Following the yellow brick road

Carl Fismer, a world-renowned treasure diver and shipwreck expert, donated a simple yet fascinating artifact to the Key West Shipwreck Treasures Museum. That artifact, from a wreck he discovered near Fort Jefferson in the Dry Tortugas, was a brick. Plain-looking and showing signs of age and wear after spending over a century underwater, this particular brick (above top)nonetheless had a story to tell.

Fort Jefferson, situated on Garden Key - 68 miles from Key West, is a Civil War-era coastal defense fortress. Said to be the largest masonry structure in the Western Hemisphere, there were over 16,000,000 bricks used in its construction. Work on the fort began in 1846 and continued for 30 years, though changes in weapon technology (most specifically the rifled cannon) rendered it obsolete and it was never completed. Following the Civil War, the fort was used primarily as a prison, housing just over 500 prisoners (mostly deserters) including Dr. Samuel Mudd and 3 other men convicted of participation in the Lincoln assassination.

About a mile southwest of the fort near Bird Key in six feet of water lies the “Brick Wreck” (also known as the “Bird Key Wreck”). The “Brick Wreck” is believed to be the remains of the Scottish Chief or another of the ships employed by Asa & Nelson Tift to transport bricks from Pensacola for the fort’s construction in 1854. The Army Corp of Engineers had determined that the yellow bricks made in western Florida were better suited to the region than those imported from the north. The shipping contract was likely granted to the Tift brothers based on their experience navigating the area’s treacherous reefs and shoals as veterans of the local wrecking industry. The 4-bladed prop (above lower) of the shallow draft 126-foot steamer is still intact as well along with portions of the hull. Dated bricks from the ship’s firebox place the wreck between 1857 and 1861.


The brick we were given by “Fizz” bears the impression “BC. WILLIS P.F.B”. A bit of historic detective work has shown this brick to have originated in Pensacola at a brick factory owned by Colonel Byrd Charles Willis, with “P.F.B.” presumably indicating “Pensacola Florida Brickworks”.

Byrd C. Willis was born in Fredericksburg, Virginia in 1781. His grandfather, Colonel Henry Willis, was married to George Washington’s aunt and his father, Lewis Willis, was a schoolmate of the future father of our country. In 1800, Byrd C. Willis married Mary Lewis, whose father was George Washington’s nephew.

Willis served with Madison’s 1st Brigade in the Virginia Militia during the War of 1812, distinguishing himself and attaining the rank of colonel. In 1825 he received an appointment from President Andrew Jackson to oversee federal matters in the newly-acquired territory of Florida. He established a brickworks in Pensacola, ostensibly to help meet the massive demand for bricks in the construction of coastal fortifications.

Colonel Byrd C. Willis had six children. His oldest daughter, Catherine, was married and widowed at an early age. She chose to join her parents in Florida where she met a young French naturalist named Achille Murat. Achille Charles Louis Napoléon Murat (shown below) was the former Prince of Naples and the nephew of Napoleon Bonaparte. The two fell in love and were soon married. While both the Murat and Bonaparte families initially objected to the marriage as the bride was both American and a widow, they were soon swayed by the revelation that Catherine Willis Gray was the grand-niece of the great George Washington.

The two made their home in Florida but traveled the world together, enjoying royal treatment wherever they went. Catherine became known as the Princess Murat. She was present at the coronation of William IV of the United Kingdom and was given a seat in Westminster Abbey. Following the overthrow of Charles X of France in 1830, the Prince attempted to regain a portion of his family fortune. When this failed, the two returned to Florida in 1834.

Following Prince Achille’s death in 1847, Catherine moved to a spartan bungalow near Tallahassee known as Bellevue (today a part of the Tallahassee Museum). It was from here that she dedicated her days to the nation’s first successful historic preservation effort; the Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association – devoted to the conservation of George Washington’s home in Virginia. She died at Bellevue in 1867.

Greatest Fire on Earth

On this day in 1865, P.T. Barnum’s American Museum was destroyed by a fire of mysterious origin. Located in Manhattan at the intersection of Broadway and Ann St., the museum was a spectacular combination of zoo, lecture hall, wax museum, theater and freak show with exhibits ranging from live beluga whales to the singing and dancing of General Tom Thumb (lower right). At its peak, the museum is said to have sold as many as 15,000 admissions a day, remaining open for 15 hours at a time.

