Thecitizens of the village were sitting by their fires, or at their tables, or in their places of business. A sound was heard! It was a sudden, startling sound. To those who were living near the depot, it was a succession of sounds; first a crash, then a fall, then a distinct sound for every car. To those who were at a distance it was a single, but a prolonged and terrible crash. To those who were within doors it seemed like a sudden fall of a distant building, or the nearer slide of a heavy body of snow, but much more ominous. Some imagined they heard a sound that followed, which they supposed to be the wailing of the wind. It startled the inhabitants in many houses, and was heard more than a mile away. Presently the sharp alarm of fire was heard, and the bells rang out their pealing notes.
Many started from their seats, at the thought of fire on such a night. Presently the sky was illuminated: a strange glare filled the heavens. It was not like a distant flame, that cast its shadow on the sky. It was not like a nearer fire that shot up sparks and smoke. It was a glare that pervaded the whole horizon. It cast a pale and sickly color into the fleecy air. It covered even the snow with a pinkish, almost crimson, hue. It seemed like an extensive burning, as if the flames were suddenly arising from widespread structures. No one could tell, however, what it was, nor what was the matter.
The men who rushed into the street first whispered, it was an oil train, that had caught fire on the track. Others said that it was the building at the depot. Women who were kept at home were impressed that it was something more than a common fire. Uneasiness seized the aged who were residing in houses far distant. Many hastened for the engines; others ran in the direction of the light. All plunged into the deep snow, and, out of breath, could only follow in single file along the path which the foremost had broken.
A long line of men and boys reached from the main street toward the fatal spot. Horses and teams plunged madly by. Every available horse in one of the stables was put into use. The steamer was got out. The horses attached pulled and tugged the massive load.
“Protection” engine was also manned at first, but afterwards drawn by a team secured. Hose-carts were taken for a distance, and then horses were attached to these.
The villagers had become thoroughly aroused, and were straining every nerve to reach the fire. It had become known that the bridge was broken, and a passenger train was wrecked in the dreadful gorge. An unregulated crowd was rushing with all haste through the impeding drifts. The thought with all was to hasten forward, and save the living. It seemed an age before they could reach the spot. Many became exhausted by their efforts. The snow and drifts were so deep that none could make headway, except with difficulty. Even teams were detained by the snow. It was at least twenty minutes before the citizens arrived.
Time enough had then passed for the work of death. The wounded passengers had recovered from the stunning fall, and arisen to their feet and escaped to the shore, assisting one another from the wreck.
Nearly all who were in the forward car had escaped, except those who had been crushed by the trucks, which had broken through the roof, and fell upon them. One had even, after his escape, looked in the window, and put his face near the cheek of his companion, and found him dead. Those in the smoker, had climbed out and looked back to see how complete, the sweep of the burning stove had been, which had carried several before it to their death. One had fallen out of a gaping seam made in the side of that car, and looked back to see another man caught as the car closed again, and thought to himself that it had opened on purpose to let him out.
Those in the sleeping coaches who were alive, had also escaped, and made their way to land. One gentleman, Mr. Brewster, who was but little hurt, had assisted a man who was badly woundedand helpless amid the wreck, and laid him down at the east abutment, and then crossed the stream again and called out to others saying: “This way, here’s a house!” Women had escaped from the rear sleeping coach and were already at the shore.
Miss Sheppard, who was unhurt, had reached the bank and requested some one to help her up, and then made herself useful in aiding others. Those who had escaped on the north side were already making their way through the deep drifts and the lonely valley and up the steep embankment. Those who were near had done all they could to rescue the living, and the flames were already arising and nearly covered the scene. All this had occurred before the citizens from the town could reach the spot. It was then too late to do anything to save the wounded, or even to keep the flames from destroying life. To be sure the fire engine stood in that engine house upon the hill, but it was never moved. The pump engine also stood in the lonely valley, with its steam up, but it was not used. There was also hose in the upper engine house not six hundredyards away, which would fit a plug in the house by the river. But in the confusion of the moment no one had thought of engines, or of hose, and not even buckets had been brought down. Meanwhile, the teams from town were plunging on, dragging the steamer and the hose through the heavy drifts.
The station agent, who had received a telegram from the central office, to get surgeons and aid for the wounded, was also hastening to the spot—but it was too late.
