by Liz Mechem
USS Princeton
EXPLOSION ON THE POTOMAC
A colored lithograph, published in 1844, depicts the explosion aboard the USS Princeton, when the ironically named “Peacemaker” shattered the peace of the Potomac River cruise. The blast killed or mortally wounded 7 and injured about 20 people. Shown at the center of the blast are Representative Virgil Maxcy of Maryland; Secretary of State Abel P. Upshur; Captain Beverly Kennon, Chief of the Bureau of Construction, Equipment and Repair; Secretary of the Navy Thomas Gilmer; and Captain Robert F. Stockton. Maxcy, Upshur, Kennon, and Gilmer were among those killed.
T here is a certain point at which making a bigger gun requires more than just making a bigger gun. As the explosive force becomes more powerful, it will eventually surpass the ability of iron to contain it, even if the size of the barrel grows. Captain Robert F. Stockton of the USS Princeton learned this lesson
at the cost of six lives.
Marine architect John Ericsson designed the Princeton as a state-of-the-art test platform. The first warship outfitted with a propeller and coal-fired engine to supplement her three masts, she handily won speed races during her first week of sea trials in autumn 1843.
The Princeton had two enormous experimental guns mounted on her deck: the “Oregon” and the “Peacemaker.” The Mersey Iron Works of England had designed and built the Oregon by using an untested, but promising, technology of binding the breech of the gun in iron rings. Her 12-inch (300 mm) barrel could project 50 pounds (23 kg) of explosive power 5 miles (8 km) over the horizon.
Hogg and Delamater built the Peacemaker in New York City under the guidance of Captain Stockton, who, perhaps, misunderstood gun-making techniques. Stockton ordered the Peacemaker built with a breech as thick as the Oregon’s—but without the strengthening iron bands. This flaw would turn fatal on February 28, 1844, when the Peacemaker exploded in a fireball of molten iron and lead that killed seven people and injured a score more.
MISFORTUNE STRIKES
Captain Stockton had shepherded the construction of the Princeton through the labyrinthine congressional and military consignment process, and then through its design and construction. Keen to promote the wonders of his new ship, Stockton showed her off to various denizens of the Green Book of Washington society on a series of lunchtime cruises on the Potomac River. Wednesday saw the culmination of Stockton’s publicity tour as he hosted a picnic cruise for some 200 guests, including the president of the United States, John Tyler, and numerous dignitaries.
Whether overtaken by the excitement of the moment or out of hubris, Stockton gave in to entreaties from the gathered luminaries to fire his gun one last time, even as it still glowed hot from the previous blast. The gun exploded as it fired, and the 25-pound (11 kg) charge blasted its fury in all directions. Seven people were killed instantly, among them former New York state senator David Gardiner, Secretary of State Abel Upshur, and Secretary of the Navy Thomas Walker Gilmer.
Swedish inventor John Ericsson later designed the USS Monitor.
Astonishingly, Captain Stockton escaped blame for the accident and later went on to be elected senator. The Princeton herself served American interests in Europe for five years after the accident on the Potomac. She was scrapped upon the discovery of worms infesting her hull on July 17, 1849.
CUPID’S ARROW
ALTHOUGH THE EXPLOSION of the Peacemaker had certainly jarred lovely young Julia Gardiner, her sister, and the other guests belowdecks, it was apparently nothing compared to the announcement of the death of her father, former New York state senator David Gardiner. Upon hearing the grim news, the fetching Miss Gardiner fainted dead away into the arms of the nearest male. Said male happened to be John Tyler, president of the United States—and eligible widower. Kismet struck as Julia awoke to gaze back into the concerned eyes of the shocked president. Four months later, the 24-year-old Julia Gardiner became Julia Tyler when she and the 54-year-old president married in a White House ceremony.
The USS Princeton. Her new design and state-of-the art guns attracted the curiosity of many Washingtonians during the winter of 1844. So high was their interest that the ship made three trial trips with passengers onboard down the Potomac River. During these excursions, the Peacemaker gun was fired several times.
First Lady Julia Tyler. Her father lost his life aboard the USS Princeton.
