Lest We Forget: Chicago's Awful Theater Horror

WOMEN EAGER TO HELP

Women fought and shoved and pushed their way through the crowd to get to the door of the improvised hospital, that became a morgue only too rapidly.

"I am a nurse. Let me help," said some.

"I am a mother. My boy may be dead inside. For God's sake, let me save a life," said another, a woman in middle age.

Others came in from the crowds, neither mothers nor nurses, women with the spirit of heroism who longed to serve humanity when humanity was at so low an ebb.

"She's dead," was more often than not the verdict after much work. "Next!" and the cold and stiffened form of the victim was dragged, head first, from the marble eating table, thrown quickly under the tables, and another form, perhaps that of a tiny child, took its place.

STEADY STREAM OF BODIES

So fast came the bodies for a time that there was one steady stream of persons carried in – the still living – while without the morgue stood the ambulances waiting for their burdens. The sidewalk, muddy and crowded, was strewn with the dead, lying on blankets or else thrown down in the mud, waiting to be taken to the various morgues of the city.

There was a figure of a man – a large man with broad shoulders and dressed in black – whose entire face was burned away, only the back of the head remaining to show he had ever had a head; yet below the shoulders he was untouched by the fire.

There lay women with their arms gone, or their legs, while one had one side burned off, with only the cross shoulder-bone remaining. She had worn a pink silk waist and black skirt; the fragments of the garments still clung to her like a shroud that had lain in the grave.

There was a little boy, with a shock of red-brown hair, whose tiny mouth was open in terror and whose baby hands were burned off so that his tiny wrists showed like red stumps.

CLOTHING TORN TO SHREDS

There was one young girl, her garments so torn from her splendid figure that her arms and white bosom rose uncovered from the tattered and torn – not burned – shreds of her clothing, and the shreds of a turquoise-blue silk petticoat draped her limbs. She had died from suffocation – fought and struggled and died. On her finger sparkled a diamond ring, and about her slender throat was a string of pearl beads.

There was another body of a girl that several persons said they knew, yet no one could speak her name. She was beautiful in her terrible death, with a wealth of blonde hair, and staring blue eyes. She was dressed in a blue-black velvet shirt waist, with gold buttons, a mixed white and tan and gray walking skirt, with a pink silk petticoat beneath. She had died of suffocation, and, as she lay on the marble table dead, a tiny blue chatelaine watch, ticking merrily the hour, was pinned upon her breast.

The crowding, the howling, the screaming in Thompson's was so highly pitched, that no one could hear the orders of the physicians. Bedlam reigned – no order, no leader, everyone doing what he could to help. At length came the loud voice of a man, and those who could hear, stopped and listened, while those at the front of the restaurant said: "Some man has gone crazy with grief."

It was State Senator Clark, who, seeing the need of an order, jumped to a table and gave one.

"Everyone get out," he cried, "and make room for the doctors. Let there be three doctors to a table and one nurse while they last."

Skillfully, cleverly, worked the looters of the dead. Rings were torn from stiffened fingers, watches, bracelets, chains, purses taken from bosoms, then out in the surging crowd of excited humanity went the thieves, lost to recognition by those who saw them loot in the terribleness of the scene.

PRAYERS FOR THE DYING

Through the mangled mass of humanity moved a priest with a crucifix in his white hands – Father McCarthy of Holy Name Cathedral, saying the prayers for the dying – not for the dead, but to give the last words of a hope beyond. Many persons died with the words of Father McCarthy sounding like music in their ears.

"I was with the Army of the Potomac during the Civil War," said Dr. H. L. Montgomery as he worked over the dying. "I rescued 150 people during the great Chicago fire. I have seen the wreckage of explosions. But I never saw anything so grimly horrible as this."

"Will Davis is in the theater now and acting like crazy," interrupted the voice of a boy. "Can't no one speak to him?"

And out dashed all the employes of the burning theater to find Mr. Davis as he paced the destroyed gallery floor and looked at the ruin below and at the dead as they were hauled out of the debris.

Little Ruth Thompson, the seven-year-old daughter of John R. Thompson, was in the fire and almost to the front exit when the mob hurled her back. The tiny child fought and was yet forced back. She climbed onto the stage, burning as it was, and worked her way to the rear door and out into the alley, then through into the scene of death and pain in her father's restaurant.

"Papa, I got out. Where's grandpa?" she cried.

There was one old man, with white beard and hair, who wept over the body of his aged wife. He was Patrick P. O'Donnell of the firm of O'Donnell & Duer.

Death, pain, tragedy – and at 7:30 o'clock the place was a restaurant again.

CHILD SAVED FROM DEATH IN FIRE BY BALLET GIRL

Left under the burning stage during the mad rush by the members of the "Mr. Bluebeard" company at the Iroquois theater fire a four-year-old girl, who appeared in the performance as one of the Japanese children, was heroically rescued by Elois Lillian, one of the ballet girls, who was the last to escape from the theater.

"I was the last to escape from under the stage," said Miss Lillian, "and as I rushed headlong through the smoke I saw the little girl screaming with fright and almost suffocated. The rest had escaped, leaving the child behind. I took the little one under my arm in a death-like grip and succeeded in getting into the aisle behind the boxes; and ran through the smoking-room and out the front door. I don't know how I managed to hold on to the struggling child, or how I came to get out the front way.

"I was dressed in tights, and as soon as I reached the street ran into Thompson's, and there soon had her revived. The mother, frantic with grief, came in, and when she saw her daughter and heard my story she fell upon her knees, thanking me for saving her little girl's life."

PRIEST GIVES ABSOLUTION TO DYING FIRE VICTIMS

When the Rev. F. O'Brien of the Holy Name Cathedral learned of the fire and heard that so many were dying he rushed into the Northwestern Medical University, into which many victims had been taken, to administer the last sacraments to members of the Catholic Church. Finding he was unable to attend the great number being brought in, he announced that he would give a general absolution to all the Catholics among the victims.

The scene of that last absolution beggars description. During the brief moment the priest, with uplifted hands, besought God to pardon all the frailties of his dying servants, the poor, mangled men and women seemed to realize that they were face to face with the inevitable. Though crazed with pain, they ceased to moan, and fastened their fast-dimming eyes on the priest.

When the absolution was given many of the victims, horribly burned, with the flesh of their head and face blackened, and in most cases so burned as to expose the bones, put out their hands imploringly toward the priest, for one handclasp, one word of sympathy before they passed away.

Even the stalwart policemen were affected by the touching spectacle. Another priest of the Holy Ghost order arrived shortly after, and both clergymen administered absolution, remaining until the injured were removed to various hospitals and the dead to the morgues.

LITTLE BOY THANKS GOD FOR CHANGING HIS LUCK

Warren is the ten-year-old son of former Governor Joseph K. Toole of Montana, prominent for years in national politics. In the last four months the boy has been the victim of three accidents, each of which bore serious consequences for the little fellow.

Thursday night, when he knelt down at his bedside in the Auditorium hotel to say the evening prayer which his mother had taught him, he mumbled:

"I thank you, God, that you did not let me go to the theater Wednesday afternoon. You see, if you had not delayed my mamma when she went down town shopping that day, my little brother and I would have been in the fire. I thank you, God, for changing my luck."

Warren's mamma and papa heard the prayer. Before he had reached the "Amen" both had silently bowed their heads.

"Yes, Warren, your luck has changed," said the former Governor, as he bent over his son to say "Good night."

Less than four months ago Warren was playing with a gun. The firearm exploded and the boy was seriously injured. He had not fully recovered when he fell from the top of a cart and broke his arm. Then, a few weeks ago, a dog upon whom he lavished much of his youthful affection suddenly sprang at him and bit him between the eyes. He was badly scarred, but his parents were thankful that he did not lose his sight.

On Wednesday he importuned his nurse to take him to see "Mr. Bluebeard, Jr." The nurse referred him to his father, and the latter told him that he and his brother could go if his mother returned from her shopping trip in time to take them. The holiday crowds detained Mrs. Toole until quite late in the afternoon. Now little Warren is convinced that good fortune has at last deigned to smile upon him.

USE PLACER MINER METHODS

Methods of the California placer miner were used by the Chicago police in recovering the valuables lost in the mad rush for safety by the Iroquois theater fire victims. Big wagon loads of dirt and ashes taken from the theater floor were taken down under police guard to a basement at Lake street and Fifth avenue. There a placer mining outfit, including sieves and gold pans, had been erected and City Custodian Dewitt C. Cregier thus searched for valuables in the rubbish.

DAUGHTER OF A. H. REVELL ESCAPES

Margaret Revell, daughter of Alexander H. Revell, with her friend, Elizabeth Harris, accompanied by a maidservant, sat in the parquet of the theater, fortunately next to the aisle. At the first alarm they were swept to the door by the crowd, and were among those who got out early, escaping with only minor bruises. Mr. Revell was among the early searchers on the scene, and remained giving assistance after learning of the safety of his daughter.

PHILADELPHIA PARTNER IN THEATER HORRIFIED

The news of the terrible Chicago calamity was a severe blow to S. A. Nixon of Philadelphia, part owner of the Iroquois theater. When the news was confirmed he broke down and wept bitterly.

Fred G. Nixon, son of Mr. Nixon, said: "We were at the dinner table Wednesday evening when the telephone bell rang and I answered. A newspaper man told me that the Iroquois theater in Chicago had been destroyed and many persons killed. I could not believe it and I asked: 'Are you sure it was the Iroquois?' 'Positive,' came the answer. My father had paid no attention to what I said, but the word 'Iroquois' attracted him, and as I returned to my seat he asked: 'What was that you said about the Iroquois?' 'Oh, nothing,' I replied, trying to be calm.

"But my face betrayed me. The news had paled me, and my father, suspecting something was wrong, insisted, and I told him. He refused to believe it and went to the telephone to satisfy himself. In five minutes he heard the worst. Then he collapsed and sobbed like a child. For eight hours we sat up waiting for full particulars, and at 3 o'clock Thursday morning, when father went to bed, he was almost a nervous wreck."

ALL KENOSHA IN MOURNING

Next to Chicago the blow of death at the Iroquois fell heavier on Kenosha, Wis., than any of the other cities whose residents perished in the disaster. Two of the leading manufacturers of the city, Willis W. Cooper and Charles H. Cooper, and the children of Mr. and Mrs. S. H. Van Ingen were among the dead.

Kenosha was in deep mourning. Trade was practically suspended and the people gathered on the streets in little groups discussing the one topic. Four bodies were brought to the city on the evening train, and a crowd of over a thousand people gathered at the railway station, and walked in silence through the streets behind the hearses. All the bodies were taken to the morgue, from which place they will be removed to the stricken homes.

FIVE OF ONE FAMILY DEAD

The story of the wiping out of the children of H. S. Van Ingen, the former manager of the Pennsylvania Coal Company in Chicago, and a resident of Kenosha, is one of the saddest stories of the tragedy. Following the custom established years ago, Mr. and Mrs. Van Ingen and their five children, Grace, twenty-three years old; Jack, twenty; Edward L., nineteen; Margaret, fourteen; and Elizabeth, nine, had all come to Chicago for a matinee party. Schuyler, another son, the sole survivor of the children, was to join the family for a dinner and family reunion at the Wellington hotel after the matinee. The seven persons were seated in the front row of the balcony when the panic ensued, and Mr. Van Ingen, marshaling his little force, started for the exit at the aisle, but the mighty crush of people separated the parents from the children, and Mr. Van Ingen, putting his arm around Mrs. Van Ingen, carried her one way, while the children were swept the other.

The last Mr. Van Ingen saw of the children was when Jack, the oldest boy, took his little sister, Elizabeth, in his arms and shouted to his father: "You save mother and I'll look after the rest." In another moment the party, including the children, was trampled down.

Mr. and Mrs. Van Ingen started to return to the theater for the children and both of them were fearfully burned in the attempt. The bodies of the two boys were located in the evening. Margaret and Elizabeth were found the next day. Grace, the oldest daughter, and one of the best known young women of Kenosha, was identified still later. Mr. and Mrs. Van Ingen, both terribly burned, were taken to the Illinois Hospital.

COOPER BROTHERS DEEPLY MOURNED

Willis Cooper was one of the best known men in Kenosha. He was the secretary of the great Twentieth Century movement in the Methodist Episcopal Church which resulted in $20,000,000 being raised for missions. He was last year the prohibition candidate for governor of Wisconsin, and was recently elected head of the lay delegation of the Wisconsin churches at the general conference of the Methodist Church. Mr. Cooper was a millionaire, and his gifts to church charities often exceeded $10,000 a year. In Kenosha he was the general manager of the Chicago Kenosha Hosiery Works, the largest stocking making plant in the world.

