The Johnstown Flood

In their eagerness to be the first and best to report, the various newspapers launched into a friendly competition that resulted in a kind of catastrophe-driven camaraderie. Henry Brown, a report for the Philadelphia Press, traveled over 100 miles as fast as he could—it took him more than 24 hours—to arrive in Johnstown sometime Monday night.

In Johnstown, the weather remained cool, to the relief of the sanitation workers, but the wreckage piled up against the stone bridge spanning the river had remained alight. Some had plans to dynamite the whole thing, but “there was a strong plea from the doctors and the sanitation officials from Pittsburgh to let it burn” (230) to reduce the chance of a disease outbreak. At this point, a contagion like typhus had become a major concern. Another concern, apart from disease or an outbreak, was the treatment (and suspicion) of migrant Hungarian workers, many of whom had been in the town before the flood and who would now be a natural scapegoat for any further trouble that would occur in town (even though the Hungarian migrants had nothing to do with any rabble-rousing).

Along with the reporters came many photographers, who sought a unique angle on the events and ended up making one particular devastated home the center of attention: a home ripped off its foundation and spiked through with an old oak tree. The house looked “as though it had been skewered by some terrible oak-flinging god” (240), and it made a fantastic image. In the papers, the image and others like it would be accompanied by all manner of hyperbolic statements: “The headlines blared away, day after day. ‘Agony’...‘WOE!’...‘PESTILENCE!’” (241). A particularly popular headline continued to read “no pen can describe,” an ironic turn of phrase since “the pens kept right on describing” (241). The sympathy aroused by the various accounts in the papers would eventually contribute to millions of dollars pouring into Johnstown in the form of aid.

In the rebuilding, tents were set up, tools were distributed, and everyone got to work. Fortunately, the weather continued to hold up, and the town had the great fortune of being visited by Clara Barton, the founder of the American Red Cross, America’s branch of the international organization. The railroad even contributed to the relief effort by enacting strict regulations on who was allowed to visit the town, enabling the town to avoid sightseers and charlatans who would attempt to take advantage of the catastrophe. What was perhaps the most significant of all was the unquenched spirit of the town’s inhabitants who simply went about putting things back aright, and “the almost absurd idea that they were going to pick up and start over again, to rebuild everything, began working like a tonic” (260). The people of Johnstown would rebuild, there was no question about it; the only problem left seemed to be the problem of what had occurred at South Fork and the exclusive millionaires club, a problem with which the average townsperson was quickly going to have to come to terms.

The Pennsylvania train depot had never been as busy as it was now: “All normal business had been stopped. Nothing went east but trains bound for Johnstown” (266). Once a few days had passed, however, the town and many others began to grow “keenly interested in the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club” (268) and the role that it had to play in the disaster. The club members had damaged their reputation, disappearing immediately after the disaster when the town could have used their help the most. Nobody in town had a good word to say about the club and its members, and the New York Sun reported shortly afterward with the following headline: “CAUSE OF THE CALAMITY: The Pittsburgh Fishing Club Chiefly Responsible” (273).

Even though public sentiment was fomenting about the club, an independent investigation revealed that the dam, as initially constructed, was quite sound and trustworthy. The problem lay in the fact that it was poorly maintained, and shortcuts had been taken over the years by those who should have known better and were responsible. As the reports uncovered, “the job had been botched by amateurs” (276). The papers in Pittsburgh, as elsewhere, were cautious in assigning blame, but the same could not be said for local preachers, who all moved quickly to relate the flood to divine wrath and judgment for the sins of mankind: “Countless sermons on ‘The Meaning of the Johnstown Flood’ were delivered in every part of the land for many Sundays running,” and the tale of Noah “was read from thousands of pulpits” (282). In their eyes, the flood had been a punishment for sin and greed.

As time passed, while the people of Johnstown felt a general sense of animosity toward everyone associated with the South Fork club, “[n]ot a nickel was ever collected through damage suits from the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club or from any of its members” (290). The dam was found to have been poorly maintained, but none of the members were engineers or experts in the field, and none individually were responsible for the eventual tragedy. In the aftermath, “several club members did, in fact, give generously” (285), but it paled in comparison to both the need that was felt and the overall proportion of the club members’ wealth. The club members, too, like the townsfolk, had simply been under the assumption that “the men who had rebuilt the dam had known what they were doing” (291)—a mistake that was dearly paid for—and the unpredictable nature of the unprecedented storm had simply finished off the job.

It wouldn’t take long for the town to begin to rebuild; in fact, “the Cambria works had started up again by mid-July” (297), and the town slowly began the long road back toward a sense of normalcy. The Carnegies would even set up funds to build a new library. However, though most returned to Johnstown to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives, a small proportion of inhabitants couldn’t find the strength to return. Many found that “the disaster had deprived them of every meaningful connection with the place” (298), while others just couldn’t bear to live in a place that held such painful memories. As a final act, “a large granite monument was dedicated” (302) in the memory of all who lost their lives in the greatest disaster the nation had faced up to that point.