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 DEDICATION.


 TO THE
 SURVIVING SUFFERERS
 OF THE
 APPALLING CALAMITY AT JOHNSTOWN
 AND
 NEIGHBORING VILLAGES
 THIS WORK
 WHICH RELATES THE THRILLING STORY
 OF THE GREAT DISASTER
 IS DEDICATED.




 THE
 JOHNSTOWN HORROR!!!

 OR

 VALLEY OF DEATH,

 BEING

 A COMPLETE AND THRILLING ACCOUNT OF THE AWFUL
 FLOODS AND THEIR APPALLING RUIN,

 CONTAINING

 Graphic Descriptions of the Terrible Rush of Waters; the
 great Destruction of Houses, Factories, Churches, Towns,
 and Thousands of Human Lives; Heartrending Scenes
 of Agony, Separation of Loved Ones, Panic-stricken
 Multitudes and their Frantic
 Efforts to Escape a Horrible Fate.

 COMPRISING

 THRILLING TALES OF HEROIC DEEDS; NARROW ESCAPES
 FROM THE JAWS OF DEATH; FRIGHTFUL HAVOC BY
 FIRE; DREADFUL SUFFERINGS OF SURVIVORS;
 PLUNDERING BODIES OF VICTIMS, ETC.

 TOGETHER WITH

 Magnificent Exhibitions of Popular Sympathy; Quick
 Aid from every City and State; Millions of Dollars
 Sent for the Relief of the Stricken Sufferers.


 By JAMES HERBERT WALKER,
 THE WELL KNOWN AUTHOR.


 FULLY ILLUSTRATED WITH SCENES OF THE GREAT CALAMITY.


 H.J. SMITH & CO.,
 249 South Sixth St., Philadelphia

 CHICAGO, ILL.:
 NOS. 341-351 DEARBORN ST.

 KANSAS CITY, MO.:
 NO. 614 EAST SIXTH ST.

 OAKLAND, CAL.
 NO. 1605 TELEGRAPH AVE.

COPYRIGHTED, 1889.




PREFACE


The whole country has been profoundly startled at the Terrible Calamity
which has swept thousands of human beings to instant death at Johnstown
and neighboring villages. The news came with the suddenness of a
lightning bolt falling from the sky. A romantic valley, filled with busy
factories, flourishing places of business, multitudes of happy homes and
families, has been suddenly transformed into a scene of awful
desolation. Frightful ravages of Flood and Fire have produced in one
short hour a destruction which surpasses the records of all modern
disasters. No calamity in recent times has so appalled the civilized
world. What was a peaceful, prosperous valley a little time ago is
to-day a huge sepulchre, filled with the shattered ruins of houses,
factories, banks, churches, and the ghastly corpses of the dead.

This book contains a thrilling description of this awful catastrophe,
which has shocked both hemispheres. It depicts with graphic power the
terrible scenes of the great disaster, and relates the fearful story
with masterly effect.

The work treats of the great storm which devastated the country,
deluging large sections, sweeping away bridges, swelling rivulets to
rivers, prostrating forests, and producing incalculable damage to life
and property; of the sudden rise in the Conemaugh River and tributary
streams, weakening the dam thrown across the fated valley, and
endangering the lives of 50,000 people; of the heroic efforts of a
little band of men to stay the flood and avert the direful calamity; of
the swift ride down the valley to warn the inhabitants of their
impending fate, and save them from instant death; of the breaking away
of the imprisoned waters after all efforts had failed to hold them back;
of the rush and roar of the mighty torrent, plunging down the valley
with sounds like advancing thunder, reverberating like the booming of
cannon among the hills; of the frightful havoc attending the mad flood
descending with incredible velocity, and a force which nothing could
resist; of the rapid rise of the waters, flooding buildings, driving the
terrified inhabitants to the upper stories and roofs in the desperate
effort to escape their doom; of hundreds of houses crashing down the
surging river, carrying men, women and children beyond the hope of
rescue; of a night of horrors, multitudes dying amid the awful terrors
of flood and fire, plunged under the wild torrent, buried in mire, or
consumed in devouring flames; of helpless creatures rending the air with
pitiful screams crying aloud in their agony, imploring help with
outstretched hands, and finally sinking with no one to save them.

