“WE FEARED SHE WOULD DIE...”
WEST DAYTON
With the Miami River running along the west side of Dayton, the flood waters extended for quite a distance on that side of the city. Luckily, although some homes were destroyed by high water and fire, the level of damage and loss of life did not reach that of the northern section of the city.
ORVILLE WRIGHT
When the flood began Orville, his father Bishop Milton Wright, and his sister Katherine were in the old homestead in West Dayton. Milton was taken in a canoe by Russell Hartzell to the home of William Hartzell, on Williams Street. The water continued to rise, and Milton was stranded at the home for three days.
Orville and his sister escaped by means of a truck, being carried through four feet of water. Luckily the flood stopped short of Orville’s factory adjoining their home in which were stored all of the original plans for the first airplane. A house adjoining the factory also caught fire during the flood, but the factory was undamaged.
Katharine & Orville, not knowing where their father had been taken, hung signs on Summit Street asking that anyone hearing of the whereabouts of Bishop Wright to please get in touch with them. Word reached Orville the next day, and he made arrangements for his father to stay at the home of E. S. Lorenz’s, which was outside of the flood district. It wasn’t until April 18th that Orville was able to bring his father back home to stay.
Orville whimsically spoke to reporters a few days later.
We were lucky. It is the irony of fate that at the critical moment I was not able to get away with my folks on one of my own machines. However, we came through all right and there doesn’t seem to be anything more to say.
Mrs. JAMES BRADEN
Mrs. James Braden, of Cleveland, Ohio had the unfortunate luck to be visiting her mother and father in Dayton when the flood arrived. Her parents, Mr. and Mrs. C. W. Fishter, lived in the second house from the levee on Summit Street.
I was awakened about 4 o’clock Tuesday morning by the voices of people on the street corner below my window. They were looking anxiously at the thin stream of water that had crept over the levee and was now within 150 feet of my window.
Some were crying out that the city was doomed and that flight was the only way by which they could save their lives. But the majority of the crowd were unconvinced. They pointed out that Dayton had been visited by a flood fifteen years ago; they had lived through that one, they said, and they could do it again.
My father’s house is only the second house from the levee in Summit Street. Families all around me began to make preparations for the water that might fill their homes. Father and mother and I worked frantically moving the furniture upstairs and trying to place household articles above what we thought would be the reach of the muddy waters.
About 6 o’clock I saw that the water was beginning to come over the levee in earnest. I began to get frightened. I ran upstairs, took my year-old baby Helen in my arms, put Eleanor, who is three years old, in her go-cart and started on a run for the central part of town, three-quarters of a mile away.
I ran until I was almost ready to drop. It seemed that I would never reach safety. The weight of the baby in my arms grew almost too much for my strength. And as I ran the water followed me. Before I had reached the Algonquin hotel I met the water advancing toward me from the other direction. When I was almost to the hotel I was running through water above my shoetops. Eleanor was drenched by the water which flew from the wheels of the go-cart.
I rushed into the Algonquin and immediately hired a taxicab driver to go back to my father’s home and rescue him. In thirty seconds he was cranking his machine, and a minute later he was speeding through the shallow water on his way to my home, while I set about securing accommodations for myself and my children.
Just as soon as I had secured a room, I sent a bellboy to the telegraph office with a message to my husband in Cleveland that I and the children were safe in the Algonquin, and that he could come to Dayton for us as soon as possible.
Just then the taxicab returned – empty! Father and mother, who had lived through the first flood fifteen years ago, had refused to leave the house!
I was almost frantic. I could see the water creeping up around us in the street, higher and higher every minute. And to think that only three-quarters of a mile away my father and mother would soon be trapped in their house and almost certainly drowned! I was almost insane. The water grew deeper and deeper until we were forced upstairs.
By this time Main Street was a canyon through which flowed a torrent of yellowish water.
Dozens of horses were swept by the hotel widows, plunging and whirling in the current. The rushing stream was filled with bread-boxes, crates, good boxes and every conceivable kind of litter and wreckage.
But there were no bodies that I saw. Thank heaven, I was spared that sight!
Some of the men in the hotel raided the bar. They took armloads of bottles to their rooms and locked them up. And through the days which followed the only way to get whiskey for the sick was to steal it from some of the men.
But most of the men proved themselves real heroes. I had never seen such unselfish heroism as the men displayed. It was an inspiration to everyone who was in the building.
The head bellboy [John Flynn] stationed himself at the door of the hotel lobby to fend off the timbers and wreckage which was thrown against the pillars of the building. Although many of the men begged him not to risk his life, he stuck to his post until he was caught by the current and whirled out into the street.
