THE BROKEN DAM
How long he slept he did not know, but, while the cabin was still
shrouded in darkness, he woke suddenly and sat upright, as though in
response to a voice that called.
He looked about him, unable at first to realize where he was. Then, as
he reached out his hand, it came in contact with the motorcycle, which
he had stood at the head of the bunk. His sleepy brain cleared, and the
events of the day before--the storm--the deserted cabin--came back to
him. He struck a match and glanced at his watch. It was a little after
four, and, promising himself that he would not go to sleep again, he
blew out the light and lay back in his bunk, planning out the ride for
the day so near at hand.
But try as he would, he could not concentrate his mind on the subject in
hand. Why had he awakened so suddenly? It was wholly apart from his
ordinary habit. Usually he slept like a log, and, like a healthy animal,
came slowly out of sleep. But this time it had been with a jump. He told
himself that it was probably due to his unusual surroundings, and
again tried to pin himself down to his schedule. But a vague sense of
uneasiness would not vanish at his bidding. He felt as though some
monstrous danger was threatening. Something direful and evil was in the
air. In vain he called himself an "old woman," and laughed, a little
uncertainly, at his fears. The subtle threat persisted.
He had never had a strong premonition of danger that had not been
justified. He was high strung and sensitively organized, and warnings
that would leave unstirred a duller mind rang in his consciousness like
an alarm bell. He recalled how, at Panama, not long ago, he had been
impressed by the same feeling of coming peril, when the plot to destroy
the canal was rapidly coming to a head. It had been justified then. Why
should he not trust it now?
He hesitated no longer. He hastily threw aside the old tattered blanket,
hurried himself into his clothes and went to the door of the cabin.
The rain had ceased, although the water was still running in streams in
the ditches that lined the road. Darkness yet held sway, but, in the
East, he could see the gray fingers of the dawn. In the dimness, he
looked about him, and, as his eyes became accustomed to the surroundings,
he saw, at a little distance, the outlines of a great structure that lay
level with the plateau on which the cabin stood.
With a few quick strides, he crossed the intervening space until he
stood on the brink of a gigantic dam. Then he knew what was meant by the
splashing and gurgling he had heard the night before.
Stretched out in front of him was an angry waste of swirling waters.
It was yellow and turbid from the clay brought down by the mountain
torrents that acted as feeders to the lake. Great tree trunks, tossed in
the boiling waters, had been jammed against the edge, increasing the
pressure, already great. Over the brink a cataract was falling, that
grew in volume with each passing moment. Through crevices in the lower
part of the structure, other streams were trickling.
To Bert, as with whitening face he looked upon the scene, it was evident
that the dam was in danger of collapse. There had been very heavy rains
in the preceding May, and the lake had been filled to capacity. The storm
of the night before had probably developed into a cloudburst farther up
in the mountains, and the floods that came down in consequence were
putting it to a strain that had not been counted upon when the dam was
built. It was none too strong originally--Bert could see masses of rubble
that had been inserted in the structure in place of solid stone--and
now the innocent were in danger of paying a fearful price for the
carelessness or criminality of the builders.
It had become much lighter now, and, as he looked down at the valley
below, he could dimly make out the outlines of the houses in the town.
Human beings were sleeping there, serene and confident, men, women and
children, babes in their mothers' arms. And he alone knew of the
terrible monster that at this moment was threatening to leap upon and
destroy them.
He turned again to the dam. The crevices were wider now. A perfect
torrent was pouring over the brink. Even while he looked, there was a
great bulge in the central part, and a deluge burst through. Two of the
capstones yielded and fell, with a noise that was drowned by the still
greater roar of the unleashed waters. There was no longer any doubt. The
dam was giving way!
With a sickening fear at his heart, he turned and raced for the cabin. A
louder roar behind him added wings to his feet. He burst open the door,
dragged out the "Blue Streak," and in another moment was in the saddle
and riding for dear life down the valley.
The mud was deep and at a curve of the road, his rear tire skidded and
threw him, bruised and bleeding, a dozen feet in advance. But he felt
nothing, thought of nothing but the unconscious sleepers who must be
warned. Stumbling and shaken, he resumed his seat, and tore along the
mountain road like the wind.
At the scattered farmhouses along the way, lights could be seen in the
windows. Here and there, he passed farmers already at work in the
fields. He blew his horn and yelled at these and pointed behind him.
They cast one startled glance up the valley and then rushed to their
houses.
