The Hunt:

The spring rains had been relentless that year, endless grey skies weeping onto the already soaked Delta earth. Day by day, the Father of Waters, our restless giant, swelled from a familiar neighbor into a muddy, roaring beast that clawed at the levees. Word of earthen walls crumbling upcountry reached us on panicked whispers, but many clung to the belief our own section, engineered stronger after the last big scare, would hold.

Then came the night the River truly broke its leash – a terrible, grinding groan miles north of us, up near where the ancient Indian mounds stand overlooking the floodplain. A catastrophic tear, they said, unleashing a torrent wider than any eye could see. Before the murky dawn fully broke, a churning, debris-filled wall of brown water was upon us, swallowing fields where young cotton should have been greening, claiming homes and barns as if they were children's toys.

We scrambled for the highest ground available, our meager salvaged belongings quickly surrounded by a vast, indifferent ocean. What little land remained above the flood became a temporary, crowded sanctuary for families from miles around, sharing space with livestock and even wild creatures driven from their lowland haunts. Relief boats appeared sporadically, battling the currents to deliver what supplies they could, but the need was overwhelming. Tales of entire towns submerged downstream, of other major river cities fighting desperately to protect their own levees, confirmed the disaster's immense, heartbreaking scale.

As we watched the horizon, day after weary day, for any sign of the waters receding, a grim understanding settled: after this great drowning, things would have to change. A new, stronger hand, a plan reaching far beyond our local efforts, would be needed to attempt to truly guide the River's formidable might in the future.

The Challenge:

Based on the details provided in this account: What is the four-digit year of this devastating event?