USA > Massachusetts > Worcester County > Spencer > Historical sketches relating to Spencer, Mass., Volume IV > Part 13
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and Charles, nine months old, were on their way to the village. As the sound of the terrible explosion rang out on the air she sank on a wayside stone and also exclaimed, "Oh, dear, Abijah is dead." His body was so disfigured that it was only recog- nizable by a scar on one foot that had been protected by a boot.
Stephen Burroughs, as he was commonly called, was a France Frenchman of good education. His right name was Stephen Borasso. It is supposed that the assessor who first took his name could not understand the Frenchman's pro- nunciation and so wrote the name in English as it sounded to him. Mr. Borasso taught Mrs. Hall, his landlady, how to speak and write French during the winter prior to his death. He was of medium height, spare, quick in motion, and a noted dancer.
It is quite clear that no explosion ever occurred at these mills resulting in loss of life that was not due to somebody's carelessness or thoughtlessness. It was so in this case. A change in mechanical methods was about to be made, the old mortar taken out and a cylinder rumbler put in, in its stead. The old mortar was heavy and in order to remove it, must needs be pried up and got onto rollers. Mr. Orin S. Worth- ington, father of Charles E. and Liberty Worthington, well known citizens of Spencer, was the man in charge of the work and he had secured two oak sticks as levers for the operation. He went into the mill and gave directions how to do the work. Mr. Borasso asked if he could not go and borrow an iron crow- bar of Daniel Capen, who then lived where Abner Smith does now. Mr. Worthington said, ""By no means would I allow you to use a bar." Mr. Worthington then started for the refinery where he had the new cylinder in process of construc- tion and had only gone about half the distance when the ex- plosion took place throwing him violently on the ground. Tt was found afterwards by the location of timbers and boards that had he been in any other location he would have been hit by the flying timbers and probably killed. Mr. Borasso already had borrowed the bar and had it in hiding when talk- ing to Mr. Worthington and when his body was found near the river, had the bar tightly grasped in his hands. The three men were buried in one grave in the northeast corner of the old burying ground, and probably on land now in use as a road.
On October 12, 1840 the upper mills were completely destroyed by an explosion between eight and nine o'clock in the evening. About two tons of powder was in the drying house and the whole force of the explosion seemed to be ex-
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pended toward the east. A heavy growth of wood was between the drying house some six rods away from the pond and the road leading to Wire Village. The trees were mown down like grass for a space two rods wide clear to the road.
The roof of what is now known as the Hogan house, but then occupied by Levi Adams had that portion of the roof facing the west raised about a foot. Windows were blown in and doors taken off their hinges. Mr. Adams' clock had the pendulum thrown across the road where it was found in the bushes the next day. Daniel W. Adams of Pleasant Street has this clock now in his possession. Jacob W Jones, father of Jarvis H. Jones, was then living in what was known as the long house on the Allen Ure lot. The explosion burst inward the outside door, which before had been closed and an oak wedge put in over the latch for a fastening, forcing the heavy wrought iron latch and catch out of a heavy oak stud into which it had been firmly driven, and shooting it across the room and deeply indenting the base board.
Mrs. Betsey Adams was in bed at the Hogan house at the time with a babe only a few days old and she had just covered the babe with bed clothing when the window came crashing in cutting with broken glass her arms, hands and breast in places almost without number, the scars of which always re- mained. Crockery was shaken off shelves in the Worcester stores and at Leicester Academy the building shook so the students thought for a moment the building was coming down. After the surprise was over a stage coach was chartered and as many as could possibly ride thereon came to view the scene.
