Isaac's Storm (43 page)

A
photograph
survives.
It
shows
at
least
fifty
bodies.
In
one
row,
two
boys
lie
side
by
side.
They
could
be
twins.
They
wear
matching
shirts.
One
lies
in
the
fetal
position
that
young
children
often
adopt
when
they
sleep,
but
his
neck
appears
to
be
broken.
He
looks
upward
over
his
right
shoulder
at
an
impossible
angle.
His
brother
watches
with
a
frown.
No
one
wears
shoes;
no
one
seems
at
peace.
Many
of
the
dead
have
the
same
expression,
as
if
dreaming
the
same
awful
thing.
Their
brows
are
furrowed,
their
mouths
perfect
circles.
They
could
be
gasping.

Isaac,
moving
systematically
from
body
to
body,
saw
men
and
women
he
knew
or
at
least
recognized
—
perhaps
even
some
of
those
who
had
taken
shelter
in
his
house.
(Of
the
fifty,
he
would
learn,
only
eighteen
survived.)
He
looked
for
his
wife
and
Bornkessell
and
the
Nevilles,
and
perhaps
Dr.
Young.
He
found
none.

There
was
hope,
still,
but
Isaac
was
a
scientist.
Sunday
he
gave
Cora's
name
to
the
Galveston
News
as
one
of
the
dead.
The
newspaper
came
out
later
that
day
as
a
one-page
handbill
the
size
of
a
letter,
consisting
entirely
of
a
list
of
people
believed
dead.
Her
name
was
there.

Even
Isaac
did
not
yet
understand
just
how
lethal
the
storm
had
been.
For
all
he
knew,
the
fifty
bodies
in
the
morgue
represented
the
majority
of
those
lost.
That
morning
Father
James
Kirwin,
a
priest
at
St.
Mary's
Church,
took
a
walk
through
the
city
trying
to
come
up
with
an
accurate
estimate
of
the
dead,
then
made
his
way
to
the
wharf,
where
a
group
of
men
were
preparing
to
set
off
in
Col.
William
Moody's
steam
yacht,
the
Pherabe,
to
seek
help
from
the
outside
world.
Kirwin
offered
the
men
some
advice:
"Don't
exaggerate;
it
is
better
that
we
underestimate
the
loss
of
life
than
that
we
put
the
figures
too
high,
and
find
it
necessary
to
reduce
them
hereafter.
If
I
was
in
your
place
I
don't
believe
I
would
estimate
the
loss
of
life
at
more
than
five
hundred."

FAMILIES
TALLIED
THEIR
losses.
Anthony
Credo
learned
he
had
lost
nine
members
of
his
family.
He
found
Vivian's
body
near
the
place
where
the
family's
raft
had
landed,
and
buried
her.
But
he
learned
also
that
his
daughter
Irene
had
died
along
with
her
new
baby
and
her
two-year-old
son.
His
daughter
Minnie
had
disappeared,
with
her
husband
and
their
two
boys.
So
had
his
eldest
son,
William,
who
had
spent
Saturday
at
his
fiancee's
house.
Raymond
lay
badly
injured.
Soon
after
Ruby
Credo
stepped
outside
on
Sunday
morning,
she
saw
her
first
body:
Mrs.
Goldman.
The
woman
still
wore
the
clothing
Ruby's
mother
had
given
her
when
she
and
her
son
arrived
drenched
at
the
family's
house.
Judson
Palmer
lay
in
a
nun's
cell
within
the
Ursuline
convent,
dressed
in
a
shirt
and
skirt
given
him
by
the
sisters.
The
sisters
gave
refugees
whatever
dry
clothes
they
could
find.
Throughout
Saturday
night,
survivors
turned
gratefully
toward
a
particularly
solicitous
—
and
tall
—
nun,
only
to
find
themselves
staring
into
the
stubbled
face
of
a
man
in
a
nun's
habit.

Palmer
drifted
in
that
sad,
empty
place
where
hope
and
grief
intertwine.
Later
a
colleague,
Wilber
M.
Lewis,
state
secretary
of
the
YMCA,
wrote
to
Palmer's
friends
to
tell
them
the
tragic
news.
"Mrs.
Palmer's
body
was
found
and
recognized
the
next
day...
If
Lee's
body
was
ever
found
it
was
beyond
recognition."

As
for
Palmer:
"He
was
badly
bruised
by
floating
debris,
but
as
far
as
can
be
seen
was
not
injured
internally.
His
clothes
were
torn
completely
off.
His
mental
condition
is
the
most
serious
now,
but
we
hope
for
the
best."

An
eerie
peace
setded
over
the
city.
People
bore
their
losses
quiedy.
John
W.
Harris
was
seven
when
the
storm
struck,
but
remembered
vividly
how
the
mayor
himself
paid
his
father,
John
junior,
a
visit
on
Sunday
morning
at
their
house
on
Tremont
Street.
One
of
the
finest
homes
in
the
city,
it
had
weathered
the
storm
so
well
that
the
Harrises
had
no
conception
of
the
devastation
elsewhere
in
town.
They
were
eating
breakfast
when
the
mayor
arrived.
"John,"
the
mayor
told
the
elder
Harris,
"your
whole
family
is
destroyed."

Harris
had
lost
his
sisters
and
their
families.
Eleven
men,
women,
and
children.
His
son
saw
him
cry
for
the
very
first
time.

When
Clara
Barton
arrived
the
next
week,
she
found
the
silence
striking.
People
moved
as
if
dazed,
she
said;
there
was
"an
unnatural
calmness
that
would
astonish
those
who
do
not
understand
it."
People
grieved,
but
without
demonstration.
"You
will
hear
people
talk
without
emotion
of
the
loss
of
those
nearest
to
them,"
Father
Kirwin
said.
"We
are
in
that
condition
that
we
cannot
feel."

