At six in the evening, as the autumn dusk settled over the city, the breakthrough came at the southern end of the basin. Twenty shovelmen, working under the direct watch of young Tavi and Miller Tom, dug out the final three-foot silt plug blocking the ancient stonework overflow water chute.
With a wet, sucking gasp, forty tons of piled up surface water broke through the breach, surging down the clean granite channel toward the lower salt marshes. Within five minutes, a clear, roaring current six inches deep was rushing through the restored weir, carrying mud and dead reeds harmlessly out into the tidal flats.
A mighty cheer rose from the sixty muddy laborers on the levee. It echoed across the gray roofs of Lowbank. Men tossed their woolen caps into the drizzle, clapped each other’s muck-covered shoulders. Then they crowded around Sister Merrow’s soup marquee to celebrate the first tangible victory of the crisis.
Pella Rook stood on the high levee beside Inspector Korr Var. She watched the water rush through the stone arch. Her boots were caked with ten pounds of clay, her woolen tunic soaked through with rain. But her face was alight with the quiet, deep joy of a builder whose plan has touched reality.
