NEWSCASTER: Yesterday was a beautiful day, Captain. Where did this storm come from?
CAPTAIN ON TAPE: Can’t say. Seems to be coming from two directions. Never saw anything like it. Wind is sixty-two knots—more than seventy miles an hour. That’s gale force! Temperature below freezing. Whole shore covered with ice. Our wharfs and boathouse are beginning to break up. My men are taking it hard. They want to go after those poor devils out there, but there’s nothing they can do. We’re helpless.
NEWSCASTER: Thank you, Captain. We’ll hope and pray for the best.
Here are more bulletins from towns around the shoreline.
From Mooseville: Six duck hunters rented a launch early this morning and headed for Lone Tree Island. The owner of the launch is positive it could not withstand this heavy sea. The persistent north wind has raised the water level in the bay, and if the hunters are marooned on Lone Tree, there is little hope. The island could be submerged by this time.
From Port George: Wharfs and sheds belonging to the commercial fisheries are being shattered by mountainous waves. Even buildings set back from the shore are losing doors, windows, and chimneys. One section of the beach is littered with a jumble of freshly cut timber. Rafts of logs, being floated to the sawmill, have broken loose and are being tossed on the shore like matchsticks.
Here’s one from Purple Point: The community pier has been demolished, along with cargo awaiting shipment: a thousand barrels of apples and twenty-five tons of baled hay.
Serious news from Trawnto Beach: The lightship that warns vessels away from the shoals has been torn from its moorings, increasing the danger to freighters that have lost their course in the blinding snowstorm. Large steel freighters are being tossed by winds up to eighty miles an hour. Boats trying to turn and head back are rolling wildly in the trough of thirty-five-foot waves. The Lifesaving Station has been completely destroyed.
(Consults watch) Our Deep Harbor correspondent is standing by. (Picks up phone) Operator, this is WPKX. Can you connect us with the mobile unit in Deep Harbor?
TAPE OF HIGH WIND AND WAVES, THEN VOICE- OVER: Here in Deep Harbor the noise is deafening: the howling of the wind, the crashing of huge waves, the cracking and groaning of wooden structures breaking up. A wave hits the concrete breakwater, and it sounds like an explosion. The old breakwater, built of wood, is reduced to splinters. The noise drowns out the distress signals from the big boats. They’re frantic for help, but the lifesaving boats have been smashed on the rocks.
The lake is reaching farther inland than anyone can remember. The fisheries have lost buildings, boats, piers, and nets. Houses near the shore are being lifted from their foundations. There’ll be no sleep for anyone on the shore tonight. Over. Back to Pickax.
NEWSCASTER: Hang on, Deep Harbor. While residents of shore communities are ready to evacuate their homes at a moment’s notice, families living inland are advised to stay indoors. One farmer attempting to open his barn door was buried alive in an avalanche when the wind whipped in and filled the barn with snow in a matter of seconds.
The entire county is now isolated. Telegraph lines are down. Railway trains are at a standstill. Passenger trains from Down Below have been halted by drifts, and travelers are stranded. The destruction of boats and docks means that Moose County’s major lifeline has been cut. Food, coal, and kerosene will not reach this area for many days.
In Pickax, all establishments are closed and will remain closed until further notice. Even emergency services have found it impossible to respond to calls. Firefighters, doctors, and police report they are blinded and completely disoriented by the whirlwind of snow.
When the storm is over, volunteers will be needed immediately to assist road crews in digging out the city.
Meanwhile, city officials issue this warning: Stay indoors, and conserve food and fuel. Repeat: Stay indoors, and conserve food and fuel. And please stay tuned to WPKX for further directives.
This is WPKX signing off for Sunday, November ninth.
