But with this sense of the nearness of death, came another still more fearful to the mind. There was mingled with the thoughts of the dead, another of the living, which was even more horrible to the mind. A great shadow hovered over the place. It was not the shadow of the angel, which had descended, with its dark wings; it was not the unseen messenger of God; it was not of the horror that walked in darkness, or the destruction that wasted at noon of night, but a horrible suspicion had seized the people; the horrid selfishness of men haunted the waking thoughts as terrible death had the sleep of night. Cruelty was ascribed to men, worse, even, than the awful fall and death.
That burning of the bodies was ascribed to design. The impression was a general one. Indignation was mingled with horror; that retiring to homes, while the bodies burned, was not the result of indifference. Few were so heartless as to care more for sleep than for the safety of the dead. Many could not sleep that night, but, somehow, the impression had taken possession of the people that the burning was designed.
As the citizens returned to their homes late at night, they had talked their suspicion, and grown sick at heart. The firemen themselves had laid the blame somewhere else than upon their chief. It seemed too inhuman, and yet it was believed. The station agent was known and trusted. His character was well established. His humane and kindly heart was not impeached. His Christian life and courtesy were well known to all. But the feeling was universal, and the suspicion strong. The control of the company over the cars, and all the contents, was taken for granted. The responsibility of common carriers was known, and no one could understand why orders should be given to withhold the water, except it was to destroy the traces of those who were on the train. For the time this was believed. The sentiment was so common that even an employee of the road was heard to say that “ashes did not count,” but bodies did.
There was no foundation for the report. It was all the result of that strange mistake. As was afterwards shown, no such order had been given, and the persons in command were not responsible for the mistake; but for the time it had its effect. That midnight hour showed how strong this conviction had become. The deserted streets, the silent engines, the stabled horses--all betokened a thought which ruled the night. A strange misunderstanding had controlled that fatal hour, yet none the less powerful because so strange. As men met in the morning, this was the first thought which they expressed. It was the main subject of remark. Many supposed that the order had been given from the central office, but had no means of correcting or confirming their belief. Others maintained that there was a reason for the order, as the throwing of water upon hot iron was likely to create steam, and this, it was said, “would destroy more lives than even the flames, and would deface the bodies.” It was held by some to be the general policy of railroad companies to allow wrecks to be burned, and this was given as the reason: “that steam would be generated which would immediately cover the wreck, and drive away those who would rescue the living.” Gentlemen of intelligence and caution discussed that point with earnest warmth.