February 11, 1852, the cylinder mill exploded, instantly killing John McCartha, a young and muscular Irishman who had boarded with his sister Mrs. Canary, at the long house on the Allen Ure lot. Edward Hall, one of the proprietors, was so injured that he only lived about two and one-half hours after his removal to his house at the Bemis Valley farm. Ed- ward Henry Hall was also in the mill and with the others was blown up on to the embankment some fifty feet from the mill and at least twenty feet higher. His hair was burned completely off and the skin on his hands and face peeled off i.] great flakes. But he recovered in a few months and is said to have been the only man ever blown out of a mill who survived. He is now living at Kansas City, Mo. McCarthe was taken to Worcester for interment, while Mr. Hall was buried at Pine Grove cemetery. It is claimed by those now living, who knew Mr. Hall intimately, that he was the best man they ever knew. His father was an English sea captain, who on a voyage to Bos-
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ton became enamoured of a young woman, afterwards the mother of Edward Hall. After one or two voyages from Bos- ton and return the captain again sailed and neither he nor his vessel was ever again heard fromn. The widow being in desti- tute circumstances bound out her boy Edward, to a butcher at Waltham, while she took a position as cook at the old Ex- change hotel in Worcester, where she educated well her only daughter, who afterwards became the first wife of Isaac N. Stearns of this town. The young man, Edward, increased in favor with both God and man. Isaac Stearns, the father of
EDWARD HENRY HALL
Isaac N. Stearns, who built and lived at that time in the house now owned by James Hunter in the northwest corner of Spen- cer, used frequently to go to Boston to sell cattle and other products of his farm and wished to get a good reliable young man to assist him. He inquired at the Waltham hotel if such a young man could be found in that section and at once young Hall was recommended as the right man if he could be induced to go. : The conference proving satisfactory. young Hall packed all his earthly effects in a handkerchief and swinging the same over his shoulder, started for Spencer on foot, while
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Mr. Stearns went his way to Boston. The young man proved to be all he was recommended, married Narcissa Stearns, the daughter, and finally succeeded to the management of the home farm. For some reason he afterwards went to Oak- ham and lived for a brief period and it was there that Edward Henry was born. His fame as an honest, capable man reach- ing the ears of Lewis Bemis, he succeeded in inducing Mr. Hall to give up his Oakham farm and come to Spencer and engage in powder making. This change was effected early in 1838 and James Elliott, the second son, was born in the old Powder mill house; after this two daughters, Mary and Abbie, were born. But Mr. Hall still longed for a farmer's life and pur- chased the Bemis Valley farm and from that time until his death was both farmer and powder manufacturer. What is now the Agricultural grounds was Mr. Hall's oat field.
At the time of the explosion the ground was covered with snow and a thaw was in progress. The water was high in the canal and on the night of the 10th of February the man in charge of the mill press, William Bixby, had put on too much power and run the screw down so tightly that he could not stir it. That night Bixby got under the influence of liquor and did not put in an appearance in the morning. So Mr. Hall was sent for to see if he could get the press in working condition. In trying to do this the gears slipped by and al- though the gears were always kept smeared with tallow and lard, the fatal spark was engendered by the great friction and the rest is known. Bixby was the man to blame. Mr. Hall was a staunch Methodist and gave four hundred dollars toward the church building fund at the time of its erection in 1847, and was forty-six years old at the time of his death. He is also said to have had a hand in the underground railroad scheme to transport slaves from the south to Canada; at least two negroes were known to have stopped at his house at Valley farm, and were helped on their way north.
The following description of scenes following the explo- sion of Feb. 11, 1852, is from the pen of Mr. James E. Hall and were written to the writer from Watsonville, California.
This is the anniversary of the cruel day, forty- eight years ago, when my father, after five hours
of excruciating agony, passed away-a day so filled with horror that all the intervening years have not sufficed to remove the impression made upon my boy- ish memory. Every year the dreadful details of that. explo- sion which shook the barn where I was, at the Bemis Valley farm, until I verily believed it nothing less than the blast of
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Gabriel's trumpet concluding all things earthly-my groping for the light to see the changing earth and skies-mother's cry of agony from the door of the house looking toward the powder mills with hands outstretched to the utmost, as if in desperation to reach to the rescue-that cloud, thick, sulphur- ous, black and impenetrable as doom, palling the valley and reaching out ominously over the graves in the cemetery-the frenzied run to the old boarding house, where I was born on the powder mill land, where I met my brother Henry, burned and bleeding and black as a cinder-my uncle, Prentice Stearns running aimlessly round and round the house with hardly sense enough left in his distraction to cry, 'Take this
JAMES ELLIOT HALL Died Aug. 27, 1901
pail of water and run to your father, or he will be dead before you get there'-the desperate run over the hill impeded by the water and two feet of slush and snow-overtaken and helped on the hill by Augustus Hunter-the ghastly spectacle in that valley of death, where we found two dying men, the first just moaning out his final complaints and making the con vulsive motions of a hasty and unwilling exit-the other the
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sublime martyrdom of a saint on fire, his clothes still blazing with inextinguishable brimstone, his features burned and streaming with blood, his body hopelessly torn and fatally mutilated in vital and tender parts, with eyes closed and face uplifted and thoughts elevated above self and pain, praying alone in the presence of death that God would remember his family and spare his injured son, while with his hands he bathed his flesh with the cold and snowy slush, which he said felt most agreeable to him-the thoughtless eagerness of a child throwing over him all that cold water and nearly taking his breath away-the rapid gathering of the multitudes-the bearing of him away-the death in the house-the awful gloom of that night of despair in the agony of a broken hearted mother, when death seemed willing to crush us all-ail these details are still vivid and years do not fade them, but I am glad the memory of that great, grand life abides also with me and its influence for good all through my life has been like a constant benediction."
