IT was not long before the wreck-train arrived, a thing of flat cars,
box-cars and cabooses of an old pattern, with hospital cots made ready
en route, and a number of doctors and nurses who scrambled out with the
air and authority of those used to scenes of this kind. Meanwhile I had
been wondering how long it would be before the wreck-train would arrive
and had set about getting my information before the doctors and
authorities were on the scene, when it might not be so easy. I knew that
names of the injured and their condition were most important, and I ran
from one to another of the groups that had formed here and there over
one dying or dead, asking them who it was, where he lived, what his
occupation was (curiously, there were no women), and how he came to be
at the scene of the wreck. Some, I found, were passengers, some
residents of the nearby village of Wann or Alton who had hurried over to
see the wreck. Most of the passengers had gone on a train provided for
them.
I had a hard enough time getting information, even from those who were
able to talk. Citizens from the nearby town and those who had not been
injured were too much frightened by the catastrophe or were lending a
hand to do what they could ... they were not interested in a reporter or
his needs. A group carrying the injured to the platform resented my
intrusion, and others searching the meadows for those who had run far
away until they fell were too busy to bother with me. Still I pressed
on. I went from one to another asking who they were, receiving in some
cases mumbled replies, in others merely groans. With those laid out on
the platform awaiting the arrival of the wreck-train I did not have so
much trouble: they were helpless and there were none to attend them.
“Oh, can’t you let me alone!” exclaimed one man whose face was a black
crust. “Can’t you see I’m dying?”
“Isn’t there some one who will want to know?” I asked softly. It struck
me all at once that this was a duty these people owed to everybody,
their families and friends included.
“You’re right,” said the man with cracked lips, after a long silence,
and he gave his name and an account of his experiences.
I went to others and to each who was able to understand I put the same
question. It won me the toleration of those who were watching me. All
except the station agent seemed to see that I was entitled to do this,
and he could have been soothed with a bribe if I had thought of it.
As I have said, however, once the wreck-train rolled in surgeons and
nurses leaped down, and men brought litters to carry away the wounded.
In a moment the scene changed; the authorities of the road turned a
frowning face upon inquiry and I was only too glad that I had thought to
make my inquiries early. However, I managed in the excitement to install
myself in the train just as it was leaving so as to reach Alton with the
injured and dead and witness the transfer. Some died en route, others
moaned in a soul-racking way. I was beside myself with pity and
excitement, and yet I could think only of the manner in which I would
describe, describe, describe, once the time came. Just now I scarcely
dared to make notes.
At Alton the scene transferred itself gradually to the Alton General
Hospital, where in spite of the protests of railroad officials I
demanded as my right that I be allowed to enter and was finally
admitted. Once in the hospital I completed my canvass, being new
assisted by doctors and nurses, who seemed to like my appearance and to
respect my calling, possibly because they saw themselves mentioned in
the morning paper. Having interviewed every injured man, obtaining his
name and address where possible, I finally went out, and at the door
encountered a great throng of people, men, women and children, who were
weeping and clamoring for information. One glance, and I realized for
all time what these tragedies of the world really mean to those
dependent. The white drawn faces, the liquid appealing eyes, tragedy
written in large human characters.
“Do you know whether my John is in there?” cried one woman.
“Your John?” I replied sympathetically. “Will you tell me who your John
is?”
“John Taylor. He works on that road. He was over there.”
“Wait a moment,” I said, reaching down in my pocket for my pad and
reading the names. “No, he isn’t here.”
The woman heaved a great sigh.
Others now crowded about me. In a moment I was the center of a clamoring
throng. All wanted to know, each before the other.
“Wait a moment,” I said, as an inspiration seized me. I raised my hand,
and a silence fell over the little group.
“You people want to know who is injured,” I called. “I have a list here
which I made over at the wreck and here. It is almost complete. If you
will be quiet I will read it.”
A hush fell over the crowd. I stepped to one side, where there was a
broad balustrade, mounted it and held up my paper.
“Edward Reeves,” I began, “224 South Elm Street, Alton. Arms, legs and
face seriously burned. He may die.”
“Oh!” came a cry from a woman in the crowd.
I decided to not say whether any one was seriously injured.
“Charles Wingate, 415 North Tenth Street, St. Louis.”
No voice answered this.
“Richard Shortwood, 193 Thomas Street, Alton.”
No answer.
I read on down the list of forty or more, and at each name there was a
stir and in some instances cries. As I stepped down two or three people
drew near and thanked me. A flush of gratification swept over me. For
once I felt that I had done something of which I could honestly be
proud.
