American History Tellers - The 1900 Galveston Hurricane | Night of Terrors | 2

Episode Date: April 15, 2026

As a catastrophic hurricane approached Galveston, Texas on the morning of September 8, 1900, residents continued to go about their daily lives, with little warning of what was to come. Children played in the surf at the beach, and workers clocked in for their shifts downtown. But when the full strength of the storm hit, water from the Gulf of Mexico flooded the streets of the island city, and 100 mile-per-hour winds sent bricks, tree branches, and slate roof tiles flying through the air. Between 6 and 8 o’clock that night, a monster storm surge washed over the island, forcing thousands of men, women, and children into a battle for their lives.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Audible subscribers can listen to all episodes of American history tellers ad-free right now. Join Audible today by downloading the Audible app. Imagine it's lunchtime on Saturday, September 8, 1900 in Galveston, Texas. You're a steamship agent from New York, and you're sitting down at a corner table in Ritter's Cafe and Saloon. With a bad storm raging outside, you're relieved to be sheltered from the rain, dining with a local grain exporter named Richard. You'll unfold your napkin as a wreathers. waiter in a white jacket sets down a platter of shrimp in the middle of your table.

Richard takes a hearty swig of his cocktail and then spears a shrimp with his fork, but you're distracted by the sight of the doors and windows rattling from the force of the wind. Well, this is some storm. You ever see anything like it? Richard just shrugs. Oh, it's nothing. Just a little rain. You know, Galliston has weathered plenty of storms before. You should hear my old man talk about the hurricane back in 75. Hurricane? You think this is a hurricane? I wonder if I might be better off heading out of town early. I mean, there's a train leaving at 1.30 this afternoon.

You think I might be able to catch it? Oh, don't be such a worry, war. It will be fine. And how do you know that? Because I spent my whole life here. Besides, our local weatherman says it's practically impossible for a storm to do any real damage to the island. Something about coastal shelves or something. I don't know. Don't ask me to explain it. You whip your head around as a tree branch smacks the side of the restaurant.

Some of the other diners exchange nervous looks, but Richard remains focused on his lunch. You know, I just count it. Then there are 13 men inside this dining room right now. I think it must be an omen. Richard gives you a knowing wink, and you can't help it laugh. Oh, no, you can't scare me. I'm not superstitious. But your laugh dies in your throat as a wooden bean cracked above you, and the whole building starts to shudder.

The fork slips from your fingers as you lock eyes with Richard, whose face has suddenly gone pale. deafening crash, an instinct takes it on. You lunge beneath the table, your heart hammering in your chest as it seems the entire world collapses around you. From audible originals, I'm Lindsay Graham, and this is American history tellers, our history, your story. On September 8th, 1900, a catastrophic hurricane came charging toward the island city of Galveston, Texas. But officials had downplayed the danger, and few residents realized the threat facing them. So even as the wind and rain intensified, businessmen set down for lunchtime meetings at Ritter's Cafe and Saloon,

a popular restaurant at Galveston's Commercial District. But when a violent gust of wind tore off the building's roof and brought the ceiling down on the diners, everything changed. Over the next few hours, thousands of men, women, and children waded through fast-rising water in desperate search of shelter from the driving rain and Gale Force winds. But the real danger would arrive later that night, as a 15-foot storm surge flooded the city and left its residents battling for survival. This is episode two in our three-part series on the 1900 Galveston Hurricane, Night of Terror's. On Saturday, September 8, 1900, meteorologists Isaac and Joseph Klein woke up early in the morning to find water rising in their backyard, just three blocks north of the beach in Galveston, Texas.

This was the first sign that the storm they had been tracking was far worse than the Weather Bureau's earlier forecasts had indicated. The brothers then sprang into action. Joseph rushed to the office to prepare a report for the Weather Bureau's headquarters in Washington, D.C., while Isaac harnessed his horse to a two-wheeled cart and headed to the beach to investigate. And there, despite the Gulf waters flooding yards, residents who lived near the beach were struck by the morning splendor. One man later described the sight from his bedroom window, writing, The sky seemed to be made of Mother of Pearl, gloriously pink, yet containing a fish-scale effect that reflected all the colors of the rainbow.

