In this "Featured Artifact" post, we're examining two cloth items in our collection - a pair of hat bands from the Hudson River Day Line.

Much like Naval ships, steamboat crews wore formal uniforms and there was a hierarchy of crew within each department. Of the two hatbands, one is a more general one that simply reads "Day Line," indicating the crew member worked for the Hudson River Day Line steamboat company.

​The other hatband, reading, "2nd Mate," indicates the rank of the bearer. Second Mates are usually third in command of a vessel (behind the Captain or Master and First Mate) and usually act as watchkeeper, ensuring crew rotate through four hour watches and managing vessel safety and security. Sometimes they also serve as navigator. 

Both of these hatbands date to the 1930s, a time when the Hudson River Day Line was at its height. 

In this photograph of Hudson River Day Line senior staff of the steamboat Peter Stuyvesant, from 1947, you can see the uniforms and the clear ranks on their hats. The captain (Frank Briggs) wears a white hat to differentiate him from other officers. His hat band insignia is larger and clearly reads "Captain."

Although difficult to read in this image, the other officers are also wearing hatbands clearly denoting their ranks. To the left of the captain is the Chief Engineer, and to the left of him, the First (1st) Mate. To the far right, seated, is the Purser, the man responsible for ticketing and purchases aboard the ship. Can you tell what the other hat bands say?

Note also that the senior officers wear double-breasted jackets, and the junior officers single-breasted jackets. 

Unfortunately, only Captain Frank Briggs is identified in this image. If you recognize any of these men, please let us know! 

By the 1960s, all crew hats were changed to white, but the uniforms were changed and, depending on the department, became less formal.

​Did you or anyone you know work aboard a Day Line vessel? What was their role? Tell us in the comments!

                                                           No. 27- M. Martin
           
Built in 1863 at Jersey City for the Catskill and Albany day route, the 191 foot “M. Martin” was considered at that time one of the most handsome boats of her type ever to appear on the Hudson river. And the “M. Martin” has a historic background second to none of the vessels ever to ply the Hudson.
              
Because she was constructed in 1863, shortly after the Civil War broke out, the “M. Martin” was pressed into service under General Grant, and during the latter part of the war she was used as General Grant’s dispatch boat on Chesapeake Bay, carrying troops and messages across the bay and river. The “M. Martin” was known as the “greyhound” of the fleet of inland steamers that served the federal government during the war, and after the fall of Richmond, President Abraham Lincoln and General Grant made a visit to the Confederate Capital aboard the “M. Martin.”
              
At the close of the war the “M. Martin” was brought north and purchased by Romer & Tremper of Rondout who placed her in service on the Newburgh and Albany route, running in line with the “Eagle.” These two boats ran together until August 2, 1884, when the “Eagle” was destroyed by fire and the “Jacob H. Tremper” was built to take her place.
              
In 1899, the “Martin” was sold to the Central Hudson Steamboat Company of Newburgh, and served that company many years. She was an exceptionally fine performing vessel in the ice and was thus one of the first out in the spring and the last boat in at the close of navigation in the fall.
              
On Thursday, June 16, 1910, laden with freight and about 20 passengers, the “M. Martin,” southbound from Albany to Newburgh, caught fire and was beached near Esopus Island on the east shore of the Hudson, where all passengers were taken off in small boats. Captain George Hadley first noticed smoke curling from the pilot’s cabin in increasing volume, so he beached the vessel, saw that the passengers were safely taken off, and then got the “Martin’s” firefighting apparatus working playing streams of water on the flames. It was a matter or about 10 minutes for the water to quench the flames, and with only a scorched pilot house to record her experience, the “M. Martin” proceeded on to Newburgh.
              
After repairs had been made, the “M. Martin” resumed service, running until the fall of 1918, when she was laid up. Then in the summer of 1920, the work of junking the “M. Martin” began. Everything of value was removed from a vessel that had once conveyed a President of the United States, and the hull was purchased by Patrick Doherty to use for dock purposes at Eavesport, a small landing near Malden on the Hudson.

