Strewn Towards a Heaven
by Mab
Of all my stories, this is the only one I'm really tempted to rewrite. This is in part because it's my third story and all the things I was doing for the first time are painfully obvious to me now. It's also because it owes an enormous debt to other authors that veers on plagiarism, notably to Catherine Marshall and, of course, David McCullough whose excellent history of the flood greatly affected me at an impressionable age.
"Rocks of all ages, strewn toward a heaven." Dave Dobbyn
On May 31st 1889, two men, one tall, the other not so tall, boarded a train leaving the city of Pittsburgh.
Jim Ellison moved along the narrow aisle looking for a free double seat so that he and Blair could sit together. He heard a small gasp as he headed past the full section of the carriage, and caught a brief spike of a very womanly odour, but carefully appeared not to notice. Blair Sandburg was close behind, chattering as usual and attempting not to bang his bag too hard against the seats. Finally, Jim reached an empty seat.
"Do you prefer the window or the aisle seat?" he asked his friend.
"I'll take the window. I'm more interested in the scenery than you, and you can stretch your legs in the aisle."
The two men settled themselves, and only then did Jim look down the aisle towards the source of that little gasp, a very young woman of middling appearance. Blair followed his gaze and smiled knowingly.
"Another conquest, Mr Ellison?"
"I'm old enough to be her daddy, Mr Sandburg."
"Proximity to youth might keep you young."
"I associate with you; any further proximity to youth and I'll return to short coats and curls. Some of us are halfway to that already." Jim tugged at Blair's hair in a friendly manner.
Blair grinned and searched in his bag for a pastry he had bought. He was well aware that any looks he was receiving were due to surprise at the length of his hair. In the west there was less concern about a man's appearance, but back east the pendulum had well and truly swung back to short hair. The long mass of curls led to interesting social experiences.
He saw a middle-aged man glaring at him and smiled sunnily back. He knew that he and Jim made a strange pair. Jim was impressively tall, handsome, well built and well dressed. Ladies would welcome Jim into their parlours, and men would welcome him into their studies and clubs. Blair, of more average height and build, drew attention for the shabbiness and shininess of his suit, that unruly hair, and the Indian bracelet across his wrist.
The train groaned and lurched, making its way out of the railway station, heading to Altoona. It was spring and the weather was wet. There had been heavy storms over many states, and Pennsylvania had received its due share of rain, although areas closer to the Alleghenies had suffered more than Pittsburgh.
Jim did indeed stretch his legs out in the aisle once the train was underway. He was reviewing the letters that the Pinkerton manager had sent to him, and wondering if he wasn't on a wild goose chase. He supposed that this counted as a pleasant rest after the Pittsburgh work, which had been distressing. Chasing a confidence trickster to some little steel town was well within his capacities.
"Dear Sir" he read, "it has come to my attention that a man calling himself, among other things, Wilmslow-Smith has been passing through towns in the state of Pennsylvania. This man is a thief and what is worse, a seducer, and has preyed on several persons of my family's acquaintance. We were unfortunate enough to meet him in our home in Maine, and he caused a great deal of distress before he made his escape with our local sheriff and constables hot on his heels.
I have learned from a cousin of a close friend, who was visiting at that time, that this soi-disant gentleman has been seen in Pittsburgh. I wish to engage the Pinkerton Detective Agency to find this man and return him to Maine, where he may experience the justice he richly deserves. I am sir, yours etc.."
Wilmslow-Smith, also known as StClair, also known as March; Jim grinned at that last name - the man apparently appreciated the work of Miss Alcott. He was reputedly originally known as Tomas Jablonski, but any chance of proving that was lost in the back streets of New York.
Smith, or whatever his name now was, had also made Pittsburgh too hot to hold him. Enquiries suggested that he was heading towards Altoona with a view to making his way on to Philadelphia. Jim was engaged with expenses paid as far as Altoona. If his quarry escaped him thus far, then other agents would be called in, and Jim and Blair would return to New York.
Jim looked affectionately at Blair, who was nibbling his pastry. A quick sniff confirmed that it was a little stale, and Jim couldn't resist enquiring, "Good is it, Sandburg?"
Suspicious blue eyes looked back at him, but Jim kept his face impassive. Blair well knew that he was being teased, and resisted the bait. "Passable," was the reply.
"Do we get off at Johnstown or carry on through to Altoona?"
"I knew that you weren't paying attention when I bought the tickets."
"I was watching that Chinese family. I'm pretty sure that they weren't speaking the usual Mandarin dialect that you see in immigrants."
"I didn't know that you speak Chinese."
"I don't really. I picked up a smattering from a railway worker, enough to recognise inflections and a few words. But that doesn't answer the question that I asked."
Jim took pity. "Johnstown. A man answering Smith's description bought tickets that far. I suspect that he's run out of money."
