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 21, 1973.

​Back around 1908, there was a stone quarry at Rockland Lake south of Haverstraw and the Cornell Steamboat Company towed the quarry's scows to New York from early spring until hindered by ice the following winter.  At the same time, the steamers "Homer Ramsdell" and "Newburgh" of the Central Hudson Line were carrying milk on a year round basis between Newburgh and New York. 

In early January of that long ago time, the Cornell tugboats "Hercules" and "Ira M. Hedges" were sent up river to the quarry to bring down five loaded scows of stone.  Ice had been forming in the river and, as any man who has worked on the river soon finds out, the river sometimes closes over night.  He also discovers that at times salt water ice is harder to get through than fresh water ice.

When the tugs arrived at Rockland Lake, the river was covered with ice from shore to shore and making more ice rapidly.  It was now about 5 p.m., very dark with a northeast wind, and it looked as if a storm was brewing.  Captain Mel Hamilton of the "Hercules" telephoned Cornell's New York office and suggested they stay there overnight.  He knew by waiting until daylight to start down, he could better find open spots in the floating ice and that the "Ramsdell" and "Newburgh" on their milk runs would be breaking up ice and perhaps keep it moving.  The Cornell office, however, would not listen to Captain Hamilton's suggestion and told him they wanted him to start out immediately and get the tow to New York as soon as possible.

Trouble at Tarrytown
On leaving Rockland Lake with five wooden scows, the "Hercules" was in charge of the tow and the "Hedges" was supposed to go ahead and break ice since she had an iron hull.  The ebb tide was about half done and everything went all right until they were about two miles north of the Tarrytown lighthouse. 

The "Hedges” wasn’t too good as an ice breaker and she would get fast in the ice herself.  The "Hercules" with the tow would creep alongside and break her out.  After this happened a few times, both tugs tried pulling on the tow.  Finally, the tide began to flood, jamming the ice from shore to shore, and the two tugs couldn't move the tow at all through the ice. 

The only thing to do was to lay to until the tide changed.  After about an hour it started to snow from the northeast and the wind increased to about 20 m.p.h. Captain Hamilton of the "Hercules" told Captain Herb Dumont of the "Hedges” to go back to the tail end of the tow and keep an eye out for the "Newburgh" he knew would be coming down.  The "Hercules" lay along the head of the tow on watch for the ‘"Ramsdell" on her way up river. 

Both tugs started to blow fog and snow signals on their whistles, as they lay in the channel and knew the Central Hudson steamers would be going through the ice and swirling snow on compass courses at full speed in order to maintain their schedule and not expecting to find an ice bound tow in their path.  Neither tugboat captain relished the thought of his tug or the tow being cut in half by the "Ramsdell" or "Newburgh."

​“Newburgh” Heard First
The first of the two Central Hudson steamers to be heard was the "Newburgh” by the crew of the "Hedges."  Coming down river with the wind behind her, the men on the tug could hear the "Newburgh" pounding and crunching through the ice and her big base whistle sounding above the storm.  Both the "Hercules" and "Hedges" were blowing their whistles to let the "Newburgh" know they were fast in the ice and not moving.  The snow storm had now become a blizzard. 

On the "Hedges" at the tail end of the tow, her crew was relieved when they could hear the crunching of the ice seem to ease off, indicating the "Newburgh" had probably heard their whistle and was slowing down.
 
In a few moments, the bow of the "Newburgh" loomed up out of the blowing snow headed almost directly for the "Hedges."  Above the storm, the men on the tugboat could hear the bow lookout on the "Newburgh" yell to the pilot house, "There's a Cornell tug dead ahead."

The "Newburgh'' eased off to starboard and crept up along side of the tow.  When abreast of the "Hercules," the captain, Jim Monahan, hollered through a megaphone to the "Hercules" captain, asking if he wanted "Newburgh” to circle around the tow and try and break them out of the ice’s grip.  Boatmen always tried to help one another out, even though they might have been working for different companies. 

Moved and Stopped
The "Newburgh" cut around the tow twice before continuing on her way to New York and disappearing into the swirling snow of the winter's night.  The "Hercules" was able to move the tow about one tow’s length and was then again stopped. 

In about half an hour, the crew of the "Hercules” could hear the whistle of the "Homer Ramsdell" blowing at minute intervals as she was cutting through the ice on her way to Newburgh.  On the "Herc," they were sounding her high shrill whistle to let the "Ramsdell" know they were in the channel.  In those days, long before the radio telephones of today, the steam whistle signals were the boatman's only means of communication. 

The "Ramsdell" came up bow to bow with the "Hercules," backing down hard, the bow lookout yelling to the pilot house a tow was ahead.  Coming to a stop with only a few feet separating the two vessels, Captain Fred Miller of the "Ramsdell" tramped out on his bow and yelled down to Captain Hamilton, asking if he could be of any help.  When told the tow was fast in the ice, Captain Miller said he was ahead of time and would try and free the tow. 
​
Captain Miller took the "Ramsdell" around the tow twice and then continued on his way up river.  This time, the "Hercules" was able to move the tow about two tow lengths and again came to a dead stop.  All they could do now was wait for the tide to change.  However, at least they knew no other steamers were moving on the river and they were relatively safe.  

