The Race Underground: Boston, New York, and the Incredible Rivalry That Built America's First Subway

by Most, Doug

  The places to be, as New Yorkers smartly figured, were the stairways and kiosks of the subway. Trains were not going to accept passengers until seven o’clock at night, after a long day of speeches and a celebratory ride by public officials. But that didn’t stop the crowds from gathering as the sun came up, and, in what was a preview of life in New York City in the twentieth century, there was pushing and shoving and kicking before the doors had even whooshed open. Expecting a crowd far beyond what the subway was capable of handling on a daily basis, Frank Hedley, the general manager of the subway, warned people to be patient. Never before, he reminded New Yorkers, had a single, giant railroad system been opened at once “on the tick of a clock,” as he put it. “I don’t want the public to pass judgment on the road for the first two days. It would not be exactly fair to us. After that, however, we are willing to submit ourselves to the most critical tests.”

  At one o’clock, Mayor McClellan led a procession into the alderman chamber of City Hall. The room could hold five hundred people, and there were at least that many inside. Ex-mayor Van Wyck joined him, as did the mostly unrecognizable members of the Rapid Transit Commission and the directors of the Interborough Rapid Transit Company. The wives of all the leading men were escorted in, along with judges; priests; business leaders; the president of Columbia University, Nicholas Murray Butler; and prominent engineers and railroad men, including Cornelius Vanderbilt. The crowd had mostly settled when the final three men entered, each receiving so much applause that the ovations blended together. Parsons, Belmont, and McDonald filed in together, weary after what had been a long night of drinking at Sherry’s, where the tables were adorned with tall potted rosebushes, a miniature facsimile of the subway was laid on the floor, and Belmont was presented with a magnificent two-foot-tall silver cup. The initials A. B. were on one side of it, and on the other, an inscription: “Presented to August Belmont by the directors of the Interborough Rapid Transit Company in appreciation of his services as President in constructing the Rapid Transit Subway, October 27, 1904.”

  * * *

  ONLY A FEW HOURS LATER, they settled into their seats to savor the moment more officially. The tall, bearded, brilliant engineer was the youngest, just forty-four; the short and stiff banker was fifty-one; and the bald, potbellied builder was the elder statesman at sixty.

  Parsons had quieted any critics who had suggested he was too young to design the subway for the city. His mastery of the city’s topography, his stern leadership, and his firm grasp of the latest technologies had all been proved, and he had brought the subway to this day on time and on budget. If there was a flaw in his leadership style, it was his almost coldhearted response to the tragedies that occurred on his watch. But refusing to let emotions scare him into charting a new course was his way of remaining focused on the task, treating it like a business, not a family.

  For Belmont, who had no intention of getting involved in the subway and was only drawn in when McDonald did not have the money, it was validation. “The subway would not have been built if I had not taken hold of the work,” the arrogant Belmont reflected years later. “McDonald had a contract with the city, but he could not get the money to finance the work.” It was true that Belmont put himself at risk with the deal, because if something had happened to McDonald, Belmont would have had to replace him. He said his lawyers warned him but that he was determined. “I told them I would take the risk and I did. If I had not, the subway would not have been built—at least not at that time.”

  McDonald could not make the same boast. If he had not been chosen to build the subway, surely someone else would have come along to do it. But tunneling through the schist of Manhattan had been a huge and dangerous challenge, nothing like what London had done by digging its subway through soft blue clay. Plus, London’s Underground was only longer than New York’s subway after multiple extensions over decades. New York’s twenty-one-mile system, every inch constructed under McDonald, was the world’s longest subway built in one shot. Boston’s first subway along Tremont and Boylston streets, the first in America, was only one and a half miles long when it opened, though it now had more than five miles of tracks. To be sure, there had been collapses and explosions and careless mistakes under McDonald, like storing dynamite in a shed lit by candles, and more than fifty men had died under his stewardship. But after four years of construction, from that day in March of 1900 when the streets were torn up into rubble, the subway was a sight to behold, the air underground was a pleasure to breathe, and the trains ran fast and smooth. In the end, those were McDonald’s gifts to the city.

