The shipbuilding industry that flourished in Athens and New Baltimore from the mid-19th century until the time of World War I has been overlooked for too long by historians. The small shipyards of these villages turned out many steamboats, steam lighters and barges, but arguably their lasting contribution to the maritime world was in the sizable fleets of tugs that came from local yards, which included Morton & Edmonds, Van Loon & Magee, Peter Magee, William D. Ford and R. Lenahan & Co. in Athens; and, in New Baltimore, J.R. and H.S. Baldwin, William H. Baldwin and that grandly-named-but-short-lived late-comer, the New Baltimore Shipbuilding and Repair Co.
 
The vessels were built for the area’s two principal markets- Albany and New York City. In Albany, the eastern terminus of the Erie Canal, an impressive fleet of small harbor tugs performed two functions: They shepherded the multitude of canal boats that traversed the Erie Canal after they had reached Albany, and many of these tugs towed barges and canal boats on the canal itself. In New York - then, as now, one of the nation’s major ports - these tugs joined the workforce of commerce of that place, docking and undocking seagoing vessels, shifting barges among the multitude of piers, and performing many other tasks.
 
The tugs built at Athens number over eighty, including the well-known side-wheel towboat Silas O. Pierce, launched by Morton & Edmunds in 1863. She eventually came under the ownership of Rondout-based Cornell Steamboat Company, as did a number of other Athens-built vessels, such as the Thomas Chubb of 1888, H.D. Mould of 1896, P. McCabe, Jr. (renamed W.B. McCulloch) of 1899, and Primrose of 1902.
 
New Baltimore’s output of tugboats was around fifty vessels. This fleet was composed of some interesting vessels, such as the side-wheel towboats Jacob Leonard and George A. Hoyt in 1872 and 1873. Both were in the Cornell fleet. George A. Hoyt was the last side-wheel towboat constructed as such- - most vessels of the type having been converted from elderly passenger steamboats.
 
Over the years, Cornell also acquired a number of New Baltimore propeller tugs, such as Jas. A. Morris of 1894, Wm. H. Baldwin of 1901, R.J. Foster of 1903, Robert A. Scott of 1904, and Walter B. Pollack (later renamed W.A. Kirk) of 1905. R.J. Foster and Robert A. Scott had originally towed ice barges for the Foster-Scott Ice Company.
 
The last tug built at Athens was the diesel-propelled Thomas Minnock, built in 1923 by R. Lenahan for Ulster Davis. She lasted until the early 1960s, although many of her last years were in lay up at the Island Dock at Rondout while owned by the Callanan Road Improvement Company. New Baltimore’s last tug was Gowanus, built for the legendary Gowanus Towing Company by the Baldwin yard in 1921.
 
In recognition of the shipbuilding prowess of the shipbuilders of Athens and New Baltimore, we of the Hudson River Maritime Museum tip our collective hats to the accomplishments of these accomplished artisans and mechanics.
                                                                                                            -by William duBarry Thomas

​Back in the 1920's, the Cornell Steamboat Company owned a tugboat that went by the flowery name of Primrose. For two long months at the time of which I write, the crew had been working and working hard without a day off.
 
Tired of the continuous running, the men were beginning to complain among themselves. Some tugs that seemed to have "pull" with the dispatcher were getting a Sunday lay up, but not the Primrose. So the crew lodged a formal complaint with the office.
 
 The dispatcher seemed sympathetic. "Well," he said, "Sunday night I think the work will be caught up and you'll probably lay in to Monday night."
 
Couldn't Be Spared
But when Sunday came, he said they couldn't spare the tug and she'd have to work. The orders at that time were coming from Cornell's New York office at the old 53rd Street pier on the Hudson River.
 
The crew didn't argue; just took the orders and picked up a loaded coal barge at the D. L. and W. R. R. coal trestle and took it to Staten Island. Once arrived, the captain had an idea.
 
"Let's go to Newark," he said. "I know the channel and we can take a couple of days off. Let them find the tug themselves."
 
So away they sailed to Newark, N.J. — taking Sunday night off. Business was so busy that weekend at Cornell, the office didn't even notice that the Primrose hadn't called in for orders yet — and here it was Monday afternoon.
 
Police Scoured Harbor
When the office finally awoke to the fact it had a missing tugboat, it had everybody at Cornell looking for her. Police boats scoured the harbor, and Cornell's own people looked high and low for the missing Primrose - but nobody could find her.
 
Along about Tuesday afternoon, someone from Newark called the New York custom house. "There's a nice looking tugboat that's been tied up at our dock since Sunday night," he said, "and nobody s on her. She's all painted up, nice and clean, red with yellow panels, black stack, yellow umbrella, and white trim. Her name's Primrose and she's out of Rondout. Everything seems to be in order, but no steam on her and nobody aboard."
 
The custom house put in a call to the Cornell office to ask if their tug Primrose was over at Newark. Cornell admitted she was the subject of a search; surmised as how the crew must have stolen her since the office had given no orders to go to Newark.
 
Cornell's superintendent of operations, Robert Oliver, along with Terry Minor and Mr. Broad from the company's office, eventually arrived in Newark to find the tug all tied up shipshape, fires pulled, kitchen tidied up, but no crew.
 
Home to Kingston
Thundered Oliver: "I'll fire the whole clew from top to bottom!" Observed Broad: "How are you going to fire the crew when they ain't even here? That gang quit Sunday night and they're probably up in Kingston right now."
 
And that's where they were, all right. After their night off on Sunday, they figured they might just as well go on home the following morning, since they hadn't been home for two months.
 
They also figured Cornell would give them all another job anyway. They figured right but not completely. Eventually, Cornell hired all of them back again -- but never again was that same crew to be together on the same boat. The men were always kept separated on different tugboats.

