Jersey Shore Magazine

j e r s e y s h o r e • S p r i n g 2 0 1 7 65 continued on page 66 it quick, it won't stay hot for long." Stark sipped absently at the soup, staring out into the weather. Catherine followed his gaze, brow furrowed, lips pressed in a tight line. Out of the swirling bursts of flur- ries, a harbor pilot ship, the Blossom, approached the John Minturn. Her captain was signaling to see if Stark needed a pilot to guide him safely into New York harbor. Stark was well aware of the hid- den sandbars waiting to seize any ship unawares and leave her stuck fast, helpless to reach shore. There had been many times in his travels when he had gratefully taken on a pilot to navigate the shoals. Still, he had sailed these waters any number of times, and though the wind was picking up, Dudley Stark wagered that he knew well enough to keep the Minturn on course and on time. As the Blossom drew near, Stark waved off the pilot ship. Catherine turned to her husband, eyes search- ing his expression. "Dudley, are you…?" She stopped herself short. One didn't question the captain's decisions on the bridge, even if he was one's husband. "I am," he replied. "We're but a few hours from home. We will be all right. Now get back below deck and out of this wind." He drained the mug and handed it back to his wife. As if to reassure her, he gave a playful swat on her bottom as she scurried off. The captain turned back to the wheel. With a bit of luck, Stark would have his feather bed by nightfall. • Over the next few hours, Stark came to regret his decision. What had started as a seesawing roll had grown into giant waves pitching the packet to and fro as if she were a child's ball being tossed about. John Minturn's forward progress slowed, and the northeasterly winds crowded her up against the shore forcing the captain to shorten sail and tack into the wind. Stark was loathe to do so; tacking meant head- ing further out to sea and making slower progress north towards New York, but the nor'easter seemed intent on driving the Minturn south and west, straight onto the shoals. The waves crashed into her bow as she fought her way back and forth in the blow. The packet felt more like a bucking bronco than a ship. The bow rose as she drove into each swell. For a few seconds, the ship seemed to hold its breath at the top of the wave. Then, as momentum drove her past the peak, the bowsprit plunged down like a diving swallow, and the packet would tumble into the churn- ing troughs between the rollers. Each time was worse than the last. By now, Stark had no way of knowing whether they were making any progress. No matter, he knew they would be safer further offshore, so he continued his course. Within the hour, the deck became as slippery as an eel. More than one deckhand found himself sliding on his belly, grasping for a handhold as the ship tossed about. The masts wore a crusty shield of snow. Sleet had soaked into every fiber of the worn sailcloth. As the mercury plum- meted, the sails grew stiff, and their great weight caused the masts to "Coast Patrol" from Harper's New Monthly Magazine, February 1878. alf a day from port, Captain Dudley Stark was more than ready to find himself next to a fire with a mug of ale in his hand and a warm feather bed waiting. Ice and wind were making for a miser- able end to this haul. Stark and his sailors were used to a bit of weather but the rough seas and icy blasts made for fearful, grumpy passengers. On this trip, he was carrying more than the usual handful of passen- gers, an added burden. Only two months earlier, Stark had sailed the John Minturn out of New Orleans. She was a beautiful, three-masted packet ship, just four years out of the boatwright's barn. The Minturn was making regularly scheduled runs from New Orleans. On this trip, she labored under a full load of cotton, sugar, and tanned hides, bound for New York. Shortly after leaving port, the number on board more than doubled when the Minturn took on twenty crew and passengers from the ship Cherokee after she caught fire and lay burning in the Gulf. The additional numbers had been a minor irritation to Stark; but with the dete- riorating conditions, their presence had become a major source of con- cern. Well, they had made it this far, he thought. The ship was somewhere off Sandy Hook, which meant New York and safety were within reach. • The weather was getting worse. Rolling waves were beginning to build, and the wind had sharpened to a fierce bite. A shiver ran from the top of Stark's spine all the way to his thick boots. Stark caught sight of his wife, Catherine, bustling onto the quarterdeck, snow collecting in her hair and a steaming mug in her hands. "I thought you might be needing a little something. From the looks of you, I was right." She thrust the mug into his hands and planted her fists firmly on her hips. "Mind you drink

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