Whole families were lost and obliterated, perishing together in a watery
tomb, or ground to atoms by floating timbers and wreck; households were
suddenly bereft--some of fathers, others of mothers, others of children,
neighbors and friends; frantic efforts were made to rescue the victims
of the flood, render aid to those who were struggling against death, and
mitigate the terrors of the horrible disaster. There were noble acts of
heroism, strong men and frail women and children putting their own lives
in peril to save those of their loved ones.

The terrible scene at Johnstown bridge, where thousands were consumed
was the greatest funeral pyre known in the history of the world. It was
ghastly work--that of recovering the bodies of the dead; dragging them
from the mire in which they were imbedded, from the ruins in which they
were crushed, or from the burning wreck which was consuming them.
Hundreds of bodies were mutilated and disfigured beyond the possibility
of identifying them, all traces of individual form and features utterly
destroyed. There were multitudes of corpses awaiting coffins for their
burial, putrefying under the sun, and filling the air with the sickening
stench of death. There were ghouls who robbed the bodies of the victims,
stripping off their jewels--even cutting off fingers to obtain rings,
and plundering pockets of their money.

Summary vengeance was inflicted upon prowling thieves; some of whom were
driven into the merciless waters to perish, while others were shot or
hanged by the neck until they were dead. The burial of hundreds of the
known and unknown, without minister or obsequies, without friend or
mourner, without surviving relatives to take a last look or shed a tear,
was one of the appalling spectacles. There was the breathless suspense
and anxiety of those who feared the worst, who waited in vain for news
of the safety of their friends, and at last were compelled to believe
that their loved ones had perished.

The terrible shock attending the horrible accounts of the great
calamity, was followed by the sudden outburst and exhibition of
universal grief and sympathy. Despatches from the President, Governors
of States, and Mayors of Cities, announced that speedy aid would be
furnished. The magnificent charity that came to the rescue with millions
of dollars, immense contributions of food and clothing, personal
services and heroic efforts, is one impressive part of this graphic
story. Rich and poor alike gave freely, many persons dividing their last
dollar to aid those who had lost their all.

These thrilling scenes are depicted, and these wonderful facts are
related, in THE JOHNSTOWN HORROR, by eye-witnesses who saw the fatal
flood and its direful effects. No book so intensely exciting has ever
been issued. The graphic story has an awful fascination, and will be
read throughout the land.




CONTENTS.


                                                                  PAGE
 CHAPTER I.

 The Appalling News,                                                17


 CHAPTER II.

 Death and Desolation,                                              50


 CHAPTER III.

 The Horrors Increase,                                              74


 CHAPTER IV.

 Multiplication of Terrors,                                        104


 CHAPTER V.

 The Awful Work of Death,                                          116


 CHAPTER VI.

 Shadows of Despair,                                               129


 CHAPTER VII.

 Burial of the Victims,                                            146


 CHAPTER VIII.

 Johnstown and its Industries,                                     154


 CHAPTER IX.

 A View of the Wreck,                                              164


 CHAPTER X.

 Thrilling Experiences,                                            182


 CHAPTER XI.

 New Tales of Horror,                                              208


 CHAPTER XII.

 Pathetic Scenes,                                                  246


 CHAPTER XIII.

 Digging for the Dead,                                             270


 CHAPTER XIV.

 Hairbreadth Escapes,                                              288


 CHAPTER XV.

 Terrible Pictures of Woe,                                         334


 CHAPTER XVI.

 Stories of the Flood,                                             380


 CHAPTER XVII.

 One Week after the Great Disaster,                                432


 CHAPTER XVIII.

 A Walk Through the Valley of Death,                               455


 CHAPTER XIX.

 A Day of Work and Worship,                                        479


 CHAPTER XX.

 Millions of Money for Johnstown,                                  489

[Illustration: RECOVERING THE BODIES OF VICTIMS.]