​Leaks Develop
When the crew of the "Hercules" was sitting in the galley and having a cup of hot coffee, one of the scow captains hollered over and waving a lantern, said his scow was leaking and his pumps were frozen.  Men from the "Hercules" then had to climb over the snow covered scow and try to find and stop the leak.  One of the deckhands found the leak in the dark and patched it up.  After about two hours, the same thing happened to another scow, the oakum having been pulled out of the seams at the water line by the ice. 

Finally, the tide began to ebb again and they were able to once again move the tow.  Shortly after daylight the snow storm abated and the wind moderated.  As the "'Hercules" and the "Hedges" moved further down river, the ice became more floes than solid ice.  However, before arriving in New York, they were overtaken by the "Ramsdell" again the following night off Manhattanville.  
​
After the crews’ long battle with ice and snow and on arriving in New York, their reward was to have their tugs tied up and to be layed off for the winter.  In those days their pay was extremely modest.  As a matter of fact, the pay of deckhands and firemen was a bunk, food and a dollar a day, — for a twelve hour day, seven days a week.  As the boatmen used to say.  "Thirty days and thirty dollars."

​​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 26, 1972.

The lives of some steamboats are like people. They venture far from the land of their youth, never to return. This was the case with the steamboat “City of Kingston" which left the Hudson River to go all the way to the Pacific coast. 

The “City of Kingston” opened the season of 1889, as she had in her former years of service on the Hudson River, with a run up-river to Rondout shortly after the river was clear of ice. In 1889 this became possible on March 19. As events turned out, it was to be the start of her last season on the Rondout to New York run. 

During the summer of 1889, Captain D. B. Jackson, operator of the Puget Sound and Alaska Steamship Company, came east looking for a “propeller” suitable for his service. Apparently, the “City of Kingston” caught his eye and he made an offer to the Cornell Steamboat Company for her. 

The Price Was Right
Cornell, it would appear, originally had every intention of operating the “City of Kingston" for many years more on her original route — and had made plans for a number of alterations to the steamer, including a new glass-enclosed dining room aft on the top deck. However, in those days of unfettered free enterprise, the Cornell Steamboat Company was not adverse to selling anything — if the price was right. The price apparently was right for at the end of September it was announced the “City of Kingston” had been sold for service on Puget Sound. 

The “City of Kingston", always a great favorite with Kingstonians, left Rondout at 6:05 p.m. on Sept. 30, 1889 on what was supposed to be her last trip. 

It was reported that a particularly large crowd gathered on the dock and gave her a hearty farewell. All the way down the river, her whistle was kept busy answering three blast - salutes of farewell from other steamboats. The following night, however, she came back in Rondout Creek briefly to unload supplies — and then went to Marvel's shipyard at Newburgh to be readied for her long voyage to the Pacific. 

At the shipyard, the red carpeting of the “City of Kingston’s” saloon was taken up and her furniture stowed. Her guards were reinforced with iron braces and heavy wooden slats to break up the force of ocean waves. Her open bow was enclosed, windows boarded up and water tight partitions installed on the main deck. Two large masts were stepped and rigged for sails. 

Before the Canal
Finally, on Nov. 18, 1889 the “City of Kingston” passed New York City for the last time and headed down Ambrose Channel. Since 1889 was long before the digging of the Panama Canal, it meant the steamboat had to go down the entire coast of South America, through the Straits of Magellan at Cape Horn, and then up the west coast of South America, Central America, Mexico and all of the United States to reach her destination of Puget Sound. 

The “City of Kingston" arrived at Port Townsend, Washington, Feb. 27, 1890 after a safe and apparently relatively uneventful voyage. She had been 61 days at sea and her best 24 hour run had been one of 327 nautical miles. The remaining 30 days of her voyage had been spent in various ports taking on coal and supplies and at Valparaiso, Chile for engine repairs. 

​Entering service on the west coast on March 15, 1890, her principal run was on the route between Tacoma, Seattle, Port Townsend and Victoria, B. C., although on occasion she also made runs to Alaska. The “City of Kingston” was to run successfully in this service for nine years. 

Early on a Sunday morning, April 23, 1899, the “City of Kingston’’ was inbound for Victoria from Tacoma, running through a light fog. At 4:35 a.m., just a few miles short of her destination, she was in a collision with the Scottish steamship "Glenogle’’ outbound for the Pacific. The “City of Kingston’’ was struck on the starboard side, aft of the fireroom and sank in three minutes. Boats from both vessels were put over and all 12 passengers and 60 crew members were saved. Her wooden superstructure, broken at two by the collision, floated off.

