The Gales of November that blow across America’s Great Lakes every year have claimed thousands
of ships and lives over the decades.
Some of these ships, like the Edmund Fitzgerald, have reached legendary status and they continue
to evoke mystery and fear in us.
Their stories paint vivid images of the power of the lakes—and they make us wonder what
the sailors were thinking in their final moments as they watched the waves swallow their ship.
These are stories that continue to intrigue us…because we try to envision what happened
and what it must have felt like.
There were no survivors or witnesses—so we use our imaginations to create our own
reenactments so to speak.
In rare cases where someone does manage to survive—for instance the Carl D. Bradley
where two crewmen survived—the story is certainly remembered, but it doesn’t captivate
the public’s interest in quite the same way as when a ship disappears with everyone
on board.
Maybe this is why the story of the Mataafa has largely been forgotten over the years.
There’s no mystery, and there’s no romanticizing what happened.
Everything that unfolded during the pre-dawn hours of November 28, 1905, was brutally real.
Unlike other freighters that are lost on the open water without another living soul for
miles around—the Mataafa disaster was witnessed by thousands of people who could do nothing
but watch as mother nature’s fury battered the ship and her crew.
It’s a story of how one ship became two totally different worlds after breaking in
half.
For the 15 crewmen in the front, the Mataafa was a shelter—for the 9 crewmen in the stern,
she became a death trap.
All told, the Great Lakes Storm of 1905 sank or destroyed nearly 30 vessels and killed
36 sailors—but the storm’s most public victim was the Mataafa, hence why the 1905
storm is often referred to as the Mataafa Storm.
Over the course of 24 hours, the storm would wash 14 steel carriers ashore.
The Ira.
H. Owen, a 278-foot-long carrier bound for Buffalo, New York, sank with all 19 of her
crew.
The wreck has never been found to this day.
A steamer called the Western Star was thrown so far ashore that people were able to walk
around the whole ship.
The Mataafa Storm isn’t the deadliest weather event to hit the Great Lakes—that honor
goes to the White Hurricane of 1913, which killed some 250 sailors, the majority of them
on Lake Huron.
But the Mataafa Storm would make 1905 the deadliest year in history on Lake Superior.
And it struck with such ferocity in terms of the snow and cold, that its power has stood
the test of time for more than a century.
Today we look back at the story of the Mataafa and the overnight battle for survival that
her crew endured.
For the nine men in the stern of the ship, the prospect of warmth and safety taunted
them just a few hundred feet away—as their bodies froze and their faces turned cold and
gray.
At just 32 years old, Captain Dick Humble already had 16 years of experience sailing
the Great Lakes.
Like most freighter captains, he was confident and he trusted his gut, which on this day,
November 27, was telling him it was time to leave.
For several days already, he’d listened to the storm warnings from the weather bureau,
but he and his crew were growing restless.
Captain Humble’s bosses at Pittsburgh Steamship, who owned the Mataafa, were also encouraging
him to get a move on—though for liability reasons they were quick to also tell him to
exercise caution and to not put the ship in any danger.
In truth, time was money—and the sooner Captain Humble could leave, the better.
Around 3:30 that afternoon the 430-foot Mataafa left Duluuth Harbor bound for a port in Lake
Erie loaded with iron ore.
In tow was the 366-foot barge the James Nasmyth, which was also filled with ore.
For 12 hours the Mataafa sailed, and most of that time was probably spent regretting
the decision to leave Duluth Harbor.
Just a few hours after leaving, the waves and snow grew stronger.
Cupboards flew open, causing plates to shatter across the room.
Waves busted portholes, flooding the crew quarters with slushy lake water.
In the pilothouse, Captain Humble and his wheelman George McClure kept their eyes on
the barometer as it dropped, indicating that the worst was yet to come.
Outside, waves continued to wash over the hatches as ice formed on the wire railing.
Anybody unlucky enough to be caught on deck would have been swept overboard in moments.