The rest of the afternoon was spent in gathering outside details. I
hunted up the local paper, which was getting out an extra, and got
permission to read its earlier account. I went to the depot to see how
the trains ran, and by accident ran into Wood. In spite of my inability
to send a telegram the city editor had seen fit to take my advice and
send him. He was intensely wrought up over how to illustrate it all, and
I am satisfied that my description of what had occurred did not ease him
much. I accompanied him back to the hospital to see if there was
anything there he wished to illustrate, and then described to him the
horror as I saw it. Together we visited the morgue of the hospital,
where already fourteen naked bodies had been laid out in a row, bodies
from which the flames had eaten great patches of skin, and I saw that
there was nothing now by which they could be identified. Who were they?
I asked myself. What had they been, done? The nothingness of man! They
looked so commonplace, so unimportant, so like dead flies or beetles.
Curiously enough, the burns which had killed them seemed in some cases
pitifully small, little patches cut out of the skin as if by a pair of
shears, revealing the raw muscles beneath. All those dead were stark
naked, men who had been alive and curiously gaping only two or three
hours before. For once Dick was hushed; he did not theorize or pretend;
he was silent, pale. “It’s hell, I tell you,” was all he said.
On the way back on the train I wrote. In my eagerness to give a full
account I impressed the services of Dick, who wrote for me such phases
of the thing as he had seen. At the office I reported briefly to
Mitchell, giving that solemn salamander a short account of what had
occurred. He told me to write it at full length, as much as I pleased.
It was about seven in the evening when we reached the office, and at
eleven I was still writing and not nearly through. I asked Hartung to
look out for some food for me about midnight, and then went on with my
work. By that time the whole paper had become aware of the importance of
the thing I was doing; I was surrounded and observed at times by gossips
and representatives of out-of-town newspapers, who had come here to get
transcripts of the tale. The telegraph editor came in from time to time
to get additional pages of what I was writing in order to answer
inquiries, and told me he thought it was fine. The night editor called
to ask questions, and the reporters present sat about and eyed me
curiously. I was a lion for once. The realization of my importance set
me up. I wrote with vim, vanity, a fine frenzy.
By one o’clock I was through. Then after it was all over the other
reporters and newspaper men gathered about me—Hazard, Bellairs, Benson,
Hartung, David the railroad man, and several others.
“This is going to be a great beat for you,” said Hazard generously.
“We’ve got the _Post_ licked, all right. They didn’t hear of it until
three o’clock this afternoon, but they sent five men out there and two
artists. But the best they can have is a _cold_ account. You _saw_ it.”
“That’s right,” echoed Bellairs. “You’ve got ’em licked. That’ll tickle
Mac, all right. He loves to beat the other Sunday papers.” It was
Saturday night.
“Tobe’s tickled sick,” confided Hartung cautiously. “You’ve saved his
bacon. He hates a big story because he’s always afraid he won’t cover it
right and it always worries him, but he knows you’ve got ’em beat.
McCullagh’ll give him credit for it, all right.”
“Oh, that big stiff!” I said scornfully, referring to Tobias.
“Something always saves that big stiff,” said Hazard bitterly. “He plays
in luck, by George! He hasn’t any brains.”
I went in to report to my superior after a time, and told him very
humbly that I thought I had written all I could down here but that there
was considerable more up there which I was sure should be personally
covered by me and that I ought to go back.
“Very well,” he replied gruffly. “But don’t overdo it.”
“The big stiff!” I thought as I went out.
That night I stayed at a downtown hotel, since I was now charging
everything to the paper and wanted to be called early, and after a
feverish sleep arose at six and started out again. I was as excited and
cheerful as though I had suddenly become a millionaire. I stopped at the
nearest corner and bought a _Globe_, a _Republic_, and a
_Post-Dispatch_, and proceeded to contrast the various accounts,
scanning the columns to see how much my stuff made and theirs, and
measuring the atmosphere and quality. To me, of course, mine seemed
infinitely the best. There it was, occupying the whole front page, with
cuts, and nearly all of the second page, with cuts! I could hardly
believe my eyes. Dick’s illustrations were atrocious, a mess, no spirit
or meaning to them, just great blotches of weird machinery and queer
figures. He had lost himself in an effort to make a picture of the
original crumpling wreck, and he had done it very badly. At once, and
for the first time, he began to diminish as an artist in my estimation.
“Why, this doesn’t look anything like it at all! He hasn’t drawn what I
would have drawn,” and I began to see or suspect that art might mean
something besides clothes and manner. “Why didn’t he show those dead
men, that crowd clamoring about the main entrance of the hospital?” The
illustrations in the other papers seemed much better.
