THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, July 5, 1996 TAG: 9607030281
SECTION: PORTSMOUTH CURRENTS PAGE: 04 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: OLDE TOWNE JOURNAL
SOURCE: ALAN FLANDERS
LENGTH: 102 lines
For a group of 18 holiday-makers from Portsmouth and Norfolk, the afternoon of July 4, 1875, went exactly according to plan.
Boarding the tug Lumberman, the group set out to sail down the already crowded Elizabeth River and cross Hampton Roads before dark in time to catch a fireworks display at Old Point Comfort.
Filled with the excitement of the moment, no one on the Lumberman, or for that matter any other revelers in the harbor, had the slightest idea the evening of parties and merriment would take such a tragic turn.
Following the fireworks, the Lumberman turned back toward Sewells Point and Craney Island. But the merriment on a countless number of excursion boats continued as parties were planned far into the night.
Joining in the celebration were Capt. and Mrs. Edward Brown, who were in the pilot house of the Lumberman. Taking in the fresh air and enjoying the sounds of boat horns and smaller fireworks from the adjacent shores were Mr. and Mrs. G.W. Baker, along with Mr. and Mrs. Jesse Frederici, who were seated outside on the deck just in front of the pilot house.
Miss Marion Borum and Mrs. Elizabeth Hudgins had also stepped out of the tug's cabin for some fresh air, finally resting on the Lumberman's water tanks. Seated just in front of them on two large bitts were cousins Harry and James Borum. Mr. W.W. Green was standing at the right of the pilot house, giving him a good view of Willoughby Spit Light. Occasionally, he broke his vigil to chat with Capt. Brown and Mrs. Brown.
Suddenly, Green turned abruptly around, momentarily losing his balance. Over the noise of the tug's engine and the other sounds of the flotilla, he heard the frantic cry of G.W. Baker. Thinking at first that Baker was trying to get the other passengers' attention that more fireworks were lifting over the horizon, Green walked back to see what Baker was so excited about.
In a split second, Green realized the danger Baker was trying to warn him about. But it was already too late for 10 of the 18 passengers on the Lumberman. Starting to yell and run aft of the tug, Green was suddenly thrown into the water. As the tug sped by him, the water was turned into a cauldron of foam from several engines.
As deck lamps, running lights, rigging and mast came crushing down on the breaking deck of the tug, Capt. and Mrs. Brown also were thrown overboard through the passageways of either side of the pilot house.
There was no time for alarm bells or flares. The entire tug lifted for a second, shuddered from bow to stern and folded back in on herself as if crunched by a giant hand. Hardly a minute had passed since Green first yelled his warning. Only a few realized in time what he saw. The Old Dominion steamer Isaac Bell was bearing down on them in a direct collision course and within that minute, the Lumberman disappeared from sight.
Instead of a leisurely trip home, the passengers of the tug were in a fight for their lives. For those not immediately killed, the downward suction of their own vessel along with the swirling force of the Isaac Bell's dual paddle wheels held some of those attempting to swim away in a deadly grip below the surface.
Meanwhile, others, attempting to tread water, were either killed outright by falling rigging or dragged beneath the surface in a web of lines and tackle. Then there were those who did not know how to swim. By the time crewmen on the Isaac Bell released lines and floats, the non-swimmers also had disappeared into the dark, murky depths.
Survivors would testify later that during the seconds left before the collision and immediately following, nothing could be done. In a newspaper extract of the incident printed the following day, one passenger said, ``The Bell was seen coming down the harbor, and her movements watched. Whistles were blown, but as before stated, her proximity was not noticed until a moment or so, when in an instant the Lumberman was crushed like an eggshell.''
Frantically, the Bell's lifeboats were lowered over the side with search parties holding lanterns, boat hooks and lifelines. At first trying to hear in vain over their own ship's engines, which had been thrown in reverse and then into neutral, the rescue parties saw the waving hands of Capt. Brown and his wife in the shadows of their vessel.
As the rescue mission continued, other nearby ships were signaled by emergency lights and flares. First to arrive on the scene was the steamer Banks, whose rescue party found G.W. Baker and Jesse Frederici. The U.S. tug Snow Drop also arrived in time to rescue W.W. Green, J.W. Wright and C.D. Jenkins. Unfortunately, the casualty list grew rapidly.
On both sides of the Elizabeth, the horrible shock and disbelief at what had happened took on the reality of black and white newsprint. The Virginian newspaper reported the missing or presumed drowned as Mrs. Elizabeth Hudgins, Mrs. G.W. Baker, Mrs. Jesse Frederici, Miss Marion Borum, Mr. Harry Borum, Mr. James Borum, Mr. Joseph T. Wilson, Capt. Edward Cook, Mr. James Craft, and Aunt Clare, the cook.
The news story also carried descriptions of the final moments of several couples who fought valiantly but hopelessly against the elements:
``Mr. Baker clung to his wife until he was dragged from her by the wheels of the Bell. Capt. Brown also clung to his wife, but was parted in like manner. When he was picked up the cries of a woman attracted the attention of those who had saved him, and the boat started in the direction of the cry, when a woman was found floating on the water. Lifting her into the boat, Captain Brown cried out, `Oh, my God, my wife.' ''
Search parties continued to work through the night and at dawn were joined by the tug E.B. Lane and members of the Knights of Pythias and Odd Fellows, who counted among their brethren Harry and James Borum. The U.S. tug Snow Drop returned to the site at 1 that afternoon with a howitzer to fire over the area in a desperate attempt to send sound waves to the bottom to bring victims to the surface.
July 5 was indeed a grim day except for one miraculous exception. A fisherman reported from a nearby beach that Harry Borum had made it safely to shore and no doubt had passed out on the sand from exhaustion. There was, however, room for little celebration.
The Fourth of July, 1875, became in just a matter of seconds, for many in Portsmouth and Norfolk, the saddest Independence Day of all. by CNB