Charles F. Cooper, his brother, was the factory manager and general salesman of the company. He was the president of the Kenosha Manufacturers' Association, of the Kenosha Hospital Association, and the Masonic Temple Association. He was the founder of profit-sharing in the Kenosha plant, and under his direction it became known as the plant "where the life of the worker is flooded with sunshine." He was most popular with the working classes in Kenosha, and when his body was taken to the morgue hundreds of men and women stood with uncovered heads while it passed.

There occurred between the acts at the Century theater, St. Louis, on New Year's night, an unusual incident, when C. H. Congdon, of Chicago, arose from his seat and related incidents of the Iroquois theater tragedy.

He had proceeded only for a few minutes when some one in the audience began singing "Nearer, My God, to Thee," which was immediately taken up by the whole audience, the orchestra joining in with the accompaniment.

CHAPTER XV.

SOCIETY WOMEN AND GIRLS' CLUBS

Miss Charlotte Plamondon, daughter of the vice-president of the Chicago board of education, who waited until the fire had caught in the curtains over the front box, in which she sat, before attempting to get out, related her experience at the Chicago Beach Hotel:

"I can't tell you how I escaped the awful fate of others," she said. "I only know that when the flames began to crackle over my head and dart down from the curtains of our box I leaped over the railing of the box and fell in the arms of some man. I think he was connected with the theater, for he immediately set me down in a seat and told me to be quiet for a moment.

SCREAMS OF TERROR HEARD

"Then I think I lost all reason. I have a vague recollection of having been pushed up along the side aisle that runs by the boxes. It was as quiet as death for a moment. The great audience rose like a single person, but no sound escaped it until those in front were wedged in the doorway. Then a scream of terror went up that I shall never forget. It rings in my ears now. Women screamed and children cried. Men were shouting and rushing for the entrance, leaping over the prostrate forms of children and women and carrying others down with them.

"Back of me, I remember, there was a sheet of flame that seemed to be gathering volume and reaching out for us. Then I forgot again, and not until the crowd surged toward the wall and caught me between it and the marble pillar did I realize what the danger was. The pain revived me. I know I was almost crushed to death, but it didn't hurt. Nothing could hurt, with the screaming, the agonizing cries of the women and children ringing in your ears.

CHORUS GIRLS ESCAPE PARTLY CLAD

"And then, somehow, I found myself out on the street and the dead and dying were around me. When I realized that I was out of the place and safe from the fire and crush, all my strength seemed to leave me. But the cold air braced me after a moment and I went around to the drug store, where the dead were being brought in and the poor actresses and chorus girls were coming in with scarcely anything on them.

"I never felt as I did when it dawned upon us that the theater was on fire. It seemed like a dream at first. The border curtain right near our box blew back, and I think it hit a light or something, for when it fell back into place I saw it was on fire.

"The chorus girls kept right on singing for a couple of minutes, it seemed. Then one of the stage men rushed out and shouted: 'Keep your seats.'

"Oh, the stage men behaved like heroes! As I think of it now, they conducted themselves with rare courage. I saw a couple of the girls fall down, and I knew that they were overcome."

FOY TRIES TO PREVENT PANIC

"Just then Eddie Foy ran out on the stage, partly made up, and cried:

"'My God, people, keep your seats!'

"When Foy said this I regained my senses, and when the asbestos curtain did not come down I felt that the situation was critical. The flames had taken hold of the front row of seats behind the orchestra and were creeping up the curtains over our box, when I jumped to my feet and leaped over the railing.

"I saw the children lying in heaps under our feet. Their little lives were ended, and rough feet were bruising their flesh; and such innocent children! Men leaped over the rows of prostrate forms and fought like they were mad, trying to get out of the entrance."

ESCAPE OF ANOTHER SOCIETY WOMAN

Mrs. A. Sorge, Jr., whose husband is a consulting engineer, with offices in the Monadnock Building, and who lives at the Chicago Beach Hotel, attended the theater in company with Dr. Jager, who is a guest of Mr. and Mrs. Sorge. They occupied a seat well down in the parquet.

"When the fire started," said Mrs. Sorge, "persons on the stage told us to keep our seats. Dr. Jager also told me to sit still, and we did until the flames began to come near us. Then we clasped hands and started for the door.

