No Ordinary Princess

by Pamela Morsi

  Calhoun raised an eyebrow. "No, my Princess seems to have feeling for you, though God only knows why. I wouldn't hurt her for anything in this world. Get on back to the ferry. They'll be plenty of help to be given among the weary and wounded. You can tote and carry for the womenfolk, you won't have to risk yourself by fighting the fire."

  "Mr. Calhoun," Tom told him. "I hea*rd that you need every hand. I think you'll be surprised at how well I acquit myself."

  He might have said more, but in that moment Cedarleg apparently spotted them and called out.

  King hurried to him and Tom followed right be­hind.

  "Can we drain it to tank two or three?" King asked, even before he was truly close enough to hear the answer.

  "Not a chance," Cedarleg told him. "I sent a couple of fellers around to scout it out. Fire's so bad on that side, can't even get close enough to put in a line."

  "We'll have to pour it into the river then," King said. "I hate to lose it all downstream, but there's no time to dam up the river and nowhere else for it to go."

  "What are you trying to do?" Tom asked.

  Calhoun looked ready to berate him for the inter­ruption. But Cedarleg looked over at him and grinned.

  "Glad you two finally found each other," he said. "We need to pump the oil out from the tanks from underneath the fire."

  Tom nodded. "If there's no oil the fire goes out on its own."

  "That's it," Cedarleg said. "We can lay pipe in from the side to pump it out, but we've got to have someplace to go with it."

  "The river isn't the best," King Calhoun said. "But it's the only choice we've got."

  "Maybe not," Tom said. "There's a cut-off mean­der on the north side of this hill from a bad flood when I was a boy."

  "We ain't got time to run pipe all the way down the hill," King said.

  "Maybe we won't have to," Tom said. "It's such a steep ledge, nobody ever goes that way. We can run a length out into nothing and let the oil just pour out like a waterfall."

  "How far out in the air would that pipe have to go?" Cedarleg asked.

  "Ten feet at least," Tom said. "Fifteen would be better, but a four-inch pipe would do the job. We'd lose some to evaporation, but not nearly all that we'd lose if we pour it into the river."

  King Calhoun was looking at him strangely, but Tom couldn't concern himself with that now.

  "Let's see this cut-off meander of yours," Cedarleg said.

  The three of them hurried off to the far side of the Topknot. The area was heavily grown up in short bush and somewhat distant from the drilling site, but it was thankfully at a sloping angle all the way.

  When they got to the edge, it was almost straight down.

  "That's it there below," Tom pointed out.

  The low place that had once been part of a bend in the river was indistinguishable from the land around it except for the verdant growth of grass and plants.

  "The water table is only inches below the surface. The sides aren't much, but if we get it pouring in there, we'll still have time to reinforce them. And in complete safety for the men."

  Cedarleg looked hopefully at Calhoun.

  Tom looked at him, too.

  Calhoun's eyes were narrowed and his assessment accusatory, but his words were what was best for the company and the men who trusted him.

  "Get your crew of pipefitters to lay it down as quick as you can. With Bob injured, do you have somebody to pump the tank?"

  "Tom can do it," he said.

  "All right, you and Tom do it and I'll get the roustabouts to building some sides reinforcing the low place as best they can."

  Immediately, they went into action.

  Tom and Cedarleg hurried back up toward the burning sump. Tom's thoughts were whirling. His scheme was up. King Calhoun had called him Tom. It was all over in a fraction of a second. All his plans, his dreams, his foolish, high-handed aspirations. They were all gone.

  But right now was not the time to think about it. There was a hot, choking oil fire that had to be managed and people were counting upon him to help manage it.

  As they got closer to the fire, the intense heat, choking fumes, and thick smoke grew worse and worse. Cedarleg quickly explained the plan to the gang pusher and he gave his two best men to Tom and ordered the rest of them to start running pipe to the north side of the hill.

  The two pipefitters were sturdy, muscular types chosen for their physical prowess. The type of men known in the oilfield as "forty-four jacket and size five hat." They followed Tom and Cedarleg as they began trying to locate the drainpipe to the sump tank. It was so close to the tank that it was obscured by smoke. They were to go near the edge of the fire to find it.

