Tom Lee: A Hero’s Tale
Tom Lee’s exploits are the stuff of local legend. Here’s the story of the man behind the myth.
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As soon as he saw the Norman turn over, Tom Lee whipped the Zev around and raced to the scene. He realized that the people in the water could easily swamp his little boat, so he expertly maneuvered it between the victims so he could reach them one at a time. Lee hurriedly filled the boat with eight half-drowned passengers, then carried them to a sandbar and returned for more.
Despite their predicament, most of the passengers floating in the river stayed surprisingly calm. Later Lee told a reporter, “They didn’t lose their heads like a lot of crazy folks I’ve seen in the water. I guess it’s a good thing they didn’t or I sure would have got scared too. The sensiblest drowning folks I ever saw — just waited for me when I waved at them, and I caught them in the Zev.”
Captain Fenton had leapt through the pilothouse window when the Norman flipped and had dog-paddled over to a bundle of life preservers. Worn out by his efforts, he could barely hold his head above water before Lee pulled him aboard the Zev. Another passenger was able to swim close to the banks, but the rough current kept pushing him away. Unable to move, he knotted his tie around a willow by the shore and moored himself there by the neck until Lee could get to him.
The last passenger Lee pulled from the river was a prominent Memphis society girl named Margaret Oates, who managed to stay afloat by popping open her parasol and trapping air beneath it. (This clever lady later married cotton merchant Hugo Dixon, and the arts patrons would later open their home, The Dixon Gallery and Gardens, to the city.)
Tom Lee eventually saved 32 people, and only a dozen or so of the Norman’s survivors made it to shore without his help. The disaster also produced other heroes that afternoon. Crewman Roy Thompson remained in the engine room and drew off steam so the boilers wouldn’t explode when the water hit them; he drowned at his post when the ship sank. M.G. Overstreet, an Ole Miss student, swam safely to shore, then dove back into the river to rescue at least seven other passengers. Engineer A.E. Fry assisted Lee during his later trips by lying across the bow of the Zev and pulling people into the boat. Another engineer, E.H. Bowser, helped his companions into Lee’s boat but refused to get in himself. He swam off to aid a woman and child nearby and was never seen again.
After Lee had made four trips to the sandbar, he paused long enough to gather driftwood and build a fire for the survivors, who were shivering from both the shock and the cold. Then he went back out on the river. “I beat it out in the Zev again,” Lee recalled later, “looking around the banks below, because I know a lot of them had gone and got drowned.”
By now news of the tragedy had reached Memphis. One of the passengers had stumbled through the cotton fields to a nearby farmhouse, which luckily had a telephone. His call brought doctors, ambulances, reporters, and funeral personnel rushing to the scene.
When the Choctaw finally reached Memphis that afternoon, more than a thousand people were anxiously waiting for her at the dock. Her passengers were stunned by the terrible news — they thought the Norman was just behind them. More doctors, along with relatives and other concerned citizens, including Mayor Rowlett Paine, jammed aboard the vessel as it steamed back to where it had last seen the Norman. And far downstream, other boats now headed north, alerted to the disaster when floating wreckage, life preservers, and a huge oil slick drifted past them.
The Norman survivors were returned to Memphis that night aboard the Choctaw, and they talked to the newspapers about the mysterious black man who had saved them. Reporters were eager to find Tom Lee, but they couldn’t find him. Lee was still out on the river. Even after other ships had arrived at the scene from all directions, he remained in the Zev and helped search for bodies until morning.
Twenty-three passengers were missing, and the authorities were determined to recover the bodies. Many of the dead were probably trapped in the ship, so professional divers were brought in from St. Louis to explore the wreck. The Norman’s hull was located by morning, lying on its side in 50 feet of water, but the divers were repeatedly swept away by the swift current. They could not even get close to the ship.
Plans were next made to raise the vessel by looping huge chains under the hull and winching it to the surface, but again the current made this impossible. Instead, the authorities decided to free the bodies — if there were any — by ripping apart the sunken vessel, using an anchor as a grappling hook. Over the next few days, large chunks of the boat’s superstructure were pulled up, but no bodies appeared.
It was somber, horrible work, tearing the broken ship apart as grief-stricken relatives watched and waited for bodies to float to the surface. The Commercial Appeal was grimly poetic as it described the salvage: “That the rescue fleet is engaged in a solemn task is in the air; the isolation, the sound of the swirling waters, the sight of wreckage from the Norman coming to the surface, and the realization of the scenes that must be faced later all tend to impress upon one’s mind the horror of the disaster.”
(In that same issue, the newspaper took advantage of the “horror of the disaster” to sell ads for insurance. A large advertisement, suitably bordered in black, asked, “Were you a passenger of the ill-fated Norman? If any passenger lost in this unfortunate accident had a Commercial Appeal Continental Accident Policy, the beneficiary would receive $5,000 as provided in Part One, relative to Steamboat Wrecks. And only $1.00 per year provides this protection to readers of The Commercial Appeal.”)
The salvage work on the Norman was slow and tedious. At one sweep of the anchor a brightly colored bundle of cloth burst to the surface, drawing a gasp from onlookers. But it was not a corpse, only the Norman’s ten-foot flag, still tied to the stern mast.