This video featuring the Stockbridge-Munsee Community History is part of the PBS Wisconsin Tribal Histories project. By the rapids of the Red River, Kimberly Vele tells of Mohican life in the Hudson Valley of New York before their move to Stockbridge, Massachusetts, followed by their forced removal to Indiana where they joined with the Munsee tribe before their final relocation to Wisconsin. James Fenimore Cooper was incorrect in predicting the demise of the Mohican people. The PBS Wisconsin Tribal Histories series are half-hour programs that presents the histories of all eleven federally recognized American Indian tribes and bands located in Wisconsin, plus one tribe that is seeking to regain its federal status. 

To learn more about the Stockbridge-Munsee Community Band of Mohican Indians visit their website.

                                                            No. 157- General Slocum
Mention of the steamboat “General Slocum” brings to many persons the memory of a great disaster- a catastrophe that has been labeled “the greatest disaster in the steamboat history of the world”; for it was aboard the “General Slocum” that 1,021 persons, bent on a merry-making excursion, met death.
              
Devine Burtis, Jr., built the wooden hull of the “General Slocum” at Brooklyn in 1891. Her 235 foot keel was laid on December 23, 1890, and she was launched on April 18, 1891. Her over-all length was 255 feet, breadth of hull 37 feet six inches (over her guards she was 70 feet), depth of hold 12 feet six inches. The gross tonnage of the “General Slocum” was listed at 1,284, with net tonnage at 1,013. W.A. Fletcher Company of Hoboken, N.J., built the vertical beam engine which had a cylinder diameter of 53 inches with a 12 foot stroke. She carried two boilers- 23 and a half feet long and nine and a half feet in diameter.
              
The “General Slocum” was built expressly for the excursion trade, operating between New York and Rockaway Beach in line with the steamboat “Grand Republic,” and she was the first of the large excursion steamboats to adopt the innovation of hardwood finish on her outside joiner woodwork. The Knickerbocker Steamboat Company were the owners of the “General Slocum”- using her as a replacement for the steamboat “Columbia,” a sister ship to the “Grand Republic,” which had been sold to the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad Company during the winter of 1888.
              
The “General Slocum” and the “Grand Republic” ran on the Rockaway route for several years, and were then placed in the excursion business on the Hudson river and Long Island Sound- being the largest excursion steamboats out of New York.
              
Then came the tragic event which placed the greatest stain on the pages of steamboat history and caused the “General Slocum” to be remembered with feelings of horror.
              
On June 15, 1904, the “General Slocum” was chartered by the Sunday School and members of the congregation of St. Mark’s German Lutheran Church of New York City for an excursion. A few minutes before 10 o’clock in the morning the “General Slocum” left the recreation pier at the foot of East Third street and started up the East River at a 15 knot clip- it being the plan of the captain to reach Locust Grove, Long Island, the destination of the excursionists, shortly after the noon hour.
              
When the “General Slocum” reached a point opposite 97th street several of the crew, who were on the lower deck, saw puffs of smoke coming through the seams in the flooring. For some reason that will never be known, the discovery was not immediately communicated to Captain Van Schaick. Some of the deck hands went below and ran into the second cabin- believing they could easily extinguish the fire. They found the place a furnace, and rushed above to notify Mate Edward Flanagan of the blaze. The mate directed the fire apparatus placed in use and in turn notified the captain. Captain Van Schaick signaled Pilot Conkling to proceed at full speed ahead and point the bow of the vessel towards North Brothers Island- which was a good mile ahead.
              
The wind was blowing from the north and the swift progress of the “General Slocum” caused a strong air-current which fanned the flames and drove tongues of the fire backwards into the faces of the excursionists, who became panic-stricken. Mothers scurried frantically about in an endeavor to collect their families and guide them to a supposed place of safety while the crew turned their efforts to fighting the raging fire which was fast gaining terrifying proportions. People crowded back onto the after decks of the vessel and children were trampled. A policeman named Kelb endeavored to restore order but his efforts were in vain.
              
It was just 10:20 a.m. when the “General Slocum” was beached at North Brothers Island. When she struck bottom her bow was in four feet of water but her stern, where all the people were crowded, was in approximately 30 feet of water. The instant the vessel grounded many of the terrified passengers, believing they were in shallow water, jumped overboard. Scores of them never came to the surface. To add to the catastrophe the beaching of the vessel caused the stanchions supporting the hurricane deck to collapse under the weight of the milling passengers. Hundreds of unfortunates were hurled downward into the roaring furnace and were instantly burned to death. Later the vessel sunk and many of the bodies were never recovered. In all there were 1,021 people who lost their lives in this great disaster.
              
The hull of the “General Slocum” was later raised and sold to J.H. Gregory of Perth Amboy, N.J., to be broken up, but was later turned into a coal barge. The coal barge was sold to a Philadelphia company on June 15, 1905, for use on the Delaware river- but neither Mr. Gregory nor the purchasers realized at the time that the sale had been made on the anniversary of the fire.
              
The converted hull of the “General Slocum,” bearing the name of “Maryland,” was lost off the New Jersey coast in the vicinity of Sandy Hook on December 3, 1911, and was never recovered. The sister ship of the “General Slocum,” the “Grand Republic,” was likewise destroyed by fire- on April 26, 1924, at the foot of West 156 street.

Editor's Note: This article is from the November 7, 1891 issue of Harper's Weekly. The tone of the article reflects the time period in which it was written. ​

                          "Getting on Top of the Palisades by Jno. Gilmer Speed
The largest elevators for carrying passengers in the world have just been completed on the banks of the Hudson, near Weehawken. The high table-land in New Jersey, opposite New York city, and between the Hudson River and the Hackensack, has up to this time not been used as generally for purposes of pleasure and residence as it should have been. This elevated plain, known as the Palisades, is at its beginning some one hundred and fifty feet above high tide, and is over a mile wide at the same point. It stretches north for many miles up the Hudson River, and naturally rises in elevation as it proceeds. This high land has been accessible only by steep grades for wagon roads, and by means of stairways which climbed laboriously up the steep cliff. The Hudson County Railway Company, which operates the elevated road at Hoboken and controls many of the street car lines in that neighborhood, has of late years been extending these lines, and increasing the facilities for getting on top of the Palisades, and from one part of this high plateau to another. The most recent addition to the plant of this company has been the building of huge elevators at Weehawken, where the ferry-boats from Forty-second Street and Jay Street, New York city, discharge their passengers, and where also the West Shore Railway starts north and west to Albany and Buffalo. These elevators are the largest ever constructed for passengers, and in planning them the engineers have adopted new devices to secure their safety against accidents. From the elevators, which rise just from the water’s edge, there is an immense viaduct or elevated railroad which runs some eight hundred feet back to the hill, where connections will be made with the various steam and horse cars which will run in one direction and another.

