T'was the night before Halloween! And while many a passenger is aboard Solaris for this weekend's Lantern Cruises, we thought it apt to share a tale from Washington Irving. First published in 1822 as part of the two volume Bracebridge Hall, the tale of the Storm Ship is an unassuming one, but has spawned a lot of lore about the ghostly ship that plies the Hudson against wind and tide. The story entitled "Storm Ship" is quite a bit longer than this excerpt, and is preceded by one entitled "Dolph Heylinger." But the remainder of "The Storm Ship" is not actually about the ship at all, but rather Dolph's exploits and redemption. You can read the entire Storm Ship story here. Although Irving is best known for his masterful Sleepy Hollow, this shorter story is nonetheless a fascinating look at early Dutch colonial life - fictionalized through a 19th century lens - in what was once New Netherland.

Note: The following text is taken verbatim from the original Washington Irving publication and has the original spelling.

​In the golden age of the province of the New-Netherlands, when it was under the sway of Wouter Van Twiller, otherwise called the Doubter, the people of the Manhattoes were alarmed, one sultry afternoon, just about the time of the summer solstice, by a tremendous storm of thunder and lightning. The rain descended in such torrents, as absolutely to spatter up and smoke along the ground. It seemed as if the thunder rattled and rolled over the very roofs of the houses; the lightning was seen to play about the church of St. Nicholas, and to strive three times, in vain, to strike its weather-cock. Garret Van Horne’s new chimney was split almost from top to bottom; and Doffue Mildeberger was struck speechless from his bald-faced mare, just as he was riding into town. In a word, it was one of those unparalleled storms, that only happen once within the memory of that venerable personage, known in all towns by the appellation of “the oldest inhabitant.”
​
Great was the terror of the good old women of the Manhattoes. They gathered their children together, and took refuge in the cellars; after having hung a shoe on the iron point of every bed-post, lest it should attract the lightning. At length the storm abated: the thunder sunk into a growl; and the setting sun, breaking from under the fringed borders of the clouds, made the broad bosom of the bay to gleam like a sea of molten gold.

The word was given from the fort, that a ship was standing up the bay. It passed from mouth to mouth, and street to street, and soon put the little capital in a bustle. The arrival of a ship, in those early times of the settlement, was an event of vast importance to the inhabitants. It brought them news from the old world, from the land of their birth, from which they were so completely severed: to the yearly ship, too, they looked for their supply of luxuries, of finery, of comforts, and almost of necessaries. The good vrouw could not have her new cap, nor new gown, until the arrival of the ship; the artist waited for it for his tools, the burgomaster for his pipe and his supply of Hollands, the school-boy for his top and marbles, and the lordly landholder for the bricks with which he was to build his new mansion. Thus every one, rich and poor, great and small, looked out for the arrival of the ship. It was the great yearly event of the town of New-Amsterdam; and from one end of the year to the other, the ship—the ship—the ship—was the continual topic of conversation.

The news from the fort, therefore, brought all the populace down to the battery, to behold the wished-for sight. It was not exactly the time when she had been expected to arrive, and the circumstance was a matter of some speculation. Many were the groups collected about the battery. Here and there might be seen a burgomaster, of slow and pompous gravity, giving his opinion with great confidence to a crowd of old women and idle boys. At another place was a knot of old weatherbeaten fellows, who had been seamen or fishermen in their times, and were great authorities on such occasions; these gave different opinions, and caused great disputes among their several adherents: but the man most looked up to, and followed and watched by the crowd, was Hans Van Pelt, an old Dutch sea-captain retired from service, the nautical oracle of the place. He reconnoitred the ship through an ancient telescope, covered with tarry canvas, hummed a Dutch tune to himself, and said nothing. A hum, however, from Hans Van Pelt had always more weight with the public than a speech from another man.

In the meantime, the ship became more distinct to the naked eye: she was a stout, round Dutch-built vessel, with high bow and poop, and bearing Dutch colours. The evening sun gilded her bellying canvas, as she came riding over the long waving billows. The sentinel who had given notice of her approach, declared, that he first got sight of her when she was in the centre of the bay; and that she broke suddenly on his sight, just as if she had come out of the bosom of the black thunder-cloud. The bystanders looked at Hans Van Pelt, to see what he would say to this report: Hans Van Pelt screwed his mouth closer together, and said nothing; upon which some shook their heads, and others shrugged their shoulders.

The ship was now repeatedly hailed, but made no reply, and, passing by the fort, stood on up the Hudson. A gun was brought to bear on her, and, with some difficulty, loaded and fired by Hans Van Pelt, the garrison not being expert in artillery. The shot seemed absolutely to pass through the ship, and to skip along the water on the other side, but no notice was taken of it! What was strange, she had all her sails set, and sailed right against wind and tide, which were both down the river. Upon this Hans Van Pelt, who was likewise harbour-master, ordered his boat, and set off to board her; but after rowing two or three hours, he returned without success. Sometimes he would get within one or two hundred yards of her, and then, in a twinkling, she would be half a mile off. Some said it was because his oarsmen, who were rather pursy and short-winded, stopped every now and then to take breath, and spit on their hands; but this, it is probable, was a mere scandal. He got near enough, however, to see the crew; who were all dressed in the Dutch style, the officers in doublets and high hats and feathers: not a word was spoken by any one on board; they stood as motionless as so many statues, and the ship seemed as if left to her own government. Thus she kept on away up the river, lessening and lessening in the evening sunshine, until she faded from sight, like a little white cloud melting away in the summer sky.

The appearance of this ship threw the governor into one of the deepest doubts that ever beset him in the whole course of his administration. Fears were entertained for the security of the infant settlements on the river, lest this might be an enemy’s ship in disguise, sent to take possession. The governor called together his council repeatedly to assist him with their conjectures. He sat in his chair of state, built of timber from the sacred forest of the Hague, and smoking his long jasmine pipe, and listened to all that his counsellors had to say on a subject about which they knew nothing; but, in spite of all the conjecturing of the sagest and oldest heads, the governor still continued to doubt.

Messengers were despatched to different places on the river; but they returned without any tidings—the ship had made no port. Day after day, and week after week, elapsed; but she never returned down the Hudson. As, however, the council seemed solicitous for intelligence, they had it in abundance. The captains of the sloops seldom arrived without bringing some report of having seen the strange ship at different parts of the river; sometimes near the Palisadoes; sometimes off Croton Point, and sometimes in the highlands; but she never was reported as having been seen above the highlands. The crews of the sloops, it is true, generally differed among themselves in their accounts of these apparitions; but they may have arisen from the uncertain situations in which they saw her. Sometimes it was by the flashes of the thunder-storm lighting up a pitchy night, and giving glimpses of her careering across Tappaan Zee, or the wide waste of Haverstraw Bay. At one moment she would appear close upon them, as if likely to run them down, and would throw them into great bustle and alarm; but the next flash would show her far off, always sailing against the wind. Sometimes, in quiet moonlight nights, she would be seen under some high bluff of the highlands, all in deep shadow, excepting her top-sails glittering in the moonbeams; by the time, however, that the voyagers would reach the place, there would be no ship to be seen; and when they had passed on for some distance, and looked back, behold! there she was again with her top-sails in the moonshine! Her appearance was always just after, or just before, or just in the midst of, unruly weather; and she was known by all the skippers and voyagers of the Hudson, by the name of “the storm-ship.”

