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Horace Rose smiles and holds a broom out the second-story window of his house. Come on, Bessie, reach! Rose leans out the window into the pouring rain. Behind him, his family cheers him on. He's stretching the broom toward the house next door, which sits five feet away. There, a little girl in a black dress and floppy white hat is leaning out of her bedroom window while her mother holds her waist.
The girl, Bessie, tries to grab the pile of butterscotch candies that Rose has balanced on the bristles of the broom. She's shrieking with laughter, and so is Rose. That a girl. Grab 'em, grab 'em.
Finally, Bessie snags the candies, spilling half of them into the flooded alley between the two houses. Rose waves and ducks back into his home, out of the rain. His wife Margaret hands him a steaming mug of coffee and kisses him on the cheek. It's four o'clock in the afternoon on May 31st, 1889 in Johnstown, Pennsylvania.
It's a town that's used to heavy rains and occasional flooding. But this latest storm has been unprecedented. There's a good three feet of water outside. A new record. Basements are flooded, streets look like rivers, and everyone is stuck at home. But despite the hassles, the 51-year-old Rose is in a good mood.
Rose has four sons and a daughter. The two oldest boys are grown now, with their own families and aren't around much. But both came over this morning to move furniture out of the flooded first floor of their parents' house, then got stuck here. So for the first time in ages, the entire Rose family is together.
At least, mostly. Because of the flood, one son, Forrest, got stranded at another neighbor's home across the street. Rose goes to a different window and waves to him, and Forrest waves back.
The Rose family is treating today like a snow day at school, roasting sausages in the fireplace and playing games. Rose also wanted to extend the joy to the poor widow next door, Wilma, and her daughter Bessie, which is why he passed along the butterscotch candy. And while sipping his coffee now, Rose gets another idea. He turns to Margaret. Grab a tin cup. Let's pass some hot coffee to Wilma. On the broom, you'll spill it.
Nah, I'm feeling lucky. Let's try it. Rose returns to the window while Margaret fetches the coffee. He puts the cup on the broom and passes it out the window. Bessie squeals in delight through a mouthful of candy as her mother Wilma leans out to grab it. The broom wobbles and, as predicted, half the cup spills. But when Wilma finally grabs it, everyone cheers. Yeah, yeah, yeah!
But then, Rose hears something, an ominous rumble. Is it thunder? Puzzled, he leans farther out into the rain and freezes in horror.
From his home, he can see a mile up the river valley. Normally, it's a lovely sight. Its steep slopes covered in dense green forests. But right now, there's something bizarre rushing down the valley. A landslide of biblical proportions.
Rose sees trees, boulders, even houses and rail cars churning inside of it. And as the landslide moves, it pulverizes everything in its path, gathering up more debris along the way.
The whole surging mass is taller than Rose's own house, and probably a hundred times as wide. What is that? What's happening? What's going on? Rose hears his family behind him, but he's too dumbfounded to answer it.
As he watches, the gargantuan wall of debris smashes into some buildings at the local steel mill a half mile away. The violence shocks Rose. The buildings collapse as if they were made of paper. Rose knows he and his family have just minutes to flee, maybe even less, before it reaches their home and swallows them all.
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In May 1889, hard rains pummeled western Pennsylvania, a near month-long downpour that culminated in eight inches of rain falling on May 30th. Preaks swelled and rivers overran their banks. To make matters worse, the hilly topography of the region channeled most of the rainwater into narrow valleys that were dotted with steel towns. One of those places was Johnstown, a thriving city of 30,000 people.
Johnstown had recently experienced a population boom thanks to America's increasing appetite for iron and steel.
Whole neighborhoods seemingly sprang up overnight, but on May 31st, 1889, nearly every one of them was laid flat by a catastrophic flood. The raging torrent was so violent that many eyewitnesses didn't even see the water at first, only the massive wall of mud and debris that the flood pushed ahead of it.
