by Frank Yerby
The beasts dug their hoofs in. Sweat glistened on their coats. Their muscles bunched, straining. The wall groaned upward, still tilting.
“There!” Tom roared; “hold it, Jonas!”
He jumped from the saddle. He picked up some timbers and pegs, hammering the pegs home in holes he had already bored, so that the timbers angled out, making temporary braces to hold the wall upright. It had been guess-work, but his eye was good. Another long, steady pull, and the wall stood solidly enough, only a few degrees out of plumb.
True it up later, Tom decided; got to get the other three up. Don’t like this here weather. It looks like it’s gettin’ set to blow.
Jonas sat on the mule, sniffing the air, his broad nostrils flaring.
“Gwine to blow, Marse Tom,” he said. “Us better hurry. Don’t git them all up ‘n’ braced, wind mash ‘em right back down agin.”
“Don’t I know it!” Tom growled. “Pay out them ropes, Jonas.”
The second side was easier, because they had got the hang of it by then; and because it butted against the side already standing. Tom climbed up, hammering wooden pegs into the holes he had painfully drilled with a brace and bit. He hadn’t used nails, because they were too expensive. In those days they were still made one at a time by hand, which made them hard to come by, and dear. Besides, pegs were better. They didn’t rust, and they expanded and contracted like the rest of the wood with the changes of weather, making a building hold snugly together. But it was much slower work, because he had to bore a hole every place he wanted to put in a peg.
He was hammering the pegs near the top of the walls when he felt them shake a little. He raised his head and felt the wind. It came in short gusts, with long periods of quiet in between. Tom worked faster. He had made many holes for the pegs, because he had wanted his barn to be strong. And now that was what slowed him. Still, if he didn’t put in enough, the wind might tear the walls down anyway. This was hurricane country, and even a tornado or two, twisting in from the Gulf, was not unknown.
He looked down into Jonas’s worried face.
“Take the animals home!” he roared; “I’ll make it afoot!” Jonas’s mouth shaped the words “Yassuh,” but Tom didn’t hear him. A long, steady gust snatched the sound away, pushing against the walls so hard that Tom had to cling to them to keep from falling off. When it died, Tom saw Jonas moving away, riding the mule and leading the horse behind him.
The gusts were harder now, the times between them shorter. Each time they hit, Tom had to loop his arm over the top of the wall, clinging to it, and holding on to his big wooden-headed mallet at the same time. Jonas was already out of sight, beyond the oaks. Tom banged in another peg; then there weren’t any more gusts, but the wind itself, coming in from the Gulf, steady and strong, with a note in it like a woman’s crying. The cry rose. It was shrill now, with an edge in it. Tom dropped both the mallet and the pegs and clung with his big hands, digging his fingers into the wood.
A flight of gulls swept across the sky at an angle, hopelessly fighting the gale. A pelican crashed into the oak tops, and dropped, stunned, to the ground. Here, where he was, in the wild country between the Bayous San Patrice and Pierre, north of the San Antonio Trace, the old El Camino Real, miles from the Gulf, these sea-birds were unknown. Seeing them, Tom realised how bad the wind was.
He worked his way downward. The walls were swaying like living things. Fifteen feet from the ground, he heard one of the braces let go with a noise like a pistol-shot, so he jumped. He landed on his feet and started running until he was clear of the walls. He heard the crash as the second wall went down, and, as he turned, he saw the wind lift the first wall, as though it were a leaf, and sail it over the tops of the highest oaks, like a gigantic raft, plunging through invisible rapids of the air, on and out of sight.
He swore feelingly. But the wind snatched his oaths from his lips, so that he could only bend over before it and start to work his way towards the house. The quickest way was through the cheniere, the oak grove, but he knew better than that. Already the giant oaks were bending over like birch saplings, and, even as he watched, one of them broke off halfway up the trunk, making a noise like a field-piece, then came crashing down. He skirted the cheniere. His hat was gone, and his face stung from the flying earth. By now there ought to be rain, he thought. Then, almost as if in answer to his thought, the rain came. It came down in sheets, no lines showing, slanted hard by the wind, smashing against his unprotected body. In seconds he was soaked to the skin, and the whole world disappeared in a hissing, roaring m~lstrom of water.
