Search & Rescue Efforts

Search and Rescue Efforts

     “The life saving crew rode the deadly rollercoaster of sweeping seas and crashing waves. Desperately, their eyes stared off at the horizon, hoping for a glimpse of the schooner. Dodging through a raging storm in an open lifeboat must have been a horrifying experience. The crewmen were well-trained and offered no complaints. They knew the passengers and crew were depending on them.”

Frederick Stonehouse

Went Missing II, 1984

     “The loss of no vessel on the Great Lakes aroused more sympathy than that of the Rouse Simmons, known as the Christmas Tree Ship.”

Sturgeon Bay Advocate

August 26, 1927

On November 28, 1912, the Sturgeon Bay Advocate of Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin, reported the following: “The schooner Rouse Simmons, Captain Schuenemann, recently arrived in Chicago with a cargo of Christmas trees.”

Despite the newspaper’s best efforts to report marine news of local interest, the Simmons had, in fact, not arrived in Chicago. Rather, the ship was approximately 130 miles north of city – at the bottom of the lake. The Simmons had “gone missing” five days earlier.

Also gone missing with the ship were many facts pertaining to its loss. Communications were not what they are today. Thus, initial reports were both varied and confused, complicating the story, making it particularly difficult to follow right from the start. Search efforts included a search for the ship, as well as a search for factual information.

Because of early errors reported by newspapers in several states surrounding the Great Lakes during the initial days after the Simmons vanished, incorrect details were carried forward during the century that followed. Some of these included:

Captain Herman Schuenemann was referred to as Henry, Harry, Homan, Frank, “R.” and Gus. He was also referred to as August, his brother who perished fourteen years before him in 1898.  (Captain August Schuenemann, referenced in many of the news articles which reported on Captain Herman’s loss, was said to have perished in 1893, 1898, 1908 and 1912.)

Captain Schuenemann’s partner, Captain Charles Nelson, was referred to as Christian, Carl, Oscar, and “H.”  His last name was also reported with various incorrect spellings, as was Captain Schuenemann’s.

The Rouse Simmons was reported in error to be the “Evelyn” Simmons as well as the “Rose” Simmons. Sometimes the word Simmons was spelled with one “m” and other times with two. Also, the ship was incorrectly said to be a fishing schooner instead of a lumber schooner.

The Simmons, a particularly old schooner on its last leg of life, was incorrectly reported through the years to be “a dashing new three-masted schooner” and “in very good condition.”

Concerning ownership of the vessel, newspapers erroneously reported that the Simmons “was owned by Schuenemann in 1887.” Other reports said the ship was owned by Schuenemann back into the early 1880’s, although Captain Schuenemann did not purchase an interest in the ship until 1910.          Perhaps the most interesting (although incorrect) link between Captain Herman and the Simmons was the statement that Herman Schuenemann had watched the ship being built.  This, too, proved to be false since Captain Schuenemann was barely born when the Simmons made its maiden voyage. (The captain’s age at the time of his death varies with the telling.)

Examining erroneous details concerning less important aspects of the story can offer an explanation why many of the more critical details concerning sightings of the vessel, and also debris washing ashore, were dizzying.

Another point of much controversy concerned the number of men on board the ship when it went down, as well as who they were. In addition to the crew, it was said there were as many as a dozen lumberjacks who asked Captain Schuenemann if they could “hitch a ride” on the Simmons to Chicago in order to spend Christmas with their family.

Then, there were reports of crew members leaving the Simmons in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan when they saw rats deserting the ship, a very bad mariner’s omen. They refused to sail back to Chicago and returned on the railroad instead.

Some men got off the ship, and others got on. But who?

The Chicago Daily Journal of December 4, 1912, reported the following list of missing men:

Capt. Herman Schuenemann, 1638 North Clark Street; owner of the boat.

Capt. Charles Nelson and Mrs. Nelson, 1634 Humboldt Avenue.

Stephen Nelson, mate; Chicago.

Charles Nelson, sailor; Chicago.

Albert Lykstad, cook; 420 North Desplaines Street.

Gilbert Swensen, tree cutter, Chicago; home was near Humboldt Park.

Frank Carlson, tree cutter; Austin.

Two lumber shovers, names not known;

Two or more lumber shovers believed to have been taken aboard on Michigan shores.

According to the above information, Captain Nelson’s wife was aboard the schooner when it went down. Other accounts said Captain Schuenemann’s wife was also on the vessel. The Milwaukee Sentinel of December 4, 1912, published the following statement: “Captain Herman Schuleman, with his wife, and fourteen hands, are lost.”

Despite these initial reports, neither woman was on board. Captain Nelson’s wife was no longer alive. (She had died years earlier.) And Captain Schuenemann’s wife was waiting in Chicago for her husband’s return, straining her eyes as she looked to the horizon for his ship during these days that were long on questions and short on answers.

