Death, Dynamite and Disaster E-Book

Rosa Matheson

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 344

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

A safe mode of transport today, the railways were far from vehicles of sleepy commute when they first came into service; indeed, accidents were commonplace and sometimes were a result of something far more sinister. In this fresh approach to railway history, Rosa Matheson explores the grim and grisly railway past. These horrible happenings include memorable disasters and accidents, the lack of burial grounds for London's dead, leading to the 'Necropolis Railway', the gruesome necessity of digging up the dead to accommodate the railways and how the discovery of dynamite gave rise to the 'Dynamite Wars' on the London Underground in the 1880s and 1890s. Join Rosa as she treads carefully through the fascinating gruesome history of Britain's railways.

Leseprobe

First published 2014

This paperback edition published 2022

The History Press

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© Rosa Matheson, 2014, 2022

The right of Rosa Matheson to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

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ISBN 978 0 7509 5701 4

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Introduction: Railway Accidents

DEATH

1 The Melancholy Death of the Unfortunate Mr Huskisson – first ‘famous’ railway death

2 The Accident at Sonning Cutting – a mere ‘slip’!

3 ‘Bring Out Your Dead’ – the Necropolis Railway

4 ‘Unburying’ the Dead – a nineteenth-century occupational hazard

DYNAMITE

5 The Dynamitards

The Underground

The Fenians

Suspected Attempt to Wreck a Train

A ‘Daring and Dastardly Outrage’ – the Underground attacks

‘The Infernal Machine’ – bombs on the stations

A ‘Criminal Outrage by Enemies of Order’

First Terrorist Death on the Railways

DISASTER

6 Hexthorpe – A Race Day ‘Special’

Reporting the Accident

The Dead

The Injured

Compensation

Inquiry and Trial

Brakes

7 The Tay Bridge Disaster

The Event

The Train

The People

The Inquiry

The Sessions

The Conclusion

Notes

Bibliography

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Whilst writing this book, I have had the enormous pleasure of ‘meeting’ (over the internet, email, telephone, or letter) many new people who have been more than kind and helpful to a total stranger. I thank them not just for their support, their genuine interest and enthusiasm, but also for their trust. It is wonderfully reassuring to find such people are around. I have many people to thank, as this book has been something of a team effort – so, a big ‘thank you’ to – Anna Stone, archivist at Aviva, for searching the archive, sending and reviewing material and the use of graphics; Dave Pennington of the London & North Western Railway Society for digging out articles; Peter Witts of the Midland Railway Society, who went out of his way to find material and helpful sources and look over drafts; Richard Flindell and the archaeologists at Network Rail for passing on the fruits of their work; Dave Chapman for guidance and input on explosives; Paul Hindle of Manchester Geographical Society for pointing me in a good direction; and John Clarke who made time for friendly conversations, direction and support.

Rev. Canon Brian Arman, Ken Gibbs, Jack Hayward, Clive Foxell, and Elaine Chapman, archivist at STEAM Museum, Swindon; Viv Head and Richard Stacpoole-Ryding of the British Transport Police History Group, and Sheffield History Group, all offered advice, suggestions and sources. Chris Heaven gladly sent on a precious book for me to read, as did Hugh Epstein of the Conrad Society; Angela Bell of the Thomas Hardy Society immediately responded with very helpful information; Sue McNaughton of ‘Wandleys on the Web’ courageously ploughed through her large volumes of Punch; and Peter Cross-Rudkin of the Railway & Canal Historical Society (R&CHS) replied with a speed that was outstanding. Thanks, Peter, and the R&CHS for trying to ascertain more information on the ‘spear break’ (something of a mystery to all), and to Alan M. Levitt, in New York, who responded with a plausible suggestion.

I have been fortunate indeed, with help and advice from those with a passion and knowledge of the mysteries of the Tay Bridge Disaster. Members of three groups need special mention: Donald Cattanach and Allan Rodgers of the North British Railway Study Group; David Swinfen of the Tay Rail Bridge Disaster Memorial Trust and Murray Nicoll of the Tay Valley Family History Society, who all gave immense and valued help. Another, Peter Lewis of the Open University, happily offered and sent his literature. All gave generously of their time, knowledge and expertise, but also kindly shared their findings and research which saved me time and possible mistakes. A memorial to all those known who perished was erected in December 2013 close by the Tay Bridge.