James Elliott Hall acquired a good education and grad- uated from Brown University. He preached a few years in Massachusetts and Maine, and then went west and engaged in business. The following poem from his pen gives us some features concerning his birthplace and life at the old powder mill house, which otherwise would have been forever lost from the memory of man :
Mr. Hall has recently deceased.
MY BIRTHPLACE.
By JAMES E. HALL. (Old Powder Mill House, Seven-mile River.) And this is my birthplace! It must be the place,
Though the buildings are gone, and the walls, and each trace
Of the old apple-tree in whose branches we played,
And ate its green fruit in the swing in its shad ...
The cellar is here, but I don't recall how,
Exactly, it looked, it's so tumbled down now; But hidden away in its dark embrace,
Was the old brick oven's expansive place,
Which with roaring flame, in weekly repeat,
Was fervently kindled to furnace heat, And dazzling domes of old fashioned brown bread, And beans on its sizzling hot floor were spread:
Plum puddings, and pies, and sweet ginger cake And all tempting things a mother could make. And well I remember the big glowing fires Where father sat late with neighboring squires,
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And mother, equipped with needle and shears, Swift suited the costumes to sex and our years; While we hid behind her scarce blinking for dread, Lest we should be seen and sent hapless to bed. And who so insensuate his heart does not feel Th' alluring warmth of that fireside's appeal To a sensitive child, who nightly repeats, Its hated exchange for two icy sheets? And lovingly lingers absorbing the fire, As a latent reserve, when forced to retire, If haply his overcharged body may hold Some remnant of heat to frustrate the cold; When every warm garment is quickly withdrawn For a blistering nightgown of transparent lawn, And the nude urchins must somehow contrive
To curl up together and shake and survive. Ah, here is the well! Mysterious place
Where the bucket went down; With a stone o'er its face,
And a gray old sweep swinging high in the air,
With a rock at the end to balance it there.
All these in satire have mouldered away; And the curb where we peeped, intent to survey.
What mother's authority strictly denied,
The elfs or hobgoblins that might be inside.
In spite of remonstrance and argument;
In spite of the time she idly spent,
Relating examples of loss of life With which such audacious exploits were rife, Resolve was fixed to do what was forbid,
And know what in that dark cavern was hid.
