AFTER THE DISASTER.
That flow strewed wrecks about the grass;
That ebb swept out the flocks to sea.
A fatal ebb and flow, alas!
To many more than mine and me.--JEAN INGELOW.
The day after the terrible disaster the sun arose upon a scene of awful
desolation!
Great was the devastation of lands and dwellings, and the destruction of
life and property, by the memorable Black Valley flood!
The Black Valley itself, from its very form, position, and
circumstances, seemed doomed to suffer tremendously from such a
disaster.
It was a long, deep, and narrow valley, shut in by two high mountain
ridges, which, interlocked in rude rocky precipices at its higher
extremity, where the Black Torrent, dashing down the steeps, formed the
head of the Black River, which, fed by many other mountain springs, ran
down the whole length of the valley, and past the village of Blackville
at its lower end.
By the fatal deluge of rain, all the mountain springs were raised to
torrents, and the Black Torrent was swollen to a cataract, and all
poured down vast floods of water into the Black River, which rose and
overflowed its banks even to the mountains' side; so that the Black
Valley became a black lake.
The advance of the day, and the retreat of the waters, showed at length
the full extent of the disaster.
The dwellings in the valley, and in the village at its foot, were nearly
all swept away. Only the strongest buildings, and those on the highest
grounds, escaped destruction.
The hotel, the court-house, and the church, were each damaged, but not
destroyed.
The prison was carried away, and several of the prisoners drowned.
The family of Dr. Hart were saved. Though more than once submerged, they
clung to the floating roof, until they were carried down into calmer
waters, where they were picked up by the men who were out in boats to
rescue the drowning.
The Black Hall Manor suffered severely. The Hall itself was too strongly
built, and upon too high ground, to be even endangered; but its detached
offices and laborers' cottages were swept away by the flood. Their
inmates happily had saved themselves by speedy flight up the mountain
side, and were found the next day safe at Black Hall, where they had
taken refuge.
But the sunlight also discovered many more wretches made homeless by the
flood, and now sitting and shuddering upon the rocks, up and down the
mountain sides.
But the dwellings of all those who had been so fortunate as to escape
injury by the flood, were freely opened to receive the homeless
sufferers.
It was late in the day before the condition of the ground enabled Lyon
Berners, attended by some villagers, to seek the site of the late
prison.
Not a vestige of the building remained. The very spot on which it had
once stood was unrecognizable--a vast morass of mud and wreck.
The warden and his family, with Miss Pendleton and a few of the officers
of the prison, were found about a mile beyond the scene, grouped
together on a high hill, and utterly overcome, in mind and body, by the
combined influences of cold and hunger, grief and horror.
"For the Lord's sake, where is my wife? where is Sybil?" anxiously
inquired Lyon Berners, though scarcely knowing whether he hoped or
feared she might be alive.
Beatrix Pendleton, who had sat with her head bowed down upon her knees,
now raised it and said:
"Heaven knows! I tried to make them go and save her; but they would not!
I refused to leave the prison without her, but they forced me on the
boat."
"We couldn't have saved her," spoke the warden; "her cell was right at
the corner of the building, at the joining of the creek and the river.
It was overflowed before we got there, and the water, which must a
busted in the window, was a rushing down the corridor and filling up the
place so fast, that we had to run up the stairs to the next story to
save our own lives."
"Heaven's will be done!" groaned Lyon Berners, who, heart-broken as he
was, scarcely understood or believed the warden's explanation, or knew
whether he himself were merely resigned, or really rejoiced that his
wife had met this fate now, rather than lived to await a still more
horrible one.
"And the poor woman who was attending her, and the young child, have
also perished?" added Mr. Berners, after a pause, and in an
interrogative tone.
Beatrix nodded sadly, and the warden said:
"Yes, sir, of course, which they all three being in the cell together,
shared the same fate! And if we could a reskeed one, we could a reskeed
all!"
"And where are your other prisoners?" inquired Mr. Berners.