  Tom tied the rope around his waist.

  "When you find the pipe, jerk once on the rope and we'll send up the length to connect on it. If you can't hold your breath no longer, jerk it twice and we'll pull you out."

  He nodded and dropped to his hands and knees. With his face as close to the ground as he could keep it, he began to inch forward on his belly into the smoke.

  He could hear the strange, almost swishing sound of the burning oil. The heat of it lay upon his back like a painful weight as he moved forward. When he'd made a couple of yards he would stretch out his arms in all directions, blindly seeking the pipe. Then he moved forward once more. He moved forward and he thought about Cuba.

  In his mind he could see it again. The shimmering heat upon the grass, the smoke of cannon, the smell of death and of dying. Cyril Upchurch lay in a pool of his own blood, his empty eyes staring up into noth­ingness, almost surprised as he was done in by a ricochet.

  He killed a man and the reality of it made the bile rise in his throat until he thought he would vomit. A half hour later, he'd lost count of the men he'd sent to heaven or hell, he only wanted it to stop. He only wanted it all to stop.

  He paused to reload. Kill me, kill me! he dared the world around him. Kill me! He almost said the words aloud. He almost prayed them. Kill me!

  And then he saw Ambi, standing fighting, proving himself as he had always dreamed. And he saw the rifle aimed in Ambi's direction.

  "No!" he screamed aloud.

  His friend turned to look at him, shocked.

  Perhaps it was his own death wish, or to protect his friend, or a simple reflex reaction under fire. Tom's gun was empty. He couldn't save the man with a shot. So he threw his body in front of that of Dexter's.

  The swirling sound of fire was closer now and it scorched him almost as surely as the Spanish bullet had that day. He was too close to the tank. He was sure of that. The ground was already beginning to slope upward.

  His breath was so close to the ground he was inhaling dirt. Tom stretched out his hands and off to his left he found metal. He found the drainpipe where it came out of the tank and eagerly followed it backward to its opening.

  He yanked once on the rope at his waist and a second later he could feel the tug as the pipefitter clung to it while he crawled forward. He dragged the length of pipe with him and his tools at his belt. It took a good deal of time and Tom almost succumbed to the heat and the fumes.

  Finally he was there. They had to get upon their knees to attach the pipe. The air at that level was intolerable. So they did it in shifts. The pipefitter would hold his breath and work until he could not and when he fell to his face, Tom would go up to take his place. It took at least twenty miserable, uncertain minutes before they had it secured. Then they grinned at each other as they drew desperate breaths and jerked upon their lines.

  Immediately they half-scrambled and were half pulled away from the fire, the heat, the smoke.

  By the time they hit fresh air, both were coughing, but both were proud and hopeful. At the end of Tom's line a hand was extended to help him up. It was only after he'd accepted the assistance that he looked up into the face of King Calhoun.

  "As soon as the pipe's laid and the pump's hooked up, it will be ready to go," he said.

  His father-in-l
aw nodded and the work com­menced again.

  Within an hour the drainpipe ran the quarter-mile distance to the north edge of Topknot hill. A moto­rized pump had been scavenged from Number Four­teen. There were several false starts, and problems with bad fittings and uneven sights. But just as dawfi began to silver up the eastern sky, the oil began to run through the hastily constructed pipeline. Tom, Cedarleg, and Calhoun followed its progress. Out of the smoke and heat that surrounded the sump, across the drilling yard, throughout the length of Topknot and then off the side of the hill.

  It came out first in fitful spurts with bursts of air and dirt exploding from it. It was a mix of oil and water, but the two would never blend. As soon as they settled into the tank, the oil would rise to the surface once more. It settled into a strong even flow. A flow that should drain the tank in a day's time perhaps.

  The roustabouts working to shore up the edges of the makeshift storage tank looked up and cheered as the oilfall poured down into the site.

  One musically inclined fellow burst into song:

  "Showers of blessing. Showers of blessing we need.

