Tag: Tom Herbert

In January 1890, winter was remarkably mild. Boston Globe reporters asked sharp seniors to recall hardest blizzard and warmest winters, ever. Can you name yours? Ask your family and neighbors. Timeless and great read. enjoy!

Posted on by Catherine
[1844 depiction RMS Britannia 1844 frozen Boston harbor, based on JC King drawing. RMG collection UK. See image description end.]

Gloucester, Ma. January, 2022.– Reading about the potential ‘Big Snow’ forecast for the upcoming weekend prompted me to re-read one of my favorite winter articles. Back in January 1890, Boston Globe regional journalists interviewed some 100 New Englanders who had each faced down 80 or 90 winters, and shared heartwarming vignettes from these extraordinary people. Whether a farmer, teacher, historian, geologist, notable townie, banker, ice man, fisherman pilot, driver,– all remained active and impressive. A few were still working.

This week I put the same questions to my mother-in-law, who braced Montana and Minnesota storms, and my husband. I was as delighted and impressed by their stories as I was by those profiled in this classic piece. Try it! Hopefully you’ll share what you hear or recall as well.

But first, settle in for an

1890 Boston Globe. Great Read.

May their (uncredited) journalism inspire many winter days. I wonder if Tom Herbert was one of the writers. (The Plymouth report includes a Gloucester mention.)

“Bare-footed winters” was a popular description then, and a new term for me. One account provided context of their unique present life circumstance (battling the storm while the Russian flu* (1889-1892) raged). None mentioned the recent “Great Blizzard” back in March of 1888.

photo description: Apt pair of illustrations accompany the Boston Globe 1890 article, author(s) and artist(s) unidentified

What weather!

Did you ever see the like?

Where has the New England winter gone?

What is the matter?

These are the familiar questions of the day.

Everybody talks about the weather and particularly the fickle weather of the present. The Sunday Globe has asked these questions of the oldest inhabitants in more than 30 New England communities, and the reminiscences called up thereby are graphic pictures of the old-time winter, when “Everything went on runners at Thanksgiving and didn’t come off till Fast day.”

     Here in Boston the hard winters found their climax in February 1844 when the British steamer RMS Britannia needed to cut out of the Harbor, which was entirely frozen over. (author. note- scroll down beneath illustration to see illustration)

All the old and middle-aged people of this neighborhood invariably begin with that unusual condition of affairs when they discuss the weather of the past. But the harbor has since been frozen over again. In January 1857, the merchants organized a crew, who chopped a channel out of the harbor ice seven miles in length. In that month the thermometer went 16 degrees below zero, and it did not rise above zero for two weeks. Only once before in the record of the town has the thermometer gone lower: it fell to 20 in December 1790.

FROZEN WAY OUT TO SEA. How one winter struck Billy Patterson- Chatham big storms.

Chatham, Jan. 18 – “Uncle Bill Patterson.” Over 80 years old, who has battled with the wild ocean nearly 70 winters in various parts of the world, says:

            “The toughest winter I can remember was in the early forties when one February everything was frozen solid not only from out her away up to Gay Head, but outside of Nantucket it froze way southward into the Atlantic that we could not see beyond the range of ice from the royal trucks of a ship aboard which I was pilot. The ice had caught her some distance southward, and heavy gales forced her towards the land. We had both anchors down to keep from going ashore where the ice cakes had piled up shelvingly to over 60 feet high and meant death to us if we didn’t keep cutting the ice away from our chains so the ship could ride to them and prevent going ashore. All this was outside, remember, not in the sound, and we could see ocean steamers bound ‘across’ from New York and they often had to make a long detour southward to clear the ice. We lay there a week before we got out of it, and when we finally reached Holmes Hole we found vessels which had been frozen in there four weeks.

            “Another tough winter was I think, in 1832, when the brig Sultana came in the south channel in a terrific easterly snowstorm and fetched up on the beach here. It froze so hard we carted her whole cargo right across the harbor. That brig’s captain had sworn that ‘By G-d, I’ll weather Cape Cod tonight, blow high or low,’ but he didn’t do it. The mildest winter I ever saw was last winter (1889), and as regards this winter—well, I don’t see as we’re goin’ to have any.”

            The toughest winter that “Sam” Nickerson, the veteran stage driver, can remember was about 1855 when the snow was so deep there were many places along the railroad track where one could walk along with the telegraph wires not over knee high, and the railroad tracks had to be dug out by hand shoveling all the way out from Boston. Stage drivers and sailors suffered in those days.

 MARRIED AND SNOWED IN. A Centenarian Tells of A Mishap to Her Great Grandfather

Hyde Park, Jan. 18—Mrs. Matilda Whiting Vose, 102 years old, and probably the oldest person living within a radius of a good many miles of Boston, was seen the other day by your correspondent, who asked her several questions regarding the winters of today as compared with those of a century ago.

            Mrs. Vose, while in extremely good health for one so old, was unable to trace the weather back through the labyrinth of years past, her memory not being as acute as it was a year or two ago, but she gave it as her opinion that the present winter is the mildest of any she ever remembered. Two hundred years ago New England weather was far different from nowadays. Her great-grandfather Jeremiah Whiting, who then lived at Greenledge, Dedham, started for West Roxbury, only a short distance away to get married. The snow when he started was so deep that he had to travel the entire distance on showshoes. He succeeded in getting there and being married, but was literally snowed in as the fast-falling snow piled up so high that he and his fair bride were prisoners in the homestead for six weeks.

