The Woman in the Photo

by Mary Hogan

“Clara Barton was somewhat of a pack rat for documents and photos. There’s an archive of her diary and letters in Washington, D.C. Memorabilia, too. Cool drawings and stuff. It’s all in the Library of Congress. If you have time, I can do an archive search of her collection. We have access to some of the documents that the general public doesn’t.”

  “Wait. What? Today? Yes I have time. All day. I’ve been waiting eighteen years. Wow! Great! Thank you!” Lee felt like Valerie. The maven of exclamation points.

  Hannah laughed and stood up. With her eyebrows arched up to her hairline, she said, conspiratorially, “Who doesn’t love a good mystery?”

  CHAPTER 36

  Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association

  SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB

  Memorial Day

  May 30, 1889

  10:43 P.M.

  The sun set hours ago amid rain that intensified with each passing hour. When we arrived at the train station earlier, and made our way to the cottage, I noticed some bursts of sunlight through the gray clouds. I felt a flicker of hope that the heavens would tire of pelting Lake Conemaugh with its tears. No such luck.

  Inside the cottage, Nettie and Ella lit every fireplace to dry the dampness and warm the chill. Maggie prepared a pot of Purée Mongole with the turnips, leeks, and peas she brought with her on the train. While we ate supper, no one spoke as we all listened to the rain hammer the cottage roof.

  Suddenly there was a knock on the cottage door. Nettie hurried from the kitchen to answer it. “Excuse the interruption,” we heard from the front entryway. Mother and I both left the table to see who would call on such a stormy night. Colonel Unger, the club’s caretaker, stood dripping on our Oriental rug.

  “Goodness, Colonel,” said Mother, “you’re soaked to the bone.” Water streamed off his black rain slicker in rivulets.

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Haberlin.”

  “Nettie,” Mother said, “please help Mr. Unger with his coat.”

  As my maid stepped forward, Colonel Unger raised his hand. “I can’t stay. I’ve come by only to make sure your family is okay.”

  “Why, yes. Fine, fine,” Mother trilled, smiling falsely as if to convince herself. “Warm and dry.”

  “Good.” He turned to leave, then paused. “If anything should happen—”

  “Like what?” I asked. Mother glared at me for my want of manners. Yet I didn’t back down. I remembered Eugene Eggar’s words the day we first met in the woods: “Your lake will one day be a murderer.”

  Colonel Unger’s gaze, I noted, darted about the room. Everywhere but into my eyes or Mother’s. Henry suddenly appeared from around the balustrade. “It’s raining cats and dogs!”

  “That it is, son.”

  “What might happen, sir?” I took a decisive step toward him.

  “A roof leak, high water, thunder strike, anything.” He turned and reached for the doorknob, his head down. “Please stay put. I am aware that you are here alone. Don’t worry. You are safe. I’ll come for you as soon as I can if anything—Just a precaution, Miss Haberlin. I’m sure you’ll be fine. We all will.”

  With that, he pulled open the cottage door and the whooshing sound of rain filled our ears. Mother, Henry, Nettie, and I watched him disappear into the silvery darkness.

  After I retired to my bedroom for the night, I couldn’t sleep. Now my clock says a quarter to eleven. It’s no use lying in bed listening to my heart thump as loudly as the rain on the roof. Peeling back my quilt, I get up and make my way to the window in the eerie darkness. The downpour is still so loud I hear it in my chest. When I slide the curtain aside, I see needles of rain angrily pelting our lake. The water roils and spits in the violet moonlight.

  Fear swallows me up. In the corner, the clock tick-tocks. My being grows cold. “Is tonight the night?” I whisper in horror. Will the monstrous beast that contains our lake open its mouth and release its fury onto the heads of the sleeping citizens of Johnstown? If so, what can I possibly do?

  Standing at my window, staring at our churning sea of a lake, I do the only thing I am able to do: I lower my head and pray.

  “Dear God, please save us all.”

  DAWN CREEPS INTO my bedroom as silently as a jewel thief. Perhaps I had slept an hour or two, for I awake beneath the covers of my bed and don’t remember how I got there. It’s as silent as a graveyard. In the timid light of earliest morning, the stillness makes my heart thud. Is the lake . . . our beautiful plaything . . . gone? Has it slipped away in the night?

