by Jack Finney
For several more hours the Ellen continued to hunt, but no more were found, and now Captain Johnson decided to abandon further search. But Easton, the young bridegroom, urged him to try a little longer, he did, and: "The last person rescued was a Mr. Brown … ," a friend of the Birches, afloat with another man on a pair of lashed-together doors; the other man was dead, and they left him.
Of the hundred or so men who'd survived the sinking, Captain Johnson and his Ellen saved forty-nine. This is Captain Johnson, his portrait precisely copied from a Fredrick's photograph: "a small, plain unassuming man, with a face beaming with intelligence and hearty good-nature. He is about thirty-four years of age, speaks the English slow, but well. He has been to sea all his life, but says he never encountered anything like the wreck of the Central America. He attributes the visit of the bird to the ship to a visitation of Providence…."
But he couldn't save John Tice or George Coes and S. C. Campbell of the San Francisco Minstrels. Or the young Gilkie brothers, coming home unannounced to surprise their friends. Nor the seamen who'd just survived a shipwreck, and were sent home on the Central America. And not George Dawson, the black waiter returning home as a passenger. Nor his former shipmate, Alexander Grant, nor any of the men floating with him on the hurricane-deck raft.
Johnson searched till eleven Sunday morning, "when there being no reasonable hope that any others might be saved, he took the opinion of those rescued and steered for Norfolk…."
5
That morning, far to the east, partway across the Atlantic on her way to Europe, a large ship rigged for cable-laying continued to reel out cable as she had for days. When she had finished, the new transatlantic cable laid and connected, news would cross the ocean instantaneously for the first time in human history.
But now, not quite yet; news still moved between shores as it always had, by ship. And so nowhere in the world did anyone know what had happened to the Central America.
Except, of course, those on the Marine and Ellen. Wet and cold mostly, the rescued sailed slowly toward port, sleeping under wet sails on the Marine, women tearing apart sheets to make clothes for their children. And they ate what little food there was, rationed out in cups because there were so few plates: beans, rice, molasses, "Indian gruel," and hard bread. And much the same on the Ellen.
Not until five days after the foundering of the Central America, on Thursday, September 17, did news of even the storm reach readers of the New York Times or any other paper. This news came from ships which had suffered the storm, now putting in at various southern ports along the Atlantic seaboard, their news routinely telegraphed north. All that was known of the Central America was that she was overdue and missing. In the absence of any actual news of her, the Times story filled in with speculation that she was "making her way, under sail … and this is necessarily a very slow process for a large side-wheel steamer, with only a small spread of canvas…."
But that night the Thomas Swann steamed into Charleston harbor; she had spoken the Ellen on Tuesday last, and Captain Johnson had shouted his news. Charleston then telegraphed it north, and finally on the morning of Friday, September 18, almost a week after the sinking of the Central America, news of it at last reached the world.
But still: in this first Times story, only the top line of its multiple heading was accurate concerning the Central America, the rest speculation or error, including the name of the Norwegian bark. And the story below the heading shows the Times's frustration. For the news was as big a story, considering the relative sizes of the ships in their times, as the sinking of the Titanic would be half a century later. Yet all the Times knew for sure was: "The Central America Foundered."
That afternoon, as they later reported, "there was a large and anxious throng at the office of the Company to which the Central America belonged, at the corner of Warren and West streets. The visitors … had inquiries … about a father on board, another a mother, another a brother or sister, and an occasional one sought information of an absent lover…. A large portion of the crowd … lingered … till the hour of closing.
"During the afternoon Commodore Vanderbilt"—who owned a rival ship line—"visited the office to inquire into the particulars of the disaster. … He expressed his deep sympathy for the passengers … and commiserated the Company for the heavy pecuniary loss."
Finally the Ellen herself arrived at Norfolk, Virginia, with the Marine not far behind. As the Marine entered the bay at Norfolk, Aunt Lucy, the stewardess, who'd been crushed between the lifeboat and the sinking ship's side during her rescue, died; they found the money she'd brought along still tight in her hand.
