VICKSBURG Chapter Fifty-Five

It was 2 regiments from Indiana, the 11^th and the 48^th and the Wisconsin 28^th , which did the final damage to the Rebel center. General Hovey's 12^th division, 1^st brigade, commanded by 37 year old Brigadier General George Francis McGinness, went once again up the bloodied face of Champion Hill, to re-capture the cross roads. 

But this time, after brushing aside the rebel infantry, the Hoosiers and Badgers found the line held only by a single battery of 4 bronze six pound cannon. In the face of withering blasts of grape shot, the mid-westerners let loose killing volley after volley of musket fire, that butchered the gunners and their horses.

The story is told that when the white smoke cleared, only the 6 foot 3 inch dark haired, 41 year old Captain Samuel Jones Ridley (above) was still standing by a gun of Company A, of the 1^st Mississippi Light Artillery. The horses were all down, dead or screaming in agony, so the cannon were not going anywhere. And the human gunners had either been killed or wounded, or run to escape the same fate. But Captain Ridley continued to service the last gun by himself.

The Yankees saw him load double canister into the barrel and pull the lanyard. A century later a devotee of the Lost Cause would imagine the Yankee reaction. “For a moment perhaps, their eyes filled with admiration, but then the cannon roared its defiance ... they answered with a storm of lead. And in the next instant the lone figure vanished in the smoke.” Under that smoke the Captain had been hit by 6 musket balls. The batteries' second in command, Lieutenant Frank Johnston had a more prosaic vision. He wrote, “We went in there with 82 men and came out with 8”.

The shocked Yankees paid for the captured canon with their futures. There was little romance in such a grisly bargains. Before he had left Vicksburg, marching to his temporary grave on this hilltop, Sam Ridley, successful planter and slave owner, had predicted the Yankees would only capture Vicksburg through the “...bad management of the general in command.” 

Most of the Confederate soldiers knew who was responsible for the disaster on Champion Hill. Young surgeon John A. Leavy, of Missouri, wrote, “ "Today proved...General Pemberton is either a traitor or the most incompetent officer in the Confederacy. Indecision, indecision, indecision ... Our soldiers and officers are determined not to be sold (meaning sacrificed) if they can possibly help it." 

Referring to Pemberton's Pennsylvania birth, school teacher Sargent William Pitt Chambers was convinced, "...our Commanding General had been false to the flag under which he fought." Said one of Pemberton's officers, “He undoubtedly displayed bad generalship, and the day’s work may cost us Vicksburg.”

Pemberton had crossed Bakers Creek with some 17,000 men. Of the 38 guns which Pemberton had brought to the battle, some 11 cannon were captured.  He left 380 dead on the battlefield, and another 66 who would die within 48 hours. 

Over 1,000 were wounded, and almost 2,500 surrendered to the victorious Federals.  More importantly, the soul of the Army of Mississippi had been destroyed on that Hill of Death. Unit discipline, which had survived the day long slugging match, disintegrated while searching for an escape route.

What saved Pemberton's army from complete destruction was ingenuity, none of it from Pemberton. Arriving at Edward's Depot early on the morning of 16 May, 1863, 25 year old Major Samuel Henry Lockett, Chief Engineer for the army, was ordered by the Lieutenant General to concentrate on providing entrenchments for the battle line across Champion Hill. Almost as an after thought Lockett dispatched a Sergeant Vernon to use fifty men from Brigadier General Alfred Cumming's 3^rd Brigade, to replace the washed out Raymond Road bridge over Baker's Creek.

By 2:00 p.m. the water level had fallen enough that they had built a smaller replacement and were cutting away the 10 foot natural levees on either bank, to provide access. Without that bridge, inadequate as it was, the entire army would have been lost.  Excluding the 7,000 men who marched under General Lorring's division, Pemberton recrossed Baker's Creek with perhaps 9,000 men.

