MicroHorror

The fire in the forward paint locker might have been contained and put out if the crewmember who discovered it had been trained in firefighting. But ignorant of the risks, he simply opened the locker door. The fire, almost dead from lack of oxygen, exploded with renewed fury and scorched the clothes and skin from the man even as superheated air shriveled his lungs and blistered his wind-pipe. The first victim of the General Slocum disaster was dead before he hit the deck.

Several of the women and children passengers nearby were also struck by the cloud of burning paint and kerosene that burst out of the paint locker, igniting every flammable thing within its reach. Clawing at the sticky, flaming mess on her daughter’s cheek Amelia Weisskopf found herself pulling at the child’s teeth; the flesh was burnt right through. Another woman fell against her. Ablaze from head to foot, she had suffocated within moments when she had inhaled the flames from her burning dress. Frantic with pain and terror Amelia pushed her way through the crush of blazing bodies and screaming, blackened faces. Burning flesh was flowing like wax down the bones of her seared skull and Amelia knew she would soon be blind and helpless. Dragging her unconscious daughter with her she threw herself over the rail and into the East River, where moments later one of the General Slocum’s huge paddlewheels crushed them.

When news of the fire reached the bridge the captain called for his officers to take charge of the passengers and crew. Below them the flames were taking hold, in both the oak structure and the pine decks, the painted and varnished wood burning fast and easily. To their horror the crew found that the fire hoses were rotten and fell apart in their hands; bucket chains were formed, but were hopelessly inadequate against the ferocity of the fire.

Panicked by the flames and the thick, hot, smoke which was sweeping down on the wind from the front of the ship and making it difficult to breathe, women and children and the few men who were among the excursion passengers ran to the boat decks. Those clambering up the steep, narrow, stairs of the companionways met those climbing down and the cries of the crushed echoed the screams of those pushed overboard, their heavy clothes dragging them to their death at the bottom of the river. The screams of terror grew louder when it was discovered the lifeboats were chained to their davits and couldn’t be launched. Mothers, desperate to save their young ones, fought for the few lifejackets, which then crumbled in their hands, rotted to uselessness.

By now the fire was out of control, and fanned by the boat’s forward speed the flames raced through all three decks. People running to the rear of the vessel fell through collapsing decks onto the crush below.

Burning bodies were pressed against those as yet unaffected and the heat and flames welded them together in grotesque tableaux. The living and the dead were thus bundled overboard together in a desperate and hopeless attempt to stop the fire spreading further. Whole families clutching one another jumped in to the water to avoid the flames only to be caught by the still turning paddlewheels. Broken bodies could be seen trapped between the blades, lifeless arms waving a piteous farewell.

Boats were launched to try and rescue those still alive, but such vessels as could get close enough to the flaming hulk were quickly swamped by the sheer numbers trying to get aboard. Men waded into the icy waters up to their necks to reach survivors, but burnt clothes and blacked skin simply sloughed off outstretched arms and the victims slipped back into the water and drowned. In mute horror those on the banks of the East River could only watch as the by now drifting remains of the General Slocum burned inexorably to the waterline.