The rising waters forced him again to seek safety. He struggled through
them and reached dry land. He was almost exhausted. He had had no food
since supper time the night before. For hours he had been exposed
to wind and water. He had almost reached the limit of endurance. He
staggered on, not knowing what to do or where to go. A boy scout came
hurrying by.
“Where could I get a bite to eat?” asked Roy. “I’m nearly dead.”
“Go to the Red Cross headquarters in the First Presbyterian Church,”
replied the scout, and directed Roy how to find the church.
Roy staggered on. He was so nearly exhausted that he could hardly make
his way up to the church. Other refugees, like himself, were heading
for the place. It was a sorry procession. At length the church was
reached. There was food in abundance and coffee steaming hot. Roy
ate as though famished. He drank cup after cup of coffee. Never had
he tasted anything so good. The coffee warmed and stimulated him. His
strength returned to him as he rested and ate. He watched the Red
Cross women as they ministered to other refugees. He admired the cool,
skilled way they did their work, the quiet manner in which they cared
for others when perhaps their own homes were imperiled. The thought was
like a galvanic shock to Roy. This was no place for him, this warm and
comfortable church. He had a duty to perform, too. His duty was out
there in the storm. And again he thought of those white faces at the
windows.
Back into the storm he plunged, seeking where he might be most helpful.
In no time he was at the water’s edge again. Scores of persons were
still marooned in their houses. They must be gotten out or they would
be drowned. The water was almost at its highest and the storm was
licking up dwelling after dwelling. Roy looked about him. Four white
faces were peering from a near-by house. Roy waded toward it. The water
crept up around him but he gained the building. The sea had broken open
a door. Roy entered, found the stairway, and went up to the terrified
inmates. They were a mother and three little girls.
“Come quick,” he said, “or it will be too late.”
The children held back, afraid to step into the water. “Get on my
back,” said Roy, picking up the largest child.
He went down the stairs and struggled to land. The water was waist-deep
and running like a mill-race.
“Wait here until I bring the others,” said Roy as he placed the child
in a sheltered doorway.
Again he waded through the flood. The water nearly swept him off his
feet. He got another child on his back.
“Come,” he said to the woman. “If you do not leave at once you can
never get ashore. I will come back for the baby.”
The woman hesitated. “You are risking everything,” said Roy. “We’ll all
be drowned if you do not come at once.”
The woman began to sob hysterically. She refused to move. Roy was sadly
perplexed. Something _must_ be done at once. But how? Into Roy’s mind
flashed the thought of his commander. He knew what Captain Lansford
would do. He would compel obedience. Roy ceased to argue with the woman.
“Come with me,” he shouted harshly. He seized the woman by the shoulder
and roughly forced her down the stairs. Then he seized her hand. “Come
on,” he said roughly and dragged her into the flood.
Desperately he fought to get her to land. The child on his back
weighted him down. The current swirled about him. He could hardly keep
his feet. He struggled on, dragging, pushing, pulling the woman toward
shore. A plank washed near him. He grabbed it and shoved it to his
companion. The plank steadied her and she made better progress. They
gained the shallower water and got beyond the reach of the waves.
“Go to that doorway and wait for me,” said Roy, pointing out the refuge
of the child he had already taken ashore. He handed the child on his
back to its mother. Then he turned back. This time he had to swim.
The waters had risen so high he could no longer wade. He reached the
house and found the baby safe on the upper floor. At first he did
not know how to get her ashore. She was too little to cling to his
shoulders. Something had to be done quick. He snatched a sheet from
the bed, folded it, and tied the baby on his back. Then he went down
into the flood, and struggling desperately, got back to land. He took
the baby in his arms and leading the others, made his way again up to
the Red Cross headquarters. When they got there, night was not far
distant. The crest of the flood had been reached. The wind still blew
at hurricane force. Roy delivered his charges to a Red Cross nurse and
was about to turn away, but the woman he had rescued caught him by the
arm.
