Content warning: this story deals with grief, loss, and the emotional toll of tragedy. As such, sensitive topics are explored.
The waters off Cape Ann were always treacherous during the winter, a frigid stretch of water off the coast of Massachusetts. Picturesque in the summer, deceptively dangerous in the winter. Those that tempted fate, that tempted the harsh mistress that is the sea, too often found their souls in her clutches. The winter of 1898 was particularly harsh, seas were fraught, and on one November night the sea would claim hundreds more.
It was November 27th and a vicious blizzard was blowing in from the south, a storm that would sink 150 ships and boats. A storm so powerful that it rerouted a river. It was this storm that sent the steamship Portland to the bottom, and rewrote the reality of a man. In the fierceness of that storm, the ship rolled and slipped to the bottom with all souls.
The Portland was a side-wheel paddle steamer headed out of Boston, only 9 years old, and with a sterling reputation for safety. When her – and her 193 passengers – met that gale, there was no escaping, no outrunning, no surviving. The sea would have her prize.
Only 51 of the bodies were given up, with the others forever belonging to the deep. Even the names of those the sea took are lost, as the only passenger list went down with the ship. Many were simply wiped out existence. Men, women, children – entire families. Gone. Entirely gone; no graves, no records, no memories.
Of the hundreds lost that night, and the countless lives that were changed, upended, or outright destroyed, other tales tell. This story does concern one particular woman – and her children – that were aboard the Portland. But this isn’t their story either. This is the story of that woman’s husband, the father of those children, the person that put them on that particular ship.
Captain Clyde Nelson was more at home on the sea than on land. For over 20 years he travelled the waters of the Eastern Atlantic and Caribbean, working sailing ships and moving cargo. For the last five years he’d been the captain of the three-masted schooner, the Charleston Trader, a 153-foot ship — a ship designed to quickly move large loads. Built in 1872, the ship had been worked hard and was worse for the wear, but was far from retirement – much like her captain.
Clyde was 15 when he signed up as a hand on a small ship hauling sugar cane from the Caribbean; the captain he worked for was kind but unyielding, he expected much of his crew and pushed them hard. Clyde thrived under the pressure. He loved the adventure, seeing the world, and most of all, he loved the freedom. His first love, without question, was the sea. Only years later would he find something that he loved more.
From that first trip to his final breath, he lived at sea, and came to shore for breaks and to see those he loved. Regardless of weather or season, his time on land was always brief — a few days here, a week there, and on rare occasion, a few weeks off for repairs. By every measure, the sea was his true home.
It would be 5 years after his first voyage that during a brief break during Christmas that he met a woman, Margaret Kelly,
It was 1882, six years after Clyde’s first voyage, that he found himself on a two-week break for Christmas; snow was laid thick upon the ground in Portland, Maine and the mood was light and joyful. On a otherwise typical Sunday morning, Clyde was attending a service at First Parish Church, one of the largest and most important churches in the area.
It was during this service that he first saw Margaret Kelly, a 19-year old Irish immigrant with fiery red hair and an equally fiery personality. Their eyes met, and the sparks were so obvious that whispers were soon heard.
Margaret and Clyde spent every possible minute of his break together – or at least those that her parents would allow. Each break after this, he would immediately rush to her door. By mid-spring he had purchased a small & simple golden ring. On Christmas Eve of 1883, Margaret Kelly became Margaret Nelson.
Despite the frequent and lengthy time apart, they shared a close and loving marriage; Clyde had finally found that there was something — someone — that he loved more than the sea, and Margaret lived for Clyde, he was her world, and she was his.
It didn’t take long for their first child, a son, to be born; a daughter soon followed, and then another. Their family quickly grew, within 5 years, Clyde went from being alone to being part of a family of 5.
Becoming a captain had always been Clyde’s dream. From his first voyage when he was 15, his greatest goal was to take the helm of his own ship, to be the master of his fate on the seas he loved so much. On taking the command of the Charleston Trader, Margaret threw a party to celebrate — all the family and friends attended and toasted the brave and accomplished sailor turned captain.
His father-in-law presented him with a particularly special gift: a new set of full-colour charts — a full set of beautiful charts — with grand blue seas, soft sepia lines, rich browns and greens for land, vibrant red beacons — bound in a custom rich-maroon leather case. A note had been tucked into the cover: “May these always guide you safely back to those that love you.” Margaret had selected the colour – maroon was her favourite, and she knew it would serve as a constant reminder that she was waiting for him.
Before departing on his first voyage, Margaret had a particularly special surprise for him: she had redecorated the captain’s cabin. She brought in new furniture, new bedding, new art. She worked to create a space for him that was reminiscent of the bedroom they shared, but uniquely suited to his tastes. She worked to ensure that he felt at home, no matter how far away he was.
