We've written about the 1845 wreck of the steamboat Swallow before, but for those of  you who'd rather watch and listen than read, this video offers a great, minute-by-minute overview of what happened that fateful night.

The catastrophe just south of the Middle Ground Flats between Hudson and Athens, NY led to calls for a lighthouse. In 1873, the Hudson-Athens Lighthouse was finally installed, able to warn mariners away from the flats and prevent future shipwrecks.

HFX Studios (Historical Film Experiences) has produced a number of great videos on a maritime history theme (including some which credit HRMM!), so be sure to check out their YouTube channel. 

​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 written by George W. Murdock, for the Kingston (NY) Daily Freeman newspaper in the 1930s. Murdock, a veteran marine engineer, wrote a regular column. Articles transcribed by HRMM volunteer Adam Kaplan. For more of Murdock's articles, see the "Steamboat Biographies" category

The steamboat known as the “Crystal Stream” is another of the vessels familiar to folks of the Hudson valley as an excursion boat; but unlike many of her running mates in the same business, the “Crystal Stream” traveled north from the Hudson river to New Brunswick- where she met her end.

The 132 foot six inch wooden hull of the “Crystal Stream” was constructed at Bulls Ferry, New Jersey, in 1875. With a breadth of beam measuring 25 feet six inches, the “Crystal Stream” had a gross tonnage rating of 268 with a net tonnage of 167. She was powered with a vertical beam engine constructed by Fletcher, Harrison & Company of New York, which had a cylinder diameter of 36 inches with an eight foot stroke.

When the vessel was launched she was christened the “Nelson K. Hopkins.” Being a medium-size steamboat, she was placed in the excursion business in and about New York harbor. The “Nelson K. Hopkins” was in service for only a very short time when she was partially destroyed by fire. Records do not disclose the details of this fire, but the steamboat was rebuilt and, when she again made her appearance, she carried the name of “Crystal Stream.”

The initial service of the “Crystal Stream” was on a regular route between New York city and Nyack on the Hudson river. Just how long she remained on this run is not known, but she was later found to be in the excursion business, and was finally purchased by William Myers who used her for towing the excursion barges on the Hudson river during the summer months.

The “Crystal Stream” became a familiar sight along the lower section of the Hudson valley and along the shores of the picnic groves on Long Island Sound. At this particular time in the nation’s history, excursions were a popular sport, and many such outings were a regular part of the program of Sunday Schools and organizations. The “Crystal Stream” hauled many heavily-laden barges of merry-makers to various picnic grounds, and her record does not show any black mark of misfortune in this service.

In the summer of 1902 the “Crystal Stream” was sold to parties in St. Johns, New Brunswick. Thus, instead of traveling south as many of the Hudson river excursion vessels did, the “Crystal Stream” headed north for more service- and her destruction.

​The “Crystal Stream” was in service on the St. Johns river until the night of June 21, 1907 - when the flames brought her career to a close. Most of the people aboard the vessel were asleep when fire turned the “Crystal Stream” into a seething furnace. Those who were sleeping aft, when awakened by the choking smoke and roaring flames, escaped in a small boat. Others on the vessel found themselves shut in by walls of fire and were forced to dash through the flames in an effort to escape. Many were fortunate to make the wharf at River Point, where the vessel was tied up, but several women were badly burned, and three of the crew lost their lives. The steamboat was a total loss- thus ending a career of 34 years. 

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 January 9, 1972.

​Fog, snow and ice were always tremendous hazards to the steamboatmen who plied the Hudson shortly after the turn of the century. Before the days of radar and other electronic aids to navigation, boatmen had little to rely on but their own acquired knowledge of the river – and the tricks played by wind and tide.
 
With the always heavy river traffic and narrow channels, accidents were bound to occur, especially in fogs and snow storms. One of the more spectacular groundings took place in 1903, when the big tugboat “Osceola” of the Cornell Steamboat Company ran up on the old dock at Piermont.
In the winter of 1903, the Cornell tugboats “Osceola” and “John H. Cordts” were both bound up river with separate tows, both of them very large. The “Cordts” was about a mile ahead of the “Osceola.” Off Yonkers, a heavy snow storm set in with a raging northeast gale.
 
Was It Irvington?
When the “Osceola” was off what the crew believed to be Irvington, the captain said to the pilot, “I think we had better round up and head into the tide.”
 
