Authors: Ann Weisgarber
That man. For a year I took care of him. I cooked and cleaned, and did his laundry. I helped to raise his son. But Oscar had never been mine.
My eyes watered up. He’d died taking care of his horses and cows. He couldn’t let them suffer, not Oscar. I should let his kin up there in Ohio know that. I should let them know that Andre was all right, that he was being seen to. I should get somebody to write to them.
My tears were overflowing now, and I didn’t do nothing to stop them. There was no one to see; there was no one to know. There was only the Gulf of Mexico, outside the window but off a good ways and shining in the sun. I didn’t blame it for what happened. Not overly. It was the big blow that I mostly blamed, that wall of wind that came for us. I’d never forgive it. Never.
Thinking that stopped my tears. I mopped my face with my apron and as I did, I turned from the piano. Out the window, a line of pelicans floated in the sky, riding a current, their wings wide open. It came to me that these were the first I’d seen since the storm. But there they were, gliding along like nobody had died, like nobody’s heart was in a state of bewilderment.
I went to the doorway and watched them birds drift over to where St. Mary’s had been, some of them flapping their wings once in a while as they went down the island. I counted them; I did it for Oscar. He was partial to pelicans.
Oscar left his home up North and made this island his home. Andre was born here; he was a Texan. Taking that little boy away from his roots, the one place he knew, doing that would be as mean as the storm had been. And them dogs of his, Andre could barely let them out of his sight. If Oscar were here, he’d say this island was Andre’s home. Bernadette would too. But it was Mrs Williams, she was the one that did say it. She fixed them blue eyes on me and told me what to do. ‘Take care of Andre. You love him.’
I went back inside and picked up the shovel. Them letters in the hatbox were for another day. They were for the day when Andre’s nightmares stopped, when things were better. Mama and me would talk it over then. I’d take home the book about the stars, Oscar’s watch, the crucifixes, and the wood box with the
W
and all that was in it. Those were Andre’s. But not the letters. Those belonged to his daddy. They weren’t for others to read. They were going in the hatbox and the hatbox was going up to the attic even if the roof had holes. Same for the letter I’d found on the floor by the icebox, the letter that was crumpled and ripped in the middle. Whatever was in them letters could wait.
If someone should come looking for Andre, well, I’d think about that then. Today, there was enough sorrow. Today, Andre was mine. Mrs Williams made it so.
I picked up her books that were on the floor. They were warped, and the pages were brittle and stained. Novels, she’d called them. I’d take them home for Andre; he should have something of hers. She’d like that, I figured. She was partial to fancy words and likely these books were full of them.
In the parlor, I shoveled dried mud, the raspy scrape of the blade not working on me like it had. It was the sound of work; it was me getting a start on this house, making it better. It was me doing it for Andre.
Author’s Note
On the morning of Saturday, September 8, 1900, Galvestonians woke to cloudy skies, rain squalls, and high tides. The local office of the US Weather Bureau had received cables that a disturbance was in the gulf, and hurricane flags were raised in the city. Accustomed to tropical storms, most residents went about the day as usual. Men reported to work, women tended to household chores, and children and tourists went to the beach to watch crashing waves slowly destroy the Pagoda and Murdock’s bathhouses. By noon, water was several feet deep in the streets but that didn’t stop people from attending business lunches at hotel dining rooms. Soon after, though, the sky darkened, the wind increased, and rising water rushed through the streets.
The 1900 Galveston storm was the worst US natural disaster in the twentieth century. The city, population 37,789, was submerged in 8 to 15 feet of water, and prior to the wind destroying the Weather Bureau’s anemometer, the last recorded wind velocity was 84 miles per hour. It is speculated that during the height of the storm the winds ranged from 120 to 150 miles per hour. Historians estimate that over 6,000 people were killed in the city and that another 1,000 perished on the rest of the island. On the mainland, the death toll was approximately 1,000.
The Promise
is a work of fiction but I tried to keep the depiction of the island, the sequence of the storm, and the aftermath grounded in fact as much as possible. A great deal has been written about the city of Galveston but very little about the people who lived outside of the city limits. Historical sources indicate that some of these residents were dairy farmers, cattle ranchers, and fishermen. It is my belief that they and their families were keenly aware of the weather, and that they knew something bigger than a tropical storm brewed in the gulf. However, even this awareness could not save all of them. Entire families drowned and many were never found.
St. Mary’s Orphan Asylum did exist and at the time of the storm, it housed about ninety-three children, ten nuns, and several workmen. Sister Camillus and William and Joseph Murney were actual people. The orphanage disappeared during the storm, and William Murney was one of only three survivors.
Galvestonians began to rebuild even as funeral pyres burned. West Bay was eventually dredged, and the sand was used to raise the city. A seawall was built along the beach and continues to protect the city. However, Galveston lost its foothold as one of the most important seaports in America and its fortunes declined.
Gulf coast Texans have not forgotten the 1900 Galveston storm. All other hurricanes are compared to it, and Galvestonians point with pride to the buildings that survived. The building that once was the Central Hotel, the place where Catherine and Oscar began their marriage, still stands.
*
For readers who would like to read more about the storm, I suggest the following books:
Through a Night of Horrors
edited by Casey Edward Greene and Shelly Henley Kelly, 2000;
A Weekend in September
by John Edward Weems, 1957;
Galveston and the 1900 Storm
by Patricia Bellis Bixel and Elizabeth Hayes Turner, 2000; and
Isaac’s Storm
by Erik Larson, 1999.
Acknowledgments
I am indebted to Rob, my husband, for keeping me on track; to Judithe Little, Leah Lax, Anne Sloan, Lois F. Stark, Julie C. Kemper, Pam Barton, and Bryan Jamison for their thorough readings and for pushing me to do my best; to Casey Edward Greene and Carol Woods, archivists at Galveston’s Rosenberg Library, for their willingness to search through files and source documents for even the smallest of details; to John Sullivan, Galveston rancher, for his historical perspective and stories; and to the dedicated people at Houston’s Inprint and San Antonio’s Gemini Ink for their ongoing support of writers.
I owe many thanks to Maria Rejt and Sophie Orme, Mantle editors extraordinaire, for knowing what to do to make the story shine; to Mary Chamberlain for her copy-editing skills; to Harriet Sanders for helping me cross the pond; to the entire staff at Pan Macmillan that rallies around each and every book; and to Margaret Halton who is always ready to stand by my side.
Thank you to Herman Graf and Jennifer McCartney, my editors at Skyhorse Publishing, for their belief in my work.
Lastly, my admiration and appreciation go to the people of Galveston. No matter what nature throws their way, they hunker down, then begin again.