Devil Storm

by Theresa Nelson

  “Alice, I don’t care to hear any more about that awful water, and besides, your breakfast is getting stone cold,” Mama chided, as she put a spoonful of milk toast in Emily’s mouth. “Now, you come sit down at your place and stay there till you’re done—you know better.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Alice slid into her chair, but she was too excited to eat. Her eyes kept darting toward the window.

  Walter didn’t feel much like eating, himself; his stomach was still tangled up in knots from Tom’s visit. Surely he had done the right thing, said what Papa would have wanted him to say—surely he had.… But he didn’t feel sure.… For cryin’ out loud, why cain’t I ever feel sure of anything?

  “Walter, you’ve hardly touched your cheese grits,” Mama said, “and I thought they were your favorite!”

  “Yes, ma’am, they are. They’re real good. I’m just—not too hungry.…”

  “You’re not feeling feverish again, are you?” His mother put her hand to his forehead.

  He pulled away in exasperation. “No, ma’am, I feel just fine.”

  “Well, there’s no need to snap at me,” Mama said in a strained voice; then, more gently, “I expect it’s just this weather has you upset. I don’t wonder, with your father still off visiting those relatives of his. I tell you what—I’ll make boiled custard later on. My mother always said there’s nothing like boiled custard to soothe the nerves.”

  “Mama,” Walter said suddenly, “do you s’pose we ought to take the wagon over to High Island ’fore this storm gets any worse?”

  “Goodness, no, Walter—just look at that rain! Why, we’d be drenched! I don’t see what good it would do us, anyway. You know your father insists we’re perfectly safe in a storm as long as we stay in this house, and I s’pose we have to trust he knows what he’s talking about. I expect this old wind’s going to blow itself out before long, anyhow.”

  “I expect so.…” said Walter, staring disconsolately into his bowl. It was true—Papa had said it, and, of course, he knew. He had been a sailor; he knew all about those things, Walter told himself. But here came the memory of Tom’s voice, whispering in his other ear: Ain’t nothin’ gonna be alive where we’re standin’, this time tomorrow.…

  Lightning flashed. Thunder rolled.

  “I do wish your father would get here,” Mama said, glancing nervously out the window. “Surely he knows to come straight home; I can’t believe he’d fool around in Galveston looking at boats in wheather like this! But then, I s’pose you never can figure what a man will do. You know what my papa used to say to me? ‘Daughter’, he’d say, ‘all men are sorry, but some are sorrier than others.’ If he said it once, he said it a thousand times.”

  “He’ll come,” said Walter. He had never wanted his father so much in his life. “I bet he’s on his way back right this minute.”

  “No, sir, no trains that way this morning. Barge can’t cross for a while, not till this storm passes, anyhow.” The man at the ticket office was polite but firm.

  An irritated muscle twitched in Richard’s jaw. “Well, how’m I s’posed to get back to Bolivar, then?”

  “I don’t know, Mister. I don’t guess you can,” the man said patiently, then added with a chuckle, “‘less you’re a better swimmer than I am.”

  Richard didn’t laugh. “My family’s over there by themselves,” he said, frowning.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to offend,” said the man. “But I wouldn’t worry. These things don’t usually amount to much.”

  Richard nodded curtly, walked away from the window, and sat down on one of the waiting room benches; they were sparsely filled with other would-be passengers.

  “Ought to have stayed home,” he said to himself under his breath. The line from his cousin’s joke had run senselessly through his head since yesterday—only now did its meaning seem clear. He stood up again and took off his coat. It was wet through. He had had to walk quite a way in the rain. The streets close to the beach were flooded, so the trolleys weren’t running. He had passed dozens of people who appeared to be in holiday mood, going down to see the huge breakers tumbling in, leaping up sky-high as they dashed against the pleasure piers. Galveston was full of folks who relished rough weather.

  But Richard wasn’t among them. He didn’t like the looks of this storm. He didn’t like the whining he had heard in the wind even before he had opened his eyes that morning. Not that it was blowing all that hard, but there was a peculiar sound in it that he had heard before in his days at sea, a sound that made sailors turn pale and cross themselves.

