander. He knew what Captain Lansford would do. He would compel obedience. Roy ceased to argue with the woman.
“Come with me,” he shouted harshly. He seized the woman by the shoulder and roughly forced her down the stairs. Then he seized her hand. “Come on,” he said roughly and dragged her into the flood.
Desperately he fought to get her to land. The child on his back weighted him down. The current swirled about him. He could hardly keep his feet. He struggled on, dragging, pushing, pulling the woman toward shore. A plank washed near him. He grabbed it and shoved it to his companion. The plank steadied her and she made better progress. They gained the shallower water and got beyond the reach of the waves.
“Go to that doorway and wait for me,” said Roy, pointing out the refuge of the child he had already taken ashore. He handed the child on his back to its mother. Then he turned back. This time he had to swim. The waters had risen so high he could no longer wade. He reached the house and found the baby safe on the upper floor. At first he did not know how to get her ashore. She was too little to cling to his shoulders. Something had to be done quick. He snatched a sheet from the bed, folded it, and tied the baby on his back. Then he went down into the flood, and struggling desperately, got back to land. He took the baby in his arms and leading the others, made his way again up to the Red Cross headquarters. When they got there, night was not far distant. The crest of the flood had been reached. The wind still blew at hurricane force. Roy delivered his charges to a Red Cross nurse and was about to turn away, but the woman he had rescued caught him by the arm.
“How can I ever thank you?” she cried. “If you had not compelled me to go we should all have drowned.”
Roy did not know what to say. He suddenly felt embarrassed. “I’m glad you’re all safe,” he muttered and turned away.
But he did not go back into the storm. Suddenly a great weakness possessed him. His legs refused to hold him up. He was quivering all over. He believed he was about to be sick. He sought out a warm corner and sat down. But he was not sick. It was only outraged nature taking her toll. Roy was utterly exhausted. The coffee he had drunk had given him a false strength. Now that the crisis was over he was suddenly weak and tired—so tired. As he sat in the corner, he thought over the events of the past week. Always his thoughts came back to his captain, that great, rough, rude commander. Real kindness, Roy understood for the first time, does not always consist in soft words or an easy manner. He realized that now from his own experience. He had been kind to the limit of kindness to the woman he had rescued. But he had treated her with violent roughness. He saw his commander in a new light. Pondering over the matter, he fell asleep. And for hours, huddled in his corner, he was like one dead.
Morning came. Roy awoke. He was entirely refreshed. He jumped to his feet, confused at first. He did not know where he was. Then the whole terrible situation came to him. He supposed his companions were dead. He tried to shut the memory of his terrible experience out of his mind but could not. The suffering about him weighed him down, sickened him. He could stand danger better than distress. He went outside and looked about.
The sight that greeted him was appalling. The North Beach district, where he had so lately battled with death between the houses, was a surging sea. Three great structures still stood with the waves beating about them. A passer-by told him they were a private residence, the old North Beach Hotel, and the Spohn Sanitarium. Twenty-four hours earlier fifteen hundred houses had stood where now Roy saw only tossing waves. He turned from the sight in horror. The three buildings that remained on North Beach were terribly battered. Porticoes, doors, shutters, chimneys, and other parts had been wrenched away by wave and wind. Whole wings had been torn from the sanitarium. As Roy looked at it, he saw with horror that there were people still in it—doubtless sick and helpless.
Even as he looked Roy saw a man wading out toward the hospital. He watched, fascinated. Now swimming, now wading, the man fought his way to the battered building. A white-robed nurse appeared in a doorway. Presently the man faced about and fought his way back to land.
Roy turned back into the church. “Who is in charge here?” he asked one of the Red Cross workers.
“Miss Mildred Seaton,” was the reply. “She is over there, talking to that messenger from Mayor Boone’s office.”
Roy made his way toward the two. “Miss Seaton,” he said, when she had finished her talk with the mayor’s messenger, “I want to know what I can do to help.”
“What is your name? What can you do? We need workers of all sorts.”
“I am Roy Mercer,” began Roy, “wireless man on the steamship Lycoming——”
His companion cut him short. “What we need more than anything else,” she said, “is help. All the wires are down and we can get no word out. Can you send a message?”
“Is there a wireless station here?” asked Roy.
