170 years ago this morning, a horseman galloped through the small farming communities just northwest of Philadelphia. "Bring your camphor bottles, balsam and lint! There has been a horrible accident!” The tragedy he was alerting them to was the Great Train Wreck of 1856 or “Picnic Train Tragedy” — one of the darkest episodes in transportation history.
On July 17, 1856, a warm summer morning turned into a fiery nightmare in southeastern PA. A church in Philly chartered an excursion train to carry 1,100-1,500 Sunday School children and their families to a picnic in the countryside. Due to the large number of passengers, the picnic special was 23 mins late in departing and continued to run behind while its locomotive — the Shakamaxon — struggled to maintain pressure pulling 10-12 overloaded cars. The conductor did not utilize the telegraph to communicate their status because he felt confident they would make up lost time and reach a specific siding in time to let the scheduled southbound Aramingo to safely pass on the present-day SEPTA Doylestown/Lansdale Line (which was a single track at the time).
Unaware of the special picnic train’s status, the Aramingo started heading for Philly with roughly 20 passengers. The two trains approached each other on a blind curve in Whitemarsh Township between present-day Fort Washington and Oreland SEPTA stations. The engineers didn’t see each other until they were only 100 yards apart. Despite the attempts to brake and reverse, the two trains collided. The initial impact and subsequent fire killed 55-67 people, most of whom were among the older children who were traveling in the forward cars. Over 100 people were injured. It was the deadliest railroad accident in the history of the world up to that time.
The explosion was reportedly heard up to 5 miles away, and smoke from the burning wreckage could be seen over a wide area. One of the first responders on scene was a Quaker woman named Mary Ambler — who ran two miles down track with medical supplies. She established triage, and tended to the wounded all day and well into the night. Using whatever they could find to make stretchers, she directed the transportation of patients to her home, which she had established as a makeshift hospital.
Other locals who reached the crash site formed a bucket brigade to attempt to fight the extremely intense fire fueled by the wrecked wooden passenger cars. Eventually a fire company that raced from Chestnut Hill arrived and got the inferno under control.
The North Pennsylvania Railroad offered to compensate Mary Ambler for her service, but she refused. In 1869, the railroad recognized her heroism by renaming the station in her town as “Ambler Station.” The town eventually adopted the name, giving us the present-day Borough of Ambler that most Philly area residents are familiar with.
The crash garnered worldwide attention, fundamentally shaking the American Public’s trust in rail travel, and sparked a massive push for railroad safety reform. The tragedy directly accelerated the implementation of double-tracking, the widespread adoption of the telegraph for scheduling and real-time communications, and the standardization of railway time.
I’m not a railroader, but I am an emergency responder and disaster historian. I live along the Doylestown/Lansdale Line and use SEPTA Regional Rail to get to work. Assuming the rail bed hasn’t changed drastically over the past 170 years I pass through (or at least by) the exact site of the Great Train Wreck of 1856 twice every weekday. To all the operators and other railroad employees who keep us safe — thank you.