These reports perplexed, the governor and his council more than ever; and it would be endless to repeat the conjectures and opinions that were uttered on the subject. Some quoted cases in point, of ships seen off the coast of New-England, navigated by witches and goblins. Old Hans Van Pelt, who had been more than once to the Dutch colony at the Cape of Good Hope, insisted that this must be the Flying Dutchman which had so long haunted Table Bay, but, being unable to make port, had now sought another harbour. Others suggested, that, if it really was a supernatural apparition, as there was every natural reason to believe, it might be Hendrick Hudson, and his crew of the Half-Moon; who, it was well-known, had once run aground in the upper part of the river, in seeking a north-west passage to China. This opinion had very little weight with the governor, but it passed current out of doors; for indeed it had already been reported, that Hendrick Hudson and his crew haunted the Kaatskill Mountain; and it appeared very reasonable to suppose, that his ship might infest the river, where the enterprise was baffled, or that it might bear the shadowy crew to their periodical revels in the mountain.

Other events occurred to occupy the thoughts and doubts of the sage Wouter and his council, and the storm-ship ceased to be a subject of deliberation at the board. It continued, however, to be a matter of popular belief and marvellous anecdote through the whole time of the Dutch government, and particularly just before the capture of New-Amsterdam, and the subjugation of the province by the English squadron. About that time the storm-ship was repeatedly seen in the Tappaan Zee, and about Weehawk, and even down as far as Hoboken; and her appearance was supposed to be ominous of the approaching squall in public affairs, and the downfall of Dutch domination.

Since that time, we have no authentic accounts of her; though it is said she still haunts the highlands and cruises about Point-no-point. People who live along the river, insist that they sometimes see her in summer moonlight; and that in a deep still midnight, they have heard the chant of her crew, as if heaving the lead; but sights and sounds are so deceptive along the mountainous shores, and about the wide bays and long reaches of this great river, that I confess I have very strong doubts upon the subject.

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Human nature being what It is, we all have an odd quirk or two. Boatmen were no exception. 

The foibles of two boatmen that come to mind were those of Staats Winnie and Ira Cooper, two of the better old time boatmen on the Hudson. Staats Winnie's whim was that he wore red flannel underwear the year round — Ira Cooper’s was a dislike for uniforms. 

Staats Winnie was an old time pilot for the Hudson River Day line and at the turn of the century was second pilot of the “Albany.” When the “Hendrick Hudson” came out in 1906 he was to become her first pilot and served as her head helmsman during that steamboat’s early years on the Hudson. Like many old time boatmen, he had previously been a pilot on towboats and tugboats of the Cornell Steamboat Company. 

With an impressive mustache and a stern gaze, Staats Winnie was a formidable looking man.  As my good friend Donald C. Ringwald observed in his book “Hudson River Day Line,” Pilot Winnie looked as if he could steer anything afloat. 

Like a number of old boatmen in his era, Staats Winnie wore red flannel underwear.  Only he wore his year round, summer and winter. During the hot days in July and August, Pilot Winnie would frequently doff his uniform jacket and roll up his shirt sleeves, exposing a pair of bright red shod forearms.

Steamboatmen were always known as great arm wavers. Whenever two steamers passed each other, it was rare indeed if several crew members were not observed vigorously waving in the direction of the passing steamboat. One would have thought the crew members of the two steamers hadn’t seen each other in months. 

As a matter of fact, in some instances this situation would have been true — as when a line had two steamers running between New York and Albany in daily service.  The two steamboats would leave New York and Albany on alternate days and the only time crew members would see each other for months on end would be on their daily passing in the middle part of the river. Many crew members of a particular steamboat line came from the same community and were neighbors. During the season they would get but a fleeting glance of each other as their steamboats passed in mid-Hudson and this, perhaps, was the probable reason for the vigorous arm waving. 

Staats Winnie was well known as one of the arm wavers.  During July and August in his years of piloting the Day Liners, boatmen on passing steamers became accustomed to seeing a red shod arm waving a greeting from his pilot house window.  It was said that passengers, however were frequently startled by the sight. 
Ira Cooper was captain of the steamer “Onteora” of the Catskill Evening Line.  During the early years of steamboating, officers of the steamers wore their usual civilian clothes in carrying out their jobs afloat.  During the 1880’s and 1890’s, the larger steamboat companies began to introduce the use of uniforms for their steamer's personnel, particularly the officers. 

The practice of wearing uniforms soon spread to all steamboat lines.  First, it was just a uniform cap.  Then it became a full fledged uniform with brass buttons and gold braid.  On some lines, the uniforms were provided by the companies outright, others granted a uniform allowance and the officers purchased their own uniforms, while on others a partial reimbursement for uniforms was given to officer personnel. 

Captain Cooper was an individualist of the old school.  He would have no truck [sic] with the new fangled idea of uniforms. For him, what was good enough to wear ashore was good enough to wear afloat. To the very end, he steadfastly refused to don either a uniform or even the traditional steamboatman's cap. He undoubtedly was the last captain of one of the larger Hudson River passenger steamboats to command his steamer dressed in civilian garb. 

It was said Captain Cooper's ideas as to dress did not particularly please the owners and operators of the Catskill Evening Line. It is my understanding, as a matter of fact, that a clash of wills ensued — and, since the owners held the trump cards, Captain Cooper left the “Onteora.”  He was later captain for many years of the big tugboat “J. C. Hartt” of the Cornell Steamboat Company — where he had no trouble dressing as he pleased.  The Catskill Evening Line’s loss, however, was the Cornell Steamboat Company's gain — for Captain Cooper was one of the best boatmen on the river.  

​The waves crash in and the tide pulls out 
It's an angry sea but there is no doubt 
That the lighthouse will keep shining in the night 
To warn the lonely sailor 
The lightning strikes and the wind cuts cold 
Through the sailor's bones, to the sailor's soul 
'Till there's nothing left that he can hold 
Except the roaring ocean
 
But I am ready for the storm, yes oh ready I'm 
I'm ready for the storm, I'm ready for the storm 

Give me mercy for my dreams, 'cause every confrontation
Seems to tell me what it really means to be a lonely sailor
But when the sky begins to clear and the sun it melts away my fear 
I cry a silent, weary tear at those that mean to love me 

And I am ready for the storm, yes oh ready I'm 
I'm ready for the storm, I'm ready for the storm 

Distance it is no real friend, and time will take its time 
And you will find that in the end it brings you near a lonely sailor 
But when you take me by your side, you love me warm, you love me 
And I should've realized I had no reason to be frightened 

And I am ready for the storm, yes oh ready I'm 
I'm ready for the storm, I'm ready for the storm

And I am ready for the storm, yes oh ready I'm 
I'm ready for the storm, I'm ready for the storm

And I am ready for the storm, yes oh ready I'm 
I'm ready for the storm, I'm ready for the storm

Editor's Note: This account is from the December 1, 1878 St. Louis (Missouri) Globe-Democrat. The tone of the article reflects the time period in which it was written. 

