If Wishes Were Kisses: Six Beloved Americana Romances, a Collection (Small Town Swains)

by Pamela Morsi

  The ferry crossing was as far as they could go. The heat and fumes from the fire made the whole Topknot hill area too dangerous for anyone not absolutely necessary to fight the fire.

  The injured were laid out on the soft sands of the riverbank, with Ma to watch over them.

  She was out of the automobile in an instant. . Calling to Gerald to follow her and bring the medicines. Hugging Ma briefly, she was grateful that the old woman was already there.

  "We're going to have to evacuate the camp," Ma told her. "Leave the medicines with me. And get over there as fast as you can. The smoke is blowing straight into the camp. With their menfolks all in danger and their children underfoot, the women will be running around like chickens with their heads cut off."

  "You think I can help?"

  "There ain't a soul in the world who can do a better job of getting folks organized and in the right direction. It's the kind of thing God created you for, Princess. If some people weren't by nature meant to take charge, the human race would still be sitting

  around cold caves wishing they knew how to build a cookfire."

  "Can you take care of the injured by yourself?" Cessy asked her.

  "Ain't much here," she assured her. "Lots of singeings and skin peels, but nobody's near to dying, I don't think. You take Mrs. Marin with you and leave Howard with me. I've sent for wagons to carry them to the doctor in town. He can help me load them."

  "Just these few injured? Thank God it was not worse," Cessy said. "And no one was killed."

  "Not yet, but there is a lot to be done before this night is over."

  Ma glanced past Cessy then and her face alighted with obvious pleasure.

  "Well, praise the Lord!" Ma said. "I'm so glad you're here. Get across the river and lend a hand. Bob and Clifford are both among the burned. Cedarleg will be needing every hand he can get."

  Cessy turned to see who Ma was talking to and was surprised to see her words directed to Gerald.

  Ma wanted to send Gerald to help Cedarleg? It was ridiculous, and Cessy fully expected that Gerald would tell her so himself. Her husband had made it clear that he was not interested in her father's oil business and he would not have even come along tonight had he not been concerned for her safety.

  No, he would not be going to help the other men. Cessy knew that. She just hoped that his refusal to accept Ma's direction would not be condescending.

  "I'd better hurry or I'll miss the ferry," he said.

  Cessy was so stunned at his words, she didn't even speak. He was hurrying away without even giving her a chance to say good-bye.

  "He's a fine young man, that one," Ma said.

  "Yes," Cessy agreed proudly. "Yes he is." She turned to call out to the housekeeper.

  "Mrs. Marin, come with me," she said. "We've got to evacuate the oil camp."

  Tom had never seen or imagined anything like it. Thick black smoke rose in the air higher than the eye could see. And the bright orange flames leapt up from the surface of the open tanks thirty feet high.

  Calhoun halted the Packard on the far side of the river. Those injured, at least a dozen men, had already been ferried across. Tom spotted Ma kneeling among the victims. Cessy apparently saw her at the same moment and hurried out.

  "Bring the basket!" she hollered back to Tom.

  Tom turned to relay the order to Howard, but the fellow was already gone. There was no choice but to carry it himself.

  Keeping his head down, Tom followed in Cessy's wake. With any luck at all, he hoped that the two women would be so busy that Ma wouldn't even glance in his direction.

  Even this far away, nearly a half mile, the black smoke swirled and scented the air, burning his throat. The men on the ground were blackened with it, only their eyes clearly visible in the darkness.

  "Tom," a voice called out hoarsely. Hurriedly he knelt next to Bob Earlie.

  "How you doing?" he asked.

  "I ain't bad," Bob assured him. "Just burnt enough to hurt like hell."

  "Can I get you anything?" Tom asked him.

  The man attempted to smile and offered a joke. "How about a feather bed and a half-dozen whores?" he suggested.

  Tom grinned at him. "Thought you were a family man," he said.

  "Oh, yeah, it slipped my mind," he said. "With my luck I'll get what I'm asking for and spend the whole dang time saying, 'Ouchee! Gals, please don't touch me!' Then the wife will find me in the morning and make me wish I'd died during the night."

  Tom left him grinning and made his way on through the injured. Many of them he knew by name and they knew him, too. They knew him as Tom.

  He stood just behind Cessy and Ma as they divided up the night's work. He tried to keep his eyes elsewhere and his face averted. But when he heard Cessy ask if anyone had been killed, he forgot himself for one instant and looked up toward Ma to hear the answer.

  "Not yet," she said. "But there's a lot to be done before this night is over."

  It was at that moment that Ma glanced past Cessy and looked Tom straight in the eye.

  He froze, expecting shock and anger. Fully expecting within the confusion of the moment to have his scheme unmasked and the truth revealed. He expected Ma's face to register anger and shame and disappointment. What he saw on her face, however, was relief.

  "Well, praise the Lord!" she said to him. "I'm so glad to see you're here. Get across the river and lend a hand. Bob and Clifford are both among the burned. Cedarleg will be needing every hand he can get."

  Tom hesitated. Not knowing what to do. Not knowing what to say. Cessy turned to him. She seemed surprised to see where Ma's remarks were directed, but Tom was certain that it was not a good time to explain.

  "I'll have to run to make the ferry," he told her.

  And then he did just that, as if the demons of hell were on his heels.

  The ferry had, in fact, already taken off, and he had to leap to make it aboard. He stumbled on the landing and fell on his knees upon the boards at the feet of his father-in-law.

  "What are you doing here?" Calhoun asked him.

  "I've come to help."

  King Calhoun snorted. "Oh that's just what we need, snoopers and gawkers."

  Calhoun walked away as Tom came to his feet. As they neared the shore, the heat from the burning sump intensified. Tom could see in the distance the "P" still standing. The fire was contained within the inground oil tanks. The only immediate danger surrounding the land and inhabitants was from fumes and smoke. Still, a fortune was burning and without intervention the other tanks would likely catch fire also.

  The ferry had only bumped up to the shore when the men aboard disembarked. In the wake of King Calhoun, Tom scrambled by the steep path now heavy with the scent of smoke.

  Calhoun stopped and turned to glare at him.

  "Get back to the boat," he ordered.

  "Aren't you going to need every hand?" he asked.

  "Every experienced hand," Calhoun corrected him. "A useless blueblood like you will only get himself killed."

  "Maybe you wouldn't mind seeing that happen?" Tom suggested.

  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 heard 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 po
ur 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-law 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 dawn 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 t
ank 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 Twenty

  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 cookfires. 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.