A CITY ENCAMPING
The earthquake which occurred at 8:25 Wednesday morning had a disastrous
effect, although it was not so severe as to injure materially the
buildings already so shattered. It nipped hope and growing confidence in
the bud. Multitudes had left the square for their homes, a large
proportion with the immediate purpose of obtaining more clothing. Many
would have been comparatively naked were it not for enveloping blankets
and the loan of articles of apparel from the more fortunate. With the
confidence which the morning and the continued quiet of the earth inspired
there had been a general movement from the square. Some hastily dressed
themselves, snatched up bedding and food, and returned to the open spaces
immediately; others breakfasted at home, and some had the heart to begin
the task of putting their houses in order. The shock drove them forth
again with all their fears renewed and increased, for the homes, which in
many cases had been a refuge for generations, were now looked upon as
deathtraps, threatening to mangle and torture as well as destroy. The love
of gain, the instinct to preserve property, was also obliterated.
Merchants deserted their shops and warehouses. Banks were unopened, except
for the gaps rent by the earthquake. The city was full of food, yet people
went hungry, not daring to enter the places where it was stored. After a
second and general flight to the square, the question in all hearts, "What
next?" paralyzed with its dread suggestion.
The fear among the educated had become definite and rational. Not that
they could explain the earthquake or its causes, but the sad experiences
of other regions were known to them. These experiences, however, had
varied so greatly in their horrors as to leave a wide margin of terrible
possibilities. A tidal wave might roll in, for the city was scarcely more
than nine feet above the sea. The earth might open in great and ingulfing
fissures. The tremendous forces beneath them might seek a volcanic outlet.
These were all dire thoughts, and were brought home to the consciousness
the more vividly because the awful phenomena continued in the serene light
of day. The nightmare aspect of what had occurred in darkness passed away,
and the coolest and most learned found themselves confronted by dangers
which they could not gauge or explain. Nor could the end be foreseen. If
such considerations weighed down the spirits of the most intelligent men,
imagine the fears of frail, nervous women, of the children, the wild panic
of the superstitious negroes to whom science explained nothing. To their
excited minds the earthquake was due directly either to the action of a
malignant, personal devil, or of an angry God. While many of the poor
ignorant creatures inevitably indulged in what were justly termed
"religious orgies," the great majority were well behaved and patient,
finding in their simple faith unspeakable comfort and support.
One fact, however, was clear to all: that the place of immediate and
greatest danger was near or beneath anything which might be prostrated by
the recurring shocks.
Another feature in Wednesday's experience was very depressing. The city
was completely isolated from the rest of the world. All telegraph-wires
were down, all railroads leading into the city had been rendered
impassable. For many hours those without who had friends and relatives in
Charleston were kept in dreadful suspense. From adjacent cities reports of
the catastrophe were flashed continuously, but in regard to Charleston
there was an ominous lack of information, and the fear was very general
that the city by the sea had sunk beneath the waves.
Mr. Ainsley shared in this horrible dread. He telegraphed repeatedly from
an inland town, and took the first train despatched toward the city. His
daughter was right in believing that he would reach her at the earliest
possible moment.
She was greatly demoralized by the shock which dissipated her impression
of comparative safety; and when she realized that the city was utterly cut
off from the outside world, that it was impossible to know when her father
could arrive, she gave way to selfish fear and the deepest dejection. With
embarrassing pertinacity she insisted that Clancy should remain near her.
Even to the others it was apparent that fear, rather than affection, led
her to desire his presence so earnestly. He had once wondered what kind of
a woman was masked by her culture and a reserve so perfect that it had
seemed frankness. The veneer now was stripped off. After her own fashion,
she was almost as abject in her terror as Uncle Sheba, who had run howling
back to the square, leaving the wife who had fed him to her fate. In her
lack of honest sympathy for others, and indisposition to exert herself in
their behalf, Miss Ainsley quite equalled the selfish old negro. The
conventional world in which she had shone to such advantage had passed
away. Her very perfection in form and feature made defects in character
more glaring, for she was seen to be a fair yet broken promise.
How sweetly the noble qualities of Ella and Mara were revealed by
comparison! They had been taught in the school of adversity. From
childhood they had learned to think of others first rather than of
themselves. Miss Ainsley would have been resplendent and at ease in a
royal drawing-room; these two girls maintained womanly fortitude and gave
themselves up to unselfish devotion in the presence of a mysterious power
which would level an emperor's palace as readily as a negro's cabin.
Clancy saw the difference--no one more clearly--and his very soul recoiled
from the woman he had purposed to marry. He patiently bore with her as
long as he could after the shock, and then joined Mr. Willoughby, George,
Bodine, and Dr. Devoe, who were consulting at Mr. Houghton's bedside. In
his shame and distress he did not venture even to glance at Mara.