"Johnstown it is," Blair said and then turned to the window to watch the rolling farmland go by.
Blair did not have written letters to consider. Instead he composed in his mind a correspondence with Sir Richard Burton, explorer and man of letters.
"My dear sir, I have read with great interest your monograph on the subject of what you describe as Sentinels and I wonder how much consideration you have given to the continuation of these gifts within modern civilised populations.
I have the great good fortune to have made the acquaintance of one James Ellison, a man employed by the Pinkerton Detective Agency of New York. I observed that this man enjoys heightened faculties to all degrees - sight, hearing, touch, taste and smell. He has very kindly permitted me to accompany him in his work, going so far as to convince his employer to pay me a small retainer. I have studied his gifts for the last two and one half years, and come to many interesting, even astounding, conclusions."
Blair sat in a hazy, pleasant dream, imagining invitations to address that most prestigious body of scholars and explorers, the Royal Geographic Society in England. His letter continued.
"I believe that an interesting comparison can be made between the primitive sentinel's protection of his tribe with Mr Ellison's employment as a private detective, and his previous employments as a constable and soldier."
He cast a sideways look at his friend, and wondered what invitations he would receive if he ever intimated that he had conceived an unnatural affection for this man. Since he had met Jim he had been torn between his admiration of him as a subject of scholarly study, and as a good and intelligent man. To his horror, he found his admiration and affection deepening into something darker, and determinedly set out to ignore the perverseness of his nature. He would not risk losing James Ellison's friendship and respect.
Jim stared out the window also. He had extracted all the information that he could from the papers that had been forwarded to him, and was now trying to control his physical reaction to the noise and smell of the train. Many people enjoyed the rocking of a train, but nobody could appreciate the sickly smell of burning coal or the smuts that landed everywhere even when the windows were kept tightly closed.
Jim realised that he was becoming nauseous. Even before what Blair called his Sentinel faculties emerged, he had trouble with travel sickness. It was rare these days, but when it occurred it was usually intense. Jim tried to concentrate on what Blair had taught him, but it was beyond him. The racket of the train echoed in his skull. His discomfort increased to the point that he was concerned that he might disgrace himself. Blair heard a convulsive swallow and instantly turned to him.
"Hey now, Jim, cut that throttle right back."
It wasn't so much the words, as the voice, at times like these; light, but indisputably male, and somehow unspeakably soothing.
"Let's slow that train right down. Lessen that pressure, Jim. That gauge is going right down. I'm going to have to get out and push any minute now." Blair smiled as he saw some colour return to Jim's face. He turned back to the window and whistled a brief snatch of 'I've been working on the railroad', while Jim recovered control.
Blair had used the idea of a steam locomotive gauge to help Jim control his senses, early in their acquaintance - shut down, to slow, to full throttle. Jim had seized on the idea gratefully, and used it successfully on his own, but Blair's close presence always seemed to make the exercise easier. The journey passed in no more than the normal discomforts.
The countryside grew more waterlogged the closer the train moved to the Allegheny Mountains, and there were many delays. Finally the train pulled into Johnstown railway station. Jim and Blair gathered up their belongings and stepped onto the platform, both of them shivering a little in the cold and damp. Jim approached the station-master.
"Excuse me. I have two questions to ask of you. First, can you recommend a decent hotel, preferably one that does a good steak dinner?"
The station-master eyed Jim, and then inspected a bedraggled looking Blair standing behind him. Jim's appearance and demeanour won out over Blair's and he responded courteously, "Well sir, the Hulbert House is the newest hotel in town. It's got steam heat, even an elevator. But for my money McGregor's serves a better meal. They're both on Clinton Street."
Jim nodded.
"Thank you. Can you tell me if you have noticed a man in the last day or so, middling height and build, very dark brown hair, crooked eyebrows, about my age, maybe a little older?"
"Well, this is a busy station, Sir. Johnstown is getting to be a mighty bustling place these days. I'm not saying that such a man didn't come here, but I didn't notice him. If it's important I could ask around the other workers here."
Jim smiled briefly and tipped his hat. "I'll return some time tomorrow".
He and Blair set off down the muddy streets. The station-master watched them go on their way and indulged a moment's curiosity. All kinds came through this town but they had to be the most unlikely pair he had seen in a long time.
Blair was roused to enthusiasm by the mention of the hotel facilities and briefly considered the right tactics to get his way before launching his attack.
"Jim, my feet will fall off if I don't get warm soon."
"Sandburg, you do remember that blizzard in Minnesota - in January? Your feet didn't fall off then. What makes you think that they're about to fall off in a little inclement spring rain?"
Blair didn't deign to answer this. Instead he attempted a look full of pathos. This was not entirely convincing because he couldn't keep mischief out of his expression as well.
