|
| | return to: Home Page
Preface
Thanks to Mary Rhodes, who has steadfastly read and transcribed from old original newspapers, I am proud to present a series of 15 articles written originally in 1932 by
Lawrence Reineke for the newspaper, Allegany County Democrat. Each week a new article will appear highlighted in the list....check back for the new items! 10/2/2009;
Today I couldn't wait any longer!! Below are printed the last 8 weeks' publications of series. Enjoy!! Ron Taylor
|
About the Author:
I was curious as to who the author of “Along Came the Erie” was. I had
his name, but a simple Google search did not really help answer my question. Reading the tenor of the articles, it seemed to me that Mr. Reineke MIGHT be centered around the Goshen/Middletown area of New York.
I found “Lawrence Reineke” on Social Security Death Index, all it gave me was his name,
dates of birth and death, and place of death
An inquiry about a local obituary to the Middletown Thrall Library brought this lovely
obituary, a testimony to a loving husband, father and friend:
“LAWRENCE REINEKE Middletown, N.Y. Lawrence Reineke, a lifetime resident
of Middletown, passed away September 18, 2003 at the age of 96. The son of Gustav and Catherine Nolan Reineke, he was born on August 7, 1907 in New York City. At an early age his family moved to New Hampton. In 1937 he founded Reineke Inc., an insurance, real estate, and tax consulting firm,
and remained active until 1999. He served in World War II as a member of the Army Air Corps, and remained active in the Air Force Reserves, retiring as a Lieutenant Colonel. He was proud of his contributions as a World War II historian, and his service as an intelligence officer to the
historical documentaries "Log of the Liberators"; "Thousand Mile War"; "Saga of the Super Fortress" and various collections in several university libraries. He was a member of the Reserve Officers Association, The Military Order of the World Wars, the 11th Air Force Association, the 20th Air
Force Association, 73rd Bomb Wing Association, Air Force Association and the West Point Officer's Club, A 50 year member of the Middletown American Legion Post 151, and the Veterans of Foreign Wars. His well known business led to his membership in the Orange County Board of Realtors,
Professional Insurance Agency Association, Independent Insurance Agents Association, and the New York Society of Real Estate Appraisers. As a man dedicated to his community, he served four terms as a City Alderman for the City of Middletown, a long time member of the Town of Wawayanda Board
of Assessment and Review, and took great pride in serving on Congressman Gilman's Congressional Board for Military Academies from it's inception to end. A 50 year member of the McQuoid Engine and Ladder Company #3, Middletown, The Knights of Columbus, the Historical Society of Wallkill
Precinct and the Orange County Historical Society. Outliving most of his contemporaries, he continued to make new friends through work and family and as his grandchildren attended college and brought home their friends, he became known as "Grandpa" to the young men and women in many states.
His physical presence will be missed but his spirit will remain an active participant in his community. .. Burial with full military honors will be in St. Joseph Cemetery, Middletown. Arrangements are under the supervision of Louis W. Morse, Morse Funeral Home, Inc.”
Well, it did not prove to me for sure that this was the Lawrence Reineke I was looking
for. It seemed to me that there were a few years where Mr. Reineke COULD have been working as a reporter, but the obituary did not specifically say that he was.
A letter to the Orange County Historical Society, of which the obituary said he was a
member, brought a response from Mr. Marvin Cohen, who was a friend of the above Lawrence Reineke.
“I am sure that Mr. Reineke was the author of the articles of the Erie R.R. In his
younger days he was a reporter for the local paper. I have copied a number of the articles he wrote and used them in our Historical Society newsletter. “
That was enough information for me. I believe Mr. Lawrence Reineke, born in
Middletown NY in 1907 and died in 2003, is the author of the articles entitled “Along Came the Erie”.
I hope you enjoy the articles.
Mary Rhodes
|
INTRODUCTION
Allegany County Democrat
(Series) First Published September 22, 1932
New Democrat Feature
“Along Came the Erie” Title of Series of Articles to Begin In Next Week’s Issue
Starting next week the Allegany County Democrat will present the first of a series of
articles on exciting events of the Erie’s early history which should prove of great interest to all its readers.
This series, entitled, “Along Came the Erie” has been especially prepared
for the Democrat by Lawrence Reineke who has spent the past year doing research work on the history of the
Erie Railroad.
Allegany County has played an important part in the history of the Erie
railroad. It was over a hundred years ago, In October of 1831 that Philip Church published a notice in the county newspapers of a meeting to be held in the Court House in Angelica which at that time was the county seat. The purpose of the meeting was to consider the adoption of definite
measures to further the cause of the contemplated railroad from New York City to Lake Erie. Philip Church, because of his activity in the project was chosen chairman of the meeting and Asa S. Allen and Daniel McHenry were secretaries.
This meeting at Angelica was the third of its kind and as interest in the Erie had been
aroused throughout the entire Southern Tier, the citizens of Owego issued a call for a convention at that place, it being a central one and convenient for the purpose, to discuss the matter by delegates from all the interested counties.
The Owego convention was called to order on December 20, 1831, and the
roll of delegates was called. Philip Church, D. McHenry, and S. S. Haight represented Allegany County.
Mr. Church was chosen chairman of this convention also, but due to the fact that the
majority of the delegates were in favor of the railroad being built by two separate companies, and because Church felt that if two counties getting a railroad would be mighty slim, Church resigned. The convention, however, went in favor of one charter for the entire line; and it is from
this convention that the birth of the Erie must be dated.
When the actual construction of the Railroad started, the Holland Land Company which
owned whole townships of land in Allegany County refused to give any of its land for right of way, but it did offer to sell the land at reduced prices to buyers who would pledge a portion of it to the Erie. Acting on this suggestion, the directors of the first Board of the
Erie bought about 250,000 acres of land in Allegany County.
But progress of the road was slow. Legislature tactics impeded construction and Philip
Church was constantly fighting to protect the interest of Allegany County, and her two sister counties of Cattaraugus and Chautauqua against a change in route which would have deprived those counties of any railroad at all.
Then too, the Wall Street influence which has played such a tragic part in the affairs
of the Erie railroad was already at work. So disheartened had the Southern Tier counties become at the progress of the work, that in 1842 they demanded that the Railroad cut loose from New York City control.
The new Board of Directors that was chosen consisted of men from rural counties. Jesse
Angel of Allegany was one of the new members.
Nearly twenty years after Philip Church had called the first meeting in
Allegany County, the railroad reached the County. In February of 1851 it had passed through Wellsville, then known as the Genesee Station, and had reached Cuba.
The Democrat will be glad to have the comments of its readers on this series of
Erie articles which starts next week, and it hopes that the series may be the means of bringing to light many interesting facts concerning the Erie railroad in Wellsville and the county in general.
“Early Beginnings” is the title of the first article of “Along came the
Erie.” It is a rapid sketch of the start of the railroad, and it will appear in The Democrat next week.
After that there follows a humorous tale – but you will learn more about that next week.
THIS FEATURE OF INTEREST WILL START IN THE NEXT ISSUE OF THE DEMOCRAT
|
ALONG CAME THE ERIE |
to: top of page
Article One “Along Came the Erie”, Originally
Published September 29, 1932
Early Beginnings
Editor’s Note – This is the first of fifteen articles that will be written by Lawrence
Reineke, concerning the early history of the Erie Railroad. We hope you will enjoy them each week.
________________
Not alone do New England and the West stand as the foremost examples of all that is
romantic and glamorous; our section of the state has a past that is as thrilling and absorbing and full of heroics and interest as any part of the United States.
For the building of the Erie contains events as dramatic and startling as
any found in fiction, and from its beginning to end its story stands unique among the memorable chronicles of Time.
The Erie’s beginnings may be traced back to a hundred years before the
coming of the Dutch, when the powerful Five Nations of the Iroquois ruled New York. The white man, when he discovered and settled New York, devoted much time toward securing the Iroquois as allies.
That the English were successful in obtaining the allegiance of the Iroquois was due to
Champlain, who on July 29th, 1609, after sailing down the lake which now bears his name encountered the Iroquois on its west shore. The battle which ensued was won by the French guns – but it was a dear victory because it incurred the hatred of the Five Nations –
and with that hatred the inevitable loss of French possessions in North America.
The Iroquois united with the British and served them well during the French and Indian
wars down to the Revolution when most of the Six Nations (The Tuscarora’s of North Carolina had joined the confederacy in the meantime) decided to espouse the cause of England.
Then there followed border raids under Brant and Butler, the massacre of
Wyoming and Cherry Valley; the battle of Minisink, and all the other rich colorful and exciting engagements of the Revolution.
The raids and massacres continued almost without let up until the Continental Congress
as a measure of retribution, dispatched General Sullivan to the Indian territory to waste their settlements and destroy their grain.
General Sullivan started on his march – to be later met by General Clinton (brother of
the first governor of the State of New York) and so successful was the undertaking that the power of the Iroquois was destroyed forever; and the land opened to settlement perhaps twenty to thirty years sooner than would have been possible if the Iroquois had allied with the Americans.
The armies emerged from what was then an unbroken wilderness and went back to their
starting points, General Clinton carrying with him not only memories of a charred and smoking line of Iroquois villages between the Susquehanna and the Genesee but also an idea that was to dominate his life.
That idea was the connection of the Great Lakes with the Hudson by means
of a wagon road that would eventually pass into the comparatively unexplored and little known west.
It was an idea that Clinton never gave up even on his death bed, and it
was one that he passed on to his son, the famous De Witt. But when the latter was elected Governor economic and political conditions had changed. The war of 1812 had been fought and the upper counties of the state were in power. The Southern Tier with it wonderful rivers as a means of
transportation was left to shift for itself while the State went about the building of the Erie Canal.
A new factor had entered into the problems of transportation. Railroads had come into
being. True they were known in only three states: Maryland, Massachusetts and Pennsylvania. The one in Pennsylvania being the historic “Gravity Railroad” used for hauling coal from the mines to the Delaware and Hudson Canal. (The cars were pulled upgrade by means of
stationery engines, and of course, ran down hill by gravity).
But as yet, railroads were not regarded as important. No one foresaw their great value
as the openers of new territory, and for the development and expansion of settlements in the United States until William C. Redfield published a pamphlet calling attention to the possibilities of steam transportation.
His project was revolutionary: it called for a railroad from the Hudson to the
Mississippi at a time when Chicago was only a small village clustered about Fort Dearborn and as yet unnamed; Buffalo a western village; Detroit a frontier post; and at a time when immigrants were still moving in covered wagons to what was then called the west, rarely beyond Illinois.
Almost needless to say, none of the men of the time could grasp the full benefit of the
magnificent scope of the work Redfield had outlined. The leaders said. “Let us reach the Lakes with a railroad and then other roads will come from the West to meet us.”
At last the Erie did get started, and as it built westward, roads started
toward the East to meet it. Connections from New England crept across the rocky country of that section to the banks of the Hudson.