The work was done. It was impossible for them now to rescue the living. Those who had reached the scene had already rescued nearly all the wounded and the living, though fearfully bruised, and some of them insensible, from the fire.
Others were standing and looking on from the banks, idle spectators of the scene. And, before the eyes of all, the fire had crept on and on, and was now enveloping the whole. The wounded lay in the snow, or on the damp, cold floor. The water dripped from their garments and ran upon the stone. Blood flowed from wounds andmingled with the water. Chill and damp and pain and wounds and the shock and fright were combined. Gashed and bruised and broken, they were crowding up that lonely, chilly bank. But the flames without were burning and eclipsing all their misery. Appalling death was shooting from car to car, and the dreadful valley had become an awful scene. It was too terrible for any human mind. The groans of the wounded were mingled with the groans of the dying, and shouts and groans and shrieks and cries echoed through the valley; then the plaintive wail and the awful silence.
Thefiremen arrived at last; the station agent had reached the spot before them. All was haste and confusion. No orders, and no one in command. The wounded were already coming up the bank. Citizens, as they came, had taken the survivors from the wreck, and were now helping them to a place of safety and comfort.
Appalled by the scene and confused by the horror, none knew what order was to be given or who was in command.
Mr. Apthorp was in the employ of the road, and was supposed to have some control. As Mr. Strong hastened to the rescue, he asked, “What shall we do?” The reply was, “Get men to help up the wounded.”
As the chief fireman met Mr. Strong, he asked “Where shall we put the hose?” “Where shallwe apply the water?” The echo of Mr. Apthorp’s remark was the only response—“We want to get out the wounded, never mind the water.” A second time the question was asked, as the station agent appeared in another place, and a second time the response was, “We don’t want water, we want to get out the wounded.” “Get all the men to clear a road to the wreck.”
Again, as the firemen undertook to lay the hose, another official of the road used a vulgar illustration and saying there was no use in throwing water on the flames. The impression was thus given, by those in command of the wreck and the road, that water was not wanted. The chief fireman was not a man to assume the responsibility under such circumstances: he was dazed and confused and did not seem to know what to do. The horses stood hitched to the steamer. The hand engine “Protection,” also stood, with the men waiting for orders. Some one ran up from the wreck begging, for God’s sake, that water should be thrown, but both engines stood waiting.
The call for buckets, went up from below. Oneold man, seventy-six years old, was in the midst of the wreck, chopping for dear life and calling for buckets at the same time. His son, arriving late, plunged into the midst of the fire and began to work like one made desperate with despair. Others took pails and undertook to go out to rescue bodies that were burning.
The driver of the steamer took the engine to the cistern and stationed it there, but no orders were given; and the hose carts were ready to be unreeled, but no orders were given. The whistle of the steamer was sounded for hose and the men stood ready to lay it; many wondered at the delay and talked excitedly, but still no orders.
The captain of the steamer asked the station agent if he should apply water, but the same answer was returned. The chief fireman still remained stupid and passive, and gave no orders. At last he went, himself, to the wreck and began to help remove the wounded, while the men still waited and the engines were idle. The men became impatient, but they were held by the authority of their chief. The fire was still burning, but that answer of the station agent held thechief fireman and he yielded to the direction and abandoned the engines and his men.
A man who has seen two persons still living, underneath the wreck, comes up and begs that water be thrown, but the engines stand idle, and the firemen dare not work without orders. The more determined of them leave the engines and go down to the wreck to work without them. Pails are procured from the stores, and with them the firemen work. Great exertions are made to extinguish the flames in this way. Desperation has taken possession of the citizens.
An hour has passed, and it is stated that there are some still living, but the engines stand idle. There is talk, even, of disobeying orders and assuming command, but the law is quoted and that is prevented. Men fly here and there, anxious to save the living; others assist the wounded. Some stand on the banks, with hands in their pockets, and look on unmoved, but the fire still burns. A few seize a rope and fasten it to the locomotive, and try to lift it off from one poor wretch who lies beneath it, but the time passes and the flames are not subdued. A line is begunfor the purpose of passing water, and so putting the fire out, but a voice was heard from the top of the abutment, saying: “You don’t want water there.” “Don’t put any water on the wreck.” A few rushed for the hand engine, thinking to take it down the steep bank to the creek; the arrangements are made and a hose is attached, but the decision of the foreman is, not to take it down. Still, a few persevere with their buckets; the flames in one place are put out by this means, but no effort is made by the engines, and the men stand waiting.