             A century ago it was no uncommon sight to see children coasting from second story windows over the frozen surface and some 40 or 50 years ago the snow was so deep in this region that the roads had to be dug out before the stages could go into Boston; and when this was accomplished it was like riding through a tunnel, the snow being piled on either side higher than the top of the stage. In the early days of the Boston, Hartford & Erie road the snow as so deep on several occasions that business men who had gone into Boston in the morning were unable to return at night, but instead fell to with a wall and helped the railroad men cut a passage through the snow which was piled up almost as high as the roofs of the coaches in the cuts, a job which lasted them all night.

BANGOR’S ORACLE. A Genuine Oldest Inhabitant on Two Remarkable Years.

Bangor, ME., Jan. 18—When any statement is made in Bangor concerning the “oldest inhabitant,” it means something, for the individual who answers to that description here is Ira Chamberlain, who, at the age of 97 years, has a mind phenomenal for its brightness, and is never deterred from taking his daily walk by the severest kind of weather. His memory is very clear, and he can tell about the weather way back to past generations.

            The mildest winter in his recollection was that of 1830-31, when through December the average height of the mercury was 60.  On New Year’s day farmers around Bangor were ploughing in their fields while there was navigation in the river until Jan. 9 and schooners plied between Bangor and the down-river points, as in the summer. There was no snow to make sleighing until March, and then it came in great quantities and melted so quickly that a damaging freshet was produced.

            He remembers two equally cold winters. The first was in 1812, when the temperature was intensely frigid for four months, and the month of February was the coldest known in the history of New England. It was that winter that he saw the bay at Damariscotta frozen over, even the salt water yielding to the remarkably low temperatures. The next winter was in 1852-53 when the Penobscot river closed in November, five weeks earlier than usual, and imprisoned a dozen or more vessels in the harbor of Bangor. This was the time that crews of men armed with saws, were placed at work, the vessels freed, and then a channel was sawed for them from the harbor down the river to open water. This incident, it is asserted, is recalled by many of the present citizens of Bangor. Mr. Chamberlain says that, with the exception of 1831-32, which he mentioned, this (1889-1890) is by far the mildest winter that he has known.

PLAYED BALL TILL MARCH. Capt. Benjamin F. Swett of Portland on One Queer Winter.

Portland, Jan. 18.—Although Capt. Benjamin F. Sweet isn’t the “oldest inhabitant,” he is getting well up with that individual in point of years, and when a man can remember back 75 years distinctly and can recall with vividness the events of that period, he is certainly old enough for present purposes. It is a matter of doubt who is now the actual “oldest inhabitant” of Portland, but the captain is one of the oldest men here, and his memory of past events is exceeded only by his interest in the present. Said he:

“The mildest winter in my recollection was that of 1819-20. The boys played ball all winter up to March. Then the snow came down in good earnest, and it was all folks wanted to do to break out the roads. That kept everybody busy through March. The winter of 1830-31 was also extremely mild, but the mildest winter in my recollection, and the mildest for the past 75 years, was, as I have said that of 1819-20.

“The coldest winter in my recollection was that of 1831-32. It was very cold all winter. I remember that I helped the father of Gov. Selden Connor build a mill at Oldtown that winter.”

            A number of other old people recall the winter of 1819-20 as having been remarkably mild, and some say the same of the winter of 1818.

 WHAT AN ICE MAN REMEMBERS. F.C. Bryant of Biddeford says the climate is changing

Biddeford, Jan. 18- Foxwell C. Bryant, the veteran who will be 93 years old in April, has been talking about the weather. In spite of his advanced age Mr. Bryant’s faculties are practically unmarred and his memory is remarkable. His half-century’s experience in the ice business renders him authority upon the weather, and if the old gentleman has a pronounced weakness it is the indulgence in reminiscence upon that topic.

            He says this winter is the mildest, with the exception of the last, of any of the 92 through which he has lived. He thinks last winter even milder, and says that upon the 18th of last January, he ploughed in his field without finding a sign of frost in the ground. In his younger days he always reckoned upon the river freezing over by Dec. 1 and he remembered that one year, he thought it was 1827, it closed up Nov. 5, and did not open until late March. That winter was one of steady and extreme cold, and one Friday in January became historic as “Cold Friday.” The following winter of 1828, he remembered as the mildest of his life with the exception of the two last. There had been very little snow or cold until the latter part of January, when there came a snap which froze the ice to a thickness of 16 inches. The “snap” was of brief duration, however, and February brought such warm weather that on the 22nd the river drivers drove their logs down to the mills. In the winter of 1864 the mercury kept down below zero for nearly three months without any let up. There was no snow to speak of, and sleighing and skating parties on the river were all the rage.

            But the winter of 1816 was the most dismal and severe of his recollection. Summer frosts and cold weather in early fall destroyed all crops and provision of all kinds were fearfully high. Corn cost 15 shillings a bushel, and was so scarce at that that no one could buy more than half a bushel at a time. Flour, a luxury in those days, cost $28 a barrel. The weather was terribly severe, and snowstorm followed snowstorm.

            Mr. Bryant is satisfied that there has been a radical change in the climate of Maine within his life. He says we get no such long stretches of cold weather and that our snowstorms are but squalls in comparison with blocking storms of his earlier days.

OLD PEOPLE IN A GROUP. They tell what kind of weather Vermont has had.

