Chapter II: Part 2

A flying piece of wood narrowly missed his head as he went down the steps, and a piece of wet pulpy paper hit him full in the face. He wiped it off and focused his light to see the path to the corral. But there was no path; it was covered by water. He drew his head into his coat and sloshed forward, bent double against the wind. "'Tain't a hurricane, it's naught but a full tide," he kept telling himself. "Still, I don't like it, with Misty so close to her time."

Inside the shed all was dry and warm. Misty was lying asleep, with Skipper back-to-back. The light brought the collie to his feet in a twinkling. He almost knocked Grandpa down with his welcome. Misty opened wide her jaws and yawned in Grandpa's face.

He couldn't help laughing. "See!" he told himself. "Nothing to worry about. Hoss-critters is far smarter'n human-critters." He fumbled in his pocket and found a few tatters of tobacco and said to himself, "Watch her come snuzzlin' up to me." And she did. And he liked the feel of her tongue on his hand and the brightness of her eye in the beam of his flashlight.

Affectionately he wiped his sticky palm on her neck and said, "I got to go in, Misty, now I know ye're all right. See you in the morning, and by then all the water'll slump back into the ocean where it b'longs."

When he came into the kitchen, Grandma was standing with a broom across the door. "Praises be, ye're safe!" she exclaimed. "I been holdin' these young'uns at bay. They wanted to follow ye."

"Grandpa! Has the colt come?" Maureen and Paul asked in one breath.

"Nope. And if I'm any judge, 'tain't soon. Now everybody to bed. Things is all right. We got to think that."

"Paul and I, we can't go to bed yet," Maureen protested.

"And why can't ye?"

"We haven't done our homework."

"Clarence," Grandma said, "you're all tuckered out, and you can't call Tom Reed 'cause our telephone's dead as a doorknob. So you go on to bed. I'll listen to the homework so's no more members of this household tippytoe out behind my back."

Grandpa patted everyone good night and went off, loosening his suspenders as he went.

"I feel like Abraham Lincoln studying by candlelight," Maureen said, bringing her pile of books close to the lantern.

"Wish you looked more like him," Paul teased, "instead of like a wild horse with a mane that's never been brushed."

"Humph, _your_ hair looks like a stubblefield."

"Children, stop it!" Grandma interrupted. "Ye can have yer druthers. Either ye go to bed or ye get to work."

Paul weighed the choices, then reluctantly opened his science book. But at the very first page he let out a whistle. "Listen to this! 'If the ancients had known what the earth is _really_ like, they would have named it Oceanus, not Earth. Huge areas of water cover seventy per cent of its surface. It is indeed a watery planet.'"

"Now that's right interesting," Grandma said, putting a few sticks of wood into the stove.

"Yes," Maureen pouted, "a lot more interesting than trying to figure how many times 97 goes into 10,241."

Paul waxed to his lesson as a preacher to his sermon. "Listen! 'People used to say the tides were the breathing of the earth. Now we know they are caused by the gra-vi--gra-vi-ta--gra-vi-ta-tion-al pull of the moon and sun.'"

"I do declare!" Grandma said. "It makes my skin run prickly jes' thinkin' about it."

"Go on!" Maureen urged. "What's next?"

Paul read half to himself, half aloud. "'When the moon, sun, and earth are directly in line--as at new moon and full moon--the moon's and the sun's pulls are added together and we have unusually high tides called spring tides.'"

Grandma sat rocking and repeating, "I declare! I do declare!" until her head nodded. Suddenly she jerked up and looked at the clock. "Paul Beebe! Stop! It's way past ten and, lessons or no, we all got to get to bed. _This instant!_"

_Chapter 7_

THE SEA TAKES OVER

All night long Paul heard the driving rain and the wind lashing the dead vine across his window. Even in his dreams he heard it. As gray daylight came, his sleepy voice kept mumbling, "They should've named it Oceanus ... Oceanus ... Oceanus."

His own words brought him awake. Scarcely touching his toes to the cold floor, he leaped to the window and pulled the curtain aside. He stared awestruck.

The sea was everywhere, all around. The tide had not ebbed. It had risen, its waves dirtied and yellowed by sand and jetsam. They were licking now against the underpinning of the house. Suddenly Paul knew it was more than rain he had heard in his dreams. It was the sea on its march to the house.

All at once fear was sharp in him, like a pain. Misty had drowned! She had drowned because she was trapped in a stall. He himself had bolted and locked and trapped her. If only, long ago, he had sent her back to Assateague with the wild things where she belonged! Then she could have climbed the White Hills and been saved. If only.... If...!

Angry at himself, almost blaming himself for the storm, he pulled on his blue jeans over his pajamas. And he yelled for Grandpa as he tore through the silent house to the back hall.

The old man was already there, struggling into his hip boots. "Shush! Shush!" he whispered. "You'll wake yer Grandma and Maureen. Ain't nothing they can do to help. Mebbe," his voice was tight and bitter, "ain't nothing anybody can do."

Paul hoped Grandpa wouldn't notice the tremble of his hands as he buttoned his jacket. But Grandpa was busy gathering up a pile of supplies--some old, worn bath towels, a thermos jug of hot water, a box of oatmeal, and a small brown paper sack. He stuffed the towels inside his slicker, picked up the jug, and gave the oatmeal and the sack to Paul.

"Mind you keep them dry," he cautioned. "The sack's got sugar inside ... in case o' emergency."

He opened the door, and the old man and the boy stepped out into a terrifying seventy-five-mile-an-hour gale. The sudden pressure half-knocked Paul's breath out. The rain blew into his eyes faster than he could blink it away. He felt Grandpa thrust a strong arm through his, and linked tight together they flung themselves against the wind, floundering ankle-deep in the choppy water. Paul's heart hammered in his chest and he cried inside, "Please, God, take the sea back where it belongs. Please take it back."

