Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Talked Turkey

Among the fortunate survivors of the storm were six duck hunters who went out before the storm and were marooned all night on Lone Tree Island. They were rescued on Monday, suffering from exposure and on the verge of pneumonia. One of them is standing by to give our listeners a firsthand account of a terrifying adventure.

(Picks up phone) Operator, ready for the Mooseville call. Hello. Yes, this is the WPKX newsroom. Sir, will you tell us how you happened to be out on that island during the storm?

HUNTER ON TAPE

: Well, me and five other fellas rented a boat Sunday mornin’ and went out to the island for some birds. We was just gettin’ set up when the wind come up. Nobody thought much about it. But then I heard that spooky whistlin’ sound that means trouble. We was two miles from the mainland, and I wanted to get the heck out of there. But the other fellas, they wanted to get a few shots before quittin’. The wind got real bad then. Even the ducks, they was flyin’ backwards, like.

We could see our boat tossin’ around, and the first thing we know, she broke loose and headed for open water. By that time it was gettin’ awful cold. There we was—alone on an island with nothin’ but a little shack and some miserable trees. We was dressed warm, but we went to the shack and made a fire in the little stove there. Next thing, it started to snow. I never seen such a blizzard. All around us—nothin’ but white. And then the lake, she started to rise. Kept creepin’ closer to the shack. We huddled around the stove until the water busted right in and put the fire out. Whole island was flooded. By the time it got dark, we was standin’ in freezin’ water up to our waist. Somebody said we should tie ourselves together with a piece o’ rope. Don’t know why, but we did. Then the shanty, it started to move. We’re gonna be swept into the bay, I thought. But that durned shanty got stuck between a coupla trees, and there we hung, like trapped animals.

NEWSCASTER

: Sir, how long did the blow continue?

HUNTER ON TAPE

: Musta been sixteen, eighteen hours. Calmed down about two in the mornin’, and we was still there, shiverin’ and tied together, when they come lookin’ for us, in a boat from Mooseville.

NEWSCASTER

: What did you do to keep your spirits up during this . . . this nightmare? I mean, did you talk? Sing? Tell jokes?

HUNTER ON TAPE

: (Pause) Well, we talked—we talked about our families. And I guess we prayed a lot.

NEWSCASTER

: Thank you, sir. We’re glad you all got back alive. And take care of that cough!

The news from Fishport was not so good. The bodies of two duck hunters were washed up on the beach, not far from the spot where their wrecked boat was found.

Near Deep Harbor, the storm tossed up a gruesome reminder of an unsolved mystery. Seven years ago, a tugboat with a crew of five disappeared just outside the harbor. According to eyewitnesses, one minute it was there, and the next minute it was gone. No trace of boat or crew was ever found. During Sunday’s storm, the waves churned up the smokestack and cabin of this long-lost boat. With it was one body, badly decomposed after seven summers and seven winters at the bottom of the lake. Deep Harbor also reports that the concrete breakwater failed to withstand the pounding of the waves. Three hundred feet of the breakwater washed away, the waves rolling huge chunks of concrete like marbles.

The storm has raised many puzzling questions. How can one explain the abnormal behavior of wind and water? According to the United States Weather Bureau, it was a clash of

three

low-pressure fronts—one coming down from Alaska, one from the Rocky Mountains, and a third from the Gulf of Mexico. They met over the lake.

A spokesman for the Weather Bureau has stated that gale warnings were flown at all stations. The signal flags are well known to sailors—the red square with a black center, flown over a white pennant.

But the skippers of the big freighters ignored the warnings. Why?

A retired lake captain, who wishes to remain anonymous, gave WPKX his explanation.

SCOTTISH CAPTAIN ON TAPE

: Greed, that’s what it’s all about. Greed! The owners of the boats put pressure on the skippers to squeeze in one or two more voyages at the end of the season. It means more profit for the company and maybe a promotion for the skipper and a bonus for the crew, so they don’t heed the storm warnings. Many a lake captain has taken the gamble. But this storm was a fierce one. It was a gamble that no man could win.

NEWSCASTER

: The result of last Sunday’s gamble: eight freighters sunk . . . 188 lives lost . . . nine other large boats wrecked or grounded . . . millions of dollars lost in vessels and cargo. But no one can estimate the cost of the terror and heartache caused by the Great Storm of 1913. And no one who has lived through this storm will ever forget it.

FOURTEEN

“Millions of dollars lost . . . But no one can estimate the cost of the terror and heartache caused by the Great Storm of 1913. And no one who has lived through this storm will ever forget it.” The newscaster spoke the words with deep feeling and threw down his script in a final gesture of regret and sorrow. The stage blacked out.

Immediately the audience erupted in applause and cheers, rising to their feet en masse.

The lights came up and Qwilleran stood and bowed and extended an arm toward his assistant, who rose and bowed. There were more shouts. She looked at Qwilleran for a cue, and they both made an exit through the door at stage rear. Maxine said, “Applause is kind of intoxicating, isn’t it? I think they were applauding my wig.”

“They were applauding your presence,” Qwilleran assured her, “and your gracious introduction.”

“I’d never been on a stage before an audience. I was too shy to be in school plays or even Sunday school pageants.”

Her husband appeared from nowhere. “Sweetie! You were wonderful! Qwill! Your performance was hypnotic! And the script was powerful!”

“It was the real thing, that’s all,” Qwilleran said modestly. “Everyone in the audience has family members who were there!”

“Yeah, my grandparents lived through it. They always brought up the subject at family reunions. Well, how about coming into the bar to celebrate, Qwill?”

“Thanks, but I’ll celebrate at the end of the run. I’ve got a big day tomorrow. I’ve got to go home and shift gears.”

“And feed the cats,” said Gary, who had heard it before.

Driving home, Qwilleran assessed the audience response. In Moose County, a live program of any kind was a special event; good or bad, it called for enthusiastic hand clapping and screams. As for standing ovations, the audience, he believed, was simply getting ready to go home. At tonight’s performance, they applauded the magnitude of his moustache as much as his dramatic skills. He knew he was a good writer, and he was a good reader of lines. He had spent all those hours reading aloud to the cats.

As he drove into the barnyard, his headlights illuminated the rear of the building, and there in the kitchen window was Koko, giving him a standing ovation!

The male cat was always a bundle of nervous energy, reporting that there was a message on the answering machine, or a meal was past due, or there had been a stranger on the premises. Yum Yum always hung back and looked worried.

On this occasion, Koko had pushed a volume off the shelf. It was The Hunting of the Snark —not one of Qwilleran’s favorites: He substituted the poems of Robert Service and indulged himself in the macho rhythms of the Yukon. A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon.