“The Circus Is Coming!” Carnival memories in Biddeford
Marilyn Bean 17 Limerick’s Anne Carroll Moore
The children’s librarian
James Nalley 25 Portland’s Herbert Schonland Focus under pressure
James Nalley 29 Westbrook’s Rudy Vallée Crooner of the ages
James Nalley
James Nalley
A battle between cemeteries was fought in the local press
Brian Swartz
41 Celebrating Independence In Damariscotta & Newcastle
The nation’s 100th anniversary in 1876
Matthew Jude Barker
46 Shipbuilding In Bath
A railroad magnate builds a steamship
Brian Swartz 48 Waldoboro’s
Brian Swartz
Publisher Jim Burch
Editor Dennis Burch
Design & Layout
Liana Merdan
Field Representative
Don Plante
Contributing Writers
Matthew Jude Barker
Marilyn Bean
Charles Francis
John Murray
James Nalley
Brian Swartz
Discover Maine Magazine is distributed to town offices, chambers of commerce, financial institutions, fraternal organizations, barber shops, beauty salons, hospitals and medical offices, newsstands, grocery and convenience stores, hardware stores, lumber companies, motels, restaurants and other locations throughout this part of Maine.
RIt Makes No Never Mind
by James Nalley
egarding this month’s publication (i.e., pre-Halloween) and as the second of a two-parter from last month, here are several locations in this particular region of Maine where you might not necessarily be alone.
First, located at 45 Main St. in Kennebunk, the Kennebunk Inn was built in 1799 as the home of Phineas Cole and has since become and inn and tavern. Apparently, the spirit of a former nightwatchman, Silas Perkins, still roams the property. According to the Bangor Daily News, three mugs levitated off a shelf and hit a bartender in the head, in front of the previous owner. Meanwhile, Room 17 is known for paranormal activity. Most recently, a housekeeper was cleaning the room when the television turned on by itself. When the current owners invited a psychic, she identified a spirit, Sara, who stands on the main stairwell and greets visitors as they enter.
Second, there is the Wood Island Lighthouse in Biddeford. Due to its supposed hauntings, it has been visited by the New England Ghost Project and featured on the television show Ghost Adventures. Apparently, a fisherman named Howard Hobbs killed his
landlord, Fred Milliken, over unpaid rent. Distraught by his actions, Hobbs killed himself in the lighthouse. Since then, there have been reports of moans, locked doors mysteriously opening, and dark shadows at the top of the tower. The paranormal research team even found a distraught spirit repeating the phrase “I didn’t mean to...”
Third, located on the Gorham campus of the University of Southern Maine is Robie Andrews Hall. Built in the 1800s, there have been numerous stories of suicide and murder. For example, a girl hung herself after she became pregnant, and her boyfriend left her. Students report hearing strange noises in the attic and finding cold spots in the building. Some even report seeing a woman standing in the tower, even though it is sealed. The room next to the attic is no longer used, due to strange occurrences.
Finally, located at 115 Main St. in Freeport is the Jameson Tavern. Built in 1779, many people have seen ghosts walking throughout the property. In fact, two psychics have individually claimed to see a man wearing a top hat in the hallway. Both guests and employees have also seen a little girl’s
dress floating in the dining room. It is believed to be the ghost of Emily, a girl who lived in the house in the early 19th century but died in a fire in the attic.
On this note, let me close with the following jest: A man was walking down a lonely road at night, when a heavy downpour began. Since he could no longer see in front of him, he waited by a tree. As the rain fell harder, he saw headlights moving slowly toward him. Desperate for a ride, he noticed that the car had no doors but jumped in anyway. The heavy rain was deafening. Then, he turned to the driver’s side but realized that there was no driver. As the car neared a sharp bend, a hand reached in through the window and turned the wheel. Silently the hand disappeared. Paralyzed with fear, he watched the hand reappear at every turn. He finally jumped out of the car and ran into a local bar, where he shared his experience, shocking the customers. Just then, two men walked in, dripping wet. As they took off their rain gear, they pointed to the man and said, “Look! There’s the idiot who jumped into our car when we were pushing it in the rain!”
Why We Need Conservation Laws
Sea Mink fur was highly valued
by John Murray
The Abenaki hunter lay motionless atop the water-worn rocks. He had crept to this position in the predawn hours and had endured the chill of the ocean water as the waves splashed upon him. It was morning now, and his eyes scanned the water for movement of his prey. Suddenly, the dark head of a swimming animal emerged from the frothy surf of the ocean. As suddenly as it appeared, the animal quickly dove down into the depths of the water again. The Abenaki man was a seasoned hunter, and he knew what the animal would do next. Instinctively grasping his long spear with a tighter grip, he waited for the animal to emerge from the ocean. Moments later, the animal returned
to the surface of the wavy surf with a foraged clam in its mouth and quickly scampered up the water-slicked rocks to dine on its meal.
Having positioned himself near the remnants of empty clam shells scattered on top of the rocks, the Abenaki hunter knew this was the dining spot for the animal called “mousebeysoo,” which meant “wet thing.” Not moving a muscle to alert the mousebeysoo to his presence, the Abenaki hunter let the animal approach closer, then in a blink of an eye, the hunter sprung to his feet as if he was propelled upward by an invisible giant spring. In the same course of movement, the Abenaki hunter thrust his spear, and his aim was true.
His efforts through the successful hunt would help sustain his family with nourishment for many days. The tender meat of the mousebeysoo would be roasted over an open fire, and the dense fur would provide insulating warmth against the chill of the winter air. As the meat cooked over the crackling fire, the Abenaki hunter would retell the tale of his hunting exploits to his young son who listened intently. After the son grew into a man, he would also become a great hunter.
When the European settlers arrived in the region and encountered the animal known as “mousebeysoo,” the settlers called it a multitude of different names, including red otter, water mar-
ten, and fisher cat. Later, this species of animal would be first described in text by Sir Humphrey Gilbert, who noted that it had the appearance of a “fish like a greyhound dog.” This comparison to a fish and greyhound dog was most likely linked to the fact that the animal spent a considerable amount of time in the water of the ocean, but when it was on land it had a similar running stride as a greyhound dog. As the decades passed European settlers would also become familiar with the mink that lived alongside the inland waters of Maine. Recognizing the similarities in body shape and appearance between the animals, the inland animal was called a wood mink, and the coastal animal would be called a sea mink.
Although the wood mink and the sea mink were similar, there were noticeable differences between the two. Most notable was the size difference as the sea mink was a considerably larger (cont. on page 6)
Illustration of a Sea Mink by Shannon Murray
(cont. from page 5)
animal. There was also a difference in body color. The wood mink that resided along the inland waters had a black or dark brown color compared to the sea mink’s reddish brown color. Another difference was the amount of time the animals spent in the water. The inland wood mink would hunt primarily along the edges of the water, and would only venture into the water if it was in pursuit of prey. Water emersion time was quite different with the sea mink, which would spend considerable time in the ocean as it hunted for food, and nearly mimicked the behavior of an otter. There was also a noticeable difference in the range of the two animals. The inland wood mink was commonly found throughout the entire state of Maine, yet the sea mink resided mostly in the Gulf of Maine.
The first in-depth study of the two species was undertaken in 1911 by Frederic Brewster Loomis. Loomis
was a paleontologist who came to the conclusion that the negligible differences in the two animals prevented them from being classified as separate species. It was concluded that the larger size of the coastal sea mink was most likely due to a diet which was more nutritious. In the year 2000 another study disagreed with Loomis’s findings, stating that the significant difference in the body size of the sea mink was enough to make it a separate species. A year later, in 2001, this was again disputed in the scientific community. Finally, in 2007 another study, this one based upon the differences in the teeth between the two animals, concluded that they were indeed two separate species.
These disputes in the scientific studies were more complicated due to the fact that they were performed without having any living specimens of the sea mink because only partial skeletal remains exist. To further complicate the
research, there are no photographic images or intact remnants of fur from the sea mink, preventing modern DNA testing. This was because of the history of the European fur traders that acquired an intense interest in this species. With the larger size and reddish brown fur color of the sea mink, it rapidly became a valuable fur that was treasured in the European fur market. Hunters pursued the sea mink with aggression, and with nonexistent game laws during the 1700s and 1800s, the last sea mink in existence was presumed to have been harvested in 1880 near Jonesport. Today, the mink which was once referred to as the “wood mink” is still common throughout the state of Maine and many parts of North America. But the sea mink is now a distant memory of an extinct animal which no longer remains in the Gulf of Maine.
Blackbeard’s Lost Love
by Charles Francis
TThe haunting of Smuttynose
he first half of the eighteenth century is sometimes referred to as the Golden Age of Piracy, and of all the pirates who roamed the seas the one who struck the greatest fear into the hearts of merchantmen along the coast of North America was Blackbeard. Blackbeard, whose name was Edward Teach or possibly Thatch, was a hulking brute of a man who had little respect for his friends or even for the women who supposedly loved him. He once shot Israel Hands, who was supposed to be his best friend, in the knee, permanently crippling him. When some of his crew asked him why he had done it, he answered, “If I don’t kill a man every now and then, they forget who I am.”
As for the women who loved him, he married at least fourteen, one of whom was a fifteen-year-old Carolina girl. Tiring of them, he either killed them or left them scattered in various locations up and down the east coast and in England. One he is said to have left on the little Isles of Shoals island of Smuttynose. Supposedly, she was to guard some of his ill-gotten loot. That is the source of one of the most famous pirate treasure stories of the Downeast region, for, as the story goes, the girl pined away for her lost love and still, to this day, haunts the barren rocky isle with its crashing North Atlantic waves. Moreover, there is evidence that some of the notorious pirate’s loot was actually found on
Smuttynose.
For all his infamous glory as a buccaneer, Blackbeard had a relatively short career before he was killed by Lieutenant Robert Maynard. Maynard hung the pirate’s fearsomely bearded visage from the bowsprit of his British man-of-war, the Pearl. Teach’s career actually lasted just under five years, from 1712 to 1716. In that short span of time, he captured at least forty vessels, outfought a British warship, and connived with the governor of NorthCarolina so that, for a time, the pirate’s depredations had the stamp of legality. Edward Teach began his piratical career in the service of another pirate by the name of Benjamin Thornigold.
Thornigold, seeing that Teach was a natural leader, quickly made him one of his lieutenants. Then, in 1716, when Teach asked if he could take command of a merchantman they had just captured, Thornigold agreed. It was at this point that the career of Blackbeard the pirate really began.
Blackbeard’s biggest haul probably came when he invested the harbor of Charleston, South Carolina in early 1718. Altogether, he came away with some fifteen hundred pounds of the good citizens’ gold and silver. He then sailed to Bath, which was the seat of the governor of North Carolina. After some heavy-handed bribing, he succeeded in having Governor Charles Eden influence a Vice-Admiralty court to have him declared a privateer. It was at this point that he married his fifteen-yearold wife, with Eden conducting the ceremony. The record doesn’t state what happened to her but a few months later
the canny sea-robber was sailing north with his new love, who some believe he left to die on Smuttynose.
Smuttynose supposedly received its name because its barren surface resembles a dirty nose sticking into the Atlantic. Because it is one of the larger Maine islands of the Isles of Shoals — some are in New Hampshire — it offers a variety of places to bury something of value in its thin topsoil.
As the story goes, Blackbeard landed, buried his treasure, and left his new love with the admonition that she was not to reveal the site to anyone until he returned, which he never did. Local legend has it that the girl pined away, looking out to sea for the sails of Blackbeard’s ship. The legend also says that her spirit haunts Smuttynose and sometimes is seen on dark and storm-tossed days.
The reason Blackbeard never returned is that he was killed by a force
under the command of British Naval Lieutenant Robert Maynard. Maynard, who was stationed in Virginia, decided that Edward Teach had thumbed his nose at British sea supremacy one too many times. With the approval of Virginia’s royal governor, he took his much smaller force and went after Blackbeard in North Carolina waters, which, of course, he had no authority to violate. Finding Blackbeard’s little flotilla becalmed in a backwater and the pirate’s flagship actually aground, he attacked.
Ferocious fighting brought Maynard’s smaller ship almost broadside of Blackbeard. Expecting raking fire from Blackbeard’s ship, which had already killed twenty-nine of his force with a broadside, Maynard ordered his crew below decks, which was a good thing, for the pirate captain did just that. Then, Blackbeard, thinking most of the British dead, ordered his crew to board the (cont. on page 12)
(cont. from page 11)
seemingly stricken vessel. At this point Maynard and his marines attacked. The fighting was bloody and brutal, with Maynard and Blackbeard actually engaging each other.
Finally, when the smoke cleared, Blackbeard was dead and his disarrayed crew ready to surrender. Maynard had Blackbeard decapitated and his head hung from the bowsprit of his ship. Records indicate that the pirate only went down after receiving five
musket ball shots and more than twenty sword slashes.
The question remains, however, did Edward Teach, alias Blackbeard, actually bury treasure on Smuttynose Island off the coast of Maine, and leave one of his short-term loves there to care for it? He certainly had gold and silver from his venture at Charleston Harbor, and it is known that he sailed north with it in 1718.
In the early 1800s, Samuel Haley
built an expensive breakwater between his property on Smuttynose and nearby Malaga Island. It is an established fact that he paid for the breakwater with a tiny part of four bars of silver he found on his land. The bars were worth a small fortune. So just possibly there is something to the legend of the spirit of Blackbeard’s lost love haunting Smuttynose Island.
“The Circus Is Coming!”
Carnival memories in Biddeford
by Marilyn Bean
In the early part of the twentieth century, children everywhere would burst with delight upon hearing the news, “The circus is coming!” For weeks before the event, the newspaper would be filled with notices, and the town would be papered with posters touting its wonders — colorful depictions of trapeze artists and animal trainers pictured in their death-defying acts, acrobats and equestrians displaying their skills, clowns with their distinctive make-up, and the highlights of the circus — snarling lions and tigers and gaily caparisoned elephants.
Biddeford was not large enough to attract Barnum and Bailey (billed as The Greatest Show on Earth) but was often visited by Hagenbeck and Wal-
lace. The troupe would arrive by train, and were always greeted by a few spectators, excited at all the hustle and bustle and apparent chaos in the dim light of early morning. Old and young alike would marvel at how the well-trained elephants were utilized to move the heavy equipment. Seemingly in no time, however, they would be on their way to a large field on the outskirts of town to set up their tents and prepare for the eagerly awaited parade later in the day.
