This is David Celyddon Phillips’ letter about the Johnstown Flood of 1889, translated by D. L. Davies (1999) and transcribed by Arthur O’Dwyer (2025).
The Johnstown Flood took place on May 31, 1889. At that time Celyddon was 41 years old; his children were ages 10, 9, 6, and 4.
See also the original (in Welsh); and newspaper clippings about Celyddon.
“Celyddon tells the story.” In Tarian y Gweithiwr (The Worker’s Shield) of Thursday, August 1, 1889, page 2. Translated to English in December 1999 by D. L. Davies.
Johnstown, Pennsylvania, July 3.—This is how it was with us as a family on the day of the Johnstown disaster:—On the morning of the destruction, soon after breakfast, I went out and, to my surprise, there was a mighty torrent of water running down Main Street, so heavily had the rain fallen the previous night; and the force of the torrent continued to grow until midday, when my brother Seth went to his wife and child at his mother-in-law’s house on the hillside, out of all danger’s reach. I and the family—my wife and four children—were trapped in the house by water, but without dreaming we were in any danger, as we were in the center of town. Soon after lunch the water came into the house, but not before we had moved all that we could upstairs and took with us there some drinking water and a little sustenance, thinking to have supper comfortably out of the water’s reach. The house was two-storey and made of bricks; there were also two firm and tall brick houses on either side of mine.
The children took off their shoes and the greater part of their over-clothes and were amusing themselves in the library, the windows of which faced towards South Fork—site of the destructive reservoir. Our view extended almost two miles up the valley. I was reading and my wife was chatting to the children, but I noticed her voice and movements betrayed worry and fear. Before long I told her not to worry as we were perfectly safe, but she did not agree with my opinion, though she said not a word. Suddenly, in an agitated but low voice, she said, “Look outside!” I looked out and saw at once that the reservoir had broken. I had not considered its existence previously that day and I had heard no one else even mention it.
I told the family to remain calm; that half the town would drown, yet our safety lay in being calm, in not panicking, and in trusting in God. There is hardly need for me to point out that the fierce flood looked not like water but as if the valley—its houses, trees, bridges, works, and all—was being swept away by a mighty avenging angel. Every access between ourselves and the garret was blocked, and we went from the library into a third room, closing every door behind us in order to keep out all the wreckage that lay on the surface of the water, so that we might have only water, however threatening, to contend with. There was in this room an old tall book case, almost as tall as the room; and I secured it to the wall as best I could and placed the four children on top of it, and told my wife to hang on to it, and that I would do my best to keep it upright.
By now the great wooden house of a neighbor which had stood on the street next to ours had been thrown on top of the library room and had shattered that room to its very foundations; at the same instant the tall strong house to the right of us broke in half and two of its children drowned. I saw through the window—and beyond all help—between a dozen and a score of people going under in the torrent, the majority praying, though I heard several blaspheme. The children too could see, and the screaming frightened them more than the water. I told them to recite the Lord’s Prayer together, and their heavenly Father would be sure to save them; but Ossie, the youngest, was shouting pretty tellingly each time after the Amen—“Papa, open the window and let this water go out!” The only reply he received was a loving smile. Soon the room next to us collapsed, and then there was four feet of water in our room. The waters calmed and I supposed the worst was over. There was a pause; but in no time the backwater came rushing at us until the house shook and my wife and I were up to our mouths in water. My wife lost heart, but I threw off my coat and held her head above the water (she having fainted), and then our little girl shouted, “Dad, it's gone down an inch,” pointing to the wall. It had indeed receded an inch! Within an hour and a half there was not more than a foot and a half of water in the room.
There was a wall between us and the room which fronted on Main Street. “Would that we had an axe,” I said. “Here it is,” said David, our second boy. He had brought a small axe with him from the kitchen when we had come upstairs, and when we had run into the room in which we found ourselves; he had carried it in his hand and it was on top of the book case with him. I broke into the wall; but before I had made sufficient space for anyone to pass through, the axe slipped from my hand into the room in front of me. However, I finished the immediate task easily with my own hands. We went out towards the Main Street window. One Mr. Klein helped us next door, and then we were safe. Not one of the children had even wet their feet; and they had a cozy bed in which to rest that black night. Now another danger arose—the Catholic church caught fire; and my wife and I watched the flames of that church and the cruel conflagration of the railway bridge through the night, thinking of our neighbors—especially of our fellow-countrymen whom we were certain had been lost from this earth forever. Such is our history as a family, accurately laid before you. It is generally believed here that not fewer than ten thousand lives have been lost. More than fifty—men, women, and children—were lost by the Calvinistic Methodist Church. Yours sorrowfully.—Celyddon.