A HOMELESS CITY
The efforts of Clancy and Mara combined with the vigorous and sensible
ministrations of Aun' Sheba at last brought consciousness to Mrs. Hunter.
Tearing up a linen sheet they stanched and bound up her wounds, and then
Clancy said, "We must get her to one of the squares and under a
physician's care as soon as possible."
"My folks is gwine to Mar'on Squar, an' dar I promise ter come," said Aun'
Sheba. "It's 'bout as nigh as any ob dem."
Mrs. Hunter looked at Clancy, and shrank from him visibly. He said
quickly, "Surely, Mrs. Hunter, all enmities should be forgotten at this
time, or at least put aside. We should leave this narrow side-street at
once."
"Aunty," said Mara, gently, "Mr. Clancy has saved us both from
destruction. For my sake and Aun' Sheba's as well as your own, you must
let him do all in his power."
The earthly, yet unearthly, rumble of another shock put an end to further
hesitation. It would be long before the terror inspired by this phenomenon
would cease to be overwhelming.
Aun' Sheba lifted her arms imploringly to heaven, while the vivid
consciousness of the direst peril known brought Mara and Clancy together
again in an embrace that was the natural expression of the feeling that,
if die they must, they would die together. With such black ruin about
them, caused by one shock, the fear could not be combated that the next
might end everything.
When the convulsion passed, Clancy and Aun' Sheba immediately formed a
chair with their hands, and Mara helped Mrs. Hunter, now ready enough to
escape by any means, to avail herself of it. They made their way with
difficulty over the debris to King Street. Here they were obliged to pause
and rest. No rest, however, did Clancy obtain, for a momentary glance
revealed one of the awful phases of the disaster. Three or four doors
above them, houses were burning from overturned and exploded lamps. Some
of the shop-keepers were frantically endeavoring to save a few of their
goods, often, in their excitement, carrying out the strangest and most
valueless articles. Clancy's brief glance gave no heed to such efforts,
but before he could turn away, a woman with a child in her arms came
rushing from one of the burning houses. Her dress had touched the fire,
and was beginning to burn. Clancy caught one of the blankets from Mara,
and with it extinguished the flames, while Mara took the infant. The
instant the babe was out of her arms the mother tried to break away and
rush back, shrieking, "There's another! there's another child!"
"Where?" cried Clancy, restraining her.
"In the front room there."
"Stay here, then," and he darted through the doorway, out of which the
smoke was pouring as from a chimney.
Mara and the mother looked after him in breathless and agonized suspense.
The flames had burst suddenly into the apartment, and through the windows
they could see him enter, snatch up the child, and disappear. But he did
not come out of the street door as soon as they expected. They could
endure waiting no longer. Both dashed into the smoke-clouded passage-way,
and stumbled against Clancy Where he had sunk down within a few steps of
safety.
The mother seized her child, while Mara, with a strength given by her
heart, dragged the strangling man to the open air. By this time Aun' Sheba
was at her side, and between them they carried him to the spot where Mrs.
Hunter lay. Now that he could breathe he soon recovered; Mara's tender and
imploring words being potent indeed in rallying him. His exposure to heat
and the smoke had been terrible, but fortunately very brief. He was soon
on his feet, exclaiming, "We must go on to Meeting Street, for there we
shall have a better chance."
Thither they made their way with other fugitives, Clancy and Aun' Sheba
carrying Mrs. Hunter as before, Mara following with the infant, and close
beside her the grateful mother with the other child.
Having reached a somewhat open space in the wider thoroughfare, the young
man became satisfied that another mode of transportation must be found.
Mrs. Hunter was too heavy for the primitive method adopted in the
emergency. Aun' Sheba took the injured woman's head upon her lap while he
rested and looked about for something like an army stretcher. Among the
ruins he found one of the long wooden shutters which a jeweller had placed
against his window hours before. Watches and gems gleamed in the light of
kindling fires, and were within easy reach, but the most unscrupulous of
thieves were honest that night. Clancy carried the shutter to Mrs.
Hunter's side, and then watched for some man whom he could persuade into
his service.
