“Johnstown Sonata in C Major” by Joshua Gray
Literature, PoetryAllegretto
I heard nothing all night.
But when I rose, something was amiss.
Clothes on, I stepped to the porch.
The fog blinded me, but the lake had risen two feet.
I thought, the dam will break; the lake will tear up Johnstown.
I grabbed a friend, found a boat, and drew a lap around the lake.
The water passed through the shoreline, the shoreline
where trees were felled and softened dirt held no more.
The rain beat down in a cacophony
of pitter-pat-pat-pitter-pat-pat.
The endless field became an endless lake.
Back at the clubhouse, I was called to the dam.
My name’s Hess. I work the railroads west from Conemaugh.
But a morning like this and I’m a needed man.
I took my engine clear to Cambria City to clear a slide.
I was then ordered east, but the tracks were drowned
so we headed back, heard news of the dangerous dam
before winding our way to a washout.
The track we had come up on was now said unsafe,
so we cut a couple cars and sent a man down the danger
but nothing really slipped. So I brought my engine over
and we was on the Conemaugh side of the washout.
Nothing all night, I kept saying, did you?
I drew a lap around the endless lake, I said; it’s bad.
The fog still blinded, but I felt the music of rainfall
among the melody of shouted orders.
Orders were taken as quickly as they were given.
The dam might break, the dam might break
were the warnings received. We kept running
to the shoreline, the shoreline, the shoreline
to gather softened dirt and pile it on the dam.
The lake will tear up Johnstown,
and the hotels are stocked
with people for the Memorial Day Parade.
That’s what I heard before I jumped a horse
and headed down the mountain.
It worked for Paul Revere, after all.
I rode into South Fork shouting my news.
The dam will break; the lake will take Johnstown!
The dam will break; the lake will tear up Johnstown!
The dam will break; the lake will take Johnstown!
And when I rode back up the shoreline, the shoreline
where softened dirt held no more from felled trees,
the dam had become dangerous.
Everyone had gone to the clubhouse,
worried for their own lives.
The pressure stressed the dam.
I thought of cutting a slit at the ends, release a little relief.
But if it caused the dam to burst, I didn’t want the blame.
Inside, I had just settled down when the dam let go.
It is erroneous to say the dam burst – it simply moved away.
Later I learned my midday ride was heard
as a boy crying wolf.
People here know my whistle just as well as my engine.
I heard the tumble rumble like a bass line.
I saw the green tops of trees flatten; I never saw water.
The lake’s broke, I said, and charged into my engine.
I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know what else I could do.
I tied down my whistle and took off.
A tied-down whistle means warning.
And everyone knew what the warning was for.
I rode through East Conemaugh, my whistle singing
its tune as loud as it could, straight passed my house.
I geared down till I could go no more.
My whistle singing falsetto fortissimo, I jumped out the engine.
Someone saw the water and grabbed me, took me uphill.
I work the railroads west, but I was ordered east:
A morning like this and I’m a needed man.
I told them all later, I believe my exact words were:
the dam will break; the lake will tear up Johnstown,
and it did. I grabbed a boat and drew a lap around the lake,
passed the softened dirt where trees were felled.
The endless field became an endless lake.
My name’s Hess. I work the railroads west from Conemaugh.
But a morning like this and I’m a needed man,
and we was on the Conemaugh side of the washout.
And the dam took 36 minutes to drain the lake.
And my whistle ride saved a lot of lives.
And the fish were flapping in suffocation.
But my wife ran for the porch instead of the hills.
Andante
I am a Johnstown man, but I need to keep the club in check.
He is a Johnstown man; they should have never allowed him in.
The dam was a solid build, but the wear needs repair.
A small group from Pitt bought the dam from the state
to start a club and fish from the mountaintop.
I sent Fulton up and he wrote me a report.
A discharge needs to drain the dam and fix the leaks.
I’ve sent the report to Ruff, mezzo forte.
Dear Sir: Fulton’s figures are off.
The club’s name is not the same as Fulton says.
There is no leak to speak of.
We consider his conclusions of no more value.
I have paid for repairs enough.
You and your people are in no danger from the dam.
Respectfully, B. F. Ruff, President.