The swirling waters swept him from one side of the street to the other, and he was thrown against a telegraph pole a block away and instantly killed. It was the first time I had ever seen a man killed.
The children were not frightened in the least by the flood. They leaned out of the windows and crowed with pleasure as the body of a horse would be swept by in the stream. They were too young to understand what it meant.
Three young men imprisoned in the Young Men’s Christian Association Building put on their bathing suits, tied ropes around their waists and managed to swim to a street car, on the roof of which a group of people were standing. One by one they tied the ropes around the waists of the marooned men and women and gave the signal for them to be pulled ashore. When any of the people refused to go, they shoved them into the water. Five minutes after the last man left the car it collapsed and was swept away in the current.
By night there were no lights and no heat in the hotel. Food enough for all had been brought to the upper floors, but there was no water. Lights on the dining tables were made of grease in small dishes, with a bit of tape for a wick. With the snow Wednesday it became very cold. The children were not warmly dressed and we made rude garments for them from blankets of a stock in the sample rooms.
Then the fires broke out near us, and we did not know at what minute the fire might spread to the hotel. The first fire was in two dwellings near the back of the hotel. We stood in the windows and watched them burn with a fear I can only suggest.
Then the larger fire broke out on the other side. Hotel employees went through the hotel and confiscated and hid every match for fear some accident might set the Algonquin afire. After that there were no lighted dish and tape lamps. The second fire was above us, and burning wood floated down the current into the hotel. Men took turns watching for each charred piece that floated down.
The Beckel Hotel was still closer to the second fire. We feared the Beckel would catch, and a rope was stretched across the street from the Algonquin to the Young Men’s Christian Association Building, at the surface of the water, to keep any who might float down from being carried on past.
Thursday afternoon I learned that my father and mother had been saved. They had prepared to die together when a boat came and carried them to the Bellevue Apartment House.
JOSEPH BRITAIN
Joseph Britain was well known in Dayton for selling newspapers from a tricycle newsstand located at the Phillips House on Third and Main streets.
I was awakened at 4:30 in the morning by the distress whistle of the Platt Iron Works. Thinking there was something wrong, I went downstairs and later learned there was danger of high water. My folks carried all the household goods upstairs, which was all work for nothing, as the water raised to the second ceiling. I then thought of my motorboat, and not having time to install the motor, I quickly tied a rope to it, and as the water raised to the second story I fastened it to the shutter while I made seats of ironing boards. My folks, except for my oldest brother, and my neighbors, Mr. & Mrs. Smith, embarked. Leaving my oldest brother Herbert, on the roof, and using brooms for paddles, my youngest brother, Walter, and I paddled up the swift current on Webster Street to the Hart Street landing. Walter and I then started out to get Herbert, but seeing a man and a woman on a railroad watchman’s shanty, who had to swim to get there, we went to their rescue. Not far away was a woman and five children in a cottage garret. This woman and the children crawled through the chimney to the roof and slid down to the boat. Hearing a cry for help and looking around I saw a man in a tree, almost exhausted. We got him. Having a boatload we landed them safely.
Failing to get to Herbert on account of the swiftness of the water and rubbish, we started a second time for him. We got as far as Keowee Street. We got five women, three of whom were bedridden, and five children to safety. We went to the people in the cottages first. We then resolved to reach Webster Street for Herbert. We reached Webster Street through much difficulty and a great risk, for at one time we were washed down by the swift current onto a telegraph pole, and almost lost control of the boat. We got Herbert. On the way back we got five women and a child to safety. Returning to Taylor Street we got three women and their children to safety. Going to Keowee Street again we got five women and eleven children to Hart Street landing.
Walter and I were wet to the skin and chilled by this time. We landed at Grove Avenue and were told by a friend, Edgar Penn, 139 Alaska Street, to go to his house. I was carried to this place by two men, Walter tugging behind. We were given some dry clothes and warm food. In the meantime, Herbert and Edgar Penn went to the rescue of many others. Four hours later Edgar came home drenched and tired out. He went to bed and I followed, but we were unable to sleep. We could hear the cries and shouts for help, and see water, when we shut our eyes.
After having a little rest we felt refreshed, but both had bad colds. A little after breakfast Herbert came there after having been out all night. Penn happened to have a girl’s tricycle which enabled me to get around, as mine was in the water at home. Edgar and I went to the edge of the water to see if I could find my boat. We found it, and insisted on going in it because there were men around who didn’t know how to handle a boat. We got in and went to the Webster school after two sick people who needed medical help. We then went down Troy Street and broke in a grocery store’s window, got some apples, oranges and candies, took them to the people on the flat at Herman Avenue and Taylor Street, who grabbed them and ate them like savages.
