Explosives as Aids to the Production of Oil—The Roberts Torpedo Monopoly and Its Leaders—Unprecedented Litigation—Moonlighters at Work—Fatalities from the Deadly Compound—Portraits and Sketches of Victims—Men Blown to Fragments—Strange Escapes—The Loaded Porker—Stories to Accept or Reject as Impulse Prompts.

“There is no distinguished Genius altogether exempt from some infusion of Madness.”—Aristotle.

“Genius must be born and never can be taught.”—Dryden.

“Labor with what zeal we will, something still remains undone.”—Longfellow.

“Come, bright improvement, on the car of Time.”—Campbell.

“Revenge, at first though sweet, bitter ere long, back on itself recoils.”—Milton.

“Death itself is less painful when it comes upon us unawares.”—Pascal.

“Dreadful is their doom * * * like yonder blasted bough by thunder riven.”—Beattie.

“Death, a necessary evil, will come when it will come.”—Shakespeare.

“Where is the reed on which I leant?”—Tennyson.

“Who so shall telle a tale after a man moste reherse everich word.”—Chaucer.

When in 1846 a patient European chemist hit upon a new compound by mixing fuming nitric-acid, sulphuric-acid and glycerine in certain proportions, he didn’t know it was loaded. Glycerine is a harmless substance and its very name signifies sweetness. Combining it with the two acids changed the three ingredients materially. The action of the acids caused the glycerine to lose hydrogen and take up nitrogen and oxygen. The product, which the discoverer baptized Nitro-Glycerine, appeared meek and innocent as Mary’s little lamb and was readily mistaken for lard-oil. It burned in lamps, consuming quietly and emitting a gentle light. But concussion proved the oily-looking liquid to be a terrible explosive, more powerful than gun-cotton, gunpowder or dynamite. For twenty years it was not applied to any useful purpose in the arts. Strangely enough, it was first put up as a homoeopathic remedy for headache, because a few drops rubbed on any portion of the body pained the head acutely. James G. Blaine was given doses of it on his death-bed. An energetic poison, fatalities resulted from imbibing it for whisky, which it resembles in taste. After a time attention was directed unexpectedly to its explosive qualities. A small consignment, sent to this country as a specimen, accidentally exploded in a New-York street. This set the newspapers and the public talking about it and wondering what caused the stuff to go off. Investigation solved the mystery and revealed the latent power of the compound, which had previously figured only as a rare chemical in a half-score foreign laboratories. Miners and contractors gradually learned its value for blasting masses of rock. Five pounds, placed in a stone-jar and suspended against the iron-side of the steamer Scotland, sunk off Sandy Hook, cut a fissure twelve feet long in the vessel. A steamship at Aspinwall was torn to atoms and people stood in mortal terror of the destructive agent. Girls threw away the glycerine prescribed for chapped lips, lest it should burst up and distribute them piecemeal over the next county. Their cotton-padding or charcoal-dentifrice was as dangerous as the glycerine alone, which is an excellent application for the skin. A flame or a spark would not explode Nitro-Glycerine readily, but the chap who struck it a hard rap might as well avoid trouble among his heirs by having had his will written and a cigar-box ordered to hold such fragments as his weeping relatives could pick from the surrounding district. Such was the introduction to mankind of a compound that was to fill a niche in connection with the production of petroleum.

Paraffine is the unrelenting foe of oil-wells. It clogged and choked some of the largest wells on Oil Creek and diminished the yield of others in every quarter of the field. It incrusts the veins of the rock and the pipes, just as lime in the water coats the tubes of a steam-boiler or the inside of a tea-kettle. How to overcome its ill effects was a question as serious as the extermination of the potato-bug or the army-worm. Operators steamed their wells, often with good results, the hot vapor melting the paraffine, and drenched them with benzine to accomplish the same object. A genius patented a liquid that would boil and fizz and discourage all the paraffine it touched, cleaning the tubing and the seams in the sand much as caustic-soda scours the waste-pipe of a sink or closet. These methods were very limited in their scope, the steam condensing, the benzine mixing with the oil and the burning fluid cooling off before penetrating the crevices in the strata any considerable distance. Exploding powder in holes drilled at the bottom of water-wells had increased the quantity of fluid or opened new veins and the idea of trying the experiment in oil-wells suggested itself to various operators. In 1860 Henry H. Dennis, who drilled and stuck the tools in the first well at Tidioute, procured three feet of two-inch copper-pipe, plugged one end, filled it with rifle-powder, inserted a fuse-cord and exploded the charge in presence of six men. The hole was full of water, oil and bits of rock were blown into the air and “the smell of oil was so much stronger that people coming up the hollow noticed it.” The same year John F. Harper endeavored to explode five pounds of powder in A. W. Raymond’s well, at Franklin. The tin-case holding the powder collapsed under the pressure of the water and the fuse had gone out. William Reed assisted Raymond and W. Ayers Brashear, who had expected James Barry—he put up the first telegraph-line between Pittsburg and Franklin—to fire the charge by electricity. Reed developed the idea and invented the “Reed Torpedo,” which he used in a number of wells. A large crowd in 1866 witnessed the torpedoing of John C. Ford’s well, on the Widow Fleming farm, four miles south of Titusville. Five pounds of powder in an earthen bottle, attached to a string of gas-pipe, were exploded at two-hundred-and-fifty feet by dropping a red-hot iron through the pipe. The shock threw the water out of the hole, threw out the pipe with such force as to knock down the walking-beam and samson-post, agitated the water in Oil Creek and “sent out oil.” Tubing was put in, the old horse worked the pump until tired out and the result encouraged Ford to buy machinery to keep the well going constantly. This was the first successful torpedoing of an oil-well! The Watson well, near by, was similarly treated by Harper, who had brought four bottles of the powder from Franklin and was devoting his time to “blasting wells.” For his services at the Ford well he received twenty dollars. Harper, William Skinner and a man named Potter formed a partnership for this purpose. They torpedoed the Adams well, on the Stackpole farm, below the Fleming, putting the powder in a glass-bottle. The territory was dry and no oil followed the explosion. In the fall of 1860 they shot Gideon B. Walker’s well at Tidioute. Five torpedoes were exploded in 1860 at Franklin, Tidioute and on Oil Creek. Business was disturbed over the grave political outlook, oil was becoming too plentiful, the price was merely nominal and the torpedo-industry languished.

William F. Kingsbury advertised in 1860 that he would “put blasts in oil-wells to increase their production.” He torpedoed a well in 1861 on the island at Tidioute, using a can of powder and a fuse, which ignited perfectly. Mark Wilson and L. G. Merrill lectured on electricity in 1860-61, traveling over the country and exhibiting the principle of “Colt’s Submarine Battery,” by which “the rock at any distance beneath the surface of the earth may be rent asunder, thereby enabling the oil to flow to the well.” Frederick Crocker in 1864 arranged a torpedo to be dropped into a well and fired by a pistol-cartridge inserted in the bottom of the tin-shell. About thirty torpedoes were exploded from 1860 to 1865, all of them in wells filled with water, which served as tamping. Erastus Jones, James K. Jones and David Card exploded them in wells at Liverpool, Ohio. Joseph Chandler handled two or three at Pioneer and George Koch fired one of his own construction in May of 1864. Mr. Beardslee—he struck a vein of water by drilling a hole five feet and exploding a case of powder at the bottom of a well in 1844, near Rochester, N. Y.—came to the oil-region and put in a score of shots in 1865. As long ago as 1808 the yield of water in a well at Fort Regent was doubled by drilling a small hole and firing a quantity of powder. A flowing-well on the lease beside the Crocker stopped when the latter was torpedoed and was rigged for pumping. It pumped “black powder-water,” showing that the torpedo had opened an underground connection between the two wells, the effects of the explosion reaching from the Crocker to its neighbor. William Reed made a can strong enough to resist the pressure of the water, let it down the Criswell well on Cherry Run in 1863, failed to discharge it by electricity and exploded it by sliding a hollow weight down a string to strike a percussion-cap.

Notwithstanding these facts, which demonstrated that the yield of oil and water had been increased by exploding powder hundreds of feet under water, in November of 1864 Col. E. A. L. Roberts applied for a patent for “a process of increasing the productiveness of oil-wells by causing an explosion of gunpowder or its equivalent at or near the oil-bearing point, in connection with superincumbent fluid-tamping.” He claimed that the action of a shell at Fredericksburg in 1862, which exploded in a mill-race, suggested to him the idea of bombarding oil-wells. However this may be—it has been said he was not at Fredericksburg at the date specified in his papers—the Colonel furnished no drawings and presented no application for Letters Patent for over two years. He constructed six of his torpedoes and arrived with them at Titusville in January of 1865. Captain Mills permitted him to test his process in the Ladies’ well, near Titusville, on January twenty-first. Two torpedoes were exploded and the well flowed oil and paraffine. Reed, Harper and three or four others filed applications for patents and commenced proceedings for interference. The suits dragged two years, were decided in favor of Roberts and he secured the patent that was to become a grievous monopoly.

A company was organized in New York to construct torpedoes and carry on the business extensively. Operators were rather sceptical as to the advantages of the Roberts method, fearing the missiles would shatter the rock and destroy the wells. The Woodin well, a dry-hole on the Blood farm, received two injections and pumped eighty barrels a day in December of 1866. During 1867 the demand increased largely and many suits for infringements were entered. Roberts seemed to have the courts on his side and he obtained injunctions against the Reed Torpedo-Company and James Dickey for alleged infringements. Justices Strong and McKennan decided against Dickey in 1871. Producers subscribed fifty-thousand dollars to break down the Roberts patent and confidently expected a favorable issue. Judge Grier, of Philadelphia, mulcted the Reed Company in heavy damages. Nickerson and Hamar, ingenious, clever fellows, fared similarly. Roberts substituted Nitro-Glycerine for gunpowder and established a manufactory of the explosive near Titusville. The torpedo-war became general, determined and uncompromising. The monopoly charged exorbitant prices—two-hundred dollars for a medium shot—and an army of “moonlighters”—nervy men who put in torpedoes at night—sprang into existence. The “moonlighters” effected great improvements and first used the “go-devil drop-weight” in the Butler field in 1876. The Roberts crowd hired a legion of spies to report operators who patronized the nocturnal well-shooters. The country swarmed with these emissaries. You couldn’t spit in the street or near a well after dark without danger of hitting one of the crew. Unexampled litigation followed. About two-thousand prosecutions were threatened and most of them begun against producers accused of violating the law by engaging “moonlighters.” The array of counsel was most imposing. It included Bakewell & Christy, of Pittsburg, and George Harding, of Philadelphia, for the torpedo-company. Kellar & Blake, of New York, and General Benjamin F. Butler were retained by a number of defendants. Most of the individual suits were settled, the annoyance of trying them in Pittsburg, fees of lawyers and enormous costs inducing the operators to make such terms as they could. By this means the coffers of the company were filled to overflowing and the Roberts Brothers rolled up millions of dollars.

The late H. Bucher Swope, the brilliant district-attorney of Pittsburg, was especially active in behalf of Roberts. The bitter feeling engendered by convictions deemed unjust, awards of excessive damages and numerous imprisonments found expression in pointed newspaper paragraphs. Col. Roberts preserved in scrap-books every item regarding his business-methods, himself and his associates. One poetical squib, written by me and printed in the Oil-City Times, incensed him to the highest pitch and was quoted by Mr. Swope in an argument before Judge McKennan. The old Judge bristled with fury. Evidently he regretted that it was beyond his power to sentence somebody to the penitentiary for daring hint that law was not always justice. He had not traveled quite so far on the tyrannical road as some later wearers of the ermine, who, “dressed in a little brief authority, play such fantastic tricks before high heaven as make the angels weep” and consign workingmen to limbo for presuming to present the demands of organized labor to employers! It is not Eugene V. Debs or the mouthing anarchist, but the overbearing corporation-tool on the bench, who is guilty of “contempt of court.”