Some of Fulton’s statements may be destined to sink,
but his conclusions in the main are correct.
The wear needs repair and the dam needs to drain.
An outlet for all the excess is needed.
Ruff used cents instead of sense when he hired.
Engineers they were not. They did not fix the leaks.
But I said no, and I thought he dropped the dam,
and the men in Pitt let him in the club.
There is no leak to speak of, I let him know mezzo piano.
I didn’t tell him I lowered the top and reduced the spillway
so two carriages could cross comfortably.
I didn’t tell him I set down screens
so fish couldn’t find their way to South Fork Creek,
but also collected a buildup of debris.
I didn’t tell him a sag secured itself in the center,
where the dam should be at its highest
so excess water could run to the sides.
I didn’t tell him I raised the level of the lake.
The dam was a solid build, but the wear needs repair.
A discharge needs to drain the dam and fix the leaks.
Fulton’s figures are off.
There is no leak to speak of.
Allegro vivace
Piano a. forte. Low rumble to loud thunder.
Distant trains charging close.
A lot of horses grinding oats.
But I never heard it coming.
I never saw the wave.
I only saw the torrent tumble.
No one knew where Vincent was.
I’m Victor, age fifteen.
I went visiting the barn,
and heard a cacophony
of cluck-cluck-moo-moo-baa-baa music,
over which my father was shouting,
pointing to the barn roof.
I knew what he meant, and I meant to get there.
As soon as I did I saw the tsunami from the mountain top
collapse my house, my father, the store with my mother in it.
The torrent rumbled, tumbled, ripped in the ears.
Papa kept Marie, who had the measles, me and Vincent home
with Libby Hipp and Aunt Abbie, who sang to the piano.
Papa told me no, but I went to wade on the porch.
The rain water rose to the top step. Ducks swam
in the yard singing their quack-quack song.
Papa brought me in with a spank, went to the porch
to drop his ashes, came back white. Papa, papa, I played.
Run for your lives, he said, and stormed upstairs for Marie.
The barn was wrenched from the earth
and rolled like a barrel, over and over,
and I struggled to stay on top.
Glass smashed, boards split, train cars crushed,
wires ripped, stones crumbled, all in concert
and they all rumbled, tumbled, ripped in the ears
like percussive explosions. And still, I saw no water.
Just before the tsunami from the mountain top
crashed the barn into a house I jumped on its roof
to stay afloat. The debris was deafening
as I was forced onto another roof, and still another.
And now, for the first time, I saw water.
Dead animals floated, living ones called
their cacophony of cluck-cluck-moo-moo-baa-baa music.
I laid on my stomach on a piece of roof
and watched a family I knew speed passed
on a barn floor. They were busy packing
an open trunk when a piece of wreckage
jumped out of the water and crushed them.
Just then my raft ran into a jam at the church.
I fought to find my footing as debris dived into the jam.
Just before a freight car crushed me,
a brick building beside me broke apart
and my raft shot out from beneath the car like a bullet.
Out of danger, I found I could rest and look about.
Back down with Marie in his hands, Papa said,
Run for the hills! Don’t go back for anything!
But Aunt Abbie and Libby Hipp with me
in her arms went back for something.
I don’t like to put my feet in that dirty water,
said Aunt Abbie. Libby Hipp I kicked, scratched, and bit.
Papa, papa, papa, I sang fortissimo
and they dashed to the third floor,
opened the window at the Day of Judgment.
Crowds of people ran, screamed, dragged children,
struggled to keep their feet in the water.
Aunt Abbie and Libby Hipp’s faces turned white
and they took us into the cupboard
where they wailed Jesus, Mary and Joseph,
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph have mercy on us.
Then I heard the walls beat a bass line and the floor
fell out from under us and the prayers stopped
and Aunt Abbie and Libby Hipp were gone.
I grasped at a glimmer of light and got through
before the house drowned with everyone in it.
I was floating on a muddy mattress and my clothes
were torn off, except my underwear.
A boat of a building carrying too many people
came barreling down the water; one jumped in
and splashed his way aboard the mattress.
Suddenly the building capsized and went under.
The man was McAchren, and he threw me to a hillside
where two men caught me and I was run up the hill.
When I woke up later that night, I slipped out
and saw what looked like ships burning at sea.