As they stumbled along, Grandma's new-hatched chicks swept by them and out to sea on the tide. And they saw two squawking hens, their feet shackled by seaweed, struggling to reach their chicks. But they were already out of sight. Paul and Grandpa, too, were helpless to save them.

Numb and weary, they reached the shed, and to their relief it was a windbreak. They caught their breath in its shelter. At least, Paul thought, the wind won't rush in when we open the door.

Grandpa set down his jug. Paul opened the door just a crack. Fearfully, uncertainly, they peered in. They stared unbelieving. Maureen, looking like a wet fish or a half-drowned mermaid, sat dozing on Misty's back. Skipper was sleeping at her feet, curled up in a furry ball.

As the door creaked on its hinges, Misty shied and Maureen fell off in a surprised heap. She bounced up like a jack-in-the-box.

"Wal, I never!" Grandpa clucked as he and Paul went inside. "Seems like we're intrudin'. Eh, Paul?"

Paul's surprise turned to resentment. "Least you could've done, Maureen, was to wake me up."

"And who usually goes off alone?"

"Who?"

"You! Remember when you sneaked Grandpa's boat and went to Assateague all alone?"

"Oh, that! That was no place for a girl."

"Stop it!" Grandpa shouted. He gave Maureen a gentle spank, then turned to Paul. "We've got all the makings here. You and Maureen fix a hot mash for Misty. I'll wade over to the hay house and see to Watch Eyes and Billy Blaze and the mares. You two wait for me here."

Later, at breakfast, Paul started to tell Grandma about her chicks, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. She was spooning up the porridge, trying to hide her fears with nervous chatter. "As you said, children, there's a time to go to school and a time to stay home. Well, this-here is the time to stay home. I won't have you going out again and catchin' the bad pneumonia."

"Guess ye're right, Idy," Grandpa agreed.

Paul and Maureen merely nodded. For once, a holiday from school did not seem attractive. They ate in silence.

"I've a good mind to feed you sawdust after this," Grandma went on. "Not a one of ye would know the difference."

Halfway through, Grandpa pushed his bowl of porridge aside. "It's stickin' in my gullet," he said. He got up from the table and stood over the stove, flexing his fingers. "Any way ye look at it," he sighed heavily, "we're bad off. Our old scow tore loose in the night--it's gone. And likely our ninety head up to Deep Hole are gone, too." His body shivered. "But even so," he added quietly, "we're lucky."

Maureen sat up very straight. "You have me and Paul," she said solemnly.

"That's 'zactly what I mean! We got us two stout-built grandchildren, and they're not afeard to buckle down and pull alongside us."

Paul stood up. He felt strong and proud, as if he could tackle anything. "I'm going with you, Grandpa."

"How'd ye know I'm going anywheres? But I am! I got to get over to town. Human folk may need rescuin'."

Grandma's lips pressed into a thin line. "Ye can't go! There's no road! Water'd come clean up over your boots."

"There, there, Idy. The wind's let up some, and Billy Blaze and Watch Eyes is used to plowin' through water. If they can't walk, they kin swim. Boy, ye ready?"

Paul shot a look of triumph at Maureen and immediately felt ashamed.

"Clarence!" Grandma pleaded, trying to keep her menfolk at home. "I won't have you going off and over-straining yourself. You, and me too," she added quickly, "is getting agey. Besides, soon the telephone will come on, and the electric, and we can all set cozy-like and listen to the news on the radio."

"If everyone was to stay home, Idy, a lot of folk might go floatin' out to sea like yer baby chicks." He clapped his hand over his mouth. He hadn't meant to tell her. But now it was too late.

Grandma's eyes filled. She covered her face with her hands. "Pore little chickabiddies," she whispered, "with their soft yellow fuzz and their beady birdy eyes." She wiped her tears with her apron. "All right, go 'long," she said. "I just hope your herd up to Tom's pasture ain't met the same fate."

Grandpa put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "That's another reason I got to go," he said. "When I'm fightin' the elements, I can't be grievin' about my herd. If they've weathered the night, they'll last the day. And if they ain't...."

"I'll keep watch on Misty," Maureen offered. "And if there's any trouble, Grandma knows all about birthing."

_Chapter 8_

PAUL TO THE RESCUE

By the time Paul and Grandpa set out on Watch Eyes and Billy Blaze, the wind had dropped to fifty miles an hour. Yet the water from the ocean was stealthily creeping up and up as if to reclaim this mote of land and take it back to the sea. Spilling and foaming, the tide continued to rise--flooding chicken farms, schoolyards, stores and houses--in its surge to join ocean and bay.

Watch Eyes and Billy Blaze were used to surf and boggy marsh, for they had been on many a wild pony roundup. Feeling ahead for footholds they pushed forward, step by step, not seeming to mind the water splashing up on their bellies.

Grandpa, on Blaze, cupped one hand about his mouth and yelled above the wind. "Turn off at Rattlesnake Ridge, Paul. We'll stop at Barrett's Grocery first and get the news."

Paul nodded as though he had heard. He was staring, horror-struck, at the neighbors' houses. Some had collapsed. And some had their front porches knocked off so they looked like faces with a row of teeth missing. And some were tilted at a crazy slant.

Anger boiled up in Paul--anger at the senseless brutality of the storm. He rode, shivering and talking to himself: "The big bully! Striking little frame houses that can't stand up to it, drubbing them, whopping them, knocking their props out."

A street sign veered by, narrowly missing the horses' knees. _98th Street_, it said. Grandpa turned around to make sure he had read it aright. "My soul and body!" he boomed. "It scun clean down from Ocean City! That's thirty mile away!"

Without warning, Watch Eyes suddenly slipped and went floundering. Paul's quick hand tightened on the reins, lifting his head. He felt Watch Eyes jolt, then stretch out swimming. "Go it! Go it!" he shouted, and he stood up in his stirrups, feeling a kind of wild excitement. This was like swimming the channel on Pony Penning Day. Only now the water was icier and it was spilling into his boots, soaking his blue jeans and the pajamas he still had on. Yet his body was sweating and he was panting when they reached the store.

