CORNELIUS M. SCHOONMAKER, CAPT, USN
Cornelius Schoonmaker '59
Cornelius Marius Schoonmaker was admitted to the Naval Academy from New York on September 28, 1854 at age 15 years 7 months.
"Cabinet card photograph by Sebastianutti & Benque, Trieste. It was probably taken in 1880-1881, when Commander Schoonmaker commanded USS Nipsic in European waters."
"Cabinet card photograph by J. Williams, Honolulu, Oahu, Hawaii. It was probably taken in 1887-1889, when Captain Schoonmaker commanded USS Vandalia on the Pacific Station."
Loss
Cornelius was lost on March 15, 1889 when his command, the steam sloop Vandalia, was destroyed by a hurricane in Apia, Samoa.
Other Information
From "The Last Day of Captain Cornelius M. Schoonmaker", by Gerald E. Wheeler, in the September 1956 issue of Proceedings:
In March, 1899, the United States and Germany moved dangerously close to war over the question of who should control the Samoan Islands. By a treaty with a native chief, the United States had been guaranteed a naval base at Pago Pago on Tutuila and thus had a foot in the door, but the Germans had developed the islands commercially and, like the United States, had a harbor guaranteed to them on Upolu. With evidence pointing to a German seizure of complete control in the Samoans, the United States dispatched Rear Admiral Lewis A. Kimberly, USN, with a force of three naval vessels to Apia on Upolu. Admiral Kimberly’s squadron consisted of the flagship Trenton, Captain Norman H. Farquhar commanding, the sloop-of-war Vandalia with Captain Cornelius M. Schoonmaker in command, and the bark-rigged Nipsic, Commander Dennis W. Mullan. In Apia’s harbor the American force found the British cruiser Calliope and a German squadron consisting of the cruiser Olga and the gunboats Adler and Eber.
On March 14 a steadily falling barometer heralded the approach of a storm, and by the afternoon of Friday the 15th a gale was pounding the Samoans. If the German and American squadrons had considered hostilities, all such ideas were soon abandoned in the struggle to survive. By the morning of March 17 the hurricane had passed. In its wake the Nipsic was aground and badly damaged, the Trenton and Vandalia were sunk, and the German squadron was completely demolished. Only the Calliope had escaped, and this by steaming to sea. Forty- four American lives had been lost, four officers and 39 men from the Vandalia, and a landsman from the Trenton. Among those officers perishing was Captain Schoonmaker of the Vandalia.
Afterward, in writing his Captain’s widow, Executive Officer J. W. Carlin, USN, confided: “We both realized the ship was doomed four hours before she struck, but we worked like beavers and kept a stout heart and calm demeanor for the sake of the two hundred poor men who were watching us and who knew that in our efforts lay their only hope. Warren (the cabin steward) came up to me and said ‘Are we going down, Mr. Carlin?’ ‘Certainly not, why?’ He replied: ‘The Captain is in the cabin looking at some photographs and his eyes are full of tears.’ The Captain came on deck almost immediately, but the tenderness of the husband and father had given place to the calm courage of the sailor. ...”
(Schoonmaker tried to take the Vandalia to sea and failing this tried to steam at anchor. Heavy seas, the extraordinary strength of the river currents discharging into Apia harbor, and the poor holding ground finally saw the Vandalia aground on a reef, foundering, broadside to the storm.) Lieutenant Carlin’s letter continued:
“The waves were soon rolling over us fifteen feet deep. In general the men ran up the rigging, but some remained on the poop deck and the forecastle. The Captain and I stood on the foreward edge of the poop deck and held on to the brass railing that runs across. The seas would strike us fair and square, and several times we were both hurled to the opposite side of the deck, buried in the waters and tangled up in the ropes. We would emerge gasping for breath, and rush back to our railing, only to be overwhelmed by another wave before we could draw a deep breath. . . . Bye and bye drift wood, floating trees and portions of wrecked ships or boats were hurled across the deck as if shot out of a cannon. I tried to prevail upon the Captain to go aloft, but he would not. I think that he had the feeling that his place was on the deck, though absolutely nothing could be done. ... I will never forgive myself for not taking him up in the rigging by force then and there, for that was our only chance. . . . We went to the extreme after part of the poop deck and lay down there side by side. We were comparatively comfortable for a short time, but soon the seas grew more violent and we were sent flying across the deck again and again, he oftener than I because his strength was going. Finally he said: ‘Carlin, I cannot hold out much longer.’ I again entreated him to go aloft which he was then willing to do, but expressed doubts of his ability to do so. It was indeed difficult. We had forty feet to run on a slippery deck covered with ropes, and then make a turn and a leap to get into the lower part of the rigging and take the full force of one wave. The run had to be made between the waves and the slightest slip or stumble or hesitation meant death, as with nothing to hold on to we would be swept into the sea. I knew the Captain could not do it, but the intention was to tie a rope around his waist and let the sailors in the rigging take in the slack as he ran. I told him to watch me do it and remember to do it likewise when his turn came. I made the run and leap, just as I had planned it, got into the rigging and took the full force of one wave which crushed me up against the rigging and drove all the breath out of my body, and then ran up above the waves to temporary safety. I turned to wave my hand to him and forgetful of his own danger, he appeared perfectly happy.