In crossing the Hudson River from New York the stilt-like structure for the elevators and railroad cars looks frail and delicate, and suggest more a spider’s web than a very stable and solid structure capable of carrying immense weights and moving loads, and still having a surplus strength very much beyond the weight which could ever be placed upon it. At a distance one cannot fail to have the feeling that the structure is too light and insecure to ever do any very heavy or continuous work. This feeling is very much the same that one experiences in looking from a distance at the high curve on the New York Ninth Avenue elevated road above the Central Park. Arrived at Weehawken, however, and standing under the structure, the veriest novice in bridge-building cannot fail to be impressed with the strength and solidity of these steel piers and trusses. They do not look light now, but seem entirely sufficient to do the Titan’s work for which they were designed. What this work is may be gathered from the fact that in every hour six thousand persons can be taken each way, up and down the elevators and to and fro across the viaduct, which is 153 feet above the water. Elevators have never before been asked to do such work as this.
The elevator tower has been made for three cars, each of which will hold one hundred and thirty-five persons. They run independent of each other, and all can be going either up or down at the same time, or variously, as desired. The doors are almost as wide as the cars, and the conductor with a simple device opens and closes both doors at once. On one side the passengers are discharged, and they enter from the other end; therefore, when there is a rush of travel, the cars will empty and fill at the same moment. The elevators are designed to have a speed of 400 feet a minute, but it is not proposed to run them faster than 200 feet a minute. At this rate each elevator will take up the 153 feet from the water’s edge to the viaduct 135 persons in 45 seconds, and it is estimated that in 30 seconds more the passengers can be discharged and a new load taken on. For the ordinary traffic there would be no need for such quick work or so large a capacity as this, but within a short time places of amusement and a race-track have been started near Weehawken.  To these places and from them great and impatient crowds come and leave at the same hour, and it is necessary to handle a whole boat or train load at once.

The power to run the elevators is hydraulic, the water being stored in compressed tanks under a pressure of 190 pounds per square inch by means of two compound condensing Worthington pumps of about 85-horse power each. Only two of these boilers, however, will be used at once, and the third will be held in reserve. The same firm which built the lifts in the Eiffel Tower has designed and constructed these enormous elevators.  F.E. Brown, Jun., of the Otis Company, designed the whole elevator plant, the engineer in charge in both instances being Mr. Joseph R. Furman, of the same company. Mr. Furman is a young man, not yet twenty-seven, and has justified the responsibility intrusted to him most admirably.

The most important feature in the construction of an elevator is the device for stopping it in case of an accident. In nearly all of the modern elevators these devices have been made to act automatically, so that nothing need depend upon the skill, courage, or presence of mind of the conductor. Were this not so, it would test the courage of any man to trust himself to the careless men in charge of the elevators in the large office buildings, the architects of which usually specify that the elevators shall have a speed of 700 feet per minute. It is true that none of them goes so fast as this, for the reason that it would be impossible for the conductors to stop accurately at the several floors to discharge or take on passengers. But it is pleasant to know that even though a conductor should lose his head, or the car break loose from its ropes, it would be stopped by the devices now in general use, and no one would be hurt. The testing of these devices is therefore most important, and the test applied by the builders to these huge cars which are to lift people to a level with the top of the Palisades was watched with interest by all concerned. The apparatus for testing consisted of a heavy timber trestle supporting the guide strips, between which a temporary cage loaded with 84,000 pounds of cast iron – equivalent to the weight of the cars and their load of people – was suspended on a trip lever, the support of which could be disengaged by pulling on a light line. The safety grips, which were the actual ones to be used in the permanent elevators, were placed under the cage, one on each side, in their proper position with relation to the guide strips. From each safety grip a light line, representing the governor ropes to be used on the elevators, was carried to and attached to the cross-head of the timber trestle.

At the signal the lanyard was pulled and the cage with its load released. It dropped freely about two inches, when the safety engaged with the guide strips, and after a further slide of one and three-quarter inches came to rest without shock. Then another test was made with 2000 pounds more of iron added, and the result was substantially the same. Then came a third test, for the personal satisfaction of the engineers who had designed the safety device. With a load of 36,000 pounds they let the car fall ten inches before the safeties were applied, and on this occasion the car dropped only eighteen inches. This was eminently satisfactory to them, as had also been the other tests.

The guide strips are of yellow pine, six inches by eight inches, built up in three pieces of two and two-thirds by six inches, strongly spiked together, and are secured to the latticed channel iron posts of the elevator tower by three-quarter-inch bolts spaced about fourteen-inch centres; the heads of these bolts are countersunk in the faces of the guide strips, so as to leave a smooth guiding surface. The safety grips consist of forgings with a rectangular notch surrounding the guide strip, the edges of the notch being beveled to form cutting edges. Below the main forging is bolted a plate with a similar notch, but having toothed edges, the whole swinging on a centre so placed that when the safety is in normal position the toothed and chisel edges are well clear of the guide strips, but when swung outward they engage and cut into the guide strip on its face and two sides. The test on the Eiffel Tower elevators loaded with 32,000 pounds was very gratifying to the French engineers. On the first elevator, when the ropes were cut, the car fell twelve feet. On the second car, when the safeties had been readjusted, and the same weight put on, the fall was only eight inches.

The largest elevator in use in New York city is that in the tower of the Produce Exchange. This will carry fifty persons.  This was also the capacity of the cars in the Eiffel Tower. It will be seen, therefore, that each of these new elevators to the top of the Palisades has a capacity more than two and half times greater than those which were popularly heretofore thought to be quite as large as lifts could be safely constructed. The Weehawken structure will be finished and thrown open about the middle of November. It will be interesting to see how easily large numbers of people can be taken up and down in this manner, for in the plans now under advisement for giving rapid transit to New York city by means of deep underground roads, the elevator for raising and lowering passengers is a very important feature of the scheme."