The great thoroughfare was full of fugitives, and soon among them the
mother recognized a man of her acquaintance, who took charge of her and
the children. The majority, like Clancy, had been delayed by efforts in
behalf of the sick or injured, and already had their hands full. Others
were so dazed and horror-stricken that they moved about aimlessly, or sat
upon the pavement, moaning and lamenting in despairing accents. It would
appear as if the emergency developed the strength and the weakness of
every mind. Some were evidently crazed. As Mara stood beside Mrs. Hunter
to prevent the crowd from trampling upon her, she saw a half-dressed man,
breaking his way through the throng. The maniac stopped before her, and
for a moment fixed upon her wild, blood-shot eyes, then placed an infant
in her arms, and with a yell bounded away. Mara, horror-stricken, saw that
the child was dead, and that its neck was evidently broken. Clancy came up
immediately, and taking the infant laid it down out of the central path,
for all kept to the middle of the street.
As he did so, he heard his name called by a voice he knew too well. The
feeling it inspired compelled him again to recognize how false he had been
to himself and also to Miss Ainsley. Her summons now brought the feeling
that he too, like Mara, was bound, and he went instantly to her side.
"Ah, you deserted me!" she said bitterly.
He silently pointed to Mrs. Hunter, who presented so sad a spectacle that
even the exacting girl had no further words of reproach, but she glanced
keenly at Mara.
"We feared a tidal wave," Mr. Willoughby explained, "and so decided to
seek the upper portion of the city."
"Mrs. Willoughby, if you are able to walk," said Clancy, "your husband
must aid me and Aun' Sheba in carrying Mrs. Hunter, who is very badly
injured."
"Oh, now that the first terrible shock to my nerves is over, I am as well
able to take care of myself as any of you," replied the spirited little
woman.
"That's like you!" exclaimed Clancy heartily. Then turning, he said with
emphasis, "Miss Ainsley, you see that a man's first duty to-night is to
the injured and utterly helpless."
"Forgive me," she replied in tones meant for his ear only, "I did not know
you owed so much to Mrs. Hunter and her niece."
"I shall owe my services to every injured man and woman until all are
rescued," was his quiet reply. Then he helped Mr. Willoughby place Mrs.
Hunter on the improvised support, and between them they bore her onward,
the others following.
Their progress was necessarily slow, for the street was encumbered not
only with fugitives like themselves, but also with tangled telegraph-wires
and all sorts of other impediments. Once they had to cower tremblingly
under a tall building while a fire-engine thundered by, threatening to
bring down upon them the shattered walls. As they resumed their slow and
painful march Bodine met them, his glad, outspoken greeting to Mara
filling her heart with new grief and dismay, while it allayed the jealousy
and bitterness of Miss Ainsley's wounded pride.
The Northern girl had heard the report that Mara and the veteran were
engaged, and here was confirmation. Mara inquired eagerly after Mrs.
Bodine and Ella, then took her place at the captain's side, while Clancy
moved on with set teeth and a desperate rallying of his physical powers,
which he knew to be failing.
Now that Ella was in the square, young Houghton was not so impetuous as to
ignore the claims of nature or to be regardless of his outward appearance.
He again returned to his home, and saw Sam kneeling and praying aloud near
the barn, with the two horses standing beside him.
"Sam, go to the square," he shouted.
"Can't lebe dese hosses. Dey's bofe lookin' ter me, an' I'se prayin' fer
dem an us all."
"No matter about the horses. The house is too near." Then he ventured into
the butler's pantry, cleansed his face and the cuts and bruises about his
head, snatched some food, and hastened away. He believed he had a hard
night's work before him, and that he must maintain his strength. He had
not gone very far down Meeting Street before he met the group accompanying
Mrs. Hunter. With a glad cry he welcomed Mrs. Willoughby, and was about to
take her hand when Clancy said, "Houghton, for God's sake, quick!"
George caught the end of the litter while Clancy reeled backward and would
have fallen had not Mara, with a cry she could not repress, caught him in
her arms and sunk with him to the pavement. He gasped a moment or two,
then his eyes closed; he became still and looked as if dead.
Again the supremely dreaded subterranean rumble was heard. Mr. Willoughby
shouted wildly, "Forward, quick! We can't stay here under these
buildings." He and Houghton went on with a rush, the rest following with
loud cries, Miss Ainsley's piercing scream ringing out above all. She did
not even look back at her prostrate suitor.
Mara paid no heed to the passing shock, but with eyes full of anguish
looked upon the white face in her lap.
"Mara," said the deep voice of Bodine after the awful sound had passed.
She started violently and began to tremble.
"Mara, go with the others. I will stay with Mr. Clancy."
She shook her head, but was speechless.
He stood beside her, his face full of deep and perplexed trouble.
At last she said hoarsely, "You go and bring aid. He saved aunty and me,
and I cannot leave him."
