The Evil of the Age
August 26th, 1871, was a humid, busy Saturday at the Hudson River Depot in New York City. Sweat and fatigue had crept in by mid-afternoon, when a porter suddenly smelled the stench of decaying flesh.
Along the wooden platform lay hundreds of trunks and bags, piled haphazardly, ready for loading onto a Chicago-bound train. During rough handling in the baggage room, the lid of an ordinary, 2'8" by 18" packing trunk had cracked open, releasing the foul stench. The porter immediately called Robert Vandeward, the baggage-master.
Vandeward deliberated for a moment, then moved the trunk, bringing it out of the public eye and into a nearby, open railway building. He wrenched loose the thin rope and flimsy lock that secured the lid, popping it open. First he saw an ordinary quilt. He tossed it aside, and stared at a soiled, bloodstained army blanket.
The growing crowd of railway attendants leaned in. As he pulled away the blanket, the attendants gasped and covered their mouths. Doubled up in fetus position was the naked corpse of a young woman, her thin shoulders draped with thick, golden curls. Her body had been crushed into the trunk, her head forced over her breasts and her limbs drawn in tightly. Her mouth hung open in awkward distortion and her bright blue eyes stared blankly from their pale, discolored sockets. The pelvic area was bloody and decomposed.
In minutes, railroad officials rushed up and down the tracks in search of the trunk's owner. Police questioned onlookers. Voices rose across the station, as a frenzied chaos spread.
Young Alexander Potts, known as "Paddy," spoke up. The twelve-year-old boy helped passengers with their bags, making a living scrambling for spare change. He had helped check the trunk just a half-hour before.
According to his testimony, an 18- or 19-year-old woman arrived at the station at 2:30 p.m. in a one-horse coupé. She wore a common calico dress and a thin shawl. She beckoned Paddy, saying "Sonny, can you tell me where the ticket office is?" When a truck arrived with the trunk, she paid him to help lift it. She urged him to be careful - it contained glass. She would never be found.
Earlier that day, she'd hired the truckman to transport the trunk. Paddy had young, keen eyes. He remembered the small inscription on the truck's cab - "Tripp" - which became, for a brief time, a holy grail of sorts.
Diane Urban, for instance, was one of the many people who were trapped inside this horror. She “was comforting a woman propped against a wall, her legs virtually amputated” (96). Flynn and Dwyer appeal to the reader’s ethical conscience and emotions by providing a story of a victim who went through many tragedies. Causing readers to feel empathy for the victims. In addition, you began to put yourself in their shoes and wonder what you would do.
Crichton, Michael. The Great Train Robbery. First Ballantine Books ed. N.p.: Alfred A. Knopf, 1975. Print.
Aikman, David. Jesus in Beijing: How Christianity Is Transforming China and Changing the Global Balance of Power. Lanham, MD: Regnery Publishing, 2003.
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For nearly two years, a killer literally followed wheatfield America’s railroad tracks to slay unsuspecting victims before disappearing back into the pre-lit dawn. His modus operandi was always the same – he struck near the rail lines he illegally rode, then stowed away on the next freight train to come his way. Always ahead of the law.
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So I gave her binoculars and told her to give me a thumbs up on when to run. After I got the signal, I sprinted up a ramp that had been dragging along gravel road, and a torn grassy meadow. Once I stepped up onto the deck I saw a captain leaning up against the wall crying, with a silent sob. And one single passenger, sitting up on the opposite side of the deck. With a small piece of paper sticking out of his coat pocket. I grabbed the piece of paper, uncrumpled it, and read it. The letter said”
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The smell of human waste intoxicated our noses. All my senses became weary as I endeavoured to stay awake. I had to keep strong. Dayo rested besides me, helpless, on the floor barely covered. Her eyes withering as the light dawdled through the splinter in the walls. Lips arid from the lack of food they had not been feeding us. She had been drained of all the energy she used to have. There were 60 other women like me and my sister, all different ages. We were captive in steel cages like animals with nothing but each other. The number had decreased rapidly. The women became far too ill and had no more vigour to keep them going. I watched them as they took their last breath, said their last prayer, seeing the light for the last time. Just yesterday, one of the girls Abeni came from the toilet, which was a hole in the corner of the room and collapsed. She fumbled feebly to the ground. Her eyes closed with not a movement in sight. There was an impulsive cry ‘Dood’ ‘Dood’. She was only nine years old, her limbs thin as twigs. No family. She lay dead.