AMERICAN HAUNTINGS INK

Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts

Monday, April 21, 2014

WHERE THE DEAD STILL LINGER

HISTORY & HAUNTINGS AT THE OHIO STATE PENITENTIARY

On April 21, 1930, a fire broke out at the overcrowded Ohio Penitentiary in Columbus and claimed the lives of more than three hundred inmates. If prisons are truly haunted because of the death and tragedy that takes place in them, then the Ohio Penitentiary must have been one of the most haunted buildings in the region.

Even though the prison itself is no more, this has not stopped the stories of murder, brutality and of course, ghosts, from being told. The prison may be gone, but some say the spirits of the past still linger.

The Ohio State Penitentiary before the fire

The Ohio Penitentiary opened in late October 1834 when 189 prisoners were marched under guard from a small frontier jail to the partially completed building. As they walked along the banks of the Scioto River, they must have been amazed and dismayed by the stone walls of their new place of incarceration, as many other men would be in the years to come. Hundreds of thousands of men were sent to this prison over the next 150 years and thousands of them died, usually violently, behind the high walls.

The penitentiary that was located on Spring Street was actually the third state prison in Ohio and the fourth jail in early Columbus. The first jail in the city had been built in 1804 and was a two-story log stockade that was surrounded by 13 whipping posts. Author Dan Morgan noted that "horrible stories were told about this primitive prison" and said that men, women and children were all brought there. They were stripped of their clothing and then tied to the posts. This was followed by whippings that left their backs resembling raw beef. Further torture was inflicted with hot ashes and coals that were spread onto their bleeding flesh. It was obviously a horrifying place.

Between 1813 and 1815, the first state prison was built along Scioto Street, which later became 2nd Street. It was a simple structure that housed prisoners in 13 cells on the third floor. The prison was full within a year so the General Assembly commissioned a larger structure, designed for 100 prisoners, that was completed in 1818. This building provided unheated cells, straw mats on the floor, infestations of lice and rats and was plagued by several cholera epidemics. It also had several subterranean places of punishment, called "holes," where conditions were even worse.

The prison remained in use until a new building was constructed on Spring Street, however an odd occurrence took place there in 1830. At that time, a fire of "incendiary origin" destroyed most of the prison workshops. Strangely, a century later in 1930, another fire of “incendiary origin” destroyed an entire cellblock and claimed 332 lives at the new penitentiary. It is still considered the worst fire in the history of American prisons.

American penitentiaries were originally designed as a place of contemplation for the mistakes made that caused the inmates to break the law in the first place. Prisoners "labored in silence during the day and were locked in solitary confinement at night." The men worked in factory shops, located behind the walls, to make leather harnesses, shoes, tailored goods, barrels, brooms, hats and other common goods that were not manufactured by legitimate business in Ohio.

The paltry food the prisoners ate usually consisted of cornbread, bacon and beans and was served on "rust-eaten tin plates" and eaten with crude implements fashioned from broom handles. They slept on hay sacks and although fold-down beds were installed around the time of the Civil War, blankets were only issued in the wintertime. The clothing and the bedding were filthy and were major carriers of disease as laundry facilities were non-existent in the early days. There was also no medical treatment to speak of and epidemics, dysentery and diarrhea killed many. In 1849, a cholera outbreak killed 116 of 423 prisoners. The guards fled the grounds and the prisoners begged for pardons.

The inmates were routinely punished for both major and minor infractions. Whipping remained the major form of discipline until 1844, but was replaced by no less cruel methods of causing pain. These included dunking inmates in huge vats of water, hanging them by their wrists in their cells and of course, the sweatbox. In 1885, the prison would begin carrying out executions, as well.

The "golden age" of the prison came during the tenure of Warden E. G. Coffin, from 1886 through 1900.  A number of flattering books were written about the institution during this era and visitors who came to tour the place could even buy picture postcards and souvenir books. One section of the souvenir book stated: “It is to Mr. Coffin's revolutionary methods of inaugurating, perfecting and successfully establishing humane but repressive methods in the management of the prison that the Ohio Penitentiary owes its world-wide celebrity.”

