Chapter Eight

“No one has any idea of the feelings of a man who acts as undertaker, gravedigger, and pallbearer for his own family.”

~William Gaffney, Johnstown insurance agent who lost fourteen family members, including his wife and children

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 5

“I now pronounce you man and wife.” Monty tried to conjure some measure of lightness to his words, but his voice remained monotone. He’d helped lay the bride’s and groom’s families to rest moments before they’d asked him to officiate their union. A marriage not for love but for necessity. Comfort. Companionship.

Monty had never felt more alone than he did right now, but he was also grateful he’d had no spouse or children to lose.

“You may kiss the bride.” Monty closed the soggy tome written by Mark Twain in his scabbed hands.

The couple shifted awkwardly and met each other’s melancholy gaze. Monty had never officiated a ceremony without his Bible before, but his had not survived the waters, and pretending the novel in his hands was the Good Book brought him a small measure of comfort.

Liam Linkletter inched toward his new bride and brushed a chaste kiss along her cheek. A tear escaped Myrna’s right eye.

Monty looked away. Five days had passed since the great flood stole their lives, and yet life marched on. Babies had been delivered in the shells of former homes, atop piles of debris, or in the woods. New marriages were forged. Families reunited. Loved ones buried. Neighbor greeting neighbor.

Through it all, Monty had wandered the ruins aimlessly. Numb? Angry? He didn’t know how he felt. He’d ask God for answers if he could. He would cry out for wisdom if he thought his words would penetrate past the treetops. Everything Monty had perceived about God and faith and life confused him now. He couldn’t sleep. Could barely choke down the rice and potatoes they served at the relief stations. He could never unsee the masses of people perishing before his eyes, never silence the pleas for help as they took their last breath.

The experience had changed him. And not just his actions or his mindset, but his very core. The Montgomery Childs of the past twenty-four years would be entirely different for the rest of his days.

Ignoring his stomach’s plea for nourishment, he left the burial field and walked by Prospect Hill to see what all the banging was about. Dizziness made his steps falter, but he caught himself. The strange sensation lasted only a few moments, and then his brain cleared. Blinking hard, he felt confident enough to continue.

A woman ran out of a nearby shack and dashed in front of him, inches from colliding. Her smile neutralized the stench of her filthy dress. She raised her palms to the sky and sang, joy in her face beaming brighter than the sun above them. When she caught sight of the old depot station converted into a temporary morgue, she grew somber. Two men neared, carrying a body stretched out on a door.

An unseen force broke inside her, and wails filled the air. She beat her fists on her forehead until Monty feared she’d damage her brain. He commanded her to stop, but she turned her fury to her dress, ripping the tattered garment into rags. “Ma’am, stop this,” he said. “Stop it now.”

Eyes crazed, she grabbed his arms and pressed her face close to his. The ligaments in her neck bulged. “I shall go crazy if they don’t find his body,” she screamed. She shook like an autumn leaf in a windstorm. “He was a good man. I loved him, and he loved me.”

She fell into his chest and sobbed. “Where is he?” she wailed over and over.

She repeated the sentence so many times Monty feared he would go mad himself.

Then, with a jolt, she flung herself away and snarled, “Where is he? You must help me find him!”

Monty had thought his heart couldn’t break any more. He was wrong. He wasn’t capable of helping anyone, especially reuniting this once youthful woman with a man who was likely dead.

Before he could react, she sped toward the river. “I must find him.”

She jumped into the still turbulent water. Her skirts bubbled up around her. Dirty water saturated the fabric, and she sank. Two men witnessing the scene went in after her. She struggled and flailed as they dragged her ashore. Moments later, she fainted.

The entire hillside had gone eerily quiet. Even the banging Monty came to investigate had stopped. The spectators waited for the men to lift her—heavy skirts and all—and take her away before resuming their business. In some strange way, they seemed to understand the poor woman’s inner turmoil. They understood the weight of her burden.

