THE NEW BRIDGE, WITH TEMPORARY UNDERPINNING.[From a Photograph by Kitzsteiner & Greene, Cleveland.]
THE NEW BRIDGE, WITH TEMPORARY UNDERPINNING.[From a Photograph by Kitzsteiner & Greene, Cleveland.]
THE NEW BRIDGE, WITH TEMPORARY UNDERPINNING.
[From a Photograph by Kitzsteiner & Greene, Cleveland.]
Itwas well that the revolting sights of that dark, that horrid morgue were denied to many of the friends. Every effort was taken to relieve the pangs of sorrow and to remove the revolting features of that awful scene. Coffins were soon procured. Each body was placed in its silent, its narrow house. The keeper of the morgue was stationed to watch the sacred forms. He was a silent man. Tall and dark and gloomy, he walked amid the dead, but beneath that silent face he bore a kindly, a sympathetic heart. He seemed himself to be struck with the grief which went so deep into so many loving souls. His tones were tender, his ways were kind. He walked amid the dead until it seemed as if his habitation must be the grave, but it was only to express a sympathy for the bereft. His was agloomy, a melancholy task, and yet it was a sacred trust, as those bodies which he guarded so well, were very sacred to many hearts.
There were other officials who were appointed for the trying emergency, who seemed peculiarly adapted for their work. A gentleman was stationed in the office of the same building, whose duty it was to guard the relics which should be found. His position was indeed a difficult one. He was an employee of the road and yet had been appointed by the coroner to fill this place. The very equivocal attitude in which this double duty put him, rendered it a most unenviable office. The list of articles was left with him, and at the same time, the articles themselves as they were found. If there was obedience to the claims of humanity and regard to his personal feelings, there might be a loss to the company. If there was a regard to the financial interest of the company and a desire to shield it from loss, there was the fearful temptation to sacrifice his honor and break his trust. The sympathy and courtesy of the man was certainly manifest to all. Even the articleswhich had been recovered by the Mayor’s proclamation were consigned to him, and everything belonging to the lost of the fatal train. The very proof that persons were on it, depended on the trifling things which were under his care. A key, or watch, or chain, or cap, or dress, might be an evidence in law. Thus the affection of friends who sought for these with such avidity and unwearied diligence, appealed to his humane and kindly heart, and yet a loss to the Company might ensue from every discovery made. The freedom, too, with which these relics were reached, by the constantly changing crowds, rendered a loss by dishonest hands a probable result, yet it was impossible to refuse access to them, without being misunderstood. And so the position was surrounded with embarrassments, and yet the testimony was universal to his courtesy and kindness through it all, and the many relics which were found by friends, showed how faithfully he performed his task.
On the ground where the train had fallen was another official of the road. His work was to superintend those who were gathering relics.This position was a tedious, a difficult, and in many respects a thankless one. With hands, and feet, and rakes, and hoes, and in various ways, the precious relics were fished from out the stream. Everything was preserved. Bits of rags, and pieces of jewelry; shreds of clothing and gold watches; a worthless strap or a diamond pin; anything and everything which gave trace of the passengers, were gathered and placed in the hands of Mr. Stager and then deposited in the morgue. With all the suspicion and all the rumors, the public became at last satisfied that the authorities were doing all they could to gather relics for the friends, and that the traces of the dead were not intentionally destroyed. They were all railroad men who were engaged in this work. These tasks were performed by humane men, under the shadow of the public doubt and public grief, amid which, there was excitement, and the haste of business and the burden of care. Yet there were humane hearts underneath all this machinery of life. The employees of the road were, many of them, melted to tears. Every one was subdued by thesudden death. Even the hardness produced by their public life was softened by the common sorrow. The tide of human sympathy burst through even the most rocky hearts and overflowed all other feelings.
In the crowded office in the station house, the telegraph was constantly at work. Its click and buzz was heard as it talked with lightning tongues, and reported the wide-spread grief, and responded with short and comprehensive words. It seemed as if all the nation had been touched. Those nerves of wire penetrated the remotest fibres of the nation’s heart, and they seemed to be singing with intensest pain. The arrow which had shot its pang into so many hearts had left the bowstring whizzing in the hand. The griefs of many, many homes were expressed by those very sounds. Hour after hour the messages would come and go, and every word was fraught with intensest feeling.
The division-superintendent sat at the table amid the representatives of the press, and the friends who crowded to the desk without, and it seemed as if the silent man had his hand uponthe heart-strings of the land. How any one could endure the strain of such a place and not falter at his task, was a mystery to many. Only those who are accustomed to the position where so many human lives are under their constant care could bear this crushing weight.