A PAIR OF HEROINES. 
The Ladies Who Guard a Hudson River Lighthouse. 
Deeds That Would Honor Grace Darling or Ida Lewis. 
[From the New York Mercury.] 
‘‘If the world knows little of its heroes, it knows less of its heroines.’’ So declared an old Hudson River pilot, who had for thirty years felt his tortuous way, night after night, along that serpentine stream in the pilot-house of one or another steamboat. And when he looked in that far-off-way, with his eyes turned inward, the writer knew he was thinking of something interesting, and the Mercury reporter said to him: "Come, out with it, Uncle John; tell me what you have reference to.’’ "I mean,’’ said he, with an emphatic knock given with his iron knuckles upon the table, ‘‘that while some chance incident, or the presence of a newspaper reporter at an opportune moment, gave the world the benefit of an adventure of Ida Lewis — which turned out to be merely the escapade of a masculine and hoydenish woman after all — the meritorious efforts of 

TWO REAL HEROINES, modest, retiring, made without any idea that the reporters were around — and indeed they were not, for a wonder — are never spoken of." "Who are the two heroines?’’ Well, they live in a lighthouse not over 120 miles from New York, on the Hudson River, keep it themselves, and I tell you they’re like the ten wise virgins in Scripture — their lamp is always trimmed and burning, and on a foggy night when the light is not visible you can hear one of them a mile off blowing a fog horn herself; for the Government has been too mercenary to give them one of the automatic new-fangled kind —and as for saving lives I know they’ve done it many a time. But if you want to know more about them, just you go down to the Government Lighthouse Bureau at Tompkinsville, on Staten Island, and they will tell you all about the heroines of Saugerties Light." The writer, with such promise of good things, could not resist the temptation to go to the Lighthouse Department, and when the object of his visit was made known to Maj. Burke, the chief clerk in the Inspector’s office, the latter said he had no doubt that the old pilot’s statements were true. ‘‘In fact,’’ said he, "there is no one connected with the lighthouses of the government whose general characteristics, daring, bravery and invincibility to fear, but withal natural modesty, would be so apt to include heroic action as 
MISS KATE C. CROWLEY, the mistress and keeper of Saugerties Lighthouse. While we have had no official report of her achievements, I have heard of them through other sources, and can say to you that she is capable of any daring deed involving danger or self-sacrifice; and it is the most natural thing in the world, as she is so modest that we should never receive official reports which could come only through her. As to the manner in which the lighthouse is kept, it is unexcelled by any other man or woman in the department. Accounts are always kept right, the light is always burning, and Miss Crowley is the very best kind of a keeper. Go and see her. She is a model watcher.’’ With such assurances the reporter could no nothing less than follow the advice, and he took the night boat for Catskill, which would reach Saugerties early in the morning. It was a bright, starlight night, and the writer sat in the pilot-house talking to the Steersman, who guided the steamer safely through the shadows of the frowning peak of the Highlands and answered questions or volunteered information between the rotations of the wheel. As we turned a bend in the river a light which looked like a star of the first magnitude twinkled and shown upon us far away in the distance. "That’s fifteen miles away," said the man at the wheel. ‘‘That’s Saugerties light. We'll lose it again a dozen times in the turns of the river. Do I know who keeps it? Well, no; not to speak to ’em, but know its two gals as has got grit enough, for I’ve seen ’em on the river many a time by daylight pulling away a great heavy row boat that no two river men would care to handle in one of them gales that comes sweepin’ down through the mountains like great flues in a big chimney. It ain’t like a tumultuous sea, hey? Well, that just shows how little you know about these North River storms. Why, when we get some of these hurricane blasts, they sweep down through these gaps from the north, and another current comes up from the south, and 
GOD, HELP ANY VESSEL that gets caught in the maelstrom when they meet. Well, it was on one of those occasions I was comin’ up the river on the old Columbus after she’d got out carryin’ passengers and took to the towin’ business. Let me see — that was about five years ago. We'd got a little north of Rondout, and I was all alone at the wheel; I heard a rumblin’ behind me, and I looked around, and when I saw a big cloud with thunder heads rushing up from the south I knew we were going to catch a ripper. This was nothing, however, to the heavy clouds that came sweeping down from he north, in an opposite direction; and then I saw that the two storms would meet. I hollered down the trumpet to the engineer to slower the engine, and made up my mind to keep headway and stay in the river, as it would be unsafe to try and make a landing or get fastened to a dock. In a few minutes the two storms struck us. The boat cavorted like a frisky horse, and in the foaming water plunged and reared, and shook in every timber, as if it had the ague. We were then pretty nearly abreast of Tivoli, and Saugerties’ Lighthouse was only about two miles ahead. A sloop loaded with blue-stone, which had just emerged from the mouth of Esopus Creek and was standing down the river, went over when the squall struck her as suddenly as if a great machine under the water had upset her; and soon I saw two men struggling in the water. Hardly a minute elapsed before 
TWO FEMALE FORMS were fluttering around the small boat by the lighthouse. In another minute it was launched and it bobbed up and down in the seething, foaming waters. The two girls, bareheaded, with a pair of oars apiece, began pulling towards the men in the water. The waves ran so high, the gale blew so madly, the thunder roared so incessantly and the lightning flashed in such blinding sheets, that it seemed impossible for the women ever to reach the men, to keep headway, or to keep from being swamped. But they never missed the opportunity of a rising billow to give them leverage, and they managed by steady pulling to get ahead until they reached the men in the water. The great danger was that the tossing boat would strike the sailors and end their career, but one of the gals leaned forward over the bow of the boat, braced her feet beneath the seat on which she had been sitting, stiffened herself out for a great effort, and as her sister kept the bow of the craft crosswise to the waves, caught one of the men beneath the arm as he struck out on top of a billow, lifted and threw him by main force into the middle of the boat, and then 
PREPARED FOR THE OTHER MAN. He had got hold of the sloop’s rudder, which had got unshipped and was floating on the water. He let go and swam toward the rowboat, and was hauled in also by the woman and his half-drowned comrade. I tell you,’’ said the pilot, ‘‘those gals are bricks, and no mistake. You couldn’t have got any river boatmen to do what they did.’’ It was just 4 o’ clock when the steamboat landed at the little insular dock which is called Saugerties, but which ought to be called Gideonstown, for there is only one house in it, and that is inhabited by a most estimable family by that name. The sight from the lighthouse, however, full a mile away, shone down upon it like the eye of a great ogre, illuminating the surrounding country, and enabling the writer to take observations. These, however, were more certain in the light of dawn which soon followed. From Mr. Gideon it was learned that the village of Saugerties was two miles away, and that there were many old residents in that place, where the parents of Miss Crowley formerly resided, and along the river front, who were familiar with the exploits of the young ladies. "Do I know them?’’ was his interrogative answer to the reporter’s question. "I should like to know who doesn’t know them hereabouts. They are always in their boat, and the people hereabouts have come to think that they
REALLY BELONG TO THE WATER more than they do to the land, for the only time they are visible is when they are rowing to Saugerties or other places to get provisions for their household. They do that every day, rain or shine.’’ "Do they mind rain?’’ "Not at all, they make visits every day Saugerties or thereabouts. As for rowing, no boatman on the river can equal them. They feather their oars and make regular strokes independent of wind or tide." A trip to the village of Saugerties after much inquiry, led the reporter to a person who had been familiar with the lighthouse and its surroundings for many years. He is an old boatman and fisherman. He catches shad at the season of the year that they abound, and goes out duck shooting in the fall and early winter. He is acquainted with the history of all the inhabitants, and knows all about the occupants of the lighthouse since it was first built. 

