Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“River twenty feet and rising, higher than ever before; water in first floor. Have moved to second. River gauges carried away. Rainfall, two and three-tenth inches.”
~Telegraph sent to Pittsburgh at eleven o’clock by Mrs. H.M. Ogle, Signal Service representative and Western Union manager in Johnstown
Monty awoke to two inches of water covering his lawn. He stood on his porch and measured it by the reflection in the streetlight. The rain had poured throughout the night and had yet to cease. By the time dawn crested the mountains at a quarter till ten, that number had grown to three.
Spring flooding had arrived.
It happened every year when the snow melted off the mountains and the rains came, swelling the tributaries that rolled through Johnstown.
The Little Conemaugh River intersected with Stonycreek at the Stone Bridge, where it flowed southeast and eventually released into the Atlantic.
Though Monty still had much to learn about the valley and its inhabitants, he’d learned after his first spring to invest in a good pair of boots.
He jammed his feet into them and raised the collar of his slicker high on his neck. The trek to Heiser’s General Store might be miserable, but it was better than going hungry like he had the year prior when the rising water held him hostage for two days straight.
The butcher shop was not open due to “flooding at home,” the sign read.
Ruffed grouse and wild turkey hung from hooks in the window.
Across the street, Mrs. Lowe and her son stepped out of the library and huddled together beneath an umbrella to protect their borrowed materials.
The library was funded by the Cambria Iron Works and had recently started holding night classes for anyone in the community who wished to strengthen their education.
A hand slapped Monty’s shoulder, splashing water against his ears. He almost lost his footing in the mud where he’d stepped off the boardwalk to allow a group of ladies a clear path to the cafe. Everett McDonough steadied him by the arm. “What’re we to do with all this rain, Pastor?”
Monty squinted into the stormy sky. “Build an ark, I suppose.”
Everett chuckled. “May have to. Heard tell Cambria Iron Works sent their men home early to care for their families. Flooded tenements. The Little C is rising faster than folks can carry their belongings to the second floor. The telegraph office is closed for the day too. First floor filling up with water. Hettie’s working the wire from the second. ”
Flooded tenements were nothing new. Poorly built in lower areas of the valley, some balanced on nothing but the runoff from the mill that had hardened like stone.
The occupants were accustomed to securing their belongings higher during the rain.
The telegraph office flooding was altogether different.
A crackle of thunder sounded above, and the rain gained in intensity.
Monty had planned to make his purchases at Heiser’s since he needed to speak with George about Founder’s Day anyway; but if the monsoon continued at this pace, everything he bought would be ruined by the time he got home.
James Quinn’s dry goods store was closer.
Monty could survive off salt pork, rice, and beans for a few days.
They waded across the flooded street, now four inches and rising, and ducked beneath the overhang of the dry goods store where a patron exited with his purchase.
In the next instant, the door slammed and locked.
Mr. Quinn squinted through the glass pane.
Monty knocked, unsure what he would do if the man didn’t allow him inside.
Mr. Quinn’s stern frown accentuated his stylish Vandyke beard, threaded with as much gray as brown. He looked at his pocket watch then yanked the door open. “Five minutes, Pastor Childs. Then I’m going home to gather my family and get them to higher ground.”
The fear in the man’s voice thrummed a chord of unease in Monty’s gut.
“Thank you, Mr. Quinn.” Monty went straight to work gathering supplies while Everett waited on the porch.
As Mr. Quinn tallied Monty’s bill, he said, “You ever get a feeling deep inside, one so nagging and clear you know it must be God speaking to you?”
“I do. Trust His voice, Mr. Quinn. It’ll never steer you wrong.”
Monty helped the man slip his purchases into cloth bags he promised to bring back when the weather cleared.
“Rosina’s in Kansas visiting family. Little Marie’s had the measles.
She’s recovering but weak. Hate to take her out in this cold rain, don’t want the daylight to bother her eyes, but I might just go home and gather Aunt Abbie and the kids and slip on out for a few days.
I’m terrified that dam is going to break. ”
The man’s hand trembled as he slid the bags across the counter.
“Thank you again for letting me inside. I’ll be praying it doesn’t. And for your family.”
Monty left the store and returned to the wet outdoors.
There was something different in the air now.
A foreboding from Mr. Quinn’s words that sat heavy against his chest. He wasn’t one to let other people’s fears poke at him, but this wasn’t a normal spring flood.
And the dam that held back Lake Conemaugh at the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club wasn’t safe.
Thunder rolled across the valley.
