The Disaster That Nearly Ended My Family Line

It's a family story I had never heard even the vaguest of references to. It's a major industrial accident in my own state that this history teacher was never aware of. It was nearly the end of my existence, some 120 years before I was born.

My second-great-grandparents, Patrick and Frances Hurley, had been married for about four years when they were both lucky to survive the collapse of a six-story textile mill in Lawrence, Massachusetts. The Hurleys were both employed at the Pemberton Mill, a large textile mill that stretched 280 feet long and 84 feet wide; one of the largest in the city. The mill itself was relatively new construction, having been built in 1853, but its owners crammed more and more machinery within to maximize profits. 

The construction had been locally decried as insufficient as the owners had cut corners to save money.

"The building had never been considered as staunch as it ought to have been," reported the Boston Evening Transcript the next day. "It was built about seven years since, and was then thought a sham; indeed, before the machinery was put in, the walls spread to such a degree that some twenty-two tons of iron stays were put in to save the building from falling by its own weight."

This proved to be disastrous late in the day of January 10, 1860. It was about 4:30pm that Tuesday afternoon when the mill workers, which included immigrants, women, and children, felt the building shift and heard the world around them suddenly come crashing down. 

The American Heritage magazine described the unfolding scene vividly: "Suddenly there was a sharp rattle, and then a prolonged, deafening crash. A section of the building's brick wall seemed to bulge out and explode, and then, literally in seconds, the Pemberton collapsed. Tons of machinery crashed down through crumpling floors, dragging trapped, screaming victims along in their downward path. At a few minutes after five, the factory was a heap of twisted iron, splintered beams, pulverized bricks, and agonized, imprisoned human flesh."

According to witnesses and survivors, the scene was unfathomable as the debris formed a pyramid of rubble in excess of 50 feet high. The Boston Globe reported: "The scene after the fall was one of indescribable horror. Hundreds of men, women, and children were buried in the ruins."

"The moans and cries for help of those in the ruins whose lives had not been immediately crushed out, mingled with an alarm rung out by the factory bells, called almost the entire community to the spot," reported The Boston Journal. "Darkness lent additional horror to the scene, for while a thousand hands were ready to rescue it was impossible to know whence the calls for assistance came."

A few hours after the initial disaster, at about 9:30pm, as search-and-rescue efforts continued in the darkness, rescuers employed oil lamps to guide their way. Unfortunately, one of those handheld oil lamps was inadvertently knocked over, leading to a massive fire that quickly spread through the textile mill.

"In a few moments the ruins were a sheet of flames," reported The Boston Globe. "Fourteen are known to have been burned to death in the sight of their loved ones, who were powerless to aid them."

The Boston Evening Transcript added: "The screams and moans of the poor, buried, burning and suffocating creatures can be distinctly heard, but no power on earth can save them."

 It is impossible to say how many additional lives were lost because of the fire, though the Boston Evening Transcript reported on one such fatality: "Those near the breaking out of the fire were almost on the point of extricating a woman not badly hurt, but the flames drove them back, and the woman is supposed to have perished in the flames, when delivery seemed so near." In An Authentic History of the Lawrence Calamity, published later that year, it was reported that one trapped man cut his own throat rather than be consumed by the approaching flames; he was rescued, but died from his other injuries.

In the end, according to The Boston Evening Transcript: "Brick, mortar and human bones are promiscuously mingled."

From across the Atlantic Ocean, the London Times compared the disaster to the devastation typically reserved for battlefields. “We doubt, indeed, whether in any age, so many human beings have ever perished so terribly by an accident of ordinary life. War may produce parallel scenes of horror, but the annals of peace may be searched in vain for any calamity so appalling as the disaster at Lawrence,” The London Times reported.

As for the Hurleys, both managed to escape with their lives intact, though each was injured. Patrick was just a couple weeks shy of his 30th birthday, and had come to the United States just a decade earlier from Killarney in County Kerry, Ireland. Frances, also a native of Killarney, had just turned 21 years old weeks before. According to her obituary, after she died in 1909: "She was one of the few survivors of the Pemberton mill catastrophe of the 60's. Mrs. Hurley was taken out through one of the cellar windows. The mill, after collapsing, was burned through the carelessness of some of the rescuers. Mrs. Hurley claimed to be one of the last survivors of the collapsed mill."

The Atlas and Daily Bee of Boston published a list of the victims and survivors nearly a week later, consuming nearly one-third of the front page on January 16, 1860. My great-great-grandparents are listed among the "Saved," as are 897 other names. Among them are two other Hurleys, though whether they are related is not yet known, including a Joannah Hurley listed among those killed in the disaster. Additionally, though no known relations are included, so too are a more than a half-dozen Moriarty and Mahoney names listed among those involved in the Pemberton Mill collapse.

The Hurleys soon left Lawrence, though I am quite sure January 10, 1860 never left them. They moved some 80 miles southwest to the small town of Warren. Settling in West Warren, Patrick "was one of the chief promoters in establishing the present St Thomas Roman Catholic church," according to his obituary in 1906, almost a half-century after his life was nearly extinguished.

Patrick continued working cotton mills for a number of years as a loomfixer, before saving up enough money to buy a farm in the Thorndike section of Palmer. He retired from the farm life in his early 70s, moving back to Warren for the final few years of his life, passing away at the age of 76 on September 30, 1906. Frances survived until 1909, passing away the morning of August 10 at her Summer Street home. She was 69.

It is so very sobering to realize that my family line nearly ended that January afternoon, in a mill I never even knew existed until now.

Pemberton Mill, Lawrence, Massachusetts. Source: Library of Congress.

The Bloody Lane, Eye Patch, and a Medal of Honor

In my old history classroom, there once hung a meme that declared: “You may be cool, but you’ll never be Teddy Roosevelt riding a moose across a river cool.”

As it turns out, Samuel C. Wright might actually be that cool.

In recent weeks I was the beneficiary of a great deal of research and work done by a somewhat distant relative of my wife. This woman self-published a long family history of the Wright family, the maiden name of my wife's maternal grandmother. I've been working to independently confirm and verify the information provided in the couple hundred pages of names and dates, and it is certainly a long process.

Among those dryly entered into those pages, with little more than his vital information of birth, marriage, and death, was Samuel Cole Wright. He and my wife share a common ancestor, Adam Wright, who had been born in Plympton, Massachusetts, circa 1645. Adam is my wife’s 8^th great-grandfather, following along through Adam’s son Moses, all the way down to her maternal grandmother. Samuel was Adam’s 4^th great-grandson, through a line headed by Adam’s son John. In all, this makes Samuel her 5^th cousin 4x removed.

While the family history lists him the same as any other Tom, Dick, or Harry, Samuel was much more than that, as made evident by his valiant service to the Union during the American Civil War. While fighting with the 29^th Massachusetts Regiment, he was in more than two dozen battles, wounded numerous times, lost an eye and kept the bullet that claimed it as charm, was reported dead multiple times, and received the Medal of Honor.

Before we get to his Civil War service, however, we ought to start at the beginning. Samuel was born September 29, 1842 in Plympton, Massachusetts — a town that appears frequently in the first 200 or so years of Wrights after coming to Plymouth. Samuel was the eighth of ten born to Winslow Wright and Mary Cole, with Winslow being the great-grandson of Ezekiel Loring, a lieutenant during the American Revolution.

Samuel was raised in Plympton, working along with older brother William Henry Harrison Wright as a shoemaker, according to the 1860 U.S. Census. A couple months after the Census taker visited the Wright family, Abraham Lincoln was elected President of the United States, setting off a series of events that culminated in the Civil War beginning in April 1861. On May 18, 1861, 18-year-old Samuel decided to do his part to preserve the Union, formally enlisting as a private with the 29^th Regiment Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry. Little did Samuel know that he would spend the next four years in bitter battles waged in 15 states while traveling more than 4,200 miles, as reported by William Osborne’s 1877 The History of the Twenty-ninth Regiment of Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry, in the Late War of the Rebellion. He is said to have participated in 30 battles, wounded five times, and twice reported dead, according to U.S., Civil War Soldier Records and Profiles, 1861-1865. He would twice be promoted for gallantry in action.

About one year into his service came a head wound as he was struck by a fragment of shell during the Battle of White Oak Swamp in Virginia on June 30, 1862.

About 16 months after enlisting, one of Samuel’s most harrowing experiences came about near Sharpsburg, Maryland, along Antietam Creek. The Battle of Antietam, fought on September 17, 1862, nearly proved to be the end of Samuel’s story — and as the fog of war raged on that day, some reported it had been his end. As Union General George B. McClellan sat poised for battle on September 16, only to, as he’s become infamous for, hedge his bets and delay to the next day. The day before the actual battle itself began, rounds of artillery between the two sides provided an ominous beginning, according to Samuel’s own recollections. “The shot from the first piece of artillery fired took off the leg of the color-bearer of my regiment,” he reported in U.S., Civil War Soldier Records and Profiles, 1861-1865. The ensuing volley of artillery fire “was at times very lively,” he added.

As dawn broke on September 17, so too did the camps as “troops were sent out to engage the enemy in our front. The roar of cannon and small arms was deafening.” While Samuel could certainly hear the enemy, he was unable to see them as the battle began. “From where we lay we could only hear the cannonading, we could not see the enemy, as a growth of woods impaired our view. It was, perhaps, as well, that we could not see the carnage wrought.”

When Samuel and his compatriots, including the famed Irish Brigade, were dispatched to support other Union troops in the thick of battle, they “hurriedly” made their way to Antietam Creek and forded across it. “The stream was so deep, that in crossing, we only had to remove the stoppers of our canteens and they would fill themselves,” he recalled. “We held rifles and ammunition above our heads.”

Once they successfully crossed the creek — and “removed our shoes, wrung out our stockings” — the regiment was ordered forward, directly toward the Sunken Road. Prior to the war, the Sunken Road was a dirt farm lane used as a shortcut by locals and farmers. After the Battle of Antietam it had infamously earned the macabre nickname of the Bloody Lane.

“Going up the hill we could see the cause of our sudden call,” Samuel recalled. “The hill was strewn with dead and dying; yes, and with those unhurt, for to stand was to be instantly killed by the sharpshooters who filled the ‘Sunken Road.’”

As the bodies continued to pile up, historians estimate 5,600 from both sides, Union troops planned to tackle a fence along the Sunken Road. The initial attempts were disastrous, and now Samuel likely faced a similar fate.

An Alex Gardner photo taken of part of the Sunken Road, or the Bloody Lane, in the aftermath of the Battle of Antietam.

“Some 200 yards in advance of our position, which we were holding at a terrible cost, was a fence built high and strong. The troops in advance had tried to scale the fence and reform under that hell of fire. They were actually torn to shreds and wedged into the fence,” Samuel vividly recalled.

Brigadier General Thomas Francis Meagher, an Irish immigrant whose own personal history is quite fascinating, called for this fence to be removed. Samuel was among those who volunteered to risk it all to do so.

“The cry came to us for volunteers to pull down the fence. Instantly there sprang from the long line, fast being shortened as the ranks closed up over the dead, seventy-six volunteers. We ran straight for the fence amid a hail of iron and lead, the dead falling all about us, but to reach the fence was our only thought. A part of the force reached it, and, as one would grasp a rail it would be sent flying out of his hands by rifle-shots. The fence leveled, we made the attempt to return, and it was as hot for us on the retreat, as it had been on the advance. Few escaped death or wounds. I had almost regained my regiment, when I was hit.”

Samuel was hit in the left knee but refused to heed the calls of officers to retreat to the rear, instead receiving treatment by the regimental surgeon where he had been wounded.

Ultimately, his actions at Antietam would result in being awarded the Medal of Honor — the highest and most prestigious recognition a member of the military can receive in the United States.

The following year was a difficult one for Samuel. In June 1863, Samuel contracted typhus, a disease that was among the more lethal ailments Civil War soldiers faced. He would be hospitalized and treated for typhus in Tennessee, laid up for three-to-four months. An Army wagon being pulled by a team of six mules would run over Samuel in October 1863, crushing his foot and causing unspecified internal injuries, according to Congressional records.

The summer of 1864 saw even more damage done in battle, including the loss of his eye. On June 2, 1864, during the Battle of Cold Harbor near Mechanicsville, Virginia, Samuel was wounded by a gunshot to his left arm. He was fortunate in this instance as no amputation was necessary, and he not only survived but was able to return to the battlefield after some recuperation before what would prove to be his final battlefield action the ensuing month.

It was on July 30, 1864, at the Battle of the Crater, part of the Union Army’s siege on Petersburg, Virginia, when it appeared Samuel was surely dead. During the battle, a bullet took out his right eye upon striking his head. In U.S., Civil War Soldier Records and Profiles, 1861-1865, it is asserted that Samuel “was shot directly in the right eye,” while Congressional records explain he had been hit by a “rifle ball, which destroyed his right eye, the ball passing to the back of his head, was left for dead, and was so reported.” His July 7, 1906 obituary in the pages of The Boston Evening Transcript reads “his head was penetrated by a bullet which entered at the back and put out one of his eyes; contrary to all expectations he recovered from the wounds, the bullet in his head was extracted, and he had carried it as a watch-charm ever since.” His retention of the unusual battle memento is reaffirmed in U.S., Civil War Soldier Records and Profiles, 1861-1865, which notes Samuel “still keeps the bullet as an awful souvenir of his closeness to death.”

After the Battle of the Crater, Samuel was sent home and spent 18 months recovering from what had been assumed to be a mortal wound. He was mustered out of the Army as a sergeant on February 3, 1865, just a couple months before Robert E. Lee surrendered to Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox Court House. He would live on another 42 years after his final fight for the Union.

In his post-war life, Samuel remained primarily in Plympton, working as a farmer and then a trader or running a storefront, while also joining the Masons. He would later land a job in Boston at the Customs House, a position he would hold until the day he died. According to the Boston Evening Transcript, Samuel was “popular” among his co-workers and “his service was highly appreciated by the Government.”

On January 3, 1870, 27-year-old Samuel married Mary E. Nickerson, the 27-year-old daughter of William and Betsey Nickerson of Plymouth. Samuel and Mary had just one child, a daughter named Mary Dresser Wright, born on May 21, 1875 in Boston. Young Mary would go on to marry Augustus C. Sproul, a native of Bristol, Maine.

Samuel and Mary would split their time seasonally between Boston in the winter and Plympton in the summer. Records indicate his time as a resident of Boston was largely, if not entirely, in South Boston, first on K Street and, later on, Sixth Street.

As for his death, it was the old ticker that did him in unexpectedly. He had been recovering for several weeks from a bout of pneumonia, but had returned to work at the Customs House. In fact, Samuel was at work and “seemed in good health” when he left for home the evening of his death. According to The Boston Evening Transcript, upon arriving home, Samuel “ate a hearty dinner,” and then “started out from the house with a pail of ashes to dump behind the barn and his failure to return within a reasonable time caused the family members some apprehension.” Various relatives in the immediate area began searching for Samuel, ultimately finding his body just beyond the barn around 8 p.m. He was 63-years-old.