The great era of railroad building was on!
All started by the Erie. In more ways than one the history of the Erie is
the history of all railroads in the United States; and yet in the Erie’s history occur many stirring and exciting incidents without precedent anywhere. There was so much self-sacrifice so much aid extended to the Road by not alone the people of the towns on the proposed line but by entire
counties that the story of the Erie becomes the story of the counties along its route in New York and Pennsylvania all of whom did their valiant share to push the work forward with all possible haste and dispatch.
And on the branches that ran into the various sections of the county were carried the
traditions of the Erie, its struggles and triumphs until we might well say the entire Southern New York and Northern Pennsylvania played parts in the drama of the Erie.
In the articles that are to follow, there will be presented some of the outstanding
adventures of the Erie. Some of them are dramatic, some comical and others mysterious. You won’t want to miss one, especially, “Water, Water, Everywhere” which appears next week. It’s a “spring” tale filled with humor.
|
to: top of page
Article 2 "Along Came the Erie", Originally Published
Oct 6, 1932
WATER, WATER, EVERYWHERE
By Lawrence Reineke
Hiram Caust switched his chew of tobacco over to the other cheek and squinted down the
track. Then looking up at the elevated ground across from the station he thoughtfully surveyed it for a few minutes and finally, turning to his companion, a short stocky man, he said, “Well Luke, I reckon I’m going to lose that hill over there.”
“How’s that?” Luke asked, sensing that Hiram had something important to tell him.
“Oh, it’s simple enough,” Hi Caust answered, fingering his tie, “I figured that when the
Erie got to Middletown the value of that land would go sky high, but it didn’t. And I wasn’t the only one to figure that way. I hear the Captain is going to lose plenty, too”.
“Emm—“ Luke began, “I always thought the value of that land was away under the price you
fellers paid for it.”
“Begins to look that way. Take that hill over there; about three acres onto it, and I
paid three thousand for it. That’s a steep figure let alone I took out a mortgage for two thousand on it – and now the darn place ain’t worth more than seven hundred dollars. I’ll be foreclosed in another couple of weeks and then I stand to lose everything.”
“Too bad,” Luke sympathized and to himself he was thanking his lucky stars his wife
hadn’t let him invest his money in the Middletown land boom of 1843.
Hiram pulled out his big, heavy watch, “Law’s sakes,” he cried, “The train is due any
hour now, unless it hops off the track. Might as well get seats and watch it come in.”
He started off for the seats, his long legs swinging in space-consuming strides. Short
legged Luke was hard put to keep up with him. Although it was early in the spring the day was hot and it wasn’t long before the perspiration was trickling down Luke’s face.
“Hey, take it easy,” he yelled after Hiram, but the latter paid no attention and kept up
his brisk walk until he reached the benches, and after selecting one with a good view he sat down and looked around for Luke, who was coming down the platform as fast as he could.
With a relieved sigh, Luke sat down and the two without further conversation waited for
the train. They didn’t have long to wait because that day the train had made an exceptionally good run and reached Middletown only five minutes late. The passengers alighted, some going to the various stage-coaches that ran from Middletown to the west, others to their homes,
or one of the town’s hotels. The engineer climbed down from the locomotive and spoke to the conductor for a moment, then he tapped the boiler and jumped up on the frame work to look inside. “Need a lot of water today,” he yelled to the men coming toward him.
They turned off and brought out a hose which was lifted up on the engine and connected
to the boiler. Next they hitched the hose to a pump near the rails and started working away. Up and down the pump handle went and with the hot sun beating on the men’s backs it wasn’t long before they were as wet as the water they were sending into the engine.
Hiram had watched the preparations for filling the engine, and as he saw how long it
took to fill the locomotive’s boiler it impressed him that it would be extremely fortunate for the Erie if there were only a living spring nearby high enough to run the water by gravity to the engine.
He looked past the locomotive to his hill he was soon to lose. It was considerably
higher than the tracks and not so far away from them either.
Then Hi Caust got an idea!
In the offices of the Erie, President Loder was listening attentively to
the man from Middletown.
“What you have told me is interesting. It is an item of great cost to pump the water
out of a well into the engines, to say nothing of the time consumed by the process. And if your spring is as good as you say it is, I believe we would be willing to buy it.” Mr Loder coughed, “This is, of course if the price is right.”
Hiram smiled. “The price will be right. I only want twenty five hundred dollars for
it.”
The president of the Erie started, “Only twenty five hundred dollars,” he
repeated, “but my good man, that is a lot of money. It surely must be an exceptional spring to be worth that price.”
Hi Caust nodded, “This is an exceptional spring; and that price holds good only until
tomorrow at sundown. Are you going to buy it or not?”
Mr. Loder wavered. He didn’t like to be rushed into anything, but if there actually was
a living spring at Middletown so handy to the station it would be worth all of twenty five hundred dollars to the road. Finally he decided to see it through.
“All right,” he said to Hiram, “We’ll be up to see it tomorrow. Will you wait in
New York and go up with us, or are you going back on the afternoon train?”
“Might as well go back today. I’ll meet you at the station tomorrow.” Hiram stood up
and shook hands with Mr. Loder, then he turned and left.
The next day he was down at the Middletown station to meet the New York
train. He took President Loder and the corp. of engineers the canny president had brought with him, to inspect the spring. They reached the top of the hill and looked at the clear body of water. The engineers carefully surveyed it and gave their approval. President Loder closed the deal
on the spot. He handed over the cash to Hiram and then the party went back to the station.
The following day the Erie brought iron pipe from New York and laid it
between the spring and the station where it was connected to a water tank that had been erected in the meantime. Everything was ready for the official turning on of the spring. The four men who pumped the water from the well were disconsolately standing by – they had lost their jobs. The
valve was turned and the water washed down the pipes and into the tank almost filing it. The ceremony was a success – but when the tank was exhausted it was found that no more water was coming from the spring. The Erie investigated and discovered that the beautiful spring they had so so
willingly paid $2500 for was nothing more than an artificial basin made in the hill, lined with clay and filled with rain water. They had been taken in completely.
The Erie soon learned of the mortgage that was to be foreclosed and
realized that unless they got their pipes out of the ground and off the property in a hurry they stood a good chance of losing the pipes also.
So the Railroad made the best of a bad bargain and they ripped up the pipes, worth in
themselves almost as much as they had paid for the spring and took them out of Middletown post haste, and put them into hiding until the sale was over.
The four men got their jobs back again pumping water down at the old pump by the
station, Hi Caust settled, yes, outside of New York State, in a house overlooking Lake Erie.
There was water, water everywhere but in the Erie’s $2500 spring.
It took them ten years to do it, but the Erie finally made it. Next
week’s article is a dramatic account of the opening of the Erie to Goshen.
|
to: top of page
Article 3 - "Along Came the Erie" - Originally Published Oct
13, 1932
Goshen
By Lawrence Reineke
“She’s coming! She’s coming!”
The excited cry was taken up by the large crowd gathered at Goshen.
Behind the reception stand the Captain gave the command and the cannon of the Militia roared a salute. Then a volley of musket fire was the signal for a complete letdown of the strain of patient waiting. The people yelled and waved their flags. Bands swung into action. Farm boys,
recklessly spending the savings of an entire summer, sent shot after shot into the air.
And when the locomotive Orange, pulling the first train, rounded the curve
and steamed sedately into the station the excitement knew no bounds.
Shortly after the train came to a shrieking stop, a second train powered by the
locomotive Ramapo came into view. As it too, completed its journey the enthusiasm reached its peak.
Above the din a man shouted to his wife “There’s Governor Seward,” he cried, “he’s a
great man and I expect to see him go far.”
Down by the second train a group of the literary minded were trying to get a closer look
at Washington Irving, the author. There were notables to suit all; Senators, Congressmen, Judges, lawyers, clergymen; the military staff of the Governor, arrayed in all its glory, for the girls to marvel at; sound business men from all cities of the state. So many in fact that the only two
passenger cars the Erie then had were insufficient to hold all and three platform cars had had to be coupled to each train.
In back of the throng, waiting to receive the distinguished guests were General Wickham
and the officials of the county. One of them looking at the multitude and at the puffing locomotives that were audible proof the Erie was at last on its way to the Lakes, turned to the General and said, “September twenty third, eighteen forty one – this day will go down in the history of
the Southern Tier. I’ll wager the Erie will do a lot for the State.”
The General smiled, “You’re right,” he agreed, “But don’t forget this either: The State
will do a lot for the Erie, too.”
“But look,” he continued, “our friends are getting off the cars.”
By this time the excitement had died down and the General pushed his way through the
crowd to greet the guests. Then he escorted them to the reception stand after which he made his welcoming speech.
The General’s speech was followed by speeches by Governor Seward and others. President
Bowen of the Erie made an address outlining the formation of the Erie, its struggles and triumphs. Pointing dramatically at the locomotives which still had steam up, he reached the high point of his speech.
“You who are here today can testify that it (the Erie) has not been
abandoned, and you can form some estimate of its ultimate benefit when you reflect that you have been transported from the banks of the Hudson through the counties of Rockland and Orange to the border of Sullivan in less than three hours.”
President Bowen was using a poetical figure of speech, which the occasion perhaps
allowed when he said, “border of Sullivan” as it was not until seven years afterward that the Erie got near the border of Sullivan County.
But it was true that the journey from Piermont, then the Eastern Terminus of the
Erie, had taken only three hours and allowing another three hours for the trip from Piermont to New York by boat, I made Goshen only six hours from New York City – a great achievement for that day.
After the public speech making had come to an end, the guests repaired to Major Edsall’s
hotel where a grand feast was spread. The crowd had dispersed seeking friends, finding places to eat, and waiting to reassemble at sundown when the trains would start on the return journey.
In front of one of the stores, sitting on a box with his back leaning against a hitching
post, old Pop Brokos was having the time of his life. A group of youths were gathered around him and he had the boys popeyed with his tales of the Indians and Stage Coaches.
“Yep, he was saying, “would you believe it, General Clinton wanted a road built along
this way nigh onto sixty years ago.”
“I remember my pappy, who was with the General when they cleaned out the Indians,
telling me about it when I was a lad. He often told me how the General said that nothing would do the nation better than to have a wagon road run up this way an all through the Southern Tier counties – said, ‘twould open up the West and help settle these old United States quicker. Like as
not, though, people thought he was crazy and nothing much came of it.”
“But I never expected to see the day when that road would be built. Of course,” Pop
smacked his thigh, “It ain’t a wagon road and it’s took long enough to build it, by cracky – but it’s there. And let me tell you, lads, I’m a goin’ to take a trip on that Iron Horse, ‘fore I die. Imagine goin’ twelve miles an hour – “ Pop’s voice trailed off. He was lost in dreams.
The youths scattered – some to find their mothers, others to find their girls, and most
to find what mischief they could do.
