In Sight of Death

Illustrated News of the World (New York), 27 August 1892, pages 202-203, 4,152 words

“Tis this infernal rain on the roof that makes me dream so," he said, overturning a chair as he started to his feet. The fire was still smouldering in the grate, and the dawn had begun to whiten the pane. He listened. The fowls were crying as if a fox were in their roost, and the pigs suddenly ceased squealing as if the butcher's knife had done its work. Tom ran to the window and saw water everywhere. Out of their flooded styes the pigs had succeeded in breaking, and they were now swimming for bare life; the house-dog was being drowned in vain endeavour to climb into his kennel, the hens rose from the water in short flights, and, for comic touch in this watery tragedy, the cock, safely perched on his coop, shrilled his loudest. Slowly the day soaked through the grey void. Tom heard a step. It was Daddy Lupton, and with the pallor of sleep on his face, and tottering on his ancient limbs, he looked like very Death.

"Well," said Daddy, his toothless mouth trembling in his white beard, "what do 'er think 'bout the jade now? It makes one feel young again. The biggest flood we've had this long while, the best we've had this twenty years." Tom looked at him interrogatively, and he grew voluble in his recollections of a great flood of sixty years ago, in which he had nearly lost his life, escaping on a chance plank which had happened to drift within his reach. And yet that was nothing to the flood of nearly eighty years ago. A whole village had been borne away, hundreds had perished, the water had come down the valley faster than a horse could gallop. For miles and miles, right up to the foot of the hills, there was nothing but water. "And how do ye think I escaped that time? Why, in my cradle. All my brothers and sisters were drowned, father and mother too; but the cradle floated right away as far as Beading, where it was picked up by a party in a boat. There has been no flood to speak of since them days, everything is that changed. But a fine jade she once was, and in those times, when it rained like this, we used to lie quaking in our beds. But there's no fear for us now. We kin sleep safe enough." 

"Sleep safe enough! This is no time for sleepin'. I must wake 'em up."

"Do 'ee think so?" said the old man, grinning vacuously. “Well, the jade do seem like waking up."

In a few minutes the whole family assembled in the kitchen — John Lupton, a tall, spare man, with a red beard, small, clear eyes, and hands freckled and hairy; and Margaret Lupton, his wife, a pleasant, portly woman of forty, with blue eyes, soft and regular features — a striking contrast to her daughter Liz. Liz was more like her father, a thin-shouldered and thin-featured girl, out of whose freckled skin there looked a pair of small bright eyes, and above whose low forehead there waved pleasant reddish hair. Billy, a boy of seven, was like his mother, with this difference, that his hair was red. He clung to his mother's gown with one hand and held his father's hand with the other. "Shall we go in the boat, father?"

"What boat, sonny?"

"Tom's boat."

"Tom's boat wouldn't hold us all."

"We needn't all go together."

Lupton did not answer.

"My boat is far enough from 'ere by this time," said Tom. "Or most like she's at the bottom of the river. I tied her last night to the old elder.”

Tom Hard was a fair-complexioned, broad-shouldered young fellow, six feet high, the type of agricultural England. He was an orchard-grower on the other side of the river, and he and Liz were to be married at the end of the week. For a long time past Tom had spent his Sunday evenings with the Luptons. At sundown he pulled himself across the river, and when he and Liz came home from their walk supper was on the table. But last evening Liz was frightened at his account of the river, and she said she would not close her eyes if he ventured a second crossing. The fire burnt brightly; there was beer and tobacco on the table; his arm was round Liz's waist. She had turned her pretty freckled face to his, had laid her thin hand on his shoulder, and he had remained. A few more pipes had been smoked, another glass had been drunk, and Tom had been given a blanket and told to make himself comfortable before the fire.

"I never knew the river to rise so high before," said Lupton.

"I did — I did."

It was Daddy. He was still in his night-shirt — still grinning in his white beard.

