Encore: Boston Molasses Disaster | A Deadly Deluge | 1
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Imagine it's January 15th, 1919, just after noon in Boston's North End.

You're a brakeman in the third car of the city's passenger train, rattling up the rails on elevated tracks. The train's chugging north at 20 miles per hour and approaching a section you've always loved, where you can see the docks and feel the ocean wind blowing in from the wharf. You look down and see longshoremen hauling kegs of beer and carts loaded with livestock.

To you, there's a sense of progress and optimism in all this activity, something your city desperately needs. The flu pandemic has ravaged Boston for months, and thousands of the city's young men were killed in the war in Europe. You turn to your assistant next to you, who's bracing himself by the window. It's his first time on this route. Now look, when you get here, you gotta be careful, because this bend up ahead is really tight. The young man nods. You know, sir, my parents' family used to live in this neighborhood.

They moved over to Charleston before I was born, though. Irish, right? Yeah, mostly Italians down here now. It's been built up, too. You see that skyline? Used to be clear to the water. Full of smokestacks now. What's that at the bend up ahead? You know without having to look what he's talking about. It's the towering steel tank that rises five stories tall, looming over the whole neighborhood. Oh, that? That was put up a few years back. Molasses. Molasses.

The company that owns that tank distills it into alcohol, then uses it to make some kind of explosive. I hear they made a fortune during the war. Hearing the loud boom, the young man's eyes go wide in panic. You feel the train wheels shudder and jump beneath you. Your experience kicks in. Grab the railing. Hold on to something. You pull the emergency cord and the brakes screech. Once the train stops, you stare out the window in shock.

The massive brown tank that towered over the crowded neighborhood is gone. You look below the elevated tracks and gasp in horror. A huge brown wave of molasses is crashing down the streets, destroying everything in its path. Hey boss, boss!

Your assistant is leaning out the window of the other side of the train car. You rush over to join him, and from there you can see the bend in the tracks behind you. But now those tracks dangle into empty space. The flood has ripped away a section of the trestle that supports the railway. Alright, stay put. And don't let the passengers get off. Wait, where are you going? There's a train coming up behind us from Battery Street. You won't be able to see this far ahead. It'll fly right off. Gotta warn it.

Before your assistant can respond, you leap onto the tracks. Behind you, a sea of copper-brown sludge surges in all directions, carrying away trucks and crushing wooden buildings like they were cardboard boxes. Carefully but quickly, you pick your way across the mangled, partially collapsed rail line and race down the tracks. The next train is barreling towards you, just a hundred yards away. You wave your arms above your head, hoping the engineer sees you before it's too late.

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From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. ♪♪

On our show, we take you to the events, the times, and the people that shaped America and Americans, our values, our struggles, and our dreams. We'll put you in the shoes of everyday citizens as history was being made. And we'll show you how the events of the times affected them, their families, and affects you now.

On January 15, 1919, one of America's strangest disasters struck Boston's busy North End. A giant storage tank holding more than two million gallons of molasses collapsed and crashed into the city streets. Workers were trapped in cellars. Residents smothered in their beds. Children were swept out to the harbor. The powerful wave of thick, viscous liquid even tore down the support trestle of the city's elevated railroad.

putting train cars loaded with passengers in peril. The flood was over in 10 minutes, but the harrowing rescue efforts continued for hours, and the disaster left misery and destruction in its wake. Soon, residents and local officials demanded to know what caused the deadly collapse and who was to blame.

Boston was still emerging from the volatile years of World War I. Molasses had been a key ingredient to the wartime effort, distilled into alcohol to produce explosives for the Allied Front. The city had also been devastated by the Spanish flu pandemic and was reeling from a wave of politically motivated anarchist bombings. And at first, anarchists became the prime suspects for the disaster. But the truth, when it finally came out, would be even more shocking.

This is a special episode of American History Tellers, the Boston Molasses Disaster, a deadly deluge.

In December 1914, Arthur Jell finally had the opportunity he had long craved. The 36-year-old had risen steadily through the ranks of Purity Distilling to become the company's treasurer. Then-Purity's parent company, United States Industrial Alcohol, called him up with big news. The company would be building a new storage tank in Boston for its lucrative molasses shipments, and Jell would oversee the construction.

