Anna and her four young daughters were on a trip to England on the SS Ville du Havre. It was a French steamship. All iron. Built like a tank. Except, of course, tanks weren’t around yet. This was 1873. 

The girls were excited to be on a ship. They were running on deck, playing TAG in the companionways, seeing what happened when they spit overboard at high altitude. 

The ship was loaded deep with mostly first-class passengers. It was November, the weather was cold. Everyone was wearing coats and mittens. 

They were bound for Havre de Grâce, Seine-Inférieure, France. Anna and her daughters were Americans, on their way to England to help with church revivals. 

In a few days, the Havre was midway across the icy Atlantic when the ship collided with a Scottish clipper vessel. The collision was so loud, it sounded like an explosion. People were thrown from their beds. Some were injured. 

Within seconds, the ship had taken on major water. Third class was already evacuated from below deck. People were screaming. Children crying. Some were panicking and jumping overboard. 

The crew was furiously trying to deploy lifeboats, but it was all happening too fast. The ship was tilted upright, you had to fight against gravity just to move around. 

Anna hurriedly brought her four children to the foredeck. She knelt there with her children and prayed that God would spare them, or to help them endure whatever awaited them. The girls were sobbing. “I’m so scared, Mama.” 

Twelve minutes later, while they were still on their knees praying, the Ville du Harve plunged beneath the Atlantic; 226 passengers died. Including all four of Anna’s children.

Just before daybreak, a sailor rowing a small skiff located Anna floating on a piece of the wreckage. She was still alive. But barely. She was almost catatonic. 

Nine days later, Anna was in Wales, where she wired her husband in Chicago. The message read: “Saved alone, what shall I do?”

Her husband, Horatio, booked passage on the next available ship to join his wife. Four days into his journey there was a sharp knock on his cabin room door. It was the captain. 

The captain said the ship was currently passing the place where his four daughters had drowned. 

Horatio flew out of his room, tore up the stairs, and rushed to the stanchions. He leaned overboard and stared into the black water. They say his tears caused the Atlantic to rise by three feet. 

And there, he wrote a poem. One you’ve likely heard before. Here is the original first verse: 

“When peace like a river attends my way, 
“When sorrow like sea billows roll; 
“Whatever my lot, You have taught me to know, 
“It is well, it is well with my soul.” 

In other words, you’re going to get through this.