Mouthfuls of saltwater choked her. She clutched at anything and everything as she fought to keep her head above water. The current pulled her under again to face the darkness. The salty water stung her eyes and nearly blinded her. She squeezed them shut. Another thrust sent her topside, gasping for air, screaming at anyone who might be listening. “Help me! God, help us!”
The weight of the children roped to her pulled her in every conceivable direction. The speed of the thunderous current picked up, pulling her under once again. She gave herself over to it. She felt herself being pulled out, out, out....
Out of the window and into the night.
Chapter Twelve
Saturday, September 8th, 6:13 p.m. Along The Strand
Brent fought the rushing current with slow, unsteady strides. His legs grew numb, his breathing labored and painful. The force of the water proved overwhelming at times. Even a man with super-human strength could not fight it. For every step he took toward town, he found himself pulled back that much further. Brent clung to anything that might keep him steady. Most everything slipped through his hands and plummeted downstream.
“Help me! Please!”
He turned to find a young woman, clutching a telephone pole for dear life. She couldn’t be very old—maybe thirteen or fourteen, and clearly in bad shape. Her dress was badly torn and her hair, wet and matted, was covered in blood.
“What’s your name?” Brent hollered against the shrieking wind. He reached to free her from the pole, pulling her into his arms. She willingly released her hold and cascaded into his embrace – a limp rag. Once there, she shook uncontrollably, but did not answer. The poor thing seemed to be disoriented, dazed. He tried again. “What’s your name?”
“S...s...s..ad..ie”
“Sadie?” He held her tightly, fighting the push of the water. She nodded, and her eyes began to roll back. “Hang on, honey.”
The young woman slipped into unconsciousness as he spoke. Fighting the wind and water, Brent struggled up to the highest point he could reach. He lost his balance and nearly fell on two occasions. Remarkably, he made it to shallower water, where maintaining control became a welcome possibility.
He held the young woman tightly as he took a moment to catch his breath. He looked one way, then the other – completely unsure of his direction or location. She lurched out in pain in his arms and Brent knew he must get her to the hospital. But how? Surely someone would come along in a boat soon and rescue them. There must be men out there – waiting, wanting to help.
The young woman went limp in his arms and for a moment he couldn’t tell if she had stopped breathing. She gasped suddenly and he knew she stood a fighting chance. He had to get her to the hospital, no doubt about there, but he must pause to rest a moment first. Several long blocks lay between him and John Sealy Hospital. Would the trip be futile?
Did Galveston Island even have a hospital anymore?
***
Saturday, September 8th, 6:15 p.m. John Sealy Hospital
“Chloe, how are you doing?” Emma asked, genuinely concerned. The woman labored silently, her eyes glued on the window, where flashes of lightning continued to light the place with its fervor.
Despite all odds, Emma must remain focused. This young woman needed her. The unborn child needed her. Right now, nothing seemed more important than that.
“I... I...” Chloe didn’t answer right away, another contraction speaking for her.
“I’m sorry it has to be like this,” Emma whispered in her ear. “But everything’s going to be all right. I’m not going to leave you, I promise.”
The wind outside shook the building with an unparalleled fierceness. Pieces of timber hit the sides of the hospital with great force, and the glass at the windows rattled. The glass was bound to give way any minute. Emma fought to ignore it all, to remain clear-headed. Even if they lost the windows, even if the rain poured in, she would continue on. She would not stop now. Nothing could stop her.
Chloe’s face reflected her fear. “We’re not going to make it,” the young woman said with a gasp.
“Of course we are.” Emma tried her best to be reassuring. At that very moment, one of the glass windows shattered, spraying tiny fragments all over the room. The wounded began to cry out in pain.
“I’ll be right back.” She raced from Chloe’s bedside, stopping only long enough to grab some bandages from a nearby tray. The frantic young nurse moved from patient to patient, doing what she could to care for them. Fortunately no one was badly hurt, but the wind, once safely outside, now pulled at the room with an unbelievable force. Sheets of rain, cold as ice, poured in from the gaping hole. They stung with a hard bite.
“I’m not giving up,” she spoke defiantly to the open window.
Rupert appeared from out of nowhere. “Help me move the beds to the center of the room,” he called out.
Emma turned, overcome with relief. Tears began to pour down her cheeks. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She reached out to clutch his hand.
He gave it a squeeze then kept moving. “Sorry it took me so long.” He pulled frantically on Chloe’s bed. “I couldn’t leave the patients downstairs. I’ve got nearly a dozen or more that aren’t going to make it. And now, on top of everything, the wind has damaged a couple of the exterior walls on the west end and we’ve started taking in water.”
“How deep?”
“About a foot right now,” he said, trying not to let the Chloe hear. “On the southwest corner. But it doesn’t look like it’s stopping anytime soon.”
Emma closed her eyes for just a moment and fought the nausea that suddenly hit her. “If the water is this deep here,” she whispered to herself. “How high is it at home?”
***
Saturday, Sept. 8th, 6:29 P.M. St. Mary’s Orphan’s Asylum
Drifting in and out of consciousness, Henrietta had no choice but to release herself to the pull of the icy cold water. The current swept her well past the wreckage of the boy’s dormitory and beyond. Well beyond.
