Listen to the bleating of those sheep, and the howling of that dog! Coba had once heard sheep bleat that way, when she visited the slaughter house. And dogs yelp so when they are hurt or afraid. There is Mother, looking pale and tense, but smiling with inner peace — just as she did when she said goodbye to Art. How the wind howls! And water — the whole farm is flooded! Water is seeping under the doors. It’s coming faster, rising higher. The dog has climbed to the roof and is whining pitifully. The children have gone upstairs, and are huddled in a corner, but they cannot escape the water. Mother ... where is she? She’s gone!
“Mother! Mother!” Coba screamed.
Coba wakened then, and found herself in bed. It had been only a dream.
But the storm was still raging out-of-doors. The dog was really howling, and the sheep were bleating. Coba’s pillow was wet with perspiration.
Sitting up in bed, Coba looked toward the window. She had raised the shade before going to bed, but there was no light coming in at the window. It was still night, and pitch dark. Then why was the dog howling? And why were the sheep bleating? There must be something wrong. Was the water coming, after all?
She slipped out of bed and opened the window. The wind rushed in and whistled about her ears. But she could see nothing in the darkness; there was no sign of water. There was only the howling of the dog, amid the raging of the wind. She had never heard the dog carry on so before; something must be wrong.
Quietly she hurried to Mother’s bedroom. Mother wakened immediately, and said to Father, “Juno is barking.”
Father was out of bed in an instant. He slipped into his clothes and went out to see what was wrong.
Coba watched through the window. The bright beam from his flashlight wandered over the yard, picking out the doghouse, the wagon shelter, the barn.
Father came back a little out of humor. There was no sign of thieves; there was nothing wrong. The dog was quiet now.
“And no water?” Coba asked.
Father lost patience then. “You and your water! I suppose you dreamed about it!”
Coba could not deny that.
“Put those silly ideas out of your head, and go to sleep,” Father commanded sternly. “And please let us sleep.”
Coba went back to bed feeling ashamed. She crept under the blankets and pulled them up over her ears. She didn’t want to hear anything. She wanted to sleep. But she couldn’t stop shivering.
And sleep would not come. The roaring of the wind came right through the heavy blankets, and soon Juno began to howl again. The sheep were still bleating, and she thought she heard the rushing of water too. Father had said it was all imagination and nonsense; she didn’t dare get up again, or call. Finally the fear inside of her grew so big that she had to bury her face in her pillow to smother her sobs.
Then, suddenly, there was a light in the room. Father was standing by her bed.
“Coba,” he said softly.
With a jerk she pushed the blanket aside. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her pajamas. Father stroked her wet cheeks and hair. “My little girl,” he said tenderly, “you were right. The water is coming.”
Coba sat bolt upright. Then it was true, after all!
“You need not be afraid,” Father went on calmly. “Our house is strong and sturdy. We’re not in danger. But I must go tend to the horses, and you must help carry furniture upstairs.”
“Is the water in the house already?” Coba asked. “Not yet, but we must take precautions. You need not be in any special hurry, though.”
Coba jumped out of bed and dressed quickly. She went outdoors. There was no water around the house, but out there she could hear the rushing of water very clearly, amid the roaring of the wind. It came from the direction of Torendike, and it was like continuous thunder.
Father had gone to the barn, and Mother had already begun to move furniture upstairs. Coba helped. The other children helped, too. They formed a line down the hall and up the steps, and handed things along chairs, pots and pans, the runner off the hall floor, clothes, living room rug, bedding.
Billy shouted merrily, “Just give it to me! I can carry it!”
Trena exclaimed, “We’ll make a nice room in the attic. It will be like playing house!”
Bud said, “If the water comes, we’ll all be on an island, and I’ll be Robinson Crusoe. And you” — this to Joe — “you’ll be Friday.”
“And what will we be?” Trena and Mattie asked together.
“You’ll be savages, and we’ll shoot you!” said Bud.
Coba caught something of their spirit. After all, there was no real danger, and this excitement in the middle of the night was fun.
Father came in from the barn, and Dottie called from upstairs, “We are making a nice room up here. Come and see it, Daddy!”
“Is Father one of the savages, too?” Mattie asked.
“Father will be captain of the ship that gets Robinson Crusoe off the island,” Bud decided. “Isn’t that a good idea, Daddy?”
Father wasn’t listening to the prattle of the children. He looked serious. “The water is rising fast,” he said to Mother. “I don’t understand it. During the few minutes that I was in the barn, it rose three feet. I can’t imagine where it is coming from so fast.”
Coba, who was ready to go upstairs with an armful of clothing, stood stock still. “Then there is danger, after all?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Father answered hesitantly. “We won’t be able to see what is happening till daylight comes.”
Coba ran up the steps with her load. The children gathered around her, enclosing her in a circle, and began to sing a little song.
A minute ago, she had played along with them. But now she ordered sharply, “Stop your nonsense. Pretty soon we’ll all drown.” She was gripped with fear again. The water was rising, and Father couldn’t explain it.
The children looked at her in surprise, and then at each other. That was the end of their fun.
When Coba came downstairs once more, Father was sitting at the table, drinking the hot coffee Mother had poured for him.