Never had I seen such a beautiful sky. So to almost anyone awake at dawn that day, there was nothing to suggest menacing weather. But Isaac Klein knew differently. At 5 a.m., he arrived at the beach and pulled out his watch to record the time between swells, Staring out at the Gulf of Mexico, he watched brown swells rising higher and rolling in with increasing speed. This sent a shiver of panic through him. He noted that the wind was blowing away from the shore against the waves, but the waves kept getting bigger. Ordinarily, winds from the north kept the tides on the southern beach at bay. But now, despite brisk northern winds, the tide was

rising, something Isaac had never seen before. And the swells were pushing water far up the beach, too. Isaac climbed back into his horse-drawn cart and set off for the office to compile his observations in a telegram to Washington. He declared that such high water and opposing winds were never observed previously. But Galveston locals had no knowledge of Isaac's telegram, and in the meantime, they were left to draw their own conclusions. Long-time residents had weathered many storms, and they had no reason to suspect that this one was any different. Nevertheless, the spectacle at the massive swells drew large crowds to the beach, Hundreds flocked to the midway, a ten-block beachfront of cheap eateries and souvenir shops. They watched in awe as fountains of surf crashed against the piers,

and children ran out to splash in the large pools of water. One of the children who gathered on the beach was future filmmaker King Vidor, who was then five years old. He later wrote, I could see the waves crash against the streetcar trestle, then shoot into the air as high as the telephone poles. It seemed as if we were in a bowl looking up toward the level of the sea. I felt as if the sea was going to break over the edge of the bowl and come pouring down upon us.

But in a time of six-day work weeks, Saturday was a workday for most, and residents were busy going about their daily routines. By mid-morning, it started to rain, and although Isaac Klein had raised storm warning flags above the roof of the Levy Building the previous day, most saw the rain as ordinary and a welcome relief from the summer's relentless heat. One of these residents was Louisa Rolving, who worked as a housekeeper. Louisa and her husband also, were German immigrants living with their children in a small two-story rental house. Just a week earlier, the Rolfing family had celebrated the milestone of having finally paid off their treasured piano. But on this rainy Saturday, the Rolfing children weren't

practicing scales, but outdoors playing at the beach. Louisa later recalled, for a while, even ladies were waiting in the water, thinking it was fun. But her attitude changed when her two oldest children came home and told her that the surf was so strong that he was tearing apart the bathhouses. Suddenly, Louisa felt a stab of fear, later remembering, then it wasn't fun anymore. Convinced that her family was in danger, Louisa sent her son to fetch her husband August, who was working downtown as a painter. The boy returned saying, Papa says you must be crazy. August finally came home only afternoon, just as the floodwaters were climbing higher. Imagine it's just after noon on

September 8, 1900 in Galveston, Texas. All morning, you've been standing at your front window, fear curdling inside you as you watch the waters rise in the street outside. Some of your neighbors are starting to pack up their things to seek shelter from the storm. You tighten your grip on the window curtain as you watch your husband August run up the path in front of your house. August comes through the front door and shakes the rain off his hat. You cross your arms in front of you glaring at him. Take off those boots, no tracking mud in the house. And what took you so long? August ignores your question and glances past you to the kitchen. table in the adjurning room. Well, there's no lunch. Is that all you have to say? You're worried about

lunch? I haven't even thought about cooking. Yes, I'm worried about lunch. Why did I come home all this way? Well, I'm sorry if I was too busy wondering if our home was about to be destroyed by floodwaters. Oh my God, you're being such a woman. What's there to be afraid of? It's just a little water. That water is going to see through the front door any minute now. Well, if you're so worried about it, take the children and go upstairs. I need to go back downtown and pay my crew. You're leaving. What's the matter with you? You can't go outside in this weather? It's just rain. I'll be back in a few hours. August rolls his eyes, which only makes you more furious. You're unbelievable. If you really insist on going out, you need to send for a carriage to take us somewhere safe. Some of the neighbors and far sturdier homes than ours are already packing up. Darling, you are being ridiculous. Ridiculous. Well, if the children and I drown, it will be your fault, and you'll never know peace.

Anger courses through you as August puts his hat back on and storms off. But beneath your frustration, you're terrified he won't make it back home. And as you stand at the window and watch his figure dissolve into the downpour, a sudden, sickening thought crosses your mind that this could be the last time you ever see him. At lunchtime on September 8th, Louisa Rolfeing became furious when her husband downplayed the threat of the storm and returned to work. But August Rolfing was not alone in his complacency. The residents of Galveston knew nothing of the true nature of the hurricane bearing down on them.