We got ten women and children from the flat to safety. We returned to the flat with a quart of whiskey and a tub of drinking water. We got eleven more from the flat to safety. We then went to Kiser Street and had to tear a roof off a house to get a woman and child out. Going across the street we got a woman and three children. Next door we got a woman and two children. We landed them all safely. We rescued for eight hours this day until we were cold, wet and tired out.
During the work of rescuing we saw many horses drown, and saw one horse swim in a bedroom and drown. We heard many a pitiful cry for help, saw many shoot, and in one case we were shot at, but missed.
Being in the worst flooded district and having lost almost everything, it would be a great help to me if all my old customers would still patronize me. I am still the same old Newsie at the Phillips House corner, in the tricycle newsstand.
Here’s to the spirit of dear old Dayton, and I am now Open for Business.
MINNIE HERBIG
Minnie Herbig, who lived at 207 South Bank Street, was trapped for a time at her neighbor’s house next door.
Dear Friends:
I am making carbon copies of this letter to send to you. I cannot write to each individually, not only because of lack of time, but I want to make one story do for all of you, as it is not a pleasant recollection to be reviewing it more than necessary.
The morning of March 25 my sister called me saying that something must be wrong, as the people on the street were talking aloud and the neighbors had their lights burning bright. It was then 5 o’clock. I quickly arose, but became faint and returned to my bed. At 6 o’clock we were warned to leave the house as quickly as possible, as the water was coming fast. I dressed hurriedly, grabbed my hat and coat, overshoes, umbrella (as it was raining) and sister and I ran to a neighbor’s, old friends of the family and who lived in a higher house and one much more substantially built than ours. In a few minutes after our arrival at Mr. and Mrs. Schneider’s home the water rushed down the street in torrents. Schneiders had gotten up from the cellar all their canned goods. In another instant we heard a rush of water into the cellar. Then five of us carried everything on the second floor, not only canned goods, but all kinds of household furniture and goods. Mr. Schneider remained on the first floor until the water came to his hips. It meant a lot of hard work for us all, but it was better to be busy. It was not many hours until the water was coming into the second story of other houses. The lady next door was alone, and she became frantic. She called to us for help. After considerable thought we all decided she must come to our (Schneider’s) house. She was willing for a change no matter how it was to be made. We ran to the attic, got the wash line, trebled it and knotted it, then threw it to her. She tied it to her waist. She stood on the roof of her porch, and Mr. and Mrs. Schneider stood on the roof of their porch. She dropped into the water and they pulled her up and onto their porch, with only a bump on her forehead, but we feared she would die, gasping for breath, and shivering from the ice cold water. We carried her into the bath room hurriedly, gave her whiskey, undressed her, put her in a bed we had made in the attic, covered her up to see if we could bring her back to life all right. We worked hard and succeeded.
The water kept coming higher, so we carried everything from the cellar, the first floor, the second floor, to the attic. That night was terrible. Gas was escaping and we dared not have a light. It was pouring in torrents, the water was constantly rising. Then came the fires, one explosion after another, right around us. Imagine us in the water high enough to drown and surrounded by fires. What a horrible night. Not much to eat, everybody afraid to eat because they feared others were more hungry. People in houses around broke their ceilings, then broke holes in the roof, and put umbrellas in to keep the rain off. One family of eight sat on rafters from Tuesday noon until Thursday noon. Others were shouting out of the attic windows for help, some were screaming, some were whistling. It was horrible. No help.
At midnight we saw the water receding, then came relief. We walked the floor the next day. Then came a fire just a block away from us, and coming down our street. This completely unnerved us all, but after nearly losing our minds the fire was checked. That night came the great fire that took a part of the city and this burned from 4 o’clock in the afternoon until the next day. Oh, what a terrible fright, and besides this, Schneider’s servant, a dear little girl, became sick and we thought she was going to die. We could have no light to see to get medicine, or anything else, just groped in the dark. I stayed with her all night, sat on the bed at her side holding her up. In the morning my sister came to me and said “Do you know it is snowing?” I answered that I did. She said, “I am nearly frozen.” I left Rose, the girl, telling her I would be back soon, as I had to do something for my sister. I crawled into bed with her and Mrs. Cetone, the rescued woman, and the three of us tried to keep warm, but it was hard work. Then Rose became hysterical, and Mr. and Mrs. Schneider worked with her. Yes, it snowed, and we were nearly frozen. We had little to eat and no hope of getting anything more. Nobody came to rescue us.