"Some on 'em was drownded, sir, unavoidably. And some on 'em we reskeed
by taking of 'em through the windows, and on to the boat; but Lord love
you, sir, they give us leg bail the first chance they got; which who
could blame them? Most on them as we reskeed has made off up the
mountain, sir; and little use it would be to try to catch them, sir,
even if we succeeded, seeing as we have got no place to lock 'em up. And
as for me, my 'okkerpation's gone,' as the man says in the play! But
I'm not thinking of myself, sir. I'm mortal sorry for the poor wretches
called so sudden to their accounts," added the warden, brushing the
tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.
"Come, Martin," said Mr. Berners, who, even in the midst of his own
despair, could not forget the claims of humanity--"Come, Martin! You and
your companions in misfortune cannot sit here longer without great
danger to health and life! You must get up and come away. The road,
though very difficult, is passable, you see, since we come by it. Come
away!"
"Come where? To the alms-house, I suppose," groaned the warden, dropping
his head in his hands.
"My poor fellow, the alms-house has gone with the rest. There is no
alms-house now."
"Then we may as well stay here and die; for there is no other place for
us to go," groaned the ruined man.
"There are half a hundred places to go to. Every house that has been
spared by the flood has, in gratitude to Heaven, opened its doors to
receive those who are rendered homeless by this disaster. Come, my good
friend; come with your companions to the village hotel. A number of us
who have lost no property by the flood, have already clubbed together
for the relief of those who have lost all. Come! if you sit here longer
you will surely catch your death."
The warden arose with a groan; and his example was followed by all his
comrades.
"My dear Beatrix, take my arm," said Mr. Berners, helping Miss Pendleton
to rise.
"My brother! Where is my brother? He was far enough off to be safe from
the flood; but why is he not here now."
"My dear Beatrix, he could not possibly get here yet. As soon as the
water shall have settled he will come, no doubt," said Mr. Berners, as
he led her down the hill towards the village.
The road was very bad. In some places it was nearly half a leg deep in
pools of water, or in mud. But they reached the half-ruined village at
length. And Mr. Berners, accompanied by the whole party, took Miss
Pendleton to the hotel to await the arrival of her brother.
All the sufferers were hospitably received by the landlord's family, who
furnished them with dry clothing, warm meals, and good lodging.
But it was not until evening that the subsidence of the waters permitted
Captain Pendleton to make his way down the valley to the village, to
look after his sister.
The meeting between the brother and sister was very affecting.
Beatrix wept on his shoulder.
"Thank Heaven, you are safe, my dear sister!" were among the first words
that he said.
"Yes; I am safe, I am safe, Clement. _But she is lost!_ Oh, Clement,
_she is lost_!" cried Beatrix, bursting into tears.
Captain Pendleton started, and looked up to the face of Mr. Berners, as
if asking for a confirmation or contradiction of these words.
Lyon Berners sorrowfully bent his head, and then turned away to conceal
the strong emotion which he could no longer control.
It was not until the next morning that the waters had gone down
sufficiently to enable them to go up the valley as far as Black Hall.
And up to this time but few of the dead bodies of the victims had been
found; but all these had been easily recognized, and were now prepared
for burial.
Mr. Berners engaged special agents to watch for the appearance of
Sybil's body, and to advise him the moment it should be discovered; and
then, having made every necessary provision, in case of its recovery
during his absence, for its reception at the church, and its retention
there until his return, he set out for Black Hall, accompanied by the
two Pendletons.
As no carriage could possibly pass along the roads in their present
condition, our party were forced to go on horseback.
After a heavy and tedious ride through the deep mud left by the flood,
they reached Black Hall, which they found half full of refugees; and
where they were warmly welcomed by their faithful servants, who, up to
the hour of their arrival, had supposed them to be lost.
But then came the question:
"Where is Miss Sybil?" asked almost in a breath by Joe and Dilly and
Aunt Mopsa.
And grave and sorrowful faces answered, even before the tongue spoke:
"Lost in the flood!"
Then for a time loud wailing filled the house. But after a while it
ceased, and comparative quiet followed.
"Where is Raphael and little Cro'?" at length inquired Mr. Berners.
"Raphael? Bless your soul, Marster, Raphael an't been seen in this house
since you yourself left it," answered Joe.
