Chapter Fifteen

“Then after burying, mourning the dead, (Faithful to them, found or unfound, forgetting not, bearing the past, here now musing,) A day—a passing moment or an hour—we bow ourselves—America itself bends low, Silent, resign’d submissive.”

~Leaf two of “A Voice from Death” written by Walt Whitman, published in the New York World a week after the disaster

SATURDAY, JUNE 15

On a garbled sigh, Mrs. Clavin, who’d run the schoolhouse for almost twenty years before marrying, left this world for the next. Mr. Clavin had perished in the flood when a pipe spinning in the churning waters harpooned him through the chest. Husband and wife were together again.

“We commend thy soul to Jesus.” Monty slid the sheet over her face.

He searched the tent for Annamae, but she still had not arrived. Something kept her this morning, and he missed her company. They’d seen each other every day since he’d agreed to act as chaplain, even if their exchanges only comprised a greeting in passing. When time had allowed, they’d discussed things that better acquainted them with one another. Likes and dislikes, present and past experiences. Nothing of true significance, but enough to endear her to him even more.

She was a flicker of hope in these dark days. A place where he could glean encouragement. Someone with whom he could feel something besides grief and loss. He’d told her once she was a godsend, and he meant it.

The nurses on duty cared for other typhoid patients clinging to life. The tent reeked and, as bad as some areas of Johnstown still smelled, the fresher air outside of the oiled canvas was welcome. He entered headquarters and informed Hetty of Mrs. Clavin’s passing and requested her body be prepared for burial. “I’ll return in a few hours. If you need my services, I’ll be at the church.”

“Thank you, Mr. Childs.” She put her pen down and flexed her fingers then shook her wrist.

He couldn’t imagine spending hours a day hunched over a desk, copying information from one source to another. Monty moved to leave but hesitated, wanting to inquire about Annamae, yet deeming it unwise.

“Is there something else?” Hetty asked, stretching her neck from side to side.

“No, miss.” Monty left before he opened his mouth and revealed his thoughts.

He had too much work to do, rebuilding his church and home and serving his congregation, to allow a pretty nurse who would leave Johnstown to distract him. Even if she had pulled him out of his darkness and brought him back to the land of the living.

Construction noise yanked him from his reverie. Supplies to meet almost every need poured in from around the country, including lumber, nails, plaster, and other building materials, but Monty didn’t feel right using any for himself. He could put the inheritance he’d received from his parents to good use and purchase the materials on his own. Then his past circle of wealth and privilege would serve a purpose on the current path God had called him to travel. He would send a wire to his bank in Pittsburgh for the amount he needed to be sent to the Babcock Lumber Company.

All around him, the groaning of construction and cleanup pulsed in the background to dynamite blasts and the B&O Railroad whistle blasts. The new depot in Mineral Point was finished, and the lines from there to Johnstown were set. The obliteration of the roundhouse made travel tricky, so a small loading dock had been raised a few days ago where supplies and passengers could disembark before the train moved along to Sang Hollow.

The First National Bank once stood near the roundhouse, but it too was gone. Thankfully, a crew had found the two bank vaults encased in mud and the contents inside were unharmed. Rumors spread through town that anyone with an existing mortgage was covered by the monetary donations pouring in, settling their debt with the banks. Any mortgages not covered would be seized by the bank without default for them to resell the plot to the many businessmen seeking to erect institutions on the foundation of the new Johnstown.

Monty waited for a horse and buggy to pass before crossing Main to Washington Street. Not that they resembled the once parallel routes anymore. But the Johnstown Savings Bank, where Monty held an account for wire transfers, miraculously stood on the corner with minimal damage and access to the lone telegraph line sending messages in and out of the valley.

In the shadow of the savings and loan building stood Cyrus Elder, talking to a reporter. Monty couldn’t believe it. After ten days of attempting to find the man, here he was, as if he’d known Monty had planned to visit.

Soldiers milled about on foot and horseback, making it feel less like home and more like a military camp or a mining town. Their tents split Johnstown in half, a wall of oiled canvas peaks running right through the middle of the ruins.

Monty started forward, but a soldier leaning against a post blocked his path. “What’s your business here, sir?”

His attention flitted between Elder and the soldier. “Pardon?”

“Your business in Johnstown. What is it?”

Annoyance sluiced through Monty and brought an un-pastorly response to his tongue that he chose to not utter. He scratched the skin of his cheek, appalled by the beard that sprouted there. “I’m a resident of Johnstown and pastor of what was the Valley Baptist Church. I’m here to speak to the bank manager as well as Cyrus Elder. Excuse me.”

