“How many were there in all, Clarence? Yours and the others?”
Grandpa’s breath came heavy, as if he were still at work. “We lifted off more’n we could count,” he said, “includin’ the wild ones over to Assateague. And when the trucks was all lined up with their dead cargo, ever’ one of us took off our hats, and the army men and us Chincoteaguers all looked alike with our sunburnt faces and white foreheads. And we was all alike in our sadness.
“Then the preacher, he come by and he said somethin’ about these hosses needin’ no headstone to mark their grave, and he put up a prayer to the memory of the wild free things. He said, ‘Neither tide nor wind nor rain nor flight of time can erase the glory o’ their memory.’”
Everyone in the little kitchen let out a deep sigh as if the preacher’s words were right and good.
After a moment Grandpa got up from the table and put his arm around Grandma. “Now ye see, Idy, why I had to smuggle ye home. I needed ye for comfort.”
Grandma wiped her spectacles with her apron. “Must be steam in the room,” she said.
Grandpa had one more thing to say. “Fer jes’ this oncet in my life I wisht I was a waterman ’stead of a hossman. When oysters die, ye can plant another bushel, and when boats drift away, ye can build another. But when ponies die . . . how can ye replace ’em?”
Paul glanced around in sudden terror. It was as if a cold blade of fear had struck him. His eyes sought Maureen’s. They were very dark and wide and asking.
Was Misty all right?
Chapter 18
WITHIN THE FOALING BOX
ON THE same day that Grandpa was airlifting the ponies and Paul and Maureen were drying out Misty’s stall, Misty herself felt strangely unhappy.
She had a freshly made bed in a snug stable, and she couldn’t have been lonely for she was never without company. If she so much as scratched an ear with a hind hoof, young David Finney tried to do it for her. If she lipped at her hay, he tore handfuls out of the manger and presented it joyously to her. If she lay down, he tried to help her get comfortable.
And there were newspaper men coming and going, taking pictures of her in her stall, out of her stall, with David, without David. One caught Misty pulling the ponytail of a lady reporter. There was plenty of laughter and a constant flow of visitors.
But in spite of all the attention she was getting, Misty felt discontented and homesick. She was accustomed to the cries of sea birds, and the tang of salt air, and the tidal rhythm of the sea. And she was accustomed to going in and out of her stall, to the old tin bathtub that was her watering trough. But here everything was brought to her.
She kept shaking her head nervously and stamping in impatience. Occasionally she let out a low cry of distress which brought David and Dr. Finney on the run. But they could not comfort her. She yawned right in their faces as much as to say, “Go away. I miss my own home-place and my own children and my own marsh grass.”
In all the long day there was only one creature who seemed to sense her plight. It was Trineda, the trotter in the next stall. The two mares struck up a friendly attachment, and when they weren’t interrupted by callers, they did a lot of neighborly visiting. If Misty paced back and forth, Trineda paced alongside in her own stall, making soothing, snorting sounds. The newsmen spoke of her as Misty’s lady-in-waiting, and some took pictures of the two, nose to nose.
When night came on, Trineda was put out to pasture, and Misty’s sudden loneness was almost beyond bearing. She shied at eerie shadows hulking across her stall. And her ear caught spooky rustling sounds. Filled with uneasiness, she began pacing again, not knowing that the shadows came from a lantern flame flickering as the wind stirred it, not knowing that the rustling sounds were made by Dr. Finney tiptoeing into the next stall, carefully setting down his bag of instruments, and stealthily opening up his sleeping roll.
When at last there was quiet, Misty lay down, trying to get comfortable. But she was even more uncomfortable. Hastily she got up and tried to sleep standing, shifting her weight from one foot to another.
Suddenly she wanted to get out, to be free, to high-tail it for home. She neighed in desperation. She pawed and scraped the floor, then banged her hoof against the door.
Trineda came flying in at once, whinnying her concern. Trying to help, she worked on the catch to the door, but it was padlocked. She thrust her head inside, reaching over Misty’s shoulder, as much as to say, “There, there. There, there. It’ll all be over soon.”
