Joe Broady was the engineer who died ''with his hand on the throttle”— in the wreck of Old 97.
About Joe Broady himself, almost nothing is known for sure and except for one formal, hand-tinted photograph, we don't even know what he looked like. Although 33 years old at the time of his death on September 27, 1903, he was unmarried and left no heirs, nor does anyone alive today remember him. No memorabilia of him is known to exist at all, not even the railroad watch he surely carried.
He was a tall, slim, and somewhat flamboyant young railroader in love with speed. In fact, his co-workers had nicknamed him "Steve" for a daredevil named Steve Broadie who had reputedly jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge and survived.
That Broady was somewhat reckless is a supposition supported by a record of at least two reprimands given him by his superiors at Norfolk & Western, for which he worked before transferring to the Southern Railway just a month before the famous wreck.
When it came to high-balling locomotives, the powerful 4-6-0 engines running on Southern's crack Washington-to-Atlanta Number 97 mail route were literally the fastest things on earth, capable of 100 mph on straightaways.
Several different locomotives pulled train No. 97 over sections of the 648-mile run, including Baldwin Engine 1102 in which Broady died, but all were affectionately dubbed "Old 97."
The train ran under a lucrative contract with the federal government, specifying that the Southern was to pay heavy fines for each minute late the mail arrived. Old 97 was therefore given clear track and all other trains—passenger and freight—had to take a siding at least 15 minutes before its passing. The Southern frequently fired anyone who cost Old 97 time.
On Sunday morning, September 27, 1903, Old 97. consisting of two postal cars, one express car and one baggage car, was held up for over an hour in Washington because of switching problems. By the time it reached Monroe, Va., it had still not made up the lost time.
It was in Monroe, just north of Lynchburg, that Broady hooked onto Old 97 for his famous ride into history, a trip chronicled in a still-popular bluegrass song that, except for two facts, got the fatal trip all wrong.
Broady probably should never have been driving Old 97 at all, and his last trip was likely also his first, although he had been driving lesser trains over the same route for a month and was passably familiar with it. According to later testimony, the fast-talking Broady had been eager to get his hands on Old 97 to "show everybody what she'll do."
By the time Broady, Fireman A.G. "Buddy" Clapp, Conductor J. Thomas Blair, Brakeman James Robert Moody, and Student Fireman John Madison Hodge rolled out of Monroe for the 166-mile leg to Spencer, N.C., Old 97 was a full hour and 10 minutes behind schedule.
Of the 18 people aboard OId 97, 11, including all five men in the locomotive, were killed; six were injured; and one, the express messenger, W.F. Pinchney, miraculously escaped unscathed.
According to the most popular version of the song, written by David Graves George, Broady was told "You got to put her into Spencer on time," but Broady's orders instructed him against trying to make up the lost time.
The third stanza comments on the "mighty rough road from Lynchburg to Danville" but it was no more treacherous than much of the line and was traversed daily both by passenger trains and freights weighing far more than the relatively lightweight mail train.
The stanza goes on to state that Broady lost his air brake on the grade, but the brake on Engine No. 1102 was a brand new 9½" model that was the standard of the day and regularly used to control far heavier trains than Old 97, which was pulling only four lightweight wooden cars.
According to Raymond B. Carneal, who spent his entire career as a trainman, most of it on the Danville Division, it seems highly unlikely that the entire braking system on Old 97 could have failed, and investigators found no' indication that it did.
Carneal also disputes the most famous line of the song, that Broady was " ... going down the grade making 90 miles an hour. '' Based on how far the train traveled once it left the track, Broady's speed was probably 45-50 mph, still four to five times the posted limit for the curve crossing Still House Trestle, where the wreck occurred.
The day of the wreck was a beautiful. clear, and unseasonably warm Sunday.
Many people were outside on their porches and lawns as Old 97 came roaring past just before 3 p.m. Several witnesses said people commented on both the train's lateness and its unusual speed. A few said they saw Broady inside the cab of the engine as he approached the curve, desperately pulling back on the locomotive's controls, apparently trying to slow it down by putting the wheels into reverse. In fact, the whistle that "broke into a scream" may have been the engine's locked-up drivers sliding along the rails.
The train left the tracks a few feet before reaching Still House Trestle, not in a "leap" but by plowing down the muddy 40-foot embankment, then turning on its side and trapping Broady beneath it by the legs. His hand was nowhere near the throttle.
People arrived on the scene within minutes and Broady was still alive, although not escaping steam from the ruptured boiler which was burning away most of his skin. He reportedly begged someone to cut off his legs to allow him to escape, but died within minutes, "scalded to death by the steam." At least in this instance the songwriter got it correct.
As train wrecks went in 1903, that of Old 97 was relatively unremarkable. The tracks were repaired and trains resumed operation within 18 hours. Had it not been for the song, it would quickly have been forgotten.
''The Wreck of the OId 97” later sold more than six million copies, yet David Graves George, who neglected to have it copyrighted, died in obscure poverty after many years of court battles to win royalties.
The body of Joseph A. Broady was taken by rail back to his home on Tumbling Creek near Saltville and laid to rest. Although in the song, the ladies are advised "Never speak harsh words to your true loving husband,” Broady was never married, yet legend has it that an unidentified young woman traveled down from Bluefield for the funeral, spoke to no one, and left immediately afterward, never to be seen or heard from again.
Today, all that remains of Joe Broady is a toppled tombstone, a folksong and the lonesome wind—a wind that sometimes, late at night, sounds exactly like the screaming of a train.
Robert L. Kinney is a full-time outdoor writer and the author of two published novels. He is currently completing a book on the wreck of Old 97 and looking for a publisher. He lives in Sugar Grove, Virginia.
"The Wreck of Old 97"
Oh, they gave him his orders at Monroe, Virginia.
Saying, Steve, you're way behind time,
This is not 38, it is old 97.
You got to put her into Danville on time.
Oh, he looked around his cab at his black greasy fireman,
Saying shovel in a little more coal.
And when we cross that White Oak Mountain, You're going to watch old 97 roll!
Now, it's a mighty rough road from Lynchburg to Danville,
And it's lying on a three-mile grade,
It was on that grade that he lost his air brake, you can see what a jump he made.
He was a-going down the grade making 90 miles an hour.
When his whistle broke into a scream.
He was found in the wreck with his hand on the throttle.
And scalded to death by the steam.
Now, all you ladies, you'd better take fair warning.
From this day on and learn,
Never speak harsh words to your true loving husband,
He may leave you and never return.
This video features Johnny Cash singing the Old 97 (Source: Niels peter Larsen, YouTube)
What compounded the aftermath of the incident was that the wreck had been caused by a 6-year-old boy.
The investigation determined that Charlie Whitener, Jr., had put rocks on the railroad tracks. Charlie lived with his mother, who worked at night and was not able to properly attend to her son. His father was serving a jail sentence and was thus not in the home.
At about 4:15 in the afternoon of April 23, Charlie placed the rocks and hid behind a fence to get ready to watch as the train, travelling nearly 60 mph, approached. The conductor failed to see the rocks and the train derailed and overturned.
Whitener confessed and was quoted in the local paper: “It was a lot of fun seeing the cars pile up and the steam coming out. I laughed about it, just like I did when I wrecked my toy train.”
Four people were taken to the hospital with injuries, but no one was killed. It was estimated that repair costs would be $15,000.
The sheriff’s investigation found another child witness who had seen Charlie place the rocks.
Spokespeople from the railroad concluded that Charlie was responsible, but they did not want to prosecute him. They wanted only to keep him away from the railroad, as his mother’s home sat on a bank right by the tracks.
Charlie went before Juvenile Court Judge Bowers with a social worker. The social worker informed the judge that Charlie needed his tonsils and adenoids removed. With the approval of three railroad representatives, Charlie’s mother and his grandfather, the judge included the removals as part of Charlie’s sentencing. In addition, Charlie would live with his grandfather, a well-respected farmer, until his father was out of jail.
Charlie would then go from hanging out on the railroad tracks to learning farming skills from his grandfather.