“I now turned my attention to getting him back again. When I reached the place where he had been lying there was not a soul to be seen. Thank heaven I did not see him go. He was seen by the others struggling in the water and went down about fifty yards from the ship. I was told that an immense sea that no human power could withstand had swept him away.”
The fateful hurricane that tore Captain Schoonmaker from the Vandalia spared three junior officers who later were to rise to eminence in the Navy and Marine Corps. Ensign Hilary P. Jones, Jr., who was later to become the Commander-in-Chief United States Fleet in 1922, was officer of the deck on the Trenton during its most trying period and was specially commended by Admiral Kimberly as “a young officer of great promise, and bids fair to be of value to the service and his country.” Naval Cadet John A. Lejeune, later Major General Commandant of the Marine Corps, and Naval Cadet Henry A. Wiley, 42 years later to command the United States Fleet, survived the wreck of the Vandalia.
From the Naval History and Heritage Command:
Cornelius Marius Schoonmaker was born on 2 February 1839. He was appointed to the U.S. Naval Academy in September 1854 and, following graduation in June 1859, served for about two years off the African west coast. In May-September 1861, during the first several months of the Civil War, he was a junior officer on the steam frigate Minnesota and participated with her in the capture of Forts Hatteras and Clark. From late 1861 until after the end of the Civil War in 1865, Lieutenant Schoonmaker was Executive Officer of several ships, including the gunboats Wyandotte and Octorara, monitors Manhattan and Catskill, and the cruiser Augusta. While in the Manhattan, he took part in the Battle of Mobile Bay in August 1864 and in the subsequent campaign to capture Fort Morgan.
In June 1865, Lieutenant Schoonmaker became Navigator of the sloop Juniata and, after promotion to Lieutenant Commander, was her Executive Officer. In 1867-70, he served as Navigator of the Asiatic Squadron flagship, USS Piscataqua (renamed Delaware in 1869). He received instruction in the emerging field of "torpedo" warfare in 1872, then was given command of the dispatch vessel Frolic. Commander Schoonmaker served at the New York Navy Yard in 1873-74, and was Inspector of the Eighth Light-House District, at New Orleans, until 1878. He took command of the new gunboat Nipsic in 1879, taking her to European waters in 1880-81.
Schoonmaker was stationed at the Norfolk Navy Yard in 1882-85 and received promotion to the rank of Captain in October 1886. He became Commanding Officer of the steam sloop Vandalia, on the Pacific Station, in 1888. Captain Schoonmaker was among the many members of her company who lost their lives when Vandalia was sunk in the very destructive Apia, Samoa, hurricane of 15-16 March 1889.
From researcher Kathy Franz:
Cornelius married Matilda R. Cooper on October 25, 1871, in New York City. They had three daughters: Althea (Mrs. Louis Hewlett), Elizabeth, and Virginia. When Virginia died in 1933, she bequeathed a portrait of her father, his scrapbooks, and a manuscript of his biography of his father to the U. S. Naval Institute in Washington. She bequeathed her ivories and bronzes to the National Museum in Washington (The Smithsonian).
Cornelius' father was a lawyer, mayor of Kingston, and a U. S. Congressman. Cornelius' sister was Ella (Mrs. Darrow), and his brothers were Henry and Julius. Since at least 1850, their grandmother Cornelia Schoonmaker lived with his parents until her death in 1874.
Cornelius' great-grandfather Cornelius was chairman of the Committee of Observation at one time during the Revolution, a member of the State Constitutional Convention, and a U. S. Congressman 1791-1793 under George Washington. He had a cane made of hickory wood with an ivory head, and his name was cut into the wood. Cornelius' father owned the cane in 1889.
He is buried in New York.
Obituary
From records of the US Naval Academy Graduates’ Association:
Schoonmaker was the soul of honor. He was incapable of a mean action; a Christian at heart as well as outward appearance; a consistent member of the Episcopal Church, who strove to do his duty to his God as well as to his fellow-men. There was something so sincere, so kind-hearted and so good about him that all loved him. His was the role of peacemaker, a good messmate and intelligent companion. He was a thinking man, read largely not only upon all professional subjects, but the higher class of general literature. In war he was always at the fore. As executive officer of the monitor Manhattan, in the battle of Mobile Bay, he won great praise.
Socially he was charming. He was a gentleman in the highest sense of the word, sans peur et sans reproche.
We entered the Navy about the same time. Our first cruise together on the coast of Africa. After that we met from time to time, renewing our never-dying friendship. He was of an affectionate disposition, fond of his family and home. A few days before his tragic end in that far-away port, thousands of miles from our homes, we talked about our wives and families. He, poor fellow, spoke so feelingly of his, as if, it afterwards seemed to me, he felt he might not see them again.
In the course of his duty he was in command of the U. S. S. Vandalia, in the port of Apia, Samoan islands, on March 16, 1889, that memorable hurricane in which his life was given to his country.
While it was well known that the port of Apia was most dangerous during this season of the year, yet to be there was to be at the post of duty; the risk was great, but the honor of our country was at stake, and what sacrifice could be too great to maintain that?
Frequently the Navy is not only called upon to encounter the great perils of the deep and of war, but also to face the dangers of death from yellow fever and other diseases. It does it cheerfully, that our glorious flag may wave triumphantly over land and sea, that our people may pursue their avocations with safety to life and property.
He had been at his post on deck for many hours; several times the waves had swept the decks and dashed him against the guns. He had been almost carried overboard several times, when finally a wave of tremendous height swept over the Vandalia's deck, carrying death and destruction before it. It was then that gallant Schoonmaker, bleeding and faint from previous wounds, was washed overboard and drowned.
The sea over which for many years he had ploughed his way became at last his grave.
Death has taken from us a noble man, but has left his bright example for us to cherish. N. H. FARQUHAR, '55.
Career
From the Naval History and Heritage Command:
Acting Midshipman, 28 September, 1854. Midshipman, 9 June, 1859. Lieutenant, 31 August, 1861. Lieutenant Commander, 24 December, 1865. Commander, 14 February, 1873. Captain, 7 October, 1886. Drowned 15 March, 1889.
Related Articles
Francis Sutton '81 was also lost in this storm. James Carlin '68 survived and took command after Cornelius's death.
The "Register of Commissioned and Warrant Officers of the United States Navy and Marine Corps" was published annually from 1815 through at least the 1970s; it provided rank, command or station, and occasionally billet until the beginning of World War II when command/station was no longer included. Scanned copies were reviewed and data entered from the mid-1840s through 1922, when more-frequent Navy Directories were available.
The Navy Directory was a publication that provided information on the command, billet, and rank of every active and retired naval officer. Single editions have been found online from January 1915 and March 1918, and then from three to six editions per year from 1923 through 1940; the final edition is from April 1941.
The entries in both series of documents are sometimes cryptic and confusing. They are often inconsistent, even within an edition, with the name of commands; this is especially true for aviation squadrons in the 1920s and early 1930s.
Alumni listed at the same command may or may not have had significant interactions; they could have shared a stateroom or workspace, stood many hours of watch together… or, especially at the larger commands, they might not have known each other at all. The information provides the opportunity to draw connections that are otherwise invisible, though, and gives a fuller view of the professional experiences of these alumni in Memorial Hall.
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Cornelius is one of 5 members of the Class of 1859 on Virtual Memorial Hall.
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