  A lack of breath burns my chest. With dread overtaking me, I roll back the covers and tiptoe to the window terrified of what I might see. What I might not see. Utter quiet engulfs the cottage. My eyelids press shut before the curtains. I force air in and out of my lungs. Inhaling to fortify myself, I reach out a hand. I grip the curtain panel. Ever so slowly, I peel it back. Then I lean forward and look. And I see it. Our lake! A flat sheet of tin glistens in the faint light. It’s the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. We are saved! My breath returns. We have made it. The dam held. Johnstown, and the club, are intact.

  Relief exits my chest in a giddy whistle. Mr. Ruff was right: Johnstown was in no danger from our enterprise. The worst is over. We are safe. Weak with happiness, I skip back to my bed and sleep until a deafening clap of thunder wakes me just before noon.

  CHAPTER 37

  Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association

  SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB

  May 31, 1889

  11:58 A.M.

  Dear me. The rain has resumed. Again, it pelts our lake. Why is God testing us? Dressed for the day, I descend the cottage stairs for breakfast. My spirit feels weighted. Though it is barely noon, Maggie, the undercook, has lit all the lamps. Such darkness in daytime only magnifies my foreboding.

  “‘They came to the castle of a giant who had three heads,’” Mother reads to Henry in a whispery voice. “‘He trembled so that his heads began to knock one another very hard.’”

  “‘Three heads, but no brains!’” Jack the Giant Killer is Henry’s favorite book. Though he knows all the words by heart, he never tires of it.

  “That’s right, my darling,” Mother coos. In her murmur of love, I hear a sliver of apprehension. As I pass by, she looks up at me with anxiety creases in her forehead. I smile to soothe them, and my own.

  “‘He mostly stood—I know you’ll laugh—about as high as a giraffe.’” Henry eggs his mother on. In spite of our disquiet, Mother and I both laugh. Oh, to be six years old and free of worry!

  Nettie and Mother’s maid, Ella, are in the cottage basement moving everything of value off the floor. Mother fears the lake may rise to the height of our foundation.

  “Best to be safe instead of sorry,” she told them.

  Maggie has baked breakfast rolls. The kitchen aroma is enticing, but I can only eat one or two bites. My stomach is a mass of knots. With a cup of hot tea, I climb the stairs to my room. Again, I stand before the window and gaze out at the rain. The sky is as gray as steel. What I wouldn’t give to see the color blue. Rain tap-dances upon the cottage roof. Thunder rumbles in the distance and lightning cuts jagged scars in the overcast sky.

  I do note, with a slight surge of hope, that the rainfall doesn’t feel as violent as it did the night before. In spite of the addition of thunder. To be honest, I cannot tell if I was overly wrought last night or am underestimating the danger now. When I look out at our vast lake, I am reminded how many times we have endured rainfall during our summer stays. The dam has always held. Certainly Colonel Unger would fetch us immediately if it were about to burst. How many times have the men of the club debated the safety of the dam only to resolve to leave it as it is? It was absurd to think they would arrive at such a decision lightly.

  I’m being silly. More than that, if I’m harshly truthful with myself, I must admit that I’m leaning upon my fretfulness to postpone a dreade
d task.

  A letter.

  One that I must compose to perfection. Today. Now. Whether it is tempestuous outside or not. Though I’d very much like to, I can no longer delay it. I must write the man who has promised to escort me to the cotillion. The escort who will be the envy of every debutante at the ball.

  James Tottinger.

  The very thought of his name makes me uneasy.

  Since Mr. Tottinger so suddenly left the club with his family last summer, he has written to me often. And I to him. Though not as often. As Mother expertly instructed me, men prefer a chase.

  “Like hounds after a fox?” I asked, haughtily.

  “Precisely.”

  Initially, I asked our postal carrier for discretion when he delivered the mail to our home in Upper St. Clair. After my parents so unfairly made me leave the club last summer, I was not inclined to tell Mother about the note James slipped into my hand before he left.

  I must see you again.

  Plus, I didn’t feel like telling Mother about the many letters James had written to me since. At first, I thought them too vain to take seriously.