​For a number of years prior to World War I, the Hudson River Day Line always layed up the “Mary Powell” and the “Albany’’ for the winter at the Sunflower Dock at Sleightsburgh on Rondout Creek.  At that time, Mr. Eben E. Olcott was president of the Day Line.
 
During the winter of 1917, both the ‘Powell’’ and the ‘Albany’ were, as usual, layed up at the Sunflower Dock.  Across the creek on the Rondout side, both Donovan and Feeney had boat yards. 
​
Both shipyards had built canal barges and launched them in the ice.  Also, they were loading the new barges with ice to ship to New York when navigation opened again in the spring.  And, where they had taken in the ice, there were various channels cut in a multiplicity of different ways.  Anybody not knowing this and trying to walk over the ice at night would be necessarily taking his life in his own hands.

Snow and Sleet
On the night I am writing about, it started to snow and sleet about 6 p.m.  And, at that time, Phil Maines of Rondout was the ship keeper on the ‘‘Mary Powell.”
 
About 11 p.m. Phil thought he would take a walk around to see if everything was all right before taking a nap.  As he started up the companionway, he thought he heard someone walking on the deck above and trying to open the doors.  He knew he had left one door unlocked, so he went up on deck and stood in the dark behind the unlocked door, waiting for whoever it was to come in.
 
After a while the door slid back and a man walked in.  Phil, standing in the dark, said, “Stick up your hands! Who’s there?”
 
The reply came back swiftly, “It’s Mr. Olcott, Phil, only me.  I thought I’d drop around and see if everything was all right.”
 
He was Lonesome
So, together, they went down to the winter kitchen, which was on the main deck for the keeper’s use in winter, and had a cup of coffee.  Mr. Olcott said he was staying over night in Kingston, had gotten a little lonesome and so thought he would come over and see Phil for awhile.  After he had stayed for about 15 minutes, he said he was tired and thought he’d go back to his hotel and get some rest before morning.  Phil took him back across the creek, this time with a lantern.
 
How Mr. Olcott ever got over to the “Powell” without falling through the ice in the many ice channels was not only a streak of good luck for the president of the Hudson River Day Line, but something of a miracle in itself.

You may have seen sea shanties in the news lately. CNN has talked about them. And NPR. Our friends at SeaHistory did a lovely writeup, too. For some reason, these historic maritime songs have struck a chord with folks around the world. 

Shanties may have started their modern revival with the 2019 film, Fishermen's Friends, based on a true story about a group of Cornish fishermen whose work song chorus catapulted them to unexpected stardom in the UK. The film became available to American audiences via streaming giant Netflix in 2020. 

Sea songs and shanties are two different things, according to experts interviewed by JSTOR daily and Insider.com. Shanties are work songs, often designed for call-and-response. Sea songs are those about the sea, but not designed to be sung while at work. Both evoke a bygone era the lends itself to romanticism, even as the real life experience was less than ideal. 

So why "The Wellerman" and why did Shantytok become a thing? Scottish postal worker Nathan Evans (he's since quit his job with a record deal in hand) posted a video of his acapella version of "The Wellerman," a 19th century New Zealand whaling song to TikTok with the hashtag #seashanty on December 27, 2020. Kept home by the pandemic lockdown, along with many other people around the world, Evans' version went viral. The next day, Philadelphia teenager Luke Taylor used TikTok's duet feature to add a harmonizing bass line to Evans' video. That version, too, went viral, and other TikTok users from around the world kept adding harmonies and instrumentals to build on Evans' original song. 

"The Wellerman," also known as "Soon May the Wellerman Come," is a song based in real life. Joseph Weller was a wealthy Englishman suffering from tuberculosis. A doctor recommended a sea voyage, and Weller and his family found their way to Australia in 1830. The next year, they purchased a barque and established a whaling station in nearby New Zealand - likely without the permission of the local Maori, who raided the station several times. The Wellers persisted until Joseph died in 1834. His sons continued whaling for several years, but sold out in 1840 and returned to Sydney. In later years the station also doubled as a general store supplying other whaling ships as well as their own. When the Wellers sold out, the station continued as a general store. So from the chorus of the song the lines, "Soon may the Wellerman come and bring us sugar and tea and rum" are likely a direct reference to the Weller family store supplying whaling ships. Read more about the history of "The Wellerman" and a biography of the Wellers. 