On Christmas Day 1888, Columbus newspapers reported that Warden Coffin had decided to do away with such punishments as the dunking tub and the stretching rings. Coffin said, “A hard box to sleep on and bread and water to eat will cause them to behave themselves. It may not be so speedy but it is more humane.”

Despite the fact that things at the Ohio Penitentiary seemed to be changed from the outside, the prisoners had a different story to tell. In 1894, a newspaper reporter learned that prisoners were still being locked in sweatboxes as punishment and that the ball and chain were also in use. The newspaper denounced the state of Ohio for "a partial return to the dark ages when the stocks and pillory were used for punishment." In addition, the prisoners were still being given bad food and medical care was still very poor. They also complained of pay-offs and political graft that resulted in some prisoners being blindfolded and tortured with water hoses, while well-connected inmates were given large cells and special privileges.

It was also during this era when the Death House was brought within the walls. Prior to that, the gallows had been set up on a place called Penitentiary Hill, located in a ravine near the present-day intersection of Mound and 2nd streets in Columbus. The first execution in the county had been carried out in 1844, when a convict was hanged for murder. The day of the hanging was regarded as “truly the greatest event in the history of Columbus” and was remembered as a day of “noise, confusion, drunkenness and disorder” during which one bystander, Sullivan Sweet, was reportedly trampled by a horse. Two sets of physicians were anxious to obtain the remains of the hanged man. One of the groups went to his grave and exhumed him and while they were making off with the body, they were shot at by the other doctors. The first party ran off, leaving the body to the second group, along with the now-empty grave. The dead man’s foot was, for many years, preserved in alcohol and kept on display by Drs. Jones and Little, who had an office on East Town Street.

In 1885, the gallows were moved behind the walls of the Ohio Penitentiary. Starting with Valentine Wagner in 1885, 28 men, including a 16-year-old named Otto Lueth, were hanged at the end of the prison’s East Hall. The electric chair (considered a humane form of execution) replaced the gallows in the hall in 1897 and 315 men and women were put to death in it.

This aspect of prison life became hated and feared by guards and prisoners alike. Corrections Major Grover Powell, who spent 31 years as a guard at the Ohio Penitentiary, told reporter David Lore in 1984, "Nobody ever really wanted to work the executions; nobody ever volunteered.” Death House duties, such as staying with the prisoner during the last meal, fastening the straps or flipping the switch, were rotated. The warden would get $75 overtime pay to split among the attending officers. Powell recalled that many of the men, even during the lean days of the depression when extra money came in handy, did everything they could to get out of working the executions.

But nothing in the history of the prison, even the macabre execution devices, matched the carnage and horror of April 21, 1930.

The penitentiary in flames

The fire began as a candle flame in a bundle of oily rags on the roof of the West Block of the prison, paralleling Neil Avenue. Authorities later reported that three prisoners had set the blaze in hopes that it would really start to burn around 4:30 p.m. They hoped that it would divert the guards’ attention from their escape, which they planned to take place when most of the prisoners were still in the dining hall. The fire smoldered too long, though, and didn’t erupt for an hour after that, just after the hundreds of prisoners had been returned to the cellblock. Most of the 322 inmates who died that evening perished because of the poisonous smoke given off by green lumber being used in some construction scaffolding on one part of the cellblock, but others suffered a more gruesome fate. Photographs of the debris from the fire showed evidence of incredible heat, which turned the levels of catwalks and bars into a tangle of blackened and twisted metal. Many of the prisoners were literally cooked alive.

Rescue workers try to assist the burned and dying inmates

It was the worst fire in Ohio history and the worst in the history of American prisons. The cellblock had been dangerous and overcrowded, critics said, citing concerns about too many men in the prison that dated back to 1908. At that time, over 4,500 men had been jammed into the century-old prison (with room for 1,500) and this had created the volatile conditions that had ended in the fire. The attention on the prison led to a repeal of judicial control over minimum sentences, which was thought to have contributed to the overcrowding. A package of new laws in 1931 established the Ohio Parole Board and established parole procedures, which by 1932 released 2,346 prisoners from the Ohio Penitentiary alone.