Dr. Finney watched, fascinated, as the four-footed nurse quickly calmed her patient. “It’ll probably be a long time yet,” he told himself. “Nine chances out of ten she’ll foal in the dark watches of the night. I’d better get some sleep while I can.” He was aware that many of his friends would pity him tonight, shaking their heads over the hard life of a veterinarian. But at this moment he would not trade jobs for any other in the world. Each birth was a different kind of miracle.
Sighing in satisfaction, he slid down into his sleeping bag and settled himself for a long wait. The seconds wore on, and the minutes and the slow hours. He grew drowsy and he dozed, and he woke to check on Misty, and he dozed again. Toward morning his sleep was fitful and he dreamed that Misty was a tree with ripening fruit—just one golden pear. And he dreamed that the stem of the fruit was growing weak, and it was the moment of ripe perfection.
A flush of light in the northeast brought him sharply awake. He peered through the siding and he saw Misty lying down, and he saw wee forehoofs breaking through the silken birth bag, the head resting upon them; then quickly came the slender body with the hindlegs tucked under.
He froze in wonder at the tiny filly lying there, complete and whole in the straw. It gave one gulping gasp for air, and then its sides began rising and falling as regularly as the ticking of a clock.
Alarmed by the gasping sound, Misty scrambled to her feet and turned to look at the new little creature, and the cord joining them broke apart, like the pear from the tree. Motionless, she watched the spidery legs thrashing about in the straw. Her foal was struggling to get up. And then it was half way up, nearly standing!
Suddenly Misty was all motherliness. She sniffed at the shivering wet thing and some warning impulse told her to protect it from chills. Timidly at first, she began to mop it dry with her tongue. Then as her confidence grew, she scrubbed in great rhythmic swipes. Lick! Lick! Lick! More vigorously all the time. The moments stretched out, and still the cleaning and currying went on.
Dr. Finney sighed in relief. Now the miracle was complete—Misty had accepted her foal. He stepped over the unneeded bag of instruments and picked up a box of salt and a towel. Then, talking softly all the while, he unlocked Misty’s door and went inside. “Good girl, Misty. Move over. There, now. You had an easy time.”
With a practiced hand he sprinkled salt on the filly’s coat and the licking began all over again. “That’s right, Misty. You work on your baby,” he said, unfolding the towel, “and I’ll rub you down. Then I’ll make you a nice warm gruel. Why, you’re not even sweating, but we can’t take any chances.”
Misty scarcely felt Dr. Finney’s hands. She was nudging the foal with her nose, urging it up again so that she could scrub the other side.
The little creature wanted to stand. Desperately it thrust its forelegs forward. They skidded, then splayed into an inverted V, like a schoolboy’s compass. There! It was standing, swaying to and fro as if caught in a wind.
Smiling, Dr. Finney stopped his rubbing. He saw that all was well. Reluctantly he left the stall.
Minutes later he was on the telephone. Young David stood behind him, listening in amazement and disgust. How could grownups be so calm, as if they’d just come in from repairing a fence or pulling weeds? He wanted to do handsprings, cartwheels, stand on his head! But there was his father’s voice again, sounding plain and everyday.
“Yes, Paul. She delivered at dawn.”
“A mare colt, sound as a dollar.”
“Yes, I’m making Misty a warm mash. Just waiting for it to cool a bit.”
“No, Paul, she’s just fine. Everything was normal.”
“No, don’t bring the nanny goat. Misty’s a fine mother.”
“Don’t see why not. By mid-afternoon, anyway.”
Dr. Finney put the receiver in place, stretching and yawning.
“Dad, what don’t you ‘see why not’?” David asked.
“Why they can’t take Misty and her foal home today.”
“Can I go out and see her now?” David pleaded.
“No, son,” Dr. Finney replied. Then he saw the flushed young face and the tears brimming. “Of course you can go later. Just give them an hour or so alone.”
