Overflow Notes

TALLULAH, LOUISIANA
May 3, 1927
I AWOKE at five o’clock this morning, possibly because of the strain under which we’ve lived for the past three weeks, hourly dreading, hourly expecting an overflow; but more likely because of the subdued but insistent meows of Herman, standing by my bed, tapping my cheek with his black paw. I remonstrated that a cat born in the purlieus of New York City should not so far forget metropolitan customs as to demand breakfast at such an hour, but I arose and went with him to the ice box; for Herman is a little black tsar, and we his grumbling but adoring minions.

He ate daintily, washed his face, then asked to be let out, and as I opened the door I saw the huge trucks filled to ‘standing room only’ with Negroes going to work on the levee. They were shouting and laughing, chewing tobacco and swearing, but going cheerfully to delve in the muck and the danger, driving heavy piles, tying willow mattresses, filling countless thousands of sacks with earth to top the already high levee crest.

How our men — white and black, even the high-school boys — have toiled, day and night, through these horrible weeks! Everything known to engineering ingenuity is being done to hold back the sullen, swollen river which looms above us sixty feet on the Vicksburg gauge.

Watching the Negroes out of sight, I was reminded of the colored troops I had seen, nine years ago, quartered overnight in the Armory at Broadway and Sixty-seventh Street, New York. I had talked to them, for Negroes, though often irresponsible, are never unresponsive; I half hoped I might find in the groups of brown and black and yellow a familiar face — a ‘ darky’ from home! The next morning, when I passed, the Armory was empty and still: some scattered ashes, a little débris, a heavy odor — the colored troops had gone across.

I was roused from these musings by another sound on the highway — the thud, thud of many feet. There went the Scotts’ mules, seemingly an unending line: the stock from three plantations, where the ploughing and planting had gone on methodically, in spite of high-water menace. It was a gamble for the planter; if the flood came, seed, labor, wages — all would be lost; if not, why, he was that much ahead of the game. But even the most optimistic souls were becoming depressed by an ever-rising river and appalling reports from the Greenville flood, and those who had not sent their stock out of the state were heading them now for Transylvania, twenty miles above, where an old and well-sodded levee would give them at least a place to stand on.

I turned into the house as black Martha and yellow Mary, with Uncle Shepherd hobbling in their wake, sauntered into the yard, and they soon set the household machinery going; but we were a little too anxious to eat and too preoccupied to note the dust in corners.

Uncle Shepherd and I went to work in the flowers, his twisted old hands slaying weeds and grass and sparing the frailest flower. He was droning to me of the glory of ‘dem days,’ when an ominous sound disturbed us — a heavy tramping, a rushing and scuffling; deep lowing and anguished bleating; the hissing of whips and shouting of voices; then, all at once, our quiet, shady street was submerged in an onrush of terrified cattle.

Hundreds of them! Cows, seeking lost calves; great bulls, frothing and bellowing; yearlings with fear in their soft eyes; young calves, stumbling in weariness.

It was Mr. Moberly’s herd of handsome Herefords, and I wondered if, in their confusion, they’d ever reach the higher ground. At the corner they stampeded and many went, plunging and bellowing, across the yard, cutting the turf, breaking the shrubs, crashing into the trellis where the queen’s wreath and star jasmine grow. I rushed among them, helplessly waving them back, while Uncle Shepherd, from his retreat on the porch, implored me to come back before I was ‘ tromped clean to death.’

I was not afraid of being ‘tromped’; the poor creatures were not vicious, but utterly confused at the break in their tranquil lives, by still waters, in green pastures. The incident, however, disturbed me; it seemed an omen of worse to come, and when, late in the afternoon, the whistle of the fire engine — the preconcerted warning that the levee had given away — screamed out in shattering shrillness, I found myself strangely quiet, wondering dully, ‘Where — where has it given way?’

We ran downstairs and found Mrs. Agee, white and breathless, at the door. ‘At Milliken’s Bend — it’s gone in at Milliken’s Bend!’ she cried in answer to our questioning eyes.

And yet I could not rouse myself to the horror of a break at that spot, only six miles away, with a few trees, a strip of woodland, to check the cruel currents and crushing body of water hurling toward us. I thought, irrelevantly, of the skirmish between Grant’s forces and Confederate guerrillas, at Milliken’s Bend, during the Civil War; of the little town, rising from the ashes of carnage into increased prosperity — a shipping point of importance, where stately steamboats dropped their stage planks and disgorged immense piles of freight, reloading with cotton and other produce from the neighboring plantations. I could see the little town hall, serving, alternately, as lodge, schoolhouse, and ballroom, its worn floor richly polished by untiring young feet.

