Boxed Set: Deep in the Heart of Texas

by Janice Thompson

  “I’m exhausted, Pearl.” She felt tears begin to sting her eyes. “I just need to lie down awhile.”

  “Well, take the sofa, Miss,” Pearl shooed several children out of the way. “You’s been a’workin’ too hard, and you be needin’ yer rest.”

  Gillian made it to the sofa, where she stretched out for a much-needed nap. How can I relax when there’s so much work to be done, so many people to be cared for? Suddenly all of the tea parties and social events in the world seemed so pointless, so trite. If only Douglas were here. He would know what to do. He would…

  No telling what he would do. Surely his heart had not been as changed as hers. That would be asking too much – far too much. Please Lord, let him be alive. She hated to even think that way, but already news had come in of those who were in railroad cars when the bridge had gone down. If Douglas is among them, I don’t know what I’ll do. How will I go on?

  No. She wouldn’t let herself think like that. He’s alive and he’s coming home. And he would welcome their son with open arms.

  ***

  Monday, September 10th, 4:13 p.m. The Courier

  Everett entered his office after a detailed visit with Isaac Cline, the Island’s chief meteorologist. Cline had suffered terribly during the storm, far more than any had dreamed possible. He had been convinced his carefully constructed home would survive, but, like so many others, it had tipped over. Isaac had been knocked unconscious. When he came to, he located his brother, Joseph, and two daughters. Sadly, Cline’s wife, who had been expecting a child, had perished.

  Everett felt a deep sorrow for the man. Then again, he felt a deep sorrow for all islanders. They had lost so very much – and all in such a short span of time.

  Information floated about everywhere, just like debris and bodies. Depending on who you spoke with, anywhere from five to ten thousand people had perished in the storm, though they may never know for sure exactly how many. There were only thirty-seven thousand people on the island to begin with. If these calculations were correct, over a sixth of the population had perished in one night. That’s more than the loss of life caused by the Chicago fire of 1871, or the Johnstown flood of 1889. Catastrophic.

  The arduous task of collecting bodies and transporting them to sea had already begun, but not before the looting. People stole anything and everything they could get their hands on as they made their way through shops and remains of houses. Already word had reached Everett that over three thousand buildings had been destroyed, and the official tally wasn’t in yet. Whole neighborhoods had been obliterated, wiped off the face of the map. Shipping facilities were damaged beyond repair. This whole island sat separated from the rest of the world.

  Worse still, vultures stole from the corpses, themselves. Scavengers plundered everything from jewelry to bits of clothing, some going so far as to chop of fingers of the deceased in order to obtain their rings. Gruesome. Will history remember Galvestonians this way? Is this our story?

  Everett began to look over his notes from Cline, amazed at all he read. At its highest point, Galveston stood eight feet, seven inches. The storm surge, by all estimates, had reached nearly sixteen feet. A seawall could have, probably would have, saved the city—but the argument against building it had won out. The island never stood a chance.

  The death tally rose steadily and the cost of repairs would soon reach staggering proportions. Everett dropped into his chair in disbelief as he considered the inevitable. This could very well turn out to be the most awesome storm to ever strike the United States of America.

  “Telephone and telegraph lines are down and the Island is shut off from the outside world.” Everett typed frantically, sharing every detail from memory. “The bay is littered with the bodies of those who lost their lives in this titanic struggle. Steamers have been stranded in the bay, torn from their moorings. Galveston Island has lost its connection to the mainland. The bridge was ripped asunder by strong winds and high water.” He paused as he reflected on the sight of the bridge, splintered and torn. It had been an awesome, horrible revelation.

  “Richard Spillane, infamous editor of The Tribune, one of Galveston’s finest newspapers, has been chosen to carry the message of Galveston’s plight to the outside world. May the good Lord grant him favor as he carries this message.” Everett pushed aside the feeling of jealousy as he typed the words. “Spillane was instructed by our good mayor and citizens’ committee to seize any vessel in the harbor in order to accomplish this. It is just a matter of time before the whole world knows our story.”

  For once, it didn’t matter that Spillane would carry the story. All that mattered, all that had ever mattered, to be honest, were the people Everett loved.

  And suddenly he couldn’t wait to get home again.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Tuesday, September 11th, 4:56 a.m. The Murphy Villa

  Brent tossed and turned, the victim of a terrible dream…

  Restless waves pitched him to and fro as he fought with every ounce of strength to stay afloat. Won’t someone please help me? Someone? Anyone? Off in the distance, the beach sparkled white, like crystal. He stared, longing for its security. With outstretched arm, he reached – but found himself fighting the undercurrent once again. I need to get out of here. I need to get home. He began to paddle madly, working his way toward shore. Terrified, he found himself pulled out to sea once again.

  Suddenly he recognized someone off in the distance. His father stood along the shore, nibbling a sandwich and visiting with friends. Doesn’t he see me? Doesn’t he know I’m about to… Brent felt himself pulled under again and gasped for breath. Rising to the surface, he let out a shrill cry. “Help me!” He raged against the current.

  His father never even looked his way.

