ELEVEN
In descending the Mississippi, on the night of the 6th February, we tied our boat to a willow bar on the west bank of the river, opposite the head of the 9th Island, counting from the mouth of the Ohio we were lashed to mother boat. About 3 o’clock, on the morning of the 7th, we were waked by the violent agitation of the boat, attended with a noise more tremendous and terrific than I can describe or any one can conceive, who was not present or near to such a scene. The constant discharge of heavy cannon might give some idea of the noise for loudness, but this was infinitely more terrible, on account of its appearing to be subterraneous.
As soon as we waked we discovered that the bar to which we were tied was sinking, we cut loose and moved our boats for the middle of the river. After getting out so far as to be out of danger from the trees which were falling in from the bank— the swells in the river was so great as to threaten the sinking of the boat every moment. We stopped the outholes with blankets to keep out the water— after remaining in this situation for some time, we perceived a light in the shore which we had left— (we having a lighted candle in a Ian-thorn on our boat,) were hailed and advised to land, which we attempted to do, but could not effect it, finding the banks and trees still falling in.
At day light we perceived the head of the tenth island. During all this time we had made only about four miles down the river— from which circumstance, and from that of an immense quantity of water rushing into the river from the woods— it is evident that the earth at this place, or below, had been raised so high as to stop the progress of the river, and caused it to overflow its banks— We took the right hand channel of the river of this island, and having reached within about half a mile of the lower end of the town, we were affrightened with the appearance of a dreadful rapid of falls in the river just below us; we were so far in the sock that it was impossible now to land— all hopes of surviving was now lost and certain destruction appeared to await us! We having passed the rapids without injury, keeping our bow foremost, both boats being still lashed together.
Account of Matthias M. Speed,
Jefferson County, March 2,1812
WHAM WHAM WHAM.
Omar lay in his front yard and watched his house shake to pieces. The old double shotgun home was lightly built— no need for heavy construction in a place where there was no winter, no weather worse than a thunderstorm— and it was not built to stand up to tremors on this scale.
All the work, he thought. All the work in this heat. And now it’s falling apart.
The brick chimney had rumbled down before he, Wilona, and Micah Knox had realized what was happening, and had run— staggered, really— out onto the lawn. Once there, it proved difficult to keep on their feet, and so they lay down in an open area, away both from the house and the magnolia tree in front, where nothing would fall on them, nothing but a blizzard of tumbling blossoms from the tree.
WHAM WHAM WHAM.
The earth quaked and shuddered and moaned.
Wilona gave a cry as the old shiplap house was shaken off its brick piers and came lurching to the ground. There were crashes from the interior as furniture tumbled or slid. The carport caved onto the car with a metal whine. Omar reached out and put an arm around Wilona’s shoulders.
“Don’t worry,” he called. “We’re insured.” And wondered, Are we? He didn’t have the slightest idea what the policy had to say about earthquakes.
Wilona just stared at the house, one hand to her throat as if to secure Great-Aunt Clover’s pearls, her one treasure. Her other hand clutched her white gloves, the only thing she’d snatched from the room on her way out.
Knox crouched on the quaking ground in a kind of three-point balance, like a football player waiting for a signal from the quarterback. His expression was a mixture of fear and excitement, like a kid on a roller coaster.
WHAM WHAM WHAM.
Shingles and chimney bricks tumbled off the roof. Paint flakes flew in little blizzards. Many of the clapboards shook right off the side of the building. Wilona’s lace curtains fluttered through empty windows. Omar could feel his teeth rattling together with every tremor.
And then the shaking faded away. In the silence they were aware of a baby’s shrieks, the frenzied barking of cur dogs, the blaring of a car horn. The quake was over.
But there was a rushing, and a coughing, and rubble burst from the yard of the neighbor across the street. It was like a mine going off, throwing debris arching into the air. Omar’s heart gave a leap. He threw himself over Wilona as stones and chunks of wood rained down. A gush of water came up, blasting from the fissure as if from a fireman’s hose. The neighbor’s trailer, which had tipped to one side with its metal wall tortured and bent, gave a tormented booming rattle as the geyser tried to tear the sides from the building.
Mist began raining down. Omar stood up, tried to shield Wilona. “Let’s move away from this,” he said.
Knox stood, swayed. “What was that?” he asked.
“Earthquake, I guess.”
“You got earthquakes, too?” Knox was staring. “Hurricanes and swamps and niggers just down from the trees and earthquakes, too?”
“Every hunnerd years, I guess,” Omar said. He helped Wilona to stand, and she began to walk toward the house. He caught her arm. “Don’t go back in the house, hon,” he said. “It might not be safe.”
“I want to call my Davey!” Wilona’s glare was fierce. “I want to know my boy’s all right!”
Omar blinked. Their son was attending LSU in Baton Rouge— could the earthquake have reached that far?
He drew her gently from the house. “Come to the car, hon,” he said. “We can make phone calls from the police radio.”
The mention of the radio reminded Omar that he was sheriff, that he was going to be needed here in this emergency, that people would be depending on him.
His mind swam. He had no idea what to do next. Numbly, while he tried to think, he began to steer Wilona toward the crumpled car port, away from the spouting water.
Knox danced in front of him. He seemed full of energy. His eyes glittered, and there was an intent grin on his face. “Hey, Omar,” he said. “Let’s get the carport off your car. You need to get to headquarters, establish a command post.”
The words seemed to enter Omar’s mind from a great distance. “Yeah,” he said. “Guess I’d better do that.”
“But what do I do?” Wilona asked.
Omar licked his lips. “Come along, I guess,” he said. “The courthouse is probably the safest place around.”
“Great!” Knox said. “You know— you should deputize me. You’re gonna need a lot of special deputies in a crisis like this.”
Omar wondered if this was something he could actually do.
“In fact,” Knox went on, “disaster on this scale, you’re gonna need a lot of paramilitaries.” He gave a glittering smile, bounced up on his steel-capped boots. “You’re gonna have trouble keeping order in this county— parish, I mean. You might just wanna call in the Klan. Everyone you can trust. Because sure as there is God in Heaven, nobody’s gonna be looking after the white people of this parish but you.”