The parade itself was a spectacular event viewed by practically everyone in town. The rousing music of the band preceded their appearance at the head of the entourage, and, with their brightly colored uniforms and shining
instruments, they were always greeted with enthusiastic applause. Following the band were the aerialists, bowing and waving to the crowds, dozens of clowns either acting up, riding in tiny cars or throwing candy to the children, acrobats performing their feats atop some of the horses, lavishly decorated cages containing wild animals, with the star of the show, Clyde Beatty, the famous lion-tamer, striding alongside. The elephants, done with their manual labor, marched ponderously along, now decked out in colorful attire and accompanied by their handlers, often young women in sequined costumes. All in all, it was a marvelous sight that whetted one’s appetite for more, which, of course, was the whole intent.
At the circus ground itself, in addition to the regular shows under the big top, there were large tents where the caged animals could be seen. There were various exhibitions of what were then called “freaks” — midgets, giants, a bearded lady, and a tattooed man, to name but a few of the oddities of nature — and of course many games of chance and food stalls on the midway. After a few days the entire circus would re-board the train and move on to the next stop, leaving us all with great recollections of an exotic experience, wondering how anyone could acquire the necessary skills to perform on the high wire, or ride at breakneck speed on three horses, or enter a cage with six tigers and calm them into performing tricks. And after a while the memory would fade and we would have to wait for the next time the circus would come to town, to fill us once more with admiration and awe.
Corner of Main and North Streets in Saco. Item
Limerick’s Anne Carroll Moore
The children’s librarian
by James Nalley
Among the thousands of public libraries in the United States, the majority, if not all of them, include a devoted children’s section. To make them more welcoming to children, it is common to see, for example, child-sized furniture, computers with reading games, story times, summer reading programs, and enthusiastic librarians committed to children’s literature. However, around the turn of the 20th century, children were considered a nuisance in libraries, and they were often excluded until they were 14 years of age. This all changed after one librarian from Limerick, Maine, was asked to organize a children’s room at her alma mater.
Anne Carroll Moore was born on
July 12, 1871, in Limerick. She had seven older brothers and was the only surviving daughter in the family. Moore eventually attended Limerick Academy and continued to Bradford Academy, a two-year college in Massachusetts. Being close to her father, she hoped to follow in his footsteps and become a lawyer, despite the gender biases of the time. However, such plans became unattainable when both of her parents died from influenza in January 1892 and her sister-in-law died in childbirth just two months later. She then spent several years helping her widowed brother raise his two children. By that time, the well-read Moore had formed her outlook on life, based on her interesting background. For ex(cont. on page 18)
Anne Carroll Moore
(cont. from page 17)
ample, according to Jill Lepore in The New Yorker, “She had a horse named Pocahontas, a father who read to her from Aesop’s Fables, and a grandmother with no small fondness for Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Annie, whose taste ran to Little Women, was an avid reader and a runt.” In 1895, after her brother suggested that she consider the emerging profession of librarian, Moore applied to the State Library School in Albany, New York. Although she was rejected, due to a lack of certain educational requirements, she applied to the one-year program at the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn and was accepted.
Meanwhile, libraries were emerging all over the country. In fact, between 1881 and 1917, Andrew Carnegie underwrote the construction of more than 1,600 public libraries. However, as stated by Lepore, “children were routinely turned away, because they needed to be protected from morally corrupt-
ing books, especially novels.” In most cases, they had to be 14 years of age, with some libraries, such as the Boston Public Library, requiring a minimum age of 16. “Even if you got inside, the librarians would shush you, carping about how the ‘young fry’ read nothing but ‘trash’ such as Scott, Cooper, and Dickens.”
In 1894, the Milwaukee Public Library’s Lutie Stearns published its Report on the Reading of the Young, which raised the following question: What if libraries were to collect special books for children, create separate rooms, and staff them with librarians who actually liked children? In 1896, Moore accepted an offer to organize a children’s room at the Pratt Institute.
As part of her research, Moore visited various kindergartens, toured nearby ethnic neighborhoods, and interviewed children on the street. Then, as stated by V.A. Walter in the School Library Jour-
nal, she “set out to create a welcoming space for children with child-sized furniture, open stacks, story times, quality juvenile literature, and perhaps most importantly, librarians who enjoyed working with children.” When Moore opened her children’s room, “it drew a line of children circling the block.” Moore remained at the Pratt Institute’s library for the next 10 years.
Based on her success, in 1906, Moore moved to the New York Public Library (NYPL) as the new superintendent in charge of children’s programming at all NYPL branches. She also oversaw the Central Children’s Room, which opened in 1911. According to Lepore, this room “became a pint-sized paradise, with pots of pansies and oak tables and coveted window seats, so low to the floor that even the shortest legs didn’t dangle.” In her first two years, she “organized 200 story hours, compiled a list of 2,500 standard ti-
tles in children’s literature, and even won the right to grant borrowing privileges to children. By 1913, children’s books accounted for one-third of all the volumes borrowed from New York’s branch libraries.” Moreover, she “abolished age restrictions” and took down the “Silence!” signs and replaced them with framed prints of children’s book illustrators. She also provided every library with a big black ledger, believing that if you could sign your name, then you could borrow a book. Such signatures acknowledged the following pledge: “When I write my name in this book, I promise to take good care of the books I use in the Library and at home, and to obey the rules of the Library.”
During Moore’s tenure, she assumed great power, despite working in a city filled with publishers. As stated by Lepore, “She never lacked for an opinion. ‘Dull in a new way,’ she labeled books that she despised. When, in 1938, William R. Scott brought her copies of his new books, tricked out with pop-ups,
bells, and buttons, Moore snapped, ‘Truck! Mr. Scott. They are truck!’ Her verdict, not any editor’s, not any bookseller’s, sealed a book’s fate. She even kept a rubber stamp at her desk that she used liberally: ‘Not recommended for purchase by expert.’ The end.”
From 1924 to 1930, Moore served as the children’s book reviewer for the New York Herald Tribune, and published a monthly column titled, The Children’s Bookshop. According to one review, Moore called A.A. Milne’s The House at Pooh Corner (1928) “a nonsense story in the best tradition of the nursery.” In the 1940s, she continued to publicly despise certain works, such as Goodnight Moon (1947) by Margaret Wise Brown, which significantly impacted its initial sales. However, Moore met her match with E.B. White and his children’s classic Stuart Little (1945). Although Moore had initially encouraged White to write the book, she was critical after reading its final draft. She (cont. on page 20
(cont. from page 19)
even wrote letters to White, his wife, and the children’s editor at Harpers, urging the publisher to not release it. Meanwhile, The New York Times stated the following: “To say that Stuart Little is one of the best children’s books published this year is very modest praise for a writer of his talent.”