At this moment Aun' Sheba came running back, exclaiming: "Good Lawd forgib
me dat I should leab my honey lam'! My narbes all shook out ob jint like
de houses, an' my legs run away wid me, dog gone 'em! Dey's brung me back
howsomeber. Now, Missy Mara, gib him ter me;" and taking him under the
arms she dragged him by the adjacent tall buildings. "Missy," she added,
sinking down with her burden, "go on ter de squar wid Marse Bodine, an'
tell dat ar young Houghton ter come quick, 'fore my legs run away wid me
agin." "Both of you go to the square," commanded Bodine in the tone he
would have used on the battlefield. "I will stay. There shall be no
useless risk of life."
Mara lifted her dark eyes to his face. Even at that moment he knew he
should never forget their expression. "My friend," she said in low,
agonized tones, "he may be dying, he may be dead. I cannot, will not leave
him."
"No, he ain't dead," said Aun' Sheba, with her hand over Clancy's heart,
"but seems purty nigh it. Him jes gone beyon his strengt. Ole missus
po'ful heby ef she ain't fat like me. Tank de Lawd, I hasn't ter be toted
ter-night. No one but Kern ud tote me. Po' Kern! him heart jes break wen
he know."
Bodine stood guard silent and grim while Mara mechanically chafed one of
Clancy's hands. She was now far beyond tears, far beyond anything except
the anguish depicted in her face. In a confused way she felt that the
terrible events of the night and her own heart had overpowered her; and,
with a half-despairing recklessness, she merely lived from moment to
moment.
The earthquake had ceased to have personal terrors for Bodine. He had
faced death too often. Nevertheless a great fear oppressed him as he
looked down upon the girl he loved.
The square was not far away; Houghton and Mr. Willoughby came hastening
back, and Clancy was soon added to the group of sufferers under Dr.
Devoe's care.
To Miss Ainsley's general disgust at a city in which she had been treated
to such a rude and miserable experience, was added a little self-disgust
that she had rushed away and left Clancy to his fate. She tried to satisfy
herself by thinking that he had acted in much the same way toward her, but
it would not answer. Mrs. Hunter's blood-stained face, rendered tenfold
more ghastly by the light of the flames, was too strong refutation, and
the fact that Mara had remained with Clancy had its sting. She saw Ella
and many others ministering to the injured and feeble, and felt that she
must redeem her character. When the unconscious man was brought in,
therefore, she hastened forward to receive and in a measure claim him.
Although mentally comparing her conduct with that of Mara, Houghton and
Mr. Willoughby thought it was all right, put Clancy in her charge, and
began to follow Dr. Devoe's directions. Mara gave the girl a look which
brought a blush to her face, and then devoted herself to her aunt.
Captain Bodine's first act was to speak gently and encouragingly to his
daughter and cousin, congratulating the latter on her recovery.
"Yes, Hugh," said the old lady, "I'm safe, safer than I've been at other
times in my life. This is but one more storm, and it is only driving me
nearer the harbor. You look dreadfully; you're worn out."
"More by anxiety than exertion. It is awful to be so helpless at such a
time."
"Sit down here on the grass beside me. I want to talk. I may not have much
more chance in this world, but feel sure that I shall do my share in the
next. Oh, Hugh, Hugh, we've all been shaken like naughty children, and
some of us may be the better and the wiser for it. If Ella and that
gallant knight of hers survive, how happy they will be! It makes me happy
even to think of it, though for aught we know the earth may open and
swallow us all within the next five minutes."
"Yes, the dear child! Thank God for her sake!"
"For your own too. There is Mara safe also. Poor Mrs. Hunter! she looks
death-like to me. You look awfully too. I never saw you so pale and
haggard."
"Cap'n Bodine, Marse Houghton send you dis," said Jube at his elbow,
proffering a glass of wine.
The captain turned his startled eyes upon his old employer, who lay just
out of earshot of their low tones.
"Take it, Hugh," said his cousin earnestly. "Drink to the death of hate.
He and I have made up."
The veteran hesitated, and a spasm, as if from a wrench of pain, passed
over his face. Then he took the glass, and said coldly, "I drink to your
recovery, sir."
"I thank you," was Mr. Houghton's response.
"A very fair beginning, Hugh, for a man," his cousin resumed. "You might
as well give up at once, though. Everything is going to be shaken down
that shouldn't stand."
Ominous words to the veteran, for he felt that his dream of happiness was
falling in ruins.
By the natural force of circumstances the several characters of our story
had been brought comparatively near together, yet were separated into
little groups. Dr. Devoe passed from one to the other as his services were
needed, nor were they confined to those known to us. He simply made a
little open space beside Mr. Houghton his headquarters, where he left his
remedies under the charge of the invalid, Jube, and old Tobe. Other
physicians had joined him and were indefatigable in the work of relief.
