All winter long I slept on a couch in my larger room, but with the
coming of warm weather I have put my bedroom in order--I used it as a
kind of storage space during the cold season--and returned to my old
and rather rusty iron cot. Every once in a while, however, moved by
some obscure mood, I lift off the bedclothing and make up the couch
again for a few nights. I like the seven windows of the larger room,
and the sense one may have there of being almost out-of-doors. My couch
stands alongside the two front windows, and from my pillow I can look
out to sea and watch the passing lights, the stars rising over ocean,
the swaying lanterns of the anchored fishermen, and the white spill of
the surf whose long sound fills the quiet of the dunes.
Ever since my coming I have wanted to see a thunderstorm bear down
upon this elemental coast. A thunderstorm is a “tempest” on the Cape.
The quoted word, as Shakespeare used it, means lightning and thunder,
and it is in this old and beautiful Elizabethan sense that the word is
used in Eastham. When a schoolboy in the Orleans or the Wellfleet High
reads the Shakespearean play, its title means to him exactly what it
meant to the man from Stratford; elsewhere in America, the terms seems
to mean anything from a tornado to a blizzard. I imagine that this old
significance of the word is now to be found only in certain parts of
England and Cape Cod.
On the night of the June tempest, I was sleeping in my larger room, the
windows were open, and the first low roll of thunder opened my eyes.
It had been very still when I went to bed, but now a wind from the
west-nor’west was blowing through the windows in a strong and steady
current, and as I closed them there was lightning to the west and far
away. I looked at my watch; it was just after one o’clock. Then came a
time of waiting in the darkness, long minutes broken by more thunder,
and intervals of quiet in which I heard a faintest sound of light
surf upon the beach. Suddenly the heavens cracked open in an immense
instant of pinkish-violet lightning. My seven windows filled with the
violent, inhuman light, and I had a glimpse of the great, solitary
dunes staringly empty of familiar shadows; a tremendous crash then
mingled with the withdrawal of the light, and echoes of thunder rumbled
away and grew faint in a returning rush of darkness. A moment after,
rain began to fall gently as if someone had just released its flow, a
blessed sound on a roof of wooden shingles, and one I have loved ever
since I was a child. From a gentle patter the sound of the rain grew
swiftly to a drumming roar, and with the rain came the chuckling of
water from the eaves. The tempest was crossing the Cape, striking at
the ancient land on its way to the heavens above the sea.
Now came flash after stabbing flash amid a roaring of rain, and heavy
thunder that rolled on till its last echoes were swallowed up in vast
detonations which jarred the walls. Houses were struck that night
in Eastham village. My lonely world, full of lightning and rain, was
strange to look upon. I do not share the usual fear of lightning, but
that night there came over me, for the first and last time of all
my solitary year, a sense of isolation and remoteness from my kind.
I remember that I stood up, watching, in the middle of the room. On
the great marshes the lightning surfaced the winding channels with
a metallic splendour and arrest of motion, all very strange through
windows blurred by rain. Under the violences of light the great dunes
took on a kind of elemental passivity, the quiet of earth enchanted
into stone, and as I watched them appear and plunge back into a
darkness that had an intensity of its own I felt, as never before, a
sense of the vast time, of the thousands of cyclic and uncounted years
which had passed since these giants had risen from the dark ocean at
their feet and given themselves to the wind and the bright day.
Fantastic things were visible at sea. Beaten down by the rain, and
sheltered by the Cape itself from the river of west wind, the offshore
brim of ocean remained unusually calm. The tide was about halfway up
the beach, and rising, and long parallels of low waves, forming close
inshore, were curling over and breaking placidly along the lonely,
rain-drenched miles. The intense crackling flares and quiverings of
the storm, moving out to sea, illumined every inch of the beach and
the plain of the Atlantic, all save the hollow bellies of the little
breakers, which were shielded from the light by their overcurling
crests. The effect was dramatic and strangely beautiful, for what one
saw was a bright ocean rimmed with parallel bands of blackest advancing
darkness, each one melting back to light as the wave toppled down upon
the beach in foam.
Stars came out after the storm, and when I woke again before sunrise
I found the heavens and the earth rainwashed, cool, and clear. Saturn
and the Scorpion were setting, but Jupiter was riding the zenith and
paling on his throne. The tide was low in the marsh channels; the
gulls had scarcely stirred upon their gravel banks and bars. Suddenly,
thus wandering about, I disturbed a song sparrow on her nest. She flew
to the roof of my house, grasped the ridgepole, and turned about,
apprehensive, inquiring ... _’tsiped_ her monosyllable of alarm. Then
back toward her nest she flew, alighted in a plum bush, and, reassured
at last, trilled out a morning song.
[Illustration: _Piping Plover at Nest_]
_Chapter IX_