Chapter 19
GLORY HALLELUJAH!
PAUL TURNED from the telephone and let out a war whoop loud enough to break the sound barrier. He grabbed Maureen and they pulled Grandpa between them and went dancing around the kitchen table, lifting their knees high, bugling like wild horses. It was a free-for-all frolic. Grandpa was suddenly himself again, spry-legged and bellowing.
Grandma laughed in relief. She dropped her spoon in the pancake batter and half ran to the organ. Recklessly she threw back the lid and, with all stops open, made the notes thunder and throb as she sang in her full-bodied voice:
“Glory, glory, halle-loooo-jah,
Glory, glory, halle-loooo-jah,
Glory, glory, halle-loooo-jah,
His truth is marching on.”
Around and around the table marched the three Beebes. Skipper burst into the house, joining the dance, howling to the music. At last Grandpa had to sit down, and Paul and Maureen fell limp and exhausted on the floor.
Grandma turned from the organ, her eyes crinkled with joy. She clapped her hands for attention, then chanted:
“Come day, go day;
God send Sun-day.
And where do we go today?” she asked.
“To Pocomoke!” Maureen burst out.
“But before that, where? And who do we thank today?”
“Misty!” Paul shouted. But he grinned as he said it, knowing what Grandma had in mind.
Grandpa twisted uncomfortably. “Me and him,” he said, scratching Skipper behind an ear, “we got to clean out the truck and do a passel o’ things. We’ll jes’ do our churchin’ while we work.”
“Clarence Beebe, you’ll do no sech a thing! Today is a shining special day and we won’t argify. To church we go. As a fambly!”
Promptly at nine forty-five the truck, now clean as water and soap could make it, rattled out of the yard with Grandpa and Grandma sitting dressed up and proud in the cab, and Maureen and Paul in back, feet dangling over the tailgate. The sun was shining for the first time in a week, and the sky was a luminous blue.
“Seems almost like it’s Easter,” Maureen said. “Seems different from other Sundays. Wonder why?”
“’Cause we’re wearing shadow rolls over our noses, just like race horses.”
Unconsciously Maureen felt of her nose.
“Can’t you see, Maureen? We’re not even looking at the houses with their porches ripped off and mattresses and things drying in the sun. We’re seeing bigger.”
“Like what?”
Paul looked up. “Like that flag flying over the Fire House, painting stars and stripes on the sky. And the sea smiling and cheerful as if it’d never been nasty-mean.”
Maureen nodded. “And even if the houses are all bashed in, Paul, you hardly notice them for the clumps of daffydils.”
It was true. The world seemed reborn. The blue-green water of the bay was unruffled and washing softly against the drift. Gulls were gliding on a seaward breeze with scarcely a wing-flutter. And here and there in all the mud and muck, hosts of yellow daffodils were nodding like spatters of sunshine.
Up in front Grandpa and Grandma were feeling the same joy. “The storm sure bloomed the place up,” Grandpa said.
Grandma sighed in deep contentment. “Takes a wrathful storm to make us ’preciate bonny weather, don’t it?”
As the Beebe family took their seats in the rapidly filling church, the men of the Coast Guard filed into the front rows.
“Paul!” Grandpa whispered loud enough for the whole congregation to hear. “There’s Lieutenant Lipham. He’s the one rescued you the day you snuck over to Assateague and your boat drifted away.”
The lieutenant turned around, smiling broadly. Paul’s cheeks reddened.
Maureen had secretly brought the birth announcements to church so that she and Paul could fill in the hour and date, everything except the name. But they never even opened the package. From almost the beginning of the sermon, they leaned forward, listening with every fiber.
“The earth is the Lord’s,” the deep voice of the preacher intoned. “He hath founded it upon the seas, and established it upon the floods.”
And just by listening to the resounding voice, Paul and Maureen could see God commanding Noah to build the ark, big and flat-bottomed, and they could see the flood waters rising and the animals marching in, two by two.