At the time, the Johnstown flood was one of the worst disasters that had ever struck the United States. And it would soon emerge that the tragedy was not simply a natural disaster, but one that could have been prevented. This is episode one, The Dam. Benjamin Ruff opens the door of his office in Pittsburgh and greets his guest, a railroad engineer he knows through mutual acquaintances.
"Hello, come in, take a seat." Ruff leads the engineer into his office. It's furnished with a stately grandfather clock and globe, but the carpet is worn and the oak paneling needs touching up. Ruff pours his guests some whiskey and hopes he doesn't notice that it's watered down. Ruff is a slight balding man with a pointy chin. He's a real estate speculator and he's anxious.
1879 is shaping up to be a tough year for him, and it's only spring. Right now, he needs the engineer's help. Ruff explains that he's opening a new hunting and fishing club at Lake Conema, 65 miles east of Pittsburgh. It will be an exclusive summer retreat for bigwigs in the steel and banking industries, men like Andrew Carnegie and Henry Clay Frick. Once Ruff gets the club up and running, he'll make a fortune.
These are some of the richest men in the world, and he plans to charge steep membership fees. But first, he needs to solve a problem. The artificial lake is formed by the South Fork Dam, and it's in bad shape. After years of neglect, it's starting to crumble in places and needs serious repairs. Ruff must get it fixed up, and fast. He takes a sip of his watered-down whiskey. "So, I need some engineering advice on the dam."
"But I work on railroads, sir." "Yes, I know. But you build embankments for those railroads, don't you? It's more or less the same thing. So then tell me, what will it cost to fix the dam?" Ruff hands him a list of needed repairs. The engineer whistles, which makes Ruff cringe.
The truth is, Ruff is desperate for cash. The Pittsburgh Tycoons may have agreed to join the club, but they want to see the grounds develop first, before they pony up any more money. Right now, Ruff's budget is just $10,000, barely enough to buy new sailboats and canoes, and renovate the mansion that will serve as the clubhouse.
He also plans to stock the lake with black bass from Lake Erie, and that alone will cost $1,000. The engineer looks up. "I would think this would cost $30,000." Ruff sets down his drink. "That's a tab beyond our budget.
Could we save costs anywhere? Like this gravel listed on page two, the filler. I could get my hands on several tons of hay and horse manure for almost nothing. Manure, it's a great binder. Could we use that for fill instead? The engineer raises an eyebrow. It might work, but honestly, it won't save you much. The new discharge pipes, they're the big ticket item. Rough nods.
He feared this. Earthen dams, like the South Fork Dam, have massive cast iron pipes built into their base. Dam workers open the pipes during heavy rains to let the excess water out and relieve pressure on the dam. Unfortunately, the dam's previous owner removed the five pipes and sold them for scrap, then plugged up the holes. Hence the need for new pipes.
When the meeting wraps up, Ruff shows the engineer to the door. Alone in his office again, Ruff pours the rest of the whiskey back in the bottle. He doesn't want to beg club members for more money. That could scare them off if the finances look shaky. He's simply gotta figure out a way to prop up this damn fast. And do so on the cheap.
Matilda Heiser hurries through the streets of Johnstown, trying to keep dry beneath her umbrella. It's just past noon in May 1879, and people are hustling to the train station where she just came from. Other folks are hauling away goods that were just delivered to the station. Lumber, livestock feed, crates full of tools. Rain or no rain, there's always work to do in Johnstown.
Amid the crowd, she keeps an eye on her six-year-old son ahead, splashing through the puddles in the street. Victor, be careful. It's slippery. Victor just waves and keeps splashing. Matilda sighs. She's exhausted. She and Victor have been visiting relatives a few towns over, but the heavy rains and flooding got her worried about their dry goods store, so they caught the early train back.
Johnstown is a city of hills, and she and Victor trudge down a steep incline towards their store. They pass the sprawling Cambria Ironworks, which towers over the city center, its smokestacks stretching into the sky. But as they make their way downhill toward home, the rainwater collects against curves and the porches of clapboard houses.