“How can I ever thank you?” she cried. “If you had not compelled me to
go we should all have drowned.”
Roy did not know what to say. He suddenly felt embarrassed. “I’m glad
you’re all safe,” he muttered and turned away.
But he did not go back into the storm. Suddenly a great weakness
possessed him. His legs refused to hold him up. He was quivering
all over. He believed he was about to be sick. He sought out a warm
corner and sat down. But he was not sick. It was only outraged nature
taking her toll. Roy was utterly exhausted. The coffee he had drunk
had given him a false strength. Now that the crisis was over he was
suddenly weak and tired--so tired. As he sat in the corner, he thought
over the events of the past week. Always his thoughts came back to
his captain, that great, rough, rude commander. Real kindness, Roy
understood for the first time, does not always consist in soft words or
an easy manner. He realized that now from his own experience. He had
been kind to the limit of kindness to the woman he had rescued. But
he had treated her with violent roughness. He saw his commander in a
new light. Pondering over the matter, he fell asleep. And for hours,
huddled in his corner, he was like one dead.
Morning came. Roy awoke. He was entirely refreshed. He jumped to his
feet, confused at first. He did not know where he was. Then the whole
terrible situation came to him. He supposed his companions were dead.
He tried to shut the memory of his terrible experience out of his mind
but could not. The suffering about him weighed him down, sickened him.
He could stand danger better than distress. He went outside and looked
about.
The sight that greeted him was appalling. The North Beach district,
where he had so lately battled with death between the houses, was a
surging sea. Three great structures still stood with the waves beating
about them. A passer-by told him they were a private residence, the old
North Beach Hotel, and the Spohn Sanitarium. Twenty-four hours earlier
fifteen hundred houses had stood where now Roy saw only tossing waves.
He turned from the sight in horror. The three buildings that remained
on North Beach were terribly battered. Porticoes, doors, shutters,
chimneys, and other parts had been wrenched away by wave and wind.
Whole wings had been torn from the sanitarium. As Roy looked at it, he
saw with horror that there were people still in it--doubtless sick and
helpless.
Even as he looked Roy saw a man wading out toward the hospital. He
watched, fascinated. Now swimming, now wading, the man fought his way
to the battered building. A white-robed nurse appeared in a doorway.
Presently the man faced about and fought his way back to land.
Roy turned back into the church. “Who is in charge here?” he asked one
of the Red Cross workers.
“Miss Mildred Seaton,” was the reply. “She is over there, talking to
that messenger from Mayor Boone’s office.”
Roy made his way toward the two. “Miss Seaton,” he said, when she had
finished her talk with the mayor’s messenger, “I want to know what I
can do to help.”
“What is your name? What can you do? We need workers of all sorts.”
“I am Roy Mercer,” began Roy, “wireless man on the steamship
_Lycoming_----”
His companion cut him short. “What we need more than anything else,”
she said, “is help. All the wires are down and we can get no word out.
Can you send a message?”
“Is there a wireless station here?” asked Roy.
“No.”
“Do you know of any amateur operators? I might be able to use their
equipment.”
“I don’t know of any. Go to the mayor.”
She called to the messenger, who was just leaving the room. “This is
Mr. Mercer,” she said. “Will you please take him directly to Mayor
Boone. He is a wireless operator. Perhaps he can get help for us.”
The messenger took Roy directly to the mayor, and introduced him.
“I suppose there are some amateur operators in Corpus Christi,” said
the mayor, “but I do not know of any. However, there is a shop where
all sorts of electrical equipment are for sale. Maybe you could find
what you need there.” He told Roy what he should say if he got into
communication with anybody.
Then he turned to his messenger. “Go with this gentleman,” he said.
“Spare no effort to get what he needs. Lack of communication is our
worst trouble now.”
They found the owner of the shop. He had the necessary equipment if it
could be gotten, but his store was under three feet of water.
“We’ll have to wade,” he said, “but we’ll take a look.”