"Then I am very much afraid the poor fellow has been lost," sighed Mr.
Berners.
And then, having called Dilly to show Miss Pendleton to a bedroom, and
ordered Joe to perform the same service for Captain Pendleton, Mr.
Berners went to a back building of the house in which the poor refugees
were gathered.
Here he found the people in great distress, mourning over the sudden
loss of all their worldly goods.
He consoled them as well as he could; reminded them that, with all their
losses, they had lost no members of their families, and promised them
that he and his neighbors would rebuild and refurnish their cottages,
and finally inviting them to stay at Black Hall until this should be
accomplished.
Thanks and blessings followed his words, and then he asked:
"Has any one heard from my old overseer. Winterose? His house stands
high, and I suppose that it is safe."
A half a dozen voices answered in a breath:
"Law, yes, sir; his house is safe."
"He's had a stroke, sir."
"They thought he was a dying."
"But he is better now; and his wife, who is a good judge, thinks he'll
get over it."
"It gratifies me to hear this, my friends. But although the old man's
house is safe, he has met with a much greater misfortune than any of you
have in the loss of all you possess," said Mr. Berners, very gravely.
"Law, sir, what?" inquired a dozen voices at once.
"He has lost his eldest daughter," answered Lyon Berners, sadly.
"Who? Miss Tabby? Law, sir, no he an't!"
"She's home, fast enough!"
"She was brought home by a quarryman yesterday morning."
It was the habit of these people to talk all at the same time, so that
it required a shrewd listener to understand them.
But there seemed so large an interest at stake in their present
communications, that Mr. Berners understood even more than was intended.
"Miss Tabby saved?" he echoed.
"Yes, sir," answered a score of voices.
"AND WHO WITH HER?"
"No one as we know's on, sir."
"No one?"
"No, sir."
"How was she saved?"
"Don't know, sir."
"Nobody knows, sir."
"She don't even know herself, sir."
These replies were all made in a breath.
"Don't even know herself! What is the meaning of that?"
"Yes, sir. No, sir. You see, sir," began half a hundred voices.
"Hush, for Heaven's sake! Speak one at a time. Mrs. Smith, do you answer
me. How was Miss Tabby saved?" inquired Lyon Berners, appealing to the
oldest and wisest woman of the assembly, and silencing the others by a
gesture.
"Indeed we don't know how she was reskeed, sir. She was brought home by
a quarryman, but, she was in a cowld fever, and couldn't give no account
of herself, nor nothing," replied the old woman.
"Where is she?"
"Up to her father's house, sir. They carried her there."
"I must go there and see her at once," said Mr. Berners, seizing his hat
and hurrying from the house.
He walked rapidly through the kitchen garden, vineyard, orchard, and
meadow, to the edge of the wood where the overseer's cottage stood.
He found old Mrs. Winterose with her hands full.
Mr. Winterose, who three days before had had a paralytic stroke, that
had nearly brought him to the grave, had now so far rallied as to give
hopes of his continued life.
He lay sleeping on a neat white bed in the lower front room of the
cottage. His wife was the only person with him.
She came forward in great haste to meet Mr. Berners.
"Oh, sir!" she cried, "my child, Miss Sybil! was she reskeed?"
"Ah, Heaven! That is the very question I came to ask you, or rather to
ask Tabby," sighed Mr. Berners, dropping into a chair.
"Oh, sir! Oh, sir!" wept the old nurse, "then I can't give you any more
satisfaction than you can give me! Tabby don't know nothink! She's in
bed up stairs, in a fever, and outen her mind, and Libby is a watching
of her."
"Does she talk in her delirium?"
"Talk? Law, sir, she don't do nothink else at all! Her tongue goes like
a mill-clapper all the time!"
"Let me go and see her. Perhaps by her rambling talk I may gain some
clue to my poor wife's fate."
"I'm 'fraid you won't, sir. _I_ an't been able to yet. But you're
welcome to come up and see her if you will," said the old woman, rising
and leading the way to a neat room overhead, where Miss Tabby lay in
bed, babbling at random.