"Steam. Heat," he said with emphasis.
Jim snorted with amusement and surrendered.
"All right, the Hulbert House it is. I've still got a little of this quarter's Trust money left over - since I doubt the agency will agree to my expenses. But you're in my debt here, Chief."
Then he smiled broadly at the ecstatic jig that Blair performed, only slightly constrained by the necessity of holding onto a shabby bag. Blair was delighted; steam heat, and he had made Jim crack a smile - a result well worth a little tomfoolery.
The Hulbert House, a substantial four storey brick building, was as comfortable and warm as promised. The desk clerk looked askance at Blair, but there was an air about Jim, even before he noted the clerk's expression, that discouraged any remark. A room arranged, Blair sponged the mud off his trousers and made plans for a hot bath, while Jim ventured out onto the streets of Johnstown to make enquiries after his quarry. He thought that he would talk to the clergy of the town. Smith had approached ministers and priests before now, presenting as a gentleman fallen on hard times, and his well-spoken manner often overcame any reservations. The streets were flooded and Jim viewed the turgid brown water in disgust. It was as much as two feet deep in some places. He checked his pocket watch. It was coming on to four o'clock now.
He became aware of a roar coming from the steep hills to the north east of the town. He looked up, expecting to see thunderheads, but if anything the weather seemed to be lifting a little. Perhaps his over-sensitive hearing was catching thunder further on, or a landslide even. There had been enough rain to bring down any amount of rocks and mud, and there were far fewer trees than when Indians walked these hills.
What Jim heard was the sound of Lake Conemaugh thundering down the valley. Millions of tons of pressure were finally too much for a slip-shodly built earthen dam. If he had known the import of what he heard, he would have had time to reach the safety of the hills surrounding Johnstown. He did not know, and would never have run for safety without Blair.
The water had travelled some fourteen miles from its broken holding place in the mountains. It had taken just under an hour, adding the debris of settlements and factories up the valley to the fury of the water.
The sound grew louder and louder. Confused and fearful, Jim fought to control his senses. The noise was now loud enough for others to hear, and panicked people were running into the street, hauling up the sashes of upstairs windows and gazing out in terror.
"Christ Almighty, the dam's gone," Jim heard a man shout. Distractedly, he looked to the north-east and saw - what? Not the mighty wave that the words had conjured in his imagination, but a great, rolling, black mass, heaving forward in fits and starts, preceded by a black mist. He looked about him, and sprinted for a three-storey house, its door left wide open. He charged up the stairs, one thought repeating in his mind - I should never have left him, I should never have left him.
Blair felt a little guilty now that his immediate discomforts were eased. True, he helped Jim use his gifts, but was that sufficient repayment for the many kindnesses that his friend offered him? Jim had joked that Blair was in his debt, but Blair knew that Jim would never accept financial return even if Blair had it to offer. Unbidden, a thought crossed his mind as to how he would like to repay his friend. Eyes closed, he shivered as he savoured the image of his own sturdy body in close embrace with his Sentinel's.
Wryly, he looked down at his arousal. He needed a strong cup of coffee, and he could hardly take that into the hotel dining room. He had used his good right hand before now, but was unwilling to take that path when Jim was the source of his passion. He went to the washstand and poured water into the bowl. Splashing his face, he willed himself to a more settled state.
He was walking down the stairs when he heard a deep rumble. He considered the prospect of yet more rain with some disgust. He enjoyed the elemental play of force in a thunderstorm, though, and wondered if the windows of the Hulbert House would have a good vantage of the storm.
Shouting and high-pitched shrieks startled Blair out of his reverie. The rumbling noise increased and he felt the hair lift on his scalp. Two men and a woman, white faced and gasping, pounded up the stairs towards him. One of the men shook his arm at Blair, and he instinctively realised that it was not a threat, but a warning of some sort. Instantly he turned and ran up the stairs ahead of them.
The rumble was now punctuated by crashes, and yet more screaming. Suddenly the Hulbert House shuddered. Blair's heart jumped in terror. There was a rending crash and Blair looked up and saw, not the ceiling, but a sullen sky. The footing underneath crumbled away, and despairingly, he leaped upwards.
Released from the walls of the narrow valley, the water spread across the Johnstown flood plain, in a wave some twenty-five feet high, although it appeared far higher to anyone in its path. It carried people; animals; whole buildings, roofs and spars; trees; locomotives, carriages and boxcars; and miles of entangling wire from the Gautier steel works at Woodvale. A small number of Johnstown's ten thousand strong population lived and worked on the high hills surrounding the town. They looked on in horror as their fellows on the flat struggled for their lives.
