Isaac's Storm (30 page)

As
Cohen
watched,
he
heard
fragments
of
the
story:
The
sea
had
risen;
it
had
destroyed
the
Midway;
the
bathhouses
were
about
to
collapse
into
the
Gulf;
the
streetcar
trestle
was
so
thoroughly
undermined
it
could
not
possibly
stand
much
longer.

Cohen
realized
these
were
indeed
refugees.
They
had
left
their
homes
for
safer
ground.

It
was
a
shock.
There
had
been
floods
before,
but
no
one
seemed
to
get
terribly
upset.
That's
why
most
houses,
his
included,
were
raised
on
posts,
and
why
the
curbs
in
some
places
were
three
feet
high.

He
took
the
stairs
to
his
house
three
at
a
time
and
gathered
up
as
many
blankets
and
umbrellas
as
he
could
find,
then
brought
them
back
down
to
the
street,
where
he
handed
them
out
to
the
people
who
seemed
most
needful,
the
mothers
with
babies
and
toddlers,
the
elderly
who
moved
so
slowly
against
the
wind.

Mollie
found
a
bag
of
apples
and
brought
it
to
him.
He
passed
these
out
to
the
children,
who
thanked
him
gaily.
Mud
streaked
their
cheeks
and
clotted
their
shoes.
Many
were
barefoot,
the
boys
with
their
pants
rolled
to
their
knees.
Cohen
had
to
smile.

He
was
soaked.
He
was
also
shivering,
a
novelty
for
September
in
Galveston.
He
had
no
more
umbrellas
or
apples,
but
he
stayed
put
out
of
empathy
for
all
the
dislocated
families,
until
Mollie
ordered
him
back
inside.

The
power
was
out,
Cohen
saw.
With
the
storm
shutters
closed,
the
house
was
as
dark
as
night.
They
ate
lunch
by
candle
flare.

"We
had
a
storm
like
this
in
'86,"
Mollie
said,
referring
to
the
winds
and
rain
that
had
reached
Galveston
from
the
last
of
the
big
Indianola
hurricanes.
"My
father's
store
on
Market
Street
was
flooded,"
she
said,
casually.
She
noted,
however,
that
no
flood
had
ever
reached
Broadway.

With
cinematic
timing,
a
sledgehammer
of
wind
struck
the
house
with
so
much
force
it
knocked
plaster
from
the
walls.

"It's
just
a
little
blow,"
Mrs.
Cohen
said,
softly,
to
the
children.

She
swept
the
plaster
into
a
small
pile.
The
wind
grew
louder.
Gusts
came
at
shorter
intervals,
with
progressively
greater
power.
Each
brought
a
fresh
squall
of
plaster.

Cohen
went
to
the
front
door
to
gauge
the
storm's
progress,
and
saw
that
this
time
the
water
had
reached
Broadway.
A
shallow
current
raced
along
the
street
among
the
legs
of
the
refugees.
The
water
seemed
to
rise
even
as
he
watched.

More
people
crowded
the
street.
It
was
a
parody
of
the
city's
Mardi
Gras
celebration.
In
the
stormlight
everyone
looked
gray
and
worn
and
thoroughly
miserable.
The
streetcars,
Cohen
realized,
had
stopped
running.

When
he
looked
outside
again
a
few
minutes
later,
he
saw
that
the
water
now
covered
the
first
step
of
the
stairs
to
his
gallery.
He
heard
his
children
come
up
behind
him.
He
shut
the
door
abruptly,
and
turned
with
a
big
smile.
"Come
in
die
parlor,
Mollie,"
he
called.
"Let's
have
some
music!"

She
looked
at
him
as
if
a
block
of
plaster
had
just
fallen
on
his
head.
She
had
things
to
do.
There
were
lunch
dishes
to
clear.
Plaster
littered
the
floor
and
plaster
dust
filmed
the
once-gleaming
tops
of
all
the
tables
in
the
house.
Music,
Henry?

Still
smiling,
he
gave
a
slight
nod
in
the
direction
of
the
children.

Mollie
saw
the
smile;
a
heartbeat
later
she
realized
it
did
not
include
his
eyes.

He
whispered,
"I
don't
want
them
to
see
the
water
rising."

She
went
to
the
piano
and
opened
the
first
book
she
saw,
a
collection
of
Gilbert
and
Sullivan
songs.
She
turned
to
Patience,
one
of
the
rabbi's
favorites.

Her
fingers
shook.

DOWNTOWN
NO
ONE
paid
much
attention
to
the
storm.
As
the
lunch
hour
approached,
men
set
out
as
usual
for
their
favorite
restaurants.
One
of
the
most
popular
was
Ritter's
Cafe
and
Saloon
on
Mechanic
Street,
at
the
heart
of
the
city's
most
vibrant
commercial
quarter.
It
was
a
large,
high-ceilinged
chamber
in
the
ground
floor
of
a
building
that
also
housed
a
second-floor
printing
shop
with
several
heavy
presses.
The
cafe
was
well
known
even
among
out-of-town
businessmen,
who
arranged
to
meet
customers
and
associates
at
its
bright,
broad
tables.

Saturday
morning,
Stanley
G.
Spencer,
a
steamship
agent
who
represented
the
Elder-Dempster
and
North
German
Lloyd
lines,
arranged
a
lunch
meeting
with
Richard
Lord,
traffic
manager
for
George
H.
McFadden
and
Brother,
a
cotton
exporter.
The
two
met,
exchanged
greetings,
and
took
a
table.

