A BREACH IN THE BANK
The February freshet had come. We had been expecting it, but no one
along Maurice River had ever seen so wild and warm and ominous a
spring storm as this. So sudden and complete a break-up of winter no
one could remember; nor so high a tide, so rain-thick and driving a
south wind. It had begun the night before, and now, along near noon,
the river and meadows were a tumult of white waters, with the gale so
strong that one could hardly hold his own on the drawbridge that
groaned from pier to pier in the grip of the maddened storm.
It was into the teeth of this gale that a small boy dressed in large
yellow “oil-skins” made his slow way out along the narrow bank of the
river toward the sluices that controlled the tides of the great
meadows.
The boy was _in_ the large yellow oil-skins; not dressed, no, for he
was simply inside of them, his feet and hands and the top of his head
having managed to work their way out. It seems, at least, that his
head was partly out, for on the top of the oil-skins sat a large black
sou’wester. And in the arms of the oil-skins lay an old army musket,
so big and long that it seemed to be walking away with the oil-skins,
as the oil-skins seemed to be walking away with the boy.
I can feel the kick of that old musket yet, and the prick of the dried
sand-burs among which she knocked me. I can hear the rough rasping of
the chafing legs of those oil-skins too, though I was not the boy this
time inside of them. But I knew the boy who was, a real boy; and I
know that he made his careful way along the trembling river-bank out
into the sunken meadows, meadows that later on I saw the river burst
into and claim--and it still claims them, as I saw only last summer,
when after thirty years of absence I once more stood at the end of
that bank looking over a watery waste which was once the richest of
farm lands.
Never, it seemed, had the village known such wind and rain and such a
tide. It was a strange, wild scene from the drawbridge--wharves
obliterated, river white with flying spume and tossing ice-cakes, the
great bridge swaying and shrieking in the wind, and over everything
the blur of the swirling rain.
The little figure in yellow oil-skins was not the only one that had
gone along the bank since morning, for a party of men had carefully
inspected every foot of the bank to the last sluice, for fear that
there might be a weak spot somewhere. Let a breach occur with such a
tide as this and it could never be stopped.
And now, somewhat past noon, the men were again upon the bank. As they
neared Five-Forks sluice, the central and largest of the water-gates,
they heard a smothered _boom_ above the scream of the wind in their
ears. They were startled; but it was only the sound of a gun somewhere
off in the meadow. It was the gun of the boy in the oil-skins.
Late that afternoon Doctor “Sam,” driving home along the flooded road
of the low back swamp, caught sight, as he came out in view of the
river, of a little figure in yellow oil-skins away out on the meadow.
The doctor stopped his horse and hallooed. But the boy did not hear.
The rain on his coat, the wind and the river in his ears drowned every
other sound.
The dusk was falling, and as the doctor looked out over the wild
scene, he put his hands to his mouth and called again. The yellow
figure had been blotted out by the rain. There was no response, and
the doctor drove on.
Meanwhile the boy in the yellow oil-skins was splashing slowly back
along the narrow, slippery clay bank. He was wet, but he was warm, and
he loved the roar of the wind and the beat of the driving rain.
As the mist and rain were fast mixing with the dusk of the twilight,
he quickened his steps. His path in places was hardly a foot wide,
covered with rose and elder bushes mostly, but bare in spots where
holes and low worn stretches had been recently built up with cubes of
the tough blue mud of the flats.
The tide was already even with the top of the bank and was still
rising. It leaped and hit at his feet as he picked his way along. The
cakes of white ice crunched and heeled up against the bank with here
and there one flung fairly across his path. The tossing water
frequently splashed across. Twice he jumped places where the tide was
running over down into the meadows below.
How quickly the night had come! It was dark when he reached
Five-Forks sluice--the middle point in the long, high bank. While
still some distance off he heard the sullen roar of the big sluice,
through which the swollen river was trying to force its way.
He paused to listen a moment. He knew the peculiar voice of every one
of these gateways, as he knew every foot of the river-bank.
There was nothing wrong with the sullen roar. But how deep and
threatening! He could _feel_ the sound even better than he could hear
it, far down below him. He started forward, to pass on, when he half
felt, through the long, regular throbbing of the sluice, a shorter,
faster, closer quiver, as of a small running stream in the bank very
near his feet.
Dropping quickly to his knees, he laid his ear to the wet earth. A
cold, black hand seemed to seize upon him. He heard the purr of
running water!
It must be down about three feet. He could distinctly feel it tearing
through.
Without rising he scrambled down the meadow side of the bank to see
the size of the breach. He could hear nothing of it for the boiling at
the gates of the sluice. It was so dark he could scarcely see. But
near the bottom the mud suddenly caved beneath his feet, and a rush of
cold water caught at his knees.
The hole was greater than he feared.