Up. Down. Under. Over.
The waves pulled her to and fro at will. Gasping for air, Henrietta choked on mouthfuls of grimy water. Salt and sand lodged in her throat, nearly strangling her. She coughed as much up as she could, but shook violently against the cold water. Would this nightmare ever end?
Alive. Dead. Alive.
Alive. And in tremendous pain. Henrietta’s legs felt as if they had been ripped from underneath her. Her head hit against something hard, jarring her. A piano? She struggled to think clearly. Where was she, again? How did she get here? Where were the others? Occasional flashes of lightning overhead lit the skies, giving her moments of clear vision. No sign of Abigail or Grace. Several of the children who had been roped to her had apparently slipped away, victims of the powerful current. She could feel it, sense their release. There was still the weight of someone, something—but she couldn’t quite place whom. Did it even matter anymore?
Up. Down. Over. Under.
Her habit became entangled on a piece of debris and pulled off easily. Undergarments were all that were left to guard her dignity—had she been worried about her dignity. Henrietta’s teeth chattered violently, the cold water having its way. She grew numb and floated aimlessly, doing everything she could to relax. Remarkably, she managed to take in dozens of things at once.
All around her people screamed, fought for breath. Babies in their mothers’ arms, fathers crying out for lost children and wives reaching out for husbands who no longer existed – they all floated by in a dizzying array. Buildings smashed into nothing but sticks of wood. Furniture, animals – they all drifted by as if they belonged there.
Henri reached out to grab what looked like a tree branch, only to discover the arm of a man who had become tangled in the debris. It hung limp as she tried to free him.
Dear God, help!
The current caught her up once again, and she felt her fingers slip through his. He drifted away, crying out in pain as he disappeared
in the murky depths. Henrietta found herself once again pulled under, then up... under, then up. Gasping for air, she prayed this nightmare would end, regardless of the outcome.
If it’s my time to go Lord, I will gladly trade this moment for the bliss of eternity!
Her ears rang with the madness of it all, the screams, the howl of the wind, the rush of water.
Then, from out of the night, she heard it—the sound of a child crying.
***
Saturday, Sept. 8th, 6:59 P.M. The Murphy Villa
“Are you alright, Miss Gillian?”
All right? How in the world could she answer Pearl’s ridiculous question? Of course she wasn’t all right. There would be no party now. Her home might not survive the impending waters. She remained shut up in this God-forsaken closet. Her husband was likely lost somewhere out in the storm. Her son....
At the very thought of Brent, tears began to slip down Gillian’s cheeks. If her life ended this night, she would never get to see her son again, never get to tell him how much she loved him—how much he meant to her. She had to let him know. He would always be more important than her fancy home, her dinner parties, her favored guests. He had been given to her as a gift and would always remain her most beloved possession, her jewel.
“Miss Gillian?” Pearl’s spoke anxiously.
“I’m fine. Just fine.” She clung tightly to the doorknob of the upstairs closet, where she and Pearl had taken refuge just moments before. Water had entered the Victorian mansion in shallow inches. Gillian saw no point in taking any chances. All around her, roofs and telephone poles tumbled to the ground. Pieces of masonry from nearby homes and businesses raced through the torrents of water that now ran down Broadway. One last glance out the window had revealed all she could bear.
Safely tucked away in the closet, it all seemed a distant dream. But no dream should end this way. Gillian, for whatever reason, remained here—without her son or husband. Would she really have to face death alone?
Pearl spoke aloud in words that seemed to cut to the very core of Gillian’s being… “He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most high shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.” She repeated the line over again.
“What’s that you’re saying, Pearl?” It seemed to bring hope, comfort.
“It’s one of my favorite scriptures, Miz Gillian,” Peal spoke through the darkness. “I says it whenever I gets scared or feel alone.”
“He that dwelleth…” Gillian started
“…in the secret place of the most high,” Pearl continued
“Shall abide…” Gillian hesitated, unable to remember the rest.
“Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.” Pearl finished for her, then grasped her hand. “That means, Miz Gillian that God is here with us. Right now. We’re dwelling in His secret place and that means we’re safe.”
“But what if…” Gillian dared not finish the question.
“No if’s,” Pearl responded, squeezing her hand. “No matter what happens Miz Gillian, we’re safe. Even if the Lord chooses to take us, we’re safe in His arms. We’re His children.”
Though she wanted to believe those words, Gillian simply couldn’t. In her heart, she found them hard to accept, for she had never known the Lord in the same way Pearl seemed to. “Are we? I mean, I know you are, Pearl, but am I?” She started to cry. “I don’t know, I don’t know.” Her cries turned to sobs. “How do I know? “
Pearl’s gentle voice remained calm, soothing. “There’s a way you can know, Miz Gillian, and it’s as simple as pie. All you gots to do is pray and ask Jesus to come into your heart. Then you’re His. You’re one of his children.”
“You did this already?” Gillian squeezed her hand.
“Yes’m. As a child. And I never regretted it. Not one moment. Never will.”
“Will you help me, Pearl?”
