Chapter Twenty-One
“The need of charity is always the result of the evils produced by man’s greed.”
~Tom L. Johnson, partner in the Johnson Steel Rail Company
TUESDAY, JULY 2
Pain ricocheted through Monty, squeezing the very air from his lungs. Darkness engulfed him. Had a horse and carriage trampled him? A stampede of buffalo? That didn’t seem right. He searched through the fog of his memory for any clue. Rushing water started faintly, then grew in intensity. The flood. The wall of water rushing down the mountain. It had burst through his front door and overtaken him. Like a cyclone, he’d spun through the raging swirl that snatched debris and dead bodies along the way.
Fire.
Screaming.
Lightning struck his skull. He moaned.
Rain, cold and unrelenting, pelted his body. He was standing on his rooftop with a little girl in his arms. Why was he holding a child?
He clawed through the fog. That was right. He’d survived the flood somehow. That event was in the past, and his mind was merely spewing memories. Then what was wrong with him? Why was he trapped in the dark, every nerve in his body crying out in excruciating misery?
A cool sensation brushed his head. He moaned again. Or tried. Was he floating outside his body? He didn’t think such a thing was possible, but his conscience drifted on the strangest sensation.
A soft, feminine voice wrapped around his ear. “Get well. For me.”
Was he sick? Dying?
Parts of his body he didn’t know he had throbbed with pain, yet he felt dead.
“I love you. Please, fight.”
The vision of a beautiful woman in a nurse’s uniform, dark hair spilling out of her cap, large brown eyes and full pink lips promising him a lifetime of love and passion filled his memory. Annamae. He didn’t know what he was supposed to fight against, but for her, he would fight against anything.
Another flash of lightning ripped through his brain.
A man’s scarred face snarled at him before a huge fist slammed into his nose. Knuckles. One fist multiplied to two and pummeled every square inch of Monty’s flesh. “That was from your uncle. For being stupid enough to threaten him.”
The hard toe of Knuckles’ boot slammed into Monty’s ribs.
“That was from me.”
Somehow the stench of liquor and rotten teeth broke through the barricade of blood pouring from Monty’s nose. “Any more lessons you need teachin’, I’ll be teachin’ on that pretty little nurse of yours.”
Knuckles relayed his plans for Annamae using vulgar words and anatomical terms. Bile rose in Monty’s throat. He had to warn her away. Had to keep Annamae safe.
His tongue was thick and heavy as a tree trunk. His eyelids refused to open.
“Shh. You’re okay, Monty. I’m here. I won’t leave your side.”
She had to leave his side. She had to get far away from here.
He wriggled and groaned, forcing his tongue to work. Garbled babble sounded in his ears.
Cool liquid trickled into his mouth, cutting him off. He swallowed, relishing the trail it worked down his parched throat.
A soft, velvety surface rubbed the water that had spilled out the sides of his mouth. “Everything’s going to be all right. I’m here. I won’t leave you.”
Run, Annamae, run.
It was his last thought before he slipped into oblivion.
WEDNESDAY, JULY 3
Annamae’s head dipped forward, jerking her awake. She blinked to clear her blurry vision. Her neck ached from sleeping upright, and she’d give almost anything to curl up somewhere and sleep to her heart’s content. She forced her eyelids to stay open. The orange tabby slept, curled against Monty’s side. His arm had slipped off the table, and his hand dangled toward the ground. The lack of circulation had caused his fingers to turn blue.
The unnatural hue was enough to pull her awake. She stood, scooped the cat into her arms, placed it in the chair she’d vacated, and tucked Monty’s arm against his side. Holding his hand with hers, she squeezed a healthy color into it then checked his pulse. Thready but present. She pushed her hand into the small of her back and stretched.
“How’s our patient this morning?” Doctor Rose asked from behind her.
She startled and yanked her fingers away from Monty’s. “His sleep was fitful most of the night. He finally fell into a peaceful rest in the wee hours.”
Annamae searched Doctor Rose’s face for signs of displeasure. If the doctor had noticed her indiscretion, he hid it well.
He shooed the cat from the tent then examined Monty for several minutes, making notations on a paper they’d started last night to keep track of the ailments his body suffered. “Spoon as much broth into him as he’ll allow. Keep the wounds dressed, and watch for any sign of infection. Continue administering laudanum every six hours for the next couple of days.