By 5 o’clock the following morning on November 28, Captain Humble made the call to turn back
toward the safety of the Duluth Ship Canal.
The crew—who just hours before had been urging Captain Humble to leave Duluth—were
now ecstatic to be going back.
They cheered at his decision, excited to see their families for the upcoming Thanksgiving
holiday.
And they were also probably looking forward to sleeping in a bed that hadn’t been soaked
in freezing water.
By noon, they could see the silhouette of Duluth through the snow.
As the storm worsened, four ships including the Mataafa and Nasmyth were now making their
way to take shelter in Duluth.
Crowds began to form at the piers to watch the drama unfold as these four huge vessels
attempted to dock with 80-mile-per-hour winds and monster waves slamming into them.
From the shoreline, onlookers could see the Mataafa approaching with the Nasmyth in tow.
Captain Humble aimed the Mataafa for the 300-foot space between the two piers, which stretched
2,000 feet out into the water.
With a beam of 50 feet, the Mataafa could have normally maneuvered into the ample harbor
with ease—but with the waves and currents battering the ship, Captain Humble knew there
was no way he could maneuver both his ship and the Nasmyth between the two stone piers
that lay ahead.
Humble ordered the Nasmyth to be cut loose—a decision he didn’t take lightly as he assumed
the smaller barge would be powerless against the storm and destroyed against the rocks.
As it woud later turn out, the Nasmyth and her nine crewmen were able to anchor and ride
out the storm unscathed.
As the Mataafa maneuvered into the 300-foot gap between the stone piers, Captain Humble
watched as the shoreline grew closer and closer.
With the ship about halfway into the dock entrance, a surge of water suddenly drove
the Mataafa’s bow down into the lake bottom, twisting her stern into the north pier.
Captain Humble watched as the Mataafa’s lifeboats were crushed to splinters between
the ship’s hull and the stone pier.
The storm surge then spit the Mataafa out of the pier entrance and spun her around,
with her bow now facing the open lake.
By this point, the Mataafa’s rudder and most of her propellor were gone, leaving the
ship entirely at the mercy of the waves.
With the ship powerless against the storm, the lake was able to deliver its death blow
by throwing the stern into the opposite pier, where her battered hull finally gave in to
the elements.
The cracks that had been forming at the 8th hatch began to widen as the ship split into
two pieces.
Waves crashing into the Mataafa’s wounded hull turned red from the ship’s cargo of
iron ore, giving the appearance that the ship was bleeding.
Freezing water quickly doused the boilers and poured over the men taking shelter belowdecks
with unforgiving force.
As the ship flooded and settled into the floor of the lake, the Mataafa stopped rocking—which
must have come as somewhat of a relief for its crew.
But any relief they felt was shortlived—especially for those who had been caught at the back
of the ship when it broke up.The temperature at this point was 13 degrees below zero as
snow, ice, and thousands of gallons of slushy lake water soaked them to the bone.
The men caught in the stern knew they had to somehow find a way to get to the forward
part of the ship.
Third engineer James Early and fireman Carl Carlson hung on to the stern railing together,
looking at the shore, which was just 700 feet away.
Carlson decided it was now or never.
He jumped for the pier as the other sailors watched him disappear beneath the waves.
His body would later be found on the shore, still wearing his wool mittens.
Second mate Herbert Emigh was tired of waiting.
He was normally up front with Captain Humble, but he had gotten stuck in the stern when
he came back to untether the barge line holding the Nasmyth.
With the waves crashing across the deck every few seconds, Emigh stood there, learning the
pattern of the waves and calculating his next move.
After watching for a few minutes, Emigh squatted down on all fours and began making the 250-foot
journey to the safety of the pilot house.
For what felt like an eternity, the other men watched as Emigh clung to the railing
every time a wave tried to sweep him overboard.
After several near-death experiences, Emigh finally took cover in the pilothouse.
By this time, it was a little after 3 o’clock in the afternoon, and already the late-November
sun was beginning to wane.
What little warmth the sun could provide in these conditions was about to disappear behind
the horizon.
As darkness settled, the temperature would drop even further to 20 degrees below zero.
Two more men—porter Fred Saunders and the coal shoveler Thomas Woodgate—were inspired
by Emigh and attempted to cross over.
Despite waves sweeping Saunders feet out from under him four times, he made it to safety.
Woodgate was next.
As a coal shoveler, Woodgate was the most physically fit of the men on board.
His crewmates figured that if anybody could make it across, it would be him.
The storm, however, seemed to grow more violent, as if ready to take on its most challenging
opponent.
A trio of waves known as the three sisters—each more violent than the last—attacked Woodgate
as he made the journey.
On the third wave, Woodgate flung himself back on board and said, “No more,” as
he limped back to the stern of the ship, defeated.
Despite seeing Woodgate’s failed attempted, fireman Charlie Byrne decided to give it a
try, knowing that if he remained on the stern, he was as good as dead anyway.
Amazingly, he was able to reach the pilothouse.
Throughout the night, some 10,000 people gathered on shore to watch the Mataafa’s fate unfold.
They built bonfires and makeshift campsites where they cheered and gasped as they watched
the crew make their daring journey across the ship, as if they were watching a theater
performance.
In the pilot house, Captain Humble ordered his men to wear their life preservers and
to stay inside to avoid being washed overboard.
Using his megaphone, he called out to the gathering crowd on shore for somebody to come
rescue them, but the waves prevented the lifesaving crew from getting close to the ship.
During the night, Humble went belowdeck to find some kerosene and matches.
He then took a hatchet and chopped up the wooden molding of his bathroom and threw the
kindling into his bathtub.
As the fire grew, all 15 men huddled around the tub, warming their frozen limbs and praying
that rescue would come soon.
Captain Humble ordered the exhausted men to stay awake by dancing, knowing that sleep
would have been fatal.
For several hours, the crew went back and forth adding more wood to the fire.
Around 7:30 the following morning, as one of the crewmembers was bringing back more
wood, they spotted a boat approaching the Mataafa.
The storm had finally died down long enough for the lifesaving crew to approach the ship.
Help was finally on the way.
One by one, the Mataafa crew slid down the icy rope and into the 30-foot lifeboat awaiting
them.
At this point, the waves were already beginning to pick up again.
It would need to be a swift rescue; otherwise the lifesaving boat was at risk of being smashed
against the hull of the Mataafa.
Unfortunately, the boat wasn’t able to take all of the men in one trip, but before they
left, the rescuers left a picnic basket and a bottle of brandy for the men left onboard,
which included Captain Humble.
The rescued men were taken to the nearby St. Louis Hotel, where they were given warm food,
cigars, and hot whiskey.
On board the Mataafa, Captain Humble and his remaining crew couldn’t enjoy the picnic
basket left for them by their rescuers.
Instead, they stared at the back of the ship, where nine more of their men were—and yet,
there was nothing but silence.
***
Humble and his wheelmate crawled to the back of the ship, where they were met with a grisly
scene: the crewmen who had been stranded overnight—exposed to the elements without any source of heat—were
now mummified in frost and ice.
Their lifeless eyes were frozen open, staring at the shore they had so longed to reach.
Deckhand Thomas McCloud was found nestled in the ventilator.
In a vain attempt to seek shelter, McCloud had crawled inside, hoping to protect himself
from the wind and waves.
Thomas Woodgate—the coal shoveler who had attempted to reach the pilot house—was found
huddled at the base of the smokestack, lying face up with his arms stretched out.
He had been hugging the smokestack when he died, his body tossed back by the wind and
waves, freezing him in a state of desperate embrace.
The chief engineer Bill Most and the steward Henry Wright were both found with serious
head wounds, with Wright’s frozen and contorted body found stuck in a hatchway in front of
the smokestack.