Jim ran into the attic of the house. The floorboards beneath him cracked open with the upwards pressure of the water and he swung himself through the gable window, thinking to reach the roof. Instead, a tongue of the flood flicked him from that dubious refuge and flung him into the maelstrom. Flailing in the water, he grabbed hold of a tree branch. To his amazement, it was a whole great tree, snapped at the base. Hoisting himself up, he rode the tree like some strange horse, rushing forward in the force of the flood.
It was perhaps five minutes since he first saw the destructive power bearing down on Johnstown. Little trace remained of the booming steel town of a few minutes ago. Instead he saw a roiling sea of rubbish. Many other people rushed past him borne on strong currents, hanging on desperately to makeshift rafts and supports. A roof floated by with seven people precariously perched across the ridge-pole, including three children. He stared out across the catastrophe, and thought, dear God, where is Blair?
Blair had his own questions. They mostly revolved around whether or not he was about to meet his maker. After his jump from the collapsing Hulbert House he floundered in filth and confusion, aware that he was in water, but hardly seeing it. An undertow of current pulled him under and he arose choking, arms stretched out for rescue or any help. A strong hand gripped his wrist. "Up you come, young fellow."
Blair was yanked up onto a blessedly solid surface, albeit one that pitched and yawed like a canoe in river rapids. He opened his eyes and looked at his saviour, a burly man with grizzled hair.
"What is this?" Blair exclaimed, looking around in horror. To his amazement the man grinned, revealing blackened front teeth.
"Well, son, you must be new to Johnstown if you never heard tell of the rich folks' lake up the mountains. Looks like it busted."
"We only arrived here today. My God, I have to find Jim."
"If you can figure out how to steer this luxury yacht, then I'm a willing hand."
The 'luxury yacht' looked like the side of a barn. Closer inspection showed the painted letters A B L E S. It was the side of a barn, or more precisely, a livery stables. Startled, Blair looked again at his rescuer and realised that the man was euphoric from the excitement of danger and fear. Blair had himself been taken that way on occasion, but not now. He shivered with reaction and cold, terrified for himself and Jim.
Jim's tree swirled back and forth over the valley. He looked around, his bearings completely gone. Then he recognised a large stone church from the desk clerk's instructions, the Methodist church he recalled. It was not standing alone. There was a small cluster of buildings next to it, still in one piece and standing, more or less, on their foundations. He took a measuring look at the debris between him and that comparative sanctuary, and jumped from his tree, skipping his way over roofs until he reached an upper window of the nearest house. He scrambled inside, to be greeted by the startled glances of about ten other people.
He was suddenly aware of all the dreadful noises outside. In the crisis he had barely noticed his unruly senses. Now, hearing especially rushed in upon him. He welcomed it, and reaching, going full throttle as Blair would have it, he cast his hearing out upon the chaos, listening for one dear voice among all the frightened voices. It was too much, and the voices melded into fugue. The good people in the attic thought his silence and staring look a symptom of shock, and let him be. The one blanket was wrapping a young woman whose scalp was peeled back nearly to her nape.
It was dark when Jim came back to his senses. At first he thought he was blind, and spoke out loud at this new terror.
"Easy, sir. It's just that it's night now. I'm Henry Benford. This is my house."
"James Ellison."
"Are you a native of Johnstown, Mr Ellison?"
"What? Oh, no, no. I live in New York these days but I travel a fair amount. What time is it, do you know?"
Benford laughed in incongruous amusement. "Yes, Mr Ellison, indeed I do. It struck fifteen minutes to four a short time ago. There is a clock tower still standing.
Jim was horrified. He had been in a trance state for nearly ten hours. He knew he hadn't slept - there was a distinct difference between the aftermaths of the two states. Except in the deepest sleep the body moved, attending to its comfort. Jim had sat in one position a long time and his body was alternately numb and cramped. Blair could have brought Jim back to himself in ridiculously shorter time but if Blair were here Jim would not have tried such a damn fool trick. His eyes burned suddenly, and he swallowed the desire to sob. Despite the dark there was not even the illusion of privacy. The injured and shocked and grieving people there made noise that did not need Sentinel ears to be heard.
"Have you family or friends in Johnstown?"
Jim swallowed again, and managed a steady answer. "I came here with a friend of mine, Blair Sandburg."
Benford reached out and grasped Jim's shoulder, seeking comfort as much as he was giving it. "My daughter Eliza went to visit her bosom friend, our neighbour's daughter. We watched their house destroyed from this very room."
Jim's voice was loud. "Blair's alive!"
"Yes, yes, of course. Perhaps Eliza is, also."
Jim got up and realised that it was not completely dark. Looking out the window, he saw a faint red glow.
Benford spoke again. "It would seem that there is fire amongst all this water."