SS Sultana
AMERICA’S WORST SHIPWRECK
T he waning weeks of the Civil War did not want for drama. Sandwiched between the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln and Confederate General Robert E. Lee’s surrender at Appomattox, the fate of the SS Sultana never got the notice it deserved. In retrospect, we can now recognize the tragedy for what it was: the worst marine disaster ever to occur in the United States.
The Sultana was a side-wheel steam paddleboat that plied the Mississippi River, carrying loads of cotton and livestock between New Orleans and St. Louis. Launched in 1863, the Sultana was often put to military use; at 1,720 tons (1,560 metric tons), the ship was large enough to carry troops and supplies when unladen with goods. On her final trip, she carried some 2,400 passengers. When a boiler exploded in the wee hours of April 27, 1865, at least 1,700 people perished. Exact numbers are hard to ascertain, but some historians think as many as 2,000 may have died on the dark Mississippi River.
A photo taken just a day before the explosion shows the overloaded Sultana.
The Sultana aflame. Weakened by their ordeal in prisoner-of-war camps, thousands of Union soldiers died.
MISSISSIPPI BURNING
The SS Sultana could officially carry 376 people, including her crew. The day of her sinking, thousands of jubilant, recently liberated Union soldiers from Confederate prisoner-of-war camps celebrated onboard. The extra load of passengers and an unusually strong spring current combined to put extra strain on the boilers. If they had been in good working order, the extra load might not have been a problem. The boilers, however, had undergone hasty and insufficient repairs in Vicksburg, Mississippi, where the Sultana had taken on her crush of passengers.
For two days, the Sultana continued upriver with her load of livestock, sugar, and boisterous ex-prisoners. So crowded was the ship that Captain J. C. Mason feared for her stability. When she docked at Memphis, Tennessee, on April 26, he gratefully unloaded her cargo and several hundred passengers mercifully disembarked. Another patch job on the leaky boiler satisfied the captain enough that he pushed off from Memphis around midnight, leaving behind a handful of lucky soldiers who had missed the boat.
It happened at 2:00 AM. The boiler exploded with a fury, sending men, machinery, furniture, and flaming debris flying into the dark river. When the two funnels crashed into the water, along with the ship’s superstructure, even those who could swim were crushed into the deep. Many died of hypothermia in the Mississippi River, made frigid by the spring snowmelt. Icy water and searing flames claimed more than 1,000 lives. The conflagration was so enormous that it could clearly be seen in Memphis, some 12 miles (19 km) downriver.
It was not until an hour after the initial explosion went off that the first rescue boat, the steamer Bostonia II, arrived. She managed to pick up scores of survivors from the wreck. Still, bodies of victims continued to be found downriver for months, some as far as Vicksburg. Others were gone without a trace. Other vessels soon joined the Bostonia II in its rescue attempt, including the steamer Arkansas, the Jenny Lind, the Essex, and the USS Tyler. The ships transported about 500 survivors, many of them severely burned or in hypothermic shock, to hospitals in Memphis. Although these Union soldiers had been enemies of the South just weeks earlier, the citizens of the city opened their hearts to the wounded and dying.
The gunboat USS Tyler. During the rescue attempt, volunteers manned the Tyler. The U.S. Navy had discharged the ship’s regular crew just days before the Sultana disaster.
THE FORGOTTEN DEAD
RELEASED UNION WAR PRISONERS practically stampeded the USS Sultana at Vicksburg. So great were
the numbers that the officers delayed taking roll until the Sultana was underway. Even then, no one ever made an exact record of passenger names. When the ship caught fire, the hundreds of men cast into the river were largely weak, malnourished, or sick ex-prisoners who had little chance of surviving the strong, icy current. Many who had served their country bravely died anonymously in the Mississippi River.
USS Maine
“REMEMBER THE MAINE!”
T he armored cruiser USS Maine had been designed and constructed as a test platform for a number of different technologies. When commissioned in September 1895 she and her sister ship, the Texas, each incorporated various design differences to test new ideas in nautical architecture. Not all new ideas are good ones, and the Maine turned out to be rather bad at both of her assigned tasks: she was too small and lightly armored to compete with battleships, and she was too heavy, slow, and hard to refuel to function as a cruiser. Her experimental arrangement of guns, each offset from the ship’s centerline, meant that she was particularly poor at firing both sets of guns broadside, a fundamental flaw in a battleship.