Elder must have overheard his name, because they held eye contact an instant later. Monty brushed past the young, arrogant soldier who needed someone to knock some manners into him. Elder’s posture straightened to full height as Monty approached.

“That’s all I have to say on the matter,” Elder told the reporter, who stuck his pencil behind his ear and dashed off, presumably to write his article in enough time to make the evening paper.

Elder smiled. “Monty Childs. Glad to see you alive and well.”

A dynamite blast sounded on the other end of town, sending a plume into the air.

“You as well. I heard about your wife and daughter. I’m deeply sorry for your loss.”

Elder’s head dropped, and his chin bobbed against his collar in a nod. “I’d just returned from Chicago. Found my street covered by four feet of water. I could see my house. Water almost covered the porch steps where my girls waved their handkerchiefs at me, greeting my arrival.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t want to get my shoes and trousers wet, so I secured a raft some kid had made of rough boards and attempted to paddle the rest of the way home. It overturned in front of my brother’s house, so I went in for dry clothing. The flood came while I was dressing. Washed my girls right off the porch.”

If every member of Johnstown, no matter their station, lined up and told their stories, the horrific tales would last for months. One thing the newspaper headlines had correct: the disaster was something “no pen could describe.”

Monty bowed his head and prayed for God to give Cyrus strength, as well as himself for what he was about to say. “So much loss and pain. Almost more than we can bear.” He cleared his throat. “Cyrus, there’s talk all this suffering could’ve been prevented.”

Elder snapped out of his grief and returned to the hard businessman at his core, searing Monty with a glare. “I know everyone blames the fishing and hunting club, but it isn’t so, as I told that reporter.” He pointed in the direction where the reporter had gone. “I will stick to my position. I’ve inspected that dam myself and never had cause to believe the structure was faulty. No dam could withstand the rain and flooding that poured in from upstream. If anyone is to blame, I suppose we ourselves are among them, for we have indeed been very careless in this most important matter, and most of us have paid the penalty of our neglect. Including me.”

The young soldier walked toward them, right hand resting on the pistol at his hip. “Is there a problem here, Mr. Elder?”

Monty refrained from rolling his eyes and telling the squirt this town had bigger problems to monitor than two men in a heated discussion. “No, young man. There isn’t.”

“It’s corporal.” The kid stepped forward to project intimidation that was lost on Monty.

Monty noted the smooth, pale flesh on the corporal’s face. Had his cheeks ever seen a razor? He barely looked old enough to be out of primary school.

Elder glanced at Monty. “Everything is fine here, Corporal.”

“Best we keep it that way.” With a nod at Elder and a scowl at Monty, the soldier returned to his lazy stance against the post, watching them like an eagle watched its prey.

Monty reconsidered his approach. Elder had just as much reason to be angry at the club as anyone, and yet he stood his ground. As for Elder’s personal inspection of the dam, he wasn’t a qualified engineer; therefore, his report meant nothing.

Monty slipped his hands into his pockets. “My quarrel isn’t with you personally, Cyrus, but this disaster is of a caliber this country has never seen. If man was the cause, there needs to be consequences. What does the club plan to do about this?”

Elder ran a hand through his hair. “I repeat, it’s we who have been careless.”

The residents of Johnstown? “Careless how?”

“We’ve ignored the growing intensity of the spring floods each year.” Elder scrubbed his hand down his face. “The town was booming. All this building, this progress. It takes lumber. We took the lumber from the hills around us. That left fewer trees with roots to absorb the water and slow the downhill flow of rain, creating higher flooding in the valley.”

Monty rocked from heels to toes, considering Elder’s point. “I won’t deny that. It doesn’t explain the crumbling structure of the dam, however. There are witnesses who say streams of water were shooting out twenty feet above the bottom of the dam days before the collapse. Why wasn’t warning given then?”

Elder chuckled sarcastically. “Witnesses who didn’t have authority to be on that property to begin with? Yeah, I’d take their words as gospel.” He rubbed his temple, revealing the dirty cuffs on his shirt. “Benjamin Ruff put on record after he purchased the property that those shoots were natural springs.”

A lie, but even if it were true, what imbecile would have an earthen dam surrounded by natural springs that would saturate and weaken the structure? That alone would be grounds for restructuring the dam.