The Chicago Daily Tribune of December 5, 1912, also reported a woman was on the ship when it sunk: “The lone woman aboard the Rouse Simmons,” reported the newspaper, “was the wife of the captain, Oscar Nelson, who was in command.”

Not only was there confusion in regards to how many persons from the Nelson family were on board, there was also confusion as to the reason they were sailing on the Simmons. Some reports indicated the vessel sailed “with Captain Christian Nelson and his wife as guests” while other reports indicated Captain Nelson was at the wheel of the ship instead of Captain Schuenemann. Most researchers agree that Captain Nelson was not along as “a visitor” but was a critical member of the ship. “Among the crew,” reported the Sault Ste. Marie Evening News of December 4, 1912, “was Charles Nelson, a former sea captain who joined the crew to assist Captain Schuenemann in weathering the heavy gales that were expected.”

On December 5, 1912, the Chicago Daily Journal published a revised list of crew members that were believed to have “perished in the lake.”  The list read:

Capt. Charles Nelson, North Avenue and Robey Street; skipper and part owner.

Capt. Herman Schuenemann, 1638 North Clark Street, charterer of vessel and owner of cargo.

Steve E. Nelson, mate; Chicago.

Gilbert Svenson, sailor; Humboldt Park, Chicago.

Frank Carlson, sailor; Austin.

Albert Lykstad, cook; 420 North Desplaines Street.

Ingvald Nyhous, sailor; 420 North Desplaines Street.

William Oberg, lumber shover.

Sven Inglehart, lumber shover.

Jacob Johnson, tree cutter.

Andrew Danielson, tree cutter.

Five additional names appear on the Chicago Daily Journal’s revised list on December 5, 1912, than appeared the day before. (Also, Mrs. Nelson’s name was removed on the corrected list along with the second “Charles Nelson” name listed as “sailor”.)

Although it would seem that progress was being made, this was not necessarily the case. On the same day as the Chicago Daily Journal’s revised list ran, another list was published by the Chicago Daily Tribune. This list read:

Captain [Herman] Schuenemann, Captain Nelson’s partner in the Christmas tree venture.

Alex Johnson, first mate.

Edward Minogue, sailor.

Frank Sobata, sailor.

George Watson, sailor.

Ray Davis, sailor.

Conrad Griffin, sailor.

George Quinn, sailor.

Edward Murphy, sailor.

John Morwauski, sailor.

“Stump” Morris, sailor.

Greely Peterson, sailor.

Frank Faul, sailor.

Edward Hogan, sailor.

Philip Bauswein, sailor.

The name “Edward Murphy” sparked additional press coverage in Manitowoc, Wisconsin. The Manitowoc Daily Herald ran the following article on December 6, 1912, after receiving word of the crew list circulated in Chicago: “One Manitowoc man may have been lost with the Christmas ship Rouse Simmons when the boat went down, it is believed off Two Rivers Point, north of this city. The name of Edward Murphy appears in the crew of the Simmons and it is feared that its owner was a Manitowoc man of that name, a son of the late Maurice Murphy, who had not been heard from by relatives for some time. Inquiry is being made in all effort to establish whether Murphy was on the Simmons, and relatives are anxiously awaiting the result.”

Although Edward Murphy’s name appeared on the list published by the Chicago Daily Tribune, it was not included on the list published by the Chicago American on December 13, 1912:

Captain Herman Schuenemann, whose home was at 1638 North Clark Street.

Captain Charles C. Nelson, part owner of the vessel, 1624 Humboldt Avenue.

Andrew Danielson, of 6044 North Paulina Street.

Gilbert Svenson.

Engwald Newhouse (probably the Engwald referred to in the message), who lived at 420 North Desplaines Street.

Philip Larson.

John Pitt, of 1144 Chatham Court.

Andrew Danielson, of Haddon Avenue and Rockwell Street.

Philip Bauswein, of 3624 S. La Salle Street.

Jack Johnson, who lived at 1629 North Artesian Avenue.

Stephen Nelson (the Steve referred to in the note in the bottle).

Albert Lykstad, of 420 North Desplaines Street.

Frank Carlson, of Austin.

The Chicago Inter Ocean, as well as the Chicago Record Herald, also published crew lists which varied from others. Again, communications were not what they are today. It was a completely different world with regard to accessibility of immediate and accurate information. Thus, it was a long, slow process for relatives on their quest for answers. 

