Echoes

none of that mattered. The men on the ship's deck frantically yelled to the oarsmen below, row hard and fast. They feared that I see swirling water around the sinking ship would pull the lifeboat down with it. The men were owned and strained to row faster, but Dorothy couldn't take her eyes from the ship. Lifeboat number seven had been the last to leave the Titanic. People gathered at the railings, some looking for more lifeboats, some just watching

the ones already in the water slip away. Dorothy didn't have to be close enough to see their expressions. Without more lifeboats, the remaining passengers knew they were going to die. All twenty lifeboats had been deployed just twenty for two thousand, two hundred and twenty eight passengers. Even had they all been filled capacity, only about half the passengers could have escaped,

but many were lowered sooner in panic. Women, children, and first class passengers were given priority, but even among them there were casualties. Some of the richest people in the world had bought a ticket on the Titanics made in voyage, yet no amount of money could buy all of them a spot off of it. Another survivor, Elizabeth Shoots, recalled the cries as well. One of the men in the lifeboat yelled, she's gone, lads, row like hell, or we'll get the devil of a swell. When they had rowed

a little further, fear welled up in the women. Except for the other lifeboats bobbing on the Sea of Black, there were no other ships. No one knew how to navigate by the stars. The men's fingers became so cold that they could no longer hold onto the oars. Some slipped from their hands and disappeared into the dark water below. Twenty lifeboats were now adrift in a vast ocean, The

passengers exposed to freezing temperatures. The ship was huge, over a thousand feet through the screaming, The band still played while men in tuxedos and women in gowns cried and held onto the railings and each other. The musicians would later be listed as heroic. They died trying to offer some calm, some sense of normalcy to the doomed passengers on the deck who had no way off the ship. White Star Cruise Lines had planned everything aboard the Titanic.

The luxuries were second to none. They had provided a gym, smoking lounges, reading rooms, and state rooms with their own promenades. On the middle deck, passengers could enjoy two diners, a swimming pool, Turkish baths, or visit their dogs at the kennels. Of course, there was also the ballroom with its grand staircase for first class passengers that thought of everything, it seems, except enough lifeboats or red flares to signal an emergency.

That put all the importance on comfort and accommodations instead of safety. The cruise line insisted the Titanic was unsinkable and any lifeboats at all were merely a precaution. The number of people left on the deck that night was a fraction of the people still on board employees, along with second and third class passengers, were trapped in the decks below. Even after the ship had started to say,

certain passageways in the lower areas remained blocked. People flailed in the water, screaming for help from the nearby lifeboats. The oarsmen on all but one kept going, afraid that the panic victims would capsize them in their frantic attempts to climb in. Lifeboat number four returned, pulling five people from the freezing water, but sadly, two of them still died. A survivor on Lifeboat thirteen would later swear it was

his new lucky number. Around three in the morning, Dorothy Elizabeth and the others watched the Titanic slide beneath the icy surface, the lights aboard the ship shining eerily from below for a brief moment before going out. The cries for help stopped, and the waters grew quiet. The Titanic and all still aboard. We're gone. I'm Lauren Vogelbaum. Welcome to American Shadows. The us S Eastland had been late to the docks for the annual Western Electric Company's Hawthorne

Works Factory picnic in nineteen fourteen. To ensure it wouldn't be late for the nineteen fifteen event, the excursion company called for the ship to arrive earlier. The ship hadn't been late the previous year because of a lack of capacity for speed. Once, the steamer held the nickname the speed Queen of the Great Lakes, but lately those who knew the Eastland's history quietly called it something else. The hood boat. Commissioned in nineteen o three, the Eastland had

issues right from the start. While at port, the ship collided with another boat. Although the steamer suffered minor damage, the other boats sank. After repairs, the Eastland went into service as a cruise ship in August of nineteen o three. The firemen aboard refused to stoke the fire for the ship's boilers and retaliate Shan for not being served potatoes with their dinner. When the ship reached port, the captain had them arrested at gunpoint and charged with mutiny. Not

long after, the captain was replaced. That maiden year, the Eastland was anything but fast. It didn't meet the targeted speed it had been designed for twenty two miles an hour. Fast steamers were popular and highly sought after in the early nineteen hundreds as a cruise ship. There were other issues the ship's draft, that's the distance between the deepest part of the boat and the water line. The Eastland's longer draft prevented it from cruising the Black River in