Unlike the sort of whaling practiced in Nantucket and made famous by Moby Dick (fun fact - Herman Melville actually worked on a Weller whaling ship), whaling in New Zealand in the 1830s was done from shore and was developed in response to declining sperm whale populations (learn more about shore-based whaling). Maori people in New Zealand also practiced whaling, and the crews of whaling vessels and stations were likely racially and ethnically diverse. Edward Weller himself married a Maori woman (learn more about Maori whaling traditions and the Weller connection).

The above version of "The Wellerman" is by the Irish Rovers and was filmed in 1977 aboard a sailing ship off of New Zealand. 

1. There was a ship that put to sea,
The name of the ship was the Billy of Tea
The winds blew up, her bow dipped down,
O blow, my bully boys, blow.

Chorus: Soon may the Wellerman come
And bring us sugar and tea and rum.
One day, when the tonguin' is done,
We'll take our leave and go.

2. She had not been two weeks from shore
When down on her a right whale bore.
The captain called all hands and swore
He'd take that whale in tow.

3. Before the boat had hit the water
The whale's tail came up and caught her.
All hands to the side, harpooned and fought her
When she dived down below.

4. No line was cut, no whale was freed;
The Captain's mind was not of greed,
But he belonged to the whaleman's creed;
She took the ship in tow.

5. For forty days, or even more,
The line went slack, then tight once more.
All boats were lost (there were only four)
But still the whale did go.

6. As far as I've heard, the fight's still on;
The line's not cut and the whale's not gone.
The Wellerman makes his regular call
To encourage the Captain, crew, and all.

You may have seen it spelled "chantey" or "chanteys" before, based on the French word "chanter" meaning "to sing" or "chantez" meaning "Let's sing" (both pronounced "shawn-tay"). Although most dictionaries now agree that the "correct" spelling is "shanty," "chantey" has held on in many American communities. Perhaps to differentiate it from the waterfront shack also known as a "shanty?" (that word also derives from the French - this time the French-Canadian "chantier," meaning a lumber camp shack). Or perhaps because Americans are more likely to adopt foreign words wholesale into the lexicon.

Any way you spell it, chantey, chanty, shanty, or shantey - all are technically correct.

Some have questioned whether the reference in "The Wellerman" to "bring us sugar and tea and rum" was a reference to slavery. But given that "The Wellerman" is set in New Zealand, it was far more likely that the reference was about delivering sailors' rations, rather than a direct connection to slavery.

However, sea shanties do have a direct connection to Africa and slavery. Call and response style work songs were common in West Africa, where many people were captured and sold into slavery for hundreds of years. Enslaved people brought these work song traditions with them when they were forced into labor in the Americas. Slaves worked in fishing, on sailing ships, and even on steamboats. Slaves who loaded and unloaded steamboats often sang a style of work song that came to be known as "roustabout" songs. When combined with dance, this song style was known as "coonjine" (learn more). Singing was one way that enslaved people could push back against the brutal domination of enslavers. 

Some references even indicate that Black and enslaved people themselves were once called "chanteys," reflective of their singing talents. 

New York singer and historian Vienna Carroll (who we've featured before), has also helps preserve New York's Black maritime history through song. Her version of "Shallow Brown" recounts an enslaved man, Shallow Brown, being sold away from his wife to work on a whaling ship in the North. 

Whaling in particular offered opportunities for free Black sailors and whalers in the United States. As whaling shifted to the Pacific and the Arctic, Black mariners were able to escape the harsher racism of the Caribbean and the American South. You can learn more about enslaved and free Black mariners in a previous blog post by historian Craig Marin. 

As anyone who has ever tried to raise a sail knows, singing "Haul Away Joe" can help you work in tandem with others. Keeping a rhythm helps with hauling, rowing, pulling in nets, loading cargoes, and any other heavy task that requires more than one person to work in rhythm with another. Singing also keeps the mind occupied, but focused on the task at hand. The West African call-and-response style became integral to shanties and was quickly adopted and adapted by sailors of all ethnicities. 

