Terrible Pictures of Woe.
The proportion of the living registered since the flood as against the
previous number of inhabitants is even less than was reported yesterday.
It was ascertained to-day that many of the names on the list were
entered more than once and that the total number of persons registered
is not more than 13,000 out of a former population of between 40,000 and
50,000.
A new and more exact method of determining the number of the lost was
inaugurated this morning. Men are sent out by the Relief Committee, who
will go to every abode and obtain the names of the survivors, and if
possible those of the dead.
The lack of identification of hundreds of bodies strengthens the
inference that the proportion of the dead to the living is appalling. It
is argued that the friends who might identify these unclaimed bodies are
themselves all gone.
Another significant fact is that so large a number of those whom one
meets in the streets or where the streets used to be are non-residents,
strangers who have come here out of humane or less creditable motives.
The question that is heard very often is, "Where are the inhabitants?"
The town does not appear to have at present a population of more than
10,000.
It is believed that many of the bodies of the dead have been borne down
into the Ohio, and perhaps into the Mississippi as well, and hence may
finally be deposited by the waters hundreds of miles apart, perhaps
never to be recovered or seen by man again.
The General Situation.
Under the blue haze of smoke that for a week has hung over this valley
of the shadow of death the work which is to resurrect this stricken city
has gone steadily forward. Here and there over the waste where Johnstown
stood in its pride black smoke arises from the bonfires on which
shattered house-walls, rafters, doors, broken furniture and all the
flotsam and jetsam of the great flood is cast.
Adjutant General Hastings, who believes in heroic measures, has been
quietly trying to persuade the "Dictator"--that is, the would-be
"Dictator"--to allow him to burn up the wrecked houses wholesale without
the tedious bother of pulling them down and handling the debris. The
timorous committees would not countenance such an idea. Nothing but
piecemeal tearing down of the wrecked houses tossed together by the
mighty force of the water and destruction by never-dying bonfires would
satisfy them. Yet all of them must come down. Most of the buildings
reached by the flood have been examined, found unsafe and condemned. Can
the job be done safely and successfully wholesale or not? That is the
real question for the powers that be to answer, and no sentiment should
enter into it.
Four thousand workmen are busy to-day with ropes and axe, pick and
shovel. But the task is vast, it is herculean, like unto the cleaning of
the Augean stables.
"To clean up this town properly," said General Hastings to-day, "we
shall need twenty thousand workmen for three months."
The force of the swollen river upturned the town in a half hour. These
same timorous managers weakened to-day, after having the facts before
their eyes brought home to their understanding by constant iteration.
They have found out that they have, vulgarly speaking, bitten off more
than they can chew. Poisons of the foulest kind pollute the water which
flows down the turgid Conemaugh into the Allegheny River, whence is
Pittsburgh's water-supply, and thence into the Ohio, the water-supply of
many cities and towns. Fears of a pestilence are not to be pooh-poohed
into the background. It is very serious, so long as the river flows
through the clogged and matted mass of the bridge so long it will
threaten the people along its course with pestilence. The committee
confess their inability to do this needed work, and to-day voted to ask
the Governors of the several States to co-operate in the establishment
of a national relief committee to grapple with the situation. Action
cannot and must not be delayed.
Hope Out of Despair.
The fears of an outbreak of fever or other zymotic diseases appear to be
based on the alleged presence of decomposed animal matter, human and of
lower type, concealed amid the debris. The alleged odor of burnt flesh
coming from the enormous mass of conglomerated timber and iron lodged in
the cul-de-sac formed by the Pennsylvania Railroad bridge is extremely
mythical. There is an unmistakable scent of burnt wood. It would not be
strange if the carcasses of domestic animals, which must be hidden in
the enormous mass, were finally to be realized by the olfactory organs
of the bystanders.
[Illustration: GENERAL HASTINGS DIRECTING THE POLICE.]
Blasting Continues.
All day long the blast of dynamite resounded among the hills. Cartridges
were let off in the debris, and a cloud of dust and flying spray marked
the result of the mining operation. The interlaced timbers in the
cul-de-sac yielded very slowly even to the mighty force of dynamite.
There were no finds of especial import. At the present rate of clearing,
the cul-de-sac will not be free from the wreckage in two months.
There was a sad spectacle presented this morning when the laborers were
engaged in pulling over a vast pile of timber and miscellaneous matter
on Main street. A young woman and a little puny baby girl were found
beneath the mass, which was as high as the second story windows of the
houses near by.
Together in Death.
The girl must have been handsome when in the flush of youth and health.
She had seized the helpless infant and endeavored to find safety by
flight. Her closely cut brown hair was filled with sand, and a piece of
brass wire was wound around the head and neck. A loose cashmere
house-gown was partially torn from her form, and one slipper, a little
bead embroidered affair, covered a silk-stockinged foot. Each arm was
tightly clasped around the baby. The rigidity of death should have
passed away, but the arms were fixed in their position as if composed of
an unbendable material instead of muscle and bone. The fingers were
imbedded in the sides of the little baby as if its protector had made a
final effort not to be separated and to save if possible the fragile
life. The faces of both were scarred and disfigured from contact with
floating debris. The single garment of the baby--a thin white slip--was
rent and frayed. The body of the young woman was identified, but the
babe remained unknown. Probably its father and mother were lost in the
flood, and it will never be claimed by friendly hands.
A Strange Discovery.
This is only one among the many pathetic incidents of the terrible
disaster. There were only nine unidentified bodies at the Adams street
morgue this afternoon, and three additions to the number were made after
ten o'clock. Two hundred and eight bodies have been received by the
embalmers in charge. The yard of the school house, which was converted
into a temporary abode of death, contains large piles of coffins of the
cheaper sort. They come from different cities within two or three
hundred miles of Johnstown, and after being stacked up they are pulled
out as needed. Coffins are to be seen everywhere about the valley, ready
for use when a body is found. A trio of bodies was found near the
Hurlburt House under peculiar circumstances. They were hidden beneath a
pile of wreckage at least twenty-five feet in height. They were a
father, a mother and son. Around the waist of each a quarter inch rope
was tied so that the three were bound together tightly. The hands of the
boy were clasped by those of the mother, and the father's arms were
extended as if to ward off danger. The father probably knotted the rope
during the awful moments of suspense intervening between the coming of
the flood and the final destruction of the house they occupied. The
united strength of the three could not resist the mighty force of the
inundation, and like so many straws they were swept on the boiling surge
until life was crushed out.
Child and Doll in One Coffin.
I beheld a touching spectacle when the corpse of a little girl was
extricated and placed on a stretcher for transportation to the morgue.
Clasped to her breast by her two waxen hands was a rag doll. It was a
cheap affair, evidently of domestic manufacture. To the child of poverty
the rag baby was a favorite toy. The little mother held fast to her
treasure and met her end without separating from it. The two, child and
doll, were not parted when the white coffin received them, and they will
moulder together.
I saw an old-fashioned cupboard dug out of a pile of rubbish. The top
shelf contained a quantity of jelly of domestic manufacture. Not a
glass jar was broken. Indeed there have been some remarkable instances
of the escape of fragile articles from destruction. In the debris near
the railroad bridge you may come upon all manner of things. The
water-tanks of three locomotives which were borne from the roundhouse at
Conemaugh, two miles away, are conspicuous. Amid the general wreck,
beneath one of these heavy iron tanks, a looking glass, two feet by one
foot in dimensions, was discovered intact, without even a scratch on the
quicksilver.
Johnstown people surviving the destruction appear to bewail the death of
the Fisher family. "Squire" Fisher was one of the old time public
functionaries of the borough. He and his six children were swept away.
One of the Fisher girls was at home under peculiar circumstances. She
had been away at school, and returned home to be married to her
betrothed. Then she was to return to school and take part in the
graduating exercises. Her body has not yet been recovered.
Something to be Thankful For.
There is much destitution felt by people whose pride prevents them from
asking for supplies from the relief committees. I saw a sad little
procession wending up the hill to the camp of the Americus Club. There
was a father, an honest, simple German, who had been employed at the
Cambria works during the past twelve years. Behind him trooped eight
children, from a girl of fourteen to a babe in the arms of the mother,
who brought up the rear. The woman and children were hatless, and
possessed only the calico garments worn at the moment of flight. Forlorn
and weary, they ranged in front of the relieving stand and implored
succor.
"We lost one only, thank God!" exclaimed the mother. "Our second
daughter is gone. We had a comfortable house which we owned. It was paid
for by our savings. Now all is gone." Then the unhappy woman sat down on
the wet ground and sobbed hysterically. The children crowded around
their mother and joined in her grief. You will behold many of these
scenes of domestic distress about the ruins of Johnstown in these
dolorous days.
Saw a Flood of Helpless Humanity.
Mr. L.D. Woodruff, the editor and proprietor of the Johnstown
_Democrat_, tells his experiences during the night of horrors. He was at
the office of the paper, which is in the upper portion of the Baltimore
and Ohio Railway station. This brick edifice stands almost in the centre
of the course of the flood, and its preservation from ruin is one of the
remarkable features of the occasion. A pile of freight cars lodged at
the corner of the building and the breakwater thus formed checked the
onslaught of floating battering rams. Mr. Woodruff, with his two sons,
remained in the building until the following day. The water came up to
the floor of the second story. All night long he witnessed people
floating past on the roofs of houses or on various kinds of wreckage. A
number of persons were rescued through the windows.
A man and his wife with three children were pulled in. After a while the
mother for the first time remembered that her baby of fifteen months was
left behind. Her grief was violent, and her cries were mingled with the
groans of her husband, who lay on the floor with a broken leg. The next
day the baby was found, when the waters subsided, on a pile of debris
outside and it was alive and uninjured.
During the first few hours Mr. Woodruff momentarily expected that the
building would go. As the night wore away it became evident the water
was going down. Not a vestige of Mr. Woodruff's dwelling has been found.
The newspapers of Johnstown came out of the flood fairly well. The
_Democrat_ lost only a job press, which was swept out of one corner of
the building.
The Flood's Awful Spoil.
In the broad field of debris at the Pennsylvania Railroad viaduct, where
the huge playthings of the flood were tossed only to be burned and
beaten to a solid, intricate mass, are seen the peculiar metal works of
two trains of cars. The wreck of the day express east, running in two
sections that fatal Friday, lie there about thirty yards above the
bridge. One mass of wreckage is unmistakably that of the Pullman car
section, made up of two baggage cars and six Pullman coaches, and the
other shows the irons of five day coaches and one Pullman car. These
trains were running in the same block at Johnstown and were struck by
the flood two miles above, torn from their tracks and carried tumbling
down the mighty torrents to their resting place in the big eddy.
Railroad Men Suppressing Information.
The train crew, who saw the waters coming, warned the passengers,
escaped, and went home on foot. Conductor Bell duly made his report, yet
for some unknown reasons one of Superintendent Pitcairn's sub-ordinates
has been doing his best to give out and prove by witnesses, to whom he
takes newspaper men, that only one car of that express was lost and with
it "two or three ladies who went back for overshoes and a very few
others not lively enough to escape after the warnings." That story went
well until the smoke rolled away from the wreckage and the bones of the
two sections of the day express east were disclosed. Another very
singular feature was the apparent inability of the conductor of the
express to tell how many passengers they had on board and just how many
were saved. It had been learned that the first section of the train
carried 180 passengers and the second 157. It may be stated as
undoubtedly true that of the number fifty, at least, swell the horrible
tale of the dead.
From the wreck where the trains burned there have been taken out
fifty-eight charred bodies, the features being unrecognizable. Of these
seven found together were the Gilmore family, whose house had floated
there. The others, all adults, which, with two or three exceptions,
swell the list of the unidentified dead, are undoubted corpses of the
ill-fated passengers of the east express.
The Church Loses a Missionary.
To-day another corpse was found in the ruins of a Pullman car badly
burned. It was fully identified as that of Miss Anna Clara Chrisman, of
Beauregard, Miss., a well-developed lady of about twenty-five years, who
was on her way to New York to fill a mission station in Brazil. Between
the leaves of her Greek testament was a telegram she had written,
expecting to send it at the first stop, addressed to the Methodist
Mission headquarters, No. 20 East Twelfth street, New York, saying that
she would arrive on "train 8" of the Pennsylvania Railroad, the day
express east. In her satchel were found photographs of friends and her
Bible, and from her neck hung a $20 gold piece, carefully sewn in a bag.