Qwilleran made his exit as the stage lights dimmed and storm music of Francesca da Rimini filled the hall. Moments later he returned, wearing other garb and carrying another script. His manner was somber as he signaled to Maxine. The music faded away, and the stage lights came up:
Wednesday, November twelfth. The worst storm in the history of the lake is now just a tragic memory, as Moose County tries to assess the damage and pick up the pieces. Farmers report livestock frozen in the fields. Commercial fisheries have lost their means of livelihood. Since fishing is a major industry on the North Shore, the economic impact on Moose County could be serious. The entire shoreline is littered with wreckage: wharfs, commercial buildings, fishing boats, houses, pleasure craft, summer cottages, and government rescue stations. Worst of all is the loss of life. Almost two hundred sailors were drowned, and bodies are still washing up on the Canadian shore. In rural areas, many persons are reported missing. It is now presumed that they lost their way in the blizzard and have frozen to death.
A Lifesaving Station was able to rescue the crew of the five-hundred-foot steamer Hanna, wrecked on the reef. They were rescued after thirty-six hours of desperate attempts. Twenty-five officers and men—and a woman cook who was praised for her bravery—were brought safely to shore by the surfboat. The wreckage will remain on the reef until spring, when salvage operations will begin.
Many crews were less fortunate. Boats capsized or broke in two or “crumpled like eggshells,” according to one observer. What appeared to be a large whale, drifting in the lake, was the hull of a large freighter, upside down and kept afloat by air bubbles. It later sank to the bottom.
Among the fortunate survivors of the storm were six duck hunters who went out before the storm and were marooned all night on Lone Tree Island. They were rescued on Monday, suffering from exposure and on the verge of pneumonia. One of them is standing by to give our listeners a firsthand account of a terrifying adventure.
(Picks up phone) Operator, ready for the Mooseville call. Hello. Yes, this is the WPKX newsroom. Sir, will you tell us how you happened to be out on that island during the storm?
HUNTER ON TAPE: Well, me and five other fellas rented a boat Sunday mornin’ and went out to the island for some birds. We was just gettin’ set up when the wind come up. Nobody thought much about it. But then I heard that spooky whistlin’ sound that means trouble. We was two miles from the mainland, and I wanted to get the heck out of there. But the other fellas, they wanted to get a few shots before quittin’. The wind got real bad then. Even the ducks, they was flyin’ backwards, like.
We could see our boat tossin’ around, and the first thing we know, she broke loose and headed for open water. By that time it was gettin’ awful cold. There we was—alone on an island with nothin’ but a little shack and some miserable trees. We was dressed warm, but we went to the shack and made a fire in the little stove there. Next thing, it started to snow. I never seen such a blizzard. All around us—nothin’ but white. And then the lake, she started to rise. Kept creepin’ closer to the shack. We huddled around the stove until the water busted right in and put the fire out. Whole island was flooded. By the time it got dark, we was standin’ in freezin’ water up to our waist. Somebody said we should tie ourselves together with a piece o’ rope. Don’t know why, but we did. Then the shanty, it started to move. We’re gonna be swept into the bay, I thought. But that durned shanty got stuck between a coupla trees, and there we hung, like trapped animals.
NEWSCASTER: Sir, how long did the blow continue?
HUNTER ON TAPE: Musta been sixteen, eighteen hours. Calmed down about two in the mornin’, and we was still there, shiverin’ and tied together, when they come lookin’ for us, in a boat from Mooseville.
NEWSCASTER: What did you do to keep your spirits up during this . . . this nightmare? I mean, did you talk? Sing? Tell jokes?
HUNTER ON TAPE: (Pause) Well, we talked—we talked about our families. And I guess we prayed a lot.
NEWSCA
STER: Thank you, sir. We’re glad you all got back alive. And take care of that cough!
The news from Fishport was not so good. The bodies of two duck hunters were washed up on the beach, not far from the spot where their wrecked boat was found.
Near Deep Harbor, the storm tossed up a gruesome reminder of an unsolved mystery. Seven years ago, a tugboat with a crew of five disappeared just outside the harbor. According to eyewitnesses, one minute it was there, and the next minute it was gone. No trace of boat or crew was ever found. During Sunday’s storm, the waves churned up the smokestack and cabin of this long-lost boat. With it was one body, badly decomposed after seven summers and seven winters at the bottom of the lake. Deep Harbor also reports that the concrete breakwater failed to withstand the pounding of the waves. Three hundred feet of the breakwater washed away, the waves rolling huge chunks of concrete like marbles.
The storm has raised many puzzling questions. How can one explain the abnormal behavior of wind and water? According to the United States Weather Bureau, it was a clash of three low-pressure fronts—one coming down from Alaska, one from the Rocky Mountains, and a third from the Gulf of Mexico. They met over the lake.
A spokesman for the Weather Bureau has stated that gale warnings were flown at all stations. The signal flags are well known to sailors—the red square with a black center, flown over a white pennant. But the skippers of the big freighters ignored the warnings. Why?
A retired lake captain, who wishes to remain anonymous, gave WPKX his explanation.
SCOTTISH CAPTAIN ON TAPE: Greed, that’s what it’s all about. Greed! The owners of the boats put pressure on the skippers to squeeze in one or two more voyages at the end of the season. It means more profit for the company and maybe a promotion for the skipper and a bonus for the crew, so they don’t heed the storm warnings. Many a lake captain has taken the gamble. But this storm was a fierce one. It was a gamble that no man could win.
NEWSCASTER: The result of last Sunday’s gamble: eight freighters sunk . . . 188 lives lost . . . nine other large boats wrecked or grounded . . . millions of dollars lost in vessels and cargo. But no one can estimate the cost of the terror and heartache caused by the Great Storm of 1913. And no one who has lived through this storm will ever forget it.
FOURTEEN
“Millions of dollars lost . . . But no one can estimate the cost of the terror and heartache caused by the Great Storm of 1913. And no one who has lived through this storm will ever forget it.” The newscaster spoke the words with deep feeling and threw down his script in a final gesture of regret and sorrow. The stage blacked out.
Immediately the audience erupted in applause and cheers, rising to their feet en masse.
The lights came up and Qwilleran stood and bowed and extended an arm toward his assistant, who rose and bowed. There were more shouts. She looked at Qwilleran for a cue, and they both made an exit through the door at stage rear. Maxine said, “Applause is kind of intoxicating, isn’t it? I think they were applauding my wig.”
“They were applauding your presence,” Qwilleran assured her, “and your gracious introduction.”
“I’d never been on a stage before an audience. I was too shy to be in school plays or even Sunday school pageants.”
Her husband appeared from nowhere. “Sweetie! You were wonderful! Qwill! Your performance was hypnotic! And the script was powerful!”
“It was the real thing, that’s all,” Qwilleran said modestly. “Everyone in the audience has family members who were there!”
“Yeah, my grandparents lived through it. They always brought up the subject at family reunions. Well, how about coming into the bar to celebrate, Qwill?”
“Thanks, but I’ll celebrate at the end of the run. I’ve got a big day tomorrow. I’ve got to go home and shift gears.”
“And feed the cats,” said Gary, who had heard it before.
Driving home, Qwilleran assessed the audience response. In Moose County, a live program of any kind was a special event; good or bad, it called for enthusiastic hand clapping and screams. As for standing ovations, the audience, he believed, was simply getting ready to go home. At tonight’s performance, they applauded the magnitude of his moustache as much as his dramatic skills. He knew he was a good writer, and he was a good reader of lines. He had spent all those hours reading aloud to the cats.
As he drove into the barnyard, his headlights illuminated the rear of the building, and there in the kitchen window was Koko, giving him a standing ovation!
The male cat was always a bundle of nervous energy, reporting that there was a message on the answering machine, or a meal was past due, or there had been a stranger on the premises. Yum Yum always hung back and looked worried.
On this occasion, Koko had pushed a volume off the shelf. It was The Hunting of the Snark—not one of Qwilleran’s favorites: He substituted the poems of Robert Service and indulged himself in the macho rhythms of the Yukon. A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon.
Simmons arrived on the Saturday-morning shuttle flight. Qwilleran picked him up at the airport.
“Janice is a nice woman,” the visitor said. “Glad to see that she’s finally getting married. Who is the guy?”
“John Bushland, prizewinning photographer and one of my best friends. He likes to be called Bushy and makes a joke of the fact that he’s losing his hair.”
“I hope he likes waffles. And parrots. Where’s the dinner being held?”
“At Boulder House Inn, a picturesque place on the shore. You and I will arrive early, and the innkeeper will hide you in his office with a drink. The rest of us meet on the parapet overlooking the lake. Just as we are about to toast the newlyweds, you enter. . . .”
“And the bride has a heart attack,” Simmons guessed.
They had arrived at the barn, where Simmons had been a guest on his previous visit. “It doesn’t look a day older,” he remarked of the century-old barn.
He was greeted by the Siamese, who treated him like an old friend. “They’re very handsome creatures. The big one looks frighteningly intelligent, if you ask me, and the little one is a flirt.”
They were sitting in the lounge area, having coffee and Scotch shortbread.
“You know, Qwill,” he went on, “I never really paid any close attention to cats, but my mother—Lottie was her name—was crazy about them. After she died, I started seeing cats through her eyes! I’d look at a strange cat and know exactly what Lottie would say. It kind of shook me up.”
“Consider it your inheritance from Lottie,” Qwilleran said. “My mother died when I was in college, majoring in baseball and jazz bands. Suddenly I became interested in words! I switched to journalism, started writing a book, joined the Shakespeare Club. There’s only one way I can explain it: She had bequeathed me her love of words. She was a librarian.”
At five o’clock that evening, Simmons was undercover at Boulder House, while Qwilleran and Polly were on the parapet with the newly wedded couple and their attendants. Bushy, Roger, and Qwilleran were bonded in friendship, having been shipwrecked on an island during a violent summer storm.
The three couples looked festive but informal: Janice, Sharon, and Polly in short-sleeved pastel dresses; the three men in white summer jackets, summer shirts, and no ties.
The men were talking about their ordeal. At that moment, they were joined by another man in a light-blue summer jacket.
Janice screamed, “Simmons! What are you doing here?”
“Just looking for a drink,” he said.
Concealed under his coat was a worn school notebook, which he handed to the bride. “Secrets of Thelma’s Dinner Club.”
Janice was overcome. She said, “I’d faint if I wasn’t having such a good time!”
When the newlyweds were asked about their plans, they said that they would live in Thelma’s wonderful house on Pleasant Street; Bushy would no longer rent space for a commercial studio; a darkroom could be installed in the basement; Janice w
as learning the fine points of developing and printing; portrait photography could be done in the handsome main rooms of the house.
Then they extended an invitation to everyone for the next day: a cruise among the picturesque offshore islands, with a picnic lunch aboard while anchored near the lighthouse. Bushy had a great cabin cruiser named the View Finder, and Janice was noted for her exciting picnic lunches. And they would see that Simmons got to the airport in time for the five-o’clock shuttle.
Simmons accepted the invitation with pleasure. So did the MacGillivrays. So did Polly.
Only Qwilleran had to decline, saying that he was doing a matinee at two o’clock.
Then the storytelling began: Simmons, about Thelma’s dinner club; Janice, about Thelma’s parrots; Polly, about embarrassing questions that librarians are asked.
Dinner was served in the glassed-in porch. The oval table was laid with a white banquet cloth and centered with two bowls of lilies in mixed white and yellow. They talked with exuberance, reminisced endlessly, laughed a lot, and had a good time. If anyone noticed it, the food was excellent. And the serving of dessert coincided with the setting of the sun over a hundred miles of lake.
The Cat Who Talked Turkey Page 11