          Information was also unclear due to the fact that many sailors, particularly unmarried men, joined crews at the last minute, signing themselves on board a vessel at one of the many hiring halls along the waters…

…The Chicago Record Herald of December 6, 1912, reported: “The rooms of the Lake Seamen’s Union at North Jefferson and South Lake Streets was besieged during the day by friends and relatives of the sailors on the Rouse Simmons. On board the vessel were two close companions, Albert Luxtad and Engwald Newhouse, who had been brought up together and had sailed on the same vessels for nearly forty years. When Newhouse learned that his ‘mate’ had signed as cook on the Simmons, he went aboard as a foremast hand. Luxtad’s sister, Mrs. Lena Dahl, who lives at 3319 South Oakley Avenue, stood about the office of the union yesterday waiting for tidings from the Simmons. Thomas A. Hanson, who is in charge of the office, said all hope of the schooner being heard from definitely had been practically abandoned by sailors who are well acquainted with the dangers of the lakes. In the crew of eleven men were three lumber shovers, John Johnson, known as ‘Pink Jack’, whose sister, Mrs. Benjamin Knudon, lives at 4577 Elston Avenue; Frank Carlson, known as ‘Ananias’, and Andrew Anderson, known as ‘Big Andy’. The three lived at 418 Desplaines Street, a sailors’ rooming house.”

Although the above article makes reference to eleven men on board the Simmons, it was only a guess. On the same day, the Milwaukee Daily News stated: “The Rouse Simmons carried a crew of from fifteen to seventeen persons, according to the best advices.”  These numbers, too, were only guesses, and may not have adjusted for the lumberjacks who hitched a ride into their graves.

Exactly who was on board is a question that has never been adequately answered. 

Approximately six months after the ill-fated Simmons was lost, a trunk washed ashore bearing the inscription: “ROUSE SIMMONS - J. E. LATHROP”.  This discovery was another point of mystery since the name “Lathrop” never appeared on any of the crew lists.

It is important to note that crew lists included only those names of persons believed to have perished – not names of survivors. Two survivors from the original crew who sailed from Chicago with Captain Schuenemann on October 3, 1912, included Hogan Hoganson and Big Bill Sullivan. Each of these men deserted the ship in the Upper Peninsula after sighting the rats. (In addition to these sailors, there may have been others. Some reports indicate three men left, and other reports indicate four.)  

A definite, final count of exactly how many men went to the bottom on that dreadful day was never conclusively determined since the log book from the ship was never recovered…

…On December 7, 1912, the Chicago Daily Tribune reported “wives of several sailors visited headquarters of the Lake Sailors Union and gave a description of their husbands to Secretary T. A. Hanson, so if a body was found identity could be established without delay.” 

The gathering at the Lake Sailors headquarters was the result of an article published by the Chicago American the previous day. It read: “An unidentified body, believed to be that of one of the eighteen men on the lost schooner, Rouse Simmons, was cast up by the waves near Pentwater, Michigan, late today. The body was that of a man six feet tall and about fifty years old.”

Needless to say, relatives, at their wits end with worry, feared the worst when they learned of the victim. As it turned out, the body was not from the Simmons but was, rather, from another vessel destroyed in the same storm.  This “good news” restored hope, however brief, to the hearts of those awaiting word on the Christmas Ship.

Family members were hurled, again and again, from hope to despair as the Simmons was reported “lost” and then “safe,” and then “lost” again. The roller coaster of these day-by-day, and sometimes even hour-by-hour, reports were difficult to bear up against. Family members wept in relief, and they wept in anguish. It was an emotional tug-of-war that tore at their hearts.

          The first of many hopeful reports was published on November 30, 1912, in the Chicago Record Herald under the headline “Christmas Tree Boat Safe.” This news seemed too good to be true, and all too soon it would be learned that it was. The article read, “Fears aroused for the safety of the Christmas tree boat, the Rouse Simmons, captained by Herman Schuenemann, were quieted yesterday when it was learned that the craft had been sighted off Bailey’s Harbor, 175 miles from Chicago. The ship is five days overdue, but is expected to arrive in Chicago sometime today.”

          When the ship failed to dock in Chicago, the Grand Haven Daily Tribune of Grand Haven, Michigan, reported on December 3, 1912: “The old schooner Rouse Simmons, loaded with Christmas trees and greens…has not as yet arrived in Chicago, and fears are again felt for her safety.”

          On December 4, 1912, the Chicago American reported another sighting:  “A ship captain said he thought he had seen the Simmons Monday [December 2, 1912] making fair progress toward Chicago.” On December 5, 1912, the same paper ran the headline “Christmas Tree Schooner Sighted/Santa Claus Ship May be Safe.” This article detailed another possible sighting: “The missing schooner, Rouse Simmons, was sighted in Lake Michigan, three miles off shore south of Racine [Wisconsin] twenty-four hours ago. This report was received today by Captain Berry of the United States revenue cutter…  If in fact it was the schooner Rouse Simmons which the George W. Orr sighted, it seemed probable that the ship had been deserted or swept of its crew.”

          The key words in the above article are “if in fact it was.” It was later learned it wasn’t. The officers aboard the George W. Orr had been mistaken.

          The tug-of-war between news of life and news of death continued, although death had already proved itself victor, unbeknownst to the world the crew left behind.