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                                                                      No. 177- Norwich
              
Running a close second to the Mary Powell for its fame on the Hudson river comes the old Norwich, known to followers of the river’s history as the “Ice King.”
              
The wooden hull of the Norwich was built by Lawrence & Sneden at New York in 1836, and her engine was the product of Hall & Cunningham of New York. From stern to stern the Norwich measured 160 feet; her breadth of beam was 25 feet five inches; depth of hold five feet nine inches; gross tonnage 255; net tonnage 127. Her engine was of the crosshead variety with a cylinder diameter of 40 inches with a 10 foot stroke, and she carried one boiler in her hold.
               
The Norwich was built for the New York & Norwich Steamboat Company and ran on Long Island Sound for a number of years after she was launched.
              
The year 1843 marked the appearance of the Norwich on the Hudson river- in service between Rondout and New York as a passenger and freight carrier; and about 1850 Thomas Cornell purchased the steamboat and converted her to a towboat.
              
It was about the middle of the nineteenth century  that the Norwich began a procedure which was to gain for her the title of “Ice King”- a title which was never disputed! Her construction was such that heavy river ice usually broke before her onslaught, and in the early spring and late fall the Norwich was a familiar figure breaking ice along the river.
              
The bow of the Norwich was so constructed that she could run upon and break down heavy ice fields, and the bottom of the steamboat was well protected with copper and steel. Her paddle wheels were fashioned out of live oak and iron, and her commander, Captain Jacob DuBois often said that, “She could run through a stone yard without damaging herself.”
              
The spectacle of the Norwich battling heavy ice was always interesting to watch, and occasionally when endeavoring to break down large mounds of ice, the staunch vessel was turned over on her side. At such time prompt action was necessary by the crew in the shifting of chain boxes and weighty ballast to right the vessel. The wheels of the Norwich were so placed that one of them could be detached quickly- and thus the tilting of the steamboat was of little importance. It is safe to assume that the Norwich saved many thousands of dollars of damage by her successful attempts at breaking up the ice in the river and thus preventing floods and serious jams.
              
Frequently the Norwich was called upon to rescue vessels caught in the ice on Long Island Sound, and in the year 1851 she fought what was perhaps her greatest battle with the ice. The steamboat New Haven was caught in the ice, and the Norwich went to her aid. Rows of ice so high that the stranded New Haven could not be seen from the pilot house of the Norwich was finally crushed down by the old “Ice King,” and the Sound vessel was released from its perilous position.
              
Usually the first vessel on the river in the spring and the last to tie up in the winter, the Norwich was also a conspicuous figure in the steamboat parade in New York harbor on September 25, 1909. On two occasions the Norwich was almost destroyed by fire, (December 16, 1906 and August 30, 1909) and both times she was rebuilt and placed in service.
              
Many of the well-known figures in Hudson river history were connected with the Norwich at one time or another, including Captain George B. Gage, Captain Stephen Van Wart, Captain Jeremiah Patteson, Captain Delzell, Captain Harry Barber, Captain James Welsh, and Captain Jacob DuBois.
              
​The Norwich continued her career on the Hudson river until 1921 when she was deemed of no further use and was tied up at Port Ewen. In November 1923 the Cornell Steamboat Company sold the Norwich to Michael Tucker of Port Ewen, who broke her up for scrap. Today the fame of the Norwich is constantly recalled through stories passed from one individual to another, and visitors to the Senate House in Kingston are reminded of the old “Ice King” when they view the bell of the Norwich which is displayed in the local museum.

In the early days of automobiles, speed demons were not content with ice yachts, and tried their luck on the frozen Hudson with autos instead.

On January 28, 1912, Robert E. Hopkins drove his automobile from Tarrytown to the Tarrytown Lighthouse (today known as the Sleepy Hollow Lighthouse). This was before General Motors filled in all but 100 feet of water to the lighthouse, so this was quite the distance. According to the New York Times, "The feat had never been attempted before." Robert E. Hopkins was the son of Robert E. Hopkins, Sr., who had supposedly "made millions in oil." Hopkins wasn't alone on the ice that day - plenty of people were out skating, on horseback, and even in automobiles, but most stuck close to shore, where the ice was more reliable. 