Horses become restive; the captain of the steamer remains at his post; the firemen await his command, but the order is never sent. Lives cannot now be saved, and the bodies are burning. A woman is seen in the midst of the wreck; life is extinct, but the body is held by the iron framework, high in air. Her clothes caught fire, and she begins to burn like a martyr at the stake. The spectators are horror-stricken by the sight. A few form a line and, with buckets, throw water in that direction, until the body falls and lies buried with others. The fire at the engine isnext attacked, after the fireman is rescued. The poor dog, which has kept up his piteous howl, was also taken from the same place. This is the last living creature taken out, but the bodies still burn. The wind blows cold, but the fire burns on.
The strangest misunderstanding has taken possession of all. Whatsoever the motive of those in authority, the effect was, to keep the engines from playing upon the flames. There were tanks on both sides of the track; the engines were both on the ground; there was hose sufficient, but the misunderstanding made everything useless, and the department was held back and did nothing. The indignation of the citizens was openly expressed, but the fire continued. Mr. Stebbins, a citizen, asked the captain of the steamer, why water was not thrown? and was answered, that the chief would not order it. He exclaimed, “We had better hang him, then,” but the fire continued to burn until, in places, it burned itself out, and there was nothing more to feed upon; nothing was left except the bodies, and these were almost consumed. The fumes ofthe burning flesh filled the air, and the horrid consciousness haunted the hearts of the spectators, but the fire burned on, and the strange suspense held the people.
Anengine house stood on the bank. It was the place where water was pumped from the river to the tank, at the depot buildings. It was a little brick building with a stone floor and a large boiler and engine occupying the middle of the room. Into this building, the wounded were taken, and were laid on the cold, damp floor,—a ghastly throng. As citizens came, they found them there, suffering from the cold as well as from the shock and wounds. The effort was made to take them to places of more comfort, but where to take them was the question. No one was there at the time to command. A few men were there to assist; some were there to plunder, and more had come not knowing for what they came. A long, weary flight of steps led from the gorge to the track above. Up this flight the woundedwere taken. On the other side the access to the wreck was only through the deep snow and down the steep bank. A line of men was formed at last. Up both sides of the track the wounded are helped, passed from hand to hand where they are able to stand. Others were borne by the citizens, and so by degrees, with pains and groans and amid the wild excitement, the most of them were removed.
The nearest house to the scene was a place called the “Eagle Hotel,” kept by Patrick Mulligan. Into this, by some chance, eleven of the wounded were carried. It was a horrid place. A dirty bar-room. Rooms which had never known a carpet, but whose floors were soon covered with snow and water; little bed-rooms just large enough to hold a bed and wash-stand, without carpets or stove; beds that consisted of filthy sheets and miserable straw ticks. It was a house forbidding in every respect. Into this place the wounded were taken, bleeding and gashed, and laid two by two on the miserable pallets. There they lay in the clothes which they had on, covered with blood, cold and cheerless,while crowds of curious spectators trooped in and out through the weary hours of the long and dreadful night.
Others fortunately were taken to better quarters, but even some of these were robbed on the way of the money which they had in their pockets by the very persons who pretended to assist them in their helpless state.
Teams were secured. A road was broken. Into the gorge sleds are with difficulty taken down, and into these the badly wounded are placed. The two little children who had escaped are also taken in these, badly burned and insensible, and placed with their father in a private house. The mother is moved, and laid in another house, and lies in great agony. A young girl, timid and frightened, whose limbs are broken, is separated from her aunt, and placed among strangers. Amid great confusion those who are able, walk to the hotel, some of them pursued by those who would rob them. A father calls out from a stretcher for a daughter whom strangers are taking in another direction, and becomes almost frantic with excitementuntil the girl is brought back to him. The poor burned woman whose children are dead is borne to the “Culver House.”
The bruised, gashed and bleeding passengers are at last removed from the valley. They are distributed through the neighborhood. Upon couches and beds of the few hotels; upon the counters of stores; on the floors of private houses; and even in the saloons—they are scattered until the whole vicinity becomes a hospital. The surgeons are all at work. The wounds are hastily dressed. The blood is washed away. Many are wrapped in warm coverings. Comparative quiet and rest settle down. The spectators have left the smoking ruins, and in curious crowds have trooped through the houses and have gradually disappeared. Those on the abutment returned to their homes. The firemen themselves disperse. The last one in the engine house has gone. Only a very few are left to guard the dead.