He fought on, doggedly, towards the house. When he reached it at last, and shouldered the door open, he was ready to drop. But he couldn’t, not yet.
The house had a cellar, dug by Reverend Tyler to store foodstuffs. Quickly Tom picked Sarah up, and went down the stairs.
“It’s bad, ain’t it, Tom?” Sarah whispered.
“Bad enough if the bayous and the river don’t rise,” Tom said. “But we’re safe from the water here. This here is high ground. What worries me is the wind.”
He set about making her comfortable, putting the feather mattress on the floor, and covering her with blankets. He brought the lantern down and some water. When he went back upstairs, he found Jonas in the house, quaking with fright.
“Lemme stay here, Marse Tom,” the old negro begged. “Wind done took my lean-to plumb away. I’m soaked, and it ain’t fit for man nor beast outside no-ways.”
“All right,” Tom growled. “Wonder when it’s going to let up!”
After two hours the wind died down again to intermittent gusts, but there was no change in the pounding of the rain. It made a drum-roll on the roof, so loud that the hammering on the door seemed a part of it.
“That’s somebody knocking,” Jonas said.
Tom listened.
“Damned if you ain’t right,” he said. “See who if is, Jonas.”
Jonas opened the door a crack, but a gust tore it from his grasp, and the rain whined in past the huddled forms before the door.
Tom recognised the Rudgerses, the people who lived closest to them, and in whose house Reverend Tyler had . . . died.
“Come in, folks!” he said cheerfully. “Trouble down yore way?”
Jonas shut the door behind them, bolting it against the wind.
“Trouble!” Jim Rudgers groaned. “More like ruination, Mister Benton. Wind smashed the house to smithereens—and after that the bayou backed up. Red River’s rising a foot every twenty minutes—and, in this storm, God knows how many folks gonna git drowned.”
Nelly Rudgers stared at Tom Benton. There was a mixture of things in her eyes: fear, disgust, puzzlement—and fascination.
“Where’s Sary?” she whispered.
“Down in the cellar,” Tom said. “Safer down there. Even if the house blows down, a body’d be safe there. You go down there, ma’am. Sary be mighty glad to see you. I’ll send you down some of her clothes by Jonas so’s you can change afore you git the grippe or something. Me ‘n’ yore husband’ll stay here an’ talk things over.”
Nelly slipped gratefully down the steps as Jonas held the trap-door open.
“Got some spare duds, Jim,” Tom said. “You’d better git into ‘em. I don’t reckon the Good Lord’ll mind if we backslide a little and have ourselves a snort under th’ circumstances.”
“Be mighty grateful—Tom,” Jim Rudgers said, and in spite of that little pause before his first name, Tom Benton knew he had won another round of his battle.
Looking out of the window, Tom saw the first yellow swirl of the water creep across the lowlands below. He put his empty glass down on the table and turned back to Jim.
“Them folks down on the bayou and along the river gonna need help,” he said. “Feel up to it, Jim?”
“Yep,” Rudgers said gravely; “but seeing as how we ain’t ducks, how the devil kin we . . .”
“Got a side of a barn,” Tom said. “I was trying to git the barn u
p by myself when the wind hit. It—or a part of it, would make a mighty handy raft, Jim.”
“All right,” Rudgers said, “let’s go find it.”
They went down into the cellar and told the women what they were going to do.
Sarah clutched at Tom’s hand.
“Be careful, Tom-love,” she whispered. “Know you can’t let them folks drown, wouldn’t be Christian, but please don’t git yoreseif kilt; you can’t leave me all alone with the baby coming.”
“I’ll be careful, hon,” Tom said.
They went out into the rain, carrying axes. The barn-side was already afloat in the field below the house, and the wind had jammed it against the oak trees. It was much too big for two men to handle; but, to two expert woodsmen, cutting it down to one-quarter size was easy. Then, using the timber braces for poles, they pushed it out into the swift-running current.
I’m coming, Lolette-baby, Tom thought. You’re a mighty sweet little creature, and I ain’t got nowheres with you yet. But I’m going to. Can’t let you drown, baby-doll—not before then.