But once across the creek the rebels discovered the Yankees had pushed Captain Samuel De Golyer's battery “H” of the 1^st Michigan Light Artillery across the Bolton Road bridge. After advancing as far as 2 miles west, the batteries' two 12 pound howitzers and three 6 pound rifles, began shelling the retreating Confederates, preventing them from reforming. 

Later General Pemberton (above) would share his self pity with Major Lockett. Watching the disaster he had engineered engulf the army, he said, “Just 30 years ago I began my military career...and today...that career ended in disaster and disgrace.”

By 5:00pm, the only division with any coherence belonged to the one armed firebrand. Major General William Wing Loring (above).  “Give Em Blizzards” had saved his men by stubbornly refusing to feed them into Pemberton's meat grinder at the cross roads. But ultimately, what saved Loring's division was that Grant did not pursue them. Ulysses Simpson Grant was focused on the Yazoo Heights. If he could have been assured that Pemberton would march his entire army to Raymond, Grant would have gladly let them go unmolested.

Grant had about 32,000 men in action at Champion Hill, of whom over 400 were left dead on the field, another 100 or so would die of their wounds within days. Almost 2,000 were wounded, and nearly 200 were missing. The battle had reduced Grant's effectives by about 3,000 men. But the reappearance of Sherman's 2 divisions the next day, would make the Army of the Tennessee 10,000 men stronger.

Even as he easily fending off a cautious single brigade attack up the Raymond Road by Yankee Major General Andrew Jackson Smith's division, Loring chose to slide his men south, to avoid the near panic at the temporary bridge. 

Loring's only unit engaged holding off Smith's attack was the 1,500 men of his 1^st brigade, under the popular, dashing Brigadier General Lloyd Tilghman. And it seemed the one time Railroad Engineer viewed the engagement as a summer's outing.  

About 5:30 p.m., a relaxed Tilghman paused in a casual discussion with some of his non-commissioned officers, to adjust the aim of a nearby 12 pound Napoleon cannon. Stepping back to observe the fall of his shot, the 47 year old was cut in half by Federal artillery shell. Stung by this personal loss,  Loring led his men south, away from the Yankee artillery, and away from the Yankee infantry. 

After fighting all day, Major General Carter Stevenson's division trudged 12 miles into the night, crossing the Big Black River before finally resting about 1:00 a.m. on the high ground south of the village of Bovina.  Major General John Bowen's division staggered closely behind, leaving troops on the east side of the Big Black, in the hope of welcoming Major General Loring's men.

But Loring's men were not coming.

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VALLEY OF DEATH Chapter Three

I can imagine the unease felt by the technicians at Power House Number One (above), three miles below the St. Francis dam. It was the generators in this building, fed by the fall of water from the reservoir  which was providing the first dependable electricity to the city of Los Angeles. The needles on their gauges indicated the water level in the reservoir had been slowly dropping for hours. 

And the night shift workers who had driven around the the reservoir and over the dam in getting to work had observed a foot drop in the road along the eastern abutment of the dam (above, right). When Ace Hopewell reported for work a few minutes later he heard what he thought was a landslide somewhere in the dark near the reservoir. 

Finally, about 11:57 P.M., somebody got worried enough to pick up the phone and call the dam keeper in the smaller Power House Number Two - containing just 2 generators -  a mile and a half further below the dam. Was everything okay there? “Yes”, came the quick answer.  But the haste of the response belied its assurance. 

And fifteen seconds later, at 12:57:30, Monday, 12  March, 1928, every light in Los Angeles went out. At that instant 53 million tons of water (12 billion U.S. gallons) wrenched apart the St. Francis Dam, and released a 10 story wall of black water desperate to reach the Pacific Ocean, fifty miles away.

In August of 1924 (two months after the first bombing of the Los Angeles Aqueduct) William Mulholland began construction of a new dam at the narrowest point (above) in Francisquito (Fran-sis-kito) canyon - 50 miles north of Los Angeles.  But Mulholand consulted no geologist. in picking the site.  