Rutland, Jan. 18.—The oldest inhabitants of Rutland and vicinity have been interviewed in reference to the varying conditions of the weather in past years. While they could remember many mild and hard winters, and would narrate incidents that occurred, but few could fix precise dates. All substantially agree that they have never seen so mild and warm a winter as the present.

            The most intelligent answers were given by a family group, known as the Pooler family, an ancient family living in the village of Rutland under one roof, namely: Amasa Pooler, age 92; Seth Pooler, 86; Mrs. Seth Pooler, 83, and Mrs. Charles R. Ladd, a sister, 81.

            Amasa pooler, aged 92, who is very deaf was told the object of the visit and handed the letter of instruction to read that he might more readily understand. He took it and immediately read it aloud in a strong voice, without the aid of glasses, remarking that his second sight had come within the past two months.

            He said he had seen several open, or “barefooted” winters, but could not tell the years. The winters of 1834 and 1835 were mild, with little sleighing. In 183_ he though the winter mild, but the summer was cold and frosty.

            Mr. Pooler said the winter of 1815-16, after the war with Great Britain, was in many respects the most eventful. He with two brothers slept in one bed in an openly built house, and it was no infrequent thing to have their bed covered with snow that winter. A snow storm prevailed during the day of the 19th of May, when the farmers were ploughing their fields.

            In 1816 there was a snow storm, April 12, and snow lay upon the ground and made good sleighing for nearly a week. June 11 another snowstorm came, and corn was cut down twice by frost, and severe frosts occurred. In 1829 snow came the next day after Thanksgiving and remained all winter.

            Seth Pooler, a teacher from 1836 to 1882, said he was a member of the Massachusetts Legislature in 1858 and the winter was very cold. Snow fell Nov.5 to a depth to make good sleighing and remained all winter.

BATHING IN JANUARY. Plymouth Looms Up with a Startling Weather Story.

Plymouth (and Gloucester mention), Jan. 18.—According to the “oldest inhabitant” the severest “cold snap” ever known in these parts was in January 1857. In the neighboring town of Kingston the thermometer registered 28 degrees below zero on the morning of the 24t.h. For an entire week the trains were blockaded by snow, and the cold was intense.

            Perhaps the longest stretch of cold weather remembered by those now on the stage came in February, 1871, when the harbor was frozen over for about three weeks, which circumstance was regarded as a good test of the winter’s severity. A fleet of 30 or 40 fishing vessels hailing from Gloucester and thereabouts, was imprisoned in the ice during this time, and provisions were hauled in sleds over the frozen crust to the ice bound mariners.

            An exceptionally mild winter which is recalled by those who keep weather records, was that of 1875-76. On Jan. 1, 1876, a party of boys went in bathing from the end of Long wharf.

            Regarding the present winter, there is but one opinion among the old-timers and that is it is an extraordinary one, and defies the powers of the most astute local weather prophet.

NO CUT FODDER YET. Some Rhode Island Farmers Lucky in the Phenomenal Weather.

Providence, Jan.18.- Judge Eli Aylsworth, who was born in 1802, and who is an active business as president of the Westminster Bank, said today that the present winter exceeds in mildness any winter that he knows of, and that he can remember back for 80 years. The wet weather of the summer had a good deal to do with the present soft atmosphere he thinks, otherwise he can’t account for it. The hardest winter in his recollection was that of 1812, and the most open was that of 1815. In 1840 there was a hard winter and the weather was continually bitter for a long period.

“But,” says Judge Aylsworth, “we have not had the hard weather in 50 years that we had each winter along from 1812 up to ’40. Along back in the 1820s and 30s we had to break out roads and it was customary to have a three-days’ blockade at times and the weather was intensely cold. The bad weather was lasting then and not so changeable as during the past few years. The 365 days in the last year had only 52 days of clear sky, only one day a week. Some of our customers from out of town report that they are herding cattle in the open fields and that the grass is as green as a spring growth. Some farmers have used no cut fodder at all as yet. The winter of 1812 began Sept. 6th.”

CLASSIC PORTSMOUTH Sends Up Stories That Sound True and Look Reasonable

Portsmouth, Jan. 18—From conversations with several of our elder citizens, whose memories range back all the way from 60-75 year, it appears that the winters of 1868 and 1869 very closely resembled those of 1878-79, and the present winter as far as it has got except that none of the old residents remember anything about la grippe having prevailed at the former dates, or that much consternation was caused among ice dealers or ice users then.

            For a cold winter, that of 1857 seems to be given the palm by general consent. The workmen at the navy yard that winter, when bound to the yard, had to land their boat on Pumpkin Island (now, by some hocus-pocus put down on the charts of the harbor as “Squash” island), and leaving them there walk across the ice to the yard; and their only landing place on this side of the river, the docks being frozen over sold for several weeks, was at the navy landing at the foot of Daniel street. The ice on the eastern side of the river extended out from 50 to 500 feet; the blockade on the inside channel, West side of the river, extended from Pier wharf to Four Tree island, and from the bridge across the Sagamore to the Wentworth House at Newcastle. In January of that year, for the first and last time in the history of the Piscataqua river, men crossed it from side to side on the ice: it did not freeze over, but the drift ice from the sea blocked up against Portsmouth bridge, and the intense cold cemented it into a mass solid enough to be travelled over; and hundreds on hundreds made the trip, “just to say they had done it.” The blockade held for two tides, and then went down river again in pieces. This was the year the harbors of Boston and New York were frozen over solid for many weeks, and the day of the big “freeze over” was one of the coldest ever known here, 27 degrees below zero.