A wild and lonely scene remains. The dead are left there alone. The snow drifts toward the smoking ruins. Nature weaves a white shroud.Night draws down a black pall. The silence of the grave settles upon the lonely spot. A flickering light from the funeral pyre sends up a glare through the darkness, and the dead stare from the blackened bars with eyeless sockets, and the bodies are left to burn.
It is a horrible, heart-sickening sight, the bodies still smoulder in the burning grave, and the smell of their flesh arises on the darkening air.
Thefire continued to burn. For a time the wreck was left unguarded.
When it was, that so much plundering occurred no one knows. The flames were lifting up their lurid light, and covering the ghastly scene with a sickening glare. The dead lay in every direction amid the driving snow. A skull lay by itself amid a blackened heap, whitened by the fire. The heap of bodies lying in the sleeping-coaches were still burning, and yet this appalling scene did not intimidate the human vultures who were looking for their prey. The ravening wolf that prowls at night would be driven from such a horrid place by very fear. The hearts of men were on that fearful night more greedy than wolves or vultures are, for amid that awful wreck they sought for spoil. One and another of thewounded had been robbed. Men were more merciless to their fellows than the cruel flames.
One young man, who had lost both mother and sister, was suffering from four broken ribs and a severe gash in the head. As he looked up and saw the men standing and watching, the thought of robbers crossed his mind. He had a valuable watch, a present from his father, and two purses, one containing fifty dollars in bills, and the other a few dollars in change and his mother’s jewelry. As the thought of thieves came up, he turned around with his back to the crowd and dropped his watch down his neck inside his shirt, and there left it suspended by the chain next to his person. One purse he placed inside his vest and in an inside pocket, and the other was left in the pocket of his pantaloons.
Some one offered to assist him up the stairs. As he reached the top this person disappeared and another came. Taking him by the arm, the robber drew it out in such a way that the broken ribs gave intense pain and caused the poor boy to faint and fall. As he fell, he remembers to have felt a hand reached into hisbosom, and then he became unconscious, and lay upon the snow. When he came to himself, his purses and his ticket to California were gone, and all he had left was the watch he had hidden and the clothes he wore. Among strangers, with mother and sister both dead, the poor young man was at last taken to a hotel and telegraphed the sad news to his father in the distant home. Another gentleman, as he was being helped to a hotel, was robbed of all that he had in his vest pocket, on the side towards the one who supported him. Still another was followed by a person who pretended to be a physician and offered to assist, but escaped by threats and such speed as he could command.
Much valuable property was removed from the bodies of the dead. One gentleman had upon his person a valuable diamond pin, a commander’s badge, a Sir Knight’s pin and other valuable jewelry, but when his body was found, nothing was left except a cheap pair of celluloid sleeve buttons.
Watches were removed from chains, and the jewelry in trunks was taken or mysteriously disappeared.More than $1,500 worth of valuable articles were afterwards recovered by the Mayor by a proclamation, and by detectives. A saloon keeper was found to have appropriated shawls and satchels, and others were found to have diamonds and jewelry in their possession which had been stolen.
A young man who had a splinter from the cornice of the car driven through his collar bone was robbed of $300 in money at the Eagle Hotel where he lay, and a gentleman from Hartford had his boots taken from his feet and carried away.
The dead in the valley and the wounded in the streets, and the survivors in other places were alike subject to this villainous pillaging. A pair of dominos, or black masks, were found, showing how deliberate had been the robbery with the villains who were out that night.
Scarcely anything of value was left after the wreck. One gentleman who had $7,000 on his person was killed and his pocket book found, but the money was gone. Trunks containing the wardrobes of brides, and the jewelry of thewealthy, were burned and destroyed. Watches were burned in the fierce flames until the gold was melted into nuggets, and everything that could be treasured by friends, whether it was the clothes of the dead or the precious keepsakes they had, or the bodies which were more precious than jewels, all disappeared and not a relic or trace could be found.
