Chapter Fourteen

“I told them that the dam would break sometime and cause just such a disaster as this.”

~ John Fulton, manager of Cambria Iron Works

Monty could hardly navigate the mass of bodies traveling through the wreckage, commissaries, cleanup crews, and committee stations. Visitors wearing tailored suits or displaying outlandish beribboned hats and carrying parasols came to gawk at the disaster. His stomach revolted at how many thought nothing of taking a meal from the commissary or of swiping a trinket they found protruding from the ground so they could return home with a souvenir from the Johnstown flood.

This town had made history, and where thousands across the nation scrambled to help, it also generated despicable behavior that made it difficult to live the Bible passages about patience and being slow to wrath. Did these people not care that they were taking food away from those who’d already lost everything?

The noonday sun shone clear and bright above him, a welcome reprieve from the rain. It stirred a hope inside that the folks of Johnstown would prosper again. With all the volunteers and survivors working every daylight hour, he believed it would.

Hammers, picks, axes, and dynamite blasts filled the town, yet one voice around him rose higher than it all. Monty scanned the landscape, searching for the owner. On an embankment by the depot, where General Hastings had set up his headquarters, Reverend David Beale, open Bible in his hands, and another fellow appeared to be holding some kind of church service. A small crowd had gathered round, and as Monty headed that direction, more curious people joined.

Beale stood on a packing box, the back corners sunken into the earth, making it a level and secure platform. “Just yesterday, I overheard a visitor ask one of our small boys how bad things were here in Johnstown. The boy replied, ‘If I was the biggest liar on the face of the earth, I could not tell you half.’ ”

Murmured amens followed. A solemnness settled over the group.

“To tell the world how or what we felt when shoeless, hatless, many almost naked from the force of the water, some bruised and broken, we stood there and looked upon that scene of death and desolation, it’s near impossible to describe the true horrors of it.”

Reverend Beale continued by using examples of those who had lived through, and perished in, the waters. He spoke of Noah and how God had used his family to start humanity again and, even then, sin had infiltrated their lives. “We must live these days with caution. Our behavior, our character, and even our faith have all been tested and will be tested in the days to come.”

Drunkenness, thievery, greed, lust of all kinds—Monty had seen it all over the past ten days. General Hastings’ men had seized liquor arriving on the trains and sent a good portion of it back to its origin to keep it from exacerbating the riotous brawls. He kept small amounts at his headquarters for medicinal purposes and its disinfecting properties.

Prostitutes were another problem permeating the valley. So were thieves, who made great promises to those who had money or possessions left to bargain with and left them more destitute. The Hungarians and Swedes, called “Hunkies,” accused in the papers of mutilating the dead for their possessions, lived in fear of mobs hungry for justice. A few of those accounts had been true but embellished, and many of the accounts printed had been lies. General Hastings demanded the reporters print the truth and stop inflating tales to sell papers.

Monty had heard that a group of vigilantes had traveled up the mountain to South Fork and onto the fishing and hunting club property in search of club members. But the summer season at the club didn’t begin until mid-June, and none of them would come now with no lake to sail on or fish in. Any club members present when the dam collapsed had already fled.

“‘Wherefore,’ ” the reverend said, pointing to a passage in his Bible, “‘have I seen them dismayed and turned away back? And their mighty ones are beaten down, and are fled apace, and look not back: for fear was round about, saith the Lord. Let not the swift flee away, nor the mighty man escape; they shall stumble, and fall toward the north by the river Euphrates.’ ”

“Or Lake Conemaugh,” someone from the group yelled.

Agreeing voices took over. Reverend Beale silenced the crowd with a raised palm then finished reading. “‘Who is this that cometh up as a flood, whose waters are moved as the rivers?’ Let us not forget folks, ‘The Lord sitteth upon the flood; yea, the Lord sitteth King for ever.’ ”

Both men and women shouted. Hands waved in the air.

John Fulton of the Cambria Iron Works joined Reverend Beale on his dais. His hair had grayed considerably since Monty had seen the man last. “Rest assured, each and every Cambria shop will rebuild.”

“Amen!” someone shouted.

“Johnstown is going to be rebuilt.” Fulton’s almond-shaped eyes pierced the crowd with conviction.

A woman standing beside Monty, wearing a dress that would be better off used as rags, wiped a tear and said, “Thank God!”

“What about Gautier?” a man shouted.

Fulton’s broad shoulders left little room for the reverend. “I cannot speak for the Gautier works. However, I am certain they too will rebuild, and bigger than ever. The Cambria men will be taken care of, and if you still have your family left, then God bless your soul, man, you’re rich.”

A renewed energy seemed to take over their little corner. More spectators joined Monty, filling in as far back as the next street. Reverend Beale stepped off the platform, either allowing Fulton to give his own sermon or feeling he had no choice.