The pilot suggested, “Let’s go on, the ‘Cordts’ did.” But the captain still thought differently and rounded up. However, by going around to the west, they lost the echo of the whistle on the east shore and could not pick it up again.
 
Feeling their way along, they felt a slight jolt and a slight list to port.
 
But it was snowing so hard they couldn’t see anything, or could they pick up any echoes at all of the whistle. And, attempt after attempt to back off from whatever they had hit proved fruitless.

​By Morning’s Light
When morning came, they understood why. The “Osceola” was perched right on top of the old dock at Piermont!
 
The Piermont dock had originally been built by the Erie Railroad back in the 19th century when the State of New Jersey refused the Erie permission to run trains in that state. As an alternative, the railroad proceeded to build a long pier out into the river at the southern most point in New York State on the west shore. The trains would be run out on the pier and passengers were taken from there to New York City by steamboat.

​By 1903 the pier was no longer used and the end of the dock had fallen into ruin. At the time of the grounding, the tide was much higher than usual because of the winter storm, and the "Osceola" went right up on top of the old dock.
 
And there she remained, with her bow all the way out of the water, for some two weeks before workmen were successful in getting her off. Still, she came through her misadventure surprisingly well and continued towing on the Hudson River until October 1929.

Editor's Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article written by George W. Murdock, for the Kingston (NY) Daily Freeman newspaper in the 1930s. Murdock, a veteran marine engineer, wrote a regular column. Articles transcribed by HRMM volunteer Adam Kaplan. For more of Murdock's articles, see the "Steamboat Biographies" category

By some manner of coincidence steamboats whose names began with the letter “S” were known to rivermen as “hard luck boats,” and to this group belonged the steamboat “State of New York.”

Built at Brooklyn in 1866 by C. & R. Poillon, the “State of New York” had a wooden hull measuring 268 feet long, a breadth of beam of 36 feet, and depth of hold of nine feet six inches. Her gross tonnage was rated at 1,417 and net tonnage at 1,047. Her vertical beam engine was built by Cobanks & Theall of New York, and the cylinder diameter was 65 inches with a 12-foot stroke.

The “State of New York” was constructed for the Hartford and New York Steamboat Company and her name was scheduled to be “Vermont,” but when she was launched she was christened the “State of New York,” under the command of Captain D.A. Mills. Costing $200,000 the “State of New York” was the largest steamboat built up to that time for use of the Connecticut river, and her passenger rating was listed at 800 people.

For many years the “State of New York” ran in line with the “City of Hartford” and the “Granite State,” and in 1880 she was in service on a route from Stonington to New York. During her entire career the steamboat was dogged by accidents, although no lives were lost as a result of these mishaps.

When the Saybrook breakwaters were built in 1872 a huge boulder rolled into the ship channel - and the “State of New York” hit it and was forced to lay over a day in New York City for repairs. Later, in avoiding a tow in Hell Gate, the steamboat struck another rock and had to be beached at Hallets Point. Her stern was submerged on this occasion but the 90 passengers aboard were saved and most of the freight was salvaged. Captain Peter Cahill, a former wheelsman on the “State of New York” under Captain Peter Dibble, was at that time owner of a salvage tugboat and was called to haul the freight of the wrecked “State of New York” to Hartford. The owners of the “State of New York” refused to pay Captain Cahill’s claim of $300 for this job, and a suit followed in which the tugboat captain received his claim.

On August 28, 1881 the “State of New York” struck a snag on the Salmon river above East Haddam, Connecticut, tore out two planks, and was beached again to save her from sinking. Her bow rode up on the bank and her stern sank in deep water, and this episode cost her owners $40,000 before she could again be placed in service.

​Under Captain R.K. Miner the ill-fated steamboat met with another serious accident while coming out of Peck Slip in a strong ebb tide. Before she could straighten out in the river she was hurled into the Brooklyn docks, carrying away one side of her deck house and damaging wharves and dock houses to the amount of $80,000.

Following these latest mishaps, the name “State of New York” disappeared from the steamboat and in its place came the name “City of Springfield”. This change was not long in force before the steamboat broke her walking beam and was laid up for some time at Middle Haddam awaiting repairs.

