CHAPTER V

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*THE BIG FLOOD*

"The day is cold and dark and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall; But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary." LONGFELLOW.

Drip, drip, drip!

Croak, croak, c-r-o-a-k!

Quack-quack, quack-quack!

"Heigho!" grunted Tom Hawkins, as he turned over sleepily in bed. "Is it ever goin' to stop rainin'?"

For some days a steady rain had been falling, soaking the ground. Every gully was a rivulet, and every depression a lake.

"Tom!" cried a feminine voice from an interior room. "Get up!"

"Bother those frogs an' ducks!" muttered the lad, full of sleep in the grey of the early morning. "Like ter choke 'em! waking fler----"

"Tom!" cried a masculine voice, as a hand rattled the door of the lad's bedroom, and a boot gave a drum-like accompaniment on the lower panel. "Git up this minit an' run the cows in, or I'll----"

But Tom had jumped out of bed as nimbly as one of the frogs, between whose croak and his father's bass voice he seemed unable, in his sleepy condition, to discriminate.

"All right, father! I'm dressing," shouted Tom, as the word "dowsing" fell on his ear. There had been times in master Tom's past when a sudden application of cold water was deemed necessary to expedite his slow movements.

"Dad's too mighty smart! Thought I'd nick him with that button," growled Tom, as he stuck his legs into his pants; said button being an iron tee snip, fastened so as to act as a bolt.

"Jemima! ain't it dark! Must be very early," muttered the reluctant boy, as he strove to lace his boots. "Drat it! Shan't wear 'em; too wet."

"My crikey!" cried he as he stood outside. "Must have been rainin' cats an' dogs, an' lakes an' seas."

His moleskins were rolled up to his thighs, while a cornsack, hooded at the bottom, and stuck on to his head like a nun's veil, gave him fair protection from the driving showers.

"I wonder if it's goin' to be a flood?" The thought was not unpleasant to the lad. It produced, indeed, a certain exaltation of spirits, forcibly expressed in Tom's vernacular by, "Ge-willikins! but won't we have fun!"

Heavily laden clouds, in interminable succession, were drifting from the sea, forming, as they swung overhead in batches, an endless series of smart showers. It had been an exceptionally wet week, and for the preceding twenty-four hours had rained without ceasing.

The cows depastured in a paddock that ran back from a creek to the timbered country. The creek itself was bank high and running strongly. It was only by climbing along the branches of a dead limb, which spanned the water, that Tom managed to reach the kine.

It was no small task to get them to face the stream. Small as was the creek in width, it was deep enough to make a swim, and the roaring, turbid, and muddy stream frightened the creatures. But for the fact that the calves were in a pen at the milking yard all Tom's efforts would have been futile. Their mooing and baaing, however, made a loud appeal to the maternal breast. Finally, when the old red poley, the mother of twins, made a plunge, the rest followed.

During the morning the river rose steadily, and large quantities of drift-wood passed down the stream. With the rubbish was a good deal of heavy timber, and--what Tom had predicted--pumpkins. This was an indication that the river up-stream had overflowed its banks in places, and was sweeping the low-lying farm lands. Tom spent the morning in fishing out the floating vegetables that came within reach of his hooked pole. Meanwhile the rain continued, and looked as though it might last for forty days and nights.

"I'll pull over to the township this afternoon," remarked Mr. Hawkins at the midday meal. "I'm anxious about this rise. Looks as if we're goin' to have an old man flood. Might get some information about the state of things up-river. If I leave it till to-morrow 'twill be a tough job gettin' acrost, as the timber's comin' down pretty thick now, an'll be worse by an' by."

"Be sure'n bring tea and flour back with you. No knowing how long the rise'll last."

"Can I go with you, father?"

"Yes; I'll require you to steer. It'll be a pretty stiff job, I reckon."

The crossing was not without peril. The current ran fierce and strong. The landing-place on the other side was protected, in a measure, by a headland up-stream. Out from the influence of that, however, the boatmen felt the full force of the current. The water seethed and foamed. The violence of its rush created great whirlpools, which accentuated the difficulty of keeping the boat's head up-stream. Logs and driftwood patches had to be dodged, and, what with fighting the current and outflanking the timber, by the time the river was crossed the boat had drifted quite half a mile down-stream. On gaining the other side they found a shore eddy, in which they were able to paddle up-stream with ease, until they came to a point of land about two hundred yards below the town wharf. As they lost the eddy here, and would have to encounter the full force of the flood when round the point, Mr. Hawkins wisely determined to tie up the boat in the slack water.

When Hawkins arrived at the store, where many of the townsfolk had congregated, he was informed that news had been brought down by the mailman that morning to the effect that heavy rains were falling at the head of the river, and that when the New England waters came down in full force the river might rise to the "high flood" marks.

Cooees could now be heard from the settlers in the low-lying portions, adjacent to the township. They proceeded from those who had neglected to move before being surrounded, and who were without boats. The police were busily engaged in rescuing families by boat. Many townsfolk were engaged on the same merciful errand.

All through the day the waters, fed by the flooded creeks, continued to rise, and as evening approached anxiety deepened. Things were so serious that Mr. Hawkins, whose farm, be it said, was situated on comparatively low-lying lands, acting upon the advice of his friends, returned home almost at once. After hoisting the most valuable of his possessions to the rafters, and securing them there, he returned to the township with his family; gaining it as dusk was deepening into dark. The family was distributed among neighbours, Tom and one of his sisters being quartered at Mr. Blain's.

A group of men and boys throughout the day had lined the bank of the river, in the vicinity of the Government wharf, which was submerged. They were engaged in gauging its rate of advance by pine laths scaled to inches.