Since the Ellen wasn't going to New York, most of the rescued men transferred to the Empire City, which was. Then the Empire City headed out of the harbor, hoping to meet the Marine.
"Within three miles of Cape Henry," said a local correspondent aboard the Empire City, "a vessel was descried ahead in tow of a propellor [ship] bound in…. Glasses were leveled at her by anxious groups gathered forward, and as we rapidly closed together, certainty succeeded surmise, and to the joy of all, she proved to be the brig Marine, in tow of the City of Norfolk, propellor"—who charged $300 for the tow, after demanding $500 and being refused—"her low and confined decks, swarming with wretched-looking objects, many of them women and children, wringing their hands, and weeping and laughing hysterically. Our boats were speedily lowered and Capt. McGowan, in the first, boarded the brig in person, caressed, embraced, and, indeed, half-strangled by the poor women, who threw themselves upon him as he reached the deck.
"… boat-load after boat-load reached our ship's side and ladder … and in a short time the greater portion were comfortably quartered in our cabins. To the bystanders, the recognition and greeting between the [women and children and the rescued men], mother claiming son"— which would have included Henry O'Conner and his mother—"and husband wife"—Virginia and Billy Birch, the newly married Eastons, and others—"the eager scanning of each face in agonizing fear and expectation, the joy or grief manifested as recognition or disappointment awaited the gazer, was touching in the extreme, straining the heart-strings"— nineteenth-century newspaper prose, but I think reality lay underneath it —"and moistening the eyes of many hitherto unused to such manifestation. A portion remained on the brig"—among them Captain Badger and his wife—"preferring to go up to Norfolk, and when all who wished had been taken on board, the Empire City again started with her freight of unfortunates for New-York."
But it was a two-day trip, and until she reached New York the papers had to vamp till ready: they had a front-page story without any news.
"In consequence of the reprehensible conduct of the managers of some of the Southern telegraphic lines," the Times story actually began on Saturday, "we are unable to present as many particulars of the loss of the Central America as we had reason to anticipate. Our agent states that a full report of the disaster was ready for transmission, but those in charge of the lines"—who denied this later—"refused to keep them open, although an arrangement that they should do so had previously been made."
So the Times filled in: "… In restaurants, counting rooms and offices, nothing was talked of but the loss of the Central America." And quoting someone unnamed, they supplied a candidate, if The New Yorker magazine had been there to notice, for Exclamations We Doubt Ever Got Exclaimed: " 'There has been nothing known like it since the sinking of the Arctic,' others exclaimed. 'And in view of the loss of the specie, this is even a worse calamity, occurring as it does during the present pressure on the money market.' "
With a little more feeling of actuality, the Times continued: "The newspaper offices were crowded by parties who had relations or friends on board anxious to learn if any additional news had been received. The bulletins on the news offices were besieged by anxious crowds…."
And despite a little snobbery, I think this reporter was describing an actual scene here: "As the day wore on, and the news was more widely circulated, the ex
citement yet more largely increased, spreading to those classes which usually care little for mere news. The mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, of the crew, hurried in their everyday working apparel, and with no attempt at adornment, to the newspaper offices to learn when later intelligence was expected. 'Was it true that all the crew were lost? If not, who were the rescued? Was this, that or the other man among them?' Until midnight and later, the Times office was visited by those who had relatives on board, their faces blanched with apprehension, utterly unable to repress their tears…."
During that night the Empire City arrived off Sandy Hook, sighted the lighthouse there, and swung toward Manhattan. And then finally, as she steamed up toward Quarantine, the Empire City was boarded: by the Health Officer and twelve reporters, and the reports from which this story derives were taken down in reporters' shorthand, from the mouths of the actual survivors.
This is the scene; the reporters are the men in tall hats. At left center an anguished woman sits telling her story, and I think it's at least possible that artist Brightly was there, and that this is sketched from life.