“Go and dress 'eeself, father." And then to calm the growing apprehension, Lupton loudly demanded breakfast. Mrs. Lupton lighted a fire and made the tea, but they had not been sitting down five minutes when Billy said —

"Father! father! the water be coming in under the door yonder. Take me on 'ee knee, father. 'Ee did promise to take me to Harebridge. If I drown, I sha'n't see the circus!"

Lupton took the little chap on his knee. "There be no danger of that; grandfather will tell 'ee this is nothing to the floods he saw when he was a little boy."

All the while the water continued to pour into the room. Mrs. Lupton took the baby out of the cot, while the others made hasty search for tea, sugar, bacon, eggs, coal, and candles. And they were very wet when they assembled in the Luptons' bed-room. Lupton emptied the water out of his big boots, and called on Tom to do the same; Liz wrung out her petticoats, and, standing round the table, they drank their tea and ate some slices of bread and butter. The baby had been laid asleep on the bed, and Daddy sat there softening his crust in his mug of tea, mumbling to himself, his fadling brain full of incoherent recollections. The day had at last succeeded in filtering through masses of grey cloud, and fine mansions emerged among the wooded hills; all except Daddy Lupton crowded round the window and surveyed the rushing, watery wilderness.

“The folk in them fine houses will be surprised to see the water at the bottom of their parks," said Lupton.

"They be lucky to live so high up; the water’ll never reach they," said Mrs. Lupton. "But they’ll think to send boats for us?”

"They 'aven't got boats to send," said Tom. "They be a good mile from the river."

"Tom, dear, it be a pity your boat is gone; you could row me right into Harebridge," said Liz.

"Yes, if 'ee sat very still, and didn't look at me until I forgot to row."

"I'd be lighter than Liz: would 'ee take me, Tom?" said Billy.

As the tops of the apple-trees were still visible, they judged the depth of the water to be about ten feet.

Cattle passed the window, some swimming strong and well, others nearly exhausted. Then a dead horse whirled past, its poor neck stretched out lamentably, and they all laughed at the dead fox that floated so peacefully after a drowned hen-roost. Apples came by in great numbers, and Billy forgot his fears in his desire to obtain some. Great trees rolled heavily in the current, and catching the pointsman's box they took it easily away with them.

“There goes my box, how she do swim! She'd put me into the quay at Harebridge as well as a steam-packet."

An hour passed watching the water, wondering if it were rising or sinking. Liz declared that she was certain the flood was sinking, and all eyes were fixed on the object indicated. A few minutes after it disappeared, and it became clear that the flood was still rising. And it also became clear that it was no mere river inundation, and Lupton said he could only account for the swiftness of the current on the supposition that the embankments up the valley where the factories were had given way. The conversation paused. They walked away from the window, but there was nothing to distract their thoughts, and when their eyes met, each read his own thought on the other's face. "We must do something: what shall we do?"

"Yes, we must do something!" cried Lupton. "We can't drown here like rats. If we had a few bits of timber we might make a raft. But there isn't as much in the room as would swim a cat. 'Tis a pity that bedstead is made of iron."

Tom, who was leaning out of the window, suddenly cried, "Give a hand here, John; 'ee was talking about a raft — I've got one!" He had caught a few planks tied together — a raft that others in the same plight as themselves had vainly endeavoured to escape upon. "It ain't much of an affair," said Lupton, "the old 'ouse is safer than it. It might carry one."

"Yes; one of us might chance it, and bring back help."

"That's right enough. 'Tis but a poor chance, but one of us had better risk it. Go along, lad; go along, and come back in a boat."

"Tom, don't 'ee leave me!" cried Liz. “Let's be drowned together if we baint to be married."

"Be you mazed, lass?" said Lupton. "Tom will manage all right on them planks, and he'll come back in a boat."

"No, father, no; I'd sooner die with Torn than live without him."

“'Ee ar'n't the only one. 'Ee'd better let him go, or yonder church will see no wedding party next Monday…. Tom, get astride of them planks."

