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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 Contributing Scholar Carl Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article was originally published February 13, 1972. Back in 1929 when I was a deckhand on the steamer “Albany” of the Hudson River Day Line, I thought maybe I’d like to go quartermaster on one of the boats of the Saugerties Evening Line. I walked from the 42nd Street Pier of the Day Line down to Pier 43, North River, at the foot of Christopher Street—where the Saugerties boat would be tied up during the day. I wanted to talk to an old friend of my brother’s from their days on the “Onteora.’’ He was pilot on the steamer ‘‘Robert A. Snyder” and his name was Harry Grough. As we sat in the Snyder’s pilot house talking and looking out over the harbor, we could hear all kinds of steam whistles from all sorts of floating equipment— including tugboats, ferries, ocean liners and sidewheel steamboats. I told him I thought I would like a quartermaster’s position if one was open. Captain Absent He said I would have to see, the captain, Richard Heffernan. The captain, however, was not aboard that afternoon as he had gone downtown to get the boat’s papers renewed, and would not be back until just before sailing time. Harry said to me, “If I were young like you, Bill, I would go over to Jersey and get a job on the railroad tugs. That’s where the business is. This business is dying out every day.” Then, we went down on the freight deck. Harry said, “Look, here it is almost 3:30 p.m. and we only have a few boxes and bags on board. A few years ago at this time, this deck would have been piled right up to the carlings with all kinds of freight.” Harry continued, “Tonight, we’ll be lucky if we have a half dozen passengers. The passengers used to start to come on board at 2 p.m. and, by now, the staterooms would be sold out. Tonight, you could take your pick of almost anyone you’d want. This Line can’t go on like this very long. When the company doesn’t make a dollar, then we don’t have a job either. No, Bill, you will be better off going on the tugboats.” He Was Right Over the years, I found out for myself Harry was right. The Saugerties Evening Line boats were the ‘‘Robert A. Snyder’’ and the ‘‘Ida.” Every night, one would leave Saugerties, sail out Saugerties Creek and make landings at Tivoli, Barrytown, Rhinecliff and Hyde Park on its sail to New York. When the “Snyder” and “Ida” were operating back in those long ago days, every night at about 7:30 of 8 p. m. one would hear one or the other blow three long whistles for the Rhinecliff landing to take on freight and passengers. Between 1 and 2 a.m. in the lonely morning hours the up boat would be heard blowing her whistle for Jim Conroy, the dock master at Rhinecliff, to take its lines. To the tugboatmen, the night boats were like old friends. During the long night and early morning hours, it was indeed pleasant to see the night boats approaching in the distance and hear the slap, slap of their paddle wheels in the stillness of the night. A Glittering Crown Then, as they passed by, they would often blow a low salute on their whistle. As they faded into the night, their deck and cabin lights would blend into a glittering crown of light reflecting on the water. I remember on several occasions Dan McDonald, the pilot on the “Osceola,” telling me how he would be coming down river with a large tow off Germantown, and on a clear night look down the river at about 3 a.m. and see one of the Saugerties boats coming up off Crugers Island; then turn and show her green starboard light as she went into Saugerties Creek. He would remark how nice it must have been at that hour to get tied up and go to your room in the pilot house block and sleep until you felt like getting up and then look out on the quiet and peaceful dock at the fine little village of Saugerties. No worries about morning fog, how the tow was going to follow, or old leaky brick or stone scows in the tow. The “Robert A. Snyder” was layed up for good in 1931 at her dock on Saugerties Creek. As there was only enough business for one boat, the “Ida,’’ since she had a steel hull and was the younger boat, continued for one more year. Then in 1932 she was quietly layed up. Strangely, the Saugerties Evening Line, serving Saugerties and small villages on the upper Hudson, outlasted all the other night lines on the river except the big night boats to Albany. The Central Hudson Line, serving Kingston, Poughkeepsie and Newburgh went out in 1929 and the last boat of the Catskill Evening Line stopped for good in 1931. Finally, in 1932, the automobile and the Great Depression took their tolls of the last night boat from Saugerties. AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