South Haven, Michigan. In late nineteen o three, the ship pulled into Port Huron for modifications to reduce the draft and increased speed. Those modifications came at a cost, though The changes went against the original design, making the steamer heavier and reducing the ship's stability. With the new model occasions, though, the Eastland returned to South Haven the following year and

easily defeated another ship in a race. That impressive victory earned the ship the nickname the speed Queen of the Great Lakes. Satisfied with the wind and modifications, the owners put the Eastland back into service. Problems stemming from the modifications showed up later that year. Out on a cruise, the ship nearly capsized with three thousand people aboard. To keep the modifications but lose some of the weight, the owners produced the maximum capacity to two thou hundred passengers

and removed the cabins. As a precaution in case the ship listed in the future, lifeboats were added. It's hard for you and me to imagine that ships didn't have lifeboats or rafts, especially after the tragedy of the Titanic, but changes to existing ships cost money, and that ate into profits. The meager reductions in weight didn't stop Eastland from listing. It was sold to the Chicago South Haven Line, and the ship nearly capsized again, causing formal complaints against

the company. The ships seemingly cursed history earned it the nickname the Hoodoo Boat around this point, and the incidents continued. The new owners had some of the ship's stacks removed and others shortened, but on July one, the Eastland listed twenty five degrees while loading passengers in Cleveland. The company sold the problem ship, this time to the St. Joseph Chicago Steamship Company, Thinking that lowering the passenger count again would be the least time consuming and costly way to

resolve the ship's issues. The company reduced to the maximum load to two thousand, five hundred. The steamer returned to Chicago's docks, where it transported passengers between Chicago and Michigan, including for the annual Western Electric picnics. Factory employees had looked forward to the nineteen fifteen picnic for months. The company chartered five boats, including the Eastland, to carry the employees and their families across Lake Michigan to Washington Park.

For most of the workers, the picnic was a highly anticipated event. The majority of the employees were check immigrants who worked six days a week and weren't given holidays off. They've been looking forward to the much needed time away from work. Over seven thousand tickets were sold for the event. To the workers, summer just wouldn't be summer without that picnic. The park had roller coasters, a merry go round, games

and treats for the kids. There was also a bowling alley, dancing pavilion, the beach at Ballpark, and plenty of picnic areas. Tickets were a dollar for adults or seventy cents if purchased in advance. Boarding began early that July at six thirty am. Families gathered at Chicago's Wharf near Clark Street Bridge. The morning was cool and damp, though they held hope

that the weather would improve. From the size of the crowd, it looked like the event had drawn more families than the previous year, so many employees brought their families that traffic to the docks was backed up for miles. While the ship's history might have been common knowledge on the docks, the people of Western Electric Company were completely unaware of the danger. No one bothered to tell Western Electric about

the Eastland's issues either. The inspectors and harbor master felt that the addition of the lifeboats made the ship safe enough. They didn't account for the weight of the lifeboats required as part of the Seamen's Act. The Act had been passed earlier that year in the wake of the Titanic disaster and a number of other pressures. A federal law required that all ships such as the Eastland be retrofitted with lifeboats to account for at least of the passengers.

Happy sided families lined up to board. Many of them had gotten up bright and early to be one of the first in line. They wanted the best seats. Federal inspectors stood by as boarding began, much to the dismay of those on the dock, and the weather didn't get any better When it began to drizzle. People hurried aboard At about fifty passengers a minute, causing the ship to rock. Those who boarded first quickly moved below deck to stay

out of the rain. Deck hands hauled up the gangplank of forcing a factory employee who had been running late won e w slad key to make a running leap from the dock. Once aboard, he studied himself and joined his coworkers. The band played ragtime for anyone who wanted to dance. Deck passengers leaned against the railing to call out to friends and co workers still on the dock

and awaiting passage on the next ship. With all the boarding dancing and people leaning against the rail, the harbor master noticed the ship list a little too much toward the port, and some passengers noticed too, but didn't think much of it. Now that everyone had boarded, the Eastland seemed to right itself and putting the harbormaster, inspectors, and passengers at ease. But then moments later, with the number of people moving from one side of the ship to

the other, the Eastland began to rock once more. At first the passengers thought it was a joke. Others thought that simply hit a series of waves that would subside with more rocking. More people shifted around. The more people shifted, the more the ship rocked. By seven twenty three that morning, the ship listed so far towards the docks that water poured in through the open gangways and into the engine room. The experienced crew knew what was happening and made their

escape up the ladder onto the main deck. With the amount of water pouring in and the way the Eastland was listing, they had no intention of staying below deck while the ship capsized. Five minutes there, the Eastland rolled to a forty five degree angle. The ragtime music stopped abruptly when the piano barreled across the promenade deck and smashed into the port side wall, barely missing two passengers. Others weren't as lucky. Refrigerators slid across, pinning two women.