According to White, he fell asleep on a train and “dreamed of a small character who had the features of a mouse, was nicely dressed, courageous, and questing.” Based on this admission, Moore also had an imaginary friend. According to Lepore, “I have brought someone with me,” she would tell children, as she fished out of her handbag a wooden doll called ‘Nicholas Knickerbocker.’ She even had letterhead made for him. ‘I’m the sorriest little Dutch boy you ever knew,’ she once wrote, signing herself ‘Nicholas,’ in a letter. Eventually, when Moore forgot Nicholas in a taxi, her colleagues did
not mourn the loss.” She did, however, write about him in her book Nicholas:
A Manhattan Christmas Story. Despite such instances, she was credited for introducing writers, such as Beatrix Potter (The Tale of Peter Rabbit) to the American public, after her tour of libraries in England and France. She also developed a set of standards called The Four Respects: 1) Respect
for children (She wanted children to be treated as individuals); 2) Respect for children’s books (She believed that such books should be well-written and factually accurate); 3) Respect for fellow workers (She insisted that the children’s library be viewed as an integral and equal part of the complete library); and 4) Respect for children’s librarians (She felt that the profession must recognize children’s librarianship as a specialty).
In 1941, Moore retired at the age of 70, after 35 years of service. She remained active as a writer, although her influence waned from her earlier days as a feisty reviewer. She died on January 20, 1861, at the age of 89, and was buried at Hillside Cemetery in Limerick. Although her personality sometimes got in the way, her influences in public libraries and their support for children and children’s literature are still seen today.
Moore at the New York Public Library in 1914
The th ing about eye disease is, you may n o t know you have it. Some conditions are asymptomatic, and by the time symptoms do present we’re left with fewer options. An annual examination at GFVC can ensure that we diagnose any latent disease with cutting-edge technology. We’ll also check your vision and adjust your prescription. And while you’re here, you can check out the latest designer frames.
Portland’s Herbert Schonland
by James Nalley
From November 12 to 15, 1942, the Battle of Guadalcanal occurred between Allied and Imperial Japanese forces during the monthslong campaign in the Solomon Islands. This battle consisted of combined air and sea engagements aimed at preventing the Japanese from transporting approximately 7,000 infantry troops to the island of Guadalcanal. Both sides lost numerous ships in two extremely destructive surface engagements at night. In fact, the only two U.S. Navy admirals to be killed in a surface engagement during the war were lost in this battle. Meanwhile, a Portland-born commander on the U.S.S. San Francisco (CA-38) was working through the night to save
Focus under pressure
his sinking ship.
Herbert Emery Schonland was born in Portland on September 7, 1900. After being appointed to the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland, Schonland graduated as an ensign in June 1925. His first sea-duty assignment was on the U.S.S. Utah, after which he was transferred to the U.S.S. Lawrence. In June 1928, he was promoted to lieutenant junior grade and assigned to two different submarine tenders. Such vessels were stationed in remote areas of the oceans to service submarines. Their services included providing fuel, potable water, and spare parts as well as performing minor repairs.
Following instruction at the Naval (cont. on page 26)
Lieutenant Junior Grade Schonland in 1935
(cont. from page 25)
Torpedo Station in Newport, Rhode Island, from 1932 to 1934, Schonland was assigned to the U.S.S. Milwaukee, while also serving as the Torpedo Repair Officer of Cruiser Division Three, which was an active component of the U.S. Pacific Fleet based in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. Over the next few years, Schonland made his way up the ranks in usual fashion. For example, according to the U.S. Naval History and Heritage Command, “After transferring to the U.S.S. Argonne in July 1935, he was promoted to lieutenant in May 1936. Then, in June 1937, he became an instructor at the Naval Training Station in Newport, Rhode Island. He was eventually promoted to lieutenant commander in July 1941 and to commander in August 1942.” However, his actions as a commander on the San Francisco would save the lives of more than 800 crewmen.
After the attack by the Japanese on
Pearl Harbor in December 1941, the U.S. Navy lost four battleships, along with numerous cruisers, destroyers, and aircraft that were severely damaged. Surprisingly, the San Francisco, which was awaiting overhauling and cleaning, was neither bombed nor damaged in the attack. As a result, work resumed to make the ship seaworthy and combat ready. On January 8, 1942, the San Francisco joined various task forces in the Pacific, including those near the Gilbert and Marshall Islands and the Solomon Islands. In October of the same year, tension was building around Guadalcanal, the principal island in the Solomons. On October 20, the San Francisco, along with the U.S.S. Chester and U.S.S. Helena, was heading back to Espiritu Santo in the archipelago of New Hebrides when the Chester was hit by submarine torpedoes. Fortunately, the Helena and San Francisco both missed torpedo hits by less than
1,000 yards. On October 30, Rear Admiral Daniel Callaghan, the commanding officer of the San Francisco when the United States entered the war, returned to the ship, and raised his flag as Commander of Task Group 64.4. and Task Force 65.
On November 12, a total of 21 enemy planes attacked the task group. That afternoon, a Japanese torpedo bomber dropped its torpedo off the San Francisco’s starboard side. Although the torpedo missed, the plane crashed into the ship’s control aft and plunged over the port side. However, control aft was demolished and 15 men were killed, with one missing. In addition, the anti-aircraft director and radar were put out of commission. At 1:20 a.m. on November 13, a Japanese naval force was discovered, after which Rear Admiral Callaghan’s task group went to intercept. At 2 a.m., after the San Francisco trained her guns on the Kirishima, she
became of the target of an enemy battleship, cruiser, and destroyer. Although the ensuing attack knocked out the San Francisco’s starboard battery, her main battery continued its fire against the enemy. Subsequently, the navigation bridge took a direct hit. As stated by the U.S. Naval History and Heritage Command, “Rear Admiral Callaghan and the ship’s captain, Cassin Young, were among those killed, leaving Commander Schonland as senior surviving officer. However, believing that his own efforts were needed to keep the ship ‘afloat and right-side up,’ Schonland ordered Lieutenant Commander Bruce McCandless to remain at the conn.” By that time, the ship had taken 85 hits more than five inches above the water line. Meanwhile, steering and engine control were lost, and all communications were dead.
At a key point during the effort to save the ship from sinking, Schonland
realized that the pumps were inadequate for removing the water, but that the vessel had much higher-quality bilge pumps. As a result, he arranged for the bilge pumps to pump at full capacity, after which he opened the hatches to the lower decks. This action lowered the ship’s center of gravity, thus increasing its stability and saving
her entire crew. Soon after, the enemy ceased fire, allowing the San Francisco to head eastward along the northern coast of Guadalcanal. A total of 77 sailors, including Rear Admiral Callaghan and Captain Young, were killed, with 105 wounded and four missing.
For the ship’s actions in the decisive battle, the San Francisco received (cont. on page 28)
The U.S.S. San Francisco (center) after being hit by a Japanese plane in the Battle of Guadalcanal
(cont. from page 27)
the Presidential Unit Citation, which is awarded to units of the U.S. forces for their “extraordinary heroism in actions against enemy forces on or after December 7, 1941.” For his efforts to save the San Francisco from sinking, Schonland was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. As stated in his citation, “In water waist deep, he carried on his efforts in darkness illuminated only by hand lanterns until the water in the flooded compartments had been drained and pumped off, and watertight integrity had again been restored. His personal valor and devotion to duty at great peril to his own life were instrumental in bringing his ship back to port under her own power.” Schonland was one of the first Medal of Honor winners in World War II and the first to receive the award for damage control.
In the fall of 1943, Schonland was assigned to staff duty at the Naval Training School in Philadelphia, Penn-
sylvania, and in early 1944, he fittingly became the damage control instructor at the Naval Training School in San Francisco, California. In 1944, Schonland was promoted to captain. He retired as a rear admiral on January 1, 1947, with a medical disability because of an eye injury suffered in combat. After retirement, he taught for several years at the University of Santa Clara and was the principal of the Drew School in San Francisco before moving to New London, Connecticut.
