She turned her gaze to the front window and looked out onto the street. The shadow of someone passing by caught her attention. He stood in water that covered his shoes and seemed to be gazing her way. Something about him seemed familiar, but the newspaper he held open over his head blocked her view – at least somewhat. “Do you see that, Pearl?” she asked, pointing.
“You’d have to be crazy to be out walking in this,” the older woman muttered.
“Yes. I wonder who it is.”
“Someone without a lick of sense is my opinion,” Pearl muttered. “What sort of person stands out-of-doors in a rainstorm? Other than your party guests, I mean.”
“Very funny.” Pearl’s attempt at humor struck a nerve.
If only Douglas would come home. He would know just what to say to soothe her nerves. But his train wasn’t due in from the mainland for three hours.
“We’d best get back to work on the hors d’oeuvres for tonight,” Gillian said, coming to life again. “Nothing, not even a storm, is going to keep this party from taking place!”
With a grunt, Pearl turned her attention back to the food preparation.
***
Saturday, Sept. 8th, 8:02 a.m. St. Mary’s Orphan’s Asylum
“Sister Henri? Sister Henri!” Lilly Mae’s voice irritated her almost as much as the constant tugging on her hem.
“What, Lilly Mae? What is it now?” She looked sternly at the child.
“Where’s Sister Elizabeth going?” The youngster opened the door, allowing wind and rain to make its way inside.
Henri shut the door firmly then turned to face the youngster. “She’s taking the wagon to get food.”
“But why? It’s raining. She’ll get wet!”
Why, indeed? The very idea of sending anyone out in this storm made Henrietta nervous. But Elizabeth’s heart had been set on going, against everyone’s better judgment. After all, she had argued, with the pantry nearly empty and children to be fed, someone had to purchase food. She had been warned of rising water in town and the streets here on the west end had already taken in more than a few inches.
“I want to go to market with her!” Lilly Mae argued. “I always go with mama to market.”
“I’m afraid not, dear,” Henri reached down to pick up the youngster. “Not this time. It’s far too dangerous.”
“Can we play in the water?” Lilly Mae tugged repetitively, almost pleading now.
“Play in the water? I should say not! You’ll catch your death-” She caught herself, and did not continue. At that, she turned on her heels and took Lilly Mae by the arm. Together, they made their way up to the dormitory.
Chapter Eight
Saturday, September 8th, 8:15 A.M. The Murphy Villa
“Just go in,” Brent said, wringing his hands. “Just go in!”
He stood across the street from his Broadway home in the pouring rain. The last hour and a half had been spent pacing up and down the street, trying to formulate the words. Now, the storm took control, soaking him to the bone. Water had risen from his ankles to his calves.
If he didn’t go in soon, Brent would have to forget the whole thing.
The house, grander than ever, stood amidst a host of other such homes on the main thoroughfare of town. A towering beauty, the villa had always been his father’s most cherished possession, his mother’s pride and joy. A slate blue, two-story masterpiece—it remained one of the loveliest on the Island.
Through the kitchen window on the lowest level he could see the reflection of his mother’s face. Though clouded vision limited his view, he did his best to overcome it as he observed her. She still appeared to carry a grace in her movement, her mannerisms.
Brent stood behind a light-post, safely hidden from view. He lifted a soggy newspaper over his head, a vain attempt to protect himself from the downpour. It ripped in half and he tossed it into the street, where the current carried it away.
Brent toyed with the idea of going inside. He desperately longed for his mother’s arms, but knew it would surely be followed by a tongue-lashing from his father.
I told you! You just haven’t got it in you, boy! You’re never going to do anything with your life!
He had proven his father right—and hated himself for it. Brent stared at the distant outline of his mother’s face once more, trying to etch the memory in his mind.
No. He could not go inside. And there was no point standing out here debating the matter. There were other places he could go – other people who would welcome his return. He would avoid the inevitable as long as possible.
Disgusted with himself, Brent turned and walked the opposite direction.
***
Saturday, September 8th, 8:17 a.m. The Galveston Courier
“Now this is getting better!” Everett said with a smile. He stared out of his office window in happy anticipation as raindrops plummeted toward the ground. “A little rain never hurt anyone.” He stopped himself before continuing. He wouldn’t wish anything bad on anyone. Not exactly, anyway. It’s just that a whopper of a storm meant great headlines and great headlines meant great sales.
Right now The Courier could use some great sales if it were to stay afloat.
Everett wondered about Nathan. He had managed to get any pictures? Was Cline still out and about? Were rescues taking place? Should he be out helping or would he be helpful here – writing the story as it transpired?
The rain intensified and his heart began to swell with excitement. For the first time Everett had the feeling of impending doom. He let his weight fall down onto the large cushioned chair behind his desk as he contemplated the possibilities. Why the sudden fear? What did it mean?
He quickly pushed his personal feelings aside, ready to get down to work. There were far too many things to think about to worry, anyway. Businesses must be warned. Pictures must be taken – both before and after. People must be interviewed for their opinions, their fears.
How would Galvestonians react if faced with an immense storm? Everett Maxwell was the man to find out – and he would report their stories.
