HIGH-WATER MARK
When the tide was out on the Dedlow Marsh, its extended drearinesswas patent. Its spongy, low-lying surface, sluggish, inky pools, andtortuous sloughs, twisting their slimy way, eel-like, toward the openbay, were all hard facts. So were the few green tussocks, with theirscant blades, their amphibious flavor and unpleasant dampness. And ifyou choose to indulge your fancy--although the flat monotony of theDedlow Marsh was not inspiring--the wavy line of scattered drift gavean unpleasant consciousness of the spent waters, and made the deadcertainty of the returning tide a gloomy reflection which no presentsunshine could dissipate. The greener meadowland seemed oppressed withthis idea, and made no positive attempt at vegetation until the work ofreclamation should be complete. In the bitter fruit of the low cranberrybushes one might fancy he detected a naturally sweet disposition curdledand soured by an injudicious course of too much regular cold water.
The vocal expression of the Dedlow Marsh was also melancholy anddepressing. The sepulchral boom of the bittern, the shriek of thecurlew, the scream of passing brent, the wrangling of quarrelsometeal, the sharp, querulous protest of the startled crane, and syllabledcomplaint of the "killdeer" plover, were beyond the power of writtenexpression. Nor was the aspect of these mournful fowls at all cheerfuland inspiring. Certainly not the blue heron standing mid-leg deep in thewater, obviously catching cold in a reckless disregard of wet feetand consequences; nor the mournful curlew, the dejected plover, orthe low-spirited snipe, who saw fit to join him in his suicidalcontemplation; nor the impassive kingfisher--an ornithologicalMarius--reviewing the desolate expanse; nor the black raven that went toand fro over the face of the marsh continually, but evidently couldn'tmake up his mind whether the waters had subsided, and felt low-spiritedin the reflection that, after all this trouble, he wouldn't be able togive a definite answer. On the contrary, it was evident at a glance thatthe dreary expanse of Dedlow Marsh told unpleasantly on the birds, andthat the season of migration was looked forward to with a feelingof relief and satisfaction by the full-grown, and of extravagantanticipation by the callow, brood. But if Dedlow Marsh was cheerlessat the slack of the low tide, you should have seen it when the tide wasstrong and full. When the damp air blew chilly over the cold, glitteringexpanse, and came to the faces of those who looked seaward like anothertide; when a steel-like glint marked the low hollows and the sinuousline of slough; when the great shell-incrusted trunks of fallen treesarose again, and went forth on their dreary, purposeless wanderings,drifting hither and thither, but getting no farther toward any goalat the falling tide or the day's decline than the cursed Hebrew in thelegend; when the glossy ducks swung silently, making neither ripple norfurrow on the shimmering surface; when the fog came in with the tide andshut out the blue above, even as the green below had been obliterated;when boatmen lost in that fog, paddling about in a hopeless way, startedat what seemed the brushing of mermen's fingers on the boat's keel, orshrank from the tufts of grass spreading around like the floating hairof a corpse, and knew by these signs that they were lost upon DedlowMarsh and must make a night of it, and a gloomy one at that--then youmight know something of Dedlow Marsh at high water.
Let me recall a story connected with this latter view which never failedto recur to my mind in my long gunning excursions upon Dedlow Marsh.Although the event was briefly recorded in the county paper, I had thestory, in all its eloquent detail, from the lips of the principal actor.I cannot hope to catch the varying emphasis and peculiar coloring offeminine delineation, for my narrator was a woman; but I'll try to giveat least its substance.
She lived midway of the great slough of Dedlow Marsh and a good-sizedriver, which debouched four miles beyond into an estuary formed bythe Pacific Ocean, on the long sandy peninsula which constituted thesouthwestern boundary of a noble bay. The house in which she lived wasa small frame cabin raised from the marsh a few feet by stout piles, andwas three miles distant from the settlements upon the river. Her husbandwas a logger--a profitable business in a county where the principaloccupation was the manufacture of lumber.
It was the season of early spring when her husband left on the ebb of ahigh tide, with a raft of logs for the usual transportation to the lowerend of the bay. As she stood by the door of the little cabin when thevoyagers departed she noticed a cold look in the southeastern sky, andshe remembered hearing her husband say to his companions that they mustendeavor to complete their voyage before the coming of the southwesterlygale which he saw brewing. And that night it began to storm and blowharder than she had ever before experienced, and some great trees fellin the forest by the river, and the house rocked like her baby's cradle.
But however the storm might roar about the little cabin, she knew thatone she trusted had driven bolt and bar with his own strong hand, andthat had he feared for her he would not have left her. This, and herdomestic duties, and the care of her little sickly baby, helped to keepher mind from dwelling on the weather, except, of course, to hope thathe was safely harbored with the logs at Utopia in the dreary distance.But she noticed that day, when she went out to feed the chickens andlook after the cow, that the tide was up to the little fence of theirgarden-patch, and the roar of the surf on the south beach, though milesaway, she could hear distinctly. And she began to think that she wouldlike to have someone to talk with about matters, and she believed thatif it had not been so far and so stormy, and the trail so impassable,she would have taken the baby and have gone over to Ryckman's, hernearest neighbor. But then, you see, he might have returned in thestorm, all wet, with no one to see to him; and it was a long exposurefor baby, who was croupy and ailing.