Soon, the water is almost up to Matilda's knees, and she can tell it's only going to get deeper. She scoops Victor up in one arm, and he wriggles in protest. Finally, he wraps his arms around her neck. She can't hold both the umbrella and Victor, so she resigns herself to getting soaked, head to toe.
Matilda arrives at the building that houses both their store and their home to find water lapping at the front door. She wades up the steps, clutching the bottom of her dress in one hand and Victor in the other. At the door, she groans. Why didn't her husband put down sandbags? There's already water inside. She sets Victor down and enters the store.
The floor is stacked with barrels of salt pork and sugar, as well as sacks of cornmeal and flour. And right in the middle, her husband George is sitting with four of his buddies. The air is thick with cigar smoke, and George is laughing over one of his Civil War stories. Did I ever tell you about the time the captain made me chase after that mule? Ah, it was just before Lynchburg.
Matilda pushes the wet hair from her eyes and marches into their circle of chairs. The men visibly shrink, and George falls silent. She jabs her finger toward the corner.
George, look at those bags of flour. They're soaked, completely ruined. When were you planning on moving them? We were just taking a break. Fine, I'll sweep the water outside. But make yourself useful, George. Fill some sandbags and move everything perishable up to the second floor. Go! Go! His friends scatter, and George slinks off.
Matilda shakes her head in frustration. She feels bad that Victor saw her yell, but someone's gotta knock some sense into George. He's a sweet man, but lazy as the day is long. And hopefully her yelling will rub off on Victor, because Matilda Heiser is determined that her son will not grow up to be like his father. He's going to do something important with his life and not stay here in Johnstown forever.
John Fulton walks along a path on the bank of Lake Connemara and takes in the beautiful surroundings. It's a chilly November day in 1880, but the sun feels warm. Off to his left, palatial cottages dot the grounds of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club. They're centered around a clubhouse that looks like the hunting lodge of a king, with 47 rooms, huge windows, and handsome peaks and gables.
Fulton can see why the tycoons from Pittsburgh pay top dollar to vacation here. It's lovely, but he's not here for pleasure. Fulton is the chief mining engineer and second in command at the Cambria Ironworks in Johnstown, 14 miles down river. He's here today on orders from his boss, Daniel Morrill. Morrill has been hearing rumors about a shoddy repair job at the old South Fork Dam and sent Fulton here to investigate.
Fulton continues along the path, past a meadow where some workers are erecting a barbed wire fence. He shakes his head at the irony. The barbed wire almost certainly came from Cambria or one of the nearby mills. Barbed wire is one of the products Johnstown is known for. Now, it's being used to keep out the very same people who made it.
Finally, Fulton arrives at the dam. A narrow dirt road runs along the top of it. He follows the road a few hundred feet, then stops and peers down, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun. The dam, made entirely from earth, is seven stories high and 900 feet across at the top. On the dry side, it's a slope of rubble, dirt, and trees, like an ordinary hillside.
On the other side lies Lake Connemaw, about two miles long and half a mile wide at its widest. It's normally no more than 65 feet deep, but during spring floods, it can swell higher. And that's what worries Fulton and his boss Morrill, those floods. If it's true that the dam's new owner cut corners in the repairs, the dam might not be able to hold back all that additional water.
Fulton hears a voice behind him. "Hello there!" He turns to see a distinguished looking man in a suit approaching him. Fulton recognizes him as Benjamin Ruff, the president of the South Fork Hunting and Fishing Club, which owns the dam. He walks over to shake Ruff's hand. "I wish this was a social call, but to be blunt, I've heard some alarming things." Ruff smiles and spreads his hands. "Really? Well, how can I put your mind at ease?"
Well, for starters, I heard you skimped on using stone to repair the crumbling sections of the dam and that you use trees, hay and manure instead. That's true, but the dam has never been stronger. Ruff explains that the layers in actual contact with the water are sturdy and impermeable. Workers use trees, hay and manure only in the center of the dam, simply to add bulk and weight.