  “Have you thought about me at all, Miss Haberlin? When you stroll the thoroughfares of Pittsburgh, do you imagine doing so on my arm?”

  Then Mr. Tottinger’s letters became increasingly ardent. In his last communication with me, he wrote, “I awoke to a cloudy London sky this morning and realized that the sun will not come out for me again until I have the pleasure of gazing into your fiery brown eyes.”

  Admittedly, I was impressed that he accurately noted the color of my eyes. Previously, I would have thought he looked into them merely to catch his own reflection. More letters arrived with flattering prose.

  “Miss Haberlin, you are as unique as a winter rose.” Splendid.

  Almost without my noticing, I began to feel a . . . a . . . stirring. Now, after reading several clandestine letters, I confess Mr. James Tottinger has captured my fancy. And when he offered to cross the Atlantic Ocean to escort me to the debutante ball, well, I confess I felt the slightest bit superior. Entering the cotillion hall on the arm of dashing James Tottinger from Great Britain, a relative of Countess Augusta Reuss of Ebersdorf, grandmother of Queen Victoria herself (so they say), was every girl’s dream. We would make the most fetching couple, if I may be so bold. It was in that mood that I accepted. Only then did I share the letters with Mother.

  “My darling girl!” she exclaimed. “How coy you have been!”

  “Before this moment, I wasn’t sure I liked him.”

  “Not sure? Dearest, he’s related to a countess.”

  From that hour until the present one, Mother has suffocated me with reminders about etiquette, dress, posture, manners. As if I’d been born in a brothel. Did she not trust that I was properly raised?

  And when I quietly suggested needing a new gown, saying, sheepishly, “Nettie accidentally left my Charles Worth at the musty old cottage,” Mother didn’t hesitate.

  “Of course you’ll need the very latest,” she said. “A trumpet skirt, I should think. We’ll take a trip to New York.”

  Mother was alive with purpose. A successful union with the Tottinger family would elevate my family’s place in society and secure our future. Which is why I’ve been dreading telling her the truth. I haven’t heard from Mr. Tottinger in weeks. My last two letters have gone unanswered. At first, of course, I blamed the post. Perhaps his letter is floating in the Atlantic? But the silence following my second letter to him is more ominous. I feel it in my marrow. Something is amiss. He had plenty of time to write me before I left for the cottage. And the cotillion fast approaches. Our shopping trip to New York is scheduled for mid-June. I’ve begun to regret letting it slip to Francine Larkin that Mr. Tottinger was to be my escort at the ball. Most certainly she has told everyone by now. If Mr. Tottinger changes his mind, Francine will delight in inflaming my humiliation. I’ll be lucky to be escorted by a stable hand.

  And so, today, in the gray light of a storm that matches my own agitation, I must compose the most clement letter of my life. Its tone must reflect breezy independence, a flutter of desire and a gentle—but unmistakable—resolve to uncover what is afoot. Is something bothering him? Is he to rescind his offer to escort me to the ball?

  Am I to be disgraced?

  Sitting at my desk, I hold my fountain pen above a clean sheet of paper. Then I wait for inspiration to strike like a thunderclap over the lake.

  CHAPTER 38

  Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association

  SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB

  May 31, 1889

  1:46 P.M.

  My tea has grown cold. As, it feels, has my blood. I rise from the spill of light on my desk and leave my unfinished letter to make my way down the dark cottage stairs. It’s barely afternoon, yet it seems like coming night. The air has an odd yellow tint. It’s as thick as pie dough. My heart falls to my feet. The storm has swelled and is quickly swallowing us up. In a matter of seconds, all signs of daylight vanish into the gloom.

  The moment my shoe hits the bottom step of the cottage stairs, a thunderclap shakes the walls. It’s the sound of shattering glass. My hands fly up to my ears. Raindrops pummel the cottage roof like falling pinecones.

  “Mommy!” Henry leaps into Mother’s arms. His moon face is shadowed in fear.

  “There, there,” she says, her lips white. “It’s only a storm.” With Henry clinging to her skirt, Mother takes him upstairs as Nettie emerges from the kitchen, gripping her apron with both fists.

