Chapter Thirteen
“The State Board of Health hereby directs and empowers you to immediately summon a posse to patrol the Conemaugh River, tear down the drift heaps and remove the dead bodies, both human beings and domestic animals. This is absolutely necessary to protect your county from pestilence.”
~Telegram sent by Dr. Benjamin Lee, head of the Pennsylvania Board of Health, to the four counties between Johnstown and Pittsburgh
MONDAY, JUNE 10
Supplies poured in faster than the Red Cross could sort, catalog, and store them before the next shipment arrived. As soon as the warehouse was stocked, supplies were distributed so quickly that inventory ran low until more cataloguing and stocking were completed. The warehouse made it easier to protect the supplies from the rain that insisted on covering the valley. The deceased continued to be found as the precipitation melted dirt into mud and unearthed bodies both mangled and perfectly preserved.
Annamae lifted her hem and dodged around a group of men with pickaxes and shovels, all concentrating on what they’d found. She focused her attention in the opposite direction, not wishing to glimpse their discovery. She should have stayed at her post in the typhoid tent, but more nurses had arrived this morning ready to assist, and she needed to see Monty. His brokenness disrupted her sleep, creating haunting images of him telling Joanna she was all alone.
Annamae knew what it was like to be a girl with no prospects, alone in the world. If she had the means, the temptation of adopting the child herself would be hard to resist. She didn’t know what kindness she could offer to the girl, but she knew she had to see with her own eyes that Joanna was okay.
She followed the directions to Holt House that had been given to her by a local man out of work from the woolen mill. He’d told her nigh to half of his life story before answering her question. This side of town was less damaged as the buildings rested on higher ground. She paused and searched for the two-story red colonial but saw nothing of what the man described behind the mass of people milling about. Standing on tiptoe wouldn’t do her any good, but maybe that tree stump would offer perspective.
Her first two attempts to climb the stump had her stumbling backward.
“Ma’am, do you need help?” A boy around the age of eight with freckles splayed across his nose and a bag of newspapers slung across his chest blinked up at her with curious eyes.
She supposed she appeared rather ridiculous. “I’m looking for Holt House.”
“Did you think you’d find it on that stump?” His head tipped to the side.
“No. I was trying to see over the crowd and rooftops.”
“Ah.” He beckoned for her to follow him.
Up another block he turned right, and the red colonial came into view. “Thank you, young man.”
Annamae hurried to the entrance, wondering if she’d already missed Monty’s arrival.
The door was open, allowing those seeking asylum to enter and exit at will. Though the number of beds set up there were occupied, during the day it acted as a commissary to feed the hungry from its large kitchen. Stepping inside, she blinked her eyes to adjust to the dim light and excused herself through the visitors standing in line for breakfast.
None of the faces were Monty’s. She went from room to room on the first floor until she recognized his form in the parlor’s corner. His back to her, he knelt before a small girl with reddish hair who clutched a ratty doll to her chest. Annamae stood in the doorway, breathless. Though she couldn’t decipher his words, the low rumble of his voice wrapped around her heart and squeezed.
His large hands raised to cradle Joanna’s arms. Short, high-pitched sobs escaped the girl’s mouth, and tears rushed down her cheeks. Annamae covered her mouth to contain her own emotions. Monty pulled Joanna to him and patted her back, his gentle encouragement stinging Annamae’s eyes.
She wanted to run to Joanna, pick up the doll that had dropped to the floor, and tell her everything was going to be okay. The way she’d wished someone would have done for her when her father died. It was like being on the fringes of the past, watching herself as Mr. Nesbit told her that her father had fallen into the molten pit.
All she could do was stand there and watch them, tortured between duty and compassion. Hetty was right. She was an unmarried woman without the means of supporting a child. And saving Joanna wouldn’t save herself. Yes, it was hard, but the best thing for Joanna was an adoption into a new family.
Monty inched Joanna away from his shoulder and placed his large hands on the sides of her face. Annamae knew the roughness of those hands well from rubbing in the salve and from his hold on her the night before. He brushed the girl’s tears with his thumbs, gentle, tender, and Annamae’s heart melted to her toes.
Unfamiliar with the intense attraction that hit her so swiftly, she hastened back to her post at the Red Cross tents. Joanna would be fine. Annamae would pray for her and trust that God would place her in the care of wonderful parents.