  As the three men walked into the overflowing room, Parsons blushed and Belmont glowed. McDonald smiled broadly, even though inside he was seething. He had not been on the original invite list for the day’s events, and when he found out he flashed his Irish temper by raising a stink and calling a reporter to his office. “When the dirt is off your shovel,” the man who built the subway groused, “Wall Street doesn’t give a damn for you.” His invitation arrived soon after.

  * * *

  MCCLELLAN OPENED THE PROCEEDING with a declaration: “Without rapid transit, Greater New York would be little more than a geographical expression.” He went on to compare the subway to the Brooklyn Bridge and to discuss how the two projects brought the city into a new era that would help New Yorkers forget what part of the city they came from and instead unite them “in a common destiny.” He then introduced his chief engineer.

  For Parsons, this was a moment he’d almost given up on seeing. His trip to China was a distant memory. He had recorded nearly every single day of construction meticulously in his diary, aware of the significance of the achievement. But now, with a podium and an audience, and having a chance to finally exhale and talk about obstacles overcome; the lives lost, including his friend, Ira Shaler; and the revolution New York City was about to undergo, Parsons, wearing his customary long black coat, had no interest in the spotlight he richly deserved. “Mr. Mayor, Mr. Orr, and Mr. President,” he began after the applause had died down, “I have the honor and the very great pleasure to state the Rapid Transit Railroad from the City Hall Station to the station at One Hundred and Forty Fifth Street on the west side line, is ready and complete for operation.” As he stepped away, the applause lasted longer than his speech.

  McDonald and Belmont had no problem embracing the cheers. McDonald came prepared with a speech that he unfolded and, after briefly fixing his eyeglasses, read in a voice so soft that he could hardly be heard beyond the first few rows. Perhaps forgetting his words from four years earlier, when he said building the subway would be like digging a cellar, he admitted being nervous about bidding for the work.

  He graciously thanked Belmont and Parsons and, in his final words, the people of New York: “I scarcely believe that their patience and forbearance have been or will be equaled elsewhere, but I trust that the result will amply repay you all.” Belmont spoke last and praised the city for embracing a public-private financial model that should be followed for projects from that day forward. After Mayor McClellan had stood and said, “I, as mayor, in the name of the people, declare the subway open,” Belmont walked over to him and handed the mayor a mahogany case. There was one last act to complete before the subway belonged to the citizens of New York.

  * * *

  OUTSIDE CITY HALL, A SEA of more than five thousand people covered the steps, filled the plaza, and surrounded the kiosk of the City Hall station. It was almost 2:30 in the afternoon when a procession of men in tall silk top hats and long black frocks came bounding down the steps and marched briskly into a roped-off corridor lined on both sides by police, who fought to keep the pushing and shoving crowd back. As Frank Hedley, the subway’s general manager, led the group toward the City Hall kiosk, they were greeted by cheers and applause that drowned out the tooting factory whistles, the horns of ferries and tugs from the nearby harbor, and the chiming of church bells. Hedley opened the station door, and the group, with McClellan still
holding that mahogany case, descended the steps to the platform. A shiny silver subway train with eight cars attached sat there, and in seconds it was filled above its capacity with the officials and a few dozen thrill-seeking stragglers who’d managed to sneak in behind them before the station door was closed. In the front car, McClellan opened up the case to reveal a silver key, and Hedley took it and reached to slide it into a hole on the motor, only to be momentarily stymied.

  “Doesn’t fit very well,” he said. But after tinkering for a few seconds, he succeeded, and with a sudden hissing noise the electric motor buzzed to life. Hedley leaned over to McClellan with some last-minute instructions. “Are we ready?” the mayor hollered. “All right,” Hedley answered him while keeping his hand on the emergency brake. “Slow at first, remember!”

