Had the owners not torpedoed this well, which they believed to be dry, its value would never have been known. Its conceded failure would have chilled ambitious operators who held adjoining leases and changed the entire history of Thorn Creek.
WILLIAM MUNSON.
Torpedoing wells is a hazardous business. A professional well-shooter must have nerves of iron, be temperate in his habits and keenly alive to the fact that a careless movement or a misstep may send him flying into space. James Sanders, a veteran employé of the Roberts Company, fired six-thousand torpedoes without the slightest accident and lived for years after his well-earned retirement. Nitro-Glycerine literally tears its victims into shreds. It is quick as lightning and can’t be dodged. The first fatality from its use in the oil-regions befell William Munson, in the summer of 1867, at Reno. He operated on Cherry Run, owning wells near the famous Reed and Wade. He was one of the earliest producers to use torpedoes and manufactured them under the Reed patent. A small building at the bend of the Allegheny below Reno served as his workshop and storehouse. For months the new industry went along quietly, its projector prospering as the result of his enterprise. Entering the building one morning in August, he was seen no more. How it occurred none could tell, but a frightful explosion shivered the building, tore a hole in the ground and annihilated Munson. Houses trembled to their foundations, dishes were thrown from the shelves, windows were shattered and about Oil City the horrible shock drove people frantically into the streets. Not a trace of Munson’s premises remained, while fragments of flesh and bone strewn over acres of ground too plainly revealed the dreadful fate of the proprietor. The mangled bits were carefully gathered up, put in a small box and sent to his former home in New York for interment. The tragedy aroused profound sympathy. Mentally, morally and physically William Munson was a fine specimen of manhood, thoroughly upright and trustworthy. He lived at Franklin and belonged to the Methodist church. His widow and two daughters survived the fond husband and father. Mrs. Munson first moved to California, then returned eastward and she is now practicing medicine at Toledo, the home of her daughters, the younger of whom married Frank Gleason.
The sensation produced by the first fatality had not entirely subsided when the second victim was added to a list that has since lengthened appallingly. To ensure comparative[comparative] safety the deadly stuff was kept in magazines located in isolated places. In 1867 the Roberts Company built one of these receptacles two miles from Titusville, in the side of a hill excavated for the purpose. Thither Patrick Brophy, who had charge, went as usual one fine morning in July of 1868. An hour later a terrific explosion burst upon the surrounding country with indescribable violence. Horses and people on the streets of Titusville were thrown down, chimneys tumbled, windows dropped into atoms and for a time the panic was fearful. Then the thought suggested itself that the glycerine-magazine had blown up. At once thousands started for the spot. The site had been converted into a huge chasm, with tons of dirt scattered far and wide. Branches of trees were lopped off as though cut by a knife and hardly a particle could be found of what had so recently been a sentient being, instinct with life and feeling and fondly anticipating a happy career. The unfortunate youth bore an excellent character for sobriety and carefulness. He was a young Irishman, had been a brakeman on the Farmers’ Railroad and visited the magazine frequently to make experiments.
On Church Run, two miles back of Titusville, Colonel Davison established a torpedo-manufactory in 1868. A few months passed safely and then the tragedy came. With three workmen—Henry Todd, A. D. Griffin and William Bills—Colonel Davison went to the factory, as was his practice, one morning in September. A torpedo must have burst in course of filling, causing sad destruction. The building was knocked into splinters, burying the occupants beneath the ruins. All around the customary evidences of havoc were presented, although the sheltered position of the factory prevented much damage to Titusville. The mangled bodies of his companions were extricated from the wreck. while Colonel Davison still breathed. He did not regain consciousness and death closed the chapter during the afternoon. This dismal event produced a deep impression, the extinction of four lives investing it with peculiar interest to the people of Oildom, many of whom knew the victims and sincerely lamented their mournful exit.
Dr. Fowler, the seventh victim, met his doom at Franklin in 1869. He had erected a magazine on the hill above the Allegheny Valley depot, in which large quantities of explosives were stored. With his brother Charles the Doctor started for the storehouse one forenoon. At the river-bridge a friend detained Charles for a few moments in conversation, the Doctor proceeding alone. What happened prior to the shock will not be revealed until all secrets are laid bare, but before Charles reached the magazine a tremendous explosion launched his brother into eternity. A spectator first noticed the boards of the building flying through space, followed in a moment by a report that made the earth quiver. The nearest properties were wrecked and the jar was felt miles away. Careful search for the remains of the poor Doctor resulted in a small lot of broken bones and pieces of flesh, which were buried in the Franklin cemetery. It was supposed that the catastrophe originated from the Doctor’s boots coming in contact with some glycerine that may have leaked upon the floor. This is as plausible a reason as can be assigned for a tragedy that brought grief to many loving hearts. The Doctor was a genial, kindly gentleman and his cruel fate was universally deplored.
WILLIAM A. THOMPSON.
William A. Thompson, of Franklin, left home on Tuesday morning, August thirteenth, 1870, carrying in his buggy a torpedo to be exploded in a well on the Foster farm. John Quinn rode with him. At the farm he received two old torpedoes, which had been there five or six weeks, having failed to explode, to return to the factory. Quinn came up the river by rail. Thompson stopped at Samuel Graham’s, Bully Hill, got an apple and lighted a cigar. On leaving he said: “Good-bye, Sam, perhaps you’ll never see me again!” Five minutes later an explosion was heard on the Bully-Hill road, a mile from where Dr. Fowler had met his doom. Graham and others hurried to the spot. The body of Thompson, horribly mutilated, was lying fifty feet from the road, the left arm severed above the elbow and missing. The horse and the fore-wheels of the buggy were found a hundred yards off, the wounded animal struggling that distance before he fell. The body and hind-wheels of the vehicle were in splinters. One tire hung on a tree and a boot on another. The main charge of the torpedo had entered the victim’s left side above the hip and the face was scarcely disfigured. Mr. Thompson was widely known and esteemed for his social qualities and high character. He was born in Clearfield county, came to Franklin in 1853, married in 1855 and met his shocking fate at the age of thirty-nine. His widow and a daughter live at Franklin.