At times the bow of the Phoenix was completely submerged by the blue green rollers, only in the next moment to suddenly rise with its bow pointing to the sky. And so it went; hour after hour the boat was battered by the remorseless waves. During this time, Captain Sweet, who was getting on in years, lost his balance and was thrown heavily to the deck. Historical accounts differ as to what injury he suffered, but what is known is that Captain Sweet was seriously injured, unable to walk, and was carried to his cabin. On the captain’s orders, Mr. Watts took command of the Phoenix.
Even though the sturdy little steamer was taking a battering, it made steady progress forward. The Phoenix had been built by skilled hands and was able handle the storm, but the passengers could not. In the steerage-class quarters, chaos reigned supreme. Everywhere seasick men, women and children slid back and forth across the deck made slippery by vomit. Overturned buckets, which had been used as commodes, all mingled in with the scattered belongings. To add to the immigrants’ discomfort, windows in their sparse quarters were smashed in by marauding torrents of icy lake water.
As the little steamer headed west on Lake Erie, they were in the vicinity of Long Point, which juts out into Lake Erie and is a traditional shelter for storm-tossed ships. The first mate considered sheltering behind the point until the waters calmed. A hasty conference was held with the injured captain in his quarters, and it was decided that the Phoenix was suffering no serious difficulties and should continue on its course. The decision proved to be a wise one, as the waves began to moderate and the winds died down. At last, the battered little vessel reached the St. Mary’s River, which is the connecting waterway to Lake Huron. The trip on the St. Mary’s River was, for the Hollanders, a welcome respite from the torturing storms. The Dutch, a traditionally fastidious people, immediately began to clean and scour their quarters. The Phoenix then passed the bustling and fast-growing city of Detroit and entered Lake St. Clair. After a quiet passage across the calm waters of Lake St. Clair, the Phoenix again entered the St. Mary’s River and headed toward Lake Huron. Immigrants hoped and prayed that the rest of their voyage would find the waters of the Great Lakes in a calmer mood. This prayer was not granted.
Lake Huron was in no better mood than its agitated sister, Lake Erie. The Phoenix, which was now headed north up Lake Huron, was again pummeled by the unmerciful waves of an angry lake. After several days of very difficult travel, they at last arrived at the northern end of Lake Huron, turned into the Straits of Mackinac and passed into Lake Michigan, and still the storms raged. It was decided, by the injured captain from his sickbed, that the boat, its passengers and crew could take no more, and he ordered the Phoenix to take refuge from the storm behind Beaver Island, located at the far northern end of Lake Michigan.
For several days, the weary passengers and crew tried to repair the damage done by the endless storms. After several days, the water seemed to calm and the wind abated. Upon entering Lake Michigan, the normal course for the Phoenix would be down the western side of Lake Michigan to its first port of call, the tiny frontier village of Sheboygan. On this voyage, the Phoenix, carrying cargo and passengers, was bound for Manitowoc. With the weather moderating, the Phoenix hastily departed Beaver Island and set a course for Manitowoc. Unbelievably, the waves rose once again to try and bar their way. Finally, the pier head at Manitowoc came into sight, and the Phoenix gratefully sailed into the Manitowoc harbor. Several passengers disembarked, the cargo consigned to Manitowoc was unloaded and once again the decision was made to wait for the lake to calm. The date was November 20, 1847.
While the crew of the Phoenix waited for calmer weather, they requested permission from the captain to go ashore and seek those pleasures that for thousands of years water-weary sailors have always sought. However, before the crew men left, they were given strict orders to return to the ship at once if they heard the Phoenix sound its whistle. At approximately midnight, the skies cleared and the winds dropped to zero. It was immediately decided that they would depart as soon as the crew returned. After a long blast on the ships steam whistle, the crew came scurrying back. Later, some passengers claimed that many of the crew men were greatly intoxicated.
The Phoenix made all preparations to get underway at once. Three dock workers cast off the mooring lines. As they stood watching the lights of the ship disappear out on the dark lake, little did they realize that they would be the last people on shore to see it afloat. It was now November 21, 1847, approximately 2:00 a.m., a day the survivors of the Phoenix would never forget.
