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The Old Iowa’s Ram 65
In today’s age of target-seeking torpedoes and other sophisticated weaponry, it is somewhat difficult to perceive that in 1900, nearly 75 years ago, a merchant ship was sunk by means of a naval weapon favored many centuries ago by the Phoenicians and the Greeks. It was entirely by passive action that the ram bow of the old USS Iowa (BB-4) accidently pierced the hull of the four-masted sailing vessel May Flint sending her to the bottom of San Francisco Bay. So critical was the May Flint’s inflicted damage that she went down within 15 minutes.
When the sturdy, slab-sided Iowa slid down the launch ways of the William Cramp & Sons’ Philadelphia yard in 1896, one of the last portions of the hull to slip under the water was a vestigial ram, an indication the ram concept was in vogue. Although not as prominent as the ram of an ancient Phoenician ship, or the ram of the pure ram ship USS Katahclin commissioned in 1896, it was just as lethal. The effectiveness of the Iowa's ram bow as a weapon was proven, and perhaps somewhat justified in the minds of some naval designers because of its fatal injury to the big sailing ship May Flint.
The sinking occurred on Saturday, 8 September
1900, the eve of California’s anniversay of admission to the United States. The city of San Francisco was celebrating the 50th anniversary with a maritime parade to be followed by a display of fireworks at darkness. The Iowa, having attained a magnificient record in the Spanish-American war for her action off the coast of Cuba in 1898, was enjoying a well deserved pause at her anchorage in San Francisco Bay. Under the command of Lieutenant Commander Peters, the stately, proud, white-hulled Iowa with her two 100-foot stacks and bluff upperworks, anchored near the center of the marine activities casting a stern, but benevolent watch oven the entire affair. A steady, gentle breeze ruffled the canvas over her flying bridge. Her large flying bridge searchlights mounted on opposite sides of her wood
No photographer was on hand to record the fatal injury to the May Flint hut, the day after the accident, the San Francisco Examiner published sketches showing, facing page, the helpless May Flint, her side stove in by the Iowa’s ram, drifting down on the bark Vidette; the moment of impact between battleship and bark, below left, and the damage inflicted on the Vidette.
66 U. S. Naval Institute Proceedings, December 1974
paneled conning tower caught and reflected the dancing sparkle of the water.
The daylight portion of the celebration went ahead with no unplanned major incidents, and as the sun began to drop, ships in the bay lighted their lamps. With the onset of darkness the flood tide started its surge into the bay.
Earlier that afternoon, the ungainly, 315-foot, four- masted bark May Flint, on her way down from Puget Sound with 5,000 tons of coal in her hold, passed Point Reyes, 33 miles north of San Francisco where her captain requested a pilot. Originally built as the British steamship Persian Monarch in 1880, she had stranded on Long Island in 1894. Refloated, towed to the yards where her boilers and engines were removed and then fitted with masts and canvas, she was put under the American flag as the May Flint and finally transferred to the West Coast. The last successful trip for the iron collier was nearly completed as she stood outside the Golden Gate at twilight. Unfortunately, the tug requested by the May Flint was nowhere to be found. Because the evening was clear and the wind favorable, Captain Woodside decided to take the May Flint in without the aid of either tug or pilot. With sails full, the May Flint made headway into the bay. Cautiously keeping near the docks to avoid the numerous boats participating in the gala celebration, she worked up the bay, threading her way in and out among the vessels. Captain Woodside sighted a favorable anchorage and although at the time had little wind, began to proceed to the site, passing some distance away but directly across the Iowa's bow. As she cut her course to her anchorage, gear was made ready for dropping anchor. It was now only a matter of minutes before the May Flint would be anchored. Suddenly, the scant wind died completely, and the big bark lost her steerage-way. The strong flood-tide was now master and the bark was helpless. The helmsman put her wheel hard a port hoping to avoid being swept toward the anchored Iowa. But, the sailing ship was unmanageable. The gap between the two ships rapidly closed with the muffled clang of metal to metal contact as the May Flint's starboard bow was pierced by the submerged ram bow of the Iowa. Ensign Gaylord F. Church, the Iowa's officer of the deck quickly sprang into action. Eight boats and the Iowa's launch were ordered manned for rescue duty. Resting for a brief moment, then pivoting on the ram, the pierced May Flint was carried aft the Iowa by the flood tide. Bumping and scraping, she passed to the Iowa’s starboard, the Flint taking the battleship’s boat boom with her. The huge searchlight on the flying bridge was quickly switched on to follow the uncontrollable ship and to assist in the rescue of the Flint's crew. The Flint, beginning to go down at
the bow, began to list badly as the bay waters gushed into her black coal-laden hull. Her stern slowly began to rise as the bulk of the weight shifted forward. Completely broken away from the Iowa and drifting broadside, the May Flint now faced another danger illuminated by the searchlight of the Iowa. It was a lumber-laden bark anchored some distance aft the battleship. As a last effort the May Flint's anchors were dropped but they failed to hold. The big sailing vessel crashed into the three-masted wooden bark Vidette in almost the same manner as she did with the Iowa a few minutes previously. Masts, sails, and gear tangled and crashed. During the few minutes the May Flint was alongside the Vidette most of her crew clambered onto the deck of the lumber bark. The second-mate and a seaman from the May Flint jumped over the side into the bay; another seaman was knocked into the water by falling gear. Bow down and stern up with a heavy list, the May Flint turned turtle and disappeared permanently beneath ten fathoms of water. All three men in the water were rescued in time to avoid being drawn down as the May Flint went under. The Vidette suffered extensive damage and, had it not been for her lumber load, would have joined the May Flint on the bottom of the bay. The Iowa's boats searched the waters for those unfortunate enough not to make the safe transfer to the Vidette. Due to the efficient boat crews, no lives were lost. The unexpected, newly acquired crew of the Vidette was removed by other vessels, and at slack tide the Vidette was towed to safer moorings for a thorough examination.
Collision with the Iowa and with the Vidette, and the ultimate sinking of the May Flint happened within a time span of 15 minutes. The entire incident, brilliantly illuminated by the Iowa’s searchlight, was regarded by many viewers on shore as part of the planned Admission Day celebration. The mightly Iowa escaped the entire ordeal with only a lost forward launch boom and a few paint scratches. Difficulties proved unsur- mountable in salvaging the May Flint, lying beam end on the bottom of the bay, and the navigation menace of the sunken hulk was removed by blasting.
Although the sinking of a ship by running afoul an anchored naval vessel’s ram bow is unusual, it is not unique. A parallel incident occurred in the Bay of Gibraltar on the thick, rainy evening of 17 March 1891. Proceeding to anchor, the 2,731-ton steamer Utopia, was swept by tides onto the formidable ram of HMS Anson riding at anchor. The result was disastrous. The Utopia was carrying 880 passengers, Italian immigrants and crew. Despite the aid offered by boats from ships at anchor, and brilliant illumination by the searchlights of the British squadron, more than 560 lives were lost.