Those who couldn't manage to hold onto the railing were pitched overboard. Water poured into the portholes and the deck below, where families had gone to get out of the rain. Passengers panicked. They scrambled to reach the stairs and staying below would be a death trap, But pushing and shoving to the limited access points to the upper deck proved to be just that anyway. Another large piece of furniture crashed into the stairs, demolishing them, leaving those below without

a way to escape. As water flooded the ship, families screaming on the Eastland were echoed by those watching in horror on the dock. One survivor later recalled thinking that he and the others resembled children fall down a hill. People rolled and slid across the deck as lunchboxes, furniture,

and everything else not nailed down slid across too. Chairs and other debris crashed into passengers, sending people tumbling and knocking those standing at the railings loose at The Eastland flipped onto its side in twenty feet of murky water. People were flung off the deck like they had been squatted. Many couldn't swim. The ship, unfortunately, was still tethered to the dock. For a moment, passengers dotted the river's surface. No one had had time to get to a life preserver,

much less a life boat. A slat key who had made the stunning leap onto the ship managed to climb over the starboard railing and walked across the hull and onto the dock. Without so much as getting his shoes wet. The captain had no intention of staying aboard and abandoned the ship, leaving passengers and crew to fend for themselves. Parents who could swim struggled to keep their children and

infants afloat or from being swept away. Coworkers who had shown up at the dock for the next boat tossed crates and boards into the water and the hopes that drowning people could use them as flotation devices. The effort did more harm than good when the objects knocked some of them unconscious. More screams erupted from inside the ship as the decks below took on more water. One man on shore had been contemplating suicide, but on that day he jumped into the water to rescue people. He wouldn't

be the only hero. Helen Reppa, a nurse at Western Electric, didn't exactly have the day off. Still, the idea of working outside on a park rather than inside at a factory appealed to her. Her ship was due at the dock after the Eastland and Helen couldn't wait to get there, But the trolley car she road was stuck in traffic at Lake Street, as she thought about the festivities and the day ahead, screams erupted the direction of the docks, loud enough to hear several blocks away and over the traffic.

The screaming was like nothing she had ever heard before, even in her own worst nightmares. Something horrible had happened to the docks, and all Helen knew was that somehow she had to get there and help. A mounted policeman galloped past the trolley, stopping in the intersection, not that he needed to, but he signaled for all traffic to stop. Excursion boat capsized. He shouted look out for the ambulance.

Helen ran to the front of the trolley. The driver tried to stop her, but she leaped off, and while the policeman cleared the intersection, she convinced the ambulance driver he might need an extra nurse. With their way clear, Helen and the ambulance crew sped off toward the docks, but when she arrived, dock workers were using blowtorches on the Eastland's hull in an attempt to free those trapped

below deck. The people stumbled around in shock, others lay motionless, bleeding on the ground, and the dock in the water. Passengers continued to scream and grab for anything they could, a small floating raft, bits of wood. Some grabbed other passengers, effectively drowning their coworkers and themselves in their panic to survive. Rescuers on the docks pulled victims from the water. Some looked seriously injured. Sizing up the situation, Helen chose to

work on those who were unconscious. First word of the disaster spread factory workers. Family members gathered around the docks, hoping to catch a glimpse of a loved one who might have survived. Some stood all day, clutching each other and sobbing, hoping they're missing family had somehow made it. Some staggered around frantically calling for their children, husband or wife.

There weren't enough cars to transport the victims, so Helen hurried to the closest intersection and asked motorists for help. American Express and a fleet of their trucks as well. Injured and critical survivors were transported to Memorial Hospital, though it was ill equipped to handle so many patients at once. She noted that only two nurses were on duty and that they didn't have enough blankets. She asked to make a phone call and contacted the department store Marshall Fielding Company,

which sent over five hundred blankets. By eight am, efforts switched from rescue to recovery. Out of the two thousand, five hundred passengers plus crew, eight hundred and forty four people were dead. The ship and the waters had grown quiet, but for Helen Reppa, the screaming would never stop. When she returned from the hospital, she found navigating through the thick crowd almost impossible. Though there were no survivors left, she stayed helping and transport bodies to a nearby warehouse.

