Jersey Shore Magazine

j e r s e y s h o r e • S p r i n g 2 0 1 7 69 aft tore completely apart. The quarter- deck, along with Stark and Freeborne, collapsed into the churning waters. Frantic cries followed as crew and passengers were plunged into the sea. Catherine Stark was calm as she removed the greatcoat Freeborne had gallantly provided and wrapped it around the shoulders of a younger woman. She then stole off into the darkness, toward midship, where she stepped off the edge of the decking to join her husband. Those on shore did not need to see the ship to know what had hap- pened. By midnight, the only sound was that of the pounding surf. Still, the wreckers remained, steadfast and grim, through the long hours before daylight. At dawn, the townspeople again gathered on the dunes. The wind was calm and sunlight flashed silver on the waves. The remains of the John Minturn were clearly visible as they lay broken on the sandbar. With the clear skies had come an Arctic chill. Half the town had gathered on the dunes, but not a word was spoken. A handful of peo- ple could be seen standing near the wreck's bow. The vigil continued, but many knew they waited in vain. On board the remains of the John Minturn there was no sound but the soft lapping of waves. The remaining sailors had gathered near the bow- sprit, facing the sunrise and the sea that had given and taken so much. The hapless passengers stood, unsee- ing eyes directed toward the beach. Among them were an old man, pipe still clenched in his teeth; a husband and wife locked in a loving embrace; a young mother, her infant bundled up and held tightly against her breast. All dead, frozen in place, waiting for a rescue that would never come. u Jill DeFelice is an artist and writer who resides in Tuckerton. Recently, while doing genealogical research, she discovered that two of her distant cousins were aboard the John Minturn and died in the wreck. Their obituaries (and a scathing condemnation of the locals' rescue efforts) were found in a newspaper article from March 1846. Her website is www.jilldefeliceart.com. The hours dragged on but the sea was still far too rough to risk a rescue boat. From shore, people could be seen moving about on the Minturn's deck. The vessel was beginning to rupture at midships. The captain and pilot remained towards the rear of the ship on the quarterdeck. Many of the crew and hapless passengers crowded to the stern, pressing as far away from the damage as possible. Mrs. Stark and a handful of others had gathered near the bow of the ship, forward and away from the weakened midsection. The temperature continued to drop. The crowds on the beach thinned as the frigid air drove them indoors. As night fell, the ship remained beyond reach, but the wreckers stayed their posts and continued the vigil. Bonfires dotted the beach, providing warmth to the would-be rescuers, but their true purpose was to reassure those aboard the doomed ship that they were not alone in the darkness. The wreckers knew that the hull could not with- stand the constant pounding of the waves for much longer. At about eleven o'clock a loud report was heard above the sound of the surf. The strain was finally too much for the Minturn's battered shell. The cracking and booming continued for several minutes, and then the great beams finally gave way. The fore and the pounding breakers. They could hear the hoarse calls of the spent oarsmen. The boat was rolling dan- gerously as she neared the foam. It was obvious that she would never make it ashore without help. The wreckers linked arms and formed a human chain. The lead man waded into the icy waters, fighting the angry churn. The others followed, leaving a final few on the dry beach to anchor them. They would have only one chance at this. The men could not remain in the freezing water for long. They stretched as far as they dared without breaking the chain. The launch drew near, bucking and rolling, just out of reach. The lead man made a grab for the bow, hooking an elbow over the side. A shout alerted them to reverse direction. The wall of men moved high up the dunes, dragging the long- boat with them. Once on the beach, the exhausted survivors were bundled in woolen blankets and whisked away to a warm fire and cup of hot broth. • "A Wreck On Barnegat Shoals" from Harper's New Monthly Magazine, February 1878.

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