I apologize for having been remiss in not posting on this blog for sometime. I have been involved in Thomas MacEntee’s “Genealogy Do-Over” project. In my case, it has not been an actual “Do-Over”; it’s been more of a “Go-Over”. I went back to the start to check my source citations and, as Thomas MacEntee said, many start out in genealogy and fail to do a good job of source citation. He was so very right! So, I have been going back and developing more accurate citations for ALL of the documents and information that I have come across so far. That has taken a lot of time and effort. But while I was at it, I also filled out research logs and made To-Do lists for each family. That has taken just as much time and effort. But I have to say, I’m a heck of a lot better organized now!
Back in August, 2013 I had a blog about Adam Kolker, my two-times great grandfather who was born near Fulda, Germany about 1835 and as an eighteen-year old came to America in 1853. He was aboard a ship called the New Era which had between 300-400 German immigrants aboard. On the night of November 13, 1853, the ship ran aground on the coast of New Jersey near modern day Asbury Park. Only 160 survived the ordeal with many just being washed overboard during the stormy night. Adam recalled in a Quincy newspaper, that he had survived by clinging to one of the ship’s masts. What a harrowing night that had to be.
I was fortunate enough to find an account of Heinrich Weckesser, who was also a survivor. He was also age 18 and, like Adam, survived by clinging to a mast. His story below must be very similar to what Adam experienced- who knows…. perhaps they were clinging to the same mast!
Grandpa Henry's Story
Heinrich Jacob Weckesser, age 18 [in 1853] from Hatzbach, Germany
Based on the various firsthand accounts of the wreck that are recorded, Henry might have described his experience like this: [This sounds like it was not written by Henry himself, but a reconstruction by someone else from sources describing the actual ordeal.]
It wasn't until after the wreck that I could begin to comprehend something I had actually seen with my own eyes. Of the few survivors who did not spend thirty-six hours clinging to the rigging of the wrecked ship, Captain Henry [Thomas J Henry, commander of the New Era] was one. He was on dry land, safe, while the screams of his charges were swallowed up in the ocean's roar.
I thought back to how we had begun, to the excitement that bounced around the ship as it filled with chattering families, claiming their space in steerage, setting up privacy curtains, arranging sundries, journals, snacks in cheerful optimism. As the days wore on though, and cholera struck the ship even while we waited in port, the urgency to set sail took on a grim quality.
Relief swept over me on September 28, when we finally nudged our way through the harbor to open sea. I watched Bremen disappear, raised my eyes to Heaven for God's good keeping, and leaned into the wind.
But the going was slow. The ship leaked. And people kept getting sick. I told myself every day that it was going to get better. We were going to get a tailwind, a break in the clouds, a day without another passenger down.
By the end of the voyage, cholera would take forty lives from among us as we rocked across the sea. We watched, shivering, each time another body was wrapped in a thin blanket and slung overboard. My own two blankets were confiscated as makeshift cloth coffins, after which I slept in every piece of clothing I had stuffed into my trunk, trying with little success to stave off the bite of night's deep freeze.
Day after day, we sailed into the wind, seeming to get nowhere. Four weeks in, a gale hit and within minutes threw waves clear across the deck. Food, stoves, supplies- all swept overboard. Three souls were lost that night.
When our rations were reduced to one meal per day, we began to talk to each other less about our plans for America, more about our families back in their villages, who would be settling in now for winter's cold. Nights I longed ashamedly for the fires of home. When we were down to one meal every two days, we began to sit in stillness about the deck, clustered in small groups, talking little, conserving energy.
My eighteenth birthday passed, unobserved. Perhaps Konrad was toasting me back in Hatzbach. I hoped my brother imagined me safe and warm, with a full belly, my face still glowing with the spirit that had warmed it as I had taken leave of him and home.
I barely slept that last night knowing we were finally approaching New York City. I dreamt of sausage and sauerkraut, of bread and cheese and eggs, of cold milk and hot cider.
We should have risen to find ourselves in port celebrating. Instead I was jarred awake, disoriented, as six weeks of rocking lurched into a sudden, shuddering tension. I jumped up and walked straight into the wall, fumbled for the door, found my way to the deck.
Chaos. The captain was barking orders, yelling to the passengers to stay below, even as sea water poured across the deck. I lost my footing in the mad scramble, an elbow jabbed my head. I tore my knee on the rough deck boards as I fought to right myself and rise above the salty gush.
I felt no sting from my slashed knee, nor did I feel the burn of the rope as I caught hold of the closest mesh of rigging. Coughing and spitting, I pulled myself up instinctively, one hand over another. Up, up, until the water broke across my shins, and higher, out of reach of the sea's rough tongue.
I did not stop until there was nowhere else to go, and leaning my torso into the wind to steady myself. I wrapped both arms around the beam. I looped one leg over the lashing rope, one arm under the other leg, until I was bound in crisscrossing ropes. They rubbed against my shirt and across my wet skin with every fierce shudder of the ship, but when the wind was right my weight rested against the beam for a few seconds.
From this pained perch, I turned my head dizzily to see what was happening below. I could not bear to look for long. I cannot bear to remember every detail, though many of the sights still haunt me.
The surf rolled across the ship as if the deck were a strand of beach in high tide. Some of my fellow passengers were climbing; some were clinging to each other, unable to hoist themselves out of reach, gulping for air as they were clobbered by waves of water every few seconds. One woman jumped straight up with each crest. In another place, she would be laughing, playing at the seashore. Here, her face twisted in horror.
As they gave up the fight, bodies went limp and were battered about, a few lifted up and over the rails with each rhythmic wave. The silver hair of an old man flared in the water. A baby, tossed over the deck rail and back, like a doll in a careless child's game. A muscled man, shirtless and limp, rolled over and over in graceless somersaults.
I squeezed my eyes shut; began beseeching God.
A cannon's distant roar. A lifeline shot over our heads dropped into the rigging. Beneath me, the crew scrambled to secure the line before it slipped back into the sea.
I squinted and shook water off my face, straining to see as the shape of a small boat formed in the fog, inching closer to the crippled ship. Our first hero appeared as an angel from heaven manning this little boat; a dark-haired young American in a heavy raincoat. He was grabbing the line hand-over-hand, guiding the small boat over the rolling waves toward us.
As the lifeboat approached the ship, Captain Henry steadied himself on the lifeline directly below me. He turned and looked over his shoulder at the bodies floating and washed against the rails. He gazed up at the rigging; at his passengers, who had scampered up the ropes like rats escaping the wrath of the ship's cook.
Captain Henry shook his head. Water dripped from his chin, and I saw his jaw clench, again and again. He looked up, met my eyes and cringed. And then he was gone. Over the rail, into the ship's shadow.
When the lifeboat emerged inching back toward the shore in the gray light, Captain Henry was in it, with half a dozen passengers and crew. The boat bounced violently. Arms rose up like sea serpents, grabbing for a berth, but the crew beat them back. They kicked them away, falling into each other, until a wave caught the boat and spilled the whole lot of them into the churning sea.
Heads popped up, gasping, and spitting. Four or five men clung to the capsized boat and kicked toward shore. Captain Henry's face was among them.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Grandpa Henry's story ended here, not telling how they were finally rescued. Captain Thomas J Henry and crew shamelessly abandoned ship, leaving the immigrants to fend for themselves until help finally arrived. The following link is to a report published in 1907 that goes into greater detail about the disaster and the eventual rescue.
https://theneweraprojectdotcom1.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/sacshe-article-on-new-era.pdf