  “Stay here till it blows over,” Cousin Jack had told him at breakfast, but Richard had said no, he ought to be getting home; Lillie and the children would be wanting him there.

  “Dang weather,” he muttered now, as he settled himself against the hard wooden bench.

  “I reckon it’ll be over ’fore long,” said a genial-looking white-haired man sitting nearby. “I’ve seen storms a lot worse than this. Biggest overflow they ever had here was in seventy-five—didn’t do much more than make a mess.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sure you’re right,” Richard said. “But I’d really like to get on home. My wife doesn’t like it much when I’m gone in bad weather.”

  The old man nodded understandingly. “High-strung type?”

  “Yes, sir, I guess you could say that.” Richard cleared his throat uncomfortably and looked down at his good shoes. They were caked with mud. “Course there’s no reason for her to be nervous; our house is set up plenty high. Built it myself—solid as a rock, that house.”

  “Is that right?” The man looked impressed. “Where is it you live?”

  “Over on Bolivar, ’bout mid-way between Flake and Rollover.”

  The man nodded again. “Well, sure, I know right where that is. Good melon country over there, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir, best in the world. I’m a melon farmer myself. Carroll’s the name,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Carroll,” said the man, shaking it. “Milam, here, from Beaumont.” There was a moment’s quiet; then he spoke again. “You know, I’ve always wondered why they call it Rollover.”

  Richard chuckled. “That’s an old story. Peninsula’s so narrow there, they say that pirates used to roll barrels of rum from the Gulf over to East Bay—rolled ’em over, you see? Stayed clear of customs that way.”

  “Is that so? Old Lafitte, hmm?”

  “Well, that’s what they say. Folks claim he was all over the peninsula, but I don’t know—sure wouldn’t guess it from lookin’ at it now. Bolivar’s pretty tame, these days.” He paused and shook his head. “Course, I got a boy still thinks he can find a pirate under every seashell.”

  Mr. Milam laughed. “I know what you mean. Raised a pair of boys myself.”

  The door blew open just then, letting in a gust of wind and rain and a couple of bedraggled-looking men.

  “How’s it lookin’ out there?” Mr. Milam called out.

  “Not too bad,” one of the new arrivals answered. “Wind’s not that much to speak of—got a little high water, that’s all.”

  “How ’bout the bay?” Richard asked. “You think a good sailor could make it across to Bolivar?” It occurred to him that he might find somebody with a boat, pay him for his trouble.…

  “Not a chance right now,” said the other man. “Got some mighty big waves out there yet. But they ought to die down in an hour or two—always do. I’m bettin’ it’ll be over by noon.”

  Noon. Well, maybe so, thought Richard. Maybe so … There was nothing for it but to wait, now. He shifted around a little on the bench and did his best to make himself comfortable. “Ought to have stayed home,” he sighed, for the hundredth time that morning.

  “Looka there, Mama!” cried Alice, who had spent most of the morning with her nose pressed against the window. “Here comes the train!”

  Sure enough, the Gulf & Interstate was chugging along through the driving rain, going a lit
tle slower than usual because of the water that was lapping against the tracks, but there it was—almost as solid and dependable as Papa himself. It would go to Galveston, after all, and bring him home—Walter was sure of it.

  For the first time that day Mama smiled. “Well, that’s a sight for sore eyes, she said. “Those train men know their business; they wouldn’t be out there if there was any real danger. I wouldn’t be surprised if the worst was over now.”

  Walter looked at the grandfather clock: ten thirty. By a quarter of eleven, the Gulf had swallowed the beach whole, tracks and all, and was chewing on the sand hills. Walter saw it and turned anxiously to his mother.

  “Mama, maybe we really ought to leave now. I could hitch up Dowling. We could try to make it to High Island before the water rises any more.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Walter,” his mother said sharply. “The roads will be nothing but mud after all this rain. The wagon’d be stuck in two minutes. Use your head, child!”