He did not dare to look behind him, but he could hear a sullen roar that
momentarily grew louder. He knew that the monster had broken its bonds
and was abroad seeking for prey. He let out the last ounce of power that
he possessed as he raced on to the sleeping town. He had ridden fast
before, but never as he was riding now.
As he neared the town, he pulled wide open the siren that he only used
on extraordinary occasions. It wailed out in a wild, weird shriek that
spoke of panic, danger, death. There was no mistaking the meaning of
that call.
Now he was in the outskirts, and frightened faces appeared at the
windows while half-dressed men ran out of the doors. He waved his hand,
and shouted at the top of his lungs:
"The dam has broken. Run for your lives!"
The roar had now swelled into thunder. The flood was coming with fearful
velocity. No more need of his siren. That hideous growl of the tumbling
waters carried its own warning.
The path on which Bert had been riding wound along the side of the hill
to the east of the town. Corresponding slopes lay on the other side.
The dwellers on the sides of the hills were comparatively safe. It was
unlikely that the water would reach them, or, at any rate, they could
climb still higher up and escape, even if their houses were washed away.
But there was no hope for the buildings in the valley itself. They were
right in the path of the onrushing flood and would be swept away like so
many houses of cards. Nothing could resist that pitiless torrent now
less than a mile away.
Bert leaped from his wheel and dragged it into a thicket at the side of
the path. He cast a swift look up the valley. A great foaming wall of
yellow water, forty feet high, bearing on its crest gigantic tree trunks
and the debris of houses it had picked up in its path, was bearing down
on the town with the swiftness of an avalanche.
The houses were emptying now and the streets were full of frantic
people, fleeing for their lives. Bert heard the hoarse shouts of the
men, the screams of the women, the wailing of little children roused
suddenly from sleep. From every door they poured forth, making desperate
efforts to reach the higher ground. The air resounded with the shrieks
of those driven almost mad by sudden terror.
Into that pandemonium Bert plunged with the energy of despair. The time
was fearfully short and the tumult of the coming flood was like the
thunder of Niagara. He met a mother with a babe in her arms and two
crying children holding to her skirts. He grabbed the little ones up and
with a tousled little head under each arm placed them in safety. A
crippled boy, hobbling painfully along on crutches, felt himself
suddenly lifted from the ground and hurried to the hillside. He was
here, there and everywhere, guiding, pointing, encouraging. And then,
just as he was stooping to lift up a woman who had fainted, the flood
was upon him!
It struck the doomed town with the force of a thunderbolt. Frame houses
were picked up and carried along like straws. Brick structures were
smashed into fragments. It was a weltering chaos of horror and
destruction.
When that mountainous mass of water crashed down upon him, Bert for a
moment lost consciousness. It was like the impact of a gigantic hammer.
There was an interval of blackness, while the water first beat him down
and then lifted him up. He had a horrible strangling sensation, and
then, after what seemed ages of agony, he found himself on the surface,
striking out blindly in that churning mass of water that carried him
along as though in a mill race. He had never before realized the
tremendous power of water. He was a mere chip tossed hither and thither
upon the waves. His head was dizzy from the awful shock of the first
impact, there was a ringing in his ears, and the spray dashing into his
eyes obscured his sight. Almost mechanically, he moved his hands and
feet enough to keep his head above the surface. Gradually his mind
became clearer, and he could do some connected thinking.
At any rate, he was alive. That was the main thing. Although sore and
bruised, he did not think that any of his bones were broken. He was an
expert swimmer, and knew that if he kept his senses he would not drown.
His most imminent danger lay in being struck by a tree trunk or jammed
between the houses that were grinding each other to pieces. If this
should happen, his life would be snuffed out like a candle.
Even at that moment of frightful peril, one thing filled his heart with
gladness. He felt sure that almost all the townspeople had escaped. Here
and there, he could see some one struggling like himself in the yeasty
surges, or clinging to some floating object. Once the body of a man was
carried past within a few feet of him. His last conscious glance before
the flood overwhelmed him had shown him a number who had not yet reached
the higher ground. These had been caught up with him, and some no doubt
had perished. But he thanked God that hundreds, through his warning, had
found shelter on the hillsides. Their property had been swept away, but
they had retained their most precious possession.
The loss in animal life was heavy. Bert groaned, as he saw the bodies of
cows and horses and dogs tossed about in the raging waters. Not far off,
a horse was swimming and gallantly trying to keep his head above water.
