Sheboygan Tales of the Tragic and Bizarre

by William Wangemann

  The story of the “Great Indian Scare” has been told many times. It is a classic tale of mass hysteria and clearly demonstrates how prejudice, unrestrained fear and blind panic can affect tens of thousands of people based on nothing more than vague rumors. In those days of poor communication, the panic unbelievably spread quickly along the lakeshore, from Green Bay to Chicago, in a matter of days.

  The year was 1862; the blood bath known as the Civil War roared on, seemingly endlessly. The war news was not good; it seemed that on every occasion when Southern and Northern troops met in combat, the South always won. People were getting nervous; what if the South won? Would they invade and occupy the Northern territories? Then there were the Indians to worry about. After all, Sheboygan and the surrounding territories were still considered wilderness by most people in the East. There was no telling how many Indians could be lurking in the dense forests that still surrounded the small city of Sheboygan. September 3, 1862, was perhaps one of the most amazing days in the history of our city; it is the day of the Great Indian Scare.

  Old Solomon, the best-known and most trusted Indian who lived in the Sheboygan area. Courtesy Sheboygan County Historic Research Center.

  It was a warm, early autumn day with a clear blue sky; the leaves in the forests around the city were just beginning to change colors. Out in the countryside, farmers were well along with the fall harvest that was proving to be a bountiful one. In Sheboygan, on this idyllic day, several men were seated on a bench in front of the Kossuth House, a popular Sheboygan hotel that was located at the present-day intersection of North Eighth and Center Avenue. They were discussing at great length the war news and local gossip. It was mid-afternoon, and only a very few people were on the streets. All in all, the entire general atmosphere was quiet and sleepy; that would very soon change.

  Suddenly, the loafers in front of the hotel were startled to hear the rapid pounding of hooves coming down Eighth Street from the north. Looking toward the sound, the men saw a cloud of dust and a horse and rider traveling at breakneck speed. The rider was shouting something unintelligible as he lashed his mount to run even faster. Seeing the three men in front of the hotel, the rider reined his lathered horse to a sudden stop. The unknown rider, his face contorted with fear, leapt from his horse even before it had come to a full stop. As the frantic man hit the ground, he stumbled and fell, but quickly regained his footing.

  He ran toward the men shouting, “Injuns are coming, Injuns are coming!” The men jumped to their feet, casting bewildered looks at one another. Injuns? Where? “They’re comin’ down from Green Bay, thousands of ’em, killin’, robbin’, raping all the women and tearin’ babies from their mother arms and throwin ’em into burning buildings they set afire. Green Bay, Algoma, Kewanee, Manitowoc are all burned to the ground. When they come to a farm they’re burnin’ all the barns, settin’ crops afire and stealing everything they can lay hands on, everything in their path is gone. You better make a stand or get out; if I was you folks I would get out!”

  The unknown messenger then remounted his exhausted steed and sped away in a cloud of dust. Having heard the commotion, people had begun to gather and listen in stunned silence to the distraught messenger’s every word. The news of the bloodthirsty horde sweeping down on them spread throughout the city like wildfire. People began running out of downtown buildings and rushing home to see to the protection of their families. Within less than an hour, every hardware store in the city had sold every last gun it had in stock. They soon ran out of gunpowder and shot. Before long, not an ounce of gunpowder could be had in the city. Then the people began to buy butcher knives, which they tied to long poles to form makeshift spears. In sheer panic they frantically bought anything that had a sharp edge and could be used as a weapon. Axes, hatchets and pitchforks were all quickly sold out.

  City leaders dispatched riders to Sheboygan Falls, Plymouth and area farms with the grim news that a horde of blood-crazed savages was on the way. Guns that had not fired a shot since the Revolutionary War were taken out of attics and loaded. In Plymouth, an elderly man appeared on the street in a Prussian army uniform, complete with a spiked helmet and a rusty sword, from the days when he had served in that army. A terrified young farm wife whose husband was away, on hearing the news, ran from her home to Plymouth, over two miles away, carrying the only thing she thought to save: a still warm pumpkin pie.

