Isaac's Storm (31 page)

By
the
time
the
relief
train
arrived,
Kellogg
said,
the
water
was
over
the
rails.

The
new
train
stopped
half
a
mile
back,
where
the
track
had
not
yet
been
submerged.
Kellogg's
train
backed
up
to
meet
it;
then
he
and
the
other
passengers
ran
across
the
soggy
ground
and
climbed
aboard.
The
relief
cars,
packed
now
with
so
many
freshly
drenched
bodies,
developed
a
climate
even
more
tropical
than
that
of
the
original
train.
But
at
least
this
train
began
to
move.

Eight
to
ten
inches
of
water
now
covered
the
tracks,
by
Kellogg's
estimate.
This
water
was
not
stationary,
however,
like
the
in
situ
flooding
that
might
accompany
a
heavy
rain.

This
water
raced.
When
it
passed
over
the
rails
the
turbulence
caused
the
surface
of
the
water
to
undulate
like
the
back
of
a
fast-moving
snake.
The
water
moved,
Kellogg
said,
"in
a
westward
direction
at
terrific
speed."

The
relief
train
eased
into
the
water.
Its
crew
put
on
heavy
boots
and
walked
ahead,
testing
for
undermined
track
and
shoving
aside
pieces
of
driftwood.
The
men
looked
like
clam
diggers
probing
the
mud
flats
for
dinner.

Houses
soon
appeared
beside
the
tracks,
but
now
they
looked
more
like
houseboats.
Nearly
all
were
on
pilings
or
brick
pillars,
which
held
them
well
above
the
water,
but
it
was
clear
to
Kellogg
that
the
water
had
gotten
deeper
just
in
the
time
since
the
relief
train's
arrival.

The
water
got
so
deep
it
flooded
the
firebox
of
the
locomotive.
A
geyser
of
steam
and
smoke
hissed
into
the
cab,
but
the
engineer,
already
soaked
and
windsore,
pulled
down
his
goggles
and
kept
the
train
moving,
feeding
it
the
steam
left
in
the
locomotive's
boiler.

The
train
stopped
just
shy
of
the
Santa
Fe
Union
depot,
its
engine
a
hulk
of
cold
iron.
Male
passengers
disembarked
first
and
formed
a
human
chain
in
the
waist-deep
water,
and
helped
the
children
and
women
move
through
the
swift
current
to
the
station
platform.

Kellogg
checked
his
watch.
The
time
was
1:15.
The
wind,
he
guessed,
was
blowing
at
a
steady
thirty-five
miles
an
hour.

He
had
cabled
ahead
to
reserve
a
room
at
the
Tremont
Hotel
downtown
and
steeled
himself
for
a
long,
wet
walk
—
until
he
saw
the
Tremont's
horse-drawn
bus
waiting
in
front
of
the
station,
with
fifteen
people
already
seated.
The
water
was
up
to
the
seat
bottoms.
He
waded
aboard.
The
bus
plowed
its
way
to
the
hotel.

Some
of
the
new
arrivals
resolved
to
wait
out
the
storm
in
the
station,
which
seemed
to
be
the
sturdiest
building
around.
The
first
floor
was
flooded,
so
they
climbed
to
the
second,
picking
their
way
carefully
up
a
staircase
lighted
only
by
the
"eerie"
glare
of
a
few
railroad
lanterns.
One
elderly
man,
believed
to
be
some
sort
of
scientist,
carried
a
barometer
in
his
baggage
and
now
propped
the
device
on
the
floor.
"Every
few
minutes,"
according
to
one
account,
"he
would
examine
it
by
the
flickering
railroad
lantern
and
tell
the
people
that
the
atmospheric
pressure
was
still
falling
and
that
the
worst
was
yet
to
come."

This
did
not
endear
him
to
the
other
passengers.
Later,
some
would
express
an
interest
in
dashing
the
barometer
against
the
floor.

