Ebenezer Caldwell Sr., a fourth-generation descendant of John and Sarah Dillingham Caldwell, was born in 1746 and married Lucy Rindge, who died four years later. They had two sons, Ebenezer and Samuel. In 1775, Ebenezer Jr. married Mercy Dodge, and ten more children were born. In Ipswich. He bought the John Calef House on Poplar St. from John Heard in 1803, had a shipbuilding yard at Ipswich Cove, and a fishing boat the brig Sally, which was wrecked in 1804, with the loss of twelve men of Ipswich, including family members.
Ebenezer Jr. married Mercy Dodge’s younger sister Rebeka on May 7, 1795. Their home was the circa 1680 William Howard House on Turkey Shore Rd. She died as a widow in 1837.
Eben Caldwell (1798-1864)
Eben Caldwell, the youngest son of Capt. Ebenezer Jr. (also known as Eben), was born on March 12, 1798, and married Clarissa Smith of Manchester on July 13, 1825. They built the Victorian house at 25 Poplar Street, which is now an apartment building. He was Captain of the brig “Osprey” on a voyage to India in July 1828, of the brig “Oregon” in 1837, and of the ship “Foram” in 1839.
In November 1844, Eben was captain of the 415-ton “Dorchester,” the pioneer ship in Enoch Train’s fine line of “packet” passenger ships. Sailing from Liverpool for New York, it was destroyed off the coast of Ireland in a strong hurricane.
The following story of the almost miraculous deliverance from the storm-beaten and sinking ship Dorchester was told by Captain Even Caldwell. Most of the crew and all of the passengers passengers were rescued by the passing ship Rochester just as it seemed they wouldn’t survive. After 27 days in the Rochester, they returned home. Eben Caldwell continued sailing, and was master of the packet ship “Plymouth Rock,” in 1853. He died April 17, 1864, after a lifetime of being a sailor, having begun his sea-faring in his boyhood, a long family tradition. Captain Caldwell’s son Henry was aboard the Dorchester as a cabin boy and he too survived. In 1845 Henry served as a first officer under his father, and within a few years was in command of ships on his own.
NARRATIVE OF THE WRECK OF THE SHIP “DORCHESTER”
by Captain Eben Caldwell, Ipswich, March 19, 1845
The Dorchester left Liverpool on the 28th of November (1845) at about noon. We had good weather in the channel and cleared the land in about sixty hours from port. The wind prevailed westerly and southwesterly, after that, keeping us to the North, but allowing us to make pretty good progress to the westward.
On Wednesday, December 11th, I found myself by observation at noon, in lat. 50® N. and long. 28′ 30′ West. (I write from notes made after we were taken from the wreck, having lost the log book, journal, and all other records). The wind was then southwest with fresh breezes and the ship was under double-reefed topsails. We were making a good course, and I progressed toward home, and towards the loved ones gathered around the family table and family altar. We were used to blue water and rough weather and we thought not of danger. We deemed not how soon some of us were to be called from the scenes of this world to the solemn realities of eternity.
The barometer was standing at noon at 29.50. It was not again observed until a little after 4 p.m when it had fallen to 28.75 or three-fourths of an inch in about four hours. As this was an unusually rapid fall, all hands were immediately called to take in the sail and prepare for a contest with the mighty elements; a storm was evidently at hand. Our topsails were close reefed. The jib spanker, etc. were well furled, for the barometer told us plainly that the gale would be a heavy one. By half past six p.m., we had furled everything but the close reefed. Courses, jib, spanker, etc. were well furled. The barometer had fallen to 28.50 and continued falling and the storm had already commenced. At 8 p.m. the gale was very heavy, attended by incessant flashes of lightning on the eastern board and raining in torrents. The wind had veered to S. S. W. by compass, or about S. by E. true course.