As the captain of a trading ship, breaks were rare; Clyde was often at sea for weeks or months at a time. Time with his family was limited but precious, and he sought opportunities to spend time with them when he could. The Charleston Trader often made port in Boston to load new cargo; when she did, Clyde would arrange to have his family travel to Boston from Portland so they could have some time together.
Thanksgiving fell on November 24th, and the Charleston Trader was due to arrive a week before that. To give him more time with his family, and give his crew the same opportunity, he opted to delay their departure to the 27th. This would allow all of the families to enjoy a quiet Thanksgiving – a holiday with family was a rare treat for sailors.
On the morning of the 27th, the weather was starting to turn. The skies turned ominous, and for a man of Clyde’s experience, he had no doubt that a storm was coming. He had purchased 4 tickets on the PS Portland, a steamship with reputation for safety. The tickets were more expensive than others that ran the same route, but the ship was quite nice, the captain was well respected, and she had sailed though many storms without any hint of danger.
It would be weeks before he would be back in Boston, and even longer before he’d be able to join his beloved family in their own home, but he did hope to be home for Christmas.
Clyde walked Margaret and their kids to the dock and saw them off.
The Charleston Trader left Boston shortly after the Portland left, moving south quickly, as the Portland pushed north, and into the deepening storm. Clyde Nelson slept restlessly that night, while the captain’s quarters are modest but comfortable, for a reason that Clyde couldn’t place, it had lost its comfort.
As Clyde tried to sleep, unbeknownst to him, the Portland was foundering. He had no way of knowing that as the night went on, one by one, his wife, his son, and both of his daughters were dying. He had no way of knowing that his first love had claimed his greatest loves.
Dawn broke, clear and bright, with a mild chill in the air. Life and work went on for the captain of the Charleston Trader, utterly unaware of the disaster that had already befallen him.
A week after the Portland sank, Clyde and the Charleston Trader arrived in Savannah with a load of timber, and an order to pick up a load of cotton to take north.
As soon as he stepped on the dock, a man ran towards him, someone that worked for the port, a supervisor based on the cheap & worn suit he was wearing. Something was clearly wrong. The man paused, looked down at the paper in his hand, then hesitantly handed it to Clyde. The man stepped back and bowed his head, uttering not even a single word.
That’s when he learned the awful truth. For the last week he had been blissfully unaware, believing those he lived for were safe at home, imaging what they were doing, smiling as he recalled their Thanksgiving break together. He thought they were fine, he believed that everyone was safe and happy, he slept knowing that they went home on the safest ship available.
But they weren’t fine. The Portland was on the bottom and his family was claimed by the sea. His world was shattered. He shattered. His ears rang, he couldn’t breathe, his vision narrowed. The world faded.
Schooners like the Charleston Trader had small crews, 7 or 8 men were able to run the ship. The captain, the mate — the ship’s second in command — the cook, and a few seaman that worked the deck. Captain Nelson was known as a kind and generous captain, running with a couple extra seamen on the crew to lighten the workload and create a couple extra jobs.
Those extra jobs cut into the ship’s profit, but he felt that having a loyal and trustworthy crew that he could always count on was more important than making every penny possible. Because of this treatment, his crew was fiercely loyal, and few left his ships.
Further endearing him to the crew, he was a hands-on captain, often working on deck and seeming to truly enjoy the work. He was a capable seaman, and while he was careful to protect the authority of his role, he also wouldn’t ask anyone to do something that he wouldn’t.
Clyde also was careful as to who he hired, and that included the choice of the ship’s mate — a role of great influence and in general, the hands-on leader for the crew. Charleston Trader’s mate was a man named Maxwell Gould, a very seasoned sailor and experienced leader. He was fair but firm, strict on duty and relaxed when not. Maxwell was often colourful and loud, from his boisterous tone to his trademark blue wool trousers.
It was a small and tight-knit crew, where everyone took care of each other. Something less than common among cargo ships of the time.
There were no lights in the captain’s cabin, save for a small candle mounted upon a silver stand, placed on the centre of the desk. Next to it sat a photograph mounted on a maroon card. Clyde was slumped over in his chair, eyes staring sightlessly into the abyss. Rain beat softly against the portholes.
A bottle of rum, open, sat on the desk; a ready escape from the pain awaited, though it remained untouched. He dared not dull the pain, for the pain of loss was all that remained of his family.
He slumped further. His bones ached. He felt that his ribs were bending inward, twisting, cracking. The pressure of the pain, loss, loneliness, it pressed into him until he felt he would physically implode. His heart pounded. The more he thought of his regret, the more he thought it could explode at any moment. His existence felt as if it hung by a thread, the conflicting pressures threatening to tear him apart.