It
was
a
pleasure
to
be
inside
in
the
warm,
dry
restaurant.
Waiters
in
white
jackets
and
black
pants
raced
from
table
to
table,
bringing
cocktails
and
towering
pints
of
beer
and
huge
platters
of
oysters
and
shrimp
and
steaks
the
size
of
bricks.
The
room
contained
a
cross-section
of
Galveston's
commercial
men,
including
Charles
Kellner,
a
cotton
buyer
from
England;
Henry
Dreckschmidt,
an
agent
for
the
Germania
Life
Insurance
Company;
and
a
young
man
named
Walter
M.
Dailey,
a
clerk
with
Mildenberg's
Wholesale
Notions.

Now
and
then
a
powerful
gust
of
wind
shook
the
front
windows
with
enough
force
to
draw
the
attention
of
the
diners.
Each
time
a
customer
came
through
the
front
door,
the
wind
muscled
past
and
threatened
to
strip
the
tablecloths
from
under
every
meal.
Between
gusts,
the
diners
continued
talking
business
with
a
nonchalance
that
had
to
be
contrived.
They
were
aware
of
the
storm,
and
knew
it
was
getting
stronger.

"Hey,
Spencer!"
one
man
shouted,
from
across
the
room.
"I've
just
counted
and
there
are
thirteen
men
in
this
room."

Spencer
laughed.
Other
dinersjoined
in,
glad
for
the
relief
the
laughter
provided.
"You
can't
frighten
me,"
Spencer
shouted.
"I'm
not
superstitious."

Moments
later
a
powerful
gust
of
wind
tore
off
the
building's
roof.
The
"blast
effect"
caused
by
the
wind's
sudden
entry
into
the
enclosed
space
of
the
second
floor
apparently
bowed
the
walls
to
the
point
where
the
beams
supporting
the
ceiling
of
Ritter's
slipped
from
their
moorings.
The
ceiling
collapsed
into
the
dining
room,
amid
a
cascade
from
the
second
floor
of
desks,
chairs,
and
the
brutally
heavy
printing
presses.

There
must
have
been
warning.
A
shriek
of
steel,
perhaps,
or
the
pistol-crack
of
a
beam.
Some
men
had
time
to
dive
under
the
big
oak
bar
along
one
wall
of
the
room.

Spencer
and
Lord
died
instandy.
Three
others
died
with
them
—
Kellner,
Dreckschmidt,
and
young
Dailey.
Five
other
men
were
badly
hurt.
Ritter
dispatched
a
waiter
to
find
a
doctor.

The
waiter
drowned.

Word
of
the
collapse
spread
quickly.
No
one
believed
it.
Crowds
of
businessmen
converged
on
Mechanic
Street
to
see
for
themselves.
Isaac
came,
no
doubt
—
his
office
was
a
block
and
a
half
away.
Witnesses
took
the
story
back
to
their
offices.
Messenger
boys
from
Western
Union
carried
the
news
on
their
rounds.
Ritter's
Cafe
was
gone.
Men
were
dead.

It
was
the
thing
that
at
last
brought
fear
to
Galveston.

ABOUT
NOON
ON
Saturday,
two
trains
converged
on
Galveston,
one
from
the
north,
the
other
from
the
east.

The
first
train
belonged
to
the
Galveston,
Houston
and
Henderson
railroad,
and
had
left
Houston
earlier
that
morning
with
the
usual
crowd
of
sightseers,
businessmen,
and
returning
residents.
It
arrived
at
the
entrance
to
one
of
the
three
cross-bay
trestles
more
or
less
on
schedule,
but
the
crossing
gave
its
passengers
a
few
anxious
moments.

"When
we
crossed
the
bridge
over
Galveston
Bay,
going
into
Galveston,
the
water
had
reached
an
elevation
equal
to
the
bottom
caps
of
the
pile
bents,
or
two
feet
below
the
level
of
the
track,"
said
A.
V.
Kellogg,
a
civil
engineer.

Even
in
the
best
weather,
the
tresdes
looked
fragile.
In
a
storm,
with
water
nearly
washing
over
the
track
and
gusts
of
wind
josding
the
cars,
they
looked
deadly.

The
train
took
it
slowly.
To
the
passengers,
three
miles
had
never
seemed
so
long,
and
there
was
a
good
deal
of
relief
when
the
train
reached
the
Galveston
side
and
clattered
back
onto
land,
although
this
relief
was
tempered
by
the
fact
that
the
bay
was
now
washing
over
the
lowlands
adjacent
to
the
railbed.

The
train
traveled
another
two
miles,
until
a
signalman
stepped
out
of
the
gloom
and
flagged
it
down.
Flooding
had
washed
out
a
portion
of
the
track.

Kellogg's
train
stood
broadside
to
the
wind.
Every
now
and
then
a
strong
gust
rammed
the
car
with
sufficient
force
to
bounce
it
on
its
springs.
Rain
coursed
down
the
windows
on
the
north
side
of
the
train;
the
south
windows
were
nearly
dry
and
provided
passengers
with
a
perfect
if
rather
disconcerting
view
of
huge
breakers
crashing
onto
the
none-too-distant
beach.

The
conductor
made
an
announcement:
The
railroad
had
cabled
to
Houston
for
a
relief
train,
which
would
arrive
on
an
adjacent
set
of
tracks
owned
by
the
Gulf,
Colorado
and
Santa
Fe
railroad
—
but
not
for
at
least
an
hour.

It
was
an
anxious,
uncomfortable
wait.
The
coach
was
hot
and
muggy.
Passengers
opened
the
south
windows
a
few
inches
for
ventilation.
The
rain
was
so
loud
against
the
train's
roof
and
north
wall
that
passengers
had
to
raise
their
voices
to
speak.
All
the
while,
they
watched
the
water
rise.