Even this here storm’s got its advantages, he mused. Save enough folks, and ain’t nobody gonna hold the past agin me no more.
But it wasn’t easy to get to Louis Dupré’s place. He lived far up-stream, and there were too many washed-out families between. Tom was perfectly willing to pass them by and go after Lolette first, but he couldn’t think of any convincing lie he could tell Jim Rudgers.
Oh well, he thought, she won’t drown. That there Louis Dupré was born in a boat, ‘pears like. Bet they’re already on high ground. Still, he felt uneasy about it. He had to go there, had to see.
By early evening he and Jim had transferred twenty-seven people to higher ground. They were greatly helped by the fact that during the afternoon the wind stopped completely. Jim Rudgers straightened up against his pole and sniffed the air.
“Don’t like this, Tom,” he said. “If that dad-blamed wind had died down gradual-like, I wouldn’t be worried. But it’s plumb downright quit. That’s bad.”
“Why?” Tom said.
“You ain’t lived around here long,” Jim Rudgers said. “These here winds move in a circle, building up all the time—then they quit, which means they’ve moved away from this section. ‘Bout three hours from now, they’ll come back, or I miss my guess. And they’ll be blowin’ twicet as hard as they was this morning.”
“Then we got three hours, Jim,” Tom said. “Let’s git busy!”
They got another ten people to safety in those three hours. But it was harder now, because the remaining families were more scattered. Darkness came early—just before Tom had worked the raft up-stream until the Radleys’ cabin was almost in sight.
“Them no-count Radleys!” Jim Rudgers spat. “Reckon we got to, though.”
“We got to,” Tom said.
Even in the failing light, he could see the cabin was half under water. Something fluttered from the roof. The Radleys were up there, waving.
Tom and Jim forced the raft against the side of the cabin. Jonathan Radley, his wife, and his daughter scrambled down.
“Thankee, folks,” Jonathan got out; “mighty glad—”
“It’s all right,” Tom growled. “Know whether the Duprés got away from their house?”
“I dunno,” Jonathan said. “Likely they did. Louis is a mighty good man with a pirogue.”
But Jim Rudgers caught Tom’s arm, pointing. Then Tom saw it: the pirogue, upside down, jammed hard into the reeds at the bayou’s edge.
“Dear Lord!” Tom whispered. “Come on, Jim—push!” When they were close to the little shack on the pilings, Tom could see that some of the supports were already broken, causing the house to slant over crazily.
“Mister Dupré!” Tom bellowed. “You folks in there?”
Louis Dupré appeared in the window.
“Yes,” he said calmly. “Come up under the window and I hand you down my girls, me.”
They worked the raft below the windows. Tom stood up and caught the baby, Babette, in his arms; then passed her over to Mrs. Radley. Then Louis swung Lolette down without apparent effort although she was taller than he and almost as heavy. Tom eased her down gently; but at the last moment she clung to him, her mouth close to his ear.
I knew you’d come,” she whispered. “I prayed it would be you.”
Then she turned him loose and stepped back.
“Move away,” Louis Dupré called; “I’m gonna jump now, me.”
Tom moved. Louis sprang from the window and landed on his feet on the raft for all the world like a great cat, giving with the impact so that he made no sound, the whole leap indescribably perfect, graceful, sure.
Tom stared at him. This one was something. Now for the first time he believed Rachel’s story of the unfortunate Pierre. He could take a big man, Tom realised; quick like he is, a man’s strength wouldn’t mean nothing. Rip you open whilst you was getting set. This kind you hafta shoot and at no closer than fifty yards.
“Thank you, m’sieur,” Louis said politely. “Now I gonna give you a hand with the poles.”
“How come you didn’t git out, Mister Dupré?” Tom said. “Folks always say you’re the best boatman in the bayou country.”
“Wind took my boat right off,” Louis explained. “Broke the rope. I can swim, me—but Lolette can’t, and water was too rough for me to carry them. So I waited. Now we better go, us. That wind, he coming back.”
With Louis’ expert help, they made the Red River before the wind hit. But when it struck it was like all the cataclysms in mortal memory rolled into one. The current caught the raft and whirled it down-stream like a chip. Rachel Radley clung to Tom, moaning.
“Mister Benton,” she wept, “don’t let me drown! Please don’t let me drown! I’ll do anything you say afterwards only—”
“Shut up!” Tom snapped. “What you want to talk like that for?”
But in that hissing, roaring waste of water, no one had heard her. The raft pounded on, gathering speed all the time. Then, in the pitch blackness, it slammed into the rocks, throwing them all fiat on their faces. The raft hung against the boulders, grinding.
“It’s gonna break up!” Jim Rudgers shouted.
Tom stood there. In that torrent, swimming was out of the question. But there was one chance. Here, at the beginning of the Red River rapids, there was a barrier of stones all the way across the river. In the daytime, it was possible to walk across, stepping from stone to stone—if you were sure-footed. But at night, with the stones under water . . .
One of the timbers tore free from the raft.
“Gimme a pole, Jim,” Tom said.
“Whatcha gonna do?” Jim demanded.
“Gonna feel for the rocks with the pole, carrying the wimmen ashore one at a time.”
“What shore?” Jim snapped. “Ain’t no more shore, Tom!”
“Well, to them trees, then,” Tom said. “You come along behind me with one of the girls or the old woman. Louis’ll bring the baby. Radley’ll just have to follow us hisself.”
“Mighty risky,” Jim Rudgers said.
“Staying here ain’t risky,” Tom growled; “it’s sure death.”
“All right,” Jim Rudgers said. Then, to Tom’s bottomless disgust, he turned and picked up Lolette, the action unpremeditated, natural, because Lolette happened to be closer to him. Tom started to protest, but then he saw Louis Dupré’s eyes. Swearing under his breath, he picked up Rachel Radley.
They started out, Louis Dupré leading the way, carrying both Mrs. Radley and little Babette, balancing himself with the pole in his one free hand, cradling the child in his left arm, while the old woman rode pick-a-back on his shoulders. He moved off, as sure-footed as though he were on dry land. Seeing him, Tom and Jim shifted the girls to the same position in order to leave their arms free for balancing. Half-way across, Tom felt Rachel’s fist pounding his back. He looked up.
“Paw!” she screamed.
Tom look
ed back. Jonathan Radley still sat, a hunched-up silhouette against the white waters, on what was left of the raft.
“Damn!” Tom swore. “Stupid old bastard! Now I’ll hafta . . .”
But before he had the words out, he missed his footing and Plunged into the water. Rachel hung on, her grip almost strangling him. The current slammed them into the rocks, Cutting and bruising them in half a dozen places. Tom fought his way to his feet. He could stand up because of the rocks, and his head remained above water. He could hear Rachel whimpering at intervals between the gusts.
“Shut up, damn it!” he roared, and began to splash and paddle his way to the place where the east bank had been. He made it, and handed Rachel up to Louis, who had climbed into a tree with Mrs. Radley and little Babette. Leaving the four of them there, he turned back in time to pull Jim and Lolette from the water. They had fallen in, too. The footing was impossible.
“Paw,” Rachel quavered.
“Oh hell!” Tom groaned, and started back. When he was a few yards out, he saw it was no good. The raft was gone. He stood there, staring at the raging water. But there was no sign of Jonathan Radley at all.
He came back and climbed into the tree beside Lolette.
“Mister Radley?” she whispered.
“Gone,” Tom said gruffly.
She put her arms around his neck, and sobbed a little.
“Poor Rachel,” she wept, “what’s going to become of her now?”
“Don’t know,” Tom growled. “Don’t take on so, baby-doll—couldn’t of been helped.”
After a time she quieted. They sat in the fork of two great boughs, hanging on while the wind tore at them. The tree groaned like a living thing. Other trees gave way, falling into the stream and being piled up against the rocky barrier by the torrent. After two hours the wind died.
“You all right, Tom?” Jim Rudgers called from a nearby tree.
“Just fine and dandy,” Tom called back. “But it ‘pears like we’ll have to roost up here till morning.”
Lolette snuggled up against him, shivering. She kissed his throat, his face, his mouth, in a perfect agony of tenderness.