The USS Maine in Havana Harbor. At the time, tensions not only ran hot between the United States and Spain, but also between Spain and Cuba, which was agitating for independence. In the end, Cuba traded one Western power for another: Spain ceded Cuba to the United States at the end of the Spanish-American War. President Theodore Roosevelt, however, granted Cuba some measure of independence in 1902.
The USS Maine steams into Havana Harbor on January 25,1898, after being dispatched from Key West, Florida. The U.S. government felt that her presence would protect American interests at a time when Cuba was beset by civil disturbances.
So the Maine found herself serving ceremonial roles, such as showing the colors and demonstrating American might in the harbor at Havana, Cuba, as frictions with Spain were increasing at the turn of the twentieth century. At 9:40, on the night of February 15, 1898, two gargantuan blasts shattered the peaceful tropical harbor. The blasts nearly blew off the front third of the Maine, and she quickly sank amid further explosions and fire. The timing of the explosions saw most of the Maine’s crew either asleep or relaxing, and, despite immediate rescue attempts by nearby vessels and onlookers, 288 sailors and officers died that night in Havana Harbor.
THE MYSTERY OF THE MAINE
The explosion of the Maine set off parallel blasts in U.S. foreign policy. Immediate blame for the disaster fell to the Spanish. The hawkish cry “Remember the Maine!” inflamed public opinion and helped push the country into the Spanish-American War, which began several months after the sinking.
Investigators began trying to determine the cause of the explosion even while the wreck still burned. Though a definitive cause was never pinpointed, two main theories were cited to explain the tragedy: a contact mine explosion, or spontaneous combustion of coal stores, which then ignited the ship’s cache of ammunition. Underwater surveys showing a hole in the Maine’s hull deformed inward, as if hit by an external force, bolstered the former theory. Details arguing against this explanation include the lack of a waterspout and the dearth of dead fish (both of which commonly appear after an underwater mine explosion) in the harbor. The second, less politically fraught possibility, is that coal in the Maine’s fuel bunkers spontaneously ignited, which in turn set off the ammunition stored one uninsulated bulkhead away. Although explosions like this did occur occasionally, both the age and type of the Maine’s coal supply argue against the possibility of spontaneous combustion.
Ultimately, what or who sank the Maine will probably never be known. But there is no doubt of the results of that tragedy: the loss of 288 sailors’ lives that balmy night in the tropics and one brief, but violent, war.
A Washington, D.C., memorial parade down Pennsylvania Avenue in honor of the victims of the USS Maine drew huge crowds of spectators outraged by the tragedy.
THE LONGEST SHIP
BEFORE THE BULK OF THE MAINE was refloated and buried at sea, parts of her were salvaged and mounted ashore as memorials to the men who served and died aboard her. Her foremast is installed in a monument at the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland, while her mainmast is located 35 miles (56 km) away at Arlington National Cemetery, Virginia. Midshipmen at the Naval Academy joke that this makes the Maine the navy’s longest ship.
The mast of the Maine crowns her memorial at Arlington National Cemetery.
A U.S. flag hangs from the mast of the wrecked Maine. Sensationalist newspaper coverage of the disaster led to accusations of yellow journalism—a name for the kind of biased reporting that pushes scandals and juicy headlines over evenhanded reporting of issues. Several prominent newspapers took a portion of the blame for inflaming public opinion and pushing the United States into a war with Spain.
The General Slocum
INFERNO ON THE EAST RIVER
A fireboat tries to douse the flames onboard the General Slocum, but is too late to save the ship, its passengers, or the neighborhood from which they hailed.
T he day of the annual church picnic was always a festive one for the hardworking immigrants of New York’s Little Germany district in Lower Manhattan. In 1904, St. Mark’s Evangelical Lutheran Church chartered a ferry for the day of the picnic, June 15. Hundreds of families eagerly boarded the General Slocum for a cruise to park grounds on Long Island. China and glassware were carefully packed in straw inside several large barrels. This same straw would later ignite, causing the worst disaster to befall New York City until the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001.
