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  Closer to the waterfront, near the site of the former city stables, Magrath watched in chilled horror as police officers shot dozens of horses who were trapped in the molasses. Most had been knocked down and were struggling in vain to lift their large heads and break free from the viscous liquid, snorting to clear their nostrils of the thick molasses; others had been knocked down and injured by falling timbers and steel. The sound of these gunshots reverberated across the waterfront, and Magrath flinched as each animal was put out of its misery.

  Photo shows the Clougherty house smashed under the overhead trestle. In the background are destroyed structures that were part of the North End Paving Yard.

  (Photo courtesy of Bill Noonan, Boston Fire Department Archives)

  A police officer spotted Magrath wading through the molasses and directed him to the smashed Clougherty house, which lay in splinters up against the overhead trestle in the middle of Commercial Street. Rescuers had recovered the broken body of sixty-five-year-old Bridget Clougherty from beneath the wreckage and needed Magrath to pronounce her dead. Magrath made his way to what was left of the three-story wooden house, now little more than a pile of splintered rubble. A crowd had gathered on the rise of Copp’s Hill Terrace and looked down silently at the destruction. The onlookers watched—respectfully, Magrath thought—as he examined the late Bridget Clougherty. Her ribcage and chest had been crushed, and Magrath knew before his examination that massive internal injuries had caused her death. He carefully attached an identification tag to her body, and ordered it transported to the morgue. Magrath learned that her two sons, Martin and Stephen Clougherty, and a daughter, Teresa, had all been injured, and had been taken to the Haymarket Relief Station for treatment, along with two boarders who lived in the house.

  With his work at the Clougherty house finished, Magrath moved across Commercial Street, the molasses tugging at his boots with every step, to the area where the tank once stood. Steel plates from the tank’s wall lay broken and partially submerged in the molasses. But Magrath saw that the tank’s large circular roof had fallen almost straight down, basically intact, and now lay right-side-up atop the concrete foundation, in sharp contrast to the violence and destruction on the waterfront. It was as if the molasses had spewed out in all directions from under the roof, carrying the tank’s walls in all directions, but the roof had settled gently onto the ground below.

  Near the roof, Boston mayor Andrew Peters stood shin-deep in molasses, and, with a crowd of reporters and rescue workers gathered around him, Magrath heard him react to the disaster in a firm, strong voice: “Boston is appalled at the terrible accident that occurred here today … An occurrence of this kind must not and cannot pass without a rigid investigation to determine the cause of the explosion—not only to prevent a recurrence of such a frightful accident—but also to place the responsibility where it belongs. Such an investigation has been instituted this afternoon by corporation counsel [city law office] at my direction.” Magrath took note that the mayor used the word “explosion” and clearly implied that the collapse of the tank had not been an accident.

  When the mayor finished, Magrath decided the best place for him to be was back at the morgue. The bodies would be arriving soon, and would continue to arrive well into the night, and probably for many days afterward. He would officially pronounce dead more victims from this disaster than any single event since he had become medical examiner in 1907. He wanted to make sure things were ready at the mortuary, so he left the waterfront by 3 P.M., aware that his day was just beginning.

  Photo shows scene in the immediate aftermath of the flood, from approximately where the tank stood. In the foreground is the top of the tank (vent pipe extending), which hit the ground virtually intact. Firefighters opened hydrants in a largely unsuccessful effort to clear the molasses, which began to harden quickly, and they eventually had to pump seawater directly from the harbor. In the background, on the elevated tracks, is the train that was stopped just in time by engineer Royal Albert Leeman, whose own train barely escaped derailment as the main trestle buckled. Leeman’s action probably saved scores of lives.

