Stormy, Misty's Foal

by Marguerite Henry

  “Sure,” Paul added. “And see how Wait-a-Minute is cozying up to Misty. They’ll keep each other company. And see how calm she is, watching that ’copter. She’s saying, ‘I’ve seen big birds flapping their wings before.’”

  “Oh, Paul, I wish I could read critters’ minds the way you do.”

  “That’s easy, Maureen. You just got to be smart as them.”

  Mr. Birch, the Coast Guard man, welcomed the Beebes at the foot of the stairs. Standing there in the water he looked like a preacher, ready to baptise his flock. “Wisht everybody was prompt, like you folks,” he said as he herded them toward the helicopter, “and willing to cooperate without arguin’.”

  “We did all that afore you came,” Maureen said.

  Mr. Birch laughed. “Leave it to the young’uns to come out with the truth!” He helped Grandma up the steps and into the shuddering plane. “See, Mrs. Beebe, it’s easier than boarding a train.”

  Maureen started to follow but suddenly turned to Paul, and almost in unison they let out one cry. “Skipper! Skipper!” They both called frantically. “S-k-i-p-p-e-r!”

  Mr. Birch was shaking his head. “Sorry, children. We just have room for folks on this trip. All dogs stay behind.”

  “Put him in the kitchen, too,” Grandma offered.

  “Skipper! Here, Skipper!” The children whistled and screamed. But there was no sign of him. Only the water swirling, and the trees bending with the wind.

  “All aboard!” the pilot called out. “We got another pickup to make before dark. All aboard!”

  Likely Skipper’s drowned, Paul thought but didn’t say aloud. He got into the helicopter and took a seat where he could look out at the house. But he refused to look.

  “Fasten your seat belts!” the pilot ordered.

  “Now, ain’t this excitin’?” Grandpa yelled, as the blades overhead began whirring madly and the helicopter rose slowly off the earth and climbed straight up and up. “It’s just like bein’ in a elevator.”

  Grandma shook her head. She leaned toward the earth, taking a long last look at Pony Ranch, saying good-bye to it. Grandpa squeezed her hand comfortingly, and he looked down, too, down at the little house growing smaller and smaller.

  “Such a racket!” Maureen cried. “Sounds faster than we’re going.”

  Grandma held her hands over her ears. “Feels as if a thousand dentists are drilling inside my head.”

  “On your store teeth?” Paul grinned.

  “Oh, Paul, stop teasing. I wish . . . I wish you and Maureen was littler. If only I had a baby to hold, I’d feel braver.”

  Grandma soon got her wish. At the next stop they picked up the Hoopers and the Twilleys and young Mrs. Whealton with her squalling baby. Just as the father of the baby was about to board, the pilot poked his head out the window. “Sorry, sir. We’re full. You’ll have to wait for the next one.”

  Quickly the young man tried to hand in a pile of diapers, but a gust of wind tore most of them away and they went flying off like kites.

  Mrs. Whealton, clutching her baby, started to get out.

  “Stay put, lady. Everybody! Stay put!”

  “I’ll be along soon,” Mr. Whealton called. And before the door closed, he thrust in the remaining diapers and the baby’s bottle.

  As the helicopter took off, Mrs. Whealton began sobbing louder than her baby. The passengers looked at one another, helpless and embarrassed. All except Grandma. She opened wide her arms.

  “You just hand that little tyke acrost to me,” she smiled, “and wipe yer eyes. You kin busy yerself foldin’ the few diapers you got left.”

  Willingly Mrs. Whealton passed the baby across the aisle and into experienced hands. The crying stopped at once.

  The northeast wind shook the helicopter, but it obeyed the pilot’s stick. “We take no back talk from the elements,” Mr. Birch said to reassure his passengers.

  The plane was heading into the wind, flying low over the channel and over the long rib of sand that was Assateague. Everyone scanned the hills and woods for wild ponies.

  “I see a bunch!” Paul cried.

  “I knowed it! I knowed it!” Grandpa exulted. “They’re atop the White Hills.”

  The pilot tried to hold the plane steady, but the gale buffeted it mercilessly. Twice he circled the herd, then climbed and headed due west. The island of Assateague seemed to be sailing backward, and now they were over Chincoteague again.

