A few months before the Great Chicago Fire, Father came to the conclusion that the law, while highly remunerative, was absorbing too much of his time. He had no idea of giving up his practice. He was senior partner in the prominent and influential Chicago firm of Spafford, McDaid and Wilson, and was considered an authority on national as well as international law. But Father became convinced that dealing in real estate would give him opportunity to achieve honorable success without being wholly engrossed by it and also give him more time to devote his attention to philanthropic and Christian work, particularly that being started by his close friend the evangelist, Mr. Dwight L. Moody.
With this idea in mind, in the spring of 1871, Father, with several of his friends, invested in land in the direction of which the city of Chicago was expanding—land which is now part of Lincoln Park—and other extensive tracts north of the city, on the Lake Shore. They put all the available money, and borrowed more to enlarge their holdings, into this project that seemed sound.
At this time he and Mother were living in the suburb of Lake View, on the north side of Chicago, in a vine-covered gabled cottage surrounded by twelve acres of lawn. They had four little daughters. I think of these children as my “little sisters” although this was before I was born. Anna, named for our mother, was nine. Margaret Lee, aged seven, was named after Father’s favorite sister, whose husband, Colonel Arthur T. Lee, had been seriously wounded in the Battle of
Gettysburg a few weeks before Maggie was born. Elizabeth, called Bessie, was five, and on July the fourth a little girl was born and named Tanetta for our grandmother, who came from Norway and died when Mother was a little girl….
During the first weeks of October [1871] there was a continual succession of small fires in the city. Father was in Indiana interviewing a prospective purchaser for some of the Lake Shore property. He was there on October 8, 1871, when the knell of desolation sounded across the American continent in gigantic headlines: CHICAGO IN ASHES. There was no more thought of a sale. Father’s only thought was to rush back to Chicago….
The Great Fire was a crushing misfortune to nearly every inhabitant of Chicago. To Father and his associates in the real estate venture it was a calamity. Who at such a time could think of enlarging parks or expanding the city? But interest on the borrowed money had to be paid. Father’s law library and adjoining law office in the city, built up with so much expense and pride, were in ashes. Only the contents of a fireproof safe were found and among them, charred and brittle from heat, was a little notebook that has revealed to me much of my parents’ lives in these years before I was born.
Father rejoiced that his wife and children were with him and that the beloved Lake View cottage, although it would have to carry a small mortgage, was still their own.
…The family doctor advised a change for Mother. Dr. Hedges realized that going away without her family only aggravated Mother’s condition, and she could not be happy without them, so he advised Father to take the entire family on a trip to Europe….
Since his own trip three years before Father had been looking forward to showing Mother the museums, art galleries, and all the haunts he had so enjoyed. It would be a costly journey, and the land investment he and his friends had made just before the Great Fire and the loss of his law office in the fire had left Father rather heavily in debt. But he persuaded himself that his wife’s health was more important, and they planned for months, and finally all their plans were complete. They would go first to France, where they had many friends, and then on to Switzerland…Reservations were made on the most luxurious ship then afloat— the French liner S.S. Ville du Havre.
Just before they left Chicago, Father had an offer from a man who wanted to buy part of the land in which he had invested so disastrously before the Great Fire. He could not afford to forego such an important offer. The sale would relieve the partners of almost all their indebtedness and enable Father to take his family to Europe without anxiety. It was decided that their plans should not be entirely postponed. Mother, the children, and Mlle. Nicolet would sail on the Ville du Havre and Father would join them later in France….
It was a merry and companionable group of twelve that left Chicago in November 1873. Father went with the party as far as New York….
The evening of November 21, 1873, found the Ville du Havre, according to Captain Surmount’s report, prow east for France on a calm Atlantic, which was good news for everyone aboard. There had been a sharp squall off the coast of Newfoundland that gave most of the passengers a few seasick hours. But now there was no motion, and the calm was so complete that Mother said later she found it difficult to realize they were on the sea. The weather was clear and it was too early to fear icebergs….
About two o’clock that morning, November 22, the Ville du Havre was carrying its sleeping passengers over a quiet sea when two terrific claps, like thunder, were followed by frightening screams. The engines stopped and the ship stood still. The passageways filled with terrified, half-dressed people shouting questions no one could answer. Mother and Mlle. Nicolet threw on dressing gowns, drew some clothing over the children…They were among the first passengers to reach the deck.
