History Blog
|
|
A Surreptitious Christening The centuries-old tradition of christening a ship with champagne or similar liquid was carried on by Thomas S. Marvel at his shipyard in Newburgh - or at least it was until Saturday morning, March 31, 1906, when the magnificent steamer Hendrick Hudson was launched for the Hudson River Day Line. Thomas S. Marvel would not launch a vessel, no matter how small, without this ritual - nor would he willingly launch any hull on a Friday. Eben Erskine Olcott (“E.E.”), the President of the Day Line, was a strict teetotaler, and he decreed that the new steamer would be christened with a bottle of Catskill Mountain spring water. It might have been a fitting ritual for a Hudson River steamboat, but not quite what Captain Marvel had in mind. On the day of the launching, the sponsor, Miss Katherine Olcott, E.E.’s five-year-old daughter, and the invited guests stood upon the sponsor’s platform. There were assembled Miss Olcott, her mother and father, other members of the Olcott family and many dignitaries. Among the latter were S.D. Coykendall, President of the Cornell Steamboat Company and Stevenson Taylor, then Vice President of the W. & A. Fletcher Company (the prime contractor for Hendrick Hudson and builder of her engine and boilers) and later President of the American Bureau of Shipping. At the first movement of the slender, red lead-painted hull, Miss Olcott broke the bottle of spring water over her stern, proclaiming, “I christen thee Hendrick Hudson.” And in that manner the new steamer was well and truly baptized, or so it appeared from the vantage point of the sponsor’s party. However, the bottle of spring water, ornamented with white ribbon and sterling silver, and suspended by a white cord, was not the only christening fluid used that day, nor was Katherine Olcott the only sponsor. Eschewing his rightful position among the dignitaries on the platform, Thomas S. Marvel attended to a much more important task. He dispatched one of the yard workers to a nearby saloon on South William Street for a bottle of champagne. Upon the messenger’s return with the flask of the best French bubbly, the seventy-two year-old shipbuilder took up a position far aft and well out of sight of the devoutly dry Olcotts. When the massive hull began to move, he christened the vessel in a manner more appropriate to shipbuilding-but with no festive ribbons, no formality, simply a shower of champagne and broken glass that would assure good fortune for the new Day Line flagship. Thomas Marvel retreated quickly to safe ground once his task was completed. The Marvel family claimed that his escape from the massive oncoming structure was perilously close. E.E. Olcott apparently never knew of the second christening, but Hendrick Hudson, her good fortune assured, went on to a successful forty-five year life on the river. AuthorThis article was originally written by William duBarry Thomas and published in the 2003 Pilot Log. Thank you to Hudson River Maritime Museum volunteer Adam Kaplan for transcribing the article. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
0 Comments
Editor's Note: This article was originally published on December 24, 1946 in The Knickerbocker News, Albany, NY. The tone of the article reflects the time period in which it was written. “Artist’s Picture Keeps Nation Posted on Hudson’s Glories: Lighthouse at Athens, Painted in July, Makes Magazine Yule Cover” By Katherine A. Van Epps Fame of the historic Upper Hudson reached a new high tide today when one of its picturesque landmarks – the lighthouse in mid-river between Athens and the City of Hudson – stepped from the commonplace to the cover of a national magazine. The little lighthouse, since the 1870’s a silent, unsung beacon of safety for the men who ply the fabled waterway and a subject of conversation for generations of excursionists, makes the cover of the Christmas-week issue of Saturday Evening Post. Sharing the national spotlight with the light are its lean, trim keeper, Boatswain’s Mate (lc) Edward Brunner of the U.S. Coast Guard and his family, who posed for the Christmas picture in July. The lighthouse’s claim to fame was assured when Mead Schaeffer, Arlington, Vt., artist, spotted the landmark from the window of a New York Central train approaching Hudson. Through the haze of July heat, Mr. Schaeffer’s artist’s eye saw the red brick lighthouse with spotless white trim as “something that should be under a Christmas tree” (to quote his own description). The idea of putting it on a holiday magazine cover came as he gathered his paints and easel for this unexpected stopover at Hudson. Mr. Brunner, provided by The Knickerbocker News with a preview of the picture painted by Mead Schaeffer, shows it to two of his five children during his visit to Athens where his family lives. In the picture are Emily Brunner, 21, who has just passed final examinations to become a nurse, and Bob Brunner, 14, who was born at the lighthouse. Mr. Brunner's family moved to Athens so the children could attend school regularly. Hurried