Each moment felt like a year, yet hours passed in what seemed minutes. Time had lost all meaning.
Clyde sat trapped in his own mind, reliving the memories that had once brought him the greatest joy. Those memories now brought even greater pain. His happiest moments became a tool of torture, a reminder only of loss. His reason to be was transformed into his undoing. There was no joy, happiness, or love left in his broken mind.
When the Charleston Trader left Savannah to take their load of cotton to Philadelphia, the captain didn’t bother to leave his cabin. In fact, he did nothing except to write the entry in the ship’s log.
He retrieved the log book, bound in a rich red-dyed leather. The captain wrote, in his fine flowing script:
December 8, 1898. Departed Savannah for Philadelphia. Cargo of cotton, 250t.
Crew - 9
Captain – Clyde Nelson
Mate – Maxwell Gould
Cook – Albert Miller
Able Seaman – J. Lucado, S. Lesslie, G. Frost, V. Kitchen, P. Grant, M. Jakes
The mate had largely been responsible for the ship and the crew from the moment that the captain received that letter and learned the fate of his family. The crew knew what to do, and did their job well, leaving their captain alone with his grief.
During the eight days that it took to make it to Philadelphia, the captain would emerge from his cabin only once a day for a walk around the ship, checking the charts, and a quick inspection. During these walks, he rarely said a word, rarely looked anyone in the eye, and seemed only partly aware of what he was doing. He went through the right motions, but his mind was far away.
On the second day, after looking at the charts, he had a question for the mate: “Maxwell, are we planning on making a stop at Cape Hatteras for supplies or to see if we can get some more cargo?”
The mate looked at his captain quizzically, then looked down at the charts, searching. He couldn’t recall any place named Cape Hatteras and couldn’t find it on the charts.
“Where? No, sir. We won’t be stopping until we get to Delaware Bay.”
The captain nodded, and moved along, saying nothing more.
On the 8th day out of Savannah, the Charleston Trader arrived in Philadelphia. The captain looked out of the port holes in his cabin, noted that there was little traffic and few ships in port. Clyde saw no reason that the mate couldn’t handle things here, and left the crew to their work.
Over the next three days, while the ship was being unloaded of cotton and loaded with lumber, the captain didn’t leave his cabin once. The ship’s cook would bring meals to the captain and take away the tray from the last meal; in most cases, the food was largely untouched. With each meal, the cook would ask how he was doing, and each time he would respond with the same dismissive “fine” and go on with what he was doing.
On the 4th day in Philadelphia, it was time for the Charleston Trader to head to her namesake port.
As the Charleston Trader pulled away from the dock, Captain Nelson finally stepped out of his cabin for an inspection. He reviewed the cargo to ensure it was secure, checked the rigging and sails to make sure that everything was correct, and finally the mate handed him the ships log book to review the log entries. Clyde paused for a moment as he took the leather-bound book — he remembered the book as being bright red, but the book Maxwell handed him was a dull maroon.
December 19, 1898. Departed Philadelphia for Charleston. Cargo of lumber, 220t.
Crew - 8
Captain – Clyde Nelson
Mate – Maxwell Gould
Cook – Albert Miller
Able Seaman – J. Lucado, S. Lesslie, G. Frost, V. Kitchen, P. Grant
“Maxwell, why isn’t Jakes on the crew list? Did he leave for some reason?”
“Who sir? We’ve not had anyone named Jakes on the crew. I’m not sure who you’re speaking of, sir.”
Clyde looked at the log book, looking at the prior entries to point out the name of the able seaman that has been part of the crew for more than 5 years. Much to his surprise, there’s no seaman named Jakes on any of the log entries.
On the 3rd day of the trip out of Philadelphia, Clyde was taking a morning walk around the ship and inspecting the rigging. The ships mate, Maxwell, was at the helm.
“Maxwell, what do you think of making a run to Savannah for some extra cargo before we go to Charleston? There’s almost always some small loads ready at the docks there.”
Maxwell looks at the chart on the table next to him, searching the coastline, running his finger along the map as he searched.
“Captain, I’m not familiar with a Savannah, and I can’t find it on the map. Can you point it out?”
Clyde huffed, his patience running unusually short, as the crew had been in Savannah just a few weeks ago. He walks over to the table, stabs his finger at the map, and then sees only a smooth coastline. Where he expected to see Savannah, he saw nothing at all. Only dull brown land and empty grey sea.
He knew it was there, it had to be there. The ship had been to Savannah just a few weeks ago, yet he saw the same thing that his mate did, nothing at all.
Confused, Clyde quietly walked to back to his cabin.
The sun sank low on the horizon, and the captain emerged from his cabin for a brief inspection of the rigging and cargo; this was a routine part of the day, part of the captain’s responsibility in assuring the safety of his ship.