The noble man who came down upon the train and went out upon the bridge, of which, as engineer, he had the charge, is said to have wept like a child as he saw the sight. That stern, care-worn face expressed more than many knew.
As the questions were plied so thick and fast by the representatives of the press, and were sent home by those who knew something of the facts, the same courteous reply went back. No one apprehended the responsibility of his place more than he. No one felt, perhaps, the doubts and suspicions and public feeling more. No one realized more the nature of the calamity in all its bearings, and yet that same calm and courteous manner remained. He was calm without, but God only knew what he felt within. Those who knew him best have told something of the tender sensibilities of the man. On New Year’s morninghe was with his wife at her father’s home on the east side of Ashtabula River, where they often were. But on that morning as he stepped out doors before breakfast, the coachman met him and wished him a happy New Year. He returned the greeting, but as he sat down to breakfast, his feelings were deeply moved. The tears came into his eyes. His face became suffused and he seemed overwhelmed. At last the brave man gave way and buried his head in his hands and sobbed, and then he controlled himself and said, “John bid me a happy New Year this morning, but how can it be a happy New Year to me?”
Therewas a succession of arrivals of people: each day brought a different class; first the officials of the road; next the crowds of curious men and women from the village and surrounding country; then the representatives of the press from the distant cities, Chicago and New York; then the long swelling wave of the sorrowing friends. From farther and farther away this wave swept in. At last the two sides of the continent were reached. Two oceans had sent their echoes to moan over the graves of those who had left their shores. The coast of Maine and the Golden Gate had felt the shock.
First were those from the nearer cities. These had either bidden good-bye a few hours before or were waiting at the depot for the arrival of their friends.
New Year’s day was nigh. A gentleman was at Cleveland on his way to California. His wife was on her way to meet him. Two children were with her on this train. They expected to spend New Year’s together in that city. She had telegraphed that she was coming. He was at the depot awaiting her arrival. The train was late but he waited there. At last the tidings came and he took the train with the officials and arrived in the night. The two children were dead and the wife was awfully burned. She was now lingering between life and death. The New Year would find her dead and the man bereft of wife and children.
Another had been waiting for a wife and child. He came and found them dead. The dread reality was worse than the worst of fears. But the morning came. The friends at Cleveland hastened to the cars at an early hour thinking to take them and reach the spot by 9 o’clock, but at the hour assigned the train delayed. Those who were warned of the wreck by the morning papers also went to the depot, but they could not go. Women, whose husbands were on the fatal train,were there and became anxious to start, but the train delayed.
The fathers, whose sons were wounded, became uneasy at the delay. Business men, who knew that their partners were among the lost, wondered at the long delay. Mothers, whose little children were among the dead, also were sick at heart; but the train delayed. The suspense became too much to bear; the train delayed. The agony increased; some fainted in their seats, and were taken to the air; the feeling became intense; that busy depot became a house of weeping; sorrow was depicted on every face. Sympathy moved the hearts of strangers; those gloomy walls became a prison to the heart; those heavy columns and lofty arches seemed draped with mourning; the iron roof seemed filled with bars; it was a castle of despair. Even the stir and confusion of the place mocked the grief. Never was that place so full of sorrow; the train delayed. Some returned to their homes and again came down. The city was moved; the fact became known upon the streets; excitement even entered the business circles, yet the train delayed.
A young man lay in the Culver House; his face was deathly pale, his breathing labored. He was slowly dying. The father was in that train, delayed, and became very anxious; he was wealthy and offered money. Yes, the expense of the train he was willing to pay, but the train delayed.
At last, when patience was almost exhausted, and the feeling was so intense, and the night began to darken, the train moved out. The suspense was relieved, but the time was still too long, and the distance great. They arrive at last. The son is dead. He breathed his last among the wounded. Strangers were there to lay him out, but the friends could only bury him.
The arrival brought the whole reality to view. No one could tell the horror, it must be seen to be known. The search for friends must be carried on in the night. That horrid morgue was dark and covered with gloom; the scene of the wreck was also covered with the evening shades. Most of the bodies had, by this time, been removed; those which remained were deeply buried beneath the ruins. The valley was lonely and sad. The death itself, which had come downwith one fell swoop, had ascended, leaving only the ashes of the burned, the dust of death which had been gathered by hands of iron, eaten by the tongues of fire, and the night winds were making them their sport. O! how the heart went down into that lonely valley, where so many perished. The night was full of tears; it was the second night. From one end of the land to the other, the fact was known; the greatest railroad accident on record had occurred. In that fall, so many went down! From the distant east to the distant west, the lightning had flashed their names. It was a stroke that spanned the heavens, and revealed how black they were.
