but these gradually yielded, and the animals were drowned in droves. Defenses yielded where least expected. By April 3, there was two feet of water in the streets of Greenville. There was nothing left but to make the best of the situation. People took to the upper floors, and appeals for state, national and individual aid were sent out. The telephone lines leading out of the city were destroyed, and communication with the outer world was greatly hindered. Occasional reports of destitution and suffering came from Greenville, but these were contradicted by meetings of leading citizens, who said, “there is no destitution here that home people can not relieve. If the negroes want to wait for government rations and refuse from $1.50 to $2.50 per day to work on levees, their starving arouses no sympathy. While all these sensational reports of destitution are traveling about, the steamboats are running into Memphis and Vicksburg begging for levee hands, and the native negro is sitting on the levee fishing.”
The water swept rapidly southward, submerging almost the entire region between the Yazoo and Mississippi. Meanwhile, the trouble in Louisiana was just beginning. The banks began caving near the levee in Madison Parish Front, compelling the erection of a new levee in the rear of the old one. But the fight went on stubbornly for three weeks, both along the river front and along the bayous in the interior. Atchafalaya River was forty-five feet above low water. The contest for the levees there was as bitter as along the main stream. Occasional breaks occurred, but they were closed or kept from spreading by the twenty thousand men who labored day and night along the stream between Bayou Sara and New Orleans.
Ere long it appeared that the greatest danger was along the Concordia and Pointe Coupee parish fronts. (A parish in Louisiana coincides with what is known as a county elsewhere). Considerable appropriations were made, and the head of the third district levee system, Captain D. C. Kingman, conducted the fight on the Pointe Coupee front in person. The battle ended here in disastrous defeat. The men held their ground manfully till April 20, no serious breaks having then occurred. All that day the men were compelled to work in a drenching rain storm that
was beating fiercely against the already overburdened and sodden levees on the west bank of the river. The danger at the great Morganza bend grew excessive. It was hoped that during the night the storm would cease, or at least that the wind might shift to some other quarter, but when the morning broke there were the same leaden skies overhead, with darker masses still scurrying to the westward before a fierce easterly gale that was as fresh and strong as ever, and which hurled storms of white-capped waves upon the rain-soaked earthworks. Bags of earth and sand were piled up along the levee, to prevent the waves from washing over. Wilder and more furious raged the storm: higher and higher beat the waves, as the day passed. “In the teeth of drenching surf and blinding rain, the battle with rising flood went bravely on. Sacks were piled upon sacks and revetments of plank and jute bagging were carried up till the superstructure upon the crown of the levee looked like a fair-sized levee itself. Not only the men, but even the women and children fought bravely for their homes in the teeth of that wild furious storm.
“As Monday night closed in, the situation was more gloomy than ever. The heavy leaden sky was deeply shadowed by low hanging clouds of dull slaty black, driven before the fierce gale that was sweeping up the reach, thrashing it into long ribs of foam that every now and then broke clear over the levees all along the New Texas system, and beat savagely against the great Morganza, just below them.
“A nightfall dark and wild with wind and storm was followed by a night black and tempestuous, and still the desperate fight went on. Here and there ruddy, flaring torches struggled with the murky gloom, but within their dim halos could be seen the big breakers hungrily licking the tops of the sodden barriers that throbbed and quivered beneath every cruel blow.
“Planters’ wives and daughters stood ankle-deep in mud, filling sacks and helping to lift them upon the shoulders of the men who were carrying them to the levee. Two bold Creoles stood at one weak place, though they felt the levee dissolving beneath their feet. They sank to their knees in the mud and water, but still they stood stubbornly on the sinking dike, piling sacks in the breach, though again and again the flood seemed to be in the very act of overpowering and sweeping them away in the very center of a crevasse. It was a bloodless battle, but many a man has won fame on a gory battle-field who never turned a more steadfast, unflinching gaze into the very jaws of death than did those brave defenders of their homes during that terrible night.”
Suddenly there was a wild outcry and a hurried mustering of forces at the old Morganza levee. But men and materials were no longer of any use. The dull yellow flood poured through the gap like a mighty cataract. Four hundred feet of the embankment were gone in a few moments.
At once there was a sauve qui peut. The volunteer forces of the neighborhood hurried away to save what they could. As the Morganza levee was backed by a wide uninhabited swamp, there was little danger of any lives being lost by the sudden breach, though the people had clung to their homes to the last.
