THE PUBLIC EXCITEMENT.
The morning 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. Indignation was 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. The sentiment 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 the bodies.” 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,” it was 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 as the 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 many cases
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 too appalling 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.
[Illustration]