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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 23, 1977. Tugboats in some respects are like people. Some have long lives, some short ones. Some during the course of their lifetime change greatly in appearance. And some seem to be more accident prone than others. All tugboats, especially in the old days, had their share of mishaps, which were caused by any number of things. River traffic was greater then, and there were fewer buoys, beacons and other navigational aids. It was a time of no radar, which today permits the pilot to “see” where he is in the fog, blinding snow or rain storm. In addition, of course, there were and are always those mishaps caused by human error or folly. The debacles that befell the tugboat “Hercules” of the old Cornell Steamboat Company are perhaps typical. Some of the incidents were not without a touch of humor. Others have a bit of pathos. The “Hercules” — a good name for a tug — was a member of the Cornell fleet during its heyday. She was built in 1876 and remained in active service until 1931. "Herk," as they often called her, was smaller than the large tugboats that used to pull the big flotillas of barges, but also larger that the helper tugs that regularly assisted every big tow. As a result, she was used for a lot of special tasks: towing dredges, expressing special barges or lighters, pulling steamboats from winter lay up to a shipyard, etc. "Herk" also had a reputation as an ice breaker and was used often for this purpose - particularly in the spring. To help her in the ice, she had extra stout oak planking and steel straps all around her bow. One day in the summer of 1917, the "Hercules" was running light to Rondout. Her pilot was off watch, asleep in his bunk, and the captain was dog tired. Since it was a clear summer’s day, the captain decided to grab a nap and let the deckhand steer. After he went below for his nap, a heavy thunder shower came up off Esopus Meadows lighthouse. The decky altered course, and — thinking he was on the proper heading — kept her hooked up. A few minutes later, "Herk" came to a slow stop and raised partly out of the water. When she listed, the captain woke up and ran to the pilot house. But the heavy rain was coming down in sheets. He couldn’t see a thing. All he knew for sure was that his tug was aground and the tide was falling. When the rain stopped a few hours later, the problem was obvious. The deckhand had turned too much towards the northwest, going aground directly off the old Schleede’s brickyard at Ulster Park. The “Hercules” had plowed right over the Esopus Meadows, coming to rest with her bow on the north bank and her stern on the south bank, straddling the cut channel between the Meadows and the brickyard. The tide was ebbing and, unsupported as she was in the middle, her crew was afraid the Herk would either break her back or roll over on her side. But as the water fell, she listed only a trifle and sat there— just as she had run aground. “Herk" must have been made of good stuff to stand that ordeal. The next high tide, Cornell sent down the tugs “Harry", “G. C. Adams” and “Wm. S. Earl” and pulled her off, none the worse for the experience. The deckhand who put her there lived in Port Ewen. For years afterward, he took a lot of ribbing for trying to put his tug up in his own backyard. Two years later — in 1919 — the “Hercules" had another mishap. For this one, her pilot was fired. At that time, "Herk" was expressing a coal boat from New York to Cornwall. She was off Jones Point at about 1:30 in the morning, when the pilot, who used to so some fishing, said to the deckhand, “Steer her a little while. I’m going down to the galley and knit on my fish nets.” While the pilot knitted, the decky dozed off at the wheel, and the “Hercules” hit a rock near Fort Montgomery. It put a sizable hole in her hull, she sank in 45 feet of water. The salvage company later located her by her hawser, which was still attached to the coal boat, and floated her like a big buoy. “Herk” was raised and repaired, and she ran for another 12 years. After the accident, the president of the Cornell Steamboat Company is said to have called the pilot into his office to ask him how it happened. The pilot was truthful, telling him where he was and what he'd been doing, whereupon Cornell’s president is supposed to have said: “Well,”(calling the pilot by name),"now you can go home for the rest of your life and knit nets to your heart’s content." And he never worked on a Cornell tugboat again. In 1924, the “Hercules" had another near accident— but this one ended on a happier note. The tug was running light in the upper river on her way to Albany. It was the era before three crews manned each boat, and the captain was off for the weekend. Peter Tucker, the pilot, was in charge and standing a double watch. At the time, it was early morning and breakfast was ready. The cook claimed he had a Hudson River pilot’s license and came up to the pilot house saying, "Now Pete, go down and enjoy your bacon and eggs. I'll steer for you.” Pete said, “‘Are you sure you know the channel?", to which the cook replied, "Yes, yes I know all about it." So pilot Tucker went down to the galley to have his oatmeal, bacon and eggs. At that point, "Herk” was off the Stuyvesant upper lighthouse. A little while later, she was at the junction of the Hudson and Schodack Creek. Given a choice, the poor cook thought he was to go up the shallow Schodack, instead of west and up the Hudson. Ned Bishop, the chief engineer, came out of the galley just in time to see where they were heading. Yelling to pilot Tucker, he said, “Pete, where is this guy going?" The pilot looked out of the galley, and there they were, headed up Schodack Creek. Pete started to run up the forward stairway to the pilot house, hollering to Ned Bishop as he ran, "Full speed astern!" The chief reversed the throttle just in time. The "Hercules" slid up on the bank and right off again. If he hadn’t been so quick, "Herk" would probably be there yet. Going into the pilot house, Pete said to the cook, “I thought you knew the river." The cook (rather sheepishly) replied, "Well, that’s the way I always went.” The pilot