Boxed Set: Deep in the Heart of Texas

  “Hardly dead,” Brent stuck out his hand. His old friend shook it with a broad smile.

  “Never thought I’d live to see the day...” Everett muttered. “Thought you had the writing bug. Thought those big-city fellers would have snatched you up by now.”

  Brent dropped down into the chair with a sigh. “Didn’t care much for the taste of big-city life.”

  “Big-city reporting, you mean?”

  “Maybe.” Brent shrugged.

  “Not all you thought it would be?”

  How could he answer without giving away his frustrations, his fears? “What’s the latest on the storm? I had one doozie of a time getting here from my parent’s place with the wind like it is.”

  “Ah ha. So that’s what’s up,” Everett said with a sly grin. “You smell a story.”

  “Right now all I smell are storm clouds and the slightest hint of a hurricane. Am I right?” He felt the familiar pangs of excitement as he spoke. A big story always seemed to do this to him.

  “As always.”

  “Where’s it headed?” Brent tried not to appear too anxious.

  “The worst of it is supposed to pass over the west of the city. Just received a telegraph. And with the west end being slightly lower than we are here on the east…” Everett’s voice trailed off.

  “Not good.” He knew all too well what that meant. A large storm would be catastrophic to the lower end of the island. And with hurricane winds pressing their way ashore, they could very well be in for the ride of their lives. Immediately Brent’s adrenaline kicked in.

  “You’re telling me.” Everett pressed his cigar into an ashtray. “Places the whole island in the right semi-circle of the storm. Mighty glad I moved my family farther inland two years back.”

  “You did?”

  “Yep. You missed a lot during the last six years. A mighty lot. Maggie’s had another baby just four months ago.”

  “Boy or girl?” Brent asked. Everett’s wife Maggie had always been kind to him—treated him more like a son than a fledgling reporter.

  “Boy. Everett Eugene.”

  “Spitting image of the old man?”

  “Hardly,” Everett said with a laugh. “He’s got hair.”

  “I wasn’t going to mention it.” Brent tried not to stare, “but what happened to yours?”

  “I pulled it all out over the last six years while you were gone,” the older man said with a laugh. “Missed you.”

  “Very funny.”

  “So what happened in New York. Too much to talk about?”

  Too much? Far too much had occurred to mention now. “I, uh— Well, I got hired on pretty quick at The World...”

  “You actually got to work for Pulitzer, himself? That’s quite an accomplishment for a young whipper-snapper like yourself.”

  Brent chose not to say much more on the subject. “Hardly. Never actually saw him face to face. Let’s just say life was different in New York and leave it at that.”

  “Quite a battle going on between Pulitzer and Hearst, eh?”

  “Battle is a mild word,” Brent mumbled.

  “Yep. Heard first-hand that you practically started the Spanish-American War all by your lonesome.”

  “I wish everyone would stop saying that.” What a gut-wrenching job it had been, working for the big names. Though Brent had found stretched a headline or two to sell papers, he would never have gone so far as to create trouble.

  “Tell me everything,” Everett said, sitting on the edge of his desk. “You know I could never resist a good story.”

  Brent hesitated for a minute before speaking. Suddenly, a burst of wind from outside caught the window, shaking it, and creating a racket that startled them both out of their seats.

  “Looks like you’ve got a much bigger story of your own out in the gulf,” he said, trying to put on his most professional face. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Uh huh,” Everett said. “Just as I suspected. Your nose is picking up the scent.”

  The scent of a major story filled the air. That, Brent concluded, seemed undeniable.

  ***

  Saturday, September 8th, 10:51 a.m. John Sealy Hospital

  “Nurse! Nurse!”

  Emma turned as the door swung open, the air pressure catching her off-guard. A woman with rich brown skin and deep jet-black eyes entered, laboring with child. She was soaked from head to toe. Emma knew she must collect her thoughts and find a room for the woman.

  “What’s your name, dear?” she asked.

  “Chloe.” The young woman panted in rhythm with the contractions. “My husband should be in shortly. He’s looking for a place to tie up the team where they’ll be safe.

  “I’m glad you made it this far,” Emma said. “I’ve heard the coastal areas are under water.”

  “Yes,” Chloe said, “We had water knee-deep when we left our place. I had planned to deliver at home, but...”

  “I understand. Just glad you made it safely.”

  Rupert appeared from around the corner, just as Chloe’s husband entered, wet from head to toe.

  “We’ll have to find something dry for both of you.” Emma reached to take his jacket. With Rupert’s help, she managed to get the couple settled into a safe spot, offering them hospital gowns to change into.

  Nurse Phillips caught her by the arm moments later. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Emma instinctively began to tremble, suddenly unable to defend herself against the older woman’s never-ending assaults. “W...What do you mean?”

  “Those people. They’re immigrants. You know good and well they don’t have the money to deliver in this hospital.”

  “But...”

  “There are no buts.” Nurse Phillips stood with her hands on her hips.

  “Their house has taken in water,” Emma argued. “They have no place else to go!” She tried to muster up the courage to speak her mind, but words failed her. She wanted to give Nurse Phillips a tongue-lashing. Anyone with half a heart could see these people needed help.

