Steerage

This image of my great-grandmother Christina Bengston’s entry in a 1871 New York Passenger List is the banner I display across my ancestrybinders.com facebook page.  She, like many European immigrants of the 1800s, came to America by ship in “steerage” class, and it was quite different from the Alaska cruise I took with my mother some years ago!

For the following information I am indebted to the book Island of Hope, Island of Tears by David Brownstone, as well as a 1909 government report entitled “Reports of the Immigration Commission,” widely available online.  Agents of the Commission traveled incognito in the steerage sections of twelve different immigrant ships.  They reported that the old-type steerage, described below, was still found on the majority of the immigrant vessels even in 1909.

“Steerage” got its name because the passengers traveled in the below-deck level of the ship where the steering equipment was found.  This level was originally designed for cargo, not people—and  the earlier immigrant ships began carrying passengers on the westbound trip as a way of filling the empty cargo hold after bringing American goods eastbound across the Atlantic.

These cargo holds were never designed for human habitation, and therefore, were unfit for it—particularly in the early to mid-1800s when ships were still powered by sails and therefore could be at sea for months.  Things got somewhat better in the later 1800s as steamships replaced sailing ships, thus shortening the trip from months to weeks—and as new laws required more humane conditions.  But although the passengers stopped dying like flies, the trip was still a traumatic way to begin a new life.  Some of the larger ships carried 1,000 passengers or more in the steerage section.

Typically, steerage had no ventilation or natural light except for the hatches leading above-board—which were often closed due to bad weather.  The ceilings in steerage were just 6 to 8 feet high and fitted with two tiers of berths (bunk beds) which were 6 feet long and 2 feet wide, with 2½ feet of space above each.  Mattresses were straw or seaweed.  All of a passenger’s belongings had to squeeze into their berth with them.  A few ships had an area below-decks with tables for eating, but many did not, so for many immigrants, the duration of the voyage was spent in their berths or in the narrow passageways between them.

In the earlier days, there was no separation of passengers by gender, but in later times, men traveling alone, families, and unaccompanied women were in three separate sections. 

Water was scarce, sanitation was minimal, and privacy was non-existent.  When the weather was good, steerage passengers would crowd onto the main deck for light and air, but in bad weather they were confined to below-decks, where seasickness was a fact of life.  Many were too sick to eat for the entire voyage—which saved them the indignities of the terrible food.  Others were Jewish and kosher and refused most of the food provided.  Without water, sweeping was the only form of cleaning done, as the filth and stench became worse and worse until the cleaning done by the crew on the last day of the voyage, shortly before the inspectors boarded the ship at the port of entry.

Those who died—and disease raged on some of the ships, especially those carrying the Irish escaping the Potato Famine—were thrown overboard.  It was a very different scenario than that of the wealthy passengers in the first and second class cabins above them, with whom they never mixed.  Some of the captains and ship stewards were honest and kind, but others looked upon the steerage passengers as not much more than freight—the lowest rung of Europe’s poor who didn’t deserve any better and wouldn’t know the difference anyway.

The Statue of Liberty must have been a welcome sight as the survivors emerged from below-decks at New York Harbor at the end of their voyage!

Ship image:  S.S. Tunisia, ancestry.com

Military Monday: Jacob Heilman

My husband’s mother has three great-grandfathers who served in the Civil War.  One died (Charles Alwood, whom I wrote about previously), and two others survived.  One of those who survived was Jacob Heilman.

Jacob was born in Bavaria in 1819 and came to the United States in 1844, according to a book of historical sketches published in 1976 by the Henry County, Ohio Historical Society.  (A New York Passenger list I found supports this.)  He came to Ohio in 1847 with a brother and married Maria Baker there in 1850.  They had twelve children—four sons and eight daughters—eight of whom survived him. 

According to his service record on ancestry.com, Jacob was a Private in Company F of the Ohio 68^th Infantry Regiment, and his grave marker confirms that fact.  He would have been in his forties at the time—not a young man!  It was said that his unit marched over 7,000 miles and rode trains or steamboats another 6,000 miles, and that his regiment was in every Confederate state except Florida and Texas.    

There are good histories of his unit, and they bear this out.  I consulted “Dyer’s Compendium” online and got some details.  The 68^th started out at the Battle of Fort Donelson and took part in nearly every major battle and siege of the war, including the Battle of Shiloh, the siege of Vicksburg, and Sherman’s March to Atlanta.  The regiment lost two officers and 48 enlisted men in battle, and another one officer and 249 enlisted men to disease, for a total of 300 deaths.