On December 6, 1912, hope was restored, once again, when the Chicago Daily Tribune reported: “Several reports were current that the boat had put up at a harbor from which there were no telegraphic connections, and that it was waiting there for favorable winds to bring it to Chicago.”

The Milwaukee Daily News, on the same day, reported a sighting of the ship’s yawl [a type of small boat carried aboard ships] seen floating empty in the middle of Lake Michigan. It was identified as belonging to the Simmons. “The ship’s yawl has been seen in midlake,” reported the Milwaukee Daily News, “indicating that a part, at least, of the fifteen persons on the schooner attempted to make their escape from the wreck in the small boat, but perished.”

Moment-by-moment, the story unfolded. Reports during a single 24-hour period could vary greatly due to the fact some newspapers published multiple editions of their papers each day, and details that developed in the morning could be entirely different by nightfall.

The final word on the lives lost continued to be lived out in headlines. “Ship of Christmas Now Overdue,” reported the Sault Ste. Marie Evening News of Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, on December 3, 1912. “Find Wreckage from Schooner,” reported the Duluth Herald of Duluth, Minnesota, on December 4, 1912. “No Hope for Boat and her Crew of Sixteen,” reported The Detroit News the same day. And from the Toledo Blade in Toledo, Ohio, readers learned on December 4, 1912: “Ship Carrying Christmas Trees Goes Down in Lake.” Eight dreadful words summarized the belief of many; the lives of those on board were reduced to headlines…

…“Tree Tops Point to Doom of Santa Ship” was printed in bold typeset in the Chicago Daily News on December 5, 1912. This was the same day the Chicago American ran a headline that read: “Santa Claus Boat Lost.”

Despite hopeful reports scattered in between these headlines, hope was not to last.

Hope was abandoned soonest by two U.S. Life Saving Station rescue crews. One crew was from Kewaunee, Wisconsin, and the other was from Two Rivers, Wisconsin. (The U.S. Life Saving Stations were predecessors to our modern day Coast Guard.)

Both the Kewaunee and Two Rivers crews were involved in the final moments the Rouse Simmons spent afloat, although many erroneous reports were published detailing sightings and rescue attempts by several different Life Saving crews on both sides of Lake Michigan. The facts are as follows: The Kewaunee crew sighted the stricken vessel with its distress flags flying, and then they notified the Two Rivers crew to the south who attempted an unsuccessful intercept of the vessel.  (The Kewaunee crew felt they would be unable to reach the vessel because they only had row boats. The Two Rivers crew was in possession of a gas-powered surf boat.)

According to the Kewaunee Enterprise of November 29, 1912, it was reported: “Last Saturday afternoon [November 23, 1912], the lookout at the local Life Saving Station sighted a schooner several miles out in the lake being driven before the heavy north gale that prevailed on the lake and flying distress signals. The schooner was too far away and the sea too rough to make an attempt towards manning the life boat and putting out for the craft possible, so Captain Craite made efforts to secure the services of a tug, but none were available. Shortly after, snow began falling pretty heavily and the distressed boat was lost sight of. Captain Craite then telephoned Captain Sogge of the Two Rivers Station and the crew from that city immediately started out in the lake in their power boat in search of the craft.”

The Sturgeon Bay Advocate of December 26, 1912, published testimony from Captain George Sogge of the Two Rivers crew: “On November 23^rd, at 3:10 p.m., I received a telephone message from Captain Craite, keeper of the Kewaunee station, saying that a three-masted schooner was sighted off that harbor, about five miles out, displaying signals of distress, with foresail and jib-top sail set and coming south. I immediately launched my power lifeboat and at 4:20 was rounding the Two River Point six miles north from the station. I then expected to see the schooner. We could see nearly to Kewaunee, but there was nothing to be seen. I kept on running north about eight miles from the point; then changed my heading out in the lake for one hour. By this time it was dark. There was nothing to be seen of the schooner, nor wreckage, nor signals. It started to snow heavy, and considering that we had been making a very thorough search for the distressed vessel, and that I had done all in my power, and all there was in my judgment to do in the case, we set our course for the station. The trip, as may well be imagined, was not a very pleasant one, but our only regrets were that we had put forth our best efforts in that direction without avail. My opinion about the schooner reported seen off Kewaunee is that the vessel was probably waterlogged, and that the crew was unable to keep her on her course and squared away before the wind and sea in order to keep the craft afloat. Being loaded with a cargo of green spruce – if this schooner was the Rouse Simmons – she foundered somewhere in mid-lake, as during the night of November 23^rd a northwest gale was blowing and a very high sea running. It would only be by remarkable good luck and excellent handling that a vessel could have reached an east shore harbor that night.”

