YOUTHVOL. I August 1902 No. 6A BATTLE WITH A WINDMILL
VOL. I August 1902 No. 6
By Frank H. Coleburn
SHORTLY after I left college, my father died, leaving me, his only son, so well-nigh penniless that I was very glad, indeed, to accept the position which Mr. Eller, an old friend of the family, offered me in his vineyard.
My benefactor’s home was in southern California, a region where the people’s livelihood depends upon grapes and wine-making.
One day, not long after my arrival, the big windmill, which supplied the whole winery with water, got out of order and refused to pump. Mr. Eller examined it carefully, but was unable to learn where the difficulty lay. He came down from the tank much disturbed, for water was a great necessity in that dry country.
“Harry,” he said to me, “you’re something of a mechanic, aren’t you?”
“I did pay a little attention to the study at one time,” I answered, modestly.
“Well, I wish you would try what you can do in the way of fixing that windmill.”
I promised that I would, and Mr. Eller left me.
After supper that night I secured a hammer and a chisel and started for the windmill. I had need to make haste if I expected to accomplish anything that evening, for the days were shortening and already darkness was falling.
The windmill stood some two or three hundred yards from the house directly behind the wine cellar. It was about seventy-five feet high—from the base to the top of the wheel—but in that deceptive twilight it looked like some giant finger reaching to the sky.
I stuck my tools in my coat pocket and began to climb the long ladder which stretched to the top of the tank. From thence it would be easy to reach and manipulate the wheel.
I made the ascent in safety, and after a little stood on top of the rough boards with which the tank was covered. For some time I stood, admiring the splendid view and wondering at the extent of country that came under my gaze, until warned by the ever-increasing gloom that I was out on business, not pleasure.
I forget just what was the matter with the wheel. Some simple disarrangement of the machinery which took me but little time to ascertain and less to remedy. Feeling certain that the mill would now perform its duty as well as before, I turned to retrace my way. In doing so I stepped upon a half-concealed trap-door, intended to be used as a means of ingress into the tank in case of repairs being needed. This door was old and rotten; its hinges were broken and it rested very insecurely upon its foundation. Consequently, it was unable to retain my weight and tilted suddenly. I fell with a prodigious splash into the water beneath.
There were about two feet of water in the tank. I gurgled and sputtered and struggled as though there were twenty. However, I quickly regained my feet, dripping and shivering, and very much confused from my sudden immersion, but uninjured. I was a prisoner, however.
The tank was about ten feet in height. The sides were perfectly smooth and afforded no foothold. There was no ladder or other means by which I could clamber out. I vowed that if ever I built a tank I would provide in some way for such an emergency as the present.
About three and a half feet above my head was the supply pipe. It extended a little ways into the tank. If I could only manage to reach that I might possibly pull myself up and escape. I knew perfectly well I could not reach it, but hope, like love, is blind to all obstacles, and I jumped desperately for it. I failed, of course. I didn’t come within a foot of it. However, after I had continued my effort for some time I began to feel a comfortable warmth creep over that portion of my body which was above water. Therefore, in lieu of anything better to do, I kept on jumping.
By and by my teeth stopped chattering—somewhat—and I stopped leaping altogether.
“Here’s a pretty mess,” I said to myself. “I wonder how long I’m to be penned up in this place. Goodness knows my legs are tired enough already without having to stand on them all night; and I can’t very well sit down in two feet of water.”
It suddenly occurred to me that I possessed a voice of tolerable strength and clearness, and that I might make good use of it upon the present occasion. Accordingly, I gave utterance to a few of the most startling shouts that probably ever assailed the ears of a mortal. But they were unsuccessful so far as escape was concerned.
After I had shouted myself hoarse, I waited with patience for the arrival of a relief party. At the end of five minutes it hadn’t come; at the end of half an hour I didn’t believe it would come.
“Surely,” I thought, “they must have heard those war-whoops at the house. At any rate it’s about time Eller started out to hunt me up. He certainly don’t think it’s going to take me forever to fix his plaguey windmill.”
I was becoming worried. The prospect of having to remain cooped up in my present narrow quarters all night was by no means pleasant. The expectation of having to stand for the next ten hours in two feet of cold water was not pleasing to a person of my tastes. It might have done for one of those old-time monks, who were always imposing penances upon themselves for sins committed, but it was not suited to my constitution. Most cheerfully would I have resigned my position to any one expressing a wish for it.
