The Eastland

Ninety three years ago today, the 'Eastland' sank in the Chicago River and killed 835 people. In 1976 I wrote a poem about that event and the subsequent agony the City of Chicago went through trying to figure it all out. To my mind, the whole and TRUE story has never been, and may never be, told. Chicago was, then, as it grew a reputation for later, a seething den of political corruption.

The questions asked in the piece have never been fully answered.

Oh, and one more thing. "The Eastland Disaster" was published in a compilation of poems called 'Kettlestrings' in 1976. But since I'm the author, I hereby give myself permission to reprint the poem here.

THE EASTLAND DISASTER

The river under the Clark Street bridge,
is dirty, muddy and green,
much the same as it used to look,
in the summer of Nineteen Fifteen.

Saturday morning, July Twenty Fourth,
at the south end, west of the span,
'Eastland' waited, tied to her moorings,
for the onset of the appointed plan.

Five ships were there on that muggy day,
bound for fun in Michigan City,
and all lay quietly tied to the docks,
while the 'Eastland' calliope played a ditty.


Some two thousand people crowded her decks,
by ten after seven that morning,
bound for Hawthorne Works company picnic,
they had taken their foreman's warning.

For to many it had been made quite clear,
"Don't miss the picnic", they'd really better go,
"If you're not there come Saturday morning,
come Monday, don't bother to show."

But the atmosphere was bright and gay,
formen's warnings had been put out of mind.
They planned their games and the things they would do,
or would have done, but for fate, unkind.

No one knows precisely when,
the best guess is about quarter after.
'Eastland' took a hard list to port,
and apprehension replaced the laughter.

But she straightened herself, upright again,
there was a general sigh of relief,
but then, she took a harder list starboard,
what happened next was beyond belief.

She brought herself back, upright again,
but fear froze the fathers, mothers, sons and daughters,
as she rolled back to port and over on her side,
and went down in twenty one feet of the river's green waters.


and the newsboys cried:

"EIGHT HUNDRED THIRTY FIVE PEOPLE DEAD"
Just the thought can make one shiver,
"TWENTY TWO FAMILIES COMPLETELY WIPED OUT",
by the 'Eastland' and the river.


and the city's voice cried:

"Sir, I have some questions to ask,
Could someone please tell me why,
of the sixty five men aboard her as crew,
not one of them was to die?"

"And why did the Captain pump out her ballast,
when, earlier that morning, he docked?"
"And why were all the preserver cabinets,
not only closed, but locked?"

"And what of the naval architect,
who wrote letter, after letter, after letter,
Saying 'Eastland's unsafe, she has listing problems,
she should have been designed better?"



"And what of the government ship inspector,
who, just a short time before,
raised her capacities, at the request of the owners,
by several hundred people more?"

For months these queries haunted the city,
these unanswered ponderances of 'How?' and 'Why?',
but, somehow, these questions were put to rest,
when came the official reply.

"We find the 'Eastland' a seaworthy vessel."
was the spokesman seen to shivver?
"We find no evidence of negligence,
on the 'Eastland', that day, on the river."

Yes, the river under the Clark Street bridge,
IS dirty, IS muddy, IS green,
Just the same as it used to look,
in the summer of Nineteen Fifteen.



This photo, of the 'Eastland' being righted, is public domain, as are the rest of the photos displayed here.