The afternoon came to an end and the people assembled again. The guests came from the
Hotel and walked to the station. Each received a big cheer as he climbed aboard the cars. After they were all seated the engineer of the first locomotive tooted a warning to clear the track. The trains started off, one behind the other. The cannon boomed a parting; the crowd shouted
goodbye.
The last car disappeared around the curve. The farmers turned to one another. “Got to
get home and do the chores,” they said. They hurried to their horses and hitched them up, collected their families which wasn’t as easy, and drove off.
The merchants went back to their stores and counted the day’s receipts. The press room
of the local paper was setting type for an extra on the event.
The air of excitement Goshen had worn all day vanished with the setting
sun. It seemed as though the town realized the big event was over and it must now settle back into the routine of life.
For the Erie was looking past the Delaware, the Susquehanna, and the
Genesee Rivers, to the waters of Lake Erie which was its westward goal.
Next Week: The Stock Car Mystery. Yes ser, a car disappeared off of the middle of a
moving freight train. It’s a mystery that will puzzle all.
|
to: top of page
Article 4 - "Along Came the Erie" - Originally Published Oct
20, 1932
The Stock Car Mystery
By Lawrence Reineke
“Hey, Coe, one of the cars is missing”
Coe Little, conductor on a stock train running between Port Jervis
and Susquehanna, laughed, “Ha, Ha, that’s a good one,” he roared, “check them over again.”
The Port Jervis agent frowned and then went down the line of cars
again checking off each car and contents against the way bill. About thirty minutes later he was back.
“Well, brother,” Coe said as he saw the agent, “did you find the
car?”
“No – there’s a car missing.”
“But there can’t be. They were all there when we left Susquehanna -
I checked them myself.”
Alright, don’t take my word for it,” the agent said angrily, “check
them yourself. Here’s the way bills,” he continued, tossing them in Coe’s lap, then he turned on his heel and strode away.
Coe sat looking after the man. Then he whistled, “A car missing,” he
said to himself, “That’s a good one, but I suppose I will have to check them out”.
Coe found his brakeman and the two started to check the train. It
was a long job in the early days of the Erie, livestock transportation was one of the road’s biggest items of traffic. Trains half a mile long, loaded with cattle, sheep and hogs used to pass on the road two and three times a day and as they were rated next to passenger trains
they usually traveled at a fast clip.
But to get back to Coe Little and his brakeman. Laboriously they
checked the entire train to find that the agent was speaking the truth. A stock car was missing.
Coe hurried to the station where he wired a telegram to the agent at
Susquehanna, but the reply came back that there was no trace of a car in the yards. Coe was stumped. He had checked the train carefully before it left Susquehanna. He was sure that the cars were there yet when the car arrived in Port Jervis one was missing.
How could anyone steal a stock car and its contents? The train had
been running almost all the time since it left Susquehanna except for a few stops of not more than fifteen minutes each. Maybe something had happened at those stops. Coe thought about it. They had stopped at the big siding and for a while all the crew had come up at the engine. Against
rules, but it was mighty cold that day. Someone might have taken the car then – but Coe couldn’t believe it possible.
He went back to the train followed by the brakeman and the agent,
both of them as much mystified as Coe. The three started checking the list again and then they made a startling discovery. The missing car belonged almost in the middle of the train.
Coe whistled, “Can you beat that? He ejaculated. Now, how in under
the sun could a stock car get out of the middle of a train?”
That killed the possible theft of the car, for no one could move, or
would be so foolish to move half a train to take a particular car, and yet what could have happened to the car?
Unless Coe had made a mistake at Susquehanna that a stock car had
disappeared out of the middle of a moving train. And by what means?
This was a problem that would stump better men than any of the three,
and they could only sit and ponder the happening.
Coe thought to look at the coupling, and he got the surprise of his
life. The link of the car that should have been behind the missing stock car had broken in such a way that it had formed a hook which was caught in the pin of the coupler of the car which would have been ahead of the missing car. But this threw no light on the mystery – rather it deepened
it.
The men retired to the station, and a car tracer had been sent back
over the line, although without much hope to finding anything, when a telegram from Agent Thomas at Shohola (about 16 miles west of Port Jervis) was received.
The telegram made Coe sit up. He jumped out of the chair and reached
the train in no time at all. Out, and on his way to the yards where a wrecking crew was quickly made up. The train left Port Jervis with Coe riding in the cab.
He was going to solve the mystery! The train made good time and soon
arrived at Shohola where Coe hopped off and went in search of the agent. “Where’s those cows you were talking about?” he demanded when he found Thomas.
“Down in a field by the Delaware, I’ll show you where.”
The agent got a hat and slipped on his coat and went to the door with Coe following him. After a short walk they came to a little knoll which the two ascended. From this vantage point the agent pointed across the Delaware to a field in which the cattle were pawing the snow. Coe ran down to
the river but was unable to cross. Then he walked back toward the track and before many minutes had elapsed he saw:
The missing stock car, standing upright, and in perfect condition
except that its doors were kicked open.
Coe sat down and thought. Then he climbed up the ten foot embankment
leading to the roadbed and walked back up the track. After he reached the station he gathered the wrecking crew and traveled back to the stock car. They, too, were at a loss to explain the mishap until the engineer who had been scanning the track intently found half of a coupling pin. He
thought for a moment, and then shouted, “I have it.” The men came running to him and he re-constructed the mishap.
“You see it’s downgrade here,” he said, “and the way I figure it out
is this: the coupling pin on that car over there in the field broke, thus dividing the train into two sections. The missing car was the first car in the rear section and in some way it jumped the track – don’t ask me how, but it did – and traveled right down the embankment and into the
field without tipping over.
When the car jumped the track it broke the link that held it to the
car behind it, but as it got out of the way so fast that cars following just continued down the track behind the first section at the bottom of the grade the engineer slowed down the train and the second section caught up with the first, the lead car of the second running into the rear car
of the first with just enough force to make the broken link hop into the pin hole of the coupling so that the train continued on to Port Jervis without anyone knowing they had lost a car from the middle of the train.”
The railroad men agreed that the explanation given by the engineer
was the only possible way in which the accident could occur, and chuckling at the discomfort of Coe Little, and marveling at the factors which brought such a strange mishap into history, they set about getting the stock car back on the rails.
In the meantime, men had been sent after the cattle which were in
Sullivan County, and it is recorded that all were recovered without injury to a single cow.
|
to: top of page
Article 5 - "Along Came the Erie" - Originally Published
Oct
27, 1932 Milk
By Lawrence Reineke Thousands and thousands of men, trains, trucks, lighters, old Dobbin in
the country and the city. Milkmen running up and down miles of stairs while the metropolis is sleeping. Shining bottles, pure wholesome milk, guaranteed by city inspectors, and by the farmers themselves who take pride in the milk their herds produce. This is a brief picture of the great
milk industry in 1932.
Let us go back ninety years and look at the
milk situation in New York City then. Foul smelling and disease ridden stables, several stories high with low ceilings and little or no circulation. Absolutely no sanitary provisions of any kind. And in these terrible
shelters cows were driven into three foot stalls, there to stand until they were carted away dead – and the environment usually brought about death in a year.
These stables were built and owned by the
breweries which adjoined them and it was the practice of the brewery to rent the stalls to individuals for the keeping of cattle.
The diet of these poor animals was the brewery
mash diluted with boiling hot water, and needless to say the effect of such diet was the loss of the cow’s teeth, and a constant state of intoxication and disease.
The milk produced by these cattle was known by
the unpleasant name of “swill milk,” and it was retailed in the city at 6 cents a quart. That was the standard price. Of course, you could get milk for 4 cents and 2 cents a quart, but that meant proportionate parts of water were added to the milk. And the milk – thin, blue and watery,
with practically no fat content – was adulterated with starch and other substances for appearance and to give it body. It was no wonder that infant mortality in New York City was high.
True, some milk was sold in the city which came
from farms in Westchester, Long Island, and New Jersey, located near enough to cart the milk to city by wagon – but the supply was woefully beneath the demand – and then too, many times these farm wagons were assaulted by gangs employed by the brewery owners, and the milk spilled on the
ground.
It was the knowledge of these conditions that
led Thomas Selleck when he first arrived in Orange County to fulfill his contract with the Erie for driving piles across the Chester swamp, to try to interest farmers in shipping their milk to the city via the railroad.
However, the farmers treated Selleck’s idea
with ridicule. That milk could be shipped more than 50 miles, especially in the hot weather, and still be fresh after being subjected to the jolting and jarring of the train journey was regarded as the height of ignorance.
Then too, the farmers had always converted
their milk into butter – and it made such good butter that its fame was nation-wide – so whether or not the milk shipping idea was feasible they didn’t see any necessity nor increased profits in abandoning the butter industry for the simple selling of their milk.
The
Erie was equally indifferent and incredulous. Goshen butter, as the butter of the section was commercially known, had long been the county’s principle article of business, and when the railroad was opened to freight the butter trade became the mainstay of
the line. As a matter of fact it was the butter shipments that made it possible for the road to keep operating during the first few months of its existence.
However, in spite of all discouragements,
Selleck clung to his idea and by constant arguments he finally got Philo Vance of Chester to make a trial shipment. They made a shipment of 240 quarts, putting the milk in the standard blue pyramid churns of the day and
sent it off.
Selleck and Vance had watched the train off.
Selleck was now waiting in Chester for word as to how the experiment turned out. The news, when it came was good. The first shipment of Orange County milk was greeted in the city by a line of men, women and children, each
with a receptacle of some kind; the line extended for nearly three blocks. The idea was successful and Selleck lost no time in telling Vance the welcome news.
The demand for
Orange County milk kept increasing and one by one the farmers gave up making butter, and started shipping their milk to the city.
But the actual shipping of milk was still an
untried proposition and much of the milk soured before it was delivered, causing a loss to the farmer and hurting the reputation of the milk.
At first, cans of different capacity were used in order that each milking could be kept separate. Then, Jacob Vail of Goshen, discovered that by cooling the milk shortly after it came from the cow, the milk
kept fresh for a much longer period. This discovery doomed the butter industry and in two years, Goshen butter ceased to exist as a commercial article.
By the end of 1844, six shipping points for
milk had been established in Orange County, and during that year over six million quarts of milk were shipped. Freight was charged by weight, the rate being 20 cents per hundred pounds.
“Swill Milk” had been selling for six cents a
quart in New York City. The country milk was placed on sale at four cents per quart, of which the farmer received two cents. However, the distillery stable men, by many means managed to continue in business until the late
1850’s, when medical and public opinion became so enraged at their practices that legislation was passed which drove the brewery stable and “swill milk” out of existence.
As the
Erie pushed westward, the milk shed of New York City crept after it – but always the demand for pure milk outgrew the supply and finally the city was obliged to establish its present milk shed which covers parts of seven states.