  (Photo courtesy of Bill Noonan, Boston Fire Department)

  By leaving early, Dr. Magrath missed a statement issued by USIA attorney Henry F. R. Dolan, one of Boston’s most prominent attorneys, shortly after Mayor Peters finished speaking. Dolan’s message was similar to the mayor’s, though his language was much stronger. Dolan went on the offensive, blaming “outside influences” for the tank’s collapse, most likely North End anarchists who planted a bomb to advance their radical agenda. “We know beyond question that the tank was not weak,” Dolan said. “We know that an examination was made of the outside of the base of the structure a few minutes before its collapse. We know, and our experts feel satisfied, that there was no fermentation because the molasses was not of sufficient temperature to ferment. The company contends that there was no structural weakness, but we do venture the opinion that something from the outside opened up the tank.”

  Arthur P. Jell arrived at the waterfront shortly before 2 P.M., shaken by both the level of destruction in front of him and the short telephone conversation he had had a half-hour earlier with USIA headquarters in New York. His bosses had instructed him to remain silent, to let the company attorney, Dolan, issue any statements about the disaster, and, above all, to ensure that no city inspectors or law enforcement officials confiscate USIA property—specifically, pieces of the tank. USIA engineers, based in Baltimore, would be in Boston tomorrow, Thursday, January 16, to begin the process of collecting the remnants of the tank and transporting them to safe storage.

  Jell approached the police ropes, about 150 feet from where the tank had been located, his mouth agape at the incredible scene before him. He had not believed it at first when William White called to tell him about the tank, how White had returned from lunch with his wife to discover the catastrophe that had occurred while he was away. White had described the extent of the damage, but no explanation could have prepared Jell for this.

  He tried to duck under the ropes but was stopped by a Boston police officer. Jell explained his reason for wanting to reach the tank site, but the officer rebuffed him. A rescue operation was under way and unauthorized persons whose presence might hinder it could not pass. Jell turned and walked away without a fight. Rescuers were concentrating on removing the dead and injured from the molasses; no salvage work had begun yet. He doubted anyone would remove the tank pieces today.

  He would return tomorrow with USIA engineers and take control.

  As the frantic rescue teams worked to save victims trapped in the hardening molasses, doctors and nurses were scrambling to help others in the nearby Haymarket Relief Station. Located about a half mile from the disaster scene, the small hospital, an adjunct to the large Boston City Hospital in the South End, was transformed into a triage facility as the wagons rolled in with the injured. Fortunately, the hospital was in the midst of a shift change when the molasses tank collapsed, so doctors, nurses, and orderlies from both shifts were at the relief station when the injured began arriving. The relief station, with twenty-five permanent beds, was quickly swamped with more than forty victims, the overflow relegated to temporary cots that were jammed into small hospital rooms.

  Hospital personnel removed molasses from the patients’ breathing passages and cut off molasses-soaked clothing so they could learn the gender of the victims and the extent of their injuries. “Those already on duty were soon covered from head to foot with brown syrup and blood,” the Boston Post reported. “The whole hospital reeked of molasses. It was on the floors, on the walls, the nurses were covered with it, even in their hair.”

  Dr. John G. Breslin had been superintendent of the relief station for two years and had never seen chaos like this. He tried to remain calm, to prepare his doctors and nurses for the worst, but no one could have foreseen the terrible trauma the victims suffered, nor the difficulties the molasses presented as the staff tried to treat
the injured. Within an hour, the wheeled stretchers became immovable because the hospital corridors were covered with congealing molasses. Corridor floors and walls became so slippery with molasses that dripped from the clothing of the injured that attendants found it necessary to repeatedly swab the entranceways with hot water. Doctors and nurses were smeared with the liquid after the first few victims were treated, and the heads of patients who lay in bed were soon encircled by rings of brown molasses that flowed from their hair and clothes onto the white linen pillowcases.

  Clergy members arrived at the relief station, and then shortly thereafter, the relatives of victims—men, women, and children—began to stream into the small hospital and seek information about their loved ones, their sobs filling the hallways and small waiting areas. Some relatives begged Dr. Breslin for information about their family members; others who had seen their husbands, brothers, fathers, and sons wracked with pain pleaded with him to treat their loved ones first. Breslin heard awful moaning from a nearby room and stepped inside. A nurse stood at the foot of the bed while a woman dressed in a hat and coat comforted the man lying motionless beneath the sheets, his arms folded on his chest, his pallor as white as the bedclothes. His hands and face had been washed, but Breslin noticed the molasses smears that stained the pillow behind his head. The man’s moaning was the only indicator that he was still alive.