Crawling back to the top of the bank, he leaned out over the river
side. A large cake of ice hung in water in front of him. He pushed it
aside and, bending until his face barely cleared the surface of the
river, he discovered a small sucking eddy, whose swirling hole he knew
ran into the breach.
He edged farther out and reached down under the water and touched the
upper rim of the hole. How large might it be? Swinging round, he dug
his fingers into the bank and lowered himself feet first until he
stood in the hole. It was the size of a small bucket, but he could
almost feel it going beneath his feet, and a sudden terror took hold
upon him.
He was only a boy, and the dark night, the wild river, the vast,
sweeping storm, the roar and tremor and tumult flattened him for a
moment to the ridge of the bank in a panic of fear!
But he heard the water running, he felt the bank going directly
beneath where he lay, and getting to his feet he started for the
village. A single hasty step and, but for the piles of the sluice, he
would have plunged into the river.
He must feel his way; but he never could do it in time to save the
bank. The breach must be stopped at once. He must stop it and keep it
stopped until the next patrol brought help.
Feeling his way back, he dropped again upon his hands and knees above
the breach to think for a moment. The cake of ice hung as before in
the eddy. Catching it, he tipped it and thrust it down across the
mouth of the hole, but it slipped from his cold fingers and dived
away. He pushed down the butt of his musket, turned it flat, but it
was not broad enough to cover the opening. Then he lowered himself
again, and stood in it, wedging the musket in between his boots; but
he could feel the water still tearing through at the sides, and eating
all the faster.
He clambered back to the top of the bank, put his hand to his mouth
and shouted. The only answer was the scream of the wind and the cry of
a brant passing overhead.
Then the boy laughed. “Easy enough,” he muttered, and, picking up the
musket, he leaned once more out over the river and thrust the steel
barrel of the gun hard into the mud just below the hole. Then,
stepping easily down, he sat squarely into the breach, the gun like a
stake in front of him sticking up between his knees.
Then he laughed again, as he caught his breath, for he had squeezed
into the hole like a stopper into a bottle, his big oil-skins filling
the breach completely.
The water stood above the middle of his breast, and the tide was still
rising. Darkness had now settled, but the ghostly ice-cakes, tipping,
slipping toward him, were spectral white. He had to shove them back as
now and then one rose before his face. The sky was black, and the deep
water below him was blacker. And how cold it was!
Doctor Sam had been stopped by the flooded roads on his way home, and
lights shone in the windows as he entered the village. He turned a
little out of his way and halted in front of a small cottage near the
bridge.
“Is Joe here?” he asked.
“No,” answered the mother; “he went down the meadow for muskrats and
has not returned yet. He’s probably over with the men at the store.”
Doctor Sam drove on to the store.
There was no boy in yellow oil-skins in the store.
Doctor Sam picked up a lighted lantern.
“Come on,” he said; “I’m wet, but I want a look at those sluices,” and
started for the river, followed immediately by the men, whom he led in
single file out along the bank.
Swinging his lantern low, he pushed into the teeth of the gale at a
pace that left the line of lights straggling far behind.
“What a night!” he growled. “If I had a boy of my own--” and he threw
the light as far as he could over the seething river and then down
over the flooded meadow.
Ahead he heard the roar of Five-Forks sluice, and swung his lantern
high, as if to signal it, so like the rush of a coming train was the
sound of the waters.
But the little engineer in yellow oil-skins could not see the signal.
He had almost ceased to watch. With his arm cramped about his gun, he
was still at his post; but the ice-cakes floated in and touched him;
the water no longer felt cold.
On this side, then on that, out over the swollen river, down into the
tossing meadow flared the lantern as the doctor worked his way along.
Above the great sluice he paused a moment, then bent his head to the
wind and started on, when his foot touched something soft that yielded
strangely, sending a shiver over him, and his light fell upon a bunch
of four dead muskrats lying in the path.
Along the meadow side flashed the lantern, up and over the riverside,
and Doctor Sam, reaching quickly down, drew a limp little form in
yellow oil-skins out of the water, as the men behind him came up.
A gurgle, a hiss, a small whirlpool sucking at the surface,--and the
tide was again tearing through the breach that the boy had filled.
The men sprang quickly to their task, and did it well, while Doctor
Sam, shielding the limp little form from the wind, forced a vial of
something between the white lips, saying over to himself as he watched
the closed eyes open, “If I had a boy of my own--If I had a boy--”
* * * * *
No, Doctor Sam never had a boy of his own; but he always felt, I
think, that the boy of those yellow oil-skins was somehow pretty
nearly his.
* * * * *
After a long, cold winter how I love the spatter on my face of the
first February rain! The little trout brook below me foams and
sometimes overruns the road, and as its small noise ascends the hill,
I can hear--the wind on a great river, the wash of waves against a
narrow bank, and the muffled roar of quaking sluices as when a
February freshet is on.
[Illustration: “DREW A LIMP LITTLE FORM OUT OF THE WATER”]