Jell knew that for the company, completing the project on time was paramount. And for him, it could mean a promotion to vice president and a move to the main offices in New York, a big leap for a man who had started as an office boy at a local distiller at the age of just 14. But Jell soon realized that the task ahead would not be easy. First, he faced the daunting prospect of overseeing the design and building of the tank itself. But Jell was no engineer and could not even read blueprints.

But he knew that once completed, the tank would be the largest on the East Coast, much larger than the company's smaller storage tanks in Brooklyn. It would stand 50 feet tall, span 240 feet in circumference, and have a capacity of nearly two and a half million gallons. The tank's construction would require massive steel plates, thousands of ribbits, and hours of manpower, all in short supply due to the war effort.

Jell's second challenge was the location. His company wanted the tank as close to Boston's wharf as possible, so steamers carrying molasses from the Caribbean could dock and unload their shipments quickly. The tank also needed to be close to the tracks owned by Boston Elevated Railroad, which would make for easy transport to the distiller just a mile away. To meet both of these requirements, they would have to build the tank in Boston's North End, one of the city's most crowded neighborhoods.

Land was at a premium, and Jell's attempts to negotiate a lease were frustratingly slow. Time was not on his side. Every month that went by with a tank incomplete meant that his company was losing money. Without their own storage in Boston, they were forced to buy molasses from a competitor, driving up costs. Throughout the spring and summer of 1915, Jell dutifully sent updates to his bosses in New York, trying to reassure them of his progress.

but their responses were direct and terse. Get the tank built. Do it quickly. The Great War in Europe had meant big business for Gell's company, United States Industrial Alcohol, or USIA. Their main product was, unsurprisingly, industrial alcohol.

and was used to make dynamite and other explosives. As the fighting in Europe increased, demand for munitions skyrocketed, and USIA became a key supplier to weapons manufacturers. And molasses was a key ingredient in their product. USIA had contracts with sugarcane plantations in the Caribbean, which produced molasses as a byproduct.

Shipments of molasses to the East Coast had increased as demand for industrial alcohol soared, but the company's existing storage tanks in Brooklyn were maxed out. The new Boston tank would more than double USIA's storage capacity and keep production humming. And almost a year after Jell was first given the task, in late September 1915, he finalized the lease for a site on Commercial Street near the wharf.

Once built, the tank would sit in the middle of a neighborhood that was home to nearly 30,000 people, most of them living in a dense half-mile square. The North End had once been home to Paul Revere and Boston's early elite, but now it housed mostly working-class Italian immigrants and a few remaining Irish families who had yet to move away.

Having secured a location, Jell's project could finally break ground after months of costly delays. The contractor, Hammond Ironworks, would provide the materials and oversee the construction, but Hammond's officials seemed to be dragging their feet, asking about building permits and safety tests. Jell responded by sending Hammond an urgent message. We are extremely anxious to have the work proceed as rapidly as possible and are quite willing to pay any additional expenses there may be in pushing the work forward.

Jell was anxious about his pace because he had just learned of a worrying development. The company had ordered a huge shipment of molasses to be delivered to the Boston site by the end of December. The tank would have to be finished by then, and Jell knew his job was on the line. So by early December, the contractor had delivered steel plates for the tank and construction finally began. But during the first week of work, progress halted when a worker plummeted to his death from the high scaffolding.

Jell couldn't afford any more delays, so he ordered construction to resume after just half a day. Workers had to attach 18 overlapping steel plates to form the curving sides of the tank, then seal the seams with rivets. The holding tank would then sit on top of a concrete foundation. The workers also had to build the 220-foot underground pipe that would transport the molasses from the ships to the tank. And they had less than four weeks to do all of it.

Jell did everything in his power to speed up construction. He hired 30 laborers to work in shifts and bought in floodlights so work could continue through the night. But as the tank took shape, Jell foresaw another obstacle. USIA's contract with Hammond stated upon completion, the tank was to be filled to capacity with water and tested for leaks or weaknesses. But Jell knew that would be expensive and time-consuming.

