Isaac's Storm (2 page)

The
prolonged
heat
had
warmed
the
waters
of
the
Gulf
to
the
temperature
of
a
bath,
a
not-unhappy
condition
for
the
thousands
of
new
immigrants
just
arrived
from
Europe
at
the
Port
of
Galveston,
known
to
many
as
the
Western
Ellis
Island.
Some
camped
now
on
the
beach
near
the
Army's
new
gun
emplacements,
steeling
themselves
for
the
long
journey
north
to
open
land
and
the
riches
promised
them
by
railroads
intent
on
populating
America's
vast
undeveloped
prairie.
In
a
pamphlet
called
Home
Seekers,
the
Atchison,
Topeka
and
Santa
Fe
described
the
lush
land
of
the
Texas
coast
as
"waiting
to
be
tickled
into
a
laughing
harvest."
The
railroad
come-ons
painted
Texas
as
a
paradise
of
benign
weather,
when
in
fact
hurricanes
scoured
its
coast,
plumes
of
hot
wind
baked
apples
in
its
trees,
and
"blue
northers"
could
drop
the
temperature
fifty
degrees
in
a
matter
of
minutes.
To
Isaac,
such
quirks
of
weather
were
a
fascination,
and
not
just
because
he
happened
to
be
the
chief
weatherman
in
Texas.
He
was
also
a
physician.
He
no
longer
saw
patients,
but
had
become
a
pioneer
in
medical
climatology,
the
study
of
how
weather
affects
people,
and
in
this
carried
forth
a
tradition
laid
down
by
Hippocrates,
who
believed
climate
determined
the
character
of
men
and
nations.

Hippocrates
advised
any
physician
arriving
in
an
unfamiliar
town
to
first
"examine
its
position
with
respect
to
the
winds."

As
FRIDAY
NIGHT
ebbed
into
Saturday,
the
air
at
last
cooled.
The
sudden
change
in
temperature
would
come
as
a
delightful
surprise
to
others
in
Galveston,
but
to
Isaac
it
was
one
more
flicker
of
trouble.

He
let
his
mind
wander
through
the
house.
He
heard
no
sound
from
the
children's
bedrooms.
His
eldest
daughter,
Allie
May,
was
now
twelve;
his
middle
daughter,
Rosemary,
was
eleven.
His
youngest,
Esther
Bellew,
was
six,
but
he
still
called
her
his
baby.
He
heard
nothing
also
from
his
brother,
Joseph,
who
lived
in
the
house.
Eight
years
earlier,
Joseph
had
come
to
work
for
Isaac
as
an
assistant
observer.
The
two
men
were
still
close,
but
soon
any
tie
between
them
would
be
severed
for
all
time
and
each
would
pass
the
remainder
of
his
life
as
if
the
other
never
existed.
Joseph
was
twenty-nine.
Isaac
was
thirty-eight.

Isaac's
house
stood
at
2511
Avenue
Q,
just
three
blocks
north
of
the
Gulf.
It
was
four
years
old
and
replaced
a
previous
house
that
had
burned
in
a
fire
in
November
1896.
Isaac
had
ordered
this
house
built
atop
a
forest
of
stilts
with
the
explicit
goal
of
making
it
impervious
to
the
worst
storms
the
Gulf
could
deliver.
It
had
two
stories,
with
porches
or
"galleries"
off
each
floor
in
the
front
and
rear,
and
a
small
building
in
the
backyard
that
served
as
a
stable.
The
house
was
ideally
situated.
On
Sundays
Isaac
and
his
family
would
join
the
torrent
of
other
families
walking
down
25th
Street
toward
the
big
Victorian
bathhouses
built
over
the
Gulf.
Sometimes
they
walked
to
Murdoch's;
other
days
they
chose
the
Pagoda
Company
Bath
House,
with
its
two
large
octagonal
pavilions
and
sloping
pagoda
roofs.
The
Clines
reached
it
by
walking
the
length
of
a
250-foot
boardwalk
that
began
at
the
foot
of
24th
Street,
rose
16
vertical
feet
above
the
beach,
and
ran
another
110
feet
out
over
the
waves,
as
if
its
builders
believed
they
had
conquered
the
sea
for
once
and
for
all.
An
electric
wire
ran
to
a
pole
far
out
in
the
surf,
where
it
powered
a
lamp
suspended
over
the
water.
At
night
bathers
gathered
like
insects.