Elder sighed. “Rumor of the dam breaking was a boy-who-cried-wolf tale repeated for decades. Robert Pitcairn of the Pennsylvania Railroad sent numerous warnings the morning of the flood, giving everyone plenty of time to flee to the hills. Few took it seriously until it was too late.”

He choked on the last word.

The man made valid points, but he still hadn’t addressed the club’s negligence. “Fulton is saying—”

“I know what Fulton is saying.” Elder shuffled his feet. “We’ve always stood strong together. But not on this.”

Elder turned to go inside the bank.

“Cyrus—”

“Look.” Elder swiveled and poked a finger at Monty’s chest. “The club didn’t build the dam. The Pennsylvania Railroad did. From there, it changed hands before Benjamin Ruff sold shares to the club. The collapse could be the fault of many poor decisions made over time or an act of God. Sometimes we don’t get answers to our questions. Sometimes God takes good things from us. Allows things to happen. This event certainly didn’t take Him by surprise. You, of all people, should know that.”

Elder went into the bank, and Monty let him go. Elder was right. God knew this disaster would happen before He created the earth. It was a difficult and sobering thought. However, it didn’t negate the consequences if human action was at fault.

Monty stalked away. He’d come back and wire for his money another day.

Elder was a good man who’d done many great things for this town over the last generation. Shame washed over Monty for attacking him in that manner. Perhaps he’d let his passion for helping others see what was right overtake his sensibility and compassion.

Surely none of the club members had intended for the dam to break. But they’d also failed to improve its structure. Earthen dams were centuries old and should work fine for holding back water. If the dam had collapsed, it was due to water seeping internally and weakening its structure. The amount of rain shouldn’t have affected its strength if the spillway and sluice pipes worked properly. Monty knew that Ruff had removed the sluice pipes upon purchase and sold them for scrap and that the control tower the Pennsylvania Canal built for raising and lowering water had burned years earlier as well. Even so, the spillway, if working properly, should have been enough to keep the lake from cresting over the dam. So what had happened that day?

The answers were out there, and someone needed to find them.

Annamae sipped tepid coffee from the tin cup and relished the warm sun blanketing her shoulders. The activities at the commissary buzzed all around her. There were two things that kept a steady delivery to Johnstown for which she was grateful—coffee and newspapers. One kept her connected to her faculties while the other kept her connected to the world outside the valley. Currently, she was reading about the new cable car service in Los Angeles, California, and a new structure called the Eiffel Tower in Paris, France. She was ignoring the telegram from Matthew burning a hole in her pocket.

PAPERS PRINTING THE WORST STOP PLEASE SEND WORD OF YOUR SAFETY STOP DOCTOR MARTIN STOP

Matthew’s concern was sweet. After all, she didn’t have family left to care about her safety. Though she had friends, none of them were close enough to worry about her. She should quit procrastinating and reply instead of occupying her mind with the news, which wasn’t working as much of a distraction anyway.

Various good feelings bubbled inside her when she was around Matthew—respect, awe for his ability not only to diagnose a patient correctly but to know how best to treat them even if the method wasn’t conventional, and laughter. He had a wonderful sense of humor. But were any of those things strong enough to build a marriage with? She doubted it.

Annamae was certain Matthew would soon declare his desire for a courtship, which made a marriage proposal nearly guaranteed. Her coffee turned acidic in her stomach.

A heavy weight lowered onto the bench beside her. She looked up in surprise.

Monty. With a day’s growth of beard.

Her skin flushed beneath her uniform, making the combination of her reaction and the sun beating down on her entirely too hot. She resisted the urge to fan herself with the newspaper. This man certainly ignited more ardent feelings inside her than Matthew did.

“Hello, Miss Annamae.” The blue of his eyes competed with the cloudless sky.

She smiled. Something she didn’t do often, as Matthew had pointed out on more than one occasion, accusing her of taking life too seriously.

The action of her mouth made his gaze lower there, which made her skin blaze. “Do I have coffee on my face?”

She touched her lips and found them dry. His eyes traced her every movement. “I haven’t seen you smile before. Not fully. It’s lovely. You should do it more often.”

His appreciation had a touch of confident arrogance to it, as if he was skilled in the art of flirtation. Which was ridiculous, him being a pastor and all.

One of his thick brows quirked, and his lips pursed in amusement. In that moment, he reminded her of Austen’s Mr. Darcy: aristocratic, noble, and impish in a subtle way that captured one’s fancy before they could stop it. Aware of this, she should practice caution. Yet, she didn’t.

