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.
… It is a perfect mystery how the wound was produced … It was scarcely possible to understand how this could take place if the wheel had gone over him, or how only one wheel, and that the first of the engines, could have done so without the whole train following, or why it did not, from the enormous weight, entirely sever it.18
Once the equipment and other surgeons had arrived and assessed the situation, it was finally agreed that, because of his condition (his body being shaken regularly by severe spasms), they could not operate and, eventually, they concluded an operation would do nothing to save the poor man. He was administered laudanum, to sedate him and stop the dreadful spasms. (The management and treatment of Huskisson were latterly bitterly contended, the argument being that, if the medical attendees had acted more decisively sooner, his life could have been saved.)
The large, unhappy and shocked party left at the trackside were placed in a quandary – should they go on, or go back? Would it appear unseemly and disrespectful to continue, or if they went back, would the bad news get out, be misrepresented and give the wrong and unhelpful impression of railway travel? Riders on horseback brought news that the large crowds, already gathered at Manchester to see the arrival of the trains and the Duke’s party, were growing restless and unhappy in the worsening weather conditions. In order to prevent a possible riot, it was decided to travel on. The remains of the Duke’s train was attached to the coupled Phoenix and North Star trains, and the sorry procession continued its sad, and now uncomfortable journey. On the way they met with George Stephenson, returning from Manchester. Despite the horror of the situation, history was still in the making and another ‘first’ achieved, as the Northumbrian, driven by George Stephenson, is recorded to have made the distance of some 15 miles to the parsonage in Eccles in just twenty-five minutes at a, then mind-blowing, rate of approximately 36mph.
Travelling on through the inclement weather, with buglers no longer playing and passengers no longer responding to the cheering crowds along the route, the bedraggled entourage pulled into Manchester at 3 p.m. Here the crowd, already hostile towards the unpopular Prime Minister and ‘the wealthy’, had become increasingly restless and agitated. The Duke’s carriage, and others, were pelted with vegetables, insults and even stone, as noted later by the Morning Post. There were shouts and calls for ‘No Corn Laws!’ and ‘Vote by ballot!’– two very hot and controversial issues on Wellington’s political agenda. Fanny Kemble wryly remarked, ‘The contrast between our departure from Liverpool and our arrival in Manchester was one of the most striking things I have ever witnessed.’
The military were on hand to greet the Duke (and to protect him and the railway). Wellington cautiously remained in his carriage, talking with well-wishers until he was able to make an early escape, and his train, now pulled by Comet, left for the return journey at 4.37 p.m. The rest of the 600 passengers had to wait until the remaining carriages could be gathered and joined together. Then, hauled by the three remaining serviceable engines, they travelled as one long, very slow train, in the darkness, on the home journey to Liverpool, not arriving until after 10 p.m. by which time William Huskisson, MP for Liverpool, was dead.
Whilst his poor wife had found the dreadful situation too much to bear and had to be quieted with sedation, Huskisson showed considerable forbearance and fortitude during his last painful hours, speaking kindly to those who attended him, and even making a codicil to his will and taking holy rites from his friend, the Revere
nd Blackburn, who had ridden on horseback from Manchester to attend him. He ‘breathed his last at 9 o’clock’ according to William Wainwright, writing to inform the Mayor of Liverpool; and thereby Huskisson claimed his place in railway history. He was buried with full public ceremonial in Liverpool on the 24 September. So popular had he been that 3,000 tickets were issued for his burial in St James’ Cemetery, and it is said that almost half the city – some 69,000 – lined the streets to watch the funeral procession and pay their respects. A subscription was set up and, later, a memorial with statue was erected from the monies raised.
The Right Honourable William Huskisson MP. On his plaque – ‘A tribute of personal respect and affection’ – it tells how his death ‘Changed a moment of the noblest exultation and triumph that science and genius had ever achieved into one of desolation and mourning …’
Whilst the tragedy reinforced the views of those, like Henry Brougham, who believed the venture to be utterly insane – ‘the folly of 700 people going fifteen miles an hour, in six carriages on a narrow road, exceeds belief’19– the accident had brought massive media attention. Perhaps ironically, this highlighted the worth of the railway in carrying large numbers and the value of its speed. Whilst further planned celebrations were cancelled, the next day it was ‘business as usual’ for the Liverpool & Manchester Railway – ‘On the following morning the railway was opened for public traffic. The first train of 140 passengers was booked and sent on to Manchester, reaching it in the allotted time of two hours; and from that time the traffic has regularly proceeded from day to day until now.’20
The Liverpool & Manchester Railway became an instant success. Writing a perspective on the Liverpool & Manchester Railway, Henry Booth, who had been intimately involved with it, summed up its greatest effect:
Perhaps the most striking result produced by the completion of this railway, is the sudden and marvellous change which has been effected in our ideas of time and space … what was quick is now slow; what was distant is now near.21
George Stephenson learnt lessons from the accident, and had all his new engines equipped with brakes. Wellington remained bitterly opposed to the railways, and did not ride one again until he accompanied Queen Victoria (also known for her lack of love for railways) in 1843, on the London & South Western Railway. William Huskisson’s name has become part of our railway heritage. A plaque, marking the spot, commemorates him and his extraordinary passing.