Poulton nods. He's skeptical. He points down the wall of the dam on the dry side. Then what about that? Is that water leaking through the dam face? Ruff squints, then chuckles. What? No, that's a natural spring. A spring? I've lived here for decades and I've never seen a spring. Well, we have one. It's part of the charm of this place.
Fulton likes this answer even less, but he moves on to his biggest concern. The discharge pipes at the base of the dam, which can release extra water and prevent it from spilling over the top. Where are the pipes? I don't see them. Can you point them out to me? Ruff smiles again. There's nothing to point to. We never replaced them.
Fulton is flabbergasted. "But how do you plan to drain the water if the lake gets too high?" Ruff explains that they built a spillway instead. A stone channel carved into the side of the dam just a few feet below the top. If the lake does get too high, the water will run down the spillway instead of flowing over the top of the dam. He points and Fulton sees the spillway.
It's something, at least. But it's only four feet lower than the top of the dam, and judging by its size, it couldn't possibly release as much water as the pipes could. Fulton came here seeking reassurance about the dam's integrity, but he's leaving less confident than when he arrived. If his boss, Daniel Morrill, can't convince Ruff to do more to shore up the dam, he fears that someday, the people of Johnstown
and all the villages in the valley will pay a heavy price. When you're hiring, time is of the essence. That's why more than 3.5 million businesses worldwide use Indeed to find exceptional talent fast. Indeed's powerful matching engine works quickly, so quickly that according to Indeed data worldwide, every minute 23 hires are made on Indeed.
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Head over to Symbiotica.com and use code ODDS for 20% off and free shipping on your subscription order. Reverend H.L. Chapman yanks the reins of his chestnut mare and stops her in the street. He knows pride's a sin, but he can't help feeling proud of what he sees before him, the parsonage, his new home. It's three stories and overlooks a lovely park.
There's gas lighting inside, and it even boasts a telephone, a rare thing in Johnstown. It's just before 2:00 PM on May 30th, 1889, Memorial Day. And for the first time in ages, the sun's out. Chapman is on his way to the parade downtown. He's leading the townspeople in a prayer to open the festivities, but he allows himself this quiet moment for snapping the reins.
Next door to the parsonage, Chapman passes the Methodist Church, where he is pastor to a growing congregation of 800. The church has been experiencing a revival lately. Prayer meetings are so popular they often spill out of the chapel, and he recently oversaw extensive restorations, including stained glass windows and a new organ.
At the end of the street, Chapman steers his mare right. It's not the most direct route across town, but he'd like to avoid the steel mill, with all its clanging and thick smoke. Chapman is 55 years old, with a white beard, slicked back hair, and a pinched nose. He's been the Methodist preacher here for two years, and when he first took the job, he had a few concerns. First was the steel mill.
At night, the whole valley glows a lurid red from the mill's furnaces, and the smell of scorched metal gets in people's hair and clothes. The lower trees in the surrounding hills long ago turned black and died. There are also far too many saloons for his liking, over a hundred for a population of 30,000.
But despite all this, Chapman has grown to love Johnstown. It's a thriving community with many churches, a soda fountain, a roller skating rink, and even an opera house. The city's baseball team, the Quick Steps, attracts hundreds of fans.
Best of all, though, most of the people are of strong moral fiber. Johnstown was a stop on the Underground Railroad before the Civil War. Yes, the dead trees are ugly, but the slopes above them are lush with oaks, hemlocks, and hickories. Deer and black bears roam those hills, and eagles soar overhead.
Two lovely rivers converge here as well. And if you stand on the edge of town, near the newly built stone bridge, the natural beauty can be overwhelming. A reminder of God's grace. As Chapman rides into the center of town, he encounters crowds of people gathered for the parade. They're waving flags and banners and holding bouquets they'll take to the cemetery later. He's never seen the streets so alive.
He eventually has to dismount from his horse and lead her by hand along Main Street. At last, Chapman reaches the start of the parade route. He ties up his horse and climbs a small wooden platform covered in wreaths and red, white, and blue bunting. People start to gather around, and he raises his arms for quiet.