Is it possible that the Pennsylvania Railroad is keeping back the
knowledge in order simply to avoid a list of "passengers killed" in its
annual report, solely to keep its record as little stained as possible?
It can hardly be that they fear suits for damages, for the
responsibility of the wreck does not rest on them.
Two hundred bodies were recovered from the ruins yesterday. Some were
identified, but the great majority were not. This number includes all
the morgues--the one at the Pennsylvania Railroad station, the Fourth
ward school, Cambria city, Morrellville, Kernville and the Presbyterian
Church.
At the latter place a remarkable state of affairs exists. The first
floor has been washed out completely and the second, while submerged,
was badly damaged, but not ruined. The walls, floors and pews were
drenched, and the mud has collected on the matting and carpets an inch
deep. Walking is attended with much difficulty, and the undertakers and
attendants, with arms bared, slide about the slippery surface at a
tremendous rate. The chancel is filled with coffins, strips of muslin,
boards, and all undertaking accessories. Lying across the tops of the
pews are a dozen pine boxes, each containing a victim of the flood.
Printed cards are tacked on each. Upon them the sex and full description
of the enclosed body is written with the name, if known.
The Nameless Dead.
The great number of bodies not identified seems incredulous and
impossible. Some of these bodies have lain in the different morgues for
four days. Thousands of people from different sections of the State have
seen them, yet they remain unidentified.
At Nineveh they are burying all the unidentified dead, but in the
morgues in this vicinity no bodies have been buried unless they were
identified.
The First Presbyterian Church contains nine "unknown." Burials will have
to be made to-morrow. This morning workmen found three members of
Benjamin Hoffman's family, which occupied a large residence in the rear
of Lincoln street. Benjamin Hoffman, the head of the family, was found
seated on the edge of the bedstead. He was evidently preparing to retire
when the flood struck the building. He had his socks in his pocket. His
twenty-year-old daughter was found close by attired in a night-dress.
The youngest member of the family, a three-year-old infant, was also
found beside the bed.
[Illustration: CARRYING CHILDREN TO BURIAL.]
Where the Dead are Laid.
I made a tour of the cemeteries to-day to see how the dead were disposed
in their last resting place. There are six burying grounds--two to the
south of this place, one to the north, and three on Morrellsville to the
west. The principal one is Grand View, on the summit of Kernville Hill.
But the most remarkable, through the damage done by the flood, is Sandy
Vale Cemetery, at Hornersville, on Stony Creek, and about half a mile
from the city of Johnstown. It is a private institution in which most of
the people of the city buried their dead until two years ago, when the
public corporation of Grand View was established. Its grounds are level,
laid out in lots, and were quite picturesque, its dense foliage and
numerous monuments attracting the eyes of every passenger entering the
city by the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, which passes along one side the
creek forming its other boundary. The banks of the creek are twenty feet
high, and there was a nice sandy beach through its entire length.
A Sorry Scene.
When the floods came the first of the wreckage and the backwater sent
hundreds of houses, immense quantities of logs and cut lumber over it
and into the borough of Hornersville. As the angry waters subsided the
pretty cemetery was wrecked as badly as was the city, a portion of the
debris of which has destroyed its symmetry. To make way for the burial
of the numerous bodies sent there by the town committees it became
necessary to burn some of the debris. This was commenced at the nearest
or southern end, and at the time of my visit I had, like the corpses, to
pass through an avenue of fire and over live ashes to make my
inspection. There were no unknown dead sent here, consequently they were
interred in lots, and here and there, as the cleared spots would allow,
a body was deposited and the grave made to look as decently as four or
five inches of mud on the surface and the clay soil would allow.
Masses of Debris.
Scarcely a monument was left standing. Tall columns were broken like
pipe-stems, and fences and evergreen bowers were almost a thing of the
past. Whole houses on their sides, with their roofs on the ground,
covered the lots, the beach, or blocked up the pathways, while other
houses in fragments strewed the surface of the ground from one end to
the other of the cemetery, once the pride of Johnstown. I found that
some of the trees which were standing had feather beds or articles of
furniture up in their boughs. Here and there a dead cow or a horse, two
or three wagons, a railroad baggage car. Add to this several thousand
logs, heaps of lumber, piled just as they left the yards, and still
other single planks by the hundred thousand of feet, and some idea of
the surroundings of the victims of the flood placed at rest here can be
obtained.
On Kernville Hill.
Grand View Cemetery, a beautiful spot, was started as a citizens'
cemetery and incorporated two years ago, and is now the finest burying
place in this section of Pennsylvania. It is situated on the summit of
Kernville hill, between six hundred and seven hundred feet above the
town. It is approached by a zigzag roadway about one mile and a half in
length, and a magnificent view of the valley is obtained from the
grounds, making it well worth a visit under any circumstances. Here
those whose relatives did not hold lots are to be buried in trenches
four feet deep, sixty bodies to a trench. At present the trenches are
not complete, and their encoffined bodies are stored in the beautiful
stone chapel at the entrance. Of the other bodies they are entombed in
the lots, where more than one were buried together. A wide grave was dug
to hold them side by side. A single grave was made for Squire Fisher's
family, one grave and one mound holding eight of them.
Snatched from the Flood.
One of the most thrilling incidents of narrow escapes is that told by
Miss Minnie Chambers. She had been to see a friend in the morning and
was returning to her home on Main street, when the suddenly rising
waters caused her to quicken her steps. Before she could reach her home
or seek shelter at any point, the water had risen so high and the
current became so strong that she was swept from her feet and carried
along in the flood. Fortunately her skirts served to support her on the
surface for a time, but at last as they became soaked she gave up all
hope of being saved.
Just as she was going under a box car that had been torn from its trucks
floated past her and she managed by a desperate effort to get hold of it
and crawled inside the open doorway. Here she remained, expecting every
moment her shelter would be dashed to pieces by the buildings and other
obstructions that it struck. Through the door she could see the mass of
angry, swirling waters, filled with all manner of things that could be
well imagined.
An Ark of Refuge.
Men, women and children, many of them dead and dying, were being whirled
along. Several of them tried to get refuge in the car with her, but were
torn away by the rushing waters before they could secure an entrance.
Finally a man did make his way into the car. On went the strange boat,
while all about it seemed to be a perfect pandemonium. Shrieks and cries
from the thousands outside who were being driven to their death filled
the air.
