"During all of this time the waters kept rushing down the Conemaugh and through the beautiful town of Johnstown, picking up everything and sparing nothing.
"The mountains by this time were black with people, and the moans and sighs from those below brought tears to the eyes of the most stony-hearted. There in that terrible rampage were brothers, sisters, wives and husbands, and from the mountain could be seen the panic-stricken marks in the faces of those who were struggling between life and death. I really am unable to do justice to the scene, and its details are almost beyond my power to relate. Then came the burning of the debris near the Pennsylvania Railroad bridge. The scene was too sickening to endure. We left the spot and journeyed across country and delivered many notes, letters, etc., that were intrusted to us."
The gallant young engineer, John G. Parke, whose ride of warning has already been described, relates the following:
"On Thursday night I noticed that the dam was in good order and the water was nearly seven feet from the top. When the water is at this height the lake is then nearly three miles in length. It rained hard on Thursday night and I rode up to the end of the lake on the eventful day and saw that the woods around there was teeming with a seething cauldron of water. Colonel Unger, the president of the fishing club that owns the property, put twenty-five Italians to work to fix the dam. A farmer in the vicinity also lent a willing hand. To strengthen the dam a plow was run along the top of it, and earth was then thrown into the furrows. On the west side a channel was dug and a sluice was constructed. We cut through about four feet of shale rock, when we came to solid rock which was impossible to cut without blasting. Once we got the channel open the water leaped down to the bed-rock, and a stream fully twenty feet wide and three feet deep rushed out on that end of the dam, while great quant.i.ties of water were coming in by the pier at the other end. And then in the face of this great escape of water from the dam, it kept rising at the rate of ten inches an hour.
"At noon I fully believed that it was practically impossible to save the dam, and I got on a horse and galloped down to South Fork, and gave the alarm, telling the people at the same time of their danger, and advising them to get to a place of safety. I also sent a couple of men to the telegraph tower, two miles away, to send messages to Johnstown and Cambria and to the other points on the way. The young girl at the instrument fainted when the news reached her, and was carried away.
Then, by the timely warning given, the people at South Fork had an opportunity to move their household goods and betake themselves to a place of safety. Only one person was drowned in that place, and he was trying to save an old washtub that was floating down-stream.
"It was noon when the messages were sent out, so that the people of Johnstown had just three hours to fly to a place of safety. Why they did not heed the warning will never be told. I then remounted my horse and rode to the dam, expecting at every moment to meet the lake rushing down the mountain-side, but when I reached there I found the dam still intact, although the water had then reached the top of it. At one P. M.
I walked over the dam, and then the water was about three inches on it, and was gradually gnawing away its face. As the stream leaped down the outer face, the water was rapidly wearing down the edge of the embankment, and I knew that it was a question of but a few hours. From my knowledge I should say there was fully ten million tons of water in the lake at one o"clock, while the pressure was largely increased by the swollen streams that flowed into it, but even then the dam could have stood it if the level of the water had been kept below the top. But, coupled with this, there was the constantly trickling of the water over the sides, which was slowly but surely wearing the banks away.
"The big break took place at just three o"clock, and it was about ten feet wide at first and shallow; but when the opening was made the fearful rushing waters opened the gap with such increasing rapidity that soon after the entire lake leaped out and started on its fearful march of death down the Valley of the Conemaugh. It took but forty minutes to drain that three miles of water, and the downpour of millions of tons of water was irresistible. The big boulders and great rafters and logs that were in the bed of the river were picked up, like so much chaff, and carried down the torrent for miles. Trees that stood fully seventy-five feet in height and four feet through were snapped off like pipe-stems."
CHAPTER XII.
One of the most thrilling incidents of the disaster was the performance of A. J. Leonard, whose family reside in Morrellville. He was at work, and hearing that his house had been swept away, determined at all hazards to ascertain the fate of his family. The bridges having been carried away, he constructed a temporary raft, and clinging to it as close as a cat to the side of a fence, he pushed his frail craft out in the raging torrent and started on a chase which, to all who were watching, seemed to mean an embrace in death.
Heedless of cries "For G.o.d"s sake, go back, you will be drowned," and "Don"t attempt it," he persevered. As the raft struck the current he threw off his coat and in his shirt sleeves braved the stream. Down plunged the boards and down went Leonard, but as it rose he was seen still clinging. A mighty shout arose from the throats of the hundreds on the banks, who were now deeply interested, earnestly hoping he would successfully ford the stream.
Down again went his bark, but nothing, it seemed, could shake Leonard off. The craft shot up in the air apparently ten or twelve feet, and Leonard stuck to it tenaciously. Slowly but surely he worked his boat to the other side of the stream, and after what seemed an awful suspense he finally landed, amid ringing cheers of men, women, and children.