"I was not half so much afraid of the fire as I was of being crushed to death, and I tried in every way to keep out of the crush. Dr. Jager got separated from me by catching his foot in an upturned chair, but he soon found me. We later managed to get out on the street without suffering any injuries of a serious nature.

"The saddest thing I saw inside the burning building was a little girl looking for her baby sister. The two had got separated in the rush for the entrance, and it is quite likely that both were killed in that crush, for it was something awful."

MINNEAPOLIS WOMAN'S STORY OF THE FIRE

Mrs. Baldwin, wife of Dr. F. R. Baldwin of Minneapolis, immediately after her return from the scene of the awful Chicago catastrophe, through which she had passed, overwhelmed with the horror of the sights and sounds she had seen and heard, gave the following account:

"It was too unutterably shocking for one to realize at the time. The horror of the thing has grown upon me ever since. It fills my mind and imagination, so I can hardly think of anything else. I cannot help feeling almost ashamed to be here, safe and unharmed, while whole families were burned and crushed to death in that awful place. I cannot say how glad I am to be home and see my babies safe, when so many mothers are crying aloud in Chicago for their children to come back to them.

"At first nobody seemed to realize the awful danger. No water was used to put out the flames on the stage. It was only flimsy, gauzy scenery at first that was burning, and the people on the stage tried to tear it down and stamp it out as it fell. I heard no screams, and the people for many moments kept their seats. I did not hear the cry of 'fire.'

"But all at once a great ball of fire or sheet of flame – I don't know how to express it – shot out and the whole theater above us seemed to be full of fire. Then there was a smothered sound as of a sighing by all in the theater.

"By that time I began to realize that it was time to see what could be done about getting out. It so happened that I could not have chosen a better place from which to get out of the building. We were on the alley side, opposite the Randolph street side of the building, and only two seats from the wall.

"I did not know that there was an entrance here, but all at once the doors seemed to be opened close to us. We had but to take two or three steps and then were thrown forward out of the doors by the crowd behind us. My mother, who was with me, was unhurt, and I had but a few bruises.

"One of the first things I saw as I got up was a girl lying on one of the fire escape platforms with the flames shooting over her through the window. One man, who jumped from the platform, had not taken two steps before a woman who jumped a moment later from a height of about forty feet came right down upon him, killing him upon the spot.

"The sights all about the city have been many times described, but nothing can picture those terrible scenes. In a flat just below my mother's five out of a family of six perished, leaving but one demented girl.

"Of another family living near us, only the husband and father was left, his wife and four boys and his mother all having been killed in the fire. As I passed near the theater the next day I saw a man walking up and down in front of the building muttering to himself, and every now and then he would sit upon the curb and look up at the building, breaking out into peals of laughter. He had been through the fire."

GIRLS' CLUBS SORELY STRICKEN

Mrs. Walter Raymer, wife of the alderman, attended the Iroquois in charge of the "F. P. C.," a club of young girls, of which her daughter was treasurer. Of the eight members only two escaped uninjured. Miss Mabel Hunter, the president, was killed; Miss Edna Hunter was taken to her residence, 85 Humboldt boulevard, severely injured; Miss Lillian Ackerman was borne to the Samaritan Hospital, burned about the head and body.

Edna Hoveland was badly injured, and her little sister, who accompanied her, was burned to death. May Marks is dead. Viva Jackson, missing all Wednesday night, was found in the morning at an undertaker's rooms. The two who escaped injury were Miss Abigail Raymer, daughter of the alderman, and Miss Florence Nicholson.

The eight girls, all between sixteen and eighteen years old, had organized their little club a few weeks ago for the purpose of literary study and recreation, and the theater party was arranged by Mrs. Raymer as a surprise for the members.

The Theta Pi Zeta club of the junior class of the Englewood High School, with the exception of two members, was wiped out of existence. The club was composed of eight young women living in Englewood and Normal Park. Seven had purchased seats in the sixth row of the dress circle. What they encountered after the panic started no one knows, for of the seven only one, Miss Josephine Spencer, 7110 Princeton avenue, was saved and she was taken to the West Side Hospital terribly burned. The only member who entirely escaped was Miss Edith Mizen of 6917 Eggleston avenue, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. George K. Mizen. Her parents objected to her attending a theatrical performance.