Just a few days later, on February 3, 1912, Fred Koenig in his Mercedes and raced against M.R. Beltzhoover's Mercer in a 25 mile route on the ice off of Tarrytown. Koenig won that race by two laps, but Beltzhoover won the three mile straightaway race from the Tarrytown lighthouse to the Tarrytown Boat Club docks. Other auto races also gave speed exhibitions, and Beltzhoover got his Mercer up to 75 mph. 

The ice was "in fine condition," so arrangements were made "for a bit automobile meet next week." 

Despite these recreational activities closer to shore, the main shipping channel was still open - being kept clear by icebreaking tugs. 

Today is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, and to celebrate his contributions to the Civil Rights movement, we thought we would share some information about an earlier Civil Rights and labor rights activist, Paul Robeson. 

Born in 1898 in Princeton, New Jersey, Robeson was most famous for his role in "Show Boat," which he first played the role of "Joe" on Broadway in the 1920s, and later in the 1936 film version, in which he sings, "Ol' Man River."

But Robeson was not cast as Joe in the 1951 film version of "Show Boat," because he was blacklisted by Hollywood and later investigated by the House Committee on Un-American Activities (HUAC) for his political beliefs and his outspoken advocacy of labor rights and Civil Rights. You can learn more about Paul Robeson's life in this short documentary: 

So what's the connection to the Hudson River Valley? In 1949 Paul Robeson was one of several performers invited to participate in a concert to benefit the Civil Rights Congress. The concert was to take place on August 27, 1949, just north of Peekskill, NY. Robeson had performed in Peekskill at least three times before. But 1949 was different. 

Robeson had begun to be more vocal about his beliefs and advocating for Civil Rights and labor rights and against the Ku Klux Klan, colonialism, racism, and capitalism. In March of 1949, Robeson had attended the World Peace Conference in Paris - an international event sponsored by the Soviet Union. While at the conference, Robeson gave a speech about the tenuous US/USSR relationship. What he actually said, and what was reported in the American media, were two very different things. 

He said: 

"We in America do not forget that it was the backs of white workers from Europe and on the backs of millions of blacks that the wealth of America was built. And we are resolved to share it equally. We reject any hysterical raving that urges us to make war on anyone. Our will to fight for peace is strong...We shall support peace and friendship among all nations, with Soviet Russia and the People's Republics."

But the Associated Press quoted him as saying:

"We colonial peoples have contributed to the building of the United States and are determined to share its wealth. We denounce the policy of the United States government which is similar to Hitler and Goebbels.... It is unthinkable that American Negros would go to war on behalf of those who have oppressed us for generations against the Soviet Union which in one generation has lifted our people to full human dignity."

The inflammatory quote falsely attributed to Robeson later turned out to be submitted before Robeson was even finished speaking. This report led Robeson to be widely condemned throughout the United States as "un-American," and the Peekskill Evening Star encouraged people to boycott the concert due to Robeson's participation. 

The day of the concert, hundreds of locals, including the American Legion and members of the Ku Klux Klan, attacked concert-goers with rocks and baseball bats. It took hours for the police to arrive, and when they finally did, they took little action. Robeson was lynched in effigy and eleven people were injured. A cross was burned nearby and visible from the concert grounds. The attacks began before Robeson arrived, and when a friend drove him to the concert, he had to be restrained from confronting the rioters. The concert was postponed until September, 4, 1949 - Labor Day. 

Local officials, including police, failed to take responsibility for the violence. Applications for the local KKK chapter actually increased after the riot. Labor unions and local supporters of Robeson organized protests of the riot and gathered hundreds of union members to help guard the rescheduled concert.

On the day of the second concert, locals, including members of the VFW and American Legion as well as (presumably) KKK members gathered to protest - shouting epithets at concert-goers and accusing them of communism as they arrived.

20,000 people attended the concert on September 4, which had many other performers, including Pete Seeger. Robeson closed out the concert with his most famous song, "Ol' Man River." 