They reached the store and crawled in through a broken show-window.
They had no difficulty to find wire, although it was on the floor. Only
after a long search under the muddy waters did they secure a condenser.
Neither wire nor condenser was any the worse for the wetting. From
drawers and shelves, some awash and some high and dry, they took one
article after another--receivers, a tuning coil, insulators, some large
batteries. But they could find no spark-gap.
“Have you a repair-shop?” asked Roy. “And are there tools and materials
in it?”
“Yes. It’s right back of the shop, and it is flooded, too.”
“Never mind that,” said Roy. “I’m used to water by this time.”
They waded into the shop. The water was about two inches below the
level of the workbench.
“Good!” said Roy. “This will do fine!”
Skilfully he cut a block for the base, sawed some pieces for posts, and
drilled them and fastened them upright at the proper distances from one
another. He got a short, slender metal rod, cut it in half, ground the
ends into sharp points and thrust them into his uprights. It was a very
crude affair, but when properly wired up would work. The difficulty
now was to get a key. None was to be found. They gathered up all the
tools, wires and other things they would need, and left the shop. At
the railway station the mayor’s messenger secured a telegraph-key. Roy
said that he could alter it a trifle so that it would answer. Then,
soaked but satisfied, they carried their materials to the very highest
part of the city.
There Roy was made welcome in a private residence. Rapidly he fashioned
an aerial. With the help of the owner of the house he suspended this
aerial between a high tree near by and a chimney of the residence.
He brought his lead-in wire through a window, rapidly wired up his
instruments, and coupled on his batteries. As he pressed his key, a fat
spark leaped between the points of his spark-gap. Skilfully he adjusted
these and turned to his host.
“If only I had a wireless signal book,” he sighed. “It may be hard to
raise anybody, for I don’t know a single local call. Probably I’ll
have to send out an SOS. What is the nearest place where they would be
likely to have a Marconi station?”
“Probably San Antonio.”
“How far is that in a straight line?”
“I don’t know exactly. Perhaps a hundred and twenty-five
miles--possibly a hundred and thirty.”
Roy looked at his batteries dubiously. “I’ll make the effort anyway,”
he said. “Maybe they’ll carry that distance.”
“I hope you can get them,” said Roy’s host anxiously. “We need help
badly. We especially need soldiers. Looting has begun.”
“Soldiers!” cried Roy. “Why didn’t I think of them before? There’s an
army post at Brownsville. How far is that?”
“About the same distance as San Antonio.”
“Thank heaven I know their call signal,” cried Roy.
He pressed his finger to his key. Blue sparks leaped across his
spark-gap. “WUZ--WUZ--WUZ,” he flashed.
Then he sat breathless and listened. Would his battery carry far
enough? There was no answering signal.
“WUZ--WUZ--WUZ,” flashed out Roy. Then once more he sat tense,
listening.
Something crackled in his ear. “Who is calling WUZ?”
“Corpus Christi,” flashed back Roy. “City terribly damaged by tidal
wave. Scores drowned. Hundreds of houses washed away. Property loss
millions. Need food, medicines, workers, soldiers. Looting has begun.
For God’s sake rush help. Gordon Boone, Mayor.”
“Who is this talking?” came the reply. “Never heard of a wireless
station at Corpus Christi.”
“This is Roy Mercer, shipwrecked wireless man, talking on emergency
outfit for city authorities. Call ABC.”
So Roy sent abroad the news of the city’s plight, even as Paul Revere
carried to every Middlesex village and farm the news of Lexington’s
peril. Next morning soldiers marched into the city. Martial law was
declared. Sentries were posted. Corpus Christi was safe. Other helpers
rushed to the stricken community. A Red Cross relief train sped to the
rescue. The Salvation Army sent workers. Physicians and nurses came.
Food and supplies poured in. The stunned city pulled itself together.