At 10 p.m the fore top-sail and fore top-mast stay-sail were taken in, and very soon after the wind changed to west, and the gale was so terrific that I did not dare to loose any canvass to wear the ship. The barometer had fallen to 28.25; that is a quarter of an inch lower than I had ever seen it before at sea. The watch were all the time employed during the night, securing the sails to the yards by putting on extra gaskets. It was blowing so hard that it was with difficulty men could go aloft or hold on when there, and it took four or five to do what one could easily have done in moderate weather.
Thursday, Dec. 12 at last dawned upon us and the ocean presented one of the most grand and awful spectacles that the eye of man ever beheld. Lashed into fury by the tremendous force of the wind, it was one clear broad sheet of angry foam as far as the eye could reach. At one moment we were walled in between two immense heaps of water, which seemed ready to engulf us. At the next, we were borne up to the very summit of one of these same watery mountains and looked down into the valleys on either side. Everything about the deck was made as snug as possible. Extra lashings were put upon spars, boats, etc. and every precaution was taken to prevent damage, and the men were cautioned to be on deck only when duty called them there. The Dorchester was an excellent sea-boat, and as strong a ship as ever was built. At thirty minutes past noon, the clew of the main top sail gave way and the sail blew into ribbons. Our ship continued tight and strong and made no complaint, and scarcely a bucket of water had been shipped on deck for the day. Even after the loss of the main top sail, she continued to make good weather.
At 3 p.m., the spencer was set. At about half past three p.m. as I was standing in the companion way, the man at the wheel sang out “Look out, look out, there.” I immediately closed the companion door and stepped down one stair: by the time I had done so, the sea was upon us, bringing in the companion doors and carrying me with them to the cabin below. The crash on deck was loud and long, tremendous beyond the power of conception. It seemed as though the ship must be Brocken to atoms. If she had been lifted fifty feet in thin air and dropped on a ledge, the concussion could not have seemed greater. The water continued pouring down upon me for so long that I thought the ship was sinking. I had lost my breath and was completely exhausted before it ceased. As soon as I could I dragged myself on deck. Who, my friend, can describe to you the spectacle that met my sight, or who can describe my emotions on beholding it! Mast gone, bulwarks on one side nearly gone, boats stove, houses stove and gone, and the whole surface of the water around covered with things from the ship and fragments of the wreck.
One man only was to be seen on deck. He had secured himself to the wheel by a bowline around his body and made fast to windward. Of him, I inquired if all the rest of the watch was lost. He said Mr. Hooper (second officer) was and he believed the carpenter; he did not know about the rest. I looked around for these men but nothing could be seen of them. Mr. Hooper had sailed with me from the commencement of his sea life. He was my nephew, a good officer, and a smart sea man, beloved and respected by everyone on board. Judge then what my feelings were to lose him at such a time. Nothing, however, could be done for the dead, and my attention immediately reverted to the living.
Forty-five living beings yet remained on board, and the question for me then to solve was, what can I do to save them? Orders were Instantly given to cut clear of the spars. We now found the main and mizzen mast, with all the spars attached, were on the weather side of the ship, hanging by the lee rigging which led down under the keel Strange as it may appear, the ship had been carried over her spars. Probably the great leak in the ship was in her bottom, caused by strikes against these spars when she went over them, or before we could get clear of them. The order to clear the wreck was no sooner given than obeyed. Axes, hatchets, and knives were put in requisition, and men went to work in perfect order, but with an earnestness and a resolution that seemed to say, “If our lives depend on our exertions we will save them.” By the time we got clear of our spars it was dark. The pump was sounded and two feet of water was found in it, while as much more was swashing about between decks. “To the pumps, men, to the pumps.”