The actual dates of Jacob’s service are sketchy.  The 1975 biographical sketch (written by Jacob’s great-grandson Lyle Heilman) says that Jacob enlisted in 1861 when the war broke out and served until the war was over.  Maria had a daughter in May 1862, but the baby could have been born after Jacob left for the war.  Dyer’s history shows that his unit had a long furlough in early 1864—but judging by the birth date of Jacob’s son John (June 1864), Jacob was home by September 1863.  A draft register listing him as “discharged” in June 1863 bears that out.  So the extent of action Jacob actually saw is uncertain—but whatever his length of service, it was enough for Jacob to apply for, and receive, an Civil War veteran invalid pension in March 1873. 

It is said in the family that he was blind the last twelve years of his life; he died in 1907, with his wife following in 1912.

I found Jacob’s grave a few years ago at Florida Cemetery in Henry County, Ohio.  My husband and I put a flag on it before taking a photograph.  I was pleased to see the G.A.R. marker there.  In an original photo of him which survives, and which I was fortunate enough to borrow from my husband’s cousin Dale Garver, even in his old age Jacob looks brave and strong—a survivor. 

Mystery Monday: Otto and Elsie

While researching a relative of mine—we’ll call her “Aunt Ann”—I came across the story of Otto and Elsie Iversen (his name changed).  They were Ann’s birth parents, but they were not the ones who raised her.  I figured there was a story there…

Otto Iversen was a sailor.  He was born in Bergen, Norway in 1898 and found his calling on the sea.  In this photo, Otto is the big man on the right.  He visited the port of New York, in 1920, and he must have liked what he saw.  In 1921 he came to stay, and in 1927 he became a naturalized citizen in Chicago.  It was said in the family that Otto was over six feet tall, big enough to eat a whole pie at a time, and strong enough to lift a cow over his head.   

Elsie was an immigrant, too.  She and her sister came from Germany in 1923 when they were in their twenties.  The passenger list says their destination was Chicago. 

Somehow Otto and Elsie met, and they married around 1923—but it was far from a fairy tale ending.  Elsie had a baby who died, then another baby who died, and then a third baby in 1929—a little girl they called “Ann.”  In the 1930 census little Ann lives in Chicago with her father, mother, and a boarder.  But apparently neither Otto nor Elsie wanted to raise a child.  According to the family, Elsie tried giving the baby to her sister-in-law in Iowa, but that didn’t “stick”—the family just didn’t need another mouth to feed. 

But Elsie’s sister and her husband had no children of their own, and they took Ann into their home and raised her as their own.  Ann grew up first in Chicago, then in the suburbs, and then in the country.  Her uncle was a successful tailor who provided well for his wife, niece, and a nephew they also took in. 

And what happened to Otto and Elsie?  

Elsie ran a boarding house in Chicago for many years and never took much interest in her daughter, although the two of them had a relationship when Ann was older—in fact, Ann actually cared for her mother in her own home as her mother’s health failed.  Elsie died in 1989 in New Jersey at age 93. 

Ann remembers having visits from Otto as a child.  She was always rather frightened of her father, due to his size and the fact that he was always rather shaky.  By the 1940 census Otto was a resident at the Chicago State Mental Hospital, also known as “Dunning Hospital.”  According to the family, one Sunday afternoon in 1943, he took a streetcar to visit his wife.  As he stepped off the car, he had a massive heart attack and died in the street.  He was only 44.  Ann had very few positive memories of her father, and mental illness was much misunderstood in those days.

I wondered if he was a drinker; it seemed like that would explain a lot.  So I ordered his death certificate—but it told a different tale.  It corroborated the heart attack story; the cause of death was “chronic myocarditis” and he died ten minutes after the heart attack.  But it also stated that Otto had suffered from post-encephalitis for fifteen years.  I looked up the side effects of post-encephalitis, and sure enough—a shakiness that mimics Parkinson’s.  Also common?  Mood disorders, personality changes, and mental deterioration.  Otto was the victim of a disease far beyond his control.  I was glad to be able to share with Ann a little more about her father that might explain why he couldn’t be there for her when she was young...  It’s never too late to have some closure.

James Francis Collier: A Self Made Man

While doing some research for a client, I came across an amazing story of a “self made man” named James Francis Collier. He is shown here front left, with his wife and children.

James was born in 1863 in Pennsylvania—the son of Irish immigrants Martin Collier and Catherine Kealy and the oldest of ten children.  Martin and Catherine settled in Schuykill County, and then Northumberland County, Pennsylvania—coal mining country.  James’ father Martin was a coal miner, as his father was before him.  In fact, the name “Collier” means coal miner.  It was hard and dirty work.  Martin died at age 49.