To those who have allowed the use of photographs and images, many thanks. They all add value to the book. A special thank you to those who run historical websites, they have provided a useful starting point and sources. To those who escaped memory, I offer an encompassing ‘thanks’ and my apologies. I will endeavour to put it right in the next edition.

As always, I thank my family for their continued interest in my railway world, especially my husband, Ian, for his time, his patience, and tolerance of hearing me go on and on about it, and for reading it over.

INTRODUCTION

RAILWAY ACCIDENTS

Death, Dynamite, Disaster – all words that stir the blood as well as the imagination; all words, however, that one would rather not imagine in the context of today’s railways or Underground.1

Nowadays, railways are accepted as ‘commonplace’ and travelling on them is an everyday occurrence. We no longer talk of the ‘wonder of the railways’, if indeed we talk of them at all – we just expect them to be there. We also expect them to be safe. We do not travel anticipating accidents or serious mishap. Neither do we undertake new railway projects expecting that workers will lose their lives or suffer horrendous injury; however, in the early days of the railways – their birth, infancy and toddler years – everything connected to railways: building and working on them; walking by or crossing them; getting into and travelling on them; even waiting patiently at the station was fraught with danger. Indeed, it can be said that death and injury on nineteenth-century British railways occurred so regularly – almost daily in earliest times – as to be regarded as ‘commonplace’. So commonplace that railway accidents became part and parcel of modern Victorian life and so familiar that even new medical terms entered the vernacular of railways. So commonplace, in fact, that they offered an entrepreneurial opportunity in the guise of ‘The Railway Passengers’ Assurance Company’. Whilst ‘Life Assurance’ had been around for quite some time, assurance for accidents was unheard of. ‘The Universal Railway Casualty Compensation Company’ was the brainwave of solicitor H.F. Holt after a conversation with his clerk. He declared his intention of creating a company, in November 1848, in an advertisement stating, ‘… for the purpose of insuring the lives of persons travelling in Great Britain and Ireland, against Accidents on Railways and for affording compensation for injuries sustained by such accidents …’

The company was officially started in December 1848, and was known only for three days under this initial name, thereafter it became ‘The Railway Passengers’ Assurance Company’. What differentiated this company from other life assurance companies was the ‘and’ (my italics, because here is the big difference): ‘and to grant in cases of accident not having a fatal termination compensation to the assured for injuries received under certain conditions’; thus ‘The Railway Passengers’ Assurance Company’ was the first of its kind and a true pioneer in the field.

In order for the initiative to be successful, agreement had to be obtained from the railway companies for their booking clerks to sell the insurance for journeys along with the travel tickets. In return for this, the companies would receive commission on the sales, 50 per cent of which would go to the setting up of a Benevolent Fund for railway employees. Agreement had also to be obtained from the Chancellor of the Exchequer to accept a percentage tax on premiums, rather than stamp duty on each policy issued. This was vital to the success of the company, as booking clerks would not have been able to sell the insurance if each policy had needed to be stamped upon purchase. Premiums varied according to the class of travel, since those sitting in the roofless second and exposed third-class coaches were at higher risk than those comfortably ensconced in first class. An advertisement in The Times, in January 1849, stated these terms, ‘for the sum of 3d, a first-class passenger to insure £1,000 in case of death, second class 2d, to insure £500; third class 1d, to insure £200 and in case of accident only a sum of money to be promptly paid in proportion to the extent of injury sustained.’2

The Railway Passengers’ Assurance Company could only deliver their product with the co-operation of the individual railway companies. Here we can see that eight have come onboard. What made this insurance so radical was the fact that it was insuring not only for loss of life, but also for injury. (Aviva)

This ‘ticket’, No. 3264, issued to Mr John Steel at a premium of £1, covered him for £1,000 for loss of life and a proportion of such ‘in the event of his sustaining personal injury … whilst travelling in any class Carriage … in Great Britain or Ireland’, for one whole year. It makes one think that Mr Steel had occasion to travel by railway a lot. (Aviva)

By 1850, it was operating on thirty-two railways and, between January and September of that year, had issued 2,808 periodical tickets and 110,074 single journey tickets. In June 1852, a new act was passed enabling the company to insure any person against any kind of accident, which it employed somewhat later, in September 1855.3

The company’s first claimant, William Good of Dunstable, made his claim in November 1849, following an accident between Penrith and Preston, and was awarded a generous £7 6s. Other assurance companies were quick to see the potential of such business, seeking to join forces with the RPA Company (with no success), whilst others, like the British Railway Passenger Association (later renamed the Passenger Assurance Company), set up alone.

