Chapter Ten

“We are creatures of the moment; we live from one little space to another; and only one interest at a time fills these.”

~William Dean Howells in A Hazard of New Fortunes, 1889

THURSDAY, JUNE 6

Had the woman with the haunted eyes and gentle hands been an ethereal creature or an apparition of his own making?

The low hum of voices and clinking of glass roused him awake. Nurses in white aprons moved about the tent, tending to those stretched on beds. His mind replayed the ghostly woman who’d set his restless spirit at ease. She’d convinced him to sleep, and what a blessed sleep it was. So deep, in fact, he struggled to decipher which of his memories from the past few days were real and which were fiction.

After stretching his stiff muscles, he sat upright with a moan. The orange tabby cat he’d cared for in the woods jumped from its coil at his side and meowed. He hadn’t seen it since he’d abandoned the petticoat in the underbrush. It was good to see that it was well.

A man wearing a white coat opened the tent flap to reveal the pink of dawn rising behind the hills. Monty was certain he’d reached these tents in full daylight, which meant he’d been asleep for almost an entire day.

The nurse stocking a crate with small glass bottles turned to him and smiled. She was real after all.

Monty’s blood stirred at this, sharpening his senses. She abandoned her task and walked to his bedside, hands in her apron pockets. “How are you feeling, Monty?”

He recalled asking her not to refer to him as Mr. Childs. If anyone here from outside of Johnstown connected his surname to his uncle, it could be downright dangerous.

“Much better now that I’ve gotten sleep.”

Purple shadows marred her skin beneath large brown eyes the color of the imported chocolates his aunt Adelaide used to purchase to spoil her guests at dinner parties. Her mouth opened wide, and she covered it with her fingers. “I’m glad to hear it. Now that you’ve gotten some rest, I should do the same.”

The cat crawled onto his lap, knocking the blanket from his legs, but she caught it before it hit the ground. She placed it at the foot of the bed then lifted the tabby and cradled it against her chest. “He’s been keeping vigil by your bedside since four o’clock yesterday. I cleaned him up as best I could and rubbed some medication on his eye. He was lucky to have survived and reunited with his owner.”

Monty rubbed his crusted and slightly goopy eyes. He must have slept in a near coma. “He’s not mine. We found each other in the woods after the flood and kept each other warm one night.”

The cat stuck its nose in the air, purring loudly enough to garner the attention of most in the room. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked.

“Since yesterday, around the noon hour.”

“Have you been here this whole time?”

She snuggled the top of the cat’s head against her chin then placed him on the ground. She brushed dark, curly tendrils escaping her white cap with a sweep of her hand as if stalling her answer. “I stepped away long enough for meals.”

Monty placed a hand on his thigh and studied her closer. “Why have you not rested?”

Bottom lip clenched between her teeth, she reached for the blanket and began folding it. “I promised you I’d be here.”

He rocked back, stunned. These tents had dozens of patients. Surely she didn’t make individual promises to each one.

It was a comfort to know that amid all this chaos human kindness still existed. Her outward beauty intensified with her beautiful gesture.

“Thank you.” His throaty tone had him clearing his throat.

A pretty pink stained her cheeks. She looped the folded blanket across one arm, dark lashes fanning her cheeks. “No new or worsening symptoms?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well then, Monty, you’re free to go. A doctor rolled up your pant-leg after you fell asleep yesterday, examined your cut, and cleared you of infection. Promise me you’ll come back if you need anything.”

He stood, and a splinter of wood jabbed into the arch of his foot. The broken boards they’d laid as a makeshift floor were already sinking into the soggy earth from the weight of traffic. The hem of his too-long pants hugged the ground.

Monty searched for his boots and found them beside the bed. “I will Miss…?”

“Annamae.” Her voice was quiet. “Since, at your request, we’ve skipped formalities and gone straight to our given names.”

Her nose wrinkled with her grin.

“I hope I haven’t offended you.”

“Not at all.”

Annamae. A harmonious name worthy of a songbird species or the title of a graceful ship. Such romantic thoughts were rare for him in the best of times, but the fact they were hitting him now was, though not unfounded, still quite odd.

Monty bent and laced one boot then the other. “Thank you, Annamae. For everything.”

She halted his exit with a touch on his sleeve. “One moment.”

Tail in the air, the cat wound between his ankles.

She passed him the folded blanket, returned to the crate she’d been unloading, and scooped up a pile of fabric. “I found these in the supply tent while you slept. They should fit you more comfortably.”