Captain George Sogge’s daughter, Louise, was interviewed on December 26, 1982, by the Herald Times Reporter of Manitowoc, Wisconsin, regarding her memories of the fateful night seventy years earlier when the Rouse Simmons went missing. The article read:  “She was only nine years old at the time, but Mrs. Louise [Sogge] Jorgensen of 31 N. Eighth Street has vivid memories of that day in 1912 when the Christmas Tree Ship, the Rouse Simmons, with its load of Christmas trees, sank off Point Beach, north of Two Rivers, Wisconsin. There were no survivors. The ship sank at the height of a violent snow and windstorm. The day was November 23, 1912. Louise’s father, Captain George Sogge, commanded the Life Saving Crew at the Two Rivers Coast Guard Station. The Sogge family lived at the station. Louise remembers the telephone call from Captain Craite from the Kewaunee Coast Guard Station. He told Captain Sogge that the Kewaunee Station had sighted the Rouse Simmons’ distress signals off Kewaunee, but that his men couldn’t possibly go out to help as they had only row boats in Kewaunee, no power boat.  ‘Our men got on their warm clothes and launched the boat. It was the worst blizzard and blowing storm I can ever remember,’ Louise said. ‘Only one of our men stayed in the lookout, as we called it, to stand watch. He was John Gagnon. And when the men were gone for many hours,’ Louise said, ‘my mother told him to get some rest and she stood watch.’ Louise remembers going from window to window, watching for the men to come back, ‘but we were able to see little of the lighthouse on the pier where we would be able to see the boat coming back. I really don’t know how long they were out,’ Louise said, ‘but it seemed an eternity to us.’ They went out the next day, too, but never found any trace of the ship. The captain of the Rouse Simmons was Herman Schuenemann. Louise said her sister, Esther Sogge, heard from the Schuenemann girls and ‘they were so hurt because the Kewaunee men didn’t try to save their father and crew.’ But there was no way they could have helped, with only row boats, in that fierce storm.”

It is not difficult to understand the hurt the Schuenemann girls were feeling when we consider the love we each hold dear. It was their pain speaking, and pain is companioned, many times, by anger and disappointment. Who among us would not have wondered in our rawest moments if all had been done to save those aboard if, among them, someone we loved and cared for perished too?

Even complete strangers questioned the decision-making process of the Kewaunee Life Saving Station captain. On January 9, 1913, the following Letter to the Editor appeared in the Sturgeon Bay Advocate:  “Please give me space in the columns of the Advocate for a few words regarding the mishap to the schooner Rouse Simmons. I read in your paper of a recent issue Captain Sogge’s statement of what he and his crew did after being notified by the Kewaunee station that a schooner was in distress about five miles out, running under foresail and jibtop sail. Now, what I want to ask is why did not the Kewaunee Lifesaving crew run out and respond to the signals of distress? And if they were unable, they surely could have secured a fish tug to do the work for them. It is my candid opinion that had this been done, every one of those 14 lives would have been saved. Captain Schuenemann and his crew knew there were stations at the canal, Kewaunee and Two Rivers Point, and that was his reason for having his signal of distress up, and it must have been awful for him and his men to pass within five miles of a Lifesaving Station in broad daylight without getting help. I ask for humanity’s sake, what excuse has the captain of the Kewaunee Lifesaving Station to offer for his failure to respond? On the same afternoon a scow broke adrift at the Sturgeon Bay canal, and a current carried her out into the lake. Tugs went to her and towed the craft to Algoma. When this could be done with a scow, it is my belief the Simmons crew could have been saved easily. The Rouse Simmons yawl was also too small to accommodate 14 men. This was an unusual number for her to carry, which was on account of getting the trees from the woods. Of course, we can only guess what happened to the Rouse Simmons, and also where she foundered. It is my idea that she sank somewhere between Kewaunee and Two Rivers Point. The Kewaunee lifesaving crew should be able to give us some information, and we would like to know the exact time she was last seen by them. Would also like to hear from the captain of the schooner Resumption where he saw the Simmons yawl. There are probably some of the other masters that saw the vessel after she left Manistique, and passed wreckage from her. With the above information, I believe we will be able to guess pretty close to where the schooner sunk. Milwaukee, Wisconsin. January 4, 1913. Signed, G. C.”

The letter was a scathing accusation by “G.C.” of Milwaukee who directed an attack on the Kewaunee Life Saving Station captain. The “candid opinion” of G.C. was that “every one of those 14 lives would have been saved” if the services of a tug had been secured and “the Simmons crew could have been saved easily.”

It is easier, by far, to be on the outside looking in, questioning the professional judgment made by another, than it is to stand in the place of the same person who was called to make a fateful decision in a life-or-death moment. 

The rescue crews who manned the U.S. Life Saving Stations surrounding the Great Lakes in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s were not cowardly men. They knew a little something about what needed to be done, and when, as it concerned the demands upon them to pull back sailors from death’s door as they hung in the balance there between this world and the next. These men regularly laid their lives on the line for others, and they knew the supreme value of every second.

