Chapter 11 #2
The pew creaked beneath Monty’s weight. He remained silent. Sometimes, words were simply not useful. This being one of those moments, Monty offered strength through his presence and silent prayer.
Several minutes passed before Robert wiped his eyes and leaned back against the pew, staring at the slanted cross dangling on the wall. “Someone found the boys. They’d washed all the way to Sheridan. A farmer dug them out of his field, Tad’s hand still clutching Thomas’s jacket.”
The boys’ laughter and mischievous antics would be missed on this earth. No doubt they were enjoying a competitive race down the streets of gold.
Robert gripped his thighs so hard his knuckles paled. “I don’t understand why, Pastor. Why did God take my boys and leave me here? The dam has always held. All these years—always. Why fail now?”
Anguish poured from Robert’s being.
Monty knew why, but telling Robert the truth wouldn’t bring his boys back.
The dam had failed once before. Christmas Day of 1879. The year Monty had lost his family forever, taking his share of his parents’ inheritance and gaining his Uncle Henry’s secrets.
For the last seven days, Monty thought the experiences of what he’d seen and heard had tortured him.
Now, he wondered if it was more those secrets clawing their way through his conscience.
Was he just as guilty for this disaster as the men on the club roster?
Could he have prevented this by speaking out against the club before that fateful day?
His head told him it wouldn’t have made a difference, as the most affluent men of Johnstown had been fighting for the dam’s restructure for years.
His heart told him the opposite.
Monty opened his mouth to speak words of comfort to Robert when Jim Parkes ran into the church.
“Pastor, we need your help. It’s Ben. He’s been working on one of those Red Cross hotels and started feeling sick last night.
Just found him passed out behind the old gaming hall, covered in vomit and …
We’ve got to get him to the hospital. Now. ”
Without another thought for Robert, Monty ran to where Ben Covington lay on a board in the rutted, muddy street.
He should have gone back to help Ben’s crew on the hotel like he’d said he would.
Ernie stood next to Ben, wheezing, his body shaking.
“I’ll take over from here,” Monty said, patting Ernie’s arm, knowing the man could never carry the load as far as the hospital, sober or drunk.
Ernie wiped his sweaty forehead, leaving a streak of clean skin behind. His eyes held the sheen of desire for the devil’s drink. “Thank you, Pastor.”
Monty wished he held the power to break the chains of addiction from Ernie, but the man had to want it for himself. “You’re welcome to stay in the church tonight, Ernie. It’ll be better for your soul than Lizzie Thompson’s.”
War fought in the twitches on Ernie’s face.
Monty bent and lifted one end of the board while Jim lifted the other.
Dodging ruts and debris, they packed toward the Red Cross flag whipping high in the breeze.
The trip was mostly downhill, but the good bit of distance caused sweat to collect on Monty’s chest and back.
The muscles in his arms were on fire by the time they reached the tent.
A nurse intercepted them. “What’s the nature of the injury?”
Jim relayed the few details he knew.
Another nurse, carrying an armful of folded sheets, caught Monty’s eye. “Annamae!” he called.
She turned, and her brows furrowed. At the sight of them, she thrust her burden into a passing nurse’s arms, lifted her skirt, and ran to them. “What is it?”
“Typhoid,” he said in unison with the other nurse.
“This way.” Annamae jogged through the group of tents to a set erected away from the others. When the two men entered with Ben, Annamae had already prepared a bed and was gathering supplies. “Transfer him to the bed, please.”
They obeyed.
She opened one of Ben’s eyes to check the pupil, then the other.
“There’s a cake of lye soap beside the water barrel outside.
Use it to wash your hands and arms thoroughly at least three times.
If you can find clean clothing, do so, and then wash with lye again afterward.
They should have extra cakes at the commissary.
Stay away from others as best as you can for at least twelve hours.
If no symptoms occur, you may return to your duties, but must return here immediately if you begin to have symptoms.”
Monty helped her remove Ben’s soiled boots.
“Go,” she commanded.
Eyes wide with fear, Jim obeyed, rushed to the barrel, and began scrubbing.
Annamae unbuttoned Ben’s shirt. “Now, Monty. Don’t risk getting sick.”
“I’m not leaving him. I’m already exposed. Let me help.”
She studied his face, glanced around at the limited medical staff working the area, and then sighed. “He needs fresh clothing. These and his boots will need burned.”
Annamae pointed to an area even farther away from the main tents where a small fire smoldered.
Together, they stripped the young man, and Monty helped her clean him with wet rags before they placed him in a clean nightshirt.
The stench of sickness escaping both ends made Monty gag, but he refused to give in before the pretty nurse with a steel nose.
He made several trips, carrying the soiled rags, clothing, and boots to the fire.
Monty walked backward to the water barrel, watching it burn.
Lord, please let Ben survive.
He joined Annamae at the water barrel and disinfected his hands and arms, scrubbing his shirt sleeves as well. Jim was already heading away from the sick camp.
“I’m guessing this kid is a friend of yours?” One delicate eyebrow lifted as she rolled her sleeves up to her elbows. Small wrists led to slim arms of pale, creamy skin.
“His family were members of the church. He is like a brother to me.”
Compassion filled her expression. “You’ll have to stay out of the way as we have many patients to care for, but I welcome your help when needed.”
“I will.”
After shaking the dripping water from her arms, she held them out to air dry as she stalked back to the tent.
They spent the rest of the day settling in new patients, making up beds, and stocking supplies.
Monty stood vigil, offering Ben small sips of water and broth, applying wet compresses to his burning forehead, and holding the chamber pot when he retched.
Annamae moved about the tent, helping other patients as well, but Monty could only focus on and pray for Ben.
As the night shadows took over, the young man faded into unconsciousness, and his breathing grew shallower. Stuffing down his anger, Monty prepared himself for the boy’s passing. He gripped Ben’s hand, leaned over his weak body, and whispered, “Thanks for being a great friend.”
At a quarter to midnight, with the serenade of crickets all around them, Ben joined his parents in heaven. Monty raised the sheet to cover Ben’s face, the end of his nose stinging. How was he ever going to tell sweet Joanna that she was the only one in the Covington family left?
A sob escaped, but Monty clamped his lips shut and stuffed it down.
A small, feminine hand touched his back.
He turned his face away, not wanting to wail in front of an audience.
She surprised him by snaking her hand across the entire width of him.
The side of Annamae’s soft body pressed against his as they both stared at Ben’s outline under the sheet.
The raw need for human comfort had Monty’s arm cradling her in a hard yet controlled squeeze.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” she whispered, gazing up at his face.
Monty pivoted and folded her against his chest, embracing her as tightly as he could without suffocating her.
He needed a friend. The connection of human touch.
Of knowing he wasn’t alone. As the other patients and nurses moved around them, they stood entwined at Ben’s bedside and hoped, without words, for a brighter tomorrow.