Then I remembered Milliken’s Bend as it has been for many years: deserted, encroached upon by new levees, claimed by the ruthless river. A few scraggly shrubs mark the sites of lovely gardens; the old Yerger house, former abode of many children and much hospitality, stands alone, crumbling and shabby, but obviously looking down on the fishermen’s huts and squatters’ tents scattered at intervals.

Well, Milliken’s Bend was having its revenge — its old enemy was placing it in the limelight again.

After the first deadening shock our town awakened to frantic activity. There was no outcry. Work was to be done, and people with white, tense faces set themselves to do it.

In response to urgent warnings many had raised their household goods on to scaffolds, or had taken them to warehouses and two-story buildings; those who had not were struggling feverishly. Automobiles tore through the streets; trucks thundered by, piled high with trunks, furniture, chicken coops, bandboxes, pets, and people — all headed for the railroad, where passenger coaches, box cars, cattle cars, flats, and locomotives had been stationed for weeks, steam up, ready to rush to a place of safety.

Having a two-story house, we preferred to stay at home, and made our plans accordingly. We elevated everything on the first floor, took down doors and mantels, carried the coal-oil stove and other culinary adjuncts upstairs, requisitioned one of the bathrooms as a kitchen, and made ready for light housekeeping.

Another reminder of New York days!

We were well stocked with canned goods and staple provisions, also with lamps and candles, against the dread time when our power plant would be put out of commission, but before running my car on to the platform in McCaffery’s garage we made a farewell trip for grain for the chickens and meat for Herman — the last steak that pampered rascal would see for many days.

Everywhere people were working, nailing, hammering, lifting, struggling; and always that steady trek to the railroad. Trains were loading as rapidly as possible, running to Delhi, safe and dry on Bayou Magon’s red hills, then back again for another load, and in my heart I gave credit and praise to the I. C. and the Missouri Pacific for standing by us so valiantly. Our worst trial would come when they would be compelled to leave us, all forlorn, cut off by an inland sea from communication with the outside world.

Always we were asking one another, ‘When will the water reach us? How high will it come?’ And over and over we wondered if people in the outlying districts, up the highway, down the bayou, had been brought to safety; if the cattle had all been cared for; if our platforms were high enough; if we’d be able to catch our chickens; and what would become of the poor stray dogs and cats.

Through all the noise and confusion the sun shone gorgeously, birds poured out a glory of song, and flowers bloomed till our little town was one big bouquet. They seemed to know, poor things, that they must crowd all their beauty and perfume into one short hour.

With the coming of night — a night even more giorious than the day had been, a young moon casting tremulous shadows, soft breezes rippling the leaves — there was but little rest. How could there be, with locomotives shrieking and shunting, cars chugging back and forth, chickens squawking and fluttering, and an incessant whirring of saws and battering of hammers! A magnificent symphony of distress and unrest!

An aviator, flying from the scene of disaster, had comforted us with the information that the break was not at Milliken’s Bend after all, but nearer Cabin Teele, and that it was widening slowly, the crest having given way, but the body of the levee yet holding, so the water would not reach us so soon as we had expected.

May 4, 1927
In the stillness of dawn, with Herman at my heels, I crept out into my garden — a fairy garden it seemed in that uncertain, rosy light — and with a sickness in my heart I drank in the beauty of my flowers: roses blooming prodigally, deep crimson, scarlet, and blush, rich yellow and silver white; tall hollyhocks, in multicolored bonnets, peeping over the fence; larkspur, blue and pink and white, springing everywhere; pansies and violets, blending their modest fragrance with the vivid perfume of queenly Easter lilies.

‘Oh, Herman,’ I moaned, ‘to think in a little while they will all be gone! To think that ugly brown water can wash out so much loveliness!’ But Herman switched his tail and chased after a cricket; and as I returned to the house I looked north, and far over the fields a glistening sheet was unrolling steadily and the dull roar of rushing water broke on my ears. At ten o’clock it had reached the Fair Grounds, surging over the race track, climbing up the grand stand; then on into Sheriff Sevier’s yard, smothering Mary’s pretty flowers; rushing through the ditches, filling the low places till by night our streets were long mirrors, reflecting eerie shadows.