Previous to the July 13th fire, the museum had fallen prey to arson on November 24th, 1864. Confederate sabateurs, intending to avenge the destruction perpetrated by Sherman and his troops throughout Georgia, coordinated over a dozen simultaneous terrorist attacks by fire throughout Manhattan. Initially intending to target government buildings, this plan was found to be impractical due to the heavy presence of Union troops around these structures. The arsonists instead chose to burn New York's most prominent hotels. Despite their use of a crude version of "Greek Fire" as an accelerant, most of the fires were extinguished before causing any significant damage. The would-be firebugs locked doors and windows to the rooms they set ablaze to prevent early discovery but in doing so deprived their incendiary offspring of the nourishing oxygen they would need to grow to maturity.

While the Barnum Museum was not among the list of targets, Confederate agent Captain Robert Cobb Kennedy tossed a bottle of the flaming accelerant into the museum's stairwell on his way between hotels because he believed it would be, in his words, "fun to start a scare". Kennedy was later captured and hanged for spying and "violation of the laws of war" on March 25th, 1865.

Fall of Forty Fort

On this day in 1778, a battle and ensuing massacre took place in the Wyoming valley of Pennsylvania near present-day Scranton and Wilkes-Barre. Jurisdiction of the region, while located in Pennsylvania, was claimed nearby Connecticut; with the local militiamen serving in the Connecticut Continental regiments. Considered a strategically desirable area owing to its liberal production of grain and proximity to nearby centers of population via the Susquehanna River, it was the intention of British Loyalists to seize control of it.

Under the direction of New York Tory Major John Butler, bands of Iroquois warriors had been waging a hit-and-run war on the local settlers, driving them to seek safety in any of the several forts in the area. In late June, Major Butler launched an offensive to capture the forts and claim the region for the crown. He led a force of approximately six hundred Iroquois braves and one hundred loyalist soldiers down the river into the valley.

Butler had conspired with local Tories to arrive undetected and easily captured several of the poorly defended garrisons. On the morning of July 3rd, Butler demanded the surrender of all remaining forts and Continental troops.

Knowing that re-enforcements were due any day, the Americans consolidated their force around Forty Fort - named for the first forty settlers from Connecticut who built it. Forty Fort was held by the Kingston Company (44 men) commanded by Captain Aholiab Buck and the Shawnee Company (44 men)commanded by Captain Asaph Whittlesey, with the combined forces numbering approximately 375.

Irritated by the lack of response to the ultimatum, the Loyalists began burning the strongholds they had captured. The Americans, mistaking this for a sign of retreat, gave the order to advance. When it became clear that the Loyalists had no intention of relinquishing their hold on the valley, the American commanders, Colonels Nathan Denison and Zebulon Butler (no relation) chose to hold a defensive position about a mile from the enemy. Dissention in the ranks of the untrained militia grew to a fever pitch with accusations of cowardice hurled at both colonels. They gave in to the pressure and agreed to attack Major Butler’s superior force.

The battle is said to have lasted less than three quarters of an hour (44 minutes) with massive casualties on the American side. Flanked by Iroquois concealed in a swampy area known as “the Shades of Death”, the American line quickly broke and fleeing militiamen were butchered by the brutal warriors. Major Butler reported that the Indians under his command took a total of 227 scalps and that while non-combatants remained unmolested, all others were “given no quarter”.

The formal surrender of Forty Fort took place the following day, with Major Butler requesting that the seven barrels of whiskey remaining among the fort’s supplies be destroyed before the Iroquois took possession of it.

Stories of the patriots slaughtered by treacherous Tories and their godless, savage lackeys circulated throughout the embattled colonies – stirring up sympathy and inciting unbridled rage toward the dastardly Loyalists.

Scottish poet Thomas Campbell, inspired by the dramatic tale of the battle, commemorated the event in his epic poem Gertrude of Wyoming in 1809. It is believed that the poem’s popularity in the 1800’s resulted in the naming of our 44th state (Wyoming) in 1890.

" A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun,
And blended arms, and white pavilions glow;
And for the business of destruction done,
Its requiem the war-horn seem'd to blow:
There, sad spectatress of her country's wo!
The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm,
Had laid her cheek, and clasp'd her hands of snow
Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hush'd its wild alarm!"

- from Gertrude of Wyoming

No. 3

On a recent exploration of Delray Beach it was my intention to locate the site of the Orange Grove House of Refuge. Numerous inquiries proved fruitless (pun intended). Even a visit to the local Chamber of Commerce yielded only a helpless shrug. When asked exactly what the House of Refuge was, I explained that it was the first permanent structure built at Delray Beach and had stood watchfully on their waterfront from the time of its construction in 1876 until it was destroyed by fire in 1927. I had assumed it would have rather legendary status in their somewhat limited local lore.

The woman behind the desk, explaining that she only lived there part of the year, suggested I peruse a children’s book on local history in the waiting area for information as it was “the only book on Delray Beach history” they had there. As I opened the book’s cover, a three-dimensional model of the Orange Grove House of Refuge sprang from its pages. “This is it” I stated while displaying the miniature bungalow for my official greeter - who smiled wanly before inquiring “Does it say where it is?”

It did not.

A Google search via my phone yielded a newspaper article concerning the placement of a Historic Marker plaque which gave the names of intersecting streets at the site. My hostess was again unable to assist me with even so much as a broad gesture in a general direction as she was unfamiliar with one of the streets. Throwing all caution to the wind, I set off on my own – determined to find my way by instinct, guile and dead reckoning.

Military maps dating to the time of the 2nd Seminole War identify the region as the Orange Grove Haulover – referencing an ancient copse of sour orange and other citrus trees along with the area’s shallow topography which required boats to be portaged, or “hauled over”, at that location.

In 1868, Wisconsin native and lieutenant Governor of Florida William Gleason began buying thousands of acres of land, including the area now known as Delray Beach – anticipating the development that would occur toward the turn of the century.

Shipping traffic along the Florida coast increased exponentially throughout the 19th Century and with it the number of ships that wrecked on the reefs hiding beneath the waves. While the system of lighthouses and reef lights was firmly in place by the mid-1850’s, there were still vast expanses of uninhabited and unlit coastline. Shipwreck survivors lucky enough to make it to shore were veritable castaways in the isolated swampy wilderness with no access to food, shelter or fresh water.

Following a 1873 New York newspaper account of the hardships suffered by the crew of a ship wrecked between Biscayne Bay and New River, the U.S. Life-Saving Service ordered the construction of five “houses of refuge” along Florida’s Atlantic coastline.

The houses, numbered 1 through 5, were unique to Florida. Framed with solid 8 x 8 pine timbers, they were intended to withstand hurricanes – though several would succumb to this force of nature over the years. Each had a ground floor of four rooms providing a living quarters for the keeper and his family. The upper level was an airy dormitory that would sleep up to 20, fully stocked with dried foods, salted meats, and medical supplies. A wide verandah circled the entire structure and the long, sloping roof extended far enough to shade the entire porch and keep the house cool.

No. 3, the Orange Grove House of Refuge, was finished in 1876 and Capt. H.D. Pierce was hired as its first keeper at meager fee of $400 a year. As a young man, Capt. Pierce had been rescued by townspeople from the wreck of the Three Charlies on Lake Michigan near Waukegan, Illinois. He and other survivors were given shelter by local citizens. While recuperating at the home of Mr. James Moore, Capt. Pierce was introduced to Moore’s daughter Margretta whom he would marry a short time later.

In 1894, William Linton, a postmaster from Saginaw, Michigan, purchased the area and founded a small farming community named for himself. Linton supplied winter produce to northern cities via Flagler's East Coast Railway until a hard freeze destroyed the crops in 1898. Linton and most of the other residents gave up and abandoned the village. Those who remained changed its name to Delray, celebrating the victory by U.S. troops at the Battle of Molino Del Rey (pictured below) during the Mexican-American conflict.



When I arrived at the intersection of Ocean Boulevard and Bay Street , I discovered that the marker in question concerned itself with the dedication of the beach by Mr. Gleason's wife Sarah and friends in 1899. It did, however, make reference to the House of Refuge and the location of its marker (north of Atlantic Avenue). I also spotted another marker telling the story of the Delray Wreck a short distance away, though I will save this for a future entry.

"Did I do my best?"

While writing my entry concerning the Deering Library at Northwestern University, a shipwreck tragedy that occurred near that campus was brought to mind. The story strikes a particularly resonant chord with me, not only as a Wisconsin native but also as a former resident of Chicago’s north suburbs where I grew up splashing about in Lake Michigan’s icy surf.

On the night of September 6th, 1860, the paddlewheel steamer Lady Elgin left Milwaukee for nearby Chicago. The ship was carrying over 400 passengers (by some accounts nearly 700)– primarily members of Milwaukee’s largely Irish Union Guard Militia – headed for a Democratic Party fundraiser where presidential hopeful Stephen Douglas would be speaking.

Following the event, the Lady Elgin disembarked for her return voyage around 11:30 p.m. Most passengers retired immediately to their cabins but others remained in the ballroom, dancing to the music of a German band at the front of the ship. The weather grew increasing foul as the ship slowly made its way back to port in Wisconsin. By midnight, gale force winds were blowing and Lake Michigan had grown treacherous.

At approximately 2:30 a.m., the ship lurched violently at it was struck by a 129 ft. clipper ship. The Augusta of Oswego, was a 266 ton, 2-masted schooner fully-loaded with lumber. The Augusta had been flying too much sail and was out of control. The cargo had shifted, causing the ship to list and the crew was fighting to right her when they spotted the lights of the Lady Elgin.

In the confusion of the storm and impending collision, the captain failed to issue an order to turn until it was too late. The Augusta’s bowsprit impaled the Lady Elgin, piercing the hull just behind the portside paddlewheel. The Lady Elgin was moving swiftly and dragged the schooner a short distance before the forward motion levered the Augusta’s nose free, wrenching the wheel from its axle and tearing a huge hole in the Lady Elgin’s portside.

The Augusta was badly damaged and taking on water. Assuming the Lady Elgin had suffered little, if any, damage from what he believed to have been a glancing blow, Captain Malott sped from the wrecksite and made for the nearest port. Meanwhile, the Lady Elgin was sinking fast and beginning to break apart.

Captain Wilson and the crew ran through the ship trying to wake sleeping passengers. Amid the chaos, a lifeboat was launched without oars or a securing line and quickly drifted away in the storm with only the First Mate and a few other crewmen aboard. The second leaked so badly it was abandoned. The Lady Elgin was sinking stern first and the rush of air toward the bow as she tilted caused the forward steamworks to explode. The ship disappeared beneath the crashing waves less than twenty minutes later.

Survivors clung to pieces of the deck and other bits of floating debris while a thunderstorm raged in the skies above – illuminating the desperate scene with flashes of lightning. The collision took place about seven miles from shore and an estimated half of the passengers were able to ride their makeshift rafts to shallow waters. Charles Beverung, the drummer of the German band, managed to float ashore clinging to his bass drum.

The lifeboat drifted ashore at Hubbard Woods near Winnetka and the First Mate, after scaling a tall bluff at the water’s edge, was able to report the disaster and set rescue efforts in motion.

As daylight broke, students from nearby Northwestern University arrived at the scene to pull exhausted survivors from the ferocious breakers pounding the shoreline. Edward Spencer, a seminary student at the Garrett Bible Institute on the NU campus was noted for exceptional heroism during the rescue efforts. He and his fellow seminarians worked tirelessly to save as many lives as possible. Spencer plunged repeatedly into the raging surf, saving a total of seventeen lives before he collapsed under from the physical and emotional strain of the rescue effort. Upon regaining consciousness, he immediately demanded of the other Samaritans “Did I do my best?”

Captain Wilson, who also demonstrated extraordinary courage in the course of the rescue, was hurled against the rocks by the savage surf. His body was found three days later – almost a hundred miles away - in nearby Indiana. Bodies would continue to wash ashore for months to come.

Spencer died in California at age 81. A local paper recounting the tale alongside his obituary stated that not one of the seventeen individuals he rescued ever bothered to thank him.

Coastal safety became a tradition at Northwestern and in 1876 the Federal government built a lifesaving station near the Grosse Point Lighthouse. It was continuously manned by student volunteers until it was taken over by the Coast Guard in 1916.

Great Lakes historian J.B. Mansfield called the Lady Elgin disaster "one of the greatest marine horrors on record". The tremendous loss of life decimated Milwaukee’s Irish-American population and is largely credited with tipping the balance of that city’s political power in favor of the German-American demographic.

Happy New Year

The last day of April has traditionally been observed by pagan groups, dating back to the days of Viking conquerors, throughout northern and central Europe. Bonfires, believed to drive away dark spirits and celebrate the return of the sun, would illuminate the countryside on what came to be known as Walpurgis Night (coinciding with the Holy Day of Saint Walpurga). In Germany, it was believed that witches held a great Walpurgisnacht Sabbath on the Blocksberg, the tallest mountain peak in the country.

"I am in HELL sir!"

On this day in 1789, Master’s Mate Fletcher Christian led a mutiny aboard the H.M.S. Bounty approximately 1,300 miles from Tahiti. Christian and the crew had broken under the weight of what they perceived as Captain Bligh’s increasingly cruel, unpredictable and erratic command. A close friend of Bligh’s prior to the voyage, the tortured Christian is said to have exclaimed “I am in HELL sir!” while arguing with Bligh upon seizing control of the ship. Captain Bligh and 18 loyal crewmen were set adrift in one of the Bounty’s tiny lifeboats near the island of Tofua. There can be no greater testimony to Bligh’s seamanship than the lifeboat’s safe arrival in Kupang, over 3,600 nautical miles away, some 47 days later.