Chapman is overwhelmed at the cheer he gets. He attended the blessing last year by the Lutheran minister, and the reaction wasn't half as loud.
Probably because Chapman speaks from the heart. He truly does believe that God is watching over his beloved Johnstown. 16-year-old Victor Heiser opens his bedroom window to let in the sunshine. It's early afternoon on Memorial Day, and the rain has finally let up for the first time in days. He can hear the parade starting up downtown, but here he is, stuck indoors, studying French. Again.
All his friends are probably meeting up downtown for the parade, but there's no way his mother will let him venture out. Not until his French lesson is finished.
Victor has thin lips, pink cheeks, and big ears that make him self-conscious around girls. His favorite activities are fishing and playing baseball. But even though school's been out for a week now, he hasn't had a free minute yet for either. All thanks to his mother and her demands that he study. The longer he thinks about it, the angrier he gets. He finally rises from his desk and stomps downstairs. ♪
He finds his mother in the family dry goods store, poring over the accounting ledgers. Her mouth is set in a grimace, her hair in a tight brown bun. She looks up when he enters and lifts her reading glasses to her forehead. Why aren't you studying? On his way downstairs, Victor prepared a half dozen arguments to confront her.
But under her steely gaze, he forgets every one of them. I was hoping to see the parade. Have you finished your French lesson? Ask me to go to the parade en français. Je, um, je veux aller. His mother cuts him off. Victor, that's atrocious. You'll have to put in an extra hour tonight. An hour? What the hell? Victor immediately freezes.
By swearing, he's crossed a line, and he braces for an explosion. But his mother surprises him. Instead of yelling, she sighs. Victor, do you want to live in Johnstown your whole life, selling dry goods until you're 60, breathing in soot every single day? No. I don't want that either. Your one chance to get away from here is through education.
And I know you're capable of more. I know, but you never let me have any fun. Victor protests more, but his mother stands firm. No parade. Victor stomps back upstairs and shuts his window on the parade noise. Then he flings his French book across the room. At this rate, it feels like he's going to spend the whole summer stuck here at home.
John McKee grabs a pint of whiskey from his buddy Duke and takes a pull. It's terrible stuff. True rot gut. And the 21-year-old McKee sputters and coughs while Duke laughs at him. They turn back to the Memorial Day Parade. The parade is always the biggest event of the year in Johnstown. The crowds around McKee are five deep.
He stands on tiptoes to see above the people in front of him. Spectators are backed up against the plate glass windows of Main Street, where the barbershops and apothecaries have all closed to observe the holiday.
Right now, a marching band is passing. Behind them comes the fire department's horse-drawn engines. McKee and everyone else cheers for the Civil War veterans who come next. After they pass, McKee takes another slug of whiskey. He's feeling pleasantly drunk. McKee, Duke, and their buddy Curly all work at the steel mill.
It's decent pay, but McKee still lives at home. And he arrives home most days filthy and sore. Still, that's nothing compared to the older men there. Some have permanent limps, while others are missing fingers or have horrible burn scars. It's dirty, dangerous work.
But McKee doesn't want to think about all that today. He just wants to blow off steam with his buddies. But as McKee hands the bottle back to Duke, he realizes it's just the two of them. Hey, where's Curly? He was supposed to meet us here half an hour ago. Duke frowns, and they both look around. A moment later, they get their answer when a voice calls out. Hey, fellas!
It's coming from the parade, from a horse-drawn float for the local Christian temperance union. McKee hates the anti-alcohol temperance folks, especially since his father joined them. But when he looks at their float, he breaks into a grin.
There, among the scowling Christians, McKee sees his friend Curly, his wavy hair peeking out from beneath a bowler hat. He's hovering in the back of the float near some women, and he starts waving a flask at McKee and Duke. "Hey, you fellas want a drink?" Curly takes a big theatrical swig from the flask, and everyone in the crowd erupts in laughter. Everyone except the Christian Temperance Union members.