He breathed a chuckle and leaned in as if she was going to tell him a secret. That was when she realized her head had dipped closer to him first, and she drew back with a start.

Air. She needed cool and stirring air.

“Thank you,” she squeaked.

His lips twitched beneath his mustache that hadn’t grown as thick as the hair along his jaws. “How is your work with the Red Cross?”

She cleared the desire from her throat. “Miss Barton moved me from the typhoid tents to help Doctor Hamilton with training the committees on how to properly use the disinfectants that arrived. I just finished instructing the commissary on cleaning all eating utensils and vessels. You?”

“I salvaged what I could of my belongings, and we brought my house down. We’ve been burning small piles at a time to keep the fire under control. Once finished, we’ll begin reconstruction on the church.”

“I’m sorry. It must be difficult to watch your home fade to ashes.”

“It’s not any harder than watching a wave sweep it off its foundation. Or being trapped inside when it does.”

Oh, this poor man.

She resisted the urge to reach out to him. “Where are you storing your belongings? In the church?”

“All of my worldly possessions fit into a knapsack.”

“I’m sorry again.”

He bumped her elbow with his. “Material possessions are replaceable. Besides, I have a grander home and possessions waiting for me in eternity.”

She tilted her head. “You seem in much better spirits today.”

Monty leaned his forearms on the table and clasped his hands. “I just had a conversation with a friend who reminded me that my losses don’t compare to many of those around me.”

Such things certainly brought one into perspective.

“How is Joanna?”

He looked away. “She still hasn’t spoken much to anyone since Ben died. A few families have come from outlying areas to adopt the orphaned children, but she’s so quiet they pass her over. She’s being cared for by the Stineys right now, but Reverend Beale plans to hold a special meeting soon, inviting anyone wishing to adopt to Johnstown. They’ve had several inquiries and expect folks to come from as far as Indiana. Pray for her. The children who don’t find homes will be sent to orphanages in Philadelphia and beyond.”

Remorse leaked through every word.

“Of course.” She reached to touch his arm then snatched her hand back when she realized what she was doing. She must heed Clara’s warning, no matter how strong her attraction to Monty. “Maybe I could try coaxing something out of her. I would be closer to her mama’s age than Mrs. Stiney. Perhaps we could find some common ground.”

His forehead creased in thought. “I’ll consider that.”

“Did you hear about Jake Kilrain?” She pointed at the newspaper, changing the subject to ease the lines on his face. “He held an exhibition fight with Charley Mitchell in Madison Square Garden specifically to raise money to send to Johnstown.”

“I hadn’t heard that.” Monty sat taller and took the paper, his eyes communicating that he appreciated her attempt to lift his mood.

“And at the Metropolitan Opera House, Edwin Booth played the third act of Othello, raising twenty-five hundred dollars for the victims.”

“He plays a better Hamlet.”

She gaped at him. “You’ve seen Edwin Booth perform?”

“Uh, once.” Monty squirmed.

“Then how do you know he plays a mediocre Othello?”

“Okay, twice.” He pointed at the paper. “What else have you discovered?”

Narrowing one eye at him, she continued, though she was determined to pry the details from him another time. “To help raise money for Johnstown, John Philip Sousa gave a band concert.”

She pointed to the article and ran her finger along the print. “Buffalo Bill, who’s in Paris, put on a special production to help victims—and the Prince of Wales attended! And there’s some monstrosity of iron there now called the Eiffel Tower.”

He angled his body toward her to see the image of the structure. “That’s amazing.” He propped his upper body against the table as if she’d caused all his cares to evaporate on the wind. “Go on.”

She chuckled. “You actually enjoy my chatter?”

His voice dipped an octave. “I very much enjoy your chatter.”

Delightful chills started at her center and radiated outward. There was much more to this man than what bubbled on the surface, and she wanted to learn every facet.

“Tiffany & Co., R.H. Macy, the Astors, the sultan of Turkey, and even President Harrison have contributed funds.”

“That’s quite a list of influential people. Does it say anything about the Carnegies, Fricks, Mellons, or James Reed contributing?”

The first two names always sent her spirit tumbling. “It doesn’t.”

Though it didn’t surprise her. She knew well the heartlessness of Henry Clay Frick and Andrew Carnegie. Men like that were rich because they refused to part with their money.

Monty’s jaw hardened. “Didn’t figure it would.”