THE TALE OF A LIGHTHOUSE. He said: ‘‘It is now twenty years since Mr. Crowley was appointed lighthouse keeper. The old light stood on a piece of masonry which was built midway in the river, upon a morass several feet above the surface of the water at high tide, but in a very unsubstantial way. When the early spring freshets brought down the ice, it was feared several times the lighthouse would be carried away, and the necessity of a new foundation and a new lighthouse soon became apparent. The old place, however, was newly supported, and about fifteen years ago he brought over his family from Saugerties to live in the building. His daughter Kate, a little girl then, from first seemed to be amphibious, and she would go out in a little skiff from the lighthouse alone, seeming to take such risks that every one prophesied that she would surely be drowned. Many a time her little craft upset, but

SHE SWAM LIKE A DUCK, and always succeeded in reaching the lighthouse in safety. Her sister Ellen during these early years lived at her relatives in Saugerties, and did not join her sister until the new lighthouse was built. That was about nine years ago. Then Kate was fifteen years of age and Ellen about seventeen: In that year, Ellen was leaving Saugerties in a boat with her mother, and she saw a boy in swimming, but who had got beyond his depth, struggling for aid. She endeavored to reach him and her mother attempted to assist her, but, the latter being a woman weighing over 200 pounds, upset the boat, and the girl was thrown into the water in such a way that she came under the boat, which had capsized. Her mother was speedily rescued, but the daughter could not release herself from the peculiar position in which she was placed for several minutes and when rescued was found to have taken a considerable amount of water into her lungs. This seriously affected her health for some time afterwards. She has suffered more or less from that immersion, and malarial fever from that time to the present moment, and though she and her sister are said to take care of the lighthouse, and are always together in an emergency, the latter of late years has taken the responsibility of the place herself and runs the whole affair. Do I know of any case where these girls have saved life? Indeed I do. Three years ago last winter, 

A YOUNG MAN AND A LADY attempted to cross the ice to Tivoli. They had got about 100 yards from the lighthouse when the ice broke and they were precipitated into the water. Kate had rigged her boat with runners, so that, in her regular trips to main land, she was able in winter weather to make her way over the ice, or the latter gave way, through the water. She appears to be always on the lookout, and saw what had occurred, and in an incredible short space of time jumped upon the ice, pulling her boat after her, while her sister pushed it from the stern. They arrived at the scene of danger speedily and rescued the young man, but his companion had disappeared. Kate saw a fragment of her dress floating on the water, and knew that she was under a cake of ice. It took but a moment for Kate to rush forward, throw herself into the opening and withdraw the woman from her perilous position. The latter was limp and senseless, and it took several minutes to restore her to consciousness. Meanwhile the ice was breaking up all around the boat, the young man was precipitated into the water, and it required the 

UNITED EFFORTS OF THE TWO SISTERS 
to recover him also and place him in the boat. During this time gorges of ice had broken up above, and had carried all of them far below, and it was by the utmost efforts of the sisters that they succeeded in reaching a point two miles below the lighthouse. It is only about two-years since a steamer ran into a sloop nearly abreast of the lighthouse, cutting the latter in two and throwing all on board into the water. The sisters immediately launched their boat and put off to the assistance of the men in the water. Two of the sailors could swim, and in a few moments succeeded in reaching the bar, but two others were struggling for life. One of them had gone down twice and was rescued as he rose the third time. A fourth one was hanging to a piece of the wreck, when he was 

TAKEN INTO THE HEROINES’ BOAT. 
"These circumstances,’’ declared our informant, "have come under my personal observation, but there are many other cases well substantiated, in which these girls have saved life, but the particulars of which I am not informed.’’ 

AT THE LIGHTHOUSE. The writer, returning to the long dock, was conveyed to the lighthouse in a row-boat by Mr. Gideon. The place consists of a frame house and an adjoining lighthouse, erected upon a stone foundation built upon the flats. There are no grounds around the house, and consequently no opportunity for raising anything. Stone steps extend in the south side of the masonry to the water, and up these the writer ascended. Several raps at the front door failed to meet with any response, and the reporter walked around the narrow stonework to a side door. A single knock at this brought to the door a young lady, who was evidently surprised at the presence of the visitor. The latter asked for Miss Kate Crowley. The young lady replied that she was the person asked for, and invited the visitor into the front room, which was used as a parlor, and was plainly but neatly furnished. It hardly seemed possible that the modest appearing, 

FAIR-HAIRED, BLUE-EYED YOUNG LADY 
could be the heroine spoken of, but there seemed to be no question of doubt, and the reporter suggested that as he had ascertained she had been instrumental in saving life, he should pleased to get the particulars from her lips. She seemed exceedingly loth to say anything about herself, especially in the way of exploits, and when the reporter mentioned the instances spoken of above, she turned them off as of no account, or not worth elaboration. Considerable of her history was gleaned independent of her life-saving exertions. She said that when she was a little girl her father took the old lighthouse, and she had such a fondness for the water that she used to be on it all the time in a little skiff. She liked also to take charge of the light, see that the oil was in good condition, and attend to all lighthouse matters, so that her father by the time she was fifteen years of age had come to depend entirely upon for the care of the lighthouse. About nine years ago, when the new lighthouse was built -  work which she had watched at every stage of its progress with a great deal of interest - her

FATHER SUDDENLY BECAME BLIND from cataract of the eyes. Her mother was unable to take charge of the lighthouse, and since that time she been compelled to assume the whole management herself with some assistance from her sister, who has always been in poor health. They row daily to the neighboring village to get their provisions and receive $560 a year as their remuneration. They have to find everything except oil and necessaries for keeping the lamp in order. They have some very severe storms sometimes, and in the spring the ice comes down and threatens their little house; but she is never afraid, and thinks it a pleasure when any one is in danger to do what she and her sister can to relieve them. During the conversation her sister came into the room. Never were two sisters more unlike. 

ELLEN IS A BRUNETTE, tall, slim, with dark eyes and dark hair. When Kate is animated she is exceedingly pretty. She displays a row of milk-white teeth and shows dimpled checks, and looks at you with a pair of large eyes full in the face. She introduced her sister to the reporter, explaining his visit. The new-comer was quite as indisposed to seek notoriety as the other, and said: ‘‘We are simply two girls trying to do our duty here in this quiet place, taking care as we best can of our blind father aged mother. We are always on the lookout for vessels that may get out of their course and are sure to have our lamp in good order. We have not the opportunity of making ourselves heroines as we have learned another woman, Ida Lewis, has, but we do what we can in our feeble way.’’ The writer insinuated that their romantic spot would be apt to induce visitors to call upon, them, but they declared that theirs was a most solitary life. The inhabitants of Saugerties had come to regard the lighthouse as an old institution, possessing no interest whatever; there was nothing to attract visitors but their plain house, which was certainly unattractive, and the only time they saw any one was when they made their visits to the mainland for provisions. They had an idea, too, that the locality was unhealthy. Every summer for the past nine years they had 
​
SUFFERED FROM MALARIAL FEVER, arising from the surrounding lowlands, and only a few months ago they had buried a beloved brother. The only pleasure they had in life was to row in the river, keep the lighthouse in good trim, and do the best they could for any one in trouble on the river. They introduced the reporter to their aged parents, who understood only dimly and vaguely (after repeated efforts on the part of their children to make them comprehend what the object of his visit was), and at parting, the heroic sisters asked that they might not be given too much publicity. The writer promised that he would not say anything concerning them which they did not merit, and, as he was told still more of their humane efforts after he had left their island home, he feels that he has not violated his promise.

