Chapter XXIX: The Victors

Meade knew that they were fighting a losing battle. Every one of the higher grade men knew it also. The spill-way was entirely inadequate, but it suddenly flashed into his mind, with that consciousness of the hopelessness of the struggle, that perhaps there was another way to discharge the flood. The same idea might have come to any other of the more intelligent of the men from Vandeventer down if they had taken a moment for reflection. If they had not been so frantically, so frightfully engrossed in their present puny but gallant efforts to save the dam they certainly would have remembered. That the possibility came to Meade rather than to any of the others was perhaps due to the fact that he had noted the situation later and had studied the conditions more recently. Those solitary rambles of his, those careful inspections of the terrain of the valley, had been made long after the original surveys and the results of his observations were still fresh in his mind.

The water was rising so rapidly since the cloudburst and he saw the inevitableness of the failure so clearly that he did not dare to waste time to look up Vandeventer, tell him his plan and get his permission. Every second was of the utmost value. When the thought came he acted instantly. He was in the position of the commander of a small force to whom is suddenly presented the bare possibility of wresting victory from defeat by some splendidly daring and unforeseen undertaking. And he was the man to seize such a possibility and make the most of it.

It was well that he had endeared himself to some of the men and that the respect in which he was held by Vandeventer was shared by the others. Indeed perhaps the men under a man are quicker to estimate his character and worth than those over him. Therefore when Meade called two of the most capable of the workmen, a big, burly Irishman and a stout little Italian, to follow him they did it without a moment's hesitation.

"The rest of you keep on here," he shouted as he left the gang. "Murphy and Funaro, come with me. Keep it up; I think I know a way to help," he yelled back through the rain as he scrambled off the dam up the rocks to the spill-way. It was not his fault that they could not hear and could not understand.

The water was rushing through the spill-way about knee deep and the three men plunging forward through it had difficulty in keeping their footing on the broken, rocky bottom. When they reached the other side, Meade shouted above the storm:

"Murphy, bring your pick and shovel; take that iron range pole, too. Here, Funaro, you take your shovel and these."

As he spoke he ran into the office shack and wrecked a transit tripod, ruthlessly separating the legs from one another by main force and pitching two of them into the little Italian's outstretched arms.

Without a question both men complied with his direction. In a huge crevice, almost a small cave, in the spur of the mesa which overhung the east end of the dam the explosives were stored. The dynamite was kept in oilskin bags, the detonating caps in waterproof boxes. There were sixteen sticks or cartridges in each bag. Each stick was an inch and a half in diameter and eight inches long. One bagful should be ample. Indeed if that did not do the work the attempt would fail.

The men waited while Meade selected a bag of dynamite, a box of detonators, and a package of fuses. It was a cardinal rule that dynamite cartridges and detonating caps should never be carried by the same person, because the combination so greatly increased the risk of premature explosion. The fulminate of mercury in the detonators was very volatile, highly explosive and immensely destructive considering its size. One such cap could blow off a man's hand or even his head and in its explosion might detonate the dynamite. Hence the separation when being carried.

Meade decided to take that risk. He knew how perilous was the undertaking, how liable he was in his hurry to fall against the rocks, slippery and half submerged in that pouring rain. He knew what the consequences of such a fall would be. He would center all risks in himself. He thrust the box of detonators in his pocket, the package of fuses inside his flannel shirt, and carried the dynamite bag in his hand. He would need his free hand to protect himself, so all the tools were carried by the other men.

The little Italian shook his head as he noted these preparations. He happened to be one of the explosive force, those whose duty it was to do the blasting. In his practical way he knew a great deal about the properties and possibilities of usefulness of the dynamite. Meade's purpose was obvious even to Murphy, who was only a laborer, though where he proposed to work neither man had any idea at all.

"Dynamita no work in zis weather," said Funaro impressively.

"Probably not," answered Meade, hurrying his preparations, "but it's our only chance."

"Give me ze caps," urged the Italian gallantly.

"No, I'll take both."

"It ees danger."

"Yes, but come on."