  Mercy drops 'round us are falling,

  But for the showers we plead."

  It was a moment for singing. Few were hurt, none killed, and the worst, it seemed, was over. It was a moment for thanking God and hoping for the best. As Tom glanced at the town of Burford Corners, now visible in the distance, the town where his wife waited for him, he did both.

  Chapter 20

  Cessy had evacuated the Topknot oil camp to the only place in Burford Corners where she was sure they would be accepted, her yard. The beautiful new lawn and just-beginning-to-flourish garden were now a studded tent city with families so thick upon each other that they looked like a military bivouac. It had been wild, chaotic, nerve-racking, and down­right explosive. Everyone had to be evacuated, but nobody was willing to leave anything, fearing, proba­bly with just cause, that everything left would be scavenged away.

  So every piece of everything that anybody owned had to be loaded up on carts and horses and mules and the backs of women and children.

  A headquarters of sorts had been set up on the front porch. For Cessy it proved best to simply be a dictator. It was her yard, therefore what she said was law.

  When one woman complained that another's son, age thirteen, should be out working the fire with the men instead of playing with the children, Cessy made the youth the official messenger boy. He was sent out to the ferryman every hour to get the news and bring it back.

  Several of the women protested the presence of the Topknot saloon girls. Although they obviously had to be evacuated, they could not expect to take refuge in the same yard as decent families. It was Cessy who decided that they, having no tents, could camp under the porte cochere.

  It was a general source of unhappiness that some of the campsites had no acceptable places for cooknres. Cessy expressly forbade the lighting of any fires. Meals would come from the kitchen only and Mrs. Marin was encouraged to draft several women of her choice to help with preparing the meals.

  By midafternoon when Ma showed up, Cessy felt dead upon her feet. The burn victims had been treated by the doctor and sent home. Since they did not now have homes, Ma had brought them all to Cessy's yard.

  For the sake of keeping their wounds clean, Cessy declared that they and their families would be housed inside. All the bedrooms and parlors would be uti­lized for this purpose.

  Ma gave her a long perusal as the two began scouring the linen closet for sufficient sheets.

  "You look like Moses did after the Red Sea cross­ing," Ma told her.

  "Moses must have had it easier than this," Cessy answered.

  "I don't know," Ma said. "There were more of them, and the more folks you got, the more opinions you got to contend with."

  "You're right about that," Cessy agreed. "I have never had my ear bent by so many people with so many complaints in all my life."

  "It's always that way," she said. "I'm so sorry, honey. And poor old Moses. He was eighty years old at the time they say."

  "Poor Moses? At least he didn't get the curse right in the middle of the evacuation."

  Ma tried to look sympathetic, but couldn't help laughing. "Oh, I don't know, honey," she said. "Maybe that's why they called it the Red Sea."

  The two extremely tired women started laughing and simply could not stop. They received a number of speculative looks from other women. That only made it worse.

  When they finally began to get control of them­selves, they talked about the fire.

  "They've shot a pipe right off the side of the hill and are pouring the oil into a pit below," Cessy told her.

  "Does it seem to be working?" Ma asked.

  "Apparently so," she said. "As the amount of oil in the tank decreases the fire has been getting smaller. When it gets down to just the skim on the water they can let it burn itself out and throw dirt atop it."

  "Thank God," Ma said. "And thank God that no one is hurt."

  "And your young man it seems had no small part in that," Cessy told her.

  "My young man?"

  "The messenger boy said that the whole idea of going off the side of the mountain came from 'Toolie Tom,' the tool dresser who lived with Cedarleg. And that it was Toolie Tom himself who crawled to the fire to set the pipe."

  "Toolie Tom?"

  "That's what they are calling him," Cessy said. "Everybody here is singing his praises and remem­bering when they met him and spoke to him. He's a regular hero of the day."

  Ma smiled proudly. "He's a fine feller, that Tom," she said. "I wonder what his new bride thinks about him working up at the fire all day long."

  "She's probably spent much of her spare time thinking exactly what I'm thinking," Cessy said. "Please be careful and I'm oh-so-proud of you."