  Walter hadn’t thought of that. “Yes’m, I guess you’re right,” he said, doing his best to swallow the fear that was rising in him by the minute, threatening to choke him altogether. Mama was right to call him “child.” It shamed him to think of it.

  She took his hand apologetically. “There, son, I’m sorry to scold so. It’s just this storm has my nerves stretched tight, that’s all. Let’s not have any more talk of leaving the house, shall we? I’m sure we’re perfectly safe here. Why, I wouldn’t go out in that rain for anything—you know how I dislike the water. I’m just like my papa that way; he used to say water would be fine if it just weren’t so wet.”

  Now Walter had another worry to add to his list. Lord, he thought, Mama cain’t swim a lick. And Alice isn’t much better; in a way, she’s worse, since she hasn’t got sense enough to be afraid.

  Please, God, he prayed, don’t let the water get any closer; I don’t know if I can take care of ’em all by myself … please, God.… He wished now that he had paid better attention to Dr. Croombs’s boring sermons. Maybe there were secrets in them he had missed—magic words that would make the Almighty pay attention. “Please, God, please, God,” he murmured over and over. It was the best he could do.

  “I just can’t believe your father’s not back yet,” Mama said. She sounded more irritated than anything else. “He’s bound to know we’re worried.”

  “Aw, ding-bust it!” Alice cried suddenly. She was still standing at the window, peering out at the water.

  “Now, Sister, there’s no use getting upset,” Mama told her. “Walter’s probably right. Papa’s most likely on his way home right now.”

  “No, ma’am, it ain’t that—”

  “Isn’t that.”

  “Isn’t that,” Alice repeated despondently.

  “Well, what is it, then?”

  “It’s my sand house.” Alice’s voice trembled. “I guess it’s ruint.”

  “For cryin’ out loud,” Walter muttered.

  “Well, I’ll just have to build another one tomorrow, that’s all,” Alice sighed. “You all think the water’ll be back down by tomorrow?”

  “Certainly it will,” Mama said firmly.

  “Well, sure,” said Walter, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. Please, God, please, God.…

  Chapter 15

  The wind was growing stronger by the minute. Tom got so tired of trying to hold his old hat on his head that he finally took it off and stuffed it in the gunnysack. Rain was sharp against him, each drop a stinging needle, driven by the gale. Even his leathery old skin could feel its bite. Over his right shoulder he could see the Gulf, boiling like a stewpot over hellfire, inching closer with every wave.

  For the fortieth time he stopped and looked behind him, to see if there was any sign of Walter and his family.… Nothing. Well. Ain’t no never mind to me, Tom told himself. I done warned ’em—nothin’ else I could do. They want to get theyself kilt, that’s they own business.

  He didn’t really know why he had gone back in the first place—why he had ever thought they would listen to an old black man. Seemed like he just had to, some way.… It didn’t matter, anyhow. All that mattered now was saving his own skin. Not that there were many would consider it a skin worth saving.

  He walked on. The wind wanted to push him right off his feet, but he was too strong for it. Strong as an ox, even after all these years.…

  “You ought to see this boy work a cane field,” his master back in Louisiana had once bragged to a neighboring plantation owner. “He’d make five of your niggers, easy.”

  “Can he fight?” the other man had asked, looking Tom over critically from head to toe. “There’s good money in a nigger that can fight.”

  “If I want him to,” the master had answered. After that he had taught Tom to use his fists, to feint and punch and keep his guard up and punch again; and Tom had learned so well that the master had begun inviting his acquaintances to bring their black boys over for an evening’s entertainment. Tom would fight them and beat them, and then the other owners would cuss, and money would change hands. “Worth his weight in gold,” the master would exult. “I tell you, this boy’s worth his weight in gold!” And to prove his point, when Tom had one of his front teeth cracked off by a man’s knuckles and still came back and won the fight, the master took him to New Orleans and got him fitted up with a new tooth, made of solid gold.…