The spring of 1883 was the occasion for the “City of Springfield” to appear on the Hudson river- and became known to local rivermen. In that year she was chartered to the Cornell Steamboat Company of Rondout, because of two events which had happened previous to the spring of 1883. On March 27, 1882 the steamboat “Thomas Cornell” had been wrecked on Danskammer Point, and the steamboat “City of Catskill” had been chartered to replace the “Thomas Cornell.” After running one season on the “Thomas Cornell’s” route, the “City of Catskill” was destroyed by fire at Rondout on February 11, 1883, and then the “City of Springfield” (“State of New York”) was chartered to run on the route of the “Thomas Cornell.”

The “City of Springfield” plied the route of the “Thomas Cornell” for one season, under the command of Captain William Van Keuren. Henry Briggs served as pilot and Nicholas M. McLean was chief engineer. The following year marked the appearance of the steamboat “City of Kingston,” and brought to a close the term of service of the “City of Springfield” on the Rondout route.

The next account of the former “State of New York” concerns a collision with the “City of Boston” off Cornfield Point Light. In this encounter one of the “City of Boston’s” boilers was rolled off her guard and her smokestack tumbled onto the deck of the “City of Springfield.”

​The “City of Springfield” remained in commission until 1895 when she was tied up and later sold and converted into a coal barge named the “Jimmy Hughes”. Fate still watched over the former “State of New York”- for the converted coal barge finally foundered in a storm off the Jersey coast, ending her career.

Editor's Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article written by George W. Murdock, for the Kingston (NY) Daily Freeman newspaper in the 1930s. Murdock, a veteran marine engineer, wrote a regular column. Articles transcribed by HRMM volunteer Adam Kaplan. For more of Murdock's articles, see the "Steamboat Biographies" category.

No. 3- Isaac Newton
The “Isaac Newton" was built for William H. and Curtis Peck in 1846 (sic). The hull was of wood, constructed by William H. Brown, and her engine was a product of the Allaire Iron Works. Her original length was 38 feet but she was rebuilt in 1885 and was thereafter 405 feet in length.

The intentions of the owners were to use the new boat as a dayliner and to name her the “George Washington,” but while she was still on the ways she was sold to the People’s Line, who had her christened the “Isaac Newton” in honor of one of the principal owners of the line, who was a pioneer steamboat man.

The “Isaac Newton” had but two decks during the first nine years of her existence, but she was rebuilt in 1885 by John Englis of Greenpoint, and a third tier of staterooms was added, thus making her the second three-decker to appear on the Hudson river; the first being the “New World,” which had a third deck added the previous year. The “Isaac Newton” and the “New World,” when rebuilt into three-deckers were the most beautifully furnished and numbered among the celebrated steamboats of the world.

​The two upper decks, aft of the engine trunk, were arranged in the form of large apartment galleries, and the ceiling of these decks sported enormous glass chandeliers, lighted by gas. The effect of this decoration was pronounced the most beautiful that had been conceived and the novel arrangement was copied not only on many paddle-wheel boats but on large ocean steamships as well.

​The “Isaac Newton” met her fate December 5, 1863. She left the foot of Cortlandt street at 5 o’clock in the evening, carrying 150 passengers, and when passing Fort Washington point, her starboard boiler exploded, sprinkling the deck with hot coals, and enveloping her from stem to stern with raging flames. The towboat “Herald” of Rondout, with Captain Harry Barber in command, was instrumental in saving many lives at this disaster. In all, 10 passengers lost their lives. By most fortunate circumstances the others were rescued by small boats of the “Herald” and the “Daniel S. Miller.” Among the dead were two brothers who made their home in Troy, named John and James Hodgso. The rescued passengers and crew were landed in Yonkers. The steamer was totally destroyed.

Editor's Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article written by George W. Murdock, for the Kingston (NY) Daily Freeman newspaper in the 1930s. Murdock, a veteran marine engineer, wrote a regular column. Articles transcribed by HRMM volunteer Adam Kaplan. For more of Murdock's articles, see the "Steamboat Biographies" category

The “Ansonia” was built for the New York-Derby, Conn., route in the year 1848, with George Deming, captain, Frederick Perkins, pilot, and John M. White, chief engineer. She was 190 feet long with a 28 foot beam, and ran on Long Island Sound on the Derby route until 1860, when she was purchased by Brett & Matthews of Fishkill Landing, refitted and renamed the “William Kent.”