Ironically, Captain Craite of the Kewaunee Station had done exactly as had been suggested by G.C. in his letter. According to the Kewaunee Enterprise of November 29, 1912, Captain Craite gave testimony that he had, indeed, made effort to secure the services of a tug, although unsuccessfully, and then contacted Captain Sogge of the Two Rivers Station only after his attempt failed. (It is important to note that many persons had access to only one or two newspapers and, because of this, they did not get the whole story, as was the case here…)

…Despite the controversy concerning certain aspects of the Rouse Simmons tragedy, one significant piece of the story without dispute concerned the severity of the weather. “It was the worst blizzard and blowing storm I can remember,” said Captain Sogge’s daughter, Louise, later.

Lake Michigan was in a rude mood on November 23, 1912. You could feel its temper rising against you. Lighthouse keepers and rescue crews around the Great Lakes had their hands full. 

The weather from the previous day had deteriorated quickly.  Winds whipped wild out of the west. Waves crashed. Snow was falling steady by mid-day, decreasing visibility.  The lighthouse at Two Rivers was not even visible from the Life Saving Station in close proximity, yet the rescue crew stationed there forged into the mad winds and mounting seas at 3:10 p.m.  With every beat of their hearts, they knew time was ticking down for those aboard the distressed schooner.

Sunset was nearing. The last rays of daylight were fast falling as these men labored into the pounding surf and then entered the chaotic sea. Each rescue worker who left the station that afternoon did so with the full knowledge of the price he was called to pay.

All over the lake, others were fighting similar brutal battles with the storm as it unleashed “unabated fury” on vessels.

The gale continued to grow in intensity, and the jaws of the storm closed around the Life Saving crew. Through the dusk of night the rescuers searched, plowing their way through confused waters churning at the will of the wind. Shaking and shivering, soaked through and through, they looked long and hard for the doomed schooner in the falling dusk, then into the darkness, until at last they turned their vessel homeward. It was a dangerous journey, a terrifying storm, and an unspeakable loss.

Back at the station, others were waiting under wild skies for the crew to come back, not knowing if those who left earlier would return again after the station door closed behind them.

Who among us can claim with certainty the next hour’s knowing? No one. Each of us is subject to the same twists in fate. Yet for those involved in life saving services along the Great Lakes a century ago, the odds of fate turning for the worst were significantly raised.

Photos can show us the faces of these men – men of steady shoulders and steady hands, of steady hearts and steady eyes, but they cannot show us the courage behind those eyes. They cannot show us the memories hidden away inside, memories of struggle, and memories of strain.  Photos will never be able to capture their spirit, their bravery, and their willingness to risk saving others at the cost of losing themselves.

I have wondered, more times than I can count, particularly when I am safe in my home, and warm, if I would have had courage to answer these calls for help. The wind howls loud and long here, and I’ve listened to it for over forty years, very near to the shore where the Rouse Simmons crew members took their last breaths while almost within view of the rescuers who tried to reach them.

I drive by lighthouses along the coast and think for a while, too, on the lonely keepers who served these beacons a lifetime ago, men who stood steady in their faithfulness to others whom they knew not.

It is humbling to think upon the sacrifices of these men. The Great Lakes are full of stories of extreme heroism, and stories of its exact opposite.

Two years after the Simmons went missing, a lighthouse keeper by the name of Robert Carlson was watching out his window during a storm on Lake Superior’s “Shipwreck Coast” (northeast of the Simmons’ loss) when he spotted a fishing tug pounding in the waves off shore. Then, the ship suddenly flipped completely upside down, capsized in the turbulent waters. Eleven men on board were drowning.

Although lighthouse Keeper Carlson knew there wasn’t a moment to spare, he needed help in rowing his large boat across the stormy waters where the men were perishing.

Workers from a nearby fishery ran to shore when they witnessed the tug go under. Keeper Carlson pleaded with these men to join him in the boat, but his pleas were met with silence.

According to the educational video “Superior Lights on the Shipwreck Coast” the men looked at the water, and then they looked at the weather. The winds were “practically knocking them down,” and none would volunteer. They were afraid.

Keeper Carlson’s wife had followed him out the door and was now standing alongside her husband at the shoreline.

“Do you want me to ask my wife to row?” demanded the keeper, thinking the men would surely volunteer if they knew a woman was going to take their place. But the men, again, stood mute.

At this point, Keeper Carlson reached inside his pocket and pulled out a gun. He raised it eye level, took a deep breath, and then said five words: “Volunteer…or I start shooting.” The gun clicked. He was dead serious.

Two men stepped forward and joined the keeper in his boat.  Because of this, three men left shore that day, and fourteen came back.

