The Great Halifax Explosion

by John U. Bacon

  An editorial in the Truro Daily News expressed a common opinion when it said those responsible for “ ‘such a needless collision’ in clear weather ‘should be hung in good old-fashioned style’ from the yardarm.”

  Yellow journalism was still in vogue, and was practiced widely. But even if it hadn’t been, people recovering from the greatest man-made disaster in North American history should expect some answers. If the investigation proved some were guilty of criminal negligence or worse, the death penalty would not seem unreasonable at a time when sons overseas were being executed for desertion.

  It was in this twitchy atmosphere that the Wreck Commissioner’s Court convened on December 13, 1917, exactly one week after the explosion, while families were still digging out their homes and trying to find loved ones.

  The lawyers on both sides were considered the best of the Nova Scotia bar. The Mont-Blanc’s company, captain, and crew were represented by Joseph Nolan, an established New York attorney retained by the French government, and by Humphrey Mellish, who would prove to be every bit as mushy as his name. On the other side, defending the Imo’s company and crew, was Charles J. Burchell, forty-two, in the early stages of a sterling six-decade run in the Nova Scotia courts. He was widely regarded as a first-rate attorney but a bit of a brawler.

  With the Inquiry convening just a week after the explosion, legal experts felt reassured to see an experienced and respected Halifax jurist, the Honourable Arthur Drysdale, sixty, on the bench. He served on the province’s Supreme Court and had a federal appointment as a district judge in the Admiralty for Nova Scotia. Thus, the feeling was that Drysdale would know both the law and the sea, and how they intersected.

  The old courthouse on Spring Garden Road featured a large room with twenty-five-foot ceilings, befitting a Hollywood movie set. Its boarded-up windows and two oil lamps substituting for electric lights made the room even darker than usual, which radiated venerable English authority, designed not to comfort but to intimidate. From an elevated pulpit, Justice Drysdale, a lean man with a thick, dark mustache, would look down on witnesses, the counsel, and the gallery, which was packed each day.

  Although there were forty-eight witnesses to cross-examine, the pattern quickly became clear: Mont-Blanc attorney Mellish was surprisingly timid, Imo’s Burchell was predictably aggressive, and Judge Drysdale sided with the latter. According to legal analyst John Kerr, writing in Ground Zero, Burchell repeatedly “browbeat and misled witnesses, disregarded all the rules of courtroom etiquette and, on a number of occasions, violated the standards of legal ethics.”

  The problem was, it worked. Burchell was as skilled at pandering to the press as the press was unable to resist. Whenever Burchell intimated some misdeeds by a witness, the papers would publish them as established fact, regardless of how the witness responded.

  Burchell understood something his adversary Mellish didn’t: this first case was being adjudicated less by the Wreck Commission than by the court of public opinion, and public opinion was on his side. Burchell shamelessly fed the public’s and press’s anti-French prejudice, too, with similar success.

  Burchell warned witnesses whose testimony favored Mont-Blanc not to lie, yet he lied to at least two witnesses. When Burchell presented chief examining officer F. Evan Wyatt as a prime example of English snobbery, he probably thought Wyatt would lie down, but he was in for a surprise.

  Wyatt brought the confidence and courage of a seasoned seaman, and he wasn’t about to roll over for a grandstanding attorney. When Burchell told Wyatt he had two witnesses ready to testify that Wyatt had ordered the dockyard evacuated, Wyatt called his bluff, demanding to know who those witnesses were. Burchell had no such witnesses, and started to backpedal. Wyatt went on the attack, accusing Burchell of impropriety and embarrassing him badly—but not for long. Burchell quickly recovered and returned to his assertive approach. With Judge Drysdale, the press, and the public on Burchell’s side, he paid little price for his ploy.