Under the name of the “William Kent,” this steamboat sailed the Hudson between Fishkill Landing and New York until 1861, when she was chartered by the government for the transportation of troops for the sum of $700 per day. She was employed by the federal government for a period of 77 days and was then discharged from service.

About this time the government passed a law which said that unless a steamboat was entirely rebuilt, her name could not be changed. The purpose of the law was to protect the public who might think they were traveling on a new boat when in reality the only thing new would be the name. This law necessitated the name “Ansonia” being again emblazoned on the sides of the “William Kent,” and so under the original name of the “Ansonia” she plied the Delaware river between Philadelphia and Cape May in the year 1862.

Following this sojourn at the Quaker City, the “Ansonia” was brought back to New York and placed in service on her former route between Fishkill Landing and the metropolis as a freight and passenger carrier under Captain J.T. Brett. Following this she was sold to the Saugerties Steamboat Company and began regular trips between Saugerties and New York.

​In the winter of 1892 the Ansonia was rebuilt at South Brooklyn, being lengthened to 205 feet, and her name was changed to the “Ulster,” with a tonnage rating of 780 gross tons or 580 net tons.

On November 11, 1897, the “Ulster” ran on the rocks at Butter Hill, just below Cornwall-on-Hudson about midnight and rested there with her stern submerged in the water and her bow on the rocks. She slipped off the rocks and sunk in 30 feet of water. At the time of the accident she was heavily loaded with freight and carried 105 passengers, all of whom were safely landed on shore.

A further account of this disaster tells of the “Ulster” leaving New York about seven o’clock in the evening on an exceedingly stormy night. When she reached Haverstraw Bay, a wind storm arose and blew down the river at a rate of about 30 miles an hour. The pilot hugged the west shore of the river so as not to face the full force of the gale. The river was very rough and when opposite Butter Hill, the “Ulster” was blown on the rocky shore and a hole stove in her hull. Most of the passengers were in their berths at the time but they were quickly aroused and gotten off with a minimum of confusion.

The “Ulster” was raised and rebuilt and placed in service on her regular route, running until the fall of 1921, when she was taken up to Rondout creek to Hiltebrant’s shipyard and was there rebuilt in the winter of 1922. The Vulcan Iron Works of Jersey City constructed a new boiler for the steamer and her name was changed to the “Robert A. Snyder” in honor of the late Robert A. Snyder who was for many years the president and superintendent of the Saugerties and New York Steamboat Company. She ran on the Saugerties line in conjunction with the steamboat “Ida."

​On Friday, February 20, 1936, the “Robert A. Snyder” was crushed by the ice as she lay in the lower creek off Saugerties where she had been tied up with her sister ship, the “Ida”, since the Saugerties Line ceased operation some four years before. The water was shallow at that point and the remains of the once famous boat now lies rotting to pieces on the muddy bottom of the Saugerties Creek, a sight that will bring back many memories of the olden days on the Hudson river to any of the old boatmen who were active at the time when the “Robert A. Snyder” was running on her regular schedule.

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 June 23, 1974.

Of all the steamboats operated by the Hudson River Day Line during its long history, only one was lost by accident while in scheduled service. The accident unfortunately involved the largest and grandest Day Liner of them all — the “Washington Irving."

The accident occurred In New York harbor on June 1, 1926 just as the “Washington Irving” was leaving her New York pier on a routine trip to Albany. She was in collision with an oil barge which tore a gash in her hull and led to her sinking a short time later off the end of a pier at Jersey City. 

The accident took place at a time when the Day Line was at the peak of its operational history. Only the year before, during the season of 1925, the Day Line had carried 1,968,744 passengers, the most ever. The company had seven steamers in operation and had embarked upon the 1926 season with high hopes and considerable promotion for what it called its “Centennial Season."As a result, the loss of the “Washington Irving,” virtually at the season’s start, was a severe blow. 

The “Washington Irving," which the Day Line used to call “the flagship of its fleet,” had opened the season of 1926 on May 12 with a special trip on the river with invited guests of the company. On May 14 she opened the regular season to Albany. On Saturday, May 29, Sunday, May 30 and Monday, May 31 — the Memorial Day weekend — the “Irving” had made three special round trips from New York to Kingston Point. 