So when workers drove in the final rivets on December 31, 1915, Jell ordered them to fill the tank with just six inches of water. When no leaks appeared, Jell declared it finished and ready for operation. No engineer or inspector examined or tested the tank. That very same day, USIA's steamer docked in Boston and unloaded 700,000 gallons of molasses. The tank creaked and groaned, but it held.

Despite the odds, Jell had finished his job, and he was relieved and elated. Nothing would now stand in the way of his hard-earned promotion. Imagine it's April 1917. You're a top executive for the leading alcohol distilling company in New England. And today, you're sitting in your Cambridge, Massachusetts office, going through papers and double-checking your latest quarterly profits on an adding machine.

So far this year, orders for molasses are running briskly, and the new tank in Boston has become essential to the company's production. Since building the tank two years ago, you rarely visit the site yourself. The noise of the dock workers and the clattering of the train gives you a headache. You much prefer sitting behind your desk and working with numbers rather than people.

There's a wrap on your door, and you're annoyed to see one of your employees from the Boston side shuffle into the room. Excuse me, sir. I hope I'm not bothering you. Actually, I'm in the middle of some important calculations. I understand this will take just a moment. It's urgent.

You eye the man warily as he tracks his dirty boots on your office carpet. Go ahead, but be quick. Well, I trust you received my updates about the tank? Updates? Sir, something's not right. There's strange sounds coming from inside the tank. Rumbling sounds like thunder. It goes on night and day. Well, I'm sure you know that molasses will expand and contract depending on the temperature. There's nothing unusual about that. I know that, sir, but this is different.

"'Also, there are leaks. Many of them. They run down the side constantly. I spread sand around the bays to keep the molasses from flowing too far, but I can't keep up. And there are children who come by. Children? Yeah, they come to dip sticks into the pools of molasses. They slurp it up and put it into jars.'

"'You hired this man because of his hands-on knowledge of molasses, and he's been a diligent worker. But his overly earnest, worried face and persistence are starting to anger you.' "'Oh, Liz, I've heard all this, and we've addressed it. I will remind you that I had the tank caulked last year. That was expensive.'

The worker takes a step forward and drops several shards of rusty metal onto your desk. And one in God's name is this. Well, sir, as you know, I clean and prepare the tank regularly. Climb inside before every shipment. You're saying this is from the tank? Yes, sir. These fall like snow every time I go inside. You gotta do something. No, no, no, no, no. The tank has been standing and working for years. And it's your job to keep it that way. If you're worried about its safety, focus on your job. That's what we hired you for.

Let me tell you, I can hire someone else. The man dips his head and leaves your office. You smooth your tie against your chest and feel your heart racing. The ugly pieces of metal are still on your desk and you brush them aside, just as you do any concerns about the tank's safety. Then you make a note to talk to this man's supervisor. You don't want to be interrupted like this again.

From the start, the molasses tank on Commercial Street was plagued with problems. Residents and dock workers noticed dark streaks of molasses leaking down the sides. Firemen on their lunch breaks commented on the strange rumbling noises coming from the tank, and the workers in charge of maintaining it were worried by what they witnessed up close.

In April 1917, Isaac Gonzales, a laborer in charge of unloading shipments to the tank, became so alarmed that he visited Arthur Gell's Cambridge office to plead directly with him. Gonzales had already raised his concerns before, both to his direct supervisor and to Gell, but little action had been taken. This time, he brought pieces of the tank that had fallen from the inside as proof that something was not right. Gell assured him that everything was in good condition, saying, "'The tank will stand.'"

but Gonzales left more worried than ever. He knew molasses. In his native Puerto Rico, he had loaded the thick stuff onto ships at port and learned how the liquid behaved. He knew that its viscosity could change depending on the weather and temperature. When cooler and warmer molasses mixed, as often happened when a new shipment was pumped into the holding tanks, it could trigger fermentation, producing gas and pressure.

And over the months he worked at the Boston site, Gonzalez had watched as molasses continued to ooze down the sides of the tank. To address the issue, Jell had the tank repainted a dull brown color, which hid the leaks. He also hired workers to caulk the seams in the metal walls where the molasses was seeping through. The new caulking helped for a while, but the leaks soon returned as bad as ever.