The girl made a forward movement; she thought only of the unbearableness of separation from her lover. Her hand touched his neck. Tom still held the planks. Her lips did not speak, but her eyes said, "Don't 'ee leave me, Tom," and in answer he pushed the planks into the flood, stood up and took his sweetheart in his arm.

"Then 'ee do love me, Tom, dear; 'ee love me so much as all that!" the girl sobbed hysterically. Lupton muttered that he had never seen such folly before.

"I have, I have! Sixty years ago all the sweethearts  said the same thing, and the jade got them, she got them. She got all but Daddy Lupton. It was prophesied that she shouldn't get him, and what's prophesied comes true. I don't mind the flood a bit; seen far worse; it's the rheumatics I'm afeard of. These 'ere walls will be that damp, will be that damp, will be" — the old man.'s voice died away in the whiteness of his beard.

An hour passed, and they grew weary of seeing each other's faces. Turning to his wife, Lupton said, "You asked me just now if I thought the house would hold. What I fears most is the north side. That 'ere raft has taken some of the brick away, I fancy; and, if two or three of them floating trees catches us, all I can say is, Lord have mercy on our souls."

"Then grandfather isn't telling the truth!" cried Billy, "and we shall be drowned after all. I don't want to drown like the rabbits and the cats that go by the window. Do 'ee save me, if yer can!"

"Yes, my lad, I'll save 'ee if I can. We are expecting a boat. 'Ee shall go in first."

"No boat will come. Liz wouldn't let Tom go and fetch one."

Liz turned her face to Tom and whispered: "Maybe it was wrong to hold 'ee. I should have let 'ee go."

Lupton took a sheet from the bed and waved it from the window. The water gurgled loud beneath their feet, and to save themselves from the sound of it Lupton and his wife talked when they had nothing to say. Then the baby began to cry, and while she was nursing it Mrs. Lupton sometimes forgot the imminence of their danger. The baby laughed and cooed and stretched its hands to its grandfather, whose appearance seemed to grow more than ever fateful. And so another hour went by. No one had spoken for a long while. Every distance had been calculated, every possibility considered; and, sitting in a prison-life silence, they sat with the same thoughts going round in their heads like wheels. By reason of its very solitariness their house was most likely to be remembered. There could be no doubt that they would be rescued before the day was done. Would the house hold out much longer? Every moment someone asked, "Can you see a boat coming?"

At last Lupton said: "I can't stand this any longer; let's do something. What can we do? I don't mind what it is so long as it keeps me from thinking."

"I think we'd better say our prayers," said Mrs. Lupton.

"Prayers? No. I can't say no prayers, I'm too bothered. l want something that'll keep me from thinking. The bubbling of that infernal water will drive us mad if we don't do something. Let's tell stories. I think I could listen to a good story."

"Very well, John; let's tell stories. I should like to hear a good story."

"So should I; but who's to tell it? You haven't a copy of the paper Liz reads?"

"No; they be all downstairs."

"She don't pay no attention to what we be saying," said Lupton, indicating his daughter with a movement of the elbow, “I believes she'd as soon be drowned with him as married to him. 'Ee says the papers is downstairs."

"Yes, l know they are."

“Worse luck! Now, father, what be you smiling at so 'eartily? You and the babe are the only two that can smile this morning."

"What be I smiling at? I heerd 'ee speaking just now of stories. I could zay one, lots of 'em."

"Then tell us a story, father, and a good one that’ll keep our thoughts from that bubbling water."

"Well, I was just a-thinking, it be now nigh seventy years ago."

“Well, tell us all about it. Liz, Tom, come round here and listen to grandfather's tale."

"I've said it was nigh seventy years agone. I was a growing lad at the time. I remember it as if it was yesterday. Me and Bill Slater was pals. At that time Bill was going to be married. I can see her now, a fine elegant lass, for all the world like our Liz. It had been raining for weeks and weeks — much the same kind of weather as we have had lately, only worse, and the river" —

"We don't want to hear about the river; we want to forget it. I suppose you wants to tell us that Bill Slater and his gal was drowned. We don't want that kind of story — we wants a lively story, with lots of happiness in it."

