The Great Galveston Disaster / Containing a Full and Thrilling Account of the Most Appalling Calamity of Modern Times Including Vivid Descriptions of the Hurricane and Terrible Rush of Waters; Immense Destruction of Dwellings, Business Houses, Churches, and Loss of Thousands of Human Lives; Thrilling Tales of Heroic Deeds; Panic-Stricken Multitudes and Heart-Rending Scenes of Agony; Frantic Efforts to Escape a Horrible Fate; Separation of Loved Ones, etc., etc.; Narrow Escapes from the Jaws of Death; Terrible Sufferings of the Survivors; Vandals Plundering Bodies of the Dead; Wonderful Exhibitions of Popular Sympathy; Millions of Dollars Sent for the Relief of the Stricken Sufferers

by Paul Lester

IMPOSSIBLE TO NAVIGATE.

The shell man and others of the Midway folk moved their stocks out during the morning to be on the safe side, but others, who have long been acquainted with the sea and who were less timorous, stayed by their places and kept their goods and chattels there.

At that hour the water was on a level with the wharf at pier 23, and was rapidly rising. Later it was almost impossible to navigate along the wharf front on account of the deep water and the high wind. Of course, it was wholly out of the question for any vessels to move for any purpose, and equally impossible for steamers to make an entry into the harbor. The pilot boat would not have been able to get alongside, and if any vessel approached the harbor she would have to put to sea for fear of grounding if she came too close. Several vessels are due.

No attempt at doing any business was made after noon, for it was equally out of the question to load steamers as it was to move them. If damage was done it was the result of pounding. Some cement stored on the pier head was damaged by the water washing up under it in the morning, and as it was not practicable to move it, it is a total loss.

While working with a gang of men clearing the wreckage of a large number of houses on avenue O and Center street, Mr. John Vance found a live prairie dog locked in the drawer of a bureau. It is impossible to identify the house or the name of its former occupant, as several houses were piled together in a mass of brick and timber. The bureau was pulled out of the wreckage a few feet from the ground, where it had been buried beneath about ten feet of debris. The little animal seemed none the worse from its experience of four days locked up in a drawer beneath a mountain of wreckage. It was taken home and fed by Mr. Vance, who will hold the pet for its owner if the owner survived the storm.

CHAPTER XVIII.
An Island of Desolation—Crumbling Walls—Faces White With Agony—Tales of Dismay and Death—Curious Sights.

One of the most graphic and thrilling accounts of the overwhelming calamity is contained in the following pages. It is from the brilliant pen of a visitor to the city and eye-witness of the awful ruin:

The story of Galveston’s tragedy can never be written as it is. Since the cataclysm of Saturday night, a force of faithful men have been struggling to convey to humanity from time to time some of the particulars of the tragedy. They have told much, but it was impossible for them to tell all, and the world, at best, can never know all, for the thousands of tragedies written by the storm must forever remain mysteries until eternity shall reveal all. Perhaps it were best that it should be so, for the horror and anguish of those fatal and fateful hours were mercifully lost in the screaming tempest and buried forever beneath the raging billows. Only God knows, and for the rest let it remain forever in the boundlessness of His omniscience. But in the realm of finity, the weak and staggered senses of mankind may gather fragments of the disaster, and may strive with inevitable incompleteness to convey the merest impression of the saddest story which ever engaged the efforts of a reporter.

Galveston! The mournful dirges of the breakers which lash the beach can not in the remaining centuries of the world give expression to the sorrow and woe which throbs here to-day; and if the sobbing waves and sighing winds, God’s great funeral choir, fail, how can the weak pen and appalled imaginations of men perform the task? The human heart can merely feel what language will never be able to express. And in the case of Galveston, the heart must break before it can begin to feel.

I struggled all day Tuesday to reach this isle of desolation. With Gen. McKibben, Gen. Scurry, Gen. Stoddard and several who had relatives here about whom they were anxious, I spent five hours on the bay in a row boat, kindly loaned by the captain of the “Kendel Castle,” a British steamship hopelessly stranded at Texas City, but finally we landed on the island just as the stars were coming out.

The very atmosphere smelt of death, and we walked through the quiet streets to the Tremont Hotel. Long before we landed we had seen the naked forms of men, women and children floating in the bay and were depressed until the entire party was heartsick.

Men were grouped about the streets talking in quiet tones. Sad and hopeless women could be seen in dismantled houses, destitute children were about the streets, and all about them was nothing but wreck and ruin. Night had drawn a gray pall over the city and for awhile the autumn moon covered her face with dark clouds to hide the place with shadows. The town was under martial law, every saloon was closed, and passers-by were required to give an account of themselves before being allowed to proceed. The fact, however, that the streets were almost impassable on account of the debris kept us reminded that we were in the midst of unprecedented desolation.