On November 13, 1984, he died at the age of 84 and was subsequently buried at Arlington National Cemetery in Arlington, Virginia, not far from the Tomb of the Unknowns. As for his legacy, a hall at the naval base in Newport, Rhode Island, is named in his honor. Naturally, the building houses the Surface Warfare Officers Damage Control School.
Westbrook’s Rudy Vallée Crooner of the ages
by James Nalley
In the years before the electronic microphone had become a common fixture in the performance halls of the 1920s, every professional singer, regardless of musical style or genre, was required to project his or her voice unaided over the musical accompaniment. In some cases, this meant projecting over a forty-piece band into a hall that sat more than a thousand people. In this regard it has been stated that popular singers such as Frank Sinatra or Bing Crosby would have never had such success if they had been born just a decade earlier since they would have been required to not only sing well but sing loudly. However, one singer, who grew up in Westbrook, after hastily volunteer-
ing to sing the vocals at a popular club in New York, grabbed a megaphone to amplify his voice. Despite his overall vocal weakness, his actions paved the way for the so-called crooners of the next generation, and he eventually became one of the twentieth century’s first superstars and teen idols.
Hubert Prior Vallée was born in Island Pond, Vermont, on July 28, 1901. The son of French Canadians Charles Alphonse and Catherine Lynch Vallée. Vallée grew up in Westbrook, surrounded by music and a love for entertainment. After playing the drums in his high school band, Vallée picked up the saxophone and clarinet and eventually performed on these instruments in (cont. on page 30)
Vallée in the late 1920s
(cont. from page 29)
various gigs throughout New England. In March of 1917, after the entry of the United States into World War I, Vallée traveled to Portland in order to enlist in the U.S. Navy. Since he was only fifteen years of age, Vallée falsified his application and changed his birthdate to July 28, 1899. However, just forty-one days after enlistment, the higher authorities realized his real age and he was discharged from the Naval Training Station in Newport, Rhode Island in May of 1917.
After graduating high school, Vallée went on to the University of Maine, where he continued to immerse himself in music. In fact, Vallée’s incessant playing of saxophonist Rudy Wiedoeft’s recordings had earned him the nickname of “Rudy,” which eventually became his stage name. After a twoyear stint as a member of the house band at the prestigious Savoy Hotel in
London, England, Vallée returned to the United States where he transferred to Yale University and eventually grad-
uated with a degree in philosophy. While his other classmates went on to graduate study or found employment, Vallée formed his own band, Rudy Vallée and the Connecticut Yankees. This band consisted of two violins, two saxophones, a piano, a banjo, and drums. With this band, Vallée’s intentions were to perform jazz numbers, much like he did back at the Savoy in London. But the band had a dire need for a vocalist. Although he had a thin and wavering tenor voice, Vallée reluctantly began singing ballads and projecting his voice through a hand-held megaphone. The combination of his sweet style of singing and good looks garnered significant attention from the masses, especially the younger women. In 1928 Vallée and his band signed a recording contract, and during the following year they were given their first radio show, The Fleischmann’s Yeast
Valleé megaphone crafted between shows at the New York Palace in May 1929
This show, nationally known as the “Rudy Vallée Hour,” was the first radio talk show in history. According to the biography on Rudy Vallée’s official website:
“It was a live variety revue and Rudy’s guests were a mixture of the famous and the unknown. He was the first to invite black musicians to be on his show, and in appreciation, artists such as Louis Armstrong and Josephine Baker invited Rudy to their clubs in Harlem. Among his blunders: turning down the Andrew Sisters and believing that Barbra Streisand had no talent.”
Based on the popularity of the radio show and Vallée’s affordably priced song issues, such as “The Stein Song” in 1930, he went on to become one of the most successful recording artists at the time. This was a major feat, especially since the Great Depression had caused an industry-wide drop in sales. Throughout the 1930s, the flappers of the era followed Vallée in droves and (cont. on page 32)
(cont. from page 31)
his live appearances were generally sold out. In fact, even if his voice did not project in halls that were not yet equipped with electronic microphones, his screaming fans were still fulfilled.
During World War II, Vallée enlisted in the U.S. Coast Guard in order to help direct the forty-piece 11th District Coast Guard Band. Despite the band’s success, Vallée was placed on the inactive list in 1944. His final hit recording would come in 1943 with the reissue of his 1928 version of “As Time Goes By.” Throughout the next forty years, Vallée composed a number of hit songs and remained a fixture on television, films, and on Broadway, where his 1961 role of J.B. Biggley in How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying was a smash hit. In the 1960s, Vallée even appeared in the Batman television series as Lord Marmaduke Ffogg.
Over the next two decades, Vallée toured with a one-man theater show
and even opened for the Village People during the height of their success. Meanwhile, as busy as his life was, he never forgot his Maine roots. He maintained an estate at Kezar Lake in the beautiful mountains of western Maine. On July 3, 1986 Vallée died at his home in Los Angeles, California, after a bout with cancer. Fittingly, he was buried at St. Hyacinth’s Cemetery in Westbrook.
As stated earlier, during Vallée’s college years, he had the ultimate respect for saxophonist Rudy Wiedoeft. Through certain connections, Vallée eventually met his idol, and the two men developed a close friendship that lasted until Wiedoeft’s death in 1940. One of Vallée’s saxophones, which once belonged to Wiedoeft, was eventually sold to an attorney in Little Rock, Arkansas, who, in turn, presented the saxophone as a gift to the Governor of Arkansas — Bill Clinton.
Rudy Vallée, ca. 1929
U.S. Navy Veteran And Geologist Robert Dale From Antartica to Woolwich
by James Nalley
In 1959, a group of scientists flew to some remote, unexplored, mountain ranges and ice sheets in Antarctica to conduct experiments and compile scientific data. Known as Operation Deep Freeze (specifically, Operation Deep Freeze V), the United States, along with New Zealand, the United Kingdom, France, Japan, Norway, Chile, Argentina, and the U.S.S.R., agreed to go to the least explored area on Earth to advance knowledge of Antarctic hydrography (the branch of science that deals with the measurements/descriptions of physical features of oceans/seas), weather systems, glacial movements, and ma-
rine life. The pilot and officer-in-charge was a U.S. Navy Lieutenant Commander, who eventually mapped hundreds of thousands of square miles and developed new, improved techniques in polar navigation.
Robert “Bob” Dale was born in Colton, California, on October 14, 1924. In 1942, at the age of 18, Dale entered Flight Preparatory School (one of four training programs for U.S. Navy aviators) at the University of Texas at Austin. From there, he went on to Primary Flight Training at Naval Air Station Bunker Hill, Indiana. He earned his wings as a U.S. Naval Aviator in
1945 and was stationed at Naval Air Station Pensacola, Florida, flying the Chance-Vought F4U Corsair.
From 1946 to 1949, Dale (as a Lieutenant (J.G.) USNR) was assigned as a flight instructor to Cory Field in Pensacola. According to his naval record, “He trained pilots in formation flying and aerobatics, including loops, rolls, spins, precision maneuvers, takeoffs, landings and instrument control reading.” During the Korean War (19501953), Dale (as a Lieutenant, USNR) learned to speak Russian, and was certified as an interpreter. Later in his career, he would teach Russian to sci-
entists while stationed in Antarctica.