Although the September 4, 1949 concert was held without violence, as the concert-goers tried to leave, their cars had to crawl past a gauntlet of rioters, who threw rocks, broke windshields, windows, and headlights, and screamed obscenities. Law enforcement largely stood by and watched the violence.

Pete Seeger, Woody Guthrie, and Lee Hays, who had also been scheduled to perform, shared a car with Pete's wife Toshi and their children. Woody Guthrie pinned up a shirt (red, of course) to the window to prevent shattered glass from injuring the children. Pete saved several rocks that made their way into the car and cemented them into the chimney of the house he and Toshi later built in Beacon. 

This period footage illustrates some of the protests and the violence following the concert and includes commentary from Pete Seeger. Please note, racial epithets are used in this period film footage. ​

Over 140 people were injured, either from broken glass and projectiles hurled at their vehicles, or they were pulled from their vehicles and beaten. Among those injured was Eugene Bullard, America's first Black combat pilot and a veteran of World War I. He was viciously beaten, including by members of state and local law enforcement. The attack was captured on film and in photographs, but no one was ever arrested or prosecuted for the assault.

On September 7, 1949, just days after the riots, a group of musicians and songwriters put together a hastily recorded record - The Peekskill Story. Narrated by Howard Fast and sung by the Weavers (including Lee Hays and Pete Seeger), the album was a mix of music and spoken word report of the organization of the two concerts that both ended in riots. It included a snippet of Paul Robeson singing "Ol' Man River" at the concert, as well as a recording of some of the epithets the rioters were yelling at concert-goers. You can listen to the full album below, or learn more about it here. 

​The Peekskill Riots remain a stark illustration of anti-communist rhetoric in the years leading up to McCarthyism and the Red Scare. Despite protests following the riots, including a large one in Albany protesting to Governor Thomas Dewey about the inaction and possible participation of law enforcement in the riots, Dewey and others blamed the violence on communists. Many of the concert performers, including Pete Seeger, Lee Hays, Woody Guthrie, and Paul Robeson, were blacklisted. In the 1950s, Seeger and Robeson were both called before the House Committee on Un-American Activities (HUAC) and accused of communism. You can listen to Robeson's testimony below:

As a Black man with connections to the Soviet Union, Robeson bore the consequences of blacklisting with more difficulty than Guthrie and Seeger. Even former allies at the NAACP, including Jackie Robinson and Eleanor Roosevelt, spoke out against him, fearful that association with communism would hurt the movement. In retaliation for his beliefs, many of the organizations and institutions which had previously lauded his accomplishments, erased him from their records. 

Robeson's career never recovered. Following the end of McCarthyism in 1957, he launched a brief comeback tour, traveling and performing for several years before his mental health deteriorated, as depression and paranoia set in. He had never stopped speaking out for marginalized peoples around the world. But in 1963, he officially retired and went into relative seclusion, making few public appearances. Soon, his physical health began to deteriorate as well. He died on January 23, 1976 from complications of pneumonia at age 77. 

Robeson and the Peekskill Riots were the subject of many documentaries following Robeson's death, including The Tallest Tree in Our Forest (1977), Paul Robeson: Tribute to an Artist (1979) and Paul Robeson: Here I Stand​ (1999). 

Despite all the difficulties he faced for his beliefs, Robeson remains a giant among Civil Rights advocates around the world. His personal accomplishments and his unwavering commitment to justice, regardless of the costs, are worth remembering. 

We have been posting a lot about ice and winter sports here on the History Blog, so it's only apt that our first Featured Artifact is this beautiful piece of ephemera [paper items meant to be thrown away] from the Ray Ruge Collection. Ray was instrumental in reviving the Hudson River Ice Yacht Club in the 1960s and was an avid ice boater. His widow donated his large collection of ice boating history, photographs, ephemera, correspondence, and more to the museum. You'll be seeing more of Ray and his collection in the coming weeks.