Keeper Carlson ended his career in 1931 after serving the lighthouse for twenty-eight years. “The life of a lighthouse keeper is that of solitude, and few people can truly say they really like it,” said the keeper at the close of his days. “Still, there is something noble about it, for every day a lightkeeper is helping someone…”

…Sacrifice. Nobility. Service. There was no shortage of stories on the Great Lakes that exemplified the best of humanity, including the story of the heroism displayed by the Two Rivers rescue workers who were willing to risk their own lives for the sake of saving those aboard the Rouse Simmons. Their efforts remain one of the supreme triumphs of the Simmons story, despite the controversy surrounding the decision of the Kewaunee crew…

…In the days and weeks following the Simmons’ loss, beach patrols continued to be in operation all over the lake. Captains were asked to keep an eye out for the missing ship. Both sides of the shore were lined with people “watching night and day” in a “tireless patrol” to look for clues and search for answers.

The human factor of the Christmas Tree Ship story had far-reaching effects. Those who heard about the ship’s loss found it difficult to grasp the timing of the tragedy as it contrasted itself against the great holiday of mankind. Compounded with this was the fact that a husbandless wife and three fatherless children were left in the storm’s wake, and it was Christmas. Everyone wanted to help in some small way.

As a result of the storm’s 60+ mile gales, telephone wires were down and limbs were torn from trees. It is not difficult to imagine the scene of debris, nor to ponder the speculation that followed. Evergreen branches on beaches were assumed to have come from the doomed schooner whether they had or not.  Planks and boards that washed ashore were examined and thought to have originated from the Simmons. Although errors were made in identifying debris, people really did care, and they were doing their best to help. There was a sense of community – “come in unity” - at the heart of this tragedy.

People were passionate about wanting answers because of their love for the story. Chicago had taken ownership of the Christmas Tree Ship and the Schuenemann family years earlier, and now the legacy was proving itself to be bigger than the Simmons, bigger than the Schuenemanns, and even bigger than Chicago. The story connected to people on a very human level, and although the tragedy of 1912 amplified this, the love people felt for the Christmas Tree Ship had existed long before the demise of the Simmons, and it continued to exist long afterwards. Still, there was a sense of sadness in articles published by the Chicago press during the initial days the Simmons went missing when the city realized it may be losing the great and grand tradition it had come to know.

For those who lived around the Great Lakes, the Schuenemann story connected on yet another level. This family’s tragedy became everyone’s tragedy because it was a reminder of the danger that was ever-present for each of them. Even if a family living on the waters had not experienced loss as a part of their past, the threat of it would always be a part of their future. (It was for this reason there was such a strong Code of Honor on the lakes when it came to helping others in need. One never knew when it would be your own life hanging in the balance, or the life of someone you loved.)

For those who knew the pain of waiting for answers that never came, the Simmons tragedy opened wounds already suffered, and old memories crawled out of the shallow graves they were buried in. 

Directly across Lake Michigan, only miles from the site of the Rouse Simmons’ sinking, the community of Ludington, Michigan, followed developments in search efforts. This city was nicknamed “The Fatherless” because of all the lives lost in the shipping industry during the 1800’s.

Heartfelt efforts to locate clues continued. Every flicker of hope was reported on, as well as every hope dashed…

…Several schooners similar to the Rouse Simmons began to “limp” into ports. Many of these ships had been reported missing, as the Simmons had, and hope was elevated for the Simmons’ safety as each arrived.

Government officials from Chicago to Washington D.C., including a Senator, as well as the Secretary of the Treasury, were involved in examining details of the Simmons’ loss from every angle.

Old-timers at the docks speculated on possibilities. Some believed the ship might be floating helpless in the middle of the lake if its masts or sails had been damaged in the storm. The vessel would then be at the mercy of the wind, and the ship could be anywhere.

Others believed the ship and crew were possibly stranded on an island.  They unfolded maps and made their case.

Another concern was that many small communities did not have telephone communications, and the crew might not have access to “a wireless.”

Some sailors wondered if the crew attempted to escape the vessel in its yawl. If so, did they make it to shore? No one knew.

Memories were also recalled of other ships from previous years that seemingly vanished, but later presented themselves safe.

Sailors looked at every possibility from every angle, as they would hope someone would do for them.

While this was going on, search efforts were conducted during wind, fog, rain, and snow across the lake called Michigan, a name derived from the Algonquian Chippewa Indian word “meicigama” meaning “big sea water.”

On December 5, 1912, the Menominee Herald Leader of Menominee, Michigan, reported:  “The Rouse Simmons has now been missing for fifteen days. Its disappearance, if it remains as inexplicable as it is now, bids fair to become one of the great mysteries of the Great Lakes.”

          These words proved to be prophetic beyond belief during the decades that followed as the Simmons continued to remain an unsolvable mystery, an inexplicable puzzle.

Closure to the story was sought, but no closure came until those who wished for it more than anyone in the world – Barbara and her girls – passed from this world to the next where the captain was waiting for them there…

          …The ship was not discovered until 1971, and the only person yet alive from the captain’s family was his daughter, Pearl. Over half a century had passed before she knew for certain what had happened to her papa’s ship.