This sorrow was continued. Day after day brought new scenes. Each train brought in new groups of friends. All were moved by a common feeling, but their sorrow was visible. In that dreadful morgue there were scenes which can never be described; God only knows what agony was in the hearts of many. The sorrowing company trooped in and out, and varied every hour; men and women, fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, andeven the children of the lost. Some already were dressed in mourning. Others had come in haste and stopped for nothing. The friends of the deceased from different places would meet at this spot drawn together from a distance by the common bereavement. Different circles had been bereft by each one of those who had so suddenly died. Often two or three would come looking for the same person. A different state of feeling concentrated at each separate spot. The morgue, the office, and the wreck, all had their circles and their scenes. Citizens and friends as they came, visited each in succession. The search for relics on the ice; the search for bodies in the morgue; and the sending of messages in the busy office, brought different feelings to those sensitive hearts. There was a language in each place which spoke more than words.
In the hotels at the upper town, there were also many exciting scenes. As the friends gathered from near and far, they passed from place to place, watching for some trace of the lost. Some became so overwhelmed by the great calamity that they were obliged to go home, andsend others who were less afflicted to continue the search. Fathers were almost crushed by the fearful blow, and went in and out of the gloomy morgue and upon the cheerless ice, and into the busy depot, sick at heart, and depressed, and would return to their hotels, weary with the search, and lonely amid the throngs, for the sons or daughters on whom they doted, had gone forever. A young man came alone, and sought his mother for four long and weary days, but could find no trace. Each night he returned to the hotel with every lineament of his face expressive of the grief which was in his heart, and would sit down among the throngs of strangers, desolate and bereaved.
Brothers and friends came, seeking, but finding not, and with tearful eyes would return at night, their sorrow growing deeper as their search was vain. Whoever expressed a sympathizing word to those bereaved and stricken ones, knew how deeply the arrow had reached, and how the soul was riven, but there were none who knew it all. To God’s eye and that alone, was the grief revealed, and in His bottle were the tears preserved.There were times when it seemed as if the grief were too much to look upon.
A woman was seen to pass through the morgue. Her hard, care-worn face and humble dress showed her to be acquainted with poverty and accustomed to toil. But her husband was gone, and as the horrid scenes came before her gaze, and the awful death was known, she fairly staggered in her steps. Her glaring eye and strange, wild look betokened a mind almost deranged. Yet, the pity did not end, for another would come, so broken and so weak, and so subdued, in the widow’s garb, and then the trembling father, and even mother, stricken and bowed and almost heartbroken, so that it would seem as if there was no end to grief.
Therewas a storm of grief. The waves were tossing high upon the sea of life, and their crests were lifted far and wide, and dropping tears upon the deep. The solemn murmur was echoed all along the shore. It intruded upon the business thoughts. Its roar was heard above the noise of commerce, and the city’s hum. It was a melancholy sound, men for once were led to give up their eager haste, and ask, to what all this love of gain might tend. The serious affairs of life were brought to mind. The interests of eternity were compared to those of time. All eyes were directed to this wreck of life. All hearts were moved by this suddenness of death. But this wave of sorrow did not cease. When the storm was over, and men lost their wonder, the wave swept on. Long after the calamity hadfailed to engage the public ear, and had disappeared from the public press, the wave was spreading still, and while others had forgotten the great event, it moaned along the shore. It reached the most distant homes. It swept into many sorrowing hearts. It was a wave of grief.
A father had bidden his only son good bye, in a distant city of the east. He was a lovely youth. He was destined to the west. There were those whom he loved, in a central city; one awaited him there to whom he was betrothed. The morning news brought the sad tidings to both those cities, it sent a shock to those loving hearts.
Two husbands were, together, on the Pacific coast. Both were expecting their wives home, they (a mother and daughter, together with a son) were on that train. Eight months they had been away, on an eastern trip. They had a large circle of friends and relatives, on an island, on the coast of Maine. They were on their return. They bore with them, many gifts, from friends. Thirteen quilts, which had been pieced among the visiting circles, and many other valuable presents. It had been a happy summer to themamong those friends. They had hoped to reach their home, by New Year’s day, but had been delayed. The father looked into the San Francisco papers and read the tidings of the horrible event. The son, who was saved, also telegraphed from the scene of the disaster. These were the startling words: “Mother and sister are both dead. My ribs are broken, my head is hurt, I have been robbed, and am penniless among strangers.” On that second night both those men were on their way to the scene of the disaster.