Isaac
heard
the
usual
sounds
that
sleeping
houses
make,
even
houses
as
strong
as
his.
He
heard
the
creaking
and
sighing
of
beams,
posts,
and
joists
as
the
relatively
new
lumber
of
his
home
absorbed
the
moisture
of
the
night
and
released
the
last
heat
of
day.
He
heard
the
susurrus
of
curtains
luffed
by
the
breeze.
There
would
have
been
mice,
too,
and
mosquitoes.
If
people
sought
to
protect
themselves
at
all,
they
propped
tents
of
fine,
gauzelike
netting
over
their
beds.
No
one
had
window
screens.

As
Isaac
listened,
background
noises
came
forward.
One
noise
in
particular.
It
was
more
than
noise,
really.
If
Isaac
lay
very
still,
he
could
feel
the
shock
waves
climb
the
stilts
of
his
house,
the
same
way
he
felt
the
vibration
of
the
pipe
organ
Cora
played
at
church
each
Sunday.
To
children
in
houses
all
along
the
beach,
particularly
the
ninety-three
children
in
the
big,
sad
St.
Mary's
Orphanage
two
miles
west
at
the
very
edge
of
the
sea,
the
sound
was
a
delight.
They
heard
it
and
felt
it
and
dreamed
it.
To
some,
each
shock
wave
was
the
concussion
of
British
artillery
in
the
Boer
War
or
a
ghost
gun
from
the
dead
Maine,
or
perhaps
the
thud
of
an
approaching
giant.
A
welcome
giant.
The
shuddering
ground
promised
a
delightful
departure
from
the
steamy
sameness
of
Galveston's
summers,
and
it
came
with
exquisite
timing:
Saturday.
Only
hours
ahead
lay
Saturday
night,
the
most
delicious
night
of
all.

But
the
sound
frightened
Isaac.
The
thudding,
he
knew,
was
caused
by
great
deep-ocean
swells
falling
upon
the
beach.
Most
days
the
Gulf
was
as
placid
as
a
big
lake,
with
surf
that
did
not
crash
but
rather
wore
itself
away
on
the
sand.
The
first
swells
had
arrived
Friday.
Now
the
booming
was
louder
and
heavier,
each
concussion
more
profound.

ISAAC
WOKE
AGAIN
at
4:00
A.M.,
but
this
time
the
cause
was
obvious.
His
brother
stood
outside
the
bedroom
door
tapping
gently
and
calling
his
name.

Joseph
too
had
been
unable
to
sleep.
Not
a
terribly
creative
man,
he
described
this
feeling
as
a
sense
of
"impending
disaster."
He
had
stayed
up
until
midnight
recording
weather
observations
from
a
bank
of
instruments
mounted
on
the
roof
of
the
Levy
Building,
a
four-story
brick
building
in
the
heart
of
Galveston's
commercial
district.
The
barometers
had
captured
only
a
slight
decrease
in
pressure.
The
anemometer,
which
caught
the
wind
in
cups
mounted
at
opposite
ends
of
crossed
metal
bars,
recorded
wind
speeds
of
eleven
to
nineteen
miles
an
hour.
It
was
capable
of
measuring
velocities
as
high
as
one
hundred
miles
an
hour,
but
conditions
had
never
come
close
to
testing
this
capacity,
nor
did
any
rational
soul
believe
they
ever
would.
Throughout
Friday
afternoon
and
evening,
a
peculiar
oppressiveness
had
settled
over
the
city.
Temperatures
remained
high
well
into
the
night.