Gathering of Family The picture, the result of a hurried gathering of the Brunner family, their dog, a fir tree and Christmas packages, shows Mr. Brunner and his son, Norman, rowing toward the lighthouse while the family waits in various poses of welcome. The snow-covered ice floating in the river was produced by Mr. Schaeffer’s imagination. When The Knickerbocker News rounded up Mr. Brunner on a day much like the one Mr. Shaeffer [sic] conjured up last July, with snow falling and ice floating in the black waters, it was found the artist’s imagination didn’t stop with the weather. Mr. Schaeffer had added three children to the Brunner’s family of five and moved the landing stairway from the east to the north side of the lighthouse “to make a better picture.” Mr. Brunner, slow-spoken with the easy humor of a riverman, said he “didn’t mind a bit about the children” but he wondered what the Coast Guard would say about changing the lighthouse. The keeper, veteran of 21 years “on lights,” has been at the lighthouse which straddles the two main Hudson channels just below “The Flats” since 1930. Since his family moved off the river into Athens so the children can get to school, he has kept his 22-hour-a-day, seven-day-a-week vigil alone. As he goes about his work polishing the huge gas beacon or setting the deep-throated fog bell in motion, Mr. Brunner has memories of the days when the lighthouse rang with the laughter of children and the exciting night 14 years ago when his son, Robert, was born and the doctor had to be brought by boat from Hudson. Boatswain's Mate (1c) Edward Brunner of the Coast Guard, keeper of the Hudson City Light since 1930, comes to Athens in his outboard motorboat for which he thinks will be his last visit until the river freezes over so he can walk ashore. Mr. Brunner has a Coast Guard radio on "the light," lhis only contact with the outside world when he is marooned by the floating ice or high water. 13 Years Since . . . It was soon after Robert’s birth that the family moved ashore and now it’s 13 years since Mr. Brunner has been home for Christmas. His home life depends on nature, and by Christmas there’s too much ice in the river for his outboard motor to break through and not enough to support a man’s weight so he can walk home. Older residents of Athens to whom the Hudson is both a source of livelihood and a neighbor tell countless stories about the little lighthouse, known as the Hudson City Light, in the lexicon of the rivermen. To Miss Nellie McKnight, town historian and daughter of a steamboat captain, the lighthouse, rising sheer out of the river, is an old friend. Story of Accident It is Miss McKnight who tells the story of the “Classic Accident of the Hudson,” handed down through her family. The accident occurred during a snowstorm in 1845 when the Hudson City Light was an unattended beacon years before the lighthouse had been built. The sturdy steamer Swallow, headed downstream, was nearing Athens when her captain mistook the lights of the town for the river beacon. He pulled right too soon to enter the channel on the Athens side of The Flats and the Swallow split in two on the rocks and burst into flames. There were 46 persons counted dead when the rescuers arrived – one of the worst tragedies in the history of the Hudson. To Mr. Brunner there’s nothing unusual about the lighthouse achieving nationwide fame. “The Hudson is the most beautiful river in the world,” he will tell you, explaining he saw his share of other lands during foreign service in World War I, “Why shouldn’t it provide inspiration for artists?” he added." If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article was originally published August 17, 1975. On a tugboat, the one member of the crew that seems to have more than its share of "characters" is the cook. Cooks come in all shapes, sizes and degrees of ability. When they are good, they’re worth their weight in gold. When they are not, about the only thing you can say is they cook food. One time when I was pilot of the tugboat Lion of the Cornell Steamboat Company, we had a cook who was what is known among boatmen as a “sea lawyer.’’ He was the world’s greatest expert on any subject. He was forever holding forth on one topic or another and always in an exceptionally loud voice. My room on the Lion at that time was just ahead of the galley with a very thin partition between. If anyone spoke in a loud voice in the galley it would seem it was right in the same room with you. One morning the cook was arguing with someone about something and, as usual, at the top of his voice. It was about 8 a.m. and I had been in my bunk for less than an hour, as I had been up from midnight until 6 a.m. steering my watch. I told him to pipe down. But the next morning it was the same thing. This time I didn’t say anything, but thought there must be some way to muffle this man’s voice. A morning or two later we had a tow on the upper river and about 2 a.m. I blew to the deckhand to come up in the pilot house to steer while I had a cup of coffee. After I had the coffee, I