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On a bright June morning in 1883, a boat flying the red and yellow Chinese flag left a pier in lower Manhattan and steamed up the Hudson River. Onboard were hundreds of Chinese American men who attended missionary Sunday Schools. Though most of these adult pupils worked for low wages in steam laundries that mechanized the washing of clothes, they had saved their pennies to organize a getaway for the white women who taught them how to speak English and read the Bible. Through telescopes and opera glasses, students and their teachers watched from the deck of the steamer as city turned to mountains, wetlands, forests, and meadows.[1] After a journey of almost fifty miles, the party landed at Iona Island to explore hundreds of acres of woodland, grassy lawn, salt marsh, and an abandoned vineyard.[2] “Frantic with excitement,” the Chinese American students “immediately set off quantities of fireworks” that turned “the atmosphere of the island blue,” according to the New York Times. As smoke and sparks shaped like “dragons, serpents, and birds of different species” filled the air, the smell of gunpowder masked the salty sea breeze.[3] After a day spent listening to music, resting in the shade, flying kites, picnicking, and praying, the party embarked for home in the late afternoon.[4]

 This was one of many steamboat excursions that exposed the city’s working people to the wilder places outside New York in the late nineteenth century. All excursionists shared the desire to see gorgeous scenery, relax and recover from a relentless work schedule, and breathe air that was much fresher than what could be found on the crowded and unsanitary streets of Manhattan. But excursions had extra layers of meaning for Chinese Americans during the era of Chinese Exclusion. 

 The excursion to Iona Island took place in 1883, the year after U.S. legislators passed the first Chinese Exclusion Act in the context of rising anti-Chinese xenophobia. For more than a decade, white workers had been condemning immigrants from China, framing boatloads of hungry newcomers as ruthless competitors whose willingness to labor for low wages would push others out of work. The following horrifically racist cartoon reflects this fear, blaming people of Chinese descent for low pay and job scarcity in the United States. 

Race drew a perceived line between worthy workers and harmful outsiders. Newcomers from Europe arrived in much higher numbers, but those from China faced extra blame and condemnation. Three hundred German American protesters who gathered in New York’s Tompkins Square in 1870 cheered as a labor leader condemned “the lowest and most degraded of the Chinese barbaric race” for taking jobs away from white immigrants.[5] Nativist fearmongering overshadowed the culpability of greedy employers, who drove down wages knowing that there would always be someone desperate enough to accept less pay. What made laborers replaceable, furthermore, was the mechanization of production that eliminated the need for extensive job training. Immigrants of Chinese descent were scapegoats during a complex transition to industrial capitalism. This prejudice became policy in 1882, when the Chinese Exclusion Act banned Chinese laborers from entering the United States.[6]

The excursion to Iona Island that took place the next year pushed back against the Chinese Exclusion Act. The strategic guest list suggests that the getaway was about politics as much as play. Organizer Der Ah Wing invited prominent Chinese Americans to join the Sunday school students and their teachers, like editor of the Chinese American newspaper Wong Chin Foo and Chinese Consul Au Yang Ming. White guests included Postmaster Henry Pearson, who managed the delivery of mail from China, and merchant Vernon Seaman, who spoke Chinese and was an advocate against exclusion.[7] Also onboard was Customs House Collector William Robertson, who enforced the Chinese Exclusion Act as the manager of New York’s port. Robertson shared the deck with a man he had detained: Professor Shin Chin Sun, who arrived without the proper paperwork to prove that he was not a laborer banned from entry to the country.[8] The excursion set the stage for influential men from opposing sides of the nativist law to meet one another and engage in potentially transformative conversations onboard the steamboat and in the leafy grove at Iona Island.

The Sunday School excursion furthermore pushed a story of friendship between people of Chinese and European descent into public view, countering the pervasive narrative of conflict and competition. Newspapers reported that “American ladies and Chinese gentlemen were chatting affably together, Chinese boys were playing with American children, and the language of America and China mingled in conversation.”[9] Harper’s Magazine printed the following image of students and their teachers listening to music and flying kites together at Iona Island. While the white women’s faces are drawn more carefully, the Chinese American men are depicted here with much more respect than in the cartoon above. The friendly relationships that the excursion showcased likely shaped this media coverage that was much less dehumanizing towards people of Chinese descent than was usual for the time.

The excursion taught some onlookers that people of Chinese descent could assimilate into New York’s general population. The Times framed the excursion as proof of “the civilization of American-resident Chinamen,” drawing on the racist framework that cast non-Westerners as uncivilized, but also breaking from stereotypes of Chinese Americans as permanent outsiders.[10] As other newspapers reported on the prayers and religious songs that excursionists sang together, Christian readers learned that they shared more with some of their Chinese American neighbors than they might have assumed. The excursion to Iona Island made similarities and amity between New Yorkers of Chinese and European descent visible at a tense moment when many whites argued that immigrants from China were too different to become Americans. Excursions became an annual tradition for Sunday schools because these getaways offered not just fun and relaxation away from the city, but also opportunities to shift ideas about Chinese Americans.[11]

As journalist Wong Chin Foo covered the Iona Island excursion, he recognized the power of the event. But Wong was not a Christian. In 1888, he joined with fellow members of the Knee Hop Hong mutual aid society to organize what he called a “heathen picnic” for “the anti-Christian element of the Chinese.”[12] This excursion, which landed at Staten Island’s Bay Cliff Grove, also pushed against anti-Chinese nativism—but from another angle. While the Sunday School excursion drew attention to Chinese immigrants who converted to Christianity, members of the Knee Hop Hong were proud “joss worshippers,” according to Wong, who held fast to their beliefs.[13]

The Knee Hop Hong excursion rejected cultural assimilationism too. While Sunday school excursionists drank coffee and ate what the Brooklyn Daily Eagle called “American dishes,” those on the Knee Hop Hong excursion toasted with “sparkling Noi Mai Dul” and ate chow chop suey.[14] Some smoked opium, a drug that was becoming increasingly taboo as prejudice towards Chinese people and culture mounted.[15] Excursionists indulged in Chinese American food, drink, and drugs as they celebrated what Wong called “the Birthday of Chinatown,” or the “founding of the New York colony.”[16] By praising the neighborhood where Chinese culture flourished, members of the Knee Hop Hong insisted that people of Chinese descent belonged in New York whether or not they assimilated.[17]

The Knee Hop Hong excursion displayed the political and economic influence of Chinese American New Yorkers.[18] Decked out in diamonds, the organization’s president Tom Lee was a prospective alderman who reaped riches from Chinatown’s gambling halls and opium dens.[19] Also aboard were the neighborhood’s prominent merchants and Gon Hor, the grand master of the Chinese Free Masons.[20] Only “a small number of tickets,” Wong explained, were given to whites, “who must come well recommended as to character.”[21] While the Sunday school excursion showcased paternalistic relationships between white missionaries and their Chinese students and included an enemy who enforced the nativist law, the Knee Hop Hong made it clear that the only whites welcome aboard were demonstrated friends and collaborators. Chinese Americans had power of their own making, organizers of the excursion seemed to say, and owed no one deference.

Once the party reached its destination in Staten Island, the crowd of at least 400 people listened to what Wong called “patriotic speeches,” given in both English and Chinese, that denounced exclusion.[22] JC Baptize asserted that “Chinese immigration was restricted by the politicians lest the Aldermen lose their jobs and a Chinaman be elected President of the United States.”[23] In his speech, Wong praised “the prosperity of the Chinese merchants, despite the opposition of Americans to them.”[24] The “prejudice of Americans” towards people of Chinese descent harmed the United States, Wong asserted, because “a grand result would be achieved if the moral and political virtues of the Chinese could be added to the enterprise and energy of the Americans.”[25] Insisting that immigrants from China enhanced the nation, speakers countered assumptions that their community was parasitic. Through their words and actions, these excursionists argued that they were worthy Americans because of, rather than despite, their Chinese roots.