  “Mr. Birch!” Maureen shouted. “Look at the people on that raft. They’re waving a white flag.”

  “I see it,” Mr. Birch answered, “but it’s a housetop, not a raft, and they’re waving a bedsheet. They don’t know we got a full load.”

  From the cockpit the pilot called back, “We’ll get ’em on the next trip. No, we won’t!” he contradicted. “I see another chopper heading this way. They’ll beat us to it.”

  Mr. Hooper, a quiet little man, said his first words of the trip. “Sky’s so full o’ whirlybirds we’re goin’ to need a traffic cop up here.”

  In spite of all the tragedy, the passengers couldn’t help smiling at Mr. Hooper’s joke.

  “Yup,” Grandpa agreed. “I can eenamost see a policeman mounted on a cloud like a parson in a pulpit.”

  But the make-believe fun didn’t last. Now they were over the big bay of water, and now they could see the wavy shore of the mainland. Slowly the helicopter came down from the sky onto a landing field at Wallops Station. A thin fog was closing in and the night lights were already on as the Beebes and Hoopers and Twilleys and Mrs. Whealton tumbled out of the plane like seeds from a pod. A gust of wind swept them into a little huddle.

  Suddenly the adventure and excitement were over. Standing there in the rain, Paul felt what he was, a refugee, homeless and cold and hungry. And half his mind was far away in a hay-strewn kitchen.

  Chapter 11

  REFUGEES

  WALLOPS STATION is on the mainland of Virginia, just across the bay from Chincoteague Island. Once it had been a Naval Air Station, teeming with activity—planes roaring off and gliding in; signal crews waving orders; officers and men, pilots and engineers, radio technicians and clerks all criss-crossing from building to building. Then the government closed the base, and for three years the buildings stood empty, like a forest of dead trees.

  But when the helicopter landed that stormy March evening, lights were blazing in every window. The whole place had come to life. Fire trucks were racing to meet helicopters, rushing sick refugees to the emergency hospital and others to the barracks and even the administration building.

  The storm was now twenty-four hours old. Wind still blowing strong. Rain gusty. Clouds low. No moon, no stars.

  At the edge of the landing strip the little clump of passengers stood huddled, clutching their blankets, staring at the yellow headlights coming toward them.

  “Which building?” a fireman called out as he drove the truck within earshot.

  Grandpa Beebe shouted back, “Don’t know. Be there a fire?”

  The driver replied with a boom of laughter, “There’s no fire, Old Timer. I simply got to ask each family if they want to go where their friends are. Climb in, folks.”

  “Hey, Chief,” Grandpa addressed the driver, “we don’t any of us know one building from t’other. But if it’s all the same to you, it’d be best to see to little Mis’ Whealton first. In that shawl she’s got the teensiest baby you ’most ever see.”

  The driver nodded. “Good idea,” he said, backing and turning and roaring away. He dropped Mrs. Whealton and her baby at the hospital, left the Hoopers and the Twilleys at one of the barracks, and took the Beebe family to the mess hall. “There’s more children here,” he explained.

  Wet and weary, Grandpa and Grandma, Paul and Maureen climbed the flight of stairs to the second floor, clutching their blankets. Paul still had the ham, now slung over his shoulder. An arrow on the wall pointed to an open door down the hall. Light streamed out and voices buzzed.

  The ro
om, half filled with refugees, was large and bright, and it smelled of wet wool and rubber boots, and fear and despair.

  “Make yourself to home,” an earlier arrival greeted them. “Just find a little spot to call your own. Lucky thing you have blankets. These floors are mighty hard for sleeping.”

  For a moment the Beebes stood looking around, trying to accustom their eyes to the light. Benches were lined up against the walls and scattered throughout the room. Most of the people were strangers to them, refugees from Nag’s Head probably, or other islands nearby. They sat paralyzed, like animals caught in a trap, not struggling any more, just numbed. Only their eyes moved toward the entrance as each new family trudged in.

  “They all look sad and full of aches,” Grandma said, searching for a place to sit down.

  “I see an empty bench,” Maureen called, and led the way in and out among suitcases and camp chairs and children.

