Spanish River Rail Disaster

What was at the time the worst accident in the history of the CPR took place about 1 p.m. on Friday, January 21, 1910. The disaster occurred about 37 miles west of Sudbury on the Soo line of the CPR at the bridge crossing the Spanish River.

Coroner Howey, on instructions from Attorney – General Boy through Crown Attorney J.H. Clary, had a jury summoned for 10 a.m. January 26. The jury consisted of John McLeod (foreman), J.R. Bissett, R. Martin, F.M. Stafford, D. Blue, John Higgins, C. Carmichael, D.L. Burns, S. Jessop, H.S. Young, W. Chalmers, L. Laforest, O Tuvor and D. McDonald.

Upon being sworn in, the jury viewed the body of one of the victims. Subsequently, they were taken by a special train to the scene of the wreck.
After several days deliberation, the jury in February reported their verdict and recommendations. They concluded that the derailment was “…caused by the forward truck of the first-class car leaving the track, and plunging over the embankment, followed by the dining and sleeping car; also causing derailment of the second-class car.” However, they were unable to determine the cause of the derailment.
RECOMMENDATIONS

The jury concluded by making three recommendations:
“(1) Are three sectionmen sufficient to keep an eight-mile section in proper condition during the winter time, in the rigorous climate of Northern Ontario?”
“(2) Should openings be placed in the roof of cars, capable of being opened either inside or outside of the car, suitable for the escape of passengers in case of overturned cars.”
“(3) Should emergency tools be carried at convenient places outside of cars as well as inside?”

These recommendations were made after interviewing many officials and employees of CPR.

The train (engine No. 1116, train No. 7) consisted of seven cars – mail, baggage, colonist, second-class, first-class, diner and Pullman. The engineer was George Trelford, of North Bay.

According to contemporary accounts, the second-class car, separated from the colonist in front, turned sideways and struck the iron bridge. The car broke in two – half falling to the ice below, the remainder catching fire. The first-class coach fell to the river and cut through ice a fool thick “as clean as if cut with a saw.” Only three escaped from the first-class coach.
PARTLY IN WATER

The dining car followed the first-class car into the river with the kitchen end remaining out of the water. There were about fourteen in this car including, from Sudbury, W.J. Bell, lumberman; D.M. Brodie, police magistrate and J.H. Wade. Almost everyone in that car was injured. A number drowned.
Conductor Tom Reynolds helped many of the survivors to find hat hooks that enabled them to stay above the water. He broke a window, surfaced, and then proceeded to help a young boy and Mr. Brodie escape through a ventilator. Eventually, a hole was broken in the roof to bring out the remaining survivors.

The Pullman car also went over the embankment and turned on its side. Most were injured, but none fatally.

A traveler and a brakesman hurried to Nairn, five miles from the accident, where the nearest telegraph office was located. Dr. Arthur, of Sudbury, was there and immediately was taken to the wreck by freight engine. Drs. Patterson, Cook, McCann, Torrington and Mulligan were brought from Sudbury on a special train. Over 20 survivors were taken to hospital in Sudbury.

As often is the case with disasters, rumors were prevalent. The story was told of injured bodies cremated – in the burning car. This was denied.
Also, for several days, a rumor circulated suggesting there was another coach yet undiscovered in the river. The order book in Sudbury soon dispelled this story.

The belief prevailed that a very strong current at the bridge had swept bodies downstream. This tale was corrected by the Spanish River at Espanola.
FROM WIDE AREA

The list of dead included people from Norway, and from Wisconsin, Montana, Minnesota, Michigan, the territory of Washington and from Ontario, Quebec and New Brunswick.

Included among the dead were George McDougal, of Copper Clif; Agnes Milroy, of Cache Bay; Lomie Theria, of Nairn; George Roseback, of Webbwood, and Dr. Allan McLellan, of Sudbury.

George Roseback, CPR fireman, was in the first-class car. He had recently insured his life to take effect at 12 o’clock noon on the day of the accident. Less than 1 ½ hours after the policy was in effect he was dead.

Dr. McLellan, in the first class coach, had arrived in Sudbury about a year before the tragedy with his young bride, to whom he was married just a year on the day before the accident.

The injured from Sudbury included D.M. Brodie, who had three broken ribs and cuts on the head; J.H. Wade, with a number of cuts and bruises, and W.J. Bell, listed as seriously injured.

Times of tragedy are usually not without their heroes and heroines. Accounts praised conductor Reynolds, who with a badly bruised leg and head custs, worked for hours after the wreck. It was to be after 8 at night before he made it to the American Hotel in Sudbury and had his wounds dressed.
AIDED THE INJURED

Half a dozen men “…who themselves had done 10 men’s work” spoke highly of a Mrs. H.A. Linall, of Winipeg. The windows were broken in the Pullman and it was converted into a temporary hospital. There, “with a little tin full of whiskey and strips torn from her cloth”, Mrs. Linall aided the injured.