Yet newspapers stuck to hateful tropes when they covered the Knee Hop Hong excursion. The Sun reported on “unmarried gentlemen” who smoked opium with their white dates before laying down together to “sleep off its effects.”[26] Hinting at the possible outcomes of these taboo activities, the Evening World mockingly quipped that “a number of the merchants had their white wives and cute half-breed children with them.”[27] The next week, the Philadelphia Inquirer called the engagement of grocer Huet Sing to Florence McGusty a “sequel to the great heathen picnic.”[28] Most Chinese American men who dreamed of marriage and family partnered with white women, as biased enforcement of the 1875 Page Act—which banned immigrants who might pursue “lewd and immoral purposes”—targeted Asian women. These interracial unions triggered a stereotype that cast men of Chinese descent as sexual predators.

This racist myth was what eventually brought about the end of Sunday school excursions. The News described “pretty Sunday school teachers” watching students who played “in their childlike way” on an excursion in 1886, but assumptions that these Chinese American men were naïve and asexual eroded the next decade.[29] In 1895, the Police Illustrated News reported that a white teacher went “in the shrubbery” at Iona Island with her “favorite Sunday School scholar.” Making it clear what the pair were up to, the paper noted that many “slant-eyed children of white women by Chinese fathers” attended the trip too.[30] Then in 1909, the body of Sunday school teacher Elsie Siegel was found in a trunk in Chinatown. As authorities searched for her murderer, the media cast suspicion far beyond her classroom and acquaintances—towards all Chinese Americans.[31] The annual excursion was canceled, as newspapers from as far away as Minnesota reported that “there were many Lotharios among these Chinamen, sleek satiny yellow men, who boasted of their conquests of young pretty teachers.”[32] The annual excursion became a threat, rather than a boon, to the reputations of Chinese Americans.

In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, New Yorkers of Chinese descent used steamboat excursions to make a case for their belonging. Sunday school students showcased friendly relationships with their teachers along with their religious and cultural assimilation. Members of the Knee Hop Hong proudly practiced traditions from China as they sailed out of New York Harbor, asserting that they could be Chinese and American at the same time. Both encountered suspicion and harmful stereotypes that only grew in the following decades, as the Chinese Exclusion Act was extended multiple times and expanded to cover most of Asia. Excursions aimed to soften views of immigration from China, but there was no escaping xenophobia and racism during the long era of Chinese exclusion—even during a holiday away from daily urban life. 

Endnotes:
[1] “A Celestial Racket,” Truth, June 12, 1883, 1.
[2] Iona Island Application to General Services Administration, May 20, 1965, Bear Mountain Archives at Iona Island, Palisades Interstate Park Commission.
[3] “The First Chinese Picnic,” New York Times, June 12, 1883, 1.
[4] “The First Chinese Picnic,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle, June 17, 1883, 1.
[5] “The Coming Coolie,” New York Times, July 1, 1870, 1. This protest responded to the hiring of 68 Chinese immigrants to work at the Passaic Steam Laundry in Belleville (now Newark), NJ. More people of Chinese descent were settling in East Coast cities, as violence on the West Coast pushed them away. Tyler Anbinder, City of Dreams: The 400-Year Epic History of Immigrant New York (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2016), 521.
[6] Erika Lee, America for Americans: A History of Xenophobia in the United States (New York: Basic Books, 2019), 73-112.
[7] “Mails from China and Australia,” New York Times, May 20, 1883, 10; “The Baptist Pastors,” New York Times, March 14, 1882, 3.
[8] “The Chinese Excursion,” Evening Telegram, June 9, 1883, 1.
[9] “The First Chinese Picnic,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle, June 17, 1883, 1.
[10] “The First Chinese Picnic,” New York Times, June 12, 1883, 1. For views of Chinese immigrants as incapable of assimilation, see Tyler Anbinder, Five Points: The 19th-Century Neighborhood That Invented Tapdance, Stole Elections, and Became the World’s Most Notorious Slum (New York: The Free Press, 2001), 422; John Kuo Wei Tchen, New York before Chinatown: Orientalism and the Shaping of American Culture 1776-1882 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999), 266-278.
[11] “Chinamen have a Picnic,” New-York Daily Tribune, June 9, 1885, 5; “Chinamen in New York,” The News, July 23, 1886, 1.
[12] “A Celestial Racket,” Truth, June 12, 1883, 1.
[13] Joss houses are statues that believers in Taoism, Confucianism, Buddhism, and ancestor worship care for as homes to deities. Older stock New Yorkers were highly suspicious of Chinese religion. Anbinder, Five Points, 417-418.
[14] “The First Chinese Picnic,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle, June 17, 1883, 1.
[15] “Chinamen on a Picnic,” New-York Daily Tribune, July 24, 1888, 5; Anbinder, Five Points, 407, 410, 413.
[16] Wong Chin Foo, “A Heathen Picnic,” The Sun, July 16, 1888, 5.
[17] By the time the neighborhood gained the name “Chinatown” in the 1880s, few Chinese American New Yorkers lived there, instead settling throughout the city and Brooklyn near the laundries where most they worked. But they went to Chinatown to shop and socialize. Daniel Czitrom, New York Exposed: The Gilded Age Police Scandal that Launched the Progressive Era (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016), 396-401; Anbinder, Five Points, 405.
[18] While many New Yorkers of Chinese descent were among the city’s lowest paid workers, some had amassed fortunes. Anbinder, Five Points, 403.
[19] “Chinatown’s Mayor Dead,” New York Times, January 11, 1918, 6; Arthur Bonner, Alas! What Brought Thee Hither? The Chinese in New York, 1800-1950 (Madison: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1997), 85; Anbinder, Five Points, 410-413.
[20] “The Chinamen’s Picnic,” New York Times, July 23, 1888, 8.
[21] Wong Chin Foo, “A Heathen Picnic,” The Sun, July 16, 1888, 5.
[22] Wong Chin Foo, “A Heathen Picnic,” The Sun, July 16, 1888, 5.
[23] “Chinamen on a Picnic,” New-York Daily Tribune, July 24, 1888, 5.
[24] “Knee-Hop-Hongs on a Lark,” Evening World, July 23, 1888, 2.
[25] “The Heathen Chinese,” The Sun, July 24, 1888, 2.
[26] “The Heathen Chinese,” The Sun, July 24, 1888, 2.
[27] “Knee-Hop-Hongs on a Lark,” Evening World, July 23, 1888, 2.
[28] “A Heathen Captures a Christian Heart,” The Philadelphia Inquirer, July 26, 1888, 1.
[29] “Chinamen in New York,” The News, July 23, 1886, 1.
[30] “Ching a Ling’s Picnic,” Illustrated Police News, June 22, 1895, 3.
[31] Mary Ting Yi Lui, The Chinatown Trunk Mystery: Murder, Miscegenation, and other Dangerous Encounters in Turn-of-the-Century New York City (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005); Bonner, Alas!, 120.
[32] “Boasts of the Pagans,” The Duluth Evening Herald, June 25, 1909, 6.

"The Lighthouse's Tale" is a song by progressive bluegrass band Nickel Creek, taken from their debut album, Nickel Creek, released in 2001. "The Lighthouse's Tale" was written by Adam McKenzie & Chris Thile. 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Lighthouse%27s_Tale

The Lighthouse's Tale - Lyrics

I am a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves.
I keep my lamp lit, to warn the sailors on their way.

