Paul broke in excitedly. "And she just had four kittens--Matthew, Mark,
Luke, and John."
"Well, I'll be a chipmunk's tail," Grandpa chortled in surprise. "No
worse'n namin' people for saints who they don't resemble a-tall."
"Easy to remember, too," Tom said, "and no hurt feelings if you call
one by t'other." He was pouring thick black coffee into the lid of his
thermos. "Its extry stout," he said, offering it first to Paul, "to
fortify us for what's ahead."
Paul tasted it, trying not to make a face. Then he gulped it down,
feeling it burn all the way.
Grandpa sipped his, meditating. "Over to Assateague," he thought aloud,
"over in those dunes there's plenty hollows to ketch nice clean rain.
Whatever ponies is left, there's places for 'em to drink. But here...."
All at once he dumped the rest of his coffee overboard. "We got to
rescue the live ones _right now_, or they'll bloat on this brackish
water. Let's go!" he bellowed.
With Tom directing, they each took an oar and poled off into the
morass. It was heavy going. The sludgy water was choked with boards
from smashed chicken houses, and with briar and bramble and weedy vines
so thickly interlaced it was like trying to break through a stout
wire fence. Silently the three in the boat threaded their way along,
stopping time and again to push rubbish aside and to scrape the seaweed
from their oars.
Suddenly there came a thud and a jolt. The three oars lifted as one.
All movement ceased. The men stared down in horror.
"Oh God!" Grandpa whispered. "It's my Black Warrior!"
No one spoke. Tom Reed reached down and took one colored square out of
the bag and tied it to a stick. He drove the marker into the mud next
to the stallion's body. "'Twas a piece of Marjie's petticoat," he said
nervously, just to say something. "I allus liked it with all the bright
pink flowers."
Grandpa's eyes looked far off. "I was proud of the Warrior," he said
quietly. "He used to help on Pony Penning Days to drive the really
wild 'uns to the carnival grounds, and his tail was so long it sweeped
the street, and his coat a-glistenin' like black sunshine. Recomember,
Paul?" He wiped his arm across his eyes. Then his voice changed. "Move
on!" he commanded. "We got to find the livin'."
The grim search went on. A quiet hung over the bog, except for the
sloshing of oars and twigs snapping as the scow moved heavily along.
Then a raucous, rasping sound sliced into the quiet of the morning.
"Look!" Paul cried. "Crows!"
The men poled faster until they came to a cloud of bold black birds
flapping over a huddle of dead ponies.
Grandpa's face twisted in pain. "The Warrior's mares and colts," he
said in utter desolation.
It was almost as if they were alive. Some were half-standing in the
water, propped up by debris. They looked as if they were old and asleep.
"Guess they just died from exposure and cold." Tom's voice quavered,
but his words were matter of fact. "One flag can do for all."
Grandpa got out of the boat and he grabbed the flag from Tom's hands.
He stabbed it hard and fierce into the mud. Then he took a good look,
and he began to name them all, saying a little piece of praise over
each: "This one's a true Palomino. She had extry big ears, but gentle
as the day, even though she'd never been rode. And this great big
old tall mare was blind of one eye, but she had a colt ever' spring,
reg'lar as dandylions. And this mare, she's got some pretty good age to
her. She's somewhere in her twenty."
The crows came circling back, cawing at Grandpa. Angrily he whipped
them away with his hat. "Likely she's had twelve, fifteen head in her
day, and expectin' again." He sighed heavily. "That Black Warrior was
a good stallion. He died tryin' to move his family to safety, but ..."
his voice broke "... they just couldn't move."
The heart-breaking work went on. They came upon snakes floating, and
rabbits and rats. And they found more stallions dead, with their mares
and colts nearby. And they found lone stragglers caught and tethered
fast by twining vines. As the morning dragged into noon, and noon into
cold afternoon, the pile of flags in the boat dwindled.
Sometimes an hour went by before they came on anything, alive or dead.
Then Tom would chatter cheerfully, trying to lighten the burden. "Not
ever'thing drowns," he said. "Early this morning I found me a snapper
turtle under a patch of ice. He'd gone to sleep. Y'know, Paul, they
snooze all winter, like bear."
Tom waited for an answer, but none came. "Funny thing about that little
snapper," he went on, "he was a baby, no bigger'n a fifty-cent piece,
and he was froze sure-enough. 'Tom,' I said to myself, 'he's dead.' But
something tells me to put him in my inside pocket. And walking along I
guess the heat of my body warmed him up, and guess what!"
"Grandpa!" Paul screamed. "I see something _alive_! In the woods!"
They turned the boat quickly and went poling through the soggy mass of
kinksbush and myrtle. And there, caught among broken branches was a
forlorn bunch of ponies, heads hanging low, their sides scarcely moving.
Grandpa slid overboard, trying not to make a splash, trying not to
panic them. Softly he called each one by name. "Nancy. Lucy. Polly.
Gray Belle. Princess. Susy ..."
The low, husky voice was like a lifeline thrown to drowning creatures.
They lifted their heavy heads and one tried a whinny, but it was no
more than a breath blowing. They were held fast, rooted in the boggy
earth.
Tom and Paul were beside Grandpa in an instant. Without any signals
between them, they knew what had to be done. They must drive the
ponies to higher land near Tom's house, or they would die. Grim and
determined, they maneuvered their way behind the ponies. Then grabbing
pine boughs for clubs, they brandished them, whacking at the water,
yelling like madmen, stirring the almost-dead things to life.
A pinto mare struggled free and led off in one desperate leap. The
others stumbled after, trying to keep ahead of the wild thunder behind
them. Scrabbling, crashing through up-rooted trees, squeezing through
bramble and thicket, they slogged forward inch by inch. And suddenly a
mud-crusted stallion leaped out of the woods to join them.
"It's Wings!" Paul shrieked.
Men and ponies both were nearing exhaustion. But still they drove on.
They _had_ to. Shoving the boat, the men nosed it into the laggards,
frightening them ever forward.
And at last they were in Tom's yard. Safe! As one, the ponies headed
for the water barrel. Single-handed Grandpa overturned it, spilling
out the dirty water tainted by the sea. He tried the spigot above it.
"Pressure's good!" he exulted. "They got to blow first, then they can
drink."
He and Tom and Paul were blowing too. But it was a healthy blow.
_Something_ at last had gone right.
_Chapter 14_