Gonzalez grew so worried, he began sleeping by the tank at night to keep tabs on it. In an effort to release the pressure inside, he even secretly opened the valve on the 220-foot pipe, dumping molasses into the bay. But the tank's structural integrity wasn't the only threat. One night in late April, the phone rang in the office by the tank. Gonzalez picked it up, but was startled when the voice on the other line threatened to blow up the tank and kill any workers nearby.

Startled, Gonzalez alerted the police. He guessed it was anarchists who had stepped up their attacks in the area nearby, targeting police, places of authority, or factories connected to big business or the war effort. After the call, police went down to the wharf to investigate, and two officers stayed overnight to keep watch, but no attack came.

And when Jell learned Gonzales called the police, he was furious. Once again, Gonzales was drawing attention to the tank and threatening business operations. USIA was churning out molasses-derived industrial alcohol at a very brisk pace. 1918 became a record year for the munitions industry. American manufacturers produced more than 630 million pounds of smokeless powder that year, equal to the entire production of both England and France.

To keep up with demand, USIA filled its Boston tank to capacity seven times in 1918. And each time, the tank rumbled, groaned, and its sides leaked. By that fall, Gonzales had had enough. Fear of the tank's imminent collapse consumed him. And sick with worry, he developed insomnia. And all the while, his reports were ignored. So finally, in September, he quit.

Arthur Gell had lost a skilled employee, but he was finally free of Gonzales' pesky warnings. And for him, just in time. The Boston tank was expecting another big delivery, to be distilled into grain alcohol and rum, since the war was winding down. On January 12th, 1919, a ship arrived, unloading more than half a million gallons of molasses. The winter air was frigid, the temperature dipped to 10 degrees below zero.

Once filled, the tank towering over the North End neighborhood now held 26 million pounds of molasses.

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Imagine it's just past midday on January 15th, 1919. You're the mother of six young children, and you're in your cramped second-floor apartment overlooking Commercial Street in Boston's North End. Last night was cold, and you gave up most of your blankets to your children, which means you didn't get much sleep. You stifle a yawn as you sit at the kitchen table, chopping vegetables for lunch. Your husband, Giuseppe, stands near you, peering out the kitchen window. Oh, look at that.

"'Pasqualino is still running around in that heavy sweater you made him wear. He can barely move. Looks like he's sweating, too. I told him not to take it off or else. We can't afford him catching a cold again. Is he getting that firewood like I asked him to?'

Pasquale is your ten-year-old son. When he came home from school for lunch, you asked him to go to the pile of scrap wood near the giant molasses tank. But your husband shakes his head and laughs. No, he's playing with those neighbor kids. But let him play. It's so much warmer today than it was last night. But tonight it'll get cold again. We can't risk running out of wood for the stove.

Your husband presses his hands on his lower back and stretches. His work laying railroad tracks leaves him sore most days, sometimes even limping. But he never complains. He turns to you. Listen, why don't we look for a new place, somewhere less crowded, quieter, away from the docks? You know we can't, not now. We barely make the rent as it is most months.

"'I know, but the kids would be better off. "'They seem pretty happy to me, "'and there's free molasses next door. "'That makes them pretty happy. "'Besides, we're safe here. "'Other parts of town, you know, "'they don't welcome Italians.'" You see pain cross your husband's face. He's told you more than once the names some of his bosses call him, and you know the worst of the insults he keeps to himself. You change the subject. "'Pasquale, get the wood yet? "'It's time for lunch.' "'I don't know. I'll call him.'" Your husband steps closer to the window.

But before he can say anything, there's a frightening sound. You feel the floor shake beneath your feet, and the look of shock on your husband's face scares you. When you dash to the window, you can't believe your eyes. Where the molasses tank had stood just seconds ago is now empty sky. But below it, a wall of dark liquid surges out in all directions. You catch a glimpse of your son's red sweater before he's swallowed up.

Just past 12.30 p.m. on January 15, 1919, the towering molasses tank on Commercial Street collapsed. The heavy steel panels on the side of the tank exploded outwards in all directions, slicing through wood and crushing brick. The rivets holding the panels together shot out with a sound like gunfire, and then a wave of molasses 25 feet high fanned out all across the neighborhood.