A number of the “City of Kingston's” crew members when she was in service on the Hudson River went to Puget Sound and served on her there. One of these was John Brandow, second pilot on the steamer on her first trip to Rondout on May 31, 1884. By a quirk of fate, he was the pilot at the wheel at the time of her fatal collision 15 years later. Also, strangely, the steamboat's name remained unchanged during her years on the west coast. The steamboat named for the fine colonial city on the Hudson River proudly carried the name “City of Kingston” to ports 3,000 miles away and in service never envisioned at the time of her launching. 

After she sank, several of her crew members who had gone to the west coast returned to Kingston. One of them brought with him several small sections of her joiner work salvaged from the saloon of the sunken steamboat. 

The Cornell Steamboat Company, the “City of Kingston's” original owner, had several of these small panels put in oak frames and gave them to former officers of the steamer when she had been in service on the Hudson River. One of these was given to former First Pilot William H. Mabie. It is now in the possession of his grandson and my good friend, Roger Mabie of Port Ewen.

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 12, 1971.

Back in the days before boatmen were unionized, steamboatmen would go to work as soon as the ice broke up in the spring and work continuously until their boat was layed up when the river froze over in December.

In those days of long ago, almost all of the steamboats had wooden hulls and as soon as the river would freeze, all navigation would cease. The ice would raise havoc with those wooden hulls. New ice in particular was dangerous. It would be as sharp as a knife and as a steamboat went through the new ice, the ice would take the caulking right out of the seams and cause the hull to leak.

When I was a deckhand on the tugboat “S. L. Crosby” of the Cornell Steamboat Company in 1930, I recall Harry Conley, the pilot, telling me about the time in the 1890’s when he was quartermaster on the “City of Troy,” one of the steamboats between New York and Troy.
​
When the first snow of the season would come, the crew would be happy because they knew then that it wouldn’t be long before the ice would be forming and the “City of Troy” would be laying up for the winter. After the men had been working since early spring, with no time off, they would welcome their winter time vacation.

He would tell me how with the first real cold snap, they would leave Troy and the crew would listen for the first sounds of fine ice forming. On a still, bitter cold, clear December night you can hear the snap and crackle of the new ice. It is a sound a boatman never forgets. Generally, the new ice would begin to first form in the river around Esopus Meadows Lighthouse.

Then, the crew would be all smiles, knowing in a few days orders would come for the last trip of the season and the “City of Troy” and the crew would have a two or three months rest. The would go home, Harry to Schodack with about one hundred dollars saved from his wages and live real good. During the winter, most of them would work at one of the ice houses, harvesting the winter’s crop of ice.

I still look forward to the first snow of the season, despite the fact today the tugboats all have steel hulls and many work all winter long.

How different the river shores look all covered with the first snowfall. It seems like only yesterday the wild flowers and purple loose leaf were blooming all along the up river shore line. Now everything looks cold and bleak.

With snow on the shores and hills, one can see paths going up from the river that you cannot see in the summer when the foliage is thick on the trees. Also houses and stone walls stand out in startling clarity. How a snow storm changes the landscape into a wonderland when the river becomes locked in winter’s cold embrace!
​
The first snow storm also changes other things. A few years ago I remember leaving Coeymans right after the first snow. As we were leaving, my deckhand said, “Bill, this sure makes us think what we did with our summer earnings, doesn’t it?”

​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 October 15, 1972.

Of all the steam propelled vessels that have floated upon the waters of Rondout Creek, probably the one that was best known locally in her day was the ungainly little ferry boat that used to cross the creek from the foot of Hasbrouck Avenue to Sleightsburgh. Known throughout the area as the “Skillypot,” she made her last trip from Rondout to Sleightsburgh on Oct. 14, 1922 — exactly 50 years ago yesterday.

“Skillypot” - reportedly a corruption of the Dutch word for tortoise — wasn't even her right name. It was the “Riverside,” a name that many would-be patrons often changed to where she usually was found - the “Otherside.” She may not have been loved as was the “Mary Powell” or admired as were many other steamboats, but she certainly was well known, and almost universally as the “Skillypot.”

Her fame on both sides of Rondout Creek rested securely until the opening of the 9-W highway suspension bridge in 1921 - the only way in her latter years to get across the creek, unless of course one owned or rented a rowboat or wanted to walk to Eddyville. She played an important part in the daily lives of many area residents, especially when the Rondout section of Kingston was important to the business and social life of the community. 

Wherever there has been a natural barrier such as a river or a creek, people it seems have always wanted to get to the other side. 

A Scow Was First
At Rondout, the first recorded vessel to regularly cross the creek was a small scow that was sculled across by hand from Sleightsburgh and could carry one wagon and a team of horses. This means of transportation existed until the spring of 1855 when the small steam ferryboat “J. P. Sleight” made her appearance. 

Built by the sons of John P. Sleight and named for their father, the new ferryboat had two slide valve steam engines connected by cog wheels to two large steel drums. The drums were connected to a chain which was secured to both sides of the creek, a distance of about 440 feet. The drums would rotate and pull the ferry back and forth across the creek on the chain. The chain was of sufficient length to rest on the creek bottom except where it passed around the drums. 