“I’ll be back to check on him this evening. I volunteered to examine the orphans this morning before the adoption meeting at the Methodist church. Doctor Hubbell will be around if you need anything.”
She’d forgotten the adoption meeting was today.
Joanna.
Her gaze trailed over Monty. He wouldn’t be there to offer words of comfort to Joanna. To ask all the right questions to the couple who showed an interest in welcoming her into their family. To pray over her.
It didn’t matter that exhaustion pressed on Annamae like a boulder tumbling downhill. Monty would want someone to go in his stead if he could not go himself. Annamae would go for him. That way, when he awakened, she could ease his worry by filling in the details he’d missed.
She’d been that orphaned girl once. No one should have to walk that path alone.
The Methodist church shadowing Annamae at the corner of Locust and Franklin Streets was a miracle in itself. The wave that tumbled from South Fork into Johnstown had split at the chapel, half spilling down Market and Vine Streets toward the cemetery and the other half destroying Kernville. Reverend Beale claimed it was like the parting of the Red Sea and the church was the dry ground on which survivors could walk.
At first, the sanctuary had been a place of refuge for the homeless. Then, a temporary morgue. Committee meetings were held inside its doors, volunteer groups founded, worship services held, and now it was a haven for orphaned children to connect with families.
Annamae didn’t know what to say to Joanna to ease her fear, especially since they’d never met. She only knew she had to be Monty’s eyes and ears and hands.
Men and women filled the pews with hopeful expressions and nervous energy. Spectators filled the side aisles against the walls. The room was stifling and held a strange mix of unwashed bodies and perfume. Annamae occupied a space near the back and searched the faces of the children lined at the front.
Toddlers to teenagers stood awkwardly before their audience, most looking everywhere but at the crowd. Siblings clung to one another, terrified of being ripped apart. Some would probably never see each other again.
Reverend Beale quieted the murmuring voices and introduced the children down the line, telling each one’s background, age, likes, and interests. Doctor Rose sat on the front pew, answering any medical questions asked.
An hour later, the couples were encouraged to approach the children they were interested in. Any who felt a specific child or set of siblings met their needs could make arrangements with Reverend Beale to sign the papers and take them home.
Farmers chose the teenage boys first. Promised room and board and three square meals a day for their help in the fields. The older girls went next, likely so they could help care for younger children already in the home. The youngest children went last.
They separated two sets of siblings. Their cries echoed off the walls and crashed into Annamae with enough force to produce tears. At the last, one boy and two girls stood alone and without new homes. One of those girls was Joanna, who’d curled in on herself and wouldn’t speak to anyone.
Annamae approached the girl. At eleven, Joanna looked much younger, with a braid trailing over each shoulder and her arms wrapped around herself. Annamae knelt in front of her.
“Hello, Joanna. My name is Annamae Worthington. I’m a friend of Pastor Monty Childs.”
The girl’s head snapped up, and she stared at Annamae.
“Pastor Childs wanted to be here with you today, but he suffered an injury and is recouping in the Red Cross hospital. I came in his place.”
Joanna’s eyes rounded, and tears rushed to the edges. Annamae quickly realized what had caused the alarm and worked to rectify her mistake. “He’ll be fine. He’s a strong man. I’ve been taking excellent care of him. He’s resting right now.”
Beside them, a man from the Blessed Hope Orphanage in Philadelphia made arrangements with the reverend to take the unwanted children with him.
Unwanted.
Annamae swallowed. If only she had a husband and the means to adopt them all herself.
Something pressed against her arm. Joanna had raised a finger and was tracing the Red Cross symbol on her brassard. Fat tears dripped down her freckled cheeks. “My momma …”
The words scraped against Joanna’s throat.
“What about your momma, sweetheart?”
Joanna sniffed. “She was good at taking care of people. She told me she dreamed of being a Red Cross nurse.”
Annamae closed her eyes and let her own tears fall. She wrapped the girl in a hug. Joanna’s braid tickled the side of Annamae’s face. “You’re going to be okay. Be strong. As soon as Pastor Childs is well enough, he’ll write you a letter.”