Meteorologists at the U.S. Weather Bureau in Washington had underestimated its intensity. They had missed signs that Cuban forecasters recognized, and their recent ban on weather reports from Cuba had prevented alternative forecasts from reaching Galveston. And while ship captains in the Gulf of Mexico had already battled the hurricane firsthand, in 1900, shipped-to-shore communication technology did not yet exist, so there was no way for the ships to warn officials back on land. Moreover, Galveston locals had long-standing beliefs that the island's geography protected it from hurricanes,

reinforced by meteorologist Isaac Klein himself. That very morning, the editor of the Galveston Tribune, was working on an editorial in which he declared that a flood could never cause a serious loss of life in Galveston. And because of newspaper practices of the era, weather information was fragmented across multiple pages and buried among unrelated items, making it easy for readers to miss. Even then, the most substantial news item on the storm still downplayed the threat.

But early that afternoon, with floodwaters rising, residents slowly began to understand that this was no ordinary storm. At lunchtime, a throng of people gathered at the train station, hoping to leave town before the weather worsened. But at noon, the station stopped selling tickets because water had already covered the tracks onto the island, preventing trains from going in or out. 30 minutes later, the streetcars also stopped running, forcing residents to wade through knee-deep water in the streets. One visiting businessman remembered how the rain felt like hail when it struck

his face. Walking north, he was shocked to find water flooding the streets from the bayside of the island, too, and when water ran onto the sidewalks, he became very nervous. Also downtown was Judson Palmer, secretary of the local YMCA, and a friend of Isaac Clombe, lines. Thirty minutes after the streetcar stopped working, at one o'clock that afternoon, Palmer's wife May called him at his office to tell him to come home. She explained that saltwater was rising in their yard and that she'd been forced to borrow a neighbor's telephone to call him because their line had gone dead. Palmer tried to assuage his wife's fears, and then stayed at work a little longer, joking with coworkers about how women were quick to

frighten. But when Judson finally did begin to make his way home, he soon understood why May was so worried. Water covered every street, and he guessed that the wind was blowing 50 miles an hour. When he finally arrived home, May insisted that their family should go to the three-story brick-and-stone YMCA building to ride out the storm. Judson told her to go there alone with their six-year-old son Lee, insisting that he would stay and look after the house, but May refused to go without him, so all three Palmer's stayed home. Meanwhile, back downtown, several men gathered inside Ritter's cafe and saloon, a popular restaurant for business meetings on the ground floor of a building that housed a second-story printing shop. Inside Ritters, the diners ate, drank, and told jokes as the wind

rattled the windows and doors until suddenly a powerful gust tore off the building's roof completely. The ceiling collapsed into the dining room, and a cascade of desks and heavy printing presses followed. Five men were killed in an instant, and five more were badly injured. A waiter who survived the collapse, went for help, but he drowned in the rising water outside. Nevertheless, news of the collapse of Ritter's Cafe quickly spread throughout town. The storm was now a deadly one, and it was plain to see that it was far worse than anyone had imagined. At long last, Galveston's false sense of security gave way to a rising tide of fear and panic. I'm Leon Nafok, best known as the host and co-creator of podcasts, Slow Burn, Fiasco, and Think Twice Michael Jackson.

I'm here to tell you about my show, Final Thoughts, Jerry Springer, whose name is synonymous with outrageous guests, taboo confessions, and vicious on-stage fights. But before the Jerry Springer show became a symbol of cultural decline, its namesake was a popular Midwestern politician and a serious-minded idealist with lofty ambitions. Through dozens of intimate and revealing interviews with those who knew Springer best, I examined Springer's lifelong struggle to reconcile his TV persona with his political dreams and aspirations. Named one of the best podcasts of the year by The New Yorker and Rolling Stone, final thoughts, Jerry Springer, is a story about choices, how we make them, how we justify them to ourselves, and how we transcend them or don't. Listen wherever you get your podcasts.

