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.