Miss Chambers says it was a scene that will haunt her as long as she
lives. Many who floated by her could be seen kneeling on the wreckage
that bore them, with clasped hands and upturned faces as though in
prayer. Others wore a look of awful despair on their faces. Suddenly, as
the car was turned around, the stone bridge could be seen just ahead of
them. The man that was in the car called to her to jump out in the flood
or she would be dashed to pieces. She refused to go.
He seized a plank and sprang into the water. In an instant the eddying
current had torn the plank from him, and as it twisted around struck him
on the head, causing him to throw out his arms and sink beneath the
water never to reappear again. Miss Chambers covered her face to avoid
seeing any more of the horrible sight, when with an awful crash the car
struck one of the stone piers. The entire side of it was knocked out. As
the car lodged against the pier the water rushed through it and carried
Miss Chambers away. Again she gave herself up as lost, when she felt
herself knocked against an obstruction, and instinctively threw out her
hand and clutched it.
Here she remained until the water subsided, when she found that she was
on the roof of one of the Cambria mills, and had been saved by holding
on to a pipe that came through the roof.
A Night of Agony.
All through that awful night she remained there, almost freezing to
death, and enveloped in a dense mass of smoke from the burning drift on
the other side of the bridge. The cries of those being roasted to death
were heard plainly by her. On Saturday some men succeeded in getting her
from the perilous position she occupied and took her to the house of
friends on Prospect Hill. Strange to say that with the exception of a
few bruises she escaped without any other injuries.
Another survivor who told a pathetic story was John C. Peterson. He is a
small man but he was wearing clothes large enough for a giant. He lost
his own and secured those he had on from friends.
"I'm the only one left," he said in a voice trembling with emotion. "My
poor old mother, my sister, Mrs. Ann Walker, and her son David, aged
fourteen, of Bedford county, who were visiting us, were swept away
before my eyes and I was powerless to aid them.
"The water had been rising all day, and along in the afternoon flooded
the first story of our house, at the corner of Twenty-eighth and Walnut
streets. I was employed by Charles Mun as a cigarmaker, and early on
Friday afternoon went home to move furniture and carpets to the second
story of the house.
"As near as I can tell it was about four o'clock when the whistle at the
Gautier steel mill blew. About the same time the Catholic church bell
rang. I knew what that meant and I turned to mother and sister and said,
'My God, we are lost!'
Here's A Hero.
"I looked out of the window and saw the flood, a wall of water thirty
feet high, strike the steel works, and it melted quicker than I tell it.
The man who stopped to blow the warning whistle must have been crushed
to death by the falling roof and chimneys. He might have saved himself,
but stopped to give the warning. He died a hero. Four minutes after the
whistle blew the water was in our second story.
"We started to carry mother to the attic, but the water rose faster than
we could climb the stairs. There was no window in our attic, and we were
bidding each other good-by when a tall chimney on the house adjoining
fell on our roof and broke a hole through it. We then climbed out on the
roof, and in another moment our house floated away. It started down with
the other stuff, crashing, twisting and quivering. I thought every
minute it would go to pieces.
"Finally it was shoved over into water less swift and near another
house.
"I found that less drift was forced against it than against ours, and
decided to get on it. I climbed up on the roof, and in looking up saw a
big house coming down directly toward ours, I called to sister to be
quick. She was lifting mother up to me. I could barely reach the tips of
her fingers when her arms were raised up while I lay on my stomach
reaching down. At that moment the house struck ours and my loved ones
were carried away and crushed by the big house. It was useless for me to
follow, for they sank out of sight. I floated down to the bridge, then
back with the current and landed at Vine street.
"I saw hundreds of people crushed and drowned. It is my opinion that
fully fifteen thousand people perished."
When the whistles of the Gautier Steel Mill of the Cambria Iron Company
blew for the shutting down of the works at 10 o'clock last Friday
morning nearly 1400 men walked out of the establishment and went to
their homes, which were a few hours later wiped off the face of the
earth. When the men to-day answered the notice that all should present
themselves ready for work only 487 reported. That shows more clearly
than anything else that has yet been known the terrible nature of the
fatality of the Conemaugh. The mortality wrought among these men in a
few hours is thus shown to have been greater than that in either of the
armies that contended for three days at Gettysburg.
"Report at 9 o'clock to-morrow morning ready for work," the notice
posted read. It did not say where, but everybody knew it was not at the
great Gautier Mill that covered half a dozen acres, for the reason that
no mill is there. By a natural impulse the survivors of the working
force of the steel plant began to move from all directions, before the
hour named, toward the general office of the company.
What the Superintendent Saw.
This office is located in Johnstown proper and is the only building in
that section of the town left standing uninjured. It is a large brick
building, three stories high, with massive brick walls. L.L. Smith, the
commercial agent of the company, arrived at eight o'clock to await the
gathering of the men, pausing a minute in the doorway to look at two
things. One was an enormous pile of debris, bricks, iron girders and
timbers almost in front of the office door which swarmed with 200 men
engaged in clearing it away. This is the ruins of the Johnstown Free
Library, presented to the town by the Cambria Iron Company, the late
I.V. Williamson and others, and beneath it Mr. Smith knew many of his
most intimate friends were buried. The other thing he looked at was his
handsome residence partly in ruins, a few hundred yards away. When he
entered the office he found that the men who had been shoveling the mud
out of the office had finished their work and the floor was dark and
sticky. A fire blazed in the open grate. A table was quickly rigged up
and with three clerks to assist him, Mr. Smith prepared to make up the
roster of the Gautier forces.
The Survivor's Advance Corps.
Soon they began to come like the first reformed platoon of an army after
fleeing from disaster. The leader of the platoon was a small boy. His
hat was pulled down over his eyes and he looked as if he were sorely
afraid. After him came half a dozen men with shambling gait. One was an
Irishman, two were English, one was a German and one a colored man. Two
of them carried pickaxes in their hands, which they had been using to
clear away the wreckage across the street.
"Say, mister," stammered the abashed small boy, "is this the place?"
"Are you a Gautier man?" asked Mr. Smith kindly.
"Yes, sir, me and me father, but he's gone."
"Give us your name, my boy, and report at the lower works at 4 o'clock.
Now, my men, we want to get to work and pull each other out of the hole,
this dreadful calamity has put us in. It's no use having vain regrets.