She tended to one man who was “brought in with practically the whole top of his skull lifted off.” Finally, she was persuaded to rest. However, on her way to the headquarters she passed a caboose which had been rushed up from Nairn and had become a form of ambulance. She then tended the wounded there.

The Spanish River train wreck of 1910 was to take over 40 lives. The worst accident in the history of the CPR would also undoubtedly deeply scar the survivors. As is often the case with accidents of this nature, the best and worst characteristics of mankind are present. Also, details subside with the passage of time. Probably we will never know the full horror, the complete details of the train wreck of 1910. Yet, it still constitutes an “important chapter in our history.”

A Soldier Remembers

When I was younger, I suppose like many of my generation, I had a difficult time relating to those men that I’d see stiffly marching by on their way to the local cenotaph on so many cold Remembrance Day mornings.

I’m not sure when that all changed .. when it got personal.

It could have been one day as I was watching my sons playing basketball at the local field, perhaps that day as I sat on my son’s deck and watched my grandchildren play, grateful for the wonderful life that had made this all possible and confident of the future that lay ahead.

At some point I realized that had it not been for the courage of those old men that I had watched on so many of those cold mornings, my life would have been so much different. If those men had not taken up a rifle as Canadian soldiers, in a struggle that was for nothing less than the survival of civilization, then the horrors of war would have fallen to me and perhaps my sons.

So, I have many people that I have to be thankful for. Some of those men are Bill Humphrey of Brampton and his brothers.

Bill was raised in Toronto’s inner city during the depth of the depression, the hard times, the times of food stamps, of scrimping to have just enough for an especially meaty soup bone.

At the outbreak of the Second World War, Bill just barely into his teenage years watched as his brothers Robert and John enlisted in the Canadian Army, much as their Dad had done in the First World War.

All this was too much for Bill, and his mother, already heart sick with worry over the safety of Bill’s older brothers, relents to his pressure and signs papers that attest - incorrectly - that young Bill Humphrey is of military age. In fact he was only 15 and a half.

Before long Bill is wearing the uniform of the Royal Canadian Infantry Corp - the RCIC. His sweetheart Bernice, later to become his wife of 63 years, has a war time job in a cigar manufacturing plant and manages to keep Private Humphrey in smokes, much to the envy of his army buddies.

Bill received the full training of a Canadian combat soldier. From the grueling forced marches, to rifleman and bayonet skills. With his fellow soldiers, he was even dropped into the forests of the Parry Sound district to fight the inferno of the August 1945 bush fire.

Bill, along with his company was set to be shipped overseas, when news was received that some of the troopers were underaged. Bill along with several others were left at the barracks while their comrades leave.

Bill remained in the service but his war would be fought in Canada.

Bill has his Father’s and brother John’s medals - along with his own - in a wooden display case in his basement recreation room. He says that he’s very proud of his family, but he needn’t have said that, the hint of water in his eye’s and the slight cracking of his voice, as he talks about those war years, says volumes.

So today, like every other November 11th, Bill has freshly polished the family military medals and taking the case upstairs, places them near the family television. As images and sounds of the Remembrance Day memorial from Ottawa fills the room, Bill Humphrey remembers.

Private Harmsworth

I was passing in front of the Harmsworth Hardware Store in downtown Brampton, and is my custom, glanced into the display window, expecting to see the collection of old tools that are usually on display there.

But this morning it was something different that awaited me.... A portrait of a young man, smartly clad in World War I dress uniform was prominent in the center of the window. Around him were strewn poppies and a display of medals, a military walking stick, and a telegram from the Canadian Military, informing James and Jane Harmsworth that their 21 year old son Henry Earl Harmsworth, of the 5th. Canadian Mounted Rifles, was killed on August 20, 1918 and that he was buried in Rouen, France.

Across the street, at the City Hall Cenotaph, plans were being made for this years Remembrance Day.

Chairs were being moved about, sound systems checked out ..... and I watched ..... thinking about Private Harmsworth

Someone once wrote, “The great tragedy of life is not that men perish, but that they cease to love.” Jim Speck never ceased to love.

His greatest love was for his wife and friend Dale. They had been married for 28 years and although Jim, like many men, was not given to express his feeling openly to often, he did speak of his concern for Dale if something were to happen to him.

My friend passed away October 2, 2010. Jim was 63 years old.

Jim had no natural children of his own but thought the world of his step daughter Sue.

To his friends Jim will be remembered as the man who loved to hunt and fish. As soon as the West Arm of the Blind River froze over, he was part of that old timers gang - Leo, Jim, Gord and myself - and would spend hours, no matter what the weather, ‘jiggin and jawin’. Oh yes, Jim was a real story teller. If the fishing was good for him, well, there was just no living with him. When he would notice that I was getting hits but landing nothing, Jim would shake his head and call out, “You have to keep those hooks sharp!”

