Paperback
-
PICK UP IN STORECheck Availability at Nearby Stores
Available within 2 business hours
Related collections and offers
Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781609490409 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Arcadia Publishing SC |
| Publication date: | 09/01/2010 |
| Series: | Haunted America |
| Pages: | 112 |
| Sales rank: | 1,091,565 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.40(h) x 0.40(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
FLOOD VERSUS FAMILY
From the onset, the swollen motionless clouds that had settled over Austin were ominous. Massive storms had been moving through the central Texas region since Friday, April 6, 1900. In some areas, as much as seventeen inches of rain had fallen in only two days. Water poured from creeks and tributaries into the Lower Colorado, causing its waters to rage as it swelled the shore limits of Austin's popular retreat Lake McDonald and sent a steady current over the wall of the Great Granite Dam.
The dam was a source of great pride for the city, gracing the cover of Scientific American magazine. In 1890, bonds were sold to cities in the east and $ 1 million was raised for the construction of a dam and $600,000 for a power plant. The dam was completed in 1893, and the waters it held back formed Lake McDonald. But despite its praise as an engineering marvel, not everyone agreed. In 1896, the mayor received a letter from Mr. Frizell, the chief construction engineer who was forced to resign during the construction of the dam, warning that there was a problem with the construction on the east side of the dam. In 1897, a fisherman noticed a six-foot-long hole beneath the dam. In 1899, a leak was discovered on the east side of the dam; it was patched with clay. Then, in early April 1900, the rain began.
The torrential downpour began in earnest late Friday afternoon, April 6, and continued. "All night long the rain fell in solid sheets," reported the Daily Tribune. City residents knew to stay away from low water crossings and infrequently traveled dirt roads. Once the rain commenced mobility in and around the city was quickly limited to foot traffic or horseback. Scheduled meetings for groups such as the Cigar Makers Union, the Austin Garten Verwin, Pashahona Tribe 19 and the ancient Order of Hibernians were postponed.
Finally, on Saturday morning, April 7, the rain stopped and, with the dawn, only a few clouds and light drizzle remained. By midmorning, the sun had begun to shine, and some Austinites ventured out to work or play. But many more chose to make the trip along Dam Avenue, two miles west of downtown.
Word had spread rapidly through the city that the raging water around the dam was a sight to behold. The water had risen eleven feet above the dam's summit and was cascading down in a wild torrent. Anxious to see the impressive sight, no one questioned the stability of the 60-foot high, 1,150- foot-long and 60-foot thick concrete and granite structure.
At 11:15 a.m., a shock rumbled like a smothered explosion, echoing for miles throughout the Hill Country as the dam split down the middle and the east side crumbled under the water's pressure, washing away. Below the dam, a fifty-foot wall of water descended as the thirty-mile-long and one-mile-wide Lake McDonald emptied into the already swollen Colorado.
Austinite Neal Begley said, "I saw the water spread out and everything seemed to go down at once."
As the dam began to shatter, Henry Robell was quick enough of mind and limb to move faster than the swirling wave. Upon witnessing the first movement of the shifting massive structure, he did not wait to see what would happen but raced on horseback at breakneck speed along the Colorado's northern bank into the city, warning people and saving lives as he shouted, "The dam has broke! Run to high ground!"
The president of the Austin Telegraph Company, O.D. Parker, within minutes of hearing Robell's warning, quickly mounted his horse and rode to his office on Congress Avenue where he frantically telegraphed to the towns scattered downstream of Austin, "Dam has broke!" Those within earshot of the warning scattered. Some people rushed to save what they could from their homes. Others galloped on horseback along the riverbanks, warning neighbors. Many of the rural people living on or close to the river's shore could not be reached in time. The number of lives lost cannot be accurately determined.
"Men, women and children were screaming and crying and people were running as if mad in all directions," one man would later describe.
A reporter watched as the water swept seven houses downstream. The passenger depot at Third Street and Congress Avenue was engulfed; the lumberyard that stretched from the river's north shore beyond Second Street incurred total destruction, as did the Austin Ice Company at Congress and First Street. The Metz Brothers, Albert Schneider's and Otto Schulenburg's saloons on the east side of the city in the German district were also destroyed. Water pushed up Congress Avenue, flooding the first floor of businesses as far north as Ninth Street. People camped along the shores were carried away, joining the houses, cows, dogs, farm equipment and other victims caught in the rushing waters. The river continued to rise seventeen inches an hour until 3:00 that afternoon.
Witnesses cheered as a man climbed a telephone pole just before the wildly swirling water reached him. The cheers faded into horrified gasps when he was suddenly struck by a house caught in the deadly current.
The Austin Daily Statesman reported, "Austin resembled a bed of red ants suddenly disturbed. Men and women run hither and thither in the wildest alarm. Carriages, buggies, horsemen, and cripples were rushing down toward the river and every newcomer had a fresh tale of horror to tell."