  The Gulf looked closer than it had a minute ago. It would cover the whole peninsula before long, but Tom would be high and dry by then; he was halfway back to High Island now, nearly to Rollover. He had to get to Rollover in a hurry; that was the main thing. The land was so narrow there that the Gulf would sweep across it and meet the bay first chance it got, and then there would be no getting back to safety—too many low spots where the water would be deep and even a strong man couldn’t fight it.…

  He had hated the fighting—the headaches and bleeding noses and swollen eyes, the sickness he always felt when he saw the other man lying senseless at his feet. He thought a time or two of pretending he was no good, letting one of the others beat him, just to put an end to the whole business. But he was afraid the master would be angry and sell him, and he didn’t want to be sold, not without his wife and his two little babies. He had married one of the house slaves, a fine-looking girl by the name of Alnetta.…

  Alnetta. Even after all this time Tom could still see her laughing at him—making him laugh, too—just like it was yesterday. She was just a little bit of a thing, but Lord, she had a tongue on her, Alnetta did, the sharp-edged tip of a powerful temper. Crazy as he was about her, Tom sometimes had a hard time deciding which was more to be feared—the master’s whip or Alnetta’s tongue. But she was gentle as a lamb with her boy Louis and her little girl Evalina, loving them with a love so fierce that in the end it was that love, and not Tom’s reluctance to fight, that caused all the trouble.…

  Tom came to a gully where the waves were already breaking waist-high. He waded across and kept going, his body moving of its own accord through the water, his mind sixty years away, trapped in the languid heat of a late May afternoon, heavy with the lemony smell of magnolias.…

  Alnetta had been minding the three children of the master’s son, along with her own babies. A quarrel had started—a silly fight over a toy; one of the white children had accused Louis of trying to steal it. Before Alnetta had a chance to step between them, the white child, a big boy of seven or eight, knocked little Louis down and hit him hard. Alnetta promptly grabbed the white boy by the shoulders and shook him till his teeth rattled. Then she turned him over her knee and gave him a good spanking, to boot. The child broke away and ran to his mother, screaming bloody murder.…

  A week later, while Tom was out working in the cane fields, Alnetta and the children were taken away and sold. Tom wasn’t allowed to know where. He was kept, considered too valuable a piece of property to part with.

  He tried to find them. He ran away from the plantation, but they caught
him and brought him back. Then he refused to fight for his master, hoping, now, to be sold. He would stand like a rock in the middle of the ring and never raise a hand to defend himself, while his opponent’s blows rained about his ears.

  “What’s the matter with your nigger?” the other owners would holler, and his master would cuss and threaten, but in vain. Tom would stand there unmoving, till at last he fell, mercifully unconscious. Disgusted, the master finally took him to New Orleans and sold him, but not to the people that had bought the rest of his family. His new master was a Georgia man by the name of Campbell. He was a kind man, in his way—at least he cared nothing for fighting. But Tom ran away from there too, and again they brought him back. Only this time he wasn’t whipped; Mr. Campbell didn’t believe in whipping his “nigras,” as he called them. Instead, he spoke to Tom in a patient, fatherly sort of way.

  “Haven’t you been happy here, Tom? Aren’t you treated well?”

  Tom didn’t answer.

  “Come on, now, Tom. If you don’t tell me what’s wrong with you, there’s no way I can help. Couldn’t hurt to give me a chance, now, could it?”

  Tom was sullen, suspicious. But his master was persistent, and after a while Tom told his story, since he had nowhere else to turn, no one else to trust. Campbell listened gravely—angrily at times, to Tom’s surprise. Then he promised to do what he could to find what had become of Alnetta and the children, even to buy them himself if there was any chance of it at all. Tom was delirious with happiness and gratitude. For months he lived on tenterhooks, hoping against hope.…

  He couldn’t be more than a mile from Rollover now. It was hard to see in the driving rain, but he thought he could just make it out up ahead. He would be in time. He would make it through Rollover and back to High Island before the full fury of the storm was upon him. The wind roared in his ears, inside his head.…

  Campbell had been as good as his word. He had made inquiries, written letters. Finally, he had set out on a business trip to New Orleans, promising Tom that he would continue the search during the course of his journey and bring Alnetta and the children back with him if he could.