Everyone
in
Galveston
experienced
some
degree
of
loss;
the
lucky
ones
suffered
only
material
damage.
Dr.
Young
had
lost
his
home,
but
his
family
had
gotten
his
message
and
was
safe
in
San
Antonio.
The
Hopkins
family
too
survived,
although
at
first
Mrs.
Hopkins
seemed
not
to
appreciate
her
good
fortune.
When
the
sun
came
up,
she
saw
that
her
house,
the
family's
main
source
of
income,
had
been
destroyed.
The
kitchen,
dining
room,
and
two
upstairs
bedrooms
had
tumbled
into
die
yard
next
door.
Louise
Hopkins
would
never
forget
the
despair
in
her
mother's
voice.
"Oh
God,"
her
mother
said,
"why
couldn't
we
all
have
gone
with
it."

THE
LOUISIANA
SURVIVED
the
storm
with
its
cargo
badly
shifted.
Captain
Halsey
docked
briefly
in
Key
West
so
that
his
crew
could
reposition
the
load,
then
continued
the
voyage
to
New
York,
where
the
ship
was
met
by
reporters
anxious
to
learn
of
his
encounter
with
the
great
hurricane.
The
storm,
Halsey
told
The
New
York
Times,
had
baffled
description.

ISAAC
SEARCHED
FOR
his
wife.
A
photograph
exists
of
what
once
was
his
neighborhood.
Taken
by
someone
standing
near
the
Ursuline
convent
and
looking
south,
it
provides
a
view
very
much
like
what
Isaac
must
have
seen
when
he
emerged
from
the
house
at
28th
and
P
on
Sunday
morning.
The
ruins
of
the
Bath
Avenue
Public
School
stand
to
the
left.
Where
his
house
should
be,
there
is
only
a
plain
of
lumber.

At
first
glance,
the
wreckage
in
the
foreground
seems
to
be
a
homogeneous
mass
of
wood
reaching
all
the
way
to
the
horizon,
where
a
pale
line
demarks
the
Gulf
of
Mexico.
Close
examination
with
a
magnifying
glass,
however,
reveals
the
base
of
a
wooden
swivel
chair,
a
wicker
seat-bottom,
a
steamer
trunk,
and
a
surprise.
At
the
right,
about
where
Isaac
and
his
family
came
to
rest,
four
men
stand
amid
the
wreckage.
Three
are
in
shirtsleeves
and
appear
to
be
digging.
The
fourth
stands
nearby,
watching
closely.
This
man
looks
like
Isaac.
Impossible,
of
course.
But
he
is
Isaac's
height,
has
Isaac's
small
beard.
Despite
the
heat,
he
wears
a
suitcoat
and
hat.

As
Isaac
searched,
he
encountered
other
men
and
women
hunting
for
their
families
and
friends.
They
traded
information:
a
woman
found
here,
a
man
there,
a
large
collection
of
corpses
down
near
the
beach.
It
is
possible
that
during
his
search,
Isaac
encountered
a
Houston
man
named
Thomas
Muat,
who
came
to
Isaac's
neighborhood
looking
for
his
own
daughter,
Anna,
eighteen
years
old.
She
had
arrived
in
Galveston
a
week
earlier
to
visit
friends
and
was
staying
at
the
home
of
David
McGill,
at
26th
and
Q,
one
block
west
of
Isaac's
house.
McGill
was
a
friend
of
the
Muat
family.

The
Muats
had
expected
Anna
home
on
Sunday
night,
but
that
afternoon
learned
that
no
trains
had
been
able
to
leave
Galveston.
After
a
long,
anxious
night
with
no
word
from
his
daughter,
McGill
resolved
to
go
to
Galveston
first
thing
Monday
morning.
He
and
his
brother-in-law
and
two
other
men
boarded
one
of
the
first
trains
that
tried
to
reach
Galveston,
but
got
only
as
far
as
La
Marque,
near
Texas
City.
They
continued
on
foot
to
Virginia
Point
and
there
got
some
disconcerting
news:
Already
that
day,
the
men
of
Virginia
Point
had
buried
two
hundred
bodies
that
had
drifted
across
the
bay
from
Galveston.

Muat
and
his
companions
used
copper
wire
to
lash
together
three
fallen
telegraph
poles,
then
hammered
a
board
across
the
top
for
a
platform.
They
launched
their
raft
beside
one
of
the
railroad
causeways
and
pulled
themselves
along
from
piling
to
piling.
Three
times
the
raft
capsized.
Three
times
they
righted
it
and
moved
on,
until
finally,
as
daylight
faded,
they
reached
the
wharf.
"What
we
experienced
beggars
description,"
Muat
said.
"We
had
to
walk
over
human
bodies,
cattle,
broken
box
cars
and
barbed
wire,
reaching
the
city
about
8
o'clock."

Too
exhausted
to
search,
they
managed
to
find
a
boardinghouse
still
in
operation.
Early
the
next
morning,
they
set
out
for
26th
and
Q,
and
soon
found
that
the
McGill
house
had
been
"swept
out
of
existence."

They
searched
further
and
located
McGill's
wife
at
a
house
a
dozen
blocks
away.
The
last
she
saw
of
Anna,
she
told
Thomas,
was
after
the
house
had
broken
apart.
Her
husband
and
Anna
had
wound
up
on
one
segment
of
roof,
Mrs.
McGill
on
another.
Anna
had
cried
for
help,
but
Mrs.
McGill
could
do
nothing.
She
had
not
seen
them
since.