Monty thumbed through the tidy stack. “That’s very thoughtful, but I don’t want to take these if someone else has greater need.”

She gestured to his collar. He looked down to find that two buttons he’d secured on the too-small shirt yesterday were missing, exposing the hollow of his neck and a sliver of his chest.

“Oh.” Now it was his turn to blush.

She grinned. “I’d say your need is as great as the next. You can always take what you’re currently wearing to the commissary later, and they’ll wash and mend them for someone else.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Keep the blanket. Donations are pouring in, and we aim to make sure everyone in Johnstown has at least one covering.” She reached inside her apron pocket and pulled out a tin of salve. “Your home, your church. Do they remain?”

He accepted the tin. “There’s no salvaging my home. The church will need to be gutted and repaired but stands.”

“You don’t plan to sleep beneath the steeple again, do you?”

“I hope to never step foot inside an attic another day in my life.”

“Where will you stay?” Those large, curious eyes blinked up at him, concern written in their weary corners.

“If John the Baptist survived living in the wilderness, I suppose I can too.”

He was jesting, but no humor lit her face.

“I would feel better if you’d let me help you find lodging. Can you follow me to headquarters? It’s not far.”

“You’ve already been gracious, Miss Annamae. I won’t take any more of your time.”

“Please? My tent is in that direction anyway. Now that you’re awake, I plan to sleep the day away.”

What else did he have to do? There’d be no Thursday afternoon Bible study. He had no Bible, no meeting place, and his congregation was either scattered or passed away.

His heart wished to ease her sweet concern for him. “After you.”

He gestured to the front of the tent.

She quickly stripped the sheet from the tick mattress and the pillowcase from the paper-thin pillow and stuffed them into a large barrel on the way out. The cat followed beside them.

The destroyed landscape came alive with the breaking of day. People milled about delivering supplies, standing in line for medical help, walking to the commissary, sifting through debris, and any number of things. He was grateful the Red Cross had come to their aid.

Monty slowed his steps on the muddy earth to keep pace beside her.

“Supplies and volunteers are arriving on nearly every train.” She gestured to the people rushing about. “I can’t believe how quickly folks have rallied together to help.”

He was sure her words meant to offer comfort, but none came. All the comforts their lives had afforded were stolen the second the dam collapsed. It would take months to rebuild Johnstown, if not years. Their lives would never be the same.

Not wishing to be rude by remaining silent, he joined the conversation. “How are supplies getting here? The water washed away or mangled the tracks beyond use.”

“The trains can get as far as South Fork. That’s how we arrived. I’ve heard that from there, supplies are being taken over a pontoon bridge to a swinging bridge and then brought down into the valley.”

The name of South Fork brought acid into his throat. Monty had been to the fishing and hunting club named after the stopover town as his uncle’s guest and had witnessed how close the surface of the water was to the crest of the dam during normal weather. After his uncle had commanded the dam be lowered to make the service road from the station to the club wide enough for two carriages to pass, the middle started to sag—an issue his uncle had ignored as easily as one might a gnat at a picnic.

They turned and cut down an aisle between tents. Annamae’s brow furrowed as they sidled past patients lying on beds and hanging over chamber pots.

“What is it?” he whispered.

She looked from left to right then pulled him away from any listening ears. “I’m confiding in you as a man of the clergy. We don’t wish to start a panic. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“Every watershed for miles is contaminated. This town is in very real danger of typhoid fever. Some have already been exhibiting signs, though no cases have officially been declared.”

Her embarrassing question from yesterday surfaced in his mind. That explained why she was adamant that he stay under her care in case his health grew worse. Typhoid fever was highly contagious. A few cases could turn into an epidemic within days.

She flattened her palm against her stomach. “Miss Clara Barton has sent a telegram to the surgeon general requesting his presence. However, it could be days before he arrives with disinfectants. Clean your hands thoroughly before eating. Be careful using any utensils from the commissary. Be certain they’ve cleaned them. Don’t use any communal cups at water stations. If you come across anyone with symptoms, send them here.”

“I will.”

She continued into the tent with the Red Cross flag flying at its peak. A woman sat behind a crate she used as a desk. “Hetty, I need to find accommodations for Pastor Childs, please.”

The woman looked up from her papers and rubbed her temple. “You’re only the hundredth person to ask me to work a miracle in the last hour.”

Annamae raised her pert little chin. “I’ve thoroughly examined the pastor and deemed him healthy. Can you not find room for him in one of the buildings still standing? I heard Miss Barton say they’ve turned them into havens until the hotels are finished.”