But that night, she never could tell why, she didn't feel like sleepingor even lying down. The storm had somewhat abated, but she still "satand sat," and even tried to read. I don't know whether it was a Bible orsome profane magazine that this poor woman read, but most probably thelatter, for the words all ran together and made such sad nonsense thatshe was forced at last to put the book down and turn to that dearervolume which lay before her in the cradle, with its white initial leafas yet unsoiled, and try to look forward to its mysterious future. And,rocking the cradle, she thought of everything and everybody, but stillwas wide-awake as ever.
It was nearly twelve o'clock when she at last lay down in her clothes.How long she slept she could not remember, but she awoke with a dreadfulchoking in her throat, and found herself standing, trembling all over,in the middle of the room, with her baby clasped to her breast, and shewas "saying something." The baby cried and sobbed, and she walked upand down trying to hush it when she heard a scratching at the door. Sheopened it fearfully, and was glad to see it was only old Pete, theirdog, who crawled, dripping with water, into the room. She would like tohave looked out, not in the faint hope of her husband's coming, but tosee how things looked; but the wind shook the door so savagely that shecould hardly hold it. Then she sat down a little while, and then walkedup and down a little while, and then she lay down again a little while.Lying close by the wall of the little cabin, she thought she heardonce or twice something scrape slowly against the clapboards, like thescraping of branches. Then there was a little gurgling sound, "like thebaby made when it was swallowing"; then something went "click-click"and "cluck-cluck," so that she sat up in bed. When she did so she wasattracted by something else that seemed creeping from the back doortoward the center of the room. It wasn't much wider than her littlefinger, but soon it swelled to the width of her hand, and beganspreading all over the floor. It was water.
She ran to the front door and threw it wide open, and saw nothing butwater. She ran to the back door and threw it open, and saw nothingbut water. She ran to the side window, and throwing that open, she sawnothing but water. Then she remembered hearing her husband once say thatthere was no danger in the tide, for that fell regularly, and peoplecould calculate on it, and that he would rather live near the bay thanthe river, whose banks might overflow at any time. But was it the tide?So she ran again to the back door, and threw out a stick
of wood. Itdrifted away toward the bay. She scooped up some of the water and put iteagerly to her lips. It was fresh and sweet. It was the river, and notthe tide!
It was then--O God be praised for his goodness! she did neither faintnor fall; it was then--blessed be the Saviour, for it was his mercifulhand that touched and strengthened her in this awful moment--that feardropped from her like a garment, and her trembling ceased. It was thenand thereafter that she never lost her self-command, through all thetrials of that gloomy night.
She drew the bedstead toward the middle of the room, and placed a tableupon it and on that she put the cradle. The water on the floorwas already over her ankles, and the house once or twice moved soperceptibly, and seemed to be racked so, that the closet doors all flewopen. Then she heard the same rasping and thumping against the wall,and, looking out, saw that a large uprooted tree, which had lain nearthe road at the upper end of the pasture, had floated down to the house.Luckily its long roots dragged in the soil and kept it from moving asrapidly as the current, for had it struck the house in its full career,even the strong nails and bolts in the piles could not have withstoodthe shock. The hound had leaped upon its knotty surface, and crouchednear the roots shivering and whining. A ray of hope flashed across hermind. She drew a heavy blanket from the bed, and, wrapping it aboutthe babe, waded in the deepening waters to the door. As the tree swungagain, broadside on, making the little cabin creak and tremble, sheleaped on to its trunk. By God's mercy she succeeded in obtaining afooting on its slippery surface, and, twining an arm about its roots,she held in the other her moaning child. Then something cracked near thefront porch, and the whole front of the house she had just quitted fellforward--just as cattle fall on their knees before they lie down--and atthe same moment the great redwood tree swung round and drifted away withits living cargo into the black night.
For all the excitement and danger, for all her soothing of her cryingbabe, for all the whistling of the wind, for all the uncertainty ofher situation, she still turned to look at the deserted and water-sweptcabin. She remembered even then, and she wonders how foolish she was tothink of it at that time, that she wished she had put on another dressand the baby's best clothes; and she kept praying that the house wouldbe spared so that he, when he returned, would have something to come to,and it wouldn't be quite so desolate, and--how could he ever know whathad become of her and baby? And at the thought she grew sick and faint.But she had something else to do besides worrying, for whenever thelong roots of her ark struck an obstacle, the whole trunk made half arevolution, and twice dipped her in the black water. The hound, who keptdistracting her by running up and down the tree and howling, at lastfell off at one of these collisions. He swam for some time beside her,and she tried to get the poor beast up on the tree, but he "acted silly"and wild, and at last she lost sight of him forever. Then she and herbaby were left alone. The light which had burned for a few minutesin the deserted cabin was quenched suddenly. She could not thentell whither she was drifting. The outline of the white dunes on thepeninsula showed dimly ahead, and she judged the tree was moving in aline with the river. It must be about slack water, and she hadprobably reached the eddy formed by the confluence of the tide and theoverflowing waters of the river. Unless the tide fell soon, there waspresent danger of her drifting to its channel, and being carried out tosea or crushed in the floating drift. That peril averted, if she werecarried out on the ebb toward the bay, she might hope to strike oneof the wooded promontories of the peninsula, and rest till daylight.Sometimes she thought she heard voices and shouts from the river, andthe bellowing of cattle and bleating of sheep. Then again it was onlythe ringing in her ears and throbbing of her heart. She found at aboutthis time that she was so chilled and stiffened in her cramped positionthat she could scarcely move, and the baby cried so when she put it toher breast that she noticed the milk refused to flow; and she was sofrightened at that, that she put her head under her shawl, and for thefirst time cried bitterly.