[Illustration: THE BREAK IN THE SOUTH FORKS DAM.]

[Illustration: IN THE PACK-SADDLE, ON THE CONEMAUGH, PENNSYLVANIA
RAILROAD.]

[Illustration: RUINS IN MAIN STREET, JOHNSTOWN.]

[Illustration: A GRAVEL-TRAIN RUNS AWAY FROM THE ADVANCING FLOOD.]

[Illustration: IMMENSE GAP IN THE BROKEN DAM, AS SEEN FROM THE INSIDE.]

[Illustration: FRIGHTFUL STRUGGLES FOR LIFE.]

[Illustration: THE FLOOD STRIKES THE CAMBRIA IRON WORKS.]

[Illustration: HOUSES AND HUMAN BEINGS LOST IN THE FLOOD.]

[Illustration: TEARING DOWN HOUSES IN JOHNSTOWN.]

[Illustration: SOLDIERS GUARDING A HUNGARIAN THIEF.]

[Illustration: DISTRIBUTING RELIEF AT THE PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD
STATION.]

[Illustration: IDENTIFYING THE DEAD.]

[Illustration: RELIEF CORPS CROSSING THE ROPE BRIDGE.]

[Illustration: SEARCHING FOR LOST RELATIVES.]

[Illustration: MAIN STREET, JOHNSTOWN, IN FRONT OF MERCHANT'S HOTEL.]

THE JOHNSTOWN HORROR

or

Valley of Death.




CHAPTER I.

The Appalling News.


On the advent of Summer, June 1st, the country was horror-stricken by
the announcement that a terrible calamity had overtaken the inhabitants
of Johnstown, and the neighboring villages. Instantly the whole land was
stirred by the startling news of this great disaster. Its appalling
magnitude, its dreadful suddenness, its scenes of terror and agony, the
fate of thousands swept to instant death by a flood as frightful as that
of the cataract of Niagara, awakened the profoundest horror. No calamity
in the history of modern times has so appalled the civilized world.

The following graphic pen-picture will give the reader an accurate idea
of the picturesque scene of the disaster:

Away up in the misty crags of the Alleghanies some tiny rills trickle
and gurgle from a cleft in the mossy rocks. The drippling waters, timid
perhaps in the bleak and lonely fastness of the heights, hug and coddle
one another until they flash into a limpid pool. A score of rivulets
from all the mountain side babble hither over rocky beds to join their
companions. Thence in rippling current they purl and tinkle down the
gentle <DW72>s, through bosky nooks sweet with the odors of fir tree and
pine, over meads dappled with the scarlet snap-dragon and purple heath
buds, now pausing for a moment to idle with a wood encircled lake, now
tumbling in opalescent cascade over a mossy lurch, and then on again in
cheerful, hurried course down the Appalachian valley.

None stays their way. Here and there perhaps some thrifty Pennsylvania
Dutchman coaxes the saucy stream to turn his mill-wheel and every league
or so it fumes and frets a bit against some rustic bridge. From these
trifling tourneys though, it emerges only the more eager and impetuous
in its path toward the towns below.


The Fatal River.

Coming nearer, step by step, to the busy haunts of men, the dashing
brook takes on a more ambitious air. Little by little it edges its
narrow banks aside, drinks in the waters of tributaries, swells with the
copious rainfall of the lower valley. From its ladder in the Alleghanies
it catches a glimpse of the steeples of Johnstown, red with the glow of
the setting sun. Again it spurts and spreads as if conscious of its new
importance, and the once tiny rill expands into the dignity of a river,
a veritable river, with a name of its own. Big with this sounding symbol
of prowess it rushes on as if to sweep by the teeming town in a flood of
majesty. To its vast surprise the way is barred. The hand of man has
dared to check the will of one that up to now has known no curb save
those the forest gods imposed. For an instant the waters, taken aback by
this strange audacity, hold themselves in leash. Then, like erl-king in
the German legends, they broaden out to engulf their opponent. In vain
they surge with crescent surface against the barrier of stone. By day,
by night, they beat and breast in angry impotence against the ponderous
wall of masonry that man has reared, for pleasure and profit, to stem
the mountain stream.


