By Ron Suduiko
In 1848, plans for Lawrence, Massachusetts, envisioned it as a ‘new industrial city,’ one that would attract labor with offers of good jobs, reasonable pay, good housing, and recreational opportunities. By the early years of the 20th century, however, the vision had failed. There were many issues, but perhaps the most damning was the way that Lawrence treated its children.
In 1912 and 1913, the children who worked in the mills along the Merrimack River were treated by the mill owners and city bosses as nothing more than “throwaways.” By the time they reached age 14, they were employed by the thousands as cogs in a manufacturing enterprise that valued production over young lives and limbs.
Child laborers in Lawrence got sick more often and died sooner than similar cohorts of children in America. There was no education for them, they had no future. They lived to work, to turn a profit for the mills. Life had little to offer except such childhood pleasures as a swim in the Merrimack River on warm summer days.
June 30,1913 was such a day. At least 60 boys crowded onto a deck leading to a bathhouse at the river’s edge. Then, disaster. The deck collapsed, plunging them into the water. The scene was chaotic as children clamored to save themselves. Eleven young boys drowned that day, just several feet offshore in the Merrimack River in a matter of minutes. This, the Bathhouse Tragedy, became a signature event in the life of the Immigrant City.
However, it did not have to happen. A judicial inquest followed, finding the City of Lawrence negligent. Ramps and supports used since the Bathhouse was first built in 1895, 18 years before, were waterlogged and rotting. The design itself was deficient and would not have withstood that load of children in the best of circumstances. The city engineer detailed those issues, then resigned. City officials allocated $100 to each family to cover burial costs for the young victims.
I grew up in Lawrence: from the ages of 6 through 18 I lived in public housing, the Stadium Projects, though I never heard a word about the tragedy. My grandfather, Emile Bibeau, was an immigrant, like all four of my Lawrence grandparents. Emile – his grandchildren called him “Papa” – was a boilermaker, a welder who worked on the machines that powered the awesome red-brick metropolis of Lawrence mills. Papa was a legend in the family. In 1933 he swam across the Merrimack River, a few hundred yards up from the treacherous falls of the Great Stone Dam, which made him our hero.
I learned about Papa’s swim from my Mom, in 1956, when I was 7. In awe of my grandfather, his death of ALS in 1960 stunned me. However, I had not thought of him much, until recently, when I became a long-distance swimmer. In the laps and hours of swimming I came to reflect upon my grandfather, his life and mine.
In January, my curiosity led me on a reflective pilgrimage, first seeking to learn more about my grandfather’s swim across the Merrimack, but then, once at the Lawrence History Center to my learning of the Bathhouse Tragedy.
The people who staff the History Center, just two of them, are both seasoned professionals. Their work is characterized by their low-key, effective efforts, and the kindness they extend to all who enter in search of history. I am also equally impressed by the more than 20 volunteers, giving their time freely to chronicle the past of Lawrence, so that others might learn. Without them and people like them at historical societies throughout America, much of our country’s past would be lost.
I studied the maps and documents; I discussed what I found with the staff; I learned that my grandfather’s swim across the Merrimack would have brought him to the site of an old bathhouse, now long gone. That led me to the Bathhouse Tragedy, and the children and heroism of those times and what fate befell them.
Ronaldo Gaudette, 10 years old, went to swim on that day. He and his family lived in Fitchburg, about 40 miles away. They had been visiting Ronaldo’s grandparents and at the last moment, on Sunday night, they decided to stay another day. The grandparents lived a short distance from the Bathhouse: “Don’t go in the water!” his mother had warned. As happy, excited boys waited for the Bathhouse attendant, Ronaldo squirreled his way to the front of the line, on the ramp leading to the platform, jumping up-and-down with glee as he saw the approaching attendant, keys in hand, walking to unlock the bathhouse entrance. Laughter turned to terror with the collapse of the ramp as it dropped from beneath Ronaldo’s feet. He fell, to be pushed beneath the water by other falling, flailing boys. as the walkway collapsed. Ten-year-old Ronaldo did not make it home to Fitchburg.
Joseph McCann was 15 and handicapped. Family members recall that he was disabled, wearing a metal leg brace to assist with walking. Resilient and determined, he worked in the mills. Joseph was sitting on the ramp close to the riverbank when he saw the boys cascading into the water. He quickly moved toward, not away from, the mass of clamoring young children, toward the collapsed portion of the ramp, reaching toward the crying boys, jumping in to help. He never surfaced.
Henry Hinchcliffe was at the river that day. First hearing, then seeing the commotion, Henry ran down the ramp, to the struggling boys. He was on the ramp, then in the water, then grabbing boys — 8, 9,10, and 11 years old — hoisting one up to the arms of another rescuer, waiting to help. Struggling toward shore with two others. Back into the splashing mass of foam and screams. He was grabbed this time. His clothes were torn off by the struggling innocents. Panicked hands tore at him. He was shirtless, scratched, exhausted, and could no longer endure. Hoisted onto the ramp, he sat, spit up water, his back heaving as he hugged his knees.
Sixteen-year-old Henry Hinchcliffe was awarded the Carnegie Hero Medal by the Carnegie Hero Fund Commission because of his selfless and fearless rescue of several young, drowning children. But for his swift action, and that of others like him, the death toll would most certainly have been worse, as upwards of 40 boys struggled for their lives that day.
Were it not for the recognition of Henry by the Carnegie Hero Fund Commission, I and others might never have learned about this important chapter in Lawrence history. Sadly, I could find no marker in Lawrence commemorating the bravery of Henry, and others. Nor is there any mention, anywhere, of the boys who perished that day.
Why do the stories of these children matter? To learn about hardship and courage, to learn about life and self-sacrifice. Our task is to educate ourselves and our children, that we and they might confront adversity and when we do, dare to help, to live with empathy and resilience.
There are more stories about the children and those times of Lawrence in the early part of the 20th century, stories with victims and, importantly, heroes. The pilgrimage I initiated with my grandfather’s swim, and the discovery of the Bathhouse Tragedy, will continue. For me, it is important to follow my curiosity because, like the children of these stories, I grew up in Lawrence. I am a “Project Kid,” and I am now a grandfather, looking back and looking ahead.
May we give thanks for Henry Hinchcliffe and Joseph McCann, and for the many others who courageously stepped up that day—June 30, 1913—on the banks of the Merrimack River.
May we build a better future. May we be brave.