Meanwhile, numerous other breaks were occasioned by the storm. The first occurred at Bayou Sara, and others followed so rapidly that within twenty-four hours fifteen huge crevasses were pouring their torrents upon the land. Two other breaks occurred in the Morganza; and so vast was the volume of water drawn out by the three that the river at Bayou Sara, a few miles below, fell a foot in twenty-four hours, while the decline above was but an inch or two. Despite the gloomy outlook, the men toiled wearily on and finally succeeded in closing most of the breaks; but the great Morganza crevasses defied every effort. Then came breaks in the Atchafalaya, and the turbid waters united and swept southward one hundred miles to the sea. Some towns were abandoned to the snakes and frogs; in others the people put false floors in their dwellings and prepared
for a siege. Government steamers plied up and down the country, picking up the refugees and all accessible livestock. The effort to keep back the water was at an end, and all that could be done of any especial use was in the way of salvage. The only remaining question was that of providing for the destitute. Appropriations from the State treasury were made, and corporations and private individuals contributed liberally. On April 24, two great breaks occurred in Concordia Parish, north of Pointe Coupee, thus much increasing the submerged area. From the items given, and the fact of breaks in east Baton Rouge, and the Nita crevasse, and twenty or more below New Orleans, the reader may see that a large portion of eastern Louisiana lay more or less under water. By the end of April there was no fear of further danger, simply because there was little harm left to do. The continual east wind added to the distress on the lower river by sweeping Lake Pontchartrain and the gulf water across the land, up to the levees on the river.
The one peculiar feature of the recent flood is that but few lives were lost—perhaps not a dozen, all told. The warning of the Signal Service put people on their guard, and there was no occasion for surprise.
The damage to property can not be estimated. Three thousand square miles of land were more or less flooded in Louisiana alone; and while much of this was useless swamp land, the larger part comprised some of the most valuable sugar plantations in the State. Fifty thousand people were directly affected by the flood in this region. All the railroads in this district suffered severely from wash outs and loss of time and custom. Any estimate of the damage done to planters should include not only real estate and personal property, but also the amount of loss from inability to raise the customary crops. This single item would be very large. But when we consider the terrible havoc committed in other lands and attended by fearful loss of life, we may be devoutly thankful that things were no worse with us.
The levee system is attended by peculiar perils. There must be constant watching and repairing. At seasons of danger, patrols are needed, even when the levees are
sound; for human nature is full of rank selfishness, and people who find their property endangered are apt to cut the levee upon the opposite side above them, to relieve themselves by flooding others. Hungry wolves will eat a wounded companion; but man is almost the only animal that seeks an opportunity for wounding his fellow that he may have a pretext for devouring him.
The craw-fish is another persistent enemy of the planter, undermining levees with his numerous tunnels, and even penetrating the low lying fields at a distance from the river, not infrequently damaging the roots of growing crops. The ground becomes like a sponge, and water oozes from the levees in countless places.
There are other objections to the levee system; and while the Mississippi River Commission, and a majority of engineers endorse it, there are not a few equally capable men who denounce it as false in theory, and mischievous in practice. The problem remains a puzzling one. If the floods are unrestrained, a large portion of the river bottom becomes uninhabitable a considerable portion of each year. As to controlling them, a man of much experience said at the time of the flood in 1882, “I have lived on the river for thirty years, and I have studied it, for it was my business to do so. I have been steam-boating all that time. I am now certain that I don’t know anything about it, or about what ought to be done to it.”
Another said, “When God put the river into this valley, He told it to go wherever it pleased, and it always has done so, and always will.”
Yet, the problem can not be considered hopeless, though mere experiments are dangerous. There is little doubt that the levees would have withstood the unprecedented high water of the present year, had it not been aided by the severe and protracted easterly storm. But the levees must remain a constant expense. More than $90,000,000 have already been spent upon them, and the question is an even more vital one than ever.