Joanna sobbed on her shoulder until the man from the orphanage commanded the children to accompany him to the train station. Before Joanna walked away, Annamae ripped off the brassard and thrust it into her small hands. “Never take your eyes off the cross. No matter what happens in your life, you’ll always find healing at the cross.”
The girl clutched it in her fingers, confusion pulling at her features as she went out the door.
Annamae’s heart had been ripped from her chest, beaten, and stuffed back in. As soon as Monty was well, they’d both write to the sweet girl. In the meantime, Annamae would work on living the truth of what she’d told Joanna.
SATURDAY, JULY 6
Riddled with fever, Monty had drifted in and out of consciousness for the last four days. When he did awaken, he mumbled words about the dam and money and her life being in danger. His frantic pleas cracked Annamae’s heart wide open. From the pieces she could fit together, whoever had done this to him had done it because of the information he shared regarding the dam’s spillway. The information she’d pressed him to relay.
She never should have involved Monty. That was clear now. They’d become such fast friends, and after all the broken lives she’d witnessed and all the injuries she’d bound, this town’s fight had become hers too. She knew what it was like to suffer from the selfish natures of the Pittsburgh elite. It didn’t matter that they’d already amassed fortunes to rival the kings of the ancient world. They’d lie, cheat, and steal from a poor man for a few more pennies. It didn’t matter that they owned homes as large as a city block. They must take over another man’s land as well, even if their comfort meant putting lives at stake.
And they would get away with it all because there was no one to stop them.
What the folks in this town had suffered went beyond the worst of her grieving. Death and destruction on this massive a scale demanded accountability. If God withheld His swift hand of judgment, then the judgment of the courts must prevail.
She lifted a rag from the basin of water, letting the cool drips saturate Monty’s scalp the way his words from their picnic tried to saturate her heart. “We mustn’t forget that the Lord died for the rich and the privileged too.”
That might be, but it didn’t mean they should escape the consequences of their actions. Whoever did this to Monty would answer to her.
She pressed the rag against his cheek. He needed a good scrubbing, and the July heat made that fact more apparent. His skin beaded with sweat, and the nightshirt the doctor and two male nurses wrestled him into days ago was damp and stained. She was vigilant to spoon broth and cool water into his mouth hourly, but he never allowed her to administer as much as she’d like.
She’d prayed, she’d nursed, and she’d spoken soft words of encouragement, but still he lay there, battling God only knew what injuries on the inside. All because of her.
He had to get better. Had to. She couldn’t lose another man that meant so much to her.
“Fight, Monty. Fight.” She clasped his hand.
He didn’t stir.
If it wasn’t for his pulse twitching against her thumb, she’d think him dead. The thought of never again seeing his haughty smirk when he teased her or how his blue eyes darkened at her nearness, never having the privilege of running her fingers through his thick dark hair in times of health, made tears blur her vision.
She hadn’t allowed herself to get close to anyone since her father died. Life was short, and the sorrow that swallowed those left behind was almost too much to bear. But from nearly the first moment she’d spotted Monty meandering through the tents, she’d felt a connection that made her lay her fears aside and open her heart to him. He’d taught her things about servanthood and love she’d thought she’d already mastered.
Now, she would put those lessons into practice. The Bible said, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” Well, Monty meant more to her than a mere friend, and she was certain he reciprocated those feelings.
She would be the sacrifice and ensure whoever was responsible for this paid. For Monty, for the people of Johnstown, and for her father. And she knew just where to go to make sure the information landed in the right place.
The men of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club might evade a judge and jury or two, but they could not evade the citizens of the United States of America.
Annamae finished tracing the wet rag over Monty’s neck and clavicles then dropped the rag into the basin. She dried her hands on her apron as she stalked through the tent with the fiery purpose of a lioness.
Like Clara Barton of old, Annamae was ready for war.
Footfalls pounded the dirt behind her, growing louder at their approach. “Annamae.”
Someone touched her arm, and she turned. Her fire sizzled out. “Matthew.”
His smile was tender, his gaze heated like that of a man reuniting with his lover. “You used my given name.”
Her stomach soured.
She stood dumbfounded, unable to form words after her charge to meet the foe.
Matthew’s gaze traced every nuance of her face. “My, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” He moved closer and whispered, “I’ve missed you.”
She stared up at him, mouth gaping, unable to return the sentiment.