Many people have asked me, over and over again (because such a thing was scarcely known, except at the great storm of sand four hundred years ago, they say)—our people, ever so many times, assert their privilege to ask me (now again especially) how many of these pillars there were! I wish to tell the truth exactly, having no interest in the matter—and if I had, no other matter would it be to me; and after going into my memory deeper than ever I could have expected there would be occasion for, all I can say is this—legion was their number; because they were all coming down upon me; and how could I stop to count them?
Watkin lost his mind a little, and asked me (with his head gone under my regulation-coat) if I thought it was the judgment-day.
To this question I “replied distinctly in the negative” (as the man of the paper wrote, when I said “no” about poaching); and then I cheered young Watkin up, and told him that nothing more was wanted than to keep a weather-helm.
Before his wit could answer helm so much as to clear my meaning, the storm was on me, and broke my pipe, and filled my lungs and all my pockets, and spoiled every corner of the hat I had bought for my dear wife’s funeral. I pulled back instantly (almost as quickly as boy Watkin could), and we heard the sand burst over the house, with a rattle like shot, and a roar like cannon. And being well inside the walls, we fixed our eyes on one another, in the gloom and murkiness, as much as we could do for coughing, to be sure of something.
“Where is Bardie gone?” I asked, as soon as my lungs gave speech to me: it should have been, “Where is Bunny gone?” But my head was full of the little one.
“Who can tell?” cried the boy, in Welsh, being thoroughly scared of his English. “Oh, Dyo dear, God the great only knows.”
“God will guard her,” I said softly, yet without pure faith in it, having seen such cruel things; but the boy’s face moved me. Moreover, Bardie seemed almost too full of life for quenching; and having escaped rocks, waves, and quicksands, surely she would never be wrecked upon dry land ignobly. Nevertheless, at the mere idea of those helpless little ones out in all this raging havoc, tears came to my eyes, until the sand, of which the very house was full, crusted up and blinded them.
It was time to leave off thinking, if one meant to do any good. The whirlwinds spun and whistled round us, now on this side, now on that; and the old house creaked and rattled as the weather pulled or pushed at it. The sand was drifted in the courtyard (without any special whirlwind) three feet deep in the northeast corner; and the sky, from all sides, fell upon us, like a mountain undermined.
“Boy, go into your mother,” I said; and I thank God for enabling me, else might she have been childless. “Tell your mother not to be frightened, but to get your father up, and to have the kettle boiling.”
“Oh, Dyo—dear Dyo! let me come with you, after that poor little child, and after my five brothers.”
“Go in, you helpless fool,” I said; and he saw the set of my countenance, and left me, though but half-content.
It needed all my strength to draw the door of the house behind me, although the wind was bent no more on one way than another, but universal uproar. And down-roar too; for it fell on my head quite as much as it jerked my legs, and took me aback, and took me in front, and spun me round, and laughed at me. Then of a sudden all wind dropped, and yellow sky was over me.
What course to take (if I had the choice) in search of those poor children, was more at first than I could judge, or bring my mind to bear upon. For as sure as we live by the breath of the Lord, the blast of His anger deadens us.
Perhaps it was my instinct only, having been so long afloat, which drove me, straight as affairs permitted, toward the margin of the sea. And perhaps I had some desire to know how the sea itself would look under this strange visiting. Moreover, it may have come across me, without any thinking twice of it, that Bunny had an inborn trick of always running toward the sea, as behoved a sailor’s daughter.
Anyhow, that way I took, so far as it was left to me to know the points of the compass, or the shape and manner of anything. For simple and short as the right road was, no simpleton or shortwitted man could have hit it, or come near it, in that ravenous weather. In the whirl and grim distortion of the air and the very earth, a man was walking (as you might say) in the depth of a perfect calm, with stifling heat upon him, and a piece of shadow to know himself by; and then, the next moment, there he was in a furious state of buffeting, baffled in front, and belaboured aback, and bellowed at under the swing of his arms, and the staggering failure of his poor legs.
Nevertheless, in the lull and the slack times, I did my utmost to get on, having more presence of mind perhaps than any landsman could
