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Audible subscribers can listen to all episodes of American Historytellers ad free right now. Join Audible today by downloading the Audible app. Imagine it's dawn on September 6, 1900. You step out onto the roof of the Belen Meteorological Observatory in Havana, Cuba, where you work as an assistant weather observer. You find your boss, Father Lorenzo Gongoita, in his black priest's robe, staring up the sky. You hand him a cup of coffee and he nods his appreciation before returning his gaze to the red morning clouds, his face etched with worry. What's wrong, Father? Have you ever seen such a deep red color in the sky? I suppose not. Those feathery cirrus clouds tell me, what direction are they moving? You take a moment to orient yourself and train your focus on the slow moving, wispy clouds that resemble horsetails. It looks to me like they're headed northwest. Father Gongoita nods, his mouth set in a grim line. This is the same system that pummeled Cuba over the past week, only now it's grown stronger. He sets his coffee on the parapet and pulls a small map out of his robes. We look over his shoulder as he traces his finger across the Gulf of Mexico from the Florida Straits to the upper coast of Texas. The U.S. weather Bureau is saying this is an ordinary storm traveling northeast up the Atlantic coast, but everything I know about storms is telling me that's wrong. It's a hurricane, and a bad one, heading straight for Texas. Well, if you're right, then we have to warn them. I'll head to the telegraph station. The state weather station is in Galveston, right? No, it's no use. The Americans banned all Cuban forecasters from using the telegraph last week. Oh, you can't be serious. Why would they do that? I don't understand it either. Then I'll go to the U.S. weather Bureau station here in Havana, speak to the Americans directly. Oh, even if the Americans agreed to talk to us, they'd never believe it. They're completely prejudiced against us. It doesn't matter that we understand hurricanes more. There must be something I can do, Father. No. There's nothing left to do but pray. Gongoita retrieves his coffee and walks toward the stairs, leaving you alone on the roof. You stare up at the blood red sky and shudder, feeling utterly powerless at the thought that no one in Texas knows what's coming.
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From Audible Originals. I'm Lindsey Graham and this is American Historytellers. Our history, your story. On our show. We'll 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 people as history was being made and we'll show you how the events of the times affected them, their families and affects you now. In early September 1900, a tropical storm left Cuba and began barreling north toward Florida. In Washington D.C. forecasters at the U.S. weather Bureau announced that according to their calculations, the storm would travel up the east coast, spilling out into the Atlantic Ocean. But in Havana, Cuban forecasters disagreed and instead they correctly predicted that the storm was a full fledged hurricane and that it was heading straight for the Gulf coast of Texas. But amid tensions following the Spanish American War, US Government officials had banned all weather related telegrams from Cuba. It was a decision that soon brought tragic consequences to the city of Galveston, Texas. At the turn of the 20th century, Galveston was the pride of the Lone Star State, a thriving cosmopolitan city and home to one of the nation's most valuable deepwater ports. But Galveston's prosperity masked a fatal flaw. The city was built on a sandbar island that rose less than 9ft above sea level at its highest point, making it vulnerable to floods. And on September 8, 1900, that vulnerability turned to tragedy when a catastrophic hurricane struck the city without warning. In less than 24 hours, a 16 foot storm surge washed over the city, unleashing violent waves that toppled buildings and dragged residents to their deaths. Between 6 and 8,000 men, women and children lost their lives in what remains the deadliest natural disaster to ever hit the United States. Then, in the aftermath of the storm, the shocked survivors embarked on a brutal struggle not only to rebuild their devastated city, but but reinvent it. This is episode one in our three part series on the 1900 Galveston. An absurd delusion. 