I went visiting the barn, and heard a cacophony
of cluck-cluck-moo-moo-baa-baa music
before the tsunami from the mountain top
rumbled, tumbled, ripped in the ears.
Ducks swam singing their quack-quack song.
Libby Hipp and Aunt Abbie sang to the piano.
Run for your life, papa, papa, papa,
Run for the hills! Don’t go back for anything!
Piano a. forte. Low rumble to loud thunder.
But I only saw the torrent tumble.
Papa, papa, I see you coming!
But papa, what of Vincent?
Presto grave
Within hours after it was all over, incredibly,
the destitute dragged off the debris and the dead.
Within days after the flood, I swept into the city,
prepared to stay as long as it took.
The debris jammed itself into a dam at the Stone Bridge.
By nightfall, the debris caught fire, turning the dam into a pyre.
Calls for help from burning victims rang out
like out-of-tuned violas as we slept.
When morning crested, the rain had stopped.
Everywhere bodies were uncovered and delivered
to makeshift morgues and hospitals.
Makeshift police kept the peace on the streets.
Days later the pile by the Stone Bridge stayed a pyre,
and the rest of the city was swiftly put to some order
as the reporters, relief trains, and sightseers all showed up.
I might be a stiff-spined 67 year-old spinster in black,
but I was still rearing my Red Cross when I heard.
The day it saw the valley of death was the day it grew up.
I set up shop in a railroad car, took a cardboard box
for a desk, and ordered tents raised for the sick
and make-shift hotels built for the homeless,
while reporters came in and asked for the nearest restaurant
– their stories were works of fiction, I tell you.
When morning crested, the rain had stopped.
The tune of silence played to the silhouettes
of town landmarks turned over, moved, or crushed.
The sun never could break through the clouds,
but we saw blue sky anyway, as everywhere
bodies were uncovered and delivered to makeshift morgues.
The debris jammed itself into a dam at the Stone Bridge,
and men had already begun searching through it all
for their lost families, as the pile turned into a pyre
while burning victims rang out like out-of-tuned violas.
Captain Hart was the entire police.
He cut tin stars out of tin cans for anyone wanting the job,
and the makeshift police kept the peace on the streets.
Disease threatened to spread through the town
as people starved, sickened, their wet clothes chilling
without a sun in sight. Uncovered bodies were delivered
to makeshift hospitals while the homeless walked in.
Calls for help were mute to the music of railroad repairs.
Reporters all showed up and fixed up a telegraph line.
Relief trains showed up and eased the strain on the hospitals.
Sightseers showed up like they were coming to a carnival.
Firefighters rolled in with the trains
to put out the pyre of debris at the Stone Bridge.
We called a meeting and I held up
my report to Morrell, a report of great importance.
I was still rearing my Red Cross when I heard.
Saturdays, iron workers drank their paychecks at the bar.
But within a matter of minutes the whole town grew up.
Everyone was either dead or depressed and melancholic.
When I arrived I set up shop in a railroad car,
told them all I wasn’t going to leave until my work was done.
I had a stiff spine after all, and didn’t leave for five months.
While I sat at my cardboard box this reporter just off the train
came in asking for the nearest restaurant. The reporters,
they reported stories of Hungarians stealing values right off
stone cold victims, feeding a frenzy of National Hungarian prejudice.
But the refrains chanted by the reporting choir were works of fiction.
Then, their requiem blamed it all on the rich in a chorus of class struggle.
Simpletons, they were. Their stereotype had the air of truth,
but their stories were works of fiction, I tell you.
So much so the townsfolk told them to go home.
Meanwhile, I ordered tents raised for the sick
and make-shift hotels built for the homeless.
I did what I could to help them rebuild,
and that they did, raising home and business,35
taking on the valley of death like it already lost.
The debris at the bridge turned the dam into a pyre.
Everywhere bodies were uncovered and delivered
to makeshift morgues and hospitals.
Calls for help rang out like out-of-tuned violas
as makeshift police kept the peace on the streets.
I was still rearing my Red Cross when I heard.
I set up shop in a railroad car, took a cardboard box
for a desk, and ordered tents raised for the sick
and make-shift hotels built for the homeless,
while reporters reported works of fiction