A man across the street called to Mr. Schneider and said; “Hugo, shall I shoot my wife and then shoot myself?” Mr. Schneider called to him; “For God’s sake, don’t.” Then on Thursday we saw the first boat, and everybody wanted to get into it. We saw men, women and children taken from their second stories, out of windows, into boats. They climbed out of the window, face toward the house, their feet finally touching the shoulders of the man in the boat, who raised his arms to their waists and lowered them. This gave us courage, and finally we managed to lower the two sick people from our porch roof into a boat with a policeman as an oarsman, a good, strong-looking man, who put his arm around the woman Mr. and Mrs. Schneider rescued, and cared for her until she and Rose were rescued entirely from the flooded district. The boatmen wanted to take one more from our house, but sister and I did not want to be separated, so we waited until the next boat came, which was a canoe, a fragile looking little thing. It took courage to get into it. Mrs. Schneider stood inside the window, Mr. Schneider outside the window on the roof of their porch, while we sat on the top of the roof, trying to lower ourselves by making a chain from hands stretched between us. I was finally lowered into the canoe, when our neighbors called across, saying “Don't put another one in the boat, it is at the bottom now.' “At the same time the oarsman was calling to my sister to hurry up, while she was trembling in fear of getting to the canoe. I, too, urged her to come, and after much persuasion, and after the boatsman told us he had rescued 123 in his canoe, she came. I stood in the boat with hand outstretched, and her foot was placed on my hand and she was thus lowered, Mr. Schneider holding her at the other end. We rowed off, saying good-by to Mr. and Mrs. Schneider, who made promises to follow us, as we did not care to be separated from them. It was a sad goodbye, for we did not know that we would ever meet again.
While I had confidence in the two boatmen, one a mere boy, at the same time I saw much danger ahead of us. My sister and I sat with our backs to each other, and I felt her back shaking until I could hardly stand it. We were taken a number of squares in the boat, and, nearly frozen, then a truck was waiting for us, and the men lifted us out of the boat into this truck, and the truck was drawn out of the water by heavy ropes, onto dry ground, where other men lifted us out as though we were tiny babies, and put us into an auto, gave us hot coffee, and landed us in a very dear friend’s house, who took the best care of us and made us as happy as it was possible to be made under such trying circumstances. I have not told the half, how we saw all sorts of pieces of furniture, sheds, parts of houses, etc., floating down a swift current before our house, and how the houses cracked, how the porches broke away from the houses. There is so much still to tell, but this will give you an idea of what our experience was. While we have lost almost all we had, our lives have been spared, for which we are most thankful. Many kind friends helped us out in more ways than one. We have had innumerable things to be thankful for. Our friends have done more for us than we could ever have expected. I could tell much of their kindness and I wasn’t to say that their kindness and interest in us have helped us to make the best of what has come and to suffer the loss. We are without our home, but the friends and relatives will see that we want for nothing. I feel sure, and I can say, and honestly say, that after this experience we feel that we can still be happy, and happy this very day, in the face of our loss, which means little when we have our friends.
As to the little house, or our home, it is in terrible condition. We found thick, pasty, sticky mud behind the wall paper and this had to be taken off. It will be months before we can do anything there. There is scarcely a piece of furniture that can be used. Dishes were saved, clothing ruined by mud, but probably can be used again, at least the most of it. It is all like a dream, and a bad dream. As I said, not half has been told, and I want to say that this experience of ours is a very small matter compared with the experiences of others.
Our office building was submerged. I am in the office now, but we have no elevator service, no heat in the building, but a coal oil stove in one room of our suite, no light, and we are compelled to walk eight flights of stairs. Much inconvenience, but work must be done, and we are getting along the best we know how.
WILLIAM CARVER
William Carver, a member of the Dayton Fire Department, was captain of Engine Company #10. The station was located at corner of Portland Avenue and Washington Street in Dayton.
I was patrolling the water’s edge for fire a few hours after the levee broke when I heard cries for help down a street where the water was 15 feet deep. I’d seen four women and a man in a moving van which had been washed for a half mile when they struck a telegraph pole. The horses were drowned and the van was about to tumble over when the man and women succeeded in climbing up the pole. All that day they clung there in freezing rain and sleet. Each of them took turns crying for help. Not until the next day did the boats reach them.
Crossing the flood to get to the buildings where people were marooned, we found the water rushing down Broadway and Mound streets with such force it was impossible to get across except by drifting down stream and managing to navigate the boat across while drifting. Tuesday night I found Dr. A. Allaman, his son and a negress clinging to a wall at Broadway and the Panhandle Railroad tracks. They had attempted to row across the street but their boat hit a telegraph pole and was split in two. We got them away in boats.
When fire broke out at Broadway and Mound, I saw one man in a boat rowing around in circles and, while the people in the upper floors of opposite buildings were screaming for help, this man was yelling “Twenty-five dollars a head if you want to be saved, twenty-five dollars a head.” Somebody along in another boat threw this man into the water. His boat was then used to save others.
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