Rows of caskets belonging to the inmates who died in the fire

Officially, the fire was blamed on three inmates, two of whom committed suicide in the months following the tragedy. This was the official word, anyway, although many suggested that the fire had been accidental and that prison officials had blamed the disaster on the prisoners to cover up their own incompetence. Only a handful of people named a more sinister source for the fire, noting with interest that the doomed West Cellblock, which had been added to the original prison in 1875, had been built directly on top of the old prison cemetery. The bodies, the legends say, were never removed. Were some of the former prisoners having their revenge against the prison from the other side?

The 1930s saw more problems at the Ohio Penitentiary. This era began to see an increase in problems at the prison. Many believe that the growth of the "rackets" and the general disrespect for the law in the 1920s and 1930s resulted in an upsurge of prison terms that had the available prisons filled to overflowing. The one-man cells at the prison were converted to handle three or more men and the average daily count swelled to 4,100 inmates by the end of the decade. In 1939, Warden William Amrine once again recommended the construction of a new prison, stating that "conditions at the Ohio Penitentiary are a disgrace to the state of Ohio." His request was turned down, but World War II marked the beginning of a new era for the prison.

The 1930s had been a horrendous time at the prison but changes came about because the inmates were now desperately needed to produce goods for the war effort. Warden Ralph "Red" Alvis is credited for the major changes in the prison, eliminating lock step marching, the strict requirements of silence and striped prison uniforms. And while many of the restrictions were lifted and the men were kept productive during the war, the food became worse. Wartime restrictions and rationing were hard on the ordinary public, but even worse on the prisoners. Gentry Richardson, a prisoner who began serving time at the prison in 1942, recalled, “They would give us butter beans with a piece of fat sowbelly in there with hair on it, big hairs up to an inch long.” Bad food, in fact, was a reason for the 1952 Ohio Penitentiary riot, the first of three to rock the institution over the next two decades. It would not be until after this incident that the rations would start to improve.

Warden Alvis began to implement recreation programs for those incarcerated in the Ohio Penitentiary and began to assume a more humane posture toward the prisoners. His goal was to improve prisoner morale and to encourage a sense of dignity in the men. He believed this was the best way to rehabilitate the inmates and hopefully to release changed men back onto the streets.
Holiday boxing and wrestling matches came about as early as 1940 and a bandstand was built on the O. Henry Athletic Field, the home of the inmate’s baseball team, the "Hurricanes."  
                                                                                
For years, the Ohio Penitentiary drew celebrities, athletes and performers like fighters Joe Lewis and Jack Dempsey and entertainers such as Lionel Hampton. Ohio State University students performed classical music and opera behind the walls and pilots from the Lockbourne Air Force Base led literary discussions. Legendary coach Woody Hayes even once offered to help start an inmate football team. The high point of each year was always the inmate Christmas show, which was performed by the prisoners and always played to a full house. A few outsiders were allowed in for each show and the tickets were always in high demand.

Despite all of this, the conditions of the prison building continued to deteriorate and overcrowding became more of an issue. The prison population reached a record high of 5,235 in April 1955. Classrooms and visiting areas had to be used as dormitories and many of the programs fell apart. With more men came more danger. One former prisoner stated, “I saw a lot of men die behind the walls. How many? I can’t even remember half of them, but there was a lot of killing.”

On June 24, 1968, the worst series of riots in the prison’s history began in the print shop, forcing a number of political decisions that would end with the closing of the penitentiary 16 years later. The initial June riots led to at least $1 million in fire damage and the destruction of nine buildings and damage to six others.

Tensions continued to mount through July and led to more riots in August, when inmates not only started fires, but also took nine guards hostage. This forced a 28-hour standoff between the leaders of the convicts and the authorities that ended with an assault on the prison on August 21. Officers blew holes in the south wall and the roof and invaded the prison with deadly force. Five of the convicts were killed but the guards managed to make it through alive. This strengthened the conviction that the prison needed to be closed down.

Governor James A. Rhodes ordered a new maximum-security prison to be built in remote Lucasville, Ohio, and placed the old prison under the control of Warden Harold Cardwell, who immediately cancelled the Christmas shows, the exhibitions and the team sports. The prison was now under a permanent lock-down and would remain that way for the rest of its existence.