In front of Barrett's Grocery two red gas pumps were being used as mooring posts for skiffs and smacks and trawlers. A Coast Guard DUKW, called a "duck," and looking like a cross between a jeep and a boat, came churning up alongside Grandpa and Paul. The driver called out: "Mr. Beebe! We need you both." His voice was a command. "Tie up your horses in Barrett's barn and come aboard."

From under the tarpaulin a child's voice cried excitedly, "Paul, how's Misty?"

And another spoke up. "Has she had her baby yet?"

Paul shook his head.

Mr. Barrett's barn had a stout ramp, and Watch Eyes and Billy Blaze trotted up and inside like homing pigeons. After Paul and Grandpa had loosened the ponies' girths and slipped the bits under their chins, they waded out to the DUKW. The passengers squeezed together to make room. Then the DUKW turned and chugged toward the village.

"Sir!" Paul asked the driver. "Could you take us up to Deep Hole to see about Grandpa's ponies?"

Grim-faced, the man replied, "Got to save people first."

As they turned onto Main Street, which runs along the very shore of the bay, Paul was stunned. Yesterday the wide street with its white houses and stores and oyster-shucking sheds had been neat and prim, like a Grandma Moses picture. Today boats were on the loose, bashing into houses. A forty-footer had rammed right through one house, its bow sticking out the back door, its stern out the front.

Nothing was sacred to the sea. It swept into the cemetery, lifted up coffins, cast them into people's front yards.

Up ahead, a helicopter was letting down a basket to three people on a rooftop. Grandpa gaped at the noisy machine in admiration. "I itch to be up there," he shouted, "lifting off the old and the sick."

Paul too wanted to do big rescue work.

As if reading his mind, the driver turned to him. "Son," he said, "do you feel strong enough to save a life?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Good. You know Mr. Terry--the man who has to live in a rocking bed?"

Paul nodded. "It rocks by electric, but he's got a gasoline generator now. Mrs. Terry was telling Grandpa last night."

"Yes, but along about midnight the gas ran low. It took the firemen an hour to get through this surf to deliver more gas to keep the generator running. He's still alive...."

"Then what can I do?" Paul asked.

"Plenty, son. The whole island's running out of gas, and until helicopters can bring some in, that respirator's got to be worked by hand."

"Oh. 'Course I'll help."

The driver now turned to Grandpa. "These folks," he said, indicating his passengers, "are flooded out. We'll take them to the second story of the Fire House for shelter. Then we got to chug up to Bear Scratch section and rescue a family with six children. Whoa! Here we are at the Terrys'."

The DUKW skewered to a stop in front of a two-story white house.

"Good luck, Paul. When the gas arrives, grab any DUKW going by, and we'll meet you back at Barrett's Store along about noon."

Paul got out and plowed up to the house. The door opened as he stumbled up the flooded steps, and Mrs. Terry greeted him. Her face was pale, and there were deep circles under her eyes, but she smiled. "You've come to man the generator?"

"Yes, sir--I mean, yes, ma'am," Paul stammered. "I'm Paul Beebe."

"Oh," she smiled again. "So you're the Beebe boy. You're the one who rescued Misty when she was a baby and nearly drowned."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And to think that now she's going to have a baby of her own."

"Yes, ma'am. Any minute."

All the while she watched Paul pulling off his boots and jacket Mrs. Terry talked to him, but her head was cocked, ears alert, listening to the steady hum of the generator in the next room.

"We've so little gas left," she said. "The doctor says I'm to save it in case relief-men get worn out." She led the way down the hall to Mr. Terry's bedroom.

Paul blanched. Hospitals and sick rooms gave him a cold clutch of fear. But the moment he saw Mr. Terry smiling there in his rocking bed he was all eagerness to help. Maybe he could do a better job than an old machine. Maybe he could pump stronger and faster, so Mr. Terry'd get a lot more air in his lungs and his face wouldn't look so white.

Mrs. Terry showed Paul how to work the controls. "He's used to just twenty-eight rocks a minute," she explained. "No faster."

"Hi, son." The voice from the bed was weak but cheerful. "It's good of you to help."

Paul bent to his work, pushing up and down in steady rhythm, twenty-eight strokes to the minute. Maybe, he thought as the minutes went by, now I can qualify for a volunteer fireman. He was glad he was used to pumping water for the ponies. And that set him thinking of Misty, and the bittersweet worry rushed over him again so that he barely heard Mrs. Terry.

"How wonderful people are, Paul," she was saying. "With their property wrecked and their own lives endangered, they are so concerned about us. And we aren't even Chincoteaguers. We just came here to retire."

Paul heard the words far off. He was thinking: Sometimes newborn colts don't breathe right away and horse doctors have to pump air into their lungs with their hands--like this, like this, like this. Down, up, down, up, down, up. Would it be twenty-eight times a minute for a little foal? Or more? Or less? How would he know? Why hadn't he asked Dr. Finney, the veterinarian from Pocomoke?

Runnels and rivulets of sweat were trickling down his back; his face and hair were dripping as if he were still out in the rain.

"Paul!" Mrs. Terry was saying, "Look! A whole beautiful tank of gas has come. And the DUKW man is waiting to give you a ride back. High time, too. You're all tuckered out, poor lamb!"

Mr. Terry smiled and shook hands with Paul. "In my book, you are a hero," he said.

In Barrett's store the smell of fresh-ground coffee and cheese and chewing tobacco was mixed with the stench of wet boots and dead fish. Paul stepped inside and closed the door.

Groups of men were standing, knee deep in water, gabbling to each other like long-legged shore birds. Paul waited by the door until Tom Reed beckoned him over.

"Yes, sir-r-r!" a man with a cranelike neck was saying, "I figure two, three pressure areas come together and made a kind of funnel."