In those days of long ago, the Day Line had three New York landings, one at the foot of Desbrosses Street in downtown New York, one at West 42nd Street, and an uptown landing at West 129th Street. While their steamers were underway in the crowded waters of New York harbor, it was also the customary practice of the Day Line to have the captain and second pilot at the main deck gangway to make the appropriate bell pull signals while making or leaving a landing. 

On that fateful hazy morning of June 1, 1926, as the “Washington Irving" lay at her Desbrosses Street pier she was the picture of everything that characterized the Hudson River Day Line in its heyday.  Gleaming white on the exterior, spotless interior, and with her orchestra playing and flags flying, there was scant evidence of the fate that would soon befall the huge steamboat. Promptly at her departure hour of 9 a.m., the “Irving’s” first pilot, Harry Kellerman of Kingston pulled the main deck gangway bell pull three times to signify to the pilot house that the gang plank was ashore, all mooring lines except the bow line and a stem line were cast off and the steamer was ready to get underway. 

As the “Washington Irving” began to move ahead out of the slip. Captain David H. Deming blew the customary long blast on the whistle to warn river traffic she was underway. Out in the river, the tide was ebbing strongly and the tugboat “Thomas E. Moran” was coming up stream with an oil barge lashed to each side to refuel a trans-Atlantic liner. ​

​Because of the ebb tide, the tugboat was in close to the ends of the piers to escape the full brunt of the tide, effectively hiding her from view while the “Irving” was still at her pier. 

On leaving the slip, the paths, of the “Washington Irving” and the “Thomas E. Moran” with her two oil barges rapidly converged. If it were not for the strong ebb tide, probably all would have been well. The “Irving” — just getting up to speed — was caught broadside by the tide and was borne down towards the tow. Captain Deming threw his wheel hard over in an effort to throw the “Irving’s” stern away from the oil barges. The maneuver, however, failed and the corner of the starboard oil barge cut a hole in the hull of the “Washington Irving’s” after boiler room. The “Irving” moving ahead caused a gash about 20 feet long which also ripped through a water tight bulkhead into the steamer’s galley. It was a mortal blow. 

The “Washington Irving” was equipped with six transverse water tight bulkheads. If the hole had been in but one compartment, she probably would have survived. However, with two water tight compartments ruptured, the blow was too much. 

Captain Deming made a quick survey of his predicament and headed his wounded steamboat towards the New Jersey shore. In that crowded part of New York harbor there was no place to beach her. Crossing the river, with her whistle blowing the distress signal, harbor craft sped to her aid. The “Irving’s” passage was accompanied by a thunderous roar as her engineers opened her steam escape valves to “blow her off” and reduce the pressure on the steamer’s boilers. 

The “Irving” was expertly maneuver by her captain to the end of Pier 9, Jersey City. He neatly placed her forward guard over some piles to help keep her on an even keel so the passengers could get ashore. There she sank to the bottom in a matter of minutes with the water reaching the third deck. 

The “Washington Irving" sank right on top of the Holland Tunnel which was then under construction. The tunnel, however, was far enough beneath the surface so that no damage resulted.
 
When the “Washington Irving” was sunk, she was only 13 years old — the prime of life as far as steamboats go. She bad been built in 1913 by the New York shipbuilding Company, Camden, N.J. and was a steamboat of superlatives. She was the largest of the Day Liners, the most luxuriously furnished and reportedly the fastest. She was licensed by the federal government to carry 6,000 passengers, at the time the most for any inland steamer. 

Steamboats, like people, have their faults. Yet, possibly because absence makes the heart grow fonder, I have never heard a boatman who was associated with her ever say a bad word about the “Washington Irving." Despite her size, former pilots used to sing her praises as to her ease of handling and maneuverability, particularly at landings. 

Fortunately, at the time of her sinking, the “Washington Irving” had aboard only about 200 passengers and her crew of 110. All but two passengers and one crew member were saved. The crew member, a mess-boy, at the time of the accident was asleep in a berthing compartment in the after part of the hull.

The two passengers — reportedly the only passengers lost by accident in the Day line’s history — were a young mother and her three year old daughter who allegedly refused to leave the second deck until she had found her other two children, aged 5 and 7, who already had safely been taken off by a tugboat.