Pastor Lorriaux hurried across the dark deck to meet them. “That must be the vessel that struck us,” he exclaimed. Several hundred yards away, to starboard of the Ville du Havre, towered the masted silhouette of a great iron sailing vessel. This ship that had rammed theirs and was itself badly damaged was the English Lochearn, Captain Robertson in command….
Aboard the decks was indescribable confusion. Captain Surmount appeared on the bridge of the Ville du Havre and began shouting orders. Some of the officers and men were struggling on the afterdeck to loosen the lifeboats but they could not detach them, for it was discovered that everything aboard the beautiful pleasure ship was newly painted and stuck fast. By this time crowds of passengers, in nightdresses or scantily attired, were crowding about the boats or trying to extricate the life preservers suspended along the taffrail, but these, too, were stuck fast….
The Ville du Havre was sinking rapidly. Mother knew this was the end; she knew, too, it was not hard to die. She thought of Father with anguish, then, “he would rather think of me with the children.” That gave her courage.
The great ship careened to starboard. The water was very near. There was a moment of awful silence as the deck slid lower to meet the sea.
There was another loud crash as the bow broke from the ship and sank. Maggie, who until this moment had been terrified, dropped Mr. Weiss’s hand and went to Mother. She was suddenly calm and unafraid. Tanetta, her arms around Mother’s neck, was quiet. Annie was still helping Mother support her, and Bessie, silent and pale, clutched Mother’s knees….
As Maggie stepped beside Mother she lifted her dark eyes. “Mama, God will take care of us.” Then little Annie said, “Don’t be afraid. The sea is His and He made it.”
The sea rushed over the afterdeck as a watery canyon opened to receive the vast ruin of the Ville du Havre. The little group went down together, with all on that crowded deck and all those trapped below into blackness whose depth stretched many miles, into a whirlpool created by suction of bodies, wreckage, and savage water. Only twelve minutes after the Ville du Havre was struck it sank….
As Mother was pulled down she felt her baby torn violently from her arms. She reached out through the water and caught Tanetta’s little gown. For a moment she held her again, then the cloth wrenched from her hand. She reached out again and touched a man’s leg in corduroy trousers.
Once in Jerusalem, when I was a child and we were very poor, someone gave me a little corduroy coat. Mother was pleased that I had a warm coat to wear, for winters are cold in Jerusalem, but I saw the agony on her face. She could never touch that material without reliving the moment of helpless anguish when she felt her baby drawn from her hands by the power of the Atlantic, and reached for her again and felt the corduroy.
The splash of an oar brought her to consciousness. She was lying in a boat, bruised from head to foot and sick with sea water, her long hair heavy with salt and her thick dressing gown in ribbons. She knew, with no need of being told, that her children were gone.
From a watch one of the passengers carried, that stopped when the ship sank, they estimated that Mother had been in the sea for an hour. She had been rolled under and down, and as she rose unconscious to the surface a plank floated under her, saving her life.
The English sailors of the Lochearn were patrolling the littered waters in their small boats, saving all they could of the survivors of the ship their own had sent to the bottom of the sea. Only drifting fragments were left of the once magnificent Ville du Havre….
Mother…knew her children were gone, but she could not forbear hoping. As each boatload was hoisted aboard the Lochearn she joined the others who ran to scan the newly rescued relatives or friends. There were parents who met their children and embraced silently and long. There were others who turned silently away. Poor Mother was one of these; still, as each boatload came she sought her four little girls….
The cries for help that at first had come from every direction were growing fainter. The icy waters were crushing out the lives of the last survivors swept beyond range of the rescue crews.…By this time it was nearly four in the morning. The stars were still brilliant, and the skies clear, as they had been since the beautiful sunset the evening before. If the night had been stormy, not a soul could have been saved from the Ville du Havre.
Gradually the heart-rending sounds of affliction aboard the Lochearn gave way to the softer tones of mourning as the last hopes were replaced by sorrowful reality. Everybody had lost someone, and some families were totally wiped out.
Over the weeping was heard the tranquil murmur of the Atlantic, as if nothing had happened to disturb its calm. The sea looked so placid that it was difficult to realize that it had just annihilated one of the largest steamers afloat, and engulfed, as if in play, two hundred and twenty-six lives.
The Ville du Havre had been manned by Captain Surmount and a crew of 172 officers and men. When Captain Robertson of the Lochearn completed the two-hours search after the collision, his men had picked up six officers and twenty-three of the crew, twenty-eight passengers, ten of them women, seventeen men, and one little girl, nine years old, making a total of 57 saved….
Each day the realization of loss seemed more acute. The companions in grief, living under crowded, almost intolerable conditions, showed calmness and courage. They organized themselves for their mutual benefit and each had some duty to perform that drew forth their spirit of ingenuity and helped make life bearable on the tiny ship.
Pastor Weiss, in his report on the journey, states that as the days went by Mother became quieter and outwardly more reconciled. He quotes her as saying: “God gave me four little daughters. Now they have been taken from me. Someday I will understand why.”
Nine days after the shipwreck, on December 1, 1873, they reached Cardiff, Wales…As soon as the survivors of the Ville du Havre were landed they were able to send dispatches. Mother’s cable to Father consisted of two words: “Saved Alone.”
On the other side of the Atlantic, Father was waiting for news of his family. A curtain of silence descended on the Ville du Havre after she left American waters. Father quieted his anxiety with the hope that no news was good news….Then the blow fell; the cable arrived, not from France, but from Wales. All that night, with Major Whittle and another devoted friend beside him, Father walked the floor in anguish. Major Whittle said that toward morning Father turned to him. “I am glad to trust the Lord when it will cost me something,” he said….
He cabled Mother that she should proceed to Paris… where he would join her as soon as he could cross the Atlantic.
On the way across the Atlantic the captain called… Father into his private cabin. “A careful reckoning has been made,” he told them, “and I believe we are now passing the place where the Ville du Havre was wrecked.”
Father wrote to Aunt Rachel:
On Thursday last we passed over the spot where she went down, in mid-ocean, the water three miles deep. But I do not think of our dear ones there. They are safe, folded, the dear lambs, and there, before very long, shall we be too. In the meantime, thanks to God, we have an opportunity to serve and praise Him for His love and mercy to us and ours. “I will praise Him while I have my being.” May we each one arise, leave all, and follow Him.
To Father this was a passing through the “valley of the shadow of death,” but his faith came through triumphant and strong. On the high seas, near the place where his children perished, he wrote the hymn that was to give comfort to so many:
When peace like a river attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea-billows roll,
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say
“It is well, it is well with my soul.”
Tho’ Satan should buffet, tho’ trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ hath regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.
My sin—oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin—not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to His cross and I bear it no more;
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, oh, my soul!
And, Lord, haste the day when the faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll,
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend—
“Even so—it is well with my soul.”
For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live
If Jordan above me shall roll,
No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life
Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.
I have sat by the bedside of a woman dying of cancer and, holding her limp and clammy hand, have quietly sung this hymn over and over again. I have sung it by other bedsides as war after war came to Jerusalem; once, by the bed of a private from the Argyle and Sutherland Regiment, taken prisoner by the Turks before Jerusalem was delivered by Allenby’s army in 1917. Blood poisoning was in an advanced stage, and we had very little medicine and no narcotics to alleviate his suffering. He was doomed, and his agony was great. I sat by him hour upon hour and sang softly, “It is well with my soul.” Just before the end he looked up into my face. “Sister,” he said, “you have fought half this battle.”
Innumerable letters have told me the same story in different ways, as the hymn affected and helped the despondent and despairing. I turned on the radio once at random and heard a faint voice coming from a remote station telling the story of the writing of the hymn. Hymns that are the fruit of such anguish victoriously overcome are bound to bring blessing.
“Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort; who comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God” (2 Cor. 1:3-4).
A son, Horatio, was born to the Spaffords in 1876 and Bertha, the author of Our Jerusalem, the autobiography from which this story was excerpted, was born in 1878. Horatio died of scarlet fever in February of 1880. When another daughter was born in January of 1881, Mrs. Spafford gave her the name Grace as a living testimony to the truth of the verse, “My grace is sufficient for thee.”
Later that year the Spaffords settled in Jerusalem where, among other things, they founded the Spafford Children’s Centre and the American Colony.