He trudged down the stairs, anxious to see how work in the pressroom below was going. The room stood knee-deep in water now and workers worked frantically to lift the heavy presses up onto large wooden tables.
“Think they’ll hold?” he asked one of the older men, a fellow by the name of Gordon.
“Hope so, Sir. We’re doing the best we can.”
Everett rolled up his sleeves and went to work alongside him. At the very least, the physical labor would keep him preoccupied until the stories started rolling in.
***
Saturday, September 8th, 8:34 a.m. The Murphy Villa
“What next, Miz Gillian?” Pearl asked as she placed the tray of shrimp into the cooler.
“I suppose we should…” Gillian looked around the kitchen carefully. “We should slice the vegetables and place them out on a tray. And then we’ll start on the crab dip.”
Pearl muttered something beneath her breath and took a few shallow breaths before reaching for the carrots.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing, Miz Gillian. Nothing.”
“I distinctly heard you say something, Pearl.”
“I just love your special crab dip, Miz Gillian. Yes Ma’am!”
“Hmm. Well, thank you, Pearl. Perhaps there will be enough that you and I can have a little for our lunch.” She reached to rinse off a large bunch of carrots. “But now I’d like to hear what you were really saying.”
Pearl’s eyes shot to the ground. “The way it’s looking outside, there ain’t gonna be any party, anyhow.”
Gillian forced herself not to look out of the window. “Nonsense, Pearl. It’s just a little sprinkle. Why, it will be gone in no time.”
Pearl shook her head and muttered a word that could not be ignored. “Stubbornness. Pure stubbornness.”
Gillian fought against the sinking feeling that suddenly overtook her. This party must go on
– rain or no rain. She had so much to prove.
So very much.
***
Saturday, September 8th, 9:09 a.m. John Sealy Hospital
“How is Jimmy?” Emma whispered the words to Dr. Weston, praying the youngster couldn’t hear her. The little one had drifted in and out of consciousness for over an hour now. She had kept a vigil at his bedside, as time allowed – occasionally taking some time out to check on the other three influenza patients.
“He’s not doing well at all.” The young doctor looked more than a little concerned. “I’ve done all I can for him. There’s little left to do but make him comfortable.”
“I will,” she whispered. Nurse Phillips would skin her alive if she saw that the morning breakfast trays still hadn’t been picked up, but there would be plenty of time for that later. Right now this little boy needed her. She would be here for him, no matter the cost.
Emma pulled a chair up to his bedside, and reached under the tent to take hold of his hand. Hot to the touch. Labored breathing had left his color very poor. His eyes were dilated and his breaths shallow. She feared for his life, though she never voiced the words. She wouldn’t dare.
All of the signs pointed to the inevitable, though Emma refused to believe it. Right now she didn’t care that he was contagious. She didn’t even take the time to worry that she put her own life at risk by coming in such close contact. All that mattered was her dedication to this child.
From the looks of things, it wouldn’t be much longer. With tears slipping down her cheeks, Emma offered up a prayer for a very special little boy named Jimmy Peterson.
She sat for some time at his side, curious at the amount of people passing through. The rain had apparently brought in some wet, weary Islanders. Not many appeared to be suffering, but they would require coffee and blankets. She needed to tend to that – and right away, from the looks of things.
Emma rose from Jimmy’s bedside to care for the many others that now needed her assistance, though she vowed not to stay away long.
***
Saturday, September 8th, 9:45 a.m. St. Mary’s Orphan’s Asylum
“Sister Henri! Sister Henri!”
Henrietta turned to face the children. Their squeals rose to an almost unbearable pitch. Water trickled in under the door and slowly seeped across the dining room floor.
“Merciful heavens! Up on the chairs, children!”
The children, voices still rising, scrambled up onto the crude wooden chairs set before the large dining table. Dozens of children on dozens of chairs. Now what?
The water rose rapidly, surprising Henri. She peered out of the only window the modest dining room allowed, shocked to find how high the water outside stood.
“Sister Henri?”
She turned to face her dearest friend on the Island, Sister Grace. “What should we do?”
“I’ll do what I can to keep the children calm,” Grace said softly. “You go and get Sister Abigail.”
Henrietta tried to hide the fear in her voice as she ran to the tiny kitchen. “Sister Abigail?”
“Yes?” The older woman, preoccupied with food preparation, didn’t turn to face her. “Is Elizabeth back?”
“No, Sister. We’ve got a problem. Water is coming into the dining hall. Two inches, maybe three.”
“For heaven’s sake! Why are you just standing there? Where are the children?”
“I’m trying to decide what to do with them,” she explained. “Should I take them over to the infirmary? ”
“The infirmary? Don’t be ridiculous. Do you really want to risk illness?”
“Of course not,” Henrietta explained. “It’s just that—”
“Take the children up to the girls’ dormitory,” Abigail turned back to her work. “Get Grace to help you!”
“Take the boys and the girls up?”
“Certainly. Now stop wasting time, Sister.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
Why did Henrietta always feel so useless around Sister Abigail—so completely hopeless?
“Move quickly now!” the older woman scolded.
Henri bounded back into the dining hall, hiking her skirts up to avoid soaking them in the dirty water that now covered the floor. The children stood safely upon the chairs, but the water below had risen to nearly five inches.
“Grace!”
The young woman turned to look at Emma. Her calm expression instantly brought some sense of relief to Henrietta’s soul. Gentle Grace always had that effect on people. God bless her.
“Let’s get the children upstairs.” Henri hollered, fighting to be heard above the noise.
Grace nodded, grabbing two of the littlest ones and holding them around her waist.
“Children, come quickly,” Henrietta called out, beckoning them. They swarmed to the two novices like flies to honey.
“I’m scared, Sister!” Little Dorothy grabbed her hand.
Henrietta understood her fear. How in the world could she comfort the children when she, herself, shook like a leaf?
“I don’t like the thunder,” Molly Aikens cried as she pressed her face into Henri’s skirt.
“Don’t be a scardy-cat!” Eleven year old Lucas Simcox splashed her skirt and created more squeals from the group. “Only dumb girls are scardy-cats!”
“Stop it, Lucas!” Grace admonished.
Henrietta pulled the children to herself, feeling a knot grow in her throat. Whatever it took, she would protect these children. “It’s going to be alright. God is with us. Now let’s head upstairs where we’ll be safe.”
“Boys too?” Grace asked, eyes growing large. “In the girls’ dormitory? Are you sure?”
Henri nodded quickly, and they began to climb. Grace led the way. Henrietta stood at the bottom of the stairs, making sure each child was accounted for.
“Sister Abigail, aren’t you coming?” She spoke over the rhythm of the water, which had now risen to a good eight inches.
“I’ll be up shortly,” the older woman responded, clutching at the hem of her wet habit. She began to stack chairs upon the wooden tabletop. “Now get those children up the stairs.”
“Yes, Sister.”
Henrietta scrambled up the steep steps, joining Grace and the children in the large dormitory above.
Lucas ran to the window and shouted. “Gee willikins! Look at our dorm, fellas!” He pointed across the open field to the boy’s dormitory. The sturdy two-story structure stood knee deep in water. Henrietta watched, mesmerized, as the water continued to rise. The infirmary stood nearby, also taking in water. In the distance, she could see the gulf, waters rising and falling at unbelievable heights.
“We’re too close to shore,” she whispered. For the first time the thought occurred to her. They were precariously close to the island’s west beach, on the lower end of the island.
Abigail, wet to the hips, made her appearance, temper still flaring. “Come away from that window!”
“I don’t suppose this is the safest place,” Henri said firmly. “Everyone needs to move away from the glass and come into this corner with me. We’ll sing songs and play games until the storm passes.” She prayed it would pass quickly. She also muttered a prayer for the safety of her dear friend braved the storm to bring food.
As if she could read her thoughts, Lilly Mae spoke up... “I’m hungry, Sister Henri,” she grumbled. “I bet Sister Elizabeth ’s having breakfast without us!”
“I doubt it, dear,” Henri grinned in spite of herself. Somehow, even in the middle of the storm, Lilly Mae had managed to give her something to smile about.
Chapter Nine
Saturday, September 8th, 10:42 a.m. The Galveston Courier
Brent shook the water from his jacket as he entered the office of The Courier. Though rain poured in a steady torrent, The Strand remained safe from flooding – at least so far. Some along the way had not been so lucky. A temperamental nun had caught his eye crossing Market. Even with her wagon full of supplies, she fought t
he current with a holy vengeance, her skittish horse dancing like a child’s pony at a fair. He prayed for her safety, as he did so many others.
Brent shook his head in disbelief. Everywhere he looked, children and even grown women frolicked in the warm, rising waters. Their faces were joyful, carefree. “If they know what’s best for them, they’d stay inside their houses and prepare for the storm,” he muttered.
Foolish, really – the amount of people out on the streets at a time like this. Of course, he had been one of them, so he really shouldn’t comment. Running his fingers through his doused hair, Brent did his best to make himself look presentable. “Hello?” No response. The building appeared empty. Most of the field reporters must be out covering the storm.
“Can I help you?” An older man in overalls greeted him. “Why, Brent Murphy!”
He recognized him at once. “Hello Gordon.” He extended his hand toward the older man. “Good to see you.”
“And on a day like today. Why am I not surprised?” Gordon shook his head. “You newspaper fellas are a lot alike, aren’t you?”
“I suppose. Looks like you’ve got most of the presses lifted.”
“Yes. But if you’re looking for Mr. Maxwell, he’s gone back upstairs to work on a story.”
“Thanks.” Brent made his way up the stairs to the familiar inner office, tapping lightly on the door.
“Come in.” The same gruff voice of the editor he had left behind six years ago called out to him. Brent carefully opened the door, and pressed his face inside.
“Well, I’ll be horse-whipped,” Everett Maxwell said, as the cigar slipped out of his mouth and scattered ashes across a cluttered desk. It landed atop a heap of papers. “If it ain’t Brent Murphy, returned from the dead. Come on in here.” He gestured enthusiastically, then pushed a stack of books from a nearby chair to make room for Brent.