“Where are the sheep?” Coba heard Mother ask. “Drowned,” Father answered.
Coba stood as if nailed to the ground. That horrid bleating was the last she had heard of them.
“The hogs are all gone, too,” Father added.
“And the horses?” Coba asked.
“I set them free. They’re in the barn, and they can climb up on the hay. I think they’ll be all right.”
Coba went to get another load of clothing. Water was pouring in under the door, and it splashed beneath her feet. When she came down again, it was up to her ankles.
With Father to help, they carried the bigger pieces up the table, the organ, the buffet. Coba wore her boots, but before the last piece was carried up, the water poured into her boot tops. Her feet were icy cold. Shivers ran up and down her spine. It wasn’t only the cold that caused the shivers, but the dread of what was coming.
Mother supplied dry shoes and socks. They were all safe upstairs for a while, at least. No one could tell for how long. Out-of-doors, in the pitch darkness, the storm was howling and the water was steadily rising. Even Father could not tell how long they would be safe here, or how high the water would come.
They huddled in a corner, where the furniture had been arranged to form a sort of room. They were dry, but cold. With their blankets about their shoulders, they looked like pioneers sitting around a campfire. But there was no cheery campfire to give light and heat. There was no stove. And the little oil lamp that Mother had brought could not chase away half of the darkness of the big wide attic.
The children had forgotten all their fun. They listened to the howling of the wind and the rushing of the water. Little Lenna buried her face in Mother’s lap and sobbed softly. Trena and Mattie leaned against Mother’s knees. Bud and Joe and Billy sat close to Father. Dottie crept against Coba.
Coba shivered.
“Are you cold, Cobie?” Father asked.
Coba shook her head. That wasn’t it. With dry socks and two thick blankets, she wasn’t really cold. “I’m afraid,” she said softly.
Father looked around. “Did the Bible come along up?” he asked.
“Yes, Father,” said Billy, and he jumped up to get the big old Bible with its heavy leather binding. Father paged to Psalm 57.
“Be merciful unto me, O God, be merciful unto me; for my soul trusteth in Thee; yea, in the shadow of Thy wings will I make my refuge, until these calamities be overpast. I will cry unto God most high; unto God that performeth all things for me. He shall send from heaven, and save me.”
Coba listened reverently, thoughtfully. Were they really sheltered under God’s wings, there in the attic, with the wild wind howling through the cracks and the water tumbling about the house? Would He shelter them till this calamity was passed? Would He send from heaven to rescue them?
Father read on, “My heart is fixed, O God, my heart is fixed; I will sing and give praise ... For Thy mercy is great unto the heavens, and Thy truth unto the skies.”
Coba wondered: was Father’s heart really fixed upon God, and at rest? The water was rising. She could hear the waves pounding against the house. The horses were whinnying anxiously.
Father finished reading the Psalm and closed the Bible. He folded his hands for prayer.
“O God, Lord of the wind and of the sea, let us find refuge in Thee until this calamity shall have passed.”
Coba’s heart joined in the prayer. God is almighty. He can save. But will He?
“Deliver us, O Lord,” Father continued. “Surely, thy faithfulness reaches unto the clouds and thy goodness is as high as the heavens. Knowing this, we rest in Thee ... ”
Coba kept her head bowed. She knew God is faithful, God is love. She longed to trust Him.
“Grant, O Lord our God,” Father went on praying, “that we may trust Thee even if matters turn out otherwise than we hope; if Thou shouldst take us away in the violence of the water, then bring us in mercy to our heavenly home, to our Father’s home, for Jesus’ sake.”
Coba’s hands were clenched together and her eyes were shut tight. What if God should let that happen? Was she willing? She loved to romp and play; she loved school even though she sometimes sputtered against it. She loved her brothers and her sisters, her father and her mother — especially Mother. How could she bear to leave them?
But she knew that she loved the Lord Jesus, too. Sometimes she felt Him very near, when she knelt to pray at bedtime. It was almost as if He laid His hand upon her head. Then she knew she belonged to Him. There were other times, though. And she was not quite sure that she would want to go, if He should take her now. The night was so dark, and the water was so cold!
Coba looked at Father. His eyes were open, but his hands were still folded. The light of the little lamp shone on his face, and it looked calm — serious, but calm. Father trusted in God, even with death beating against the house.
Mother sat on the other side of the lamp. Her cheeks were pale. She looked down at little Lenna, and at Joe, and at Billy, and at all the other little ones. There was a tear on her cheek. It rolled down to the corner of her mouth. But there was a quiet look of peace in her eyes.
Yesterday she had said to Art, “If we should not meet again, I want you to know that all is well with Mother.” She must have felt the danger even then. But she wasn’t afraid. She would be ready if Jesus should take her.
Mother and Father had the peace of heart that Father asked for. Coba did not have it yet.
Coba got up and went to the other end of the big attic. There, behind the stack of potato crates, was a window. She felt her way through the darkness toward the square of gray light. But there was very little to see out of doors. In the dim light she could see flecks of foam on the dark water, and the tops of trees that were close to the house. She shivered again.
It is hard to believe that God is near at such a time, and that He will protect until the danger has passed by.