No matter how fast she walked, she couldn’t shed the strange emotions rolling inside her. Was it sadness? Anger? Hate? Whatever it was, it had started last night with her confession to Monty about her father’s passing and grew stronger at the sight of Joanna.
She stuffed the feelings down as she entered the warehouse for clean sheets and lye soap. There was no time to dwell on her grief today when she had beds to make and patients to attend to. Typhoid victims were growing in number, and the next few weeks would be critical and exhausting.
“Annamae.”
She turned toward the voice and moved to the end of the aisle. Clara Barton joined her, large skirts brushing against crates as she passed. Worry tightened Annamae’s stomach. Had Clara learned she’d abandoned her post?
“The surgeon general will arrive on the evening train.” A telegram dangled from Clara’s fingertips. “Finish what you’re doing and then take a few hours to recuperate. Once he arrives with the disinfectants, I’ll need you to help train the others on how to use them properly.
“He will also meet with the various committees and teach them which disinfectants are best to use on which materials and in which areas. He may enlist your help with that as well.”
Relief filled Annamae. She was glad to be helping these people. Not that nursing sick patients wasn’t helping, but all trained nurses knew how to care for typhoid. Not everyone got the privilege of working in the field with Clara Barton and the surgeon general.
“Yes, ma’am.” A sharp pain radiated from the small of Annamae’s back up to her shoulder blades. She would not miss standing over a boiling cauldron to stir soiled bed linens.
The thought brought memories of her father close to the surface again, and she imagined him standing on the platform year after year, stirring the iron, heat so intense it changed the texture of his skin. All to provide food and shelter for her. She blinked away tears.
“Is something wrong?” Clara frowned.
“No, ma’am. The heavy amounts of lye soap I’ve been using for the laundry are bothering my skin and eyes.” She raised one of her sleeves. The flesh was dry, bumpy, and pink.
The lines on Clara’s forehead relaxed. “Well, you’ll get a break soon enough. However, there’s something I must speak to you about.”
Clara paused as another nurse entered the warehouse for supplies. A few moments later, in came another.
“Let’s take a short walk, Miss Worthington.”
Annamae’s stomach cramped as she followed Clara outside. She should have known she couldn’t hide anything from the woman. Clara was practically omniscient. Annamae braced herself for a good scolding.
The sky was a cloudless cerulean blue, the first since before the flood. The hillsides were a vivid green, springing with hope and life. Annamae wanted to take comfort in this, but since she was back to Miss Worthington, she found it difficult.
Remaining quiet by Clara’s side, Annamae waited until the woman was ready to speak. Each footstep brought another wave of dread coursing through her veins. It wasn’t until they’d passed the tents and approached the base of the hill the locals called “the avenue to Grandview Cemetery” did Clara speak.
“I’ve heard rumors regarding your behavior with a patient last night—embraces, whispering, a moonlit walk.”
Oh, that.
Embarrassment filled Annamae, chased by anger. She hadn’t done anything wrong. How dare the other nurses stir up trouble when they should concentrate on their own work?
“He’s lived through circumstances unimaginable to us who didn’t live through the flood. Yesterday, he brought one of his dearest friends to us in hopes we could sustain him of typhoid, only for the young man to die. Needing comfort from the horrors he’s experienced the past week, he embraced me. What could I do but bridge the gap from stranger to friend?”
Annamae omitted the part about her touching him first. She hadn’t meant to initiate contact, but her heart overpowered her brain sometimes. “He’s a pastor. There was nothing untoward in his actions.”
The serious lines of Clara’s mouth quirked up at the corners. “That’s quite a defense for my small statement.”
“I hate idle gossip.”
“As do I. That’s why I came to you directly.”
Annamae took a deep breath and instantly regretted it. The air reeked of decay and stagnant water. “We were whispering because it was midnight, and we didn’t want to disturb the other patients. The boy’s name was Ben, only seventeen years old. Ben has a younger sister, and Monty was upset at having to inform her about her brother’s passing and that she would have to join the orphan train.”
Clara bent her head. “Poor child.”
A robin landed on a nearby tree branch and flicked its wings. For the first time, Annamae noticed how every tree at the base of the hill was charred black, like they’d burned, yet stood strong. Surely, that hadn’t resulted from the flood.
“Is that why you disappeared to Holt House this morning?”
Annamae’s head whipped around. “I … yes. I wanted to check on Monty and Joanna.”
