Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
“CAUSE OF THE CALAMITY … THE PITTSBURGH FISHING CLUB CHIEFLY RESPONSIBLE.”
~ Headline from the New York Sun days after the disaster
Sunlight poured through the grimy window of the church and bathed the pew where Monty slept. He was grateful for an enclosed place to rest, but the fern-covered hillside had been softer. He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, jolting the cat snoozing by his head. “Sorry, buddy,” he croaked.
The tabby lowered his arched back then stretched one leg at a time. When his routine ended, he rubbed against Monty’s arm and meowed. Bumpy scars brushed Monty’s fingertips as he scratched the cat’s head. “I know, I’m hungry too.”
Monty and the men of his congregation had worked hard the last two days, cleaning the area surrounding the church, cutting the large tree that had fallen into the cemetery, and chopping it into logs for anyone in need of firewood.
He’d hoped to clear enough to hold a service tomorrow, but there was still too much work to do.
Monty had burned nearly all of his belongings to prevent disease from contamination.
His Bible, the one thing he’d carried since the start of seminary, they’d found beneath a foot of sludge in what used to be the road.
Some clothes in the smashed bureau were salvageable but required a good scrubbing.
The house itself would have to come down.
Wedged at a dangerous angle against the church, the structure was too far off its foundation to repair, and some of the foundation itself had washed away.
The church, to everyone’s astonishment, remained steadfast despite it bracing his house.
Mr. Jensen, a man well skilled in construction, had confirmed it after inspecting the foundation himself.
Monty shouldn’t have been surprised. Jesus was the chief cornerstone, and nothing was more solid a foundation than that.
Sure, they’d have to strip most of the structure and rebuild, but it was nothing that couldn’t be accomplished with serving hands, determination, and sweat.
After the church was whole again, he’d see to constructing a modest, one-level home on higher ground and on a taller foundation to protect against the normal spring flooding.
Now that Lake Conemaugh was drained and several investigations of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club were underway—according to recent news headlines—the danger of the dam’s rebuilding and subsequent future threats of such monstrous proportion occurring again shouldn’t pose any threat.
Monty folded the blanket Miss Annamae had given him and placed it at the end of the pew. The church stank like mildew, the other pews were upended, and the front door was missing, but he had a place to rest his head.
Like Miss Annamae had graciously reminded him, all a body could do was trust and focus on what could be accomplished that day. And all he could do today was work hard, survive, and accompany Robert Townsend to the morgues to search for his missing boys.
Monty tucked in his shirt and ran his fingers through his hair before stepping outside. He’d visit one of the bathhouses later, but for now, he’d eat breakfast at the commissary and then meet up with Robert. His feline friend trotted in the opposite direction, presumably to fill his belly as well.
Yesterday’s afternoon rain had set the town’s progress back yet again.
It seemed as if all the earth’s ocean water had evaporated into the sky and poured down over Pennsylvania the past month.
He had a clearer perception of Noah and his mental anguish now.
Though drunkenness was never justified, Monty understood Noah’s temptation to escape the screams that never left his mind.
But in order to dissuade Ernie from the bottle and the many others seizing alcohol from the trains, Monty must stay sober.
The clank of picks and shovels sounded through the morning air as men worked to clear mud and debris from the former streets.
Deep-throated shouts and the echo of timber crashing joined the rhythm of cleanup.
As Monty reached the commissary, a long whistle blasted through the hills.
Everyone stilled, and an eerie silence fell over the town.
The whistle of a train was something they hadn’t heard in the week since the wave had demolished the station, sending railcars, twisted rail lines, and trapped passengers into the angry whirlpool at the stone bridge.
Replacing the lines was one of the first things the military put into action to make the delivery of supplies more efficient.
Dark puffs of smoke from burning debris piles lifted in the air and mixed with the scent of decay and biscuits and gravy.
At the commissary, folks sat at tables and on upturned crates or barrels to eat.
Monty greeted Mrs. Benton and her three children, who were eating one last meal in Johnstown before taking the train from Sang Hollow to Pittsburgh, where they’d board another train for Connecticut to live with her sister.