“God is in the rescue business,” the preacher’s words rolled out, “and every believer is a member of His rescue force. Today we pay special tribute to the United States Coast Guard. In the sight of God, men who do not know the harbor of His love are like men lost at sea, grasping for something or someone to save them. The Church is God’s rescue force, just as the Coast Guard is the government’s rescue force.”
The preacher half-closed his eyes. “On Thursday night,” he said, “when the last of the refugees staying here in our church had been taken to their homes or to the mainland, I walked down the streets and saw the havoc and the emptiness of our once lovely island. Yet no Chincoteaguer had lost his life, and I paused to thank God.
“Then I came back to the parsonage. All was dark and quiet. I was alone. Darkness was all around. Then a flash across the sky! The only light left shining came from the old lighthouse on Assateague Island. It was spreading wide its beam of hope and guidance. So it is when the lights of this old world are snuffed out, and the storms of life would destroy us, the steady light of God’s love still shines. As our great Coast Guard keeps the light flashing from the lighthouse, so it is our task to keep our lights burning here at home.
“Let us sing.”
Paul and Maureen were almost sorry when the sermon ended. They rose with the congregation, and sang as lustily as Grandma. Even Grandpa made his lips move as if he knew the words:
“Brightly beams our Father’s mercy
From His lighthouse evermore,
But to us He gives the keeping
Of the lights along the shore.”
Just as the final “Amen” faded, the preacher was handed a message. He read it to himself in apparent pleasure. Then he stilled the congregation.
“Friends,” he said with a smile, “I have an important announcement.” He cleared his throat and glanced at Paul and Maureen before he began. “On this day, in a stable in the city of Pocomoke, a foal was born—a tiny mare colt.” He paused. Then he added, “And her mother is Misty.”
There was a rustle as everyone turned to look at Paul and Maureen, then smiles and murmurs of “Misty . . . Misty” from every pew.
Quickly the congregation moved out into the bright sunshine. Preacher Britton was greeting the members, and Paul and Maureen, blushing in embarrassment, were standing beside him. Everyone was shaking hands with everyone else. Hands that all week had lifted and scrubbed and prayed now clasped each other in joy.
“It’s the happiest news to reach Chincoteague in a week of terror!”
“The very happiest.”
For once Grandpa didn’t bolt for home as if his house were on fire. He shook hands heartily with the preacher “Reverend,” he said, “ye jes’ put up one o’ the greatest sermons I ever heerd!”
“Come oftener,” the preacher replied with a grin.
Chapter 20
HOME AT LAST
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br /> AFTER RETURNING home from church, all of the Beebes hurried into old clothes and went to work in a kind of happy frenzy. Everything needed doing at once.
Paul crushed oats in Grandma’s coffee grinder and mixed them with bran and linseed, all ready for the hot water when Misty came home. He filled the manger with good-smelling hay. He washed the salt block.
“Wouldn’t surprise me none if ye licked it clean with yer own tongue,” Grandpa laughed as he went by with Nanny’s kid tugging at his pants leg.
In the kitchen Maureen was sewing strips of tape on an old blanket. Every now and then she ran to try it on Grandma to see if the ties were in the right place. “If it fits you, Grandma, it’ll fit Misty.”
Grandma made a wry face. “Reckon I should be complimented,” she snorted, “’stead of laying my ears back. Beats me!” she added as she wrapped jelly sandwiches in waxed paper. “There’s barely a speck o’ meal in the house for biscuits or bread, and scarce a dry thing to cover folks with, but there’s allus oats and bran a-plenty, and a royal blanket for Miss Misty.”
“Missus Misty!” Maureen corrected.
Grandma disappeared into her bedroom for a moment and came back with a shy smile. “Here’s my contribution,” she said. “Likely I’ll have no more use for this soft baby blanket. With a couple of safety pins to fasten it under her belly, it’ll be just the right size for Misty’s young’un. That long ride home will be kind o’ drafty for a newborn.”