And so it was that by danger beguiled, Desire to rebel, which possesses the child, And that masterful passion to understand The unknown and forbidden on every hand, In stolen moments when no one was near, We dared our destiny on tiptoe here, And over the curbings great bolts we hurled, And listened response from the under-world. The barns where we played and the kites we flew The fruits we sampled and the trees where they grew; E'en the hills and the vales have changed in their mould And the childhood seems now like a tale that is told. The mills and the flumes have gone to decay, And the old stone dam has crumbled away; The pond where we fished and boated and swam
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Crept under the stones and has gone with the dam; And now a small stream it's straight margin shows And in its first channel it now again flows. Great logs have been gathered from fields we tilled, The meadows we mowed with forests are filled; The hollow wherein the autumn before My infancy attained the age of four, With resolute purpose and firm set will, I climbed at sunset the steep pasture hill, And spurned indignantly there on the ground- The old red silk hood which my head had crowned, And renounced it there, in firm protest That I would not be a dubious guest, And valiantly homeward my way pursued In scorn that my sex might be misconstrued, That hollow then in its profusion bore Sweet pasturage over its grassy floor, And cows brought down at morn and night Abundant treasures from its green clad hight: That hollow and hill are now overspread With thick underbrush-and all overhead Great forest arms in a miracle swing And mosses and vines to its pine trees cling. The neighbors around us on every side Have gone one by one-migrated or died, And no one remairs with these exiles here To share in a sigh or mingle a tear; Not even a flower turns its sweet-scented face To welcome us back to this love-hallowed place, To which in all climes as a magnet my soul, Thrilled by remembrance, has turned to its pole. No matter how humble, how lowly in guise, 'Twas ever a palace to my childish eyes, Whose hearthstone had round it as merry a crew And echoed with joys as bright as e'er flew. As I stand here where I first saw the day, And note how the life marks are fading away; How just a smoothness on everything round And outlines of grace on hillock and mound Alone remain-the last lingering trace That some one has lived here and still haunts the place- I see bright processions memory led, Of some who are living and more who are dead, And they seem just as ardent, hopeful and gay And young, as if they left us yesterday;
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Those playmates whose dreams would daily unfold In visions of glory, dominion, or gold, But later, poor fellows, have earnestly tried To make something of life, and failed, and died; And yet wider visions of care cumbered men Each bent with his burden, as I, since then, Compelled to suffer and bear all the way Restraints and hardships no rewards can repay, Struggling against hope for promises delayed, With life aims blasted and friendships betrayed. Driven through life like clouds o'er the sun's face, To give room for others who crowd for our place, A river of sorrows flowing on through the years And lost in a desert whence it ne'er reappears.
EPILOGUE.
Of all that band of days of yore, Who played about the cottage door, Just three of us are here today, With faces changed and locks turned gray; From circles that the years divide Across the land from side to side; These, from the noble old Bay State- This, from the matchless Golden Gate; A sister, prompt and bold to act And make her generous thought a fact, A cousin, loyal, brave and true- We three our childhood here renew. We tread again the paths we trod, We view the same green velvet sod, We hear the birds whose music fills As formerly the woods and hills, We see the same unclouded sky, The same sweet daisies greet the eye, And yet from all the eye and ear There's something gone which should be here, A vacancy in everything, In flowers that bloom and birds that sing; And wait and listen as we will These wanted things are absent still. We kneel again in thought once more As suppliants on the conscious floor, And wonder if from some bright star They see us through the gates ajar,
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Or in their sympathy draw near
Invisible, yet truly here.
But since so much of life is gone,
What matters that we still live on? Still wanting that so long denied,
Still with our hearts unsatisfied ?
Still homesick, yearning still
As orphaned children ever will Inalienable heritage
Of early loss of parentage?
But we believe that somewhere yet
These early longings will be met,
These hearts w'll find their due redress
Encompassed round with tenderness,
In some condition find and know
The loved ones lost so long ago.
For who the warm and generous heart
Forever from its loves shall part ?
Who finally consent to lay
His dead in hopelessness away,
Close down the dumb and cruel lid
Where all that death has left is hid, And see the angel seal his book,
Without one faithborn upward look,
Without one word of hope expressed-
Sorrow's last welcome saving guest-
Hope that the dead shall yet revive? Nay! that our loved ones still survive!
JAMES ELLIOT HALL, Oakland, California.