Shoal Creek and Waller Creek rose twenty feet in two hours. The homes and businesses of the African American and German communities scattered along the shores of Waller Creek and the predominately Anglo homes lining Shoal Creek were consumed with water.
Alerted, some families were able to gather their children and, in some cases, their livestock before their homes were destroyed. Other families escaped onto the roof where they remained stranded until after nightfall when volunteer rescue teams in boats carried them to solid ground. Some, like the Italian family whose house was just below the dam, never had a chance. They were never seen again.
At the site of the dam, five hundred people had lined up along the limestone walls and shores to watch the enormous amount of water that Saturday morning. Other thrill seekers were standing below the dam, witnessing the awesome sight from that imposing vantage point. When the granite wall gave way thunderously and the massive structure began to crumble, some spectators gathered below were able to move quickly enough, avoiding the deluge by climbing trees and the sloping hillsides. Others were swept away in seconds.
The Austin Daily Tribune somberly reported:
Five young men were taking Kodak pictures below the dam when the break occurred and all were drowned. Their names could not be learned ... [A] woman and two children were seen floating down the river a short distance below the dam. The woman was said to be wearing a red dress. Still another young mother was unable to move her four children to safety in time and they found themselves in the rushing water's path. In Austin their bodies were seen floating down the Colorado River.
In the hydroelectric plant just below the dam, six men and three boys were working in the bottom of the powerhouse, pumping out leaking water. All drowned but one man who was able to throw his belt buckle over a piece of metal protruding from the ceiling, pulling himself above the water. Two of the boys were brothers, found by the Austin Fire Department trapped beneath one of the generators. They were still embracing as they had been when water filled their lungs.
When the water subsided, onlookers peering into the powerhouse were able to see the bodies of the remaining workers swirling, trapped in a whirlpool. The water was still too high and the current too strong to attempt a rescue. The next day, family members watched as dynamite was set against the outer wall and a hole was blasted, allowing the bodies to escape.
The dawn of Sunday morning, April 8, 1900, would find hundreds of homeless people camped on the hills surrounding the city. Those with homes opened their doors and welcomed as many as they could. Women cooked all day to feed those left with only the clothing on their backs. The men spent all night and the next day running boats up and down the canals rescuing those that had been strong and secure enough to wait precariously above the waters. Texans living in outlying towns and homesteads loaded their wagons and brought all the food and supplies they could afford.
In addition to the immediate problems of shelter and food, there were other potential calamities, such as cholera, malaria and typhoid fever. The water treatment plant was flooded by fifteen feet of water. All of the city's drinking water was contaminated. Officials began making public speeches and walking from door to door, warning Austinites not to use old or stagnant water or to drink from wells that had previously been in disuse. Fortunately in 1900, some artesian springs still flowed freely in the city and long queues quickly formed. Fear of fire was also in the forefront of the minds of city leaders. The neighboring cities of Houston and San Antonio responded within twenty-four hours and sent five fire trucks on the railroad.
Stories of tragedy and greatness arose in the days that followed as the city pulled itself together. The dead were buried, homes rebuilt. Once again, the customary sunshine beat down on the whitewashed boards and limestone buildings. The breeze from the flowing river stirred the dust along the unpaved roads. But the wall of water would not soon be forgotten. Residents continued to walk or ride along Dam Avenue. They went to look, to remember, to imagine. They could see the great pieces of concrete that had been tossed like pebbles and scattered below what remained of the dam. Clearly visible was the shell of the building that once held Austin's powerful generator, providing water, electricity and transportation for a city of more than thirty thousand. A placid retreat for boating and picnics, Lake McDonald was the first artificial reservoir in the state. It spread a mile wide from shore to shore and was a place where many residents had summer homes. Lake McDonald was now gone.
After April 7, 1900, it was morbid curiosity that drove people to the vanished lake. Often young boys and girls, now with little to do on the hot summer nights of 1900, would take the walk along Dam Avenue just to look at what was once their lake. It was on these nights that rumors of lights shining from beneath the water began.
Older residents of Westlake Hills just to the west of the city remember going at night to what is now Red Bud Island when they were kids. They would say they were going night fishing, but they were always looking for the lights coming up from the water. "We'd get real quiet after our lines were cast. We weren't really interested in the fish. Whatever we caught we threw back in. We were looking for the lights." One Westlake homeowner remembers, "You would see them one in ten times. Usually there was one light but sometimes two or three. The lights were round and clear, and they moved around on the surface of the water. They came from under the water."
Similar lights have been seen around Waller Creek, south of Fourth Street, at the junction where Waller and the Colorado meet. This was where the wave of water took its greatest toll.
HOFHEINTZ-REISSIG BUILDING–MOONSHINE PATIO BAR & GRILL
At the corner of Third Street and Red River stands the Hofheintz-Reissig building, a testimony to the durability of German stone architecture. After the wave of water wiped out virtually all of their neighbors' homes, the Hofheintzes and Reissigs were surely a part of the team of families who cared for the homeless and grieving.