In 1953, during the buildup of the Cold War, Dale was stationed at Naval Air Station North Island San Diego, California, as part of the Heavy Attack Squadron VC-6. There, he flew the Savage AJ-1, the first capable aircraft to deliver an atomic bomb via aircraft carrier. In the summer of 1953, Dale was transferred to the Naval Air Facility in Atsugi, Japan, where he flew classified missions and practiced bombing runs. According to the book North American AJ Savage (1992) by Steve Ginter, “Nuclear weapons were not on board during these training missions. However, the Savage was equipped with a dummy bomb to simulate the weight.” In 1995, Dale received a commission with the U.S. “Regular” Navy, as a Lieutenant Commander.
While still in the U.S. Navy, Dale received his bachelor’s degree from George Washington University in 1959,
majoring in geology. Subsequently, Count Geza Teleki, a geology professor at the university, encouraged Dale to take part in the U.S. Antarctic Research Program (USARP). Founded the same year, it managed (and still manages) all scientific research related logistics in Antarctica. Dale’s involvement with this organization would change the course of his career.
As a Lieutenant Commander in the U.S. Navy and as part of Operation Deep Freeze V (1950-1960), Dale was the officer-in-charge of Air Development Squadron Six at McMurdo Station, an Antarctic research station on the southern tip of Ross Island. As stated earlier, he was part of a team that flew scientists to remote, unexplored areas to collect samples, conduct experiments, and compile scientific data. In February 1960, Dale and his crew evacuated the USARP Victoria Land Traverse on Rennick Glacier and con-
(cont. on page 36)
Bob Dale at McMurdo Station in 1972
(Courtesy of the Bob Dale Collection of the Antartican Society)
(cont. from page 35)
ducted aerial photographic reconnaissance to Rennick Bay (on the coast) before returning to McMurdo Station.
During Operation Deep Freeze V, Dale and his squadron carried out the first flight of land-based aircraft from Christchurch, New Zealand, to Antarctica. He also carried out the longest logistics flight in Antarctic history, mapped hundreds of thousands of square miles of Antarctica, and helped improve polar navigation. For his efforts, Dale Glacier was named after him by the Advisory Committee on Antarctic Names in 1963.
Upon retiring from the U.S. Navy in 1966 (as a Commander, USN), Dale continued his Antarctic explorations, as a representative of the National Science Foundation (NSF). He served in this position from 1967 to 1975. Within that time, Dale was extremely active. For example, according to the article “International Weddell Sea Oceanograph-
ic Expedition-1968” in the Antarctic Journal of the United States (1968) by Dale himself, “The plan was to outfit the U.S. Coast Guard’s USS Glacier icebreaker with trawling winches and other oceanographic equipment. This would be the first comprehensive oceanographic survey of the Weddell Sea, supporting Norwegian scientists by placing an array of underwater current meters on the continental slope to measure the flow of Antarctic bottom water (the lowermost water mass in a body of water).”
During Operation Deep Freeze 1968-1969, Dale oversaw the construction and launch of a floating scientific laboratory, the research vessel Hero. Moreover, Dale underwent sea trials off the coast of Maine, where the vessel was built. He would spend the remainder of his career in Antarctica aboard the Hero. As Dale prepared for Operation Deep Freeze 1970-1971, he
learned of a volcanic eruption on Deception Island (an island in the South Shetlands Islands near the Antarctic Peninsula). Dale immediately assembled a team of scientists who then compiled data on previous eruptions, after which they departed for Deception Island to study the event.
As interest from the public grew regarding the discoveries in the Antarctic region, Dale, as an NSF representative, became an important liaison. For instance, during Operation Deep Freeze 1971-1972, National Geographic Magazine was on board the Hero, writing a story about Palmer Station, Deception Island, and the Hero itself. As stated in National Geographic Magazine article “Antarctica’s Nearer Side” 1971) by Samuel Matthews, “Dale mentioned the following while talking to a new batch of scientists that just arrived to Palmer Station: ‘Please don’t go up to the glacier without a guide, you can fall into a
crevasse before you know it’s there. We are here to help you in your research in any way, but we’d rather not have to do it with rescue ropes and a stretcher.’” Even after hearing this statement, the author of the article, Samuel Matthews, fell into a crevasse and had to be rescued by glaciologists Olav Orheim and Terence Hughes.
Interestingly, during the sea trials of the Hero, Dale fell in love with the coast of Maine. After finding a forested island in Hockomock Bay in Woolwich, he hand-built a self-sustaining, solar powered log home. While living on the island, Dale and his wife, Jean Parker, grew their own food and lived off-the-grid.
In 1986, Dale joined the newly formed Maine chapter of the Veterans for Peace organization and was highly involved in activism. In 1988, Dale traveled to Canton, China, where in 1953, he flew simulated atomic bomb
attacks from Japan, which included Canton as his actual target. As stated in the article “Hudner Protest – A Veteran’s Perspective” (2017) by Dale himself, “During this journey, I came to terms with my past and realized that peace was my passion.”
On June 22, 2020, Dale died at his
home in Brunswick. He was 95 years of age. As per his request, his ashes were spread over Hockomock Island. As for his legacy, aside from his long service in Antarctica and the Dale Glacier namesake, Dale donated more than 2,000 slides to The Antarctican Society. The slides have since been digitized. The research vessel HERO in 1969 (courtesy of the Bob Dale Collection of the Antartican Society)
Wiscasset’s 1874 Cemetery War
by Brian Swartz
Abrief cemetery war raged in Wiscasset in spring 1874.
Birch Point Cemetery “was the burial ground of the southeast school district,” according to Wiscasset historian Fannie S. Chase. Sometime during the early1850s, Birch Point residents planted trees to improve the cemetery’s appearance; among the people supporting the effort were local women who helped buy the trees and then tended them as the years passed.
“The evergreen and other trees grew finely and were an ornament to the yard,” reported a Lincoln County News op-ed. Then one day in late May 1874 “an aged and infirm lady” who had fi-
nancially supported the tree planting some twenty years earlier visited Birch Point Cemetery, about three-quarters of an acre in size. She “was shocked to discover the destruction of all the trees on one side of the burial ground. More than forty trees had been destroyed and entirely taken away, and the roots of most of them taken too,” the op-ed stated.
The tree-cutting culprit was Joseph Wood, who in 1872 had established Woodlawn Cemetery, a five-acre plot that ultimately “entirely enclosed” the fence-bordered Birch Point Cemetery, Chase noted.
Word about the tree cutting spread
fast through Wiscasset in spring 1874, and people who had beautified Birch Point Cemetery in the 1850s were outraged! “This was done by one [Wood] who boasts of his descent from the ancient aristocracy of Wiscasset!” exclaimed the op-ed, signed “By Request of Many Citizens.
“If he [Wood] had possessed good common sense, I think he would not have meddled” with the trees, which “in the judgment of the community … would have added to the value of his Woodlawn Cemetery speculation,” wrote the unidentified Wiscasset resident, admitting that Wood had a “new road built last season [1873] across
Birch Point and by the Cemetery.” Wood did not take the disapproval lying down. With his quill pen in hand on June 17, he responded to his critics via the Lincoln County News. “A cemetery is certainly not a matter to quarrel over,” Wood stated. “The feelings suggested by such a place are not … such as would lead one to malign his neighbor.”