  A curious song suddenly filled the air. It wrapped him like a blanket and gave him the courage to continue fighting for his life. The melody rose and fell like the waves, themselves. Brent began to hum along. He realized this could very well be his only lifeline.

  He awoke suddenly to the stark smell of mold all around him, puzzled by the sound of a child crying. He sneezed three times consecutively, unable to control himself. The sun streamed in brightly through the window, blinding him, but he felt sure, at least almost sure, a child sat next to him in the bed, a little boy.

  “Mister, mister!”

  He squinted, trying to see past the streams of sunlight that wreaked havoc with his vision.

  “Mister, where’s my mama?” He looked into the inquisitive eyes of a little boy probably no more than four or five, who sat on top of his feet.

  “I, uh—” Brent tried to collect his senses. Where am I again? He looked around the room, settling the question. Home. I’m home.

  A young woman appeared in the doorway, her face aflame with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, sir.” She scurried into the room. “I don’t know how he got away from me. I really don’t.”

  She pulled the youngster into her arms and his little face lit up with the joy of recognition. “Mama!”

  Brent nodded in their direction, pulling the covers up around himself. They turned and went on their own way, and he found himself free to slip into some clothes. He thumbed through the remains of a wardrobe several years old, trying to decide on an appropriate outfit. Does it matter? Who am I dressing for, anyway?

  His thoughts immediately shifted to Emma—that nurse—the one with the beautiful chestnut curls. For some reason, he just couldn’t seem to shake the memory of their last conversation or the glare in her eyes as she tore into him.

  ***

  Tuesday, September 11th, 6:33 a.m. John Sealy Hospital

  Emma took one look at The Courier and let out a groan. “I don’t believe it.” The paper’s headline read, “A Song in the Wind—a Story of Courage and Hope.” She could not mistake Brent Murphy’s by-line below the title.

  He did it. That awful reporter took Lilly Mae’s story and publicized it for the whole world to see. How insensitive can
he be? Disgust almost forced Emma to toss the paper altogether. On second thought, maybe I’d better read it. That way I’ll know how to confront him if he dares to show his face around here again. Her eyes settled on a particular paragraph that described Lilly Mae with depth and beauty.

  She read on, pricked by Brent’s description of the orphanage, and his journey through its doors into a home of his own. Maybe there’s more to this story than meets the eye. Maybe Brent Murphy isn’t such a bad guy after all. Emma continued, mesmerized by the carefully woven tale. No. Maybe Mr. Murphy isn’t quite what I made him out to be.

  She sipped from a glass of weak tea and stared at the paper. She thought about Sadie. She worried about her parents. She wondered about Brent Murphy. She also did all she could to relieve the piercing headache that had consumed her for the last few hours. Try as she may, the pain would not lessen. The smell coming from the fires nauseated her and made her dizzy.

  She tried to drive it away with thoughts of happier things, but no thoughts would come. The headache, aggravated by lack of sleep and tension, prevented them. For days she had worried and fretted over the condition of her parents. Still no news. This is unbearable. How long can I go on like this?

  Emma turned her thoughts to her sister, Sadie, who appeared to be recovering nicely upstairs. At least, thank the Lord, she’ll be fine. There seemed to be no serious after-effects to her injuries. Thanks to a kind-hearted stranger, she had escaped death.

  Kind-hearted stranger. Emma thought of the young journalist again. She had come to see him in a different light after reading his article in The Courier. His own story of loss and gain had touched something in her heart. But would she ever see him again?

  ***

  Tuesday, September 11th, 7:53 a.m. The Academy

  Henri made her way through the Convent Academy, offering cups of water and small pieces of crackers as they became available. People of every color sat huddled together, cold and hungry, some still in a dismayed state of shock, others overcome with despair. Those with any energy at all mourned openly. Others sang their dirges, weeping and wailing until the whole crowd began to moan in unison. Their words cut through Henri like a knife, but they became familiar after some time:

  "Dere's no rain to wet you,

  O, yes, I want to go home.

  Dere's no sun to burn you,

  O, yes, I want to go home;

  O, push along, believers,

  O, yes, I want to go home;

  O, yes, I want to go home;

  An eerie sound, she had to admit, and yet oddly soothing. There seemed to be a depth to these people she had not seen before. Is it because I never took the time to know them? They knew this “home” of which. Intimately, they knew.

  Dere's no hard trials,

  O, yes, I want to go home;

  Dere's no whips a-crackin',

  O, yes, I want to go home;

  My brudder on de wayside

  , O, yes, I want to go home;

  O, push along, my brudder,

  O, yes, I want to go home;

  Where dere's no stormy weather,

  O, yes, I want to go home;

  Dere's no tribulation,

  O, yes, I want to go home.

  Many times Henri found herself caught up in the haunting melody of their song. It reminded her of Lilly Mae, the youngster who had claimed to hear angels singing over her. Perhaps she had. Perhaps she sang with them now. Just as quickly, she would push memories of Lilly Mae away. They weren’t fair, her memories. They were too fresh, too crisp. In them, the child was always healthy, perfect—so very alive.