  McClellan, young and clean-shaven with dark wavy hair, cut a dashing figure. A city alderman by the time he was twenty-seven, he was elected mayor over Seth Low in 1903 at the age of thirty-eight. His father had run against Abraham Lincoln for president and had been a famous Civil War general. Though McClellan had no formal role in the subway’s approval or construction, he was savvy enough to realize that his citizens were clamoring for it, and on his first day in office he took a tour of the tunnels as a way to show his interest and appreciation for it. Unlike his most immediate predecessors, who were voted out of office in a year or two, McClellan proved popular enough to last five years, and during his term his fondness for huge public works projects grew as he oversaw the construction of the Queensboro and Manhattan bridges. For the subway, he merely benefited from arriving in office at the right time, and he made history when he pushed his hand forward and began the first subway ride in New York’s history.

  The car rounded a corner, and the lights of the Brooklyn Bridge station came into view. The car jerked to a stop without warning when the emergency brake was accidentally bumped, causing everyone on board to lurch forward. But the mayor got the hang of things and had the subway moving again in no time, picking up speed while Hedley blew the train’s whistle to warn track workers they were coming. As they pulled into the Spring Street station, McClellan turned to Hedley. “Shall I slow her down here,” he said, talking as if he’d been a motorman his whole life. “You’re going slow enough,” Hedley answered. “But aren’t you tired of it? Don’t you want the motorman to take hold?” Like a boy playing with his new toy, the mayor shot back with a quick reply. “No sir! I’m running this train.”

  Run it he did. Zooming up Fourteenth Street and along Fourth Avenue (which is now Park Avenue), McClellan pushed the train faster, his passengers behind him oblivious to how nervous he was making Hedley. They passed idling trains that had not yet been allowed to start and flew by track workers, ticket takers, and guards, who doffed their hats and cheered as the special train zoomed through. Into Grand Central Station they came, and then it was gone. A minute later, the passengers spotted a large electric sign four feet high and twelve feet long, with a single word glowing: TIMES. Here, McClellan shouted out, “Times Square Station,” but instead of slowing, he pushed the subway harder, up to forty-three miles per hour, far faster than Hedley had anticipated going on what was supposed to be a leisurely pleasure trip. Up the west side they went, past Sixty-sixth Street, where Hedley turned to McClellan with a plea. “Slower, here, sloooow-er! Ea-sy for the curve.”

  They passed a worker, who neatly sidestepped the train when he saw it coming, and then glided toward the last express station at Ninety-sixth Street, where it slid over a switch in the ground onto the northbound local track. Nineteen minutes the trip lasted, about five minutes longer than the express ride from the Brooklyn Bridge to Ninety-sixth would normally take under the control of a professional motorman, but impressive nonetheless.

  It was after Ninety-sixth when McClellan finally took his hand off the control and let the motorman on board, George L. Morrison, take over. McClellan, taking out a cigar that he quickly lit and puffed, shook his tired wrist. “Well, that was a little tiresome, don’t you know,” he said. “Why, you have to keep pressing that thing down all the time, for if you relax your hand the train will stop.”

  With Morrison at the controls, the train continued north, until, without warning, the passengers, who had been staring mostly at darkened tunnels, were suddenly looking out into the dusk. North of 122nd Street, the subway train emerged from the ground onto a viaduct that crossed Manhattan Valley. It was the only place where it ran in the open air, and New Yorkers who knew of this precise spot came out to cheer it on, shouting from the streets and rooftops. In response, Morrison blew the train’s whistle before it disappeared back out of sight at 135th Street.

  * * *

  BY EVENING, THE CROWDS WERE on the verge of bursting through the doors of the kiosks to get inside the stations. A slogan that had been shouted out for years and written in big headlines at one point or another by nearly every newspaper in the city began to be chanted in all seriousness, as it was now possible. “Fifteen minutes to Harlem!” the cries rang out. Most of the men held nickels in their hands, while the women who lined up had five pennies, ready to hand over their coins in return for a green IRT ticket. In the next five hours, 111,881 passengers would pay to ride the subway, and it seemed like every last one of them was standing outside a station somewhere across the city.