He envisioned Woodlawn Cemetery as a place of natural beauty, not on the scale of “Mount Auburn Cemetery” established in Massachusetts in 1835, but as a place that would “embellish and beautify the resting places of our dead. It has been my aim to lay out a pretty, rural cemetery … amply provided with avenues, paths, and reservations for shrubbery. “Dilapidated fences, crumbling tombs, prostate headstones, and sunken graves, in desolate ‘graveyards’ overgrown with long grasses and flaunting weeds, are now rare sights in
New England villages,” but in some towns “the old-fashioned ‘graveyard’ in all its hideousness is still found,” Wood wrote.
The initial op-ed published by the LCN had proved troublingly personal. “In Heaven’s name, we hope he will not molest the balance of the trees in the old cemetery,” the letter writer stated. “If he does, the town authorities will be justified in sending him to the Insane Asylum.” Wood swiped at the writer, whose identity he knew. “As to the ungentlemanly personality contained in the letter, I shall indulge in no blackguardism in return, although the one who wrote it knows full well that his personal history, liberal disposition, rare social qualities, and filial affection, affords ample material,” Wood growled. “I am content to leave the question of ‘sanity,’ ‘gumption,’ and ‘common sense,’ to be decided by my fellow-townsmen and the ‘town au-
thorities,’” he snarled.
In June 1874 Woodlawn Cemetery then surrounded the Birch Point Cemetery and “the Thomas Williamson graveyard” abutting the Birch Point graveyard on its south side. Apparently believing that Wiscasset residents were more than willing to die to be buried at Woodlawn, the original op-ed writer accused Wood of developing his cemetery on “speculation.” “I am of the opinion that there are few projects so unpromising as the establishment of a rural cemetery in a village of two thousand inhabitants, already provided with two public burial-grounds of ample size,” Wood wrote. If he could sell “a sufficient number of lots to tastefully adorn and grade these [Woodlawn] grounds, I shall feel amply rewarded for the expenditure of money and time” invested so far in his project.
Wiscasset selectmen had asked Wood “to remove, at my own expense, (cont. on page 40)
(cont. from page 39)
an unsightly stone wall” along the Birch Point Cemetery boundary and had issued him “a written permit” to extend the older cemetery’s “avenues” into Woodland Cemetery. While “grading the lots” near where the stone wall was removed, workers had discovered that “the partial removal of a range of fir trees was necessitated.”
The May 1874 tree cutting took place while supervised by “no less than four persons” owning lots on either side of the removed stone wall, Wood noted.
The op-ed writer appeared to be behind the Woodlawn eight ball. Already many “of our best citizens” had “selected and improved lots” in the new cemetery, Wood reported. He hired workers to build a fence around Woodlawn; construction started on June 5, 1874, and ended on October 14.
Celebrating Independence In Damariscotta & Newcastle
The nation’s 100th anniversary in 1876
by Matthew Jude Barker
The twin towns of Damariscotta and Newcastle in Lincoln County celebrated the Centennial of the United States in 1876 like so many other American communities with parades, historical addresses, boat races, brass bands, and, of course, fireworks.
After a day of showers, the day before, July 4th, 1876 proved to be a beautiful New England summer day, with clear skies and a cool breeze that was perfect weather for all the festivities planned for the day in Damariscotta and Newcastle. “A salute of thirteen guns accompanied by the ringing of the church bells ushered in the day,” a pamphlet published on the day later described it. By 6:30 a.m. a parade had already formed consisting of bass, snare drum, and fife players, accompanied by the “American, Irish, Chinese and Negro...represented in habiliments of extraordinary design” that were “one of the most laughable features of the day,” as one writer declared. Soon after this parade, boats of all sizes lined up at Cottrill’s Wharf, and a great race was
underway. The winning boat was the Boxer, with a crew of five and a winning time of 12 minutes, 37 seconds.
A procession then formed that consisted of many local bands, including the Cornet Band and the Triumph Engine Company of Waldoboro, the Damariscotta Band, and the Taniscot Engine Company Band of Newcastle. The bands wound their way through the streets as they passed homes and buildings decorated with flags galore. They were asked to play many times throughout the day to cheering crowds.
A little after 2 p.m. an assembly formed at Lincoln Hall and William H. Hilton, Esquire, called the crowd to order. An overture by the Damariscotta Band soon followed. A prayer was read by the Reverend H. Crocker, E. E. Dunbar read the Declaration of Independence, and General James A. Hall stepped forward to give “a brief Historic Sketch of Newcastle and Damariscotta.”
General Hall described the history of the area from 1560, when early
explorers visited the outlying islands of Damariscove and Monhegan, to the settlement of the towns in the 1630s, to the arrival of Irish immigrants James Kavanagh and Matthew Cottrill, who turned the area into a great shipbuilding port in the 1790s, through all the wars, activities, and religious and social life of the area up until 1876. He also mentioned the arrival of the Scots-Irish and their chief representative, Col. James Cargill, a “good Indian fighter.”
The rest of the day consisted of many eclectic events, including the “greased pole and pig,” the “trial of fire engines,” a stirring drama, Bread on the Waters, and a grand musical finale by the local bands. Assorted displays of firecrackers and fireworks echoed long into the night.
In the weeks afterward, the twin towns decided to print a pamphlet on the day’s events. The pamphlet nicely summed up the great July 4th of 1876, America’s 100th birthday, by declaring, “The Gor-lorious Centennial Fourth has come and gone, with its sunshine (cont. on page 42)
(cont. from page 41)
and rain, snap-crackers and tin-horns, over-eating and under-sleeping, and, withal, its general odor of gun-powder and American patriotism.” It ended the wrap-up of the historic day with the words of General Hall, words many of the descendants of the participants of that day in 1876 could only know the truth of:
“May you all live long and prosper, and one hundred years from to-day may our descendants gather here, and reap the blessings of something we may have accomplished for good while upon the stage of life.”
Fiske House in Damariscotta.
Shipbuilding In Bath
A railroad magnate builds a steamship
by Brian Swartz
Considered “the Queen City of the Kennebec” and called the “City of Ships,” Bath dominated one of “Maine’s four wood shipbuilding districts” in the 19th century, English émigré, naval architect, and onetime Bath resident William Armstrong Fairburn wrote decades later in his epic Merchant Sail. He variously described Bath’s district as stretching either “from Freeport — on Casco Bay” or from Brunswick and Topsham on the lower Androscoggin River, up the Kennebec River to Waterville, and east to Waldoboro and Bristol on Muscongus Bay.
In July 1862, a visitor enjoying “a leisure day in Bath” walked through the city’s “heretofore silent but now ac-
tive shipyards.” Those yards had built and launched extensive tonnage from 1852 to 1855. But the 1857 Depression had stifled demand for new ships, and construction had significantly slowed during the Civil War’s first full year. “Ships are not doing a heavily paying business,” the visitor commented.
But on this pleasant day he noticed “there are on the stocks, in different stages of progress towards completion, no less than twelve vessels, all within” the city limits. Plus, C. V. Minott, Esq., was building “one ship of about 800 tons” in adjacent Phippsburg.