  “This is Margaret McMullen,” the nurse said softly. “This is her husband, James, who works for Bay State Railroad. I told her she could see him for just a moment if she could remain composed.” Breslin nodded, knowing he should get back out to the main entrance and direct traffic, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away from McMullen, away from his parchment-like skin, bleached so white that Breslin thought he might see through the man if he looked long enough.

  Breslin heard the wife speak to her husband. “You are one of the unfortunate ones,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “I am here but I don’t know how long. Keep up the courage and I will make a battle for you all.”

  “Where were you?” Margaret McMullen asked her husband, a catch in her throat. “Where were you when it happened?”

  “Right next to the tank,” McMullen rasped. “I was trying to run some kids off, a little girl collecting firewood. I think she’s dead.”

  “How do you feel? The pain?”

  Breslin saw McMullen move his hands from his chest down his body. “I am all to the bad, hon, from here down. From here down. And I am so thirsty.”

  “Mrs. McMullen,” the nurse said in a hushed tone. “Time to go now.”

  “Yes,” she said, bending to kiss her husband on the forehead, clutching his face between her hands. “I must go now, my love. I will be back later tonight.”

  “Please hon,” Breslin heard the man say. “Bring me something to drink when you come back. They give me some water here, but water doesn’t help. I’m so thirsty.”

  Breslin and the nurse stepped out of the room. “Injuries?” Breslin asked.

  “Compound fractures of both bones in both lower legs,” the nurse said. “Fragments and splinters in wounds, considerable trauma. He’ll need an operation.” She added, looking directly into Breslin’s eyes: “The wound is badly soiled.” He knew these injuries meant that severe infection was likely imminent. If that happened, surgeons would need to amputate both legs to save McMullen’s life. Breslin nodded to the nurse and she walked away to treat other patients.

  Moments later, Margaret McMullen emerged from her husband’s room, her face drawn, eyes red from crying, clutching at the front of her overcoat as though to steady her hands. Head down, she walked shakily toward the front door of the relief station. Breslin thought she would go home for a few moments, take care of her children, perhaps get a bit of rest, and then return for the grueling, sorrowful vigil at her husband’s bedside. James McMullen was forty-six years old, and if he survived, there was a good chance he would never walk again.

  Breslin thought: What the hell had happened on the waterfront?

  And how bad was it going to get?

  For the third time in as many hours, John Barry watched the rescue worker wriggle toward him, pulling himself forward on his elbows, inch by inch through the molasses-drenched dirt and debris. The scruffy-faced fireman needed to use his elbows, because both hands were occupied; one carried a syringe filled with morphine, the other a bottle of brandy. Twice before, this man had crawled to Barry and injected morphine into his spine to relieve the astonishing pain that wracked the stonecutter’s body. Barry was still pinned, facedown, under the firehouse, head facing left, his right cheek squashed into the molasses, his free left hand wiping molasses from his face, the searing pain returning to his back, chest, and legs now that the previous morphine injection was wearing off. Barry longed for the needle again, not just to relieve the pain, but to provide the drug-induced haze that would transport his mind away from this hell. He had stopped screaming hours ago, more from total exhaustion and the morphine than anything else. But still, terror gripped him, squeezing his throat until he was reduced to shallow and ragged breaths. He would become too weak to wipe the molasses away, and it would clog his nostrils and smother him. He would never get out—the unbearable pain would not end and the unbearable fear of being buried alive would not end, and he would die in the dirt.