German native Henry Hofheintz purchased the property in 1854. At the time he was a widower but soon married Christiana Hinemann. What is today called the Sunday House was the first stone building on the property. It was used to keep the food for Hofheintz's mules dry. His mules were paramount to his livelihood because he drove his springboard wagon to and from Mexico buying, selling and trading goods. Eventually, the Carriage House and the main structure were built, serving as store and home. During the Reconstruction Era following the War Between the States, the Sunday House was used by freed slaves who needed housing. The cellar stored wine made from grapes grown on the property, and during the hot summer months it provided a cool place to play dominoes. The Hofheintz-Reissig building was a store, biergarten and restaurant for 112 years before the family sold it in 1966.
Mrs. Hofheintz was living on the property when she died fourteen years into her marriage. Henry himself passed on in 1880 while proprietor of the Hofheintz grocery store. His daughter, Catherine Louisa, married Adolf Reissig, a native of Germany, and they lived, worked and eventually died on the property. Their son Herman married Eula Petry, and they lived and worked on the property, along with her family, until he died in 1961 with Eula following in 1962. Even though some may have died in a hospital or infirmary, wouldn't their greatest attachment on this earth be to the place they all spent most of their years? That might account for the strange occurrences reported at the Hofheintz-Reissig building. Or are the proprietors still welcoming others even as residents of the spirit world?
The current owner of the building claims that most of the strange activity in the building is reminiscent of a child or children who demand attention from the staff and customers at Moonshine Patio Bar & Grill. There was the time he was in the office upstairs trying to print something from the computer without success; he shut down the printer and computer as he was leaving the office, and just as he snapped off the light the printer tray flew halfway across the room at him. Unimpressed, the proprietor calmly chided the ghost, saying, "No, no. No more of that, now. I'm going downstairs!" And he left.
In 2009, staff members were gathered in a booth, wrapping silverware in napkins and preparing for what they hoped would be a busy Thanksgiving weekend for Moonshine. As they were chatting about how they spent their Thursday holiday, an ill-tempered spirit, perhaps upset that the restaurant was closed the previous day, yanked an entire tray of glasses from the wait station nearest them, shattering the glassware.
Glasses seem to be convenient projectiles for the ghosts of Moonshine Patio Bar & Grill. When an air-conditioning maintenance man showed up to change the filters in the Carriage House bar in the summer of 2009, he was only at work for a few minutes when there was a commotion, followed by his hasty exit. "I'm never going back in there again!" he emphatically told the owner, reporting that glasses were "throwing themselves off the bar" at him.
A few years earlier, tour guide Monica ducked in out of the February chill to get a firsthand account of an experience from one of the wait staff. As Monica warmed herself in the foyer, a mist formed between the hostess area and the bar and began moving past her. It brushed the left side of her face, making it colder than the right, until it drifted down the hall toward the restrooms and the cellar stairs where it dissipated.
Moments later, one of the wait staff said that she and a co-worker had been on the back patio serving the lunch crowd earlier that week. Suddenly, a pitcher of water seated on a rubber mat at a wait station flew horizontally four feet into midair, spilling its contents everywhere as it landed. That same afternoon, the patio area experienced a common occurrence for Moonshine: mason jar glasses that suddenly break apart at an empty place setting. A guest described the incident "as though the molecules just gave up!"
One time there was only the sound of breakage without physical damage. Two patrons familiar with area ghost stories were enthusiastically discussing phenomena at another Austin location when they heard the sound of a tray being thrown against an adjacent wall five feet away. They stopped chatting, looked curiously in that direction and saw that there was nothing there. When they changed the topic to a discussion of Moonshine's ghosts, the activity settled down.
If cemetery records are accurate and there were no small children of the Hofheintz-Reissig families who died on the premises, who is the child or children having the tantrums at this popular eatery? We present this theory: Waller Creek, flowing just east of the Hofheintz-Reissig building, was once lined with homes, populated by people like Ambrosia DeLeon, Walter Carrington, Mrs. Clara Grim and, most likely, their children. Could some of the spirits in what is now Moonshine Patio Bar & Grill be those of the people who drowned? In all likelihood, yes. It is the only remaining building from that era, still a place of vibrant celebratory energy. For a wandering spirit, it would be a place of comfort. No doubt they would receive a customary welcome from the Hofheintz-Reissig household whose members knew the importance of family in good times and bad.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Haunted Austin"
by .
Copyright © 2010 Jeanine Marie Plumer.
Excerpted by permission of The History Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Introduction,
1. Flood Versus Family,
2. Rescue from the Grave,
3. Old Souls: The Confederate Women's Home,
4. Mysteries of Mount Bonnell,
5. Ghost Wagon of Westlake,
6. Blood, Fire and Granite: The Texas Capitol,
7. Swen Beryman,
8. The Driskill,
9. The Hannig Haunting,
10. The Serial Killings of 1885,
Bibliography,