A lone figure aimlessly wandered the alleyway. He muttered, over and over, I lost them, I lost them all. He told Helen that his wife and three children had drowned. She comforted him for a moment before leaving to help move more bodies. Divers recovered those trapped below deck, mostly women and children who had sought shelter from the rain. The water had been so frigid their bodies were stiff

and cold. Priests arrived to offer last rites, but finding no survivors, left the city workers skimmed the waters with nets to collect bodies that had floated away. The warehouse couldn't hold all the dead. The military set up the second Regiment Armory as a makeshift more and laid out the deceased in neat rows, five bodies long. Around four pm, Helen went home, away from the crowds and chaos. For a while, she stared at her clothes, her white uniform

in shoes where blood stained and caked with mud. At the armory, the process for identifying the dead began at midnight.

Thousands had gathered outside. Not all of them were anxious family members, though, a large part of the crowd where bystanders come to gawk at the bodies to get a closer look at the disaster for themselves, and as despicable as it may seem, others who waited in line where thieves looking to pocket the dead's personal belongings inside, lay fifty eight infants and young children, two hundred and twenty eight teenagers, and five hundred and fifty seven adults. A

hundred and seventy five women went home widows. Two of those women were pregnant. Eighty four men became widowers that day. Twenty two entire families were killed reporters painted the scene in all its gruesomeness. Headlines of the disaster and its graphic details were splashed across newspapers across the country. Enterprising boat captains charged fifteen cents a person to view the

wreckage up close. But with every story about a disaster comes a story about a survivor, someone who was supposed to be there but wasn't. And when it comes to the Eastland, we have a man named George Easy. George was late that morning. In fact, he didn't realize until the next day that his name was still on the manifest and because of that the newspapers had reported him dead. He went immediately to his parents house to reassure them

that he was safe. They were in for the happiest sort of shock, and it was a stroke of luck that paid off for many people in Chicago in the years to come. Rather than ending up is just one more name on a tragic list, George would go on to coach one of the city's legendary teams, the Chicago Bears. His name was George Halla. It took fifty two grave diggers working twelve hour days to prepare for the funerals.

The Bohemian National Cemetery alone had a hundred and fifty graves dug On July, Chicago became the city of Funerals. Seven hundred Eastland victims were to be buried on the same day. Among them was the entire Sindelar family. The couple perished along with all five of their children, ranging in ages from three to fifteen. All seven white caskets arrived at the cemetery stacked in the back of a Ford Model T. Marshall Field and Company provided thirty nine trucks.

Due to the shortage of hearses for the remainder of the victims, Identification or other funeral plans were underway all except for one small boy, known simply as Number three s this some with the armory couldn't bear to call him by a number, so they referred to him as Little Feller. It seemed the boy would go to his grave without anyone to claim him. He was taken to a funeral home where two children recognized him. Now he

had a name, Willie Navatni, just seven years old. He had remained unclaimed because it had taken his grandmother time to recognize Willie's parents and nine year old sister united in death. The family was laid to rest on July one. Chicagoans who had heard of Little Willie's plight attended the service. The procession stretched for more than a mile while families

attended funerals. Cook County asserted jurisdiction over the inquiries. A one attorney told reporters that the United States Steamboat Inspection Service was responsible. Though the city was quick to investigate, litigation over the disaster wasn't concluded for another twenty four years. The cruise lines president and three officers were indicted for manslaughter. The captain and chief engineer were also indicted on charges

of criminal carelessness. When the case finally went to court, the defense attorneys pointed out that the Eastland had successfully carried passengers for years without incident. The jury found no justifiable reason to hold the six men responsible, and all charges were dropped. After the disaster, the Eastland was dredged from the water, repaired, and renamed the Willamette. The newly renamed ship served as a naval vessel, where it remained

stationed at the Great Lakes Naval Base. In August of nineteen forty three, the Willamette transported President Franklin D. Roosevelt during a ten day excursion to Whitefish Bay, where he took part in discussing war strategies. The ship was decommissioned in ninety five and offered for sale, but even after renaming and renovation, the ship couldn't shake its reputation. After nine months and no taker, the ship was sold for scrap. There's more to this story. Stick around after this brief