Another
passenger
from
the
Houston
train,
David
Benjamin
of
the
Fred
Harvey
chain
of
railroad
eating
houses,
set
out
from
the
station
to
keep
a
business
appointment
two
blocks
away.

The
man
he
had
planned
to
meet
was
gone.
Benjamin,
perhaps
thinking
the
storm
soon
would
subside,
made
an
appointment
to
return
at
three
o'clock.

"It
was
all
I
could
do
to
get
back
to
the
station,"
he
said,
"and
it
is
needless
to
say
that
I
never
kept
the
appointment."

He
was
not
worried
about
the
storm,
however.
And
no
one
else
seemed
terribly
worried
either.
Galveston
apparently
took
such
things
in
stride.

The
first
"intimation"
of
the
true
extent
of
the
disaster,
Benjamin
recalled,
"came
when
the
body
of
a
child
floated
into
the
station."

THE
SECOND
TRAIN,
operated
by
the
Gulf
and
Interstate
line,
was
coming
from
Beaumont,
Texas,
although
many
of
its
passengers
were
from
New
Orleans
and
other
points
in
Louisiana.
About
noon
it
was
rolling
slowly
along
the
flooded
tracks
on
the
Bolivar
Peninsula,
a
slender
finger
of
the
mainland
east
of
Galveston
that
was
separated
from
the
city
by
the
ship
channel.
The
tracks
ended
at
Bolivar
Point,
near
a
tall
lighthouse
operated
by
keeper
H.
C.
Claiborne
and
his
assistant,
who
lived
in
two
pretty
houses
on
the
lighthouse
grounds.
The
train
consisted
of
one
locomotive
and
two
coaches
packed
with
ninety-five
passengers,
including
john
H.
Poe,
a
member
of
the
Louisiana
State
Board
of
Education.
Poe
lived
in
Lake
Charles,
Louisiana,
the
town
where
Louisa
Rollfing
had
first
experienced
America.
Friday
night
he
had
caught
a
Southern
Pacific
train
out
of
New
Orleans
for
a
business
trip
to
Galveston.
He
had
reached
Beaumont
early
Saturday
morning,
and
changed
trains
for
the
last
leg
of
the
journey.

At
Bolivar
Point,
the
train
was
to
be
run
aboard
a
big
ferry,
the
Charlotte
M.
Allen,
for
a
brief
voyage
across
the
ship
channel
to
Galveston.

Poe
watched
as
the
ferry
fought
its
way
from
Galveston
toward
Bolivar
through
swells
so
high
they
broke
over
its
bow.
Black
smoke
from
the
ship's
funnel
rocketed
south
with
the
wind.
Now
and
then
the
ship
disappeared
behind
curtains
of
rain.

The
captain
steered
the
ship
well
to
the
north
of
the
Bolivar
pier
to
compensate
for
the
wind,
but
apparendy
failed
to
gauge
its
true
strength.
He
tried
again
and
again
to
bring
the
ferry
to
the
pier.
Crewmen
stationed
along
the
ship's
rails
held
tight
against
the
wind
and
the
rocking
of
the
hull.

The
captain
gave
up.

To
Poe
and
his
fellow
passengers,
accustomed
to
the
ease
and
can-do
precision
of
transportation
at
the
turn
of
the
century,
the
sight
of
a
ferry
captain
giving
up
and
turning
back
was
astonishing.
And
troubling.

The
train
remained
in
place
a
few
moments,
as
if
stunned
by
this
act
of
technological
betrayal.
Steam
exhausted
from
its
cylinder
housings
gouged
the
water
covering
the
tracks.
The
conductor
ordered
the
train
back
to
Beaumont.
As
the
engine
pushed
the
cars
slowly
backward,
water
began
flowing
into
the
coaches.