  The biggest crowds gathered at the express stations, from the Brooklyn Bridge stop to Grand Central to Times Square, where more than three hundred people filled the sidewalk and poured into the street. On the platforms underground, the ticket sellers braced themselves, worried about being unable to collect their fares and terrified of being crushed. Every New York police officer was on duty, sent out to protect the doors of the kiosks and stairways until permission to open them was received. It looked like a riot but felt like a carnival, since the pushing and shoving was of the friendly variety and anyone who had a hand free blew a whistle to keep up the party atmosphere.

  * * *

  A FEW MINUTES BEFORE seven o’clock in the evening of October 27, 1904, a familiar ringing sound echoed under the streets of New York. It was first heard in the uptown stations, and then quickly it began to be heard in the downtown stations. Alexander Graham Bell’s telephone, thirty years after its invention, was now as much a part of everyday life in New York City as the subway was destined to become. Telephones had been placed inside the stations to allow for the different managers to call each other and for emergency calls to be placed in the event a train had to be stopped. The ringing at this hour lasted only a few seconds. For when the station managers of the Interborough Rapid Transit Company answered the calls at their different posts across the city, they were all greeted with the same three-word message: “Let ’em in.”

  EPILOGUE

  IN OCTOBER 2012, THE UNTHINKABLE HAPPENED. And then four months later, it happened again.

  First, New Yorkers got to feel what it must have been like in 1888, when that angry blizzard shut down the elevated trains and rendered horse-pulled carriages useless, grinding the city to a standstill. It was snow then, and 125 years later it was rain, from a hurricane named Sandy. With the streets of Gotham flooded, a system that had ballooned to 468 stations and covered more than eight hundred miles was essentially shut down. New Yorkers were paralyzed. And four months later, it happened in Boston, though it was a much more traditional blow that shut down America’s first subway. A blizzard in February 2013 dumped foot upon foot upon foot of heavy snow, until the head of the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority said that it was too dangerous to keep the trains running and shut down the subway and the commuter rail.

  Predictably, commuters in both cities griped about the shutdowns, confused about how they were supposed to get anywhere of any great distance if they could not ride their subway. And, just as predictably, when their systems churned back to life after the messes left behind by their respective storms could be cleared, those same commuters rejoiced as if they had just had air restored to their lungs.<
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  * * *

  THE FIRST HOURS OF the New York City subway in 1904 were not unlike the first few hours of the Boston subway back in 1897. Carnival-like atmospheres saw passengers who could not wait to descend the stairs beneath their streets and clamber on board for a journey they had been debating for so long. Fear of the underground was gone, replaced by a palpable excitement at what the future held. In New York, between the public opening at 7:00 P.M. and midnight on October 27, 1904, more than 100,000 passengers took a ride on the subway, while in Boston, which had opened its subway at 6:00 A.M. rather than in the evening, more than 250,000 people took a trip on the first day. And then, in the blink of an eye, the subway was ingrained into the culture of the two cities. It didn’t take days or weeks or months or years for the cities to adapt to their new world. It took hours, proof of how ready the citizens were for the change.

  In Boston, on September 3, 1897, two days after America’s first subway opened, a headline in The Globe read NOVELTY OVER. The story told of how the turnstiles in the stations were officially a nuisance, how the evening rush hour was handled without a hitch, and how the public’s attention had already turned to the question of removing the railway tracks from their downtown streets to put the miserable past behind them as quickly as possible. So popular was the subway that when The Boston Post proclaimed in a story on September 12 that “hideous germs lurk in the underground air” and tried to frighten readers with the enlarged drawing of a hideous “subway microbe,” with beady eyes and tentacles, the story was largely ignored and did little to dissuade passengers.