“Get to work,” Fulton continued. “Clean up your department. Set your lathes going again. The furnaces are all right. The steel works are all right. Get to work, I say. That’s the way to look at this sort of thing… . Think how much worse this could have been.”

Fulton’s voice and intensity rose with every sentence. “Give thanks for that great stone bridge that saved hundreds of lives. Yes, it took lives too, but had it not existed or the bridge collapsed, the whole town would have washed down the valley. Give thanks that the flood did not come in the night. Trust in God.

“Johnstown had its day of woe and ruin. It will have its day of renewed prosperity. Labor, energy, capital—by God’s grace—shall make this city more thriving than ever in the past.”

“Amen!” Fists punched the air.

Reverend Beale clapped along with others in the crowd. Unfortunately, Johnstown put more faith in the Cambria Company than in God. Monty had learned that on his first day and had worked to flip their mindset the same as Reverend Beale, mostly to no avail. Sure, faith abounded, but it fluctuated based on the success of the mills.

Monty gazed across the landscape, still in ruin. Fulton was right though. This was their home, and they must fight for it. The question was, how long would it take to get the town functioning once more?

“Now …” Fulton held up a paper crinkled in his hand. “I hold in my possession today—and I thank God that I do—my own report, made years ago, in which I told these people who, for purposes I will not mention, desired to seclude themselves in the mountains, that their dam was dangerous.”

Strained silence settled over the crowd. Bodies crowded closer to hear.

Fulton lowered his thick, dark eyebrows into a V. “I told them that the dam would break sometime and cause just such a disaster as this.”

With that, the thoughts that had been circulating in town for days were declared aloud. And by one of the most respected men in Johnstown. Fulton was the general manager and mining engineer for the Cambria Iron Works. In the interest of his company, his family, and the people of Johnstown, he’d inspected the South Fork dam and had written a report declaring its flaws.

He’d been ridiculed by many club members, including Monty’s Uncle Henry, who’d casually joked at dinner about someone needing to “silence the man.” Monty had been fifteen and believed it an unthreatening statement. In the years that followed, his Uncle Henry would squash any lingering naivete that he was bluffing when spouting threats, and the cold hard truth of his uncle’s darkness would cause Monty to flee Clayton.

Fulton went on to reveal that years earlier Daniel J. Morrell, the former manager of the Cambria Iron Works, offered to invest money to stabilize the dam if the club would allow Cambria use of the water during times of drought. Benjamin Ruff, the man who originally purchased the property from the Pennsylvania Railroad and later sold shares to create the club, promptly refused Morrell’s offer. Morrell purchased a share in the club so he could monitor the dam and other events within the organization. Both men had passed away a few years ago, and Morrell’s club membership transferred to Cyrus Elder.

Despite how Elder viewed the situation, the paper clutched in Fulton’s hand may very well be the link to holding the club accountable.

“Watch yo’self, Miss Worthington.”

Annamae gripped the bundle of mail tighter and shuffled out of the path of men carrying crates of disinfectant to the wagon. The gentleman who had issued the warning was as thick and strong as an oak tree. Cedric, as he’d introduced himself, had eyes and skin the same dark color and a laugh that coaxed one from those around him. Although she was intimidated by his size upon first glance, his gentle, boyish grin and kind nature quickly set her at ease.

The crate landed in the wagon with a thud. The horses startled, but a passerby grabbed the reins and calmed the beasts.

“Thank you, Mr. Cedric.” The bustling South Fork depot, though tiny in comparison, rivaled the operation of Washington’s Union Station platform with crates, barrels, and trunks delivered and loaded, some stacked two or three high. Relief for the people of Johnstown was coming faster than folks could transport it down the mountain. Passengers filled the waiting rooms for either a way into the town or for a way out.

Until the viaduct between Mineral Point and South Fork was restored, there was no way to get supplies into the heart of Johnstown by train. The Pennsylvania Railroad crew worked around the clock to build a temporary bridge and restore the lines until they could repair the original viaduct. They were close to finishing, according to the papers. In the meantime, the South Fork and Sang Hollow depots were as close as anyone could get.

General Hastings filled the doorway of the station, scowled at the surrounding view, and then stalked toward a team of horses tied to a hitching post. Annamae intercepted the grumpy general. Upon seeing her, his face softened, and he tipped his hat.

“Good evening, General.”

His white mustache twitched. “It would be if I didn’t have to police all of Pennsylvania and could concentrate on the safety of Johnstown.”

She raised a brow in question.

“I must spare two of my men and leave them here to turn away anyone who doesn’t have a legitimate reason to be in Johnstown. Folks are coming from all over the country just to say they saw the disaster for themselves. Despicable souls.”

“Oh, my.” General Hastings, although the kindest of men, was not one to make an enemy of.

