Good Intentions by Dustin Rice

“Most of the evil in this world is done by people with good intentions.”

--T.S. Elliot

For over 75 years there existed a network that exploited the innocent, uprooted and displaced the naïve and unwitting, and ripped apart already tattered and frayed families—all in the name of charity. It was called the Orphan Train. It went on as an unspoken institution across the United States, but Texas was one of the largest open markets for children in the world.

By then, late in the 19th century, the streets of the east coast’s cities were crowded and filthy, hardly the place for kids. If they were running the streets it was assumed the parents were either dead, drunk, broke, or just didn’t care. The solution came from the myth of the West. The homesteads out west on the fertile plains would be the home for these miscreant waifs. The children were shipped by train west and Texas received more than most states. 

As railways expanded, so did the network of cities and towns that could accept the children. As the program grew, requests for hair and eye color were asked about. Town halls became auctions sites without money exchanged. A new vocabulary emerged, with children being “placed out” on a “trial,” and they may be “re-placed” if things didn’t work out for the foster family. Though terms about good treatment were signed, these parents were often doing little more than hiring farmhands. They were inspected for work. It was cheap labor if they could afford the food and had the room. Not a child of the family, but a hand kept home. The families were doing their charity for the world. 

The unlucky ones bounced from home to home through a town, then were on to the next town, and so on until they found a place. The really unlucky ones were hostages to forced labor in horrible conditions. Or worse, abused in other ways. This was sadly not uncommon. Others made it to the end of the line. 

At places where the railroad ended, places like Galveston, the options were limited. When the children reached Galveston, they were greeted by women in black and white, the nuns at the Catholic orphanage. If they weren’t from a religious family, it would probably be very confusing. They were introduced as Mary this and Mary that and then the kids were ushered to their bunks. They ended up right near the beach at the St. Mary’s Orphan’s Asylum. One particularly sad group came in mid-1900. They would be the last orphans received by the Asylum.

On September 8, 1900, a tremendous hurricane hit Galveston. As the first floor of the orphanage flooded, 90 orphans and 10 nuns moved to the second floor and waited while repeating the hymn “Queen of the Waves.” The nuns tied clothesline from their waists to the wrists of the children. Some were recovered this way after the building collapsed and washed away in the night. Though no one knows exactly how many lives were claimed, estimates are as high as 12,000. They were buried not far from where the orphanage once stood. The exact location of the graveyard not completely agreed on, but it is said to be near the current seawall that protects the city today and a grand hotel.

The children who were lost that day are said to run the halls of the Hotel Galvez. Unable to rest, they keep guests up at night. They pinch and prod, scatter clothes and bounce balls. Laughter can be heard in the hallways, spots of cold felt in the rooms, and guests report feeling immense sadness at the thought of children.

Not meaning to be macabre, Morgan and I ate brunch in the lobby where the most activity takes place. We were on family vacation and happened past the Galvez. It was hardly a conversation when we agreed to go in. The lobby was under remodel, bustling with workers and full of activity. We took our time. If anythingsupernatural happened we didn’t notice, despite sitting in the exact spot where ball bouncing and laughter are said to occur.

Afterword, we made our way to the railyard that sits on the north side of the island, right by the docks that the cruise ships launch from. Galveston isn’t a town we would usually even include in our research or our project, but exceptions are made in some cases. I had seen images online and in social media of some abandoned passenger railcars in Galveston and had to see them for myself. After some research, I found them. Google maps is an amazing resource. They are right off 37th Street, a dirt road leads to within fifty feet of them. They probably date from the first half of the twentieth century, marked with C. T. & C. RY. on the side. That’s the Chicago Transfer and Clearing Railway Yard. They had to make their way over eleven hundred miles to die a slow death at the hands of the salty air. 

Though not of the same era as the Orphan Train, I thought them a fitting representation of the story. They carried people around the greater Chicago area then were discarded as there were too many of them. They were passed around until they made their way to the end of the line and weren’t even seen fit to scrap. 

I walked in and around the cars, getting a feel for what they once were. The seats were tattered and springs are exposed. The windows were long ago busted out, glass strewn floors buckle and warp as you step on the worn-out carpet.

As I walked, I noticed something odd. Toward the end of the second car there were sheets up on both sides of the car to act as a wind break. Where the seats had been ripped out there was a cleared space that held a king size mattress, complete with box springs, seeming to gleam white in its surroundings. I had stumbled into someone’s bedroom. There was no one around but that probably wasn’t to last. I backed out and got down from the car, glad it was at least being of use to someone. 

It had been a gloomy day up to that point, but as I made my way back the sky seemed to open with sunlight and I captured the shot you see here. It was about three minutes after I left the anonymous bedroom on the train. As we left we saw a man carrying a couple of plastic bags headed in the direction of the cars. I’m willing to bet it was his bedroom.