Workers were organized to search out and care for the dead, to clear
the streets, to look after the homeless, to feed the hungry. Emergency
tent camps arose. Canteens were opened. Boy scouts collected clothes,
carried messages, and were the legs of the rescue work. And until
telephonic communication was restored, Roy sat at his instrument hour
after hour, sending and receiving messages for the stricken city.
The air and the sea brought help. An army aviator dropped thirty
pounds of sorely needed yeast into the city. The flood had spoiled
all existing stocks. As soon as the sea subsided, boats rushed to
Corpus Christi, bearing gifts. The sea-going tug _Rotarian_ came from
Galveston, carrying money, supplies, and workers.
When Roy learned of the _Rotarian’s_ arrival he sought her out and went
aboard. The captain met him as he came up the gangplank.
“Can you tell me anything about the _Lycoming_ or the _Empress_?”
demanded Roy.
“Both safe in Galveston,” said the tug’s skipper. “They are pretty
badly battered up, but still sound. They had an awful fight to make
it. The _Empress_ broke her rudder and the _Lycoming_ took her in
tow. Nobody but John Lansford could have done it. I tell you he’s
a wonder--heart like a woman’s--courage like a grizzly--rough as
barnacles on a ship’s bottom. The worst storm that ever blew--and I
guess this was it--couldn’t make him desert a ship in trouble. He was
darn near to port, he was, and didn’t he turn back into the hurricane
and take the _Empress_ in tow. Saved her, too. Put an oil slick down,
got lines aboard of her, and had her turn her engines just enough to
give her headway. His lines would have parted in a minute if he’d had
to pull her whole weight. Oh! He’s a wonder all right. It was a great
rescue--great!”
“Was--was anybody lost?” asked Roy, hesitating.
“Small boat’s crew, including the third mate and the wireless man.”
“And nothing has been heard from them?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“I am the wireless man,” said Roy quietly.
“The deuce you are!” exclaimed the _Rotarian’s_ captain. “The deuce you
are! Put her there,” and he shook Roy’s hand warmly for a full minute.
“I’m mighty glad you pulled through. They say you did great work.”
Roy’s heart leaped with joy. At last recognition had come to him. His
captain had changed his mind about him. But to the tug’s captain he
said simply, “I’m glad to hear about the two steamers. I wish we could
get as good news of the third mate and the others in the life-boat.”
“Aren’t they here with you?”
Roy told him how they had been lost. Then he added, “Will you take me
back to Galveston with you?”
“Surest thing you know,” exclaimed the captain.
So it happened that when the _Rotarian_, a few days later, tied up
at her pier in Galveston, Roy Mercer was the first person ashore. A
single glance told him that Galveston was unharmed. The captain had
already told him, however, how the sea-wall had saved the city. Roy
raced down the pier and up the gangplank to the _Lycoming_. The first
person he met was the third mate. Roy stopped dead in astonishment,
then sprang forward and grasped the mate’s hand.
“How did you get here?” he cried in astonishment.
The mate told him that after he, Roy, was washed away from the others
on the overturned boat, the life-boat was driven straight toward the
highest point on Mustang Island. A few sand-dunes remained above the
flood, and on these the crew found refuge. Two of the sailors died
from exposure, for they had to stay on their tiny refuge, exposed
to wind and rain, for fully forty-eight hours. Then they got across
Aransas Pass, found food and shelter, and later made their way along
the railroad to San Patricio, where they got a train back to Galveston.
Barring the sailors who died, all were back on the _Lycoming_ safe and
sound.
Roy pressed on to the captain’s quarters. He was very eager to see him.
He felt sure that this time a warm welcome awaited him. He rapped on
the captain’s door.
“Come in,” said a rough voice.
Roy entered and stood before his commander. “I report for duty again,
sir,” he said.
The captain took his outstretched hand. “I’m glad you escaped,” he
said, “but you had no business in that small boat. Your post of duty
was in the wireless house. You left me in great difficulties. There was
no way to communicate quickly with the _Empress_. But I’m very glad you
escaped.”