The Sabbath dawned. It did not seem like Sabbath. All time lost its marks. All days were alike in the sweeping grief.
There was a congregation gathered on that distant island. The news reached some at the hour of service. Tidings were conveyed to the church. The shock went through the house, and the grief was such that the services were broken up. The circle of friends embraced the whole community. Those who had been visiting, and had so recently left, were now stricken down by this sudden death. So the wave invadedthe sanctuary of God. It overwhelmed the Sabbath sacredness.
That Sabbath passed. The survivors hardly realized it was a holy day. One looked out from his window, and wondered if there were any ministers in town, and inquired where the churches were, for he could see no spires, and only a few chimneys and the tops of houses. The bells rang out—“evening bells.” It was Sabbath evening. Yes, New Year’s eve! But, O how strange! The distant friends were on their way. Many of the dead were lying there. The festivities of the day were to be turned to mourning.
A father of a lovely girl, arrived that Sabbath evening. He had bidden her good bye only two nights before. She was a favorite child, everything had been done to make her education complete. No expense was spared. She had just finished school, and was now starting out for a winter’s visit. A few days before, there had been a wedding scene, her dearest friend was married, and she was the bridesmaid. It was a very accomplished circle and a delightful party. That daughter was dressed in white, her dresswas trimmed with “Forget-me-nots.” Her picture was taken in that dress. Her friends remember her as thus “garlanded and adorned,” but it was a passing vision. The New Year was to have seen her in a distant city, a delightful circle awaited her there. The first circles of two cities were interchanging greetings, she was the bright messenger between the two. At either end of that treacherous track, there were garlands and greetings. The white feet passed out from the one circle but they never reached the other. Into the valley that form went down, in that ill-fated car she perished, and now the father is looking for, but can find her not, like a vision she has departed. The white garments and the shadowy feet belong to an angel now. They have passed out from earthly scenes into the Heavenly land. In a furnace of fire the Saviour walked, and took her to himself. His form was like to the Son of Man, and the smell of fire was not in her garments, but through the fire she passed into glory; and now the father seeks her, and can never find her—never! until, as an angel spirit, he beholds her there.Strangers meet him, and tell him it is all in vain; she was in that car, and no trace of her remains. His heart is crushed, but his ways are calm, self-controlled and courteous, in the midst of grief; he returns to his home, without his daughter. She has flown to other circles and he cannot find her, but his hair catches the light of her departure, for it turns white from grief. In the midst of the furnace, he receives something of a transforming power, and the tinge of the better land strikes across his brow.
In a city of Ohio was a public school, and in charge of it was one who had endeared himself to his pupils, and was well known as the superintendent. When news of the accident was first received, fears were excited, that Mr. Rogers might be on the train A dispatch was sent to Niagara Falls, where it was known he was to be. His bride was with him, for they were married on the Tuesday before, and preparations had been made for their reception at home. Tidings came back that both were on the ill fated train. There was most intense anxiety in the place. All classes felt upon the subject, and the leastscrap of information was eagerly sought. Two gentlemen at once started for the scene, and on Sabbath a dispatch was read in church. The worst of fears were realized and the sorrow deepened. Again dispatches were received, that Mr. and Mrs. Rogers were burned to death and no portion of their bodies could be recovered. A special meeting of the school board was called for appropriate action, and “the most affecting and depressing sense of the great calamity came home to all.” “A deep gloom was cast over the whole city and mainly put an end to the festivities of the New Year’s day.”
There was a family in a distant place in the West. It was the family of a well known physician. A mother was there. She was the physician’s wife. The husband had left his home for the distant east to visit an aged parent, and was on his return. He had visited a brother-in-law on his way home. The tidings go out that he is lost, and the family is at once stricken with grief. The “whole community where he dwelt was moved.” The “sense of personal bereavement extends through the place” andreaches the surrounding towns. The deepest feeling was manifest and it “seemed as if all the citizens were mourners at once.” “All mourned as though one of their own household had fallen.” The church and community and even the country around were affected, and afterward gathered at the funeral with the expression of their regard and giving token of the friendship which he had acquired. Dr. Hubbard was dead. A fragment of his body was found, and his death was mourned by the vast assemblies which crowded two houses of worship in his village home. When laid away with public obsequies, and by the different orders to which he belonged, two cities were represented.
And so the wave swept on. It subsided from the public gaze, but its effects were felt. Widows, almost crushed, wept in secret for those they loved, and over their orphaned children, and lifted up their hands in agony of prayer. The letters as they came to the author only showed how wide was this silent, this unknown sorrow.