It is a great industry – this supplying of
cities with clean, pure milk. A business that has grown from a pioneer shipment of 240 quarts in 1842 to a point where it now requires many crack milk train expresses, fleets of trucks and glass lined tank trucks to transport the precious fluid to the ultimate consumer.
A great industry – and may it continue to grow
with more consideration for the financial return to the farmer than has heretofore been the case.
|
to: top of page
Article 6 - "Along Came the Erie" - Originally Published Nov 3, 1932
The Irish Are Coming!
It was a tense moment in the little courthouse at Alfred Center on that beautiful
spring day in June, 1850. The Justice had just smartly rapped his gavel for order, when Johnny Febinger, panting and disheveled, stumbled through the open doorway and fell on the floor, after gasping the warning, “The Irish are coming.”
The men nearest the door jumped to their feet and ran to Febinger
whom they picked up and stretched on a bench. Someone ran for the water bucket and when that party got back a dipper of water was thrown on the unconscious man. It had the effect of bringing Johnny around and he sat up, and told his story.
Febinger had been working in a field about a mile and half down the
road when he heard a great noise and shouting of many men coming up the turnpike. He hid in the underbrush and saw the vanguard of the laborers coming into view. Some were armed with rifles and pistols, while others had crowbars and sticks. The mob passed Febinger and, from the scraps of
conversation he overheard, Febinger learned that their destination was the courthouse, where several of their fellows had been taken, earlier in the day, for an attack on John Pardon and his family. So Febinger had run across fields to give the warning.
John Pardon, a Far-down of Ireland, and his family, after passing
through Alfred on their way to Andover, were attacked by aggressive members of the Corkonian and Tiperary factions of the Irish laborers employed by Contractor Henry A Fonda. Fonda had the contract for the work at Alfred where the railroad route would go around a hillside as it climbed to
the summit of the Allegany Mountains. Here, as along the entire route of the Erie, there were tremendous obstacles to overcome. Huge slashes had to be made through hills and gullies and ravines filled and leveled, rock cuts blasted.
Fonda was fortunate in having three factions of the Irish among his
men. Far-downers, Corkonians and Tipperaries. The ancient feuds of Erin were kept alive and it is tradition that the big fill just below the station at Alfred contains the remains of many a missing son of Ireland.
However, in June, 1850, the Corkonians and Tipperaries had made truce
for the purpose of turning their combined forces upon the Far-downers. They had learned in some way or another of the intended journey of John Pardon and his family, and had resolved to prevent it. For this purpose, a group of about 20 men had hidden along the road that Pardon was
traveling, and when he came abreast of them they jumped out and tried to stop him. But Pardon whipped his horses and fled to the home of a nearby resident. The native took Pardon in, and sent his own son to get aid while he began preparations for resisting the approaching Irish.
News of the attack caused the authorities to call out the militia of
the towns of Alfred, Andover and Almond. In the meantime, constables posses had been organized in Andover and Alfred and they lost no time in marching to the rescue. Once at the house they made short work of rounding up the Irish, who, confident that they would get Pardon,
had surrounded the house.
The Andover posse escorted the Pardon family on their
way, while the Alfred posse singled out the leaders and marched them to Alfred Center, where the Justice of the Peace started an immediate trial.
It was just at the commencement of the trial that the warning of the
intended attack by the Irish had been so fortunately given. The militia gathered up all the nails, chains, scraps of iron and other available missiles and loaded their six pound brass cannon to the mouth. Then the cannon was rolled down the road almost to the bend and there fixed in
position so that it would be the first thing to greet the rioters when they rounded the turn.
The militia deployed on both sides of the road with loaded rifles
ready for action, and awaited the arrival of the Irish. Preparations had been scarcely over when the first hum of the oncoming laborers was heard. The shouting and noises of the approaching mob gradually grew louder and suddenly the vanguard of the crowd came around the bend…
To face the frowning cannon. They were startled, and the determined
look in the eyes of the man holding the lighted fuse gave them no doubt about what would happen in a minute when the cannon went off. They turned tail and fled, leaving but little thought to the way or means. And their companions lost no time in following their lead. Across fences,
tumbling over ditches, through patches of berries the mob fled, leaving behind their weapons and caps.
The militia added to the fear and confusion of the Irish by firing a
round of musket fire into the air, and then chasing the Irish, although with more respect for ditches, fences and briar patches than the frightened Irish had.
The riot was over – and not a drop of blood had been spilled. The
trial was resumed and quick justice was meted to the ringleaders of the Tipperary and Corkian factions.
The set-back at the hands of the militia had the effect of keeping
the Irish quiet during the summer. But things quieted down too much – it was rather the quiet before a storm instead of permanent peace, and the authorities at Alfred and Andover were prepared for further outbreaks.
But as month after month went by and nothing happened, their
vigilance relaxed, and in October, 1850, the trouble began again.
Fonda and his foreman, Kent, were sitting in their house making plans
for the following week’s work when a man knocked at the door. Kent opened the door and the man jumped in quickly. “They’re fighting down in the end shanty,” he said, “and someone will be killed.”
The two slipped on their coats and pistols and then followed the man
back through the shanty town to the end shanty. Curses greeted Fonda and Kent when they broke the door in. The lights were extinguished and a free for all fight started. The fighting was furious and the shanty trembled as the battling men crashed against its sides. A shot rang out, and
another. Suddenly the door was flung open and several men leaped out into the night. The fight was ended.
Fonda painfully crawled to his knees and struck a match. In the
feeble flickering glare, he saw his foreman crumpled in a heap on the floor. On the opposite side, two young laborers lay, blood trickling from bad wounds in the chest. Then the light went out, and Fonda fell back on the floor with a throbbing in his head. Voices came, and a candle flamed
into life. Men picked him up and carried him to his house for attention. Kent was taken along, too, but he never recovered consciousness and died a few days later. The two laborers were dead, and it was never ascertained who fired the shots.
The day following these murders, the company hired 15 of the militia
as guards, and trouble from then on was comparatively unknown.
|
to: top of page
Article 7 - "Along Came the Erie" - Originally Published Nov 7, 1932
SMILES.....
“Barton, Barton,” boomed the conductor, as the train slowed to a stop at that station on the Susquehanna division of the Erie in 1850.
The few people getting off at the station had already reached the door and as the train
came to a stop they climbed to the ground.
The conductor looked down the train and seeing that all the passengers had alighted, he
signaled to the engineer. As the train started to move, the conductor swung up on the steps and was just about to enter the coach when he noticed a man and woman running toward the train. When the man saw the conductor, he yelled, “Stop the train for the love of God – we forgot our baby!”
The conductor leaped inside the coach and pulled the bell cord. The engineer threw on
the brakes and the train came to an abrupt halt. The man rushed into the car, and there, sure enough, on one of the seats was a chubby baby, sleeping and quite unaware that its parents had momentarily deserted it.
Water Boys - Water boys are usually associated
with baseball and football teams and needless to say, the lad that obtains the honor of supplying the town’s heroes with water is envied by every other lad around.
Back in the old days of the Erie, when whale oil lamps and tallow candles
were used to light the coaches at night there were other water boys who were the envy of all juveniles along the line. They worked for the Erie and their job was to pass through the cars with pails of water and tin dippers so the passengers could satisfy their thirsts.
Water coolers doomed the picturesque water boy, as kerosene doomed the candles and whale
oil lamps.
Winter, 1857 - The winter of 1857 was
disastrous to the Erie, particularly on the Delaware division. In February of that year, the ice carried away the railroad bridge east of Narrowsburgh. The river froze, and the Erie commenced building a new bridge. The work was well on the way to completion, when another big flood came
along and swept the new construction away.
With the destruction of the new work, through traffic on the Delaware
division was virtually suspended. The Erie had little trouble in ferrying local passengers across the Delaware, although it was a trip fraught with many possible dangers, and in the point of coldness and flowing ice, not unlike the trip Washington took so many years ago on the same river.
However, the main item of freight in those days was livestock, and the Erie finally
overcame the problem of the missing bridge by unloading the stock at Narrowsburgh and driving them through Wayne County, PA., to the junction of the Honesdale and Mast Hope, a total of 35 miles, where they were loaded on cars waiting at the station and started on the final stage of their
journey to New York City.
Strawberries - “Clear the track for the
strawberry train.” The order went forward from the dispatcher in all seriousness. For in the early years of the Erie, the traffic in strawberries was considerable. Rockland County and adjacent counties in New Jersey grew fine big strawberries which found a ready market in New York City
via the railroad.
In the year of 1846, a special train was put on by the Eire to transport
the fruit to the city, and the wisdom of the road in granting this special train is proven by the fact that over 400,000 baskets of strawberries were shipped that year.
In 1847 the traffic was even greater, and the berry train became part of the daily milk
train, probably with the idea of delivering the strawberries and cream at the same time.
The traffic continued to grow – 1848 was a record year – until Long Island and southern
New Jersey started in the business, when the traffic, so far as the Erie was concerned, dwindled away.
The Famous Red - It was only by chance that
Mrs. Silas Horten, living near Owego in 1854, discovered the tree that had fallen across the rails of the Erie near her home.
Usually she didn’t get finished with her washing so soon, but this particular day,
wanting to pick strawberries, she had arisen earlier than was her wont.
She made her cautious way along the tracks, every few minutes stooping over to add a few
more strawberries to the pile that was in her pail.
Mrs. Horten rounded a bend in the track and came upon the tree, which apparently
loosened from the top of the cut by the heavy rains of the preceding week, had fallen across the rails. She stared aghast at the tree – the mail train was due to arrive in a short time, and the engineer, on account of the bend, wouldn’t see the train until it was too late to stop. The
train must be warned in some way.
She dropped the pail of strawberries and, lifting her skirt, she started running back to
the house. Her breath came in gasps, but with her duty clearly defined, she managed to struggle on until she reached her home.
A flash of red caught her eye and she made for it. Red – that was the signal of
danger. She almost tore the object off the line and then started running back to the track. As she reached the rails, the locomotive’s whistle came to her ears, and she headed eastward.
It wasn’t long afterward that the train came into sight, and when the engineer saw Mrs.
Horten running toward him with the red cloth, he threw on the brakes and brought the train to a stop. The engineer got down from the cab and ran to the woman, who had fainted from the excitement and the realization that she had saved the train
But she soon came around, however, and told the train crew about the tree. The engineer
proceeded slowly and when it reached the tree (which was big enough to have wrecked the train) the crew started chopping away at the obstruction. It was only after a delay of many hours that the track was cleared and the train was able to resume its journey.
The Erie rewarded Mrs. Horten by sending her a new dress and a life pass
for herself and her husband.
The whole county was proud of her except her husband. He cherished a grievance, and
afterwards whenever anyone spoke about the incident, he always ended by saying his wife had no right to flaunt his weakness before the country.
“Why in under the sun, did she have to use my red flannel drawers to stop the train?”
were his concluding words.