Of all the horrors of the flood, the stone bridge would be most remembered. A solid construction, and protected by its position against a hill, it was the only bridge over the many rivers and streams around Johnstown that survived. It crossed the Conemaugh River south of where Stoney Creek and the Little Conemaugh conjoined. As the flood waters sought to flow down their natural path, they carried debris to the bridge that grew into a great dam of boxcars, houses and all sorts of rubbish. Perhaps the fires started from locomotive fire-boxes, or stoves in the houses. In the end, some eighty people died trapped there, despite the best efforts of rescuers.
Matthew McCartney and Blair Sandburg introduced themselves. McCartney, a teamster, grew depressed after his first excitement. He mourned the loss of his horses, which were nearly as dear to him as family. He had seen Blair's long hair floating on the water and thought that he was a young woman. The hairy forearm he grabbed changed that assumption but not his intention, for McCartney would not have left a mongrel dog to struggle in the flood.
Blair looked at his wrist, and realised that his bracelet was gone. Indeed, he was wearing nothing but his drawers and undershirt, everything else being stripped from him by the force of the waters. Blair felt a pang at the loss of the bracelet, a remembrance of a friend long left behind. Then he looked around him at the devastation and began to laugh - what was a bracelet to this! The laughter was whooping and uncontrolled, and swiftly turned to weeping that was just as unrestrained. McCartney made no remark at this unmanly behaviour. The normal rules of life were turned topsy-turvy and if this young man wanted to laugh and cry like a girl in a hysteric fit, then McCartney saw nothing strange in that.
Like so many others, Blair and McCartney were sent hither and yon on their makeshift raft, but after a time they perceived that they were steadily travelling in one direction. It was nearly dark and both men were exhausted and cold. McCartney had a terror of what might happen unseen in the dark, and Blair was scarcely more happy. The two men sat close together and awaited whatever might come.
Blair's body was tired, but his thoughts churned. They were with Jim, of course; whether he was alive or dead, or lying injured. He knew that his friend would be frantic with concern for him. Jim had a protective streak as broad as the mid-western plains. Blair had a moment of conflict. Perhaps, even if Jim were alive, he shouldn't try to find him. What had he to offer Jim? He was dependent on him for money, companionship, the study that had become a consuming obsession. Love? The love that he wanted to offer Jim was unsanctioned, condemned. It could only drag his friend down. For one miserable moment, Blair regretted McCartney's kindness, and wondered if it wouldn't have been better if he had drowned.
It was full dark now. Their raft bobbing on the water, Blair and McCartney could hear many sounds in the darkness. The cries of people also adrift, or stranded on the few buildings still standing; the howling of dogs; the crash and bump of debris moving in the water; the noise of a building giving up the struggle against pressure and collapsing.
Blair and McCartney realised that they were moving more swiftly. Their raft moved more vigorously beneath them and suddenly they were both pitched forward off their refuge. It was a hard landing, both men crashing into yet more wood. Blair was knocked senseless. McCartney was conscious, but could not raise himself from the mess in which he was tangled. The two men lay there, McCartney jarred regularly by shocks as yet more debris met a stop as they had.
Gradually Blair came to himself. Unlike McCartney he was not trapped, but the footing underneath was uncertain. He looked around and realised that he could indeed see, in a ghastly red glow that came from fires burning far too close for comfort. McCartney saw him moving, and called out, "Help me, boy." Blair climbed over to him, trying to see how he could be freed.
"Well, Blair. Flood and fire in one night seems a little excessive of the Almighty. The holy rollers will be thinking that it's Judgement Day."
The task of freeing McCartney became urgent as both men saw that the fires were moving towards them. Blair struggled as best he could, but he had no tools except a rough lever fashioned from a broken spar of wood.
He wriggled down and tried to drag McCartney out, but McCartney was a heavy man, and Blair could get no leverage in the shifting rubble. One effort only resulted in them slipping further down. The sweat broke out on both brows, sweat of fear as much as exertion and growing heat.
McCartney gripped Blair's wrist.
"For God's sake, boy, don't leave me to burn."
" I can't get you out," Blair said in panic.
"Don't leave me. Christ, don't leave me to burn. I couldn't stand it."
The heat grew stronger, and beat upon Blair as he pulled fruitlessly at another piece of wreckage. It was hard to breathe. When McCartney was not coughing from the smoke, he was crying, his head bowed forward. . It was not until he could smell his hair singeing, that Blair made a decision. He picked up a piece of wood.
"I'm sorry," he said, and struck hard at McCartney's head, and then again. He threw the wood from him as if it was a poisonous snake and, weeping for the second time that day, he struggled away from the scene, without looking back.
His clothes were scorched, his skin was tender, and he had several painful blisters on his back. With his blurred vision he could see small pinpoints of light above him. Realising that the lights must mean people and safety, he set out across the debris, his way lit by the accursed fires.