His fear-distended eyes fell on Bert, and he whinnied, as though asking
for help. But just then a great log was driven against him, and with a
scream that was almost human he went under.
And now Bert noted that the force of the flood was abating. It had
reached the lowest part of the valley, and, ahead of him, the ground
began to rise. With every foot of that ascent the torrent would lose
its impetus, until finally it would reach its limit.
But there a new danger threatened. There would be a tremendous backwash
as the current receded, and in the meeting of the two opposing forces a
terrific whirlpool would be generated, in which nothing human could
live. In some way he must reach the shore before the flood turned back.
There was not an instant to lose, and he acted with characteristic
decision. The torrent was slackening, and he no longer felt so helpless
in its grasp. He could not swim at right angles to it and thus approach
the shore directly, but must try gradually to pull to the left, in a
long diagonal sweep. Inch by inch, he drew away from the center of the
stream and slowly neared the bank. Twice he had to dive, to avoid tree
trunks that dashed over the spot where he had been a moment before. Once
he barely escaped being caught between two houses. But his quick eye and
quicker mind stood him in good stead, at this hour of his greatest need.
His lungs were laboring ready to burst and his muscles were strained
almost to the breaking point. But his long powerful strokes brought him
steadily nearer to the eastern bank and he steered straight for a huge
tree, that stood on the edge of the rushing waters. He missed it by a
foot, but was just able to grasp a trailing branch as he was swept
beneath it. A desperate clutch, a quick swing upward and the ravening
waters had been cheated of a victim. Slowly he made his way over the
bough to the trunk of the tree, and fell, rather than dropped, to the
ground. Utterly exhausted, he crumpled into a heap and lay there
gasping.
He had escaped death by the narrowest of margins. Even while he lay
there, bereft of strength and worn out with struggle, the flood reached
its limit, paused a moment and then rushed back. The receding current
met the other still advancing. Like giant wrestlers, they locked in a
fierce embrace, and the waves shot up for thirty feet. Great logs flew
out of the waves and fell back with a resounding crash. Had Bert been
in the center of that seething maelstrom, nothing could have saved him
from instant death.
But he was safe. He had gone into the very jaws of death and come out
alive. Spent and wrenched and bruised he was, and weary beyond all
telling. Each arm and leg felt as though it weighed a ton. But he had
never incurred pain or danger in a worthier cause, and he rejoiced at
the chance that had impelled him to take up his quarters in the deserted
hut the night before. The rain had assuredly been a "blessing in
disguise," bitterly as he had regretted it at the time.
A full hour elapsed before he was able to get on his feet. Had it
not been for his splendid physical condition, he would have utterly
collapsed under the strain. But soon his heart resumed its normal
rhythm, the blood coursed more strongly through his veins, and he
struggled up from his recumbent posture and began to take note of his
surroundings.
How far he had been carried in that wild ride, he had no means of
knowing. But he judged that he must be fully six miles from the site of
the town. There had been several turnings in the valley and from where
he stood looking back, he could not see more than a mile before a bend
in the road cut off his view. But the stream itself was sufficient guide
as he retraced his steps, and he knew that all too soon he would reach
the sad and stricken crowd that would be camped on the banks, bewailing
the calamity that had come upon them with the swiftness of a lightning
stroke.
He looked at his watch. It had stopped at ten minutes to five, probably
just at the second that the mountain of water swooped down upon him. He
threw a glance at the sun which was only a little above the horizon, and
concluded that it was not much more than six o'clock. Scarcely more than
an hour had passed, but it seemed to him as though ages had elapsed
since the moment when he had been startled by that first premonition of
danger.
How lucky that he had heeded it! Had he obeyed his first impulse and
disregarded it, he would have been compelled to stand by, a helpless
spectator, and see a whole community wiped out of existence. And the
bitter memory of that neglected opportunity would have cast its shadow
over him as long as he lived.
His thoughts went now to the gallant machine that had carried him so
swiftly to the work of rescue. Good old "Blue Streak!" Once more it had
proved a tried and trusty comrade, responding to every call he made upon
it. How quickly the miles would fall away behind him if he only bestrode
it now.
The wish had scarcely been formed before a substitute appeared. He heard
the sound of wheels, and a team came up behind him. The man who was
driving told Bert to jump in, and whipped up his horses as he hurried on
to the scene of the disaster.
