9:20 AM, January 19, 1883. The cross-bay ferry from San Francisco to Oakland pushes off. Forty or so passengers, most headed for Los Angeles, are aboard. In Oakland they board the Southern Pacific’s train #19, with the unlikely moniker “Atlantic Express” – a sister run to their more appropriately named “Pacific Express.”
The “All Aboard” call is at 10:00AM. #19 leaves Oakland station, pulled by a Campbell 4-4-0 — the “locomotive that built America.”
What interesting times we live in. Curious to me that as the economic positions between wealthy and not-so-wealthy continue to widen, the clothing choices between them seem to narrow. It’s near impossible to tell Joe-Six-Pack and university students from the managers and CEOs of the “white collar class.” All seem just as likely to sport blue jeans and untucked shirts. Not so in 1883, when denim jeans were never a sartorial choice for someone with “clean hands.” Laborers only. Everyone dressed as befitting their position in a status-conscious society.
Contemporary Style: jeans, shirt tail and wristwatch
Blue Jeans. We know them generically as Levis, although many clothing manufacturers have knock-offs of that classic – hopefully timeless – design. We owe them to Levi Strauss (born 1829 as Löb Strauß), an Ashkenazi Jew, who emigrated from Bavaria to the United States and found himself in San Francisco in the 1850s. California had just become a state and there was good money to be made outfitting fortune seekers (gold rush Forty-niners) and new settlers, as the entire region was booty from the recently concluded Mexican-American War. Well, to serve them, he invented the denim-based Levi Strauss Blue Jean that’s a staple of most wardrobes in America even today, and the envy of many around the world.
Two things about jeans that are of interest. Why are most blue? Well, the chemistry goes that young Mr. Strauss chose Indigo Blue dye because it attached very well to the outer threads of denim. As the jeans got washed, the dye would pull out miniscule fragments of the fabric; thus, the jeans grew progressively softer, and faded, with each washing.
And there’s another link to 1883, and Bavaria for that matter. That’s the year that Adolf von Baeyer perfected the method of making synthetic Indigo Blue dye, good enough for industrial use. Until then it was somewhat rare and expensive; some dye could be made in parts of Europe from woad, but usually it came from points far east, like India, or south, like Africa, where it could be made from plants of the Indiofera genus.
More Prussian-German by birth, and one-half Jewish by his mother, von Baeyer spent most of the last half of his life in Bavaria, moving to Munich at age 40 to take the position as head university chemistry professor. He was made nobility by Bavaria’s crazy King Ludwig II. He was residing there when he was named the winner of the 1905 Nobel Prize for Chemistry, and he died there, in 1917, aged 81. (Coincidently, in 1905, another German Jew published four groundbreaking papers that would lead to a Nobel Prize in Physics: Albert Einstein).
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Historic Tehachapi Railroad Water Tower
2:00 AM, January 20, 1883. In Tehachapi, California it’s a cold and breezy winter night. The train trip for the sleepy passengers on #19 is about 70% complete. #19 has just made the steepest climb of its journey. This railroad segment is a true engineering marvel: from 400 feet elevation at Bakersfield in the San Joachin Valley, up to 4,000 feet at Tehachapi; a distance of just 35 miles, as the crow flies. #19 eases into the depot and pulls onto a siding.
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Speaking of 1883 and Railroads, that’s how and when we acquired one of the most enduring and useful cultural aspects of day-to-day life – something that we all usually take for granted. The time zone.
For millennia the very notion of time zones was impractical. Crazy. Noon was either (a) when the sun passed directly over your meridian (determined by knowing true local north), or (b) halfway between sunrise and sunset; with fairly accurate chronometers used to split the daily difference. In towns across the world, bells rang out “true” local noon, and residents could set their time pieces accordingly – if they had one.
This all changed with the railroad and telegraphic instant communication, which arrived basically together in the US, as many telegraph lines ran right alongside railroad lines – the better to convey weather updates and expected train arrival and departure times at depots. Delivery of people and product ran on ever tighter schedules. Until then, several hundred time zones existed in America, as each city had its own based on where the sun was … for them.
But soon this patchwork of time zones became confusing and adverse to coordination. It made little sense for a telegraph to arrive in, say, Toledo at 11:52:40 AM when it was sent from Cleveland at precisely noon. They aren’t even 100 miles apart. The countless tedious time offsets and corrections made computing arrivals, and required departures, too difficult.
Thus, we owe the four North American time zones, the ones we just assume without even a thought to the Railroad Industry of the early 1880s. [Canada now has two more in the east: Atlantic and Newfoundland – it’s a big country!].