In March 1870, a severe freshet caused by melting snow and rain caused the ice in the upper creek to let go. The ice coming down the creek carried the “J. P. Sleight” right along with it. At the mouth of the creek, the “Sleight” smashed into the lighthouse that then stood on the south dike. Mrs. Murdock, the keeper of the light, caught a line from the ferry, but it parted and away went the “J. P. Sleight," drifting with the ice floes down the river. 

In a few hours, the Cornell ice breaking towboat “Norwich” got underway and, breaking her way through the heavy ice fields off Esopus Meadows lighthouse, spotted the “J. P. Sleight” in another ice field down off Esopus Island. The “Norwich” brought the “Sleight” back to Port Ewen, where it was found her light hull had been damaged beyond repair. Her owners decided to build a new ferryboat which became the “Riverside.”

Contract to Washburn
Abraham and Isaac Sleight gave a contract for the new ferryboat to Hiram and John Washburn. When she was launched, the “Riverside” measured 55 feet long and 20 feet wide. Her engines came from the old “J. P Sleight" and were installed by John Dillon of Rondout. 

The new “Riverside” was a success from the start. Upon the death of Isaac Sleight, ownership of the ferry passed to Herbert A. Starkey, and then in 1903 to Albert Norris who operated her until 1906 when Josiah Hasbrouck became the owner. It is not known at what, point in time the “Riverside” became better known as the latter name by which she was known far and wide in Ulster County. 

As time went by and the automobile came along, new highways were being built along the banks of the Hudson. It soon became evident a bridge was badly needed across Rondout Creek. As a matter of fact, it was long overdue. After World War I on summer weekends, automobiles would be lined up on the Sleightsburgh side almost to the middle of Port Ewen and on the Kingston side to the top of Hasbrouck Avenue. Then, the “Riverside” really was a “Skillypot."

On summer weekends when automobiles were backed up on both sides of the creek, enterprising Sleightsburgh boys would earn money by showing unknowing motorists how to get across the creek by going across the bridge at Eddyville.

​Pilots for a Fee
For a fee, they would get in a waiting car and “pilot” the motorist through New Salem and Eddyville to Rondout. There, they would reverse the process by taking a motorist from Hasbrouck Avenue through Eddyville to Port Ewen. 

At times in some winters the “Skillypot” would be the only steamboat in operation on the upper Hudson. To keep her operating, men would cut a channel through the ice using ice saws and pike poles to shove the cakes of ice under the solid ice or, if it seemed easier, pull them up on top of the ice. During the summer, when the ferry “Transport” would come over from Rhinecliff, the swells from her paddle wheels would carry up the creek. Then how the “Skillypot“ would rock back and forth sideways and cause concern to some of the passengers. 

The “Skillypot” always made her last trip of the day at 10:30 p.m. She would land at her Sleightsburgh slip and blow one blast on her small, clear, shrill whistle, signifying her toils were over for that day. Then if people still wanted to get across the creek, they would have to take a small scow, sculled by a single oar by Lyman Perrine.

Finally, the long awaited day came when the new bridge was open to traffic. The “Skillypot” still continued to operate for a period, but foot passengers even took to walking over the new bridge to save the two cents fare. So on Saturday night, Oct. 14, 1922, a Saturday then as it was this year — the “Skillypot” at 10:30 p.m. blew her final one long shrill whistle. As the echo died, so did she “Riverside.”

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 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 on September 10, 1972.

​The largest steamboat ever built for service on the Hudson River was the “Berkshire” of the Hudson River Night Line, built to run in overnight passenger and freight service between Albany and New York. Because of her imposing size, most boatmen referred to her as the “Mighty Berkshire” rather than by her mountainous name alone. 

The “Berkshire” was some 440 feet long overall, making her 13 feet longer than her one time running mate, the “C.W. Morse,” and nearly 26 feet longer than the “Washington Irving.” the largest steamer of the Hudson River Day Line. The late Francis “Dick” Chapman of New Baltimore, her last captain, was later a pilot with me on the the Cornell tugboat “Lion” and related to me a number of incidents about the big Night Liner. 

One night back in July 1935, the “Berkshire” was preceding down river on her regular run from Albany to New York. As they were passing Saugerties at about 11 p.m. the steam steering gear broke. The men in the pilot house immediately shifted to the big hand steering wheels. 

How Wheels Worked
The steam gear had a small pilot wheel at the front of the pilot house which the pilot could turn with ease with one hand. This small pilot wheel was in turn connected to an auxiliary steam engine which actually turned the rudder. The hand steering wheels, on the other hand, were huge affairs located in the middle of the pilot house to be used in times of emergency. They were connected directly the the rudder and when in use were turned by brute strength. 

The engineers, unfortunately were unable to make repairs to the steam steering gear, the usual means of steering the steamer, and the pilots took her all the rest of the way to New York steering her by the hand gears. It took four men to constantly man the two big hand steering wheels and, except on straight courses, they had to run dead slow in order to get the rudder over. 

The sharp turns in the river at Magazine Point, West Point and Anthony's Nose were particularly troublesome. In order to make the sharp turns, the “Berkshire” had to be backed a couple of times to get the rudder over so the turns could be made. When she finally got to New York they had to get tugboats to put the “Berkshire” in her slip. There the repairs were made to the steam steering gear and she was able to leave on her regular up trip as usual. 

The “Berkshire” also had a close call on her very last trip down river from Albany. The year 1937 was the “Berkshire’s” last season in service and her final sailing from Albany for New York was made on the night of Labor Day.

Hazy Weather
All the way down the river the weather was hazy. When the “Berkshire” was off Esopus Island, fog set in thick. At Crum Elbow they could hear a bell being run [sic] rapidly at minute intervals, meaning something was anchored ahead. On the “Berkshire” they were running slow on time courses and sounding her whistle. 

Suddenly, through the fog, the pilot house crew of the “Berkshire” dimly saw two white lights high in the air dead ahead, which they realized was a large anchored ship.

They passed the ship so close the guards of the “Berkshire” rubbed along the ship's side. Since it was ebb tide and because of his position, Captain Chapman was afraid to back down because he thought his steamer might back across the bow of the anchored ship. So what could have been a terrible accident, turned out all right for the mighty “Berkshire” on her last trip down the Hudson under her own power. 

The “Berkshire’s” career on the Hudson River from the time she entered service in 1913 until her final season of 1937, in general, was a placid one and relatively uneventful. Her beginning and ending, however, were a little unusual.  

Launched in 1907
The huge steamboat was launched on September 21, 1907 from the yard of the New York Shipbuilding Co. at Camden, N.J. with the name “Princeton” painted on her bows. Launched  in the midst of the panic of 1907, funds apparently were not available for her completion. With engine and boilers installed but with no superstructure, the uncompleted vessel was layed up and not completed until six years later. When finally completed, her launching name of ‘‘Princeton” had been changed to “Berkshire.” 

The “Berkshire” arrived at Albany on her first trip on the morning of May 23, 1913. The very next day, the “Washington Irving,” the new flagship of the Hudson River Day Line, arrived at Albany on her inaugural trip. Thus by a turn of fate, the largest night boat ever built for service on the Hudson River and the largest day boat ever built for service on the Hudson both made their first trips to Albany within hours of each other. It was a big weekend for big steamboats at Albany.  ​

After the ‘‘Berkshire’s” final trip in 1937, she was layed up at Athens. With the coming of World War II, the big steamer was acquired by the federal government and at the end of January 1941 was towed by the Coast Guard through the ice to New York harbor. 

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 14, 1977.

As the “Esopus” moved sedately down Rondout Creek toward the Hudson, all the vessels along the creek with steam on their boilers joined in whistle salutes of goodbye and good luck. At the Central Hudson Line wharf between the foot of Broadway and Hasbrouck Avenue lay the big steamer “Benjamin B. Odell.” The “Odell’s” pilot, Richard Heffernan, was on top of the pilothouse as the “Esopus” passed, pulling on the cable connected to the large commodious whistle and he kept pulling it to the whistle’s full steam capacity. Even the trolley cars along Ferry Street were ringing their bells. 

At that time, Rondout Creek sort of resembled a home for old steamboats. At the foot of Island Dock lay the big sidewheel towboat “Oswego” built in 1848. At the Abbey Dock, east of Hasbrouck Avenue, lay the old Newburgh-to-Albany steamer “M. Martin,” which at one time during the Civil War had served as General Grant’s dispatch boat. Farther down the creek at the Sunflower Dock lay the old queen of the Hudson, the “Mary Powell.” Now, on all three, after over half a century of service on the Hudson, their boilers were cold and their whistles were silent. 

As the "Esopus" neared Ponckhockie, the large whistle on the U.& D. Railroad shops and the whistle of the old gashouse blew long salutes of goodluck and happy sailing.  Finally, as she approached the mouth of the creek, Jim Murdock, the keeper of Rondout lighthouse, rang the big fog bell in a final farewell to the “Esopus." When she reached the Hudson, the “Pocahontas” took the “Esopus” in tow and started the trip to New York. 

Years later I was pilot on the “Pocahontas,” and her chief engineer, William Conklin, told me about the 1918 trip down the river.  Chief Conklin was a great man for detail.  He said that when they got to the Hudson Highlands, between Cornwall and Stony Point, it was the time of evening when the nightly parade of nightboats made its way upriver — the passenger and freight steamers bound for Kingston, Saugerties, Catskill and Hudson, Albany and Troy, as well as tow after tow.  That was when the Hudson River was really busy with waterborne traffic.

Bill went on to tell me the “Esopus” towed like a light scow, following the “Pokey” without any trouble at all.  They arrived in New York in the early morning and a big coastwise tug was waiting for them at Pier 1, North River, to tow the “Esopus” out Long Island Sound.  The orders from the Cornell office were for the “Pocahontas” to stay with the tow up the East River through Hell Gate and then call the Cornell office for further orders.  After passing through the Gate, the "Pocahontas” let go, saluted the "Esopus" three times and returned to the Hudson.
 
After that, I never knew for sure what became of the “Esopus.” It would be nice to be able to say she had a distinguished career in war and a long, profitable one in peace.  Ships like the “Esopus,” however, had been an emergency measure.  World War I was over before she saw much service and apparently they found little use in the years that followed.  It is my understanding the “Esopus” was the only one of the four to be built on Island Dock that was completed.  Her sister, the “Catskill,” was launched but never finished, and construction of the other two was stopped and they were dismantled. 
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In the 1920’s and early 30’s there used to be ships like the “Esopus” in the backwaters of New York harbor lying on flats and abandoned, but I never saw any names on them.  Gradually they rotted away with only a few watersoaked timbers remaining.  If one of these should have been the bones of the “Esopus,” it would have been a sad end for a ship that was cheered by some 15,000 people when she was launched on Rondout Creek nearly 60 years before.

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On the night of Sept. 17, 1919 —53 years ago tonight — the steamboat “Point Comfort" ran aground on Esopus Island and became a total loss.  Her wreck remained there until it was finally removed in the early 1930's.  On the night of the accident, the steamer had been bound for Catskill and her presence on the river was due to a great reduction in service by the Catskill Evening Line. 
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The Catskill Evening Line was one of the first of the Hudson River steamboat companies to run into financial difficulties.  In early 1916, control of the steamboat line was acquired by the Hudson River Day Line, which operated the company until the end of the 1917 season.  During 1916 the Line's passenger steamers "Onteora’’ and “Clermont” ran to Troy and in 1919 were layed up, one steamer at Catskill and the other at Athens. 

The Catskill Evening Line did remain in business at a greatly reduced level, operating a single freight steamer — the “Storm King.” Some businessmen at Catskill, however, were dissatisfied with the service.  They wanted service every night, which the "Storm King" by herself could not do.  The group of businessmen banded together and chartered a steamboat from the Keansburgh Steamboat Company in New York harbor called the “Point Comfort."

The “Point Comfort’’ had originally been named the “Nantucket" and had been built in 1886 for the route between New Bedford, Woods Hole, Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket.  She operated on that route for 26 years, year round, and she had a reputation of being a very good boat in salt water ice.  In 1913 she was purchased by the Keansburgh Steamboat Company, which changed her name to “Point Comfort” and — until 1919 — she was operated in and around New York harbor.  

A Trim Sidewheeler
When purchased by her new owners in 1913, her second deck was extended out to the bow stem and other alterations were made to the steamer.  She was a trim looking sidewheeler, looking somewhat like the Hudson River steamer “Jacob H. Tremper," with about the same speed. 
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When the “Point Comfort” was chartered by the Catskill people in September 1919, she made one round trip to Catskill before her fatal accident.  On her second trip, on Sept. 17, 1919, she left New York with a large load of sugar and other freight for Catskill and Athens. 

As told to me by a man who was on board the “Point Comfort” that fateful night, the day was one of those of late summer that had been very clear, the sun warm, but quite cool in the shade.  On such a day, rivermen usually predict that after midnight banks of fog will start to appear where creeks run into the river and around flats. 
When the “Point Comfort” left the harbor, the other river night boats were also underway for Albany and Troy and the Central Hudson steamers to Newburgh, Poughkeepsie and Kingston.  Being much faster, they soon left the “Point Comfort” astern. 

As it was related to me, banks of fog were encountered in the Highlands north of West Point and the night turned very cool.  At first, the pilot house crew of the “Point Comfort" thought they would tie up at the recreation pier at Newburgh.  At Newburgh, however, the weather cleared and they decided to keep on going.  When they reached Crum Elbow, the steamer ran into another fog bank and they thought about tying up at the Hyde Park steamboat dock.  The river, though, was up to its old tricks and off Hyde Park it again cleared.  They keep going. 

Off Esopus Island the “Point Comfort" again ran into fog.  About a half mile above the island, a decision was made to turn around and go back to Hyde Park until the fog lifted, since a good echo from a steam whistle is hard to get on going around Esopus Lighthouse, the lighthouse being so far from shore.  On turning around in the fog, on board the steamboat they thought it was still flood tide.  Instead it was slack water. 
On the way back down the river, it was the intention of the men in the “Point Comfort's” pilot house to pass to the west of Esopus Island.  Because of the slack water, they were further downstream than they thought.  They were also too far to the east.  Going along at about 10 miles per hour reduced speed, the steamer piled up on the rocky reef just off the north end of the island.  At the time they were headed due south.  When the steamboat's stern settled in deep water and the ebb tide started to run, the tide turned her so bow pointed east, as if she had been going across the river instead of down stream. 

No one was injured in the mishap and the crew put over a life boat and rowed to Hyde Park.  The ‘‘Point Comfort" lay in the position she ran aground and her wooden superstructure gradually disintegrated.  Parts of it were removed by salvage men, some of it was later burned and the rest was chewed away by drifting winter ice. 
The “Point Comfort’s” boiler, remains of the engine and paddle wheels remained on the rocky ledge until about 1930.  It was right off "Rosemont," the estate of the late Judge Alton B. Parker at Esopus, and was a recognized eyesore.  At that time, Mrs. Parker wrote a letter to Franklin D. Roosevelt, then Governor of New York State, to ask if something could be done to remove the remains of the wreck.  He was able to influence the Army Corps of Engineers to take action on the request.  Gov. Roosevelt's reply to Mrs. Parker is, I believe, in the Governor's Room of the Senate House Museum on Fair Street. 

The Army Engineers removed the visible remains of the wreck of the “Point Comfort” and took them up to the Erie Barge Canal.  There they were dumped behind Lock 10 at Cranesville, far from the salt water those old paddle wheels had churned in summer and winter on the old “Nantucket's” trips between Nantucket and the mainland of New England.  Still today, at very low water, one can see parts of her old strong ribs, part of the keel and iron rods from her spars rusting away between the rocks on the north end of Esopus Island.

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 September 3, 1972.

Today, when there are only two passenger vessels operating on the lower Hudson River during the summer months, it is difficult to realize how many passenger steamboats were once in operation on all parts of the river.  It is even more difficult to realize there were once so many passengers that at times extra steamboats on the same run were necessary to handle the crowds.

When I was a deckhand on the Day Liner "Albany" during the seasons of 1928 and 1929, the Hudson River Day Line operated a fleet of seven steamboats with a total passenger capacity in excess of 25,000.  On weekends and holidays it was not unusual to see all seven steamers loaded to full or near capacity.  Since the "Albany" was then the oldest Day Liner in service and had one of the smaller passenger capacities, she was often used as the extra steamer on the regular runs.

Labor Day weekend in particular was always a big weekend with especially large crowds.  In those days, many families still spent the summer in the Catskill Mountains and it seemed that during those first few days in September everybody would try to return to New York City at the same time.

Carrying the Crowds
On Labor Day weekend 1928, the "Albany" left New York on Saturday at 1:30 p.m. to help carry the crowds leaving the city for the last big weekend of summer.  After making all the regular landings, we landed at Catskill at about 8:30 in the evening.  There, we were to lay overnight and precede the regular down steamer from Albany on Sunday to carry the big crowds returning to the city from Catskill and Kingston Point.  

I remember that early September Sunday morning at Catskill Point almost as if it were yesterday.  When I came out of the foc’s’le, the up river air seemed so fresh after being in New York for a month or so.  The smell of the flats at low water was just like being home.

The fog banks of September were rising over the river.  I could hear a boat’s whistle blowing one long and two short, meaning a tow was coming down.  As the sound of the whistle got louder, I recognized it as the whistle of the Cornell tugboat "Osceola." 
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As I looked out on the river, I caught a glimpse of the “Osceola" just above Catskill Point between one of the banks of fog.  She had brick scows, cement barges, canal boats and a small schooner in the tow, strung out astern on about 450 feet of cable.  The tug “George W. Pratt" was the helper and pulling alongside the tow.

A Strange Scene
As I stood on the deck of the "Albany," the scene assumed a strange look, for suddenly I couldn’t see the “Osceola" or the tail end of the tow.  The fog banks closed in on both ends, leaving only the middle of the tow exposed to view.  As a good ebb tide was running, it did not take long for the tow to be lost out of sight down river.

When the morning sun cut the fog away and the river cleared about 7:30 a.m., there was nothing in sight either way up or down the river.  Later in the morning after leaving Catskill, the “Albany” overtook the “Osceola” and her tow down off Saugerties.
 
We preceded the regular down boat, the "Alexander Hamilton," landing at Kingston Point, Poughkeepsie and Newburgh about 15 minutes ahead of the "Hamilton," the two steamers being necessary to handle the large crowds returning to the big city.
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The next day, Labor Day, we were the regular up boat to Albany since the big crowds were all going down river.  To give an idea of the large crowds, that Labor Day there were three departures from Kingston Point for New York - the “Alexander Hamilton" at 12:40 p.m., the “Hendrick Hudson” at 1 p.m. and the “Robert Fulton" at 3 p.m.  That night the “Hendrick Hudson” dead headed back to Catskill and the next day, Tuesday, preceded the old “Albany” to New York, two steamers again being required to adequately handle all the passengers returning to New York.

Unusual Caper
On Labor Day weekend in 1930 occurred an incident to the “Hendrick Hudson” which turned out to be just about the only unusual caper of her long, virtually accident free career.  As was the general practice of the late 1920’s, on that Labor Day the “Hudson” was the regular down boat for New York and the "Albany" the regular up steamer.  After arriving at New York, the “Hendrick Hudson" was to dead head back to Albany so as to make her large passenger capacity of 5,500 available for the still large crowds expected on Tuesday.
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Going north the weather was hazy and on the upper river there were patches of fog.  North of Hudson the river is quite narrow.  Running through the fog banks, the pilot on watch apparently kept too close to the west bank and the "Hendrick Hudson” ran hard aground on the sandy bottom just below Van Wie’s Point — only about five miles from her destination.  Unable to back off under her own power, she was pulled free at high water on Tuesday by the Cornell tugboats "Pocahontas" and “W. A. Kirk.” She then went back to New York, but too late to be of any help for the waiting passengers.

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 July 17, 1977.

​In the long ago days of Hudson River steamboating, almost every city and larger village along the river had its own steamboat line to New York. Each line would have at least two boats to maintain daily service — each boat going down one day and back the next. 

The steamers of the lines north of Newburgh were known as night boats, since 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, and on the deck above were staterooms which offered sleeping accommodations for passengers. 

Generally, travelling on the night boats was an extremely pleasant way to make a journey to or from New York. The river was always attractive in the evening and almost always one could count on a good night’s sleep. The exceptions were when the steamer ran into fog and the pilot had to blow the boat’s whistle, or if one had a stateroom right next to the paddle wheels. 

Saugerties was one of those towns that had its own steamboat service. The company’s name was the Saugerties and New York Steamboat Company and it was operated by mostly hometown men. During its last 20 years or so of service it was promoted (and known) to the travelling public as the Saugerties Evening Line. 
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Shortly after World War I, the outfit had two small, smart sidewheelers named “Ulster” and “Ida.” On one particular trip the Ulster left Pier 43, North river, in New York at her regular time. She had freight for all her landings, which in those days were at Hyde Park, Rhinecliff, Barrytown, Ulster Landing and Tivoli. She ended her journey at Saugerties. Most of her staterooms were also occupied.  

She made very good time until she reached Crum Elbow, just south of Hyde Park, when it started to get foggy. At the time, she was overtaking the Catskill Line freighter Storm King. Of course, the fog signals had to be sounded on both steamers. A Cornell tow was also on its way down the river, blowing the one-long-and-two-short whistle signal - indicating they had a tow underway. The helper tug back on the tow, as a matter of courtesy, was also blowing its whistle, since it was back a good 500 feet from the towing tug. 

What a racket of steam whistles that must have been in those early morning hours off Hyde Park! I suppose Franklin D. Roosevelt, if he was at home, the Vanderbilts and the great naturalist John Burroughs were awakened by all those steamboat whistles. Then, on top of all that, the big night boats out of Albany and Troy came along, sounding their whistles in the fog. 

The passengers on the Ulster sure had a tough time trying to sleep. Some were up complaining about all the whistling. Others just stayed in their staterooms and put up with it. Then, a short while later after things got reasonably quiet again, came the landing at Rhinecliff with the organized confusion of unloading freight. There would be the sound of the hand freight trucks going on and off the gangplank, and the mate sounding off to 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. However, off Astor’s tunnel they met a canal tow which was crossways in the channel and this caused more whistle blowing. After the tow was cleared came the landing at Barrytown with the noise of the freight trucks and an argument between two freight handlers, which was brought to a stop by the authoritarian voice of the mate. 

The Ulster then headed across the river to Ulster Landing. As was the custom on the night boats, a hallman would knock on the door of the stateroom of a passenger getting off at a particular landing about 10 minutes before docking, and announce the landing. Sometimes, a passenger would have to listen pretty closely, for some of the hallmen were like some of the conductors on the old West Shore Railroad — they had an odd way of pronouncing the names of the stations or landings. 

In any event, the hallman knocked on the door of the stateroom of an Ulster Landing passenger and called out, “Ulster Landing, Ulster Landing.” A lady passenger bound for Saugerties, in a stateroom or two away, also heard the knocking and the announcement “Ulster Landing.” After all the whistle blowing since Hyde Park and the noise at Rhinecliff and Barrytown, she in all probability had been sleeping fitfully and in her half-awake state thought the knock was at her door. 

When the lady heard the announcement “Ulster Landing," she may have reasoned that she was on the Ulster, and if the steamer was landing it was time to get off. In any event, 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 gangplank was put out, she walked ashore. 

There was very little freight for Ulster Landing, so the gangplank was taken in and the Ulster was on her way for Tivoli in but a few moments. As the steamer disappeared into the fog, it must have come as a rude shock to the lady to find herself virtually alone:on a-river dock before dawn. It sure wasn’t Saugerties!

After the Ulster left the dock, there was only one kerosene lantern for light and everything was so dark and still. The only other person around was the dockmaster who was an elderly man and very hard of hearing. He got all shook up with this well dressed lady alone in the freight shed. Finally, she got him to understand the mistake she had made. The dockmaster then got a chair for her to sit in until daylight, when he got a friend of his with a horse and wagon to take her on to Saugerties. 
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I often wondered if she ever made the trip to Saugerties again by steamboat.