Or binge the whole series Ad Free Right Now, on Audible. Start your Audible subscription in the Audible app. I'm Leon Nafak, best known as the host and co-creator of podcasts, Slow Burn, Fiasco, and Think Twice, Michael Jackson. I'm here to tell you about my show, Final Thoughts, Jerry Springer, whose name is synonymous with outrageous guests, taboo confessions, and vicious on-stage fights. But before the Jerry Springer show became a symbol of cultural decline, its namesake was a popular Midwestern politician and a serious-minded idealist with lofty ambitions. Through dozens of intimate and revealing interviews

with those who knew Springer best, I examined Springer's lifelong struggle to reconcile his TV persona with his political dreams and aspirations. Named one of the best podcasts of the year by the New Yorker and Rolling Stone, final thoughts, Jerry Springer, is a story about choices, how we make them, how we justify them to ourselves, and how we transcend them or don't. Listen wherever you get your podcasts or binge the whole series ad-free right now on Audible.

Start your audible subscription in the Audible app. Throughout the day on Saturday, September 8th, 1900, brothers Isaac and Joseph Klein manned the telephone in the Galliston Weather Bureau, fielding call from panic residents. And as the hours passed, Isaac's anxiety mounted. From his office windows, he could see north winds pushing the waters of Galliston Bay into the streets. He later wrote that it was at this moment that he was, realized that an awful disaster was upon us. So at 2.30 p.m., Isaac wrote an urgent telegram to weather

bureau chief Willis Moore, informing him that the city was fast going underwater. He predicted a great loss of life and stressed the need for urgent relief. Joseph then waited through knee-deep water to carry the message to the telegraph office, only to learn that the lines were down. So instead he returned to the Weather Bureau and tried the telephone, asking the operator for the Western Union office in Houston. But only one long-distance line was operating, and 4,000 people were ahead of him. But Joseph managed to convince the telephone company to give him the line, and his message was sent, just in time because minutes later, the line was dead. Galveston was now cut off from the rest of the world. In the meantime, Isaac made his way home after deciding there is

nothing more he could do at the office. He was deeply concerned for the safety of his three young daughters and his wife Cora, now pregnant with their fourth. Desperate to get home to them, he trekked two miles through waste-deep water, all while dodging flying debris. That afternoon, 100-mile-per-hour wind sent bricks, tree branches, and slate-roof tiles flying through the air. After a major fire in 1885, the city had required residents to replace their wooden shingles with slate, but now the hurricane turned them into deadly missiles that threatened to slice off limbs. The gales swept men off their feet, toppled horses, and broke clapboard siding into splinters that pierced bodies. Isaac later recalled the extraordinary sight that afternoon as the waters of the Gulf and Bay converged,

submerging the sliver of land in between them. He wrote, water already covered the island from the Gulf to the Bay. In reality, there was no island, just the ocean, with houses standing out of the waves which rolled between them. While on his way home, Isaac ran into Judson Palmer. the local YMCA secretary, who was looking out his front door checking the height of the water. When he saw the trusted weatherman, Palmer called him over and asked whether he should remain home or move his family to the YMCA building downtown. Isaac urged him to stay put, declaring that his house seemed sturdy enough.

So reassured, Palmer went back inside to his wife and son, and Isaac continued his trek home. He had complete confidence in his own house, which had been built four years earlier with the goal of making it strong enough to withstand coastal storms. It was built on stilts, with the first floor situated above the high watermark of Galveston's most recent major flood, an 1875 storm that carried an eight-foot tide into the city. But Isaac wasn't alone in his confidence. When he arrived home, he discovered 50 people had taken refuge there alongside his wife and daughters. And all across the city that afternoon,

other residents were seeking higher ground too, climbing up to second-floor bedrooms and hunkering down in more substantial buildings, all while fighting their way through falling telephersonals. phone poles, floating wreckage and flying debris. Painter August Rolfing remained downtown, but he hired a driver and carriage to take his wife Louisa and their three children to safety. Louisa bundled her children and a few belongings into the carriage and set off her mother-in-law's house. She later wrote, it was a terrible trip. We could only go slowly because electric wires were down everywhere, which made it dangerous. The rain was icy cold and hurt our faces like glass splinters, and little Lanta cried all along the way. I pressed her little face hard against

my breast, so she would not be hurt so badly. Darkness fell unnaturally early as their driver dodged a relentless stream of wreckage. They were one block from their destination, when the water suddenly rose as high as the horse's neck, forcing them to abandon their original plans and turn around. After traveling six blocks against the flow of water, the Rolfings took refuge in the home of August's sister. Once inside, they hastily battened the windows and doors, nailing an ironing board across one window. They gathered in the stairway with a lantern and a pitcher of water, listening to the sound of windows shattering upstairs and a piano sliding back and forth across the room below. Louisa recalled, it sounded as if the rooms were filled with a thousand little devils,