The RPA Company were quick to send their representatives to the scene of any disaster. Just days after the Tay Bridge accident on Sunday 28 December 1879, the Aberdeen Journal reported (on 1 January 1880) that Mr C.H. Dalton, RPA superintendent, had already arrived on the scene to ‘communicate without delay with the relatives of any passengers … who may have been in possession of the company’s tickets or policies.’ It found that one victim, W.H. Beynon, ‘held a policy against accidents of all kinds for £1000’.4 In its early years, the RPA Company dispatched a surgeon to each accident scene to see that the insured received proper attention, and that their claims were settled as speedily as possible. It was also not unknown for the company to advance money to a claimant to go for convalescence, in order to regain their strength before making their claim – service indeed!

Such were the numbers and regularity of railway accidents that there was a great deal of hostility towards directors of railway companies, as this cartoon shows.

The Railway Passengers’ Assurance Company weathered some rocky moments in its long history, up until 2005 when it was dissolved and its business absorbed into that of Commercial Union, which is now part of Aviva.

The reputation of railway companies in connection with accidents was dismal, even though some, like contemporary railway writer Samuel Smiles, argued how safe the railways were:

The remarkable safety with which railway traffic is on the whole conducted, is due to constant watchfulness and highly-applied skill. The men who work the railways are for the most part the picked men of the country, and every railway station may be regarded as a practical school of industry, attention, and punctuality. Where railways fail in these respects, it will usually be found that it is because the men are personally defective, or because better men are not to be had. It must also be added that the onerous and responsible duties which railway workmen are called upon to perform require a degree of consideration on the part of the public which is not very often extended to them.5

The statistics from the Returns to the Railway Department of the Board of Trade – such as this one, ending June 1887 (written up by Illustrated London News) – give different insight:

There were reported eighteen collisions between passenger-trains by which sixty-four passengers and nine railway servants were injured; twelve collisions between passenger-trains and goods or mineral trains, by which seventy-six passengers and twelve servants were injured; seven collisions between goods-trains, by which two servants were killed and fifteen persons injured; twenty cases of passenger-trains leaving the rails, by which one servant was killed and eighteen persons injured; four cases of goods-trains leaving the rails, by which three servants were killed; and ten cases of trains running into stations or sidings at too high speed, by which twenty passengers and two railway servants were injured.6

And another report, five years later for the six-month period ending June 1892, written up in the Great Western Railway Magazine, listed 381 accidents of various kinds: collisions between passenger trains; collision between passenger and goods or mineral trains; passenger trains leaving the rails; trains or engines travelling in the wrong direction through points; trains running into stations at high speed; failures of axles, couplings, a bridge and the rails themselves – all resulting in eleven passengers and three railway servants killed and 282 passengers and thirty-two servants injured.7 These, along with the numerous articles and editorials in the national, local and railway papers, over decades of time, show that associating with the railways was undoubtedly a hazardous affair. In his book Railway Accidents – Legislation and Statistics 1825–1924, full of meticulously detailed facts, numbers and statistics, Raynar H. Wilson states that, between 1871 and 1890 (inclusive), there were 2,473 accidents of various classes and enough seriousness to warrant being inquired into.

Accidents from crossing the rails, whether at level crossings or in stations, were notorious. The numbers of deaths each year were horrific, and time and again the matter was raised in Parliament. Mr Channing, MP (Northampton, E.), addressed the House of Commons regarding what he dryly called, ‘this most fruitful source of accidents!’8 He quoted figures from the Returns of 1885 and 1886, stating that, in 1885, there were ninety-three persons killed and thirty-four persons injured at level crossings, and in 1886 there were 104 killed and fifty-two persons injured (that is more than two killed and one injured in every week of the year). 9

Even in the closing decade of the century, such accidents were so commonplace that they were often not reported in newspapers under straplines connecting it to the railway; rather, something ‘other’ was used in order to capture the reader’s attention, such as ‘COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER KILLED’. In this instance, the report is on the ‘terrible accident’ of a ‘well-dressed gentleman’; a commercial traveller called Firth, who made his way to the Midland Railway’s King’s Heath Station after a hard day’s work calling on local tradesmen. The layout of the station meant that he had to ‘cross the rails’ and, whilst doing so, he slipped and fell in front of the 6.25 p.m. train from King’s Norton. To the horror of the driver and others present ‘the engine passed over the middle of his body and completely severed it’.10