The Roberts patent re-issued in June of 1873, perpetuating the burdensome load upon oil-producers. In November of 1876 suit was brought in the Circuit Court against Peter Schreiber, of Oil City, charged with infringing the Roberts process. Schreiber’s torpedo duplicated the unpatented Crocker cartridge and Roberts wanted his scalp. The case was contested keenly four years, coming up for final argument in May of 1879. Henry Baldwin and James C. Boyce, of Oil City, and Hon. J. H. Osmer, of Franklin, were the defendant’s attorneys. Mr. Boyce collected a mass of testimony that seemed overwhelming. He spent years working up a masterly defense. By unimpeachable witnesses he proved that explosives had been used in water-wells and oil-wells, substantially in the manner patented by Roberts, years before the holder of the patent had been heard of as a torpedoist. But his masterly efforts were wasted upon Justices Strong and McKennan. They had sustained the monopoly in the previous suits and apparently would not reverse themselves, no matter how convincing the reasons. Mr. Schreiber, wearied by the law’s interminable delays and thirty-thousand dollars of expenditure, decided not to suffer the further annoyance of appealing to the United-States Supreme Court. The great body of producers, disgusted with the courts and despairing of fair-play, did not care to provide the funds to carry the case to the highest tribunal and lock it up for years awaiting a hearing. The flood of light thrown upon it by Boyce’s researches had the effect of preventing an extension of the patent and reducing the price of torpedoes, thus benefiting the oil-region greatly. Mr. Boyce is now practicing his profession in Pittsburg. He resided at Oil City for years and was noted for his bright wit, his incisive logic, his profound interest in education and his social accomplishments.

Col. Edward A. L. Roberts died at Titusville on Friday morning, March twenty-fifth, 1881, after a short illness. His demise was quite unexpected, as he continued in ordinary health until Tuesday night. Then he was seized with intermittent fever, which rapidly gained ground until it proved fatal. A moment before dissolution he asked Dr. Freeman, who was with him, for a glass of water. Drinking it and staring intently at the doctor, his eyes filled with tears and he said, “I am gone.” Pressing back upon the pillow, he expired almost instantly. Col. Roberts was born at Moreau, Saratoga county, New York, in 1829. At seventeen he enlisted as a private, served with commendable bravery in the Mexican war and was honorably discharged after a service of two years. Returning to his native place, he entered an academy and passed several years acquiring a higher education. Subsequently he entered the dental office of his brother at Poughkeepsie, N. Y. Still later he removed to the city and with his brother, W. B. Roberts, engaged in the manufacture of dental material. For his improvements in dental science and articles he was awarded several gold-medals by the American Institute. He patented various inventions that have been of great service and are now in general use. In the oil-region he was best known as the owner of the torpedo-patent bearing his name. He came to Titusville in January of 1865 and the same month exploded two shells in the Ladies’ well, increasing its yield largely. From that time to the present the use of torpedoes has continued. The litigation over the patent and infringements attracted widespread attention. The last week of his life Col. Roberts said he had expended a quarter-million dollars in torpedo-litigation. He was responsible for more lawsuits than any other man in the United States. A man of many eccentricities and strong feelings, he was always liberal and enterprising. He left a large fortune and one of the most profitable monopolies in the State. In 1869 he married Mrs. Chase, separated from her in 1877 and lived at the Brunswick Hotel. His widow and two children survived him. Col. Roberts did much to build up Titusville and his funeral was the largest the town has ever witnessed. He sleeps in the pretty cemetery and a peculiar monument, emblematic of the torpedo, marks the burial-plot.

On the palatial Hotel Brunswick, which he built and nurtured as the apple of his eye, Col. Roberts lavished part of his wealth. He decorated and furnished it gorgeously from cellar to roof. The appointments were luxurious throughout. If the landlords he engaged could not meet expenses, the Colonel paid the deficiency ungrudgingly and sawed wood. Finally the house was conducted in business-style and paid handsomely. For years it has been run by Charles J. Andrews, who was born with a talent for hotel-keeping. “Charlie” is well-known in every nook and corner of Pennsylvania as a “jolly good fellow,” keen politician and all-round thoroughbred. He has the rare faculty of winning friends and of engineering bills through the Legislature. He is head of the Liquor League, a tireless worker, a masterly joker and brimming over with pat-stories that do not strike back. He operates in oil and base-ball as a diversion, is a familiar figure in Philadelphia and Harrisburg and popular everywhere.

Dr. Walter B. Roberts, partner of his brother in the torpedo-company, clerked in an Albany bank, taught district-school, studied medicine and rose to eminence in dentistry. Visiting Nicaragua in 1853, he established a firm to ship deer-skins and cattle-hides to the United States and built up a large trade with Central America. Resuming his practice, he and E. A. L. Roberts opened dental-rooms in New York. His brother enlisted and upon returning from the war assigned the Doctor a half-interest in a torpedo for oil-wells he desired to patent. In 1865 Dr. Roberts organized the Roberts Torpedo-Company, was chosen its secretary in 1866 and its president in 1867. He visited Europe in 1867 and removed to Titusville in 1868, residing there until his death. In 1872 he was elected mayor, but his intense longing for a seat in Congress was never gratified. The oil-producers, whom the vexatious torpedo-suits made hot under the collar, opposed him resolutely. He had succeeded in his profession and his business and his crowning ambition was to go to Washington. The arrow of political disappointment pricked his temper at times, although to the last he supported the Republican party zealously. Dr. Roberts was a man of marked characteristics, tall, stoutly built and vigorous mentally. He did much to advance the interests of his adopted city and was respected for his courage, his earnestness and his benevolence to the poor.