We tied our little homemade bateau to the back steps, ready for action, and carefully corralled Herman, who since emancipation from apartment life had become a ‘ regular fellow,’ given to staying out nights, and we had no idea of having him caught away from us.

We managed to get Mamma off on the last refugee train this afternoon. She rebelled, being of pioneer stuff, but we did not know what might be ahead of us, and in case of illness there would be no ice, no lemons, nor other luxuries. We took her to the train at eleven o’clock in the morning, but it did not get off till 4 P.M.

All that time loading and shunting, running through the water to Mound to pick up cattle, horses, and terrified stragglers; back again to find belated groups, with bundles under their arms, dogs shivering at their heels, coops of chickens, cages of birds, an occasional ruminating goat, even boxes with pet squirrels, huddled around. It might have been ludicrous if it had not been so pathetic. I thought of the exiles of Acadie who sought shelter in Louisiana, and of how many of their descendants were now fleeing from the oppression of an unprecedented flood. I shall not soon forget the faces of those who were leaving.

We watched the water take the vegetable garden this evening: corn waving high green banners and promising luscious roasting ears; peas loaded with plump pods; butter beans, okra, beets, lettuce — all the good things that add so much to our living — destroyed utterly!

We went early to bed, worn out with the excitement and exertion of the day, but now another noise made sleep all but impossible — the frogs! How could there be so many frogs in one small world! Every gradation of sound they emitted, from deep bass to C in alt. Tree frogs, spring frogs, toad frogs, bullfrogs, all meeting in one glad and grand reunion and raising their voices in a concerted pæan of praise for the waters that be. Not since the overflow of 1912 had such a joy been theirs!

May 5, 1927
The water rose rapidly last night; it is now lapping on our top step, and by to-morrow will be in the house. Even then we shall not be so badly off as some of our neighbors. Mr. Bethea, after raising his scaffolds till his furniture hit the ceiling, has moved up into his loft and presents a unique appearance emerging from the ventilator under the eaves and stepping into his boat, anchored to the roof. Mexican Joe’s little shack, down by the woods, is submerged up to the comb. It will be a long while before Joe, a pack on his back, will take up his march down our streets, chanting: —

We have had many callers to-day, in many kinds of crafts: high-powered motor boats, graceful skiffs, slender pirogues, blunt-nosed bateaus, canvas canoes, and rafts. It is amazing that so many should appear all of a sudden, and that everyone handles his or her craft with the apparent ease of long practice. We are an adaptable people and, having accepted the inevitable, everybody seems cheerful and determined to make the best of an unfortunate situation.

Our big Orpington rooster awoke his harem of yellow beauties with vibrant calls this morning, nothing daunted at being confined in a coop on top of the woodhouse, with no earth to dust in, no worms to scratch for; ‘Pretty Polly,’ from his perch on the upper gallery, screams ‘Hello!’ and ‘How-dee-dew!’ to the boats that pass; ‘Ziggy,’ swinging in his cage, tries to outsing the mocking bird in the big oak, and flutters his golden wings in rivalry of the cardinal that comes for crumbs on the window sill; the docile capon, with his adopted children, has settled down to an enforced domesticity.

Only Herman remains disconsolate and perturbed. He hates the roar of the motor boats, the click of the oars, the drone of airplanes, the constant lapping of water. He misses his meat and his mice, and, most of all, his trysts with kindred spirits in the still shadows of summer nights. He thinks, with me, that the rumble of the subway, the roar of the L, an abode six flights in the air, a potted palm for shrubbery, were not so bad after all.

May 6, 1927
The water is well into the house this morning. It has a dampening effect on one’s spirits to see it spreading over the floors, creeping past the baseboard, staining the wall paper; but we are very cosy and orderly upstairs and housekeeping goes on apace.

Mr. Shields came in his big boat this noon, bringing bread, milk, and eggs, which are all most acceptable. His plantation, ‘Roosevelt,’ fifteen miles above us, is out of the water, and the Taylors’ herd of Jerseys is being pastured there. Agnes, with her unfailing thoughtfulness, sent us a box of delicious tea cakes. That is what I call being a really good Samaritan!

The Chapmans’ white duck appeared in their yard, from heaven only knows where, to-day, and quacked and called so piteously that we took a pan of grain and went out to feed her; but a frightened duck in five feet of water is a vanishing equation, so we left the corn on a floating log and hoped she’d find it. Late in the afternoon we spied her, preened and proud, swimming with a handsome mate. So it was not her nine little ones for whom she mourned!