Attwelve o’clock quietness had settled down upon the scene. The streets were deserted. All had formed the impression that the bodies were to be burned, and had gone to their homes, leaving the wreck still burning, and the dead to be consumed. The engines had been ordered to their houses. The lights glimmered from the homes where the wounded were lying. A few were at the wreck. The expressman guarding the treasures in the safe, sat solitary and alone through the long hours, while the flames which were burning precious bodies, crackled and threw their lurid light across the scene. The smell of burning flesh pervaded the air even half a mile away. A horrid sight was presented in the awful valley. The flames which had blazed so high had consumed the wood andfurniture of the train. The gilded palaces were reduced to mere skeletons of iron. The bridge lay a mere network of blackened beams. The trucks and wheels and heavy rods were lying in every direction. But beneath these horrid ribs of death, lay the blackened bodies of men, women and children, burned, and still burning, amid the snow and ice. Blue tongues of fire shot here and there amid the blackened mass, as if some unseen monster were still licking up the life of its unburied victims. The white snow lay like a winding sheet along the valley, but the skeleton was in the midst with the tall abutments towering above and the precious bodies silent in death beneath the ruins.
A long line of bodies lay packed on the bridge just above the water of the stream. They were covered with trucks and brakes, and heavy bars, and the debris of wood and the ashes of the wreck. Packed in a horrid mass they lay, crushed and broken, and blackened by the smoke and heat. Ghastly forms lay in this open grave. Headless, armless trunks were packed with the broken limbs, and the heads from which thebrains were oozing, while the stumps of arms seemed lifted from the blackened heaps as if in mute supplication—too shocking for any human heart. The delicate form of a mother lay beside her little child, but both reduced to mere black lumps with scarcely a semblance to a human form. A full sized woman lay amid the mass but with no sign of either legs or arms except the broken bones which had been crushed away by the fall. Bodies of men also lay cut completely asunder, and presenting only the half of the human form—an awful, sickening sight.
Everywhere through the valley there were bodies lying silent in death. The pale flames which flickered here and there, betokened where many of them lay. Underneath the horrid bars of iron, on the black, deceitful ice, in the watery depths of the unconscious stream, packed in heaps underneath the burning cars—were the dead! It was an appalling and terrifying scene. The darkness and loneliness, and the very desertion, were enough, but through the very nerves there came the horrid consciousness of the many, many dead.
Far away were their friends, the night was lonely, and the storm was pitiful, but scattered through that grave were the bodies of the dead. It was hard to realize it, but, to the hearts of friends, these unburied were no strangers, and yet they burned, in loneliness.
The railroad authorities came at half past one o’clock. Five surgeons from the Homœopathic College, in Cleveland, the superintendent, the assistant superintendent, the train-despatcher and others. The wounded were in their beds at the time. The fireman was at the Eagle Hotel. The engineer was at Mr. Apthorp’s, two other persons, also, who needed surgical operations, were at the same house. The surgeons of the road, as they arrived, sought first the employees—the fireman and the engineer—and to these, gave their professional attention. The surgeons of the village had already attended to the passengers, had dressed the wounds of most of them, and were waiting for the proper reaction, to perform the amputation on those whose limbs were broken.
Ten surgeons were, at one time, crowded intoone small house, where the worst cases were placed. By morning, however, the amputation was performed by Dr. J. C. Hubbard, assisted by Drs. Fricker and Case, and about twenty of the wounded, including the fireman and engineer, were removed to the hospital in Cleveland. This relieved many of those who were at the Eagle Hotel, as they found comfortable quarters at the hospital, and the rest were taken into rooms where a fire could be built, and where a carpet covered the floor; but through all the night the fire continued to burn. The haggard dawn drove the darkness out of the valley of the shadow of death. Seldom was revealed a ghastlier sight. On either side of the ravine, frowned the dark and bare arches from which the treacherous bridge had fallen, while, at their base, the great mass of ruins covered the men and women and children, who had so suddenly been called to death. The cherished bodies lay where they had fallen, or where they had been placed, in the hurry and confusion of the night.
Piles of iron lay on the thick ice or bedded in the shallow stream. The fires smouldered in greatheaps where many of the helpless victims had been consumed; while men went about, in wild confusion, seeking some trace of their friends among the wounded or dead.