Originally the unreinforced concrete gravity arch dam - held in place by its own weight -  was to be 600 across at the top and 185 feet high.  But as  bombings continued to disrupt the flow of water from the Aqueduct,  Mulholland decided to add ten feet in height, increasing the storage capacity of the future reservoir by 2,000 acre feet.  But the old man never made an attempt to widen the base. 

What  haunted Mulholland was the ease with which the angry citizens of Owens County could cut off the drinking water to the city of Los Angles. And this reservoir was the final piece in a series of dams and reservoirs which would give Los Angeles a year’s supply of water beyond the easy reach of the Dynamite Gang in the Owens Valley.

Baily Haskell was one of the construction workers and decades later he noted to a local newspaper that in their rush to finish this final addition to the aqueduct system, Muholland’s mangers were using gravel directly from the bed of Francisquito creek “They didn't use washed gravel”, he said. “I could see these great chunks of clay going right into the dam.”

A year later, as negotiations with the Watterson Brothers in the Owens Valley stalled, Mulholland increased the height of the dam by another ten feet, to 205 feet high. This increased the 3 mile long and ½ mile wide reservoir to 38,000 acre feet. But again no strengthening was made to the base of the dam. On March 1, 1926 water from the Los Angeles Aqueduct began to fill the canyon above the dam.

As the great Cecilla Rasmussen, writer for the Los Angeles Times, pointed out in a February 2003 column, “From the day the St. Francis Dam opened in 1926, it leaked. The folks in the farm towns downstream used to joke that they'd see you later ‘if the dam don’t break’.” On March 7, 1928 the intakes were closed. The reservoir was now full and the water was a mere three inches from the top of the dam.

That week drivers along the east shore road above the reservoir complained that the road was sagging near the dam’s eastern abutment.  At every step in the filling of the reservoir Mulholland personally checked the dam and declared it safe -  the last time between 10:30 and 12:30 p.m. on 11 March, 1928. Again, and for the final time, Mulholland declared the dam safe.

Less than 12 hours later it collapsed.It was not a landslide that destroyed the dam. That did not occur until after the 250,000 ton concrete structure had been wrenched apart like a child’s toy by the weight of the water that had soaked into its porous concrete.

I still have a three pound chunk of the dam sitting in my living room, and what stands out to me are the large miscellaneously shaped rocks peppered throughout the concrete, and the rough and uneven feel of it in your hand.

As the dam was twisted apart a wall of black water 140 feet high burst forth and began to scour the walls of Francisquito canyon. 

The first to die was Tony Harnischfeger (above) , the watchman, who was probably inspecting the dam he was so nervous about. Tony’s body was never found. The corpse of his girlfriend, Leona Johnson (above, right), who shared his cabin a quarter mile below the dam, was found wedged between two pieces of concrete. The body of their six year old son, Coder (above, center), was found further down stream. The copse of the youngest child, here (above) in Tony's arms, was never found.

Lillian Curtis (above, right) was startled awake in her cabin near the  Power House Number Two (above) by something.  She remembered “a haze over everything”, as her “big, husky cowboy” of a husband, Lyman (above, left) , lifted Lillian and their three year old son Danny out their bedroom window.

Lyman told her to run up the hill next to the Penstock water pipes (above)  while he went back for their two daughters, Marjorie and Mazie.  Panic drove Lillian up the almost vertical slope in the dark, along with the family dog, Spot. Then...

...just moments after the initial dam collapse (now 12:02 a.m. Tuesday March 13th ) a wall of water pounded the Concret Power House to pieces, and swept the cabins and the seventy other employees and their families into oblivion.

Waist deep water pulled at her but Lillian was just able to reach the safety at the top of the ridge. Lillian and her son, and another employee, Ray Rising, were the only survivors of the seventy.