The chief opponents of the levee system advocate the increase of outlets. A glance at a large-scale map of Louisiana will show the reader how very narrow the mouths of the river are in comparison with its breadth above; and when it is remembered that these passages required deepening ere large vessels could reach New Orleans, it is clear that the outlet men have good reasons for asserting that the proper thing to do is to open as many outlets to the sea as possible. Yet, the majority of engineers declare this to be unscientific, and radically wrong. The levee men propose to narrow the channel and to rely upon the “scour” of the water to keep the river bottom free enough to afford a clear passage to the sea. The “scour” is aided as far as possible by clearing away obstructions where it is desired to maintain a channel, and by placing other obstructions in places where natural shallows have been formed. This is the work carried on by the commission, and is one in theory with that executed by Captain Eads in the South Pass of the Delta. He claimed that if the water flowing through the pass should be confined within comparatively narrow banks, it would scour out the bottom, and so deepen its own bed. The primary result was exactly opposite to this. The water refused to do the work expected of it, and following the law of nature, sought the line of least resistance. Finding the South Pass obstructed, or rather narrowed, much of it turned aside and poured through the Southwest Pass and the Pas a l’Outre, and instead of scouring out the South Pass, scoured the other two to the depth of two feet below where their beds had formerly been. As soon as this was discovered, the two passes were partially dammed up, and the water thus forced through the South Pass.
It is evident, at a glance, that the amount of “scour” will only be as much as will permit ready exit of the water at ordinary stages. The moment that point is reached, the “scour” ceases, and does not again act unless the river be still further narrowed. Hence, this plan, while increasing facility of navigation, only robs Peter to pay Paul, so far as protection is concerned; for what is gained in depth and speed, is necessarily lost in breadth. The “scour” system has even failed to hold its own, and has had to be reinforced by dredging machines.
This last fact tends to confirm the arguments of the outlet advocates. They urge that the immense amount of silt carried by the river is destructive to the entire scheme. During flood time this silt is nearly equally distributed throughout the water. When an overflow occurs, the immense quantity is shown by the vast alluvial deposits left in the submerged region.
According to the believers in the anti-levee theory, if overflows are prevented, the earth held in suspension, instead of being deposited where it will enrich the land, will gradually sink to the bottom of the river. The result will be that the river-bed will be steadily raised until the surface of the water at ordinary stages will be as high as the present floodmarks. Levees will have to be built higher and higher, the river will be raised far above the adjacent country, and should a break occur at any point, the consequence will be disastrous in the extreme. As an example of the effect of confining a silt-bearing alluvial river to its bed, the Hoang-Ho in China is cited. By constant dyking the bottom of the stream has been raised above large tracts of the adjacent country and some of the most
terrible catastrophes in the history of floods have resulted from a break in the dykes during floods.
The natural result of the continual raising of the bottom is that where any serious breach occurs, it is simply impossible to repair it. So the great river has changed its channel entirely several times in the past two thousand years. In 1852 it burst through its banks three hundred and fifty miles from the sea, and cut a new channel through the northern part of the province of Shantung to the Gulf of Pechili, where it emptied nearly two hundred and seventy-five miles north of its former mouth in the Yellow Sea. The sharp angle at which it turned off is noticeable on the maps. This region being almost unknown to foreigners at that time, no one can say how many thousands or millions of lives were destroyed by “China’s Sorrow.”
But the greatest disaster of this sort occurred in 1887, when the heavy fall rains of the northwest provinces swelled the streams, and the Yellow River finally broke its banks at a sharp bend in the Ho-nan province, where the town of Cheng Chou is situated. Frantic efforts were made to close the gap, but in vain. It rapidly grew to a width of one thousand two hundred yards. Some distance away the yellow torrent turned into the valley of a small stream known as the Luchia, down which it rushed in an easterly direction, overwhelming everything in its path.
“Twenty miles from Cheng Chou it encountered Chungmou, a walled city of the third rank. Its thousands of inhabitants were attending to their usual pursuits. There was no telegraph to warn them, and the first intimation of disaster came with the muddy torrent that rolled down upon them. Within a short time only the tops of the high walls marked where a flourishing city had been. Three hundred villages in the district disappeared utterly, and the lands about three hundred other villages were inundated.
“The flood turned south from Chungmou, still keeping to the course of the Luchia, and stretched out in width for thirty miles. This vast body of water was from ten to twenty feet deep. Several miles south of Kaifeng the flood struck a large river which there joins the Luchia. The result was that the flood rose to a still greater height, and pouring into a low-lying and very fertile plain which was densely populated, submerged upward of one thousand five hundred villages.
“Not far beyond this locality the flood passed into the province of Anhui, where it spread very widely. The actual loss of life could not be computed accurately, but the lowest intelligent estimate placed it at one million five hundred thousand, and one authority placed it at seven million.”
The inundated provinces were under water four months. Two million survivors were left destitute. The mind quails at the appalling magnitude of such a catastrophe.
Such is the warning given by the Yellow River. It is urged that if the Mississippi is heavily leveed, the same results will follow. The Po is another instance. The bed of the stream has been raised by dykes until it is higher in many places than the tops of the houses, and such disasters as have befallen the dwellers near the Yellow River of China, have only been avoided because of the fact that the Po is a comparatively diminutive stream. It is said that the same state of affairs exists on a smaller scale still on the Tiber. But the opponents of the outlet theory ascribe the China floods to ignorant engineering—a charge that can not be easily made to stick, when it is remembered that the Chinese have some of the most remarkable specimens of engineering skill in existence.
In support of the outlet theory, a number of experienced river captains and pilots assert that the bed of the river has been slowly rising during the past thirty years; that levees are needed at points where none were years ago, while at the same time there is less water in the channel at those points than formerly. At the time of this writing Captain Condon is urging that an outlet be made through Lake Borgne, from a point ten miles below New Orleans. His company is to assume all costs, only asking that if successful, they shall be paid $500,000 for every foot of reduction of the high water level. He asserts that one-fourth of the flood waters can be readily drained off by this means. This Lake Borgne idea, commendable as it appears, has been agitated, more or less, for forty years, without being tried. A noted government engineer, Charles Ellet, urged it at the time of the flood of 1853, without avail.
Whatever be the result of present deliberations, we must hope that no effort will be spared to thoroughly test the merits of any system agreed upon. But the long deliberations and the slow movements of the governmental committees are vexatious to those most vitally concerned. A prominent Louisianian says: “If the government and the people had raised $500,000, placed a larger force, and held that Morganza levee, it would have cost less than the mere relief expenditures, to say nothing of the millions of total loss of the flood.” And Harper’s Weekly affirms that “in one respect the casual observer is moved to sarcastic reflections. When a flood does come, like the present one, or even one of much less dimensions, the work of the commission is of necessity suspended, and at first sight it seems extremely ridiculous to see engineers waiting for the water to subside before they can place confines many feet below the present surface, which confines are intended, in part at least, for the purpose of preventing similar overflows in the future.”
Holland, the land of windmills, is another region which has a continual struggle with this levee question. The native name of the country, “Nederlands,” or Netherlands, refers to the character of the region, which lies as an average, about on the sea level; while a great portion is even somewhat lower. The thrifty people who settled here, erected dykes to keep back the sea, and built windmills to pump out the water, thus reclaiming a fertile tract from the bottom of the sea. But the great dykes need incessant watching and repairing; and the expenditures upon them up to the present time, have been greater than would have been required to build them outright of solid copper. As the safety of the dykes involves all that pertains to temporal life and welfare, the people have learned not to trust to a single line of defenses. Second and third lines are erected in the rear of the first; and many large towns are completely girdled with defenses of their own.
Since the population of this region is nearly five hundred to the square mile, while our own land does not average over eighteen to the same area, it is at once clear that the breaking of the dykes is a far more serious and terrible matter than the rupture of our levees. Some fearful disasters in Holland are recorded. In 1421, the dykes gave way at Dort, and more than one hundred thousand people perished. In 1530, there was a general failure of the dykes, and the people, not dreaming of danger, were suddenly overwhelmed; four hundred thousand perished, and the loss of property was proportionate. Two great floods have occurred within this century, doing terrible damage.
The Dutch, though peaceful and phlegmatic, are a liberty-loving people, and have often shown themselves ready to sacrifice everything for their freedom. They have found more than once its safety in the loss of all else.
One of the most thrilling and memorable incidents of the sort occurred in 1574. Under the leadership of William the Silent, one of the noblest of men, the Dutch
were struggling to throw off the yoke of Spain. Leyden was besieged. The town was well fortified. The Spaniards endeavored to starve the city into surrender. They swarmed about the outworks and taunted the famished people as “beggars.” The contest grew daily more hopeless for the besieged. Hundreds were dead of starvation. But the survivors hurled defiance at the Spaniards. They were digging up every green thing, devouring roots of grass, old leather, offal, anything that could in the least aid to sustain life. But “so long as a dog barked in the city, the Spaniards might know they held out.” A few faint-hearted ones pleaded with the burgomaster to yield. But the brave Van der Werff, gaunt, pale, wearied with care and watching, told them they could only surrender when they had eaten him; so long as he lived, the city should not yield.
It was a terrible time. Scores crept into out-of-the-way places to die, that their misery might not be seen by their friends. The Dutch without wished to help their friends within—but the lines of the enemy were too strong. As the last resort, the “Silent Man” ordered the dykes cut. It was done. The country folk abandoned their homes. A fleet of two hundred vessels sailed in over the land fifteen miles. They reached the Landscheiding, a great dyke five miles from the city. Three quarters of a mile nearer the town was a second dyke, the Greenway; within that was the Kirkway.
The rising water frightened the Spaniards. But at ten inches, it stopped. The Spaniards renewed their taunts. Again it rose two feet; the vessels drew nearer: then they lay aground in sight of the famished citizens. Then arose a strong southwest wind—and after days of weary waiting, the fleet was close on the last line of fortifications. It was the first of October. In the morning the “beggars” of the sea would make a desperate attack upon the Spanish hordes.
In the night there came a terrible crash. The sea had undermined the wall. The citizens were filled with panic, fearing an immediate irruption of the enemy. They stood under arms through the weary night.
The morning came. Not a Spaniard was in sight. Fearing a sortie of the hunger-maddened people, they had fled in the darkness. The city was saved by the drowning of the land.
A story is told of Frederick the Great, illustrative of the same indomitable spirit. After establishing the supremacy of Prussia, he was suspected of designs upon the independence of the Netherlands. The Dutch envoy at his court, newly appointed, Frederick endeavored to overawe by a display of his power. A great military review was held; and Frederick, who took a peculiar delight in tall men, caused troop after troop of his gigantic grenadiers to file before the weazened little Dutchman, and asked his opinion. Of each one the envoy said: “Very good, but not tall enough.” Frederick, much nettled at this oft repeated criticism, asked the ambassador what he meant by it. “I mean,” he retorted, “that we can flood our country twelve feet deep!” Frederick left the Dutch in peace.
Though the most terrible calamities of any kind—whether from flood, famine, or earthquake—are to be found in the history of China, yet other nations have shared in disastrous floods. We mention a few:
A notable flood occurred on the coast of Lincolnshire, England, A. D., 245. It seems to have been a high tide, aided by the wind. Three thousand people and many cattle were drowned by a flood in Cheshire, A. D., 353. Four hundred families were drowned in Glasgow, A. D., 758, by an overflow of the Clyde. A tidal wave destroyed several English seaports in A. D., 1014. The Severn leaped its banks in 1483, submerging the adjacent lowlands, and drowning hundreds. Fifty thousand people perished in Catalonia, Spain, during a flood in 1617. In Yorkshire, England, occurred a remarkable outburst of subterranean waters in 1686.
“In September, 1687, mountain torrents inundated Navarre, and two thousand persons were drowned. Twice, in 1787 and in 1802, the Irish Liffey overran its banks and caused great damage. A reservoir in Lurca, a city of Spain, burst in 1802, in much the same way as did the dam at Johnstown, and as a result one thousand persons perished. Twenty-four villages near Presburg, and nearly all their inhabitants, were swept away in April, 1811, by an overflow of the Danube. Two years later, large provinces in Austria and Poland were flooded, and many lives were lost. In the same year a force of two thousand Turkish soldiers, who were stationed on a small island near Widdin, were surprised by a sudden overflow of the Danube and all were drowned. There were two more floods in this year, one in Silesia, where six thousand persons perished, and the French army met such losses and privations that its ruin was accelerated; and another in Poland, where four thousand persons were supposed to have been drowned. In 1816, the melting of the snow on the mountains surrounding Strabane, Ireland, caused destructive floods: and the overflow of the Vistula, in Germany, laid many villages under water. Floods that occasioned great suffering occurred in 1829, when severe rains caused the Spey and Findhorn to rise fifty feet above their ordinary level. The following year the Danube again overflowed its banks, and inundated the houses of 50,000 inhabitants of Vienna.” The Saone
overflowed in 1840 and poured its turbulent waters into the Rhine, flooding one hundred square miles of land, and drowning thousands. Another great flood in France occurred in 1856. In 1875, still another drowned a thousand people near Toulouse; while India, the same year lost many through floods.
But no such destruction of life ever visited our own land till within a year past, and the event is more to be deplored, in that it was caused by unexcusable negligence. That flood we must next consider.
INDIA, profiting by long and sad experience, has provided, as far as may be possible, against the contingencies of drought and famine, by the establishment of a magnificent system of storage reservoirs, to furnish water for irrigating when rain is wanting. Some of these tanks are fine specimens of engineering, and so far as records go, no disaster has ever attended their establishment. But to be ready and efficient, for purposes of irrigation, the water must be above the level of the surrounding country: hence, the only practicable plan has been to dam up the courses of streams and ravines in the hills. As nearly all Bengal is comparatively low and level, this method is not applicable there; hence, the terrible famines consequent in a comparatively small decrease of the average rain supply. But in the Deccan, in the Madras presidency, and in Ceylon, the reservoir system has been carried to an extent astounding to the white man, who depends with tolerable certainty upon the rain, and who is accustomed to consider other races as universally indolent and improvident. In fourteen districts of the Madras presidency
are nearly fifty-five thousand irrigation reservoirs, four-fifths of which are in regular operation. Their size may be estimated by the fact that the retaining dykes average half a mile in length. One ancient reservoir, now broken, had a dam thirty miles long, shutting in an artificial lake of eighty square miles. The Veranum tank covers fifty-three square miles, has a dam twelve miles long, and produces $55,000 per year. In Ceylon may be seen a gigantic dam of cemented stone, fifteen miles long, one hundred feet wide at the base, and forty feet wide at the top.
The same plan is of late years being extensively operated in our western tracts for the reclaiming of extensive tracts otherwise not cultivable. With these exceptions no great use of the reservoir system has been made in this country. Every saw-mill, grist-mill or factory in our land usually has its dam in an adjacent stream to insure a fair supply of water: but none of these can be properly considered general precautions against drought. The only prominent public works of the sort are the Croton storage reservoirs, by which New York is supplied with water. There are eighteen reservoirs, with a total capacity of fourteen thousand millions of gallons. China has a great canal irrigation system, which is, perhaps, safer in some respects than the Hindoo system, but which can not command as large an increase of supply in time of drought, the water being drawn from the rivers, and thus having comparatively little fall. But the canals so thoroughly intersect the whole country as to serve as public highways: and in many sections there are no other roads.
Doubtless the methods of construction in India have been learned by long experience. Certain it is that for many years, at least, no serious trouble has ever arisen from defective retaining dykes. The public welfare is so intimately connected with these pools that they are carefully inspected and repaired. The destruction of the system might at any time precipitate a terrible famine.
Not having a similar condition of things to contend with, the average American is not concerned about the few dams scattered about the land, not one in a score of which would cause any serious loss were it to break: and even were such death-traps scattered over every county, it is doubtful if a race who will crouch behind a Mississippi levee and refuse flight till the last moment, could ever be brought to a proper realization of the danger, or their culpable negligence. The American is in a hurry: and so if speed be obtained, trains may wreck, vessels collide, or boilers burst, and the coroner’s jury will obligingly render a verdict of “nobody to blame.” Since he also wants things at the bottom market price, he encourages the production of countless unsafe buildings, dams, and similar structures, merely because they are cheap.
The most terrible lesson ever given to cheap dam builders in the history of our country is one, which, with the reader’s indulgence, we shall endeavor to narrate.
In southwest central Pennsylvania, among the foot-hills of the Alleghanies, lies the peaceful and picturesque valley of the Little Conemaugh. Here, in 1889, within a stretch of a dozen miles, lay five industrious and thriving towns: South Fork, Mineral Point, Conemaugh, Woodvale and Johnstown. The last of these, embracing as it did, Cambria and Conemaugh Borough, was a city of thirty thousand people. The population of South Fork was two thousand, Mineral Point had eight hundred, Conemaugh and Woodvale about two thousand five hundred each. The total population of the valley within the distance named could not have been far from thirty-eight thousand.