The friends would write from the distant cities and say, “how cruel had been the blow,” “how sad the case;” but no one could tell the silentloneliness which lingered in those homes. Bitterness was mingled with the grief; and the sweet love of woman was turned so as to almost curse the Company “which had left those dreadful pits for the destruction of those precious lives;” even “God’s forgiveness was asked” that the feeling of indignation was so intense.
The secret mourning which followed the terrible crash was even now the most melancholy result of all. The sad refrain must linger for many a day. Through all the noise of business and the sounds of mirth the plaintive note mingles, and the sad calamity has not lost its effect. The secret sorrow was the worst of all. At first the wave broke upon the shore and drew back a quick returning current. The friends came at once and public sympathy was moved, but long after they had returned and the event had sunk away from the public mind, there was a wave which swept into lonely hearts and echoed in unknown homes.
Theweek began with a search for relics. It was a difficult task. The wind was cold; the water was deep and frozen over. Snow and ashes filled the air. A confused heap of iron, tin roofs, broken trucks, and other debris were mingled into one mass of ruins.
A company was organized for the work, with the train-dispatcher at the head. Men were hired, police were stationed, the ice was broken, great iron beams and rails and rods were drawn out, trucks and wheels and brakes and bolts were moved away, and every spot was searched for traces of the dead. Watches, jewels, shreds of clothing, hands of women and arms of men were found. It was a place where diamonds lay; a stream where nuggets of goldwere washed; a mine where they dug for treasures, all that men seek in distant lands, but there were human lives which could not be found. Everything was closely scanned. Curiosity was fed by the constant search, and yet, to friends, the results were meagre.
A single bone was found, around which a chain was wound. It was the remains of a lady’s arm.
A watch was found, the gold was melted, the works were lost, but it bore the number and the pattern which proved it to belong to Rev. Dr. Washburn, the Rector of Grace Church, Cleveland.
A gentleman made diligent search for some remains or relics of Dr. Hubbard, of Des Moines, Iowa, and at last found a shawl strap and check which bore his name. The Doctor’s brother arrived from Boston, bringing his aged mother’s description of his clothing: Woolen socks (which she had knit for him), and two pairs of drawers, one worn inside of his socks. By this description a limb which had been saved from burning with the remainder of the body, by lying in thewater, was identified as his, and taken home for burial.
A cap was found which proved that a young man named Marvin was lost. He was the only son of a widow, and her only support.
A simple string was all that another had, to prove that a body was that of a mother. It was a present from a daughter, and was tied about the hair, and had not been burned.
A key, identified by a duplicate sent by his partner from Chicago, was the proof that E. P. Rogers was on the train.
A coat was recognized as belonging to Mr. J. Rice, of Lowell.
A pair of initial sleeve buttons were found which proved that Boyd Russell, of Auburn, N. Y., was among the lost. The body had burned, diamond pins and badges and valuable jewelry had disappeared, but these remained.
The father and friends of Miss Minnie Mixer after long search had given up all hope of finding a single trace of her remains. At last her mother came and identified a chain which had been her daughter’s.
The watch of Mr. G. Kepler, of Ashtabula, was identified.
A wife did not know her husband was on the train. She missed his letters. She heard that he had gone to Dunkirk. She searched the relics and found his knife.
A lady from Toronto, a Mrs. Smith, came searching for her husband from whom she had heard just as he left Buffalo for Detroit. He had seven thousand dollars on his person. A pocket was fished up from the stream. It contained the pocket-book and the name and a bank certificate, but the money was not there. A letter was discovered among the relics. It bore no name except that of the writer, as the envelope was gone. A brother from Massachusetts came. He found no trace except the letter. He went to Chicago and sought some of the survivors and still did not satisfy himself. He returned and consulted the author of this book. Only two persons were saved from the car which he was in. They described the occupants of the car one by one. “In one seat,” said they, “was a gentlemanly man, quiet in manner, and intelligent.”He was going to “South America by way of California.” “That’s my brother,” was the tearful answer. In a low toned voice and tender accents we talked, and it seemed as if the brother could not rest until all was told. Yet there was but little to be said.
An old lady was on the train who was from the east. She was described as sitting in the middle of the car, a young man with her. He was teaching school at the time in Illinois, and had spent his vacation in going after her. She was seventy-nine years of age. Her angular features and loud voice had attracted the attention of passengers. The same lady was described to the author. A description of her given by two young men on the train was recognized by the friends, and a photograph of the young man shown to them was recognized in turn. Thus two more were identified as being on the train.