The weather was absolutely calm; the surface of the lake was as shiny and smooth as a piece of black glass. Overhead in a moonless but clear sky, millions of stars sparkled like diamonds from horizon to horizon. Each glittering star reproduced itself as a twinkling reflection on the surface of the icy water. It seemed that at long last the gales of November were over. A few men were standing at the rail gazing skyward, enthralled by the beauty of the night. The Phoenix, now under a full head of steam, was racing through the night at top speed; a white wake curled back from its bow and disappeared into the night in an ever-widening V. A crew member mentioned to several of the Hollanders that Sheboygan, their destination, was less than thirty miles away. At first they did not react, and then suddenly it occurred to them that after many long months, weeks and days their endless journey was almost over! They peered through the night toward the dark shore, trying to catch a glimpse of their destination. Suddenly one of them cried out, “There, I saw a light!” Soon the others saw it as well; it had to be Sheboygan. The men rushed into the immigrant quarters and began waking people up. Soon a great wave of excitement swept through their group.
The news that at last the long journey was nearly over caused a great deal of commotion on board the Phoenix, resulting in some of the first-class passengers being awakened. One of them was an Irishman, traveling with his wife and daughter, who it is believed was named O’Conner. In Ireland, O’Conner had been the operator of a large stationary steam engine in a factory. Before the advent of electric motors, many factories used steam power to run all the machines in the factory through a system of shafts and belts. Unable to get back to sleep, the Irishman lay in his bunk listening to the steady throb of the ship’s engines, but to his trained ear something sounded wrong. Normally, the engines had a smooth, rhythmic sound, but tonight they were emitting a loud, clanking noise and seemed to be running rough. To O’Conner, this meant only one thing: the engines were low on water. O’Conner quickly jumped out of bed, dressed and hurried to the engine room. Steam engines that become low on water can severely overheat and present a great fire hazard. As he opened the engine room door, O’Conner was struck by a sudden blast of heat and noise. The third engineer was on duty at the time and looked up in surprise when he came in, as passengers are never allowed in the engine room. The third engineer immediately ordered the Irishman out. When O’Conner tried to explain to the engineer that he thought the engines were overheating, the third engineer became furious. First the upstart Irishman invaded his engine room, and then he was telling him how to operate his engine; this was too much to bear. The engineer planted a stout blow to O’Conner’s jaw, knocking him down; he was then thrown bodily out of the engine room.
Convinced that he was right, O’Conner rushed back to his cabin and awakened his wife and daughter. He told them to dress quickly in their warmest cloths and come with him, as he was sure the ship was going to catch fire. Once his family was dressed, he escorted them out onto the deck and to one of the two lifeboats the Phoenix carried. O’Conner then pulled the canvas cover off and helped his wife and daughter into the boat. He told them that he was going to return to their cabin for a few personal possessions, and under no circumstances were they to leave the boat, as the ship was about to catch fire. They did not have long to wait. It seemed that the Irishman had barely left his family when the dreaded cry “Fire!” rang out. The time was about 2:00 a.m. on November 21, 1847.
At first, the Hollander
s on deck did not grasp what was happening. They watched in wonder as crew members rushed about the decks and began pulling out fire hoses. But soon it became all too apparent, as the windows of the engine room lit up with flickering, dancing tongues of flame. Suddenly, the heat blew out several engine room windows, and shafts of flame shot out of the windows and arched skyward. Panic ensued. Then the engine room crew staggered onto to the deck, their faces blackened. Coughing and gasping for air, they sunk to the deck. They had abandoned the engine room.
The captain was notified and immediately ordered the boat be turned toward the shore, now but a mile away, in an attempt to beach it. The rationale behind that order was that if the ship was beached and the passengers and crew had to abandon ship, it would be easier for them to reach the safety of land. The helmsmen put the wheel hard over, steered for the shore and called for maximum speed; there was no answer from the engine room, as the place had become a roaring inferno. With no one to feed the ever-hungry boilers, the fires in the boilers died down, steam pressure dropped and the ship slowed and then stopped. One of the many bitter ironies of the Phoenix was that while fire raged throughout the ship, the only place they needed fire was in the boilers, and there they had none. The dropping steam pressure also caused the pumps supplying water to the fire hoses to slow, sputter and then quit. The Phoenix was doomed.