Some of the city clergy were also in the square, speaking words of
Christian faith and hope, which never before had seemed so precious.
To Clancy Dr. Devoe gave a good deal of attention. Not only was his hair
singed, but his neck and hands were badly burned, and his swoon was so
obstinate as to indicate great exhaustion. This could scarcely be
otherwise, for he possessed no such physique as young Houghton had
developed. Moreover, he had passed through a mental strain and excitement
which no one could comprehend except Mara, and she but partially. Houghton
had put his coat under the head of the unconscious man, and was doing his
best for him. So also was Miss Ainsley now. She had purposely turned her
back on Mara, and her face was toward the adjacent conflagration, which
distinctly lighted up her face and form, transforming her into a vision of
marvellous beauty. Her long hair had fallen in a golden veil over her bare
shoulders and neck; her dark eyes were lustrous with excitement and full
of solicitude. When at last Clancy opened his eyes his first impression
was that an angel was ministering to him in a light too brilliant to be
earthly. He recognized Miss Ainsley's voice, however, and when he had
taken some of the wine which the doctor pressed to his lips, all that had
happened came back to him. George now returned in solicitude to his
father, also designing to take a little much-needed rest, while the doctor
gave his attention to other patients. With returning consciousness Clancy
was overpowered by a deep sense of gratitude to this beautiful creature,
and also by a strong feeling of compunction that he had sought the regard
which she now seemed to bestow unstintedly. "Like Mara," he thought,
"there is nothing left for me but to fulfil obligations from which I
cannot honorably withdraw."
"You are indeed kind and devoted," he said feebly. "I fear I have made a
good deal of trouble."
"No, Mr. Clancy, you have gone beyond your strength. In fact, we are all
distracted and half beside ourselves. Won't you let me take your head into
my lap? If I am caring for you I can better endure these awful scenes."
And she made the change.
"I hope you will forgive me for leaving you so abruptly on the Battery.
Mrs. Hunter and Miss Wallingford really had no one to look to."
"Captain Bodine evidently thinks Miss Wallingford should look to him."
"In such an emergency he would be even more helpless than she."
"Oh, well, I hope the worst is now over for us all, and that we can soon
get away from this awful town."
He gave no answer. Miss Ainsley knew that her father was not far distant,
and that he would come for her by the first train which could reach the
city. Accustomed all her life to look at everything from the central point
of self, she now, in the greater sense of safety, began to give some
thought to the future. Her first conscious decision was to try to be as
brave as possible, and so leave a good impression. The second was to get
away from the city at once, and she hoped she might never see it again. If
Clancy would go with her, if he would even eventually join her at the
North, she believed that she could marry him, so favorable was the
impression that he had made, but she felt that she was making a great
concession, which he must duly appreciate. At present the one consuming
wish was to escape, to get away from scenes which to her were horrible in
the last degree.
In truth only a brave spirit could witness what was taking place on every
side, or maintain fortitude under the overwhelming impression of personal
danger--an impression which soon banished the partial sense of security
felt after reaching the square. The extent of the terror inspired by the
earthquake can best be measured by the fact that although columns of smoke
and fire, consuming homes and threatening to lay the city in ashes, were
rising at several points, they were scarcely heeded. The roar of adjacent
flames could even be heard by the vast concourse, but ears were strained
to detect that more terrible roar that seemed to come from unknown depths
beneath the ocean and the land, and to threaten a fate as awful and
mysterious as itself. Even many of the white population could not help
sharing in some degree the general belief among the negroes that the end
of all things was at hand. The nervous shock sustained by all prepared the
way for the wildest fears and conjectures. As in the instance of a bloody
battle, those were the best off who were the most occupied.
Thousands, however, sat and waited in sickening apprehension, fearing some
new horror with every passing moment. There was a sound of weeping
throughout the square, while above this monotone rose groans, cries,
hysterical screams, loud petitions for mercy, and snatches of hymns. The
emotional negroes left no moments of silence. The majority of the white
people had become comparatively calm. They talked in low tones,
encouraging and soothing one another; the lips of even those who seldom
looked heavenward now often moved in silent prayer; fathers, on whose
brows rested a heavy load of care, tried to cheer their trembling
families; and mothers clasped their sobbing children in their arms, with
the feeling that even death should not part them.
Over all this array of pallid, haggard faces, shone the flames of the
still unquenched conflagration.