  On February 4, one week after the final witness had appeared, Judge Drysdale published his opinion, laced with vituperatives toward Wyatt, Mackey, Le Médec, and Mont-Blanc’s crew. He managed to summarize the largest man-made explosion, with millions in damage and thousands of lives changed forever, in a single page, finding that Pilot Mackey and Captain Le Médec were “wholly and solely responsible for the collision.” Further, Drysdale recommended that French authorities cancel Le Médec’s master’s ticket, that Mackey’s license be canceled, and that he be prosecuted in criminal court. Finally, he found Wyatt guilty of neglect and recommended that he be disciplined—while making no mention whatsoever of Imo’s captain and pilot.

  Mackey, Le Médec, and Wyatt were soon arrested and charged with manslaughter in the death of Imo’s harbor pilot, William Hayes.

  Some observers were outraged by the conduct of Mr. Burchell and the ruling of Judge Drysdale, but the majority of the press and the public cheered the decision. The people needed someone to blame, and to know that the universe was not as randomly cruel as it seemed. Burchell and Drysdale offered both, and the public accepted it.

  Chapter 36

  Christmas 1917

  Most Haligonians found the idea of shopping for Christmas gifts, singing carols, or celebrating too frivolous, even disrespectful. But on Monday, December 17, 1917—the day of the mass burial, eleven days after the explosion, and eight days before Christmas—a piece appeared on the front page of Halifax’s Daily Echo suggesting that the surviving children should be given some joy this Christmas.

  The children’s section of the paper, called the “Sunshine Club,” started a fund for children in hospitals and institutions to give them “the best Christmas they ever had.” Cousin Peggy, editor of the Sunshine Club, wrote of one “wee maiden” who had taken the ice cream and presents from her birthday party to the Children’s Hospital. In the same spirit, Cousin Peggy invited her young readers to donate their toys or money so the less fortunate could enjoy a bit of the Christmas spirit.

  Newspapers in 1917 commonly sponsored “children’s clubs” to provide a better Christmas for poor children. But the explosion greatly expanded the list of needy, directly affecting about 10,000 children, according to the paper, who had lost their homes or family members, or both. Adding insult to injury, the gifts their parents had purchased that year had often been destroyed.

  One little girl, Marjorie Drysdale, lived in the middle of Richmond. She had asked her parents for a popular, expensive doll, but they didn’t have much money, so she didn’t think she would get it. One day before the blast, curiosity got the best of her, so she peeked under the tree, peeled back a corner of the wrapping paper, and saw that her parents had, in fact, bought her the special doll. A day later, their house was flattened by the explosion and burned to cinders, killing both parents. But Marjorie was always grateful for her indiscretion, knowing how far her parents had been willing to go to make her happy.

  On December 19, the Echo reported that its appeal had worked: toys, books, and money for young survivors were pouring in. The next day, local stores felt it was acceptable to advertise again. A big store called Wentzells ran this ad: “Mister, do you think Santa Claus will be around this Christmas? Many and many a little kiddy has asked that question in the last few days. Is he going to come around to your home? Don’t darken the kiddies’ Christmas any more than you can help. Don’t let them ‘know’ more than you can help. Life’s trials and sorrows enter only too soon into their lives. When you are ready to buy your Christmas supplies, we are ready.”

  Because Halifax merchants had missed most of their holiday sales after the explosion while simultaneously giving generously to the recovery effort, the Halifax Herald urged Nova Scotians to eschew mail orders to central Canada or the U.S. and spend those dollars shopping at local stores. On December 20, Halifax merchants held a meeting to set up “Santa Claus Limited,” a public appeal for money, workers, gifts, and automobiles to deliver Christmas to needy children. They figured the
y needed to raise $5,000 to provide 10,000 packages, one for each needy child.

  On December 21, the Mail carried the appeal, with photographs of six wounded and homeless children: “Although the people of Halifax have performed veritable miracles,” the merchants wrote, “greater efforts must be made. Tangible Christmas cheer must enter every home over which hangs a shadow cast by the great disaster.”

  They hoped to deliver a package of fruit, candy, and cake on Christmas morning to every child who had lost their home. They asked for “250 ladies” to volunteer for the task, and fifty cars loaned to distribute them. “You can’t refuse THEIR call.”

  On December 22, the Echo reported a crowd of volunteers had shown up, with $183 already donated. It was just the start.

