by Mary Hogan
In the next clearing, I see him. On horseback, Colonel Unger gallops back and forth along the breast of the dam, frantically shouting orders down into the murk. Drenched workmen—Hunkies from town?—scramble along the front face of the earthen beast with shovels, pickaxes, their bare hands. Desperately, they attempt to shore up the bloated, muddy monster by shoving rock, shale, hay—anything—into the rivulets that appear like tears in a crowd of mourners. Once one leak is plugged, another springs forth. Fissures open everywhere in dripping clefts.
Lakeside, the water level is so high it laps onto the top of the dam—the only road leading to our club—the road that was lowered to make room for our carriages. Using my arms and legs like a crab, I clamber onto a rocky ledge opposite the spillway. As always, the runoff exit is clogged by lake debris. How could we have been so arrogant? We allowed the club’s managers to install wire mesh over the mouths of the runoff pipes to prevent fish from swimming downstream into town? For the sake of a few lost fish, we let a spillway clog? As I stand in sight of it, shuddering in the cold, I am shamed to my core. How many times have my friends and I picnicked up here only to remark, “There are so many logs clogging the spillway you can walk on water.” We laughed about it. Dear God, had we no sense? No regard for those who might be harmed by our carelessness?
Darkness seeps into my soul. Amid the blinding rain, I nonetheless see the futility of the men’s frenzied efforts. One workman falls to his knees, exhausted, on top of the dam. He clasps his palms together and shouts, “God, save us all.” Rain washes the dirt off his upturned face. Only then do I recognize Floyd, the stable hand who was Nettie’s beau last summer. Does she still see him? Is she still in love? My eyelids press shut. I am ashamed to not know the answer.
“Floyd!” I call to him. The wet wind that carried his voice to me now blows my voice behind me. I barely hear my own plea. Still, I try again. Does he know that Nettie is here, at the cottage?
“Floyd!”
Scrambling to his feet, Floyd never looks my way. Instead, he rejoins the other workers on the face of the dam, hurriedly patching holes in silence, their heads bowed. Their bravery breaks my heart.
Beneath the soles of my shoes, I feel a juddering. I have felt it before on this very spot. We all have. The heaving of our deadly dam. Only now it seems to grit its teeth and groan. It swells and contracts with growing intensity. Against one side—pushing, pushing, pushing—is our massive lake. Its immense weight fills me with terror. I am unable to move even as I shake from head to toe. Our shimmering blue plaything is now a swollen black brute straining at its confinement. A beast in captivity, raging to bust free and devour its captors. As if it had secretly despised us all along. We privileged club members with our silly parasols and canoes. As if it had only been biding its time, waiting for the perfect moment of revenge.
Unable to control my tears any more than I can harness the rain, I feel sobs rise up from my chest and join the water sheeting down my face. Fear renders me immobile. I am a weeping, trembling statue, able only to tilt my head to the wrathful heavens and surrender.
“Forgive our sins, O Lord.”
In reply, the sky again ignites in a jagged line. Thunder rumbles through my body. Somehow it revives me. From nowhere, a surge of energy shoots through my veins. Like a blessed ray of sunlight, I feel a rush of purpose. A resolve within me is lit. My sobbing stops. Ignoring the pain in my leg, I leap off the ledge and race to the familiar chestnut shape I see tied to the trunk of a dripping maple. The Haflinger. The workhorse I’ve ridden so many summers at the club. She glistens in the punishing rain like freshly made caramel.
“Georgie,” I coo. Though the rain is deafening, and my heart is pounding, I attempt a soothing tone. Her dark eyes are white-rimmed in fear. She rears her head, tugging at the leather reins that secure her to the tree. “You remember me, don’t you, Georgie? I’m Elizabeth. We’ve strolled around this very lake together. Last summer. Remember?”
Her terrified stare never once leaves my face. I circle around to her flared nostrils and gently reach one wet hand up to stroke the tuft of wet blond hair between her eyes. Gathering all the calm I can muster, I press my forehead to her snout and rhythmically breathe. “We are both cold and soaked to the skin,” I say, softly. “Shall we get out of here?”