retorted, "What’s the use? Go down and start dinner. Now!” And so ended another incident of the many in the long life of the "Hercules." AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article was originally published February 18, 1973. One day back in February of ‘36 I took a drive to Bear Mountain where the steamboats “Onteora” and “Clermont” were layed up for the winter. I planned to pay a visit to my friend John Tewbeck, who was the mate on the “Clermont” and acting as shipkeeper for the two steamboats. He had been second Mate with my brother, Algot, when Algot had been first Mate of the “Onteora” back in 1921. It was an overcast day and looked as if a snow storm might be in the making. Sure enough, after I arrived aboard the “Clermont” about 2 p.m., it started to snow. John had to go on an errand to Highland Falls and suggested I wait until he returned. After he left, I took a walk around the two steamboats, all dark and still in their winter hibernation. As I stood in the silent, cold pilot house of the “Onteora” I couldn’t help but think how it must have been there in the day when the “Onty” was new, back at the turn of the century, and running for the old Catskill Evening Line to Catskill, Hudson, Coxsackie and other up river landings. I could almost see the ghosts of Captain Ben Hoff and the Pilots and quartermaster during the early morning hours discussing the political events of the day, as pilot house crews are wont to do. Perhaps talking about Teddy Roosevelt’s campaigns against Judge Alton B. Parker in 1904 and in 1912 against Wilson and Taft. Boyhood Memories Then my thoughts wandered to the early 1920’s when the “Onteora” had been converted to an excursion steamer and was running between New York and Bear Mountain. How as a little boy I would visit my brother and be sitting enthralled in that same pilot house. On one such visit, I remembered looking out the port windows and seeing the steamer “Poughkeepsie” of the Central Hudson Line running up river at about the same speed as the “Onteora,” getting a little too close. And Captain Hoff saying “Come on, Amos (meaning Captain Amos Cooper of the “Poughkeepsie”), get over there.” Now, however, all was still and quiet in the pilot house and the only sound was a train on the New York Central going up the east side of the river at the foot of Anthony’s Nose. How the steam would “siss” across the cold, icy river. I then leisurely walked back on the “Clermont” and went through her cold, silent engine room. The bright work and moving parts of her engine were all covered with black grease as protection against the onslaught of winter’s rust. Up in her pilot house, it sure was cold with the snow falling outside. The brass was all tarnished and dark. By that time, dusk was falling and the now was coming down heavier. I couldn’t even make out the Bear Mountain bridge or the aero beacon on top of the Nose. John Tewbeck came back and said, “Well, Bill I guess you will have to stay here tonight as the roads are very slippery.” So I stayed aboard the “Clermont” all night. On the second deck, in one of her former staterooms on the port side, John had two cots and a small stove. Rattling Windows During the night, how the wind rattled her windows and how the “Clermont” creaked and groaned as she tugged on her mooring lines. It was very snug and comfortable that winter’s night in the “Clermont’s” cabin with the reassuring dull red glow from the coal fire in the small stove. How nice and warm it was to lay in bed and dimly see the lights up in Bear Mountain Park and the snow plows going along the highways very slow with their red lights blinking their warning signals. About 3 a.m. I woke up and dressed. John, somewhat taken aback, said, “Where are you going at this hour?” I answered, “I’m going to take a walk around the boat to see how it is this hour of the morning in a snowstorm.” After giving me his flashlight, which I took, John said, “I guess there is only one Benson like you in this world.” I replied. “Well, I will never again have this opportunity to stay all night and walk around a passenger boat tied up at Bear Mountain, so I thought I’d take advantage of it.” John retorted, “Well, Bill, enjoy yourself, while I sleep in this warm bed.” Cold on Deck I went out on deck. It was bitter cold, but the snow had lightened up considerable. I could now clearly see the Bear Mountain highway bridge and the aero light atop the Nose. How different the river looked all full of ice and snow. I went up to the dark, still pilot house of the “Clermont.” There was something about it that drew me there. Although it was very cold, I couldn’t help but think of how it must have been in that pilot house in seasons past when the steamboat was alive. Things were all hustle and bustle with passengers out on the decks, and perhaps the “Clermont” might be going into Stockport on a warm summer's morning with all the pilot house windows and doors open to catch the warm breezes. Finally, the cold brought my thoughts back to the present and that warm bed and coal stove on the second deck. John was fast asleep and in a few moments so was I. About 7 a.m. I awoke to the aroma of freshly brewing coffee and frying ham and eggs. It was indeed pleasant to eat breakfast by the warm fire and look out on the snow covered park with the sun shining brightly. Recalling That Night About 10 a.m. I left for home. After that I went to visit John a number of times, but never again did I stay overnight. In 1946 he died of a heart attack