Then he sat breathless and listened. Would his battery carry far enough? There was no answering signal.
“WUZ—WUZ—WUZ,” flashed out Roy. Then once more he sat tense, listening.
Something crackled in his ear. “Who is calling WUZ?”
“Corpus Christi,” flashed back Roy. “City terribly damaged by tidal wave. Scores drowned. Hundreds of houses washed away. Property loss millions. Need food, medicines, workers, soldiers. Looting has begun. For God’s sake rush help. Gordon Boone, Mayor.”
“Who is this talking?” came the reply. “Never heard of a wireless station at Corpus Christi.”
“This is Roy Mercer, shipwrecked wireless man, talking on emergency outfit for city authorities. Call ABC.”
So Roy sent abroad the news of the city’s plight, even as Paul Revere carried to every Middlesex village and farm the news of Lexington’s peril. Next morning soldiers marched into the city. Martial law was declared. Sentries were posted. Corpus Christi was safe. Other helpers rushed to the stricken community. A Red Cross relief train sped to the rescue. The Salvation Army sent workers. Physicians and nurses came. Food and supplies poured in. The stunned city pulled itself together. Workers were organized to search out and care for the dead, to clear the streets, to look after the homeless, to feed the hungry. Emergency tent camps arose. Canteens were opened. Boy scouts collected clothes, carried messages, and were the legs of the rescue work. And until telephonic communication was restored, Roy sat at his instrument hour after hour, sending and receiving messages for the stricken city.
The air and the sea brought help. An army aviator dropped thirty pounds of sorely needed yeast into the city. The flood had spoiled all existing stocks. As soon as the sea subsided, boats rushed to Corpus Christi, bearing gifts. The sea-going tug Rotarian came from Galveston, carrying money, supplies, and workers.
When Roy learned of the Rotarian’s arrival he sought her out and went aboard. The captain met him as he came up the gangplank.