Everett reached for a bag to lighten Monty’s load. “Heard tell the railroad officials sent a telegram warning folks to evacuate. Something about a bridge washed out two miles east and they expect more to follow. It’s also rumored the lake’s spilling over and the dam might break.”
“That rumor spreads through town every time it rains.” Monty faced the mountain, where a lake almost three miles long and a mile and a half wide hovered above them like the angel of death on Judgment Day.
James Quinn was known for being an anxious individual, and talk of the dam collapsing had been passed down through the generations until it had become folklore. If those warnings from the railroad officials held merit, few would take them seriously.
Folks had tried to convince the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club to reinforce the dam for years. They’d ignored the pleas.
If the dam failed, it would decimate Johnstown.
Even without a collapse, if the rain continued, the two adjoining rivers that ran through Johnstown would swell large enough to put everyone in trouble. James Quinn was right in moving his family to higher ground.
“Something ’bout this is different, Pastor.”
The unease in Everett’s voice echoed Monty’s thoughts. “Heard tell of anything else I need to know?”
“Nah. Stay safe, Pastor. I’m off to see that the Mrs. and children stay dry. May not be in church on Sunday. If it rains through the night, we’ll be leaving on the morning train to visit my mother in Philadelphia until this weather changes course.”
“Godspeed, Everett.” Monty stuck out his hand.
With a firm grip, Everett grasped it. “Godspeed.”
He handed Monty the bag then stepped into the deluge.
Monty remained under the porch’s covering, watching life move around him.
Horse hooves navigated through the flooded streets.
Five inches, if he gauged correctly. The barber, the bank, and Miss Millie’s Cookhouse seemed to conduct business as usual.
Bodies raced toward the train station. Monty sent up a silent prayer for the protection of every soul before racing for home.
As he passed the Quinns’ large brick home, he spotted a little girl around the age of six sitting on the front porch step, barefoot and splashing in the water pooled in the yard.
Ducklings swam around her ankles. Monty wasn’t familiar with the Quinn children, but he recognized Vincent, the girl’s nearly grown brother, assisting those traversing nearby.
A moment later, James Quinn raced past Monty and into his yard, snatched the little girl up, and scolded her all the way indoors.
The cloth bags did little to protect Monty’s purchases, and by the time he stepped through his front door, he and his once-dry goods were soaked through.
He slipped off his boots and hung his slicker on a wall hook.
Rain dripped onto the rug he’d purchased from Mrs. Callen when he’d first moved to town.
The home was drafty and plain, but it was his.
Shivering, he stoked the fire in the cookstove, added two logs, and peeled off his wet shirt.
Rain pelted the windows, sending the chill deeper into his bones.
He’d continue studying for his sermon and maybe read a few chapters of Great Expectations, a popular novel from his childhood he’d yet to indulge in.
His cousin, Whitney Whitcomb, had recently mailed it to him as a cruel nod to his orphan upbringing.
He’d accept the gift by reading it, writing his full critique of the novel, and sending it to her.
She’d taken as much offense at his announcement denouncing the family business and enrollment in seminary as his uncle.
They’d once been as close as siblings, but Whitney had allowed the poison of her father to seep into her blood, and she sank her teeth into Monty every chance the distance between them allowed.
After donning fresh clothes and dry shoes, he put away the items he’d bought at Quinn’s Dry Goods and removed the salt-cured ham Widow Mason had delivered to him yesterday morning in appreciation for him repairing her broken stair railing.
Ham slices sizzled and popped in the pan, joined by another sound he didn’t recognize.
He leaned his head to the side and waited. There it was again, louder.
Was someone yelling?
He went to the front door and opened it just enough to determine if the sound came from town. A man raced down the road on horseback, panic contorting his features. His poor beast foamed at the mouth. “To the hills, for God’s sake!” It was the scream of a madman. “To the hills for your lives!”
Monty’s neighbors had opened their doors to witness the commotion as well. They exchanged uncertain glances across the street, unsure what to make of it all. The man flew past them, water splashing around his horse’s ankles, screaming his warning like Paul Revere on the cusp of British attack.
A roar unlike anything Monty had ever witnessed started and grew louder with each passing second. He looked in the direction the man had come from, and fear pierced his heart. Black mist rolled into the air. Then Monty saw a wall of water as tall as any building, devouring everything in its path.
The dam had broken.
“Save yourselves!” Monty yelled, and slammed his door.
He ran toward the stairs. His foot slapped the first step when his worst nightmare turned frighteningly real.