Johnstown was the center of interest as of population. Thither came on May 30th—“Decoration Day"—people from Altoona, Hollidaysburg, Somerset, Latrobe, Ebensburg and Wilmore, and from the four other towns already mentioned. There was a great concourse, a long and impressive procession of soldiers and secret orders, with bands of music, flags, regalia, banners, bunting and devices. With solemn pomp the cemetery was visited, and flowers were strewn on the graves of the patriotic dead. This sad but pleasing duty ended, the procession turned again toward the city, and entering the Opera House, listened to an eloquent oration. It was a day of more than ordinary interest and elation for Johnstown. The city stood happy and unsuspecting on the very brink of an awful doom.
During the day the sky had been overcast, and there were occasional light showers. At nightfall the clouds lowered more heavily, and seemed to descend nearer to the earth. At nine o’clock there was a gentle rain; at eleven, a tremendous down-pour, which continued with little interruption during the remainder of the night. It seemed as if the windows of heaven had been opened.
The site of Johnstown is at the Junction of Stony Creek with the Little Conemaugh. Before eight o’clock on the morning of the 31st of May, both streams were bank-full. As the day advanced the lower parts of the town were inundated. By eleven o’clock there was a depth of five feet at the corner of Main and Market streets, and at the Cambria Iron Company’s store.
Still higher the waters rose. In the houses most exposed, carpets were removed from the floors, and pianos and organs were lifted on chairs and tables. Soon the two angry streams were mingling their waters in the business center of the town. Both streams had been as high before, but never both at the same time. Some thought the Cambria Iron Company, which had narrowed the channel below the stone bridge, was responsible, and should be required to widen it again, and so make a free exit for the waters.
By two o’clock the water was two to ten feet deep all over the city proper, and the people had retired to their houses. There was inconvenience and cessation of business, but no one apprehended serious danger. They surveyed the providence of God without fear; little thinking of the destruction that, swifter than the avalanche, would presently come through the heedlessness or the greed of man.
Twelve miles up the river, eastward, and at an elevation of four hundred and fifty feet above the city, lay Conemaugh Lake. This was an artificial reservoir, covering four hundred, or perhaps four hundred and fifty acres of land, and having an average depth of thirty feet. Across the south fork of the Conemaugh, about two miles above its junction with the main stream, had been built a dam, sixty-two feet high in the center, and eight hundred and fifty feet long. The valley, narrow at the dam, widened above into an extensive basin. Proposed in 1836, and authorized three years later, this reservoir had been finally constructed in 1852, as a feeder to the Pennsylvania canal, fourteen miles below. A culvert at the bottom of the dam contained fine iron discharge pipes, each two feet in diameter, which could be opened at low water thus sending the contents of the reservoir to the canal at Johnstown. In 1857, the Pennsylvania Railroad Company, having bought the canal, abandoned it, and the reservoir was thenceforth disused. In July, 1862, the culvert beneath it gave way, owing to some imperfection of the foundation. The depth of water in the reservoir was, at the time, not greater than forty feet; hardly more than half its actual capacity. The breach widened into a chasm, and the water of the reservoir was discharged, with the exception of about eight feet at the bottom; but so slow was the process, owing to the substantial character of the dam, and the resistance it presented, that little harm resulted.
From 1862 to 1880, the reservoir was empty, and the property, containing something more than five hundred acres, was a waste. In 1875 it was bought by Congressman John Reilly, and was by him, four years later, transferred to the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club. This was an association of three gentlemen; suggested and organized by Colonel B. F. Ruff, a successful railroad and tunnel contractor. All these parties had ceased from membership in the club prior to the great disaster.
The original dam, constructed with care and solidity, had involved an expenditure of $240,000. It was built in regular layers and solidly rammed, and when finished was higher in the middle than at the ends, having a spill-way cut through rock in the side of the hill. The cost of reconstruction was no more than $17,000. No engineer, good or bad, had charge of the work. The material used was, for the most part, not more substantial than shale and earth and straw. The pipes at the bottom were permanently closed, and as the dam advanced, the water was discharged through a board flume over the top. It was at first intended to raise the new dam to a height of no more than forty feet, but it was presently discovered that to cut down the spill-way through rock would cost more than to construct the dam to the original elevation. This was accordingly done, though not perfectly, as the dam was two or three feet lower than the old one, and had, besides, a sag in the middle. A fatal mistake, if once the water should begin to flow over the crest.
Another mistake was the obstruction of the spill-way with an iron grating placed to retain the fish, without taking the precaution at the same time to enlarge the passage. This would have been expensive; and here, as in the construction of the dam, it is apparent that economy was consulted.