Themorning dawned. Those who had known of the event, awoke as if from a fearful dream. The horror of the great calamity haunted the sleeping hours, and came back with returning consciousness. The dream was, indeed, a sad reality. The bodies, which were wrapped in the sleep of death and whose bed was the driven snow, were the first thought at the awakening of the living; nothing else was thought of in the village. Those who had not heard of it were startled by the news, but those who had seen and known, were strangely impressed. The smell of the burning flesh seemed to pervade the air. The sight of dead bodies seemed to fill the eye. The flames—the fearful flames—the ghastly wounds, the blackened bodies and the unknown, unburied dead were before the mind.
Death had descended like a bird of night, and flapped a dark wing over the abodes of the living, casting a shadow over the whole place, and then descended into the valley and was still watching its victims. There was something fearful in such an awful devastation by the dread monster.
But with this sense of the nearness of death, came another still more fearful to the mind. There was mingled with the thoughts of the dead, another of the living, which was even more horrible to the mind. A great shadow hovered over the place. It was not the shadow of the angel, which had descended, with its dark wings; it was not the unseen messenger of God; it was not of the horror that walked in darkness, or the destruction that wasted at noon of night, but a horrible suspicion had seized the people; the horrid selfishness of men haunted the waking thoughts as terrible death had the sleep of night. Cruelty was ascribed to men, worse, even, than the awful fall and death.
That burning of the bodies was ascribed to design. The impression was a general one. Indignationwas mingled with horror; that retiring to homes, while the bodies burned, was not the result of indifference. Few were so heartless as to care more for sleep than for the safety of the dead. Many could not sleep that night, but, somehow, the impression had taken possession of the people that the burning was designed.
As the citizens returned to their homes late at night, they had talked their suspicion, and grown sick at heart. The firemen themselves had laid the blame somewhere else than upon their chief. It seemed too inhuman, and yet it was believed. The station agent was known and trusted. His character was well established. His humane and kindly heart was not impeached. His Christian life and courtesy were well known to all. But the feeling was universal, and the suspicion strong. The control of the company over the cars, and all the contents, was taken for granted. The responsibility of common carriers was known, and no one could understand why orders should be given to withhold the water, except it was to destroy the traces of those who were on the train. For the time this was believed. Thesentiment was so common that even an employee of the road was heard to say that “ashes did not count,” but bodies did.
There was no foundation for the report. It was all the result of that strange mistake. As was afterwards shown, no such order had been given, and the persons in command were not responsible for the mistake; but for the time it had its effect. That midnight hour showed how strong this conviction had become. The deserted streets, the silent engines, the stabled horses—all betokened a thought which ruled the night. A strange misunderstanding had controlled that fatal hour, yet none the less powerful because so strange. As men met in the morning, this was the first thought which they expressed. It was the main subject of remark. Many supposed that the order had been given from the central office, but had no means of correcting or confirming their belief. Others maintained that there was a reason for the order, as the throwing of water upon hot iron was likely to create steam, and this, it was said, “would destroy more lives than even the flames, and would deface thebodies.” It was held by some to be the general policy of railroad companies to allow wrecks to be burned, and this was given as the reason: “that steam would be generated which would immediately cover the wreck, and drive away those who would rescue the living.” Gentlemen of intelligence and caution discussed that point with earnest warmth.
Little knots of men would gather and express their pent-up feelings. Others supposed that this popular indignation was the result of the terrible pressure and that weighed on the spirits, as if indignation were the safety valve for the oppressed heart.
These convictions of the people arose above all other feelings. The better sympathies were awakened and rebuked the very selfishness which was abhorred. The passions which were excited were to the praise of the better feelings of the heart. The kind and generous emotions were protesting against a cruelty which was imagined. It was not supposed, at the time, that the same humane feelings existed in the hearts of those in command. It was a “soulless corporation,” itwas said, and men did not stop to reason. A horrible thing had occurred. A fatal mistake! The awful negligence and the fearful burning were combined. Somebody was responsible! The citizens felt that it could not be themselves, and yet the corporation remained unconscious of the charge. For several days the popular feeling continued. It was even reflected back in the reports of the press. As the friends arrived they partook of the feeling, and swelled its force. The sentiment came back from distant places, and the little village was intensely moved.