Meade, wasting no more words, sprang at what was left of the trail and the two men gallantly followed him. The hog-back at which he was aiming was perhaps a little more than two miles from the dam. On the ordinary trail and prepared for the run he could have managed it in fifteen minutes; as it was they made it in thirty. The extreme possibility of the life of the dam seemed to Meade not much greater. He went in the lead and by his direction the others kept some distance behind him.

"If I fall and explode this dynamite there's no need of all three of us being blown up," he had said, and it was no reflection on their courage that they complied with his direction.

Indeed a stern command was necessary to keep the two men back. They had caught something of the gallant spirit of the engineer and the big Irishman and the little Italian were as eager as he. Helped by a few hasty words as they ran, they had both of them learned what he would be at. They both realized that they were the forlorn hope, that if they could not save the dam nobody and nothing could. And there was a trace of the age-long rivalry between the Celt and the Roman. The scion of the legionary and the son of the barbarian who had fought together in the dawn of history vied with each other then. Again and again Meade had to order them back. He was keenly sensible of his danger. He knew that if he fell, if the dynamite struck the ground violently, it might explode. He knew that the unstable fulminate of mercury in the detonators might go off at any time--perhaps that was the greater danger--but he never checked his pace or hesitated in a leap or sought an easy way for a second. His soul was rising and his heart was beating as they had never risen or beaten in his life. And the hearts of his men beat with his own.

He knew, of course, if the dam went out the railroad, the bridge, the town, the citizens, the women and children, and everything and everybody would go. If he could save them his act might be set off against the loss of the International. But whether that were true or not, whatever the consequences to him, he was bound to save them. The weight of every man, the weight of every woman, the weight of every child in the valley, the weight of all the business enterprises of the town, the weight of the great viaduct of steel, the weight of the huge dam itself, was on his shoulders as he ran. He carried the burden lightly, as Atlas might have upborne the world with laughter. For despite his determination and haste he had in his heart the great joy that comes when men attempt grandly and dare greatly for their fellow-men. If he could only by and by see his hopes justified by success his happiness would be complete.

And there were thoughts personal as well as general. If he died, whether successful or not, men would tell about his endeavor. She would hear. It came to him afterward, when he learned how she had looked down upon him as he ran, that he had somehow felt her presence, not a presence impelling him to look up, but a presence driving him on. He lost his hat, he tore off his long coat and threw it aside as he plunged on with his precious bag in his hand. He did not dare to look at his watch, he did not stop for anything, but it seemed that he must have spent hours in that mad scramble over the water-covered rocks. He heaved a deep breath of relief when he rounded the mesa and struck the trail. Bad as was the going, it was nothing to what they had passed over.

Presently he broke out into the open slope and there before him was the rounded curve of the hog-back, to gain which he had risked so much. Were they in time? Yes, the water in the lake was not flowing, it was only rising. Evidently the dam still held. He ran along it till he reached the narrowest part of it, twenty feet wide between water-covered valley and sharply descending ravine. The shortest separation between Picket Wire and the Kicking Horse! The water in the lake was within three feet of the crest. The rain was coming down steadily. He could realize by the water level where he stood that it must be lapping the top of the dam now, or a little above it. He had five minutes, ten at most. He was still in time. The thoughts came to him as he ran. And as he saw the place again he made his instant plan.

He laid the dynamite down just as Murphy and Funaro reached him and stood panting, their heavy breathing, the sweat mingling with the rain in their wet faces, evidencing their exhaustion. From Murphy, who had been the faster, Meade took the two tripod legs, stout oak staves about an inch and a half thick with sharp metal points. He jammed them down into the ground about five feet from the edge of the Kicking Horse ravine and about fifteen feet apart.

"Holes, there," he shouted, "deep enough for five cartridges."

Funaro nodded. He knew exactly what to do. Murphy had often seen the explosive gang at work. He was quick-witted and he had only to follow the Italian's actions. The work was simple. Seizing their spades the two men cut into the sod, using the pick to dislodge small bowlders and break up the earth. The soil was light and porous and it had been well soaked by the rain. After they had made an excavation about two feet deep they laid aside their shovels and with the iron range pole as a starter and the bigger tripod stakes to follow they made two deep holes in the ground, forcing the pole and then the stake into the earth, which the continuing rain tended to soften more and more. They made these holes about four feet deep below the excavation, driving in and twisting and churning the stakes by main strength.