Next Week – Binghamton, the second milestone of the Erie. An account of
the opening celebration, written in an interesting style.
|
to: top of page
Article 8 - "Along Came the Erie" - Originally Published Nov --, 1932
BINGHAMTON
By Lawrence Reineke
“Jump, men!” The command came with the speed of a rifle bullet and
the men lost no time in obeying. Some leaped to one side, others on the opposite. All got off the car except two, who panic stricken, watched the engine bearing down on them. The two heard the warnings of their comrades – they tried to jump but it was too late. With a sickening crash,
the locomotive struck the dirt car, demolishing it and tossing the men high into the air.
The collision had occurred despite the efforts of the engineer to
avert it since he first saw the work car ahead of him after rounding a curve. The brakes finally took hold, and the train came to a stop.
In the meantime, the worker’s companions and people from the train
had already reached the injured men and were giving first aid. One of the men had a bad fracture of the hip; the other lacerations of the thighs, and broken ribs. President Loder of the Erie, together with the other dignitaries on the train made up a purse of $196 and gave it
to the men. The injured were put on board, and the train resumed its journey.
The snowstorm which had hindered the train on nearly all its journey
had abated temporarily, but as the train climbed higher into the mountains the snow came down again with increased fury, blinding, sticky and cold. Progress was slow.
And indeed progress of these excursion trains, officially opening the
railroad to Binghamton, had been very slow in December of 1848. The party had left New York City on December 26th, stopping overnight at Piermont, which village they left early the next day. The journey through Orange and Sullivan counties had been uneventful,
although slow because of the heavy snowfall. Near Port Jervis, the engine of the first train had run off the track causing a delay of an hour. Now, just as they were approaching Lackawaxen, this second accident had occurred – another delay. Would they reach Binghamton on time?
The trains pushed on. They reached Narrowsburg where lunch had been
prepared for the party - and then on the rails again until it reached Callicoon where preparations had been made to welcome it. However, the trains didn’t stop, and continued on their way much to the disappointment of the townsfolk who had prepared a reception and a special banner.
It was after eight o’clock the evening of the 27th,
when Deposit was reached, so desperately did the trains have to fight their way over the untried road and through the drifting snow – but the long wait didn’t dim Deposit’s ovation. A large arch had been thrown across the road bed bearing the word “Welcome” in evergreens, while on the top
of the arch a deer had been placed in a life like attitude. Guns roared and bonfires cast their livid lights upon the faces of thousands of excited and cheering people
After a short pause the train left – for its destination was
Binghamton.
And at Binghamton, an anxious and impatient crowd was
waiting for its arrival. Since early morning the people from adjoining districts had been pouring into the town lending a helping hand with preparations for the reception or making their noisy ways about the streets. The train was due to arrive at four in the afternoon. But four came and
went – the watchers spent some time inspecting an engine which had arrived with a string of freight cars early that morning from Port Jervis, but this diversion palled. There was nothing left to do but watch the hour hand go around. Six o’clock, and no sign of the train – seven, eight,
nine, and at ten o’clock the crowd, except for a few anxious men remaining at the station, had dispersed.
Eleven o’clock came, and with it went the last of the
proud lads who were to set the cannon off at the first whistle of the locomotive.
The minutes had crawled around the clock, until the hand was well
started on the way to twelve. In the station only two men remained. Suddenly one came to attention. “Did you hear that?” he demanded, excitement in his voice.
“Sure did – that’s an engine.” The other replied, jumping to his feet
and racing toward the door.
“I’ll get the folks out,” he yelled over his shoulder as he left the
building. He ran through the town spreading the glad news. A thousand lamps flamed into life, and the happy and excited talk of the people rose on the air.
The lads returned to their posts and when the next whistle drifted up
on the wind they set the cannon off. The roar of the guns sent the crowd into the highest pitch of enthusiasm. All was confusion. All was noise. All was happiness. The Erie was open to Binghamton.
Soon after, the headlight of the locomotive swept bright lights up
the track, cutting through the snow and falling upon the assembly. The engine slowly came to a stop, hissing and spouting steam, and the engineer, cold to the bone and covered with snow and ice, stiffly climbed down from his platform. The second train came to a stop behind the first.
The windows of the coaches were besieged by hundreds of curious eyes,
and the great men on the train, conscious of the crowd’s gaze, strode with a bit more hauteur, and looked a bit more magnificent as they marched down the aisles of the coaches. They left the cars and paraded out on the platform where the tempting odors of the good food waiting for them
reached their nostrils.
Suddenly they lost their assumed dignity – the inner man cried he was
hungry, and like boys at camp the whole party made a grand rush for eats. An to the credit of Binghamton and the Phoenix Hotel, the food was excellent.
A band played while the dignitaries were eating, and after the men
appeased their hunger, they sat back to really enjoy themselves after the cold and harrowing journey.
Then came the speeches – as speeches always must. President Loder of
the Erie made an address outlining the history of the Eire and embracing many interesting facts and statistics, as well as covering the future prospects of the Road.
The lengthy discussion was followed by a thunder of applause unknown
to Binghamton before that time. Wits of the town said afterward that the enthusiasm was due to the happiness of the people because the speeches had ended, and not to any appeal the speech might have made to the crowd’s imagination.
But the people weren’t getting off so easily. Other speeches
followed on after the other until the clock had sped two hours into eternity when sleepiness overcoming further oratorical efforts broke up the gathering and guests and people alike retired to hotels and private lodgings to get some greatly needed rest.
Promptly at nine the next morning the trains started on the return
journey after a mild send off by a small crowd. But the Erie had completed the second great stage of its journey to the Lakes. The road was open to Binghamton.
Next Week: Scoop – the story of a mad race, and the part the Erie
played in it.
|
to: top of page
Article 9 - "Along Came the Erie" - Originally Published 1932
SCOOP By Lawrence Reineke
The last bit of snow had melted and the trail itself was muddy and soft from the January
thaw. The day was hot for the season and without even the breeze that one would expect to find in the highlands. The hardwoods stretched their bare limbs heavenward, while under a group of hemlocks near a little log cabin on the line of the Albany-Goshen stage coach Dick Wood was sitting
in the saddle of a spirited black horse. He looked up expectantly as he heard the thud of hoofs coming down the trail, then headed his horse toward Goshen, and with head turned back impatiently awaited the arrival of the courier.
The approaching rider soon came into sight, dashing on with all the speed left in his
tired mount. He waved his hand, and Dick put his horse into a trot. The other rider caught up with him and passed over a small leather bag, and then pulled his horse to a stop and sat looking after Dick. The courier wiped a hand across his muddy face, patted his horse and turned back to
the cabin, where he tumbled off the beast. He took another look down trail. Wood was already out of sight, and it was only by intent listening that the standing man caught the echoes of the horse’s hoofs. “Always said that black was the fastest horse of the string,” the man muttered to
himself as he started taking the saddle off his horse.
In the meantime, Wood had been rapidly cutting down the distance to
Goshen. As the horse pounded over the road and the familiar landmarks flashed by, Wood smiled. “Guess that Herald man will have to do some trail riding if he’s going to beat us,” he said to himself. He waved to a group of people around a farmhouse, then turned to the road again, nodding
with satisfaction as he saw the spires of Goshen’s churches.
A few minutes later he was in the outskirts of the town. Goshen had been
waiting for him, and the street was cleared although the sidewalks were crowded with spectators. One little freckle faced fellow waved a flag. “Ray for the Sun”. he piped.
The rider galloped down the street and over to the station where his horse reared at the
snoring, fiery, impressive “Orange” champing, it seemed impatiently at its bit, as if it too wanted to start on its lap of the great race. Wood slid off the saddle, a dozen helping hands helped him to recover balance; another dozen grasped the reins and reassured the frightened horse which
looked with scared eyes at its master rushing to the engine.
In a minute, Wood reached the train and he swung the mysterious leather bag up to the
engineer who grabbed it and pulled the throttle at the same time. The engine started to go so fast that its front wheels left the track for a moment. Then they settled down again and as the eager wheels found a grip on the rails, the train rapidly steamed away from the station. In a few
seconds it had passed around the bend, but it was still possible to follow it for a little while longer by its cloud of smoke. Eventually this passed away and attention returned to Wood.
Excited questions were flung at the courier, and he shot back answers to those he
heard. “Yes, Governor Seward’s message was in the bag.” The stage-coach line had had men at every ten miles with fresh horses – but so did the rival line which was rushing copy for the Herald. Yes – that was the regular stage line down the east bank of the Hudson.”
Then Wood held up his hand, “Anybody hear how the Herald riders were making out?” he
asked.
But no one had because that was in January of 1842, long before the telegraphy, and the
wholly means of communications were stage-coaches and the Erie which ran only as far as Goshen.
Someone in the back of the crowd yelled a question “Was it true the Sun was using the
Albany Goshen stage, and the Erie to beat the Herald?”
Another man commented, “Well, I reckon it would be a great thing for the
Erie if the Sun wins.”
The questions stopped and the rider made his weary way to the hotel where small boys,
and big gaped at him for many hours.
On the locomotive Orange, the engineer was swearing away at great length,
and for good reason. He knew the engine had another fifteen miles an hour in it, but his Chief was riding with him, and the Chief, being a scary sort of a man wouldn’t let the engineer drive the train as fast as it could go. The Orange was going at a good pace though. Down through
Chester, Monroe, Ramapo. Giving the people who had gathered at the station to see the engine race through a shower of cinders – but the people didn’t mind because many of them had money bet on the result of the race, and if a cinder did get into an eye here and there, they all hoped it would
mean an extra dollar in their pockets later on.
The Orange reached Suffern and turned off to the left. It sped across
Rockland County, hissing and spurting steam until it came to the end of the rails at Piermont. As the train slowed down the engineer swung the bag over the side. A young man sprang forward and eagerly grasped it. He ran past the locomotive, out to the end of the pier, down the gang plank
and into the waiting steamer.
A bell clanged, engines whirred, paddles began to turn and before the locomotive had
come to a puffing stop the steamer was cutting the blue waters of the Hudson on its trip to New York City.
In the meantime, the youth had continued on his way with the bag until he reached the
big room near the center of the boat where he unlocked the bag and took out a roll of script. He separated the pages and let out a whoop of joy, “Go to it, boys,” he yelled.
And the printers whom the wide awake editor of the Sun had placed on board the steamer
did go to work, and so well that by the time the vessel docked at the foot of Reade Street in New York City, the Governor’s message was all set in type and ready for the presses.
It wasn’t long before the newsboy’s voices were rising in a nasal chant: “Extry! Extry!
All about the Governor’s message – get your copy of the Sun. Read Governor Seward’s message to the Legislature – read all about the big scoop – how the Sun got you the news foist by the Erie – get your latest news here – Extry.”
An hour later the mud spattered rider for the Herald pulled up at that newspaper’s
office. He sat for a moment listening to the calls of the newsboys, then dejectedly, he slid out of the saddle and slumped into the office, “We lost, he said to the group of men waiting for him.