In 1972, most of the prisoners were transferred out and sent to the Southern Ohio Correctional Facility, which had just been completed. The old prison now housed only the sick, the psychotic and the troublemakers. Except for the most secure areas, the place was falling into ruin. The fire-gutted buildings had been left to rot and decay and were slowly crumbling away.  
  
In 1979, the prison was ordered closed down for good as of December 31, 1983. For the first time in more than 150 years, the Ohio Penitentiary was completely silent and empty. Or was it? Not long after the last of the inmates departed, new stories began to be told about the legendary place. And there were stories of a much darker sort.            

While some stated that the only “ghosts” that remained in the prison were those of legend – remnants of the history and memories of the place, others soon began to argue that point. They believed that the fires, the executions, the stabbings, the shootings and the quiet, desperate, suicides that snuffed out thousands of lives behind the prison walls were not the only horrors to be imprinted on the desolate location. They began to believe that the spirits of many of these angry and sinister men remained behind.

Stories began to spread about the old prison site. Those who wandered too close to the old buildings or who dared to go inside began to believe that the otherwise empty cell blocks were haunted by the spirits of the men who died in the prison. There were those who even claimed to experience the phantoms connected to the horrendous fire of 1930. It was said that by standing out in the prison yard, you could hear the roar of ghostly flames from inside and the horrible screams of the men who burned alive in their cells.

These stories continued for several years until finally, the prison was torn down and the site where it stood was cleared away. A sports arena was built where the prison once stood and in the fall of 2000, the arena became the home of the Columbus NHL hockey team. All traces of the old prison were finally destroyed. Or were they? According to reports, witnesses have spotted apparitions and have heard disembodied screams echoing across the arena’s parking lot at night. This has led many to believe that the site continues to be haunted today.

Years ago, when it was first proposed that a tourist attraction or development would take the place of the prison, one of the former guards spoke up, “I wouldn’t care if they dynamited the place. It’s the entrance to Hell itself... I can’t tell you what is there, what is seen and unseen....”


Could the destruction of the prison have erased the ghostly memories and restless souls that once lingered here? Or do they remain, still hoping for some sort of redemption to appease their troubled past?


Thursday, May 2, 2013

The Many "Demons" of Stonewall Jackson


THE MANY “DEMONS” OF STONEWALL JACKSON
What Really Killed the Famed Confederate General

On this date, May 2, 1863, Confederate General Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson was accidentally shot by several of his own men during the Battle of Fredericksburg in Virginia and he died a short time later, plunging the people of the Confederacy into despair and leading many to believe that the war might not be won without him. Ironically, it might not have been the bullets that Jackson. Instead, he may have died because of this own bizarre medical beliefs and the “demonic” diseases that he feared could inhabit his body!

Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson
The American Civil War was filled with heroes, on both sides of the conflict. One of the great generals of the Confederacy was Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson, the brooding, Bible-quoting philosophy teacher from Virginia, whose odd personal habits and daring attacks made him a legend in his own time. As Robert E. Lee’s most trusted commander, no other general helped win more decisive victories for the South and no other commander’s death was as fatal for the Confederacy. In battle after battle, from Bull Run to Chancellorsville, the tall, bearded scholar with the gaunt, weathered face shocked and bloodied the Union forces with his brilliant cavalry strikes and tremendous infantry assaults.

Behind his gallant image, though, lurked a man obsessed with weird ailments, peculiar dietary compulsions and a dark fear that evil spirits had somehow taken control of his body. At the Virginia Military Institute where he taught, Jackson was nicknamed “Tom Fool” because of his personal eccentricities, which included sucking on lemons to ease the discomfort of what he thought was an ulcer. Students and colleagues thought of him as a dull professor who rarely smiled, but when he found something funny, he would throw his head back and let out a frightening roar. Throughout his life, he struggled to overcome the belief that his body was somehow “out of balance,” and that the only way to correct this was to remain in a rigid, upright position so that his organs remained aligned on top of one another. For this reason, he rarely sat in chairs, preferring to keep his posture erect when standing, lying straight in bed, or on horseback. In battle, he often charged with one gloved hand held high over his head, allowing the blood to flow down into his body to establish equilibrium.