Read about the current status of the elevator here.

Kontiwennenhá:wi, which is translated as Carriers of the Words, is a women’s singing group that originated from the Mohawk Nation at Ahkwesashsne. Kontiwennenhá:wi is made up of young women, mothers, aunties and grandmothers, who all work full time as teachers, social workers, students, and retirees.

Kontiwennenhá:wi hail from Ahkwesahsne, a Kanien’kehá:ka Territory that straddles the St. Lawrence River and incorporates portions of northern New York and southern Ontario and Quebec. In Ahkwesahsne, as in other Kanien’kehá:ka communities, women’s singing societies have always functioned to help community members in time of need. When Kontiwennenhá:wi performs outside of their community, they do not call themselves a singing society. That title is reserved for their work within their Territory and other Haudenosaunee communities. But they continue many of the same functions: the funds their performances generate are always directed back toward their community. While men and women sometimes have different singing repertoires and their songs serve different functions, women always take care to learn the men’s songs as well, so that the Mohawk way of life can be preserved even in times of crisis.

In the spirit of this traditional role, Kontiwennenhá:wi, the Carriers of the Words, have embraced the “duty to help our language survive.... We believe that if our language dies, so will we as a Nation. Without our language we will have no culture. “We proudly share our songs and teach children so that we may honor everything that is natural to us. Through our songs we honor our Mother the Earth, our Grandmother the Moon, our Grandparents from every generation, the teachers of the Mohawk language, the Great Law of Peace, and more.” 
https://www.facebook.com/kontiwennenhawi

Ionkwanoronhkwa Ohneka (we love water)
Ionkwanoronhkwa Ohneka
Kahnekaronnion mmmmm(all types of water)
Kahnekanoron mmmm(water is precious)
Kainawiia heiah
Yoon gwa no loon gwa(we love)
Oh ne gaw(water)
Yoon gwa no loon gwa (we love)
Oh ne gaw(water)
Gah ne gaw loonyoon mmmm(all types of water)
Gah ne gaw no loon mmmmmm(precious water)
Guy naw wee yaw heh yaw
(No words-we call it lala)
Kahnekaronnion mmmmm
Kahnekanoron mmmm
Kainawiia heiah
Gah ne gaw loonyoon mmmm(all types of water)
Gah ne gaw no loon mmmmmm(precious water)
Guy naw wee yaw heh​

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Newburgh was the shipbuilding center of the mid-Hudson for well over a century and a half. Although the earliest accomplishments of local shipwrights are clouded by the passage of time, sailing vessels were constructed during the colonial days by such men as George Gardner, Jason Rogers, Richard Hill and William Seymour along the village’s waterfront, which extended approximately from the foot of present day Washington Street north to South Street.
 
Strategically well placed at the southernmost point before one entered the Hudson Highlands, Newburgh became the river transportation center, serving the inland towns and villages to the north and west. The Highlands form a magnificent scenic delight in the mid-Hudson region, but in the pre-railroad era they were decidedly unfriendly to the movement of goods and people. In short, the Hudson became a marine highway which connected upstate regions to the Metropolis at its mouth. A significant freighting business therefore developed at Newburgh, and, in addition, the village became one of the region’s bases for the whaling industry. Both of these undertakings required sailing vessels, and with forests of suitable timber nearby, the local shipbuilders were well placed to support the burgeoning commerce on the river.

​Much of this changed with the introduction of the steamboat in the summer of 1807, when Robert Fulton’s North River Steamboat made her first trip to Albany. It was inevitable that steam should be adopted almost universally on America’s waterways. The earliest steamboat built at Newburgh is reputed to have been the side-wheel ferry Gold Hunter, constructed in 1836 for the ferry between Newburgh and Fishkill Landing. We are not certain of the identity of her builder, but her appearance coincided with the start of local shipbuilding by the dynasty which dominated that industry for 110 years - Thomas S. Marvel; his son of the same name; and his grandson, Harry A. Marvel.
 
The shipbuilding activities of these three generations of the Marvel family encompassed the period from 1836 until 1946, when Harry Marvel retired from business. Although their activity was not continuous throughout this period, the reputations of these men as master shipbuilders survived the periodic and all too frequent ups and downs that have always plagued this industry.
 
The senior Thomas Marvel, born in Newport, Rhode Island in 1808, served his apprenticeship as a shipwright with Isaac Webb, a well-known shipbuilder in New York. Around 1836, he moved to Newburgh and commenced building small wooden sailing vessels, sloops, schooners and the occasional brig or half-brig, near the foot of Little Ann Street, later moving to the foot of Kemp Street (no longer in existence). Among the vessels he built was a Hudson River sloop launched in the spring of 1847 for Hiram Travis, of Peekskill. Travis elected to name his vessel Thomas S. Marvel, a name she carried at least until she was converted to a barge in 1890.
 
An unidentified 160-foot steamboat was built at the Marvel yard in 1853. She was described by the local press as a “new and splendid propeller built for parties in New York.” Possibly the first steamboat built by Thomas Marvel, this vessel was important for another reason- she was propelled by a double-cylinder oscillating engine built on the Wolff, or high-and-low pressure principle. Ernest Wolff had patented his design in 1834, utilizing the multiple expansion of steam to improve the efficiency of the engine. The Wolff engine was a rudimentary forerunner of the compound engine, which did not appear for another two decades.
 
The younger Thomas joined his father in 1847, at the age of 13. The young man, who was born in 1834 at New York, was entrusted with building a steamboat hull in 1854. This was a classic case of on-the-job training, for the boat was entirely young Tom’s responsibility. She is believed to have been Mohawk Chief, for service on the eastern end of the Erie Canal. The 85-3/95 ton Mohawk Chief, 86 feet in length, was described in her first enrollment document as a “square-sterner steam propeller, round tuck, no galleries and no figurehead.” The dry, archaic language of vessel documentation was hardly accurate, for her builder’s half model, still in existence, proves that she was a handsomely crafted little ship with a graceful bow and fine lines aft.
 