shrieking and whistling. Meanwhile, more than a thousand other people crowded into the stately Tremont hotel. Businessmen and stranded visitors sought refuge at the train station, and all across the city, race barriers vanished, with black and white residents sheltering together wherever they could. Nearly 500 residents shared space with patients at St. Mary's Infirmary, a large brick hospital precariously located on the narrow eastern end of the island, just six blocks from the Gulf and three blocks from the bay. Still, it was far more substantial than the small-frame houses that surrounded it. Even so, as the windows blew out in one of the wards, a medical student there evacuated dozens of elderly patients into the main building, finishing just as the floodwaters

rose to his shoulders. So by late afternoon, everyone in Galveston knew that they were facing a storm of unimaginable violence. The winds that blew offshore in the morning had swung around and were now rushing on shore, pushing stormways further onto the island. One black man named Daniel Ransom saw his beachside home lifted by the storm and only escaped by diving into the waves. But over the course of the next two and a half hours, he rescued 45 people, bringing them to a sturdier brick building in his neighborhood. But the devastation wasn't just on land. Outside in the harbor, ships were ravaged. One steamer's hull was pierced by flying debris even as its moorings held. Another ship tore free, collided with a freighter, smashed through three railroad bridges,

and finally lodged near the wagon bridge to the mainland. Elsewhere, residents saw the stormwaters carrying outhouses, fences, and small shacks through the streets. Children watched in amazement as their parents chopped into their floors with axes to let water in and prevent their houses from being lifted off their foundations. But despite these desperate efforts, Galveston was at the complete mercy of the hurricane, and already some residents had perished. It was early in the evening when Joseph Klein finally arrived at his brother's house, where 50 of their neighbors had also taken shelter. By then, there were eight inches of

water on the first floor of the house, and Joseph feared they were making a terrible mistake. Imagine at 6.30 p.m. on September 8, 1900 in Galveston. Black storm clouds have cloaked the evening in darkness, and you and your older brother Isaac are standing on the front porch of his house. The wind is pummeling, the windows and doors, water is rushing through the neighborhood so that only the top two-thirds of the houses across the street are visible. and hold onto the porch railing to steady yourself and glance sideways at Isaac. You know, before I left the office, the barometer fell below 29 inches. I've never seen anything like it.

That's a bad one, no denying it, but we'll make it through. I don't know, Isaac, I don't think we've seen the worst of it. This hurricane is just going to keep getting stronger. I think it's time we head for higher ground. No, absolutely not. This house has strong bones. I use the best materials, and I have complete faith in it. My builder has faith, too.

He has his entire family sheltering inside. What more proof do you need? None that matters. This storm's too powerful. This house is too close to the Gulf. I say we leave now. At least we'll have a chance. You were interrupted by the crash of a shed,

slamming into your neighbor's fence and splintering on impact. The street churned with wreckage. Each passing object a reminder of how quickly the city is being torn apart. Your brother Isaac blinks, taking in the awful sight. I don't know. Look around. Do you expect us to wade through this? Leaving now would be suicidal.

besides, Cora can't venture out in her condition. It's out of the question. We'll help her get to safety. I mean, please, Isaac, we're running out of time. Think about your girls. I am thinking about the girls. It's my family, not yours, and I have far more experience with these things than you. Well, fine, have it your way.

God, help us all. You throw up your arms and defeat and go back inside the house. It's clear that no matter how much time passes, Isaac will never think of you as anything but an apprentice. But you have a sinking feeling that today, it's going to cost you both. On the evening of September 8th, Joseph Klein pleaded with his brother Isaac to flee to higher ground

at the center of town. Isaac refused. A local reporter later reflected on the impossible decisions facing residents like Joseph and Isaac that day, writing, the people of Galveston were like rats and traps. To leave a house was to drown, to remain was to court death in the wreckage. And the worst was still yet to come.

Back at the brother's office, the barometer soon bought, out at 28.48 inches, the lowest reading the U.S. Weather Bureau Station had ever recorded. And a little while later, while Isaac stood at his front door, the water suddenly rose four feet in just four seconds, covering Isaac all the way to his waist. The sea itself had arrived at his doorstep, and waiting to safety was no longer an option. Panic rushed through him, and he hurried everyone in the house upstairs to the second floor. Meanwhile, all across the island, parents lifted their children onto tables and dressers to escape the water that threatened to drown them.