A young businessman named David Blish, from Southport, now known as Kenosha, was asleep in his first-class cabin when he was awakened by the chaos now taking place on deck. Blish dressed, ran out of his cabin and was appalled by the horrific scene before him. The ship lay dead in the water. The engine room was completely engulfed in flames, which had also spread to the quarters of the immigrants. People were rushing about the deck in terror not knowing what to do; their only option was to abandon ship.
Much as on the Titanic, the first-class passengers were given first chance at a seat in one of the two lifeboats. Captain Sweet was carried from his cabin and protested loudly as he was placed in a boat, as he felt it was his duty to stay with his ship. Mr. Blish refused a seat in the lifeboat, saying he preferred to stay with the Hollanders, many of whom he had made friends with. The boats were lowered, pulled away from the stricken ship and headed for shore about a mile away. There were still 250 to 300 persons on board the Phoenix. Many of those still on board felt that surely the boats would return. They did not. By now, many immigrants were faced with the terrible choice of burning to death or jumping into icy Lake Michigan. Fearing the flames more than the water, most jumped. The water in Lake Michigan in late November hovers around forty degrees. To survive in the frigid water for more than thirty minutes is nearly impossible.
As the lifeboats pulled away from the ship, they passed through a sea of bobbing heads. Frantic hands reached out and tried to grasp the gunwales of the boats as they passed. Pitiful screams for help and prayers went unanswered. It was now that the savage law of self-preservation reared its ugly heard. As people near drowning tried to cling to the lifeboats, they were pushed back and fingers were pried loose. Others were beaten back with oars, fearful that those in the water might capsize the boat. People who only hours before were friends, neighbors or maybe even relatives were sent to a certain death.
Meanwhile, on board the flaming ship, David Blish did all he could to assist the terrified Hollanders, many of whom he considered to be his friends. He organized a bucket brigade; soon he realized that this was a futile effort. Then the heroic Blish encouraged men to throw anything into the water that might support life. Husky young farmers began tearing doors off their hinges and throwing them and furniture over the side, along with crates and boxes or whatever else they could find that would float.
Tragic scenes followed. Two young sisters, the Hazeltons of Sheboygan, daughters of the owner of the popular Merchants Hotel, were returning from an eastern boarding school. The young girls had become deeply homesick and begged their father to allow them to return home. At last their father, who wanted them to have an excellent education, relented and sent them the money to come back to Sheboygan. Driven from their cabin, the girls found themselves nearly surrounded by searing flames. Little by little, the flames drove the two frightened girls toward the back of the ship. They retreated back farther and farther until they were trapped in the stern. When last seen, the girls had climbed over the rail, and with their arms wrapped around one another, they jumped into the dark frigid water. They disappeared immediately.
Several young men, in a hopeless attempt to escape the flames, climbed the ship’s mast. The stays supporting the mast were heavily tarred ropes that soon caught fire. In horror, the occupants of the mast watched as one by one the stays burned through. As the last stay parted, the mast teetered and then fell toward the stern, casting its occupants into the inferno below.
Several frantic young men tried to climb the mast in the fore part of the ship to escape the flames. Courtesy Captain Groh.
No more than seven or eight miles to the south, the immigrants’ final destination, Sheboygan, lay slumbering under the cold autumn sky. The tiny frontier village was blissfully unaware of the disaster taking place just off its shores. On a high bluff overlooking Lake Michigan, Judge Morris, who was asleep in his fine home, stirred in his sleep. The judge awakened, sat up in bed and looked around the room trying to figure out what it was that had disturbed his sleep. The sleepy man, still trying to brush the drug of sleep from his eyes, slipped out of bed, walked to a nearby dresser and picked up his big gold pocket watch. The time was 2:45 a.m. Looking out a nearby window, the judge saw a large red glow in the sky over the lake. His first thought was that it was the sun coming up. Then suddenly he realized that the sun does not rise at 2:45 a.m. in November! Taking a closer look, the judge noted that what he saw was not a steady glow but a lurid flickering and dancing glow, which could mean only one thing: a ship was in terrible trouble. As quickly as he could, Judge Morris pulled his clothing on over his nightshirt. Running down the steps of his darkened home, he hurriedly pulled on an overcoat and rushed to the harbor.