I'll tell a story, paint you a picture from my past.
I was so happy, but joy in this life seldom lasts.

I had a keeper, he helped me warn the ships at sea.
We had grown closer, 'till his joy meant everything to me.

And he was to marry, a girl who shone with beauty and light.
And they loved each other,
And with me watched the sunsets into night.

And the waves crashing around me, the sand slips out to sea.
And the winds that blow remind me,
Of what has been, and what can never be.

She'd had to leave us, my keeper he prayed for a safe return.
But when the night came,
The weather to a raging storm had turned.

He watched her ship fight,
But in vain against the wild and terrible wind.
In me so helpless, as dashed against the rock she met her end.

And the waves crashing around me, the sand slips out to sea.
And the winds that blow remind me,
Of what has been, and what can never be.

Then on the next day, my keeper found her washed up on the shore.
He kissed her cold face,
That they'd be together soon he'd swore.

I saw him crying, watched as he buried her in the sand.
And then he climbed my tower, and off of the edge of me he ran.

And the waves crashing around me, the sand slips out to sea.
And the winds that blow remind me,
Of what has been, and what can never be.

I am a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves.
And though I am empty, I still warn the sailors on their way.

Source: LyricFind; Songwriters: Adam Mckenzie / Chris Thile; The Lighthouse's Tale lyrics © BMG Rights Management

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Editor's Note: These articles are from 1825 - 1827. ​

January 8, 1825; New York Evening Post
​The books opened yesterday agreeably to notice at the Tontine Coffee House, for subscription to the stock of the Delaware and Hudson Canal Company, with a capital of $1,500,000 were filed, as we are informed, at a little past 2 o'clock.

October 11, 1825 Vermont Gazette, Bennington.
To Laborers.
We are authorised, by the Board of Managers of the Delaware and Hudson Canal Company, to state by information of their agents it is probable, that one thousand men would find immediate employment on that part of the line which is located in Mamakating Hollow, Sullivan county.

February 24, 1826 - New York American​
Three Thousand Men.
Will find employment at good wages, on that part of the Delaware and Hudson Canal, which is now under contract, commencing at the Hudson River, near the village of Kingston, 60 miles below the City of Albany, and about 80 miles above New York, extending through the counties of Ulster, Sullivan, and Orange, in the State of New York, to the Delaware River. A line of 65 miles of Canal, together with all Locks, Aqueducts, Culverts, Bridges, and Fencing is to be completed during the present year. Laborers and Mechanics will find employment on application to contractors on the line, as soon as the spring opens. The country is remarkably healthy; in this respect it offers greater inducements than any other work of the kind in the U. States, to all persons wishing steady employment throughout the season.
(Signed,) Maurice Wurts, Agent, For the Delaware & Hudson Canal Co. Kingston, Feb. 2, 1826.

July 21, 1826 Albany Argus (Albany, New York) 
The work upon the Delaware and Hudson canal, (says the N.Y. Mercantile Advertiser) is progressing rapidly, and a union of the two rivers, (64 miles apart) is confidently expected this season. A continuation of the line upon the Delaware, is now locating, and more masons and laborers are wanted. Three thousand men are at present employed. Masons receive from 1.50 to 2 dollars a day, and laborers from 11 to 13 dollars per month, besides their board.

August 14, 1827 Albany Argus (Albany, New York)
Delaware and Hudson Canal. (From the Ulster Sentinel).
We announce, with peculiar satisfaction, that on Saturday morning last the canal boat Neversink of Wurtsborough arrived in tide water at Eddy-Ville from the summit level at Mammakating, a distance of 40 miles, without having encountered a single accident, or being detained a single moment by obstruction on the route. The canal has an abundance of water, and no difficulty was experienced in passing the locks.
At the aqueduct thrown across the Rondout at the High Falls, the Hon. Nathan Sanford, of the U.S. Senate, accompanied by President Bolton and John Sudan, Esq. witnessed the progress of the boat, and were highly gratified with a short passage on the canal. The bottom and sides of the aqueduct are so impervious to water, that these gentlemen stood under it without being discommoded by any leak.

We may observe, in explanation of the reports heretofore circulated, that the canal has been once or twice filled with water, previous to this experiment, and again drained, for the purpose of saturating the banks and allowing them to settle. They are, in consequence of this precautionary measure, now so compact and firm, that no interruption of the navigation is anticipated through breaches or apertures of any serious magnitude. The lock tenders and other assistants of the company are now taking their places on the line, and by the middle of this month, the whole distance from the Delaware to the Hudson, will be in perfect condition for regular navigation.
Thus do we see a new, and, let us add, a blessed era opening upon the good old county of Ulster and her daughter Sullivan, even to the fulfillment of their highest hopes.

Captain William O. Benson recalls the plight of a sleepy steamboat passenger who got off at the wrong stop.
 
In the long ago days of Hudson River steam-boating, almost every city and larger village along the river had their own steamboat line to New York. Each line would have at least two boats to maintain daily service— one boat going down, one back the next day.
 
The steamers of the lines north of Newburgh were known as night boats because they usually departed in the late afternoon or early evening and arrived at their destination in the early morning. All would carry freight on their main decks, with the deck above reserved for staterooms that offered sleeping accommodations for passengers.
 
Generally, travelling on the night boats was an extremely pleasant way to make a journey for or from New York. The river was always attractive in the evening and travellers could count on a good night's sleep— except when the steamer ran into fog and the pilots would have to blow their boat's whistle or if a passenger had a stateroom right next to the paddle wheels.
 
Saugerties was one of those towns that had its own steamboat service. The name of the company was the Saugerties and New York Steamboat Company, and it was operated mostly by home town men. During its last twenty years or so of service it was promoted and known to the travelling public as The Saugerties Evening Line.' At the time of this particular incident, shortly after World War I, they had two small, smart sidewheelers named "Ulster" and "Ida".
 
The incident took place on the "Ulster," and on this particular trip she left Pier 43, North River, in New York at her regular time. She had freight for all her landings, which in those days were Hyde Park, Rhinecliff, Barrytown, Ulster Landing and Tivoli, before ending her journey at Saugerties.
 
"Ulster" made very good time until she reached Crum Elbow, just south of Hyde Park. Then the fog set in. At the time, she was overtaking the Catskill Line freighter "Storm King". Of course, the fog signals had to be sounded from both steamers.
 
A Cornell tow was also on its way down the river, blowing one long and two short whistle signals indicating they had a tow underway. And as a matter of courtesy, the helper tug back on the tow, was also blowing its whistle because it was a good 500 feet back from the towing tug.
 
A racket of steam whistles reverberated across Hyde Park. If Franklin D. Roosevelt was at home— or the Vanderbilts or the great naturalist John Burroughs, they certainly woke up. For on top of all the other whistles, the big night boats out of Albany and Troy came along, sounding their way through the fog.
 
Some of the passengers on the "Ulster" were up complaining about all the noise. Others just stayed in their staterooms and put up with it. Then, a short while after things got reasonably quiet again, came the landing at Rhinecliff with the organized confusion of unloading freight. The hand freight trucks clattered on and off the gang plank, and the mate shouted at the freight handlers to get the freight off so they could get out on time.
 