A fourth indirect victim of the sinking was said to have been the “Washington Irving's" captain, David H. Deming, the only master the steamer ever had. Although he survived the actual sinking and the following season commanded the Day liner “Hendrick Hudson," the accident was said to have preyed heavily upon him and he died at his home in Albany in 1927. 

The salvage of the sunken steamer proved to be extremely difficult and almost another year had passed before the “Irving’s” hull was again afloat and the hole in her hull patched. Before being raised almost her entire superstructure had to be removed. What was left of the once proud steamboat remained tied up to a New York pier for years. Finally, in 1933 she was towed away for scrapping. Ironically, the tugboat that towed the “Washington Irving” away on her final voyage was reported to be the “Thomas E. Moran" — the same tugboat that was towing the oil barge that holed her seven years before.
​
Today, nearly 50 years have passed since the “Washington Irving" was lost. Few remain of those who played leading roles in the events that took place on that June morning of long ago. As far as I know, two are Thomas Kraljic, the “Irving’s” second mate now living in New York, and Perry H. Banks, who was the Chief Engineer of the “Washington Irving," and now nearly 90, lives at Catskill.  ​

​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!​

In the 1960s, historian, expert boat modeler, and former antiquities thief Forrest Van Loon Ryder published a column in the Greene County News called "Old Timers: Boats of the Hudson."

In this article, entitled "Steamer Redfield burns at Sandbar between Athens and Hudson on 1910-06-20," published on September 16, 1965, Van Loon Ryder recounts the history of the steam freighter William C. Redfield. 

Although not a sidewheeler, at the time of her appearance the WILLIAM C. REDFIELD was considered one of the most modern freight boats on the Hudson River. She carried one stack and had four large openings on each side of her housing for loading freight and also boasted a small saloon for passengers on the second deck. The vessel was named for a man who made historic contributions to steamboat navigation, William C. Redfield of Cromwell, Connecticut. At a time when frequent boiler explosions were creating a fear of steamboats, Mr. Redfield devised Safety Barges, built in the manner of steamboats, but without power and towed by a steam boat. These lavishly furnished barges were popular from 1825 to around 1830 when their favor diminished, due to lack speed, and to fewer boiler disasters which eventually restored the public's confidence in steamboats. Mr. Redfield, who was superintendent of the Swiftsure Towing Line, also suggested the system of towing lets of canal boats, rather than having one of two canal boats on either side of the towboat. Quite often he would have towboats towing as many as 40 or fifty canal boats and barges.

The REDFIELD was constructed for Commodore Alfred Van Santvoord for service between New York and Albany. After serving on this route five years she was sold to new owners who placed her in service between Stuyvesant, Coxsackie and New York as a freight and passenger carrier. Running in line with the THOMAS MCMANUS these two large propeller vessels were a familiar site on this route for many years. Eventually the Catskill Evening Line acquired title to the REDFIELD and MCMANUS, and the two steamers continued to run in line until August 27th, 1902, when the MCMANUS burned at her pier in New York.

Finally the REDFIELD was returned to the route for which she was originally built and in later years was used only as a freight carrier.  

The REDFIELD was destined for a fate similar to that of her old running mate, the MCMANUS. On June 20th, 1910, as the REDFIELD was being tied up at her Athens dock, a fire was discovered in her hold. In flames, she was towed to the Middleground, a sandbar between Athens and Hudson, where she burned to the waters edge and became a total loss.
​
STATISTICS: Lewis Minnersley, builder, East Albany, NY. Wood hull, 370 tons. Length 182 feet; beam 33 feet; depth 10 feet. Fletcher & Harrison No. 49, single cylinder engine having a 36 inch cylinder with 34 inch stroke.

An article from the Boston Globe dated June 21, 1910 recounts the accident:

ANCIENT STEAMER BURNED. 
Sidewheeler W. C. Redfield, Built in 1864, Destroyed on the Hudson at Athens. 

HUDSON, N Y, June 20 - The freight steamer W. C. Redfield, owned by the Catskill & New York steamboat company, was destroyed by fire this afternoon, while lying at Athens, across the river from here. Her crew escaped unharmed. 

The vessel was at her dock when the flames were discovered and buildings along the water front were endangered. A ferryboat towed the steamer onto the flats, where she burned to the water’s edge. 

The Redfield was a sidewheeler of 700 tons, built in 1864, and was for many years of her early usefulness in passenger service on the Hudson.

​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!​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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