The United States government did not even officially recognize Time Zones until 1918, by an official Act of Congress – which also made Daylight Saving Time official. [Saving Time: let’s not even get started.]
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Faux Relief map shows that the Tehachapi Pass route was best low-grade path from San Joachin Valley to LA
The railroad segment from the San Joachin Valley up and over the Tehachapi Mountains was the final stretch completed ‘twixt San Francisco and Los Angeles. Accomplished in only two years of grueling work by mostly Chinese laborers – 3,000 of them – they followed the direction and design of civil and railroad engineers (Arthur De Wint Foote, William Hood, and James Strobridge) to keep the slope to a manageable 2.2%. This required moving countless tons of granite in order to build 18 tunnels, 10 bridges and the phenomenal Tehachapi Loop. [The “Loop” is a National Civil Engineering Landmark, and worthy of a side trip if you have any “geek” in you.] Most of the back breaking labor was done with little more than pickaxes, shovels and horse drawn wagons… and tremendous labor.
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Southern Pacific’s #19, an “Express”, consisted of only seven cars: two sleepers, four coaches and a smoker (even back then they had smoker designated areas). For most of the trip only one engine was needed. A second “helper” engine had been added to help #19 get up the hill.
Once the train comes to a stop at the depot, the conductor steps off, ducks the wind and heads into the depot, to meet the telegrapher and station manager, synch time, sign the register, provide status, get rail line conditions, and pick up any news or orders. The forward brakeman and engineer move the train off the main line and onto the sidetrack; the brakeman then sets the Westinghouse Airbrakes and detaches the engines from the rest of the train, and each other. Once the engines are clear, the engineer commences re-arranging the engines, so that the “helper” engine can be sent back down the mountain
My steampunk era pocket watch.
At this point one of the things the conductor would have done would be to check his pocket watch and verify that he and the depot station manager and telegrapher had the exact same time. Watches were known to curiously lose time, unknowingly stop for a while, or even inadvertently get reset. Such mistakes could lead to head-on collisions, if a train was switched to the wrong track, or left its layby, at the wrong time.
Once synched, telegrams with train status and local weather conditions could be sent out confidently with coordinated, verified time.
Depot time setting time verification
The pocket watch is one of those once useful, yet always charming, miscellaneous archaic curios that are mostly lost to the mists of history. I have a couple that I enjoy sporting once in a while.
Railroad employees used pocket watches designed to specific railroad requirements. The watches generally had no faceplate, as there was little need to protect them from mud and weather. They had their bow and stem at 12 o’clock. This is so there was never any confusion about it. When you pulled the chain, attached to the bow, then “12” was right there, on top where it belongs.
This is in contrast to many other pocket watches of the time, which often did have covers which had to be flipped open (inconvenient for a conductor or small station officer when many train stops were often only “whistle stops” lasting a few minutes). Many also had the bow and stem at 3 o’clock, much like winding analog wristwatches – now also rather archaic. This made it a tad more convenient to hold in your hand and wind the spring, or adjust the time.
World War I not only brought death and destruction on an unprecedented historic scale, it also nearly brought about the death of the pocket watch. The synchronization of maneuvers, attacks, and shipments could not be burdened with the awkwardness of fishing a time piece out of your pocket. The mud of trenches required a cover; imagine trying to get it open with cold, gloved hands.
Until then “wrist watches” were a quaint novelty item for ladies. Men had big heavy impressive fobs. Out of necessity the “trench watch” was born; early on in the war, many officers began strapping watches to their wrist. This became more pronounced when America entered the war. The faces were then adorned with much larger numbers, especially the 6 and the 12. (Also came the switch to Arabic numerals instead of Roman, to avoid the confusion of counting I’s and whether they were before or after the V and X). Some were made with sprinkled glowing radium into the clock hands and numerals. Eventually straps were added. The pocket watch began its long, slow ebb into history’s shadows: it was too inconvenient at the times it was most needed. And yet, the shadows of pocket watches remain.
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Tehachapi, January 20, 1883. About 2:05 AM. A lady (some sources say “pretty young lady”) aboard the #19 intended to disembark at Tehachapi but had no idea of how to safely find a room in such poor weather at that dark hour in an unknown town. The gentlemanly rear brakeman kindly offered to help her. She accepted. He escorted her off the train and into the depot to find proper lodging.
At this point, there are now no train employees on any of the seven cars. Most of the 40 passengers are dozing.
Downey, California is now a suburb of Los Angeles with a very “urban- and industrial-feel.” Rich in history, it is named for a former governor of California, John Downey. If you’re a tech geek, like me, it is the home of North American-Rockwell which also has a rich history: they built P-51s and B-25s for WW2, F-86s for the Korean war, the Apollo command modules for lunar missions and the orbiters for the Space Shuttle.