It was now pitch-dark in the tank. The only light I obtained was the feeble glow of the stars shining through the trap-door. I stood under this, gazing up wistfully into the heaven so high above me. After a time my eyes grew heavy, my head fell forward onto my breast, and, strange as it may appear, I dropped off into a gentle doze. I was awakened by a slight breeze fanning my cheek.
I opened my eyes dreamily. Overhead I could hear a deep, rumbling, grating sound; something going up and down, up and down, as it were a monstrous churn in motion.
“What can that be?” was my ejaculation. I was not left long in suspense. A perfect deluge of the coldest kind of water came pouring down over me, drenching me to the skin; giving me, in fact, a regular shower-bath.
The stream continued without abatement, and I soon recovered sufficiently from my momentary astonishment and confusion to move out of the way. No one should say that I did not know enough to come in when it rained.
As yet I was hardly awake. I stood to one side, getting splashed, and stupidly staring at the supply pipe, which was belching forth water. Then the solution of the problem flashed through my brain. The windmill was pumping.
I was too startled at first to realize my peril. But gradually it dawned upon me that the water was rising fast, and that if I did not escape or relief did not come, in the course of a few hours I would be drowned like a rat in a trap.
I thrust my hand into my trousers pocket and pulled out my knife. The large blade was open in a second, and I was at work with all my might trying to dig a hole through the side of the tank. I quickly saw that my task was hopeless. The wood was soft, but the planks were very thick, and it would be hours before I could produce the smallest opening.
I must have something to occupy my attention, else I would go wild. So I dug on till I broke my blade off short.
I dropped the useless knife into the water. It sunk with a dull splash. I stood feeling the water slowly creep its way upwards. I calculated that I had about an hour and a half of life left to me.
The water reached my waist. I threw myself against the walls of my prison, shouting for help. But none came. The sound of my voice echoed again and again into my own ears—it reached no others. I thought the reverberations would never cease. It seemed to me as though the whole world must have heard that despairing cry.
I listened—every nerve strained to catch some echoing shout. But the only sound that broke the stillness was the steady, incessant splash, splash, splash of falling water; and the heavy noise of that great pump working overhead. I called and listened again. Still no answer.
My past life came up before me like a dream. I could see my mother—my good mother—as plainly with my mind’s eye, as I had ever seen her with the flush of life upon her cheek. I remembered the long confidential talks we had together and the many times she told me to be good and true and noble, and that was all she would ever ask. Then I recalled many of the things I had said to her, and, strange to tell, there dwelt in my recollection not the kisses I had given nor the love I had bestowed upon her: I could call back only my unkind, cruel remarks, and the heartbreaks I had caused her. I thought what a wretch I had been, and did not believe that we could ever meet in heaven.
The water was up to my shoulders now, but I hardly noticed it.
My thoughts turned upon my father—so recently deceased. I remembered his kind face, his noble brow, those premature wrinkles, and that iron-gray hair. His failure, which had been the cause of his death, was more the result of a lack of business instinct than anything else. His tastes—like mine—had been wholly literary.
The water was up to my neck. Ugh! how icy-cold it was—right from the bowels of the earth. It seemed to freeze my blood. Ah, how stealthily it crept up, little by little, inch by inch. It knew it had a victim in its grasp, and had no fear of being cheated of its prey. In another moment it would be at my mouth; another instant and it would be all that I could do to breathe on tiptoe; another short minute and—I turned and furiously beat again upon my prison wall with both my fists. What madness! my eyes were almost starting from their sockets; I imagined that they had the strange, hunted look of a poor rat when cornered. I could understand the feelings of the little creature now.
My hands fell nerveless to my side. They struck upon something hard in either pocket of my coat. I thrust them in—almost unconsciously, and drew forth—the hammer and the chisel.
I uttered a cry of delight, and in another moment I was chiseling away for dear life under water. In no time I had hacked out two rude steps. I formed another just above the surface of the water, another still higher, and another as high as I could reach.
The water was to my nose. I dropped my tools and by the aid of nail and hand and foot managed to draw myself up step by step, until I could grasp the edge of the trap-door. Thus much accomplished, it was an easy matter to lift myself out. I fell, panting and trembling in every nerve, upon the rough board covering of the tank.
Mr. Eller had not heard my shouts for the simple reason that he had been called by business into Fresno. The men slept in a house too far distant from the windmill for my cries to reach. Thus it was that I had been allowed nearly to yell my voice away without attracting attention.
I had had a pretty good scare it must be confessed; so good, indeed, that I have forever ceased to emulate Don Quixote in any more adventures with a windmill.
THE MORNING’S TRIAL
THE MORNING’S TRIAL