It's all over and we must put a good face to the front. At first it was
intended that we should go up to the former site of the Gautier Mill and
clean up and get out all the steel we could. Mr. Stackhouse now wants us
to get to work and clear the way from the lower mills right up the
valley. We will rebuild the bridge back of the office here and push the
railroad clear up to where it was before."
Not Anxious to Turn In.
The men listened attentively, and then one of them asked: "But, Mr.
Smith, if we don't feel just like turning in to-day we don't have to, do
we?"
"Nobody will have to work at all," was the answer, "but we do want all
the men to lend a hand to help us out as soon as they can."
While Mr. Smith was speaking several other workmen came in. They, too,
were Gautier employees, and they had pickaxes on their shoulders. They
heard the agent's last remark, and one of them, stepping forward, said:
"A good many of us are working cleaning up the town. Do you want us to
leave that?"
"It isn't necessary for you to work cleaning up the town," was the
reply. "There are plenty of people from the outside to do that who came
here for that purpose. Now, boys, just give your names so we can find
out how many of our men are left, and all of you that can, go down and
report at the lower office."
All the time the members of the decimated Gautier army were filing into
the muddy-floored office. They came in twos and threes and dozens, and
some bore out the idea of an army reforming after disaster, because they
bore grievous wounds. One man had a deep cut in the back of his head,
another limped along on a heavy stick, one had lost a finger and had an
ugly bruise on his cheek. J.N. Short, who was the foreman of the
cold-rolled steel shafting department, sat in the office, and many of
the men who filed past had been under him in the works.
Mutual Congratulations.
There were handshakes all the more hearty and congratulations all the
more sincere because of what all had passed through. When the wall of
water seventy-five feet high struck the mill and whipped it away like
shot Mr. Short was safe on higher ground, but many of the men had feared
he was lost.
"I tell you, Mr. Short," said J.T. Miller, "I'm glad to see you're
safe."
"And how did you make out, old man?"
"All right, thank God."
Then came another man bolder than all and apparently a general favorite.
He rushed forward and shook Mr. Smith's hand. "Mr. Smith," he exclaimed,
"good morning, good morning."
"So you got out of it, did you, after all?" asked Mr. Smith.
"Indeed I did, but Lord bless my soul, I thought the wife and babies
were gone." The man gave his name and hurried away, brushing a tear from
his eye.
Mr. Shellenberger, one of the foremen, brought up the rear of the next
platoon to enter. He caught sight of Mr. Smith and shouted: "Oh, Mr.
Smith: good for you. I'm glad to see you safe."
"Here to you, my hearty," was the answer. "Did you all get off?"
"Every blessed one of us," with a bright smile. "We were too high on the
hill."
He was Tired of Johnstown.
A little bit later another man came in. He looked as if he had been
weeping. He hesitated in front of the desk. "I am a Gautier employee,"
he said, speaking slowly, "and I have reported according to orders."
"Well, give us your name and go to work down at the lower works,"
suggested Mr. Smith.
"No, sir, I think not," he muttered, after a pause. "I am not staying in
this town any longer than I can help, I guess. I've lost two children
and they will be buried to-day."
"All right, my man, but if you want work we have plenty of it for you."
The reporting of names and these quiet mutual congratulations of the men
went on rapidly, but expected faces did not appear. This led Mr. Smith
to ask, "How about George Thompson? Is he alive?"
"I do not know," answered the man addressed. "I do not think so."
"Who do you know are alive?" asked Mr. Smith, turning to another man.
Mr. Smith never once asked who was dead.
"Well," answered the man speaking reflectively, "I'm pretty sure Frank
Smith is alive. John Dagdale is alive. Tom Sweet is alive, and I don't
know any more, for I've been away--at Nineveh." The speaker had been at
Nineveh looking for the body of his son. Not another word was said to
him.
"Say, boys," exclaimed Mr. Smith suddenly, a few minutes after he had
looked over the list, "Pullman hasn't reported yet."
"But Pullman's all right," said a man quickly, "I was up at his sister's
house last night and he was there. That's more than I can say of the
other men in Pullman's shift though," added the speaker in a low tone.
Mr. Short took this man aside, "That is a fact," said he, "yesterday I
knew of a family in which five out of six were lost. To-day I find out
there were twenty people in the house mostly our men and only three
escaped."
Each Thought the Other Dead.
Just then two men met at the door and fairly fell on each other's necks.
One wore a Grand Army badge and the other was a young fellow of
twenty-three or thereabouts. They had been fast friends in the same
department, and each thought the other dead. They knew no better till
they met at the office door. "Well, I heard your body had been found at
Nineveh," said the old man.
"And I was told you had been burned to death at the bridge," answered
the other. Then the two men solemnly shook hands and walked away
together.
A pale-faced woman with a shawl over her shoulders entered and stood at
the table. "My husband cannot report," she said simply, in almost a
whisper. "He worked for the Gautier Mill?" she was asked. She nodded,
bent forward and murmured something. The man at the desk said: "Make a
note of that; so-and-so's wife reports him as gone, and his wages due
are to be paid to her."
The work of recording the men went on until nearly one o'clock. Then,
after waiting for a long time, Mr. Smith said, "Out of 1400 men we now
have 487. It may be there are 200 who either did not see the notice or
who are too busy to come. Anyway, I hope so--my God, I hope so." All
afternoon the greater part of the 487 men were swinging pickaxes and
shovels, clearing the way for the railroad leading up to the Gautier
Steel Works of the future.
The Morbidly Curious.
To-day the order "Halt!" rang out in earnest at the footbridge over the
rushing river into Johnstown. It was the result of a cry as early as the
reveille, that came from among the ruins and from the hoarse throats of
the contractors--"For God's sake, keep the morbid people out of here;
they're in the way!"
General Hastings ordered the picket out on the high embankment east of
the freight depot, where every man, woman and child must pass to reach
the bridge. Colonel Perchment detailed Captain Hamilton, of G Company,
there with an ample guard, and all who came without General Hastings'
pass in the morning were turned aside. This afternoon a new difficulty
was encountered. When you flashed your military pass on the sentinel who
cried "Halt!" he would throw his gun slantwise across your body, so that
the butt grazed your right hip and the bayonet your left ear and say:
"No good unless signed by the sheriff." The civil authorities had taken
the bridge out of the hands of the militia, and the sheriff sat on a
camp stool overlooking the desolate city all the forenoon making out
passes and approving the General's.