  Is your man up there at the fire?" Ma asked.

  "Of course he is," Cessy answered, looking at Ma incredulously. "You sent him there."

  "I sent him there?" Ma was astounded. "Honey, I wouldn't know your man if I should stumble across him in the street."

  "But don't you remember ..."

  The sound of the Packard honking as it came down the street cut the conversation short and the two women hurried out to the front porch.

  Her heart flew to her throat with thanks as she saw Gerald sitting between her father and Cedarleg. She hadn't realized how worried she had been until she saw him safe and sound at last.

  The crowd began to gather around the automobile. They were waving and cheering and shouting. They were grateful to the men, glad to see them home. Cessy was, too.

  It was when they took up the chant that Cessy's smile began to waver.

  "Toolie! Toolie! Toolie!"

  The cheering was louder and louder and Cessy watched as her husband was urged to his feet by her father and Cedarleg. He waved to the crowd as they called out to him.

  Then their eyes met. Hers and her husband's. They met and held for a very long moment.

  "So that is Tom Walker," Cessy said to Ma.

  "That's our Tom."

  Cessy turned and walked into the house. She went to the sun parlor and opened her desk and began rifling through the drawers. It only took her a couple of moments to find it. She opened up the marriage certificate that Reverend McAfee had sent and stared at the name written there once more.

  Thomas Thursday Walker.

  From the secret compartment she pulled out the handwritten note he'd sent and looked at it. It was obviously a note from an oilfield toolie, not from a Yale alumnus.

  A sound at the doorway caused her to glance up. He was standing there as she knew he would be.

  "Cessy?" he asked quietly. "Are you all right?"

  "Am I all right? That is an interesting question," she said. "I am not the person who has been up on Topknot hill fighting fire all day, risking his life, and becoming a hero. I am not the person who has been doing that. I am not that person. But then what person am I?" sh
e asked. "Am I Cessy Crane? No, apparently there is no such person as that. Perhaps I am Cessy Walker, but maybe I am still plain old Princess Calhoun. A slightly used Princess Calhoun, but Princess Calhoun nonetheless."

  "You are legally my wife," he said. "You are legally Mrs. Tom Walker. Reverend McAfee used my real name so that it would be legal."

  "You told him your real name?"

  "He knew it. He knew me. I ... I was raised at the school, Cessy," he said. "I am one of the boys from the school."

  "Ah," she said, nodding. "You must have been left there while grandmama ran off with the gondolier."

  "Cessy, I don't know how to explain," he began. "It started when I was in the Rough Riders. I pre­tended to be one of the rich boys from back East. They thought it was a great joke. And when I went to town or to parties with them, the ladies just loved Gerald. The same women who would not give Tom the time of day, crowded around Gerald as if he were a prince. After I left the army, well, sometimes I would still pretend. I'd meet some woman and I'd be Gerald and she . . . and she would fall for him. It was kind of a joke."

  "So this . . . this Gerald is a cruel, dishonest amusement that you perpetrate on women," she said. "Do all of these women marry you?"

  "No, of course not," he said. "No one has married me but you. I met you and I thought that you would fall in love with Gerald. So I pretended to be him. Women always love Gerald. He is so debonair and charming. I knew you would never fall in love with Tom. Tom is simply too ordinary. I knew that Tom would never catch the attentions of a woman like you. There are a hundred men around you exactly like Tom. You would never notice him."

  "That you speak of Gerald as if he were someone else I can understand," Cessy said. "But you speak of Tom as if he were only a character also. Who is it exactly who inhabits your body?"

  "I do, Cessy, your husband. The man who loves you." His words were soft and sweet and coaxing, but she heard them through a cold and bitter heart.

  "And why were you so desperate for me to fall in love with you?" she asked. "Were you enamored of my delicate charms, my winning ways? Or perhaps you are inordinately fond of women who are mostly flat chested and wear eye spectacles? Maybe those weren't the delights that lured you. More likely it was my beautiful, beautiful oil wells that so incited your lust."