The morning dawned. Those who had known of the event, awoke as if from a fearful dream. The horror of the great calamity haunted the sleeping hours, and came back with returning consciousness. The dream was, indeed, a sad reality. The bodies, which were wrapped in the sleep of death and whose bed was the driven snow, were the first thought at the awakening of the living; nothing else was thought of in the village. Those who had not heard of it were startled by the news, but those who had seen and known, were strangely impressed. The smell of the burning flesh seemed to pervade the air. The sight of dead bodies seemed to fill the eye. The flames—the fearful flames—the ghastly wounds, the blackened bodies and the unknown, unburied dead were before the mind. Death had descended like a bird of night, and flapped a dark wing over the abodes of the living, casting a shadow over the whole place, and then descended into the valley and was still watching its victims. There was something fearful in such an awful devastation by the dread monster.

But with this sense of the nearness of death, came another still more fearful to the mind. There was mingled with the thoughts of the dead, another of the living, which was even more horrible to the mind. A great shadow hovered over the place. It was not the shadow of the angel, which had descended, with its dark wings; it was not the unseen messenger of God; it was not of the horror that walked in darkness, or the destruction that wasted at noon of night, but a horrible suspicion had seized the people; the horrid selfishness of men haunted the waking thoughts as terrible death had the sleep of night. Cruelty was ascribed to men, worse, even, than the awful fall and death.

That burning of the bodies was ascribed to design. The impression was a general one. Indignation was mingled with horror; that retiring to homes, while the bodies burned, was not the result of indifference. Few were so heartless as to care more for sleep than for the safety of the dead. Many could not sleep that night, but, somehow, the impression had taken possession of the people that the burning was designed.

As the citizens returned to their homes late at night, they had talked their suspicion, and grown sick at heart. The firemen themselves had laid the blame somewhere else than upon their chief. It seemed too inhuman, and yet it was believed. The station agent was known and trusted. His character was well established. His humane and kindly heart was not impeached. His Christian life and courtesy were well known to all. But the feeling was universal, and the suspicion strong. The control of the company over the cars, and all the contents, was taken for granted. The responsibility of common carriers was known, and no one could understand why orders should be given to withhold the water, except it was to destroy the traces of those who were on the train. For the time this was believed. The sentiment was so common that even an employee of the road was heard to say that “ashes did not count,” but bodies did.

There was no foundation for the report. It was all the result of that strange mistake. As was afterwards shown, no such order had been given, and the persons in command were not responsible for the mistake; but for the time it had its effect. That midnight hour showed how strong this conviction had become. The deserted streets, the silent engines, the stabled horses—all betokened a thought which ruled the night. A strange misunderstanding had controlled that fatal hour, yet none the less powerful because so strange. As men met in the morning, this was the first thought which they expressed. It was the main subject of remark. Many supposed that the order had been given from the central office, but had no means of correcting or confirming their belief. Others maintained that there was a reason for the order, as the throwing of water upon hot iron was likely to create steam, and this, it was said, “would destroy more lives than even the flames, and would deface the bodies.” It was held by some to be the general policy of railroad companies to allow wrecks to be burned, and this was given as the reason: “that steam would be generated which would immediately cover the wreck, and drive away those who would rescue the living.” Gentlemen of intelligence and caution discussed that point with earnest warmth.

Little knots of men would gather and express their pent-up feelings. Others supposed that this popular indignation was the result of the terrible pressure and that weighed on the spirits, as if indignation were the safety valve for the oppressed heart.

These convictions of the people arose above all other feelings. The better sympathies were awakened and rebuked the very selfishness which was abhorred. The passions which were excited were to the praise of the better feelings of the heart. The kind and generous emotions were protesting against a cruelty which was imagined. It was not supposed, at the time, that the same humane feelings existed in the hearts of those in command. It was a “soulless corporation,” it was said, and men did not stop to reason. A horrible thing had occurred. A fatal mistake! The awful negligence and the fearful burning were combined. Somebody was responsible! The citizens felt that it could not be themselves, and yet the corporation remained unconscious of the charge. For several days the popular feeling continued. It was even reflected back in the reports of the press. As the friends arrived they partook of the feeling, and swelled its force. The sentiment came back from distant places, and the little village was intensely moved.

It was because the heart of a great nation was moved, and the shock which appalled and paralyzed the whole land, sent back its chilling horror to the very centre. Far and wide over the long wires the startling message had made its way. Families on the distant hill tops of the New England States; men in the green valleys of the California shores; at the distant south and in the snowy north; in the great city and in the little hamlet—the fact was known. Everywhere the shock was felt. Every eye was fixed upon the startling head lines. Every heart was moved as the news was read. All other things were forgotten in the great horror. The greatest railroad disaster on record had taken place. The Brooklyn horror was eclipsed by a greater. Angola was surpassed. Norwalk and the many other catastrophies were all forgotten. Ashtabula was known, and became the synonym, for the event. But mingled with this startling news was the silent question which the citizens were discussing on that gloomy morning—“Why was not the fire put out?” Nor did the feeling cease, or the surprise and sad suspicion die away for many a day.

As the tidings reached the neighboring counties, vast numbers began at once to flock in. Trains arrived by other roads. Each train came laden with passengers. The streets were filled with people. All were excited. Sooner, even, than the friends of the lost these crowds reached the wreck. The friends at a distance were, however, detained as it was not the purpose to allow them to come to witness the horrid scene until a suitable disposal of the dead was made. The police stationed on the ground endeavored to keep back the curious crowds, but in many cases found it impossible. It was not known whether the control was in the hands of the railroad company, or of the village authorities. They were mostly railroad men who were superintending the work. The excitement of the citizens was not diminished, as it seemed so doubtful who were in control. The fact that the Mayor of the city was in the employ of the road as assistant engineer only increased this feeling. At the time of the accident there was no coroner in the place. The proper officer had previously declined. Another had to be appointed in his place. Access being denied to the spot, and the supposition having obtained that the control was in the hands of the Company rather than of the village corporation the suspicion increased. The very efforts of the authorities to protect the place and keep back the curious strengthened the conviction. A strange feeling pervaded the place and was spread throughout many parts of the country. It was the element which most excited the people and which called attention from the widespread public.

The only answer is that the calamity was too appalling for man’s reason, and those in command seemed to have lost their judgment in the excitement of the hour and were held by the misunderstanding which so unjustly arose.

There was no evidence that this burning was intended. It is not reasonable to suppose it. The report was entirely untrue, the suspicion wrong, but in the excitement of the hour, it was felt, and was a strange feature in the event.