As he approached the bow, he noticed two of the able seaman scaling fish, and paused to listen to their conversation:
“You know Frost, I love this ship, but I really wish we had a cook on board. I know it would cost more money, but working for 12 hours then needing to cook our own meals is getting old.”
“I’m sure the captain would have hired a cook if he could. Clyde’s a good man and generous. There’s got a be a reason that he hasn’t.”
The ships cook, Albert Miller, had brought the captain his breakfast that morning, leaving him deeply confused. He turned and went to get the ships log, to see if the cook has disappeared like Jakes had. Clyde retrieved the log book, a book bound in a rich maroon-dyed leather, he reviewed the last departure log, and found the following, written in the distinct bold & halting script of the ship’s mate:
December 19, 1898. Departed Philadelphia for Charleston. Cargo of lumber, 220t.
Crew - 5
Captain – Clyde Nelson
Mate – Maxwell Gould
Able Seaman – J. Lucado, S. Lesslie, G. Frost
“Maxwell! Come here please!”
“Sir?”
“What happened to Albert? The cook?”
“I’m not sure who that is, sir. I’ve been suggesting for years that we hire a ship’s cook, though we’ve never had one.”
“Maxwell, I hired Albert Miller at your recommendation 4 years ago. You suggested him, and said you two had gone to school together. You said you’d known him your whole life. What do you mean you don’t know who I’m talking about?”
“I’m sorry sir, but I don’t know who that is. I went to small school, and there were only a few of us – but there wasn’t any Albert Miller.”
“Wait. Maxwell, didn’t you grow up in Philadelphia? Wasn’t that one of the larger schools in the country?”
“There were only 5 people in my class, sir.”
Clyde walked away, utterly confused, and increasingly wondering if everyone around him had lost their mind, of if he was losing his.
Captain Nelson sat down at the desk in his cabin, overwhelmed by the grief of losing his family, and the world around him making less and less sense as each day progressed. He know these waters and the ports like the back of his own hand, yet the ports are missing. He knows his crew as well, if not better, than his own family, and yet these people he knows so well, seemingly don’t even exist.
He started flipping through the charts piled on his desk, looking for the familiar sights that he knew so well. Yet, cities he had visited were gone. Islands that he had stopped at, just weren’t there. Ports missing. Places missing. People missing. The charts he had trusted his life with for years were now missing so much, just grey and black maps, missing all of his experiences.
The morning of the 4th day of the voyage breaks, though it was hard to tell from the storm clouds that covered the sky from horizon to horizon. The winds battered the ship, and the captain quickly darted out the deck to ensure that the sails had been secured.
He found Maxwell, alone, soaked, wearing a light shirt and maroon trousers, pulling the sails down himself, trying to keep the growing storm from ripping them to shreds.
“Captain! I need help here!”
Clyde jumped towards Maxwell, grabbed the rope, and between them, they soon had the sail down and secured.
“Captain, I know we’ve been making this work with just the two of us, but we really should hire some people. Trying to run a ship this size with just the two of us just isn’t possible.”
Clyde looks at Maxwell in disbelief. Just the two of them. There was nobody left.
The captain escaped the torrential rain by retreating into his cabin. Between the cold and constant din of the pounding rain, he slipped into an uneasy sleep.
When the uneasy sleep ended, the world itself seemed dark. Hours had passed, or maybe days, Clyde couldn’t tell. The rain still poured, the sky was still dark, the wind still bit with a deep chill. The sky was grey. The ship was grey. His cabin was grey. The world was devoid of colour, and increasingly devoid of light.
He called for Maxwell, there was no answer. He searched the ship, and Maxwell was nowhere to be found.
Clyde opened the dull leather case and reviewed the ship’s charts — they were empty. Endless grey seas. No land. No lines. As Clyde looked at the chart case, he realised he couldn’t tell what colour it was anymore. It was a rich and full maroon, now, it wasn’t any colour. Just dull and bland and empty.
Captain Clyde Nelson was alone. Him and his ship. There was nothing else in the world.
A week after the Portland sank, Clyde and the Charleston Trader arrived in Savannah with a load of timber, and an order to pick up a load of cotton to take north.
As soon as he stepped on the dock, a man ran towards him then hesitantly handed a piece of paper to Clyde. Reading the paper, Clyde learned the horrible truth. He was now alone in the world. The people he lived for were gone. His choice had doomed them.
Clyde quietly returned to his cabin, sat at his desk, and looked at the portrait of his wife that was set carefully upon the desk. The portrait was a delicate photograph, mounted to a maroon card, showing a beautiful woman with a glowing smile.
He slowly opened a drawer, withdrew a pistol, and with a loud click it cocked. He placed the pistol to his head. He never took his eyes off of the photograph.