None
of
these
observations
was
enough
by
itself
to
raise
concern.
For
days,
however,
Isaac
had
been
receiving
cables
from
the
Weather
Bureau's
Central
Office
in
Washington
describing
a
storm
apparently
of
tropical
origin
that
had
drenched
Cuba.
Although
Isaac
did
not
know
it,
there
was
confusion
about
the
storm's
true
course,
debate
as
to
its
character.
The
bureau's
men
in
Cuba
said
the
storm
was
nothing
to
worry
about;
Cuba's
own
weather
observers,
who
had
pioneered
hurricane
detection,
disagreed.
Conflict
between
both
groups
had
grown
increasingly
intense,
an
effect
of
the
unending
campaign
of
Willis
Moore,
chief
of
the
U.S.
Weather
Bureau,
to
exert
ever
more
centralized
control
over
forecasting
and
the
issuance
of
storm
warnings.
The
bureau
had
long
banned
the
use
of
the
word
tornado
because
it
induced
panic,
and
panic
brought
criticism,
something
the
bureau
could
ill
afford.
Earlier
that
week,
Moore
had
sent
Galveston
a
telegram
asserting
yet
again
that
only
headquarters
could
issue
storm
warnings.

At
11:30
A.M.
on
Friday,
Moore
had
sent
another
telegram,
this
one
notifying
Isaac
and
other
observers
of
a
tropical
storm
centered
in
the
Gulf
of
Mexico
south
of
Louisiana,
"moving
slowly
northwest."
The
telegram
predicted
"high
northerly
winds
tonight
and
Saturday
with
probably
heavy
rain."
Again,
nothing
especially
worrisome.
Tropical
storms
came
ashore
every
summer.
They
brought
wind
and
rain,
even
some
flooding.
Damage
was
rare.
No
one
got
hurt.
But
in
one
respect
the
telegram
did
surprise
Isaac.
Until
now,
Moore's
cables
had
expressed
absolute
confidence
the
storm
was
moving
north
toward
the
Atlantic
coast.

Isaac
got
out
of
bed,
careful
not
to
wake
Cora.
Joseph's
intrusion
annoyed
him.
There
was
tension
between
the
brothers.
Nothing
open
—
at
least
not
yet.
Just
a
persistent
low-grade
rivalry.

He
and
Joseph
descended
to
the
kitchen,
careful
to
avoid
waking
the
children,
and
there
by
sheer
force
of
habit
Isaac
put
on
a
pot
of
coffee.
They
talked
about
the
weather.
A
familiar
dynamic
emerged.
Joseph,
as
the
younger
brother
and
junior
employee
eager
to
prove
himself,
made
the
case
too
strongly
that
something
peculiar
was
happening
and
that
Washington
must
be
informed.
Isaac,
ever
confident,
told
Joseph
to
get
some
sleep,
that
he
would
take
over
and
assess
the
situation
and
if
necessary
telegraph
his
findings
to
headquarters.

Isaac
dressed.
He
stepped
out
onto
the
first-floor
porch.
With
most
of
the
block
that
faced
him
across
Avenue
Q
still
undeveloped,
he
had
an
unobstructed
view
of
the
sky
and
the
cityscape
to
the
north.
He
saw
lime-washed
bungalows
and
elaborate
three-story
homes
with
gables,
bays,
and
cupolas,
and
just
beyond
these
the
big
Rosenberg
Women's
Home
and
the
Bath
Avenue
Public
School.
At
the
corner,
to
his
right
and
across
the
street,
stood
the
three-story
home
of
the
Neville
family,
windows
open,
dew
and
drizzle
darkening
its
intricate
slate
roof.
Ever
since
the
great
fire
of
1885,
Galveston
had
required
that
roofs
be
shingled
with
slate
instead
of
wood
as
a
safety
precaution,
but
in
just
a
few
hours
the
shingles
from
the
Neville
house,
Isaac's
house,
and
thousands
of
others
throughout
Galveston
would
begin
whirling
through
the
air
with
an
effect
that
evoked
for
many
older
residents
the
gore-filled
afternoons
they
spent
at
Chancellorsville
and
Antietam.