They could by no means have accomplished this save for the softening assistance of the rain and the furious energy they applied. They had been working since four in the morning at the dam, they had made that difficult run at headlong speed, yet they labored like men possessed. They even wasted breath to call challengingly and provokingly and to set forth their progress each to the other. In almost less time than it takes to tell it they had completed the holes and so informed the engineer triumphantly.

Meade, as usual, had reserved to himself the more dangerous, if less arduous task. Covering himself with big Murphy's discarded slicker, which fell over him like a shelter tent as he knelt down, he opened the box of detonators, selected one and attached the fuse in position carefully. Then he unfolded the paper about one of the cartridges and placed the detonator, wrapping the paper around it thereafter. He prepared two cartridges this way with the greatest care.

The holes now being ready, the men rapidly but carefully cut slits in the covering of the cartridges and lowered four cartridges down each hole, forcing them gently into place with the butt ends of the tripod stakes and compressing them so that they filled the holes completely. Then Meade placed his two prepared sticks with the detonators on top of the other four. He cut the fuse to the proper length in each case and, keeping it carefully covered with the raincoat, he held it while the others filled in the holes and the excavations and carefully tamped down the earth. All that remained was the lighting of the fuse. And then? Would the dynamite go off? With fuses it was uncertain in its action at best, and although these fuses were supposed to be so prepared as to be independent of weather conditions, more often than not rain spoiled a blast. If this blast failed it was good-by dam--good-by everything.

Meade drew out from the pocket of his flannel shirt a box of matches. He had to light the farther cartridge fuse, then run fifteen feet and light the nearer one, and then make his escape. He had made the nearer fuse a little shorter so as to secure a simultaneous explosion if possible.

Tony Funaro now interposed gallantly.

"Giva me da light," he demanded, extending his hand.

"G'wan wid ye," shouted the big Irishman eagerly; "lemme do it, sor."

"Stand back, both of you," cried Meade, succeeding after some trouble in striking a match.

He had cut off a short length fuse for a torch, the better to carry the fire from one blast to another. As it sputtered into flame he touched the first fuse, then the second and turned and ran for his life after Murphy and Funaro. They had just got a safe distance away when with a muffled roar the two blasts went off nearly together. When they ran back they saw that two-thirds of the hillock on that side of the ravine had gone. A wall of earth through which water was already trickling rose between the great gap they had blown out and the lake, the upper level of which was much higher than the bottom of the great crater they had opened.

"Hurrah," yelled Meade, the others joining in his triumphant shout. "Now, men, another hole right there," he pointed to the foot of the bank. "Drive it in slanting and it will do the job."

"Will the dam be after holdin' yit, sor?" asked Mike Murphy, seizing his pick.

"I hope so, but for God's sake, hurry."

With two men working the last hole was completed before Meade was ready. Funaro, indeed, came to his assistance in preparing the cartridge. Presently all was completed. Rejecting the pleas of both men, Meade struck the match and this time, since there was but one blast to be fired, he touched it directly to the fuse and waited a second to see that it had caught and ran as before.

At a safe distance they drew back and waited. Nothing happened. A few seconds dragged on. They saw no sign of life in the fuse, no light. In spite of the care they had taken it had got wet. It would not work. The precious moments were flying. They stared agonizingly at the fuse through the rain.

"I'll have to take a look at it," said Meade desperately.

Funaro and Murphy caught him by the arms. They all knew the tremendous risk in a nearer approach. The fuse might be alight still. At any second the flame might flash to the detonator and then---- Yet Meade had to go. That charge had to be exploded if he detonated it by hand, he thought desperately, and he had not come so far and worked so hard to fail now.

"Don't go," cried Murphy.

"It ees danger," shouted Funaro.

But Meade shook them off and bade them keep back. What was his danger compared to the issue involved? That last charge had to be exploded. He stepped quickly toward it and as he did so he threw his eyes up toward the gray, rain-filled heaven in one last appeal.

