The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck [253]
As it grew dark, someone brought out a flashlight to work by. Uncle John plunged on, throwing mud on top of the wall.
“You take it easy,’’ Pa said. “You’ll kill yaself.’’
“I can’t he’p it. I can’t stan’ that yellin’. It’s like—it’s like when——’’
“I know,’’ Pa said. “But jus’ take it easy.’’
Uncle John blubbered, “I’ll run away. By God, I got to work or I’ll run away.’’
Pa turned from him. “How’s she stan’ on the last marker?’’
The man with the flashlight threw the beam on the stick. The rain cut whitely through the light. “Comin’ up.’’
“She’ll come up slower now,’’ Pa said. “Got to flood purty far on the other side.’’
“She’s comin’ up, though.’’
The women filled the coffee pots and set them out again. And as the night went on, the men moved slower and slower, and they lifted their heavy feet like draft horses. More mud on the levee, more willows interlaced. The rain fell steadily. When the flashlight turned on faces, the eyes showed staring, and the muscles on the cheeks were welted out.
For a long time the screams continued from the car, and at last they were still.
Pa said, “Ma’d call me if it was bore.’’ He went on shoveling the mud sullenly.
The stream eddied and boiled against the bank. Then, from up the stream there came a ripping crash. The beam of the flashlight showed a great cottonwood toppling. The men stopped to watch. The branches of the tree sank into the water and edged around with the current while the stream dug out the little roots. Slowly the tree was freed, and slowly it edged down the stream. The weary men watched, their mouths hanging open. The tree moved slowly down. Then a branch caught on a stump, snagged and held. And very slowly the roots swung around and hooked themselves on the new embankment. The water piled up behind. The tree moved and tore the bank. A little stream slipped through. Pa threw himself forward and jammed mud in the break. The water piled against the tree. And then the bank washed quickly down, washed around ankles, around knees. The men broke and ran, and the current worked smoothly into the flat, under the cars, under the automobiles.
Uncle John saw the water break through. In the murk he could see it. Uncontrollably his weight pulled him down. He went to his knees, and the tugging water swirled about his chest.
Pa saw him go. “Hey! What’s the matter?’’ He lifted him to his feet. “You sick? Come on, the cars is high.’’
Uncle John gathered his strength. “I dunno,’’ he said apologetically. “Legs give out. Jus’ give out.’’ Pa helped him along toward the cars.
When the dike swept out, Al turned and ran. His feet moved heavily. The water was about his calves when he reached the truck. He flung the tarpaulin off the nose and jumped into the car. He stepped on the starter. The engine turned over and over, and there was no bark of the motor. He choked the engine deeply. The battery turned the sodden motor more and more slowly, and there was no cough. Over and over, slower and slower. Al set the spark high. He felt under the seat for the crank and jumped out. The water was higher than the running board. He ran to the front end. Crank case was under water now. Frantically he fitted the crank and twisted around and around, and his clenched hand on the crank splashed in the slowly flowing water at each turn. At last his frenzy gave out. The motor was full of water, the battery fouled by now. On slightly higher ground two cars were started and their lights on. They floundered in the mud and dug their wheels down until finally the drivers cut off the motors and sat still, looking into the headlight beams. And the rain whipped white streaks through the lights. Al went slowly around the truck, reached in, and turned off the ignition.
When Pa reached the cat-walk, he found the lower end floating. He stepped it down into the mud, under water. “Think ya can make it awright, John?’’ he asked.
“I’ll be awright. Jus’ go on.’’
Pa cautiously climbed the cat-walk and squeezed himself in the narrow opening. The two lamps were turned low. Ma sat on the mattress beside Rose of Sharon, and Ma fanned her still face with a piece of cardboard. Mrs. Wainwright poked dry brush into the stove, and a dank smoke edged out around the lids and filled the car with a smell of burning tissue. Ma looked up at Pa when he entered, and then quickly down.