sponsor break to hear all about it. Henry Tewkesbury just wanted some sleep. He spent the evening of February entertaining a crowd in Windsor, Vermont, with a lecture on the Battle of Gettysburg. It seemed the crowd enjoyed the details, every gory one. His knowledge of the subject was extensive. The money he earned supplemented his income as a lawyer. Nicely, A close friend of his, who had firsthand knowledge of the war, attended lecture. Smith's servant had fought at Gettysburg

as a teenager. After the lecture, he walked with Henry to the train station. The two were heading north to White River Junction. There they would part ways. Henry planned to spend the night before returning home and Smith would board the Montreal Express to start his shift as the conductor. Sleep would elude Henry, though the White River Junction House didn't have any rooms that night, forcing Henry to walk

back to the station in the bitter cold. Exhausted, Henry had no choice but to catch the Montreal Express back to Randolph, Vermont. The train had started its route in Boston, and Henry found it crowded with passengers headed to Montreal's Winter Carnival. After an hour and a half delay, the train was finally on its way. When Smith collected the tickets, he found his friend asleep, slumped over in his seat. He woke him and kidded Henry about the change in plans.

Neither man realized this would be their last conversation. Henry fell fast asleep again, but the train swaying side to side woke him. As the train approached a bridge near West Hartford. Ten minutes later, we had a feeling something was wrong. Then the train lurched and Henry felt a jolt. Having been in two train accidents before, Henry knew a couple of things that the wheels were running on the

ties and the train was about to derail. He jumped up and pulled the cord that would signal the brakeman of the issue. Elsewhere in the car, smith also realized the problem and pulled the cord to The brakeman looked out the window to his horror, the train was jumping the tracks as they approached the bridge, and a forty foot dropped to the river below. Instead of breaking, he leapt from the train into the snow drifts. The rear sleeper car left the tracks and plummeted into the river,

taking several cars with it. The connection between one of the cars broke, which spared the rest. The falling cars crashed into the frozen river, breaking the ice. Other cars piled on top of it, crushing most of those inside in seconds. The oil lamps burst into flames, igniting the wooden cars draperies in upholstery. A fortunate engineer who survived in one of the disconnected cars, found the brakeman in the snow bank. Seeing as he wasn't hurt, the engineer

ordered the brakeman to go and get help. It took him a while. He walked to a nearby farm and borrowed a horse to ride to White River Junction. Help wouldn't arrive for forty five minutes. Henry, still alive and pinned between two seats, frantically tried to free himself as the fire raged toward him. An elderly couple also pinned, cried and hugged each other as the flames engulfed them. Fearing the worst, Henry pulled his coat over his eyes so he wouldn't see the fireball reach him. Then he

felt two men trying to pull him free. They almost gave up, but Henry's plea convinced them to keep trying. As the fire neared, the men pulled once more, freeing him, though breaking one of his legs in the process. They dragged him to safety near one of the bridge's stone supports. Then they went back for other survivors. Smith crawled toward them, totally engulfed in flames. Rescuers threw snow on top of him to douse the fire and managed to get him

out of the car just in time. Help finally arrived, and Henry Smith and a few of the other survivors were taken to the nearby farmhouse. Smith died from his severe burns. Rescuers went back to the wreckage to find that the bridge had collapsed, sending debris on top of the now burned out cars. There would be no more survivors. For two days, rescuers searched the area. Most victims found had been burned beyond recognition. Others had slipped through the

broken ice and into the river. To this day, there isn't an accurate number of victims of the eighty nine passengers and crew, it's believed that as many as sixty perished. An investigation into the disaster stair uncovered a defective rail and some of the survivors sued the railway, and one new legislation established safety measures. Gas lamps were replaced by

electric lights and national safety checks enforced. Over the next several years, railroad accidents dropped sharply, not due to the lawsuits or money the railway companies paid out, though it had more to do with the past that haunted them. As with the Titanic and Eastland, it took something irreplaceable and for some unforgettable lives. American Shadows is hosted by

Lauren Vogelbaum. This episode was written by Michelle Muto, researched by Ali Steed, and produced by Miranda Hawkins and Trevor Young with executive producers Aaron Mackey, Alex Williams, and Matt fred Rick. To learn more about the show, visit griman mild dot com. From more podcasts from iHeart Radio, visit the iHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. H