The Awful Rush of Waters.

Suddenly, maddened by the stubborn hindrance, the river grows black and
turgid. It rumbles and threatens as if confident of an access of
strength that laughs at resistance. From far up the hillside comes a
sound, at first soft and soothing as the fountains of Lindaraxa, then
rolling onward it takes the voluminous quaver of a distant waterfall.
Louder and louder, deeper and deeper, nearer and nearer comes an awful
crashing and roaring, till its echoes rebound from the crags of the
Alleghanies like peals of thunder and boom of cannon.

On, on, down the steep valley trumpets the torrent into the river at
Jamestown. Joined to the waters from the cloud kissed summits of its
source, the exultant Conemaugh, with a deafening din, dashes its way
through the barricade of stone and starts like a demon on its path of
destruction.

Into its maw it sucks a town. A town with all its hundreds of men and
women and children, with its marts of business, its homes, its factories
and houses of worship. Then, insatiate still, with a blast like the
chaos of worlds dissolved, it rushes out to new desolation, until Nature
herself, awe stricken at the sight of such ineffable woe, blinds her
eyes to the uncanny scene of death, and drops the pall of night upon the
earth.


Destruction Descended as a Bolt of Jove.

A fair town in a western valley of Pennsylvania, happy in the arts of
peace and prospering by its busy manufactures, suddenly swept out of
existence by a gigantic flood and thousands of lives extinguished as by
one fell stroke--such has been the fate of Johnstown.

Never before in this country has there happened a disaster of such
appalling proportions. It is necessary to refer to those which have
occurred in the valleys of the great European rivers, where there is a
densely crowded population, to find a parallel.


The Horrors Unestimated.

At first the horror was not all known. It could only be imperfectly
surmised. Until a late hour on the following night there was no
communication with the hapless city. All that was positively known of
its fate was seen from afar. It was said that out of all the
habitations, which had sheltered about twelve thousand people before
this awful doom had befallen, only two were visible above the water. All
the rest, if this be true, had been swallowed up or else shattered into
pieces and hurled downward into the flood-vexed valley below.

What has become of those twelve thousand inhabitants? Who can tell until
after the waters have wholly subsided?

Of course it is possible that many of them escaped. Much hope is to be
built upon the natural exaggeration of first reports from the sorely
distressed surrounding region and the lack of actual knowledge, in the
absence of direct communication. But what suspense must there be between
now and the moment when direct communication shall be opened!


Heedless of Fate.

The valley of the Conemaugh in which Johnstown stood lies between the
steep walls of lofty hills. The gathering of the rain into torrents in
that region is quick and precipitate. The river on one side roared out
its warning, but the people would not take heed of the danger impending
over them on the other side--the great South Fork dam, two and a half
miles up the valley and looming one hundred feet in height from base to
top. Behind it were piled the waters, a great, ponderous mass, like the
treasured wrath of fate. Their surface was about three hundred feet
above the deserted town.

If Noah's neighbors thought it would be only a little shower the people
of Johnstown were yet more foolish. The railroad officials had
repeatedly told them that the dam threatened destruction. They still
perversely lulled themselves into a false security. The blow came, when
it did, like a flash. It was as if the heavens had fallen in liquid fury
upon the earth. It was as if ocean itself had been precipitated into an
abyss. The slow but inexorable march of the mightiest glacier of the
Alps, though comparable, was not equal to this in force. The whole of a
Pyramid, shot from a colossal catapult, would not have been the petty
charge of a pea shooter to it. Imagine Niagara, or a greater even than
Niagara, falling upon an ordinary collection of brick and wooden houses.


An Inconceivable Force.

The South Fork Reservoir was the largest in the United States, and it
contained millions of tons of water. When its fetters were loosened,
crumbling before it like sand, a building or even a rock that stood in
its path presented as much resistance as a card house. The dread
execution was little more than the work of an instant.