The elder Thomas Marvel retired from shipbuilding at Newburgh sometime around 1860. He later built some additional vessels elsewhere, including the schooner Amos Briggs at Cornwall. He may have commanded sailing vessels on the river in his later years, for he was referred to from time to time as “Captain Marvel.”
 
By the mid-1850s, the younger Thomas Marvel had become a thoroughly professional shipwright, and undertook the management of the yard’s operation, at first as the sole owner and later in partnership with George F. Riley, a local shipwright. The partnership continued until Marvel volunteered for service in the Union Army almost immediately after the start of the Civil War in April 1861. He served as Captain of Company A of the 56th Regiment until he was mustered out due to illness in August 1862.
 
He returned to Newburgh, but shortly afterwards moved to Port Richmond, Staten Island, where he built sailing vessels and at least one steamboat. A two-year period in the late 1860s saw him constructing sailing craft on the Choptank River at Denton, Maryland, after which he returned to Port Richmond.
 
During the Civil War and for a few years afterwards, George Riley continued a modest shipbuilding business at Newburgh, later with Adam Bulman as a partner. They went their separate ways in the late 1860s, and Bulman teamed with Joel M. Brown in 1871, doing business as Bulman & Brown. For the next eight years, they built ships in a yard south of the foot of Washington Street, where they turned out tugs, schooners and barges. Their output of tugs consisted of James Bigler, Manhattan, A.C. Cheney and George Garlick, and their most prominent sailing vessels were the schooners Peter C. Schultz (332 tons) and Henry P. Havens (300 tons), both launched in 1874.
 
Another source of business was the brick-making industry, which required deck barges to move its products to the New York market. Nearly all of 19th century New York City was built of Hudson River brick, and the brick yards on both shores of Newburgh Bay contributed to this enormous undertaking. In 1872 alone, Bulman & Brown built at least five brick barges for various local manufacturers.
 
Vessel repair went hand in hand with construction. Bulman & Brown built and operated what might have been the first floating dry dock at Newburgh. In 1879, the firm moved to Jersey City, New Jersey, and Newburgh lost a valuable asset. This prompted Homer Ramsdell, the local entrepreneurial steamboat owner, to finance construction of a marine railway located at the foot of South William Street. Ramsdell, whose interests included the ferry to Fishkill Landing and the Newburgh and New York Railroad, as well as his line of steamboats to New York, wanted to be sure that his fleet could be hauled out and repaired locally without the need for a trip to a New York repair yard.
 
The mid-1870s, which marked the end of the wooden ship era at Newburgh and the start of the age of iron and steel, brings us to the close of this portion of the sketch of the area’s shipbuilding. From this time onward, the local scene would change radically. The firm of Ward, Stanton & Company, successors to Stanton & Mallery, a local manufacturer of machinery for sugar mills and other shoreside activities, entered shipbuilding and persuaded Thomas S. Marvel to join the company in 1877 to manage its shipyard. Newburgh, which had been incorporated as a city in 1865, was about to enter the major leagues in ship construction.

Editor's Note: This article was originally written by William duBarry Thomas and  published in the 2000 Pilot Log. Thank you to Hudson River Maritime Museum volunteer Adam Kaplan for transcribing the article.

Editor's Note: Hudson River Maritime Museum is pleased to feature this post by William Stewart Lindsay. He describes his introduction to the museum: "Having listened to your Museum’s interesting podcast interview with the Mariner’s Mirror (https://snr.org.uk/the-mariners-mirror-podcast/) , I am writing to you with details of a journey up the Hudson River, from New York to Albany, in October 1860, by my ancestor William Schaw Lindsay MP." Thank you, Mr. Lindsay, for accepting the museum's invitation to share this article.

Lindsay was on a tour of the Northern States to discuss potential improvements to the Navigation Laws. Born in Ayrshire, Scotland, and brought up in relative poverty, he spent nine years at sea. He became a successful ship’s broker in London, and owned one of the largest shipping companies in the UK at the time. He was elected MP for Sunderland, and advised the government on Maritime matters. He wrote extensively, and twenty or so of his journals are now housed in the National Maritime Museum in London.
​
He was greatly impressed with his trip up the Hudson River. He wrote to his brother-in-law Robert Stewart…
I think that the sail from New York to Albany is one of the finest of its kind in the world; and it is greatly enhanced by the size and beauty of the boats on which you make the trip, and the conveniences, and luxury, of their apartments. The view of the great city on a fine bright morning is in itself, with its domes and spires and busy hum of life, a sight of considerable interest.
 
Then with Jersey City on the opposite shore and Staten Island in the distance, studded with beautiful villas, it forms altogether a most attractive scene. Sailing rapidly past the almost interminable streets, and wherein there lay moored fleets of great ships, towering steamers, and river craft of various kinds, we soon reach the “Palisades”, precipices which rise in some places 500 feet above the river in an almost straight line from their base, richly wooded on their summits, and extending full 20 miles along the Southern shore of the Hudson.
 
From thence to Sing Sing which is 33 miles from New York, there is a succession of charming country residences. Here the river Croton joins the Hudson, and 2 miles further on the aqueduct which carries its clear water to the Metropole, commences. Perhaps no city in the world has a better or longer supply of water than New York, and should it ever reach London in size the Croton River will be far more than sufficient for all its wants.
 
Lindsay then continues, praising the building of the aqueduct. He says that it reminds him of the great work that his bother-in-law Robert carried out, bringing water to the City of Glasgow in Scotland, from Loch Katrine. Robert was Lord Provost of Glasgow at the time, and had to overcome many objections from his colleagues to enable the project to go ahead.
 