  Lilly May. Grace. The Asylum. They’re all gone. I have to accept that. I must. Henrietta’s eyes filled with tears at the thought of her beautiful and loving friend who had given her very life to save those of the children. If only I could manage one-tenth of Grace’s goodness – what a wonderful person I would be.

  As she reflected, Henri questioned both her self and the Lord. Why should I remain here on the island? What’s left for me here? Certainly, there were those to be tended to, but couldn’t someone else fill that need? Someone of strength? Lord, I want to go home. I long for Virginia now, more than ever. I ache for my mother and father. I need them, Father. I need them.

  As the frustrated young nun continued to work, she calculated how she might go about achieving the task of leaving the island. Once the bridge to the mainland was rebuilt, she would be the first one on it. “Unless God speaks,” she whispered aloud, “I will leave Galveston Island soon and never look back.”

  ***

  Tuesday, September 11th, 11:16 a.m. Along the Strand

  Everett paced up and down The Strand, surveying the damage. He had forced himself not to look too closely at the bodies that littered the streets. For every corpse carried off, another seemed to appear in its place, washed up on shore with the morning’s tide. They were stacked upon each other like pieces of meat at the butcher shop, awaiting a final resting place.

  Within hours the burning would begin. The whole island would become an inferno of funeral pyres. It’s the only way—or so the majority of masterminds had concluded. We’ve already been tried by flood. Are we now to be tried by fire also? Everett pondered the question as he gazed at the workers. They wore rags across their faces to compensate for the odor, and they worked long and hard. Would this nightmare ever end?

  People left in droves. Most paid outrageous amounts to be boated to the mainland, but who could blame them? Even Maggie, bless her soul, had wished for an escape. She had pleaded with him just this morning to get them to Houston. “Somehow,” she had said. It didn’t matter how.

  I can’t leave. Not now, anyway, while the story’s still unfolding. Like it or not, I’m still a newspaperman, and this is my bread and butter.

  Tragedy abounded, to be sure, but in the midst of it all Everett had managed to find a few humorous stories, as well. One Galveston matron had stumbled across a cow in her parlor just after the storm. With no food or water handy, her unexpected houseguest had provided nourishment for her four little ones during those first dark days. Now that’s a story folks will love to hear. It will give them hope, and hope is a precious commodity these days.

  Hmmm. What about this one? He looked over his notes. Local pastor clings to wooden cross. This cross, once perched atop his church’s steeple, had come dislodged during the storm, floating about like a piece of driftwood. Someone it had managed to stay afloat, in spite of everything, a testament to the wonders of his faith.

  Faith—a word Everett rarely considered anymore. And now, in the aftermath of the storm, he wondered if he would ever understand such a word.

  ***

  Tuesday, September 11th, 4:57 a.m. Murphy Villa

  Gillian looked out the kitchen window and shook her head. “I wish we could send the children out back to play.”

  “In your garden, Miz Gillian?”

  Yes, in her garden. She didn’t care about that. Not anymore. Not when these children had lost so much. If my garden can’t be used as a playground, then why bother having it at all?

  “The smell would make them sick.” Pearl shook her head as she spoke. “It’s pert near killing me in here already.” She coughed for effect and Gillian smiled.

  “Well then, we’ll just have to think of something else. What about the parlor?”

  “Too many people sleeping. What about the servant’s quarters downstairs?”

  “Still too muddy,” Gillian said with a sigh. “Oh, but I have an idea, Pearl! Let’s let them spend some time in Douglas’s study. He’s got a lot of space in there and the books are high enough they wouldn’t be able to reach them.”

  “I’ll look through that old trunk in Brent’s room,” Pearl said excitedly. “He’s such a pack rat. Surely he’s still got toys in there.”

  “I’m sure of it.” Gillian gathered the children while Pearl collected tops, a colorful Roly-Poly, some cast iron figures with rounded bottoms, a circus wagon and a train set
. They met in the library, where the children spread out across the floor to play. Gillian couldn’t help but play along.

  As she did, she thought of Brent, thought of how protective she had been with these toys when he was a child. “A place for everything – and everything in its place.” She had been more conscious of the toys than the boy who played with them. This time things would be different. Gillian picked up the bright red and blue Roly-Poly and turned her attention to a little girl with soft brown curls and dark eyes.

  “Would you like to play?” she asked with a smile.

  ***

  Tuesday, September 11th, 5:53 p.m. The Murphy Villa

  Brent scribbled frantically as he fought to remember every detail, every event.

  The island’s cemeteries have been emptied of bodies, graves washed clean by the cruel waters of the Gulf. An odd mixture of fresh death and old. I have joined the others as they work to rid the island of the corpses. We have hauled them to sea, but they don’t seem to rest there. The tide washes them back. And so we offer them up as burnt sacrifices – not a task any of us finds pleasant.

  We are ghouls, covered in white soot. We spend our hours burning the bodies. The smoke, thick and horrible, covers the island. The smell is ghastly, unlike anything I have ever imagined. Survivors close their windows and doors, but cannot escape its torment.

  As for those of us who remain, we are live corpses, wandering blindly in a fog of smoke. The ashes of our friends and loved ones float through the air like storm clouds, rising and falling like the tide, itself. We wear them as a second skin.