The Hero of a Forgotten Horror
A Summer Resort of the Ante-Bellum Aristocracy
Swept Out of Existence By a Fearful Storm
The Awful Awakening of the Pleasure-seekers After the Grand Ball of the Season
In a darkened chamber of the Toure Infirmary in New Orleans, whither he was brought a few days ago for treatment. There lies stricken with palsy and paralysis, a man whose name was a synonym in days gone by for all that was noble and heroic in human nature.
Though an interim of thirty-four years bridged the span of that awful Louisiana tragedy that first brought him into prominence, few remain of those who knew and honored him then. Still, the mere mention of the name of Captain Abraham Smith will cause tears to spring to the eyes of every survivor of the Last Island disaster when they hear of the pitiful condition to which his once vigorous life is reduced.
THE HERO’S LIFE.
Captain Abraham Smith was born in 1831 at Quaker Bottom, near Proctorville, Ohio, and is of English parentage. Up to the age of 17, he assisted his father on his farm, but the quiet life of the old town ill-suited the restless temperament of the boy, and he eagerly embraced the offer of a captain of a merchant’s vessel to go to sea.
In 1854 he came to Louisiana. So competent had he become in seacraft that he was at once placed in command of the steamer Texas, then engaged in the lower coast trade.
In 1856 he became the captain of the Star, which connected with the Opelousas Railroad and plied through the waters of St. Mary Parish, the Atchafalaya, Four League, and Cailfou Bays to Last Island.
At the latter point occurred the memorable incident which brought all the young man’s latent qualities into action and held him up to the admiring gaze of the world.
LAST ISLAND
Last Island, or L’lle Derniere, as the early French explorers called it, lies nearly forty miles west of Grand Isle and is the most remote of that curious archipelago that skirts the Louisiana Gulf Coast.
In the early quarter of this century, it was the most celebrated watering place on the Mexican Gulf Coast.
Thither, with their families and whole retinues of enslaved people, came the wealthiest planters of Louisiana, Arkansas, Mississippi, and Tennessee. Thither came the youth and beauty of the famous French Quarter of New Orleans. Charming summer cottages adorned the sea coast, and a massive two-story hotel offered the most luxurious accommodations to visitors.
THE SEAS WERE NEVER GAYER
Then in the summer of ’56, when Captain Smith, three times a week, moored the Star to her landing and lowered the gangplank for a fresh party of pleasure-seekers to disbar. Captain Smith was then the youngest of those captains who made the Mississippi River and Gulf Coast famous in antebellum days.
He was fully six and half feet high, a man of massive mold and herculean strength, gay, handsome, and dashing in his manner, and a general favorite with men and women; just the man, an old lady friend of his remarked, whom a young girl would choose for an ideal friend and not be disappointed.
Each day when the Star was due, the landing was thronged with a bright and merry crowd eager to obtain news from home or to exchange pleasant words with the gay and popular captain.
A NIGHT OF TERROR
But on the evening of the 9th of August, no one expected that the Star would arrive safely. For weeks previous, a windless surge had been agitating the gulf, and the waters rose at sudden and irregular intervals into towering foam-crested bullocks as though somewhere near the depths of the sea had been violently disturbed by a seismic upheaval.
The rain fell with maddening fury, and the wind blew a hurricane. The frightened cottagers rushed to the hotel for protection, and the 300 guests were augmented to 600 or more. Through Atchafalaya and Calliou bays, plunging and roaring and
FIGHTING THE MONSTROUS SEA
At each successive knot, the good Star at length weathered the gale and neared Last Island’s shore. But the landing could not be made, and dragging three anchors, she plunged and careened with each frenzied blast. Captain Smith ordered one bysmokestackskestacks cabins and pilot house to be cut away, and the naked hull of the Star drew near the shore, while through the brilliantly lit hotel, the bewitching strains of music floated out and groups of merry dancers were seen flitting to and fro. “And all through the hours of that fearful night,” said Captain Smith, “the merriment within, like the storm without, seemed to grow wilder and madder.”
THE FATAL MORNING.