May 7, 1927
The law of compensation exemplifies itself in the wonderful weather we are having — a glory of sunshine, with soft breezes, and the few flowers that are not submerged are stimulated by the moisture and blooming as never before. Every morning I paddle around my own and my absent neighbors’ yards and gather great bunches of roses, honeysuckle, althæa, and cannas. My Maréchal Niel, by the steps, is the loveliest thing one could imagine — great festoons of rich yellow blossoms, flanked by leaves of tenderest green, and that heavenly fragrance not equaled by any other rose. When the water goes off I shall cut it back and cover the roots with hay in a desperate effort to save it.

But it will be a long and weary wait before the water goes off. It is now four days since the break and the crevasse is widening and deepening all the time. It is reported 2100 feet wide, and it rushes through with a deafening roar, seething and tumbling like the rapids of Niagara, except in the very centre, where its great depth makes it flow with a treacherous smoothness.

All houses near by and the stretch of woods have been swept away and crumbled like kindling wood. Yet not a hundred yards from the break several hundred Negroes and a few white people, with their accompanying train of dogs, horses, cattle, and pigs, are camping on the levee, calmly pursuing their daily lives. They spread their mattresses and scanty covers on the sod, regardless of sun or rain, place their battered remnants of furniture about them, build their fires, prepare their meals, feed their stock, comfort their crying babies, and go their ways with a patient stoicism. They have been through deadly peril, they have gazed on sickening sights, yet they are alive — there will be another chance.

When I think of those who have lost so much; those whose homes have been swept away, whose fortunes have crumbled as the yellow tide swept over wide acres of growing cotton and corn; those who have helplessly watched their live stock drown and listened to the terrified screams of their children — when I think of all these I am ashamed that I should grumble over stained paper and buckled floors, that I should pine for ice and fruit, letters and newspapers, that I should lament the defection of Martha and Mary, growing fat on ‘gov’ment rations’ in somnolent idleness, while I wrestle with pots and mop floors; and I resolve to grieve no more, not even for my lost posies, nor for the reproach in my cat’s yellow eyes when I give him canned milk in lieu of Jersey cream.

May 8, 1927
After the manner of Mr. Pepys, ‘up very much betimes this morning and as perfect Sabbath day as ever I did see!’ A wonderful stillness hung over the town; the parade of boats had not begun; even the birds called to each other gently; the tall smokestacks of the oil mill pointed heavenward like grim accusing fingers, the expensive machinery rusting beneath a yellow slime, the gin loft sacrificing its lint and seed to shelter homeless Negroes, a brace of hunting dogs, a flivver, a church organ, and a balky mule — so are the channels of industry diverted!

I spied Mr. Marvin Lewis on the top of his garage, sketched boldly against the morning sky, and I half looked to see him turn his face to the east and utter the muezzin’s cry; but he only waved a hand and climbed into a wire cage to feed his chicks. That reminded me of our modified Noah’s Ark, so my husband and I went the rounds of our birds and beasts, not forgetting the mother cat and three bedraggled kittens which we had rescued, wet and famished, in Miss Emmie’s crape myrtle tree; nor the little yellow cur which, after days in the water, clambered, more dead than alive, on to our step. He was not very acceptable, in appearance or personality, to Herman, so we quartered him in the garage loft, and upon our visits the little fellow forgets his food in humble joy over human companionship.

We scattered crumbs and grain on planks and fences for the birds — there are myriads about the place; probably their instinct tells them it is a closed season for cats, and in the ravaged condition of the forest they must stay close to man’s habitat for largesse. I was rejoiced to spy my little humming bird flashing his dainty wings against the vermilion and green of the pomegranate bush. His seems a fragile life to stem such hardship.

Amy Holmes tells me she is feeding a rabbit on her woodpile, and Mandeville Kell throws corn every evening to a covey of quail, seeking sanctuary on a shed in his back yard. Mrs. Boney supports a squirrel family in her poplar tree, and some men of the town carry skiffloads of hay down the railroad embankment to hungry deer that have swum in. So we all have our pet charities these days.