Later that day, a portion of the galley wall was tugged loose, with the attached wall clock stopped at the exact time of the sinking: 4:50 p.m. Exactly one week to the hour after she sank, the Norman was blasted apart with dynamite in a final attempt to dislodge any bodies. None appeared. Authorities made morbid studies of the river current’s possible effect on a floating body, and determined the likeliest places along the banks for the Norman’s remaining victims to collect. The Commercial Appeal urged its readers to keep a sharp lookout, and some of the bodies were recovered far downstream, as predicted. Other victims of the Norman disaster remained lost forever.
And what of Tom Lee during all this? A quiet and considerably bashful man, he seemed genuinely embarrassed by the spotlights now focused on him, and modestly claimed, “I guess I didn’t do any more than anyone else would have done in my place.” Oh, but Memphians couldn’t agree with that. Tom Lee was our hero. He was taken to meet the mayor, and newspaper photographers posed Lee in the rumpled clothes he wore during the rescue, shaking hands with Mayor Paine and standing in the equally famous Zev.
Tributes and tokens of appreciation poured in from Norman survivors and many others impressed with Lee’s bravery. Captain Fenton wrote a letter to The Commercial Appeal, in part justifying his actions that day, but still declaring, “Lee deserves the greatest of credit for the manner in which he handled his motorboat and saved the lives of at least 25 people.”
One of those Lee saved, J.M. Wood, summed it up neatly: “We all owe our lives to Tom Lee. That’s all there is to it.” Julius Goodman, the Memphis jeweler, presented Lee with a handsome gold watch. Lee also traveled to Washington to meet President Coolidge, who shook his hand and echoed others’ sentiments that he was a “real hero.”
The Commercial Appeal urged that Lee be awarded the Carnegie Medal for heroism, and not to be outdone, the Memphis Press-Scimitar declared, “We do not know what the rule of the government is about giving pensions to civilians, but if there is no rule against it, Tom should be made comfortable for life. And if there is a precedent against it, then this is a favorable time to break it.”
Tom Lee became everyone’s idol. The African Methodist Church passed this resolution: “We hail you as the patron knight of this new age of chivalry and heroism, and extol your manly virtue as worthy of the best heart of your proud but humble race. Shine on, Tom Lee, shine on!”
Amid all this grand posturing with mayors and medals, someone finally asked Lee what he wanted, and he had a ready answer: a house. So the Engineers Club of Memphis, which had lost so many members on the Norman, kicked off a campaign to raise funds to buy a home for the hero. People made donations ranging from ten cents to hundreds of dollars. Mayor Paine presented Lee with $10; Margaret Oates, the girl with the parasol, donated $100. James Kilgore, a 9-year-old boy from Mississippi, sent in his gift with a scrawled note: “Here is 50 cents. I am a little farmer boy and widow’s little boy, but I wanted to send something to help out, so I sold my pet hen and here is the money.”
In a matter of weeks, enough funds were raised to buy Lee the small brick house, still standing at 923 North Mansfield. He was also given a more secure — and considerably safer — job with the city’s sanitation department. Lee was made a garbageman, earning 20 cents per hour. Now today that hardly seems a generous reward for a hero, but in the 1920s, it was perhaps the best job an unskilled black laborer could get. At any rate, he worked there for the next 20 years.
When Lee was granted early retirement in 1948, the city allowed him a pension nearly double what he would have ordinarily received. And every year, from 1925 until his death, the Engineers Club gave him $50 and a gift at Christmas.
Tom Lee died of cancer in 1952. His wife, Margaret, who lived with him on Mansfield until his death, moved to California and died there in the 1970s. Mayor E.H. Crump decided the hero deserved a more appropriate tribute than the segregated, blacks-only swimming pool on Ayers that had been named for Lee in 1942. (Naming a swimming pool after a man who couldn’t swim, a man involved in a drowning disaster, had always struck some as a rather odd token of appreciation.)
So, with Boss Crump’s endorsement, Astor Park at the foot of Beale Street was renamed Tom Lee Park, and the city fathers erected a 30-foot granite obelisk there in 1952 to commemorate the good deeds Lee performed back in 1925. Few visitors to Memphis in May events and other activities in the park probably took the time to read the inscription and its outdated tribute to “A Very Worthy Negro.” When the stone shaft was damaged during the 2003 windstorm dubbed “Hurricane Elvis” it was replaced by a stunning bronze sculpture by Wyoming sculptor David Alan Clarke, showing Lee pulling one of the Norman survivors into the Zev. The new monument, the centerpiece of an illuminated plaza dedicated to Lee, is a far more impressive reminder of one man’s bravery during a day of tragedy almost 90 years ago.
Another monument to Tom Lee stands in Memphis. It’s considerably more modest, and for that reason it’s one that Lee probably would have preferred. In a quiet, shady section of Mt. Carmel Cemetery on Hernando Road is a small gravestone that marks the final resting place of this Memphis hero. The stone makes no mention of the Norman tragedy, but is inscribed simply:
Feb. 18, 1885
April 1, 1952
LEAD ME IN THE PATH OF PEACE
Shine on, Tom Lee. Shine on.