CHAPTER XXVI.

AFTER THE DISASTER.

That flow strewed wrecks about the gra.s.s; That ebb swept out the flocks to sea.

A fatal ebb and flow, alas!

To many more than mine and me.--JEAN INGELOW.

The day after the terrible disaster the sun arose upon a scene of awful desolation!

Great was the devastation of lands and dwellings, and the destruction of life and property, by the memorable Black Valley flood!

The Black Valley itself, from its very form, position, and circ.u.mstances, seemed doomed to suffer tremendously from such a disaster.

It was a long, deep, and narrow valley, shut in by two high mountain ridges, which, interlocked in rude rocky precipices at its higher extremity, where the Black Torrent, dashing down the steeps, formed the head of the Black River, which, fed by many other mountain springs, ran down the whole length of the valley, and past the village of Blackville at its lower end.

By the fatal deluge of rain, all the mountain springs were raised to torrents, and the Black Torrent was swollen to a cataract, and all poured down vast floods of water into the Black River, which rose and overflowed its banks even to the mountains' side; so that the Black Valley became a black lake.

The advance of the day, and the retreat of the waters, showed at length the full extent of the disaster.

The dwellings in the valley, and in the village at its foot, were nearly all swept away. Only the strongest buildings, and those on the highest grounds, escaped destruction.

The hotel, the court-house, and the church, were each damaged, but not destroyed.

The prison was carried away, and several of the prisoners drowned.

The family of Dr. Hart were saved. Though more than once submerged, they clung to the floating roof, until they were carried down into calmer waters, where they were picked up by the men who were out in boats to rescue the drowning.

The Black Hall Manor suffered severely. The Hall itself was too strongly built, and upon too high ground, to be even endangered; but its detached offices and laborers' cottages were swept away by the flood. Their inmates happily had saved themselves by speedy flight up the mountain side, and were found the next day safe at Black Hall, where they had taken refuge.

But the sunlight also discovered many more wretches made homeless by the flood, and now sitting and shuddering upon the rocks, up and down the mountain sides.

But the dwellings of all those who had been so fortunate as to escape injury by the flood, were freely opened to receive the homeless sufferers.

It was late in the day before the condition of the ground enabled Lyon Berners, attended by some villagers, to seek the site of the late prison.

Not a vestige of the building remained. The very spot on which it had once stood was unrecognizable--a vast mora.s.s of mud and wreck.

The warden and his family, with Miss Pendleton and a few of the officers of the prison, were found about a mile beyond the scene, grouped together on a high hill, and utterly overcome, in mind and body, by the combined influences of cold and hunger, grief and horror.

"For the Lord's sake, where is my wife? where is Sybil?" anxiously inquired Lyon Berners, though scarcely knowing whether he hoped or feared she might be alive.

Beatrix Pendleton, who had sat with her head bowed down upon her knees, now raised it and said:

"Heaven knows! I tried to make them go and save her; but they would not!

I refused to leave the prison without her, but they forced me on the boat."

"We couldn't have saved her," spoke the warden; "her cell was right at the corner of the building, at the joining of the creek and the river.

It was overflowed before we got there, and the water, which must a busted in the window, was a rushing down the corridor and filling up the place so fast, that we had to run up the stairs to the next story to save our own lives."

"Heaven's will be done!" groaned Lyon Berners, who, heart-broken as he was, scarcely understood or believed the warden's explanation, or knew whether he himself were merely resigned, or really rejoiced that his wife had met this fate now, rather than lived to await a still more horrible one.

"And the poor woman who was attending her, and the young child, have also perished?" added Mr. Berners, after a pause, and in an interrogative tone.

Beatrix nodded sadly, and the warden said:

"Yes, sir, of course, which they all three being in the cell together, shared the same fate! And if we could a reskeed one, we could a reskeed all!"

"And where are your other prisoners?" inquired Mr. Berners.

"Some on 'em was drownded, sir, unavoidably. And some on 'em we reskeed by taking of 'em through the windows, and on to the boat; but Lord love you, sir, they give us leg bail the first chance they got; which who could blame them? Most on them as we reskeed has made off up the mountain, sir; and little use it would be to try to catch them, sir, even if we succeeded, seeing as we have got no place to lock 'em up. And as for me, my 'okkerpation's gone,' as the man says in the play! But I'm not thinking of myself, sir. I'm mortal sorry for the poor wretches called so sudden to their accounts," added the warden, brushing the tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.

"Come, Martin," said Mr. Berners, who, even in the midst of his own despair, could not forget the claims of humanity--"Come, Martin! You and your companions in misfortune cannot sit here longer without great danger to health and life! You must get up and come away. The road, though very difficult, is pa.s.sable, you see, since we come by it. Come away!"

"Come where? To the alms-house, I suppose," groaned the warden, dropping his head in his hands.

"My poor fellow, the alms-house has gone with the rest. There is no alms-house now."

"Then we may as well stay here and die; for there is no other place for us to go," groaned the ruined man.

"There are half a hundred places to go to. Every house that has been spared by the flood has, in grat.i.tude to Heaven, opened its doors to receive those who are rendered homeless by this disaster. Come, my good friend; come with your companions to the village hotel. A number of us who have lost no property by the flood, have already clubbed together for the relief of those who have lost all. Come! if you sit here longer you will surely catch your death."

The warden arose with a groan; and his example was followed by all his comrades.

"My dear Beatrix, take my arm," said Mr. Berners, helping Miss Pendleton to rise.

"My brother! Where is my brother? He was far enough off to be safe from the flood; but why is he not here now."

"My dear Beatrix, he could not possibly get here yet. As soon as the water shall have settled he will come, no doubt," said Mr. Berners, as he led her down the hill towards the village.

The road was very bad. In some places it was nearly half a leg deep in pools of water, or in mud. But they reached the half-ruined village at length. And Mr. Berners, accompanied by the whole party, took Miss Pendleton to the hotel to await the arrival of her brother.

All the sufferers were hospitably received by the landlord's family, who furnished them with dry clothing, warm meals, and good lodging.

But it was not until evening that the subsidence of the waters permitted Captain Pendleton to make his way down the valley to the village, to look after his sister.

The meeting between the brother and sister was very affecting.

Beatrix wept on his shoulder.

"Thank Heaven, you are safe, my dear sister!" were among the first words that he said.

"Yes; I am safe, I am safe, Clement. _But she is lost!_ Oh, Clement, _she is lost_!" cried Beatrix, bursting into tears.

Captain Pendleton started, and looked up to the face of Mr. Berners, as if asking for a confirmation or contradiction of these words.