The flood passed over the town as it would over a pile of shingles,
covering over or carrying with it everything that stood in its way. It
bounded down the valley, wreaking destruction and death on each hand and
in its fore. Torrents that poured down out of the wilds of the mountains
swelled its volume.

All along from the point of its release it bore debris and corpses as
its hideous trophies. In a very brief time it displayed some of both, as
if in hellish glee, to the horrified eyes of Pittsburg, seventy-eight
miles west of the town of Johnstown that had been, having danced them
along on its exultant billows or rolled them over and over in the depths
of its dark current all the way through the Conemaugh, the Kiskiminitas
and the Allegheny river.

It was like a fearful monster, gnashing its dripping jaws in the scared
face of the multitude, in the flesh of its victims.

One eye-witness of the effects of the deluge declares that he saw five
hundred dead bodies. Hundreds were counted by others. It will take many
a day to make up the death roll. It will take many a day to make up the
reckoning of the material loss.

If any pen could describe the scenes of terror, anguish and destruction
which have taken place in Conemaugh Valley it could write an epic
greater than the "Iliad." The accounts that come tell of hairbreadth
escapes, heartrending tragedies and deeds of heroism almost without
number.


A Climax of Horror.

As if to add a lurid touch of horror to the picture that might surpass
all the rest a conflagration came to mock those who were in fear of
drowning with a death yet more terrible. Where the ruins of Johnstown,
composed mainly of timber, had been piled up forty feet high against a
railroad bridge below the town a fire was started and raged with eager
fury. It is said that scores of persons were burned alive, their
piercing cries appealing for aid to hundreds of spectators who stood on
the banks of the river, but could do nothing.

Western Pennsylvania is in mourning. Business in the cities is virtually
suspended and all minds are bent upon this great horror, all hearts
convulsed with the common sorrow.


Heartrending Scenes and Heroic Struggles for Life.

Another eye-witness describes the calamity as follows: A flood of death
swept down the Alleghany Mountains yesterday afternoon and last night.
Almost the entire city of Johnstown is swimming about in the rushing,
angry tide. Dead bodies are floating about in every direction, and
almost every piece of movable timber is carrying from the doomed city a
corpse of humanity, drifting with the raging waters. The disaster
overtook Johnstown about six o'clock last evening.

As the train bearing the writer sped eastward, the reports at each stop
grew more appalling. At Derry a group of railway officials were gathered
who had come from Bolivar, the end of the passable portion of the road
westward. They had seen but a small portion of the awful flood, but
enough to allow them to imagine the rest. Down through the Packsaddle
came the rushing waters. The wooded heights of the Alleghanies looked
down in wonder at the scene of the most terrible destruction that ever
struck the romantic valley of the Conemaugh.

The water was rising when the men left at six o'clock at the rate of
five feet an hour. Clinging to improvised rafts, constructed in the
death battle from floating boards and timbers, were agonized men, women
and children, their heartrending shrieks for help striking horror to the
breasts of the onlookers. Their cries were of no avail. Carried along at
railway speed on the breast of this rushing torrent, no human ingenuity
could devise a means of rescue.

With pallid face and hair clinging wet and damp to her cheek, a mother
was seen grasping a floating timber, while on her other arm she held her
babe, already drowned. With a death-grip on a plank a strong man just
giving up hope cast an imploring look to those on the bank, and an
instant later he had sunk into the waves. Prayers to God and cries to
those in safety rang above the roaring waves.

The special train pulled into Bolivar at half-past eleven last night,
and the trainmen were there notified that further progress was
impossible. The greatest excitement prevailed at this place, and parties
of citizens are out all the time endeavoring to save the poor
unfortunates that are being hurled to eternity on the rushing torrent.


Attempts at Rescue.

The tidal wave struck Bolivar just after dark, and in five minutes the
Conemaugh rose from six to forty feet and the waters spread out over the
whole country. Soon houses began floating down, and clinging to the
debris were men, women and children shrieking for aid. A large number
of citizens at once gathered on the county bridge, and they were
reinforced by a number from Garfield, a town on the opposite side of the
river.

