By Scott Sosebee, Texas State Historical Association
“Going viral” is a term we use today for something that somehow—sometimes without any real justification—becomes so ubiquitous that it seemingly captures the attention of an almost unimaginable number of people. I thought of that term and how it sort of applies to this week’s topic, which is a tragic ending to one of the most famous publicity stunts of all time, the so-called “Crash at Crush,” an intentional collision of two locomotives belonging to the Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railroad (a company whose initials were “MKT,” which Texans reduced to “Katy,” which is also how the Houston area suburb got its name) at a chosen site near current West in McLennan County.
The selected place was given the name “Crush,” after MKT agent William G. Crush, the man who dreamed up the stunt, and somewhere between 40,000-45,000 people gathered to watch the spectacle on Sept. 15, 1896. If the two trains had just crashed into each other it would have likely been an incident that dominated a news cycle for a day or two then faded. But the actual result would give the episode infamy.
It is difficult today for us to imagine how omnipresent railroads were in the lives of people in the late nineteenth century. It was not only the fastest and most convenient passenger travel service in the nation, but it was the primary shipping conduit for almost every product in the country as well. However, its wide-spread importance and appeal also meant that competition between the various lines in the United States was keen and often cutthroat. Railroad companies constantly conceived ways to bring customers to its cars. The “Crash at Crush” was the result of one of those schemes.
MKT executive William G. Crush was the brains behind the deed. The MKT was in a stage of mass expansion in 1896, a line destined to build its tracks across the entire state. As a way to gain publicity and, potentially, customers, Crush proposed that the MKT build a special four-mile track, and that the line advertise a special crash between two speeding locomotives.
They would sell special passenger tickets to transport spectators to the event, and also sell food and drink at the site. Crush also offered that journalists from practically every outlet in the southwest be given not only free passes to the exhibition, but be given a special “up-close” viewing of the attraction, all in an attempt to generate publicity for the line.
Crush wanted to locate the event in a central location, a place almost “in the heart” of Texas. One of the MKT’s busiest and most lucrative routes was the one that ran from Houston and Dallas, with the section between Waco and Dallas the most popular. Thus, Crush proposed that the tracks that would bring the two locomotives together be laid parallel to that line in a shallow valley north of Waco.
Crush and Katy PR people began distributing flyers, placing ads in newspapers, and planting stories about the coming event beginning in late May, building anticipation for something very few, if any, had ever witnessed. They also began to sell special “Crash at Crush” rail passenger tickets for $2 a person. Railroad workers built special grandstands at the site—one that was reserved for “honored guests,”which meant railroad officials and political office-holders—as well as preparing a carnival midway, vendor booths, and speaker’s stands. They also constructed a special depot informing incoming passengers arriving on special trains that they had arrived at “Crush, Texas.” The company sent the two engines slated to run into each other, a green painted Old No. 999, and its twin, No. 1001, painted red, on a tour around the state.
Crush had enthusiastically told MKT officials that he expected about 20,000 people to gather at Crush on that September day, a number that thrilled those executives. He was a bit off as more than 40,000 people congregated at the designated site. It was an all-day party; trains began to arrive at daybreak and by early afternoon the grounds were packed, with people buying food, drinks, and listening to political speeches (1896 was, after all, an election year), all in anticipation of the scheduled crash. The engines were placed at opposite ends of the special four-mile track, giving each locomotive ample opportunity to build to its highest speed. William G. Crush, strode out on a bright white horse to the center of the track at 5 p.m. He raised his hat, smiled to the crowd, then dropped it, signaling the locomotives to begin their sprint to collision.
The engineers in the two engines opened the throttles all the way forward and then leapt from the train. The two hulks of iron hurried toward each other with their whistles squealing. The crowd, with no thought to any danger, moved closer to the tracks to witness the coming spectacle. The two engines spectacularly crashed into each other, with both of them rising up like two stallions facing off with each other. Then the carnage began. Both boilers exploded, sending pieces of iron through the crowd like shrapnel from a huge bomb. Three people were killed instantly and six more seriously injured. Countless others received minor injuries either from flying debris or been stomped on by the fleeing crowd. The MKT had its spectacle, and also its publicity. The railroad had to pay damages, and William G. Crush lost his job for a day, but they rehired him a day later. The planned collision then went down as another quirky bit of Texas history.
If you would like to see a representation of the “Crash at Crush,” plan to attend a special presentation at Zion Hill Baptist Church on Friday, May 15, at 7 p.m. The Friends of Historic Nacogdoches Inc., and Nacogdoches Historic Sites are presenting “The Crash at Crush: A Musical Comedy,” performed by the Austin-based performance group “Texas Comedies.” Tickets are $10 and can be purchased at Zion Hill Historic Site or online at eventbrite.com. If you are a member of Friends of Historic Nacogdoches, Inc., your admission will be free.