The pumps were set to work. I now had a moment for reflection. If one could reflect in such a scene. II was in the middle of the ocean, about 70C miles from the nearest land, about 100 north of the usual track of vessels crossing the Atlantic, all my spars gone by the board, my boats stove-in, my ship broken down amidship, and leaking so fast that I did not expect to keep her afloat until morning. The old ocean’s angry surges seemed ready to swallow us up every moment; the blackness or darkness was around us; the wind was roaring and howling on deck; men were groaning, women screaming and children crying below. Such was our situation and such were our prospects on the night of the 12th of December— a night I shall not soon forget — a night long and dreary. At daylight on the morning of the 13th of December, we had eight feet of water in the hold. Our ship would but just swim, and it was evident that unless we could find and stop a part of the leaks, a very few hours would terminate our earthly pilgrimage.
On examination we found twelve chain bolts drawn from the lee side of the ship, leaving of course as many holes, of about one and a quarter inches diameter, through the ship’s side. These rolled deep under the water at every roll of the ship, so deep that men were unwilling to risk themselves over the side to stop them. An attempt was made to stop them by driving long plugs through from the inside. In this, we failed, and I determined to try the outside. Short plugs of pine about six Inches long and sharp at one end were prepared, when one of the men, with a rope made fast around him, got over the side, with a plug in one hand and a top-mall (large hammer) in the other. Watching his opportunity, he would stick in the plug, and if possible, strike it once with his top-mall, and then look out for himself until another roll of the ship allowed him to drive It in tight. In this way, we succeeded in plugging all the bolt holes.
We had accomplished that much by 11 o’clock a.m. Both pumps were kept going three men pumping at a time at each pump, being relieved every half hour. We had now been without food since noon the day before, or twenty-three hours. We had no sleep during the night; wet to the skin all the time, and hard at work for our lives, we were very much exhausted. We had no time to make fire and could not have made one if we had. Some bread, cheese, and cold meat were given to the men, and a tablespoonful of brandy was given to each. Both pumps continued all that day, all that night and all day on Saturday, the 14th.
This day, Saturday, we succeeded in making a fire, boiling some beef, and making some tea. The water continued swashing about such that it extinguished the fire several times while doing this, and it was with difficulty that the men could keep themselves at the pumps, even with the aid of bowlines. This day we got up one of our chains and let it go overboard to lighten the ship. At 3 p.m. we saw a ship some six or seven miles off but she took no notice of us. At eight p.m., having had no sleep since Thursday morning, one watch was permitted to go below and at twelve o’clock midnight, the watchers were changed so as to give each watch four hours rest. At four a.m. on Sunday, a request was made to permit each watch to have two hours more rest. I was inclined to grant it, but on sounding the pump we found that the water had gained six inches in the last eight hours and all agreed that we must rest no more for the present.
At six a.m. the passengers, men, women, and boys were sent for from the steerage, to go to work to lighten the ship by passing goods up through the cabin. One woman said as she came into the cabin, that when coming along the deck, she did not know whether she was overboard or not. All seemed dejected and desponding, but something to do is a sovereign remedy for such maladies. No sooner were they fairly at work, than their countenances began to brighten and they became quite cheerful. Before noon the girls made themselves merry, Joking each other about selecting wedding dresses from among the printed muslins and other fancy goods we were throwing overboard. On opening a package of Highland shawls all the women selected one each. As they were all wet, and had no dry clothes for a change, I made no objection, only telling them they must not be difficult about the pattern, nor spend much time in the selection as we had no time to lose. This forenoon succeeded in making hot tea, which with bread and cheese refreshed us again very much. One watch while resting from the pumps, got one anchor off the bows and let it go overboard and hove over all the water casks and everything about the deck except spars, in order to lighten the ship. Thus all hands, men, women, and children, who were able, were kept at work.
At about 3 p.m. a sail was seen by one of the men, who immediately gave notice by the usual cry of “Sail ho!” A more joyful sound never vibrated on my ears. I was below at the time, breaking open boxes of goods. Taking my spy-glass in my hand, I hastened on deck. The distant sail was but a speck above the horizon, but as she bore east of us, I was confident she was bound westerly and would pass near enough for us to be seen by those on board if night did not too soon draw her dark veil over us.
