The green Plymouth moved steadily north and the big silent man at the wheel remembered that he had not wept. Not once. He had felt something akin to pride: that his grief had been beyond tears. But pride seemed to be turning to shame. Had it been the other way about, she would have cried.
And, by now, she could have mended herself and could have been able to give of her own warmth to some second love.
Hilda moved up, through the Gulf of Mexico, ever more erratic, unpredictable. The rain soaked into the earth. It softened the black earth around the shallow root structure of tall Australian pines. Rain precedes the hurikan, and, when the wind comes, the tall pines topple readily. The runoff fattens the streams that run to the Gulf, raising the level, stretching the stem structure of the ubiquitous water hyacinth.
Hilda slowed and made a long gentle curve to the northeast, moving closer to the coast. She moved to within fifty miles of the mouth of the Suwanee River, and there all forward motion ceased. She remained in place, the whirling winds churning the Gulf. Once she had covered vast areas. Now the area was small. Even so she was large enough to flay the coast with hard gusts of wind.
The tide had been rising in the Gulf throughout the morning. High tide along the Cedar Key area was predicted for three in the afternoon. It was determined later that it must have been at about one o’clock when the hurricane, smaller and yet more violent than before, made a totally unexpected change of direction and began to move due east toward the Florida coast, moving at an estimated eighteen miles an hour, with the winds nearest the eye reaching a velocity that could not be measured. This was the dread combination of hurricane and tide that had long been anticipated by the pessimists of the low-lying coastland.
Chapter 5
Slow traffic bypassed the Waccasassa Bridge where technicians worked to free the jammed truck-trailer. Heavy rain and traffic had made the detour more difficult. There was a policeman at each end of the detour. The last car in each small group that went through carried a sodden red rag on a stick to be given to the officer at the far end. They were able to pass alternate batches of passenger cars through at approximately twenty-minute intervals. It was dull, unpleasant duty.
The policeman on the south end of the detour was named Stark. He was bored, yet apprehensive of the increasing force of the wind. The rain was ceasing. But the gusts of wind were so strong that he often had to fight for balance. The radio in his car was turned high and the car was parked where he could hear it. At one-thirty he sent a batch of seven cars through and began to accumulate another group. The group of seven was large. The smallest group had been two. The storm was emptying the highways.
He prepared himself for the same repetitious questions when the first car pulled up, a dark-blue Cadillac, a new one. He flagged it down and went over to it. The driver rolled the window down. He was a balding, ginger-headed man with a red-faced look of importance.
“What goes on?” he demanded, raising his voice to carry over the wind sound. Stark recognized a local accent.
Stark repeated what he had said so many times. Detour. Bridge blocked by an accident. Shouldn’t be too long a wait. The detour was four miles long, sand and shell. Two wooden bridges. Have to take it slow.
The second car was a heavily loaded station wagon with a youngish couple and two kids. They asked the expected questions, got the same answers. He noticed as he stood next to the car on the righthand side, talking across the blonde woman, talking to her tired-looking husband, that the wind was making the halted car sway.
The next car was a welcome break in the monotony. Stark recognized it as a Mercedes-Benz, but he had never had a chance to get close to one. There was a couple in it, a good-looking athletic sort of guy and a girl who was not so good-looking, but looked like money.
After Stark had explained the delay, they talked about the car and then about the hurricane. Stark said, “They keep telling me it’s headed for Texas, but it feels like it’s coming here.” The gusts were beginning to seem solid enough to lean on. Now that the rain had practically stopped, the sky was a peculiar yellowish color.
The fourth car was a dark-green Plymouth with a husky hard-faced man traveling alone. He had fewer questions than the others. He did not seem to resent the delay. But he looked as if he was the type who would. Stark was wondering whether it would be smart to get a look at the driver’s license when the fifth car came up, a blue-and-white Dodge convertible with one woman in it. She was the best-looking woman of the day. Stark had been keeping a mental box score. She was pleasant to him, and it was almost a pleasure to answer the same tired old questions.
The next time he glanced toward the detour he saw the first of the group of southbound cars come lumbering and laboring up out of it onto the highway, straighten out and begin to pick up speed. There were six cars and the last one had the flag. He could see nothing coming along the windswept highway, so he gave the good-looking woman the flag and told her to take it slow.
He watched the cars disappear cautiously down the detour. A truly massive gust of wind came along. It slammed against him and drove him back. He had to turn and take several running steps to catch his balance. He cursed, more in awe than anger. He heard the sound of his radio over the wind noise and pushed through the wind toward his car.
“Stark? The hurricane has changed direction. It’s moving in on the coast and pushing one hell of a high tide in front of it. Don’t send any more cars through. Head south slowly and stop anything you find coming at you and turn ’em back. Tell them to find shelter. This could be a bad one. Block the road at Lebanon Station and keep in touch. I think we’re all going to be kept busy.”
Stark headed slowly south, dome light flashing, wind swaying the sedan. On impulse he pushed the siren and kept it on. The sound seemed frail and lost in the new high wail of the great wind.
The Australian pine was a huge one, very near the end of its life span and beginning to die. It stood on the north bank of the Waccasassa River, thirty feet west of the wooden bridge over the main part of the river.
The same gust that had driven Stark across the road struck the old tree moments before reaching Stark. There was a faint ripping, crackling sound, and the flat root structure was pulled slowly up on the west side of the tree. The tree fell slowly at first and then more quickly. It brought up square yards of black, soaked soil with it. It fell thickly, heavily, onto the north end of the wooden bridge. The great weight of it in free fall smashed the tough old timbers. The bridge folded and sagged, supported the weight for a few seconds, and then with small harsh noises as old spikes were pulled from weathered wood, bridge and tree sank into the swollen Waccasassa.
The caravan of six cars came nosing cautiously down the detour. The caravan crossed the first bridge, the blue Cadillac leading. The cars jounced over limbs that had fallen into the road. They passed the ugly deserted old house. The road turned slightly. The lead car came to the bridge and stopped.
“Damn!” Johnny Flagan said explosively.