Downey himself was born and mostly raised in Ireland, and, as such, is one of only a few dozen governors ever born outside the United States. Of course, a large fraction were early governors, who were obviously foreign born, most as British Subjects. California has only had two foreign born governors. I won’t tell you the name of the 2nd, but here are two hints: (1) Hasta la vista, baby; and (2) I’ll be back.
John Gately Downey, 7th Governor of California, 1860-1862
After many migrations, travels and adventures, the gold rush and California’s imminent statehood drew Downey to San Francisco in 1849. Prospecting and serving miners didn’t suit him. He soon moved to Los Angeles where he and a partner started a very profitable drug store business.
As often happens, business success led him to politics. Growing into ever more powerful positions, he was elected Lieutenant-Governor in 1859, taking office in January 1860. A new Governor was elected too: Will Latham.
Duels? Ridiculous to think that dueling was still a respectable way to settle differences, especially among the educated and politicians at that time, but it was an acceptable (if unlawful) way to defend one’s honor. As it was, one of California’s US Senators had been killed in a duel, September 1859. The brand-new governor (Will Latham) was immediately chosen by the freshly seated legislature to take the Senate seat that had lain vacant for 4 months; Latham resigned the governorship after serving only six days. And, hence, John Downey, by virtue of being the sitting Lieutenant Governor, ascended to the highest state office of California, taking his place in the new and still raw capital city Sacramento. So, both Downey and Mr. Terminator became governor under unusual circumstances.
At Tehachapi Depot the land is not quite level; imperceptibly tipping ever-so-gently downhill back down the hill. This night, coincidently, a strong east wind was blowing downhill as well. [The area is well-known for its winds: currently about 5,000 electricity generating wind turbines are in the area].
The wheels creaked a bit. A few moments later, they creaked a bit more.
Downey had little stomach for more government office after completing the two-year term he had inherited from Latham. He shook the Sacramento dust off his sandals and skedaddled back to LA. There he resumed his business success, expanding into banking, with investments in development of the LA basin and railroads. He was a big investor and promoter in getting the Southern Pacific to build a line from the Bay to Los Angeles.
Downey bought and developed land that would become the community, town, and later city, of Downey. He was quite the local hero when the Southern Pacific began rolling through, in 1874.
Downey’s business ventures often required him to travel to San Francisco, or Sacramento. Whenever possible, his wife Maria would travel with him. Except, she feared trains. She would insist on taking a ship up the coast.
One January, a few years later, business called Downey to San Francisco on short notice. He and Maria preferred to travel together, but there would not be enough time to do the necessary meet-and-greet, then get back to Los Angeles for responsibilities there.
She pleaded with him to take a ship and postpone meetings to make a slower journey possible. He insisted the train would be safe, as well as much faster. Finally, she acquiesced. They took John’s beloved Southern Pacific train.
The wheels were no longer at rest. There was no engine attached. There were no railroad employees aboard. Those wheels … ever so slowly … by the faintest of increments … began rolling. Very gradually and bit by tiny bit. Once freed of static friction and in motion their rotation accelerated. And so did the speed of the cars.
With one brakeman and the engineer shuffling engines, the conductor still fulfilling his duties in the depot, the final brakeman – his assistance to the young lady complete – now stepped outside. A large gust of wind blew out his lantern. This distracted him for a few moments. His pupils wide, he looked out to the faintly lit sidetrack, and – to his horror(!) – the seven cars were gone, vanished into the darkness of the fateful winter night.
The train picked up more and more speed. Two former railroad employees – one was awake from the beginning, standing outside on the smoking car deck – went from car to car attempting to set the hand brakes. This is a difficult task – requiring strength, knowledge and skill – and now especially difficult: they were under extreme pressure as the cars accelerated down the hill, ever more rapidly covering the distance in the gloomy California night: one mile, two miles, three miles. The little engine-less train now truly became an “Express”; her speed went up to 10 miles per hour, 20 mph, 30 mph, 40 … 50… now swaying wildly on every bend, large or small. Getting from car to car was nigh impossible. Utter chaos bloomed; calamity loomed.
Eventually the two retirees got the brakes set on two of the seven cars. It was not enough. Some 3–½ miles from Tehachapi depot, at 70 miles per hour, five cars detached from the other two, and derailed on a curve. As the rail line was following minimum grade, the centripetal momentum carried them some 75-feet down a steep embankment, toward Tehachapi Creek.
It was winter. The cars had heating — coal of course — and plenty of oil for the lamps. The cars erupted in fire. Bodies were cast about everywhere, willy-nilly. The panic, the horror must have been unimaginable.