"I don't know such stories as that. I only knows stories about those that the river tuck away — plenty of them — plenty of them. But the jade don't get me: it has been prophesied. If they sticks by me they be safe enough." Then, waking up suddenly, he said: "I think I heard you say ye didn’t want to think. Us better have some cards, then. That’ll wake us up."

"The old fellow is right," said Lupton. "Where be the cards? Be they downstairs too?"

"No, John, they be in the drawer of the table."

"Then let's have them out. What shall we play, penny nap? Come, Liz, come, Tom, pull your chairs round; you've thought long enough about your dying cuddle. Liz reads of that sort of thing in her newspaper; her head is full of it. Come, pull your chairs round. I gave thee sexpence yesterday, father: find them out, you can't have spent them. And you, Liz, have you any coppers?"

"No, father."

“I’ve near a shilling in coppers; that’ll do for both of us,” said Tom.

There being only three chairs, the table.was pulled up to the bed, where Daddy was sitting. "Come, let's play, let's play!" Lupton cried impatiently.

"I'm thinking of tho baby," said Mrs. Lupton, "how unsuspecting do sleep there!"

"Never mind the baby, mother; think of your cards."

"You must teach me, Tom," said Liz. "What shall I do?" He whispered a word of counsel in her ear. Lupton went nap and lost.

"I never seed such luck!" he exclaimed. His wife looked at him inquiringly; following his example, she declared that no one could win with such cards. They played another round, and again Lupton went nap, and again he lost.

"Perhaps it will be those who lose that will be saved," he said, shuffling the cards savagely.

"May I play, too, father? I be tired of watching the dead things passing by the windows," said Billy.

"No, my son, you caent play, but you kin come and sit on my knee and look over my cards. But you mustn't tell what I've got."

"Grandfather seems to be winning; he has all the coppers, father?"

"Yes, my boy, grandfather's winning."

"And what will he do with his winnings if he's drowned, father?”

"Grandfather doesn't think he’ll be drowned."

The old man chuckled and turned over the coppers. They represented a double allowance of tobacco and a glass of ale. Again the cards were dealt, and again he won. Lupton and his wife marvelled at Daddy's luck, and even the losers seemed to take a closer interest in the game.

"Whose turn is it to play?" said Daddy.

"Mine," said Lupton," and I'll go nap again."

"'Ee'll go nap again?'"

Lupton lost again, but this time, instead of cursing his luck vehemently, he remained silent, and at that moment the sound of the water beneath their feet sounded more ominous than ever.

“I’ll play no more," said Lupton; "I dunno what I be doing. There's naught in my poor head but the bubbling of that water."

A tile slid down the roof, it sprang from the eave, and then they heard the splash. The old man played with his winnings, Billy began to cry; the others looked in each other's eyes, seeing that terror was now equally divided between them.

"'Tis clear enough now that there be no hope for us," said Mrs. Lupton. "Let's put away them cards and say our prayers, and 'ee might read us a verse out of the Bible."

"Very well, lass, let's have a prayer. Father, give over counting your money. Tom, Liz, and Billy, kneel down."

"Then no one be coming to save us!" cried Billy. "I don't want to drown, father; I be too young to drown. Grandfather's too old, and baby's too young to think much about it; but I want to go to the circus!"

"Kneel down, my boy, perhaps God may save us if we pray to him."

In a weak and agitated voice Mrs. Lupton pronounced some simple prayers. But all the while her brain was like a vacuum, and she could not detach her thoughts from the old man's senseless mutterings. "The way to manage 'er is to take 'er easy. She never would stand no bullying, and them giddy young folks will bully 'er; so she always goes for them, them is the ones she goes for."

Five or six tiles fell, the house rocked a little, and the floor seemed to heave under them. "John, dear, is there no hope? Do 'ee think if a boat had started it would still be in time?"