It was light enough to dimly see by half past five that morning. Jim and his companions in the Benford house looked out over a depressing scene. An elderly woman, a Miss Trent, declared that they must give thanks for their deliverance, and suggested a hymn. After some discussion, 'Rock of Ages' was agreed on. Everyone sang, with varying strength of voice, although Mrs Benford was hard put to it to keep her composure.
"Rock of ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee".
Most of the attic's inmates derived some comfort from the song, a reminder of faith, and an expression of solidarity. Jim was curiously depressed.
Not normally an introspective man, he turned the puzzle over in his mind. Religion encouraged, no, insisted that you hide yourself in the rock of God, but Jim knew only a few people who truly lived in faith. Most other people gave lip service to the concept and put their true faith in other things - money, hard work, family life, their friends - the bottle when all else failed. He wondered how many peoples' rocks had been swept aside or shattered by the night just past. He wondered when Blair became his rock.
There was no food in the attic, nor water, an irony that escaped nobody. As the light increased Jim and Benford could see figures picking their way across the wreckage, trying to reach the hills.
"Mr Benford, I think that we will have to follow the example of those people."
Benford didn't disagree but he looked doubtfully at the rest of their companions. There were three young men who had been washed by the flood to the same window that Jim had climbed through. Miss Trent had been visiting the Benfords and they had hustled her up the stairs with them and three of the Benford children. Miss Trent had the bent posture and clawed hands of rheumatism. There was the injured girl, who had roused for the hymn but now sat silent and still, her eyes seldom blinking in her bloodied face. The others might be up for the dangerous trek, but these two were incapable.
"I suggest that you and I and these three," Jim indicated the young men, "should try for the hills. We can get provisions and bring them back here if need be, or maybe we can get help to bring the others over."
Benford nodded his assent. He could see no better plan, and the five men set out, leaving Benford's distressed and angry fifteen year old son nominally in charge of the women. They made for Green Hill, rather than Prospect, as no rivers lay in the route, and began the tricky journey over the flood debris. On any occasion before the 31st of May the trip to Green Hill from the Benford house would have been an easy ten minute walk. Benford, Jim and the others took nearly an hour and a half before setting foot on solid ground at last.
Everything was chaos, but quiet. Exhausted, desolated people sat in shock, or walked among the crowd, asking for "a little boy about so high" or "a red headed man of about thirty-five". The hope of obtaining water or food was soon revealed as a pipe dream. There was little of either. As the morning wore on, people observed that slowly the flood water was receding, leaving its destruction in its wake. Benford spoke to Jim.
"Mr Ellison. You have kindly stayed with me, but you really wish to look for your friend. I will manage. You should go."
The two men shook hands and Jim set off, wandering among the clumps of people huddled together, inquiring in the houses, where the cold and injured sat next to fires and stoves and crowded all the rooms. There was no sign of Blair, and he watched with despair the ecstatic reunions of others with their friends and loved ones.
Towards the end of the day, hardy souls strung a rope bridge between Green Hill and Prospect Hill. It was a little safer and certainly quicker than picking a way through the water and debris below, and Jim crossed shortly before dusk. He repeated the same slow search that he had made on Green with no success.
It was dark, perhaps nine o'clock. The wind occasionally blew the noise of the striking clock towards Prospect. Discouraged beyond words, Jim walked towards a group who huddled around a fire that produced as much smoke as heat, and sat down. He looked around and then, startled, sharpened his eyesight. Dear God, it was Blair! He called out his name, and jumping up, leaped across the fire to his friend.
Blair scrambled up and threw his arms around Jim, who smothered him in a hug. The men and women around the fire broke into clapping and cheers to see yet another reunion of the living. Blair stood in Jim's arms and was completely happy until he felt a movement in his friend that he recognised as a start of surprise. Confused for a moment, he then felt faint with humiliation. His body seemed determined to express his joy at Jim's safety in every possible way. Blair was hard as a steel pole.
Only Sentinel eyes could have seen the scarlet flush that crossed Blair's face and neck. Jim had no opportunity, because Blair hung his head in abject shame, his hair hanging in rats' tails around him. He dared not move back from Jim. He still had no clothes or covering other than his underwear, and was terrified that the others around the fire would see him. Jim was embarrassed, but he suddenly understood Blair's dilemma, and shrugged off his jacket. Unlike his friend he had retained everything that he stepped out with from the Hulbert House, except for his hat.
"You must be frozen, Chief. Put this on." The jacket was long and loose on Blair, and he gratefully wrapped it around himself, unable to speak. What should have been a joyful moment was utterly destroyed for him.
Jim was still a little embarrassed, and concerned for the embarrassment he knew that his friend must be feeling, but he was too relieved to see Blair alive to dwell on the situation. Jim was well aware the body acted strangely in times of crisis - he wouldn't add to Blair's distress by ill-advised comment.