Railway accidents impacted hugely on a Victorian society trying to get to grips with the new world of industrialisation, science and technology; a fast-moving and rapidly changing world, one with a constant shifting in society’s values and culture. It was a challenging and exciting time, but full of tensions and anxieties brought about by having to deal with the unknown, and railway accidents became the physical manifestation of collective anxieties. From the very beginning of the railway age the number and nature of railway accidents was truly shocking, as was the number and nature of deaths and injuries. For the travelling public, what was especially worrisome about railway accidents was not just what happened to one at the time of the incident, but what could later happen as a result of it – one could become seriously ill and disabled by ‘shock’ itself. For a society traumatized by such events, the railway accident became an iconic symbol of the nation’s shock. Dr Furneaux Jordan, an eminent physician of the time, wrote in 1882:

All that the most powerful impression on the nervous system can effect, is effected in a railway accident … The incidents of a railway accident contribute to form a combination of the most terrible circumstances which it is possible for the mind to conceive. The vastness of the destructive forces, the magnitude of the results, the imminent danger to the lives of numbers of human beings and the hopelessness of escape of the danger, give rise to emotion which in themselves are quite sufficient to produce shock, or even death itself.11

Inspecting Officers of the Railway Department of the Board of Trade played a large part in the investigation of railway accidents. Recruited from the Corps of Royal Engineers, they brought a wealth of technical knowledge, experience and a professional integrity to their new roles. The Railway Inspectorate, under the umbrella of the Board of Trade, came into being in 1840 as a result of the Railway Regulations Act (1840). The inspectors were experienced engineers, but were recruited purely from the military. Their job was to investigate accidents reported by railway companies to the Board of Trade, and thence to report their findings to Parliament. These reports were published and made available to everyone – including the public. The Inspectorate was also tasked with inspecting new lines, and commenting on their suitability for carrying passenger traffic.

The Inspectorate’s first investigation, carried out by General Sir John Mark Frederick Smith, the first head of the Inspectorate, concerned the Howden accident on 7 August 1840. A Hull & Selby passenger train was travelling from Leeds to Hull when a large casting from a weighing machine fell from a wagon just behind the tender, causing a derailment of the following passenger carriages. The first five carriages were luckily empty, but the sixth held several passengers, four of whom were killed. After conducting a thorough investigation, and determining that the machine had been unsecured and overhanging the sides of the wagon, Smith’s recommendations were that goods should only be carried when they were secured, and that all wagons should be fitted with a frame to prevent items falling off; however, herein was the weakness of the Inspectorate, because despite being able to lawfully prohibit the opening and operation of any new railway unless it met all the regulations laid down by the government, they had no powers to enforce their recommendations in respect of accidents on existing railways. It was to prove a great frustration to them. Relationships between railway companies and the Inspectorate were another problem. They were never of the most cordial, much antagonism emanating from the railways who resented being inspected and reported upon by ‘military men’ rather than ‘railway men’. In its very first issue, in 1897, The Railway Magazine (a very pro-railway companies production) took up its cudgels on behalf of the companies, suggesting of the inspectors, ‘It’s not so much wot ’e sees, but the nasty way he sees it.’12

Sometimes, the accidents investigated by the Inspectorate were found to be the result of mischievousness or even malice; however, at the time of its inauguration, few, if any, would have thought of the railways being under sustained and deliberate attack for political reasons but, during the ‘dynamite decades’ of the 1880s and 1890s, this was to be the case. A different organisation became involved in such incidents – the Home Office Explosives Department – to counter Britain’s first wave of terrorism.