A family, consisting of a gentleman and his wife and two children, were in the drawing-room car. They were described to the author as “neither stylish nor very plain,” “just a comfortable, respectable and happy family.” Mr. T.C. Wright, of Tennessee, had noticed them as they sat together, and was impressed, and told what a happy family they were. They were sitting in the state-room and enjoying one another’s company. The little girl was described as having “light hair and curls which hung round her face and was very pretty, but had poor teeth.” This description was sent to the “Inter-Ocean” of Chicago by the author. A letter was afterwards received from Mrs. H. H. Gray, of Darlington, Wis., enquiring about a family which was lost (“annihilated” it was written). No one could find any trace of them. An answer was returned, “Look into the ‘Inter-Ocean’ of January 16 and read my letter.” The next letter received was from the administrator of the estate. It described the gentleman as a man of “extensive business, very energetic and honorable,” and contained the photographs of two children. “This whole family were on their way from Bethlehem, Pa., to Gratiot, Wis.”
The only survivor from the drawing-room car, was a Mr. Ormsbee, from Boston, who was nearsighted and could not tell much about those inthe car. Mr. Wright, who was in the smoker at the time of the fall, belonged in this car. His description had already been recognized by the author, but the photographs were shown to Mr. Ormsbee, and he, after close examination, with solemnity said, “They were the children who were in my car.” Another photograph of the whole family was afterwards sent to Mr. Wright, of Nashville, and was recognized as the likeness of the family which he had noticed in that state-room.
There is an affecting story about this family: It is supposed that they were in the state-room at the time of the fall and by some means the wife and children were held in the wreck and could not be extricated. The father tried to save them but the flames arose. He could escape himself and actually did get out of the car and away from the flames, but the little girl cried out, “Papa! oh, Papa! take me!” and he went back, exclaiming, “I would rather perish with my family; I can’t live without them,” and so all perished together.
Thefollowing account of the passengers on the ill-fated train has been gathered with great difficulty. Communication with survivors and correspondence with friends have been the sources of information, and the description is given more for the satisfaction of the friends than for any general interest. It must however be remembered that each name has its own associations. This is true especially of those who died. Their names are freighted with precious memories and carry a weight of affection which, though unknown to the public, must make even the very mention of it exceedingly valuable.
If it is a consolation to know the last words of the dying, certainly the scenes attending the death of those who perished in this disaster must have a melancholy, a tragic interest.
We give below an account of the passengers in the different cars in succession, beginning at the front and going through, with as much accuracy as possible, to the last one in the train.
From the first car, more persons escaped than from any other. There were at least sixteen of these. Mr. C. E. Jones of Beloit, Wis., was sitting in the front seat; Mr. and Mrs. Martin and two children, of Lenox, Ohio, who were a third of the way back from the front; J. M. Mowry of Hartford, Conn., and Dr. C. A. Griswold of Fulton, Ill., were sitting together in the middle of the car; Thomas Jackson of Waterbury, Conn., and Mr. A. H. Parslow of Chicago; Victor Nusbaum, from Cleveland, and Charles Patterson of the same city, were toward the rear. This constitutes all the survivors on the right side.
On the opposite side, toward the front, were Edward Trueworthy and Joseph Thompson, of Oakland, Cal., with Alfred Gillett of Cranberry Isle, Me., sitting in two seats, facing each other. Mr. Thompson is described as having a smoking cap on, while Mr. Trueworthy had a shawl across his shoulders. Mr. Gillett was the only one outof this group who was killed. In front of them were a Mr. Walter Hayes of Lexington, Ky., with Miss Sarah Mann, who was also killed. Thomas Jackson of Waterbury, Conn., Robert Monroe of Rutland, Mass., Mr. Alex. Monroe of Somerville, Mass., Wm. B. Sanderson, Alex’r Hitchcock, of Port Clinton, Ohio, and Charles E. Rickard of Biddeford, Me., were upon the same side of the car.
Mr. F. Shattuck of Mt. Vernon, Ohio, is known to have been in this car and to have been killed. Mrs. Fonda and her nephew, D. Campbell, of Milledgeville, Ill., have already been described as among the dead.
There was a lady sitting at the right hand near the front who was “slight built and had a child with her about two years old.” The child was described as being “quite forward, for his age, talking well, and was very bright and interesting.” Just behind them was a lady who was described as “large, full formed, dressed in a plaid trimmed with black.” A younger lady sat behind her who was “tall, well formed, dressed in dark clothes and spent most of her time inreading a book.” These were all killed. It is probable that the trucks of the car above struck down just above where they were, as all in this part of the car seem to have perished. Their bodies lay near where they sat, but were too much crushed and burned to be recognized by their friends.