Ray had to fight to get out of his own cabin. “The water was so high we couldn't get out the front door... In the darkness I became tangled in an oak tree, fought clear and swam to the surface... I grabbed the roof of another house, jumping off when it floated to the hillside... There was no moon and it was overcast with an eerie fog - very cold.”  Where once a small village had sat, was now scraped as bare as a table top (above).  Ray lost his wife and three daughters to the flood.

Just downstream the waters engulfed the Ruiz farm (above) . Dead in an instant were wife and mother Rosaria, father Enrique and their four children, one an adult. The farmhouse and barn were wiped out as if they had never existed.

Next the tidal wave swept across the ranch and a trading post store owned by silent film star Harry Carey, before sweeping across Castaic road junction (above) where...

...a 20 foot high wave destroyed the encampment of 150 California Edison employees, killing 84 of them. The victims did not drown. They were found, mostly, caught in trees, stripped of their clothes, “battered and bruised, but didn’t show any anguish – so probably they were taken in their sleep.”

By one in the morning the reservoir was empty. “An entire lake had disappeared” in less than an hour. But the flood was just getting started. At about 1:20 a.m. the warning finally began to go out to the little farming towns ahead of the flood.

Topography squeezed the wave back to 40 feet high as it swept down the stream bed of the Santa Clarita River, plowing through orchards and farms and homes from Piru to Fillmore and through Santa Paula. It reached the ocean in Ventura just before dawn, a wave a quarter of a mile wide and “50% water, 25% mud, and 25% miscellaneous trash” according to one witness.

Along the way it had demolished at least 1,200 houses...

..and smashed 10 bridges. 

The dead, many sucked out of their beds in their sleep,  would be washing up for days as far south as San Diego and Mexico. 

The inability to build a head end reservoir had now produced dried out orchards in the Owens Valley and drowned trees in Southern California. The last known victim of the flood, although unidentified,  would be uncovered in the city of Newhall, in 1992.

How many were carried out to sea or remain buried in mud closer to home will never be known, but it seems unlikely to me that the toll of the dead could be merely the 450 officially claimed.

I would estimate it could not be much fewer than 1,000 lives, counting migratory workers and unemployed living in the fields and orchards along the river.

Mulholland began by inspecting the disaster site (above) the next morning, insisting the failure must be more work by the Owens Valley dynamiters. But the evidence and the official rush to close the matter boxed him in, until he said he “envied those who were killed.”

The corner’s jury was convened within the week, and issued its report 12 days after the disaster. 

It recommended that “…the construction and operation of a great dam should never be left to the sole judgment of one man, no matter how eminent.. .... for no one is free from error.” 

The St. Francis dam, it added, had been constructed on the site of an ancient landslide. And for seventy years that was the accepted version.

But in the late 1990’s Professor of geological engineering J. David Rogers, of Missouri University of Science & Technology reached a different conclusion. “Probably the greatest single factor", he wrote, "was the decision to heighten the dam a second time."

"Had the dam not been heightened that last 10 feet, it might have survived.” But the ultimate failure, alleged Professor Rogers, was the concrete. So rushed was the construction that it was never allowed to properly cure, and never prepared as carefully as it should have been."

 “If it had been of better quality, it (the dam) would have never fallen apart as it did. It was so filled with fractures.” The disaster’s cost was later estimated at $13 million ($156 million in 2007).

The last remaining piece of the St. Francis dam remains standing to this day, and locals have come to call it, The Tomb Stone.

A year after the disaster William Mulholland resigned and, in the words of his grand-daughter became a “…stooped and silent” recluse.

His onetime friend, Frank Eaton, died on 12 March, 1934 at the age of 78. His grandson described his last years as bitter. “…he felt he'd been made the goat for all the troubles that came to ail the Owens Valley, and because he felt he never got the proper credit for his role in the creation of the aqueduct.”Just over a year later that other dreamer, William Mulholland, passed into the valley of death at his home, on 22 July, 1935.  The Long Valley reservoir, which was finally opened in 1941, was named after a Catholic priest who had fought for peace between the DWP and Owens Valley residents; it is called (below) Crowley Lake.

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