The morning was fine as the three-deck side-wheel steamer left the East River pier with some 1,400 aboard. Passengers waved to other boats and people on the shore, who gaily waved back. According to historian Claude Rust, whose grandmother perished in the disaster, the mood on shore began to change as the ferry neared Astoria, Queens. Passersby were no longer waving: they were signaling danger, their terrified faces reflecting the knowledge of what few onboard knew: the General Slocum was on fire.
A monument to the General Slocum disaster in New York City’s Tompkins Square Park. Little Germany once surrounded this Lower East Side park.
THE END OF LITTLE GERMANY
Captain William Van Schaick commanded the General Slocum on her final outing. At 30 minutes out, a 12-year-old boy approached him, shouting, “Hey, mister, the ship’s on fire!” Instead of investigating, the captain dismissed the observant lad as a pesky prankster. But soon it was clear—the forward portions of the ferry were ablaze. Passengers panicked, and many jumped overboard as soon as the blaze began to spread.
Captain Van Schaick had to make a decision: steer his burning ship toward the nearby Bronx, landing near an oil refinery in a heavily populated area, or make for North Brother Island, close to Riker’s Island. Van Schaick opted for the sparsely populated North Brother Island. His choice only compounded the disaster: winds fanned the flames of the fire during the three-minute passage. The General Slocum ran aground bow first, while passengers crowded toward the still-intact bow. Many jumped to their deaths, the majority of these women and children who either could not swim or were drowned by the weight of their heavy clothing. Others were fatally pulled into the still-rotating paddlewheels or were crushed when the three decks collapsed. In all, 1,021 people perished in the General Slocum disaster.
Captain Van Schaick was convicted of poor oversight and served several years in prison. The community of Little Germany was shattered by the disaster. Its bonds unraveled, as survivors largely moved to other neighborhoods. The once-vibrant community of immigrants was no more.
A contemporary illustration of the General Slocum
Nineteenth-century magazine illustration of emigrants boarding a New York–bound steamer from Hamburg, Germany. German immigration to the United States peaked in the last third of the nineteenth century. Many of them—as with other immigrant groups—settled in ethnically exclusive neighborhoods in New York City.
LIFESAVERS
THE CR
EW OF THE GENERAL SLOCUM could do little to save their ship or her passengers. Through years of neglect, fire hoses simply fell to bits when uncoiled. The lifeboats fared no better; several indifferently applied coats of paint had sealed them onto the ship. The life preservers also proved to be in an unforgivable state of disrepair, their rotted canvas splitting to reveal crumbled cork inside. A few preservers held, and panicked parents strapped these onto their children, throwing them overboard to escape the flames. Relief turned to horror, though, as their children sank beneath the waves; it was later revealed that the life-preserver manufacturers had inserted iron bars to bring the devices up to standard weight.
FIREBOATS
“W ater, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink,” reads the classic poem “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. A boat ablaze faces a similar conundrum—the very thing that will help quell the fire is largely inaccessible. How to press that vast quantity of water into service? Enter the fireboat, a specialized vessel that can pump thousands of gallons of seawater per minute. Firefighters can aim nozzles on deck manually at a burning target.
The first fireboats appeared in the late nineteenth century. Originally built along the tugboat model, fireboats usually span from 80 to 120 feet (24–30 m) in length, with about a 20-foot (6 m) beam. Most have raised control towers, and some feature cranes to aid rescues. In colder climates, these workhorse vessels often do double duty as icebreakers.
Firefighters test out the crane on the William Lyon MacKenzie, one of Toronto Fire Services’ two fireboats. The William Lyon MacKenzie also features an aerial tower, two diesel-driven water pumps, and five nozzles. Toronto Fire Services is Canada’s largest fire department.
SMOKE ON THE WATER
Most fireboats around the world are owned and operated by a maritime branch of a metropolitan fire department. Nearly every major port city employs at least one fireboat, which is used to battle blazes both on ship and on shore. Often, fireboats have the advantage over land-based firefighting equipment. With an unlimited supply of water and a clear vantage point, fireboats can easily extinguish a burning building near a waterfront.