“You’re telling us,” they yelled back at him as one.
(Author’s note in 1842 when this incident took place, messages of the President and
Governors were considered the most important news a paper could give its readers, hence the elaborate preparations of the Sun and Herald to get Governor Seward’s opening message to the Legislature in print, as obviously the paper first on the street would secure all the readers, and thus
profits and prestige.)
Next Week: Driving the First, The story of the ill fated piled-road bed on the
Susquehanna Division
|
to: top of page
Article 10 - "Along Came the Erie" - Originally Published 1932
DRIVING THE FIRST
By Lawrence Reineke
With a crash of cymbals and a roll of drums, the Nichols Band swung into the first
tune. The driver of the wagon started the six horses hitched to it, and the procession was off!
Immediately following the band wagon were the ladies of Owego who had made a special
flag for the occasion. After the women followed the officials of the town and county; and then stretched out in haphazard fashion was the remainder of the crowd from gray-haired Revolutionary veterans to striplings of six and seven years.
The parade was now well started and amidst the cheers of such residents as lined the
sidewalks, it marched through the streets of Owego and then out into open country and a mile east along a dusty road until it came to the pile driver which had been erected by the Erie contractors.
When the procession reached the machine, it halted and then with the band wagon as the
center, the ladies and officials arranged themselves in a vast circle. The ceremony was about to commence.
And this ceremony was very important to the town of Owego on May 13th,
1840. For the first pile was about to be driven in that ill-fated and costly mistake – the piled road bed which was to carry the Erie railroad across the Susquehanna Division from Binghamton to Hornellsville a distance of 117 miles.
In the early days of the Erie, civil engineering knowledge was
particularly scarce in the United States and if some development worked out well in one section of the country it was bound to be tried in another, although climate and topography might be against it.
So it was that when General Stewart constructed the Utica and Syracuse
railroad in 1839, most of which was built on poles, he became an authority on that type work. He recommended through the medium of General Commissioner S.P. Lyman that the Erie be constructed on piles, “not only in low and marshy ground, but in every instance wherein there was an abundant
supply of piling timber, and where the ground would admit of it construction.”
There were many arguments advanced in favor of the piled road bed. For one thing, the
engineers claimed it wouldn’t be deranged by frost. It would be too high off the ground for snow to block the rails, and being off the ground the road bed wouldn’t be used as an avenue by animals or human beings, “thus”, they naively put it, “causing a great saving of life.”
The chief argument was the basis of cost. It was figured that the interest on the
savings made by using piles, would be enough to renew the piles every five years if necessary. Then the questions of franchise, loans, time limits, and a hundred and one other matters were all taken into consideration, so that finally the Erie decided to build the Susquehanna
Division on piles.
Instead of low and marshy ground the contractors found the ground so solid that the
patent pile drivers drove the timbers with difficulty; and in many places beds of gravel had to be excavated before the piles could be forced down.
However, that the piled road bed was a terrible mistake, and that it would never be used
were things of the future on that warm spring day in May when the first pile was about to be driven.
The huge circle of people at the ceremony pressed in toward the bandwagon as the
speeches started – all wanted to hear what was being said.
On behalf of the Owego ladies, Mr. I. B. Headly ascended the platform and addressing the
Erie agent, a Mr. McComber, launched into a long speech praising the Management of the road, and ending with the presentation of the flag.
Mr. McComber arose from his seat, and taking the still furled flag in his left hand, he
thanked the people of Owego for the interest they had taken in the Railroad; and after expressing the highest of hopes for the future, he unfurled the flag while the assemblage cheered and fired off guns.
As the breeze caught the flag and whipped it out fully, it disclosed the Stars and
Stripes on one side. On the reverse, the field of blue ordinarily occupied by the stars, was filled with a locomotive on a piled road bed. On the lowest stripe was inscribed “July 4th, 1842” the date the Division was to be finished and opened for traffic.
The ovation continued for about five minutes and when the enthusiasm had cooled off,
McComber took the flag and climbed down from the platform. He walked to the pile driver which had been gaily tagged out in red and blue bunting for the occasion, and hoisted the flag to the peak of the machine.
While mechanics took off the bunting and rolled it up, several workmen were dispatched
to get the first pile cut in the section – the log was cut the preceding February – and they soon returned with the timber.
A hole was started, and then the engineer of the machine set it going, and the heavy
hammer started upward. As it descended and struck the pile with a resounding smack, the crowd cheered. Then the hammer started on its second upward journey and the people, realizing the ceremonies were over, prepared to depart. A great number remained to watch the hum-drum work, however,
until night put an end to the labor.
The returning crowd, with no rallying band to urge them on, drifted listlessly back to
the village; that is all except the contractor, his chief assistants and certain officials and other guests who hurried to the Manning Hotel where an excellent dinner was waiting for them.
Everyone was happy. And the following morning the town’s newspaper came out with the
descriptive and all embracing heading, “New York and Erie Railroad Commenced.” Although ground had been previously broken at Deposit in 1835, and at Pierpont and Dunkirk in 1838.
But here on the very doorstep of Central New York, the Erie had started
tangible work, and hopes for the future ran high.
In 1841 there were eight steam pile drivers in the section. Each machine was manned by
thirteen men and had a horse and cart for drawing water. The hammers weighed about 1230 pounds and had a fall of 30 feet by the last blow. The machines averaged about a mile per month. Each driver combined the action of a pile driver, locomotive and sawmill. They moved on wheels and each
machine drove two piles at a time, after which it sawed them off at a given level.
But ingenious as these pile drivers were – and despite the arguments advanced for it,
the piled road bed had no practical value, and indeed the Erie never used it at all. But it was a contributing factor to the Erie’s hesitant march westward, for its cost almost bankrupted the Company.
Next Week: The Shin Hollow War. Plenty of blood was spilled in this battle. The
militia were called out – and you will want to know the end.
|
to: top of page
Article 11 - "Along Came the Erie" - Originally Published 1932
The Shin Hollow War
By Lawrence Reineke
Why the flat stretch of land four miles east of Port Jervis was called Shin Hollow no
one knew, and in 1847 when it was a lively railroad camp no one cared. Least of all the laborers who were getting their 75 cents a day for helping to push the Erie to the Port by January 1, 1848.
The laborers were too busy cutting rocks, digging out earth; building bridges, and
keeping alive the factional hatreds of their native Ireland to say nothing of grumbling at the food served by the boarding houses and resenting the employment of Germans on the Road to bother about the name of a lonely opening in the hills.
The cold winter with its attending discomforts did nothing to improve the workmen’s
state of mind, and during January of 1847 the brooding trouble broke loose..
Along the route of the Erie between Otisville and Shin Hollow daily and
nightly fights between the two factions of the Irish, Far-downers and Corkonians became a standard occurrence. These dog fights continued until the last Saturday in January when the Far-downers resolved on a final battle that would completely rout the Corkonians.
With this purpose in mind, a large body of the Far-downers marched to the section where
the Corkonians were working and first stoning the Corks until they stopped work, the Far-downers charged into their rivals.
Sticks and clubs were flying, and the Corkonians, to protect themselves, picked up their
shovels and started batting the Far-downers with them. However, the odds were too great and the Corkonians were obliged to retreat.
When the flying heels of the last Corkonian had disappeared, the Far-downers counted
their broken heads and noses, and not finding as many as they expected it lent them confidence and they decided to clean out the Germans.
They anticipated little trouble in doing that and charged the Germans in loose fashion.
The latter, however, seeing the fate of the Corkonians, had organized to meet the Far-downers, so they were able to break the first charge of the Irish. Then the Germans started to give the Irish such a warm duplication of their own tactics that the Far-downers were glad to give way.
The raids of the Far-downers had intimidated all the workers along the section and work
was suspended. The contractors, knowing every minute counted in the mad rush to complete the road to Port Jervis, were impatient at the delay and called a consultation.
In the meantime the Corkonians who had stayed away from work for a few days following
the attack, decided to go back to their jobs. In some way or another the Far-downers heard of this, and resolved to prevent anything of the kind from happening.
Near midnight of February 3rd they marched one hundred strong
into Shin Hollow and surrounded the house where the Corkonians lived. One man tried the door. It was locked so several men picked up a convenient log and battered the door down. The Far-downers, yelling and cursing, swarmed inside.
The Corkonians were sleeping in lofts and as they had pulled the ladders up after them,
it was impossible for the Far-downers to reach them. One of the Far-downers, more resourceful than the rest, picked up an axe and proceeded to chop down the supporting poles. The lofts with their half asleep but thoroughly frightened occupants crashed to the floor.
Then the Far-downers were on them with clubs and stones. Blood ran freely and in a few
minutes the Corkonians were subdued.
The Far-downers, remembering the beating they had received at the hand of the Germans
resolved to repay it. They assembled and marched toward the German quarter of the village.
However, the calculating Germans had foreseen the possibility of another attack and
their leader had smuggled guns in from Otisville and Middletown, so when the vanguard of the Irish loomed up in the night they met with an even warmer reception than they had received before.
The first fire from the Germans threw the Irish into confusion; the second made them
take to their heels with the Germans hard upon their tracks.
Little sleep was had by anyone that night in Shin Hollow and the next morning the
contractors decided there was nothing else to do but call in the authorities. They sent for Sherriff Welling at Goshen who gathered a posse and left for Shin Hollow at once . But he was unable to quell the riot, or arrest any of the rioters, and he was forced to call upon the
Deerpark Militia to aid him.
The Militia, a company of about thirty men, quickly assembled and marched to the scene.
As soon as the Militia reached Shin Hollow the Irish retreated. Some shut themselves up in their shanties, and others took to the woods. The volunteers went about their work with vigor and succeeded in rounding up a great number of the rioters, who were promptly paid off by the contractors
and told to leave the county.
Fearing that the end of the trouble was not yet in sight, the Captain of the Militia
stationed two of his men with a cannon in Shin Hollow to maintain peace, and even though the men didn’t know how to fire the cannon, they made such a bold show that there were no sustained raids thereafter.
But numerous fights still continued which seriously interfered with the construction of
the road bed and it was only after a month’s supervision by Militia from Goshen and Middletown that the ringleaders were singled out and discharged.
Peace was gradually restored and Shin Hollow passed into history and into forgetfulness,
as the bloodiest engagement that cost not a single life.
And on January 7th, 1848, the Erie was officially opened to
Port Jervis. The Railroad was at least complete between the Hudson and the Delaware.
Next Week: The Excursion: The folks left full of happiness and high hopes. How did
they come back?
|
to: top of page
Article 12 - "Along Came the Erie" - Originally Published 1932
The Excursion
By Lawrence Reineke
Everyone has heard the story of the man who visited all foreign countries including
Hoboken. The joke must have started early in the 19th century when it was a feat for New Yorkers to cross the broad Hudson and make their way to the green fields of Hoboken. And it was a journey not unfrought with dangers because if one inclined to nocturnal hours
he risked meeting one of the bands of cutthroats that infested the region.