Almost everyone had lost someone, and grief weighed every countenance in the valley.
Plate in hand, Monty searched for a place to sit. Everett McDonough rose from a table, tucked a newspaper under his arm, and picked up his empty plate. “Everett,” Monty called, lifting his hand in greeting.
The man scoured the surrounding faces, searching for the owner of the voice. Surprise lit his features when he spotted Monty. “Good to see you, Pastor.”
They shook hands.
“You as well. Your family?”
Everett’s expression grew somber, and he stared at the table, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry, Everett. What can I do?”
The man inhaled through his nose, flaring his nostrils. “There’s nothing to do but make sure these men pay.”
Everett slapped the newspaper against Monty’s chest, eyes flashing with anger.
“Everyone in this town needs to provide their account to one of the reporters so they can print every blasted story and gain the attention of someone who can put an end to things like this. We must demand justice for our families.”
Monty held the newspaper in place while Everett wiped his watery eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “In the meantime, there’s plenty of work to be done on one of the committees.” His voice trailed off, and he stared at something behind Monty. “It’s all we can do.”
Before Monty could agree, Everett snapped back from wherever his memory had disappeared to, gave Monty a hearty slap on the shoulder, and then stalked away, vengeance bolstering his stance.
The newspaper crinkled in Monty’s hand. He sat, smoothed the crease from the middle, and then bowed his head to pray.
While he ate, he skimmed through the articles, wondering where Everett had gotten this copy.
Several headlines pointed fingers at the club members, while others declared it merely to be “a terrible act of God.”
Though it certainly felt as if God had unleashed all His fury, Monty knew the event stemmed from several sources, beginning with the state of Pennsylvania selling the western section of the canal decades ago.
He skimmed the next page. The disaster had garnered President Harrison’s attention, and he promised funds and supplies to the victims. The last article updated readers on the cleanup efforts.
According to an A.R. Whitney, who was reportedly on-site, the folks of Johnstown were being recruited into one of the many relief committees headed by Arthur Moxham, president of the Johnson Steel Company in the nearby town of Moxham, which was named after himself.
So far, there was a finance committee; a supplies committee; one for morgues, overseen by Reverend Beale; a removal committee guided by Tom Johnson, Moxham’s business partner; a policing committee to oversee security and crime, led by a Captain Hart; and a hospitals committee, entrusted to Miss Clara Barton and the Red Cross.
The image of a dark-haired nurse with pensive eyes took over his thoughts, and he wondered how she fared.
A loud boom sent them all jumping. The few women in the crowd screamed. A crusty-looking man sitting at the other end of Monty’s table, never breaking stride with his meal, yelled, “Continue on. It ain’t nothing but my men blasting the mess at the stone bridge with dynamite.”
“Dynamite?” A volunteer—judging by her southern accent—who was collecting abandoned utensils and trash clutched the collar at her throat.
“Ain’t nothing else to use,” the stranger said. “The mess is too thick and dangerous for horses. All kinds of stuff tangled up down there. My men are well trained. It’s perfectly safe. No more frettin’.”
The statement seemed to offer the woman a modicum of ease, and she returned to her task.
Monty hurried to finish his breakfast then walked to the Adams Street schoolhouse, where an emergency morgue had opened.
Not finding Robert, he held his shirt against his nose and searched the bodies laid out on anything flat that could be found and read the names written on paper dangling from strings on their toes.
A few names and faces he recognized; most he did not.
Many were unidentified, with tags that read “unknown.” Some had only a description of approximate age, hair color, height, and the clothes they wore written beneath their gender.
If the decaying body was distorted and unrecognizable, there was no tag at all.
He checked the morgue at the old train depot and then walked the three miles to Morrellville to search the saloon they’d converted to a morgue. There, Monty found the boys’ names written on a list compiled by the committee tasked with recording the information. His heart broke.
Monty returned to the church. Sitting on the pew where Monty had slept, head in hands, Robert wept. Monty’s footsteps thunked in the hollow sanctuary. Sanctuary was an appropriate word for what they all needed in these dire circumstances.