Beside the tents the old cars stood, and water fouled the ignition wires and water fouled the carburetors. The little gray tents stood in lakes. And at last the people had to move. Then the cars wouldn’t start because the wires were shorted; and if the engines would run, deep mud engulfed the wheels. And the people waded away, carrying their wet blankets in their arms. They splashed along, carrying the children, carrying the very old, in their arms. And if a barn stood on high ground, it was filled with people, shivering and hopeless.
Then some went to the relief offices, and they came sadly back to their own people.
They’s rules- you got to be here a year before you can git relief. They say the gov’ment is gonna help. They don’ know when.
And gradually the greatest terror of all came along.
They ain’t gonna be no kinda work for three months.
In the barns, the people sat huddled together; and the terror came over them, and their faces were gray with terror. The children cried with hunger, and there was no food.
Then the sickness came, pneumonia, and measles that went to the eyes and to the mastoids.
And the rain fell steadily, and the water flowed over the highways, for the culverts could not carry the water.
Then from the tents, from the crowded barns, groups of sodden men went out, their clothes slopping rags, their shoes muddy pulp. They splashed out through the water, to the towns, to the country stores, to the relief offices, to beg for food, to cringe and beg for food, to beg for relief, to try to steal, to lie. And under the begging, and under the cringing, a hopeless anger began to smolder. And in the little towns pity for the sodden men changed to anger, and anger at the hungry people changed to fear of them. Then sheriffs swore in deputies in droves, and orders were rushed for rifles, for tear gas, for ammunition. Then the hungry men crowded the alleys behind the stores to beg for bread, to beg for rotting vegetables, to steal when they could.
Frantic men pounded on the doors of the doctors; and the doctors were busy. And sad men left word at country stores for the coroner to send a car. The coroners were not too busy. The coroners’ wagons backed up through the mud and took out the dead.
And the rain pattered relentlessly down, and the streams broke their banks and spread out over the country.
Huddled under sheds, lying in wet hay, the hunger and the fear bred anger. Then boys went out, not to beg, but to steal; and men went out weakly, to try to steal.
The sheriffs swore in new deputies and ordered new rifles; and the comfortable people in tight houses felt pity at first and then distaste, and finally hatred for the migrant people.
In the wet hay of leaking barns babies were born to women who panted with pneumonia. And old people curled up in corners and died that way, so that the coroners could not straighten them. At night, the frantic men walked boldly to hen roosts and carried off the squawking chickens. If they were shot at, they did not run, but splashed sullenly away; and if they were hit, they sank tiredly in the mud.
The rain stopped. On the fields the water stood, reflecting the gray sky, and the land whispered with moving water. And the men came out of the barns, out of the sheds. They squatted on their hams and looked out over the flooded land. And they were silent. And sometimes they talked very quietly.
No work till spring. No work.
And if no work- no money, no food.
Fella had a team of horses, had to use ’em to plow an’ cultivate an’ mow, wouldn’ think a turnin’ ’em out to starve when they wasn’t workin’.
Them’s horses- we’re men.
The women watched the men, watched to see whether the break had come at last. The women stood silently and watched. And where a number of men gathered together, the fear went from their faces, and anger took its place. And the women sighed with relief, for they knew it was all right- the break had not come; and the break would never come as long as fear could turn to wrath.
Tiny points of grass came through the earth, and in a few days the hills were pale green with the beginning year.
CHAPTER 30
IN THE BOXCAR CAMP the water stood in puddles, and the rain splashed in the mud. Gradually the little stream crept up the bank toward the low flat where the boxcars stood.
On the second day of the rain Al took the tarpaulin down from the middle of the car. He carried it out and spread it on the nose of the truck, and he came back into the car and sat down on his mattress. Now, without the separation, the two families in the car were one. The men sat together, and their spirits were damp. Ma kept a little fire going in the stove, kept a few twigs burning, and she conserved her wood. The rain poured down on the nearly flat roof of the boxcar.
On the third day the Wainwrights grew restless. “Maybe we better go ‘long,” Mrs. Wainwright said.
And Ma tried to keep them. “Where’d you go an’ be sure of a tight roof?”
“I dunno, but I got a feelin’ we oughta go along.” They argued together, and Ma watched Al.
Ruthie and Winfield tried to play for a while, and then they too relapsed into sullen inactivity, and the rain drummed down on the roof.
On the third day the sound of the stream could be heard above the drumming rain. Pa and Uncle John stood in the open door and looked out on the rising stream. At both ends of the camp the water ran near to the highway, but at the camp it looped away so that the highway embankment surrounded the camp at the back and the stream closed it in on the front. And Pa said, “How’s it look to you, John? Seems to me if that crick comes up, she’ll flood us.”
Uncle John opened his mouth and rubbed his bristling chin. “Yeah,” he said. “Might at that.”
Rose of Sharon was down with a heavy cold, her face flushed and her eyes shining with fever. Ma sat beside her with a cup of hot milk. “Here,” she said. “Take this here. Got bacon grease in it for strength. Here, drink it!”
Rose of Sharon shook her head weakly. “I ain’t hungry.”
Pa drew a curved line in the air with his finger. “If we was all to get our shovels an’ throw up a bank, I bet we could keep her out. On’y have to go from up there down to there.”
“Yeah,” Uncle John agreed. “Might. Dunno if them other fellas’d wanta. They maybe ruther move somewheres else.”
“But these here cars is dry,” Pa insisted. “Couldn’ find no dry place as good as this. You wait.” From the pile of brush in the car he picked a twig. He ran down the cat-walk, splashed through the mud to the stream and he set his twig upright on the edge of the swirling water. In a moment he was back in the car. “Jesus, ya get wet through,” he said.
Both men kept their eyes on the little twig on the water’s edge. They saw the water move slowly up around it and creep up the bank. Pa squatted down in the doorway. “Comin’ up fast,” he said. “I think we oughta go talk to the other fellas. See if they’ll help ditch up. Got to git outa here if they won’t.” Pa looked down the long car to the Wainwright end. Al was with them, sitting beside Aggie. Pa walked into their precinct. “Water’s risin’,” he said. “How about if we throwed up a bank? We could do her if ever’body helped.”
Wainwright said, “We was jes’ talkin’. Seems like we oughta be gettin’ outa here.”
Pa said, “You been aroun’. You know what chancet we got a gettin’ a dry place to stay.”
“I know. But jes’ the same-”
Al said, “Pa, if they go, I’m a-goin’ too.”
Pa looked startled. “You can’t, Al. The truck- We ain’t fit to drive that truck.”
“I don’ care. Me an’ Aggie got to stick together.”
“Now you wait,” Pa said. “Come on over here.” Wainwright and Al got to their feet and approached the door. “See?” Pa said, pointing. “Jus’ a bank from there an’ down to there.” He looked at his stick. The water swirled about it now, and crept up the bank.
“Be a lot a work, an’ then she might come over anyways,” Wainwright protested.
“Well, we ain’t doin’ nothin’, might’s well be workin’. We ain’t gonna find us no nice place to live like this. Come on, now. Le’s go talk to the other fellas. We can do her if ever’body helps.”