As the stress of the emergency increased Mr. Houghton's mind had grown
clear and decided; his old resolute, business habits asserted themselves,
and from his low couch he practically became the leader in their council.
"From what we know of other and like disturbances," he said, "it is
impossible to foresee when these shocks will end, or how soon a refuge can
be sought in regions exempt from our dangers. Now that I am established in
this square near my home I intend to remain here for the present. I
cordially ask you all to share my fortunes. My son will spare no expense
or effort, that can be made in safety, for our general comfort." Then he
added before them all, "Captain Bodine, I have done you much wrong and
discourtesy. I apologize. You have invalid and injured ladies in your
charge. Their claims are sacred and imperative. I will esteem it a favor
if you will permit my son to do what he can for their comfort and
protection."
Bodine at once came forward, and giving Mr. Houghton his hand, replied,
"You and your son are teaching me that I have done you both much greater
wrong. I think I shall have to surrender as I did once before, but I am
glad that it is to kindness rather than to force in this instance."
"Here's the true remedy for our differences," cried Mr. Willoughby. "Let
the North and South get acquainted, and all will be well. But come, we
must act, and act promptly."
"Yes," replied George, "for the square is filling up again, and we should
keep as much space here as possible. I have a small tent which I will put
up at once for Mrs. Bodine and Mrs. Hunter. Then I'll rig an awning for my
father, and help the rest of you in whatever you decide upon."
"George," said his father, anxiously, "let your visits to the house be as
brief as possible."
Clancy offered to assist George in meeting the immediate need of shelter
from the sun, and Dr. Devoe gave the morning to the care of his many
patients. Mr. Willoughby said that he must first go to his home for
clothing and to look after matters, but that he would soon return. Bodine
was asked to mount guard and prevent, as far as possible, the fugitives
from encroaching on the needed space. This proved no easy task. Old Tobe,
after having received some breakfast, maintained his watch over the
medical stores, while Aun' Sheba, who had followed her husband as fast as
her limited powers of travelling permitted, cleared away the remnants of
the breakfast for her family, George assuring her that he would soon make
all comfortable provision for her and them.
With Clancy and the two colored men he repaired to his home, as the
wrecked venture to a ship which may break up at any moment, in order to
secure what was absolutely essential. A tent was soon pitched for the
invalids; a shelter of quilts suspended over and around his father, and a
large carpet jerked from the floor formed an awning for the ladies. Part
of this awning was partitioned off so as to give them all the privacy
possible under the circumstances, and the remainder was inclosed on three
sides, but left open toward the east.
"I'm not going to be sent to the hospital," said Mrs. Bodine. "I'd rather
sit up and direct Ella how to transform this outer habitation into a
drawing-room."
Then George brought her and his father easy-chairs. Rugs were spread on
the grass, and the rude shelter became positively inviting. Ella and Mrs.
Willoughby made themselves so useful that at last Miss Ainsley so far
recovered from her panic as to assist. She detested Mara, and Mrs.
Hunter's ghastly face and white hair embodied to her mind the terror of
which all were in dread. The bright sunshine and homely work were
suggestive of rural pleasures rather than of dire necessity, and helped,
for the time, to retire the spectre of danger to the background. The
coming and going of many acquaintances and friends also helped to rally
her spirits, and incite her to the semblance of courage. Mrs. Willoughby,
Mrs. Bodine, and Mara had stanch friends who sought them out the moment
comparative safety had been secured for their nearer dependants. The
demands of our story require nothing more than the brief statement that
there was a general disposition on the part of the people to think of and
care for all who had claims upon them. Even in the dreadful hours
immediately following the first shock, much unselfish heroism was
displayed; and during the weary days and nights which followed, men and
women vied with each other in their attentions to those who most needed
care.
Mrs. Bodine, Mrs. Willoughby, and the captain had several whispered
conferences with those who felt surprise at associations with Mr.
Houghton, and there was a quick, generous response to the old man's
kindness. Some who would not have looked at him the day before now went
and spoke to him gratefully and sympathetically, while for George only
cordiality and admiration were manifested. He was not a little uneasy over
the profuse attentions and offers of help which Ella received from several
young men. To his jealous eyes she appeared unnecessarily gracious, and
more ready to talk with them than with him; but he could not discover that
she had an especial favorite among them. Indeed, she managed in their case
as in his that Mrs. Willoughby, Miss Ainsley, or some one else should
share in the conversation.
At last Bodine said to George, "I will now go to Mrs. Hunter's rooms and
to Mrs. Bodine's residence, and obtain what is most essential. Can you
spare one of your servants to carry what I cannot?"
"Certainly, and I will go with you myself. Clancy and Sam can continue
operations here."
"George," said his father, "as soon as the absolute necessity for entering
buildings is over, I wish you to keep away from them."
"Yes, father."
Ella added, "Remember, Mr. Houghton, that is a promise. Please let the
words 'absolute necessity' have their full meaning;" and her face was so
full of solicitude that he said, "I promise you also."