We cannot attend church to-day, however dutifully inclined, for all places of worship, irrespective of creed, are thoroughly immersed. Our ministers, as well as our doctors, stand by us, though, and lend a hand to whatever work comes up. We listen to Brother Kimberlin, the Baptist preacher who lives next door, singing lustily ‘How Firm a Foundation’ about six o’clock every morning, as he tumbles from the platform where his bed is raised into his boat, and hurries up to the Red Cross car, cheerfully to put in twelve hours of grilling work. We tremble for the safety of dear Dr. Gaines’s two hundred and fifty pounds avoirdupois when we see him seated in questionable crafts, headed for refugee camps and far-away plantations.

Mrs. Coltharp and I had a long visit over the phone this morning, and I am quite envious of her superior state of well-being. She retained her cook, — I accused her of peonage, — and has her cosily ensconced in the parlor; her fine cow is on a raft in the orchard, and furnishes an abundant supply of fresh milk and butter; her chickens, from broilers to bakers, are on platforms in the yard; so she is really prepared for a state of siege.

I, however, am laying claim to a superior supply of intellectual pabulum, for the splendid box of books sent by David Amacker from Amherst arrived just a few days before the flood and has indeed proven a blessing. It is n’t often one is granted such an opportunity for thought and reading.

We dined with the Craigs to-day and an excellent dinner it was, despite the effort it is to secure material with which to work. Bertha does not lower her standard of housekeeping for a mere matter of overflows!

This afternoon we went for a long ride over miles and miles of water. Water still and placid as a lake; water rippling and purling; water writhing and rushing in a torrent; water over the graveled highway where one short week ago we had raced in our motor cars; water high over the railroad track where busy engines had, like shuttles, woven the woof of commerce. We came home in the red glow of sunset, and it was very beautiful — if only one could forget the desolation of row upon row of houses, submerged to their roofs, washed from their blocks, and the pathos of starving cats on many of those roofs, watching and waiting with glazing eyes; if one could shut out the horror of swollen bodies of horses and cattle, floating heavily; if one did not mind the disorder of overturned buildings and shattered fences, of floating bits of furniture, of a mêlée of tin cans, pots, bottles, jugs, and nameless junk; if one could look without tears at the occasional little pot of flowers, set high on a shelf and blooming bravely in the desolation and disorder.

I could not forget these things or keep them from before my eyes, and my heart was saddened that our country should suffer this cruel blow. Our country, so beautiful, so rich in natural resources, so fertile of soil; so worthy of being the banner agricultural spot of these United States; but held down by the terrible menace of recurrent floods. I asked myself rebelliously if we must always be a poor, shabby, struggling people, battling against a force too great for us; and when night came and a wonderful moon rose over the trees and duplicated its silver globe in the mirror of water that lay before us, reflecting trees and houses and flowers and rippling away in dusky shadows, I felt that I had my answer: in the sheer beauty of it there was hope.

As the kindness and generosity of the people of our land are seeing us through this great trial now, so will their intelligence, energy, and ingenuity find a way to deliver us from a repetition of it. Then once again our crops will grow, our cattle browse in peaceful pastures, our gardens bloom, and our homes be established in the joy of permanence.

May 9, 1927
We have much rejoicing this day! The telephone and telegraph lines have been repaired and the mail has come in! To know just what that meant to us one must have seen the crowd of men, women, and children, of varied types and colors, standing knee-deep in water in the post office and lined up in boats at the door — every face eager and expectant.

We were particularly blessed, with stacks of letters and bundles of papers, all a little damp and musty after their long journey by train, motor boat, airship, and what not, but oh, so welcome! It was delightful to know that though submerged we were not forgotten. There was a wonderful letter from Mrs. Butler, in Chicago, dear ones from our Smith friends, the Sydney Smiths of Englewood, New Jersey, and the Bolton Smiths of Memphis, Tennessee, and many other kind messages.

Olive Maupin phoned us from Vicksburg to come in the Red Cross boat to her high hills. Tizzie and Susan rang us up from Lake Providence, and my brother recklessly expended his patrimony in a long message from Shreveport. In short, we are by way of having our heads turned by so much attention.

Another cause for rejoicing is that the water rises very slowly now; the wise ones say it will be ‘on a stand’ by Wednesday; then, since everything that goes up must come down, it will surely begin — in its own good time — to fall.

In another three weeks our saffroncolored winding sheet will have gradually unrolled, leaving us a little ghostly, a little numb, but with yet enough vitality to struggle back to normal, to show to the world that our heads, though dampened, are still unbowed; that we are the masters of our fate — the captains of our souls!