New York kept growing. The city of the Revolution and the war of 1812 was
starting to spread, and as it did the older picnic spots of Manhattan gave place to buildings; and pleasure seeking city dwellers found that in the meadows of Hoboken a perfect paradise existed. The village was cleaned up, benches erected, gangs dispersed, and by the year of 1846 the Mecca
of all the joyful was the Elysian Meadow of Hoboken. In its day it enjoyed as big a reputation as the amusement center of New York as Coney Island does today.
So it was that when the girls and young ladies attending Miss Watkins Seminary in
Middletown, N.Y., came to the end of the school year in 1846 and heard with doubting ears that the school was not only going to give them a picnic but also let them choose the spot, there was only one answer: To the Elysian Meadow.
“To the Elysian Meadow.” It became almost a rallying cry; and the Erie,
although working without the benefit of high pressure advertising men, did manage to put over a good campaign, and the entire county of Orange was enthusiastic about going on the excursion. The advance sale of tickets was so great that the Erie prepared to couple two extra passengers cars
to the regular morning train of three milk and one passenger coach. (At this time the Erie was still using cars with only four spoked wheels.)
At last the eventful day came, and the whole population of Middletown was
down to see the train off. The girls merrily clambered aboard, laughing and talking amongst themselves, and occasionally calling out to a friend or relative in the crowd surrounding the train. The engineer, in all his glory and importance, strode majestically down the track. He grasped
the railing on the engine, swung up and looked back at the train. The last of the excursionists was climbing on. He tooted the whistle, and the people backed away from the tracks. Then with a cloud of cinders and much puffing and snorting, the train began to move.
“They’re off,” swelled from a thousand voices.
And they were. The engine gradually got up speed and was soon out of sight. It stopped
at all the stations, picking up many more passengers at each point, until it reached Monroe.
The train pulled out of Monroe heavily laden, and continued on its way to
Piermont. It was making good headway when it came to the bridge over a ravine a mile east of Monroe. The engine and the first two milk cars crossed the trestle safely; but as the third milk car entered upon the bridge something went wrong. The car tipped dangerously and its wheels started
ripping and tearing the timbers of the bridge, weakening it and making it unsafe. However, the car got across as did the first passenger coach. But as the second passenger coach entered the trestle it swayed; there was a sickening crash, the timbers cracked and spread and the coach tumbled
into the gully with the following and the last coach on top of it.
The merry shouts gave way to pain swept cries, the happy thoughts were replaced by
dreadful fears. Confusion excitement and death reigned. For a few seconds the crew was panic stricken, but they soon regained their reason, and with the help of the men from the first passenger car they set about the work of rescue, tearing down the sides of the coaches, breaking what few
windows were unshattered, pulling at iron bars, ripping, slashing; anything and everything in the desperate struggle to get the trapped passengers out. Some were uninjured, some were badly hurt, and others were dead.
In the meantime a neighboring farmer had started on his mad ride to
Middletown for help – and the engine had started a wild drive with the purpose of notifying Erie officials of the accident.
Back on the peaceful hillside the men were carrying the injured and dead from the
wreck. Now they were down to the second coach. It was this coach which bore the worst of the accident, scarcely one of its occupants escaping uninjured. Axes had been brought from farms nearby but they had to be used with extreme caution as the passengers had been flung every way.
Finally everyone was accounted for, and then began the task of transporting the dead and injured back to Stickney’s hotel at Monroe.
Meanwhile the messenger had reached Middletown and told the frightful
news. A relief train was quickly made up; doctors and groups of anxious relatives crowded on board. The train left Middletown on its sad mission, while the church bells of the whole countryside tolled. It made the run to Monroe in record time, and after two hours in Monroe it started on
the return back to the homes they had left so little time ago.
President Loder of the Erie and his staff had started from New York as
soon as they got news of the accident and they too, reached the scene in record time. The Erie engineers inspected the roadbed for the cause of the wreck. They didn’t have far to look. About 80 feet back from the trestle they found half a wheel – it had broken off the last milk car. The
remaining half wheel had ripped and torn the timbers of the bridge so that it couldn’t carry the weight of the train and caved in when the second passenger coach was on it.
There had been wrecks before – but none were as serious, nor caused such wide spread
sensation. The wreck became the subject of public discussion not only throughout the nation but also abroad. It was the first accident of its kind, and showed the necessity of providing safeguards against the occurrence of similar disasters. The spoke wheels and the coaches were equipped
with eight wheels instead of four. It also led to the immediate strengthening of all trestles on the Erie, and to renewed care in building new ones. The Road also began the job of filling in the long and high trestle that carried the rails over the Hackensack river near
Nanuet. This trestle, a slight looking affair nearly 70 feet high, appeared so insecure that it alone had caused a large loss of revenue to the Company.
As a result of the wreck near Monroe, the Erie found itself involved in a
long list of law suits, which were finally settled at $100,000.00, an immense sum for those days.
And so ended the first excursion sponsored by the Erie.
NEXT WEEK – A hunter stalked a strange beast. What he captured will be told in next
week’s article. It’s “A Hunting We Will Go”.
|
to: top of page
Article 13 - "Along Came the Erie" - Originally Published 1932
A Hunting We Will Go
By Lawrence Reineke
Jeff Winters was taking it easy coming up through the back pasture, for the sun was high
in the sky and Jeff was not addicted to violent exercise, unless it was hunting, then there was no hardship too great to undergo; no journey too far; nor any beast too ferocious for Jeff to tackle. He was known as one of the best panther hunters in the section; and panthers in the hills
between Narrowsburg and Callicoon were still a little too plentiful in 1848.
Jeff paused in the shade of a maple and threw himself down on the grass. The mountains,
purple, cool and vast surrounded him on all sides while far off to his right, the glint of a stream shone through the green of the forest. The scene was majestic – but Jeff wasn’t thinking of the scene. He was wondering about the fall hunting; how the rabbits would be; whether he’d get as
many deer as he had the previous year. Since the panthers were getting killed off the deer was easier to get. At the thought of panthers, Jeff’s eyes sparkled. There was nothing more exciting or thrilling or dangerous than to go after the panther. Jeff, somewhat after the fashion of a
small boy who just finished all his mother’s raisins and wishes he hadn’t eaten them so fast, was sorry he had killed so many.
The man stretched out his feet and would have gone to sleep, but as his eyes were
closing a terrible cry came to his ears. He sat up all attention and listened. He didn’t have long to wait. The call came again, so shrill and piercing that even Jeff felt the needles of fear go up his spine. The animal crying like that must be a big fellow – might even be the king
panther which Jeff had heard about from stray wanderers. The man listened again for the cry. It broke through the air, and Jeff wasted no more time. He leaped to his feet and started for the house at top speed.
His wife saw him running up the lane, and she ran for his rifle as she knew from past
experience that Jeff running meant trouble of some kind. He flung the door open and pounded in. “Where’s my gun?” he yelled to his wife, and then seeing it on the table he picked it up and ran out of the house, flinging over his shoulder, “I’m going after the king panther. I heard him
while I was down in the back pasture.”
His wife murmured a prayer and ran out into the yard to see Jeff running down the road
with his dogs beside him. As she stood watching him, she, too, heard the cry of the beast and she almost dropped in fright, it was so terrible. She ran into the house, slammed the door, dropped the bar and then sank to the floor in a dead faint.
Jeff had continued running up the road at a stiff pace and he soon came to his neighbor,
who had heard the animal’s cry also, and true to the nature of the people of the region was already preparing to go after it.
The neighbor fell in with Jeff and after picking up another hunter a little farther on,
they left the road and struck out across the field towards the woods where the sounds were coming from.
The beast must have been in severe pain because it kept crying almost continually, but
whatever was it’s trouble it didn’t seem to hinder its running ability. The hunters had to keep traveling at full speed all the time to keep up with the animal, and in the intervals that the dogs led them off on stray trails they almost lost track of it. But its cries enabled them to find
the trail again. On and on the hunters struggled, through woods where underbrush and dead limbs tried to trip them; through swamps where black oozy mud sucked at their feet; over stones that cut, plunging across the many swift streams; all the time trying to head off the beast and capture
it if possible.
But it seemed that they couldn’t close up on the creature. And then suddenly the cries
stopped. The men stopped too, wondering what had happened, and then they cautiously made their way forward. A hundred yards and they burst out of the forest into a clearing. A few rods away there were some idle men and a peculiar black thing which ran on two pieces of iron. Jeff ran up
to the nearest man.
“Did you see the panther?” he asked.
“Naw,” the fellow replied, “I ain’t seen a panther around these parts for nigh onto six
months now.”
“Well, there’s a big one around,” Jeff insisted, “Me and my pards were a following him,
but he got away from us here a while ago. What’s that thing over there?” he asked, changing the subject and pointing to the locomotive.
“Why that’s an engine.”
“Engine?” Jeff wrinkled his nose and frowned. “What’s that?”
The other man was non-plussed, “Why – er –er,” he stammered, “that’s what runs on the
Erie,” he finished triumphantly, and then as he saw the look of wonderment spread over Jeff’s face he continued, “Now, don’t tell me you ain’t heard of the Erie.”
“Well, neither have I – but I’m a going over to see that critter.” Jeff beckoned to his
companions and they walked over to the locomotive and inquisitively began climbing all over it. The engineer in the meantime had been watching them and he stole over to the engine, where he sounded a full blast of the whistle.
Jeff and his friends slid off that engine in record time and made for the woods in less
time than it takes to tell it. There they turned and looked back. Finally Jeff said with disgust, “Well, boys, it looks like we were fooled. There’s the panther we were hunting.”
And whistling to their dogs, they vanished into the forest.
Back to the locomotive the idle men were all busy – holding their sides while they
laughed until the tears ran down their cheeks.
Authors Note: The reader should remember that these incidents took place while the
Erie was under construction in this section. The roadbed was as yet unballasted and the engine consequently didn’t run much faster than 3 to 5 miles an hour and kept constantly sounding their whistle to notify workmen and possible approaching trains of their presence.
Bonuses if they made it before midnight. Would they? It’s “Into Port” the
next to final installment, to appear this coming week.
|
to: top of page
Article 14 - "Along Came the Erie" - Originally Published 1932
INTO PORT
By Lawrence Reineke
It was cold, bitterly cold, and the wind that swept down from the mountains made the
flames of the torches dart this way and that way. The snow glittered and sparkled in the artificial light like so many diamonds, and high above in the moonless sky the stars hung cool and brilliant; silent watchers.
The river, unfrozen as yet, burbled over its rocky bed, the water appearing a uniform
black except where the shadows of the bridge and men rippled weirdly over its surface. The shouts and curses of the laborers; the noises of construction; the crash of timbers; the fall of rails; the beat of hammer and the rasp of saw where all blended in the whistle of the gale; while
across the river and a mile on the lights of Port Jervis blinked a welcome.