The author could have identified them had he received descriptions in time.
About the middle of the car upon the left side, were two ladies sitting together, both of them dressed in black. The one was older than the other and had been to the East to bury a daughter who had died of consumption. Both of these were killed.
The second passenger car was well filled. There were many ladies in it. It is not known for a certainty who were its occupants, as no one has yet been found by the author who had escaped from it. The dead who are supposed to have been in it and have since been recognized or otherwise proven to have been on the train, were as follows: George Keppler, of Ashtabula, O.; L. W. Hart, of Akron, O.; Isaac Myer and Birdie Myer, his daughter; Mrs. George and MattieGeorge, of Cleveland, O.; Maggie Lewis, of St. Louis, Mo.; Mr. E. Cook, of Wellington, O.; Mrs. Lucy C. Thomas, Buffalo, N. Y.; Wm. Clements, Bellevue, O.; Mr. M. P. Cogswell, Chicago; Miss Annie Kittlewell, Beloit, Wis.; L. C. Crain, New Haven, Conn.; Boyd Russell, Albany, N. Y.; Doctor Hubbard, Polk City, Iowa, and others whose bodies have not been recognized, amounting in all, according to the testimony of many survivors, to at least forty passengers.
In the smoking car were about sixteen persons. A group was at the rear end. It consisted of Mr. Tilden, the superintendent of water works; Geo. M. Reid, superintendent of bridges, and David Chittenden, of Cleveland. The conductor and news-boy were near by. Mr. Stowe, of Geneva, Ohio, was standing near and listening to the conversation. As mentioned before, this conversation was upon the weight of the engine and the amount of water it used. Mr. Stockwell was sitting on the other side, having just bought a cigar of the news-boy. Another group had dispersed but a little timebefore. It consisted of three who called themselves “the three blondes,” as the accidental resemblance to one another had amused them. These were, Mr. J. M. Mowry, of Hartford, Conn., who afterwards went into the first passenger car; Mr. J. C. Earle, of Chicago, Ill., and Col. A. Maillard, of California, both of whom remained. Two brothers were in the car—Mr. R. Osborn and F. Osborn, of Tecumseh, Mich.,—who were sitting together. Two young men were in another seat—C. D. Meranville and Wm. B. Sanderson. Mr. L. C. Burnham, of Milwaukee, Wis.; Mr. C. Lobdell, Troy, N. Y.; Thos. C. Wright, Nashville, Tenn., and Mr. Harry Wagner, conductor of the sleeping coaches, were in the same car. Of this number, Mr. Stowe, Mr. Chittenden, Mr. F. Osborn, Mr. Stockwell and the sleeping car conductor were killed. The stove fell from one end of this car to the other, making a clean sweep by carrying everything before it. As it hit the end it broke through the timbers and then set the car on fire. Those who were struck by it were instantly killed.
Mr. R. Osborn, whose brother perished by hisside, was very badly hurt and barely escaped with his life. The car stood after its fall at an angle, so that those who were within, were obliged to go up an inclined plane and to get out at the upper door. Most of those who escaped, went up the north side of the track.
The destruction of life was greatest in the second coach, because, as has been mentioned, the car struck upon its side and was badly smashed; yet it is a singular fact that the bodies from this were better preserved than from any other car in the train, as they fell into the stream where the water was deepest, before the flames could reach them.
The following description was sent by the author to the “Inter-Ocean” of Chicago, and has since proved its correctness by the fact that several have been recognized by the description given in it:
“The drawing-room car contained the following-described persons:“A lady from Chicago, who is described as being very handsome; she had left her husband at Dunkirk, and was returning home,” so a passenger learned.“Next, a lady and gentleman. The lady isdescribed as being ‘quiet in manner, and evidently a person of culture.’ She was about twenty-two years of age. The gentleman was short, had black whiskers and mustache. Opposite, and afterward in the state-room, was a party consisting of a gentleman, his wife and two children, a girl and boy [who have been already described].“Next was a tall gentleman having on a long ulster overcoat. He was from Boston, and was going to California; was a merchant tailor. My informant, Mr. Thomas C. Wright, thinks that Mr. Bliss was not in this car. He says others were in the rear of the car, but does not remember them. Mr. Ormsbee of Boston, was in the car and is the only survivor. He was at first pinned down hands and feet and could not extricate himself. Afterward something fell on the top of the car, and loosened him and he reached up his hand and dragged himself out. As he went out he heard the lady in the corner of the car calling for help. He has seen the photograph of Rev. Dr. Washburn and recognized it. The probability is that that gentleman was underneath the only part which was struck by the ‘City of Buffalo,’ and was instantly killed.”