DEATH

1

THE MELANCHOLY DEATH OF THE UNFORTUNATE MR HUSKISSON

The opening of the Liverpool & Manchester Railway was a momentous day. Indeed, it was a day that changed the world, as it heralded the ‘Age of the Railways’. At the opening of this ‘great national work’1 on the morning of 15 September 1830, the scene at Liverpool’s Edge Hill Station was one of colour, festivity and triumph. ‘The numbers congregated were immense and popular expectation was excited to the highest degree’, stated the Guardian, some three days later. Indeed, Liverpool was full to bursting, so eager were the people of the nation to witness this great event. ‘Never was there such an assemblage of rank, wealth, beauty and fashion, in this neighbourhood.’2 The Staffordshire Advertiser reported, ‘It was computed that not less than 500,000 persons were assembled throughout the whole line.’3 ‘A Railer’,4 an invited guest, writing in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, captures that breathless and unbelieving atmosphere:

There was a feverish conspiracy of pleasure, of curiosity, and perhaps, beyond what many chose to express or encourage, of solemn forebodings, of secret presentiments, of those qualms and misgivings of all sorts and sizes, which are wont to haunt timid minds when placed in situations to which they are unused.5

Whilst another guest passenger, Fanny Kemble, famous and popular actress of the period, author and anti-slavery campaigner, recalls, ‘The most intense curiosity and excitement prevailed, and though the weather was uncertain enormous masses of densely packed people lined the road, shouting and waving hats and handkerchiefs.’

It had not always been thus. The coming of the railway and the huge high-wheeled steam ‘monsters’ had not been to everyone’s liking. Large numbers of the population were against it and afraid of it for many reasons. Canal owners and boatmen feared for their livelihoods, as did coachmen and the owners of the horse-drawn stage coaches. Country folk were worried for the welfare of their livestock when the trains roared past spouting smoke and fire. Would the animals drop dead with fright? Would the cows’ milk dry up? Would the cinders set fire to the land?

Many, scientists and physicians amongst them, were worried for the people’s health; could they cope with such noise, and travel at such speeds? Would they lose their senses? Would they become physically impaired or even ‘done to death’ by such an experience? Such was the consternation that, as they worked to lay the 31 miles of track between the first ever intercity termini in Liverpool (Crown Street) and Manchester (Liverpool Road/Water Street), the workmen – the navvies – were abused verbally, and even physically, with bricks and stones. It is said that the company secretary slept with a gun on his bedside table.6

Little wonder then, at the relief, the joy and celebration of this wondrous and hard-fought outcome of man’s scientific (and political) endeavours. Such an occasion demanded all the pomp and ceremony, splendour and élan the directors of this new, prestigious railway company could muster, and they proudly rose to the occasion. They were determined to get things right, and planned the event with military precision. They put together an ‘Orders of the Day’ to inform guests what would happen, what to do and when to do it, so that all would run smoothly and without incident. Just as importantly, they also informed the travellers of what not to do, and it was the disregard for the latter that caused a great tragedy and changed ‘a scene of gaiety and splendour into one of horror and dismay’.7

ORDERS OF THE DAY

LIVERPOOL SEPTEMBER 15TH 1830

The Directors will meet at the Station, in Crown Street, not later than Nine o’clock in the Morning, and during the assembling of the Company, will severally take charge of separate Trains of Carriages to be drawn by different Engines as follows:

NORTHUMBRIAN

Lilac Flag

PHOENIX

Green Flag

NORTH STAR

Yellow Flag

ROCKET

Light Blue Flag

DART

Purple Flag

COMET

Deep Red Flag

ARROW

Pink Flag

METEOR

Brown Flag

The men who have the management of the Carriage-breaks will be distinguished by a white ribbon round the arm.

When the Train of Carriage are attached to their respective Engines a Gun will be fired as a preliminary signal, when the “Northumbrian” will take her place at the

Head of the Procession; a second Gun will be fired, and the whole will move forward.

The Engines will stop at Parkside (a little beyond Newton) to take in a supply of water, during which the Company are requested not to leave their Carriage.8

At Manchester the Company will alight and remain one hour to partake of the Refreshments which will be provided in the Warehouses at that station. In the Furthest warehouse on the right hand side will be the Ladies’ Cloak Room.

Before Leaving the Refreshment Rooms a Blue Flag will be exhibited as a signal for the Ladies to resume their Cloaks; after which the Company will repair to their respective Carriages, which will be ranged in the same order as before and sufficient time will be allowed for everyone to take his seat, according to the number of his Ticket, in the Train to which he belongs; and Ladies and Gentlemen are particularly requested not to part with their Tickets during the day, as it is by the number and colour of the Tickets that they will be enabled at all times to find with facility their respective places in the Procession.