Several turn and shout at Curly to scram. Finally, one stout woman shoves Curly right off the float. He lands on his feet and then stumbles up to McKee and Duke. McKee is laughing so hard he can barely talk. Duke hands Curly the pint bottle as his reward and he finishes the last half inch in one pull.
Seeing this, McKee pulls his last two dollars from his pocket. Duke, run to Mick's Saloon for another bottle. Duke grabs the money and jogs down the street. Curly turns to McKee. Hey, won't your dad be mad about you spending your money like that? McKee frowns. He pushes the thought from his mind. It's a holiday. He deserves to have a little fun before a long shift at the mill tomorrow. A minute later, Duke returns with a bottle. And they all have a sip.
McKee wipes his lips. "Ooh, alright, I'm getting tired of the parade. What now?" Duke suggests they go rafting in the creeks. With all the rain this month, the water's running high, and they can shoot the rapids. But McKee shakes his head no. He can't swim, and the high water makes him nervous. He has another idea. He points across town. "How about this? Ever wanted to ring one of those big church bells?
Like the one in the Methodist steeple? Duke cocks an eyebrow. How do you even get up there? The hell if I know, but there's gotta be a way. Or are you too chicken, huh? Within seconds, they're all tearing off down the street with McKee in front, skipping and hollering. It's shaping up to be the best day off he's had in years.
John Park holds his coat shut against the wind and rain, and leans over the railing of the clubhouse porch to study the pale gray sky. After a rare day of sunshine, another storm is moving in, but Park can't yet tell whether this one's going to be another heavy downpour like the ones they've had all month, or just a sprinkle.
Park is 23 and has an elfin look, with small features and dark hair sharply parted. He comes from a military family. He's the nephew of the superintendent of West Point, but instead of joining the military, he studied civil engineering.
Park was recently hired by the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club. His boss is a man called Colonel Unger. Even though Unger never actually served in the military, Unger took over the club when its founder Benjamin Ruff died a few years ago.
Unger tells Park all the time about the arguments that Ruff used to have with one of the members, Daniel Morrill, who owns the Cambria Ironworks in Johnstown. Morrill was always complaining that the dam was at risk of failing, but Morrill, like Ruff, is dead now. So it's all ancient history. Or is it? Park is starting to wonder.
Part of his job is to oversee the dam, and with all the rain recently, it's been on his mind a lot. If the lake rises too high, water could spill over the dam's top and risk flooding the towns in the valley below. Worse, once the water starts running over, it will eat into the upper part of the dam and begin washing it away. Once that process starts, it can be hard to stop.
More water will cause more erosion, which will progressively lower the height of the dam, releasing more water in a negative feedback loop. Things could get pretty bad pretty quickly. Given the likelihood that another storm is coming, Park decides to go check the dam. He hops off the porch and begins squishing through the grass.
Along the way, he passes a series of muddy trenches, his main project this spring. He's supervising a crew of 20 Italian immigrant workers who are installing plumbing and bathrooms in the cottages. At the lake, Park turns right down the dirt road across the top of the dam. When he's about halfway across, he heads for the shoulder and peers down. Then he breathes a sigh of relief.
The water is a good six feet below the top of the dam. Pretty high, but still a comfortable margin. Suddenly, the wind kicks up, blustering and sharp. Even from a distance, Park can see trees bending and groaning on the lake shore. And beyond them, Park now sees black clouds approaching.
He watches for a moment, then heads back toward the clubhouse. He decides he should go to bed soon, so he can wake up early and fresh for tomorrow. If the weather turns overnight, the lake could rise quickly. He'll want to get sandbags ready and clear out any debris that might be blocking the spillway. He needs to make sure that, whatever happens, no water flows over the top of the dam.
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Horace Rose holds his hat tight and dashes across his soggy backyard.
It's 7:30 on the morning after Memorial Day. Despite a few hours of sun yesterday afternoon, the clouds returned and so did torrential rain. It poured all last night and now there's already several inches of standing water here.