“The drawing-room car contained the following-described persons:
“A lady from Chicago, who is described as being very handsome; she had left her husband at Dunkirk, and was returning home,” so a passenger learned.
“Next, a lady and gentleman. The lady isdescribed as being ‘quiet in manner, and evidently a person of culture.’ She was about twenty-two years of age. The gentleman was short, had black whiskers and mustache. Opposite, and afterward in the state-room, was a party consisting of a gentleman, his wife and two children, a girl and boy [who have been already described].
“Next was a tall gentleman having on a long ulster overcoat. He was from Boston, and was going to California; was a merchant tailor. My informant, Mr. Thomas C. Wright, thinks that Mr. Bliss was not in this car. He says others were in the rear of the car, but does not remember them. Mr. Ormsbee of Boston, was in the car and is the only survivor. He was at first pinned down hands and feet and could not extricate himself. Afterward something fell on the top of the car, and loosened him and he reached up his hand and dragged himself out. As he went out he heard the lady in the corner of the car calling for help. He has seen the photograph of Rev. Dr. Washburn and recognized it. The probability is that that gentleman was underneath the only part which was struck by the ‘City of Buffalo,’ and was instantly killed.”
It is still a question whether Mr. and Mrs. Bliss were in this car.
The gentleman and lady who have been described above, are supposed to have been Mr. and Mrs. Hall, of Chicago, rather than Mr. and Mrs. Bliss. The gentleman was reading to the lady the book “Near Nature’s Heart;” as the newsboy passed, he took out “Daniel Deronda,” read it a little, and afterward bought “Helen’s Babies.” Mr. Ormsbee, the sole survivor from the car, judging from photographs which have been shown him, declares that they were not Mr. and Mrs. Bliss. Mr. Burchell, of Chicago, however, maintains that Mr. and Mrs. Bliss were in this car, and his statement is worthy of credit. There is no doubt that they were either in this or in the “City of Buffalo,” and it is probable that no trace of them will ever be found.
The occupants of the “Palatine” were, Mrs. Bingham, of Chicago; Mabel Arnold, North Adams, Mass.; H. L. Brewster, Milwaukee, Wis; B. B. Lyons, of New York city; Mrs. Annie Graham, of New York; Miss Marion Shepard, Ripon, Wis.; Geo. A. White, Portland, Me.; John J. White (?) of Boston, Mass; Chas. S. Carter, of New York; Mr. L. B. Sturges, Minneapolis,Minn.; Mr. J. E. Burchell, Chicago, Ill.; Col. A. Maillard, of San Rafael, Cal.; Mr. H. W. Shepard, Brooklyn, N. Y.; Lewis Bochatay, Kent’s Plains, Ct.; John J. Lalor, of Chicago, C. H. Tyler, St. Louis; and Jos. D. Pickering and nephew, of Buffalo, N. Y.
The persons who were in the “City of Buffalo” are as follows: Mr. Henry White, of Weathersfield, Conn., who broke the glass door and got out; Mrs. Bradley, of California; Mr. J. P. Hazelton, of Charleston, Ill., and Mr. Gage, of Illinois, who escaped and afterward died. The nurse and child of Mrs. Bradley, who occupied the rear state-room, perished. Mrs. A. D. Marston and her mother and boy; Mrs. Trueworthy and daughter, Mrs. Coffin, of California; Mrs. Moore, of Hammondsport, N. Y.; Mr. Hodgkins, of Bangor, Maine; “a gentleman going to South America, very polite and fine looking,” who afterwards proved to be Mr. J. Spooner, of Petershaw, Mass.; Mr. D. A. Rogers, of Chicago; Mr. Barnard and Miss Mixer, daughter of Dr. Mixer of Buffalo; Mr. Rice, of Lowell, Mass.; Mr. J. F. Aldrich, of Des Moines, Iowa; and, it issupposed, Mrs. H. M. Knowles, and child of Cleveland;—twenty-one in all. The probability is that all who were in this car were so completely destroyed that scarcely a vestige of them remained. There has been the most thorough search for even the least scrap that might give trace of their presence in the ill-fated coach. It is probable that the fall at first served to crush those who were in it, and that the position of the car gave a draft which intensified the heat so as to consume the bodies. The fire burned here the longest, and was still burning at two o’clock in the morning.
There were but few in the “Osceo,” which was the rear sleeper. These were Mrs. Eastman, and Mrs. W. H. Lew, of Rochester, N. Y.; Mrs. T. A. Davis, Kokomo, Ind.; the brakeman Stone and the colored porter who was killed.