To help celebrate this memorable occasion, the ‘great’ and the ‘good’ of the land had all been invited – the Prime Minister (the Duke of Wellington), Mr Home Secretary (Sir Robert Peel), a Prince, a Marquis, Viscounts, Earls, Dukes and Lords and Ladies, as well as a Count, an Admiral and a Bishop, many ‘Sirs’, Ambassadors, VIP dignitaries, business men of repute9 and those in the ‘fashionable’ echelons of Society, such as the aforementioned actress, Fanny Kemble. There were, perhaps ironically, also three medical persons amongst the guests – Mr Joseph P. Brandreth, a surgeon of Liverpool, Mr Hunter, a surgeon of Edinburgh Hospital, and Dr Southey, of London, (all of whom, according to Brandreth, were later to play a significant role in the unfolding drama).10

The Right Honourable William Huskisson, MP (11 March 1770–15 September 1830), a director of the Liverpool & Manchester Railway Company, was, at the time of his death, the locally popular Liberal representative for Liverpool. He was an active leader in the movement towards Free Trade; and had been the President of the Board of Trade from 1822–28. It was whilst he was in this post that he offered to resign, when the House of Lords failed to pass a bill to give Manchester its own Member of Parliament. Wellington called Huskisson’s bluff by accepting his resignation. Huskisson had been publicly humiliated, and relations between the two men were cool and distant thereafter. Charles Greville, a respected and well-placed contemporary diarist of the time, wrote of Huskisson:

The opening of the Liverpool & Manchester Railway was a lavish affair when the ‘great’ and the ‘good’ gathered together to celebrate and wonder at the marvels of science and men’s genius.

There is no man in Parliament, or perhaps out of it, so well versed in finance, commerce, trade and colonial matters … As a speaker in the House of Commons he was luminous upon his own subject, but he had no pretensions to eloquence; his voice was feeble, and his manner ungraceful … In society he was extremely agreeable, without much animation, generally cheerful, with a great deal of humour, information, and anecdote, gentlemanlike, unassuming, slow in speech, and with a down-cast look, as if he avoided meeting anybody’s gaze. 11

Greville described Huskisson as, ‘about sixty years old, tall, slouching, and ignoble-looking’, and remarks on his ‘peculiar aptitude for accidents’, whilst Simon Garfield indicates that Huskisson was a permanent ‘accident waiting to happen’. He cites him falling from his horse, his carriage and even from his bed! Significantly, Huskisson had ‘dislocated his ankle in 1801 and was in consequence slightly lame’ and had also ‘fractured his arm three times, the last time leaving him slightly impaired’. 12 Everyone knew that Huskisson had been in ill-health for some time and, at the Opening, was still suffering from the consequences of having to attend the lengthy funeral service for King George IV in June. Thomas Creevey wrote to a friend following the accident:

Calcraft tells me that Huskisson’s long confinement in St George’s Chapel at the King’s funeral brought on a complaint … that made some severe surgical operation necessary, the effect of which had been, according to what he told Calcraft, to paralyse, as it were one leg and thigh, which no doubt, must have increased, if it did not create, his danger and [caused him to] lose his life.13

He goes on to remark that Huskisson’s arrival ‘was unexpected’, as he had actually written to say ‘his health would not let him come’. Garfield, however, also believes that, on the fateful day, Huskisson was not just in ‘poor health’ but that he was not as bright and perky as he should have been, being ‘slowed-down’ and ‘hung-over’ from an over-enthusiastic ‘Eve-of-Launch’ party.

The cortège of trains was assembled and ready to carry the passengers – around 600 persons. The eight locomotive engines, had all been constructed at the Stephenson works, and all, undoubtedly, tried and tested to ensure maximum and smooth performance on the great day. From Samuel Smiles, we learn who had the particular honour of driving these impressive ‘mechanical beasts’ on this special day. He writes:

The ‘Northumbrian’ engine, driven by George Stephenson himself, headed the line of trains; then followed the ‘Phoenix’, driven by Robert Stephenson; the ‘North Star’, by Robert Stephenson senior (brother of George); the ‘Rocket’, by Joseph Locke; the ‘Dart’, by Thomas L. Gooch; the ‘Comet’, by William Allcard; the ‘Arrow’, by Frederick Swanwick and the ‘Meteor’, by Anthony Harding. 14

The names of these men, and the names of their engines, would not only become household names of their time but were destined to become part of the fabric of British railway history.

