National City doesn’t exist anymore. In 1997, St. Clair County successfully sued to abolish the historic company town. The once-bustling industrial suburb of East St. Louis officially had no population. The previous year, the town’s residents had been evicted by the sole landowner in town, the National Stockyards. That same year, operations ceased, and the august stockyards that had operated across the river from St. Louis since 1873 were abandoned. Fairmount City quickly annexed the newly available real estate.
National City’s history began like many of the “symbiotic” towns that still ring East St. Louis such as Sauget (formerly Monsanto) and Alorton. Seeking to avoid paying taxes or having to follow pesky regulations, companies formed their own towns on rail lines adjacent to East St. Louis. Amazingly, many of the city’s politicians actually aided in their tax dodging, helping to set up the new company towns, cheating East St. Louis’ own coffers for the sake of drawing new industry. Meanwhile, major railroads likewise saw the potential to monopolize the transportation networks of American industry.
It’s hard to imagine now, but the railroads in the 19th Century held an almost godlike status in American politics and economics. Railroad barons saw the potential profits in centralizing meat packing in the middle of the country. The National Stockyards sought to consolidate that bloody industry in one convenient location, and East St. Louis offered flat, inexpensive land as well as the aforementioned amenable politicians to make the venture a success. The St. Louis National Stockyards Company was formed in 1873, before the completion of the Eads Bridge. In 1907, the scheme solidified with the incorporation of National City; the meat packing industry now controlled its own town.
The major packing house companies of America flocked to the stockyards, making National City one of the great centers of animal slaughtering before World War II. On any given day, there were thousands more pigs and cattle in National City than humans. But times changed after the War; the power of the railroads began to wane as the interstate highway system rendered centralized rail depots obsolete. One by one, the packing houses closed down.
For the last two decades, the abandoned slaughterhouses slipped into obscurity and ruin, and the acres of land that made up National City sat fallow. However, the recently opened Stan Musial Veterans Bridge has completely changed the dynamic of the former stockyards. Interstate 70 now bisects the land where thousands of cattle and hogs once stood. “For Sale” signs have gone up in front of dense underbrush and volunteer forests. The land is worthless no more.
In preparation for the bridge opening, the stockyards saw increased demolition of the ruined relics of the once-thriving industry that flourished in National City. While the concrete floor that supported the hundreds of livestock pens still pokes up above the rubbish and weeds in the center of the yards, the old mule pens, constructed out of reinforced concrete, were demolished in 2009.
Likewise, the giant meat packing plants began to fall one by one. The largest, the Swift Meat Packing Plant, which opened in 1893, has been completely demolished; the vast majority of the former site sits underneath the approaches to the new Mississippi River bridge.
The ruins of the Hunter Meat Packing Plant, which closed in 1980, lasted until 2012. While it was one of the smaller of the major packing houses on the stockyards, Hunter held out as one of the lasting operating slaughterhouses in National City.
Amazingly, the majority of the hulking Armour Meat Packing Plant, which opened in 1903 and closed in 1959, still stands nearby in splendid ruination. While tucked away in thick underbrush, a brand new street now runs by it. The old plant has taken on an almost mythical status among those who have ventured over to the old stockyards; its twin smokestacks, one still emblazoned with the company’s name, jut up proudly above the former flood plain.
But surely its time is coming as well. The Illinois Department of Transportation has published plans for a road to crash right through the middle of Armour. In the coming years, the land that was once worthless will almost certainly begin to sprout new warehouses, attracted to the wide, flat expanses of land that drew the stockyards to the area over 100 years ago. And the last packing plant will come crashing down, with the memory of its existence following shortly thereafter.
Chris Naffziger writes about architecture at St. Louis Patina. Contact him via e-mail at naffziger@gmail.com.