Soon they came upon the homeless throng, huddled upon the slope that
overlooked what had been home. Some were weeping and running about, half
crazed with anguish. Others were dry-eyed and dumb, moving as though in
a dream, their minds paralyzed by the shock. They needed everything,
food and tents and medicines and doctors and nurses. The telegraph
and telephone service was out of commission and the offices had been
swept away. The outside world knew nothing, as yet, of the frightful
visitation that had come to the little town, nestling in the West
Virginia hills.
Bert's resolution was taken on the instant. There was nothing more
that he could do here. Little, in fact, could be done until the flood
subsided, and there were plenty of hands only too willing to dull their
heartache in work that would keep them from brooding too much on the
disaster. But no horse could get to the world without as quickly as he
on his motorcycle. He waited only long enough to learn the shortest
route to the next town of any size. Then he rushed to the thicket on the
hillside where he had left his wheel, and was rejoiced to find it safe.
Fortunately, it had been beyond the high water mark of the flood. He
dragged it out, mounted, and, with one last look at the waters that had
so nearly been his grave, threw in the clutch and started up the valley.
The sun was much higher now and the roads, while still muddy, were
rapidly drying out. He cleared the summit of the hills and could see far
off the buildings and spires of the town he sought. Like a meteor, he
shot down the slope, and in a few minutes was the center of an excited
group in the telegraph office, to which he at once repaired. Soon the
wires were humming, and within a short time the entire country, from
Maine to California, was stirred to the depths by the news of the
calamity. Doctors and supplies were rushed from the points nearest to
the stricken town and from Washington the Federal Government sent a
squad of Red Cross nurses and a detachment of troops to take charge of
the work of rescue and reconstruction.
Only one thing was omitted from Bert's graphic recital of the story. He
said not a word of his wild ride in the early dawn. Others, later on,
when they had regained something of composure and could recall events
preceding the catastrophe, remembered a rider rushing along the country
roads and calling upon them to flee for their lives. They told of the
siren, shrieking like a soul in pain, that had roused them from their
sleep with its dreadful warning. The reporters, avid of sensation,
listened eagerly, and embroidered upon the story some fanciful
embellishments of their own. They did their utmost to discover the name
of the rider who had come racing through the mists of that early
morning, but failed. The only one who could tell the truth about it
never did. Except to a few of his intimates, and that under the pledge
of secrecy, Bert locked the story in his own breast and threw away the
key. It was enough for him that he had been able at a critical juncture
to do, and do successfully, the work that stood ready to his hand. The
deed carried its own compensation, and he rejoiced that he was able to
keep it from public view. But, somewhere in West Virginia, a crippled
boy remembered him gratefully, and two little youngsters were taught to
mention a nameless stranger in their prayers.
And now that nothing was left to do in behalf of others, Bert's thoughts
reverted to his own affairs. The day was still young, despite the events
that had been crowded into it. Up to this moment he had not thought of
food, but now he was conscious that he was ravenously hungry. As soon
as he could shake himself loose from the crowd that had listened
breathlessly to his story, he went to the hotel and ordered an abundant
breakfast. When he had finished, he was once more his normal self. He
replenished his gasoline supply, consulted his map, jumped into the
saddle and was off. Before long he reached the road that he had been
traveling the previous day; and, bending low over the handlebars, he
called upon the "Blue Streak" to make up for lost time.
The scenery flew past as in a panorama. Up hill and down he went at
railroad speed, only slackened within the limits of a town. In this
thinly settled country, these were few and far between, and he chuckled
as he saw his speedometer swiftly climbing. The roads were drying out,
and, though still a little heavy, had lost their clinging quality. In a
few hours, he flashed into Charleston, where his ears were greeted by
the cries of the newsboys, calling out the extras issued on account of
the flood. Staying only long enough to report his time and get a meal,
he resumed his trip, and, before night, had left the worst part of the
hills behind him and had crossed the border line into Kentucky, the land
of swift horses and fair women, of Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone, the
"dark and bloody ground" of the Revolution.
It was a tired rider who almost fell from his saddle that night, after
having covered three hundred miles. A fierce determination had buoyed
him up and the most daring kind of rough riding had carried him through.
Now the reaction had set in. An immense weariness weighed him down and
every separate muscle had its own distinctive ache. But his mind was at
peace. He had fought a good fight. A supreme emergency had challenged
him, and he had met it squarely. And no twinges of conscience for duty
unperformed came to disturb the sleep of utter exhaustion into which he
fell as soon as his head touched the pillow.