Sheboygan’s harbor was a great deal different in those days than it is now. Due to a sandbar that continually formed at the mouth of the Sheboygan River, ships could not enter the river. The shoreline we know today is about eight or nine hundred feet east of the shoreline of 1847. A large wooden pier, over one thousand feet long, jutted out into Lake Michigan from Center Avenue, which provided a place for ships visiting Sheboygan to tie up and unload or take on passengers. The pier was still under construction, with the end farthest from the beach consisting of only pilings driven into the lake bottom. The planking that was to form the floor of the pier had not yet been installed. It was here, at this unfinished end, that the Phoenix would find its final resting place.
The judge rushed to the harbor and found the schooner Liberty and the small steamer Delaware. Rushing on board the Delaware, he began pounding on doors. Hearing the disturbance on deck, Captain Tuttle, the master of the Delaware, leapt out of bed and, still in his nightshirt, grabbed his shotgun and rushed on deck to investigate. As soon as the captain came on deck, he saw the flames in the sky to the north and immediately realized that a ship was on fire and needed help. But the Delaware could not move, as its boilers were cold. The ship’s engineer was rousted from his bed and ordered to light off the boilers at once. The boiler room crew was ordered to get underway as soon as there was enough steam to turn the engines over. The commotion on board the Delaware also woke the crew of the nearby Liberty, but due to the calm night it could not move either. No one had to tell Captain Porter of the Liberty to mount a rescue operation; the flames in the sky said it all. The schooner crew quickly lowered a boat and set out toward the ugly red smear in the sky. Six pairs of strong arms pulled toward the stricken ship. On board the Delaware, every eye in the boiler room was glued to the steam gauge. Sweating crew men stuffed four foot lengths of sweet-smelling pine into the roaring fire. The steam gauge gave a wiggle and then bounced a few times, and at las
t it began to rise. A soon as it had enough steam to move, the little side-wheeler cast off its lines and got underway.
The flames, by this time, had consumed most of the upper works of the Phoenix. Only a small portion of the forward structure still stood. In some places, the ship had burned nearly to the water line. A red glow surrounded the ship from the fires still smoldering deep in the hull. Everything was quiet now; no longer could anguished cries for help or pleading prayers be heard. The frightened small voices of children, crying out for their parents from whom they had been separated, were now quiet. The Phoenix was a dead ship; it floated aimlessly on a dead calm lake. Most of the passengers were dead, as well as many of the crew. The glassy surface of the lake was littered with debris and floating victims, many very small. The icy fingers of Lake Michigan had claimed them all. With the victims went their hopes and dreams for a better life in a new world—a world that they had come so close to. They were just seven miles away when their long journey ended in disaster. Just like Moses in the Bible, they had glimpsed the promise land but were not to enter it.
But even in this macabre scene of death and destruction, a few sparks of life still glowed. Mr. House, the ship’s engineer, had stayed on board to help fight the fire, but when it became apparent that the ship was lost, he lowered himself over the side onto a door that floated nearby. Fearful that he might lapse into unconsciousness and drift away, he fastened his small island of refuge to the side of the ship by tying onto a timber dangling down the side of the ship. Mr. Donohue, the ship’s purser, was at the stern of the ship hanging onto the rudder chains. Not far from House, a female passenger clung to a floating settee. Mr. House also noted a young man he recognized as a cabin boy sprawled out on a floating piece of debris; but he had not moved for a long time. House began to wonder if he was going to make it. The cold water was severely sapping his strength; it seemed like he had been in the water for hours. Hope was fading. He looked toward the floating debris where he had seen the boy; he was gone. He called out to the lady clinging to the settee trying to encourage her. She answered by feebly waving to him.
Sheboygan Tales of the Tragic and Bizarre Page 2