            On the ponds in this vicinity, which were continuously ice bound during this winter, there were several “carnivals” on a small scale: and citizens who had not had skates on for years, some of them for half a century, were regular visitors to the ponds. Among them were the late Samuel Grav, Hon. Peter Jenners, Rev. Dr. Burroughs, and others than whom none in the city stood higher.

            One of the worst snowstorms in the memory of Gen. Josiah G. Haley, the oldest representative in the state of the old-line stage drivers, and the oldest living ex-member of the Portsmouth fire department, was in January, 1866. The railroads were blockaded for from three to five days. The streets of the city were also impassable for a week, and the night of the storm scores of people were bewildered in trying to reach their homes, and were only saved by the night watch, who patrolled all night, in pairs with lanterns and shovels to render aid. It was regarded at the time as almost miraculous that no lives were lost.

SCIENCE STEPS IN. Charles Breck of Milton Keeps a Record of 40 years

Milton, Jan. — Charles Breck of Milton, hale and vigorous in his 92nd year, was seen by a Globe reporter, to whom the old gentlemen showed a notebook in which he has kept a daily record of the temperature and meteorological conditions during the past 40 years. His observations have been taken at sunrise and at 1 pm.

            During the 10 years from 1849-1859 the average temperature was 48.21; for the following 10 years, 48.40; for the succeeding 10 years 49.18; and for the 10 years from 1879-1889, 49.71. The warmest year of the 40 was 1877, when the average was 51.21; the coldest was 1868 when the average was 4-.39.

            These observations have been taken at his home in Milton Centre. Mr. Breck thinks that the last Christmas day was the warmest since 1829.

SLEIGHING ALL WINTER. Also a Winter When There was none at All in Keene.

Keene, Jan. 18. – Although the present winter is a most remarkable one, it is not unprecedented. Exceptionally severe or open winters appear to have occurred from time immemorial. One of our oldest inhabitants, and the one who has the best data for reference of any one we know, is Joshua D. Colony, the present senior proprietor of the Cheshire Republican. He is 95 years of age and says:

“I can remember some very cold and some very open winters. The winter of 1836 was the longest coldest and most severe of any in my recollections. Seven inches of snow fell Nov. 23, 1835 which made good sleighing and lasted without intermission until the middle of April. A large quantity of snow fell during the winter and drifted badly. The average depth of snow the first of April was two and a half feet.

“The winters of 1827 and 1849 were warm and open. Very little snow fell in either winter. The month of January 18_8 was the warmest of any within my recollection. There was but a sprinkling of snow during the month and no sleighing. There were 12 fair, warm, very warm and moderately warm days and eight cloudy and rainy days. The night of the 16th was fair, and so warm that water that stood out did not freeze.”

NEVER SAW THE LIKE. Old Green Mountaineers Talk of the Big Snows of the Past

St. Johnsbury, Jan. 18 – “We have never been cheated out of a winter in Vermont yet,” remarked Col. Frederick Fletcher, a sturdy veteran of 85 snowy winters amid the Green Mountains. “But this year is a remarkable one. The year 1807 was remarkable in Vermont for its cold weather and great snow-fall. Then, also, 1816 is famous for its hard winter. On June 8 of that year five inches of snow fell, and it was so cold that vegetation was completely ruined. The last two winters have been remarkably open and mild.”

David Trull, who has kept a daily record of the wandering course of the mercury for nearly half a century, gives some interesting figures from his experience. Mr. Trull said: “1862 and 1863 were hard winters. A man in this section had a tunnel between his house and barn. On Jan. 1 in 1862, 14 inches of snow fell. In 1878, we had a remarkably forward spring which shortened up the winter considerably.”

Dr. H. An. Cutting of Lunenburg, who was formerly State geologist, and makes a specialty of the weather, says, “The winter of 1844 was a severe one. We had a big snowstorm on the 1st day of April, and the snow would average four feet deep on a level. In 1871 we had the thermometer 40 below zero, and a lively thunderstorm, both in the month of February. The coldest weather on record here was Dec. 25, 1872, when the thermometer actually registered 50 below zero.

E. F. Brown, an old resident, said that in 1863 there was a lively snow storm on Oct 20: “I remember I was in Montpelier at the General Assembly and when I started home in a team—there was no railroad then—it began to snow. We stopped at Cabot over night, and when we headed for home in the morning the snow as as high as the hubs. It stayed on the ground until spring, too! Winter before last as a snug one, and its length taxed the coal bins to their utmost.”

GROUND CRACKED LIKE PISTOL SHOTS.

Woburn, Jan. 18. Elijah Wyman, over 83 years old, says that the hardest winter he remembers was in 1835, the winter of the big fire in New York. The ground froze very hard and cracked, causing a noise like pistol shots, and the same season four feet of snow remained until nearly March 1. In December of that year he remembers riding into Boston when the glasses showed 35 degrees below zero. Large cracks were found in the ground after the snow thawed.

Boston Globe, 1890. “WINTERS OF YORE: Strange Freaks of the Weather. Freezing the old Ocean. Talks with a Hundred Oldest Inhabitants. Many Never Saw it Milder than Now. Coasting from Second Story Windows—January Bathing.”