The two men awkwardly sat down together, and Jim ran his eyes over his friend, searching out with his senses, and remembering the feel of Blair when they embraced. Jim had suffered a few minor bruises and cuts. While Blair had no major injuries, his feet were a bruised and bloody mess. The rest of his body was covered in bruises and small burns, and his hair was ragged and stank of scorching, as did what was left of his clothes.
"I'm glad that you're safe, Sandburg."
"Yes," was the only answer for long moments. Then, "I'm glad that you're safe too, Jim." Another pause. "I'm very tired. Do you mind if I try to sleep?"
"No, of course not. Uh, do you mind if we huddle? It's going to get colder."
"If you want." They had lain together to share warmth before, but never had both men felt so self-conscious. Jim watched and listened as Blair fell into an exhausted sleep. His own rest was fitful, and he was aware when Blair woke in the small hours, the cold and all his pains over-ruling the need for sleep. There was little comfort to be had on the damp ground.
Both men rose as soon as it was first light, and joined a group of men planning to walk across the hills to Sang Hollow. A Good Samaritan found for Blair a pair of trousers, held up with rope, half a ragged blanket, and wonder of wonders, boots only two sizes too big. He tore strips from the blanket to pad his feet and gave Jim back his jacket. He snapped irritably at Jim when his friend spoke of his concern about Blair's injuries and queried whether he would manage.
They reached Sang Hollow by late afternoon. Blair limped badly, but refused any offer of support. The town suffered from flooding also, but there was not the devastation of up the valley. There were survivors of the flood there who had been washed all the way down the river. There was also clean water and food, and Jim and Blair, starved, fell upon coffee, soup and bread. There was a telegraph operator at Sang Hollow, and Jim sent news to the Pinkerton Agency, and wired to his bank for money. They would have to follow on to New Florence before he could lay hands on it however. Blair obtained a shirt and jacket from a widow who gave away her late husband's clothes to the sufferers.
There was tremendous traffic on the railway. The story of the flood had reached Pittsburgh and become a national sensation. Items, useful and foolish, travelled on the line, along with reporters, relief workers and the plain curious. Jim and Blair made their way to New Florence, and from there to Pittsburgh. In Pittsburgh they replaced their makeshift clothes, and returned to New York.
In all this travel, Blair was silent and detached, and Jim grew more and more concerned. Jim's nature was naturally silent, even morose on occasion. He relied on Blair's talkative optimism more than he knew, and while he had often teased Blair about his chatter, he missed its presence. Blair's body healed, but not his spirit.
For himself, Blair knew of Jim's concern, but could not bring himself to care. Numbness seemed the best that life had to offer and in more feeling moments, he despaired of his nature. Yes, he dreamed of the flood. McCartney, a dead child he saw at the bridge - these things visited his dreams and he would never forget them. All too often it was Jim he clubbed, Jim he recognised blackened and burned. But his greatest distress and shame was the memory of his body's betrayal when Jim found him.
Jim had offered what comfort he could. In a hotel in Pittsburgh, Blair didn't know whether to laugh or cry at his friend's clumsy reminiscences of the physical reactions of men hanged, and soldiers in battle. Afterwards he left Jim, making the excuse of a desire for a walk in the fresh air. He found a private spot in a park, and cried like a child.
They returned to their lodgings in New York, and tried to return to normal life. Jim investigated without Blair's help. Blair was often tired, in bed sleeping. Sometimes it was genuine, sometimes an excuse to avoid Jim. Jim grew angry with his friend. It wasn't in Jim's nature to dwell on things, and he wondered at Blair's lack of his usual resilience. A man accepted things and then he moved on. He said as much two times and received a shrug for his trouble the first time, and a slammed door and Blair's absence for several hours the second.
Blair in his turn grew angry with Jim, although he never spoke about it. "Look at me" he wanted to bellow, to scream. "Stop making excuses for me so that you can lie to yourself. I am what I am. I want to take you to bed and do things to you that you never dreamed. I love you, and not like a brother."
Slowly, Blair's spirits appeared to lift. That was because he had worked his way to a decision. He must leave. His old energy returned. He wrote to a friend back west who assured him that a school master's job was his if he wanted it. In his relief, he ventured the odd joke with Jim. Jim was delighted, although you could never have guessed it from his usual gruffness of manner
.
One night, a few days before Blair's planned escape, they both sat reading in the small sitting room that lay between two even smaller bedrooms. At least, Jim was reading. Blair was restless, finding small make-work jobs to do, although the room was tidy as always. He picked up a book, leafed through it and put it down again. He looked out the window at the gas lit street below. He ran his fingers over the mask that a sailor at the river dock had assured him came all the way from Sarawak, and which Blair had gifted to Jim because it looked just like one of Jim's least favourite associates at the agency. He was saying good-bye to his life there, although he did not quite realise it.