As I continuously stroke her nose, her forehead, her mane, I breathe in and out. Shallowly, at first, for it’s all my hammering heart will allow. But soon Georgie’s breathing and my own are synchronized In, out. In, out. I blow warm air into her nostrils. Together, we relax each other. I feel her soften beneath my touch. The burning in my chest eases.
“That’s my girl,” I whisper, my nose still resting on her muzzle. “We will take care of each other.”
In, out. In, out.
Slowly, I reach my free hand around Georgie’s chest to the tree trunk. The leather knot that is securing her to the tree is tight and wet. My fingers fumble to loosen it. As I feel tension again rise in my chest, I tamp it down with monotone reassurances into this animal’s erect ears.
“We’re going to be fine. A nice canter down the mountain is just what the doctor ordered.”
The moment the horse is untied, she lurches forward, then rears back onto her haunches. Gripping the reins, I know I must move quickly and decisively.
“Hang on, girl.” I speak as much to myself as to her.
In a motion made possible only by the force of determination, my foot is in the stirrup and I am upon her, astride in the man’s saddle. I have never ridden in such an immodest manner, yet it feels absolutely right for this purpose. Still spooked, Georgie crouches on her back legs, then takes off like a shot from a pistol.
We are in flight. Back toward the stable. The wrong way.
I panic.
Ignoring my training, I lean over Georgie’s neck and hang on. My left hand seizes the leather straps as my right grabs the pommel on the saddle. In my too-tight hold on the reins, Georgie stiffens her neck. She pulls her head forward as I yank it back. In our tug-of-war, she wins easily. I had intended to race down the mountain road in front of the dam. But Georgie has other ideas. Apparently, she is madly galloping home, to the club’s stable. I can do nothing but hold on. My mind races.
All of a sudden I remember: There is a back way down the mountain. Mr. Eggar said as much. Beyond the stable. Farther than our cottage. On the other side of the lake.
If only I can control this runaway steed.
Summoning all my strength, I attempt the most difficult task of all. I try to relax myself. I inhale wet air into my lungs and blow it out through my lips. I lower my hunched shoulders. This much I know for sure: Georgie will never feel secure with a frightened rider atop her. Already we only narrowly missed several jutting branches. The rain has not let up. To my utter dismay, it appears to be falling harder, straight down in stinging nettles from heaven. Daylight still eludes us even as the hour is barely past two thirty. Ahead, through the gray sheet of rain, I see the clearing behind the clubhouse. Georgie gallops blindly for it, as terrorized horses do.
I am nearly prone on her back, my thighs screaming with the effort of not getting thrown. Still, I know what I must do. Harnessing my own fear, I force myself to sit upright, below her withers. I burrow into the saddle, pressing my backside down. I push both stirrups toward the sodden earth. And I loosen the reins.
Georgie’s ears perk up.
“There you go, girl.” I deliberately modulate my voice to mask my fright. Doubtful she can hear me in the storm, but it’s clear that she feels my shift from terror to command. Beneath the saddle, I sense the slight slackening of her massive shoulder muscles. The thunderous pounding of her hooves quiets somewhat. Though every muscle in my body screams to return to the fetal position—curled over the saddle, clutching Georgie’s strong neck—I resist. I sit as tall as a blue-ribbon rider. “That’s my girl,” I murmur. “Slow it down.”
My heart pounds so hard it hurts.
As we pass the clubhouse and near the
darkened stable, Georgie’s frenetic gallop slows. Steamy exhalations shoot from both her nostrils. White foam bubbles up from the gullet of the saddle. I see my opportunity. Feigning the air of mastery I felt last summer on horseback, I align my head with Georgie’s upright ears and tighten the slack in the reins.
“I know you want to go home,” I say, calmly exerting the force of my will. “And you shall. But first—”
As Georgie veers left to the stable, I pull the reins to the right. I press my left thigh into her flank. Her ears fly backward. She flicks her long mane. I hold firm. “You were in charge before,” I say. “My turn now.”
Determinedly in control, I use my waning strength to hold the reins taut. My arms tremble, but I do not let up. Georgie presses me, and I press her back. I feel her resistance, yet I overpower it with my resolve. In a war of wills, I shall win. I must win. With a kick of my heels, I quicken her slowed pace. Again, she rears her head. She gnaws at her bit. I hold firm. Past the stable. Beyond her earthy scents of home.