Hon. William H. Andrews managed the campaign of Dr. Roberts, who fancied the adroitness, pluck and push of the coming leader and used his influence to elect him chairman of the Crawford-County Republican Committee. He performed the duties so capably that he served four terms, was secretary of the State Committee in 1887-8 and its chairman in 1890-1. Mr. Andrews was born in Warren county and at an early age entered upon a mercantile career. He established large dry-goods stores at Titusville, Franklin and Meadville, introduced modern ideas and did a tremendous business. He advertised by the page, ran excursion-trains at suitable periods and sold his wares at prices to attract multitudes of customers. Nobody ever heard of dull trade or hard times at any of the Andrews stores. Removing to Cincinnati, he opened the biggest store in the city and forced local merchants to crawl out of the old rut and hustle. But the aroma of petroleum, the motion of the walking-beam, the dash and spirit of oil-region life were lacking in Porkopolis and Andrews returned to Titusville. He engaged in politics with the ardor he had displayed in trade. His skill as an organizer saved the Congressional district from the Greenbackers and won him the chairmanship of the Republican State-Committee. He served two terms in the Legislature and was elected to the Senate in 1894. He is chairman of the senatorial committee appointed last session to “Lexow” Philadelphia and Pittsburg. His brother, W. R. Andrews, edited the Meadville Tribune and was secretary of the State Committee. Another, Charles J. Andrews, was proprietor of the Hotel Brunswick and an active politician. Senator Andrews rarely wastes his breath on long-winded speeches, wisely preferring to do effective work in committee. No member of the House or Senate is more influential, more ready to oblige his friends, more sought for favors and surer of carrying through a bill. He enjoys the confidence of Senator Quay and his next promotion may be to the United-States Senate as successor of Matthew S. himself. Mr. Andrews lives at Allegheny, has oil-wells on Church Run and a big farm in the suburbs of Titusville, is prominent in local industries and a representative citizen.

Gradually the quantity of explosive in a torpedo was increased, in order to shatter a wider area of oil-bearing rock. A hundred quarts of Nitro-Glycerine have been used for a single shot. In such instances it is lowered into the well in cans, one resting upon another at the bottom of the hole until the desired amount is in place. A cap is adjusted to the top of the last can, the cord that lowered the Nitro-Glycerine is pulled up, a weight is dropped upon the cap and an explosion equal to the force of a ton of gunpowder ensues. In a few seconds a shower of water, oil, mud and pebbles ascends, saturating the derrick and pelting broken stones in every direction. Frank H. Taylor graphically describes a scene at Thorn Creek:

“On October twenty-seventh, 1884, those who stood at the brick school-house and telegraph-offices in the Thorn Creek district and saw the Semple, Boyd & Armstrong No. 2 torpedoed, gazed upon the grandest scene ever witnessed in Oildom. When the shot took effect and the barren rock, as if smitten by the rod of Moses, poured forth its torrent of oil, it was such a magnificent and awful spectacle that no painter’s brush or poet’s pen could do it justice. Men familiar with the wonderful sights of the oil-country were struck dumb with astonishment, as they beheld the mighty display of Nature’s forces. There was no sudden reaction after the torpedo was exploded. A column of water rose eight or ten feet and fell back again, some time elapsed before the force of the explosion emptied the hole and the burnt glycerine, mud and sand rushed up in the derrick in a black stream. The blackness gradually changed to yellow; then, with a mighty roar, the gas burst forth with a deafening noise, like the thunderbolt set free. For a moment the cloud of gas hid the derrick from sight and then, as this cleared away, a solid golden column half-a-foot in diameter shot from the derrick-floor eighty feet through the air, till it broke in fragments on the crown-pulley and fell in a shower of yellow rain for rods around. For over an hour that grand column of oil, rushing swifter than any torrent and straight as a mountain pine, united derrick-floor and top. In a few moments the ground around the derrick was covered inches deep with petroleum. The branches of the oak-trees were like huge yellow plumes and a stream as large as a man’s body ran down the hill to the road. It filled the space beneath the small bridge and, continuing down the hill through the woods beyond, spread out upon the flats where the Johnson well is. In two hours these flats were covered with a flood of oil. The hill-side was as if a yellow freshet had passed over it. Heavy clouds of gas, almost obscuring the derrick, hung low in the woods, and still that mighty rush continued. Some of those who witnessed it estimated the well to be flowing five-hundred barrels per hour. Dams were built across the stream, that its production might be estimated; the dams overflowed and were swept away before they could be completed. People living along Thorn Creek packed up their household-goods and fled to the hill-sides. The pump-station, a mile-and-a-half down the creek, had to extinguish its fires that night on account of gas. All fires around the district were put out. It was literally a flood of oil. It was estimated that the production was ten-thousand barrels the first twenty-four hours. The foreman, endeavoring to get the tools into the well, was overcome by the gas and fell under the bull-wheels. He was rescued immediately and medical aid summonedsummoned. He remained unconsciousunconscious two hours, but subsequently recovered fully. Several men volunteered to undertake the job of shutting in the largest well ever struck in the oil-region. The packer for the oil-saver was tied on the bull-wheel shaft, the tools were placed over the hole and run in. But the pressure of the solid stream of oil against it prevented its going lower, even with the suspended weight of the two-thousand-pound tools. One-thousand pounds additional weight were added before the cap was fitted and the well closed. A casing-connection and tubing-lines connected the well with a tank.”

Had the owners not torpedoed this well, which they believed to be dry, its value would never have been known. Its conceded failure would have chilled ambitious operators who held adjoining leases and changed the entire history of Thorn Creek.

Torpedoing wells is a hazardous business. A professional well-shooter must have nerves of iron, be temperate in his habits and keenly alive to the fact that a careless movement or a misstep may send him flying into space. James Sanders, a veteran employÉ of the Roberts Company, fired six-thousand torpedoes without the slightest accident and lived for years after his well-earned retirement. Nitro-Glycerine literally tears its victims into shreds. It is quick as lightning and can’t be dodged. The first fatality from its use in the oil-regions befell William Munson, in the summer of 1867, at Reno. He operated on Cherry Run, owning wells near the famous Reed and Wade. He was one of the earliest producers to use torpedoes and manufactured them under the Reed patent. A small building at the bend of the Allegheny below Reno served as his workshop and storehouse. For months the new industry went along quietly, its projector prospering as the result of his enterprise. Entering the building one morning in August, he was seen no more. How it occurred none could tell, but a frightful explosion shivered the building, tore a hole in the ground and annihilated Munson. Houses trembled to their foundations, dishes were thrown from the shelves, windows were shattered and about Oil City the horrible shock drove people frantically into the streets. Not a trace of Munson’s premises remained, while fragments of flesh and bone strewn over acres of ground too plainly revealed the dreadful fate of the proprietor. The mangled bits were carefully gathered up, put in a small box and sent to his former home in New York for interment. The tragedy aroused profound sympathy. Mentally, morally and physically William Munson was a fine specimen of manhood, thoroughly upright and trustworthy. He lived at Franklin and belonged to the Methodist church. His widow and two daughters survived the fond husband and father. Mrs. Munson first moved to California, then returned eastward and she is now practicing medicine at Toledo, the home of her daughters, the younger of whom married Frank Gleason.