This issue of Harper's Weekly (coincidentally ALSO from January 16, although in 1869, rather than 2021) featured "Ice-Boats on the Hudson" on the cover. Harper's Weekly: A Journal of Civilization was a national weekly political magazine published out of New York City between 1857 and 1916. Often beautifully illustrated with lithographs based on photographs, Harper's Weekly chronicled daily life, and many of its illustrations grace the museum's walls. 

The original article, transcribed:

"The ice-yacht is a boat on skates, and is impelled by the wind in the same manner as an ordinary yacht. There has been for some time at Poughkeepsie, in this State, and Ice Yacht Club, modeled after the New York Yacht Club. Thus the frozen waters of the Hudson do not by any means impede the winter navigation of the river; indeed, with a strong wind and upon a smooth surface of ice, one of these ice-boats will attain a speed of one mile per minute, thus outrunning the locomotive, and literally flying with the speed of the wind.

"For several winters a race has been contemplated between these singular yachts; but the condition of the ice has never been favorable at the time agreed upon. Our illustration on this page shows the fleet at Poughkeepsie. This fleet consists of eight boats: the Flying Cloud, owned by IRVING GRINNELL; the Icicle, by JOHN ROOSVELT; the Snow Squall, by THEODORE V. JOHNSTON; the Una, by AARON INNIS; the Flying Dutchman, by THEODORE VAN KLEEK; the Haze, by JOHN JAY INNIS; the Restless, by Commodore O. H. BOOTH; and the Snow Flake, by THOMAS PARISH."

Editor's note - the Icicle is on display at the Hudson River Maritime Museum.

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Rockland Lake is a large, freshwater lake located quite close to the Hudson River, just across the river from the city of Ossining. Throughout the 19th century, it was the primary source of natural ice for New York City. South of Newburgh, the Hudson River is brackish - as a tidal estuary it contains a mix of fresh and salt water in the lower part of the valley, making it unsuitable for ice harvesting. Rockland Lake, on the other hand, was fed by a spring and remained largely unpolluted. In 1831, the Knickerbocker Ice Company formed at Rockland Lake, where it remained in operation until the turn of the 20th century. (Learn more about ice harvesting on Rockland Lake)

A large steamboat landing was built on the Hudson River near Rockland Lake to accommodate the ice trade. The need for a lighthouse at Rockland Lake was first reported in October of 1899 by the New York Herald, which noted that "many of the new steamers are propellers of such draught as to make the shoal dangerous."

​On December 7, 1892, the Brooklyn Union Daily Standard reported that an appropriation of $35,000 was made "[f]or establishing a lighthouse and fog signal at or near Oyster Bed Shoal," off of the Rockland Lake dock. The brief noticed continued, "Steamers lay their course near there, making an important turning point, and it is said that the placing of this lighthouse at that point may have an effect in preventing wrecks there." 

A year later, the New York Herald reported that the Lighthouse Board had completed the plans for what would become the Rockland Lake Lighthouse, to be located "1,100 feet northeast of the northeasterly end of Rockland Lake landing." 

In July, 1894, the Rockland County Times reported on the construction of the new lighthouse. "The structure, when finished, will be a facsimile of the Tarrytown lighthouse, with the addition of several recent improvements." The article noted, "There is at present no lighthouse between those at Tarrytown and Stony Point, and boatmen traveling between those two points are now troubled at times to find their bearings. This will be obviated by the Rockland Lake lighthouse, which will afford them a safe guide on the darkest nights." 

Before it could be completed, however, it was struck by the steam canal boat Richard K. Fox, which had four barges in tow and destroyed the wooden construction dock "together with the workshop and other buildings connected to the works." According to the August 1, 1894 report from the New York World, the steam canal boat Richard K. Fox managed to carry "away on its bow part of one of the buildings and an Italian laborer who was sleeping in his bunk." An article from The Sun on the same incident named him as Guiseppe Luigi. Other workers dove into the water or clung to the iron lighthouse caisson to escape the wreck, which destroyed their living quarters. The lighthouse workers speculated that the captain of the Fox must have been asleep at the wheel. The Richard K. Fox appeared largely unharmed, though some reports indicate she "lost her pilot house," and continued on her way to New York City. The New York World article ends with this sentence, "Hudson River navigators think the lighthouse a menace to navigation." The Sun indicates, "It [the lighthouse, upon completion] will then prove dangerous in foggy or misty weather, boatmen say." 