  “We’re gathering candles,” she says, on her way to the cottage basement. “Just in case.”

  I nod. Then I race to the front window. The sky is the color of charcoal. All light is lost. Though I cannot clearly see the surface of the lake, I hear it. Raindrops smack the water. Another thunder roll passes through my chest like an angry phantom. Outside, it looks like midnight. And the rain—the vengeful rain—is clearly just getting started.

  As it did the night before, a shiver envelops me. One that I cannot deny. Without hesitation, I know what I must do. Ignoring Colonel Unger’s advice, I will not stay put.

  CHAPTER 39

  Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association

  SOUTH FORK DAM

  May 31, 1889

  2:12 P.M.

  My coat and bonnet are instantly soaked. I grabbed them off the front rack as I scurried out the cottage door. No one saw me leave. As necessity requires. Mother will dissolve in panic when she notices I’m gone. Yet, God help me, I must do what I must do. Some duties are larger than a responsibility to family.

  Lake water sloshes up through the slats of the boardwalk. The smooth soles of my leather shoes slip on the slick surface as I run toward the clubhouse. Never before have I seen the lake so far ashore. Last summer, we sunned ourselves on a patch of beach here. Ivy Tottinger and I played croquet here. Now our playground is underwater; our placid lake is a churning tempest. As I race past dark and deserted cottages, I hear shutters banging and piers groaning on their pilings. Thank heavens the skiffs are stowed in the boathouse, I think. In this swirling wind, they would be smashed to splinters.

  Onward I run. If not for the weight of water, my skirt would blow over my petticoat. As it is, the wind presses me sideways. It takes enormous effort to retain my footing. My heart pounds so ferociously I fear it will burst through my chest. Ahead, I can barely make out the club’s stable through the silver sheet of rain. The smell of soggy hay and manure is carried on the spitting wind. When I reach the stable, my body sags. The stall doors are open and flapping, the horses gone. The trap carriage sits abandoned and dripping. Where is Georgie? The muscular Percheron? The sturdy Murgese?

  “Help!” I yell into the roar of rain even as I see the futility of it. “Colonel Unger!” My voice barely carries beyond my mouth.

  Suddenly a jagged line of lightning illuminates the sky. Befor
e its thunder rumbles, I notice movement in the distance, beyond the clubhouse, atop the dam. Horses and men. Propelled by hope and fear, I run toward them. I must see for myself if the dam will hold. I must convince myself that it will. My soaked and muddy skirt tugs me to the ground. My stockings are wet through; my shoes sodden. Still, I do not stop. I cannot stop.

  Beyond the clubhouse, the path to the dam is the consistency of custard. My shoes make sucking sounds with each step. My lungs burn. Still, I slog forward. Sludge covers my ankles.

  “Ach!”

  Without warning, I am down. Slipped and fallen into the muck. A rock digs painfully into my thigh. Both hands are black with mud. Tears rise into my eyes, but I bite my lip to contain them. What good would it do? Sobbing into rain will only make me wetter.

  “Strength, Elizabeth.”

  Surprisingly, the sound of my quivering voice is a comfort. Amid the crush of rain, it’s an echo of humanity.

  “Get up.”

  I get up. My arms ache with the effort of pulling myself out of the mud. I wipe my hands on my skirt and rub my painful upper leg. In a surge of emotion, I yank at the ribbon on my bonnet. My hat is now so heavy it pains my neck. What possessed me to wear a sunbonnet in this downpour? With a frilly row of silk red asters, no less? I am ridiculous. Tossing my ruined bonnet into the underbrush, I continue on. In spite of my exhaustion and discomfort, I force my legs forward. Around a curve in the path, up a slight incline. Beyond the sparse maple grove where we lazily sway in hammocks each summer. To the dam. The scene of our crime.

  “Over here. Quickly!”

  I hear him before I see him. Colonel Unger is shouting.

  “Another breach! Quickly, men!”

  Even as both legs scream for rest, I rush ahead. Waterlogged pine branches droop low in my way. Hurriedly, I sweep them aside with my bare hands. My skin will be scratched and bloodied, but what do I care?

  “Hurry, men!”