Slowly, work ensued. Monty walked in the noise’s direction—he now recognized it as hammers nailing wood—surprised to see construction this soon since supplies were hindered by the broken rail lines. All around him, folks sifted through debris, tossing boards and items that needed to be burned into piles and anything salvageable into wagons. Monty hadn’t been back to his home since he escaped the church attic. He wasn’t ready to see it again. Wasn’t ready to disassemble the wagon that had crashed into his kitchen or to attempt to identify the once-vibrant life.

He knew he needed to go back out of respect for that soul and for the sake of the person’s family. For the sake of joining the rest of the community in restoring their town. He knew this, and yet all he could do was watch the happenings around him and feel utterly helpless.

What was wrong with him? He was always first in line to serve. He sought ways to serve. Every living creature, man or beast, needed help right now, and all he could do was let the seconds of each day pass while he tried to keep hold of his faculties.

As he approached the construction, he recognized Benedict Covington in the crowd of men carrying, holding, and nailing lumber. Had it really been just six days ago that the young man held their country’s flag at the cemetery in memory of those who’d gone on before?

Ben lifted boards onto his shoulder and noticed Monty. He carried the boards to the men framing the walls then jogged to him. “Hey, Pastor.”

“I’m glad to see you, Ben. Your family”—he swallowed—“are they well?”

Ben’s posture wilted, and the end of his nose turned red. “Joanna, she’s safe. The schoolmaster sent the kids home early because of the rain, but she stayed to clean the slates. As she left the schoolhouse, she heard a man yell that the dam had broken and for everyone to run to the hills. She barely escaped before the wave swept past. But Momma and Daddy …” His voice broke. “They went down.”

Monty put a hand on the lad’s shoulder and squeezed. So many souls had “gone down.” Words like died or drowned or killed were too harsh to speak aloud. Instead, everyone referred to “going down,” and everyone understood.

“We found them encased in mud, clinging to one another.” Ben’s voice broke, but a moment later he lifted his chin, determined to be brave. Moisture dripped beneath his nose, and he wiped it away with the back of his dirty hand.

Monty had no more tears to cry. The Covingtons were the best of people. They’d be sorely missed.

“What’s going on here?” Monty pointed at the construction.

“Miss Clara Barton from Washington is here. Brought the Red Cross with her. She’s commissioned six large buildings to be built in cleared and level areas throughout town. Her workman called them hotels. Anyone who’s displaced from their homes will have a room with a bed, three hot meals a day, a place to wash up, and anything they need provided by donations.”

Monty had read about the Red Cross but wasn’t familiar with their purpose. Was it possible for one organization to care for so many? It would cost thousands to rebuild and house the survivors. And what of the men responsible for this ruination? What were they doing to help?

A seam of anger split his desolate spirit.

He’d overheard talk of the whys over the past few days. This had been no judgment day or act of God. Not in the biblical sense. The truth was that this had happened from the selfishness and indifference of the industrial kings who ran the country and spent summers recreating at the top of the mountain. But proving it would be no easy task.

The dizziness returned.

“Pastor?”

Monty shook his head to clear the heavy fog that suddenly coated his thoughts. Wrong move. Ben kept him upright, and within a few seconds, he was fine again. “Sorry.”

“Are you feeling all right, Pastor? You’re not looking good.”

“I’m perfectly fine. Now, what were you saying?”

“I … was gonna say we can use your help. The more men we have, and the faster these hotels go up, the sooner we can get folks cared for.” Monty nodded. “Have you seen Elder?”

“Who, sir?”

Monty shook his head to unscramble his tangled thoughts. “Cyrus Elder, attorney for the Cambria Iron Works, council for the Johnstown waterworks, solicitor for the Savings Bank …”

“Um.” Ben stepped away, and Monty realized he’d been gripping the young man’s arms. He must look as crazy as the woman who’d run into the river. “I’ve heard of him, Pastor, but I wouldn’t know him if I saw him. I’m sorry.”