They brought a number of ropes and these were thrown over into the
boiling waters as persons drifted by in efforts to save some poor
beings. For half an hour all efforts were fruitless, until at last, when
the rescuers were about giving up all hope, a little boy, astride a
shingle roof, managed to catch hold of one of the ropes. He caught it
under his left arm and was thrown violently against an abutment, but
managed to keep hold, and was successfully pulled on to the bridge amid
the cheers of the onlookers. His name was Hessler and his rescuer was a
trainman named Carney. The lad was at once taken to the town of Garfield
and was cared for. The boy was aged about sixteen. His story of the
frightful calamity is as follows:


The Alarm.

"With my father I was spending the day at my grandfather's house in
Cambria City. In the house at the time were Theodore, Edward and John
Kintz, and John Kintz, Jr.; Miss Mary Kintz, Mrs. Mary Kintz, wife of
John Kintz, Jr.; Miss Treacy Kintz, Mrs. Rica Smith, John Hirsch and
four children, my father and myself. Shortly after five o'clock there
was a noise of roaring waters and screams of people. We looked out the
door and saw persons running. My father told us to never mind, as the
waters would not rise further.

"But soon we saw houses being swept away, and then we ran up to the
floor above. The house was three stories, and we were at last forced to
the top one. In my fright I jumped on the bed. It was an old fashioned
one, with heavy posts. The water kept rising and my bed was soon afloat.
Gradually it was lifted up. The air in the room grew close and the house
was moving. Still the bed kept rising and pressed the ceiling. At last
the posts pushed against the plaster. It yielded and a section of the
roof gave way. Then suddenly I found myself on the roof, and was being
carried down stream.


Saved.

"After a little this roof began to part, and I was afraid I was going to
be drowned, but just then another house with a shingle roof floated by,
and I managed to crawl on it, and floated down until nearly dead with
cold, when I was saved. After I was freed from the house I did not see
my father. My grandfather was on a tree, but he must have been drowned,
as the waters were rising fast. John Kintz, Jr., was also on a tree.
Miss Mary Kintz and Mrs. Mary Kintz I saw drown. Miss Smith was also
drowned. John Hirsch was in a tree, but the four children were drowned.
The scenes were terrible. Live bodies and corpses were floating down
with me and away from me. I would see persons, hear them shriek, and
then they would disappear. All along the line were people who were
trying to save us, but they could do nothing, and only a few were
caught."

This boy's story is but one incident, and shows what happened to one
family. No one knows what has happened to the hundreds who were in the
path of the rushing water. It is impossible to get anything in the way
of news save meagre details.

An eye-witness at Bolivar Block Station tells a story of unparalleled
heroism that occurred at the lower bridge which crosses the Conemaugh at
this point. A. Young, with two women was seen coming down the river on a
part of the floor. At the upper bridge a rope was thrown down to them.
This they all failed to catch. Between the two bridges he was noticed to
point towards the elder woman, who, it is supposed, was his mother. He
was then seen to instruct the women how to catch the rope that was
lowered from the other bridge. Down came the raft with a rush. The brave
man stood with his arms around the two women.


Unavailing Courage.

As they swept under the bridge he seized the rope. He was jerked
violently away from the two women, who failed to get a hold on the rope.
Seeing that they would not be rescued, he dropped the rope and fell back
on the raft, which floated on down the river. The current washed their
frail craft in toward the bank. The young man was enabled to seize hold
of a branch of a tree. He aided the two women to get up into the tree.

He held on with his hands and rested his feet on a pile of driftwood. A
piece of floating debris struck the drift, sweeping it away. The man
hung with his body immersed in the water. A pile of drift soon
collected and he was enabled to get another insecure footing. Up the
river there was a sudden crash, and a section of the bridge was swept
away and floated down the stream, striking the tree and washing it away.
All three were thrown into the water and were drowned before the eyes of
the horrified spectators just opposite the town of Bolivar.