After the death of Mr. Hall, Mr. Bemis hired four English- men to operate the powder mills. They were all more or less intemperate and had been discharged from the British govern- ment powder mills on that account. Their names were Henry Avis, aged twenty-two; Richard Avis, aged thirty-three; George Swallow, aged twenty-seven; and Richard Perkins, aged thirty-seven. These four with John Mclaughlin, a team- ster, were all killed by an explosion on November 5, 1853. November 4th, the water being high, an endeavor was made to run the press screw down as rapidly as possible with the result that the head of one of the four corner rods which were about three inches in diameter, gave way with sufficient force to fly upward through the roof. Nothing further could be done but to take the rod out, and carry it to Worcester for repairs, and this was being attempted. The teamster was there with a
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single horse and wagon backed up to the door Three men were in the wheel pit to help pull the rod down, while two were above. " It is supposed in striking the rod on the end too much force was used, a spark struck, and the men instantly launched into eternity. Mr. MeLaughlin was an Irishman aged twenty- five, and his body was taken to Worcester for burial. The others were buried in the potter's field, a short distance in rear of the Congregational church. The three men in the pit had their clothing wholly torn off, but their bodies were uninjured. It is probable they were perspiring freely as the work pro- gressed, for their bodies washed by the running water were as clean as though they had taken a Turkish bath. Richard Per- kins and George Swallow were the two men overhead. The body of Perkins was blown over the river westerly, over the clump of trees now standing, into the meadow of the late Abner Smith. Mrs. Smith saw the body in its flight and saw the man try to sit up after he alighted, but he sank back exhausted and probably expired immediately. Perkins was a man who looked every inch a pirate after the Bluebeard order. What
he was in fact we shall never know. The body of George Swallow was found by Mr. Henry I. Wybert some distance west in what was then an open meadow. A short time pre- vious these Englishmen had purchased a barrel of beer at Wor- cester and had it stored in the Valley farm cellar. This was about two-thirds gone and it is supposed they had been in- . bibing too freely for their own safety.
Henry Avis, who was making the powder by contract, was a fine looking man, weighing 180 pounds. He was engaged to be married to Widow Hall, with whom he in common with the others had been boarding. She had gone to Reading, where the marriage was to have taken place in the evening of the very day of the explosion. He was to have taken the noon train. Mrs. Hall had made all preparations for a fine supper and was out on the street when she heard the newsboys cry- ing, "Great powder mill explosion at Spencer ! Five men killed." Her heart sank within her at such news, as she realized at once that her lover was among the dead.
Mr. Henry I. Wybert and his cousin, the late Thomas S. Wright, well known to our citizens, worked at the powder mills a short time prior to this explosion and at a time when a new mill built near the river. exploded at night without loss of life. This was enough for these two men and they quit the business at once. Mr. Lewis Bemis tried to persuade them to continue, but Mr. Wright, who had been a seafaring man, told him he would "go to sea until he was bald headed" before he would
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again work in a powder mill. It was well they concluded so, or else it is possible they might have shared the fate of the others.
The last man to lose his life by a powder mill explosion was William Bixby. This occurred July 9, 1854. He was about thirty-four years old, unmarried, and a most dissolute man. Bixby said before Independence Day he was going to have one more good long drunk before he was blown up and he did, and it was said and currently believed that at the time of the ex- plosion and first day of work since his drunk, he walked purposely into the mill with a pipe in his mouth. Thus it will be seen that in every case of loss of life at these mills it was due to gross carelessness preceded on the part of some one by an immoderate use of intoxicating liquors. . A summary of those killed is as follows: Abijah Bemis, Lyman Bullard and Francis Borasso, April 21, 1840; Edward Hall, and John McCartha, February 11, 1852; John Mclaughlin, George Swallow, Richard Perkins, Richard Avis and Henry Avis, November 5, 1853; William Bixby, July 9, 1854.
Summary of the owners of the Spencer powder mills: Isaac Smith from 1813 to 1816; Samuel Smith from 1813 to 1832; Samuel M. Hobbs from 1816 to 1823; Walter W. White from 1823 to 1826; Walton Livermore from 1823 to 1835; Joseph Wiley Patrick from 1816 to -; Lewis Bemis from 1832 to 1856; Lewis Bemis' heirs from 1856 to 1861.
About twenty rods below Powder Mill bridge on the east bank of the Seven-mile river can be seen an excavation where once stood what was known as a five-wheel mill. thirty-six feet square. The machinery including four cylinders, had been purchased at Barre. Mr. Bemis took great pains to have this mill the best that could be built. When completed and the machinery all in place, it ran so smoothly that it was said to have been a delightful sight to see all the ponderous machinery in motion. So much so that it was kept going "to see the wheels go round." The machinery was started one Monday morning and ran until Wednesday night, August 15, 1853, when an explosion took place and the mill was no more. This accident caused Mr. Bemis to feel exceedingly sorrowful. He
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