Accounts vary, but most sources say there were 21 deaths and 12 serious injuries. Some say 15 deaths, others 17. Some bodies may not have been found, and some may have been so torn asunder that a body count may have been too difficult and gruesome. Many of the passengers were Chinese and, considering the era, may not have been listed on the manifest.
Most deaths occurred, gratefully, during or very shortly after the derailment, as the cars pitched and rolled down the hill and caught fire. Most died from the fire, others from dismembering injuries. One of the injured died several painful days later.
Among the immediate dead was Maria Jesus Guirado Downey, daughter of Mexican aristocrats and wife of the former governor. Her premonitions were correct.
Governor Downey never really recovered from this very woeful event. Now we would surely say he suffered from severe PTSD and required psychological treatment and counseling. But they didn’t know to do that back then. Or how. He counseled and treated himself: with alcohol. Until then he was energetic and vibrant; afterward his health waned. Although he remarried in 1888, his 2nd wife also preceded him, passing in 1892; Downey himself followed shortly thereafter in 1894, aged 66.
The root cause of the runaway train at Tehachapi has never been absolutely confirmed. The Westinghouse triple valve Air Brake was theoretically failsafe. They can only fail if the angle-cocks, connecting to the pressurized locomotive air chamber, are somehow closed. This would leave some pressure in the car-to-car pneumatic lines, allowing the brakes in each car to fully or partly disengage. Without pneumatic pressure the brakes were absolutely locked.
Westinghouse’s genius and revolutionary design had been in use for over 10 years, although various railroads adopted it at different times. It contributed immeasurably to the safety of railroads. Conditions at Tehachapi that night could have led to a bit of an issue with the pneumatics, but this would be extremely rare. It’s such an elegant and impeccable design that railroads essentially use it today, virtually unchanged from Westinghouse’s final design.
One unlikely cause that is still found on the internet is that the train was the victim of a failed train robbery. Why anyone would release the brakes, wake zero passengers, and make off with exactly zero dollars and zero valuables in the middle of a cold, windy wintery night is an obvious question that demolishes this theory. Southern Pacific was partial to this unlikely possibility, as it relieved them of any responsibility.
In my humble opinion, the brakeman, in his haste due to miserable weather and tight schedule, probably failed to properly set (bleed) the pneumatic valves. In those pre-union and labor movement times, railroad staff worked notoriously long hours, and sometimes this led to mistakes and oversights. The brakes were not properly set.
In short order, the conductor and brakemen were arrested. They were soon released. No charges were ever pressed and no official cause has ever been given.
The Tehachapi Loop, satellite view, where long trains cross over themselves
As in 1883, the rail line connecting San Francisco to Los Angeles, through Tehachapi, is still probably the most heavily used mountain rail line in the world. Built by the Southern Pacific, with financial and political backing of former California governor John Downey, it’s now owned by BNSF (which is owned by Warren Buffet’s Berkshire-Hathaway). An average of nearly 40 trains each day make the trip, including the engineering marvel “Tehachapi Loop”, considered one of the wonders of the railroad world. The line stopped carrying passengers in 1971.
Oh, and that second little thing of interest about blue jeans? You thought I forgot, didn’t you? You know that tiny little pocket on the right side of your jeans, just above the regular sized pocket? Yeah, that little thing. The pocket you thought was useless?
Every time you put on a pair of jeans you carry a little sewn-in token of these times from long ago. That little pocket is an anachronistic throw-back to an earlier era.
That’s for your pocket watch.
This is me, sporting a Steam Punk pocket watch in my style 541 Levis
So that’s my little ramble. Running Time and Runaway Trains, Watches and Weather, Irish immigrants and Governors, German Inventors and Chinese Laborers, blue jeans and indigo blue.
Probably a Country song in there somewhere.
“Oh, where would we be without immigrants, chasing their dreams in America?
It’s here that they have more significance, celebrating Christmas or Hannukah.”
Nope. Never gonna make it as a country song writer. Good place to stop.
Peace,
Joe Girard © 2022
Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here. Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com
Sources/Bibliography. Oh my gosh. So many, I lost count. Several dozen. Maybe more. If you’re feeling doubtful or skeptical, just use your favorite search engine(s). More than a few details have conflicting factoids and background stories; in these instances, I used my judgment, selecting the items that seemed most credible, and that had the most internet material.
Final note: as an “Express”, a town like Tehachapi would not normally be a stop. However, its position near the pass necessitated a stop to disengage the helper engine and send it back down the mountain. Additional water and fuel would likely have been needed after the slow torturous trip up to the pass.
Acknowledgement to my wife, Audrey, who assisted in edits and made several useful formatting suggestions.