It was because the heart of a great nation was moved, and the shock which appalled and paralyzed the whole land, sent back its chilling horror to the very centre. Far and wide over the long wires the startling message had made its way. Families on the distant hill tops of the New England States; men in the green valleys of the California shores; at the distant south and in the snowy north; in the great city and in the little hamlet—the fact was known. Everywhere the shock was felt. Every eye was fixed upon the startling head lines. Every heart was moved asthe news was read. All other things were forgotten in the great horror. The greatest railroad disaster on record had taken place. The Brooklyn horror was eclipsed by a greater. Angola was surpassed. Norwalk and the many other catastrophies were all forgotten. Ashtabula was known, and became the synonym, for the event. But mingled with this startling news was the silent question which the citizens were discussing on that gloomy morning—“Why was not the fire put out?” Nor did the feeling cease, or the surprise and sad suspicion die away for many a day.
As the tidings reached the neighboring counties, vast numbers began at once to flock in. Trains arrived by other roads. Each train came laden with passengers. The streets were filled with people. All were excited. Sooner, even, than the friends of the lost these crowds reached the wreck. The friends at a distance were, however, detained as it was not the purpose to allow them to come to witness the horrid scene until a suitable disposal of the dead was made. The police stationed on the ground endeavored to keep back the curious crowds, but in manycases found it impossible. It was not known whether the control was in the hands of the railroad company, or of the village authorities. They were mostly railroad men who were superintending the work. The excitement of the citizens was not diminished, as it seemed so doubtful who were in control. The fact that the Mayor of the city was in the employ of the road as assistant engineer only increased this feeling. At the time of the accident there was no coroner in the place. The proper officer had previously declined. Another had to be appointed in his place. Access being denied to the spot, and the supposition having obtained that the control was in the hands of the Company rather than of the village corporation the suspicion increased. The very efforts of the authorities to protect the place and keep back the curious strengthened the conviction. A strange feeling pervaded the place and was spread throughout many parts of the country. It was the element which most excited the people and which called attention from the widespread public.
The only answer is that the calamity was tooappalling for man’s reason, and those in command seemed to have lost their judgment in the excitement of the hour and were held by the misunderstanding which so unjustly arose.
There was no evidence that this burning was intended. It is not reasonable to suppose it. The report was entirely untrue, the suspicion wrong, but in the excitement of the hour, it was felt, and was a strange feature in the event.
Ateight o’clock, work was begun upon the wreck. Guards were stationed about the spot. Planks were placed upon the ice. Men were employed to remove the debris of wood and iron. Boxes were procured, in which to place the dead. A special policeman was stationed at the head of the stairway; no one was permitted to go on the ice, except the workmen, who were engaged in removing the debris.
The mayor of the city was on the ground; the stationing of the police was at his request, but the removal of bodies and the preservation of relics, was in the charge of an official of the road.
The superintendent of bridges and the train-dispatcher, assisted in the work. Even Mr. Collins, himself, the chief engineer, was there, and worked in the water, and forgot himself, in thesympathy he felt. Throughout the day the work continued, and the crowds passed to and fro.
Men were employed who, in long rubber boots and water-proof coats, worked all day long in the ice and snow; it was a difficult and tedious task. The wind blew cold, the water was deep, the beams were heavy, the iron was netted together, and the wreck was imbedded in the stream. The bodies were frozen, they were packed among the debris, and buried in the snow, but they were, by degrees, removed.
The remains of men and women and children, were taken by strangers’ hands, and placed in the rude deposits prepared for the occasion. This was under the idle gaze of many a spectator, who had gathered there. The hands of friends were not there to lift the tender forms, many of these were far away. Those who could have been there, and whose every nerve and fibre cried out for their loved and lost, were detained by the trains in the distant city. It was difficult for even the citizens who were present, to realize what sacredness there was to these precious forms. Death had been robbed of its solemnity, and now itseemed a piece of business, to remove the bodies which had burned. The friends had been purposely kept back, that the revolting spectacle might be kept from their sight, or that some decent disposal might be made before they arrived. These bruised and broken and blackened things, did not seem like human beings, and the sorrowing hearts alone could realize how sacred and precious they were, even in all their deformity. It was well that the shock was spared to many, until the distance could be traversed.
Yet it was an awful, shocking sight, when the removal had been accomplished. It was a horrid thing to take these bodies, in all their deformed and distorted shapes, from their beds of ice and snow and iron and ashes and the coals of wood, but it was still more horrid, to look upon them as they were gathered in that gloomy morgue.