The laughter from those wonderful times, that could be heard echoing across that frozen river,will be a bit less this coming winter.

For a number of years his good friend Jim Dubrick would leave Southern Ontario and visit
with Jim and Dale. The two men would spend hours at the Mississagi Falls during the annual
pickerel and salmon runs.

On a deeply personal note, earlier this year, just after returning from an evening fishing trip with Jim, I began to feel ill. At the time I didn’t realize it but I was having a stroke. I was living alone and felt very confused and hardly able to talk. Somehow I must have managed to get hold of Jim - I still don’t know how - and after almost taking my apartment door off of it’s hinges, Jim Speck put his big arms around me, lifting me up and helping down a couple of flights of stairs and taking me to the Blind River Hospital.

Later my doctor told me that Jim may have saved my life. I told Jim that and thanked him. I became a bit emotional. Of course, Jim was a bit embarrassed at the whole affair. And I am so glad that I had the opportunity to say those words to him.

What words can adequately express the sorrow of losing a husband and a step father and a friend. What words can adequately frame the life of a man.

Jim came to us from Hamilton after retiring from Camco. He was with us for his allotted time and left behind a wealth of loving memories.

Keep your hooks sharp, Jim. Good hunting.

Stopping By The Woods Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
-- Robert Frost

I come from a long line of storytellers. I suppose you could say it's in my DNA.

My mother says the reason there are so many storytellers in our family is that we come from generations of methodists. And since methodists considered just about everything a sin, there was precious little left for entertainment, but to sit around and tell stories. That's mother's version anyway's. She was an Anglican.

When I was a young boy I loved our visits to my grandfather's farm in the clay belt of Temiskaming, Ontario. If it were a special occasion like haying time, hog killing time or some holiday, my dad and all my uncles would all be there. After the day’s work they'd all sit around the back porch bringing everyone up to date on what was happening in their lives and of course, telling stories.

Now, the thing about good storytelling is that it transports images into your mind that last a lifetime. Knitted together, stories form an intimate family history. Through them you gain insight into a personality.

My father was an excellent carpenter. He had a reputation in our area for his skill and his prices. Long after he had passed away folks would point to some of his work that had endured the years. He was a good man.

I recall when I was young we were on a fishing trip. My Dad loved the outdoors. We had canoed out onto a big lake and decided to make camp on one of the islands. Just after dusk we heard voices coming from a neighhbouring island. No doubt a group of canoeists making the trip down stream to Lake Huron. I could just make out their voices but could tell they were European.

Dad was busy poking at the campfire.
“What kind of language are they talking in?” I asked.
My father kept stirring at the red coals and without looking up said in a matter of fact way.
“Don't know ..... but they're laughing in english.”

That story has been told at dozens of dinners and family get togethers.

I look at my grandkids faces. They had never met their great grandfather, but the smiles on their faces told me that for that instant they felt a closeness to a man who 50 years earlier had taken his ten year old son on a fishing trip.

Leland Moore

I received the message late in the afternoon. A copy boy handed me a piece of paper with a phone number and note saying, “ Please Call”.

I didn't recognize the number but as soon as I heard the voice on the other end, I recognized the voice of Carol the wife of my friend Leland Moore. Carol said that she had bad news. Earlier that morning Leland had passed away. He was 55.

Leland was a real contradiction. He was a big black man who seemed to have a scowl permanently fixed on his face and at nearly 300 pounds, his size alone could be intimidating. But he was a gentle teddy bear. He could be brought to near tears by a sappy movie or someone's sad story.

In 1968 Leland graduated from highschool in his home town of Tonawanda, New York, jumped on a bus and headed to Buffalo where he walked into a Marine Corp recruiting office and enlisted.

After Parris Island it was off to Vietnam. He saw a lot there. And when he came home he had changed. I remember he told me that he had seen enough suffering to last a lifetime and didn't want to be the cause of any himself.

“I would like to make people smile. “ he said. “I'd want folks to smile ....... hell, even at my own funeral”.

So my friend Leland was gone. I drove down to Tonawanda and directly to the funeral chapel. Carol met me as I walked in. We hugged, then she took me aside and informed me that her husband had left instructions as to his funeral arrangements. She said reather cryptically that she had had a bit of a problem with the funeral director.

“Well,” she said, “ you go on in.”

I was a bit confused as I walked into the small viewing room. My friend looked pretty well the same as when I had last seen him 4 years ago. Perhaps his hair had a little more gray. Face a mite thinner. I looked down and understood what Carol had been trying to tell me.

Around his neck he wore a bright yellow emblazoned with little smiling faces.

As I left the room I realized that Leland had made good on his word. I was smiling.