"Chief, I'm going to bed, because just watching you is tiring me out."
Blair smiled at Jim, looking him full in the face without discomfort for the first time in a long while. Jim sensed the openness and revelled in it. It was going to be all right at last.
"You do that, Jim. I think I'll do the same."
Both men retired. Blair fell into a heavy sleep almost immediately, despite his earlier restlessness. Not even bothering to undress further than his shirtsleeves, Jim threw himself on his bed. His sleep was uneasy, filled with dreams. He would wake, aware that yet another strange notion was fading from his memory, and frustrated by his inability to hold on to it. He blamed his fretfulness on the heat. It wasn't quite the dog days but they were approaching fast. He dozed off yet again and dreamed of his mother. She was in the playroom with him and Stephen. He and Stephen were fighting over the wooden Noah's Ark figures. They both wanted the lions, grandly painted with big red tongues. She watched them with a wistful smile on her face and sat beside them on the floor, fingering the wooden figures, and then kissing both her sons. That had been the last time that Jim saw his mother. That night she returned to her parents' home, and an enraged William Ellison had hired the best lawyers to ensure that she never again had contact with her sons.
Jim woke up, and sat up in bed, his heart pounding. All his dreams had been of good-byes and partings. Blair was planning to leave, and he mustn't. Jim lay back again, his eyes looking unseeing at the ceiling. He had to convince Blair to stay, and he would put his argument to him now, without delay. Blair was asleep. Very well, Blair would have to wake up.
Quietly Jim crossed the sitting room to Blair's bedroom. The shade was down, and rustling a little in the breeze since Blair had left the window open. It was no trouble for a Sentinel to see in the room. What Jim wanted to see was Blair. He was sleeping naked in the heat, his covers pushed back to his waist. Jim grinned. "You always have been a child of nature, Sandburg." His voice was very low and Blair did not stir.
Jim knew that others regarded him as a handsome man. He acknowledged it as a fact, but had no particular vanity about it. Now he looked at Blair and wondered why no-one ever commented on his appearance except to denigrate it. Blair's clothes were cheap and untidy, his hair too long, and he was the most beautiful human being that Jim had ever seen.
With hands that trembled only a little, Jim took off his clothes, folded them and laid them on a chair. He took a deep breath, and got into Blair's bed. Blair muttered in his sleep and rolled onto his side away from Jim. Jim felt a strange relief. He wasn't certain that he wanted Blair to see his face, unlikely as that was in the darkness. He pressed himself against Blair's body, reaching one arm under Blair to hold him across the chest, while the other hand roamed down Blair's shoulder and arm to rest on his hip.
Blair woke, startled at the warmth and pressure that covered his back, the warm bar of flesh across his chest. Confused, he tried to get of bed, but the grip on him tightened. "It's all right, Sandburg."
Blair went completely still, all his senses straining. " Jim, what are you doing?"
"Hush."
"But, Jim..."
"Do as you're told. Hush."
Blair obeyed. It was no hardship.
Jim let his right hand continue its exploration of Blair's body. He rubbed his face against Blair's hair, inhaled the scent of their mutual arousal until he was dizzy. It was strange to touch Blair like this - strange and wonderful, just as it had been strange and wonderful the first time he touched a woman's naked breast. Jim's hand travelled to Blair's groin, stroked gently at the hard flesh he found there. Blair gasped. Jim's own erection was snug against Blair's buttocks and Jim ground gently against his friend, while his hand gripped more firmly and began to move in a pressure that he hoped that Blair found pleasurable.
Blair moaned quietly as Jim's movements, both his hand and his hips, lost rhythm, became more violent and erratic. A deeper groan, long drawn out, as Blair came. Jim heard it, smelled it, felt it all, and gasped his own completion, his face buried in Blair's shoulder.
Jim smiled in the dark, well pleased with himself. He was not so pleased when Blair moved from his arms to sit on the side of the bed.
Blair sat and stared at the wall that he knew was there, even if he couldn't see it. He simply could not believe what had happened. It was impossible, some cruel trick of his imagination.
"Jim, you didn't have to do that."
"It's what you wanted, Chief."
Oh yes, definitely cruel. His heart fell away in his chest, his eyes burned. Instantly he was furious, and got up, walking stiff-legged to look out the window. No more tears. There had been enough crying. He was a grown man, and should act like one. And then he remembered what had just passed in his bed, and was prey to emotions that he had no idea how to name.
Jim realised his mistake. He rose from the bed and went to Blair, standing behind him and putting his arms around him. There was no relaxation in the rigid body.
"Blair. It's what I wanted too."
A long, shaky exhalation, and then Blair turned his head to look at his lover. No more tears, only a radiant smile.
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