Miss Libby, who was sitting beside her, got up and courtesied, and made
way for Mr. Berners, who came forward and bent over the sick woman,
spoke to her kindly, and inquired how she felt.
But the old maid, who was quite delirious, took him for the sweetheart
of her young days, and called him "Jim," and asked him how he dared to
have the "impidince" to come into a young lady's room before she was up
in the morning, and she requested Suzy--a sister who had long been
dead--to turn him out directly.
But though Mr. Berners sat by her and succeeded in soothing her, he
gained no information from her. She babbled of everything under the sun
but the one subject to which he wished to lead her thoughts.
At length, in despair, Mr. Berners arose to depart.
"Where does that quarryman live who picked her up and brought her home?"
"Up at the quarries, sir, to be sure."
"But there are fifty cottages up there, scattered over the space of
miles."
"Well, sir, it is in the whitish stone one, the nighest but three to the
big oak, you know; which his name it is Norriss, as you can find him by
that. But, law, sir! he can't tell you no more nor I have," said Mrs.
Winterose.
Before she quite finished her speech Mr. Berners ran down stairs and out
of the cottage, and bent his steps to the quarryman's hut.
It happened just as the old nurse had foretold.
The man could tell Mr. Berners nothing but this: that Miss Tabby had
come to his house just about daylight, having her clothing wet and
draggled nearly up to her waist with mud and water, and shaking as with
an ague, and sinking with fatigue.
He having neither wife nor daughter, nor any other woman about the
house, had no proper dry clothes to offer her; but he made her sit by
the fire, while he questioned her as to the manner in which she came to
be so much exposed.
She answered him only by senseless lamentations and floods of tears.
When her chill had gone off a high fever came on, and, the quarryman
explained, he knew that she was going to be ill, so he offered to take
her home; and, partly by leading, and partly by lugging, he had
contrived to carry her safe to her father's cottage, which she reached
in a state of fever and delirium.
This was all the information that Mr. Berners could get from the honest
quarryman, who would willingly have given him more had he possessed it.
Lyon Berners went back to Black Hall, where he found Clement and Beatrix
Pendleton waiting for him in the parlor, and wondering at his prolonged
absence.
He apologized for having left them for so many hours, and explained the
business that had called him so suddenly away, giving them the startling
intelligence of Miss Tabby's unaccountable safety; which, he added,
left the fate of his beloved wife in greater uncertainty than they had
supposed it to be. She was _probably_ drowned, but _possibly_ rescued.
He could not tell. He and they must wait patiently the issue of events.
Wait patiently? Twice more that day he walked up to the overseer's
cottage to find out whether Miss Tabby's fever had gone off and she had
come to her senses, and he came back disappointed. And again, very late
at night, he walked up there and startled the watcher by the sick-bed
with the same question so often repeated:
"Has she come to her senses yet?"
"No; she is more stupider than ever, I think," was Miss Libby's answer.
"What does your mother think is the matter with her, then?"
"Oh, nothing but chills and fevers. Only Tabby has a weak head, and
always loses of it when she has a fever."
"Well, Miss Libby, as soon as she comes to herself, if it is in the dead
of night, send some one over to the Hall to let me know, that I may come
immediately; for my anxiety to ascertain my wife's fate, which she only
can tell, is really insupportable."
Miss Libby promised to obey his directions, and Lyon Berners returned to
Black Hall.
But not that night, nor for many nights after that, did Miss Tabby come
to her senses. Her illness proved to be a low type of typhoid fever, not
primarily caused, but only hastened by the depressing influences of fear
and cold from her exposure to death, and to the elements, on the night
of the great flood.
For many weary weeks she lay on her bed, too low to answer or even
understand a question.
And during all this time nothing occurred to throw the faintest gleam of
light upon the deep darkness that still enveloped the fate of Sybil
Berners.
This period of almost insupportable anxiety was passed by Mr. Berners in
doing all that was possible to repair the damage done by the disastrous
flood.
He was the largest subscriber to, and also the treasurer of the fund
raised for the relief of the victims, and passed much time in receiving
and disbursing money on their account.