The Woman in the Photo (24 page)

“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.

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

JOHNSTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA

May 31, 1889

2:49
P.M.

T
his 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 nature'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.”

Even as the words leave his lips, I know he does not believe them. His shoulders slump as he exhales. He shifts his gaze away. He cannot look at me. I recoil in guilt. The slender portage railroad crossing, with its elegant central arch, is no match for
millions
of tons of water let loose from our massive lake. At best, it will only slow the destruction.

Your lake will one day be a murderer
.

Eugene Eggar's words pierce my soul. In one moment, I age into adulthood. No longer am I a frivolous girl. Never will I be again.

“The stone bridge.” He looks up. “It's our only chance of crossing the rivers. Know of it?”

“No,” I say, desperate.

“It's at the farthest end of town. Where the rivers meet.”

With no further explanation, he takes off. Mady leaps into action with Georgie on her heels. Behind us, the unearthly moaning deepens to the resonance of thunder. Thunder that does not stop. I hear it in my whole being. A horrid rumbling of earth and water and human anguish so ungodly it rises up from hell itself. Its discord is so profoundly desperate I know at that instant it will forever be the noise of my nightmares. My body is swallowed in its profane bellow. I am unable to hear anything else. The sound shakes the very ground beneath Georgie's feet. Human screams impale the gray light. A baby wails. Mothers shriek. My heart clutches. A ghastly chill runs the length of my spine. How many souls are already dead?

Dear God, what have we done?

T
IME, ODDLY, STANDS
still. It's as though the earth is spinning around me, but I am fixed in place. My body rises and falls with Georgie's powerful locomotion, yet my mind dulls. I am hypnotized by the moss-green hue that flickers past my side vision in a blur. The stirrups press into the bottom of my soles, yet I feel only a phantom pressure. My thigh aches where I tumbled onto the rock, yet it is someone else's pain. A pain remembered or heard about, not one fully felt. Even my long hair, freed from its daily bondage, seems to flow from another's head. So recently it was weighted with water; now it is lighter than air. Has it all blown away?

Behind us, the devil's wail grows louder. There is no escaping it.

Suddenly—or perhaps it happens slowly?—the foliage thins and a long stone bridge comes into view. With its seven grand
arches, it spans the full length of a raging river. A river at the far edge of Johnstown, where the Little Conemaugh and the Stonycreek rivers meet. The commanding rail bridge connects the forest to the end of town. It forms Johnstown's western edge. Eugene Eggar rides straight for it. I follow, without the will to do otherwise.

It's a mystery to me how we manage to climb onto the top of the railroad bridge. Mady seems to know a pathway up, and Georgie follows. In the sheeting rain, an oncoming train would devour us all. But I don't care. Exhaustion has dulled my emotions. It's all I can do to hold on to my horse.

Abruptly, in the center of the bridge, Mady stops. Georgie slows and stops beside her. My head suddenly feels too weighted for my neck. It lolls forward. My bloody hands still grip the reins.

“Elizabeth.”

Eugene's voice is strange. Its peculiar tone is devoid of life. Low. Thick. Vaguely, I sense his entreaty.
Look up.
But I am unable to manage such a feat. That's when the horrid clamor following us down the mountain enters my veins.

It is a cacophony of terror: the pounding hooves of bleeding horses, the shriek of terrified hyenas, the howl of a coyote mother who's lost her young, the thunder of a buffalo stampede, the guttural roar of a thousand lions in pursuit of as many fleeing, doomed elephants. It's inhuman and so deafening I am certain I will never again hear another sound, feel no other feeling save its thunderous vibration. The roar has grown ever louder with each curve down the steep mountain road, every bend in the river. Buried deep within the hideous noise
is screaming. So much screaming! Surely hell itself has cracked open and released its torment.

I look up. I cannot believe my eyes.

I haven't time to beg God to save my soul. I am already dead.

A massive ball of brown water, uprooted tree trunks, sheared rooftops, bloated horses, stiff dogs and cats, shattered church windows, broken pews, sodden Bibles, Memorial Day flags, busted brick walls, twisted train cars, splintered rail lines, bowed streetlamps, upturned carriages, naked dolls, bent tin soldiers, dented red wagons, books, black stoves, beds, tables, armchairs, mantels, photographs, love letters, wedding dresses, baby booties, and masses of drowned humanity careens straight for us. Neither Eugene Eggar nor I can move. In silent horror, we watch the monster rage into the valley. It's as if a
mountain
has unearthed itself and rampaged downhill—gaining speed as it tumbles uncontrollably. Snarling everything in its path. It swallows churches, the school, meeting halls, taverns, the dry-goods store, the opera house, the company hospital by the mill. Instantly, the roiling ball of destruction is as high as a church's eave, far wider than the Conemaugh River. A black spew of oil and tar spits up from the bottom of it. The ragged sides engorge everything in its path. It seems a solid mass. More debris than water. As if every object—living or dead—has been sucked into the gullet of the beast. Before our eyes is a masticating, gnarling, snarling, crunching, drooling, cackling, bloodthirsty demon. Furious and bursting with bile. Soon to devour the lot of us.