As for myself, I saw no least flaw in my work. It was all all right,
especially the amount of space given me. Splendid! “My!” I said to
myself vainly, “to think I should have written all this, and
single-handed, between the hours of five and midnight!” It seemed
astonishing, a fine performance. I picked out the most striking passages
first and read them, my throat swelling and contracting uncomfortably,
my heart beating proudly, and then I went over the whole of the article
word by word. To me in my vain mood it read amazingly well. I felt that
it was full of fire and pathos and done in the right way, with facts and
color. And, to cap it all and fill my cup of satisfaction to the brim,
this same paper contained an editorial calling attention to the facts
that the _Globe_ had triumphed in the matter of reporting this story and
that the skill of the _Globe-Democrat_ could always be counted upon in a
crisis like this to handle such things correctly, and commiserating the
other poor journals on their helplessness when faced by such trying
circumstances. The _Globe_ was always best and first, according to this
statement. I felt that at last I had justified the opinion of the
editor-in-chief in sending for me.
Bursting with vanity, I returned to Alton. Despite the woes of others I
could not help glorying in the fact that nearly the whole city, a good
part of it anyhow, must be reading _my_ account of the wreck. It was
anonymous, of course, and they could not know who had done it, but just
the same I had done it whether they knew it or not and I exulted. This
was the chance, apparently, that I had been longing for, and I had not
failed.
This second day at Alton was not so important as I had fancied it might
be, but it had its phases. On my arrival I took one more look at the
morgue, where by then thirty-one dead bodies were laid out in a row, and
then began to look after those who were likely to recover. I visited
some of the families of the afflicted, who talked of damage suits. At my
leisure I wrote a full account of just how the case stood, and wired it.
I felt that to finish the thing properly I should stay until another
day, which really was not necessary, and decided to do so without
consulting my editor.
But by nightfall, after my copy had been filed, I realized my mistake,
for I received a telegram to return. The local correspondent could
attend to the remaining details. On the way back I began to feel a qualm
of conscience in regard to my conduct. I had been taking a great deal
for granted, as I knew, in thus attempting to act without orders. My
city editor might think I was getting a “swelled head,” as no doubt I
was, and so complain to McCullagh. I knew he did not like me, and this
gave him a good excuse to complain. Besides, my second day’s story, now
that it was gone, did not seem to be so important; I might as well have
carried it in and saved the expense of telegraphing it. I felt that I
had failed in this; also that mature consideration might decide that I
had failed on the first story also. I began to think that by my own
attitude I had worked up all the excitement in the office that Saturday
night and that my editor-in-chief would realize it now and so be
disappointed in me. Suppose, I thought, when I reached the office
McCullagh were dissatisfied and should fire me—then what? Where would I
go, where get another job as good as this? I thought of my various
follies and my past work here. Perhaps with this last error my sins were
now to find me out. “Pride goeth before destruction,” I quoted, “and a
haughty spirit before a fall.”
By eight o’clock, when I reached the office, I was thoroughly depressed
and hurried in, expecting the worst. Of course the train had been
late—had to be on this occasion!—and I did not reach the office in time
to take an evening assignment. Mitchell was out, which left me nothing
to do but worry. Only Hartung was there, and he seemed rather glum.
According to him, Tobe had seemed dissatisfied with my wishing to stay
up there. Why had I been so bold, I asked myself, so silly, so
self-hypnotized? I took up an evening paper and retired gloomily to a
corner to wait. When Mitchell arrived at nine he looked at me but said
nothing. As I was about to go out to get something to eat Hartung came
in and said: “Mr. Mitchell wants to speak to you.”
My heart sank. I went in and stood before him.
“You called for me?”
“Yes. Mr. McCullagh wants to see you.”
“It’s all over,” I thought. “I can tell by his manner. What a fool I was
to build such high hopes on that story!”
I went out to the hall and walked nervously to the office of the chief,
which was at the front end of the hall. I was so depressed I could have
cried. To think that all my fine dreams were to have such an end!
That Napoleon-like creature was sitting in his little office, his chin
on his chest, a sea of papers about him. He did not turn when I entered,
and my heart grew heavier. He was angry with me! I could see it! He kept
his back to me, which was to show me that I was not wanted, done for! At
last he wheeled.
“You called for me, Mr. McCullagh?” I murmured.
“Mmm, yuss, yuss!” he mumbled in his thick, gummy, pursy way. His voice
always sounded as though it were being obstructed by something leathery
or woolly. “I wanted to say,” he added, covering me with a single
glance, “that I liked that story you wrote, very much indeed. A fine
piece of work, a fine piece of work! I like to recognize a good piece of
work when I see it. I have raised your salary five dollars, and I would
like to give you this.” He reached in his pocket, drew out a roll and
handed over a yellow twenty-dollar bill.
I could have dropped where I stood. The reaction was tremendous after my
great depression. I felt as though I should burst with joy, but instead
I stood there, awed by this generosity.
“I’m very much obliged to you, Mr. McCullagh,” I finally managed to say.
“I thank you very much. I’ll do the best I can.”
“It was a good piece of work,” he repeated mumblingly, “a good piece of
work,” and then slowly wheeled back to his desk.
I turned and walked briskly out.
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