The sensation produced by the first fatality had not entirely subsided when the second victim was added to a list that has since lengthened appallingly. To ensure comparativecomparative safety the deadly stuff was kept in magazines located in isolated places. In 1867 the Roberts Company built one of these receptacles two miles from Titusville, in the side of a hill excavated for the purpose. Thither Patrick Brophy, who had charge, went as usual one fine morning in July of 1868. An hour later a terrific explosion burst upon the surrounding country with indescribable violence. Horses and people on the streets of Titusville were thrown down, chimneys tumbled, windows dropped into atoms and for a time the panic was fearful. Then the thought suggested itself that the glycerine-magazine had blown up. At once thousands started for the spot. The site had been converted into a huge chasm, with tons of dirt scattered far and wide. Branches of trees were lopped off as though cut by a knife and hardly a particle could be found of what had so recently been a sentient being, instinct with life and feeling and fondly anticipating a happy career. The unfortunate youth bore an excellent character for sobriety and carefulness. He was a young Irishman, had been a brakeman on the Farmers’ Railroad and visited the magazine frequently to make experiments.

On Church Run, two miles back of Titusville, Colonel Davison established a torpedo-manufactory in 1868. A few months passed safely and then the tragedy came. With three workmen—Henry Todd, A. D. Griffin and William Bills—Colonel Davison went to the factory, as was his practice, one morning in September. A torpedo must have burst in course of filling, causing sad destruction. The building was knocked into splinters, burying the occupants beneath the ruins. All around the customary evidences of havoc were presented, although the sheltered position of the factory prevented much damage to Titusville. The mangled bodies of his companions were extricated from the wreck. while Colonel Davison still breathed. He did not regain consciousness and death closed the chapter during the afternoon. This dismal event produced a deep impression, the extinction of four lives investing it with peculiar interest to the people of Oildom, many of whom knew the victims and sincerely lamented their mournful exit.

Dr. Fowler, the seventh victim, met his doom at Franklin in 1869. He had erected a magazine on the hill above the Allegheny Valley depot, in which large quantities of explosives were stored. With his brother Charles the Doctor started for the storehouse one forenoon. At the river-bridge a friend detained Charles for a few moments in conversation, the Doctor proceeding alone. What happened prior to the shock will not be revealed until all secrets are laid bare, but before Charles reached the magazine a tremendous explosion launched his brother into eternity. A spectator first noticed the boards of the building flying through space, followed in a moment by a report that made the earth quiver. The nearest properties were wrecked and the jar was felt miles away. Careful search for the remains of the poor Doctor resulted in a small lot of broken bones and pieces of flesh, which were buried in the Franklin cemetery. It was supposed that the catastrophe originated from the Doctor’s boots coming in contact with some glycerine that may have leaked upon the floor. This is as plausible a reason as can be assigned for a tragedy that brought grief to many loving hearts. The Doctor was a genial, kindly gentleman and his cruel fate was universally deplored.

William A. Thompson, of Franklin, left home on Tuesday morning, August thirteenth, 1870, carrying in his buggy a torpedo to be exploded in a well on the Foster farm. John Quinn rode with him. At the farm he received two old torpedoes, which had been there five or six weeks, having failed to explode, to return to the factory. Quinn came up the river by rail. Thompson stopped at Samuel Graham’s, Bully Hill, got an apple and lighted a cigar. On leaving he said: “Good-bye, Sam, perhaps you’ll never see me again!” Five minutes later an explosion was heard on the Bully-Hill road, a mile from where Dr. Fowler had met his doom. Graham and others hurried to the spot. The body of Thompson, horribly mutilated, was lying fifty feet from the road, the left arm severed above the elbow and missing. The horse and the fore-wheels of the buggy were found a hundred yards off, the wounded animal struggling that distance before he fell. The body and hind-wheels of the vehicle were in splinters. One tire hung on a tree and a boot on another. The main charge of the torpedo had entered the victim’s left side above the hip and the face was scarcely disfigured. Mr. Thompson was widely known and esteemed for his social qualities and high character. He was born in Clearfield county, came to Franklin in 1853, married in 1855 and met his shocking fate at the age of thirty-nine. His widow and a daughter live at Franklin.

Thus far the losses of human life were occasioned by the explosion of great quantities of the messengers of death. The next instance demonstrated the amazing strength of Nitro-Glycerine in small parcels, a few drops ending the existence of a vigorous man at Scrubgrass, Venango county, in the summer of 1870. R. W. Redfield, agent of a torpedo-company, hid a can of glycerine in the bushes, expecting to return and use it the following day. While picking berries Mrs. George Fetterman saw the can and handed it to her husband. Thinking it was lard-oil, which Nitro-GlycerineNitro-Glycerine in its fluid state resembles closely, Fetterman poured some into a vessel and sent it to his wells. It was used as a lubricant for several days. Noticing a heated journal one morning, Fetterman put a little of the supposed oil on the axle, with the engine in rapid motion. A furious explosion ensued, tearing the engine-house into splinters and partially stunning three men at work in the derrick. Poor Fetterman was found shockingly mangled, with one arm torn off and his head crushed into jelly. The mystery was not solved for hours, when it occurred to a neighbor to test the contents of the oil-can. Putting one drop on an anvil, he struck it a heavy blow and was hurled to the earth by the force of the concussion. The can was a common oiler, holding a half-pint, and probably not a dozen drops had touched the journal before the explosion took place. Fetterman was a man of remarkable physical power, weighing two-hundred-and-thirty pounds and looking the picture of health and vigor. Yet a quarter-spoonful of nitro-glycerine sufficed to usher him into the hereafter under circumstances particularly distressing.

