An Atlantic Miracle

THE Atlantic lay open on the desk. As I lifted it and faced the room I admitted inwardly that I felt desperate, defeated already. The words of Mrs. Davis, veteran teacher in the Florida school where the national crisis had landed me, sounded again in my ears: ‘You can’t be thinking of using the Atlantic in your reading hour! Nothing could more surely prove you a beginner. You don’t know these cracker children. No, I don’t care what sort of article it is — it can’t be done.’ I had smiled calmly then. I had been all confidence. But that was morning, with some semblance of life and coolness in the air. And now!

I looked about the room. Wet hands pushed the damp hair back from eyes that were glazed with heat and drowsiness; here and there a head was laid on a bent arm, frankly courting slumber. Improvised fans waved lazily, a continual puffing came to my ears, a soft blowing away of the myriads of gnats from eyes, mouths, and noses. Outside, the Spanish moss hung motionless from the live oaks in the yard. It was September, just three days after the hurricane, and it was ‘greenhouse weather.’ All the great casement windows stood wide open, yet no air came in. It seemed there was no air in all the world. I clutched my failing courage in both hands and smiled. ‘You will like this story especially well,’ I said, ‘because it’s true.’ And with a long breath I began.

The minutes passed. I turned the page. Without looking up I knew the fans were slowing their tempo, that they were still. The room was quiet now, but not with sleep. On the printed page before me the wind rose, the sea rose with it, and the boat, so small and defenseless in that vast immensity of tumbling water, fought for her life, shaking herself free of one great wave to pause an instant on its crest defiantly and plunge again. Skylights were broken in, the galley was awash, the ship groaned in every joint, and the men upon her toiled and struggled, battling with that angry force, tremendous and unceasing. Fear and courage fought for the possession of their minds and wills. Then suddenly the sun shone from a blue sky, and the wind was gone. There remained only the mountainhigh, tumultuous sea.

I paused and looked up at last. Thirtysix pairs of wide eyes were fixed upon me. Loren, the oldest boy, spoke quickly. ‘It ain’ gonna last long. The big blow’ll be on ’em in hafe an hour. It only taken thet long Monday.’ My eyes lifted from his face to the open window. Almost lost to sight in the mass of wreckage along the roadway, — pine trees, oaks, and palms, and tangled telephone wires, — two men were working, A pine, partially uprooted, hung dangerously askew above the field of their labors. The slit had been made, the wedge inserted, the men lifted their axes, flashing in the sunshine. Their heads appeared like tiny dark dots in the deep tangle of green. A few dull blows, and then the cracking sound, and the heavy thud as the tree fell. My eyes came back to the waiting eyes below me. I looked as serious as they. ’We shall see,’ I said.

The ‘big blow’ came. Night fell, the seas broke over the ship. They tore off her hatches, they broke down her doors, they rushed into every nook and cranny of her. The lights went out, the engines stopped, the end came. Thirty-seven of us, quite breathless, watched the Clark sink, and with mingled hope and horror assembled six of her crew upon a raft. The weary days passed, our spirits rising with each faint smudge of smoke on the horizon, despair seizing us as each hope failed. When at last a sailing vessel sighted the raft and rescued the almost dying men, we breathed a soft but audible sigh. The last words were read, presenting as ruined and penniless the hero of this true and heartening tale of high courage on the great sea, this tale whose awesome demon had touched us, also, with his finger only three days ago. A chorus of questions arose. His name? When did it happen? How old was he? Where does he live now? Did he go back to life as a sailor? What does he do for his living? And, wonder of wonders, to each question an answer was brought forth.

I laid the magazine down, closed now, on my desk, and touched its cover gratefully. December 1929. How many times, and for how many reasons had I been grateful to my files of old Atlantics! I glanced at my schedule, stole a guilty look at the clock, and plunged into the business of the afternoon.

After school, poised for homeward flight, books and papers tucked under my arm, I stood talking with other teachers in the hallway. Mrs. Davis was among them, and suddenly I wanted to tell her, before leaving, of the successful reading hour. But as I started to speak Willie appeared from my room, where he had been putting forth one last desperate effort toward evolving something that approximated English upon his English paper. His eyes fell, not on me, but on something underneath my arm. He touched it with a hesitant finger. ‘Air you agoin’ to take the little yeller book home?’ he asked me anxiously. ‘We ain’t finished all the stories, hev we? We’d be proud to hear some more to-morro’.’ I smiled at him. ‘Not to-morrow, Willie. I’ve planned something else for to-morrow. But I’ll bring it back. We’ll have the little yellow book again.’ His smile flashed back. ‘Thet’s grand!’ he said, and was off.

Mrs. Davis looked after him, as he picked his way through the debris of the storm in the hot blaze of the afternoon sunshine. ‘I’ve seen wonders and marvels in my day,’ she said slowly, ’but thet thar,’— falling into the vernacular, — ‘thet thar’s a miracle!’