Behind him, he hears his sons Percy, age 14, and Forrest, 16, splashing and laughing as they follow. Rose, however, is not in a good mood. By the time he reaches the stable, his boots and socks are soaked, and there's already water covering the dirt floor inside. Rose turns to Forrest. "Go and hitch the cow and drive her up the hill. I don't want her drinking dirty flood water."
As Forrest runs off, Rose hurries toward his horses to saddle them up and ride downtown to check on his office. Last year, flooding downtown ruined his office carpet and soaked the lower shelves of his filing cabinets, damaging people's wills and other important documents. He wants to make sure that doesn't happen again.
Rose is 50 years old and slender, with a full beard and radiant blue eyes. He's a prominent attorney in town and former state legislator with a big family, four boys and a daughter named June. He instructs Percy to grab an old harness so they can hitch two of the horses to their wagon. By the time they're finished, Forrest has returned. The boys pull open the stable door and then hop in for the ride downtown.
As they ride the mile to his office, Rose lowers his hat to shield his eyes from the rain.
He can see a few families trudging up the hills to higher ground, their valuables tucked under their arms or loaded onto wagons. The sight makes Rose roll his eyes. Every time there's a flood, a few families panic and run, only to slink back looking sheepish the next day. If they just stayed and tossed down sandbags and moved furniture, their homes would have suffered a lot less damage. Still, Rose has to admit things are bad today.
As they pass by the roller skating rink and head downhill, the water soon rises past the horse's knees.
His sons think it's all a grand adventure, but Rose is startled to see dogs swimming along, boys floating in wooden crates, even a man in a canoe going down Main Street. This will likely rank among the worst floods the town has ever seen, and judging by the black clouds overhead, there is no relief in sight.
All of which worries Rose. He thinks again of his papers and snaps his reins. He's got to get to his office as quickly as he can. Reverend H.L. Chapman jumps at the sound of the phone ringing in his office. He loves having one, but he isn't used to the noise yet. He hurries across the room and picks up the receiver. "Hello? Oh, good lord, that's terrible."
When? It's a local doctor who relays a sad story. Late last night, a member of Chapman's congregation was driving a team of horses to town. In the heavy rain, he rode across an old homestead without realizing it. The house was long gone, but the dugout basement remained. A big, flooded pit. The horses rode right into it, dragging him down and drowning them all.
Chapman hangs up, stricken. The man was one of his church's prayer leaders. He checks the time, 8 a.m., and decides to tell his wife, Agnes. He heads down the long hall and turns into the parlor. He finds Agnes there with their granddaughter lying across her lap. The poor girl's been feeling sick. Agnes gestures at Chapman to speak softly. He whispers the news. Agnes looks crestfallen.
Chapman nods and heads back to his office. At his desk, he tries to resume working. He has to write a sermon for Sunday. His theme comes from the Book of Job.
Man dieth, and wasteth away, and giveth up the ghost. And where is he? The writing had been going well, but now he can't get back into a rhythm. His mind keeps going back to his parishioner's death. Then, a minute later, the doorbell rings. Chapman ignores it, but it rings again. "Lizzie, can you answer that?" Lizzie is their German maid, but the doorbell keeps ringing.
Grumbling, Chapman finally stalks off downstairs to answer it himself. He opens the door. Standing there, soaking wet, is the last person he wants to see. His wife's cousin, Mrs. Brinker. She is the biggest worrywart he's ever met in his life, and she lives right across the park from the parsonage. Her frequent visits are one of the downsides to his new home.
She's there wringing her hands. Reverend, I have heard that the Southport Dam is going to fail, that we're all going to die. Chapman suppresses a laugh. For the past two years, and in many previous years from what people have told him, silly rumors fly about the dam breaking, and every year the rumors prove false. But some people still fall for them.
Chapman touches Brinker's arm, trying to calm her. Is your husband around? Perhaps he could comfort you. He said he wanted to stay home and protect our furniture, but your house is higher. Reverend, it would be a big comfort to me if... She stands there, trembling, pleading with her eyes. Chapman resists for several seconds, but he finally gives in. Mrs. Brinker.