The scenes at Heanemyer"s planing-mill at Nineveh, where the dead bodies are lying, are never to be forgotten. The torn, bruised, and mutilated bodies of the victims are lying in a row on the floor of the planing-mill, which looks more like the field of Bull Run after that disastrous battle than a workshop. The majority of the bodies are nude, their clothing having been torn off. All along the river bits of clothing--a tiny shoe, a baby dress, a mother"s evening wrapper, a father"s coat--and, in fact, every article of wearing apparel imaginable, may be seen hanging to stumps of trees and scattered on the bank.
One of the most pitiful sights of this terrible disaster came to notice when the body of a young lady was taken out of the Conemaugh River. The woman was apparently quite young, though her features were terribly disfigured. Nearly all the clothing excepting the shoes was torn off the body. The corpse was that of a mother, for, although cold in death, she clasped a young male babe, apparently not more than a year old, tightly in her arms. The little one was huddled close up to the face of the mother, who, when she realized their terrible fate, had evidently raised it to her lips to imprint upon its lips the last kiss it was to receive in this world. The sight forced many a stout heart to shed tears. The limp bodies, with matted hair, some with holes in their heads, eyes knocked out, and all bespattered with blood were a ghastly spectacle.
Mr. J. M. Fronheiser, one of the Superintendents in the Cambria Iron Works, lived on Main Street. His house was one of the first to go, and he himself, his wife, two daughters, son, and baby were thrown into the raging torrent. His wife and eldest daughter were lost. He, with the baby, reached a place of safety, and his ten-year-old boy and twelve-year-old girl floated near enough to be reached. He caught the little girl, but she cried:
"Let me go, papa, and save brother; my leg is broken and my foot is caught below."
When he told her he was determined to rescue her, she exclaimed:
"Then, papa, get a sharp knife and cut my leg off. I can stand it."
The little fellow cried to his father: "You can"t save me, papa. Both my feet are caught fast, and I can"t hold out any longer. Please get a pistol and shoot me."
Captain Gageby, of the army, and some neighbors helped to rescue both children. The girl displayed Spartan fort.i.tude and pluck. All night long she lay in a bed without a mattress or medical attention in a garret, the water reaching to the floor below, without a murmur or a whimper. In the morning she was carried down-stairs, her leg dangling under her, but when she saw her father at the foot of the stairs, she whispered to Captain Gageby:
"Poor papa; he is so sad." Then, turning to her father, she threw a kiss with her hands and laughingly said, "Good morning, papa; I"m all right."
The Pennsylvania Railroad Company"s operators at Switch Corner, "S. Q.,"
which is near Sang Hollow, tell thrilling stories of the scenes witnessed by them on Friday afternoon and evening. Said one of them:
"In order to give you an idea of how the tidal wave rose and fell, let me say that I kept a measure and timed the rise and fall of the water, and in forty-eight minutes it fell four and a half feet.
"I believe that when the water goes down about seventy-five children and fifty grown persons will be found among the weeds and bushes in the bend of the river just below the tower.
"There the current was very strong, and we saw dozens of people swept under the trees, and I don"t believe that more than one in twenty came out on the other side."
"They found a little girl in white just now," said one of the other operators.
"O G.o.d!" said the chief operator. "She isn"t dead, is she?"
"Yes; they found her in a clump of willow bushes, kneeling on a board, just about the way we saw her when she went down the river." Turning to me he said:
"That was the saddest thing we saw all day yesterday. Two men came down on a little raft, with a little girl kneeling between them, and her hands raised and praying. She came so close to us we could see her face and that she was crying. She had on a white dress and looked like a little angel. She went under that cursed shoot in the willow bushes at the bend like all the rest, but we did hope she would get through alive."
"And so she was still kneeling?" he said to his companion, who had brought the unwelcome news.
"She sat there," was the reply, "as if she was still praying, and there was a smile on her poor little face, though her mouth was full of mud."
Driving through the mountains a correspondent picked up a ragged little chap not much more than big enough to walk. From his clothing he was evidently a refugee.
"Where are your folks?" he was asked.
"We"re living at Aunty"s now."
"Did you all get out?"
"Oh! we"re all right--that is, all except two of sister"s babies. Mother and little sister wasn"t home, and they got out all right."
"Where were you?"
"Oh! I was at sister"s house. We was all in the water and fire. Sister"s man--her husband, you know--took us up-stairs, and he punched a hole through the roof, and we all climbed out and got saved."
"How about the babies?"
"Oh! sister was carrying two of them in her arms, and the bureau hit her and knocked them out, so they went down."
The child had unconsciously caught one of the oddest and most significant tricks of speech that have arisen from the calamity. n.o.body here speaks of a person"s having been drowned, or killed, or lost, or uses any other of the general expressions for sudden death. They have simply "gone down." Everybody here seems to avoid harsh words in referring to the possible affliction of another. Euphonistic phrases are subst.i.tuted for plain questions. Two old friends met for the first time since the disaster.
"I"m glad to see you," exclaimed the first. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, I"m doing first rate," was the reply.
The first friend looked awkwardly about a moment, and then asked with suppressed eagerness:
"And--and your family--are they all--well?"
There was a world of significance in the hesitation before the last word.
"Yes. Thank G.o.d! not one of them went down."