Walter Bush, the cook, was found trapped under a fallen ventilator.
For hours, the lifesaving crew would have to chip and chisel the victims free from their
icy prisons.
Their bodies were taken to thaw at the morgue, where thousands of curious onlookers gawked
at their corpses—presumably, they were curious as to what happens to a man who has been exposed
to the elements overnight.
Carl Carlson, the oiler who had first attempted to swim to the pier and drowned, was found
washed ashore the morning of the rescue.
His swollen and disfigured face suggested that he had been battered against the side
of the ship after his unsuccessful jump.
Three of the crewmen who had been in the back were never found.
Their bodies had been swept overboard during the night.
Back on land, some of the rescued crewmen seemed to prefer whiskey over food.
The events of the last 24 hours left sailors traumatized and seeking the comfort of the
bottle.
Walter Crane, one of the deckhands from the R.W.
England, was found drunk and wandering the streets at night until a police officer found
him and arrested him for public drunkenness.
The judge sympathized with the poor sailor, telling Crane that “A majority of men would
have committed the same offense under similar circumstances.”
Luckily for Crane, the judge suspended his sentence.
Unfortunately, Crane didn’t seem to learn his lesson.
Upon leaving the courtroom, he almost immediately went to the bar with another sailor and got
drunk.
The judge’s sympathy for Crane was waning at this point, saying, “Don’t you think
you are working this stranded sailor story a little too strong?”
Nevertheless, he let Crane go with a $10 fine that would be waived if he left Duluth by
that evening.
For several days, the hundred stranded sailors from the various ships stumbled in and out
of the local bars, commiserating with one another and missing their families.
For the 15 crew who survived the Mataafa, that Thanksgiving was bittersweet — they
were thankful to have escaped with their lives, but they grieved the loss of their nine crewmates
who were either lost at sea or being shipped home in boxes.
Blame for the tragedy went back and forth.
Some of the blame of course went to Captain Humble for attempting to dock in such violent
weather.
For his part, Humble was reportedly consumed with guilt and could barely eat or sleep in
the days following the rescue.
A lot of the blame, though, went to the U.S Life-saving Service—in particular, its captain,
Murdoch McLennan—for not acting sooner.
Others blamed the shipping companies for pressuring captains to stay on such rigorous schedules
despite the bad weather that always came at the end of the season.
In the end, there was no inquest into the deaths of the Mataafa crew.
Accidents where sailors died in storms or other natural acts were not investigated.
Freezing or drowning was simply seen as an occupational hazard.
In response to the storm, the U.S. Lighthouse Service began construction on the Split Rock
Lighthouse, which now stands on a 130-foot cliffside of Lake Superior.
Near the lighthouse lies the wreck of the Madeira, one of the 29 ships that were lost
or damaged in the storm of 1905.
For the Mataafa—despite being split in two—her career was not over.
Far from it actually.
And it would be a pretty storied career.
In 1908, she rammed and sank the SS Sacramento in Duluth Harbor; six years later, she got
damaged after hitting another pier.
Despite the mishaps, the Mataafa overall had really distinguished career and would play
the role of rescue ship on several occasions, including a time when she rescued all 19 crew
from a package freighter called the New York.
In 1946, she was converted into a car carrier and would stay in service until 1964.
She was finally dismantled in 1965, some 60 years after the Great Lakes storm that almost
ended her career.
***
The story of the Mataafa has long been overlooked in favor of more mysterious shipwrecks, but
it’s certainly one to remember.
I hope you enjoyed today’s video, and if you made it this far, please do give the video
a like or a comment so that other peopl can discover this story.
If you are interested in learning more about the storm of 1905, I recommend checking out
a book called “So Terrible a Storm” by Curt Brown.
I used a lot of the information from that book in this video.
I also recommend Great Lakes Shiprecks and Survivors by William Ratigan and November’s
Fury by Michael Schumacher.
Thank you for watching, and I’ll see you in the next video.