  An old grizzled seaman in a ragged jacket came over and confronted Grandpa. He swore loud oaths to sea and sky. “Can’t believe it could happen here,” he said, pounding his fist on his hand. “Why, ye read ’bout it elsewheres . . . ”

  “Yeah. Tidal waves slam up in faraway places, but you never dream about it happening here.”

  At the far end of the room women from the Ladies’ Aid were bringing in platters of sandwiches and a huge coffee pot.

  “Take our ham over to them, Paul,” Grandma said. “Mebbe they’d like to cut it in chunks and bake it with potatoes for tomorrow. I’d feel a heap happier if I could help,” she confided to Maureen.

  When the table was readied, people began forming in line. And all at once they were no longer trapped animals. They were human beings again, smiling at one another, sharing stories of rescue. Drawn by the smell of food, a long-eared pup shot out of a blanket and ran toward the table, his mistress after him.

  Paul and Maureen joined the chase. “How’d you do it? How could you bring your dog?” Paul asked.

  “Why, he’s all the family I got, and I just rolled him up in his blanket. This afghan is really his,” the woman explained, “and he burrowed into it like a turtle in his shell. The pilot didn’t even see him. Tonight,” she added with a smile, “he’s got to share his blanket with me, for a change.”

  Maureen admired the dog, thinking of Skipper. “We couldn’t find our Skipper,” she said as she stroked and petted the little pup.

  The lady was all sympathy. “Tell me about your dog.”

  “We had a big collie right up until time to leave,” Paul answered.

  “And we got a pony in our kitchen back in Chincoteague,” Maureen spoke up.

  The woman seemed suddenly to recognize Paul. “Why, you’re the boy who caught a wild mare over to Assateague and set her free again.”

  The children nodded.

  “And the pony in your kitchen—is it Misty?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it’s Misty, all right.”

  The woman was excited. “Why, they been talking about her on the radio. Children who saw her movie are swamping the stations with calls, wanting to know if she drowned.”

  “She’s safe,” Paul said. “That is, she . . . ” He stopped. He could feel his heart throbbing in his ears. In a split-second dream he was back on Chincoteague with the ocean rolling and pounding in under the house, and with a horrible hissing sound it was breaking the house apart, and in the same instant Misty was swept out to sea until her mane became one with the spume. Paul shook off the dream as the woman called three young children to her.

  “You youngsters,” she said, “will be glad to know that Misty’s safe in the Beebes’ kitchen. And this is Paul and Maureen Beebe.”

  Wide-eyed, the children pelted them with questions. In the pain of uncertainty Paul answered what he could. Then he turned away, pulling Maureen along back to their bench. Grandma put an arm around each of them. “More folks are coming in,” she said, trying to put their world back together. “Now mebbe we’ll get some heart’ning news.”

  In a daze Paul and Maureen listened to the bits and pieces of talk.

  “Old Dick Evans died trying to save his fish nets. Got plumb exhausted. His heart give out.”

  “When we flew over, I saw how the waves had chawed big chunks out of the causeway, and six autos were left, half-buried in sand. Even one of the DUKWs was stuck.”

  “When we flew over, the sea had swallowed up the causeway. Why, Chincoteague is cut off from the main like a boat without an anchor.”

  “I heerd that a lady over to Chincoteague had a husband and two children that couldn’t swim. She swum two blocks in that icy water for help. Nearly died afore one of them DUKWs fished her up and drug her, sobbin’ and drippin’, to the Fire House. Then they goes back for her husband and kids.” The speaker paused. “But guess what?”

  “What?” someone asked.

  “Why, between whiles a whirlybird airlifted ’em off’n the roof and they thought she’d drownt and she thought they’d drownt. And later they all got together at the Fire House.”

  “See, children,” Grandma whispered, “some of the news is right good.”

  A young reporter carrying his typewriter joined the gathering. “I heard,” he said, “that a hundred and fifty wild ponies were washed right off Assateague.”

  “O-h!” The news was met by a shocked chorus.

  “Before I write that for my paper, I’d like you folks to give me your comments.” He took out a notebook and pencil.

  A strained silence followed. The reporter looked around at the tight faces and put his notebook away.