went to the cook’s room and, disguising my voice, called him. The cook in a sleepy voice said, “O.K. O.K.” Apparently, as I thought would be the case, he never bothered to look at the clock. I went back up to the pilot house and kept the deckhand engaged in conversation there. About 45 minutes later, the deckhand said, "I smell bacon frying." I said, “So do I." When the deckhand went into the galley, there was the cook making oatmeal, french toast, coffee and frying bacon. The deckhand said, ‘‘What in the devil are you doing up? Its only 3 a.m." The cook replied, “You called me didn’t you?” Then, for the first time looking at the clock, he said, "I know, that so and so Benson did that because I woke him up the past couple of mornings.” After that, if anyone talked loud in the galley, the cook would practically whisper, “Talk low. Benson will blame me for waking him up and then he’ll get me up about 2 or 3 a.m. again.” At least, for several weeks afterward, I was able to get my sleep undisturbed. In all honesty, I have to also admit that the pleasant aroma of frying bacon and brewing coffee wafting up through the open windows of the pilot house in the stillness of the early morning wasn’t bad either. AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article was originally published November 4, 1973. Now that the early morning fogs of autumn and the duck hunting season are both with us, I recall an incident in my youth when I went duck hunting and got lost in the fog. One time in my late teens in October 1927, I went down to the flats at Sleightsburgh to hunt ducks. When I got down on the shore to get my duck boat it was about 3:30 a.m., still very dark and with a heavy autumn fog. I could hear ducks quacking out around the old Rondout lighthouse, which still stood along the south dike of Rondout Creek quite a ways in from the present Creek entrance. I started out over the flats planning to follow the shore and then follow the dryed up purple loose leaf weeds to the area near the old lighthouse station. However, on my way out somehow or other I got a little too smart for my own good and lost sight of the shore line. It seemed that no matter in which direction I thought I rowed, I couldn’t find the shore. Even the ducks stopped quacking. I kept on rowing, figuring I had to end up some place. In the distance, I could hear some steamboat blowing its whistle periodically with one long blast. I would stop and listen, thinking I would hear something on shoe. There wasn’t a sound through the murk except that steamboat whistle which kept getting closer and closer. Obviously, I had rowed out into the middle of the river and was either in or near the channel. Shortly, I began to hear the thump, thump, thump – thump, thump, thump of the steamboat’s paddle wheels. I realized it was one of the Albany night boats. I wasn’t sure as to just what I should do for I certainly didn’t relish the thought of getting run down by the Albany night liner in the middle of the fog enshrouded Hudson. So I fired my shotgun into the air so I would have an empty shell to blow like a whistle. When I fired my gun, I could hear the thumping of the paddle wheels slow right down. I suppose the pilots of the steamboat knew they were close to something, but didn’t know what. I kept blowing on my empty shell, and by the sound of the steamer’s whistle. I knew they were going by me. In a few moments I could feel the steamer’s waves going by me, so I knew the danger of getting run down was past. The fog was so thick I didn’t even see the vessel’s lights. I still didn’t know which way to go, so I just sat still and drifted with the tide. After a while I could hear another steamboat blowing her fog signal. By the sound of her whistle, I recognized her as the freight steamer Storm King of the Catskill Evening Line. Her whistle, however, was quite a ways off so I knew there was no danger. About five minutes later, her little swells passed by me and I could hear both boats getting further away as they went on up river. After daylight broke I was still drifting with the ebb tide. Finally I drifted into shore alongside the remains of the old towboat Norwich, which was being broken up at lower Port Ewen. That incident taught me a lesson – never try to go out in a fog without a compass. It can be a very lonely and unnerving experience. Some years later in October of the middle 1930’s, I was pilot on the tugboat Lion of the Cornell Steamboat Company and coming down the upper Hudson with a good sized tow. It set in foggy at New Baltimore and the fog continued heavy all the way to Athens. When opposite Coxsackie at about 8 a.m. the fog was particularly dense. All of a sudden I could hear people talking and a bell ringing out in the middle of the river. So I took the megaphone and asked what it was. The reply came back it was the Queen Mary. Now, lest you think the former giant Cunarder of that name had sailed right by New York and somehow got to the upper Hudson, there was also a small diesel ferryboat – not much bigger than the old Skillypot – that