The freight house was turned into the place for the dead; its doors were closed, and the darkness of a winter’s day settled down in that cheerless place; it was cold, and bare and gloomy, a fit place for death.
As the sleds arrived from the deep gorge below,bringing the awful human freight, this large room was nearly filled with the ghastly rows. Thirty-six bodies were arranged, in boxes, in a double line along the sides; a few had been taken out, with their bodies uninjured, except as they had died from the breath of fire. These were placed by themselves upon the floor, and from their very attitude, showed how awful had been their death. They were mostly men. There they lay, with limbs distorted, with hands uplifted, with averted faces, and with all the agonized and awful shapes which death by fire must produce. One had endeavored to throw his coat over his face, and lay with arms and coat above his head, caught by the flames and transfixed in that shape. Another had twisted his neck and face away, until the head rested upon the shoulders and back, and only the burned hair and whiskers could be seen. Another lay with limbs drawn up and body doubled, and yet his graceful shape and form could be read, through the agony of death. Others seemed to have stood, and held up beseeching arms and hands. With some, even the stumps of arms were outstretched, as if in muteappeal. A few were drenched, with their clothing on, but partly burned, as if the water and the fire together conspired for their death. These all impressed the eye, with the agony of death by fire. The fear of such a fate, was that which the survivors felt the most.
The agony, depicted in these few distorted forms and faces, showed how well founded was that fear. But, fortunately, there were but few. Not a dozen bodies were taken out that, to any human appearance, could have lived, if this fire had been kept down. The rest were broken and bruised, or else their bodies had been completely burned.
A more affecting sight was that, of those who were placed in the boxes, broken and bruised, as they were, in every limb. The boxes could not contain them, as their clothes were stiffened by the water and ice and snow. Those, too, whose clothes had been burned away, were so distorted in limb and body that no box could hold their forms.
Though dead, and stiff and cold, they seemed as if they would start from their graves,and escape the fearful fate, which had seized and destroyed their life.
And yet, even these would move the heart. They were those whom somebody loved, and, though seen in their distorted shapes and in that horrid place, were dear to their friends and gratefully recognized. Some even impressed the eye with what they were in life. Strong men, with enough of clothing left, or with their form and features sufficiently preserved, to show their gentle breeding or their business habits, betokened, through all the smoke and ruin, what they were and how esteemed. Women, too, were there, whose clothes were sufficiently preserved, to show what taste and culture they may have possessed, and in their forms, though blackened and burned, retained the grace and beauty which had been admired.
A little child was there, beautiful in death; the delicate little foot hid beneath the closely fitting shoe, the nicely tapered limbs, the graceful, lovely form, the tasteful dress, the hands so tiny and so touching in their shape, one could but love the little thing. Even the stranger wanted totake that sweet, that precious child, and clasp it to the heart; but no, that awful gash, that cruel blow had stricken all the beauty from the lovely face. If now, the mother would kiss her darling child, she must press her lip upon vacant air, hoping that, as she pressed that loved form to her aching heart, an angel spirit might catch the fond caress.
There were other more revolting scenes than these, but let the veil be drawn. The deformity of death must not distress the living, and yet those were happy, whose loved and lost had been reduced to ashes, in that fearful burning, rather than that they should thus find their precious forms, for the sight would shock their very hearts, and send back its warm affection to a chilled, an appalled, a horror stricken soul. No! the remnants of those deformed, defaced and half destroyed human forms, were better in the hands of strangers than with their friends. The grim certainty of their death, but the uncertainty as to whom the life belonged, were better with those who had less of the yearning for possession, than the friends.
Citizens could take up the poor remains, when no one else could claim them, and could bury them with all the attention and kindness which was in their hearts, but no sense of possession was ever theirs; therefore, they were happy who felt and knew that the sacred ashes of their loved had been covered by the beautiful snow, and the valley was their grave.
The stream could sound their requiem; the lake could moan its lament, and every wave might be supposed to carry a portion of their precious forms to distant shores; but God alone could gather the elements, and fashion it for the future love. Nothing but the sacred urn of earth, which contains all that is mortal of the human race—nothing but this, is the depository of those loved forms which were once so full of life; but everything in nature becomes the more precious to the longing heart. Unseen fingers shall weave their garments in the spring, and the songs shall burst forth from those forest hills, but the better land contains their spirits, and to that, the living must go to claim their own.