Poe
had
been
watching
the
lighthouse.
Swells
broke
high
against
its
base
and
at
times
cast
spray
nearly
its
full
height,
but
it
seemed
the
strongest
thing
in
sight.
Except
for
the
lighthouse
and
the
cottages
of
its
keepers
and
the
crown
of
an
occasional
live
oak,
all
he
saw
was
water.
The
rain
sounded
as
if
a
hundred
men
with
ball
peen
hammers
had
stationed
themselves
along
the
north
side
of
the
coach.

The
train
halted.

The
lighthouse
was
a
quarter
mile
away.

Eighty-five
passengers
resolved
to
stay
with
the
train,
believing
it
heavy
enough
to
withstand
the
storm.
A
train,
after
all,
was
the
biggest,
strongest
thing
most
people
knew.

Poe
did
not
trust
it.
He
did
not
like
the
way
the
coach
shimmied
in
the
wind.
He
did
not
like
the
way
the
water
seemed
to
converge
from
the
north
and
south
shores
of
the
peninsula,
or
the
speed
at
which
it
rose.
Small
waves
now
broke
across
the
open
platforms
at
each
end
of
the
car.

Poe
and
nine
other
passengers
abandoned
the
train.
Keeping
close
to
one
another,
they
moved
slowly
across
the
flooded
plain
toward
the
lighthouse.
The
eighty-five
others
remained
aboard.

Scores
of
other
storm
refugees
already
were
inside
the
lighthouse.
They
had
gathered
first
at
keeper
Claiborne's
house,
which
stood
on
a
shallow
plateau
that
constituted
the
only
high
ground
for
miles
around.
But
the
water
had
risen
too
fast.
Claiborne
rigged
a
lifeline
from
his
house
to
the
lighthouse
door.
Men
held
the
rope
with
one
hand,
and
carried
women
and
children
to
the
door
on
their
backs.

By
the
time
Poe
arrived,
nearly
two
hundred
people
were
inside
the
lighthouse.
The
darkness
of
the
shaft
was
pierced
only
by
the
gray
light
from
the
doorway
and
a
window
high
up
the
lighthouse
shaft.
When
he
looked
up
through
the
murk,
he
saw
two
hundred
people
staring
down
from
seats
they
had
claimed
along
the
spiral
stairway
that
rose
one
hundred
feet
through
the
core
of
the
lighthouse.
He
and
the
other
train
refugees
were
the
last
to
enter
before
the
sea
blocked
the
door.

Just
before
he
stepped
inside,
Poe
looked
back
at
the
train.
Torrents
of
rain
obscured
his
view,
but
he
thought
the
train
had
begun
moving
again.
Smoke
billowed
from
its
stack
and
tumbled
away
over
the
sea.

Soon
the
rain
and
spindrift
blocked
his
view
completely.
He
stepped
inside,
wondering
if
he
had
made
the
right
choice.

SOMEWHERE
DOWN
THE
track,
the
train
stopped
again.
Maybe
the
water
drowned
its
fire,
or
shoved
an
obstacle
in
its
path.
Maybe
a
freak
gust
simply
blew
it
from
the
tracks.

By
Sunday
morning,
all
eighty-five
passengers
were
dead.

OVER
THE
DIN
of
the
storm,
Poe
and
the
others
heard
what
sounded
like
an
artillery
bombardment.
They
soon
realized
the
soldiers
at
Fort
San
Jacinto
on
Galveston
Island,
just
across
the
channel,
had
begun
firing
the
fort's
heavy
guns.
The
guns
boomed
well
into
the
night.
Marie
Berryman
Lang,
daughter
of
the
assistant
lighthouse
keeper,
remembered
it
all
so
clearly:
the
waves
that
slammed
against
the
lighthouse
as
the
water
rose
within
its
base
and
drove
the
two
hundred
refugees
ever
higher
up
its
spiral
shaft;
the
heat
and
desperate
humidity
that
caused
the
children
to
cry
for
water;
and
all
the
while,
beyond
the
chaos,
that
lonesome
booming
of
the
guns,
like
the
drumbeat
of
an
Army
cortege.