Gillian bowed her head and waited for the woman’s gentle voice to lead her. The prayer was simple, sweet and sure. And yet it contained enough power the rock the entire house from its foundation.
Gillian had found safety under the shadow of the Almighty – and she would never be the same again.
***
Saturday, Sept. 8th, 7:19 P.M.
Everett trudged through the water that now filled the lower floor of The Courier building, shouting orders as he went. “Get those papers up as high as you can! Lift those chairs up on the desks. Stay away from the windows, do you hear me!?”
Try as he may, he couldn’t seem to keep his thoughts straight. The sound of the wind whipping at the building kept him distracted. The fevered frenzy had already resulted in the loss of two windows; others were sure to follow. Water had risen to an alarming level in the pressroom. Everett calculated it to be at least chest-deep now.
Nothing could be done about that, or the fact that the men downstairs still struggled to get his story printed. No, he couldn’t do anything about that right now, but he could certainly do something about the rooms upstairs. Everett shot up the stairs, anxious to protect all he could before the whole place filled with water. All of The Courier’s back-copies were upstairs, carefully categorized. He would do anything and everything in his power to keep them from being destroyed, no matter what it took.
The excitement of the moment engulfed him, both urging him on and causing him to feel locked in place. He worried about his wife and children non-stop – wished he could be with them, yet longed to stay and accomplish something great for the paper’s sake.
This could very well turn out to be the story of his lifetime, and he didn’t want to let it slip through his fingers. Not this time. This time he would beat the other guys to the punch. He would show them what a real editor looked like.
If this thing turned out to be as big as it looked like it might be, it could easily shatter the innocence of the new century at its very onset. What a horrible way to begin a new era.
Or end an old one.
Chapter Thirteen
Saturday, September 8th, 7:25 p.m. The Courier
Brent clutched the young woman tightly as he struggled to the front of The Courier building. Though clearly unconscious, she still appeared to be breathing. Water stood chest-deep at the office door, far too deep to force it open. The winds had blown the front glass window out leaving sharp fragments everywhere. He pulled himself through to the inside.
Brent accidentally bumped her head against the windowpane as they crossed through it. She cried out, unconscious no more. “Help me!”
“I’m trying.” He shook violently as he spoke, fighting both the chill and his nerves. She hung limp in his arms once again.
“Is anyone here?” he called out. A glimmer of light peeked from the back room where the presses sat and Brent could make out the faint outline of men at work, but his destination lay elsewhere. He needed to get upstairs, to the safety of Everett Maxwell’s second-story office.
Brent climbed the stairs carefully. The darkness sent a shiver of fear through him. He blinked his eyes frantically, but the sting of saltwater only compounded his vision problem. Slowly climbing the stairs, he counted—one, two, three... fourteen. Fourteen in all. Now safely on the second floor, he squinted to make out anything familiar.
Working his way to the back, he saw it. At least he thought he did. Inside Everett’s office—the older man sat perched atop his desk, pecking away at the typewriter, lit cigar dangling from his lips.
Any other time, it might have seemed humorous.
***
Saturday, September 8th, 7:31 p.m. The John Sealy Hospital
“Nurse Phillips!” Emma felt the catch in her throat as she cried out. Fear held her in its tight grip. “Nurse Phillips, we’ve got water inside!”
“Get these people upstairs,” the older nurse instructed.
Emma turned to face the crowd of people, trying to imagine how she could possibly begin such a large task. All afternoon she had fought the wind and the onslaught of people flooding through the doors
of John Sealy Hospital, but now, with water at their doors, she seemed to be losing her ability to think clearly. Emma’s body ached with exhaustion. A long shift yesterday, very little sleep in the night, and now all of this...
I can’t take much more!
The anxiety over her parents and her younger sister had almost driven her to her knees in terror more than once today, but in light of all that seemed to be happening right in front of her, she couldn’t leave.
Her patients needed her and, for whatever reason, she needed to be needed right now. Jimmy Peterson’s fever broke less than an hour ago. Chloe had progressed in her labor, and should deliver before midnight. Rupert continued to make rounds, caring for those who came in injured from the storm. And she...
“I said, let’s get these people upstairs!” Nurse Phillip’s stern voice jarred her back to reality.
“Yes Ma’am,” she muttered.
She began to usher people up the stairs to the ward above. It would have to be converted—and quickly. How could they possibly accommodate so many? And who knew how many more were to come?
***
Saturday, September 8th, 7:58 p.m. Galveston Island
For what seemed like hours, Henrietta drifted along at the water’s discretion. She gave her body over to its pull, knowing full well she could do nothing to stop it. Though the current had swept the others away, far beyond her grasp, still she held tightly to one.
Lilly Mae. Fate bound them with its fragile cord. They remained fastened as one, and yet completely distant from each other. The youngster’s tiny voice occasionally rose above the din in angelic song. Was she truly singing, or had the winds picked up the melody and translated into into music? Regardless, the Italian aria now became a source of strength for Henrietta, a reason to stay alive.
Boxed Set: Deep in the Heart of Texas: Hurricane, Mismatched in Texas, Christmas at the Crossroads Page 10