No Conflict of Authority.
The military men say there was no conflict of authority, and it was
deemed proper that the civil authorities should still control the pass
there. The sheriff came near getting shot in Cambria City this morning
during a clash with one of his deputies over a buggy. Yet he looked calm
and serene. Some beg him for passes to hunt for their dead. One man
cried: "I've just gotten here, and my wife and children are in that
town;" another said, "I belong in Conemaugh and was carried off by the
flood," while an aged, trembling man behind him whispered, "Sheriff, I
just wanted to look where the old home stood." When four peaceful faced
sisters in convent garb, on their mission of mercy, came that way the
sentinels stood back a pace and no voice ordered "Halt!"
At noon the crane belonging to the Pennsylvania Railroad was taken away
from the debris at the bridge, and Mr. Kirk had to depend on dynamite
alone. Later it was ordered back, and after that the work went on
rapidly. An opening 400 feet long, which runs back in some places fifty
feet, was made during the afternoon. A relief party yesterday found a
ladies' hand satchel containing $91 in cash, deeds for $26,000 in
property and about $10,000 in insurance policies. Mrs. Lizzie Dignom was
the owner, and both she and her husband perished in the flood.
Remembering the Orphans.
Miss H.W. Hinckley and Miss E. Hanover, agent of the Children's Aid
Society and Bureau of Information of Philadelphia, arrived here this
morning, and in twenty minutes had established a transfer agency. Miss
Hinckley said:
"There are hundreds of children here who are apparently without parents.
We want all of them given to us, and we will send them to the various
homes and orphanages of the State, where they shall be maintained for
several months to await the possibility of the reappearance of their
parents when they will be returned to them. If after the lapse of a
month they do not reclaim their little ones, we shall do more than we
ordinarily do in the way of providing good homes for children in their
cases. Think of it, in the house adjoining us are seven orphans, all of
one family. We have been here only a half hour, but we have already
found scores. We shall stay right here till every child has been
provided for."
There is no denying that a great deal of ill-feeling is breeding here
between the survivors of the flood over the distribution of the relief
supplies. The supplies are spread along the railroad track down as far
as Morrellville in great stacks; provisions, clothing, shoes, and
everything else. The people come for them in swarms with baskets and
other means of conveyance. Lines are drawn, which are kept in trim by
the pickets, and in this way they pass along in turn to the point where
the stock is distributed.
It was not unusual yesterday to hear women's tongues lashing each other
and complaining that the real sufferers were being robbed and turned
away, while those who had not fared badly by flood or fire were getting
lots of everything from the committee. One woman made this complaint to
a corporal.
"Prove it; prove it," he said, and walked away. She cried after him,
"The pretty women are getting more than they can carry."
Twice the line of basket-carriers was broken by the guard to put out
wranglers, and all through the streets of Cambria City could be heard
murmurs of dissension. There is no doubt but that a strong guard will be
kept in the town day and night, for in their deplorable condition the
husbands may take up the quarrel of their wives.
Danger of Insanity.
The _Medical News_, of Philadelphia, with rare enterprise, despatched a
member of its staff to Johnstown, and he telegraphed as follows for the
next issue of that paper:
"The mental condition of almost every former resident of Johnstown is
one of the gravest character, and the reaction which will set in when
the reality of the whole affair is fully comprehended can scarcely fail
to produce many cases of permanent or temporary insanity. Most of the
faces that one meets, both male and female, are those of the most
profound melancholia, associated with an almost absolute disregard of
the future. The nervous system shows the strain it has borne by a
tremulousness of the hand and of the lip, in man as well as in woman.
This nervous state is further evidenced by a peculiar intonation of
words, the persons speaking mechanically, while the voices of many
rough-looking men are changed into such tremulous notes of so high a
pitch, as to make one imagine that a child, on the verge of tears, is
speaking. Crying is so rare that your correspondent saw not a tear on
any face in Johnstown, but the women that are left are haggard, with
pinched features and heavy, dark lines under their eyes.
"The State Board of Health should warn the people of the portions of the
country supplied by the Conemaugh of the danger of drinking its waters
for weeks to come."
The Women and Children.
New Johnstown will be largely a city of childless widowers. One of the
peculiar things a stranger notices is the comparatively small number of
women seen in the streets. Of the throngs who walked about the place
searching for dear friends there is not one woman to ten men.
Occasionally a little group of two or three women with sad faces will
pick their way about looking for the morgues. There are a few Sisters of
Charity--their black robes the only instance in which the conventional
badge of mourning is seen upon the streets--and in the parts of the town
not totally destroyed the usual number of women are seen in the houses
and yards.
But, as a rule, women are a rarety in Johnstown now. This is not a
natural peculiarity of Johnstown nor a mere coincidence, but a fact with
a terrible reason behind it. There are so many more men than women among
the living in Johnstown now because there are so many more women than
men among the dead. Of the bodies recovered there are at least two women
to every one man. Besides the fact that their natural weakness made them
an easier prey to the flood, the hour at which the disaster came was one
when the women would most likely be in their homes and the men at work
in the open air or in factory yards, from which escape was easy.
An Almost Childless City.
Children also are rarely seen about the town and for a similar reason.
They are all dead. There is never a group of the dead discovered that
does not contain from one to three or four children for every grown
person. Generally the children are in the arms of the grown persons, and
often little toys and trinkets clasped in their hands indicate that the
children were caught up while at play and carried as far as possible
toward safety.
Johnstown, when rebuilt, will be a city of many widowers and few
children. In turning a school-house into a morgue, the authorities
probably did a wiser thing than they thought. It will be a long time
before the school-house will be needed for its original purpose.
The Flood on the Flat.
The flood, with a front of twenty feet high, bristling with all manner
of debris, struck straight across the flat, as though the river's course
had always been that way. It cut off the outer two-thirds of the city
with a line as true and straight as could have been drawn by a survey.
On the part over which it swept there remains standing but one building,
the brewery. With this exception, not only the houses and stores, but
the pavements, sidewalks and curbstones, and the earth beneath for
several feet are washed away. The pavements were of cinders from the
Iron Works; a bed six inches thick and as hard as stone and with a
surface like macadam. Over west of the washed-out portion of the city
not even the broken fragments of these pavements are left.