By September 5, 1894, notice was given to mariners that the light would be lit "on or about October 1, 1894, a light of the fourth order, showing fixed white for 5 seconds, separated by eclipses of 5 seconds." The cast iron caisson was to be painted brown on the lower half, and white on the upper.

Like the lighthouses at Tarrytown and Jeffrey's Hook, the Rockland Lake lighthouse structure was pre-fabricated. 

By the 1910s, the Rockland Lake lighthouse had acquired a serious tilt. Most theories blame the oyster beds under the foundation. A the time, newspapers speculated that the shoals had washed out from under the lighthouse. Later historians speculate that the weight of the structure could have compacted the shoals, destabilizing them.

Righting the lighthouse was considered too expensive a project, so the clockwork mechanism which turned the light was simply adjusted to account for the angle of tilt. One can only imagine what it was like to live there as keeper.

By the 1920s, ice harvesting was also in decline, starting to be replaced by electric refrigeration. Perhaps this decline in traffic to the Knickerbocker Ice Company Landing played a role in the decision to decommission the lighthouse in 1923. That same year, a red-painted skeleton light was built adjacent to the lighthouse before that structure was demolished. A skeleton light still exists at that spot today. 

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​Fog, snow and ice were always tremendous hazards to the steamboatmen who plied the Hudson shortly after the turn of the century. Before the days of radar and other electronic aids to navigation, boatmen had little to rely on but their own acquired knowledge of the river – and the tricks played by wind and tide.
 
With the always heavy river traffic and narrow channels, accidents were bound to occur, especially in fogs and snow storms. One of the more spectacular groundings took place in 1903, when the big tugboat Osceola of the Cornell Steamboat Company ran up on the old dock at Piermont.

In the winter of 1903, the Cornell tugboats Osceola and John H. Cordts were both bound up river with separate tows, both of them very large. The Cordts was about a mile ahead of the Osceola. Off Yonkers, a heavy snow storm set in with a raging northeast gale.
 
Was It Irvington?
When the Osceola was off what the crew believed to be Irvington, the captain said to the pilot, “I think we had better round up and head into the tide.”
 
The pilot suggested, “Let’s go on, the Cordts did.” But the captain still thought differently and rounded up. However, by going around to the west, they lost the echo of the whistle on the east shore and could not pick it up again.
 
Feeling their way along, they felt a slight jolt and a slight list to port.
 
But it was snowing so hard they couldn’t see anything, or could they pick up any echoes at all of the whistle. And, attempt after attempt to back off from whatever they had hit proved fruitless.
 
By Morning’s Light
When morning came, they understood why. The Osceola was perched right on top of the old dock at Piermont!
 
The Piermont dock had originally been built by the Erie Railroad back in the 19th century when the State of New Jersey refused the Erie permission to run trains in that state. As an alternative, the railroad proceeded to build a long pier out into the river at the southern most point in New York State on the west shore. The trains would be run out on the pier and passengers were taken from there to New York City by steamboat.
 
By 1903 the pier was no longer used and the end of the dock had fallen into ruin. At the time of the grounding, the tide was much higher than usual because of the winter storm, and the Osceola went right up on top of the old dock.
 
And there she remained, with her bow all the way out of the water, for some two weeks before workmen were successful in getting her off. Still, she came through her misadventure surprisingly well and continued towing on the Hudson River until October 1929.
 
A Zipped Lip
At the time of her "climb the round up and head into the dock caper," it was rumored that the chief engineer and the captain were not speaking to each other. The chief is supposed to have said later that he saw the spiles that were known to be about 500 feet north of the dock through the engine room door as the boat passed them. But he said nothing. Let the captain see them, he thought. That’s his job.
 
The captain, of course, did not see them and, consequently, the Osceola rode up on the dock in an inevitable accident.
 
And when the news about the unreported sighting of the spiles eventually worked its way into the Cornell office, that was the end of the chief engineer’s tenure of employment with the Cornell Steamboat Company.