After leaving Rhinecliff all was serene for a few moments, except for the periodic blowing of the fog signal. But off Astor's tunnel, they met a canal tow which was siting crossways in the channel and this caused more whistle blowing. Once clear of the tow, the "Ulster " landed at Barrytown. The freight trucks started up again, and an argument between two freight handlers, halted by the authoritarian voice of the mate, added to the din. (More on page 17)
 
The ”Ulster” then headed across the river to Ulster Landing. It was the custom on night boats for a hallman to knock on the door of the stateroom of a passengers getting off at a patircular landing about ten minutes before docking and announce the arrival. Sometimes, a passenger would have to listen pretty closely, for some hallmen were like some of the conductors on the old West Shore Railroad – they had an odd way of pronouncing the names of some of the stations or landings.
 
In any event, a hallman knocked on the door of the stateroom of one Ulster Landing passenger and called out “Ulster Landing, Ulster Landing”. A lady passenger bound for Saugerties and in a stateroom or two away also heard the knocking and the announcement “Ulster Landing”. After all the whistle blowing at Hyde Park, Rhinecliff, and Barrytown, she in all probability had been sleeping fitfully and in her half awake state may have thought “Ulster Landing” meant that the “Ulster” was docking and that it was time to get off. In any case, she got up, got dressed and when the steamer ghosted through the fog into the dock at Ulster Landing, she was at the gangway. As soon as the gang plank was put out, she walked ashore.
 
There was very little freight for Ulster Landing, so the gang plank was taken in and in a few minutes, the “Ulster” was on her way to Tivoli. The lady found herself virtually alone on a river dock before dawn. And it sure wasn’t Saugerties.
 
The only light on the lonely dock was a kerosene lantern, and the only other person around was the dockmaster who was an elderly man who was very hard of hearing. The sight of this well dressed lady alone in the freight shed made him so nervous that she had a hard time getting him to understand her plight. But the message finally got through, and the dockmaster got her a chair to sit in until daylight, then found a friend with a horse and wagon to take her on to Saugerties.
 
I often wondered if she ever made the steamboat trip to Saugerties again.
 
I, too, once made an overnight trip on the “Ulster” – by then renamed the “Robert A. Snyder”. It was in August of 1928, and I was a deckhand on the steamer “Albany” of the Hudson River Day Line.
 
I’d been home for a day and thought I’d go back to New York on the “Snyder” with my friends Richard Heffernan, who was her captain, and Harry Grough, her pilot. I got aboard her at Rhinecliff at 8 p.m. It must have been late in the month, for I remember it was already dark when we pulled away from the dock. Quite a few passengers were aboard.
 
I got the key to my stateroom and then went up to the pilot house to visit with my friends, Dick and Harry.
 
We talked for a while as the “Snyder” paddled her way down the Hudson, then, as we passed Poughkeepsie, I went down to my stateroom, which turned out to be on the port side just forward of the paddle wheel. All night long I could hear the old wheels pounding in the water below me. Once I got used to it, it was a very rhythmic and soothing sound. Every once in a while, though, the buckets on the wheels would pick up some sort of debris floating in the river, which would clatter and spin around in the wheel batteries.
 
Down around Clinton Point, I could hear the whistle of the “Snyder” blow one long and two short. On looking out the stateroom window, I could see the steamer “Ida” on her way up the river to Saugerties. Then again off Roseton I heard a whistle, which I recognized right away. It was the “Benjamin B. Odell” of the old Central Hudson Line headed north for Rondout. She sure looked great with all her electric lights shining in the dark and reflecting on the water.
 
After the passing “Odell”, I went to sleep and didn’t wake up until we landed at Pier 43, North River. The I said goodbye to Captain Heffernan and Pilot Grough, and took the old Ninth Avenue El Line up to 42nd Street and back to work again on the “Albany” at the Day Line pier at the foot of the street.

History of the Water Song: There are many women’s water songs from many different cultures, and they all have deep meaning and beauty.  The Water Song in this video has a lyric that is easy to learn and does not take a long time to sing. At the 2002 Circle of All Nations Gathering, at Kitigan Zibi Anishinabeg in Ottawa, Canada, Grandfather William Commanda asked Irene Wawatie Jerome, an Anshinabe/Cree whose family are the Keepers of the Wampum Belt to write a song that women attending the gathering would learn and spread it throughout the world. Grandmother Louise Wawatie taught the Water Song to Grandmother Nancy Andry so she could begin her mission of spreading this powerful practice.  Recently, in 2017, although Grandfather William and Grandmother Louise have crossed over, Grandmother Nancy met with the Elders again in Canada, and they were unified in agreement that a video of the song should be made to hasten the teaching and widen the circle of women singing it because of the increasingly grave dangers our waters are facing. The Wawatie and Commanda families gave permission to record the song on this video. For more information go to: https://www.singthewatersong.com/

                                                No. 10- Francis Skiddy
Appearing on the river for the first time in June, 1852, the 1,235 ton, 322 foot “Francis Skiddy” created somewhat of a sensation, as she was one of the most up-to-date vessels that had yet sailed into the waters of the Hudson.
              
During the “forties,” steamboats began to appear with saloons on the second deck, with the “Empire,” “Oregon,” “Isaac Newton” and “Hendrick Hudson” among the first to be so constructed. These vessels were used on the night lines, and the dayboats had their dining rooms in the hold aft. They all carried pilot houses on the second deck, but in the year 1852 the “Francis Skiddy” was launched with the saloon on the second deck and the pilot house resting on a third deck. As a further departure from the usual standards, the “Francis Skiddy” sported a long and extensive promenade on her second deck for the use of the passengers. This innovation was formed by a roof extending from just forward of the boilers to a point a short distance aft of the after boilers, and from that point to the stern a light framework was erected on which an awning could be stretched. The design was the creation of George Collyer, of New York city.
              
On June 30, 1852, the “Francis Skiddy” left the foot of Chambers street, New York, and sailed up the river to Hudson in the time of five hours and three minutes, allowing 20 minutes for five landings en route. This is a speed of 23.04 miles per hour and established a record which this vessel held until some time after the Civil War. On her regular run between New York and Albany, the “Francis Skiddy” averaged seven and a half hours and made a round trip every 24 hours for a period in 1853.
              
In 1855, the “Francis Skiddy” was rebuilt into a three-deck night boat, the cabins being placed on the second and third decks. This added weight brought her down lower in the water and caused her speed to be considerably less than before. These state rooms, built into her in much the same manner as those on the “New World” and the “Isaac Newton,” caused her to draw too much to make the trip to Troy, and so an additional hull was built around the old hull, decreasing the draft by two feet and thus making it possible to put into Troy. The larger hull was framed the same as that of a new boat and was fastened around the hull of the “Francis Skiddy” in such a manner that amidships there was a distance of six feet between the inner and outer hulls.
              
On the night of November 28, 1861, the “Francis Skiddy” was proceeding down the river off Blue Point, two miles below Poughkeepsie, and encountered the schooner “W.W. Reynolds.” It was a “pitch dark” night and the schooner had failed to hang out her lights, and before the pilot of the “Francis Skiddy,” Hazzard Morey, realized his proximity of the schooner, there was a crash. Morey veered his vessel to the windward but too late to avoid the collision, and the schooner’s bowsprit entered the galley’s window and penetrated the boiler of the “Francis Skiddy,” causing an explosion in which three of the firemen were killed and four passengers fatally scalded.
              
​The damage was repaired and the “Francis Skiddy” resumed her schedule. Then on the night of November 25, 1864, she ran aground at Van Wie’s Point, four miles below Albany, and was wrecked. Her engine was salvaged and placed in the new steamboat, “Dean Richmond,” in 1865, but her hull was broken up for scrap.