In the 1880 census, James (16) and his younger brother (only 12!) are “breaker boys” in the coal mines.  I had to look that up… Wikipedia says that breaker boys sorted coal by hand, without gloves.  It was a job for the young and the old.  Boys as young as eight would work ten hours a day, six days a week, sorting the coal by size and removing impurities.  They often lost fingers, hands, or worse in the conveyor belts.  Asthma and black lung were common. 

By the 1900 census, James was married to Lizzie McDowell, a daughter of Irish immigrants.  James has come a long way in 20 years; he is an insurance agent.  By the 1920 census he is a “superintendent-insurance company.”  The 1940 census tells us that James’ formal education stopped at the sixth grade—consistent with he and his brother being “breaker boys” by 1880.  James was truly a self-made man.

His 1945 obituary tells us just how far he had come.  It is entitled “James F. Collier, Civic Leader, Dies After Long Illness” and it says, in part:

“Mr. Collier was one of the best known insurance men in the city.  He was superintendent of the Prudential Life Insurance Company here until his retirement 11 years ago.  Since then he has devoted his time to civic activities and was a member of the Rotary Club, the Elks, the Eagles, the Young Men’s Republican Club, the Young Men’s Democratic Club, and the Wheel Club.  A member of the Church of the Annunciation, Mr. Collier was active in parish affairs and was a member of the Holy Name Society.  He was a member, also, of Williamsport Council 966, Knights of Columbus; was a fourth degree knight and served two terms as grand knight.  He was a member of the Chamber of Commerce, serving as its president; was a director of the First National Bank, and a director of the Williamsport Hotels Company.  He was a past president of the County Automobile club.  In municipal affairs, Mr. Collier was a leader in city planning.  He served long periods as president of both the City Planning commission and the Zoning Board of Appeals.  He was a past president of the Pennsylvania State Association of Planning Commissioners.” 

All this with a sixth grade education!

It also says this in his obituary:  “Mr. Collier started to work when he was eight years old, picking slate in the anthracite breakers.”  That tells us that James never forgot his humble roots, and rather than hiding his past or being embarrassed, he told his story.  I am guessing that this self made man was a huge inspiration to others.  I’m glad I had the chance to tell his story.

Passage to America

Once you become known as the Official Family Historian, a wonderful phenomenon begins to occur.  Relatives, especially older ones, begin to give you things, saying, “I know you’ll take care of this.  I don’t want it to be thrown out after I’m gone!” 

My Aunt Janet recently left a box with me.  One of the items in the box was this wonderful document—her grandfather’s ticket to America. 

Carl August Peterson (1861-1917) my great-grandfather, came to the United States in 1881.  He first settled in Chicago, where he had a brother, Theodore.  He married Emelia Fryksdal there, and later they went west to Nebraska. 

His passenger contract, written in both Swedish and English, gives these details: 

“The departure from here Goteborg/(Gothenburg, Sweden) will take place in a Royal Mail Steamer on 20 May 1881.  From Gothenburg the passengers are forwarded on steerage place to Hull, and further, never later than twelve hours after the custom house examination, to Liverpool, in third class carriages on the railroad.  With the first steamer belonging to the Cunard Line, the departure from Liverpool will take place never later than eight days from the arrival there.  In the above payment (30 kronor) is included:  Steerage place in the Steamers and third class carriages on the Railroads.  Forwarding of luggage viz: 10 cubic feet, half for children; also good and sufficient food from Gothenburg to the landing place in Amerika [and] free lodgings in Hull and Liverpool.”

Several things stand out to me:

• Firstly, he traveled “steerage” class on the ship (the section near the rudder, which had the cheapest accommodations available) and third class (“emigrant’s class”) on the railroad, which would have gotten him a bench to sit on.  A long way from luxury...  Irish-genealogy-toolkit.com describes steerage as “a dark, noisy, smelly, stuffy deck of large bunk dormitories.”  Even so, a steerage ticket could cost the equivalent of six month’s wages for a laborer. (I wrote about "steerage" here.)

• Secondly, he could take 10 cubic feet of luggage.  Everything else from his old life had to be left behind.  I wonder what he packed? 

• Thirdly, he was provided with “good and sufficient food.”  Can I surmise that it was cold and minimal and plain?  

• I am guessing that the “free lodgings” in Hull and Liverpool were nothing to write home about, either... I've read about those lodging houses in books.

The 1880s were a hard time in Sweden, with crop failures causing food shortages and lack of employment.  Leaving everything he had ever known must have been difficult, but staying where he was must have been the less attractive option.  So, he came to America at the tender age of nineteen, found a job in Chicago, got married, went west to Nebraska, bought some land, and worked hard… and his children became farmers and teachers and nurses and soldiers.  Carl August Peterson, an immigrant I am proud to call my ancestor.