  Captain Marchner, leader of the city militia, marshaled his men under arms, swearing he would defend Sheboygan to the last man. Before long, wagons piled high with personal belongings and frightened farm families began to pour into Sheboygan, choking every road leading into town. Apparently the multitude of refugees felt there was safety in numbers. In no time at all, almost every street and alley in the city was clogged with wagons and frightened people. One wagon that rushed into the city was loaded with a pile of personal possessions; and there on the very top, in a rocking chair fastened securely to the wagon, sat an elderly lady hanging on for dear life.

  Some people harnessed up the family horse, hitched up the wagon, threw into it what they could quickly grab and rode out of town as fast as they could. Other people rushed to the harbor, where a dozen or so ships were unloading or taking on cargo. Once at the harbor, frantic people offered ship captains ridiculous sums of money to take them on board and set sail at once. Some of the captains did take passengers on board and set sail; others refused.

  The schooner J.H. Stevens is typical of the many ships that were tied up in the harbor during the Great Indian Scare. Author’s collection.

  In the county, terrified farmers turned their livestock loose in hopes that the savages would find not them. Farm wives gathered what family valuables they had and buried them out in their fields. Farmers then herded their families out into the cornfields to hide from what they felt would be certain death if the Indians caught them. Some even vowed to kill their own families and then themselves before they would allow their loved ones to be slaughtered…or worse. Then came the darkness, which they feared almost as much as the unseen oncoming horde.

  As darkness fell, every sound became an Indian creeping through the cornfield; every shadow was an object to be feared. Throughout the long, terrifying night, families cowered in fear, clinging to one another in their fields.

  Captain Marchner assembled the militia and ordered them to march to the north city limits. The assembled grim-faced men marched out the Calumet Road, today’s Calumet Drive, and set up a roadblock. Apparently the militia felt that the marauding Indians were going to form into a marching unit and march down the Calumet Road. Tension in the city was so thick you could cut it with a knife. On the barricade in Sheboygan, the militia gripped their weapons tightly, their nerves strung tighter than bowstrings. Then they heard movement in the brush—the Indians were creeping up on them! Someone fired, and then they all fired into the dark. The militiamen heard a groan and then a thud of a body hitting the ground. One of the militiamen remarked, “That’s one injun that ain’t going to scalp no one.” All at once, they saw the flickering and dancing of flames in the sky. Here was proof they were under attack; the Indians were burning out some hapless farmer.

  The long, terrifying night slowly ground on without further incident. The imminent attack they all feared never came. As the first light of dawn streaked the dark skies, it was decided to send out a patrol to try and determine just where the attacking forces were. Volunteers were called for; several of the weary defenders came forward and formed a patrol. Cautiously, the patrol stepped out from behind the barricade. First they searched the brush to try to find out who or what they had shot the night before. As they searched the brush they found the answer: the bullet-riddled carcass of a Holstein cow. Sheepishly, they started out down the road to check on the fire they had all seen the night before. As the patrol came around a bend in the road, they all stopped. There was the evidence they all sought: the ruins of a burnt-out barn. Standing amidst the mass of burnt timbers stood a dejected farmer and hi
s wife, their hands and face streaked in soot. The patrol approached him and asked, “How many injuns were there?” The puzzled farmer asked, “Injuns? There weren’t no Injuns” The patrol leader asked, “Didn’t they set fire to your barn?” The perplexed man replied, “Heck no, I tipped over a lantern and set fire to the hay. Then I ran outside and rang the fire bell like crazy and no one came. Where the hell was everybody?” The patrol leader tried to explain to the incredulous man just what had been taking place. The baffled famer said in amazement, “You believed a wild tale like that?” The patrol members cast embarrassed looks back and forth. The farmer just shook his head and trudged back to the ruins of his barn to try to save what he could. The exhausted man by now was sure he had just talked to a band of lunatics.