“No.”
“Do you know of any amateur operators? I might be able to use their equipment.”
“I don’t know of any. Go to the mayor.”
She called to the messenger, who was just leaving the room. “This is Mr. Mercer,” she said. “Will you please take him directly to Mayor Boone. He is a wireless operator. Perhaps he can get help for us.”
The messenger took Roy directly to the mayor, and introduced him.
“I suppose there are some amateur operators in Corpus Christi,” said the mayor, “but I do not know of any. However, there is a shop where all sorts of electrical equipment are for sale. Maybe you could find what you need there.” He told Roy what he should say if he got into communication with anybody.
Then he turned to his messenger. “Go with this gentleman,” he said. “Spare no effort to get what he needs. Lack of communication is our worst trouble now.”
They found the owner of the shop. He had the necessary equipment if it could be gotten, but his store was under three feet of water.
“We’ll have to wade,” he said, “but we’ll take a look.”
They reached the store and crawled in through a broken show-window. They had no difficulty to find wire, although it was on the floor. Only after a long search under the muddy waters did they secure a condenser. Neither wire nor condenser was any the worse for the wetting. From drawers and shelves, some awash and some high and dry, they took one article after another—receivers, a tuning coil, insulators, some large batteries. But they could find no spark-gap.
“Have you a repair-shop?” asked Roy. “And are there tools and materials in it?”
“Yes. It’s right back of the shop, and it is flooded, too.”
“Never mind that,” said Roy. “I’m used to water by this time.”
They waded into the shop. The water was about two inches below the level of the workbench.
“Good!” said Roy. “This will do fine!”
Skilfully he cut a block for the base, sawed some pieces for posts, and drilled them and fastened them upright at the proper distances from one another. He got a short, slender metal rod, cut it in half, ground the ends into sharp points and thrust them into his uprights. It was a very crude affair, but when properly wired up would work. The difficulty now was to get a key. None was to be found. They gathered up all the tools, wires and other things they would need, and left the shop. At the railway station the mayor’s messenger secured a telegraph-key. Roy said that he could alter it a trifle so that it would answer. Then, soaked but satisfied, they carried their materials to the very highest part of the city.
There Roy was made welcome in a private residence. Rapidly he fashioned an aerial. With the help of the owner of the house he suspended this aerial between a high tree near by and a chimney of the residence. He brought his lead-in wire through a window, rapidly wired up his instruments, and coupled on his batteries. As he pressed his key, a fat spark leaped between the points of his spark-gap. Skilfully he adjusted these and turned to his host.
“If only I had a wireless signal book,” he sighed. “It may be hard to raise anybody, for I don’t know a single local call. Probably I’ll have to send out an SOS. What is the nearest place where they would be likely to have a Marconi station?”
“Probably San Antonio.”
“How far is that in a straight line?”
“I don’t know exactly. Perhaps a hundred and twenty-five miles—possibly a hundred and thirty.”
Roy looked at his batteries dubiously. “I’ll make the effort anyway,” he said. “Maybe they’ll carry that distance.”
“I hope you can get them,” said Roy’s host anxiously. “We need help badly. We especially need soldiers. Looting has begun.”
“Soldiers!” cried Roy. “Why didn’t I think of them before? There’s an army post at Brownsville. How far is that?”
“About the same distance as San Antonio.”
“Thank heaven I know their call signal,” cried Roy.
He pressed his finger to his key. Blue sparks leaped across his spark-gap. “WUZ—WUZ—WUZ,” he flashed.
Then he sat breathless and listened. Would his battery carry far enough? There was no answering signal.
“WUZ—WUZ—WUZ,” flashed out Roy. Then once more he sat tense, listening.
Something crackled in his ear. “Who is calling WUZ?”
“Corpus Christi,” flashed back Roy. “City terribly damaged by tidal wave. Scores drowned. Hundreds of houses washed away. Property loss millions. Need food, medicines, workers, soldiers. Looting has begun. For God’s sake rush help. Gordon Boone, Mayor.”
“Who is this talking?” came the reply. “Never heard of a wireless station at Corpus Christi.”
“This is Roy Mercer, shipwrecked wireless man, talking on emergency outfit for city authorities. Call ABC.”