Jackson was what some saw as dangerously devout about his religion. Wherever he went, even onto the battlefield, he always took along his prayer book and prayer table. A devout Christian since 1849, he believed that the Civil War boiled down to a struggle between good and evil. In his mind, he was a crusader against the forces of darkness.

His health was always a major preoccupation. He was constantly concerned with a mysterious stomach ailment. To combat it, he kept up a strict regimen of raspberries, milk, plain bread or cornbread and an endless supply of lemons that he sucked on even when charging the enemy lines. He also undertook a rigorous program of running, rope climbing and booming shouts that he believed expanded his lungs. His infirmities included rheumatism, dyspepsia, poor eyesight (which he treated by dipping his head, eyes open, into cold water for as long as he could hold his breath), cold feet, nervousness, impaired hearing, tonsillitis (which eventually required an operation) and a “slight distortion of the spine.” Some modern doctors believe that Jackson may have suffered from a fairly common and most uncomfortable condition known as a diaphragmatic hernia, a hole in the diaphragm that allows the abdominal contents to move into the chest cavity.

But even if Jackson was an off-balance hypochondriac, as General A.P. Hill believed he was, he may have had good reason to be, based on his early family life.

Thomas Jackson was born in January 1824, the third child of Julia Beckwith and Jonathan Jackson, an attorney. The family lived in Clarksburg, in what is now West Virginia, when Thomas was born. Thomas's sister Elizabeth died of typhoid fever at the age of six on March 6, 1826, with two-year-old Thomas at her bedside. His father succumbed to the same illness 20 days later. Jackson's mother gave birth to Thomas's sister, Laura Ann, the following day, leaving her a widow with a large amount of debt and three young children, including a newborn. She sold the family's possessions to pay off the debts and moved into a rented one-room house. She declined family charity, taking in sewing and teaching school to support the family for more than four years.

In 1830, Julia remarried. Her new husband, Blake Woodson, cared little for his stepchildren. The family’s money problems continued. Then, in 1831, Julia died after giving birth to Thomas’ half-brother, leaving her three older children orphaned. She was buried in an unmarked grave along the James River, marking another death in Thomas’ young life. And more were to come.

As his mother’s health was failing, Jackson and his sister, Laura Ann, were sent to live with an uncle, Cummins Jackson, who owned a grist mill in what is now central West Virginia. His older brother, Warren, went to live with relatives on his mother’s side of the family. He later died from tuberculosis in 1841. After this series of deaths and illnesses, it was no wonder that Jackson feared sickness throughout his life.

Jackson worked for his uncle for the next seven years. He learned to read and write and attended school when he could. In 1842, Jackson was accepted to the United States Military Academy at West Point. Because of his inadequate schooling, he had difficulty with the entrance examinations and began his studies at the bottom of his class. Displaying a dogged determination that was to characterize his life, he became one of the hardest working cadets in the academy, and moved steadily up the academic rankings. Jackson graduated seventeenth out of 59 students in the Class of 1846. It was said by his peers that if he had stayed there another year, he would have graduated at the top of the class. In spite of his hard work, he made a strange impression on some of his classmates. Ulysses S. Grant stated that Jackson was a “fanatic” whose delusions “took strange forms – hypochondria, fancies that an evil spirit had taken possession of him.”

After graduating from West Point in 1846, he served with distinction in the Mexican War. It was in Mexico that Jackson first met Robert E. Lee. During the assault on Chapultepec Castle, he refused what he felt was a "bad order" to withdraw his troops. Confronted by his superior, he explained his rationale, claiming withdrawal was more hazardous than continuing his overmatched artillery duel. His judgment proved correct, and a relieving brigade was able to exploit the advantage Jackson had broached. In contrast to this display of strength of character, he obeyed what he also felt was a "bad order" when he raked a civilian throng with artillery fire after Mexican authorities failed to surrender Mexico City at the hour demanded by the U.S. forces. The former episode, and later aggressive action against the retreating Mexican army, earned him field promotion to the brevet rank of major. He was later recognized by army commander Winfield Scott at a celebratory banquet in Mexico City for earning more promotions than any other officer during the three-year war.