  The heavily armed patrol moved on down the road, where they soon encountered a rider who told them he had just come from Manitowoc. They anxiously inquired of him how many Indians he had seen. The rider, totally puzzled at being interrogated by the armed group of men, scratched his head and said, “I saw a couple of them about two weeks ago.” The patrolmen stared at one another. “Was Manitowoc destroyed?” they asked. “Not when I last saw it late yesterday,” the rider replied. The horseman nervously clutched his rifle, unsure of what was going on. Again, the patrolmen explained to the stranger their purpose for being heavily armed and asking what seemed like ridiculous questions. The rider spurred his horse forward and furtively looked back over his shoulder as he left the now chagrined group standing in the middle of the dusty road.

  It soon became apparent that there weren’t ten thousand Indians or one thousand, or one hundred or even ten Indians attacking—there were none! As quickly as they could, the patrol marched back to the barricade and explained what they had found, or more correctly, what they had not found. As the militia marched back to the center of town, they were bombarded by a thousand questions from anxious residents. Soon the word spread. It had all been a hoax! One by one, the wagons turned and headed back home, everyone feeling just a bit foolish.

  How the rumor was started was never learned. Unbelievably, in an era when a letter could take weeks to travel a few hundred miles, the panic spread from Green Bay to Chicago in a matter of days.

  To this day, the Great Indian Scare of 1862 remains one of the most bizarre events in the history of Sheboygan. Many questions remain. Why had literally tens of thousands of people from an area covering the entire western shore of Lake Michigan been so willing to accept at face value an entirely unsubstantiated rumor? Not one person who reported the alleged Indian attack had actually witnessed the “facts” they were reporting. No one seemed to question if the so-called Indian raid was really taking place; everyone just accepted the reports and reacted in blind panic. The entire episode was a classic example of mass hysteria. Perhaps the fact that a widely reported horrific Indian raid had taken place one month earlier on August 19 at New Ulm, Minnesota, with great loss of life had an effect on their judgment. The real reasons for the Great Indian Scare of 1862 are forever lost in the mists of time.

  THE SHIP WITHOUT A CAPTAIN

  In more recent times, the mystery that took place on board the steamer McFarland just off our shores defies explanation. In fact, the mystery took place in an area that many people feel possesses the same mysterious powers inherent in the infamous Bermuda Triangle. The so-called triangle on Lake Michigan has been said to cover an area that begins at Ludington, Michigan, south to Benton Harbor, Michigan, northwest across Lake Michigan to Manitowoc, Wisconsin, and then east, back across the lake to Ludington. In this triangular area, it is recorded that strange and unexplained disappearances have taken place. People, ships and aircraft have all disappeared without a trace and with no explanation. Not only have there been inexplicable disappearances in this area, but there have also been numerous reports from reliable sources who have claimed to have seen what can only be described as “sea monsters.”

  On April 28, 1937, one of the strangest mysteries of the Great Lakes took place just off the shores of Sheboygan, and well within the so-called Lake Michigan Triangle. It was early in the shipping season, and a great deal of ice still clogged the northern reaches of the Great Lakes. The O.M. McFarland was commanded by fifty-eight-year-old George R. Doner, who had spent most of his adult life sailing the Great Lakes. The McFarland had taken on board a cargo of 9,800 tons of coal at Erie, Pennsylvania, and then headed through the Great Lakes bound for Port Washington, Wisconsin. As the McFarland passed through the passage at the top of the Great Lakes, it encountered a great deal of ice. This and the fact that the McFarland was having trouble with both its fore and aft compasses kept Captain Doner on the bridge of his ship for almost thirty-six hours without sleep. Once into the warmer and ice-free waters of Lake Michigan, the exhausted captain told the first mate to take command, as he was leaving the bridge to get some rest. Captain Doner also ordered that he was to be awakened when the ship passed Sheboygan so that he could bring it into its destination at Port Washington. According to crew members, they said the captain was in reasonable sprits, as it was his birthday. After Captain Doner left the bridge, the ship continued south toward Port Washington without incident. As the ship passed Sheboygan, the first mate sent a steward to the captain’s cabin to awaken him. However, a short time later the steward returned, saying he could get no response from the captain. Puzzled, the first mate sent the second mate to try to waken the captain. After repeatedly knocking on the door and receiving no response, the officer opened the door and, to his surprise, found the room empty!