Monty fought to remain calm. “It’s fine. You’re doing great work here, Ben. I’ll try to join you soon. I need to discover the fate of Elder and speak to him about an important matter if he’s still with us.”

“Pastor, wait.” Ben caught his wrist. He assessed Monty’s appearance. “Have you eaten? Volunteers from Pittsburgh have set up a commissary near the depot. They might offer you a warm meal and clean clothes.”

That wasn’t such a bad idea. His trousers and once-white shirt were covered in grime, the soles of his shoes were cracked and rubbing blisters on his feet. The rank odor in the air could very well be him.

“Thank you, Ben.” He shook the young man’s hand.

The tension in Ben’s face relaxed, and he went back to his work.

Travel was difficult, as the landscape was barely recognizable save for the stone bridge still piled with debris, the spire of the Methodist church, and a few other buildings that stayed on their foundations, but it was enough to give Monty a general direction of where he needed to go.

It took him an hour to navigate the wreckage and find the commissary. Supplies were few, but he got a bowl of pork and beans, a chunk of stale bread, clean clothes, and boots. Washing was another matter. Small tents erected on each end of the commissary were used for bathhouses, one for men and one for women. There were bowls, pitchers, cakes of soap, and barrels of water, but none of it was clean. He did his best to wash thoroughly and then wrestled the new clothes onto his wet body.

The trousers were too long and the shirt a size too small, but he was grateful all the same. His spirit was already a little lighter.

Monty stepped from the tent and tossed his old clothes and shoes into a large metal ring where an attendant monitored the fire burning items no longer of use. The sound of crinkling pages drew his head around. A list nailed to the side of the commissary flapped in the afternoon breeze. Curious, Monty glanced it over. It was a list of those known to have survived.

“Add your name, if you haven’t already.” A middle-aged woman—a volunteer, he presumed by her pristine condition—pointed to a pencil tied to a thin rope and nailed beside the papers. “They’re putting them up at every station so those who don’t find their loved ones on the lists know to check the morgues. The Red Cross stations have them as well. They’re documenting the names of patients along with the status of their health.”

She folded a baby blanket over one arm. The barrel behind her was full of them. Sadly, a necessity not as sought after, since most infants had not survived. In fact, from the reports he’d heard, three-quarters of the town’s children had gone to Jesus.

“Are you missing anyone?” she asked.

“No.”

The woman offered a wan smile. “If you need anything else, sir, please visit us again. We’ll do what we can.”

“Thank you.”

She disappeared back into the commissary to assist the line gathering out front. A strangeness settled over Monty, but he ignored it and searched the list for church members and any other names he recognized. Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson had survived, as well as Charlie Dick. Reverend Beale, Willard Bantley, Abram Dillar, Louis Murr. Monty knew about the Bowser sisters and little Gertrude, all alive and well. Victor Heiser, Reverend H.L. Chapman, and Mrs. Brinker. With every relieved breath that someone had survived, he knew there’d be more full of grief in the coming days.

The white tents of the Red Cross were closer than the other commissaries, so he’d search their survivor list for Cyrus Elder. To Monty’s knowledge, Elder was the only Johnstown resident who was also a member of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club, and Monty wanted answers to why their dam had broken.

Halfway to the Red Cross tents, confusion settled over Monty. Where was he going? What was his intent once he got there?

His eyes had difficulty focusing on the white flag with a red cross flapping in the breeze. He stayed fixed on it, like a sailor fixed on the horizon, and with each step, his world returned to normal. More residents seemed to be gathered at the tents than at the relief stations. Nurses and doctors in white coats and aprons moved like worker bees among the dirty and forlorn faces. A few patients had visible wounds, but many waited for less obvious reasons. One man stood to the side and retched into a chamber pot.

The pork and beans gurgled in Monty’s stomach. Were they in danger of disease?

So many people. So many needs. Would their troubles never cease?