They climbed to upstairs bathrooms and bedrooms, but for residents in single-story homes, there was nowhere to go. The rapid rise in water was a sign that the hurricane had reached its peak. Between 6 and 8 o'clock that night, the island was struck by a massive storm surge, seawater driven ashore by the hurricane's violent winds and intensified by Galiston's shallow coastal shelf. The worst had finally arrived. and thousands of lives hung in the balance as a hurricane unleashed the full power of its deadly force. On the night of September 8, 1900, a devastating storm surge washed over Galveston. Holmes collapsed or detached from their foundations, submerging their occupants beneath the water.

Winds gusted as strong as 200 miles per hour, exerting over 30 tons of pressure against the buildings where people sheltered. Waves propelled massive pieces of wreckage into the streets, including rooftops, telephone poles, and sheds. One man reported dodging a piano at the crest of a wave, describing its white keys gleaming even in the darkness. One of the terrified residents was Judson Palmer, who had refused when his wife May suggested that their family hunkered down at the Brick YMCA building downtown.

Meteorologist Isaac Klein had personally reassured Judson that they would be safe, sheltering in their house. But that night, the Palmers were forced to cling to one another in an upstairs bathroom, as the storm finally invaded their home. Imagine it's the night of September 8th, 1900 in Galveston, Texas. You're in your upstairs bathroom with your wife May and six-year-old son, Lee. You fled upstairs to escape the rising water, but moments ago, the front half of your house tore loose.

Now the water has reached a second floor. You know you must act fast. Okay, everyone, get in the bathtub. Everyone get in the bathtub and quickly! The three of you climb inside the clawfoot tub. You grab hold of Lee with your right arm and clamp your left hand on the shanked. clamp your left hand on the shower rod to steady yourself. May wraps her arms around your waist. You can feel her trembling against you. Well, it's going to be all right, May.

Anyone could see that we have one of the strongest houses around. Isaac Klein said it so himself. He said, we'd be safe here. But for how much longer? Storm's got to pass soon. Can't go on like this forever, right? We just have to stay calm, just a little while longer. You've been saying that all night.

And I've kept us safe so far, haven't I? I don't know. The whole house is straining. We should have gone to the YMCA when we still had a change. Deep down, you agree with her, but you can't let her know that. You hug your son tighter. All right, Lee, why don't we sing a song, huh? How about row, row, row your boat?

But your son Lee shakes his head in refusal, too frightened to speed. A chunk of plaster falls on the kerosene lamp resting on the sink, plunging the room into darkness. You can't see your family anymore, but you can feel their fear. It's all right. It's all right. Nothing's going to happen to you. Everything's going to be okay. But in truth, it's all a lot. all a lie. You're filled with regret that you didn't leave two hours ago. There's a loud crash and

your pulse quickens as you feel the house shuddered once more. As the water flows over the lip of the bathtub, you hold your family tight to say a silent prayer, guilt and terror mingling within you as you wait from the storm to carry you away. The Palmer family huddled together in a bathtub as their house shuddered and broke away from its foundation. In an instant the roof fell in on the family, pushing them down under the water and causing Judson to lose his grip on his wife and son. He came up for air, coughing and sputtering, and as he treaded water, he called out for his family in the darkness, but they were nowhere to be found. And as more and more houses near the beach fell into the Gulf, it was Isaac Klein's house that stood along. But before long, there was 15 feet of water

inside. Isaac and Joseph herded their family and neighbors into a second-floor bedroom on the side of the house closest to the wind, reasoning that if it tumbled over, it would still all be on top, rather than crushed underneath. But it wasn't the wind that came for them. At around 7.30 p.m., the clines looked outside a window and saw a massive piece of streetcar trestle bearing down on them. Gathering wreckage as it moved, it had become a quarter of a mile-long battering ram, and it was headed straight for them. The clines and their neighbors screamed as the trestle struck the house, causing it to break off its foundation. Joseph grabbed the hands of his two older nieces and lunged through a window, smashing the glass and storm shutters.

They clung to an outside wall as the house rolled over and bobbed in the water. But nearly 50 men, women, and children remained trapped inside. Joseph lowered himself partially through the window, calling out and swinging his legs in the water in the hopes that someone would grab hold, but no one did. Because while Joseph and his nieces were flinging themselves out the window, a dresser skidded across the bedroom and pinned Isaac, Cora, and their youngest daughter Esther against a fireplace. All three were dragged underwater when the house collapsed. Fighting for air, Isaac soon blacked out.