When she raised her head again, the boom of the surf was behind her, andshe knew that her ark had again swung round. She dipped up the water tocool her parched throat, and found that it was salt as her tears. Therewas a relief, though, for by this sign she knew that she was driftingwith the tide. It was then the wind went down, and the great and awfulsilence oppressed her. There was scarcely a ripple against the furrowedsides of the great trunk on which she rested, and around her all wasblack gloom and quiet. She spoke to the baby just to hear herself speak,and to know that she had not lost her voice. She thought then--it wasqueer, but she could not help thinking it--how awful must have been thenight when the great ship swung over the Asiatic peak, and the sounds ofcreation were blotted out from the world. She thought, too, of marinersclinging to spars, and of poor women who were lashed to rafts, andbeaten to death by the cruel sea. She tried to thank God that she wasthus spared, and lifted her eyes from the baby, who had fallen into afretful sleep. Suddenly, away to the southward, a great light lifteditself out of the gloom, and flashed and flickered, and flickered andflashed again. Her heart fluttered quickly against the baby's coldcheek. It was the lighthouse at the entrance of the bay. As she was yetwondering, the tree suddenly rolled a little, dragged a little, andthen seemed to lie quiet and still. She put out her hand and the currentgurgled against it. The tree was aground, and, by the position of thelight and the noise of the surf, aground upon the Dedlow Marsh.
Had it not been for her baby, who was ailing and croupy, had it not beenfor the sudden drying up of that sensitive fountain, she would havefelt safe and relieved. Perhaps it was this which tended to make all herimpressions mournful and gloomy. As the tide rapidly fell, a great flockof black brent fluttered by her, screaming and crying. Then the ploverflew up and piped mournfully as they wheeled around the trunk, and atlast fearlessly lit upon it like a gray cloud. Then the heron flew overand around her, shrieking and protesting, and at last dropped its gauntlegs only a few yards from her. But, strangest of all, a pretty whitebird, larger than a dove--like a pelican, but not a pelican--circledaround and around her. At last it lit upon a rootlet of the tree, quiteover her shoulder. She put out her hand and stroked its beautiful whiteneck, and it never appeared to move. It stayed there so long that shethought she would lift up the baby to see it, and try to attract herattention. But when she did so, the child was so chilled and cold, andhad such a blue look under the little lashes which it didn't raise atall, that she screamed aloud, and the bird flew away, and she fainted.
Well, that was the worst of it, and perhaps it was not so much, afterall, to any but herself. For when she recovered her senses it was brightsunlight, and dead low water. There was a confused noise of gutturalvoices about her, and an old squaw, singing an Indian "hushaby," androcking herself from side to side before a fire built on the marsh,before which she, the recovered wife and mother, lay weak and weary. Herfirst thought was for her baby, and she was about to speak, when a youngsquaw, who must have been a mother herself, fathomed her thought andbrought her the "mowitch," pale but living, in such a queer littlewillow cradle all bound up, just like the squaw's own young one, thatshe laughed and cried together, and the young squaw and the old squawshowed their big white teeth and glinted their black eyes and said,"Plenty get well, skeena mowitch," "wagee man come plenty soon," and shecould have kissed their brown faces in her joy. And then she found thatthey had been gathering berries on the marsh in their queer, comicalbaskets, and saw the skirt of her gown fluttering on the tree from afar,and the old squaw couldn't resist the temptation of procuring a newgarment, and came down and discovered the "wagee" woman and child. Andof course she gave the garment to the old squaw, as you may imagine, andwhen HE came at last and rushed up to her, looking about ten years olderin his anxiety, she felt so faint again that they had to carry her tothe canoe. For, you see, he knew nothing about the flood until he metthe Indians at Utopia, and knew by the signs that the poor woman washis wife. And at the next high tide he towed the tree away back home,although it wasn't worth the
trouble, and built another house, using theold tree for the foundation and props, and called it after her, "Mary'sArk!" But you may guess the next house was built above high-water mark.And that's all.
Not much, perhaps, considering the malevolent capacity of the DedlowMarsh. But you must tramp over it at low water, or paddle over it athigh tide, or get lost upon it once or twice in the fog, as I have,to understand properly Mary's adventure, or to appreciate duly theblessings of living beyond High-Water Mark.