Towards evening the wind, veering from east to south-east, increased in violence. Laden with torrential showers, it smote the earth in great gusts, streaming through roofs and walls, and taxing the ingenuity of housekeepers to find dry spots for beds.

The wind and flood waters, travelling in opposite directions, conflicted with great violence. The roaring, boastful wind, as it lashed the racing, defiant waters into angry waves, and the universe-filling sounds of the seething, surging flood-waters, as they wrestled with and overbore all opposing forces, made storm music, compared with which the artifices of man touch the infinitely puny. Darkness and the blinding rain had driven most of the river watchers indoors. A few, however, braved the elements, among them the minister and the lads.

Whatever effect the flood may have had on others, the dominant feeling in Mr. Blain's mind was that of solicitude. As the rain continued, deep concern merged into alarm. There were few on the river who knew as intimately as he the general havoc of a flood. The executive head of the Flood-relief Committee for many years, he had been the chief instrument in administering doles to flood victims. In many cases the utmost relief was as a drop of succour in the ocean of need.

"If the rise continues for another twenty-four hours, as it is doing now, it will beat the 'sixty-four flood, and, if so, God help our down-river friends," remarked the minister after examining Joe's gauge by the aid of a lantern.

The '64 flood was the highest known to white men up to the present. The settlers still retained a vivid recollection of its disastrous effects. Luckily, the township covered a piece of high ground, and though the low parts were covered in a moderate flood, the higher portions were some feet above the highest flood-mark. It was in the farming settlements that danger lurked.

"If this yere flood beats 'sixty-four, it'll be as you say, Parson; good-bye to many up-river an' down-river folk."

Mr. Blain's words had impressed both men and boys. Suddenly Joe, who was in the midst of the group, sang out lustily--

"Hurrah! wind's changed!"

"What's that?" shouted back Mr. Blain excitedly.

"Don't you feel it?" cried the boy, as he swung his arms windmill fashion.

"Yes; thank God! The lad's right," continued he. "The wind's chopping. Don't you feel it, men? Ah! there's a decided puff from the north-east."

"Take my word for it," said the ferryman, an old sailor, "the wind'll be blowing west afore morning."

"Pray God it may!" ejaculated the minister, and many a silent prayer was uttered.

"Now, boys, let us return home. We can do no good standing here. We'll come back in an hour or so."

"Listen!" exclaimed Tom, as the boys splashed through the water on their way home. Laying his hand on Joe's shoulder, he cried, "Do you hear that?"

"Don't hear anything but the roar of the river," replied Joe, as he stood in a listening attitude. "What was it?"

"Hark! there it is again. A cooee. Seems to come from up the river, near the Bend. Some un's in trouble."

"Now, boys, make haste and get in out of the rain," cried Mr. Blain, who had hurried along.

"Some one's crying out for help at the Bend," shouted Joe.

The minister paused on hearing this. A moment later the cry came out of the night: faint, because of the distance and the turmoil of sounds, yet clear and convincing.

"Great God! some poor soul in dire straits, and no help possible before morning!"

It would have been worse than madness to attempt any rescue till daylight. To traverse the flood, even in daytime, anywhere near the Bend, were a hazardous experiment, owing to the enormous vortices caused by the current striking a high bluff on the near side, at the elbow. The waters whirled like a merry-go-round under full steam, and boiled with an upward heave, in a fashion similar to the mud springs of Tiketere. None but the stoutest boat and most experienced rowers could dodge these seething cauldrons, which caught into their cold and cruel embrace trees, fencing, stock; anything material, in fact. The heaviest logs and tree-lengths were as wisps of straw under the influence of the mighty suction. To attempt the traverse at night were as foolhardy and impossible as that of shooting Niagara in an open boat.

A little group stood with the Blains, listening to the weird cry.

"Who d'yer think it c'd be, sir?" said one of the men, turning to the minister.

"Not any of the Bend families. We had word this afternoon saying that they had retreated to the high land before the waters reached them. God help the poor soul, whoever it is, for vain is the help of man!"

Throughout the live-long night the cry went up at intervals, like that of the minute-gun of a distressed vessel. Shortly before daybreak it ceased.

No man or woman in the township slept that night. A strict watch was kept on the river, so as to be ready for any emergency. The waters continued to advance, but at a much slower rate. Men and women cudgelled their brains to individualise the wailing cry. Most were agreed that it was a woman's cry, though some held it to be that of a child. Sometimes the voice was ghoulish, and made the flesh to creep and the heart to flutter. Then an intensely human note would prevail, full of anguish and terror, and women wept and stopped their ears, while strong men choked in the throat.

They would go out at intervals and send back a heartening cry; it was all that could be done. There were many others throughout that fearful night who were engulfed in the flood, in various parts of the river, and, swan-like, wailed their death-song in the wild waste.

Shortly after midnight the rain ceased, and the wind, which had been chopping and changing for the past few hours, settled finally in the west. This proved a conspicuous advantage. It no longer checked the flood-waters as when in the east, and there was now good hope that they would recede ere long, as the rise was almost imperceptible.

[Illustration: "Suddenly the Forest Monarch topples, lurches, staggers and falls with mighty crash."--_See p._ 43.]

When day had dawned a wild, weird scene was revealed. The town had become an island. On all sides the flood-waters stretched out, covering gardens and farms, and completely blotting out the fair landscape. On the riverside the turgid stream tore along in its hurry, bearing on its dirty, foam-crested bosom, as its spoils, the household gods, farm stock, and produce of many a settler. Horses, cattle, pigs, goats, dogs, fowls: these, swept off by the encroaching waters, and carried over fences into the stream, struggled, vainly for the most part, in the rapid, death-dealing current. Haystacks, barns, wood-frame buildings intact, floated in the torrential waters, sooner or later crashing into the great trees that bore down-stream, making utter shipwreck.

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