The sum of the mistakes made in the summer of 1880, and which culminated in the disaster of 1889, were, according to the report of a corps of engineers, who made a careful survey, “the lowering of the crest, the dishing, or central sag of the crest, the closing of the bottom culvert, and the obstruction of the spill-way.”
The people of the towns below had often discussed the possible rupture of the dam, but they scarcely feared it. Had it not been built by men who understood their business; and might not these be trusted, as men trust their lives to the doctor and their souls to the priest? Had it not resisted the flood of June, 1887—the highest ever known—and why then should it yield to any other? It is certain that in the towns below some were not thinking of the reservoir at all; while, in case it should give way, few had formed the remotest conception of the possible disaster. On the very day of the awful calamity, when the streets and sidewalks of Johnstown were already under water, a leading citizen, to the question, “How much higher do you think the water will rise if the reservoir should burst?” answered quietly, “About two feet;” and we have not heard that any ventured to correct the estimate.
Unsuspecting souls were they, and yet wholly like other men. Those long resident by the volcano have ceased to fear its fires. Familiarity, even with danger, breeds contempt. The evil which still delays, we fondly believe will never come. And as to the consequences, if those who build dams know so little, why should simple townsmen be expected to know more? Had they guaged that reservoir, and did they know that up there in the mountains were six hundred and forty millions of cubic feet of water, enough to make a veritable Niagara, for more than half an hour, ready to rush down upon them? Had they calculated the awful energy of twenty millions of tons of water falling four hundred and fifty feet in a progress of a dozen miles; and this progress down a pent-up valley, in some places not more than three hundred feet in width? Had they considered that the flow of a mountain of water, sixty feet high at starting, must be far more rapid on the top than at the bottom? That the base, entangled among obstructions, and overspreading them, would furnish to the water above, an inclined plane, smooth as glass, along which it would shoot with the speed of an arrow, to fall over the edge of the retarded water beneath, and furnish in its turn a ready passage for the water above and behind? That in consequence of this law, the flood would come not by a gradual rise, giving time for escape, but like a rolling mountain, to smite with the impact of a falling asteroid, and crush in an instant everything in its way? Had they reflected that such a body of water would outrun the swiftest Paul Revere who might mount steed to fly with the warning to the towns below? That to the doomed, the first announcement of danger would be the stroke of the destroyer? That to the living there would be absolutely no more time for flight than to the sinner, of preparation for judgment after Gabriel shall have blown his trumpet? It is safe to say that few, if any, had even remotely conceived the possibilities in the case. Men learn by experience, and even from experience they fail to learn; for the lesson of to-day is forgotten to-morrow: and human heedlessness is perpetual.
The crest of the dam stood four or five feet above the spill-way. Towards noon of the 31st, persons on the watch saw the water of the reservoir rising at the rate of a foot an hour. Meanwhile a rumor had spread that the dam was leaking, and this attracted other observers. Some declared that jets of water were leaping from the lower side to a distance of thirty feet. Somewhere about half-past two o’clock water began to run over the top. The structure was then evidently doomed; for, though riprapped with stone on both slopes, no rampart of earth could long withstand the abrasion of a torrent running over its crest, and down its lower face. A South Fork pastor reached the spot at ten minutes before three. A foot of water was then running over the dam. A few minutes later a break was made “large enough to admit the passage of a train of cars;” then presently the whole thing dissolved almost instantly, like a phantom. A breach was made four hundred and twenty-nine feet wide clean down to the bottom, and with the noise of seven thunders and a tread that shook the hills like a young earthquake, out rushed a mountain of water “tree-top high.” At such a sight the awed spectator could only gasp, “God have mercy on the people in the vale below.” Rushing onward a mile in three minutes, or as some have claimed, twice or thrice as fast, in an instant down went a mill, two houses and some barns, up went an iron bridge tossed like a thing of straw, and a moment later the flood was at South Fork. Two trains, a passenger and a freight, detained by a wash-out further up the road, were standing at the station. Warned by the awful roar, the passenger train sprang out just in time to save the lives of the people on board. The engineer of the freight, seeing it impossible to move with his heavy train, unhitched the locomotive, opened the throttle-valve, and with the fireman, flew for life. The seething mountain leaped on the train and dragged it away, regardless