Some of the excitement of that day comes through the old print, it seems to me: the Times reported that those who "had no friends in the city with whom they could shelter, were conveyed in carriages to the New York Hotel. We are proud to record an act on the part of the hackmen whose carriages were thus employed. They all refused to receive pay for the hire of their carriages."
And: "One man was in so ragged a condition that a stranger, who saw him after he had arrived at Lovejoy's Hotel, Went voluntarily and procured for him an entire suit of good clothes."
I think some of the rescued passengers were euphoric. Frank A. Jones, the "rich New-York socialite" friend of Captain Herndon's, was so happy with his appearance in borrowed sailor clothes that he went to the well-known photographer Fredrick's, and had his picture taken against a shipboard background—either sketched in or a studio backdrop.
This is the woodcut Leslie's made from Jones's portrait.
But other survivors may have felt as Ann Small did: to a Tribune reporter she said, at the Astor House where she'd been taken, "I feel as though, if I could only get home, it would be all I could ask…."
And Mrs. Swan, with an infant child, and "having no friends in New-York, was very much affected on the arrival of the Empire City…. When word was given to the passengers to go ashore, she burst into tears, and wringing her hands said, 'Where shall I go after I go ashore?' And on being asked if she knew no one in the City, she said, 'No, I have no friend in New-York, not in all the world, now that my husband is lost.' She was put into a carriage, and driven to a hotel, with other ladies."
The stories that she, Ann Small, Frank Jones, James Frazer, Virginia Birch, and so many other survivors now told the reporters entirely filled the front pages of the Times and other papers for some days, running onto inside pages for column after column; and in the equivalent pages of the Tribune, whose actual first pages were advertisements.
But presently all their stories had been published. So had the rumor (a false one: "An Infamous Hoax") that Captain Herndon had been rescued by another ship. So were long lists of the saved and the lost, as well as could be constructed from passengers' memories, since the actual passenger list was in California. And three statements by George Ashby defending himself from charges of desertion. And speculation about whether the Central America had been seaworthy, the United States Mail Steamship Company, which owned her, saying yes, others denying it. John Kemble quotes a ballad which went: "The 'Central America' painted so fine, Went down like a thousand of brick,
And all the old tubs that are now on the line Will follow her, two at a lick.
'Twould be very fine were the owners aboard, And sink where they never would rise; 'Twould any amount of amusement afford, And cancel a million of lies."
But Captain Badger, who'd sailed in her often, said the Central America, in his opinion, had been in excellent condition.
When all of this and everything else the newspaper editors could find or think of had been printed, the story was over. The survivors made their ways home, and by Thursday, September 24, the story of the Central America was gone from the papers except for a few last echoes: a statement by Captain Stone of the El Dorado explaining convincingly, or so it seems to me, why he could not again approach the sinking ship. And on Monday, October 5, a few more names were added to the list of the lost. And they scaled down the exaggerated quantity of gold lost to the true figure of a million and a half dollars.
But even as people read or skipped over these last remnants of the big story, reporters from every newspaper in New York were hurrying down to Castle Garden. A ship, the Laura, had anchored this morning; and from her, by the ship-news reporter who boarded her, came news that brought the sinking of the Central America screaming back to the front pages.
Even today, with planes, helicopters, and fast ships, the ocean is hard to search; and when the little Ellen, Marine, and El Dorado finally gave up on Sunday morning, there were men left behind still afloat and alive. At least two dozen by actual count; and, therefore, almost surely more.
John Tice was one, still hanging to his plank; he alone encountered seven other surviving passengers and crewmen that morning. One was the ship's purser, afloat in a life preserver, I assume. He seemed in good spirits to Tice, predicting that a ship would soon come along. Then he drifted away, never to be heard of again.