Aside from the few logs and timbers left by the afterwash of the flood,
there is nothing remaining upon the outer edge of the flat, including
two of the four long streets of the city, except the brewery mentioned
before and a grand piano. The water-marks on the brewery walls show the
flood reached twenty feet up its sides and it stood on a little higher
ground than buildings around it at that.
Thieves Had Rifled His Safe.
Mr. Steires, who on last Friday was the wealthiest man in town, on
Sunday was compelled to borrow the dress which clothed his wife. When
the flood began to threaten he removed some of the most valuable papers
from his safe and moved them to the upper story of the building to keep
them from getting wet. When the dam burst and Conemaugh Lake came down
these, of course, went with the building. He got his safe Monday, but
found that thieves had been before him, they having chiseled it open and
taken everything but $65 in a drawer which they overlooked. Mr. Steires
said to-day: "I am terribly crippled financially, but my family were all
saved and I am ready to begin over again."
Rebuilding Going On Apace.
Oklahoma is not rising more quickly than the temporary buildings of the
workmen's city, which includes 5,000 men at least, and who are mingling
the sounds of hammers on the buildings they are putting up for their
temporary accommodation, with the crash of the buildings they are
tearing down. It seemed almost a waste of energy two days ago, but the
different gangs are already eating their way towards the heart of the
great masses of wreckage that block the streets in every direction.
A dummy engine has already been placed in position on what was the main
street, and all the large logs and rafters that the men can not move
are fastened with ropes and chains, and drawn out by the engine into a
clear space, where they are surrounded by smaller pieces of wood and
burned. Carloads of pickaxes, shovels and barrows are arriving from
Baltimore for the workmen.
First Store Opened.
The first store was opened to-day by a grocer named W.A. Kramer, whose
stock, though covered with mud and still wet from the flood, has been
preserved intact. So far the greater part of his things have been bought
for relics. The other storekeepers are dragging out the debris in their
shops and shoveling the mud from the upper stories upon inclined boards
that shoot it into the street, but with all this energy it will be weeks
before the streets are brought to sight again.
As a proof of this, there was found this morning a passenger car fully
half a mile from its depot, completely buried beneath the floor and
roofs of other houses. All that could be seen of it by peering through
intercepting rafters was one of the end windows over which was painted
the impotent warning of "Any person injuring this car will be dealt with
according to law."
Curious Finds of Workmen.
The workmen find many curious things among the ruins, and are, it should
be said to their credit, particularly punctilious about leaving them
alone. One man picked up a baseball catcher's mask under a great pile
of machinery, and the decorated front of the balcony circle of the Opera
House was found with the chairs still immediately about its semi-circle,
a quarter of a mile from the theatre's site.
The mahogany bar of a saloon, with its nickel-plated rail, lies under
another heap in the city park, and thousands of cigars from a
manufactory are piled high in Vine street, and are used as the only dry
part of the roadway. Those of the people who can locate their homes have
gathered what furniture and ornaments they can find together, and sit
beside them looking like evicted tenants.
The Grand Army of the Republic, represented by Department Commander
Thomas J. Stewart, have placed a couple of tents at the head of Main
street for the distribution of food and clothing. A census of the people
will be taken and the city divided into districts, each worthy applicant
will be furnished with a ticket giving his or her number and the number
of the district.
The Post-office Uniforms.
Across the street from the Grand Army tents is the temporary
post-office, which is now in fairly good working order. One of the
distributing clerks hunted up a newspaper correspondent to tell him that
the post-office uniforms sent from Philadelphia by the employees of that
city's office have arrived safely and that the men want to return thanks
through this paper.
The Red Cross Army people from Philadelphia have decided to remain,
notwithstanding General Hastings' cool reception, and they have taken up
their quarters in Kernville, where they say the destitution is as great
as in what was the city proper.
The Tale the Clocks Tell.
The clocks of the city in both public and private houses tell different
tales of the torrent that stopped them. Some of them ceased to tick the
moment the water reached them. In Dibert's banking-house the marble
time-piece on the mantel stopped at seven minutes after 4 o'clock. In
the house of the Hon. John M. Rose, on the bank of Stony Creek, was a
clock in every room of the mansion from the cellar to the attic. Mr.
Rose is a fine machinist, and the mechanism of clocks has a fascination
for him that is simply irresistible. He has bronze, marble, cuckoo,
corner or "grandfather" clocks--all in his house. One of them was
stopped exactly at 4 o'clock; still another at 4.10; another at 4.15,
and one was not stopped till 9 P.M. The "grandfather" clock did not stop
at all, and is still going.
The town clocks, that is the clocks in church towers, are all going and
were not injured by the water. The mantel piece clocks in nearly every
house show a "no tick" at times ranging from 3.40 to 4.15.
Dead in the Jail.
This morning a man, in wandering through the skirts of the city, came
upon the city jail, and finding the outer door open, went into the
gloomy structure. Hanging against the wall he found a bunch of keys and
fitting them in the doors opened them one after another. In one cell he
found a man lying on the floor in the mud in a condition of partial
decomposition. He looked more closely at the dead body and recognized it
as that of John McKee, son of Squire McKee, of this city, who had been
committed for a short term on Decoration Day for drunkenness. The
condition of the cell showed that the man had been overpowered and
smothered by the water, but not till he had made every effort that the
limits of his cell would allow to save himself. There were no other
prisoners in the jail.
Heroes of the Night.
Thomas Magee, the cashier of the Cambria Iron Company's general stores,
tells a thrilling story of the manner in which he and his fellow clerks
escaped from the waters themselves, saved the money drawers and rescued
the lives of nineteen other people during the progress of the flood. He
says:
It was 4.15 o'clock when the flood struck our building with a crash. It
seemed to pour in from every door and window on all sides, as well as
from the floors above us. I was standing by the safe, which was open at
the time, and snatched the tin box which contained over $12,000 in cash,
and with other clerks at my heels flew up the stairs to the second
floor. In about three minutes we were up to our waists in water, and
started to climb to the third floor of the building. Here we remained
with the money until Saturday morning, when we were taken out in boats.
