Jersey Shore Magazine

J e r s e y s h o r e • S p r i n g 2 0 1 7 66 JERSEY SHORE HISTORICAL FICTION THE WRECK OF THE JOHN MINTURN, continued from page 65 continued on page 68 groan under the strain. Conditions were worsening with each hour. The Minturn had been bullied from her course, and despite Stark's efforts, she had been pushed shoreward and out of the relative safety of the shipping channel. Gusts were reaching near forty knots, and the packet seemed to be losing more ground than she gained. It was close to five o'clock in the evening, with dusk descending, when the Blossom reappeared on her return run from up north. This time, Stark did not hesitate, and the Minturn promptly signaled for a pilot to come aboard. • Pilot Thomas Freeborne stepped from the bridge of the smaller boat. The wind and snow bit into his face and hands as he hauled himself up the ship's ladder. More than once, he was thrown against the hull of the Minturn as if the storm was trying to prevent him from coming aboard. He flung himself over the rail and onto the slick deck. No one offered assistance or greeting; the sailors had all they could do to keep themselves safe. Freeborne scrambled to his feet and made his way to the wheelhouse. His first recommendation was to double reef the sails, but the captain would not be swayed. Stowing the sails meant losing the wind. Captain Stark was not yet ready to give up on reaching port that night. Freeborne deferred to the captain, and the sails remained aloft. Darkness set in. No lights could be seen from shore—no stars above; only the roar of the wind and drenching spray. As far as they knew, the crew aboard the Minturn was alone in the raging Atlantic. The winds hurled ice bullets, piercing the fraying sails. The canvas sails now carried triple their weight as ice continued to build. They were no better than frozen boards. Freeborne continued to make his case for dropping sail. Sometime around nine o'clock, Stark finally consented. It was clear there was no way for the ship to make harbor before morning. The mission now became one of preservation. The orders were given to furl the mainsail and double reef the topsails. They would have to rely on just the foresail to guide the ship. Freeborne meant for the John Minturn to take on as little wind as possible, preventing her from being pushed further out of the shipping channel. Icy blades razored the sailors' fingers as they began to haul. The sail was plastered against the beam. Grunting, the deckhands heaved as one to rip the icebound mainsail away from the mast. It tore loose with a loud "rrripp" and tumbled to the deck. Stark and Freeborne watched in horror from the bridge as an ocean swell sent the frozen canvas skating across the deck scattering the men like bowling pins. The trail- ing lines lashed wildly, threatening all who tried to tame them. Finally, three men threw themselves on top of the mainsail to pin it down, and the crew was able to stow it, after a fashion. The next mission was to trim the foresail, but as they readied the rig- ging, a fierce gust wrenched the ropes from their hands, and the foresail flew up into the air, the lines whip- ping out of reach. The ropes tangled around the masts and topsails, ren- dering them useless. As midnight drew near, the Minturn limped along, but she was now four miles offshore and had been blown far south of her original position. Freeborne called for the top- sails to be furled as well. The sailors gripped the frozen lines and prepared to haul away, but in truth, there was little left to stow. Only a few shreds of canvas clung stubbornly to the rig- ging lines. As they worked the lines, the crew realized they had been with- out sail for some time already. All they could do now was wait and hope the sea would spare them this night. • The John Minturn was at the mercy of the Atlantic. The packet flinched at the constant battering of waves against the hull. She shuddered as the gales whipped across her deck. The deckhands lashed themselves to the rails and masts for fear they would be washed overboard. In the wheelhouse, Freeborne and Stark searched the blackness for a sign they were on the right course, but nothing could be seen except the driving snow and the whipping tails of the derelict lines. Though bloody and ragged, the sailors felt no pain—their hands numbed by the fierce cold. Faces burned bright red with frost burn. Icicles hung from moustaches and eyebrows. They stared out into the blackness—knowing there was noth- ing they could do to alter the ship's fate. Still, they remained at their posts. The packet bucked and rolled. The nor'easter was blowing the Minturn back along the Jersey Shore and closer to the sandbars that would lay claim to nearly a dozen other ships on that fateful night. Through the wee hours, the crew prayed, hoping the storm would weaken come dawn. At daylight, it was clear that conditions were no better. The swells had grown to even greater heights, and the ship rasped and groaned as she absorbed each blow. The crew, frozen and weary, looked to their captain for answers. The men knew the John Minturn would never make port. The question was, what to do now? Freeborne and Stark surveyed the damage in silence. Freeborne spoke first. "Captain, we're good as done sir. Sooner or later, we both know we're going to run aground. What do you want to do?" Stark's head sank to his chest. After a long moment, he let out a deep sigh, then nodded, well aware of the course Freeborne was about to propose. "Let's raise what little sail we have left and try for a run at the beach. God grant that we make it to shore." Stark drew his massive greatcoat tighter over his waistcoat and bel- lowed the orders to the waiting crew. • Some minutes later, a white-faced Catherine joined the men at the

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