Annamae assessed the surrounding crowd. She’d debated within herself whether to share what she’d overheard yesterday and decided if she could confide in anyone, it would be Monty.

“Can we take a walk? There’s something I’d like to tell you. In confidence.”

He nodded but took his time leaving the table. His sudden reluctance to converse with her was confusing. Clara’s warning flitted through her memory. Was he afraid that walking with her unaccompanied might jeopardize his position within the church?

If that was the case, though, why did he sit down with her in the first place?

She allowed him to set the pace, which he set at slow. He buried his hands in his pockets. She recognized the gesture as something he did both when he was at ease and when he faced a difficult situation. Which mood was he in now?

The toe of his shoe sent a pebble skipping a few feet ahead of them. “Does what you want to tell me have anything to do with my seeing Edwin Booth perform?”

“What?” She chuckled. “No. Though I would like to hear more about that if you’re ever willing to share.”

Why he wanted to keep such a silly thing secret seemed odd to her. Perhaps it had something to do with his confession under the moonlight regarding Shakespeare.

His mood brightened. “What did you want to ask me then?”

The sudden change in aura nearly gave her whiplash.

“Well …” She looked around them. Any chance of an audience grew thinner the farther they walked from the commissary. Normally, she wouldn’t worry about being overheard, but she’d learned yesterday what all a person could glean if they kept their mouth quiet and listened.

She steered them even farther away. “Last evening, Clara asked me to instruct the nurses on duty how to clean the ticks using chloride of lime. While I was in the typhoid tent, someone brought in an Italian man raging with fever. He kept mumbling that he can prove the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club is responsible for the dam’s break.”

Monty leaned away in surprise. “How?”

She shrugged. “He’s been in and out of consciousness since. I’ve also heard this club referred to as ‘The Bosses Club’ because it consists of powerful men from Pittsburgh who own factories and started the club to escape the smoggy air their industries create. Do you know if that’s true?”

“Did you read that in a newspaper?”

“No. I heard it from a colleague in Washington. He said several investigations into the club have opened about the matter. Though the names of these club members haven’t been released.”

Monty worked his jaw.

“If you hear anything else about this, will you please tell me?”

He rounded to face her, brows knit. “Why?”

She linked her pointer fingers together to keep her hands busy. Perhaps confiding in him wasn’t wise after all.

“What I told you the other night about my father? I’ve not told another soul since it happened. I trust you, Monty. Please. If you hear anything else regarding the club or the investigations, will you tell me?”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

She sighed. “I have my suspicions about who these powerful men are. They’ve destroyed enough lives, including mine. I don’t want to see them get away with it again.”

“And what do you expect to do about it?”

His displeasure hurt. “I don’t know. I only know I must do something.”

“If you’re correct in your suspicion, those aren’t the kind of men to trifle with, Annamae.”

“You think I don’t know that?” She inhaled and exhaled slowly to simmer her ire at his scolding. “I just want to be kept aware of the investigation. Victims everywhere are telling their stories, and if any of those details could aid in a conviction—”

Monty tugged her sleeve and pulled them even farther away from listening ears. “Why do you think it’s your responsibility to see them convicted?”

The agony of missing her father and the rage that followed when she recalled the circumstances that stole him away twisted within her. “Murder requires justice.”

He studied her for a long moment as if examining every layer to understand the true motive that lay beneath. His scrutiny invited vulnerability, her least favorite emotion. Guilt poked at her, but she pushed it away. Wanting justice was never something to feel guilty over.

He scratched his cheek. “I’ll keep you informed of what I hear if you promise to do the same.”

“Thank you.”

“But only if you promise to let the authorities handle anything we discover.”

“What if—”

He held up his hand and lowered his voice to a whisper. “If you’re correct and they were ruthless enough to murder one of their employees for cooperating with the union, they won’t think twice about silencing a young, pretty nurse with no family connections.”

She blinked.

“I’m not trying to be cruel. I’m trying to get you to see how they’ll view your involvement.”

Her pulse raced, both from their interaction and his comment. “You think I’m pretty?”

“What?” Realizing his confession, he grinned and shook his head sheepishly. “Is that all you got from my impassioned speech?”

“Was that part of the speech impassioned?” She held her breath.

The tension drained from his shoulders, and he relaxed his stance. “Well.” He smoothed the bristly hairs at his chin. “I believe in always telling the truth.”

Pleasure burst inside her and grew like a wilted flower stretching to the sun.

“Promise me, Annamae.”

“I promise.”