Besides myself there were in the building Michael Maley, Frank
Balsinger, Chris Mintzmeyer, Joseph Berlin and Frank Burger, all of whom
escaped. All Friday night and Saturday morning we divided our time
between guarding the money, providing for our own safety and rescuing
the poor people floating by. We threw out ropes and gathered logs and
timbers together until we had enough to make a raft, which we bound
together with ropes and used in rescuing people. During the night we
rescued Henry Weaver, his wife and two children; Captain Carswell, wife
and three children, and three servant girls; Patrick Ravel, wife and one
child; A.M. Dobbins and two others whose names I have forgotten. Besides
this we cut large pieces of canvas and oilcloth and wrapped it around
bread and meat and other eatables and threw it or floated it out to
those who went by on housetops, rafts, etc., whom we could not rescue
without getting our raft in the drift and capsizing. We must have fed
100 people in this way alone.
When we were rescued ourselves we took the money over to Prospect Hill,
and sent to the justice of the peace, who swore us all in to keep guard
over our own money and that taken by Paymaster Barry from the Cambria
Iron Company's general offices, amounting to $4000, under precisely the
same circumstances that marked our escape. We remained on guard until
Monday night, when the soldiers came over and escorted us back to the
office of the Cambria Iron Company, where we placed the money in the
company's vault.
So far as known at this hour only eighteen bodies have been this
morning recovered in the Conemaugh Valley. One of these was a poor
remnant of humanity that was suddenly discovered by a teamster in the
centre of the road over which his wagons had been passing for the past
forty-eight hours. The heavy vehicles had sunk deeply in the sand and
broken nearly every bone in the putrefying body. It was quite impossible
to identify the corpse, and it was taken to the morgue and orders issued
for its burial after a few hours' exposure to the gaze of those who
still eagerly search for missing friends.
Only the hardiest can bear to enter the Morgue this morning, so
overwhelming is the dreadful stench. The undertakers even, after
hurriedly performing their task of washing a dead body and preparing it
for burial, retreat to the yard to await the arrival of the next ghastly
find. A strict order is now in force that all bodies should be interred
only when it becomes impossible to longer preserve them from absolute
putrefaction. There is no iron-clad rule. In some instances it is
necessary to inter some putrid body within a few hours, while others can
safely be preserved for several days. Every possible opportunity is
afforded for identification.
Four bodies were taken from the ruins at the Cambria Club House and the
company's store this morning. The first body was that of a girl about
seventeen years of age. She was found in the pantry and it is supposed
that she was one of the servants in the house. She was terribly bruised
and her face was crushed into a jelly. A boy about seven years of age
was taken from the same place. Two men and a woman were taken from in
front of a store on Main street. The remains were all bruised and in a
terrible condition. They had to be embalmed and buried immediately, and
it was impossible to have any one identify them.
Only Fifty Saved at Woodville.
The number of people missing from Woodville is almost incredible, and
from present indications it looks as if only about fifty people in the
borough were saved. Mrs. H.L. Peterson, who has been a resident at
Woodville for a number of years, is one of the survivors. While looking
for Miss Paulsen, of Pittsburg, of the drowned, she came to a coffin
which was marked "Mrs. H.L. Peterson, Woodville Borough, Pa., age about
forty, size five feet one inch, complexion dark, weight about two
hundred pounds." This was quite an accurate description of Mrs.
Peterson. She tore the card from the coffin and one of the officers was
about to arrest her. Her explanations were satisfactory and she was
released.
In speaking of the calamity afterward she said: "The people of Woodville
had plenty of time to get out of the town if they were so minded. We
received word shortly before two o'clock that the flood was coming, and
a Pennsylvania Railroad conductor went through the town notifying the
people. I stayed until half-past three o'clock, when the water commenced
to rise very rapidly, and I thought it was best to get out of town. I
told a number of women that they had better go to the hills, but they
refused, and the cause of this refusal was that their husbands would not
go with them and they refused to leave alone."
Terrific Experience of a Pullman Conductor.
Mr. John Barr, the conductor of the Pullman car on the day express train
that left Pittsburgh at eight o'clock, May 31, gave an account of his
experience in the Conemaugh Valley flood: "I was the last one saved on
the train," he said. "When the train arrived at Johnstown last Friday,
the water was up to the second story of the houses and people were going
about in boats. We went on to Conemaugh and had to halt there, as the
water had submerged the tracks and a part of the bridge had been washed
away. Two sections of the day express were run up to the most elevated
point.
"About four o'clock I was standing at the buffet when the whistle began
blowing a continuous blast--the relief signal. I went out and saw what
appeared to be a huge moving mountain rushing rapidly toward us. It
seemed to be surmounted by a tall cloud of foam.
Sounding the Alarm.
"I ran into the car and shouted to the passengers, 'For God's sake
follow me! Stop for nothing!'
"They all dashed out except two. Miss Paulsen and Miss Bryan left the
car, but returned for their overshoes. They put them on, and as they
again stepped from the car they were caught by the mighty wave and swept
away. Had they remained in the car they would have been saved, as two
passengers who stayed there escaped.
[Illustration: WRECK OF THE DAY EXPRESS.]
"One was Miss Virginia Maloney, a courageous, self-possessed young
woman. She tied securely about her neck a plush bag, so that her
identity could be established if she perished. Imprisoned in the car
with her was a maid employed by Mrs. McCullough. They attempted to leave
the car, but the water drove them back. They remained there until John
Waugh, the porter, and I waded through the water and rescued them.
"The only passengers I lost were the two unfortunate young ladies I have
named. I looked at the corpses of the luckless victims brought in during
the two days I remained in Johnstown, but the bodies of the two
passengers were not among them.
"At Conemaugh the people were extremely kind and hospitable. They threw
open their doors and provided us with a share of what little food they
had and gave us shelter.
Stripped of Her Clothing.
"While at Conemaugh, Miss Wayne, of Altoona, who had a miraculous
escape, was brought in. She was nude, every article of her clothing
having been torn from her by the furious flood. There was no female
apparel at hand, and she had to don trousers, coat, vest and hat.
"We had a severe task in reaching Ebensburg, eighteen miles from
Conemaugh. We started on Sunday and were nine hours in reaching our
destination. At Ebensburg we boarded the train which conveyed us to
Altoona, where we were cared for at the expense of the Pennsylvania
Railroad Company.
"I had a rough siege. I was in the water twelve hours. The force of the
flood can be imagined by the fact that seven or eight locomotives were
carried away and floated on the top of the angry stream as if they were
tiny chips."