The molasses raced over the streets at 35 miles per hour, carrying trucks, unmooring buildings, flooding basements, and shattering windows. The thick brown liquid suffocated animals and people and trapped others beneath piles of debris. Witnesses to the event described a sudden deafening roar and a violent shaking as nearby buildings were hit by the flood. Maria Iantasca was a mother of six and lived directly across from the tank.

She and her husband Giuseppe watched in horror from their second-floor kitchen as their son and two of his friends were overtaken by the wave. In a panic, they tried to race out to help, but Giuseppe was knocked to the floor and lost consciousness. The children were caught in the flood and carried away.

At the very same moment, Boston brakeman Royal Albert Lehman was riding in a train car on the elevated tracks headed to North Station. Lehman felt the train sway around him and pulled the emergency cord, halting it just past the tank. The wave of molasses crashed into the base of the elevated track that the train had just crossed, damaging its support beams and leaving a section of rails dangling. Lehman acted quickly, though, climbing over the debris to warn the next train headed his way.

His brave action stopped it from plunging off the damaged track, likely saving the lives of dozens of passengers.

But on ground level below, workers at the nearby Bay State Electric Railway offices, a two-story brick building just 30 yards from the tank, felt the building tremble as if in an earthquake. They climbed their desks to escape the flood, but were soon trapped. One secretary at work on her typewriter was knocked down and nearly smothered. She later recalled, I was horrified and scared out of my life to see a gigantic black wave coming towards me.

Despite being inundated, these railway offices remained standing, but other structures could not resist the force of the molasses. A wooden-framed house belonging to an Irish family was crushed by the wave and carried away. Martin Clority was a member of the household and a former boxer who owned the nearby Pen and Pencil Pub, a popular hangout for journalists. He usually worked the night shift, so when the flood hit, he was asleep on his third-floor house.

He awoke in a panic, choking on molasses, and struggled to claw his way outside as the power of the flood dislodged his house and smashed it against the trestles of the elevated railway. Clarity would recall, It seemed as if the house had split in two when it hit the elevated structure. I was in one side and my family in the other.

When the wave hit, Clarity grabbed a bed frame and rode it like a raft amidst the wreckage of his house. He saw a struggling figure nearby and managed to pull out his sister, Teresa. But the rest of the family was trapped inside the house. His brother, Stephen, would survive, but his 65-year-old mother, Bridget, was killed when the house's frame crushed her.

In Firehouse 31, which stood just 50 feet from the tank, half a dozen firefighters were on their lunch break on the first floor of the two-story structure. William Connor, a fireman who had served 20 months on a Navy ship in the war, was dealing cards when the flood struck. Connor heard a loud smashing, as if an electric car had crashed through a fence, and then watched the flood approach. He recalled, I sat facing the window, and as I glanced up, I saw this great wall of molasses,

came with the speed of a cyclone. The wave pummeled the firehouse, causing the second floor to collapse and trapping the men below. The debris pinned the men down in a space barely a foot high. Connor could see a small opening in the wall and the wharf beyond, but the molasses was rising.

One of Connor's fellow firemen, 35-year-old George Leahy, was pinned beneath a piano and a pool table and struggled to keep his head above the molasses as it rose. The men could barely move, but they were close enough to hear one another. Connor called to Leahy, Hang in there. They're coming, George. And Leahy responded weakly, I don't think I can. Oh, Bill, it's too late. I'm gone. My God, I'm gone. Leahy drowned in the molasses as it filled the space around him.

Connor and the rest of his crew suffered serious injuries, but would survive. When the flood started, patrolman Frank McManus was standing in a police signal box along Commercial Street on a routine patrol. He watched in shock as the storage tank's roof slid off, then the walls collapsed. He grabbed the phone and quickly told his supervisors what he was witnessing, urging all ambulances and policemen to rush to the scene.

Within an hour, ambulance drivers and rescue workers were combing through the sludge, joined by sailors from nearby ships who had rushed to help. Soon, Commercial Street was filled with people waiting in molasses, searching for survivors. But they struggled to maneuver through the thick stuff. Nearest to the tank, the molasses was still chest-high. But as it fanned out, it turned into a thin, sticky layer which adhered to every surface and then began to harden. ♪

And then the gunshots rang out. A city stable near the wharf had been flooded, covering horses trapped in their pens, and rescuers were forced to shoot the injured animals who were stuck in the stiff molasses. One of the children who had been playing with Maria Iantosca's 10-year-old son Pasquale was rescued but suffered serious injuries.

The other, eight-year-old Maria D'Estacio, was killed. Iantosca's husband, Giuseppe, was unable to find their son Pasquale. He searched frantically all afternoon, but it would take five days for rescuers to find the boy's body lodged behind a railroad car. Giuseppe had to identify Pasquale's crushed body by the red sweater that the boy still wore.

On the day of the flood, the Haymarket Relief Station, located half a mile from the tank, became the primary hospital treating the injured. Red Cross nurses brought the wounded in on stretchers, drenched in sticky molasses. Doctors struggled to wipe their patients clean in order to provide treatment. Soon, the doctors and staff were covered too, and the molasses stained the hallways and beds. Stunned family members raced to the relief station, desperately seeking information about missing loved ones,

and dreading bad news. The family of 21-year-old Ralph Martin arrived to the station to find him bandaged and rigged to a traction device, pleading, please, the pain is terrible. Martin was a teamster and a driver who worked at the wharf. Rescuers had dug him out from beneath a pile of debris, his body smashed. More patients were brought to the relief stations throughout the night. Others were taken to the mortuary. The death toll had reached 11, but many more were still missing.

Meanwhile, Boston Mayor Andrew Peters tried to reassure the public. As he stood in the dense molasses among Commercial Street, he did his best to channel the outrage and shock of the public, declaring Boston is appalled at the terrible accident that occurred here today. An occurrence of this kind must not and cannot pass without a rigid investigation.

Surrounded by a group of reporters, Peters announced that he had already directed the city law office to begin a probe not only to prevent a recurrence of such a frightful accident, but to place the responsibility where it belongs. Arthur Gell, the treasurer for United States Industrial Alcohol, had also visited the site that afternoon. He was stunned at the devastation, but he had been instructed by his bosses to let the company's attorneys take the lead.

These lawyers quickly began to shift the blame of the disaster to unidentified attackers, insisting that an explosion had caused the damage and anarchists were to blame. The tank they promised was built correctly and had been monitored carefully. But as more details emerged of what led to the disaster, families, city officials, and survivors would soon call for justice. But they would face an uphill battle as the powerful owners of the tank were determined to defend their business and reputation at any cost.

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Sign up today at greenlight.com slash wondery. greenlight.com slash wondery. In the days after the flood, workers for United States Industrial Alcohol rushed to collect pieces of the destroyed tank. The company's attorneys also began to hire engineers and chemists, experts who could analyze the evidence. The company had a plan to put together a case that would prove an explosive device, not faulty construction, was to blame for the disaster.

But the city of Boston had also started their investigation, and the first findings were a blow to USIA's strategy. In February 1919, a month after the flood, Superior Criminal Court Judge Wilfred Bolster released a preliminary report on the accident, blaming USIA for operating a structure in violation of the law. The judge said the tank was weak and insufficiently engineered, declared, "...the only assignable crime involved is manslaughter, through negligence."

The district attorney tried to bring criminal charges against USIA, but a grand jury ruled that there was insufficient evidence to indict the company. For victims of the flood, it seemed their hopes for justice were dashed. But there was still the possibility of bringing a civil suit, and many victims began to file legal claims against USIA. Initially, there were 119 separate filings, but the court soon combined them into one, creating the largest class-action suit in Massachusetts' history.

The court assigned Hugh Ogden, a 48-year-old New England attorney and World War I military judge, as auditor for the case. Ogden would oversee hearings to gather testimony from the many witnesses to the tank's explosion and experts who could testify about the tank's construction and maintenance. He would then issue an opinion as to who could be held liable and whether the case should proceed to a jury trial.

In August 1920, hearings began in the Suffolk County Courthouse in downtown Boston. The attorney representing the plaintiffs was Damon Hall, a prominent Boston lawyer who was known for his scrappy style and uncompromising sense of justice. Hall represented the 119 plaintiffs, including survivors, families of the victims, and property owners who had suffered damages.

In his opening statement, Hall tried to paint a grim picture of the disaster, calling it one of the worst catastrophes which had visited the city of Boston, and one that taught the people there that cold molasses has death-dealing and destructive powers equal to the tornado or the cyclone when it is suddenly unloosed.

Hall placed the blame directly on USIA for the tragedy, arguing the company cut corners in construction, ignored warnings about the tank's faulty design, and placed it in a crowded neighborhood with little oversight.

For its defense, USIA hired Charles Francis Choate, a well-respected attorney who had graduated from Harvard Law. Choate refuted Hall's description, saying the tank was built by reputable people who were skillful in this kind of work. He insisted that there was no suggestion of a defect or deterioration in the tank which could account for the fracture in any way.

Instead, Chode argued that the collapse was the result of an attack, most likely an explosive tossed in the tank by anarchists who despise big companies like USIA. Both sides clashed over the evidence. Hall called chemists, explosive experts, and former employees, such as Isaac Gonzalez, who testified to the tank's defects and the lack of physical evidence for any bomb attack.

But Choate called expert witnesses, too, nearly all paid by USIA for their testimony. But none could offer more than circumstantial evidence that a bomb had caused the disaster. Choate's only eyewitness whose testimony might have supported the anarchist theory was Winifred McNamara, a widow who lived across from the tank. McNamara said she was hanging laundry when she saw smoke rising, then the whole top slide off just as a dish on a table would.

But under cross-examination, McNamara grew flustered and admitted to not seeing anyone suspicious by the tank. But in the parade of witnesses, there was one Choate knew he had to keep off the stand. Arthur Gell, the USIA executive who oversaw construction of the tank. Since the disaster, Gell had been promoted and transferred to New York City and had stayed out of the public eye.

Lawyers Choate and Hall fought bitterly over compelling Jell to testify. And finally, Judge Ogden issued a compromise. The attorneys would depose Jell under oath near his offices in New York. Both Hall and Choate knew a lot was riding on Jell's testimony. Perhaps the fate of the entire case.

Imagine it's March 25th, 1921, at the upscale Hotel Belmont in New York City. You're the lead attorney for the plaintiffs in the molasses case, and you're here to gather testimony from a key witness, Arthur Gell of United States Industrial Alcohol. You shift in your seat, mentally going over the questions that you're determined to get answers to. Across from you sits your opponent in the case, attorney Charles Choate, with a smug look on his face.

Chote picked this location, a fancy meeting room, clearly meant to intimidate you. Jell sits next to him, and he's putting on a confident air too, but you sense anxiety in his shifting eyes. Once the deposition begins, you dispense with formalities and start right in with your questions, as a court stenographer records every word. Mr. Jell, as it has already been established, the steel plates that you use for your tank were too thin and too weak for the tank's load.

Upon delivery of the plates to Boston, did you have an engineer or builder examine the material? No. Or any metallurgist? No. Did you seek the advice or consult with any person outside of the employees of your contractor, Hammond Ironworks, as to the quality and fitness of the steel? No. And why not? Well, we had experienced frustrating delays to that point.

It was causing us embarrassment since without a tank of our own, we were compelled to purchase from another dealer. But I sought to solve that problem by hiring additional crews before the Miliero was to arrive. And that's the ship that was bringing the first cargo? Yes, on December 31st, 1915. And how long did work continue until its arrival? Until that very day. You mean, until the very day of the first shipment, crews were still working on the tank? Yes, that's correct.

You pause, momentarily taken aback by Jell's candor. You can see Cho shifting nervously in his seat. You decide to press on before either man can call for a break. You look at your notes. I see here you commissioned a water test, but just of six inches.

Besides this, was there any other water test conducted before the tank's operation? No. And why not? Well, for one reason, there wasn't enough time. It would have been impossible to empty the water again before the arrival of the steamer. Any other reasons why the water test was not made? It was considered an unnecessary expense. By whom was it considered an unnecessary expense? By me. I considered the tank satisfactory for our purpose. Sir, with respect, your training as an accountant and treasurer...