  Thinking that perhaps Doner had gone for a cup of coffee and a bite to eat, he checked the galley, but the captain was not there either. Then he checked the head and the shower area…nothing. Slowly, the realization that Captain Doner was missing became clear to him.

  The second mate rushed back to the bridge. The first mate immediately asked him when the captain would be reassuming command, as they were getting closer to Port Washington by the minute. Breathlessly, the second mate related that he could not find Captain Doner. The astonished first mate inquired loudly, “What do you mean you can’t find him?” The second mate replied, “So help me I checked his cabin and it was empty, then I checked the ship from stem to stern, but I couldn’t find him. None of the crew has seen him either; he’s just gone!”

  The incredulous first mate ordered the second mate to take over the bridge while he conducted his own search, and he rushed below. Crew members were organized into a search party, and every nook and cranny of the big ship was searched, but to no avail. Captain Doner had disappeared!

  By now, the McFarland was approaching Port Washington harbor with the first mate in command. The ship was brought into port and tied up at the coal docks. The incident was reported to the Coast Guard and the local sheriff for further investigation. Once again the ship was searched, and not a clue to the captain’s whereabouts was found.

  The Coast Guard put out a message to all ships in the area, informing them of Captain Doner’s disappearance and to watch for his body, possibly floating in the lake.

  The remains of the twenty-five-year veteran of sailing the Great Lakes were never recovered, and the mystery of Captain Doner’s disappearance from his ship, in good weather, has never been solved.

  Proponents of the Lake Michigan Triangle theory are not perplexed at all over the disappearance of Captain Donner. After all, the O.M. McFarland was sailing through the very heart of the mysterious Lake Michigan Triangle!

  FLIGHT 2501 IS MISSING

  The weather report for June 24, 1950, called for warm, humid conditions, with temperatures reaching ninety degrees and the possibility of a few local thunderstorms. There was not a hint of the impending disaster the weather would, before long, inflict.

  In Sheboygan, June 24 had been set aside to celebrate the installation of the state-of-the-art mercury vapor lights that had been installed along North Eighth Street. A parade was planned, along with speeches by local dignitaries and a band concert,
to wind up the festivities.

  As the weather report predicted, Friday, June 24 dawned hot and humid. The new lighting was scheduled to be turned on for the first time at 9:00 p.m. CST. By 6:00 p.m., crowds were already gathering along North Eighth Street to be able to get a good view of the parade.

  At the same time at LaGuardia field in New York City, Northwest Airlines Captain Robert Lind, his co-pilot, Vern Wolf, and their stewardess, Bonnie Ann Feldman, were busily preparing their big DC-4, four-engine airliner for a nonstop flight to Minneapolis, Minnesota. Northwest flight 2501, besides its crew of three, would be carrying fifty-five passengers that day. The co-pilot, Wolf, had carefully checked the weather report along their flight path and noted that there was a possibility of scattered thunderstorms over Wisconsin but nothing to cause great concern. Wolf informed the pilot, who advised Wolf to keep a close watch on the weather reports and to keep him informed.

  By 7:00 p.m. EST, passengers began to board flight 2501 for the long, nonstop flight to Minneapolis. At about 7:15 p.m., Captain Lind began to turn over the big Pratt and Whitney R2000 1450-horsepower engines until all four of them were running smoothly. The DC-4 was by no means a small aircraft. With a wingspan of 117 feet, 6 inches and a length of almost 94 feet, it was a giant of the skies for its day.

  Captain Lind contacted the tower and was given clearance to taxi to the end of the runway. The silver giant reached the end of the runway and turned into the wind to await clearance for takeoff. At 7:25 p.m. EST, flight 2501 was given permission to take off. Pilot Lind advanced the four throttles, and the big engines roared to full power. Four huge propeller blades clawed at the air as the airliner gained speed, and as its wings generated lift, it gently and gracefully lifted off the runway, tucked its landing gear into its belly and soared into the darkening early night sky, carrying fifty-eight souls to their destiny. As flight 2501 disappeared from sight, the last rays of the setting sun turned its polished aluminum skin to gold.