"TELL MOTHER I AM ALL RIGHT"
There is a fascination in the presence of danger which we all feel. The
news of the dreadful disaster spread with astonishing rapidity, and when
I reached the river-side it seemed as if all Damietta were there.
The lamps twinkled in the hands of innumerable men moving hither and
thither in that restless manner which showed how deep their feelings
were. People were talking in guarded voices, as if the shadow of an awful
danger impended over them, and the wildest rumors, as is the case at such
times, were afloat. It was said that six, eight, and a dozen persons had
gone down with the bridge and were irrecoverably lost. Other structures
above us were carried away (though no one stopped to explain how the
tidings had reached ahead of the flood itself), and it was asserted that
not a span would be left on the stream at daybreak.
The flickering lanterns gave a glimpse of the scene which rendered it
more impressive than if viewed under the glare of midday. Some daring
ones ventured out to the first abutment despite the danger, and we saw
the glare of their lanterns on the rushing, muddy water and the immense
blocks of ice. Some of the latter would impinge against the stone
abutment with a prodigious grinding crash, spin around several times, and
then mount up from the water, crowded by others behind, as though it was
about to climb over the massive stone. Then it would tumble back with a
splash and swiftly sweep out of sight in the darkness.
Again, trees, with their bushy tops tossing above the surface, glided by
as if caught in a rushing mill-race, and a grotesque character was given
to the whole scene by the sudden crowing of some cocks, which must have
been frightened by the twinkling lights so near them.
Few in Damietta went to bed that night. There was a continual walking to
and fro, as people are seen to do when some great calamity is about to
break upon them. Several mounted horses and rode down the river-bank for
miles, in the weak hope of picking up tidings of the lost ones. No one
could be found who knew the lady and child in the carriage which came
upon the bridge from the other side. There were innumerable guesses as to
their identity, but they were guesses and nothing more. No doubt was
entertained that when communication could be opened with Moorestown on
the morrow, we would learn who they were.
I stayed at the river-side for an hour, weighed down by the greatest
grief of my life. I was anxious to do something, but there was absolutely
nothing for me to do. Ben was gone, and his friends could not begin an
intelligent search for him before the morrow.
I turned on my heel to go home, when a shout went up that the span on the
other side of the center was going. There could be no doubt that the
splintering crash and the grinding swirl of waters and ice were caused by
the destruction of that span which dissolved into nothingness almost in a
moment.
This started the cry that the timbers nearest us were breaking up.
Those who were on it made a rush for shore, which was not reached a
minute too soon. The entire span suddenly lifted up and was "snuffed out"
so promptly that the wonder was how it had withstood the flood so long.
This occurrence struck me as decisive of the fate of my young friend Ben
Mayberry. It gave me an appreciation of the tremendous irresistibility of
the freshet, which must have ended the lives of the hapless party almost
on the instant. The bravest swimmer would be absolutely helpless in the
grasp of such a terrific current, and in a night of pitchy darkness would
be unable to make the first intelligent effort to save himself.
At last I went home through the drizzling rain, as miserable a mortal as
one could imagine. When I reached the house I was glad to find that my
family were still asleep. It would be time enough for them to learn of my
affliction and the public disaster on the coming morrow.
The pattering of the rain on the roof accorded with my feeling of
desolation, and I lay awake until almost daylight, listening, wretched,
dismal, and utterly despairing.
I slept unusually late, and I was glad, when I went down to my breakfast,
to learn that some kind neighbor had told my family all I knew, and
indeed, a little more. The river rose steadily until daylight, by which
time it was two feet above the abutments, and not a vestige of the bridge
remained.
But the water had reached its highest point, for, after remaining
stationary an hour, it had begun to fall, and was now a couple of inches
lower than "high-water mark."
There were two things which I dreaded--the sight of the furious river,
and to meet the sad, white face of Ben Mayberry's mother. I felt that I
could give her no word of comfort, for I needed it almost as much as did
she. She must have abandoned all hope by this time, and her loss was
enough to crush life itself from her.
When walking along the street I found that everyone was talking about the
unexampled flood. It had overflowed the lower part of the city, and
people were making their way through the streets in boats. Scores of
families were made homeless, and the sights were curious enough to draw
multitudes thither.
I kept away from every point where I could catch so much as a glimpse of
the freshet.
"You have robbed me of the brightest and best boy I ever knew," I
muttered, in bitterness of spirit; "he was one whom I loved as if he were
a son."
The shadow of death seemed to rest on the office when I reached it. The
loss of Ben Mayberry was a personal affliction to everyone there. Only
the most necessary words were spoken, and the sighing, which could be
heard at all times, came from the heart.
I went to my desk in a mechanical way, and had just placed my hand on the
instrument, when I was thrilled by a call which I would have recognized
among a thousand. Others heard and identified it also, and held their
breath. The next instant this message reached me:
"Dear Mr. Melville--Tell mother I am all right, but in
need of dry clothing.
"Ben Mayberry."