In the fall a young man lost his life almost as singularly as Fetterman. He attended a well at Shamburg, seven miles south of Titusville. The well was torpedoed on a cold day. To thaw the glycerine a tub was filled with hot water, into which the cans were put. When sufficiently thawed they were taken out, the glycerine was poured into the shell and the torpedoing was done satisfactorily. The tubing was replaced in the well and the young pumper went to turn on the steam to start the engine, carrying a pair of tongs with him. He threw the tongs into the tub of water. In an instant the engine-house was demolished by a fierce explosion. The luckless youth was killed and his body mangled. A small amount of glycerine must have leaked from the cans while they were thawing, as the result of which a soul was hurried into the presence of its Maker with alarming suddenness.

In August of 1871 Charles Clarke started towards Enterprise, a small village in Warren county, ten miles east of Titusville, with a lot of glycerine in a vehicle drawn by one horse. The trip was destined never to be accomplished. By the side of a high hill a piece of very rough road had to be traveled. There the charge exploded. Likely some of the liquid had leaked over the buggy and springs and been too much jolted. The concussion was awful. Pieces of the woodwork and tires were carried hundreds of yards. Half of one wheel lodged near the top of a large tree and for many rods the forest was stripped of its foliage and branches. Part of the face, with the mustache and four teeth adhering, was the largest portion of the driver recovered from the debris. The horse was disemboweled and to numerous trees lots of flesh and clothing were sticking. From the ghastly spectacle the beholders turned away shuddering. The handful of remains was buried reverently at Titusville, crowds of people uniting in the last tribute of respect to “Charlie,” whose youth and intelligence had made him a general favorite.

A case similar to Thompson’s followed a few weeks after, near Rouseville. Descending a steep hill on his way from torpedoing a well on the Shaw farm, William Pine was sent out of the world unwarned. He had a torpedo-shell and some cans of glycerine in a light wagon drawn by two horses. No doubt, the extreme roughness of the road exploded the dangerous freight. The body of the driver was distributed in minute fragments over two acres and the buggy was destroyed, but the horses escaped with slight injury, probably because the force of the shock passed above them as they were going down the hill. Pine had a premonition of impending disaster. When leaving home he kissed his wife affectionately and told her he intended, should he return safely, to quit the torpedo-business forever next day. He was an industrious, competent young man, deserving of a better fate.

In October of the same year Charles Palmer was blown to pieces at the Roberts magazine, near Titusville, where Brophy died two years before. With Captain West, agent of the company, he was removing cans of glycerine from a wagon to the magazine. He handled the cans so recklessly that West warned him to be more careful. He made thirteen trips from the wagon and entered the magazine for the fourteenth time. Next instant the magazine disappeared in a cloud of dust and smoke, leaving hardly a trace of man or material. West happened to be beside the wagon and escaped unhurt. The horses galloped furiously through Titusville, the cans not taken out bounding around in the wagon. Why they did not explode is a mystery. Had they done so the city would have been leveled and thousands of lives lost. Palmer paid dearly for his carelessness, which was characteristic of the rollicking, light-hearted fellow whose existence terminated so shockingly.

This thrilling adventure decided Captain West, who lived at Oil City, to engage in pursuits more congenial to himself and agreeable to his devoted family. He was finely educated, past the meridian and streaks of gray tinged his dark hair and beard. In November he torpedoed a well for me on Cherry Run. The shell stuck, together we drew it up, the Captain adjusted the cap and it was then lowered and exploded successfully. At parting he shook my hand warmly and remarked: “This is the last torpedo I shall put in for you. My engagement with the company will end next week. Good-bye. Come and see me in Oil City.” Three days later he went to shoot a well at Reno, saying to his wife at starting: “This will wind up my work for the company.” Such proved to be the fact, although in a manner very different from what the speaker imagined. The shell was lowered into the well, but failed to explode and the Captain concluded to draw it up and examine the priming. Near the surface it exploded, instantly killing West, who was guiding the line attached to the torpedo. He was hurled into the air, striking the walking-beam and falling upon the derrick-floor a bruised and bleeding corpse. He had, indeed, put in his last torpedo. The main force of the explosion was spent in the well, otherwise the body and the derrick would have been blown to atoms. A tear from an old friend, as he recounts the tragic close of an honorable career, is due the memory of a man whose sterling qualities were universally admired.

Early in 1873 two young lives paid the penalty at Scrubgrass. On a bright February morning “Doc” Wright, the torpedo-agent, stopped at the station to send a despatch. The message sent, he invited the telegraph-operator, George Wolfe, to ride with him to the magazine, a mile up the river. The two set out in high spirits, two dogs following the sleigh. Hardly ten minutes elapsed when a dreadful report terrified the settlement. From the magazine on the river-bank a light smoke ascended. Two rods away stood the trembling horse, one eye torn from its socket and his side lacerated. Beside him one dog lay lifeless. Fragments of the cutter and the harness were strewn around promiscuously. Through the bushes a clean lane was cut and a large chestnut-tree uprooted. A deep gap alone remained of the magazine and scarcely a particle of the two men could be found. Dozens of splintered trees across the Allegheny indicated alike the force and general direction of the concussion. A boot containing part of a human foot was picked up fifty rods from the spot. Wright’s gold-watch, flattened and twisted, was fished out of the Allegheny, two-hundred yards down the stream, in May. The remains, which two cigar-boxes would have held, were interred close by. A marble shaft marks the grave, which Col. William Phillips, then president of the Allegheny-Valley Railroad, enclosed with a neat iron-railing. It is very near the railway-track and the bank of the river, a short distance above Kennerdell Station. The disaster was supposed to have resulted from Wright’s using a hatchet to loosen a can of glycerine from the ice that held it fast. A pet spaniel, which had a habit of rubbing against his legs and trying to jump into his arms, accompanied him from his boarding-house. The animal may have diverted his attention momentarily, causing him to miss the ice and strike the can. The horse lived for years, not much the worse except for the loss of one eye. Wright and Wolfe were lively and jocular and their sad fate was deeply regretted. Many a telegram George Wolfe sent for me when Scrubgrass was at full tide.

