Boxed Set: Deep in the Heart of Texas: Hurricane, Mismatched in Texas, Christmas at the Crossroads

by Janice Thompson

  “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.”

  “Thank God for second floor offices.” Everett grinned. His smile disappeared almost as quickly as it came. For the first time he felt guilt over the fact that he hadn’t ventured from this office since the storm began. He had been sending others out, but he had remained in the safety of this place. Sure, he was filled with excuses, but were they valid? All around the island people needed help. He should be out there – doing what he could to assist them.

  And he would be – just as soon as this story went to print. Right now there were pictures to expose, a story to finish.

  “Have you been downstairs?” Nathan asked, clearly concerned.

  “Yep. We worked like the dickens to get the presses elevated.”

  “Well, I hope they’re high enough. With water coming in from the bayside and the gulf, we’re talking big trouble. Very big trouble. Might not be any point printing a paper, if you get my drift.”

  Everett understood the gravity of Nathan’s comment. The reality of it hit him with a vengeance. Unless some sort of unforeseen miracle occurred, the whole island could eventually go under.

  ***

  Saturday, September 8th, 2:03 p.m. St. Mary’s Orphan’s Asylum

  Two hours and counting. Thankfully, the water in the upstairs dormitory stopped rising at ankle depth. From one of the top bunk beds, Henri felt an odd sense of security, though the roar of the winds outside did little to support the feeling.

  Through the window a strange drama unfolded. An assortment of debris raced by, providing a reminder that the raging waters really were in control. Henrietta watched helplessly as what appeared to be bodies also floated by. She held the children close, trying to shield their eyes. She could hear the cries from the Infirmary across the way as the Sisters worked to pull people in through the second-story windows—a puzzling, almost unreal, sight.

  “Oh Lord,” Henrietta repeated over and over again, “be my ever-present help in time of trouble.” She began to understand the comfort of one who knew—knew that in spite of all odds, her faith would sustain her.

  The room sat in total darkness. In spite of the trembling of the dorm, many of the children had finally used the darkness as a cue to drift off to sleep. Henrietta’s own eyes grew heavy, though she refused to give in to the exhaustion. Several times she found herself nodding off, but fought it each time.

  “Now I lay me down to sleep-” She couldn’t help but think of Lilly Mae’s prayer now. How defiant the youngster had been. And now, in a sound sleep, how peaceful and safe she seemed.

  “Grace?” Henri whispered the word, hoping not to wake her, if she happened to be dozing.

  “Yes?” Her precious friend, strong and loving as ever, answered back.

  “I just wanted to hear your voice. Is Sister Abigail asleep?”

  “I believe so. Are you frightened?”

  Henrietta hated to answer, for fear one of the children might hear her. Though she felt some anxiety, an amazing peace transcended it. In the very middle of the storm, she had located an island of safety.

  “Whatever happens,” she whispered quietly. “Whatever happens, I know God will use it to His glory.”

  “Amen.” A faint response, but it seemed to shake the room with its strength.

  ***

  Saturday, September 8th, 4:00 p.m. John Sealy Hospital

  Violent winds shook John Sealy Hospital, threatening to knock it off of its foundation. Emma was shaken as well, though she did her best to hide both her exhaustion and her fear.

  The onslaught of people continued all afternoon. She never had a chance to rest, never had a chance to even catch her breath. “This is never going to end,” Emma moved along, doing what she could to tend to the injured as they came in. So many came in; the task soon became overwhelming, almost hopeless. The loss of electric power created a near panic, yet somehow she kept going amidst it all.

  The wind blew with a vengeance and tiles snapped loudly as they freed themselves from the roof of the building. Bits of plaster fell from the ceilings, covering patients in debris. In the children’s ward, Jimmy Peterson’s condition worsened. His fever spiked, and delirium had set in. Chloe’s labor progressed in the room across the hall. A child would be born before the night fell.