What had changed to spur such copious shipbuilding? “The Bath shipbuilders … look through and beyond
the gloom of the hour,” the visitor explained. They “look forward to a subdued rebellion, a triumphant country, a restored Union.” The Civil War “must have an end; and of the glorious result of that ending they allow themselves to entertain no doubts.”
The vessels being built at Bath included ten full-rigged ships ranging in size from 800 to 1,000 tons and a 300ton brig, the last being constructed by Johnson Rideout, “the ‘Shipbuilding King’ of Maine.” He had previously “built and launched nearly if not quite seventy vessels, some of them of enormous proportions” the visitor commented.
The twelfth vessel was the 500-ton
steamer being built “by Oliver Moses, Esq., one of the most enterprising businessmen of the State.” Also, the Androscoggin Railroad president, he sensed that steamships were the future, able to move under power where wind and waves might delay sailing ships.
The as-yet-unnamed steamer would be 165 feet long, 25 feet wide, and 19 feet deep. Drawing 12 feet, she would have two decks, “with two houses upon the upper deck.” The steamer would be a “sidewheeler” equipped with paddlewheels to port and starboard. Each paddlewheel would be 10 feet in diameter. To power the paddlewheels, Moses installed “a boiler 28 feet long,” with a “shell 11 feet [in diameter], with 16 flues.” Under construction at the Atlantic Works in East Boston, the boiler would provide steam to two engines with 30-inch cylinders affording “30 inches stroke.”
The engines could spin the paddlewheels 75 revolutions per minute, sufficient to give the ship “a speed of 14 knots per hour,” the Bath visitor noted. “It is said that this new steamer will have more power in proportion to her size, than any steam vessel for which they [Atlantic Works] have ever furnished machinery.”
Moses designed his steamer’s hull “in model … very sharp, with three and a half feet of deadrise, the object of this being to secure greater submergence to the [paddle]wheel and at the same time to prevent rolling,” the Bath visitor re-
ported. He explained that Moses could have built the steamer with a rounded hull, but “a round log will roll easily in the water. Reduce it [the hull] to a triangular shape[,] and rolling is impossible.” The steamer “will be stiffer in the water than one shaped on the underside more like a log.”
In construction the steamer “resembles the gunboats” built in 1861, with “the same kind of iron straps diagonally crossing her timbers upon the inside, and the same strength of knees, size of bolts, and solidity of frame beneath the boiler, machinery, and other exposed parts.” The wood used for the ship’s frame was “red larch — the Ca-
nadian hackmatack [tamarack] … covered with oak plank four inches thick.” Construction was proceeding “under the careful supervision of Master Frank Packard,” considered “one of the most thorough master-builders in the city.”
The steamer should “be ready for cargo” by early September, the Bath visitor noted. Moses did not plan on operating his steamer in “shallow water” (along Maine’s coast and rivers), but on a regular run “between Bath and Boston.” The Navy had already rented or purchased a few existing steamers to be armed and crewed for blockade duty, so the demand existed for new civilian steamships.
Waldoboro’s Old German Church
Language barriers influenced construction
by Brian Swartz
Among the historical landmarks in Waldoboro are the German Church and Cemetery located on Route 32 about a mile south of the town’s built-up section. Both recall the German settlers lured to Broad Bay in the mid-18th century.
During colonial times, the term “meeting house” referred to a building used as a church and a place where public meetings could be held. When incorporating a new town in the District of Maine, the Massachusetts legislature often required a lot to be set aside for a meeting house.
In Waldoboro (then spelled “Waldoborough”) a log meeting house or church constructed in 1763 stood near Meeting House Cove, an indentation on the Medomak River’s eastern shore. That church became crowded, so around 1770 Lutheran worshipers planned to construct a larger church on land donated by Christopher Newbert, who immigrated from Germany in 1748.
Measuring 36½-by-45½ feet, the church was located “near the point in the river where travelers passing east and west were ferried across,” accord-
ing to Waldoboro historian Samuel L. Miller. Built in 1772, the church “had no windows and the only seats were rude benches” (not unusual in early Maine churches).
In time General Samuel Waldo sold lots on the Medomak’s western shore, with one lot reserved for a meeting house. People worshiping at the 1772 church on the eastern shore decided to take the building apart and move it across the river to “the [24-acre] lot designated for church purposes,” Miller wrote.
A Dr. John Christopher Wallezer “had charge of the work,” but there was opposition to the relocation. The church was taken apart during winter 1794-1795 and “moved over [the] ice [by sled] to its present location,” according to the National Park Service. “The church was an austere frame house, hardily constructed, and owned by 32 German Lutherans.”
After reassembling the church, the Lutherans finally finished its interior. Miller indicated the church had “a large porch at the entrance, and the walls are about 20 feet high.” The original sills were 12-by-13-inch white-pine beams,
“and the old cross floor timbers, which remain, are the same size, white pine and black ash, sound as a nut,” Miller wrote.
People entered through a door at the opposite end of the church from the pulpit, “upon which rests the holy bible,” with the pulpit’s desk “nine feet from the floor, Miller noted. According to the National Park Service, the “beautiful pulpit” is “reached by a short stairway” and “is backed by a fine sounding board.”
“A gallery runs around three sides, and the supporting beams are about 10 inches square,” Miller wrote. Worshipers sat on box pews made from white pine.
Having acquired extensive acreage in Maine’s future Midcoast (his land was called the “Waldo Patent”), Samuel Waldo hoodwinked Germans into settling in Broad Bay. Some Germans arrived in the late 1740s, but not enough came to his satisfaction, so after traveling to Germany in 1752, Waldo induced land-poor farmers and others to come to the District of Maine.
He hyped the almost Eden quality of his patent: “The climate is ac-
knowledged to be healthy, and the soil is exceedingly fruitful, since the wood which grows there is mostly oak, beach, ash, maple, and the like, and it yields all manner of fruit as in Germany, but hemp and flax in greater perfection.”
What Waldo did not tell the Germans was that Broad Bay lay on the cold side of the Gulf Stream. He promised each settler 120 acres, “German measure,” free passage to Broad Bay, and “a little supply of fifteen pounds sterling, for two years” as starting capital, Miller noted. Waldo lured 60 families from “different parts of the valley of the Rhine” to emigrate to the New World.
Leaving Amsterdam in 1753, the latest German emigres arrived at Broad Bay that autumn and found some Germans already living there. The new settlers “should have received six months support,” but “they were left wholly unprovided for during the winter,” Miller wrote. With Germanic industriousness they soon set about building homes and carving farms out of the thick woods, and building a church was important.
The first ordained Lutheran minister to serve at the so-called German Church was Reverend Friedrich Augustus Rodolphus Benedictus Ritz, who arrived in 1796 and, as expected, delivered his sermons in German. He was followed by Reverend Johannes Wilhelm Starman, who became the last minister as church attendance de-
clined. Older worshipers insisted on services being conducted in German, but younger people born in Waldoboro grew up speaking English. They went elsewhere to church.
The building’s ownership passed to the German Protestant Society, estab-
lished by the Massachusetts legislature. First meeting on April 3, 1800, the society maintains the church to this day. Although no longer an active church, the building is open to visitors during the summer.
Old German Meetinghouse and Cemetery in Waldoboro, ca. 1957.
the Carroll Thayer Berry Collection
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