  Little by little, everyday life returned to Halifax, including crass commercialism. The H. H. Marshall store advertised The Halifax Catastrophe, a book of forty photos, for fifty cents by mail. The curious could also buy Views of the Halifax Disaster by Royal Print & Litho, which sold 10,000 copies by December 25. Or you could buy Devastated Halifax, 50 views, published by Gerald E. Weir. “This book is interesting and instructive,” he wrote, “and you will be glad to have it in later years—a book that your friends will be delighted to receive—especially the boys at the front. Mailed to any address in Canada, United States, or overseas.”

  For the survivors and their loved ones fighting overseas, “delighted” might not have been the most accurate description of their reaction to a picture book of the disaster.

  Collections for Santa Claus Limited were conducted in rural schools, at concerts, and almost anywhere people gathered. More than a few kids donated their pocket money. Contributors’ names were printed in the paper, including the children’s. On Christmas Eve, the Echo reported that the Sunshine Club, whose goal was to raise $5,000 to provide 10,000 presents, had raised more than $13,000, plus gifts of every kind.

  They now needed cars and drivers, which they thought would be difficult to find after so many cars had gone out of commission during the blizzard. But fifty drivers and their automobiles assembled at the Halifax Academy to distribute the parcels.

  When the YMCA, which still housed victims, put up a Christmas tree, other facilities followed. At the Waegwoltic Club, a temporary hospital, the Christmas tree was enjoyed “as much by an eighty-five-year-old grandmother as it was by an eleven-month-old girl who had lost one eye.” Only one facility, Camp Hill Hospital, had no tree, because it was still too crowded with explosion victims to spare the space for one.

  In spite of the tremendous effort, for many families Christmas merely provided a poignant reminder of their losses.

  Frank Burford, the fifteen-year-old who had unwittingly saved himself when he went to fetch a parcel, had lost his father in the blast. He was staying with relatives outside the city and received no presents. Instead, he got a letter from his older sister confirming his father’s death, and that his mother was still in the hospital. As he recalled, “We had nothing to rejoice about.”

  James and Gordon Pattison remembered Christmas 1917 as a “blank day.” They had lost two siblings, and assumed their father was dead. As hard as it was, James said, “It made you sensitive to other people’s anguish, too.”

  Christmas for the Driscolls had always been a highlight of the year when they exchanged small presents, none costing much. In 1917, however, they had just left Truro for a big house in South Uniacke, about 30 miles northwest of Halifax. Their father had lost one eye, five-year-old Art was still in the hospital and had not spoken, and Gordon had not been found. They gathered for Christmas as before, but without Christmas cake or much cheer.

  The week before Christmas, the morgue made several more identifications, including a young mother and her four children, and the Mortuary Committee conducted another large burial.

  The atmosphere didn’t stop people from trying, and with some success. The Overseas Club, a social organization, invited twenty-four destitute children aboard the Lord Kelvin, docked in the harbor, where they were served turkey with all the trimmings, followed by ice cream. Then, from behind a tree, the hosts brought out a “mystery box” for each child, to their delight.

  Mrs. Michael Dwyer donated a part of her large house for a temporary home for children leaving the hospital, and helped finance it, too. Christmas there was a great success with the boys and girls, who received nice toys including granddaughter Eileen’s fancy dollhouse, which she insisted on contributing.

  With the young patients worried that Santa Claus would not be able to visit them because their hospitals lacked chimneys, the staff worked yet more overtime to assuage this fear. Doctors and nurses decorated the facilities and began their morning rounds by singing Christmas carols. Santa visited every hospital, and young patients woke to find a well-stuffed stocking on their bed.

  Evelyn Johnson, an eleven-year-old student at St. Joseph’s who had almost had her arm amputated before her mother intervened, was recovering at the YMCA, where an unusually jolly Father Christmas was making the rounds. She realized he was actually her favorite doctor, an American who had a knack for making the children laugh.

  At St. Paul’s Hall, Samuel Prince, a distinguished professor who would produce a seminal report on the catastrophe for Columbia University, traded in his black robe for a red gown to play Santa Claus “with gusto.”