Notes
1 As described by the Observer, 19 September 1830
2 Liverpool Mercury, Friday 17 September 1830
3 Staffordshire Advertiser, Saturday 18 September 1830
4 ‘A Railer’ was the pseudonym for the writer of the article, ‘The Opening of the Liverpool and Manchester Railroad’, Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, September 1830
5 Ibid.
6 Simon Garfield, as quoted in The Guardian, 19 October 2002
7 Charles Greville was an aristocrat who became one of the finest political diarists of his day. His diaries are generally known as The Greville Papers. These quotes were written three days after Huskisson’s death
8 Oh but that he had paid attention
9 Gore’s Liverpool General Advertiser
10 Mersey Times website
11 Charles Greville
12 www.resco.co.uk/history
13 Creevey Papers, Thomas Creevey, 19 September 1830
14 Samuel Smiles 1899
15 Gore’s Liverpool General Advertiser
16 Fanny Kemble
17 My italics for emphasis.
18 His words in a letter to Mrs Gaskell
19 Brougham, writing to Macvey Napier, 16 September 1830. Selections from the correspondence of the late Macvey Napier, 1879
20 Samuel Smiles, 1899
21 Henry Booth was the L&M Railway Company secretary and treasurer, Account of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway, 1830
2
THE ACCIDENT AT SONNING CUTTING – A MERE ‘SLIP’!
When Isambard Kingdom Brunel originally planned the Great Western Railway (GWR) line from Bristol to London, he had intended to route the line to the north of Sonning Hill in Berkshire and bypass Sonning village. There was heated objection to this by the local people. In the original act it was proposed to ‘pierce the hill by means of a tunnel however the GWR were able to dispense with this and instead a “cutting” which divide[d] the variegated sands and marles of the plastic clay, and passe[d] nearly, but not quite, down to the chalk’1 was carved through the hill itself.
The cutting, nearly 2 miles long and varying from 20–60ft deep, was an incredible feat of ‘man and muscle’ as it was dug out by hand and the spoil, around 24,500 cubic yards per week, was removed by wheelbarrow and horse-drawn carts. The amount of excavation necessary was exacerbated by the requirements of the broad gauge rail (7ft ¼in). ‘The cross-section of the deepest part of the cutting allowed a width of 30 feet for the railway and 10 feet for the side drains.’2 It was a massive undertaking and took a back-breaking two years to complete, with many ‘navvies’ losing their lives in the process. The end result was visually stunning, with the embankment sides rising at an acute angle high above the track. The cutting is traversed by two bridges, which quickly became popular spots for artists and, later, photographers. There are many dramatic presentations of it highlighting particular engines and trains as they passed through, especially that of the last broad gauge passenger train behind the engine Bulkeley on 20 May 1892.
J.C. Bourne wrote of this work, ‘At its deepest part this cutting is crossed by two bridges. That to the east, represented in the foreground of the accompanying plate, carries the cross road from Sonning towards the Lodden Bridge … the other bridge, also represented in the plate carries the Great Western Turnpike road from London towards Reading.’ It would lead one to think that one would be looking at this with one’s back to Paddington. It would also suggest that this wooden bridge was the one spoken of in the evidence.
The view from the old timber bridge in the east was to play a significant role in the following event. On Friday 24 December 1841, the 2-4-0 broad gauge tender engine Hecla – one of the GWR’s first batch of ‘Leo’ class engines, designed by Sir Daniel Gooch and built by Fenton, Murray & Jackson of Leeds – left Paddington Station at its usual time of 4.30 a.m. It was hauling a luggage (‘goods’) train with passengers. (The name of the type of train is of significance here, as it gives an indication of where the priority lay – i.e. luggage/goods over passengers – which was to become a mainstream debate as a result of this event.) In an 1841 timetable, the GWR actually specified that, ‘the goods train passengers will be conveyed in uncovered trucks by the goods trains only’,3 in other words, there was no choice of train for them.
The train comprised the engine and tender, two passenger trucks – also known as ‘common waggons’ (one a six-wheeler and one a four), a truck, and seventeen luggage wagons. The passengers’ trucks were placed immediately behind the tender, and herein lay the debate. ‘The train was a particularly heavy one being loaded with Christmas cheer, containing amongst other items 800 barrels of oysters and baskets of fish.’4The number of passengers reported to have been carried varies between twenty-seven and thirty-eight, but it is agreed that they were chiefly of the ‘poorer classes’ going home for Christmas.
The Hecla was one of the Leo class engines designed by Sir Daniel Gooch, and built between January 1841 and July 1842 by three different companies. They were the Great Western Railway’s first ‘goods’ engines. The Hecla was built by Fenton, Murray and Jackson of Leeds, whilst these two examples, Leo and Sagittarius, were built by Rothwell & Co., of Bolton.
It was a dark, gloomy morning; not surprising considering the time of day and time of year. All went as it should until arriving at the Sonning Hill cutting, some 3 miles from Reading, at a place called ‘the Gullet’ about 80 yards east of the wooden bridge. Due to the recent wet weather conditions, the ground of the great embankment had become sat
urated, and just before, or maybe even as, the train came through, a slippage of earth occurred, covering the track for about 30 yards and up to 4ft deep.
What happened next was to be written up as ‘the first bad Great Western accident’ by GWR historian E.T. MacDermott5 and, perhaps more appropriately, by The Times as, ‘An accident attended with more deplorable consequences than any that we have yet occasion to record … a most dreadful sacrifice of human life’.6
It was the most fatal accident in railway history thus far. So outraged were the public by this latest in a long line of accidents that many sectors of the press joined in the attack on railway companies in general. The Mechanics’ Magazine, who purported to be ‘a serious journal … devoted to scientific accuracy’7reported angrily that, ‘The railway system has been productive of another appalling accident, the most deplorable, by far … Eight persons in an instant dashed to atoms and twice as many grievously wounded.’8
Death, Dynamite and Disaster Page 3