Lindsay explains to Robert that the rough weather has prevented him from writing more on this part of the journey. He proceeded up the river on the Persia, one of the Cunard Line ships. He continues…
 
There is no easing in the Cunard line. They have got their works to do in a given time and they go to it full steam ahead right against any gale and clean through the waves so that the green seas in a solid body wash right on the forecastle head when the ship is driving against a gale of wind and are only prevented from washing right aft by the “driving boards” – strait planks stretching across the ship on the fore part of the main deck.
 
As the gale still blows from the Westward and the ocean swell is coming from the Eastward the sea is consequently very confused, and even the Persia is rolling and pitching and at times bobbing up and down with heavy thumps or swaying like a great Yankee rocking chair. I hope we are not going to have a gale from the East for though an old sailor I hate a gale of wind at sea especially when it is right ahead. Everybody in the shape of a passenger is sick and even the sailors look like drenched scarecrows. Then, as the water in sheets of spray flys [sic] over the deck, there is no chance of breathing fresh air unless at the expense of a ducking. So I cannot get out, and here I sit jammed between the sofa and the table with a portfolio before me and an ink stand that every now and again makes a start as if it was determined to fly to the other side of the ship. It is most unpleasant and the only consolation that one gets is the announcement from one of the mates to one of the stewards “that we are going have a regular sneezer* right ahead.” [*A sneezer was an ancient sea term for a gale of wind]. I hate “sneezers right ahead” for they not only disturb one’s equilibrium and stomach and temper but they set everything cracking and jaunting and  splashing, so that I took the liberty of telling the mate that if he’d no better news to give us he would better hold his tongue.

However I shall endeavour to banish all these unpleasant feelings, by going back in imagination to the South waters of the Hudson and endeavour to make more progress with my log of an idle hour than I did yesterday, in spite of the increasing gale.

Conspicuous from the river, and within a mile of Sing Sing, where the waters of Croton commence their artificial course to New York, may be seen the great prison of the State. I was told that the building for the male prisoners was about 500 feet in length with accommodation for 1000 persons, and that for the females three fourths as large. The whole, with outbuildings and yards (for there are no walls round the ground) within the circle of the sentry’s march, occupying about 130 acres.
 
Passing various pretty towns and villages we next reach Caldwell’s landing at the foot of the Dunderberg mountains a very fine and extreme range from which I was informed the view is truly grand and also beautiful. Amidst these mountain ranges the river Hudson forces its course smooth and placid in some parts and at others writhing and rushing in abrupt courses, as if struggling to be released from its iron bound limits.
 
The Hudson here in my opinion far exceeds in grandeur and in beauty any part of the Rhine, Though there are no views of Feudal castles to diversify the scene, there are the modern villas of the merchants of a great and free country – objects to my taste much more interesting that the emblems of a dark and barbaric age which only remind us of the despots who were once their lords and by their reminiscences cast a gloom over earths finest regions.
 
Here Lindsay discusses his impressions of American River Steamboats. He was very impressed with them as he explained…
 
In the midst of this mountain range stands West Point the celebrated military school or college. Here the Daniel Drew stopped to land and embark passengers, the first berthing place since we started from New York from which it is distant 54 miles. We arrived there at 8.20am and had performed the journey in 2 hours and 12 minutes, for I timed it, or at the rate of 25 miles an hour with the wind somewhat ahead of us and a slack tide neither for or against the steamer. I never was in a boat that steamed at anything like her speed and I afterwards learned that the Daniel Drew, American built and engines, was the fastest vessel in the world.
 
I had no idea of her fame when I stepped on board and indeed I had not previously heard of her. She was very much in appearance like the other ordinary passage boats on the Hudson. Her saloon on deck was light, roomy, and elegant – and her form was graceful with a very fine wedge like bow and remarkable clean stern. She moved through the water with great ease and hardly any motion, and her speed, as she passed the various points of land and vessels anchor, more resembled that of an express railway train than a steamer.
 
Her easy and swift motion attracted my attention and, learning that her builder was on board, I soon made the acquaintance of Mr Thomas Collyer of 43rd Street New York. I found Mr Collyer to be a plain sensible man; and the appearance of the Daniel Drew and her performance sufficiently testified to his abilities as a builder of great skill and knowledge. From Mr Collyer I ascertained her dimensions and follows:
Length over all                                             250 feet
Breadth without the usual platform            30½ ditto
Depth from main deck to flat of floor          9½ feet

Lindsay then continues with his description of his journey…
 
I have I fear detained you too long at West Point but the performance of the Daniel Drew induced me to make the remarks I have done in regard to the speed and comfort of our sea going steamers. I must now ask you to accompany me to Albany.

Leaving West Point, which in scenery and in its association is one of the most attractive spots on the Hudson, we pass Crescent, one of the finest of the mountain groups and reach Storm King the last of the range of these Highlands.
 
We then meet scenery if not as grand, quite as beautiful, and from the numerous villages  and well-kept lawns, and magnificent clusters of trees,  interspersed with rocks of sparkling granite, more picturesque. From thence we see the pretty town of Undercliff, pass swiftly on the Island of Pollepel and thereafter the bay of Newburgh around which are the graceful villages of New Windsor, Cornwall, Fishkill and Newburgh.
 
A few miles further on we come to the Town or “City" of Poughkeepsie, entertaining a population of 15000 and situated 75 miles from New York. Five miles further on we reach the village of “Hyde Park” on the Eastside of the river, and in the midst of a country of great fertility studied with handsome villas, and apparently thriving homesteads.
 
From this point to the base of the lofty range of hills known as the Catskills, the scenery is exceedingly beautiful and very interesting. Nor is it much less so from thence to Albany, as we pass a member of thriving towns and pretty villages amongst which may be noted Athens and Stockport,  and various other places the names of which I now forget.
 
Albany is situated 145 miles from New York and the rapidity of the Daniel Drew’s passage gave me close upon five hours to spare before the train started for Niagara. I employed the spare time at my disposal in strolling through the Town or rather “City” as that is the name given to any place in America containing more than 10,000 inhabitants. I think they are all either villages or corporate cities.
 