With a smile and flush she turned to her father whispering the tenderest
cautions and emphasizing the truth that but few things were essential,
some of which she mentioned. Jube had become like a faithful spaniel, the
spirit of his young master reassuring him so as to feel his only safety
lay in obedience.
As George and Bodine went down the street they were saddened by the
evidences of disaster on every side. Even Meeting Street was still so
obstructed as to be almost impassable for vehicles, and in some places the
ruins were still being searched for the dead. When they reached Mrs.
Hunter's home Bodine groaned inwardly, "How the poor girl must have
suffered!" He added aloud, "The mental distress caused by my helplessness
during the last few hours, Mr. Houghton, has been much harder to bear than
the wound which cost me my leg and the suffering which followed."
"My dear captain," replied George, "your courage and clear head make you
far less helpless than hundreds who only use their legs to run with. Let
me enter this shell of a house alone."
"That would be a sad commentary on your remark."
They speedily obtained what they deemed essential, and turned off the gas,
which was still burning. It was evident that no one had entered the house
since its occupants had left it. Mrs. Bodine's residence was comparatively
uninjured, and when leaving it the captain was able to lock the outer
door.
On their way back to the square George stammered:
"Captain Bodine, it may be very bad taste to speak of such a matter now,
but we do not know what an hour will bring forth. I would like to have
some understanding with you. Beyond that there may be no need of anything
further being said until all these troubles are over. I--I--well, can I
venture to make my former request? Your daughter has my happiness wholly
in her hands. I do not intend to embarrass her by a word until she is
again in her own home, but I wish to know that my hopes and efforts to win
her regard have your sanction."
"How does your father feel about this?" Bodine asked gravely.
"He has given his full and cordial approval. Now that he has seen Miss
Bodine she has won him completely."
"Mr. Houghton, I owe to you her life which I value more than my own. You
know we are lacking in everything except pride and good name."
"My dear sir," interrupted George earnestly, "God has endowed your
daughter as man could not. You know I love and honor her for herself and
always shall."
"You are right," said the father proudly, "and you are so truly a man, as
well as a gentleman, that you estimate my penniless daughter at her
intrinsic worth. As far as my approval and good wishes are concerned you
have them."
Ella thought that George's face was wonderfully radiant when he appeared.
As soon as she could get a word alone with her father, she asked, "What
have you been saying to Mr. Houghton?"
"I have only answered his second request that he might pay you his
addresses."
"Oh, papa! what a tantalizing answer! What did he say, and what did you
say, word for word? Surely you didn't tell--"
"I only gave my consent, not yours. You are at perfect liberty to reject
him," was the smiling reply.
"That is well as far as it goes, but I wish to know every word."
Her father's heart was too heavy to permit continuance in a playful vein,
and he told her substantially what had been said. "Well," she concluded,
with a complacent little nod, "I think I'll let him pay his addresses a
while longer. The absurd fellow to go and idealize me so! Time will cure
such folly, however. Papa, there's something troubling you besides the
earthquake."
"Yes, Ella, and you must help me--you and Cousin Sophy." Then he told her
how he thought matters stood between Mara and Clancy, checked her first
indignant words, explained and insisted until she promised that she and
Mrs. Bodine would shield Mara, and act as if she were as free as she had
ever been. "It will all come about yet, papa," Ella whispered, "for Mr.
Clancy has evidently committed himself to Miss Ainsley, although now I
reckon he regrets it."
"Well, Ella dear, redouble your kindness and gentleness to Mara, and let
matters over which we have no control take their course."
Clancy had not been idle during the morning, finding in constant
occupation, and even in the incurring of risks, a relief to his perturbed
thoughts. He and Sam procured a small cooking-stove, and also set up the
cross-sticks of a gypsy camp before the open side of the awning. Aun'
Sheba was placed in charge of the provisions, a responsibility in which
Uncle Sheba wished to share, but she said severely, "Mr. Buggone, you'se
dun git yer lowance wid Sissy an' de chil'n."
Mr. Willoughby at last returned on an express-wagon, well loaded with
articles which would add much comfort in the enforced picnic. His face was
sad and troubled as he greeted his wife.
"Oh, Jennie," he said, "our pretty home is such a wreck!"
"No matter, Hal, since you are safe and sound," was her cheery reply.
"Come, girls, we can now dress for dinner. I feel like a fool in this
light silk."
They all eventually reappeared in costumes more suitable for camping.
Mrs. Bodine was also enabled to exchange her blanket wrapper for the one
she was accustomed to wear at home. With almost the zest of a girl she
appreciated the picturesque elements of their experiences; and her high
spirits and courage were infectious. With the aid of Sam and Jube, Aunt
Sheba entered vigorously on preparations for dinner; a breeze with passing
clouds tempered the sun's hot rays; and hope again began to cheer as time
passed without further disturbance.