Would you like to stay with us until the storm passes? Oh, yes. Yes, please. Thank you. Oh, thank you so much. She sobs and hugs him. Soaking his shirt, he can feel himself getting irritated. But he takes a breath and checks himself. Christian charity. He has to remember that. Mrs. Brinker is one of God's children, just like everyone else.
But why does she have to be his wife's cousin? Agnes is so level-headed and smart, he can't understand how they're related. He extricates himself from the hug, then helps Mrs. Brinker inside. He'll be civil to her, certainly, but he can already sense that it's going to be a long, frustrating day. Engineer John Park dips his oar in the water and heaves.
The rain is pelting him, and the gusts of wind are working against him as he rows. He's cold, he's miserable, but his task is too important for him to turn back.
He's rowing across Lake Connemaw, behind the South Fork Dam. It's the morning after Memorial Day. When he woke up just after dawn, he was alarmed to find the water levels less than a yard below the top of the dam. That meant it rose at least three feet overnight.
So Park set out in the rowboat to investigate the rivers that feed the lake. If their volume isn't too high and they're running just a little over their banks, then the lake will likely soon level off. If the volume is running high, there could be trouble. But as Park continues rowing, he gets confused about his location. The lake is strewn with logs and debris, and he can't spot the inlet he's trying to find.
He spends several minutes going in circles, then stops and squints at the hills in the distance. They look only vaguely familiar. Otherwise, it's just water, water everywhere. He decides to head east and begins rowing again. But a minute later, he hears a scraping noise under his boat. He's crossing over something. Puzzled, he grips the side and peers down into the water. Good God!
The sight stuns him. He couldn't have been more shocked to see a mermaid. It's the barbed wire fence, the one installed to keep local poachers and fishers out. His hull is somehow scraping over the top of it. Park sits upright and looks around. That's why he can't find the inlet to the river. This fence is four feet high and normally sits 20 yards from the water's edge. But now it's completely submerged.
There is that much water pouring into the lake, which means the lake won't go down anytime soon. And in fact, the water will likely only keep rising. The lake is normally 450 acres, but it could be double that right now. Park grabs his oars and quickly reverses course. He's got to get back to the dam and see if he can somehow shore things up.
Because as ominous as everything looked this morning when he first woke up, he fears the situation is about to get far, far worse. This is the first episode of our four-part series, Johnstown Flood. And a quick note about our scenes. In most cases, we can't exactly know what was said, but everything is based on historical research. If you'd like to learn more about this event, we recommend the book Johnstown by David McCullough.
I'm your host, Mike Corey. Sam Keen wrote this episode. Our editor is Steve Fennessy. Sound design by Joe Richardson. Audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Coordinating producer is Desi Blaylock. Produced by Emily Frost and Alita Rosansky. Managing producer is Matt Gant. Senior managing producer is Ryan Lohr. Senior producers are Andy Herman and Rachel Matlow.
Executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman, Stephanie Jens, and Marshall Louis for Wondery. Welcome to the Offensive Line. You guys, on this podcast, we're going to make some picks, talk some s**t, and hopefully make you some money in the process. I'm your host, Annie Yeager.
So here's how this show's going to work, okay? We're going to run through the weekly slate of NFL and college football matchups, breaking them down into very serious categories like No offense. No offense, Travis Kelsey, but you've got to step up your game if Pat Mahomes is saying the Chiefs need to have more fun this year. We're also handing out a series of awards and making picks for the top storylines surrounding the world of football. Awards like the He May Have a Point Award for the wide receiver that's most justifiably bitter.
Is it Brandon Ayuk, Tee Higgins, or Devontae Adams? Plus, on Thursdays, we're doing an exclusive bonus episode on Wondery Plus, where I share my fantasy football picks ahead of Thursday night football and the weekend's matchups. Your fantasy league is as good as locked in. Follow the offensive line on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can access bonus episodes and listen ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus.