From natural tragedies to man-made mishaps, we’re recounting some of the biggest disasters in our city’s history.

By Michael Breedlove

For a publication that prides itself on showing the good in the city, disasters aren’t an easy thing to write about. In fact, we debated even publishing this story. With that said, any place of any significance will eventually find trouble, and Winston-Salem is no exception.

In its 250-plus years, the Twin City has suffered its fair share of catastrophes: fires, floods, structural failures, social crisis…you name it. But with each burden, the town’s shoulders became a little broader.

For instance, when the Salem Tavern famously burned down in 1784, the town countered by becoming a pioneer in early firefighting. When the old Winston High School caught fire in 1923, the city replaced it with one of the most impressive public schools in the state (Reynolds High). And when the Yadkin River ravaged parts of Northwestern North Carolina in 1940, engineers created the stunning Kerr Scott Reservoir to ease flood control.

It seems that even the most negative of occurrences can have a hand in shaping the community—and tragic events can ultimately lead to a better tomorrow.  As famed journalist Harry Golden once said, “The only thing that overcomes hard luck is hard work.” It’s a notion this town has seemingly come to embrace.

BURNED INTO MEMORY

It was once said that problems are the price you pay for progress. When recounting Winston-Salem’s worst fires, it’s a phrase that certainly fits. In fact, the most memorable fire in our city’s history—the Hotel Zinzendorf fire—was the result of a progressive dream creating a colossal problem.

In the late 1800s, a handful of local businessmen had dreams of making the undeveloped West End a premier resort destination for travelers. These visions ultimately rested on the Hotel Zinzendorf, a sprawling resort/hotel that was the size of a football field. With 100 rooms, an in-house orchestra, and scenic views of the Sauratown Mountains, it was called the grandest resort in the South when it opened in May 1892—just as the developers had dreamed. Tragically, those dreams would soon go down in the flames.

On Thanksgiving Day 1892, shouts of “fire” began echoing out of the hotel’s laundry room. Fire crews rushed to the scene, but because of the hotel’s remote location, they couldn’t draw enough water to the site. As a result, the hulking hotel burned to the ground in a mere two hours, just six months after it opened. Today, a historical marker and a few old photos are all that’s left of the grand Zinzendorf.

Since then, a number of fires have altered the Twin City’s landscape—the Winston High School fire of 1923 and the Piedmont Airlines hanger fire of 1941, to name a few. But it’s a 1998 inferno at an old RJR factory that remains seared into the minds of many.

It all started on a windy summer morning inside of R.J. Reynolds Factory No. 256. Located on Chestnut Street, the historic building was being converted into lab space for downtown’s newly conceptualized research park (PTRP). What started as a small blaze from a welding torch quickly became a fury of flames and smoke. Within hours, the fire had devoured the factory’s pine beams and brick walls, sending a jet-black beam of smoke spiraling to the sky. It was a scene one reporter from the Winston-Salem Journal called “a version of hell on earth.” Not only had the blaze halted downtown revitalization, it had ripped away a treasured piece of our history.

These days, though, many point to the fire at Factory 256 as a catalyst, not a catastrophe. For starters, it brought about staffing and equipment changes for the city’s firemen, who admitted to being overwhelmed by the blaze. It also created a surprising wave of revitalization in the research park. “The fire increased the resolve to make something happen there,” Mayor Allen Joines told the Journal. “It got community leaders to push harder so this [PTRP] project wouldn’t go up in smoke.”

TROUBLED WATER 

For a town that’s landlocked on all sides, Winston-Salem has had plenty of problems with water. One of the worst floods in our history happened in the spring of 1912, when the rising waters from Salem Creek spilled into Old Salem. Stores were flooded, a bridge was washed away, and a 700-foot-wide “pond” engulfed much of South Main Street. The Yadkin River, our mighty neighbor to the west, has also caused its fair share of headaches. One of the worst flooding incidents happened in 1898 when storm waters caused the river to swell more than was a mile wide at Donnaha, a rural community in northwestern Forsyth County.

But it was a structural failure, not floodwaters, that led to the worst water-related disaster in Winston-Salem’s history—an event that’s often referred to as simply “The Pond.” In the fall of 1904, the city of Winston had just expanded the water holdings in its downtown reservoir, which sat on a hill at the northern end of Trade Street.

Around 5 a.m. on November 2, the increased pressure caused the reservoir’s brick and cement walls to give way, unleashing a million gallons of water on the unsuspecting homes below. The local newspaper claimed the collapse “struck like a thunderbolt” as it swept away eight homes, damaged dozens more, and took the lives of nine people. Despite the chaos, a few miraculous stories of survival surfaced. In one case, a couple road the crest of the wave on their beds for more than a mile, completely unharmed.

Following the collapse, a city official claimed the area around the reservoir “looked like a pond;” hence the nickname. These days, a historical marker cites the Pond incident as the “saddest chapter in our history.”

STORMS OF THE CENTURY

With our cozy location at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains, Winston-Salem and weather disasters aren’t exactly synonymous. Tsunamis? No chance. Earthquakes? They barely make a dent. Hurricanes? Well…sort of. But if there’s one weather wildcard to be wary of, it’s tornados. True, Forsyth County is far removed from the tornado alleys of the Midwest, but the humid conditions here have caused plenty of scares in recent years.

For starters, there’s the funnel cloud that smashed through Clemmons in 1998, a storm many people simply refer to as the “Waterford” tornado. On a mild, rainy day in early May, a fierce F3 tornado swept through Western Forsyth County. Two dozen homes were completely destroyed while more than 500 were damaged. The brunt of the damage happened in Clemmons—in particular, the Waterford subdivision—where high winds caused $50 million in property damage. Luckily, no deaths or injuries were reported.

But for the worst weather disaster in our recent history, you’d have to go back to the storms of May, 5, 1989. Starting around 5 p.m., a series of F2 and F3 tornadoes cut a chaotic path through the county. Roofs ripped apart in Walkertown; trees twisted and cracked in Lewisville; signs were completely shredded in Kernersville. But the storm seemed to save its hardest blows for Winston-Salem.

The twisters made a devastating march through the heart of the city, severely damaging downtown and the surrounding areas. Several homes in Ardmore and Buena Vista were reduced to rubble while century-old trees were uprooted in Washington Park. The storm even unearthed coffins at God’s Acre in Old Salem. In the end, Winston-Salem was left with nearly $50 million in damages. Miraculously, though, no deaths occurred.

Trees were cleared, homes were repaired, and life eventually returned to the Twin City. Hurricane Hugo would roll through town later that year, yet the winds were downright mild in comparison. To this day, though, Winston-Salem still bares the scars from the storms of May 5, 1989—a date that’s forever etched into our history.

SOCIAL DISORDERS

When one hears the word disaster, images of raging fires, crumbling buildings, and rushing waters likely cloud the mind. But there’s another type of disaster that touches every corner of America: civic disasters—the mobs, murders, and general mayhem each town tries its best to avoid.

In Winston-Salem, racial tension has been the trigger for much of the citywide bedlam. Case in point: the riot of 1918. Racial tensions were high in the city at that time, and those tensions would come to a head on Saturday, November 16. Word had spread that a black man being held at the city jail had raped a local white woman. The news enraged the white population in town. Led by the local Ku Klux Klan, a vengeful mob of 2,000 to 3,000 swarmed the city jail.

Law enforcement tried to hold back the mob, but it was no use. Rioters broke through the barricades, fled through the jail, and fired shots into the cell blocks. The mob then turned their attention to the black neighborhoods surrounding downtown. They broke into stores, stole firearms, and headed down Fourth Street to East Winston. Details get fuzzy at that point, but the rioting continued until 3 a.m. Monday morning when federal troops arrived and restored order. Historians estimate that seven people died as a result of the riot, yet rumors contend the death count was much, much higher (somewhere in the hundreds). While several arrests were made, the man who started it all—the presumed rapist—was found to be not guilty.

RIOTS ASIDE, the Twin City also has a history of mysterious murders. Of all the infamous deaths, it’s the case of a young tobacco heir that tops them all—the mysterious death of Z. Smith Reynolds.

The youngest son of R.J. Reynolds, Smith seemingly had it all: a beautiful wife, an incredible fortune, and a budding career as an aviator. But that seemingly perfect life met a dark end the night of July 5, 1932. 

Unbeknownst to most, Smith was said to be somewhat of malcontent. He married his first wife, Anne Cannon, as a teenager, yet divorced her a short time later. A few weeks later, he was married to Libby Holman, a Broadway star made famous by her torch-singing talents. Holman soon traded the spotlights in New York for the rural outskirts of Winston-Salem, and the couple became notorious for throwing rousing parties at Reynolda—the most infamous of which happened one fateful summer night.

The evening began like most at Reynolda; guests laughed, drank wine, and swam in the in-house pool. The party cleared out by midnight, though Ab Walker, one of Smith’s best friends, remained. It was around 1 a.m. when muffled gun shots rang out from an upstairs bedroom. According to reports, Libby ran out of the room screaming “Smith’s killed himself.” Ab and Libby rushed him to Baptist Hospital, but it was too late. A gunshot wound to the head had ended Smith’s life at the age of 20.

While the death was initially ruled a suicide, a coroner’s inquest later said the cause of death was “unknown.” Before long, a grand jury had indicted Libby for murder and Ab as an accomplice. Rumors also persisted that the two were having an affair. News spread throughout the country, and a firestorm of national media descended on the town. Needless to say, the proud Reynolds name was taking a beating. Because of this, the family asked the district attorney to drop the charges against Holman. The D.A. complied, and no trial was ever held. To this day, the death of the young tobacco heir remains cloaked in mystery.

But some good did come from the tragedy. Following his death, the Reynolds family used money from Smith’s estate to start the Z. Smith Reynolds Foundation. The foundation, which aims to improve the lives of North Carolinians, continues to thrive today.