Early in the evening a woman with her two children was seen to pass
under the bridge at Bolivar clinging to the roof of a coal house. A rope
was lowered to her, but she shook her head and refused to desert the
children. It was rumored that all three were saved at Cokeville, a few
miles below Bolivar. A later report from Lockport says that the
residents succeeded in rescuing five people from the flood, two women
and three men. One man succeeded in getting out of the water unaided.
They were taken care of by the people of the town.


A Child's Faith.

A little girl passed under the bridge just before dark. She was kneeling
on a part of a floor and had her hands clasped as if in prayer. Every
effort was made to save her, but they all proved futile. A railroader
who was standing by remarked that the piteous appearance of the little
waif brought tears to his eyes. All night long the crowd stood about the
ruins of the bridge which had been swept away at Bolivar. The water
rushed past with a roar, carrying with it parts of houses, furniture and
trees. The flood had evidently spent its force up the valley. No more
living persons were being carried past. Watchers with lanterns remained
along the banks until daybreak, when the first view of the awful
devastation of the flood was witnessed.

Along the bank lay remnants of what had once been dwelling houses and
stores; here and there was an uprooted tree. Piles of drift lay about,
in some of which bodies of the victims of the flood will be found.
Rescuing parties are being formed in all towns along the railroad.
Houses have been thrown open to refugees, and every possible means is
being used to protect the homeless.


Wrecking Trains to the Rescue.

The wrecking trains of the Pennsylvania Railroad are slowly making their
way east to the unfortunate city. No effort was being made to repair the
wrecks, and the crews of the trains were organized into rescuing
parties, and an effort will be made to send out a mail train this
morning. The chances are that they will go no further east than
Florence. There is absolutely no news from Johnstown. The little city is
entirely cut off from communication with the outside world. The damage
done is inestimable. No one can tell its extent.

The little telegraph stations along the road are filled with anxious
groups of men who have friends and relatives in Johnstown. The smallest
item of news is eagerly seized upon and circulated. If favorable they
have a moment of relief, if not their faces become more gloomy. Harry
Fisher, a young telegraph operator who was at Bolivar when the first
rush began, says:--"We knew nothing of the disaster until we noticed the
river slowly rising and then more rapidly. News then reached us from
Johnstown that the dam at South Fork had burst. Within three hours the
water in the river rose at least twenty feet. Shortly before six o'clock
ruins of houses, beds, household utensils, barrels and kegs came
floating past the bridges. At eight o'clock the water was within six
feet of the road-bed of the bridge. The wreckage floated past without
stopping for at least two hours. Then it began to lessen, and night
coming suddenly upon us we could see no more. The wreckage was floating
by for a long time before the first living persons passed. Fifteen
people that I saw were carried down by the river. One of these, a boy,
was saved, and three of them were drowned just directly below the town.
It was an awful sight and one that I will not soon forget."

Hundreds of animals lost their lives. The bodies of horses, dogs and
chickens floated past. The little boy who was rescued at Bolivar had two
dogs as companions during his fearful ride. The dogs were drowned just
before reaching the bridge. One old mule swam past. Its shoulders were
torn, but it was alive when swept past the town.


Saved from a Watery Grave to Perish by Flames.

After a long, weary ride of eight or nine miles over the worst of
country roads New Florence, fourteen miles from Johnstown, was reached.
The road bed between this place and Bolivar was washed out in many
places. The trackmen and the wreck crews were all night in the most
dangerous portions of the road.

The last man from Johnstown brought the information that scarcely a
house remained in the city. The upper portion above the railroad bridge
had been completely submerged. The water dammed up against the viaduct,
the wreckage and debris finishing the work that the torrent had failed
to accomplish. The bridge at Johnstown proved too stanch for the fury of
the water. It is a heavy piece of masonry, and was used as a viaduct by
the old Pennsylvania Canal. Some of the top stones were displaced.

The story reached here a short time ago that a family consisting of
father and mother and nine children were washed away in a creek at
Lockport. The mother managed to reach the shore, but the husband and
children were carried out into the Conemaugh to drown. The woman is
crazed over the terrible event.


A Night of Horror.

After night settled down upon the mountains the horror of the scenes was
enhanced. Above the roar of the water