  “This is not a charity hospital, Emma. And if they don’t come up with the money to cover their expenses, then you will answer for that, do you hear me?”

  She couldn’t think of any way to respond to such absurdity.

  “No more!” Nurse Phillips shook her finger in her face. “We don’t want any more islanders looking at the hospital as a place of refuge. We certainly don’t need that.”

  Heaven forbid.

  ***

  Saturday, September 8th, 10:59 a.m. St. Mary’s Orphan’s Asylum

  Henrietta stared out of the upstairs window, knuckles turning white as one hand clutched another. She didn’t speak a word. Even if she had, no one would have heard her. The wind outside pulled at the building with unbelievable force. The sound was deafening. Creaking and groaning were continual as the building began to sway. The noise tore through her skin and pulled at the very core of her being. And yet it never touched her. Safe inside the walls of the girls dormitory, she remained a mere observer.

  But what about Sister Elizabeth ? Had she located shelter somewhere between the orphanage and the market? God forbid, she should.... No! Henrietta wouldn’t let herself think like that.

  She stared at the boy’s dormitory, just yards away.

  “Sister!” The shrieking of the children pulled her back into the room, back into the present—the awful present. Her eyes searched out Grace’s. She held a tight grip on the smallest of the girls, lips moving constantly in prayer.

  “What should we do?” Henrietta merely mouthed the words, realizing she would never be heard about the constant howl of the wind and children combined. The noise coming from the water below built to an impending crescendo. She could feel it, like one felt the sting of a wasp just as the stinger entered the skin. The water had almost reached the second floor.

  Then she saw it. Crumpled on the floor, in the farthest corner of the room… Clothesline, for whatever reason, had been tossed car
elessly in the corner. What a miraculous idea! They could—they should tie it around the waist of each child. Then they would rope themselves into the groups—she, Grace and Sister Abigail. That way—just in case…

  No, she hated to think like that.

  “Children, quickly,” she called out. “Line up in three rows, smallest on the left, larger girls on the right.” She began to rope them together as quickly as her hands could move. “Help me, Sister!” She tossed Abigail another piece. In total silence, the older nun began to work.

  “Sister! Sister!” Lilly Mae cried out.

  “Yes?”

  “Dorothy’s rope came untied,” the youngster cried. “Can you fix it, please?”

  She reached for the rope and secured it around the youngster’s waist. Dorothy’s hand reached for hers and she squeezed it tightly. Anything she could do to keep them calm right now, she would do.

  The roar of water below now accompanied the splintering sound of beams giving way. Every moment felt more critical than the last. Henrietta took the group of larger children and fastened herself to them with the remaining rope. Using only hand motions, she signaled for Abigail to do the same with the smaller girls.

  A tremor shook the building, followed by a deafening roar. Then, from across the room, Henrietta saw it—through the window, just yards away—

  The boy’s dormitory melted into nothingness.

  ***

  Saturday, September 8th, 11:02 a.m. The Murphy Villa

  Gillian Murphy turned away from the window and shook her head in defeat. A good foot of water covered the yard now and the flowers, which had recently stood tall and proud, were buried under the sea. Little good they would do her now. All hopes of a garden party had been washed away, along with her hopes for becoming president of the Opera Society.

  Gillian agonized over her loss. Without a chance to prove herself, she was destined to become just another in a long list of women who had little to offer but an occasional charitable contribution or tidbit of gossip. These hopeless women attended the cotillions, sat aboard one another’s yachts and spent hours on mindless chatter. They griped about the situation with the immigrants and discussed ways to improve the Island. They were good people who rarely accomplished much.

  “There’s so much more to me than that,” she said with a pout. “But no one will ever know.” She had gifts, talents. She could help this island gain prominence. She could do so much.

  Gillian stared at the yard once again. The water rose before her very eyes and the realization suddenly hit her. Her property, her very life, could be in danger.

  “It’s not fair,” she shouted to the sky. “It’s just not fair.”

  She doubled over in tears, and slid down the wall to sit on the floor, paying little attention to her unladylike display. Her head came to rest against the large front window. Out on the street below, people ran to and fro. They carried all sorts of crazy things – furniture, bags, children. Still others went by on horseback – the animals bellowing at the water, fighting against it with every fiber of their being. The all looked terrified but watching them only made her more nervous.

  Her lovely home, elevated by several feet, probably wouldn’t take in water, but what if some of those people – those frantic, crazy people, tried to come in unannounced? What would she do? She thought of Douglas’s gun – locked away upstairs. He had never taught her to use it. What good would it do her now? Perhaps Pearl… No, she couldn’t count on Pearl for anything now. The older woman had gone to lie down, insisting she didn’t feel well.

  Lazy woman.

  Gillian looked out the window once again, contemplating her plight. If the water continued to rise, she would have no choice but to move upstairs, even if it meant strangers might try to invade. She began to worry intently about her property, her very life. “I need my husband,” she pouted. “Where is he when I need him?”

  Chapter Ten

  Saturday, September 8th, 11:09 a.m. Along The Strand

  Brent left the office of The Courier with a smile on his face. The Strand, not far from the harbor side of the Island, already had water in the street – nearly up to his knees and rising quickly. He shivered and pulled his light jacket up around his ears, anxious to be on his way.

  Brent fought the blinding rain with a rush of excitement. He had seen the gleam in Everett’s eye. The older man needn’t say any more. This hurricane could very well turn into the first great story of the new century. Whether he had chosen it or not, he would be the one to report it.

  Journalists always seemed to hope for the worst, knowing a great headline might come of it. Brent knew his motives were different and didn’t question why he traveled into the storm instead of away from it. This story simply couldn’t be denied.

  Brent looked up and down the Strand as he fought his way toward shore. The risk for offices along this stretch of road grew as the wind picked up. Escalating from a whistle to a steady roar, the sound nearly deafened him. He pulled his jacket as tight as possible around his ears, trying to drown out the noise. It would not be deafened.

  Still he continued on. Many of the shopkeepers, he noted, had braved the noise and the driving rain to board up their windows. They worked diligently, some losing pieces as lumber as swiftly as they nailed them up. He nodded to a few of them as he made his way south, fighting ever-deepening water.

  He mustered up the courage to continue, hoping to make it as close to the coast as possible. That’s where the stories would be. According to Everett, rumors of cottages toppling on the east end were already circulating. People, cold and wet, pressed past him, moving away from the shoreline and toward the center of the island, where they might find refuge. Most had frantic expressions their faces, and they clutched their children and possessions tightly. They were traveling away from the storm.

  His path led him directly into it.

  ***

  Saturday, September 8th, 11:59 a.m. St. Mary’s Orphan’s Asylum

  “Sing, children! Sing!” Henrietta’s voice rang out above the roar of water below. With the energy of a freight train, she began to sing one of their favorites, the French hymn, “Queen of the Waves.” She had known this song for some time, but it had never made as much sense to her as it did right now – in this very moment. The words suddenly became real to Henrietta and the song took on new meaning, new depth in the middle of the storm.

  Queen of the Waves, look forth across the ocean

  From north to south, from east to stormy west,

  See how the waters with tumultuous motion

  Rise up and foam without a pause or rest.

  The children, water creeping up about their feet, joined her—first in fear, then with a triumphant blast. For awhile it seemed the storm had come to a complete halt as their voices rang out in unison.

  But fear we not, tho' storm clouds round us gather,

  Thou art our Mother and thy little Child is the All Merciful,

  Our loving Brother , God of the sea and of the tempest wild.

  Lilly Mae’s voice rang out above the others, a pure and angelic voice now familiar to Henri. The child seemed to lead the others, as if she had been gifted for this very moment. As they sang, the water appeared to stop rising, at least for a time. Henri didn’t know whether to count it a blessing or a miracle. Unfortunately, it soon began again and fear gripped her in a way she had never known. She started to sing once more, but Abigail stopped her.

  “Into the beds,” the older woman instructed. They gathered as teams onto the highest of the beds, giving themselves additional time to collect their thoughts. The Sisters worked together to secure the children once again. This was no small task, for many of the nervous little ones had wiggled loose.

  Hands clutched together, they whispered a prayer for safety. “Dear Lord,” the words were fresh on Henrietta’s lips, “Be our ever-present help in time of trouble.” The others joined in, echoing her words. “Dear Lord, be our ever-present help in time of trouble.” Sever
al times over they repeated the words, until Henrietta genuinely began to believe it possible.

  And then a song rose from the group, as magnificent as any ever raised at the Opera House, just miles away in the heart of town. A song that rode the winds of the storm. A song of hope.

  ***

  Saturday, September 8th, 12:07 p.m. The Galveston Courier

  Editor Everett Maxwell peered up anxiously at photographer Nathan Porter as he entered the office. “What’s the story?”

  “Too much to tell,” Nathan said with a gasp. “Too much.” He shook his head frantically back and forth, eyes wide with excitement.

  “Well, catch your breath and tell me what you can.” Everett didn’t have time to wait. The newspaper couldn’t be kept waiting. Downstairs the presses were being prepared to pump out the earliest possible edition. For once, The Courier would beat the other guys to the punch – if Nathan would spit out the story – and quick.

  “The bridge is under,” Nathan said. “Probably washed out, but we won’t know for sure until the water goes down.”

  “Pictures?”

  “You bet.” The young reporter raised the camera proudly. “And all three train trestles are under, too.”

  “This really is a bad one,” Everett said, half excited, half nervous. “Maggie managed to get through to me on the telephone about twenty minutes ago – says we’ve got water up to the table-tops in our dining room. Wish I’d been able to build a little closer to the center of town.”

  “Same here,” Nathan agreed. “I haven’t been home for hours – don’t have a clue how my parents are faring. But Everett, listen—this is far worse than we predicted. Galveston has never seen a storm like this.”

  “Bigger than ’86?”

  “Much bigger. And the problem is,” Nathan explained, “the tide has forced itself into the harbor, which has caused the bay waters to rise. That’s why we’ve already got so much water here on the Strand.”