Mr. Barrett was waiting on customers and listening at the same time. He leaned over the counter. "To my notion," he said, "this storm made a figure eight and come back again afore the tide ever ebbed."

Paul tugged at Tom's sleeve. "Mr. Reed," he whispered, "what about Grandpa's ponies up to your place?"

"Don't know, Paul. And we won't 'til we can get back into the woods. Water's too deep to walk in, and the DUKWs are too busy rescuin' people."

The storekeeper leaned across the counter, nosing in between Paul and Tom Reed. "Who's next, gentlemen?"

Paul felt in his pocket, counting his money. "I have thirty-nine cents," he said. "I can buy two cans of beans."

"If only we'd of got some notice of this storm," Mr. Barrett was saying as he spilled the coins into the drawer. "With a hurricane you know ahead, and when it's over, it's over."

"Yup," the men agreed. "A hurricane blows crazy, then it's gone. But a tidal storm sneaks up on you and stays."

Wyle Maddox, the leader of the roundup men, had been listening as he crunched on an apple. He came over now to Tom Reed. "Tom," he said, "you're blest with mother-wit. You're the one knows most about sea and sky. How do _you_ figure it?"

The small, spare man blushed. "Pshaw, Wyle, I'm no authority, but as I see it, the storm looped and come back, and kept a-pressin' and a-pressin' the water into the bay instead of letting it go out at ebb time."

"But why is the water so high on the bay side nearer the mainland?"

"'Cause usually it's a nor'west wind that helps the tide flow back out of the bay, but this time, wind blew nor'east and the water jes' swelled up into a bulge at the narrows, and it had to go somewheres."

The door suddenly opened, letting in the sound and cold of the wind, and with it came Grandpa Beebe, looking hale and ruddy alongside the lean fisherfolk.

"What's the news?" Mr. Barrett called out.

Grandpa looked from face to face. "Bad," he said. "Government's declared Chincoteague a disaster area."

A cry of scorn went up. "Disaster area? That's no news."

"But _this_ is! A hull fleet of heelyacopters is comin' in from the military this afternoon and we're all supposed to e-vac-u-ate over to the main."

"E_vac_uate?" The word dropped like a time bomb. Then the explosion.

"Why?"

"What fer?"

"Mebbe okay for sick folk."

"Yeh. Or the homeless."

"Me, I got a second story."

"Me, too."

Everyone was talking at once. Everyone but Paul. He felt a hard lump in his stomach. He would refuse to go ... unless they took Misty, too. The storekeeper rapped on the counter for silence. "Fellers, let's hear Mr. Beebe out."

Grandpa took a moment before he went on. "Tide's supposed to come up higher," he announced. "Four feet higher."

"_Four feet!_ Why, that'll flood the whole island. Every house, every store. Even the Fire House and the churches!"

"But that's only half the reason. Government says there could be an epidemic of the typhoid, 'cause of all the dead chickens and fish a-rottin' and mebbe"--Grandpa avoided Paul's eyes--"mebbe dead ponies."

The talk ceased. There was a sudden exodus. Men sloshing heavy-footed out of the store, getting into their boats, going home to their families, figuring out how to break the news.

"Come, Paul," Grandpa beckoned.

Paul followed along. "I bought us two cans of beans," he offered, not knowing what to say.

"Ain't goin' to need 'em," Grandpa said gruffly; then he turned to look at Paul. "They might taste real good, though, come to think of it."

_Chapter 9_

WAITING FOR THE WHIRLYBIRD

Getting home was rough going and agonizingly slow. The horses plodded through the water when they could, and swam when they had to. Paul and Grandpa stopped once to let them blow. Then they pressed on, man and creature eager for Home.

Almost there, Paul saw the higher ground of Pony Ranch with the buildings still standing brave and whole--the cottage, its green roof darkened by the rain, the made-over chicken coop and the hay house and the smokehouse--but they looked littler than before, and somehow frightened, with the sea creeping up on them.

At the gate Grandpa made his decision. "Ride down to the smokehouse, Paul," he said. "Pick us out a big ham. If we got to go, we ain't showin' up over on the main empty handed. I'll dry off Billy Blaze and see about Misty."

Skipper swam out to meet Paul, then paddled alongside all the way to the smokehouse. Round as a silo and perched on the highest spot of the ranch, the smokehouse was a landmark for ships in the channel. Inside, it was a friendly place, with its exciting smells, sweet and smoky. In the little while it took Paul to select the biggest ham and to cut a piece of rind for Skipper, the rain turned to icy sleet.

Grandpa was throwing an old red blanket over Misty when Paul looked in. "Grandpa!" he cried. "Misty's standing in water!"

"So'm I!"

"But you're not going to have a colt!"

"Wisht I was. Then maybe I'd get a bit o' coddlin'."

"But, Grandpa! What are we going to do with her?"

"The only thing left to do."

"What's that?"

"Take her smack into the kitchen."

"Into _Grandma's kitchen_?"

"The very one. And that's where she's goin' to stay 'til tide ebbs."

"Whew! How're you going to ask her?"

"I ain't askin'. I'll jes' put her halter on and lead her up the steps and onto the porch and in through the door."

"No, I mean how you going to ask Grandma."

"O-h. I ain't askin' her, neither. I'll jes' tell her, quiet-like."

But Grandpa didn't tell her quietly. He led up to it like a growing storm. "Idy! Maureen!" he thundered as he and Paul stomped in. "Yer menfolk are home."

"Praised be the Lord!" Grandma exclaimed. "I been so worried I couldn't do a lick o' work. Just sat by the window praying double-quick time."

"Tell it now," Paul whispered to Grandpa.

"Now ain't the time."

"But Misty's feet are wet."

"Won't hurt her none. Salt water's good for feet, man or beast." He turned now to Grandma. "Idy, dear, don't set the table. We'll jes' stand up and eat beans and sop up the 'lasses with some of yer good bread. Then we got some packin' to do, Idy dear."