  • Photo credit for Britannia: lithograph from sketch by J. C. King, A. de Vaudricourt, Bouve & Sharp – https://collections.rmg.co.uk/collections/objects/148835.html This Print representing the B & N.A. Royal Mail Steamship Britannia John Hewitt, Commander, leaving her dock at East Boston on the 3rd of February 1844 on her voyage to Liverpool (through) a canal cut in the ice 7 miles long [collection Royal Museums Greenwich] Paddle Steamer Britannia, Cunard’s 1st liner

“Mr. Pooler said the winter of 1815-16, after the war with Great Britain, was in many respects the most eventful. He with two brothers slept in one bed in an openly built house, and it was no infrequent thing to have their bed covered with snow that winter.”

excerpt from1890 interview- Rutland, VT

[*see Russian Flu comp: 1918 PANDEMIC: RECONSTRUCTING HOW THE FLU RAGED THEN FLATTENED IN GLOUCESTER MASSACHUSETTS WHEN 183 DIED IN 6 WEEKS, March 2020, republished GMG, May 2020.]

1885 “Timely rescue by hardy men of Gloucester” Boston Globe interviews Captains from schooners Clytie and Alaska about the terrible hurricane at Christmas time

Posted on by Catherine

On this day, a rescue at sea, December 29, 1885. Boston Globe story presented accounts from both crews and was published January 2, 1886, (author possibly Tom Herbert)

DRIVEN TO THE SEA: In the terrible gale at Christmas Time. Facing Starvation and Cold on the Schooner Alaska. Timely Rescue by Hardy Men of Gloucester.

Still another is added to the long list of stories of terrible sufferings at sea and gallant rescues that will long make memorable the month of December, 1885. The schooner Clytie of Gloucester arrived in port Thursday night, with the schooner Alaska in tow, the latter vessel showing evidence of the trying ordeal through which she had passed. The story of the recue as told by Captain Courant of the Clytie, is one of thrilling interest.

“Tuesday morning,” said he, in his bluff, hearty manner, “just at daybreak, we sighted a vessel way off on the horizon. We could not make out shwa she was, or what she was doing. We couldn’t really make out whether there was anything the matter with her or not, she was so far away. I went up on the house with the glass. It looked then as if she was an anchor, but we knew that could not be so, as there was no bank there. By and by, as it grew lighter, and we worked up nearer, we saw the signals of distress flying. We were then under two reefed foresail, with bonnet off the jib. When we saw she was in distress we put two reefs in the mainsail and stood up for her. Remember all this time it was a howling hurricane. It was a different thing out there 150 miles at sea, with the great waves threatening to send us to Davy Jones’ locker every minute than what it is to tell of it here in comfortable quarters. When we got near the vessel we saw at once that it would be impossible to board her. So we laid by the rest of the day and all night, and the next morning, though it was still dangerous work,

We Got Out One of the Dories

and got aboard. I tell you it was a hard sight, and the story of terrible suffering from hunger and exposure was a pitiful one. The schooner was the Alaska from , N.B. She sailed Friday, with a crew of six besides the captain, but was met by a fearful gale when outside, and forced to drop anchor. The gale, however increased to such an extent that both cables parted, and the schooner drifted helplessly out to sea. From that time until Tuesday morning, when we discovered her in latitude 42 50 north, longitude 67 21’ west, she was driven about at the mercy of the wind and waves. Their provisions gave out, and death by starvation stared them in the face. They grew weaker and weaker, but still were obliged to do what they could to keep the vessel afloat. Their sails were gone, their decks swept with the waves, and they were drenched to the skin. The cold increased, and with it, their sufferings. Death must soon have ended all if we had not sighted them just as we did. But even under those circumstances the captain didn’t want to desert his schooner; he said she was all he owned in the world, and he had almost rather go down with her than lose her. There was, however, no water, no kerosene and nothing to eat on board, and the vessel was in a dangerous position. She had been loaded with hay and wood, but her deep load of wood had long ago been washed overboard. As I stepped on board the craft, which seemed just

Ready to Take Its Final Plunge,

the Captain stepped forward and said:

“Can you give me some men to help me work my vessel?”

“No, sir,” said I, as I glanced about the wreck; “in the first place, there isn’t a man aboard my vessel would take the risk of going with you.”

“And you won’t let me have even one man” said he in despair, as he began to see his last chance of saving his vessel disappearing.

“No,” said I, “I wouldn’t leave one of my men aboard this craft to take his chances with you if she was loaded with gold.”

He then offered me $100 for a man, but of course, I refused.

“I will,” said I, “do one of two things: I will take your crew aboard my boat, or I will put a crew aboard your vessel and try to work her in.” This last offer I made on condition that I should receive $1000 if I got the vessel in port safely. I was off on a fishing trip, and of course I couldn’t lose my voyage for nothing. It might pay me $1000, and it might not, but that was about fair for the loss of my voyage. He offered me $500 and then $700, but I told him I wouldn’t take $999; that $1000 was only the fair thing. He finally consented and signed the following agreement:

December 29, 1885

I hereby agree to pay the schooner Clytie the sum of one thousand dollars ($1000) to help save my vessel and crew. JOSEPH BISHOP.

Of course in doing even this I had to take my chances of losing my voyage, for we were in a dangerous position, and the chances of saving the vessel were poor. I told him I would take him into the first port I could. The wind was fair for the Nova Scotia coast, but it is a bad place there, and I told him I would try to get him into either Boston or Gloucester. I put six men aboard. The wind favored us, and here we are safe and sound.

“The names of my crew who ran down in the Alaska? Oh, they were Pat Foley, Dick Welch, King Silva, Frank Tijer, John Shea and John McNulty—a good set of boys they are, too.”

“How are the crew of the Alaska getting along?”