The woman sighed. “They’re already full. Alma Hall is housing two hundred and forty-nine and informed us there’s not room for even one more body.” She set her pencil down. “The churches, apartments, and tenement houses that survived are also full. I heard more tents are being erected beside the old woolen mill this morning. Check there.”

Monty thanked the woman, and they left.

“I apologize for that outcome,” Annamae said. “I hope you’re able to find lodging.”

The dejection in her words eased the tightness in his chest. She genuinely cared where he laid his head tonight, which made his homeless state a little less bleak.

“I appreciate your efforts, but I believe I’ll stay at the church.” He ran a hand along the linen shirt packed into a neat square. “The Lord has promised to give the weary rest. What better place than in His house? Besides, I’ve got to go back and face it sometime.”

Though he had to admit he was reluctant to slide his neck into the yoke of cleaning and restoring it all.

Her lips pursed in concentration. “One night when Miss Barton and I were working late, I asked about her time during the war and how—with all the different wounds and lives fading around her—she even knew where to begin and how best to help the soldiers. She answered, ‘All a body can do is focus on what can be accomplished each day. Take care physically and spiritually so one can be of service to others. And most importantly, remember who holds the entire world in His hands.’ ”

Monty swallowed the truth hard, emotions coming fast. “You’ve been a godsend, Miss Annamae.”

Before she could reply, he headed for the church.

The steeple had always been his compass in the booming town, but now it was broken like everything else. Franklin Street, along with many others, was unrecognizable, so he walked in what he hoped was the general direction of Macedonia Street until he spotted the familiar roofline.

His search for Cyrus Elder could take days, if the man was even alive. But find him he would. Everyone in this town deserved answers, and Cyrus was the closest thing they had to the club members at the moment. However, it could wait.

Clutching the bundle to his side, Monty trekked up the incline of rubble. The cat trotted east to the hills, likely searching for a rodent to prey upon. Folks nodded or waved as he passed as if relieved to see another soul they recognized alive. As he neared the church, he saw more men clearing the destruction.

“Pastor!” Kenneth Breslin threw down his saw and jumped out of a fallen tree that had crushed the iron fence behind the church. It surrounded the small cemetery of the town’s founders, but many of the granite headstones were crushed or had been washed away.

At least ten other men in his congregation filed from elsewhere on the grounds to join them. Kenneth’s smile almost reached his ears. “Glad to see you alive, Pastor. No one seemed to know if you’d gone down or not. Ernie said he saw you the next day, but no one knew whether to believe him. Showed up to help clean, breath stinking of whisky.”

Monty searched the faces. Several yards away, Ernie stumbled from the side of the church where Monty’s house had been forced against it, shaky hand gripping a shovel.

“Ernie saw me,” Monty said, only for Kenneth’s ears. “He might imbibe, but he’s not a liar. You all don’t give him enough credit.” Monty glanced around. “What’s the state of everyone’s family?”

Kenneth turned his head and spit. “William put his wife and baby on a train as soon as the waters started rising Friday morning. They’re safe in Philadelphia. James lost his mother, as she was ailing and couldn’t get out of bed to run. Robert’s still looking for his two boys. Said he’d be over after he’s checked all the morgues again today. Fred’s wife was walking to her sister’s house higher on the hill when the wave swept her away. And Ernie ain’t got nobody.”

Likely the reason he drank.

“Any word on damage to the rest of the area?”

“Men from the newspapers arrived almost immediately. They’re reporting minor damage to South Fork. The planing mill and viaduct were destroyed. Sixteen died in Mineral Point. The wave took everything away, so there’s no telling there was even once a town there. The roundhouse and depot at East Conemaugh are gone, and in Woodvale, it wiped out the Gautier works, the tannery, the streetcar shed, and most every resident.”

Good heavens. The water consumed the entire hillside then. Monty ran a hand down his face. “What’s everyone doing here?”

Jim Parkes laid a hand on Monty’s shoulder. “All our homes are gone except Ted’s, and his is barely standing. But we’re alive. You’ve done so much for us, Pastor, we thought we’d start with cleaning your place. And the church. We’ll be needing spiritual bread while we rebuild this town and try to make sense of all this.”

Hot tears filled Monty’s eyes. These men had lost nearly everything, and their first thought after their own families was for him and the church. Shame burned deep in Monty’s gut for avoiding his position over the last few days. He didn’t know how he would begin ministering to these men in the wake of this disaster, but he owed it to them to try.

He wiped his damp eyes and sniffed. “Thanks, fellas. Let’s get to work.”