  The children’s fears that Santa wouldn’t find them were quickly dispelled.

  Those who spent Christmas day working in the crowded hospitals often remarked on the patients’ depth of appreciation, giving the workers their most meaningful Christmas. One woman, tired and foot weary after hours of volunteer work, said “I think that today brought me to a greater understanding of the true meaning of Christmas.”

  After returning to Wolfville near midnight on Saturday, December 8, Ernest Barss collapsed at his parents’ home. After three days working nonstop with only a few hours of sleep, even his shell-shock symptoms could not keep him from sleeping that night, or the next. In fact, he said, he had to rest up for a few days before he could muster the energy to write a proper letter to his uncle Andrew about what he’d seen and done in Halifax.

  Ernest Barss closed his letter to his uncle, dated December 14, 1917, with an apology. “Well, this isn’t much of a Christmas letter, is it? We don’t feel particularly hilarious at the present time, I tell you. There is only one good result that I can see in the awful accident. It may make people realize that there is a war on. It had been awfully hard to bring it home to a great many even yet.”

  But the explosion did something else, too: it changed Barss’s outlook. Instead of obsessing about all that he’d lost—his career in Montreal, Eileen, his health, and his prospects—he started looking forward to what he wanted to do next. When he had boarded the train to Halifax with Elliott, Barss knew he didn’t want to run the family grocery store in Wolfville or work for a corporation in Montreal, and he certainly didn’t want to stay in the military. But he didn’t know what he wanted to do—or what he could do. Three days spent helping people whose lives had been upended more dramatically than his quenched a thirst inside him that nothing else could reach. On the long train ride home it came to him: he wanted to become a doctor to heal others.

  Now, back in his parents’ home, he had to figure out how—without the academic prerequisites, any money to speak of, steady hands or two good feet—he could make that dream a reality.

  Chapter 37

  Orphans

  The blast left thousands of children orphaned. Others had lost one parent, while the other parent was still in the hospital or in recovery, leaving the children effectively orphaned for at least a few weeks or more.

  The problems specific to children started with the registration process, with babies who couldn’t speak, children with no documents, and many faces hard to recognize due to stubborn soot or disfiguring wounds. They were also susceptible to being mis-identified by desperate parents or even uncles, aunts, or cousins convin
ced that this was their child, and if they didn’t claim them immediately, they might never see them again.

  In the first days after the explosion, unauthorized adoptions prompted the authorities to institute a more rigorous identification process on both sides, while making appeals for the return of children mistakenly taken from the centers. It appears most cases were probably resolved, but since poor records were kept initially, no one can be certain how many there were, and if they were rectified. For the many parents who couldn’t find their babies, these widely publicized errors added untold grief, but also a tempting hope that their toddlers might be alive and well somewhere.

  In recognition of these unique issues, on Tuesday, December 11, the Relief Committee formed a special Children’s Committee. By the end of December 1917, the committee had made contact with 500 families and 1,500 children: 200 needed hospital treatment, 48 suffered eye injuries, and 8 had been completely blinded. According to their records, the explosion created 180 fatherless children, 120 motherless children, and 70 orphans who had lost both, often in an instant—and these numbers are probably low estimates.

  Cases read like this: “Four children, mother dead, father blind.”

  “Three children, father dead, mother badly injured.”

  In one family, both the mother and father had been killed, so their eighteen-year-old daughter took over responsibility for raising her three younger siblings.

  In 111 other families, the mothers had been seriously injured or killed, and the fathers were fighting overseas. Even when the surviving parent lived in Halifax, they usually had to work long hours, so they often boarded the remaining children with others until their load lightened, visiting when they could in the meantime.

  In 1917, before the explosion, Halifax was home to a half dozen orphanages, usually supported by private donations and churches. Two served Protestants, and four served Catholics. All six would have been overwhelmed by the influx of orphans after the disaster, but the situation was exacerbated because the Protestant Orphanage was destroyed. Given the pressing need, the Protestant Orphanage soon reopened as a temporary accommodation and was eventually rebuilt.