And, hanging to his plank, George Dawson was also alive that Sunday morning. Dawson was "a tall, well-built and muscular man, apparently not yet in the prime of life, and one who by nature [had] an iron constitution." So when he saw something floating in the distance, he managed to paddle himself and his plank till he reached it. It was a raft: holding a dozen more men still alive, among them his old shipmate Alexander Grant. There was no room for Dawson, but he stuck with them, hanging to a rope. They'd seen sharks, the others told him, and Dawson may have wished he could climb on and lift his legs out of the water; but at least he was no longer alone.
The day turned hot, the long storm over; and as the sun climbed, glinting and glaring on the subsiding sea, Dawson, Grant, Tice, and everyone else still alive and afloat out here began to suffer from thirst. Some couldn't take it, and began drinking seawater. A coal passer on the raft was one, and he paid the price; by noon he was delirious, slipped off the raft, and drowned as they watched.
That afternoon George Dawson, head higher out of the water than those on the raft, spotted something, watched it drift closer, then saw it was a man sitting on a Central America life buoy. Presently they could recognize each other; this was Jacob Gillead, the ship's barber. They all spoke, he was invited to stick with them, but Gillead "felt quite comfortable" on his buoy, he said, wished them a good journey, and drifted away.
More men died and slid off the raft that afternoon, George Dawson hanging on there at the left in this Leslie's artist's notion of how the scene may have looked. Now there was room on the raft for Dawson, and he let go his plank, and pulled himself onto it.
For everyone left still alive out on the Atlantic, there had begun a passive struggle to endure. Most could not: at sunrise next morning only four men still lay alive on the raft. The others, exhausted or delirious from drinking salt water, had slipped off during the night. And when presently the barber's life buoy chanced to drift into sight again, the barber was gone.
A twenty-two-year-old man came riding along on the door to Captain Herndon's room; the men lying on the raft recognized it by a large opening in its upper panel. Sitting on the door with his legs dangling down through the hole, the man paddled over with his hands. Join us, they invited him; plenty of room now. But no, he thanked them pleasantly, saying he preferred his door, and they drifted apart. No one ever saw him again.
Monday ended. On the raft they lay through the night, refusing to drink, surviving. Off in the dark, John Tice "drifted with his plank under his breast. Frequently he fell into a sound sleep
that lasted several minutes. But such a sense of desolation came over him on awaking that he preferred to keep awake. Moreover, he was afraid if he got to sleep a sea might dash his plank from him…."
The sun rose again, and suddenly John Tice faced an enormous decision. He saw something floating in the distance and, unspeakably thirsty, close to exhaustion, still unable to pull off his waterlogged boots, he lay staring, knowing he had to decide whether or not to abandon his plank, and bet his life that he could swim to whatever he saw. He was young, twenty-seven; a good swimmer. He took the chance and made it.
Tice had found one of the Central America's lifeboats, very likely the one John Black had abandoned. But he couldn't pull himself into it; had no strength left; could only hang on. Then after a while he did heave and drag himself up over the side into the bottom. It was half full of water, but he'd made the right decision: Tice "found three oars, a pan, a pail … four coats and an oilcloth jacket. He made some changes in his apparel. It was impossible, however, to remove his boots…." But he bailed out the boat, lashed an oar at the prow, a coat hanging from it as a signal, and: "These things accomplished, Tice sat down and surveyed the prospect before him.
Along the line of the horizon no sail was to be seen; his thirst became more and more intolerable, but he resisted [drinking seawater]. Night closed in … he fell asleep exhausted. …" But at least, now, he could let himself sleep.
And so it went; those who could endure, did. Next morning two men were still alive on the raft: Alexander Grant and George Dawson, survivors before. Small fish could be seen around the raft today, and at first they couldn't catch any with only their hands. But they kept at it, then finally Dawson snatched one out, banged its head, and killed it. Grant cut it up, but the fragments were too tough even to chew. They spread them in the sun, and that softened them enough so that they could choke down a little. The rest putrefied, and they threw them away.