"Mother," said Billy — the child was strangely calm, strangely earnest in manner; he suddenly seemed to have grown older. "Mother, dear, tell me the truth: be we going to drown? We've prayed to God, but He don't seem like saving us. I'rn. afraid, mother, ar'n't you? And father's afraid too, and Liz and Tom — we 're all afraid, except grandfather and baby." The little fellow hid his face on his mother's shoulder, and, speaking through gentle tears, he said, "Let me 'old your 'and, mother; 'ee won't loose 'old of me."

"'Ee mustn't cry, my boy," said Lupton; "we shall be saved all right yet. Come to the window, and we’ll see if a boat be coming."

Tom and Liz were in the right hand corner, as far as possible from the others. Lupton and his little son stood at the window, watching for a boat. Mrs. Lupton had taken the baby from the bed and in terror she gazed on the sleeping face. The old man played with the coppers he had won.

"This be 'orrible," said Liz, in Tom's ear, "I caent bear it. I wish it were all over."

"'Tis 'orrible; but it’ll soon be over now, dear!”

Then a minute after —

"It caent last much longer. Do 'e hear? What is that a beating against the wall? It will soon come down atop of us."

"The other end is safer, Liz, come!"

“Tom, dear, if we are to die, we may as well die where we are. I do not want to be parted from 'ee. I should like to be tied fast to 'ee. Is there a piece of rope? I shouldn't mind then." Tom did not answer, and the grinding noise of doom grew louder in the silence. "Oh, Tom., save me! 'Ee ken swim, Tom, and I don't want to drown. I want to live and be yer wife. Save me, Tom! save me!"

The wall wavered above them, some bricks fell out, and then, mad with fear, Liz sprang upon him, throwing her arms about his neck. She had not kissed him three times before the floor broke beneath them. The floor broke again, letting Lupton and Billy into the void. Then the walls and the roof fell in. Mrs. Lupton closed her eyes, certain of death. But death did not seem to come. She opened her eyes, and she saw that the floor had snapped off at her very feet. She was sitting on the verge of the abyss. The old man stood behind her muttering, "A darned narrow escape — as near as any I've 'ad yet."

"They are gone, they be gone, all of 'em! The baby, where's the baby!"

"You must have let him slip when the roof came in."

"I let the baby slip?"

She looked at the childlike old man, and repeated the words mechanically, "I let the baby slip?" Looking down, she saw the bed turned over, the sheets floating, and many broken things.

"Well, that was a narrow escape!" chimed the quaking voice of the octogenarian. "I'm sore afraid the house is in a bad way. I've seen many like."

Thanks to some great beams, the south wall still held firm, and with it the few feet of floor on which they were.

"They be bound to send a boat afore long. What shall we do meanwhile? Everything's gone — table, cards, and over a shilling in coppers."

"They're all gone! Everything 's gone!"

"Yes, the jades's got 'em; she 'ad pretty near everyone I knew, at one time or the other." Then the strange, wild grief of the woman seemed to awaken reason in Daddy's failing brain. “I caent grieve like thee, lass. I ken grieve no more. I'm too old, and all, excepting my baccy and the rheumatics, is the same to me now."

Mrs. Lupton did not seem to hear — her eyes were fixed on the bodies of her husband and child. Under her very eyes, they were dashed to and fro and sucked under by the current, appearing and disappearing among the débris.

“Saved!" cried a voice. "Give way, my lads! give way!"

"Saved when all the others are gone! " cried the woman, and as the boat approached from one side she flung herself into the flood from the other.

“Are you the only one left? " cried a man, as the boat came alongside.

"Yes, the jade 'as got all the others. There they be down there; and my daughter-in-law 'as just gone after them — jumped in after them. But it was prophesied that the jade should never get me, and what's prophesied comes true."

"Now then, old gentleman, let me get hold of you. Be careful where you step. Do nothing to risk your valuable life. There you are, safe — saved from everything but the rheumatics."

"They be very bad at times. Must be very careful of myself this winter."