In the spring of 1851, Jackson accepted a newly created teaching position at the Virginia Military Institute in Lexington, Virginia. He became professor of natural and experimental philosophy and an artillery instructor. Despite the high quality of his work, he was unpopular as a teacher. He memorized his lectures and then recited them to the class. Any students who came to him asking for clarifications were given the same route explanation as before. If they asked again, Jackson viewed this as insubordination and punished them. The students mocked his stern, religious nature and his eccentric traits. In 1856, a group of alumni attempted to have Jackson removed as a teacher. Ironically, when the Civil War came, many of those same students would rally around their old professor because of his extraordinary achievements in battle.

Jackson remained at the school until Virginia’s secession in April 1861, when he was given command of the First Brigade of the Virginia Volunteers – later known as the famous “Stonewall Brigade.” He earned his nickname while leading his troops at the First Battle of Bull Run on July 21, 1861, when General Barnard Elliott Bee, who was mortally wounded soon afterward, is said to have remarked to his men, “There stands Jackson like a stone wall... rally around the Virginians!”

Thanks to his amazing victories during the early days of the war, “Stonewall Jackson” became a household name in the South. 
His nickname soon became a household word in the South and was constantly invoked by Confederate soldiers as they went into battle. Jackson’s fame continued after Bull Run and he began his masterful Shenandoah Valley campaign, one of the most brilliant in military history. Racing up and down the valley with his fast-moving infantry, Jackson decimated three separate Union armies, causing the Union to divert troops from General George McClellan’s offensive against Richmond.

In June 1862, Jackson’s brigade joined with Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia in the bloody Seven Days battles, which succeeded in driving Federal troops away from the outskirts of Richmond. He later shared in the Confederate victory at the Second Battle of Bull Run. At this point, Lee praised Jackson as his finest commander. The relationship between the two men, though never intimate, was warm and respectful. It was rooted in professional respect, but it was far from personal. Lee found it hard to break through Jackson’s quiet shyness, which kept him from sharing his personal life with anyone other than his wife and a small circle of friends. A large part of Jackson’s inability to socialize with the other commanders almost certainly stemmed from his bizarre outlook on the war and his personal life. Terrified for his health, he also struggled with a preoccupation with sin. His family affairs and the demands of the military left him little time to cultivate personal relationships.

Jackson’s most daring campaign was his last one. On May 2, 1863, he led his army against a much larger Federal force at the Battle of Chancellorsville. Launching several surprise attacks against the enemy, he was able to rout an entire wing of the Union forces. Late that afternoon, however, while on a reconnaissance ride, Jackson was shot by several of his own guards, who mistook him for an enemy officer. Jackson was hit three times, once in his right hand, one in his left wrist and a third time above his left elbow.

General Robert E. Lee bemoaned Jackson’s injuries, writing that he wished he could have traded places with him. He later confided to a friend that Jackson “has lost his left arm, but I have lost my right.” In the months to come, he came to believe that he had lost the Battle of Gettysburg without Jackson’s assistance. 
Complications set in following the amputation of his left arm, and the legendary general died of pneumonia at Guinea Station, Virginia, on May 10, 1863. Only a few hours before, Lee had sent a note to Jackson that read, “Could I have directed events, I should have chosen for the good of the country to have been disabled in your stead.” Lee later confided to a friend that Jackson “has lost his left arm, but I have lost my right.”

Ironically, Jackson may not have died as a result of his wounds – it may have been his bizarre beliefs about his health that actually killed him. His strange habit of covering his abdomen with cold towels in an effort to relive pains of “dyspepsia” may have led to his death. According to some sources, he fully recovered from the amputation but died when pneumonia set in after an attending servant draped the wet towels over his body without the knowledge of his doctor. Tragically, Jackson was never able to overcome the fears that plagued him as a child and refused to leave him when his life was hanging in the balance.

Mourners at Stonewall Jackson’s grave