So Roy sent abroad the news of the city’s plight, even as Paul Revere carried to every Middlesex village and farm the news of Lexington’s peril. Next morning soldiers marched into the city. Martial law was declared. Sentries were posted. Corpus Christi was safe. Other helpers rushed to the stricken community. A Red Cross relief train sped to the rescue. The Salvation Army sent workers. Physicians and nurses came. Food and supplies poured in. The stunned city pulled itself together. Workers were organized to search out and care for the dead, to clear the streets, to look after the homeless, to feed the hungry. Emergency tent camps arose. Canteens were opened. Boy scouts collected clothes, carried messages, and were the legs of the rescue work. And until telephonic communication was restored, Roy sat at his instrument hour after hour, sending and receiving messages for the stricken city.
The air and the sea brought help. An army aviator dropped thirty pounds of sorely needed yeast into the city. The flood had spoiled all existing stocks. As soon as the sea subsided, boats rushed to Corpus Christi, bearing gifts. The sea-going tug Rotarian came from Galveston, carrying money, supplies, and workers.
When Roy learned of the Rotarian’s arrival he sought her out and went aboard. The captain met him as he came up the gangplank.
“Can you tell me anything about the Lycoming or the Empress?” demanded Roy.
“Both safe in Galveston,” said the tug’s skipper. “They are pretty badly battered up, but still sound. They had an awful fight to make it. The Empress broke her rudder and the Lycoming took her in tow. Nobody but John Lansford could have done it. I tell you he’s a wonder—heart like a woman’s—courage like a grizzly—rough as barnacles on a ship’s bottom. The worst storm that ever blew—and I guess this was it—couldn’t make him desert a ship in trouble. He was darn near to port, he was, and didn’t he turn back into the hurricane and take the Empress in tow. Saved her, too. Put an oil slick down, got lines aboard of her, and had her turn her engines just enough to give her headway. His lines would have parted in a minute if he’d had to pull her whole weight. Oh! He’s a wonder all right. It was a great rescue—great!”
“Was—was anybody lost?” asked Roy, hesitating.
“Small boat’s crew, including the third mate and the wireless man.”
“And nothing has been heard from them?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“I am the wireless man,” said Roy quietly.
“The deuce you are!” exclaimed the Rotarian’s captain. “The deuce you are! Put her there,” and he shook Roy’s hand warmly for a full minute. “I’m mighty glad you pulled through. They say you did great work.”
Roy’s heart leaped with joy. At last recognition had come to him. His captain had changed his mind about him. But to the tug’s captain he said simply, “I’m glad to hear about the two steamers. I wish we could get as good news of the third mate and the others in the life-boat.”
“Aren’t they here with you?”
Roy told him how they had been lost. Then he added, “Will you take me back to Galveston with you?”
“Surest thing you know,” exclaimed the captain.
So it happened that when the Rotarian, a few days later, tied up at her pier in Galveston, Roy Mercer was the first person ashore. A single glance told him that Galveston was unharmed. The captain had already told him, however, how the sea-wall had saved the city. Roy raced down the pier and up the gangplank to the Lycoming. The first person he met was the third mate. Roy stopped dead in astonishment, then sprang forward and grasped the mate’s hand.
“How did you get here?” he cried in astonishment.
The mate told him that after he, Roy, was washed away from the others on the overturned boat, the life-boat was driven straight toward the highest point on Mustang Island. A few sand-dunes remained above the flood, and on these the crew found refuge. Two of the sailors died from exposure, for they had to stay on their tiny refuge, exposed to wind and rain, for fully forty-eight hours. Then they got across Aransas Pass, found food and shelter, and later made their way along the railroad to San Patricio, where they got a train back to Galveston. Barring the sailors who died, all were back on the Lycoming safe and sound.
Roy pressed on to the captain’s quarters. He was very eager to see him. He felt sure that this time a warm welcome awaited him. He rapped on the captain’s door.
“Come in,” said a rough voice.
Roy entered and stood before his commander. “I report for duty again, sir,” he said.
The captain took his outstretched hand. “I’m glad you escaped,” he said, “but you had no business in that small boat. Your post of duty was in the wireless house. You left me in great difficulties. There was no way to communicate quickly with the Empress. But I’m very glad you escaped.”