But he regained consciousness and found himself trapped between two pieces of timber. A flash of lightning revealed his daughter Esther, floating on a piece of wreckage nearby. Isaac swam to her and grabbed her tight. A few minutes later, another flash of lightning revealed his brother Joseph and his two older daughters clinging to debris a short distance away. Isaac then swam to them with Hester under one arm and joined them on the floating wreckage, but there was no sign of his wife, Cora.

Brothers did their best to shield the girls from the storm's wrath. Years later, Isaac wrote, This struggle to live continued through one of the darkest of nights with only an occasional flash of lightning, which revealed the terrible carnage about us. We could hear houses crashing under the impact of the wreckage, hurled forward by the wind and storm-tide, but this did not blot out the screams of the injured and dying.

Because as the clines floated on through the darkness, other horrifying scenes unfolded across Galveston. Whizzing slate tiles sliced off limbs and decapitated heads, venomous snakes slithered up into the same trees people occupied, trying to escape the stormwaters. A 220-foot church tower crashed into the street, but the storm was so loud no one could hear it. A lightning strike brought down a schoolhouse chimney,

killing 15 people in an instant. One of the night's greatest tragedies transpire on the western edge of the city at St. Mary's orphanage, home to 10 nuns and 93 children. As the water penetrated the orphanage, the nuns tied the youngest children together with clotheslines for safety

and herded them into the girls' dormitory at the back of the building. To keep them calm, they had them sing a hymn called Queen of the Waves, often sung by fishermen seeking protection from storms. There in the back room cowering together, they heard the crash of the boys' dormitory falling into the Gulf. The water kept advancing, shattering windows and undermining floorers,

as the children kept singing until the water finally caught up with them. Seconds later, the roof over their heads caved in. Ten nuns and ninety children died. Many tangled in the very close lines meant to protect them. The only survivors were three older boys who were thrown from the wreckage and managed to grab hold of the branches of a floating tree. But incredibly, amidst this devastation, there was also new life. During the peak of the storm, nearly 1,000 people took refuge in

Ursuland, which covered four city blocks. There, four pregnant women gave birth, including one woman who floated in through a window before going into labor. The babies were immediately baptized for fear they would not survive the night. The water reached its highest level, just under 16 feet, at around 9 o'clock that evening. Between 10 and 11 p.m., the waters slowly began to recede back into the Gulf and Bay. At around 11.30, the Klein's raft came to rest on solid ground just four blocks from where they once lived. Isaac and Joseph spotted a light in the window of a nearby house and led the girls toward it. The occupants took in the stranded family for the night. Across town, Louisa Rolfeing was amazed that she and her family had survived the storm at her

sister-in-law's house. But she feared for her husband August, who had returned the work against her wishes. He had spent the day waiting through the stormwaters and sheltering with strangers, and to Louise's amazement, he arrived at his sister's home in the middle of the night, more dead than alive. When he realized that his family was safe, he collapsed in a heap on the stairs. That night, an eerie quiet settled over the island, broken only by the occasional cry of victims calling for help. All across Galiston, men, women, and children clung to one another and awaited the morning light before venturing outdoors, searching for their love, ones and discovering what was left of their battered city.

From Audible Originals, this is episode two of our three-part series on the 1900-Galveston Hurricane for American History Tellers. In the next episode, the hurricane survivors reckoned with a widespread destruction and begin the harrowing task of disposing of thousands of bodies. And amid staggering food and housing shortages, American Red Cross founder Clara Barton rushes to Texas to organize relief. Follow American History Tellers on the Audible app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to all episodes of American History Tellers ad-free by joining Audible.

And to find out more about me and my other projects, including my live stage show coming to a theater near you, go to not-that-lindsayam.com. That's not-that-lindsaym.com. American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsay Graham for Airship. This episode is written by Ellie Stanton. by Dorian Marina. Senior producers Alighur Azansky and Andy Beckerman. Managing producer Desi Blaylock. Audio editing by Mohamed Shazi. Music by Thrum. Sound design by Molly Bach.

Executive producer for Audible, Jenny Lauer Beckman. Head of Creative Development at Audible, Kate Navin. Head of Audible Originals, North America, Marshal Louis. And Chief Content Officer, Rachel Giazza.