Downstream, on the opposite side of the river, at Carpenter’s Point, Hilferty’s Hotel
burned welcome lights, too. And well the workmen knew the way there, for the proprietor had thrown his house open to them and good cheer and food were served free. Indeed so often had the laborers accepted Hilferty’s bounty that a layer of mud three inches deep had accumulated on the floor
of the barroom from their feet.
But the men had no time for that now. Tomorrow – maybe – especially if they made their
goal – there would be plenty of time for that. Tomorrow – the beginning of the new year of 1848.
A gang rushed by carrying a big timber – out on the skeleton of the bridge, out to the
very end. Willing hands relieved them of their load, and swung the timber into place where a dozen carpenters immediately made it fast. Another beam traveled out, and another, the men following each other like machines, except that they seemingly had no limit to their endurance. Already
they had completed three days work in one. True the farmers from the country side had come down to help, but still the work that construction gang did on that last day of December 1847 was prodigious.
But not so prodigious as the work they had done to reach this point. Back thirteen
miles where the railroad reached the summit of the Shawangunk Mountains, they had conquered obstacles so formidable that they might well wonder how they had overcome them. There was a rock cut 50 feet high and several hundred feet long. Then came the heavy through cut in rock
1000 feet long and 30 feet deep. Half a mile further on was another enormous embankment supported by a wall 50 feet in height. At Shin Hollow where the famous war took place, there was another rock cut upwards of three quarters of a mile long and more than 40 feet deep. After the Shin
Hollow cut there followed another embankment; then another cut, both equal in extent and depth to those just mentioned. And all this cutting and filling had been done without the aid of modern engineering knowledge and equipment.
The road bed had been leveled, ties put down and the rails laid. (West of Otisville
they had the first American made T rails ever used extensively. The rails were made at Scranton and were delivered to the Erie via the Gravity railroad and the Delaware & Hudson Canal.)
As rail after rail was put in place the Erie crawled down the mountain
retarded to some extent by the winter’s snows and short days, but the contractors pushed their men and the work went on.
On and on until the rails were all laid form Otisville to the east bank of the Neversink,
and from the Delaware, (or Port Jervis) station to the west bank of the river. There was only the construction of a bridge across the Neversink keeping the Erie from entering Port Jervis on time and it appeared as though that would be sufficient.
Plans had miscarried and the one bridge that was to have been finished long before the
rails were laid, was being rushed to completion by torchlight on the last day of the year. The contractors were standing around anxiously watching the progress of the work. If they got into Port before 12 o’clock, there were substantial bonuses due them from the Erie; if they
failed, they had to pay penalties to the Erie. Their laborers were straining nerve and muscle to finish the job because the completion on time meant extra money to them also.
Working shoulder to shoulder with the contractor’s men were a goodly number of farmers
from the district and men who had bet the Erie would be carried into Port by January 1st. Other men stood around watching them – they had bet the Erie couldn’t make it, and it seemed that they would win.
From far up the track, when the gale had ceased blowing for a few minutes, the men heard
the whistle of a locomotive. It was the long awaited train from Otisville which pulled out of that station late in the afternoon. A little while later its headlights could be seen and shortly afterwards it was coming to a stop near the end of the rails. A big gang of men jumped off the
cars and ran out to the bridge where experienced foremen put them to work at once. They, too, became part of the mass of straining humanity. The work went on.
Here and there a torch flickered and went out – burned to its end. But a boy sprung out
of the darkness with a fresh one which he quickly lit and stuck in the snow. The men were still running out and back from the bridge. Then they gave a big cheer. A group of them went running by at full speed with a timber – the last one needed to complete the framework of the trestle.
A few minutes rest for all. A contractor looked at his watch: “Only ten
o’clock,” he said, “two hours to make it. We’ll do it easily.”
Those who had bet against the Erie smiled uneasily. It did seem now that
they would loose. There were only the rails to lay; the engine was there, ready with steam up – the Erie would surely win.
A whistle blew and the men jumped to their feet. A foreman came running in from the
bridge. He quickly surveyed the workers. Then he called a name, another and another until he had a small group of picked men around him. Tom Carmichel, boss contractor, chuckled. He knew the men his foreman had called together; they were the best rail-laying crew on the job, and they
snapped into the work. The rails went out, hammers rose and fell until there was only one more rail to be laid. It travelled out as had so many of its fellows. The gang laid it down and tried to shove it into place. But they couldn’t. It was too long!
Nothing left to do but cut it. That wouldn’t take long, and it was still before
11 o’clock. They brought out a saw and started to work. Their nervous fingers lost possession of the handle and the saw dropped into the river. They got another – but the excitement was still gripping the men, and man pulled his fellow from the saw and took his place only to find
he was no better – the rail was cut with agonizing slowness. Contractors nervously glanced at watches. Eleven thirty – and the rail was not yet in place. “Good heavens, would they ever get it cut?”
The engine chugged out on the bridge – minutes slipped by – tense expectation held the
crowd silent. There was a gleam of new cut steel; a hammer rose and fell; there was a shout and a concerted rush for the cars. A man waved his arm. The engine tooted and steamed ahead with men hanging all over the train. Had it crossed the Neversink and entered Port Jervis before the
hour of twelve? Had the contractors won their bonus? Was the gallant fight successful?
The Erie official at Port Jervis pulled out his watch. A silence fell
over the gathering. Then in a deep voice he boomed, “Ladies and gentlemen, the time is exactly seventeen minutes to twelve.”
And what a celebration met that New Year of 1848.
COMPLETION – Covering the celebrations when the Erie was opened over its
entire length – is the concluding article in this interesting series. It will appear next week.
|
to: top of page
Article 15 - "Along Came the Erie" - Originally Published 1932
COMPLETION
By Lawrence Reineke
“Hey, will you look at this?” Josh Martin, Erie engineer, yelled,
flourishing the telegram, “the excursion train is an hour late and the super wants me to take them from Port Jervis to Susquehanna with that Swinburne engine No 71.”
The crowd around the station at Port Jervis chuckled. All knew the story of Gad Lyman,
the engineer on the excursion train, who had condemned No. 71 to the freight yard, and how Martin had finally got permission to take No. 71 on a regular run. Lyman favored the Roger’s locomotive – and he was even now at the throttle of a Roger’s engine which was constantly losing time.
It was no wonder that Martin was excited - because the failure of the Roger’s engine
gave the discarded No. 71 an opportunity to prove its worth under circumstances which seldom come to an engine.
Because in May, 1851, when the Erie was officially opened over its entire
length, the shining parallel ribbons of steel from Piermont to Dunkirk were the center of world wide attention, for the Erie was one of the only two great railroads in the world. (The other, curiously enough, was in Russia between Moscow and St. Petersburg.)
The Pennsylvania was only a little local line, still owned by the state
running from Philadelphia to Hollidaysburgh. The New York Central system was unborn; and the pioneer railroad in America, the B & O, lacked an important western connection.
Consequently the opening of the Erie was an event of national importance
and the management arranged for the first long distance railroad excursion party ever known in America.
To properly open the road the Erie invited President Millard Fillmore and
his cabinet; various other prominent national and state figures including Daniel Webster and William Seward, and many military and naval officers to ride on the excursion train and make speeches along the route.
The president accepted the invitation and made the trip by boat to Piermont where he and
his party disembarked for the trains. Gad Lyman at the throttle of Roger locomotive No. 100, was pulling the first section, but before he got even as far as Suffern his engine “stuck” and the engine on the second section was called to its aid.
Proceeding in this halting manner the train reached Middletown and hour
late and from this place Superintendent Minot, discouraged with the performance of the Rogers engine, sent the telegram to Josh Martin.
At Port Jervis, Josh got out his engine, ready and had her all oiled and blowing off at
140 pounds pressure to the square inch when the first section pulled into that station 47 minutes late.
Martin backed his engine onto the train and pulled out in the middle of welcoming
speeches by various citizens of the Port. Off on its way over the crooked Delaware division the train snaked around a curve and was soon out of sight. It was heavy and Martin pulled the throttle full way. Across bridges, around mountains, skirting rivers, the train wound it
tortuous way – and along that tortuous way, Martin and his Swinburne engine were proving to the world their worth.
The distance from Port Jervis to Narrowsburgh is 34 miles, and that run was made in 35
minutes by Martin, according to his own testimony, backed by that of the conductor and many frightened passengers who expected every minute the train would leap off the track and dash itself down some gorge or tumble into the Delaware river, made the trip with bated breath. Anyhow, the
train was delayed at Narrowsburgh half an hour because of hot journals, and the excursion party utilized the time for eating.
The train sped on, and despite the delay at Narrowsburgh it reached Deposit on time,
where another short pause was held.
All along the entire route of the Erie – at every hamlet, village or town
– almost at every house – some sort of reception was tendered the train, and even if the train sped thru without stopping, the tracks were lined with enthusiastic and happy people, yelling good wishes.
At the famous Starrucca Viaduct the train stopped for a while in order to give the
members of the party a chance to view the structure. A mile further on, at Susquehanna, Josh Martin and his No. 71 landed the excursion party only eight minutes late in spite of the 13 minute halt at the viaduct. The Swinburne engine was made good!
As the train came to a stop in Susquehanna it received the noisiest of all its
welcomes. Sixteen engines were on switches in the yard and as the excursion train slowed down, all the engines started blowing their whistles and ringing their bells. This was the signal for the local militia to go into action and soon the deep roar of the cannon was mingling with the
engines voices until the din became almost unbearable; and as one of the party remarked, “it was so noisy he couldn’t hear himself think.”
An amateur band did its valiant share to make the reception a success, and as the
preparations were so extensive, they continued long after the trains had pulled out on their westward journey.
At Binghamton – then only a village – a crowd of 4,000 people was waiting
to greet the train and send it westward. Here, as at previous stops, President Fillmore, Daniel Webster and others made speeches.
And so westward the train traveled, thru wild passes and over deep gorges, here climbing
mountains and crossing the great rivers of the state until finally the journey was competed and the train came to a puffing stop in the modest little village of Dunkirk.
There, too, an elaborate welcoming took place. The United States steamer
“Michigan,” lying the harbor, fired a salute of 13 guns, all the church bells of the village tolled, and the artillery of the 65th regiment added its deep voice to the chorus.
It was in 1824 that Redfield issued his pamphlet from which the Erie was
conceived, and it was in 1851 that the first part of his prophecy came true.
And as the train ran under a canopy formed by the union of American, British and French
flags, and approached the end of the rails where a triumphal arch of flowers and evergreens had been erected, the various members of the party gazed at the pedestal by that arch and looked upon an old fashioned plow – it was the first plow to break ground for the Erie, at Dunkirk itself, in
July 1838.
And in everyone’s heart there was an echo to the word printed on the plow – Finis –
which meant the Erie as conceived and heroically built was – as is now this series of articles – finished.
THE END.
|
return to: Home Page
|