Grandma mimicked. "Don't you 'Idy-dear' me, Clarence Beebe! What you up to? Yer face is red as a gobbler's wattle."

Paul giggled nervously. Often he had thought their tom turkeys and Grandpa looked alike, but he had never dared say it. He couldn't stop giggling. And soon Maureen was laughing along with him.

Grandma began to chuckle without knowing why. "I declare to goodness! Hearing people laugh is like sunshine flooding the house."

"It's floodin' I want to talk to ye about, Idy."

The laughter stopped.

Grandpa's voice was stern. "All morning heelyacopters been carryin' off the sick. Now they're comin' for folks as is well."

"Not me, they ain't!" Grandma flared up. "They can jes' count me out! I'm too old to start riding acrost the sky in an eggbeater."

"All righty! Mebbe ye prefers stayin' here and havin' sharks and crabs slinkin' into yer house and grabbin' ye." He winked at the children. "Recomember the day when that crab pinched yer Grandma when she was bendin' over, gatherin' oysters? Why, she went off like one o' them big rockets from Wallops Beach."

Grandma turned her back and began slicing bread with a vengeance.

"But what'll happen to Misty?" Maureen asked in alarm.

"_I'll_ stay with Misty," Grandma announced without turning around. "Much as I dislikes treating ponies like folks, I admit to a kinship when she's having a baby."

Grandpa cut open the can of beans with his knife. "Paul," he growled, "mebbe _ye_ can explain things to yer Grandma."

"It's true, Grandma," Paul said, helping himself to the heel of bread. "Tide's coming back four foot higher, and the island's going to be contamin--going to be spoilt rotten with dead chickens and stinky fish and snakes and mushrats and maybe even dead horses." He looked at Grandpa, wishing he hadn't said that. Then he went on quickly. "Health officials want everybody to clear out. They say there could be a fierce epidemic."

No one spoke. Grandma sat down at the table and stared vacantly. She brushed imaginary crumbs into her hand.

"Wa-al, Idy," Grandpa said, "ye can have yer druthers. Do ye want to stay and take a chance on losin' Paul and Maureen to the typhoid? Or do ye want to light out now, afore the tide pushes us out?"

For the first time Grandma began to waver. "Why, I had no idea 'twas that bad, Clarence."

"Wal, 'tis! Way to look at it is: people _got_ to go. Why, up to the north end of the island there was one big fat lady, weighed nigh two hundred pound, and this lady and her teenage girl and her girl's beau was a-sittin' in their house just talkin' away, and all to once a big whoosh o' the sea come spang into their sittin' room, and they was scramblin' atop tables and chairs, and they would've clumb into the attic if they'd a had one. But they didn't. An' that young boy, he had to saw a hole in their ceilin', mind ye, and he clumb up into the teensy air space there under the roof, and with him a-pullin' and the girl a-pushin' they squeezed the mother up through the hole." Grandpa stopped for breath.

"What happened to them?" Maureen asked. "Were they there all night?"

"Yup, and 'long 'bout daybreak the boy sawed a hole in the roof and they all clumb out, and later one o' them whirlybirds come down and rescues the three o' them from the rooftop, all shivery and wet and hungry.

"Now, Idy, how'd ye like it if we had to cut a hole in our purty green roof, and I'd have to haul ye up like a sack o' potatoes?"

Paul nudged Grandpa. "Tell her now."

"So ye see, Idy, we could be next. Already flood waters is seepin' into Misty's stable. She's comin' into yer kitchen," he announced, "and that's where she's going to stay 'til the tide's out."

"Good heavings!" Grandma looked beaten.

"Now then," Grandpa went on heartily, "ye better start packing. We'll want a blanket apiece and we're takin' a beautiful ham to surprise the mainlanders. And speakin' o' eatin', these beans is Paul's treat."

At last Grandma accepted the truth. She began to scurry about, talking to herself. "We got to take some soap for sure, and we'll have to have a comb and...."

Grandpa and the children left her to her bustling. There was much to be done before the helicopter came. Misty had to be brought into the kitchen and, before that, the marsh ponies in the hay house had to be made comfortable.

"Let's lift down the top bales," Grandpa directed when they reached the long shed. "We'll pile 'em two deep over the hull floor. That way even their feet'll be dry."

"And if we don't break open the bales," Paul said, "it'll take them just that much longer to eat the hay."

"They could live for a week in here," Maureen said.

"'Zackly!" Grandpa nodded. "No need to worry 'bout them."

Then it was Misty's turn. Paul had expected to lead her out of her stall quietly and that she would foot her way along carefully, as any broodmare should. But the moment he put on her halter, she began quivering as if the wind and waves called up the wildness in her. Her head went up, her tail went up, her ears pricked sharply. And even in the bitter cold she broke out in sweat.

"Whoa there, girl, whoa," Paul soothed. He slid his hand through her halter as he opened her door. But with one leap she was in the water, lifting him off his feet. She didn't want to be led. She wanted to splash and play like any Chincoteague pony.

Grandpa grabbed her from the other side. "Maureen!" he yelled, "you hop on and ride her to the steps. Me and Paul'll guide her from behind."

Maureen climbed aboard. Through her legs she could feel Misty's heart pounding. The water was up to Misty's knees. Then a swirl of it hit her belly. She tried to jump over it.

Maureen grabbed a handful of mane. "Yahoo!" she cried in startled surprise.

Misty tried one more leap, then settled down and went steadily forward. She reached the steps well ahead of Paul and Grandpa, who came wading up, out of breath.

"Now here's the touchy part," Grandpa panted. "Steps're mighty slippy and we don't want her fallin' and hurtin' herself."

But Misty had been up these steps before. She clomped up happily, lifting each foot high. On the top step she paused, mesmerized. A little brown rabbit sat stock-still on the porch rail, not a whisker twitching. It seemed more statue than real. The two creatures stared at each other, the big soft brown eyes and the small beady ones. Misty snorted as if to say, "What you doing here? Go on back to your briar patch!" But the rabbit never budged, not even when Misty stretched out her neck and breathed right in its face.

Grandpa guffawed. Even then the cheeky little thing stood its ground, more afraid of the rising water than of people or ponies.

"He's sassing Misty," Paul laughed. "'Don't eye me, ma'am,' he's saying, 'I been flooded out. Same as you.'"

At last Misty grew bored and ambled across the porch, through the back hall, and right into the kitchen. When they were all crowded inside, Grandpa took off his hat in a sweeping bow. "Meet Idy, my wife," he said.

Grandma winced. "We met before," she said drily. Then her heart melted. "Take off yer purty red shawl, Misty," she said, entering into the game, "and make yerself to home." She went to the refrigerator while Misty followed after, snatching a streamer of her apron.

Grandma jumped in fright, almost stumbling over her apron on the floor. "Why, that ungrateful rascal! I've a good notion to put these carrots back in the box." But she didn't. She held them out and let Misty lip them. "Feels tickly, her lips and whiskers, don't they?"

Paul and Maureen exchanged glances.

Grandma stiffened. "You're all dripping pools of water on my clean floor." She sighed. "But no matter now, I guess. How soon will the heelyacopter come for us?" she asked.

"Right soon," Grandpa replied. "Come on, son, we better hurry and haul in plenty of straw for Misty."

After they had made a deep rustly bed for her in the kitchen, there was nothing left to do. Four blankets and the ham were ready and waiting, and Misty was already at home, contentedly munching wisps of hay while Maureen combed her mane.

As the minutes dragged on, Grandma grew pale and fidgety. She busied herself pouring an extra bowl of milk for Wait-a-Minute. Then she began watering her sweet potato vine and her fern.

"That's my girl," Grandpa came over and patted her shoulder. "That's my girl." Then he broke into a sudden howl as he caught her wetting down a plant of artificial violets.

Even Grandma laughed at herself and her color came back. "Believe now I'll just sit down and play us a hymn," she said. "I hate waiting for anything, 'specially heelyacopters."

She opened up the organ and began playing and singing. Her voice quavered at first, then grew stronger as if she wanted to reach God in his heaven, direct.

"_Je_-sus, _Sav_-iour, _pi_-lot _me_,
_O_-ver _life's_ tem-pest-uous _sea_;
_Un_-known _waves_ be-fore me _roll_,
_Hi_-ding _rock_ and treach-erous _shoal_;
_Chart_ and _com_-pass _come_ from _Thee_;
_Je_-sus, _Sav_-iour, pi-lot _me_."

"That's great, Idy. Misty's ears is keeping time, turning ever' which way."

Then Grandpa saw the helicopter breaking through the dun-colored sky. "Play it once more," he urged. "Just once more!" No use worrying her too soon, he thought.

Again Grandma's trembly voice filled the little house.

"_Je_-sus, _Sav_-iour, _pi_-lot _me_,
_O_-ver _life's_ tem-pest-uous _sea_."

_Chapter 10_

BACKYARD LANDING

The helicopter was chewing into the wind, coming closer and closer to Pony Ranch. Almost over the house it stopped in midair, engine roaring. It silenced even Grandma's music.

Everyone flew to the window, including Misty. They watched as the noisy machine hung over their heads.

"He's trying to decide!" Paul yelled.

"Who is? What?" Maureen wanted to know.

"The pilot, silly. He's figuring out where to land."

Grandpa was spellbound. "Ain't that beautiful? It's hangin' in the air jes' like a hummer-bird."

"Oh, mercy me!" Grandma cried as the helicopter tilted drunkenly, and began a steep vertical descent. "Oh ... oh! It's going to set right in my daffydil bed!"

Like a bird aiming for its nest, the helicopter hovered over the mounded-up flower bed, then squatted down on the tiny patch.

Grandma watched in dismay as its rotors spit sand and water in every direction. She hid her face in her hands. "Oh, Clarence! Oh, Clarence!" she sobbed. "I can't go. I can't!"

"And why can't ye?" Grandpa demanded.

"Because, because...." She groped for a reason. "Misty'll ruin my linoleum and...." Here the sobbing became a wail, "... she'll chew on my nice new table with the let-down leaves."

"No, she won't!" Paul was on the defensive. "I'll stay and watch her."

"You listen to me, Paul Beebe," Grandpa exploded. "Anybody stayin' behind'll be me, head o' the household. Quick now! Everybody grab a blanket. I'll go out and explain things to that pilot." He started for the door.

Grandma reached it first and made a barricade of herself. Her crying was done. "If'n you stay behind, Clarence, we all do. Either we go as a fambly or we stay as a fambly."

Grandpa sighed, half amused, half annoyed. "Then everything's settled. Throw yer mind outa gear, Idy, and get yer duds on."

While Grandma was struggling into her overboots, Grandpa and the children were doing last-minute chores: opening a window from the top, just a crack, taking vegetables from the refrigerator and scattering them in amongst Misty's hay. Last of all, Grandpa put the stopper in the sink and turned on the cold water. "Makes a neat water trough, eh?" he chuckled, avoiding Grandma's eyes.

"You think she can manage without us?" Maureen asked.

"We got to think that, honey. And even if the tide seeps in, I made this straw bed so thick the little colt won't even get his hinder wet."

"Sure," Paul added. "And see how Wait-a-Minute is cozying up to Misty. They'll keep each other company. And see how calm she is, watching that 'copter. She's saying, 'I've seen big birds flapping their wings before.'"

"Oh, Paul, I wish I could read critters' minds the way you do."

"That's easy, Maureen. You just got to be smart as them."

Mr. Birch, the Coast Guard man, welcomed the Beebes at the foot of the stairs. Standing there in the water he looked like a preacher, ready to baptise his flock. "Wisht everybody was prompt, like you folks," he said as he herded them toward the helicopter, "and willing to cooperate without arguin'."

"We did all that afore you came," Maureen said.

Mr. Birch laughed. "Leave it to the young'uns to come out with the truth!" He helped Grandma up the steps and into the shuddering plane. "See, Mrs. Beebe, it's easier than boarding a train."

Maureen started to follow but suddenly turned to Paul, and almost in unison they let out one cry. "Skipper! Skipper!" They both called frantically. "_S-k-i-p-p-e-r!_"

Mr. Birch was shaking his head. "Sorry, children. We just have room for folks on this trip. All dogs stay behind."

"Put him in the kitchen, too," Grandma offered.

"Skipper! Here, Skipper!" The children whistled and screamed. But there was no sign of him. Only the water swirling, and the trees bending with the wind.

"All aboard!" the pilot called out. "We got another pickup to make before dark. All aboard!"

Likely Skipper's drowned, Paul thought but didn't say aloud. He got into the helicopter and took a seat where he could look out at the house. But he refused to look.

"Fasten your seat belts!" the pilot ordered.

"Now, ain't this excitin'?" Grandpa yelled, as the blades overhead began whirring madly and the helicopter rose slowly off the earth and climbed straight up and up. "It's just like bein' in a elevator."

Grandma shook her head. She leaned toward the earth, taking a long last look at Pony Ranch, saying good-bye to it. Grandpa squeezed her hand comfortingly, and he looked down, too, down at the little house growing smaller and smaller.

"Such a racket!" Maureen cried. "Sounds faster than we're going."

Grandma held her hands over her ears. "Feels as if a thousand dentists are drilling inside my head."

"On your store teeth?" Paul grinned.

"Oh, Paul, stop teasing. I wish ... I wish you and Maureen was littler. If only I had a baby to hold, I'd feel braver."

Grandma soon got her wish. At the next stop they picked up the Hoopers and the Twilleys and young Mrs. Whealton with her squalling baby. Just as the father of the baby was about to board, the pilot poked his head out the window. "Sorry, sir. We're full. You'll have to wait for the next one."

Quickly the young man tried to hand in a pile of diapers, but a gust of wind tore most of them away and they went flying off like kites.

Mrs. Whealton, clutching her baby, started to get out.

"Stay put, lady. Everybody! Stay put!"

"I'll be along soon," Mr. Whealton called. And before the door closed, he thrust in the remaining diapers and the baby's bottle.

As the helicopter took off, Mrs. Whealton began sobbing louder than her baby. The passengers looked at one another, helpless and embarrassed. All except Grandma. She opened wide her arms.

"You just hand that little tyke acrost to me," she smiled, "and wipe yer eyes. You kin busy yerself foldin' the few diapers you got left."

Willingly Mrs. Whealton passed the baby across the aisle and into experienced hands. The crying stopped at once.

The northeast wind shook the helicopter, but it obeyed the pilot's stick. "We take no back talk from the elements," Mr. Birch said to reassure his passengers.

The plane was heading into the wind, flying low over the channel and over the long rib of sand that was Assateague. Everyone scanned the hills and woods for wild ponies.

"I see a bunch!" Paul cried.

"I knowed it! I knowed it!" Grandpa exulted. "They're atop the White Hills."

The pilot tried to hold the plane steady, but the gale buffeted it mercilessly. Twice he circled the herd, then climbed and headed due west. The island of Assateague seemed to be sailing backward, and now they were over Chincoteague again.

"Mr. Birch!" Maureen shouted. "Look at the people on that raft. They're waving a white flag."

"I see it," Mr. Birch answered, "but it's a housetop, not a raft, and they're waving a bedsheet. They don't know we got a full load."

From the cockpit the pilot called back, "We'll get 'em on the next trip. No, we won't!" he contradicted. "I see another chopper heading this way. They'll beat us to it."

Mr. Hooper, a quiet little man, said his first words of the trip. "Sky's so full o' whirlybirds we're goin' to need a traffic cop up here."

In spite of all the tragedy, the passengers couldn't help smiling at Mr. Hooper's joke.

"Yup," Grandpa agreed. "I can eenamost see a policeman mounted on a cloud like a parson in a pulpit."

But the make-believe fun didn't last. Now they were over the big bay of water, and now they could see the wavy shore of the mainland. Slowly the helicopter came down from the sky onto a landing field at Wallops Station. A thin fog was closing in and the night lights were already on as the Beebes and Hoopers and Twilleys and Mrs. Whealton tumbled out of the plane like seeds from a pod. A gust of wind swept them into a little huddle.

Suddenly the adventure and excitement were over. Standing there in the rain, Paul felt what he was, a refugee, homeless and cold and hungry. And half his mind was far away in a hay-strewn kitchen.

_Chapter 11_

REFUGEES

Wallops Station is on the mainland of Virginia, just across the bay from Chincoteague Island. Once it had been a Naval Air Station, teeming with activity--planes roaring off and gliding in; signal crews waving orders; officers and men, pilots and engineers, radio technicians and clerks all criss-crossing from building to building. Then the government closed the base, and for three years the buildings stood empty, like a forest of dead trees.

But when the helicopter landed that stormy March evening, lights were blazing in every window. The whole place had come to life. Fire trucks were racing to meet helicopters, rushing sick refugees to the emergency hospital and others to the barracks and even the administration building.

The storm was now twenty-four hours old. Wind still blowing strong. Rain gusty. Clouds low. No moon, no stars.

At the edge of the landing strip the little clump of passengers stood huddled, clutching their blankets, staring at the yellow headlights coming toward them.

"Which building?" a fireman called out as he drove the truck within earshot.

Grandpa Beebe shouted back, "Don't know. Be there a fire?"

The driver replied with a boom of laughter, "There's no fire, Old Timer. I simply got to ask each family if they want to go where their friends are. Climb in, folks."

"Hey, Chief," Grandpa addressed the driver, "we don't any of us know one building from t'other. But if it's all the same to you, it'd be best to see to little Mis' Whealton first. In that shawl she's got the teensiest baby you 'most ever see."

The driver nodded. "Good idea," he said, backing and turning and roaring away. He dropped Mrs. Whealton and her baby at the hospital, left the Hoopers and the Twilleys at one of the barracks, and took the Beebe family to the mess hall. "There's more children here," he explained.

Wet and weary, Grandpa and Grandma, Paul and Maureen climbed the flight of stairs to the second floor, clutching their blankets. Paul still had the ham, now slung over his shoulder. An arrow on the wall pointed to an open door down the hall. Light streamed out and voices buzzed.

The room, half filled with refugees, was large and bright, and it smelled of wet wool and rubber boots, and fear and despair.

"Make yourself to home," an earlier arrival greeted them. "Just find a little spot to call your own. Lucky thing you have blankets. These floors are mighty hard for sleeping."

For a moment the Beebes stood looking around, trying to accustom their eyes to the light. Benches were lined up against the walls and scattered throughout the room. Most of the people were strangers to them, refugees from Nag's Head probably, or other islands nearby. They sat paralyzed, like animals caught in a trap, not struggling any more, just numbed. Only their eyes moved toward the entrance as each new family trudged in.

"They all look sad and full of aches," Grandma said, searching for a place to sit down.

"I see an empty bench," Maureen called, and led the way in and out among suitcases and camp chairs and children.

An old grizzled seaman in a ragged jacket came over and confronted Grandpa. He swore loud oaths to sea and sky. "Can't believe it could happen here," he said, pounding his fist on his hand. "Why, ye read 'bout it elsewheres...."

"Yeah. Tidal waves slam up in faraway places, but you never dream about it happening here."

At the far end of the room women from the Ladies' Aid were bringing in platters of sandwiches and a huge coffee pot.

"Take our ham over to them, Paul," Grandma said. "Mebbe they'd like to cut it in chunks and bake it with potatoes for tomorrow. I'd feel a heap happier if I could help," she confided to Maureen.

When the table was readied, people began forming in line. And all at once they were no longer trapped animals. They were human beings again, smiling at one another, sharing stories of rescue. Drawn by the smell of food, a long-eared pup shot out of a blanket and ran toward the table, his mistress after him.

Paul and Maureen joined the chase. "How'd you do it? How could you bring your dog?" Paul asked.

"Why, he's all the family I got, and I just rolled him up in his blanket. This afghan is really his," the woman explained, "and he burrowed into it like a turtle in his shell. The pilot didn't even see him. Tonight," she added with a smile, "he's got to share his blanket with me, for a change."

Maureen admired the dog, thinking of Skipper. "We couldn't find our Skipper," she said as she stroked and petted the little pup.

The lady was all sympathy. "Tell me about your dog."

"We had a big collie right up until time to leave," Paul answered.

"And we got a pony in our kitchen back in Chincoteague," Maureen spoke up.

The woman seemed suddenly to recognize Paul. "Why, you're the boy who caught a wild mare over to Assateague and set her free again."

The children nodded.

"And the pony in your kitchen--is it Misty?"

"Yes, ma'am, it's Misty, all right."

The woman was excited. "Why, they been talking about her on the radio. Children who saw her movie are swamping the stations with calls, wanting to know if she drowned."

"She's safe," Paul said. "That is, she...." He stopped. He could feel his heart throbbing in his ears. In a split-second dream he was back on Chincoteague with the ocean rolling and pounding in under the house, and with a horrible hissing sound it was breaking the house apart, and in the same instant Misty was swept out to sea until her mane became one with the spume. Paul shook off the dream as the woman called three young children to her.

"You youngsters," she said, "will be glad to know that Misty's safe in the Beebes' kitchen. And this is Paul and Maureen Beebe."

Wide-eyed, the children pelted them with questions. In the pain of uncertainty Paul answered what he could. Then he turned away, pulling Maureen along back to their bench. Grandma put an arm around each of them. "More folks are coming in," she said, trying to put their world back together. "Now mebbe we'll get some heart'ning news."

In a daze Paul and Maureen listened to the bits and pieces of talk.

"Old Dick Evans died trying to save his fish nets. Got plumb exhausted. His heart give out."

"When _we_ flew over, I saw how the waves had chawed big chunks out of the causeway, and six autos were left, half-buried in sand. Even one of the DUKWs was stuck."

"When we flew over, the sea had swallowed up the causeway. Why, Chincoteague is cut off from the main like a boat without an anchor."

"I heerd that a lady over to Chincoteague had a husband and two children that couldn't swim. She swum two blocks in that icy water for help. Nearly died afore one of them DUKWs fished her up and drug her, sobbin' and drippin', to the Fire House. Then they goes back for her husband and kids." The speaker paused. "But guess what?"

"What?" someone asked.

"Why, between whiles a whirlybird airlifted 'em off'n the roof and they thought _she'd_ drownt and she thought _they'd_ drownt. And later they all got together at the Fire House."

"See, children," Grandma whispered, "some of the news is right good."

A young reporter carrying his typewriter joined the gathering. "I heard," he said, "that a hundred and fifty wild ponies were washed right off Assateague."

"O-h!" The news was met by a shocked chorus.

"Before I write that for my paper, I'd like you folks to give me your comments." He took out a notebook and pencil.

A strained silence followed. The reporter looked around at the tight faces and put his notebook away.

Then the talk began again.

"I s'pose we oughtn't be thinking about wild ponies when people are bad off," a white-haired woman said.

"But what would it mean to Chincoteague," the reporter asked, "if Pony Penning Day had to be stopped for lack of ponies?"

Grandpa Beebe roused up. "Why, Chincoteague has took her place with the leading towns of the Eastern Shore. And mostly it's the wild pony roundup did it."