He unwound his horse’s reins. “And how is the Red Cross faring?”

His tone was considerably less aggressive.

“Doctor Hamilton, the surgeon general, has arrived with disinfectants. I’m to help with distribution and training on how to use the chemicals. With time, it should help eliminate typhoid cases.”

“Yes, I’ve heard it’s spreading rapidly. Hopefully, these disinfectants will help freshen the air as well.”

Now that the torrents of rain seemed to have passed and the early summer temperature was rising, the putrid smell of filth and decomposing corpses had gotten worse.

General Hastings placed his foot in the stirrup, swung his leg over the horse, and dropped onto his saddle. “Good day to you, Miss Worthington. I must go before it gets dark. Please send my regards to Miss Barton.”

“I will do that, sir.” Annamae smiled.

Clara and the general had formed quite the unique friendship since their arrival. In fact, if Annamae had to guess, she’d say the general was impressed with the little warrior. No doubt, her dedication and determination rivaled any he’d seen from his men.

Doctor Hamilton exited the depot and held up his hand when he spotted her by the post. She followed him to the wagon. He took the bundle of mail from her and assisted her up. She maneuvered her large skirt to make room for them both and Mr. Cedric.

“Miss Worthington.” The doctor squeezed in beside her, handing her the mail. “Are the stories of looting and lynching I’ve read in the papers true?”

“Most were sensationalized to sell papers. Captain Hart, General Hastings, and the military are doing their utmost to keep order and assure safety to the Johnstown residents and volunteers.”

Doctor Hamilton seemed satisfied with her answer.

“What of Washington?” she asked. “Is it true investigations have commenced regarding the dam and its property owners?”

The doctor glanced around to see if they had an audience. He kept his voice low. “It’s true. The property used to be part of the Pennsylvania Canal but was sold to the man who started the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club in ’79. There’s speculation that the club members were warned several times over the last decade that the dam’s structure was no longer safe and would someday collapse.”

Her mouth fell open. “You mean this could have been prevented?”

Doctor Hamilton shrugged. “I suppose that will be for the courts to decide.”

Mr. Cedric slapped the reins on the horses’ backs and set them into motion. The path was rough and would take them much longer than the traditional way, but with all the debris and the railroad men laying new tracks, they were forced to travel the east side of the terrain to Johnstown that was comprised of flatter ground to withstand their heavy load.

Annamae clasped her hands in her lap, unable to keep from rocking into the men boxing her in. “Surely any wise and honorable judge will make certain the club members are held accountable if they are guilty of negligence.”

A wry smile curled one side of the doctor’s mouth. “One can hope. Unfortunately, it seems as if the club roster is a secret. The identities are held with lock and key by the most powerful men in the country.”

“How does keeping the identities of the club secret benefit the powerful men?”

“Because they’re the members.”

“If membership is secret, how do you know that?”

His expression was that of an adult speaking to a naive child. “Simple deduction, Miss Worthington. The average working man can’t afford luxury or time away from work, and men of high ranking in the government or military rarely get time for sporting. Only the kings of industry have the time and wealth for such devices.”

The hairs on Annamae’s arms rose. The most powerful men in the country were men like Andrew Carnegie, Henry Clay Frick, John D. Rockefeller, the Vanderbilts, J.P. Morgan, and John Jacob Astor. Men who relied on others to build their fortunes.

Men who could afford to pay a judge to rule in their favor.

The wagon hit a rut, jarring her teeth. She clutched her small bundle to keep from losing it. The horses shifted to brace the heavy load down the incline. Anguish welled inside her as they passed the former towns of Mineral Point and Woodvale. Areas just as devastated as Johnstown, but on a smaller scale.

Suddenly, she missed her father. Missed the comfort of her small apartment in Washington. She even missed the mundane routine she got lost in when loneliness crept its fingers around her heart. She thought of Monty and the sweet friendship she’d found in him but pushed the thoughts aside when she recalled Clara’s warning. Her mentor was right. She must guard her heart. There was no sense in forming an attachment when she’d go back to Washington once the Red Cross finished their work here.

It was almost dark when Mr. Cedric pulled the wagon to a stop at the warehouse. She delivered the bundle of mail to headquarters and helped Doctor Hamilton and Clara catalog the various disinfectants in their logbook. At a quarter to nine, Clara informed her that Pastor Childs had stopped by to offer his services as chaplain, and then dismissed Annamae to her tent. Though Annamae had tried to elicit an indifferent attitude, Clara no doubt noticed the slight uptick at the corners of her mouth.

She’d never mastered the art of keeping her feelings off her face.

Annamae gazed at the full moon as she walked to her quarters. “Good night, Papa,” she whispered.

Holding back a yawn, Annamae undressed and slipped beneath the blanket. Tomorrow, the real work began.