“That’s my girl,” I say, feeling her surrender. The moment we are under way again, I reach down and pat her neck. “There you go. We are together in this journey.”
First we trot, albeit reluctantly, on the access road parallel to the slippery boardwalk. Then we canter along the muddy path behind the cottages. By the time we reach the backside of our summer home, Georgie is my horse. She gallops at a manageable pace. For a moment, I consider stopping to let Mother know I am fine. Surely she is worried to the point of illness. It pains me to think of her distress, but I cannot in good conscience put my family’s needs first. Not when we have been party to the horror that is about to happen. Mother will experience the joy of seeing me again. But, if I don’t act now, how many mothers in the valley will be able to say the same about their own children?
Following my firm direction, Georgie gallops past our cottage to the woods behind the bend in the lake. I don’t know exactly how we will wend our way down the mountain to Johnstown, but I do know there is a way. A shortcut. Eugene Eggar said so himself.
At speed, Mady can get me down to Johnstown in five minutes.
“We can do this, Georgie,” I state without so much as a wobble in my voice. Atop the broad back of the Haflinger, I maintain proper equestrian form. “We must.”
And down we go. Into a clammy black forest above a town full of decent working people who must be warned about the disaster that is about to engulf them.
CHAPTER 40
Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association
JOHNSTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA
May 31, 1889
2:49 P.M.
This side of the Alleghenies is thick with new growth and old evergreens. It is vastly wilder than the sedate landscaping around the club. Immediately Georgie and I are swallowed in wet forest. Scaly pitch-pine trunks impede forward movement. Their gnarled branches sprout resinous needles that jab me as Georgie and I descend the steep hill in a zigzag fashion.
“C’mon, girl,” I shout, over and over. “C’mon!”
Georgie moves as fast as she can.
As yet we are unable to locate a path down the mountain to Johnstown. I thank God for Georgie’s hardiness. A less sturdy horse would lose footing on the slick compost that carpets the forest floor. Fallen pinecones crack beneath her hooves like discarded walnut shells. I’m proud of this horse. I feel her struggle to conquer her fear. Though she began jigging at the outset, I circled her completely around to stop it. Now, with rain crackling around us like crumpling newsprint, she tilts her snout down, points her ears forward, puffs breath from her nose, and somehow transports us quickly downhill. Surrounded by forest, I can do little else but hold on and lean back and support Georgie’s progress with a calm demeanor. Soaked to the skin, I lock my thighs just behind her shoulders and sit as tall as I can beneath the rain-heavy treetops. Their pointed heads droop like penitents at Sunday mass. In the muted world of the forest, I almost believe that all will be okay. The bloated dam feels days away. How could the water reach all the way to Johnstown, anyway? Why, it must be fifteen miles downhill. Won’t the trees stop it? The Portage Railroad Viaduct? Surely the water wouldn’t surge past Mineral Point?
The hour nears three o’clock by my estimation. Brief glimpses of the sky reveal clouds as thick as a stable blanket. Amid the density of trees, I feel only a smattering of rain. Occasionally, a pine branch will catapult its water onto me as my sodden shirtwaist sleeve snags a hanging cone. It doesn’t matter. At this point, I could be no more drenched than if I were submerged in a steaming lavender tub.
“Ach!” A stiff pine needle nicks my cheek. At that same moment, Georgie slips sideways. Her right croup slams against a tree. She snorts and rears her head. A flurry of agitation follows. Her ears flatten; her tail flicks. I see a flash of yellow teeth as her feet stamp and she flexes her haunches.
“It’s okay,” I say firmly. My thighs hold tight. “Relax, girl.”
When I reach down to pat her flank, my hand comes back red. The sharp tree bark has opened her skin.
“You’re okay,” I say even as I choke back tears. “Onward.”
Not surprisingly, my workhorse gets back to work. With renewed purpose, Georgie regains her footing and surges forward. Through the tangle of trees she finds a way down. I bend forward and rub the area above her cut flesh. For the hundredth time that afternoon, I coo, “That’s my girl.”
Suddenly we both hear a noise. Our two heads jerk in the same direction. Impossibly, it’s the rhythmic gait of another horse, the muffled thumps of hooves on dirt. Georgie lifts her head and chuffs at the reins.