Albany is an old and somewhat aristocratic city containing 65,000 inhabitants, and it is the capital of the State of New York. It is pleasantly situated on high ground rising from the Hudson and carries on a considerable trade with the West and North by means of the Erie and also the Chaplain canals: and it is besides, the point from which many important lines of railway diverge. The streets are wide and in many cases lined with trees, and the houses are well built, and to all natured appearances very clean. In the vicinity of the State Capital, which is an imposing building, there are many very handsome mansions.
​

​Here, Lindsay ended his description of his journey on the Hudson River. Many years later, in 1876, he published a comprehensive reference entitled ‘The History of Merchant Shipping and Ancient Commerce’ in four volumes. For many years it was a reference that many interested in shipping, turned to. In this work, he praises Robert Fulton, whose early steamer, the Clermont, on the Hudson River, paved the way for passenger steamers. He devoted several pages to Fulton. (see History of Merchant Shipping, Lindsay, Vol 4 pages 48-59). He felt that Fulton’s innovation had been overlooked.
 
His comments were also published in The Pall Mall Gazette, 26 December 1874…
 
Mr. Lindsay is deliberately of opinion that the Marquis of Worcester is the first person who ever constructed a steam engine; and that though Papin, Savery, Jonathan Hulls, the Marquis de Jouffroy, Bramah, and others, helped forward very materially the knowledge of steam as a motive power, to Fulton is due the credit of having put former discoveries and his own improvements to practical use by running a steam-boat regularly for purposes of trade. This pioneer vessel, destined to have myriads of followers, was the Clermont, which as the year 1807, only two years after Nelson had fallen at Trafalgar, plied regularly between New York and Albany, and made an average speed of five miles an hour.
 
We agree with Mr Lindsay in his strong reprobation of Rennie and other engineers who have not scrupled to call Fulton a charlatan and a quack because he made use of other men’s discoveries.
 
Lord Worcester was the first man to make a steam-engine; Watt was the first man to show how such an engine could be used to propel ships; Fulton was the first man to propel ships with steam-engines. Surely, when we reflect what steam has done for the commerce, the civilization, the happiness of the world, we can do equal homage to that triumvirate of genius without disparagement to either.
 
Poor Fulton was neither so prosperous nor so happy that we need grudge him his fair share of fame. Persecuted by jealous rivals, oppressed by the State which he had benefited, he died poor and broken hearted; but he has left behind him an enduring fame and an everlasting stigma on those who nicknamed his undertaking “Fulton’s Folly”.
 
I can’t end mentioning Fulton without this cutting. It was among Lindsay’s papers:-
 
ADVENTURES, NATIONAL CUSTOMS, AND CURIOUS FACTS.
 
FULTON'S FIRST STEAM VOYAGE,
BY R. W. HASKINS.
Some years since, I formed a travelling acquaintance, upon a steamboat on the Hudson River, with a gentleman, who, on that occasion, related to me some incidents of the first voyage of Fulton, to Albany, in his steamboat, the Clermont, which I never met with elsewhere. The gentleman’s name I have now lost, but I urged him, at the time, to publish what he related; which, however, so far as I knew, he had never done. -
 
"I chanced," said my narrator, "to be at Albany on business, when Fulton arrived there in his unheard-of craft, which everybody felt so much interest in seeing. Being ready to leave, and hearing that this craft was to return to New York, I repaired on board and inquired for Mr. Fulton. I was referred to the cabin, and there found a plain, gentlemanly man, wholly alone, and engaged in writing.
 
'Mr. Fulton, I presume?’
 ‘Yes, Sir?’
 ‘Do you return to New York with this boat?’
 'We shall try to get back, Sir.'
 `Can I have a passage down?’
 ‘You can take your chance with us, Sir.'
 
"I inquired the amount to be paid; and, after a moment's hesitation, a sum, I think six dollars, was named. The amount, in coin, I laid in his open hand; and, with an eye fixed upon it, he remained so long motionless that I supposed there might be a miscount, and said to him, 'Is that right Sir?

This roused him, as from a kind of reverie; and, as he looked up at me, a tear was trembling in his eye and his voice faltered, as he said, 'Excuse me, Sir, but memory was busy, as I contemplated this, the first pecuniary reward I have ever received for all my exertions in adapting steam to navigation. I would gladly commemorate the occasion over a bottle of wine with you, but really I am too poor, even for that, just now; yet I trust we may meet again when this will not be so.’
 
"Some four years after this, when the Clermont had been greatly improved, and two new boats made – making Fulton's fleet three boats regularly plying between New York and Albany - I took passage in one of these, for the latter city. The cabin in that day was below; and as I walked its length to and fro, I saw I was closely observed by one I supposed a stranger. Soon, however, I recalled the features of Mr Fulton; but without disclosing this, I continued my walk, and waited the result. At length, in passing his seat our eyes met, when he sprang to his feet, and eagerly seizing my hand, exclaimed, ‘I knew it must be you, for your features have never escaped me; and although I am still far from rich, yet I may venture that bottle now.’ – It was ordered; and during its discussion Mr Fulton ran rapidly but vividly over his experience of the world’s coldness and sneers, and of the hopes, fears and appointments, and difficulties that were scattered through the whole career of discovery, up to that very point of his final, crowning triumph, at which he so fully felt he had at last arrived.
 
‘And in reviewing these,’ said he, ‘I have again and again recalled the occasion and the incident of our first interview, at Albany; and never have I done so without its renewing in my mind the vivid emotion it originally caused. That seemed, and still does seem, to me, the turning point in my destiny – the dividing line between light and darkness, in my career upon earth; for it was the first actual recognition of my usefulness to my fellow men.’
 
Such, then, were the events coupled with the very dawn of steam navigation – a dawn so recent as to be still recollected by many; and such as Fulton here related them, were causing a revolution in navigation, which has almost literally brought the ends of the earth into contact.
 
Having read this, all I can say is how lucky you are that your Museum is associated with such a fine pioneer. I am sure that you serve him well. He deserves it.

Recorded in the summer of 1976 in Woodstock, NY Fifty Sail on Newburgh Bay: Hudson Valley Songs Old & New was released in October of that year. Designed to be a booster for the replica sloop Clearwater, as well as to tap into the national interest in history thanks to the bicentennial, the album includes a mixture of traditional songs and new songs. This album is a recording to songs relating to the Hudson River, which played a major role in the commercial life and early history of New York State, including the Revolutionary War. Folk singer Ed Renehan (born 1956), who was a member of the board of the Clearwater, sings and plays guitar along with Pete Seeger. William Gekle, who wrote the lyrics for five of the songs, also wrote the liner notes, which detail the context of each song and provide the lyrics. This booklet designed and the commentary written by William Gekle who also wrote the lyrics for: Fifty Sail, Moon in the Pear Tree, The Phoenix and the Rose, Old Ben and Sally B., and The Burning of Kingston.

Pete Seeger wrote a song for a friend, Ron Ingold, a shad fisherman on the Hudson River. Ingold is one of the new breed of Hudson River fishermen who is ready to fight for the environmental health of the River and, since he is on the River almost daily, he understands the importance of that delicate balance that must be maintained between Man and Nature. He understands this far better than the “half-blind scholars” who scarcely know which way the wind is blowing or which way the currents are flowing.  https://folkways-media.si.edu/liner_notes/folkways/FW05257.pdf

Editor's Note: Hear interviews with Ron Ingold and other Hudson River commercial fishermen here: ​https://nyheritage.org/collections/oral-histories-hudson-river-commercial-fishermen

Of time and rivers flowing
The seasons make a song
And we who live beside her
Still try to sing along

Of rivers, fish, and men,
And the season’s still a’coming
When she’ll run clear again.

So many homeless sailors,
So many winds that blow,
I ask the half-blind scholars
Which way the currents flow.

So cast your nets below
And the gods of moving waters
Will tell us all they know.

The circles of the planets,
The circles of the moon,
The circles of the atoms
All play a marching tune

And we who would join in
Can stand aside no longer
Now let us all begin!

Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteers Carl and Joan Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article was originally published November 4, 1973.

Now that the early morning fogs of autumn and the duck hunting season are both with us, I recall an incident in my youth when I went duck hunting and got lost in the fog.
 
One time in my late teens in October 1927, I went down to the flats at Sleightsburgh to hunt ducks. When I got down on the shore to get my duck boat it was about 3:30 a.m., still very dark and with a heavy autumn fog. I could hear ducks quacking out around the old Rondout lighthouse, which still stood along the south dike of Rondout Creek quite a ways in from the present Creek entrance.
 
I started out over the flats planning to follow the shore and then follow the dryed up purple loose leaf weeds to the area near the old lighthouse station. However, on my way out somehow or other I got a little too smart for my own good and lost sight of the shore line. It seemed that no matter in which direction I thought I rowed, I couldn’t find the shore. Even the ducks stopped quacking.
 
I kept on rowing, figuring I had to end up some place. In the distance, I could hear some steamboat blowing its whistle periodically with one long blast. I would stop and listen, thinking I would hear something on shoe. There wasn’t a sound through the murk except that steamboat whistle which kept getting closer and closer. Obviously, I had rowed out into the middle of the river and was either in or near the channel.
 
Shortly, I began to hear the thump, thump, thump – thump, thump, thump of the steamboat’s paddle wheels. I realized it was one of the Albany night boats. I wasn’t sure as to just what I should do for I certainly didn’t relish the thought of getting run down by the Albany night liner in the middle of the fog enshrouded Hudson. So I fired my shotgun into the air so I would have an empty shell to blow like a whistle. When I fired my gun, I could hear the thumping of the paddle wheels slow right down.
 
I suppose the pilots of the steamboat knew they were close to something, but didn’t know what. I kept blowing on my empty shell, and by the sound of the steamer’s whistle. I knew they were going by me. In a few moments I could feel the steamer’s waves going by me, so I knew the danger of getting run down was past. The fog was so thick I didn’t even see the vessel’s lights.
 
I still didn’t know which way to go, so I just sat still and drifted with the tide. After a while I could hear another steamboat blowing her fog signal. By the sound of her whistle, I recognized her as the freight steamer Storm King of the Catskill Evening Line. Her whistle, however, was quite a ways off so I knew there was no danger. About five minutes later, her little swells passed by me and I could hear both boats getting further away as they went on up river.
 
After daylight broke I was still drifting with the ebb tide. Finally I drifted into shore alongside the remains of the old towboat Norwich, which was being broken up at lower Port Ewen. That incident taught me a lesson – never try to go out in a fog without a compass. It can be a very lonely and unnerving experience.
 
Some years later in October of the middle 1930’s, I was pilot on the tugboat Lion of the Cornell Steamboat Company and coming down the upper Hudson with a good sized tow. It set in foggy at New Baltimore and the fog continued heavy all the way to Athens.
 
When opposite Coxsackie at about 8 a.m. the fog was particularly dense. All of a sudden I could hear people talking and a bell ringing out in the middle of the river. So I took the megaphone and asked what it was. The reply came back it was the Queen Mary.
 
Now, lest you think the former giant Cunarder of that name had sailed right by New York and somehow got to the upper Hudson, there was also a small diesel ferryboat – not much bigger than the old Skillypot – that carried the rather improbable name of Queen Mary. At that time, she was running back and forth between Coxsackie and Newton Hook.
 
After the ferryboat identified herself, the voice in the fog said they were anchored on the middle ground off Coxsackie. The voice further said. “Be careful. You are going up inside Coxsackie Island.”
 
Now, if I were to be going up inside Coxsackie Island I would have to be going in the opposite direction I was headed. I certainly knew my compass course was south and my whistle echoes were all in good order. It wasn’t me who was mixed up, it was the ferryboat. Obviously, anchored in the thick fog they had swung around with the tide and didn’t realize in what direction they were heading. I continued on and eventually ran out of the fog off Athens.
 
I often wondered who it could have been on that ferryboat who was so balled up in his directions he was 180 degrees off in the direction he thought he was headed. But, that’s the way one can easily find himself in heavy foggy weather. Intuition is no substitute for a good compass.