  His only comfort, as the fireman crawled closer, was that the darkness was no longer total. A while ago, two hours or more—though Barry felt like it had been an eternity—workers had cut a hole in the floor of the firehouse twenty feet away from where Barry lay trapped. Light had poured down through the hole and then traveled weakly into the crawl space, casting the tunnel in an eerie gloom. Since then, workers had used key-hole saws to cut away additional sections of floor, allowing more light into the crawl space. Barry could now see the stubble on the firefighter’s jaw and the intensity in his dark eyes as he struggled toward him. “Almost there, John,” the rescuer said, squirming closer. “Almost there.”

  Firefighters worked in shifts for four hours clearing debris from around and under the wrecked firehouse to reach their trapped colleagues. Firefighters Bill Connor and Nat Bowering, as well as stonecutter John Barry, were freed.

  (Photo courtesy of Bill Noonan, Boston Fire Department Archives)

  Barry heard them cutting right above him now, and he heard timber and wood crashing, too. As workers cut away the floor and moved debris, the building settled further—it was falling around him, Barry thought. “Look out, for God’s sake, or the building will kill the whole of them,” he heard a man shout from above his head, though Barry could not see him yet. The rescuers still needed to remove more floorboards and debris to reach him. Barry was weeping again, distraught that the firehouse would collapse and kill him seconds before crews pulled him to safety.

  The firefighter reached Barry now, rested the syringe on the stonecutter’s upper back.

  “Are you ready, John?” he asked softly. “Do it,” Barry said, squeezing his eyes shut. He felt the burning pain immediately as the needle plunged into his spine for the third time. He heard himself cry out, a big, wracking sob, but only once.

  “There you are, John,” the firefighter said. “No more needles for now.” Then he drew the stopple on the brandy, and stuck the bottle into Barry’s mouth. “Drink all you can, John, but don’t bite it,” he said. Barry drank, coughed, drank some more, and felt somewhat revived. The firefighter was close to him, so close that Barry could smell his foul breath. But the firefighter was free, and, in moments, would crawl backward out of this stinking crawl space. Barry was still pinned by timbers and a large hot water heater that lay across his back, as helpless as a baby and completely dependent on others to save him.

  The firefighter jammed the bottle into Barry’s mouth again for one more swig, then Barry swung his free arm, indicating he had had enough. “Hang in, John,” the man said, capping the brandy bottle. “We’re almost there.” Barry’s benefactor began crawling backward to safety, his
shoulders and face shrinking as he retreated.

  Barry felt the morphine kick in, the pain subside a bit, the thick fog surround his head and eyes. He thought he heard distant voices—“one more … one more … careful!”—though perhaps he was hearing them only in his own head. He dozed, dreamed that he was sitting in his living-room chair smoking his pipe, then heard voices again, closer this time. “That’s his leg—his leg’s out!” Awake now, but drowsy, lying in a pool of molasses, he heard the rhythmic swish-swish of a saw inches above his left ear. Then suddenly, miraculously, he felt the enormous weight being lifted from his back and legs, relieving the pressure. Seconds later, he could move his head and lift his face out of the muck. “Easy, John, easy,” he heard the voices saying, but he didn’t recognize them. Then he heard louder voices, feet clomping on wood, felt hands on his body and felt himself being hoisted into the air. A cool breeze hit him then, salty, from the harbor, and he could breathe again and see gray water and gray sky, and then he was being lowered again, gently, onto a stretcher, his back and legs shrieking with pain. He caught sight of a priest and a group of firemen. He heard himself crying, then laughing, then crying again, tasted tears and molasses, felt molasses running down the sides of his face, down his chest, down his legs. His drenched shirt pressed against his chest as he lay on the stretcher, this time flat on his back, staring at the darkening late afternoon sky. Then they lifted the stretcher with him in it, and he felt himself moving forward; he saw the flash of legs and boots and faces and helmets as he went by, saw men looking down at him, some shaking their heads, others shouting words of encouragement.

  He heard one voice, one question that puzzled him: “Who’s the gink with the white hair?” the voice said. He had heard it clearly, cutting through the shouting, through the smell of molasses and freshly sawn wood, through his own pain and the morphine haze.