“Hello!” I call out. “Hello!”
My horse quickens her pace. She climbs up the mountain, toward the sound. I continue to call out. “Hello? Who’s there?” Georgie lifts her head and neighs loudly. I release my grip on the reins and allow her to go where she wants to go. Up we climb in a diagonal line until—in a sudden splash of rainfall—we emerge from the thicket of pine trees into a clearing. A path! And there, like a forest phantom, a black horse gallops into view.
“Mady?” Am I hallucinating?
“Miss Haberlin?”
Eugene Eggar’s voice startles me. He sits tall and drenched astride his panting horse. His shirt is a second skin. His thick hair is flattened by sweat and rain. He shouts, “It’s not safe. The dam—”
“I know,” I yell through the rain. “I’ve come to warn your family. Bring them up to our cottage.”
“Is your family out of danger?” Clearly, Mr. Eggar has raced up the mountain to make sure we are okay.
“We’re safe, sir, but the valley is not.”
Mady weaves her head back and forth. She stamps her feet. Georgie is agitated, too. She snorts and bobs her snout.
“Can you ride?” Eugene shouts.
“Yes.”
“Follow me.” His jaw is set with resolve.
Under Mr. Eggar’s expert command, Mady wheels around and rears up before she takes off down the hill. Georgie gallops after Mady, in her muddy wake. The path is narrow, but well worn. There are no slippery leaves or sharp pinecones. It’s a gentler—though much faster—slope downhill than the direct descent we were attempting through the woods. I feel Georgie’s hooves digging into the soft wet dirt. Her ears point the way. I sense her confidence; it rises into my body and inspires poise in the saddle even as we race downhill faster than I have ever gone before. Though I am careful to hold the reins taut, not tight, my fists clench the leather straps so tightly my fingernails draw blood.
Down we fly as if on a ribbon of brown satin snaking from the mountaintop into the valley. Errant branches jut forth. I duck beneath them handily. My thighs cling to Georgie’s ribs. Our hearts pound together. In the distance, a train whistle shrills. A warning? Mr. Eggar does not look back. He needn’t. The thunderous sound of horsepower reassures him that I am close behind. Rain pummels our backs. I no longer feel its wetness. I am immune. Now n
ature’s relentless weeping is a mere backdrop to our mission.
In glimpses through the woodlands, I see the Conemaugh Valley below us. Johnstown sits in its pit like a pile of charred logs. Though it’s afternoon, the lack of sunlight creates the illusion that it is dusk. A dreary twilight in winter, not the day after Memorial Day. The smokestacks are oddly quiet now. They stand in the granite sky like silent sentries. As we descend, I spot the two rivers that encircle Johnstown in the same way our three rivers hug the tip of Pittsburgh. So docile when I last saw them, they now rage like lunatics. Restlessly overflowing their banks. White-tipped rapids flick up from the brown water.
In my side vision I am heartened by distant motion. The swishing of skirts, swinging of arms. Like an army of ants, townspeople scurry up the far hills. Their streets, I see, are already flooded. They fear the worst.
Please hurry their feet. Silently, I beg God to quickly lead everyone to the highest ground. Certainly change the mind of any family who might decide to ride out the storm inside their home. Oh, God, please.
At that moment, I hear a shift of sound. It’s far off, but loud enough to be audible over the whooshing of rain and thumping footfalls of our horses. Georgie’s ears stand straight up. Eugene Eggar hears it, too. I see it in the tension in his back. Its muscles tighten against his soaked shirt. The horses slow slightly. Still darting down the mountain, Mr. Eggar manages to swivel around far enough to catch my eye. We lock gazes. My stomach feels as wretched and weighted as a ship’s barnacled anchor. I haven’t the strength to save my despair from sinking to the depths of the ocean.
“Is that—?” I shout even as I know I cannot be heard. It scarcely matters. Mr. Eggar and I both know the source of that beastly growl.
The dam has broken.
Ahead, in a small clearing, Eugene yanks Mady to a stop. Breathless with fear, I somehow manage to stop Georgie, too. The growl, far up the valley, is now a sickening throaty moan. Mr. Eggar says, desperately, “The portage viaduct may stop it.”