“Well, they suffered terribly, but will be all right in a few days. The mate is the worst off, his feet and fingers being frozen. It was a close call for them all, but you know we seafaring men have to take our chances.”

Captain Courant, sch. Clytie

A “Sully Miracle on the” Sea story! Now from the sch. Alaska point of view:

LASHED TO THE WHEEL: Experience of the Crew of the Alaska Given by Captain Bishop—Their Miraculous Escape

Captain Bishop of the schooner Alaska was found aboard his vessel, which is lying on the north side of Union wharf. When asked about his trip, he said it was the roughest weather he had seen for over thirty years.

“We started,” said he, “from Harvey, N.S., Christmas afternoon, with a deckload of cordwood and hay in the hold for James Stevenson of this port. It was blowing pretty hard at the time, but we supposed it would soon moderate. After running about two miles, and when off Grindstone Island, we decided to anchor, as the wind appeared to be increasing. We placed two anchors ahead and let out 210 fathoms of chain. At 2 o’clock the next afternoon the chains parted, and the vessel drifted into the Bay of Fundy. It was then snowing hard, the sea was tremendously high, and it was blowing a terrific gale from the northeast by east. It was impossible to carry any canvas, so we rode along under bare poles. At midnight the storm was fearful. The high seas washed continually over the decks, and the two men at the wheel had to be lashed, otherwise it would have been impossible for them to remain on deck. At 3 o’clock Monday morning we hove the vessel too by a peak in the mainsail. At 7 o’clock we were to north-northwest, with part of the three-reefed foresail and peak of the mainsail, the rest of the mainsail and two jibs having been blown away. At 3 o’clock that afternoon we found ourselves near the breakers, on the southern point of Grand Manan. In the meantime it changed from snow to hail and were then able to see ahead for the first time since Saturday. The first thing we saw was that we were going ashore inside of Gannet rock.

Our stern was close into the breakers when the keeper of the light motioned to us to steer to the south, which we did, and the vessel passed out safely. All this time the sea was mountains high and washing clear over the lighthouse.

Cpt. Bishop, sch. Alaska
Gannet Rock lighthouse – photograph Canadian Coast Guard collection shared on Lighhousefriends.com

The mate and two seamen had their hands and feet badly frostbitten, while my limbs were partially paralyzed Monday evening the wind veered around to north-northwest. At 10 o’clock Tuesday morning, when 130 miles east by south of Cape Ann, we met the fishing schooner Clytie, which towed us to this port. The Alaska had her boat and deckload carried away.

Boston Globe report published Jan 2, 1886

The vessels:

Itemized on List of vessels district of Gloucester August 1878, Gloucester archives 

 Gloucester Harbor. Alaska. 63.87 tonnage.
 Master’s name M.M. Murray Number 455 
 Built in Gloucester in 1867 by George Norwood & Sons
  
 Gloucester Harbor. Clytie. 72.17 tonnage.
 Master’s name A.C. Browell #125,125
 Built in Gloucester 1873 Rowe & Jordan

Gloucester Archives Merchant Vessels 1878 – PDFDownload

2019 article about the history of the (now deteriorating) Gannet lighthouse (yes, for the birds that were there) with interview of former lighthouse keeper: “The Gannet Rock lighthouse soars above a rocky islet off Grand Manan, an old beacon of light for fisherman. But the tower, built in 1831, is battered from years of neglect. It was abandoned in the early 2000s and stopped being maintained by the Department of Fisheries and Oceans in 2010. “

PDF of full page Boston Globe article Timely RescueDownload

Winslow Homer, Ship building Gloucester Harbor, 1873

Same year as Clytie was built

Scenes of vessels/fishing industry in Gloucester harbor and accounts of winter storms

1876

Ten years earlier, “The December Gales of 1876” chapter from The Fishermen’s Own Book comprising The List of Men and Vessels Lost from Gloucester, Mass., from 1874 – April 1, 1882 AND a Table of Losses From 1830, together with Valuable Statistics of the Fisheries, ALSO Notable Fares, Narrow Escapes, Startling Adventures, Fishermen’s Off-Hand Sketches, Ballads, Descriptions of Fishing Trips, AND Other Interesting Facts and Incidents Connected with This Branch of Maritime Industry, Entered according to Act of Congress, 1882, Procter Bros., Lib of Congress

1902

Clarence Manning Falt

1920s & 1930s

Leslie Jones, others

Christmas day Boston Globe 1890- A True Story of Gloucester Fisher Folk

Posted on by Catherine

This story was the first time I was acquainted with anything written by one, “Tom Herbert”, a reporter the Boston Globe featured regularly pre 1900.

This heartwarming read published on Christmas day in 1890 has enough convincing details to engage readers of all ages with a Christmas wish come true story. Is it fairytale or truth enchanted? The mention of a charming cottage in East Gloucester piqued my interest enough to research surnames, just in case, and the off chance I might locate a house story to boot while re-discovering work by this writer. One article was another in this vein I categorized ‘fairytale reporting’ which I shared yesterday ; and a third from a tuna fishing trip he covered for the Boston Globe (embellished with a fantastic headline).