Sunday morning, the 10th of August, dawned dark and terrible. The hurricane threw the waves 100 feet in the air, blowing the angry waters of the gulf clear over the island. Houses were falling all around, and timbers were flying in all directions. In less than half an hour, the water had risen four feet in the hotel, and tables, sofas, and chairs were hurled through the crashing windows; in another instant, the terrified, hopeless cry of doomed hundreds burst upon the air; for the great hotel, reeling and spinning, whirled suddenly around and with a terrific crash, crumbled into ruins.
WORK FOR HEROES.
At the first cry for help, Captain Smith sprang to the rescue, and here and there, battling the angry waters and obeying his orders, were his crew members. One after another, the drowning hundreds were rescued, and when the waters rose so high that the bravest sailors declared they would venture out no more, he tied a stout rope about his waist and plunged into the sea.
He saved more than two score persons, nor did he desist till exhausted and almost blinded by the salted spray, his men drew him on board, and he fell senseless at their feet, clasping the dead bodies of two beautiful girls, Valeria Fisher, and her sister. “They drowned in my arms,” said Captain Smith, and a tear trembled down his cheek.”
A DESOLATE SPOT
When the day dawned, the wind had waned, and the flood sank slowly back among the long reach of seagrasses, but the storm had done its
work. The last Island was rented in twins from one end to the other, and the island almost washed away. Dead bodies were floating around, and the ruin and devastation were complete. The spot is today (1890) a desolate God-forsaken waste, and only the old hull of the
Star, still to be seen upon it, tells the story of that fearful night and how well Captain Smith fought for humanity’s sake.
(St. Louis Post-Dispatch.) – The Cincinnati Enquirer, Cincinnati, OH 18 May 1890 p19
OBITUARY
Death of Captain Abraham Smith at New Iberia
The Times-Picayune New Orleans, LA 15 May 1890
Captain Abraham Smith, known in the country as the “Hero of Last Island,” died at New Iberia yesterday. Captain Smith was a man of magnificent physique, 6 ½ feet in height, and his mind and heart were framed by nature in the same generous mood. He was born near Proctorville, Ohio, to British parents, in 1831 and spent his boyhood on a farm.
But he was of a restless, daring, active temperament and found the quiet country life ill-suited to his nature and eagerly accepted an opportunity to go to sea. In 1854 he drifted into Louisiana and found steamboating a congenial occupation. Not long before, he was placed in command of the Star, which ran to Last Isle, then a famous summer resort.
In August 1856, a terrible storm prevailed. The Last islanders feared for the safety of the hero’s boat. Captain Smith csmokestackskestacks and the cabins and finally faced the element in the naked hull of the gallant craft. The next day there was a flood and fierce wind.
The cottagers crowded the hotel until nearly a thousand people were in the place. They knew not of the nearness of death. The gulf swept over the island, the hurricane sent the hotel crashing under the waves, and the cry for life was heard above the storm’s roar. Captain Smith led his whole crew to the rescue. They worked nobly until it seemed suicide to continue.
When all the others feared to venture, the brave captain tied a lifeline to his waist, plunged into the sea, and heroically continued until
he saved more than two score unfortunates. His work ceased when his men pulled him senseless and exhausted to the deck. A gold watch presented to him by the survivors was his proud possession. During the war, he displayed his daring as a confederate blockade runner and was captured in 1864 by the Hatteras. After the conflict, he married Miss T. N. Nash and returned to the profession he had previously graced.
In 1876 he was captain of the Minnie Avery. One night she struck a snag in Atchafalaya bay, filled rapidly, and went down. Captain Smith was again a hero. There were forty passengers on board, mostly women and children. He saved them all. Three years later, his career was cut short. He was carried from his boat, stricken with palsy. All the hard earnings of his telling time were spent in a vain search for a cure.
A few weeks ago, paralysis joined his old enemy in the attack. He came to New Orleans for medical treatment but soon found that he must surrender. So, he returned to the home where a few friends were faithful yet, where some who talked of goodness and glory of self-sacrifice still remembered, and yesterday, he died. It was his wish.
All great hearts are kin to nature, and the leaves the trees and flowers in the lovely valley of the Teche. His eye desired to rest on them ere it closed forever so that his last look would encompass only the earth’s brightness and beauty. Captain Smith fulfilled the ideal of knighthood. He was cast in a heroic mold in every way. If there is a chosen host of superb souls in a perfect world, the deceased will be found high in honor.
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