          Even then, the search continued – the search for answers and the search for information. It is important to note that much of what has been reported over the past century includes countless versions of numerous details. Some of the discrepanies include the date the ship left the Upper Peninsula (dates range from November 12 through November 25), the date the ship sank (dates range from November 12 through dates in December), the rescue crews who sighted the ship (various), the rescue crews who launched a vessel in search of the ship (various), the number of trees on board (numbers range from 2,000 – 50,000), and the city the ship departed from (Thompson, MI, Manistique, MI, Constance, MI, and Stephenson, MI, were all named.)

These are just a handful of examples to illustrate the fact that even the most basic questions concerning the story can be difficult to answer because of the abundance of incorrect information that exists.

Many details reported on through the years were at odds with others, yet people continued to search for the truth of who Captain Schuenemann was. They were drawn to him in his death as others were drawn to him in his life…

…On December 13, 1974, the Chicago Daily News published the following question from one of its readers: 

 “What was the name of the master of the Christmas Tree Ship of Chicago legend?  Signed, Mrs. D. L. Wilmette.”

A heartwarming summary of Captain Schuenemann was published in answer to Mrs. Wilmette’s question. The editorial began with the words “once upon a time” and told of a man who was “as merry and warm a man as Santa Claus himself.”

“Every year he would bring to Chicago from the far north, Michigan’s Upper Peninsula,” wrote the paper, “a shipload of bright, tangy balsams and tall, thick pines to help the city – particularly the poor – have a merry Christmas.”

          Fifty-two years had passed since this “merry” man had perished, yet time had not forgotten him. Neither had the city he loved. The Chicago Daily News devoted a lengthy column to the re-telling of his story, as it had done in past years, and would do again in the future.

There was someone else who had not forgotten Captain Schuenemann either. Her name was Mrs. Charlotte Gennerich, a resident of Germany. As coincidence would have it, Mrs. Gennerich just so happened to be in the United States visiting family when the editorial ran, and she just so happened to read it. What followed next was “an unusual and very special reunion.”

According to the Streator Times-Press, Streator, IL, of December 31, 1974:  “Mrs. Charlotte (Grundmann) Gennerich of Germany, was driven to Streator on Monday by her daughter and son-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Andreas (Ursula) von Koeppen of Wheaton, IL. The trio visited Mrs. Pearl Ehling, a resident of Heritage Manor nursing home. Circumstances surrounding the reunion came about as the result of a question posed to the “Beeline” of the Chicago Daily News in Chicago on December 13th. The question was simply, ‘What was the name of the master of the Christmas Tree Ship of Chicago legend?’ Joe Mann, editor of the question-and-answer type column responded with the entire story about Captain Herman Schuenemann and the legend of the Christmas Tree Ship. A letter from Mrs. von Koeppen was sent to Mr. Mann as her mother, Mrs. Gennerich, happened to be visiting in the United States when the article appeared. Mrs. Gennerich remembered well the legend and had known the Schuenemann family, having lived with her parents and sister in Chicago near Lincoln Park in the same home where the Schuenemann twins, Pearl and Hazel, lived. Pearl later became Mrs. William H. Ehling. Her twin sister, Hazel, died about 12 years ago. Mr. Mann’s method of follow-up included pondering the 25^th anniversary review of the legend which gave Captain Schuenemann’s daughters’ married names, including Mrs. Ehling. He called all people in the Chicago area with that last name until he found someone who knew the whereabouts of Pearl Ehling in Streator. It was a coincidence that Mrs. Gennerich, who returned to Germany in 1912 due to homesickness, was here at the time of the printing of the question and answer. Mr. Mann indicated he felt the ‘whole turn of events’ was amazing.”

Sixty years had passed since Charlotte Grundmann had seen the Schuenemann family, yet she felt compelled to search for them after many long years.

Pearl (Schuenemann) Ehling was the last of the family to remain, and she became the recipient of an armful of gifts Charlotte came bearing.

What is it about this story, and this family, that keeps people searching for them? Even complete strangers show up at the Acacia Cemetery in Chicago asking for directions to the Schuenemann gravesite. (The cemetery office keeps the Schuenemann information card within easy reach because of the many inquiries they have had through the years.) People are searching. For what? I believe they are searching for the story Captain and Mrs. Schuenemann wrote on hearts. The written record, unarguably, is not perfect, but I truly believe, after years of research, that the most important piece of this story is exactly what has survived: The belief that this family did their best to make the world a better place. This is the core of the Schuenemann legacy as it has been handed down through the years by those who knew the family first hand.

Yes, the written record fails, but hearts haven’t.

“The schooner Rouse Simmons, Captain Schuenemann, recently arrived in Chicago with a cargo of Christmas trees,” reported the Sturgeon Bay Advocate on November 28, 1912. The newspaper missed the mark by a  long shot, but one week later they got it right: “It is now quite certain that the schooner went down in the big northwest blow, though no survivor lives to tell the awful story.”