Local details mentioned: Norman’s Woe, Proctor’s Store, ferryboat Little Giant, James (Jim) Lawson, Jeannette Olsen (children Andrew and Alfred), Eastern point, fisherman, Swedish immigrants, East Gloucester, Swedish consul, Court Square Boston, Grand banks, Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, shipwreck, Cunningham & Thompson’s wharf, Boston’s salt fish dealers

Her Christmas Present, A True Story of Gloucester Fisher Folk

By Tom Herbert

“Shaw! Jeannette, don’t talk of Christmas presents: you should have dropped those childish notions when we were married. Here am I, a poor fisherman, with a few hundred dollars, and you know I want to build or buy a house in East Gloucester, so that we can have a home of our own next year, and now, the middle of October, I am almost forced to make a fresh halibut trip, or stay home and eat up my hard earned money; and we must be saving, for the owners have promised me a vessel next spring.”

The next day he was to sail, and with tears in her eyes, Jeannette hurriedly got together socks, mittens and the rest of his sea clothes, all of which were neatly patched and darned ready to be placed in the calico pillowslip and taken on board the vessel.

“You’ll buy me a present this year, won’t you, Jim?” said she the next morning.

“Well, I don’t know. It’s according to whether we make a good trip or not, and even so, you must not expect anything that will cost much.

So they parted with a kiss, at the door of the little house on a side street in Gloucester, and were it not for the cry, “Pa-pa-pa” of little Andrew in the crib up stairs, she might have lingered at the door and watched the passage of the vessel as her prow was turned towards Norman’s Woe.

“Jim will be home before Christmas,” mused she, “and if ‘twas only a cheap pocket-book he’d buy for me, I would cherish it so much.”

That night, after “baby” was sound asleep, she visited a friend, and as she passed Proctor’s Store and the post office on her way home she heard a fisherman say: “The ‘glass’ is down 2-10 below 29.”

This was news for her, as almost every Gloucester woman understands the working of a barometer, and surely a heavy westerly was coming that night.

It was 12 o’clock that night when the expected nor’wester burst, and she was awakened by the noise of a swinging blind.

‘Tis a fair wind for Jim, thought she, as she secured the shutter, and if it lasts a day or two he will make a quick run to the Grand banks. Little she knew at that time what misery the same gale brought to her husband.

The next day everything went wrong about the house, the fire went out, although there was a splendid draft to the chimney, things seemed to be strewn around the kitchen in all directions, the baby yelled like mad, and tried to get out of his crib alone for the first time, and in the afternoon she scalded her foot with hot water while making a pot of tea.

Jeannette was not superstitious, yet she could not help paying some attention to what seemed to be presentments of trouble, and were it not for a letter from a lawyer that she received asking her to come to Boston to transact important business she might have and had a good cry.

“I wonder what it can be,” said she, as she put on her best wraps,” surely it cannot be any news from home so soon, and now, come to think of it, I’m sorry I didn’t tell Jim that the property in Sweden was being settled up.”

The train seemed to move slower than usual that day, yet it arrived in Boston on scheduled time and soon she was seated in a law office in Court Square.

“I called,” said she, addressing a smooth faced man, “in response to your letter.”

“Oh, yes! You are Mrs. Lawson, are you not?” said he, showing the way to his private office, “And your maiden name was?”

“Jeannette Olsen, sir. I was born in Stockholm 23 years ago.”

“Yes, the very same,” said the lawyer; “and now, Mrs. Lawson, I have some good news for you. The Swedish consul has a check for you at his office, payable in gold, to the amount of $3800; small, but not so bad. I believe your husband is –“

“A fisherman, sir,” said she, helping him answer his query.

“Now all that remains,” continued the man of law, “is for you to be identified and the check is yours; are you acquainted in Boston?”

Yes; she had relatives there, and half an hour later the office boy brought in two persons that knew her when at home and also her family.

Without much delay the check was received by her from the consul and cashed at a neighboring bank, and with that—never had so much money before feeling—she wended her way towards the depot.

Once on the cars her thoughts went out to sea and she wondered how Jim’s vessel had weathered the gale, and what he would think if he only knew their good fortune, and how sorry she felt for having kept secret her letters from home, but the next moment her thoughts were in another channel. She had resolved to buy Jim a Christmas present that would cost “something.”

The day following was one of excitement to her. She visited the bank, crossed the ferry a number of times in company with real estate men, all of which set the neighbors a wondering, and for two weeks she was busy every day.

When she had time to read, she studied the Boston papers, and from the reports of incoming vessels she knew that it had been rough weather at sea.

Soon the name of the vessel that her husband sailed on was becoming talked of in the town, no news had been heard of her, and she became sad-eye, and the bloom of youth left her cheeks.

The neighbors called and sympathized, and one old lady, who had a son on the same vessel, said, “that if the schooner was not in by tomorrow the owners were going to give her up as lost with all on board.”

Tomorrow!

Why, tomorrow was Christmas day!

Vessel and all hands lost at sea!

What a cup of bitterness there was in store for her when she had planned for a day of happiness!

“But it must not be,” she cried; “surely God will not send us such terrible news on the birthday of His son!”

That night she knelt by the baby’s crib and prayed that the father of the little one might be returned to him and her.

Morning dawned and she arose after having passed a sleepless night; baby’s breakfast must be gotten ready, and as she rolled the crackers, the crumbs were moistened with her tears.

Noon came and the dreaded news had not arrived, and seating the chubby little chap in the high chair near the window, they ate their Christmas dinner.

An hour later she was ready to swoon, so weak was she from loss of rest and nourishment, and with arms on the table and head bowed down she cried herself to sleep.

How long she remained in that doze she could never tell, but she awoke with a start; little Alfred was tapping on the window pane with his spoon, and calling “pap-pa! pap-pa,” at the top of his voice.

“Be quiet, child,” said she, hysterically; “you have no pa—“ She never finished that sentence, for there, outside the window, was Jim, with a full beard, and looking very pale.

Was she dreaming?

No! for he has moved towards the door, and is now rapping; she notices as he passes his arm into a sling; he has been hurt.

The bolt shot back, the door swung on its hinges and she would have fallen to the floor, but he caught her with his uninjured arm and in a cheery voice said:

“Jeannette, cheer up; is this the way to welcome your Jim? Why, I’ve brought you a Christmas present: ‘tis myself.”

The joy of the wife at the deliverance of her husband no pen can describe, and when she could speak she told him of the long and weary hours she had waited, and listened intently to his tale of suffering while she put new bandages over the splints of his shattered arm.

He told her that after they sailed out by the light on Eastern point everything went wrong on board the vessel, as though a warning to them, and that night, as they scudded before the gale, one of the crew was knocked overboard by the main boom while returning the mainsail, and was rescued with much difficulty.

The next day the gale increased and the weather was intensely cold.

That afternoon they carried away the foremast head while jibing the foresail, and before it could be prevented the mainmast went by the board and injured five men.

They were then 200 miles at sea and almost a total wreck.

Under short sail they headed for Nova Scotia, and then within 20 miles of the shore a heavy snowstorm set in and they were driven off the coast.

The ice that formed on the vessel in large quantities made her unmanageable, and for four weeks they drifted about the ocean without seeing any craft.

Another heavily westerly gale sprung up, which drove them farther out to sea, the schooner had sprung a leak, the pumps were frozen solid, and the decks were washed continually by the heavy seas.

That night the wind shifted, and the captain, judging himself in the vicinity of Newfoundland, heaved the vessel towards the shore, and under a close-reefed foresail they made fair progress, and got ready the only two dories that had not been smashed.

Towards morning they made the land dead ahead, and all the men that were able stood ready, and the injured and frozen men were placed in the dories which were ready to launch.

The suspense was fearful, but for a moment only, for she struck a reef of rocks with a crash, and when the next sea carried her over the ledge she sank in 15 fathoms of water.

That was all he remembered for one week and when he came to his senses his head was bandaged and his arm was in a splint.

Kindly the wife of a fisherman cared for him, and eased his mind when he asked for “Jeannette,” saying, “She’ll soon be here.”

When able to be about he was sent to Fortune bay and took passage on a herring vessel bound for Gloucester.

The rest of the crew had been badly frostbitten, and when all well would follow by steamer.

He was set ashore at Cunningham & Thompson’s wharf, and arriving at the house saw his baby Alfred at the window, and was answered by the little one.

After Jim Lawson had told his story, Jeannette threw her arms around his neck and said, “James, you know you promised me a Christmas present, but I don’t expect one now, and Jim, dear, don’t feel sad. I know you doted on a little home, so I bought a nice little cottage over on Eastern point.”

Should his dory have capsized in a calm, Jim could not have been more surprised than when his wife spoke of buying a house, and an hour later the ferryboat Little Giant brought the happy couple to their new home.

Jim Lawson quit going fishing, by request of his wife, and today is a salesman for one of Boston’s salt fish dealers.

This year it is said that a new piano will be moved in to the snug little cottage, just for a Christmas present.

“Her Christmas Present A True Story of Gloucester Fisher Folk”, Boston Globe, Dec. 25, 1890 by “Tom Herbert”

Who cares that the baby is alternately named Alfred and Andrew (perhaps there is more than one child?)! Husband and wife are both heroes! And there are helpful lawyer and realtors, unrelated to the shipwreck! (Wait. Was $4000 a small amount in 1890?)

Art, poetry, novels and news- fishing tales were popular no matter the media. Timeline comps: Longfellow’s Wreck of Hesperus was published in 1842; Winslow Homer first documented extended stay in Gloucester, 1873; Elizabeth Phelps residing here by 1890; Joshua Slocum’s Voyage of the Liberdade 1890; and Kipling’s Captain Courageous in 1897. For Christmas eve decades prior, The Night Before Christmas, attributed to Clement Moore, was penned in 1822.

Boston Globe 1890 December 25 full pageDownload

“Lawson” in the 1882 Gloucester directory

Perhaps some families have heard versions of this same yarn. For fun, some cursory digging: there is no James “Jim” Lawson-Jeannette Olsen (olson)-Alfred trio; though the surnames are common. Some Lawsons resided downtown and East Gloucester: Charles Lawson, fisherman, house 10 Traverse St; Charles J. captain 21 Addison; William J Lawson 23 School Street, then 13 Summit St. In 1870 John Lawson arrived from Canada fisherman, bds Middle, corner Wash. (same as Edward Hopper). Child named Alfred or Andrew with a mother born in Stockholm, Sweden? Sure. What Eastern point cottage would fit the bill in your mind’s eye?

Harpooning Swords. Work that is all excitement and no fun–

Globe reporter on a Fishing Expedition to Cape Porpoise, by Tom Herbert, Boston Globe, August 25, 1890

“…and “Turned In.” In 15 minutes not a word could be heard, and the only noise–which was not music to my ears–was the creaking of blocks and booms and the rush of water along the sides of the schooner as she ploughed her way. I had a faint remembrance of the “watch” being changed and the hearing of the order to “haul down the staysail!” After that I fell asleep and dreamt that the managing editor had elongated my vacation from two to four weeks.”

1890 Aug 25 Tom Herbert article Boston Globe “harpooning Swords – work that is all excitement and no fun” Full pageDownload