25 years earlier. On September 16, 1875, a lethal hurricane unleashed death and destruction on the town of Indianola, Texas. Indianola was the second busiest port on the Gulf coast of Texas and home to 5,000 people, when in just a few short hours, 100 mile per hour winds and a massive storm surge washed ashore, killing hundreds and reducing most of the buildings to rubble. In the face of this unimaginable loss. The residents vowed to rebuild. But 11 years later, Indianola was just getting back on its feet when a second, even more destructive hurricane washed out the town completely. This time, the survivors left for good, and the once thriving port became a ghost town. Meanwhile, 150 miles up the coast, the Indianola's biggest rival was booming. At the end of the 19th century, the island city of Galveston was the crown jewel of the Texas economy. Situated on a 30 mile strip of land two miles off the Gulf coast of Texas, it was the state's leading seaport, a vibrant and cosmopolitan city, home to 22,000 people. Cotton and wheat exports flowed out of Galveston's wharves, and its downtown thoroughfare was known as the Wall street of the Southeast. It was the first city in Texas to have electricity, gas lights and telephones, and it had a diverse population. It was home to a large German immigrant community, and one fifth of the residents were black. Despite persistent segregation, there was still a strong black middle class, and black and white laborers worked side by side on the docks. The city boasted theaters, an opera house, and more saloons than New Orleans, with tourists flocking to its southern beachfront. But the geographic conditions that fueled Galveston's wealth also left it dangerously exposed. The city was on a narrow barrier island, essentially a long sandbar, 30 miles long and 1 1/2 to 3 miles wide. Currents had carved a deep channel between the northern shore of the island and the mainland, creating Galveston Bay, the best natural harbor along the Texas coast. The island reached its highest point less than nine feet above sea level on Broadway, a wide boulevard that ran east to west, bisecting the city. From there, the land sloped south toward the Gulf of Mexico and north toward the harbor and bay. And with most of the city barely above sea level, flooding was common during storms. As a result, most buildings were raised up on pilings, and residents were accustomed to occasionally having to wade through knee deep water in their yards and alleyways. They referred to these floods as overflows, treating them as a routine nuisance rather than a cause for serious concern. But in 1886, the destruction of Indianola sparked fears that Galveston could one day suffer the same fate. And in the weeks following that hurricane, Galveston's business leaders resolved to build a protective seawall before it was too late. Imagine it's April 1887 and you're walking into a meeting room on the top floor of an office building in downtown Galveston, Texas. You're a cotton merchant and you're gathering with your fellow members of the local progressive association for the past few months, your group has been lobbying for the construction of a seawall to protect Galveston from hurricanes. And now two dozen faces watch as you stand at the head of a long oak table and hold up a piece of paper. Well, good morning, gentlemen. I come bearing good news. I just received a telegram from Austin. The state legislature has finally authorized a bond to pay for our seawall. So now all that's left to do is engage an engineer to oversee the work. One man seated at the table, a grain exporter with a sun beaten face, clears his throat. Well, wait just a minute. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I've been thinking, and if word gets out that Galveston is building a seawall, it might scare off potential business, not to mention tourism. I mean, a seawall will do nothing but show that our city is vulnerable. And this association is meant to encourage business growth. The others around the table exchange nervous glances. You shake your head and stand a little straighter. Well, a hurricane would do far more damage to the local economy than a seawall ever would. We need to act now, before what happened in Indianola can happen to us. Well, now, the Indianola hurricane, that was a freak accident. A freak accident that happened twice. They suffered two hurricanes hardly more than a decade apart. Just because it happened there doesn't mean it's going to happen here. You can't know that. And neither can you. But I'll tell you what I do know. I became a successful businessman because I know how to weigh risks. And this is one I'm willing to take. If you ask me, our association's time and money would be better spent modernizing the wharves. That would be true progress. Now, who's with me? The man sweeps his gaze around the room. Some of the others are deep in thought. Some nod enthusiastically. You fear that you're losing control of the meeting, so you walk toward the window and stare out at the view of the Gulf just a mile away. Right now, everything is calm and quiet. But you know it won't always be this way. And if disaster strikes, this city will be left at the complete mercy of Mother Nature. In the months after a hurricane wiped out Indianola, a group of Galveston businessmen secured state approval and funding to build a seawall. But as memories of the hurricane faded, plans stalled. City leaders feared the project would scare away tourists and investors. And the seawall was never built. In their single minded pursuit of growth, they failed to heed the lesson of Indianola. This false sense of security was reinforced by Galveston's chief forecaster, Isaac Monroe. Klein. In 1891, Klein published an article in the Galveston News in which he affirmed that no hurricane could ever do serious damage to the city. He described hurricane fears as an absurd delusion, writing it would be impossible for any cyclone to create a storm that could materially injure the city. He framed the Indianola hurricanes as freak accidents and argued that Galveston could not share the same fate because for miles the Gulf waters surrounding it were relatively shallow that would cause storm waves to break and spread out before reaching the city. He also insisted that the vast lowlands on the Texas mainland across the bay from Galveston would absorb stormwaters before the island suffered any real damage. Isaac Klein was widely respected as an expert in the emerging field of meteorology. And his passion grew out of a lifelong interest in the workings of nature stemming from his upbringing on a Tennessee farm. After graduating from college, he was recruited into the weather service of the U.S. army Signal Corps, where he was trained in the new science of meteorology. But in the late 19th century, weather forecasting was rudimentary. Meteorologists analyzed cloud patterns and used simple instruments like rain gauges and barometers, and they relied almost entirely on LA land based observations because there was no way to track storms out at sea. So over the years, incorrect forecasts and one highly publicized employee scandal had eroded public trust in the Army's weather service. Americans also questioned meteorology more broadly. In an 1877 speech, the famous wit Mark Twain parodied the imprecise nature of weather forecasts, declaring probable northeast to southeast winds varying to the southward and westward and eastward and points between probable areas of rain, snow, hail and drought succeed preceded or preceded by earthquakes with thunder and lightning. But Isaac Klein had high hopes for the potential of meteorology. During his training, he told his examiner that he wanted to do something that would give results beneficial to mankind. He scored top marks and was assigned to a post in Little Rock, Arkansas, where he spent his spare time studying for a medical degree. After graduating, he was transferred to a weather station in Abilene, Texas and attending the local Baptist church. There he met a young woman named Cora, whom he soon married. In 1889, Klein, Cora and their two daughters moved to Galveston where 27 year old Isaac was tasked with cleaning up the local weather station previously run by an incompetent army private. Two years later, the Army's weather service was absorbed by the Department of Agriculture, where it became known as the U.S. weather Bureau. Klein was put in charge of establishing the bureau's new statewide service headquartered in Galveston. Overcoming the years of neglect, he turned the station around causing a government inspector to write. I suppose there is not a man in the service who does more real work than Klein. He takes a remarkable degree of interest in his work and has a great pride in making his station one of the best and most important in the country. Then in 1892, Klein's younger brother Joseph, who was nine years his junior, moved to Galveston too and began working under Klein as the station's chief clerk. Joseph lived with Klein and his family in a two story home three blocks from the Gulf, which Klein had ordered built on stilts to help it withstand storms. Two years later, in 1894, Cora gave birth to the couple's third daughter. Beyond Klein's family duties and forecasting work, he taught Sunday school and served on the University of Texas Medical School faculty, focusing his research on the impact of weather on health. He had sharp features, dark eyes and a sober demeanor. And he was methodical about everything in his life, rigidly dividing his days into eight hour periods of sleep, work and recreation. And although he was outwardly self effacing, he took deep pride in his forecasting abilities. He saw himself as a serious scientific expert who understood the weather better than most. But despite Klein's efforts in Galveston, the larger weather bureau still faced widespread skepticism. In July 1895, the Secretary of Agriculture fired the bureau's chief and replaced him with seasoned meteorologist Willis Moore. Driven by fear of public criticism, Moore tightened the bureau's oversight of its far flung stations and enforced rigorous verification of forecasts. Then, when the Spanish American War broke out in Cuba in 1898, Moore convinced President William McKinley to establish a hurricane warning service with stations in Mexico and the Caribbean. He argued that hurricanes posed a greater threat than enemy fleets and that reliable storm detection was essential to safeguarding the U.S. navy. McKinley agreed, and Moore's Hurricane Warning Service became the first U.S. effort to monitor tropical storms. Moore was convinced that this hurricane warning service would elevate the bureau's reputation and increase his own stature. But soon his distrust of Cuban forecasters would have disastrous consequences for Isaac Klein and the people of Galveston. They would be forced to pay the price for Moore's hubris and arrogance. In the year 1900, Galveston, Texas was brimming with confidence and pride. The year before, it had surpassed New Orleans to become the leading cotton port in the country and it was now the third busiest port overall. The population had grown by 30% in the previous decade alone, bringing the total number of residents to nearly 38,000. The city had electric streetcars, local and long distance telephone service. Three big concert halls and 20 hotels. It was served by 45 steamship lines, hosted 16 foreign consulates, and had boasted more millionaires per capita than the famously wealthy enclave of Newport, Rhode island, with opulent mansions, gourmet restaurants, and grand churches signaling the city's wealth to newcomers. City leaders also believed that this astonishing growth was just the beginning. So in May 1900, they embraced an expansive harbor improvement plan promising victory over Galveston's rival Houston, 50 miles to the north. But once again, they failed to make plans for a seawall. As spring turned to summer that year, Galveston struggled with punishing heat and nearly 100% humidity. And the city wasn't alone. The summer of 1900 was unbearably hot across much of the United States. This prolonged heat warmed the waters of the Gulf of Mexico to bath like temperatures, an ominous precursor to tropical storms. Galveston residents complained about the heat, but for the most part, the city was focusing on the upcoming cotton season in September, when the wharves would begin handling exports. Willis Moore and his team at the US Weather Bureau had also done little to raise the alarm. In August 1900, just as Hurricane season was ramping up, Moore was focused on silencing Cuban meteorologists who had pioneered hurricane detection. Following the end of the Spanish American War, the US army occupied Cuba, and the weather bureau established a headquarters for Caribbean weather forecasting in Havana, run by meteorologist William Stockman, who shared his boss's obsession with authority. Both were determined to assert greater control over forecasting while also looking down on Cuba and Cuban forecasters, expecting them to fall in line. In one report to Moore, Stockman complained, it is most difficult to get them to adopt any measures that radically differ from those pursued by their forebears. Those measures had been long the domain of Jesuit priests who trained at the Berlin College and Observatory in Havana, a Jesuit institution and renowned hub for meteorology, astronomy, and geophysics. Moore and Stockman disregarded and actively disparaged the skilled forecasters who operated in the tradition of the legendary Father Benito Vignes, known as the hurricane Priest in the 1870s, Vignes created a model for predicting hurricanes, using meticulous observations of clouds to determine their location, speed, and direction. He also set up a network of hundreds of observers and messengers to watch for changes in weather and raise the alarm when storms approached. But although Cuban forecasts often proved more accurate than American ones, Moore and Stockman dismissed the Cubans as ignorant and overly alarmist. In an August 1900 letter, Moore described how his staff in Cuba were greatly annoyed by local observatories Attempting to make weather predictions and issue hurricane warnings to the detriment of commerce and the embarrassment of the government service. And by the end of the summer of 1900, American distrust of Cuban forecasters had only deepened. Stockman and Moore became convinced that the Cubans were trying to steal the Weather Bureau's observations to improve their own forecasts. They had no real evidence for these suspicions, but the disdain for Cuban meteorologists ran so deep that in August, Moore and his staff persuaded the War Department, which controlled telegraph lines in Cuba, to take drastic measures. Imagine, it's late August 1900 at Camp Columbia in the US Army's headquarters in Havana, Cuba. You're a Weather Bureau officer and you're walking across the parade ground toward the administration block with Major General Wood, the American military governor here in Cuba. You swipe a handkerchief across your sweaty brow and glance sideways at him. Well, sir, peak hurricane season is upon us and we simply cannot have these Cuban weather observers spreading panic about storms that only exist in their imagination. Wood brings his hand to his forehead to shield his face from the afternoon sun, his focus trained on a unit of soldiers marching across the grounds. Spreading panic? What are you talking about? Majority, I want the War Department to formally ban these Cuban weather observatories from using our telegraph lines. I'm sorry, I'm not following. The U.S. weather Bureau has trained its meteorologists to make predictions based on cold, hard data. But these Cubans, they're hopelessly unscientific. It's all romantic, mystical nonsense. They're always talking about the color of the sunset and always imagining the worst. They'll label any squall a hurricane. Well, they do strike me as rather naive. And when they cry hurricane, those warnings reach Savannah and Charleston and Baltimore. They scare our fishermen and shipping freighters back into the harbors. Oh, so you're saying this is affecting commerce? Precisely, sir. So it's imperative that the War Department formally prohibit weather related cables from those telegraph lines. A complete blackout? Well, that might be excessive. I don't think it is, sir, because this is a security issue. My colleagues and I suspect that the Cubans are copying information for the Weather Bureau's daily weather maps, passing it off as their own. Well, that doesn't surprise me. The locals have their charms, but they're not the most trustworthy. And we certainly can't have them stealing our maps. I completely agree, sir. Alright. Well, thank you for bringing the matter to my attention. I'll give the order directly. With a curt nod, Wood turns on his heel to enter the administration block. Look down and grin, relishing the feeling of finally exerting control over the the Cubans. It's the first step in finally winning the Weather Bureau the respect it deserves. In late August 1900, the War Department banned all weather related telegrams from Cuba except those issued by the U.S. weather Bureau. It was an extraordinary decision during the height of hurricane season. The ban sparked outrage among Cuban meteorologists who said it showed extraordinary contempt for the public. But Moore held firm. And while this conflict unfolded in Cuba, a weak tropical storm was brewing in the Atlantic Ocean, the first of the season. A ship captain in the open waters 1,000 miles east of the Caribbean's Leeward Islands made note of unsettled weather on Aug. 27, but he didn't think it looked serious. Tropical storms form over warm ocean water. When hot, moist air rises and creates a low pressure system, the storm begins to spin and it can grow stronger as long as it stays over warm water. And in the summer of 1900, the waters of the Atlantic Ocean were very warm. This tropical storm then continued to gain speed, moving in a west northwest direction. And by August 30, it had arrived in the northeastern Caribbean Sea, bringing severe thunderstorms to Antigua. Over the next three days, the storm remained relatively weak as it passed over Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic and Haiti. But on September 3, the storm strengthened as it moved westward and made landfall in Cuba. The city of Santiago de Cuba experienced more than 12 inches of rain in only 24 hours. And while there was no serious damage, Cuban meteorologists tracking the storm remained wary, fearing it had the potential to turn into a hurricane. But their American counterparts didn't share this concern. On September 4th, Isaac Klein and his colleagues in Galveston received a short wire from the Washington bureau declaring tropical storm disturbance moving northward over Cuba. But the report downplayed any danger, adding, for the present, this storm will probably cause nothing more severe than strong northeasterly winds over the Atlantic. The next day, September 5th, the storm entered the Straits of Florida, just north of Cuba. Willis Moore and his staff were convinced that this storm would move northeast, crossing Florida and then continuing to head northward up the Atlantic coast, reaching New England within two days. But in reality, they had no evidence for this prediction. Instead, the bureau's forecasters relied on their long standing, misguided belief that it was almost impossible for Caribbean hurricanes to travel northwest into the Gulf of Mexico. It was a stance shared by Isaac Klein, who in 1891 wrote, West Indies hurricanes are not a problem for Texas because they always recurve to the north before reaching the western Gulf of Mexico. Klein said that the general laws of motion of the atmosphere made Texas exempt from Caribbean hurricanes, affirming that the two that devastated Indianola, Texas, had followed an abnormal path. The same day that Bureau officials were projecting that the storm would travel northeast, Cuban experts reached a different conclusion. Father Lorenzo Gongote watched the skies late that night and early the next morning and observed a persistent lunar halo, a blood red dawn and cirrus clouds moving from the northwest. These were warning signs his mentor, Father Benito Vilas, had taught him to recognize. Gongoita concluded that the storm had intensified and he was certain it was headed west toward the Gulf coast of Texas. But because of Willis Moore's telegraph ban, he was powerless to warn anyone. Meanwhile, the US Weather Bureau alerted shipping companies and fishermen that a major storm event was heading up the Atlantic coast. And in Galveston, Isaac Klein climbed up to the roof of the five Store Levy Building, which housed the local weather bureau. Taking his usual morning readings. He noted that barometric pressure was in the normal range. The temperature was 80 degrees. There were light winds, and the sky was clear. To him, the fair weather was reassuring. There was no reason to suspect that his part of the Gulf coast was in any danger. Isaac Klein and his superiors assumed that storms moving north in the Caribbean could not turn northwest and reach Texas. And they assumed that this storm would not grow into a hurricane. But they were wrong. Little did they realize the storm had made an abrupt left turn and strengthened into a hurricane as it entered the Gulf. And now it was just 800 miles away, barreling straight toward Galveston. On the morning of Thursday, Sept. 6, 1900, while the U.S. weather Bureau was still issuing storm warnings along the east coast, the steamship Louisiana was sailing in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico carrying 30 passengers to New York with a full crew and cargo. As the vessel made its way along the Louisiana coast, the captain, T.P. halsey, noticed pressure readings on the ship's barometer, plunging amid increasing winds. Halsey was an experienced mariner and immediately recognized the signs of a hurricane. A barometer measures atmospheric pressure in inches of mercury, and during hurricanes, falling barometer readings signaled decreasing pressure at the storm center. The lower the pressure, the stronger the storm. And as he watched, Halsey's barometer continued to drop. Fearing the worst, he ordered the decks cleared and hatches sealed. By early afternoon, as wind and waves hammered his ship, the mercury plunged even further. It was the lowest reading Halsey had ever seen, and the wind was only getting stronger as towering waves repeatedly submerged the Louisiana. Underwater, Halsey estimated speeds of 150 miles per hour, the storm had intensified into a hurricane of unprecedented violence, a sudden transformation that Weather Bureau meteorologists thought impossible. But as Halsey struggled to navigate the storm out in the Gulf of Mexico, there was no way for him to warn anyone. Ship to shore communication would not exist for another five years. So in Galveston, Isaac Klein went to bed that night believing a tropical storm was heading for Florida. But at 10:30 the following morning, September 7th, he received a telegram from the US Weather Bureau ordering him to raise storm warning flags, to alert local ship captains and to expect trouble in the Gulf of Mexico. It was a major reversal from the Weather Bureau's previous forecasts. Over the course of the previous day, the storm they had predicted would hit the east coast had failed to arrive, forcing them to finally conclude that it must be heading northwest, not northeast. Five minutes after receiving this telegram, Klein hoisted signal flags on the roof of the Levy building. A red flag with a black center indicating a storm of marked violence, topped by a white pennant indicating northwest winds. An hour later, Klein received a second telegram from Washington predicting high northerly winds tonight and Saturday with possible heavy rain. There was still no mention of a hurricane that afternoon. Cline and his brother Joseph noticed heavy swells rolling in from the southeast and feathery cirrus clouds high above them. To experienced weathermen, they were clear signs that a storm was approaching. But they had no expectations of a hurricane. Klein later wrote, the usual signs which herald the approach of hurricanes were not present. In this case, the brick dust sky was not in evidence to the smallest degree because that Friday the sky in Galveston was bright blue. Cline wasn't the only one unprepared for a hurricane. Only 30 minutes before Cline posted storm warnings on the levee building roof, Captain J.W. simmons sailed his ship, the Pensacola, out of Galveston, beginning a 500 mile journey to Pensacola, Florida. He had no idea that he was heading directly into the path of the storm. Imagine us early in the Evening on Friday, September 7, 1900, somewhere off the coast of Louisiana in the Gulf of Mexico. You're a Galveston resident and standing on the bridge of the steamship Pensacola as a personal guest of Captain J.W. simmons. Winds are howling outside and the deck beneath your feet is rising and falling with a violence you've never experienced. Simmons feet are planted wide as he stands at the helm and with a grin on his face, he waves you over. Ah, come look at this. What is it? You stagger across the bridge, grabbing a rail as the ship lurches. He points at the barometer. See that? I've never seen it that low? Probably never will again. Really? And the winds must be what, 70, 80 miles an hour? Yeah, the Gulf's turned against us tonight, but we'll give her a fair fight. You sure we shouldn't turn around, head back to Galveston? No, I wouldn't dream of it. I've made 800 after. Voyage is my life. A little storm's nothing to be afraid of. This ship is made of 2 million pounds of steel. She'll ride it out. The deck drops again, harder this time. A glass lantern shatters and a stool slides across the floor. Your heart begins to climb into your throat. Outside, waves rear up out of nowhere. Giant walls of water that look like they could swallow you whole. I don't know, Captain. Maybe we should do something. But he just scowls and glances back at the. At the instruments. He leans closer and his face drains a color. God almighty, that wind's blowing 100 miles an hour. And what does that mean? Suddenly he springs to action, snapping his head toward the nearest deckhand. Get down to the engine room. Tell the chief to stop the engines. Drop anchor at once. The deckhand darts across the slanting bridge and vanishes down a ladder. You cling to a rail, your knuckles turning white. What? What's going on? We sail into our better, take cover below deck and go say some prayers. While you're at it, you stumble across the bridge, but not before you register the fear in the captain's face. As you listen to the roaring swells, you're faced with the terrifying thought that not only are you in grave danger, but everyone back home in Galveston, too. On the afternoon of Friday, September 7, the Pensacola's Barometer dropped nearly an inch over the course of two hours. Facing violent waves and 100 mile per hour winds, Captain Simmons had no choice but to drop anchor. When the anchor caught, the ship swung so that its bow faced the wind head on. A passenger later wrote how the ship was rising off one tremendous sea and dropping on another, which jarred the vessel and made her tremble all over. Simmons and his passengers would ultimately weather the storm, but other ships were less fortunate. Further to the east, as Captain Halsey fought to keep his Louisiana upright, the hurricane was already claiming victims. The schooner Olive sailed from Tampa despite storm flags and vanished. And two other ships ran aground off Florida. That same Friday night, while sea captains in the Gulf were battling the hurricane, Joseph Klein worked late at the Galveston Weather Bureau. The temperature still hovered at 90 degrees, and he recorded only modest pressure changes. At midnight, he finished a weather map and left it at the post office, then walked the mile home to his brother's house, and at 1am he fell into a restless sleep. While he slept, the morning edition of the Galveston News was being printed. It declared at midnight the moon was shining brightly and the sky was not as threatening as earlier in the night. The weather bureau had no late advisories as to the storm's movements, and it may be that the tropical disturbance has changed its course or spend its force. But at 4 o' clock in the morning on Saturday, September 8th, Joseph awoke with a start. From his bedroom he could hear the roar of the breakers on the beach three blocks away. He was immediately filled with what he later described as a sense of impending disaster. He recalled, in some obscure way, I sensed that the waters of the gulf were already over our backyard, and one glance out the south windows of the house confirmed those suspicions. He shook his brother Isaac awake, telling him that the worst had begun. But even the Clines did not yet grasp the danger facing them. Over the next 24 hours, they and their neighbors would be fighting for their lives against the deadliest storm to ever target North America. From Audible Originals this is episode one of our three part series on the 1900 Galveston Hurricane for American Historytellers. In the next episode, gale force winds push rising water into the streets of Galveston, sending panicked residents fleeing for higher ground. And the Klein family fights for survival as the storm surge causes houses to break away from their foundations. Follow American Historytellers on the Audible app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to all episodes of American Historytellers 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 notthatlinseygraham.com that's not that. Lindseygraham.com American Historytellers is hosted, edited and produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. This episode is written by Ellie Stanton, Edited by Dorian Marina Senior Producers Alida Ryazanski and Ellie Andy Beckerman Managing Producer Desi Blaylock Audio editing by Mohammed Shahzib Music by Thrum Sound design by Molly Bond Executive Producer for Audible is Jenny Lauer Beckman, Head of Creative Development at Audible Kate Navin, Head of Audible Originals North America Marshall Louie Chief Content Officer Rachel Gyazz.