  “Are you all right?” Rupert’s hand gripped her arm. He gave her a reassuring squeeze.

  She nodded and tried to force back the tears. No time for fear or sentiment here; too much work to be done. “I, I’m fine.” The words were forced as she pushed fears about her family’s wellbeing out of her mind.

  The door of the hospital never seemed to stop opening. The water had risen to a dangerous point and the first floor became useless. Patients and refugees alike shifted upstairs. And on they came. They were of every color, every nationality. Many were bloody and frail. Others seemed to be in a state of shock. Frantically, they cried out for any kind of help.

  Emma shook her head helplessly. What could she do when so many were in need? I’m just one person!

  She watched it all in dismay. What she saw sent her mind in a thousand different directions all at once. Young men in soggy hats with broken wire-rimmed glasses, weary women with twisted, wet skirts wrapped around their ankles, children with cuts, scrapes, bruises, broken bones. They came in crying. They came in shaking their heads in disbelief. They came in with looks of wonder and amazement on their faces.

  “Where did this come from?” seemed to be the question in the forefront of their minds. “Why didn’t we know?”

  All seemed to have questions. None had answers, including Emma. This storm had literally struck from out of nowhere.

  ***

  Saturday, September 8th, 4:00 p.m. The Murphy Villa

  Pearl rose from her nap and ventured into the front hallway shaking her head in disbelief. “Miz Gillian, I’m scared. This whole house gonna go under and get washed out to sea.”

  “Pearl, stop talking like that.”

  “But Miz…”

  We built this home on Broadway because it’s the highest, safest place on the island,” Gillian said with an undeniable air. “So stop fretting, Pearl. You’ll just wear yourself out, and I need you now, perhaps more than I’ve ever needed you.”

  “But the kitchen is already taking on water, and it’s just a matter of time before the water rises to the main floor.”

  Gillian refused to respond. As long as the water remained only in the servant’s quarters, everything should be just fine. She headed up the stairs, water lapping at her heels. For hours, she and Pearl had worked at stacking kitchen furniture up as high as possible. They had managed to elevate most everything of value. The food for the party, along with everything necessary to serve it—had been transported upstairs before the water had entered the house. Right now, Gillian couldn’t seem to think straight. What remained undone?

  “Miz Gillian!” Pearl called out from below. “What should I do with the tea service?”

  “Put it on the top shelf in the butler’s pantry,” she said anxiously. “Hurry up, now.”

  The older woman quickly placed the necessary items on a broad silver tray and ascended the stairs to the parlor, where the mistress of the house stood, impatiently waiting. Pearl’s damp, heavy skirts caused her to trip at the top step and a silver teapot flew across the polished oak floor.

  “Do be careful!” Gillian reached down to pick it up. “You know that tea service belonged to Douglas’s mother. He would just die if anything happened to it.” She quickly thought about her choice in words and regretted them. “I mean…”

  “I know what you means, Ma’am,” Pearl muttered. She went about her business, carefully placing the plates on the appropriate shelf.

  “Now, don’t bother yourself with anything else down in the
kitchen,” Gillian said. “I’m going to need your help up here for the next little while.”

  “Yes’m,” Pearl made her way toward the butler’s pantry. “Land sakes alive! I sure am gonna hate to clean up that kitchen after this water goes down, I am!”

  “Let’s not worry about that now,” Gillian said. “Right now we have to make sure we can save everything of value.”

  No sooner were the words spoken than she realized how futile they were. The two things most valuable in the world weren’t even here to be saved.

  Douglas, Brent! Where are you? I need you more than ever!

  Chapter Eleven

  Saturday, September 8th, 4:59 p.m. Along The Strand

  Brent turned and headed back toward town. The level of water, now well above his waist, made it impossible to go on. He must now join the hundreds of others who fought their way toward the center of the island. Each step challenged his strength and stamina.

  Brent shivered against the cold as the sting of water slapped him across the back in riveting pellets. The wind, stronger than any he had ever imagined, would drive him under if he didn’t make it to higher ground soon. He must make it to higher ground. At this point, his life depended on it.

  Sheets of rain whipped across his face, blinding him. His glasses ripped off abruptly, leaving him without any sense of direction. He groped for them in the water, but couldn’t locate them. No story in the world is worth this. He reached down and came up with something that felt familiar. An umbrella. A broken, twisted umbrella. He tried to open it, but the wind pulled it from his hand. Brent watched in amazement as it flew up and out of sight. He prayed it wouldn’t hurt anyone as it descended once again. If it descended once again.

  Suddenly it didn’t matter anymore. A current of water tore at him, pulling him under. He fought to regain control, spewing the dirty saltwater from his mouth. Just as his feet hit the ground, pieces of broken timbers began to move toward him, striking him on every side. Brent groaned in pain as each new object struck. Only the cold of the water seemed to save him somewhat. Mercifully, it numbed him. His teeth chattered uncontrollably and he fought to stay focused.

  His cries were lifeless against the crescendo of water. Despite his pleas, debris raced swiftly along—a sure sign homes and businesses were going down. Telephone poles, broken glass, wagon wheels, bits of furniture—all traveled inland at high speed, the water guiding their every move.

  “Help me!” A man to his right clutched at a moving plank of wood. He disappeared as the current pulled them both in the opposite direction. Brent’s stomach began to churn and he felt as if he would be sick. Without his glasses, everything was thrown into a blurry whirl, and he could not seem to respond with clear thinking.

  A child, a young boy with an oddly familiar face, called out to him. “Mister! Mister!”

  Brent turned to his left and his eyes sought out the child. The little one moved rapidly along, clutching a broken chair. Sharp olive eyes, opened wide in fright, triggered an unforgettable memory. Dear God, no! The little boy on the train.

  “Lucas!” Brent pressed with all of his strength, but could not reach him. The youngster let out a shrill cry as the current carried him away – and then under. Brent could do nothing but scream and beg for God’s mercy for the little one.

  He never resurfaced.

  Brent suddenly felt the power of a large piece of timber hitting his flesh. It struck him in the right side. For a moment everything went black. Forcing himself to stay focused, he latched onto the piece of wood for safety. Large, dark—a telephone pole.

  “Dear God, please -”

  If he could just get back to the center of the island—if he could only make it home. He would go inside. He would face his father.

  ***

  Saturday, Sept. 8th, 5:14 P.M. p.m. The Murphy Villa

  “Miz Gillian!” Pearl’s voice shattered the darkness just as the round stained-glass window above the front door split into a thousand pieces. “Come quick!”

  “I’m right here, Pearl.” Gillian looked down from the safety of the balcony above. “But it’s too dangerous. We need to get to the center of the house. Where is the safest place, do you think? The bathroom? The bedroom?”

  “I’m not sure, Miss,” Pearl said nervously. “There’s a big window in your bedroom, and one to match in Brent’s room. What about a closet?”

  “A closet?” Gillian said breathlessly. “Pearl, that’s brilliant. Douglas’s closet is large, and it’s far from any windows. I dare say it’s the safest place in the house.”

  She raced into their spacious upstairs bedroom, fighting to get around the huge bed that took up so much of the room. Her lovely Italian bedroom furniture had been such a source of pride. She and Douglas had found it on one of their latest European expedition. She had insisted. He had relented.

  How impractical it seemed now, as she fought to make her way around it. Her ill-fated treasure—it stood, an ugly monstrosity, as a symbol of all that had meant so much to her. Why had she wanted it in the first place? The whole thing made her skin crawl. The chest of drawers was so ornate it almost sickened her now. What was it that had once seemed beautiful?

  Gillian shook her head in confusion and gave herself over to tears as she pulled the closet door open. She stepped inside, facing the smell of cedar. Pearl came in behind her. Just as they reached to pull the door shut, a crack of thunder shook the house and lightening lit the closet up like an electric light bulb going on. It startled Gillian and she slammed the door shut quickly.

  “Now what do we do? Do you have a lamp?”

  “I have a lantern. Should I light it?”

  “Not yet. Perhaps we won’t be here long.” The thunder struck again and the house began to groan beneath them.

  “Miz Gillian, I don’t wants to see, anyways. I surely don’t.”

  “No. Not really.” To be honest, shut up here in the dark seemed the safest, most practical place to be. What was the point in seeing – when seeing would only cause her pain?

  ***

  Saturday, September 8th, 6:09 p.m. The Galveston Courier

  The downstairs office of The Courier stood waist deep in water. Everett pulled his way through it, frantic to see if the printing presses were safe. Gratefully, they were elevated enough—at least for now. “Stay on top of this!” he hollered above the roar of water to a group of young men working at protecting the valuable equipment.

  Making his way to the window, he had a good, long look outside. The noise of the wind and the sight of debris being pulled rapidly along The Strand startled him. God, help anyone who is out in this.

  At last report, the wind blew at eighty-four miles per hour, with gusts topping one hundred. Never in his lifetime had Everett experienced such force, and yet he didn’t feel it, either. He remained here, safe, inside—but for how long?

  He made his way back to the stairs, then turned to survey the room. If this went under, it could very well be the end of the paper. Just the thought of it sent a sudden, sharp pain through his chest. He trudged up the narrow stairs, anxious to get back into his office where everything was still high and dry.

  Everett lit a cigar as he dropped into his familiar chair. It dangled from his lips as he sat, deep in thought. Reporters roamed the streets. He had sent them there. Everett couldn’t help but think of Nathan, back out for more photographs. He had practically pushed him out the door with instructions to take ‘the best possible photographs.’ If anything happened to him, he could never forgive himself. But that’s what this business was all about, right?

  Not much of a praying man, Everett now found himself muttering a choppy plea for the safety of his wife and children. As far inland as they were, they probably hadn’t taken much water yet, but the wind might be sufficient to blow their wood-framed house to bits. The phone lines had been down for hours now. Guessing had become the fashion of the day.

  And as for Brent Murphy—the prodigal news reporter—he had headed out to brav
e the storm for a story. Not much had changed there. That kid had always had a nose for the news. Everett smiled, remembering.

  Brent Murphy was home – and that changed everything.

  ***

  Saturday, September 8th, 6:11 p.m. St. Mary’s Orphan’s Asylum

  “Sisters!” Abigail’s shrill voice roused Henrietta from her dozing. A shattering of glass followed. The dormitory window gave way under the pressure of rising water, both inside and outside the room. Henri watched in horror as the current began to pull at them, dragging the beds toward the open window. Now waist-deep in the cold, murky water, she prayed as she had never prayed before. Salty waves washed over her and chilled her to the core of her being. Dark and foreboding, she could barely make out the outline of the others in the room, but she could hear their voices. The children’s screams were deafening.

  “Henri, are you here?” Grace’s voice seemed amazingly steady and strong.

  “I’m here!” she cried out.

  “Hold the children as tightly as you can.”

  “Be my ever present help in time of trouble...” the words crept from Henri’s lips repeatedly as she clutched the children. Her hands shook uncontrollably, making her task almost impossible. The cold water left her so numb, she could scarcely think.

  “Lord, help us!” Sister Abigail’s voice rang out from the darkness then disappeared altogether.

  The cries of the children rose to a fevered pitch. Many were screaming, pleading. All but Lilly Mae. In a language still unfamiliar to Henrietta, the youngster sang the familiar aria—in Italian.

  The beams above cracked with a deafening roar, and the walls began to move in slow motion toward the center of the room. They allowed tiny snatches of light to enter in as lightning flashed overhead. The water suddenly enveloped them all, its sheer force almost sending Henri out of her skin. She felt herself pulled off the bunk and well underneath it.