One morning in April of 1873 Dennis Run, a half-mile from Tidioute, experienced a fierce explosion, which vibrated buildings, upset dishes and broke windows long distances off. It occurred at a frame structure on the side of a hill, occupied by Andrew Dalrymple as a dwelling and engine-house. He was a “moonlighter,” putting in torpedoes at night to avoid detection by the Roberts spotters, and was probably filling a shell at the moment of the explosion. It knocked the tenement into toothpicks and killed Dalrymple, jamming his head and the upper portion of the trunk against an adjacent engine-house, the roof of which was smeared with blood and particles of flesh. One arm lay in the small creek four-hundred feet away, but not a vestige of the lower half of the body could be discovered. A feeble cry from the ruins of the building surprised the first persons to reach the place. Two feet beneath the rubbish a child twenty months old was found unhurt. Farther search revealed Mrs. Dalrymple, badly mangled and unconscious. She lingered two hours. The little orphan, too young to understand the calamity that deprived her of both parents, was adopted by a wealthy resident of Tidioute and grew to be a beautiful girl. Thousands viewed the sad spectacle and followed the double funeral to the cemetery. It has been my fortune to witness many sights of this description, but none comprised more distressing elements than the sudden summons of the doomed husband and wife. Mrs. Dalrymple was the only woman in the oil-region whom Nitro-Glycerine slaughtered.

Is there a sixth sense, an indefinable impression that prompts an action without an apparent reason? At Petrolia one forenoon something impelled me to go to Tidioute, a hundred miles north, and spend the night. Rising from breakfast at the Empire House next morning, a loud report, as though a battery of boilers had burst, hurried me to the street. Ten minutes later found me gazing upon the Dalrymple horror. Was the cause of the impulse that started me from Petrolia explained? An hour sufficed to help rescue the child from the debris, inspect the wreck, glean full particulars and board the train for Irvineton. Writing the account for the Oil-City Derrick at my leisure, Postmaster Evans was on hand with a report of the inquest when the evening-train reached Tidioute. The Tidioute Journal didn’t like the Derrick a little bit and the sight of a young man running from its office towards the train, with copies of the paper—not dry from the press—attracted my attention. Mr. Evans said two Titusville reporters had come over during the day. A newspaper-man clearly relishes a “scoop” and it struck me at once that the Journal was rushing the first sheets of its edition to the Titusville delegates. Squeezing through the jam, A. E. Fay, of the Courier, and “Charlie” Morse, of the Herald, were pocketing the copies handed them by the Journal youth. Fay laughed out loud and said: “Well, boys, I guess the Derrick’s left this time!” A pat on the shoulder and my hint to “guess again” fairly paralyzed the trio. The conductor shouted “all aboard” and the train moved off. Dropping into the seat in front of Fay, his annoyance could not be concealed. It relieved him to hear me tell of coming through from the north and ask why such a crowd had gathered at Tidioute. He told a fairy-story of a ball-game and his own and Morse’s visit to meet a friend! A wish for a glance at the Tidioute paper he parried by answering: “It’s yesterday’s issue!” Fay was a good fellow and his clumsy falsifying would have shamed Ananias. Keeping him on the rack was rare sport. Clearly he believed me ignorant of the torpedo-accident. The moment to undeceive him arrived. A big roll of manuscript held before his eyes, with a “scare-head” and minute details of the tragedy, prefaced the query: “Do you still think the Derrick is badly left?” Many friends have asked me: “In your travels through the oil-region what was the funniest thing you ever saw?” Here is the answer: The dazed look of Fay as he beheld that manuscript, turned red and white, clenched his fists, gritted his teeth and hissed, “Damn you!”

John Osborne, a youth well-known and well-liked, in July of 1874 drove a buckboard loaded with glycerine down Bear-Creek Valley, two miles below Parker. The cargo let go at a rough piece of road in a woody ravine, scattering Osborne, the horse and the vehicle over acres of tree-tops. The concussion was felt three miles. Venango, Crawford, Warren and Armstrong counties had furnished nearly a score of sacrifices and Butler was to supply the next. Alonzo Taylor, young and unmarried, went in the summer of 1875 to torpedo a well at Troutman. The drop-weight failed to explode the percussion-cap and Taylor drew up the shell, a process that had cost Captain West his life and was always risky. He got it out safely and bore the torpedo to a hill to examine the priming. An instant later a frightful explosion stunned the neighborhood. Taylor was not mangled beyond recognition, as the charge was giant-powder instead of Nitro-Glycerine. Nor was the damage to surrounding objects very great, owing to the tendency of the powder to expend its strength downward. This was the only torpedo-fatality of the year, the number of casualties having induced greater caution in handling explosives.

One of the first persons to reach the spot and gather the remains of William Pine was his friend James Barnum, who died in the same manner at St. Petersburg eighteen months later. Barnum was the Roberts agent in Clarion county. On February twenty-third, 1876, he drove to Edenburg for three-hundred pounds of glycerine, to store in the magazine a mile from St. Petersburg. A fearful concussion, which the writer can never forget, broke hundreds of windows and rocked houses to their foundations at six o’clock that evening. To the magazine, on a slope sheltered by trees, people hastened. A huge iron-safe, imbedded in a cave dug into the hill, was the repository of the explosives. Barnum had tied his team to a small tree and must have been taking the cans from the wagon to the safe. A yawning cavity indicated the site of the magazine. Both horses lay dead and disemboweled. The biggest piece of the luckless agent would not weigh two pounds. One of his ears was found next morning a half-mile away. The few remnants were collected in a box and buried at Franklin. A wife and several children mourned poor “Jim,” who was a lively, active young man and had often been warned not to be so careless with the deadly stuff. Mrs. Barnum heard the explosion, uttered a piercing shriek and ran wildly from her house towards the magazine, sure her husband had been killed.

W. H. Harper, who received a patent for improvements in torpedoes, went to his doom at Keating’s Furnace, two miles from St. Petersburg, in July of 1876. Drawing an unexploded shell from a well, precisely as West and Taylor had done, he stooped down to examine the priming. The contents exploded and drove pieces of the tin-shell deep into his flesh and through his body. How he survived nine days was a wonder to all who saw the dreadful wounds of the unlucky inventor.