  Then the talk began again,

  “I s’pose we oughtn’t be thinking about wild ponies when people are bad off,” a white-haired woman said.

  “But what would it mean to Chincoteague,” the reporter asked, “if Pony Penning Day had to be stopped for lack of ponies?”

  Grandpa Beebe roused up. “Why, Chincoteague has took her place with the leading towns of the Eastern Shore. And mostly it’s the wild pony roundup did it.”

  “That’s what I say,” a chorus of voices agreed.

  “And if we had to stop it,” Grandpa went on, “Chincoteague and Assateague both would be nothin’ but specks on a map.”

  The reporter scribbled a few notes. Then he looked up. “Any of you hear about the man swept out to sea on a dining-room table while his wife accompanied him on the piano?”

  His joke met with grim silence. It was too nearly true to be funny.

  Grandma tugged at Grandpa’s sleeve. “Clarence,” she said, “we been hearing enough trouble. You tell the folks ’bout me and my violet plant.”

  Grandpa forced himself to smile. For the moment he put the worry aside. “Folks,” he said, “my Idy here commenced waterin’ her plants afore we took off. She give ’em a right smart nip. And then, split my windpipe if she didn’t wet down the artyficial violet the kids give her for Christmas. She even saucered the pot to catch the come-through water, and dumped that in too!”

  A young woman laughed nervously. “I can match that story,” she offered. “The sea kept coming in under our door and kept pushing up my little rug, and I took my broom and tried to whisk it away, and then I got my dustpan and tried to sweep the water into it! A broom and a pan against the sea!”

  A man, looking sheepish, said, “I tried the same stunt in my barn, only I used a shovel and a wheelbarrow!”

  The talk petered out. Then a minister got up and prayed for a good night’s sleep and for the tide to ebb and the wind to die. Gradually the people went back to their benches. One by one the lights were switched off, except for the night lights over the doors.

  As the Beebes settled down in their corner, Grandpa whispered, “Close your eye-winkers, chirren, turn off your worries, and snore away the night.” Then he got down on the floor, wrapped himself up like an Indian, and began breathing in deep, rhythmic snores.

  “What better lullaby?” Grandma sighed.

  And Paul and Maureen caught his calm, and they too sle
pt.

  Chapter 12

  WAIT-A-MINUTE COULDN’T

  BY SIX O’CLOCK the next morning the men had been outside summing up the weather, and had come in to report: “Wind’s slacked up a bit. Still blowin’ nor’nor’east. Sky’s cloudy, but no rain.”

  By seven o’clock a new parade of church ladies marched in with big pans of sweet rolls and pots of steaming hot coffee.

  At eight o’clock a Coast Guard officer, square-jawed and handsome, strode into the room. He was a big man, and when he pounded for order, the few leftover rolls jumped on their plates. “Folks,” he boomed out, “I’ve good news for you.” He waited a moment until his scattered audience finished folding their blankets and quieted down. “You’ll be pleased to know,” he announced, “that the Red Cross is coming in, bringing canned goods and a steam table so you can have nice hot meals.”

  One of the church ladies walked out in a huff.

  “And they are bringing cots and pillows, so there’ll be no more sleeping on the floor.”

  A shocked silence followed. Who wanted to stay another night? Even on a cot? Everyone wanted to get home.

  “Bear in mind, friends,” the brisk voice went on, “this is not a one-day evacuation. More refugees will be coming in.”

  “Where’ll we put ’em?” several voices demanded.

  The officer ignored the interruption. “By order of the State Department of Health, no women or children can return to Chincoteague until all the dead chickens are removed and the other carcasses, too—goats, dogs, pigs, and of course dead ponies. There could be a plague—typhoid or worse.”

  Grandpa’s arms seemed big enough to take in his whole family. “Don’t listen at the man. Ponies got sense. They’ll hie theirselves to little hummocky places and wait it out. And Misty, of course, is dry and comfortable.”

  The officer let the mumblings and grumblings die down. He rapped again for silence. “The Mayor of Chincoteague has asked for volunteers—only able-bodied men—to fly back each day to clean up the island and repair the causeway. Only able-bodied men,” he repeated, scrutinizing the group. “Will all who wish to volunteer come to the front of the room.”