All hands kept steadily at work while I watched the approaching stranger. It was an hour of the most intense anxiety. Is she a small or a large vessel? If small, will she be able to take us all off? Small or large can she take us off as the weather is? Will the master have resolution enough to make the attempt? Will she see us before dark? These and a thousand similar questions arose to the mind in quick succession. One thinks fast at such a time. Before we could decide anything as to the size of the vessel approaching, one of the crew came to me and asked the following question: “If she should prove to be a small vessel, and the captain cannot or will not take all, who shall go first?” Without a moment’s hesitation, I answered “The women and children.” To this, he gave his hearty and cheerful assent and added, “We (the crew) have been talking about it and we will stick together — all or none.” I only mention this to show the perfect good order and good feeling among the crew.
But the speck above the horizon soon increased in size to our vision and in about three-fourths of an hour we made her out to be a large ship. Soon she came near enough for us to see her hull as she rode on top of the sea, but she continued on her way and it was evident she had not seen us. As she was steering she would have gone about four miles from us. All were still at work pumping and lightening the ship, but every eye was turned toward the stranger. All had been done that we could do to attract the attention of those on board; still she pursued her undeviating course and every countenance began to wear the gloom of despondency. The men began to tell each other of having passed wrecks at sea when their captains would not go near them. But now when we had begun to despair, the noble ship, following the impulse given her by her rudder, swung boldly round, turning her head directly for us. Her yards were braced around, light sails taken in, and all doubts as to her coming to our rescue entirely ceased. Orders were given for everyone to leave work and prepare a small bundle of clothes in readiness for leaving the ship.
It was by this time so dark that a lantern was hung up as high as we could get it, that we might not be lost sight of. Soon the ship came as near as the captain thought safe, and hove to with her main sail to the mast. After a short time (which to us however seemed long) & a boat was seen close to us. It was so dark that she could not be seen when she left the ship. I hailed her and asked if they would take us off. The officer answered “Yes we will try to save all lives, but my orders were not to attempt to save any baggage.” This may seem like an unkind order –I confess it seemed to me so at first, but a moment’s reflection convinced me of its perfect propriety. To understand this it will be necessary to consider the circumstances under which it was given. It was dark. The barometer was standing at 28.40, low enough for a hurricane at that very moment; the weather was squally; black and angry-looking clouds were hanging all around us and no one could tell that we should not have a gale the next minute and there was quite as much sea running as a boat could live in.
All must see that life was the first objective and that it was no time to keep men in a boat to save property. We had, besides the ship’s company, 29 passengers, mostly women and children. Our ship was rolling so much (and the same might be said of the other ship) that a boat would be stove and swamped in a moment if hauled alongside, so as to come in contact with her. How, then, were these women and children to be transferred from the ship to the boat? To do this at such a time was no children’s play. A single wrong movement might prove fatal not only to the person we were putting on board, but to all in the boat, and by the loss of the boat, fatal to all in our ship and by weakening the other ship’s crew might endanger her safety. To accomplish the transfer, a rope was prepared some twenty yards long, with a bowline in the middle, sufficiently large to admit of its being put over a person’s head, and down under the arms, the loop being under the waist. When a child was to be transferred, the loop was made smaller.
When the boat came she was manned with five men. One man being stationed on each end, a rope was thrown to either, to enable them to hold her parallel with the ship’s side, while two others with their oars kept her from coming too near. One end of the bowline was given to the other man in the boat. Everything being thus ready, a person was put into the bowline and put over the side of the ship. Watching a good opportunity, orders were given to lower away and to the man in the boat to haul at the same time. Sometimes the drop was rather quick, but it was no time to think of small bruises.
When all was prepared, I went to the cabin for a woman who had four children. She thanked God and rejoiced much. But when she came on deck and saw how dark it was, and how much sea there was and a little cockle shell of a boat knocking about alongside, one moment close to the ship and the next, ten or twelve feet off, her courage entirely failed her. She said she could not and she would not go. It was no time to argue the question. She was put into the loop and safely transferred to the boat, but it took two men to break her hold of those who put her over the ship’s side. Her children were next put into the boat and care was taken throughout not to separate families, especially not to separate mothers and children, for It was very uncertain, when a boat left us, whether the wind would continue long enough for her return.
So very uncertain did I consider this that I took my son into the cabin and directed him to go in the first boat that should take any of the crew, and divided my money with him to enable him to pay his passage home from New York if I should be unable to follow him. The boat was so small that only six or seven persons could be taken at a time. A second boat was got out, but she was only in season to make one trip. After the first boat load the women had more confidence and no resistance was made.
Having seen every soul safely transhipped, without getting one of them into the water, I prepared to leave myself. This was of course not quite so easy or safe as being lowered by others, and those in the boat seemed a little alarmed for fear I should swamp them. Holding a rope fast on board, I got over the side, holding on by it, and directing those in the boat when to haul near, I lowered myself into her and bore off. This was the first trip of this boat, being the last put out, and she was in charge of the carpenter. As soon as I got into her, he desired me to take charge of her, as he was unused to the management of a boat and I did so. I have been used to a boat almost from Infancy, but I found it required great care to keep her from being capsized or filled by the sea as it rolled by us. The ship had drifted by this time a quarter of a mile off or more. We had rather overloaded our boat. It was so dark we could not see one-fourth of the distance between the two ships. But we got safely alongside and on board.
I publicly stated soon after my arrival home that I was heartily welcomed on board the Rochester by Capt. Britton. It was about eight o’clock when I got on board. I was immediately invited into the cabin. Having stated to Capt. Britton that I had a son among the crew, he was immediately sent for. We met there. The scene had changed since I divided money with him on board the Dorchester. We shook hands but neither spoke. Our emotions were too deep for utterance. The next day I saw all my passengers and looked after their comfort as well as I could and they all seemed grateful for my attention. The crew members were completely worn out. Some of them could not stand when they got their boots off. Several of them had their wrists and arms very sore with chafes and bruises. A week or ten days’ rest, however, restored all to comfortable health. We were on board the Rochester for 27 days and arrived in New York on the 11th of January.
It is interesting to trace the providences of God and see how He brings about events. The Rochester left Liverpool six days after we did. The ship St. George was put up in opposition to the Rochester and sailed in company with her. In fact, she was to run a race with her across the Atlantic. A few hours out, about 30 miles from Liverpool, the wind came ahead for them to pursue the usual course out — the channel south of Ireland. Both ships continued turning to windward until dark. Then Capt. Britton, to get clear of the St. George, shaped his course out the north channel, or north of Ireland, a very unusual thing in winter and not often in summer. From the moment the ship’s course was altered, Capt. Britton had a fair wind until he came up with us, and from the time he cleared the land, he did not change his course till he saw the Dorchester. Coming out of the north channel brought Capt. Britton directly in our tracks. Had he been detained only two hours by calms or headwinds on his passage, we should not have seen him or he us. Again, we tried hard on Saturday to get our ship’s head around to the south so as to make some progress in that direction. Had we succeeded we should have been out of the track of the Rochester and perhaps never have been seen or heard of. “Verily it is not far man that walketh to direct his steps.” “Whoso is wise and shall observe these things, even they shall understand the loving-kindness of the Lord.” —Eben Caldwell.
Sources
- Caldwell, Eben, “Narrative of the Wreck of the Ship Dorchester”
- Pratt, Marjory Bates: Caldwells & Clipper Ships, 1965 (booklet)
- Caldwell, Van “Merchant on the Quarterdeck” (1991)
- Caldwell, Van: “Long Arm of the Sea, the Making of a Ship’s Captain”. May 1985
Thanks to Craig Caldwell for donating the papers and research of his father Harold VanYorx Caldwell, Jr.
Historic Ipswich 