“Monty, eh?” Mischief danced in Clara’s dark eyes.
“Mr. Childs. I mentioned to him our need of a chaplain with all the other ministers already committed to the morgues and relief committees. He said he’d let me know.”
“Very good.” Clara’s narrowed but playful eyes told Annamae she saw deeper than the surface of her words. “And this moonlit walk?”
Annamae chuckled at the ridiculousness of the rumor. “He went with me to headquarters to report Ben’s passing so his body could be transported to the morgue. Then we returned to the tent—under the moon because it was midnight—and then he left to sleep in his church.”
“Very well, Annamae.” Clara patted her hand. “I wanted to hear your side of the tale. I know how some women like to chatter.”
So, she was back to Annamae now.
“I suppose I needn’t remind you of our position here.” Clara’s features turned serious, accentuating the puffiness under her lower eyelashes. “We’re here to serve, and we must be aboveboard in all that we do. Even when comforting a patient. You mustn’t allow your emotions to override your good sense.”
What was she supposed to have done, pushed Monty away? “Yes, ma’am.”
“I haven’t seen this much desolation, this much need, in many years.” Clara craned her neck and gazed in every direction.
Smoke lifted from fires of burning debris. The air was full of the hum of voices, shouts, crashes, booms, and wails. “Our purpose isn’t always easy, as nurses or as women.”
Annamae studied the fierce warrior who barely reached her chin.
“You can’t give a piece of your heart to each patient, or you’ll go mad. You must learn to distance your emotions, do what needs to be done, and save the tears for when it’s all over.”
“Is that how you survived nursing during the war?” Annamae wondered how such a fine and genteel woman could withstand such horrors and still be the lady Clara was today.
A peaceful sense of accomplishment curled Clara’s mouth. “Have I ever told you about my brother, David?”
“No, ma’am.”
“To me, David was like a hero out of a storybook. Tall and athletic. Courageous. Never one to turn down a dare. He was the one who taught me to ride horses. You see, I used to be dreadfully afraid of them.”
Annamae found it hard to believe this woman had ever been afraid of anything.
“David and I were very close, even though we were years apart in age. In the spring of 1832, during a barn raising, he wanted to prove his athleticism by volunteering to nail the high rafters to the ridgepole. Knowing him, there was a lady present he wanted to impress. But a board broke beneath his feet, and he crashed into a pile of heavy timbers. Got a terrible blow to the head. For two years he hovered between life and death, and I refused to leave his side.”
“What happened?”
“I was only eleven, and it upset me to watch the doctors apply leeches. Bloodletting is an awful practice—don’t ever allow a physician to talk you into doing it.”
Annamae nodded.
“I thought they’d drain him dry. Nothing worked. That’s when I decided my nursing would help him the most. I only left that room for one half day the entire two years. I almost forgot there was an outside world beyond those bedroom walls.”
“He’d have terrible fits of anger and nervousness. Clung to me through it all. It wasn’t until the steam baths that he finally improved. By that time, I had lost most of my strength. I’d forgotten how to be a child.”
“Did David recover?”
“Fully. He became an assistant quartermaster for the Union army.”
Annamae’s skin pebbled. What an amazing story.
What an amazing lady.
Clara raised her chin. “I shared that with you so you know I’m aware of how a patient can suffer mental scars as well as physical. I also know how hard it is to distance yourself when you have a tender heart. Many a man during the war reminded me of David, lying on a sick bed, crying out for someone to end his misery. I comforted as best I could. Once, I made a pie using the soldier’s mother’s recipe he carried in his pocket onto the battlefield, of all things. But I always had to guard my heart. Think before I acted. The entry I’d gained on the battlefield to help those men could be snatched away at the slightest impropriety.”
Annamae considered the unspoken warning in Clara’s advice. “I understand, ma’am.”
“You’re a good girl. I knew you would.” Clara spun toward the tents. “Now, go finish making those beds and then get some sleep until the surgeon general arrives.”
Though Clara’s words had been nothing but kind, Annamae’s pride felt beaten and whipped. She contemplated Clara’s words as she tucked clean sheets around the thin, stained ticks and carried the soiled laundry away to the boiling cauldron. This position was all she had now that her father was gone, and she’d worked hard for it. She had to do everything she could to keep it. Even if it meant isolating her heart from the handsome, broken pastor.