Did he hear the blind roar, did he see the upbursting masses of sodden earth, was he conscious of the fact that the whole side of the hillock had been blown away, that the last explosion had completed the shattering work of the first, that they had succeeded? Did he mark the whirling water, driven backward at first by the violence of the explosion, returning and rolling in vast mass through the great opening, did he see it plunging down the slope, through the trees and bushes, and pour thunderously into the bed of the ravine? Did he see the tremendous rush of the water from the great lake that man had created tear earth from earth and ever widen and deepen the opening as it crashed in a foaming, terrible, red cataract through the outlet, striking down great trees, roaring, boiling wildly to the bottom of the gorge far below?

No, he saw nothing. Broken, beaten down by a huge bowlder that had been thrown upward by the explosion and had struck him on the breast, and lying battered under a rain of smaller stones and earth, he was as one dead.

"By God," cried Winters in great excitement on the crest of the hill, "he's done it. He's saved the dam; that's a man."

"Don't you know him?" screamed Miss Illingworth in his ear.

"No."

"Meade!"

Winters caught her by the arm.

"He's dead," she cried high and shrill, "but he saved the dam and the bridge and the town. He's made atonement."

"Yes, yes, don't faint," cried Winters.

"Faint! I'm going to him."

"How?"

"The nearest way," screamed the woman, letting herself down over the cliff wall to the broken rocks, by which only the hardy could reach the lower level.

* * * *

What of the dam below in the valley?

"Hold it, men, hold it; for God's sake, hold it," shouted Vandeventer, rising from his crouching position against the palisade to resume it instantly he had spoken. "Keep it up. If it goes down let's go down with it. Damn it to hell, hang on--hang on! We'll hold it. We aren't beat yet."

Broken words, oaths, protestations, curses, cheers, expletives in strange languages from the polyglot mob of men burst forth. Even cowards had been turned into heroes because they had fought by the side of men. Here and there a man not weaker physically perhaps, but less resolute, less spiritually consecrated, less divinely obsessed, dropped out of the rank that pitted itself in furious, futile, but sublime fury against the wavering wall. Some of them fell backward and lay still. Some had fainted and some of them were half dead. A few here and there sank down on the trampled, muddy embankment and buried their heads in their hands, sobbing hysterically. But most still blind, mad, sublime, held on. And the palisade did not fall. It did not bend back any further.

The throb that told of the tremendous pressure of the waves, the quiver that experience could feel the prelude to failure, began to die away, to stop. What did it mean? The thunder grew still, the rain diminished, it ceased, the clouds broke. Some great hand, as of God, swiftly tore the black vault of the heavens apart. Faint light began to glow over the sodden land. Through the rift they saw dimly one great peak of mighty range. What had happened?

"Here," said Vandeventer.

How white he looked, how haggard, streaks of gray in his black hair that had not been there before, but his eyes were blazing. He was still the indomitable chief of the Spartan band. The nearest men gave him a hand. He clambered up to his former vantage point on top of the highest log of the stockade and stared down. The rise of the water had stopped! He could not believe it, yet it was true. The rain had ceased again, but by every natural law the drainage from the hills would continue for some time in full volume. Yes, by all rights the dam was doomed. The water still trickled through the palisades in many small streams. That had been a gallant effort they had made, even if a vain one.

For ten minutes he stood silent, exhausted. Then he saw. The water was not rising. No, it was falling; only a trifle, but enough. Presently it had stopped filtering through the revetment. He looked back. Not a drop ran on the other side of the palisade. Vandeventer knew that the water must be discharging somewhere. The lake must have broken through somewhere. He only needed that hint to recall the hog-back and then Meade. He saw it all now.

"We've won, the dam's saved," he cried greatly to the men who stood back of the palisade staring at him. "Roberts has blown up the hog-back. The water's falling. See for yourselves."

Every man sprang up the palisade. Some one laughed and then some one raised a cheer and those mud-covered, sodden, wornout men, who had been about to die, saluted in heroic acclaim him who had led them to victory and by implication him who had made that triumph possible.