The Duke of Wellington (known to have little love for the railways), Sir Robert Peel, Huskisson, and a number of other distinguished persons, were to travel with the directors at the head of the cortège. They rode in a ‘truly magnificent carriage’ with finely decorated ornamental sides, and a 24ft long canopy mounted on gilded pillars with rich crimson drapery, and ‘the whole surmounted by the ducal crown’, constructed so that it could be lowered for the tunnels. There was a central ottoman for seating, and the whole 32ft long by 8ft wide carriage was carried on eight gigantic ‘large iron wheels’.15 Huskisson, and other VIPs, were in a carriage on one side of the Duke, with a band of musicians in a carriage on the other, all hauled by the 14 horsepower Northumbrian on the south line. Being the sole train on this line (the L&M Railway was the first twin-tracked railway) ensured that the Prime Minister would not be delayed or entrapped should any other train break down. The remaining trains would travel in order on the northern line: Phoenix with five carriages, North Star with five carriages, Rocket with three carriages, Dart with four carriages, Comet with four carriages, Arrow with four carriages, and Meteor with four carriages. The Duke’s train would ‘lead the way’ and then allow the other trains to catch up and, at times, overhaul him. So was the plan. It took some time to muster but, when the Duke finally entered his carriage, a single gun was fired, and all was set in motion. Shortly before 11 a.m. the entourage got underway, slowly at first, rolling downhill to the tunnel at Edge Hill, but soon they were travelling under their own steam ‘swifter than a bird flies’.16

The opening of the Liverpool & Manchester Railway was a day of many ‘firsts’. Not too long after setting out, some 13 miles (21km) out of Liverpool, quite near to Parr, the first collision occurred between passenger trains – a rear-end shunt. ‘A Railer’ recorded it in detail:

One of our engine’s [the Phoenix] wheels, how I know not, contrived to bolt from the course – in plain words, it escaped from the rail, and ploughed along upon the clay, with no other inconvenience than an increase of friction, which damped our speed, and with the additional application of the break, soon brought us to an anchor. The engine, however, behind us, not being aware of our mishap, came pelting on at a smart pace, without receiving its signal for checking motion in time. Accordingly, those on the look-out hastily called on their fellow-passengers to be on their guard, and prepare for a jolt, which took place with a crash upon our rear, sufficiently loud and forcible to give an idea of what would happen, if by any strange chance it had charged us with the unrestrained impetuosity of its powers.

Those who looked for harbingers of doom could be forgiven for thinking that this was one such; however, the engine was soon righted on the rails, and with no casualties, the journey continued.

Parkside Station was located in an isolated rural area (17 miles (27 km) from Liverpool), but it had been designed for future expectations, and built as a water stop and junction station for proposed connections with the Wigan Branch Railway and the Bolton & Leigh Railway, so it already had multiple lines of rails in place. A leaflet, given to those travelling on the trains, explained this and advised that:

The apparatus at which the water is supplied is worth looking at ... we recommend the inspection to take place from the carriages There are here five lines of rails, and the excitation arising from the approach of a carriage will generally so confuse a person not accustomed to walk on the railroad, as to make it almost impossible for him to discern which line it is coming on.17

Unhappily, this advice went unheeded. This was the only scheduled stop en route and, by the time they had reached there, the passengers had been travelling just under an hour. Many, some fifty men it is quoted, despite the slight drizzle, felt in need of a ‘stretch’ and, no doubt, a chance to chat about this wonderful phenomenon. Huskisson, at the suggestion of William Holmes, MP, that it may be a good time to effect a reconciliation with the Duke, approached the Duke’s carriage and offered his hand. It is said the two men shook hands ‘warmly’. What happened next has become an iconic moment in railway history, often wrongly written up as the ‘first death’ on the railways.

With so many present, there are several eyewitness accounts to this infamous event, which are recorded and reported with various interpretations. One is from Lady Wilton, who was travelling in the same carriage as the Duke of Wellington and, therefore, close to the point of action. She later graphically told Fanny Kemble what she thought had happened:

The engine had stopped to take a supply of water, and several of the gentlemen in the directors’ carriage had jumped out to look about them. Lord Wilton, Count Batthyany, Count Matuscenitz and Mr Huskisson among the rest were standing talking in the middle of the road, when an engine on the other line, which was parading up and down merely to show its speed, was seen coming down upon them like lightening. The most active of those in peril sprang back into their seats; Lord Wilton saved his life only by rushing behind the Duke’s carriage, and Count Matuscenitz had but just leaped into it, with the engine all but touching his heels as he did so; while poor Mr Huskisson, less active from the effects of age and ill-health, bewildered, too, by the frantic cries of ‘Stop the engine! Clear the track!’ that resounded on all sides, completely lost his head, looked helplessly to the right and left, and was instantaneously prostrated by the fatal machine, which dashed down like a thunderbolt upon him, and passed over his leg, smashing and mangling it in the most horrible way.

