Eyewitness account: The Tornado of 1880 that Destroyed Marshfield
(EDITOR'S NOTE—The Marshfield tornado of April 18, 1880 was one of the worst natural disasters to strike any small town in the country up to that date, being exceeded only by the New Madrid earthquake of 1811. An eyewitness account of the tornado was written by W. D. Chitty, 50 years after the event took place. The eyewitness account was published in the May 1, 1930 issue of The Marshfield Mail, the April 1976 issue of the Webster County Historical Society Journal, and is reprinted, in part, for this publication. The account is available in its entirety at the Garst Memorial Library, Marshfield )
I was approaching the age of nine, and like most boys, spent my days in a sort of joyous merry-go-round of play, picnics, fishing and praying for Saturday and the end of school for the week. On Sunday, April 18, 1880, I had done the usual Sunday morning penance and after dinner had gone to spend the afternoon playing with my two younger friends, Tom and Sam Moore, at their home on Washington Street. It was a warm day, and being away from parental eyes, my shoes came off and I reveled in the early spring joy of barefoot freedom. About 3 p.m. it began to get very warm, and a little later, the clouds began to form up for what looked like a summer shower.
By 5 p.m., the whole sky was overcast with heavy black clouds, and I gathered up my shoes and stockings, wending my way home to the "Brick Block" where we lived over James' Drug Store. It was so warm I took a chance and left my shoes off, slipping in home very quietly and putting my shoes under my bed. Error leads to trouble and I never saw those shoes again, much to my temporary distress and discomfort.
Mother was in the kitchen getting together the usual simple Sunday supper, while my father sat at one of the open front windows overlooking the square, and talking with one of our neighbors who had come in for a visit. I came into the front room and busied myself trying to replace the sheepskin head of a small drum. It was approaching 6 p.m. when, looking through the window toward the southwest, I saw what looked to me like the heavy smoke from one of the old time great smoke stacks still carried at that time by some of the locomotives. The sky had become very dark with heavy, rolling clouds and the wind had become very gusty. As I continued to look out of the window at the heavy train smoke, it seemed to take on a larger and wilder aspect, until it appeared like a house on fire and throwing up billow of heavy, furious smoke. I grabbed my father's knee and said "Look Cohen's house is on fire," for so it seemed to me with the Cohen house being in line with the direction. My father looked steadily for a moment and then leaped to his feet with a cry, "My God, It's a tornado." I knew nothing about tornadoes but my father's manner sent me off into a fit of such fear as I never knew before or since. Excitedly, he called my mother to come quickly, and saying that we must get out of the house instantly lest we all be killed.
As we stepped onto the square, the wind struck us with a terrific gust that nearly swept my mother away, her skirts catching the full force like a sail. Bits of debris were already sweeping along the ground and the air was filled with dust. My father headed straight for the courthouse, dragging my mother and myself by an arm. We tumbled over the wooden fence not taking the time to go to the steps. The square was filled with excited people running in all directions and looking and pointing at the approaching funnel-like cloud, which by this time, could be heard with a low roar rapidly becoming louder. The wind had risen so rapidly that in the few seconds it took to get across the courthouse yard, my father had to pull my mother by main strength to get her into the lobby. About 20 people had gathered and others were rushing in. I saw a man struggling just outside the door in a futile effort to pull his wife into the building.
The wind now rose to a fiendish shriek as if all the demons of Hell had been let loose upon doomed Marshfield. From the shelter of the lobby, looking out the door, I saw part of the tin roof of the brick block turn away and fly away into space as if some gigantic hand had ripped a piece of paper from a writing pad. The air became thick with dust until breathing was difficult. Everybody prayed. I prayed. Some prayed at the top of their lungs with a sort of frenzy. Someone shouted that it was the end of the world. For a few seconds the whole world seemed to be in the process of being ground and crushed in pieces and the fragments scattered through the air.
Then, the wind was suddenly gone, its fury trailing off to the northeast with a sullen and decreasing moan. For at least five minutes no one dared to leave the shelter of the lobby, then, gradually, we emerged to look upon the sad wreck of our homes and what had been the lovely little town of the quiet and beautiful Sunday April morning.
My first impression was of many people calling from different directions. We could see the second story of the Brick Block, our home, was completely wiped away. We instinctively moved toward the direction of what had been our home, but what was now nothing but a barren floor with a few remnants of shattered walls and rubbish.
Two of the great poplar trees which marked the steps leading over the courthouse fence had been blown down, and here lying on the ground was a sight to wring one's heart in anguish. A young carpenter named Chris Wright, with his pretty, young wife had been struck and killed by the falling trees or other agency, and lying in the father's arms, unhurt, was their little baby, less than one year old.
My father left immediately to help in gathering up and caring for the wounded and injured. I saw him only for brief intervals during the ensuing three or four days. He was out all night the first night, as was nearly every able bodied man. Many people had been trapped in the cellars of falling buildings and remained prisoners, in some cases injured, for several days.
I think the center of the tornado must have passed over the northwest corner of the square, for a good many of the houses in the south and southeast part of the town escaped injury.
The loss of life was appalling. Many were killed during the several moments of the tornado. How the whole world seemed to respond in sympathy and practical generosity to stricken little Marshfield. Within 48 hours the sidings were crowded with trains bearing nurses, doctors, medicines, food, clothing and everything essential for the immediate relief of the victims.
Washington Street suffered heavily with the old Callaway house being wrecked, as was the Winfield Thompson house, the Rust residence and the Moore residence. My birthplace, the little house back of the Callaway place was wiped out. The whole north side of the square was a complete wreck as was also the east side.
Where we ever got the money to rebuild so promptly has always been a mystery, but the fact is that little time was lost in restoring the town to its former business capacity.