carried the rather improbable name of Queen Mary. At that time, she was running back and forth between Coxsackie and Newton Hook. After the ferryboat identified herself, the voice in the fog said they were anchored on the middle ground off Coxsackie. The voice further said. “Be careful. You are going up inside Coxsackie Island.” Now, if I were to be going up inside Coxsackie Island I would have to be going in the opposite direction I was headed. I certainly knew my compass course was south and my whistle echoes were all in good order. It wasn’t me who was mixed up, it was the ferryboat. Obviously, anchored in the thick fog they had swung around with the tide and didn’t realize in what direction they were heading. I continued on and eventually ran out of the fog off Athens. I often wondered who it could have been on that ferryboat who was so balled up in his directions he was 180 degrees off in the direction he thought he was headed. But, that’s the way one can easily find himself in heavy foggy weather. Intuition is no substitute for a good compass. AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
The wars of the 20th century called forth boat and ship-building efforts in the Hudson Valley to serve the needs of the country in time of peril. At Kingston, Newburgh, and other river towns, vessels of various types and sizes were built. During World War I the United States Shipping Board was organized to procure vessels to meet the needs of the war effort in this country and, after a certain point, our Allies fighting in Europe and elsewhere. Wooden minesweepers and sub-chasers were built at Hiltebrant’s on the Rondout. At Island Dock the Kingston Shipbuilding Company was set up to build four wooden freighters to carry cargo to our Allies abroad. At Newburgh the Newburgh Shipyards were set up to build a more ambitious group of ten steel freighters. The World War I shipyards began their cargo ship-building efforts in mid-1917 as the United States entered the war. At Newburgh noted engineer Thomas C. Desmond acquired property just south of the city after lining up financial backing from Irving T. Bush, president of Bush Terminal in Brooklyn, and other shipping businessmen. Construction of the shipyard began in the summer of 1917 with the expansion of the property by filling in the river front. Actual building of the buildings did not begin until September 1917. Four ship building berths were constructed to build 9000 ton steel cargo ships. The first keel was not laid until March 1918 due to a severe winter. The first ship, the Newburgh, was launched on Labor Day of 1918 with thousands of people in attendance and former President Theodore Roosevelt on hand to deliver a typical rousing speech. The ship was finished at the Newburgh yard and was delivered to the U.S. Shipping Board at the end of December 1918 (after the war was officially over). Shipbuilding continued with ten ships completed in total. The needs of war-torn Europe for food and other supplies, did not end with the official end of the war, so the ships being built at Newburgh and other similar yards were still needed. The World War I cargo ships built at Newburgh were named for local towns: Newburgh, New Windsor, Poughkeepsie, Walden, Cold Spring, Firthcliffe, Irvington, Peekskill, and the last two, Half Moon and Storm King with locally inspired but not town names. At its height the Newburgh shipyards employed 4000 workers, probably a record number for the area at any time. The majority of these workers were not originally ship builders and were trained by the Newburgh Shipyards. Given that the shipyard was built from the ground up (including some of the ground,) and that the majority of workers had to be trained, the output of ten 9000 ton, 415 foot length cargo ships in two and a half years is remarkable. Among the U.S. Shipping Board Emergency Fleet Corporation shipyards established for World War I the Newburgh Shipyards was one of the more successful. Newburgh Shipyard was a source of great local pride as well as prosperity during its years of operation from September 1917 to 1921. By contrast, the Kingston Shipbuilding Company established during World War I to build wooden cargo ships was less successful, though also a source of pride and jobs for the local community. Four building berths were built for wooden ships at Island Dock on the Rondout Creek. Four ships were begun, but only two were launched, and only one was actually used. The building of wooden cargo ships seems strange at that period, since iron and steel ships had been built since the 1880s. A possible shortage of steel may have been behind the idea of building in wood. The two wooden ships built at Kingston were called Esopus and Catskill, and great rejoicing attended their launchings as they were the largest vessels built in the Rondout. AuthorAllynne Lange is Curator Emerita at Hudson River Maritime Museum. This article was originally published in the 2006 issue of the Pilot Log. Thank you to Hudson River Maritime Museum volunteer Adam Kaplan for transcribing the article.
If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today! Kingston-Rhinecliff ferries “Transport” and “Kingston” in their slips along the Rondout in the 1930s. The steam ferry “Transport” had been running on the route since 1881 while the “Kingston” a more modern diesel ferry began operating locally in 1930. It was unusual for the ferry company to own and operate more than one boat on the route. The historic ferry slip location is along the Rondout Creek Promenade at the eastern edge of the Hudson River Maritime Museum campus. In 1942, so few automobiles were using the ferry, due to World War II gas rationing, the privately owned ferry company discontinued operation. In 1946 the New York State Bridge Authority (NYSBA) was charged by the New York State Legislature with the operation of the ferry. NYSBA purchased the necessary equipment and the ferry crossings started up again in May 1946. The George Clinton ran for the nine years of planning and construction of the Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge. The ferry was discontinued with the 1957 opening of the Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Summer visitors at Kingston Point Park wait for a Hudson River Day Line steamer to come into port and pick them up for their journey home. The train in the background is part of the Ulster & Delaware Railroad, and is back from the Catskills, c. 1905. The U&D Railroad served as the Gateway to the Catskills transporting visitors from the Hudson River waterfront to summer resorts in the cooler Catskill Mountains. Trolley terminal at Kingston Point Park, ca. 1906. Designed by noted architect, Downing Vaux, Kingston Point Park opened in 1897. The park was financed by S.D. Coykendall, son-in-law of founder Thomas Cornell and second president of the Cornell Steamboat Company. By the 1890s the Cornell Company transportation holdings included rail as well as boats. The Ulster & Delaware Railroad extended from Kingston Point Park west into the Catskills. The Kingston City trolley system ran throughout the city and out to Kingston Point. Both rail systems were owned by the Cornell company. The park was built to provide a landing for the Hudson River Day Line and its thousands of passengers who could spend a day there or take the Ulster & Delaware Railroad from the park up to the Catskills. Before the steamboat landing at Kingston Point was built, large steamers docked across the Hudson River at Rhinecliff. Passengers took the Kingston-Rhinecliff ferry, also controlled at the time by the Cornell Steamboat Company, to reach Kingston. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article was originally published December 16, 1973. In today’s jet age of airplane travel, and human nature being what it is, some people seem to take a perverse delight in recounting incidents where their flight — because of adverse weather conditions — was diverted to an airport other than that of their original destination, or now of delays encountered because of the energy crisis. In the simpler age of steamboat travel, there were also on occasion unforeseen delays. In that long ago era before the advent of the automobile and the airplane, virtually every trip of more than a few miles was made either by railroad or, if the destination was adjacent to navigable water, by steamboat. Travel by steamboat was generally leisurely and delightful. However, you always didn’t get to where you were going when you expected to. One such incident was related to me years ago by Captain Ed Van Woert of the Cornell tugboat “G. C. Adams.” In December 1913, Captain Van Woert had to go to New York to testify in a lawsuit being held there pertaining to damage to a schooner that occurred while being landed at Hudson some months before. He thought he would take his wife along for the trip. On this particular day, Captain Ed left the ‘‘Adams” at Athens and went home to get ready. That evening, he and his wife boarded the steamer “Onteora” of the Catskill Evening Line at Athens, expecting to be in New York the following morning. After going aboard the “Onteora” and getting their stateroom, they had a leisurely supper in the steamer’s dining room. After eating, Captain Ed said to his wife, “I guess I'll go up in the pilot house awhile and talk to my friend the pilot.”’ At this point, the “Onty” was approaching the landing at Cheviot and a snow storm had set in. On leaving Cheviot, the "Onteora" headed for County Island to get over in the main channel. The snow storm had increased in intensity and visibility had decreased almost to zero. The pilot held her on the west course a little bit too long and she went hard aground just north of County Island, with her bow in about five feet of water and her stern in deep water. They backed and backed, but she wouldn’t come off. The tide was falling and at daybreak the next morning the "Onteora" was still hard aground. Captain Van Woert and his wife got off in a small boat and after being rowed to shore, walked through two feet of snow to the nearest railroad station to catch a train for New York. The “Onteora” got herself off on the next high tide and was back on her run — although nearly 12 hours late — none the worse for her mishap. Another incident that took place about the same period, although this time during the summer, was related to me by my old friend George W. Murdock, an old time Hudson River steamboat engineer who died at his home in Ponckhockie in 1940, well into his eighties. On a Saturday summer’s afternoon, Mr. Murdock boarded the “William F. Romer” at her New York pier for the run to Kingston. At that time, the “Romer" of the New York to Rondout night line regularly would leave New York on Saturday in the early afternoon and arrive at Rondout in the early evening. Mr. Murdock’s brother-in-law, Joel Rightmyer of Ponckhockie, was the “Romer's" pilot. On this particular trip, the “Romer” was bucking a strong ebb tide from the time she left her New York pier. The wind, like it so often does during the summer, was blowing straight up river out of the south. Worse yet, what breeze there was was blowing at about the same velocity as the “Romer’s" speed through the water, so that while underway the “Romer’s” flags hung limp on their poles. Underway, it was hot, humid, virtually airless and, because of the strong ebb tide, the steamer was running later and later with each passing hour. Past the Palisades and up through Tappan Zee and Haverstraw Bay, the “Romer” plodded her way up river. It wasn’t much of a day for steamboating. Finally, the "Romer" reached the Hudson Highlands and as she approached the landing at West Point, Mr. Murdock noticed a West Shore passenger train chuffing away from Highland Falls. He decided to leave the steamer and catch the train for the rest of his trip to Rondout, As he was leaving the steamboat, Mr. Murdock said to his brother-in-law, “Joel, I don’t think you'll get to Kingston by nightfall." Replied Pilot Rightmyer, “Well, George, if we don’t get there today, we’ll get there tomorrow.” Mr. Murdock boarded the train at West Point, thinking he’d get home well ahead of the steamer. However, as luck would have it, there was a freight train stuck on the West Park hill where the tracks make their incline from the river and head inland. His train, on the same track as the freight, stood on the tracks for what seemed like an eternity in the hot summer air. Finally another locomotive was sent down from Kingston and got the freight train ahead moving. Eventually, Mr. Murdock got to Kingston and took the trolley car for Rondout. As he was walking up Abruyn Street to his home in Ponckhockie, he glanced over his shoulder — just in time to see the top deck of the “William F. Romer” gliding past on her way in Rondout Creek to her berth on Ferry Street! During the 1950’s the Cunard Line had a great slogan — “Getting there is half the fun.” Generally it was. Sometimes, though, as it is in all forms of travel, the fraction was wrong. AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
The Ashokan Reservoir was built between 1907 and 1915 to supply water to New York City. The flooding of twelve communities and thousands of acres of farmland sparked long-lasting controversy. The last of the land claims were settled in 1940. Two thousand residents were moved, some of the communities were relocated, others were flooded. The dam was constructed with Rosendale cement. Today trails along the Reservoir provide pleasant walking and biking opportunities. In 1905 the New York State Legislature enacted legislation to create the New York City Board of Water Supply. The Board had the authority to acquire land and build dams and reservoirs in the Catskill Mountain watershed. At the time it was built, the Ashokan was one of the largest reservoirs in the world. Water from the Esopus Creek and tributaries feed the Ashokan. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article originally published July 4, 1976. When I was pilot and captain of the tugboat “Callanan No. 1” from 1946 until 1954, we had a steward by the name of Ed Carpenter from Port Ewen. In addition to being the best cook on the river, he was also an excellent story teller. On more than one occasion, he would recall the summer months of 1910 when Halley’s Comet was streaking through the heavens. He would also recall the days of another generation when the natural ice business was a big employer of men along the Hudson. At the time when Halley’s Comet was at its most spectacular, Ed Carpenter was cook on a repair barge of the Knickerbocker Ice Company by the name of “Beverwick.” During the summer of 1910, the “Beverwick” was tied up at the old ice house dock on Rattlesnake Island, just north of Coxsackie. Ed would relate how, night after night, he and other members of the ice house gang would sit on deck and watch with awe as Halley’s Comet would go through the skies. Apparently, the comet had a fiery tail that never failed to amaze the comet watchers. A more earthly sight that also enthralled the comet fans was the passage of the big Albany night boats — the “Adirondack” and the “C.W. Morse,” the largest steamboats on the river. Along the upper reaches of the Hudson, where the river is so narrow, they, too, were a particularly impressive sight. In the narrow channel the huge steamers would dwarf everything else. As they glided past with their hundreds of electric lights, their names spelled out in large electric signs on their hurricane decks, and their search lights probing the darkness of the night, they would appear to be one of mankind's most wondrous achievements. After the Albany night boat would pass from sight, Ed would turn in for a night’s rest, for it was up at 3:30 a.m. to start the hearty breakfast for the men working at the ice house, loading the ice barges for the New York market. In those days, before the invention of the home electric refrigerator, almost everyone used ice. And most of the ice for the New York City area would come from the Hudson River north of Poughkeepsie. A traveller on the upper Hudson would never be out of sight of an ice house — those huge wooden structures with double walls filled with sawdust that housed the winter’s harvest. The ice harvest would follow a fixed and then familiar pattern. In the fall of the year, after pulling ice wagons through the streets of New York all summer, the ice company’s horses would be herded to the New York piers where they would board a steamboat to the upper Hudson ice houses. There they would be stationed until needed on the ice. Once the river froze over, generally in January, the ice harvest would begin. Large numbers of men, usually boatmen layed off for the winter months, would be hired. The horses would then be put to work and used to pull plows to scrape off the snow covering the ice, pull the markers to lay out the ice field, and to help pull the cut ice through the ice channels to the ice house elevators. During a good winter, the same ice field might be harvested several times in order to fill the ice house. In the spring of the year, the horses would go back to New York by steamboat to resume their summer job of pulling the ice wagons through the city streets. The ice itself would all be transported to New York by ice barges and a gang of men would be employed at the ice houses to load the barges. An ice barge was somewhat like a floating box. The ice would be loaded on the inside of the box — the barge's hold — so that as much of the barge as possible, when loaded, would be set low in the water to use the lower river temperatures to keep the ice melting to a minimum. A river watcher could always spot an ice barge for it would invariably have a wind mill atop the barge. The wind mill served the practical purpose of operating the barge’s pumps to pump overboard the water from the melting ice as the barge was towed down river. There would be tows on the river during the summer that would consist solely of dozens of nested ice barges. The electric refrigerator and artificial ice making brought the natural ice industry to an abrupt end. The ice barges soon disappeared from the scene. The huge ice houses gradually passed from the river's banks. Some were torn down, others burned to the ground in rather impressive conflagrations, and a very few survived until the 1940’s for the growing of mushrooms. Like Halley’s Comet, the natural ice industry was a great show while it lasted. AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
|
AuthorThis blog is written by Hudson River Maritime Museum staff, volunteers and guest contributors. Archives
March 2024
Categories
All
|
Hudson River Maritime Museum
50 Rondout Landing Kingston, NY 12401 845-338-0071 fax: 845-338-0583 info@hrmm.org The Hudson River Maritime Museum is a 501(c)3 non-profit organization dedicated to the preservation and interpretation of the maritime history of the Hudson River, its tributaries, and related industries. |
Members Matter!Become a member and receive benefits like unlimited free museum admission, discounts on classes, programs, and in the museum store, plus invitations to members-only events.
|
Support EducationThe Hudson River Maritime Museum receives no federal, state, or municipal funding except through competitive, project-based grants. Your donation helps support our mission of education and preservation.
|