The Ashtabula Disaster

by Stephen D. Peet

The snow had fallen all day long, and was, at the dusk of night, still falling with blinding fury. The powers of nature had seized it again, and were hurling it down as if in very vengeance against the abodes of men. Everything was covered with a weight of snow. The wreaths and fancy drapery which, during the first storm, had engaged the attention of children, and pleased the fancy with their forms of beauty and delicate tracery, had now increased until they were heavy blankets and burdensome loads. The feathery flakes, which at first were beds of down, had become solid banks. Everything was buried in the increasing drifts, even trees and houses and fences stood with muffled forms and burdened with a snowy mantle. The streets were covered with drifts which were piled high and wide.

No attempt had been made to break the roads. The citizens had, for the third time, confined themselves to their houses, and had not even opened the paths from the doors to the gates. It was, in fact, one of those blinding, burying storms which occasionally come upon northern homes. The greatest comfort was in being at home and having the consciousness of the home feeling. Even the cares of the world were shut out, and many had remained in doors refusing to be called from the loved circle and comfortable fire. Those who were well housed felt a pleasure in their own security, and often looked out, grateful for the shelter of their homes.

But to the traveler it was a fearful storm. The same clouds which filled the sky with their fleecy masses, became portentous to his gaze. As the dusk of night settled down with more fury in the storm, a fearful foreboding filled his heart. There were many who were impressed with this indefinable sense of danger. It was not because they felt the discomfort of the journey, nor because they unconsciously acknowledged the difficulty of the way, but a strange presentiment continually haunted them and filled them with indefinable fear. Brave hearts sank within many, as the strange feeling came over them, that there was danger in the air. It was like a pall to the soul. It rested heavily upon the spirits. Stout men had to reason with themselves to nerve themselves to undertake the journey.

This presentiment of evil was the common one. Many of the friends urged the travelers to stay and not undertake the fearful journey. Parents at Buffalo are known to have persuaded a daughter to stay until the storm was over, and only yielded because a light heart was so buoyant and hopeful, in the prospect of a holiday approaching.

A wife at Rochester urged a loved husband to stay, and was only comforted by the promise of a speedy return. A young husband at Erie, away from his loved wife, was sadly impressed, and discussed the question a long time with parents and friends, and only went because absence might disappoint the expectant companion, and because affection for a little babe was stronger than the fear which haunted him.

Even the sweet singer of Israel was strangely impressed, and had so far yielded to his presentiments as to persuade the ticket agent, at the station where he was waiting, to exchange tickets and to give him passage by another route, and only the sudden appearance of the train, induced him to take it instead of another.

Among the many others the same forebodings were felt, but unexpressed. As the sun went down the air grew colder. A blast from the north arose and the snow ceased falling, but the roads and paths were still unbroken. Whoever undertook to breast the storm or to pass through the streets, plunged deeply into the untrodden snow. Horses were kept from their accustomed duties and were comfortably stabled from the storm. Nothing was stirring, apparently; only the strong iron horse and the solitary train, which slowly made its way along the snow-covered track.

Everything was behind time. The train which was due at Erie at a little after noon, was two and a half hours late. It should have reached Ashtabula before sundown, and it was now dark and the lamps had long been burning. But the engine pushed forward. The same train which had started from New York the night before, had divided at Albany; a portion of it was plunging through the snow-drifts of the mountains of Vermont, and now another portion was struggling amid the snow near the banks of Lake Erie. Both were destined to be wrecked.

Four engines had been used to push the train from the station at Erie. Two strong locomotives were straining every nerve to push forward and overcome the deep snow.

Within the cars there were many already anxious about the time. It was a long and well filled train, but it was greatly behind time. Those from a distance had been delayed throughout all their journey. Those from nearer cities were impatient to meet their friends. To some a long trip across the continent became an immense and gloomy undertaking. But the passengers were making the most of the comforts of the hour. It was a little world by itself. Men, women and children were mingled together in the precious load. Clergymen, physicians, professional men, business men and travelers, young men and women, those from all classes and places were there.