Do you have any knowledge or experience that enabled you to tell whether the construction work was done to satisfaction, or whether the tank was strong? Chote grabs Jell's arm. You and the stenographer both glance at the men, who huddle and whisper. Then Jell faces you again. I, uh, I considered the tank satisfactory, if you will just answer the question.

"'You have no technical experience of any kind?' "'No, none.' "'And at no point did you call in any expert to conduct an inspection of the tank for its strength?' "'No, no I did not.' You stop to catch your breath. Choate is scribbling madly on a pad, and Jell is wiping sweat from his forehead. But you're not done with your questions. You gather your thoughts and step up the line of inquiry, watching as the stenographer copies down every word of Jell's explosive testimony."

During questioning in a New York hotel, attorney Damon Hall got USIA executive Arthur Jell to admit that he was unqualified to oversee the building project.

He also acknowledged that at the company's insistence, he pushed a rapid pace for construction that cut corners and skipped important safety protocols. Jell also described how employees had repeatedly warned him of concerns about the safety of the tank and that his only response had been to caulk the leaking sides and paint the steel a brown color.

Hall went back to Boston, hoping he had enough to convince Auditor Hugh Ogden that USIA had been negligent. But despite Gell's admissions, Ogden insisted on hearing from survivors of the flood and their families before providing his opinion in the case. As a result, the hearings would drag on for two more years. And finally, on April 28, 1925, Ogden announced his findings.

He determined that the collapse of the tank was due to poor and rushed construction. There was no evidence of a bomb or high explosive at the scene. Ogden cited Jell's testimony as the most damning. Jell had admitted that, from inception to collapse, not a single engineer, architect, or qualified builder inspected the tank, despite repeated warnings by multiple witnesses and the company's own employees.

In all, 21 people had been killed in the disaster, and some 150 more were hurt, many left with lifelong injuries. Ogden's finding was a victory for the plaintiffs, but the monetary compensation he recommended was meager, $300,000, roughly equal to $5 million in today's money. And much of that money went to the city of Boston and the North End paving yard, leaving victims and their families with an average of just $6,000 each.

Unhappy with those amounts, Attorney Hall immediately called for a jury trial to increase the damages. Choate and USIA instead offered to negotiate, and Hall won double the amount for victims, $628,000 in total, or approximately $11 million today.

After the Molasses Flood case, Boston's building department closed loopholes that USIA had taken advantage of to bypass safety regulations. The city began requiring all building plans to be reviewed and signed by licensed engineers. Soon this became standard practice across the nation.

The case also became a landmark in corporate accountability. The settlement against USIA sent a message that corporations had an obligation to protect the safety of the communities in which they operated, even when those communities lacked a political voice. Many observers had noted that USIA placed its tank in a neighborhood filled with working-class Italian immigrants and speculated that had the tank been placed in a different location, the company might have proceeded with more caution during construction.

In time, the tragedy of the Boston Molasses Flood would largely be forgotten. But for many years following the flood, residents and workers in Boston's North End would often report a distinct, sweet smell near the wharf, especially on hot days. It was a lingering reminder of one of the strangest disasters in American history, one that claimed 21 lives and left a historic neighborhood in ruins.

From Wondery, this has been the Boston Molasses Disaster from American History Tellers. In our next season, two brothers, Orville and Wilbur Wright, are driven by an impossible dream to invent a flying machine that will allow humans to soar through the air like birds. But in order to realize this dream, they'll have to push the limits of their imaginations and risk their lives taking flight.

If you like American history tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. If you'd like to learn more about this story, we recommend Dark Tide, The Great Boston Molasses Flood of 1919 by Stephen Puleo.

American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham, for Airship. Audio editing by Christian Paraga. Sound design by Molly Bach. Music by Lindsey Graham. This episode is written by Dorian Marina. Produced by Alita Rozansky. Our production coordinator is Desi Blaylock. Managing producer, Matt Gant. Senior managing producer, Tanja Thigpen. Senior producer, Andy Herman. Executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman and Marsha Louis for Wondery.

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From Dr. Drew to Erin Brockovich. Believed by some to be the most severe case of mass hysteria since the Salem witch trials, Hysterical is a podcast about the desire to be believed and what happens when the world tells you it's all in your head. Follow Hysterical on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge all episodes of Hysterical ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus.