Chapter 15
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
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 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.”