McKean county supplied the next instance. Repeated attempts were made to rob a large magazine on the Curtis farm, two miles south of Bradford. Incredible as it may seem, the key-hole of the ponderous iron-safe in the hillside was several times stuffed with Nitro-Glycerine and a long fuse and a slow match applied to burst the door. None of these foolhardy attempts succeeding, on the night of September fifteenth, 1877, A. V. Pulser, J. B. Burkholder, Andrew P. Higgins and Charles S. Page, two of them “moonlighters,” it is supposed tried pounding the lock with a hammer. At any rate, they exploded the magazine and were blown to fragments, with all the gruesome accompaniments incident to such catastrophes. That men would imperil their lives to loot a safe of Nitro-Glycerine in the dark beats the old story of the thief who essayed to steal a red-hot stove. In this case retribution was swift and terrible, but a magazine at St. Petersburg was broken open and plundered successfully.

Seventeen days later J. T. Smith, of Titusville, who had charge of a magazine on Bolivar Run, four miles from Bradford, lost his life experimenting with glycerine. Col. E. A. L. Roberts and his nephew, Owen Roberts, stood fifty yards from the magazine as Smith was thrown into the air and frightfully mangled. They escaped with slight bruises, a lively shaking up and a hair-raising fright.

The summer of 1878 was a busy season in the northern field. Foster-Brook Valley was at the hey-day of activity, with hundreds of wells drilling and well-shooters very much in evidence. Among the most expert men in the employ of the Roberts Company was J. Bartlett, of Bradford. He went to Red Rock, an ephemeral oil-town six miles north-east of Bradford, to torpedo a well in rear of the McClure House, the principal hostelry. Although Bartlett’s recklessness was the source of uneasiness, he had never met with an accident and was considered extremely fortunate. It was a rule to explode the cans that had held the glycerine before pouring it into the shell. Bartlett torpedoed the well, piled wood around the empty cans and set it on fire. He and a party of friends waited at the hotel for the cans to explode. The fire had burned low and Bartlett proceeded to investigate. He lifted a can and turned it over, to see if it contained any glycerine. The act was followed by an explosion that shook every house in the town and shattered numberless windows. Bartlett’s companions were knocked senseless and the shooter was blown one-hundred feet. When picked up by several men, who hurried to the scene, he presented a horrible sight. His clothing was torn to ribbons and his body riddled by pieces of tin. The right arm was off close to the shoulder and the right leg was a pulp. He was removed to a boarding-house and died in great agony three hours after.

Stories of hapless “moonlighters” scattered to the four winds of heaven were recounted frequently. Their business, done largely under cover of darkness, was exceptionally dangerous. The “moonlighter” did not haul his load in a wagon openly by daylight. He would place two ten-quart cans of glycerine in a meal-sack, sling the bag over his shoulder and walk to the scene of his intended operations, generally at night. One evening in the spring of 1879 a “moonlighter” named Reed appeared at Red Rock, somewhat intoxicated and bearing two cans of glycerine in a bag. He handled the bag in a style that struck terror to the hearts of all onlookers, many of whom remembered poor Bartlett. It was unsafe to wrest it from him by force and the Red-Rockers heaved a sigh of relief when he started to climb the hill leading to Summit City. Scores watched him, expecting an accident. At a rough spot Reed stumbled and the cans fell to the ground. A terrific explosion shook the surrounding country. A deep hole, ten feet in diameter, was blown in the earth and houses in the vicinity were badly shaken. The explosion occurred directly under a tree. When an attempt was made to gather up Reed’s remains the greater portion of the body was in the tree, scraps of flesh of various sizes hanging from its branches. The concussion passed above Red Rock, hence the damage to property was small. Reed was dispersed over an acre of brush, a fearful illustration of the incompatibility of whisky and Nitro-Glycerine.

W. O. Gotham, John Fowler and Harry French went to their usual work at Gotham’s Nitro-Glycerine factory, near Petrolia, on the morning of October twenty-seventh, 1878. An explosion during the forenoon tore Fowler to shreds, mutilated French shockingly and landed Gotham’s dead body in the stream with hardly a sign of injury. Petrolia never witnessed a sadder funeral-procession than the long one that followed the unfortunate three to the tomb. Gotham had a family and was widely known; the others were strangers, far from home and loved ones.

On February twentieth, 1880, James Feeney and Leonard Tackett started in a sleigh with six cans under the seat to torpedo a well at Tram Hollow, eight miles east by north of Bradford. The sleigh slipped into a rut on a rough side-hill and capsized. The glycerine exploded, throwing Tackett high in the air and mangling him considerably. Feeney lay flat in the rut, the violence of the shock passing over him and covering him with snow and fence-rails. His face was scorched and his hearing destroyed, but he managed to crawl out, the first man who ever emerged alive from the jaws of a Nitro-Glycerine eruption. He is still a resident of Bradford. A dwelling close to the scene was wrecked, the falling timbers seriously injuring two of the inmates.

At two o’clock on the morning of December twenty-third, 1880, a powerful concussion startled the people of Bradford from their slumbers, caused by a glycerine-explosion just below the city-limits. Alvin Magee was standing over the deadly compound, which had been put in a tub of hot water to thaw. Usually the subtle stuff is stored in a cold place, to congeal or freeze until needed. Magee and the derrick were blown into space, only a few bits of flesh and bone and splintered wood remaining. His two companions were in the engine-house and got off with severe bruises and permanent deafness. Two men named Cushing and Leasure were killed the same way in January, at a well near Limestone. Cushing came to see the torpedo put into the well and was standing near the engine-house, into which Leasure had just gone, when the accident occurred. The glycerine was in hot water to thaw and a jet of steam turned on, with the effect of sending it off prematurely. Cushing’s body did not show a mark, his death probably resulting from concussion, while Leasure was torn to fragments.

E. M. Pearsall, of Oil City, died on July fourteenth, 1880, from the effect of burns a few hours before. In company with two other men he went to torpedo one of his wells on the Clapp farm. The tubing had been drawn out and a large amount of benzine poured into the hole. The torpedo was exploded, when the gas and benzine took fire and enveloped the men and rig in flames. The clothes of Pearsall, who was nearest to the derrick, caught fire and burned from his body. His limbs, face and breast were a fearful sight. His intense suffering he bore like a hero, made a will and calmly awaited death, which came to his relief at nine o’clock in the evening. Pearsall was dark-haired, dark-eyed, slender, wiry and fearless.

PLUMER MITCHELL.