The ‘fatal machine’ was the engine Rocket, under the control of the unfortunate Joseph Locke. Although the winner of the Rainhill Trials – a test for speed and reliability – it was an engine with no brakes. In order to stop, its reverse gear had to be engaged, a practice that took time to accomplish, and on this occasion there was not enough time. It bore down upon the hapless man, knocking him from his tentative hold on the carriage door to the ground, where he landed with his leg bent over the rail – the engine wheel ran over it.

Stephenson’s 0-2-2 steam locomotive, Rocket, was built in 1829. It gained fame, and its owners’ fortune, when it won the Rainhill Trials showing unsurpassed speed and reliability. It gained notoriety when it mowed down the unfortunate Mr Huskisson, causing his death.

Yet another eyewitness, ‘A Railer’, who was perhaps more professionally detached, writes:

On looking out, I observed the Duke’s train drawn up parallel to another train, with a considerable number of persons on foot assembled in the intervening space; and, at the same time, I perceived an appearance of hustling, and stooping, and crowding together for which I could not well account. In another moment, a gentleman rushed forth, and came running up the line towards us; as he neared, I saw evidently that he was much agitated, and pale and breathless – in short, that something dreadful had happened was obvious. At length he stopped, and fifty voices exclaimed ‘Has any thing happened? What is the matter?’ In a state of distracted nervousness, and in broken, unconnected words, he at last broke silence – ‘Oh God! He is dead! He is killed! He is killed!’ –‘Who – and when – and how?’ burst from every mouth; the first passing thought on my own, and probably every other mind, being, that some desperate and successful attempt had been made on the Duke’s life. The truth, however, soon spread like wildfire to the right and left, acting, as it fell upon every ear, like a spell. Smiles and cheerful countenances were changed for one general gloom. Amongst those who were near the fatal spot, the first feeling was one of thankfulness, that their own immediate relative was not the victim; the next, and most permanent, was sympathy with the unhappy lady who saw her husband stretched, lacerated and bleeding, on the ground.

How could this have happened? Who could have imagined anything like this occurring? Well, those who planned the day had obviously had some thoughts about the possibility of an accident and, in modern terminology, had done a ‘health and safety risk assessment’, which is why they issued their safety warnings about the ‘do’s’ and the ‘don’ts’. Now, despite their best efforts, what they had hoped to prevent had occurred, and in the midst of what had been triumphant celebration and a possible reconciliation between two important men, catastrophe had struck. Where there had been jubilation, now there was shock and horror as news of the human tragedy spread.

Huskisson had fallen on the wet, muddy ground amongst the puddles. He was placed on a door as a makeshift stretcher, dirty and bleeding. He said little apart from asking for his wife, and the words he muttered as others sought to help him were to prove prophetic – ‘I have met my death’. An improvised tourniquet, of handkerchiefs and a walking stick, was applied to his injured leg. He was raised up and placed in the carriage behind the Northumbrian engine, previously occupied by the band, who were now left to their own devices. Carrying also Huskisson’s wife, Lord Wilton, and the three doctors, the train departed for Manchester. The surgeon, Joseph Brandreth, later wrote in some detail about the whole experience. Worried about Huskisson’s capacity to make it so far they decided to stop at the nearest accommodation, which was a vicarage near Eccles, the home of Huskisson’s friend. They travelled in the open carriage in the wind and rain, although a makeshift screen was erected to try to protect him, and arrived in a ‘violent thunder and hail storm’. With great difficulty, they made their way through the barricades of the railway line up to the road, just a few hundred yards from the house. The train continued on to fetch ‘surgical aid’. Brandreth administered wine and brandy as they waited for an hour and a half for help and suitable equipment to arrive. With the help of Dr Hunter, he cut the boot and clothes off the injured leg and prepared for an operation should it be ‘desired’. He describes the injury and his puzzlement as to how it occurred:

The leg presented a frightful injury …The leg half way between the knee and ankle was almost entirely severed, except a small portion on the outside, but the boot was scarcely marked at all. Half way but rather higher up between the knee and the body the whole flesh was torn off above the broken bones.