and the “Clermont” herself was broken up in 1949. A number of times in years later when going by Bear Mountain on cold and stormy nights, I would think about that night in February 1936 and recall my pleasant winter visit to the layed up steamboats. I remember an editorial that once appeared in the old New York Herald Tribune when the Day Liner “Washington Irving” was finally sold for scrapping. The writer observed that of all inanimate objects, ships and steamboats seemed to be endowed with a life of their own and have friends. I know the truth of the writer’s words, for this was my feeling for the “Clermont” and “Onteora.” AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article was originally published June 11, 1972. On June 15, 1904 occurred one of the worst steamboat disasters of all time. On that sunny June morning, he New York harbor excursion steamer “General Slocum” caught fire and burned in the East River with a resulting loss of life of 1,021 people. The “General Slocum” was built in 1891 at Brooklyn to run between New York City and Rockaway Beach. She later ran as an excursion steamer on the Hudson River and Long Island sound, and — at the time — was the largest excursion steamboat out of New York. From time to time, she was chartered by local Ulster County groups and carried excursions out of Rondout Creek. On the day of the disaster, the “General Slocum” had been chartered by the Sunday School and members of the congregation of St. Mark’s German Lutheran Church of New York for an excursion to Locust Grove on Long Island. The vessel left a pier at the foot of East Third Street, Manhattan, shortly before 10 a.m. and proceeded up the East River. A Cabin Ablaze Off 97th Street, some of the deckhands on the lower deck observed wisps of smoke coming from the forward part of the vessel. Instead of notifying the captain, they tried to find the cause, apparently thinking they could put out the fire if there was one. They went below and found a cabin ablaze. Coming back on deck, they got the mate who immediately sent word to the captain and started to fight the fire. By this time the fire was beginning to gain momentum and spread. The East River, at the point where the fire was discovered, is deep and filled with treacherous tidal currents. The captain, William H. Van Schaick, thought his best course would be to reach shallow water and ordered the pilot to head at full speed for North Brother Island, approximately a mile ahead. The fire, unfortunately, spread rapidly, fanned by a breeze blowing from the north and the steamer’s speed through the water. Many passengers became panic stricken as everyone tried to crowd to the rear of the vessel away from the burning forward part of the steamboat. To add to the dire chain of events surrounding the tragedy, the steamer — on reaching North Brother Island — grounded forward. Her stern, however, where all the passengers were crowded, was still in water 30 feet deep. Many passengers, thinking the entire steamer was in shallow water, jumped overboard and were drowned. Due to the huge loss of life, the disaster naturally caused a great public furor and led to several investigations. There was strong criticism of the adequacy of the life saving and fire fighting equipment aboard the steamboat. As a result of the investigations, Captain Van Schaick was sentenced to prison. Almost all boatmen felt the captain was unjustly made a scapegoat for the resulting tragedy, instead of the owners of the steamer or the effectiveness of the life saving and fire fighting equipment then required — and the inspections of it by government inspectors. Suffered Injuries Captain Van Schaick was severely burned as a result of the fire and his eyesight was permanently damaged by the intense heat of the flames as he vainly sought to direct efforts to combat the holocaust. When he was sentenced to prison, he was sent to Sing Sing at Ossining. At that time, the State was building what is now Bear Mountain Park operated by the Palisades Interstate Park Commission. Some of the inmates of Sing Sing were used for cutting down trees, and other work. Al Walker, who later was a captain of Cornell tugboats, was then captain of a little steamboat used to carry prisoners back and forth between Sing Sing and the new park. Captain Van Schaick was one of the prisoners who was sent to the park to do what he could. Al told me he would always take Captain Van Schaick into the pilot house and let him steer or do whatever he wanted to do as, like all other steamboatmen of that day, he felt Captain Van should never have gone to prison. Captain Van Schaick eventually was pardoned by President Taft and later died at the Masonic Home at Utica in 1924. Several members of his family were also steamboatmen. A brother was a captain of steamboats of the Iron Steamboat Company, the steamboat line that ran from New York to Coney Island until 1932. Captain Arthur Van Schaick, who I believe was a nephew of the “General Slocum’s" captain, was a pilot and later captain of the "Chauncey M. Depew’’ of the Hudson River Day Line. On the ‘Sirius’ Before Captain Van Schaick became captain of the "General Slocum," he had been captain of the steamer “Sirius” of the Iron Steamboat Company. Jack Dearstyne, Sr., who was later captain of a number of Hudson River steamboats, was at that time first mate of the ‘‘Sirius." Captain Dearstyne later told me that Captain Van Schaick always used to say his one wish was to be captain of New York’s largest excursion steamer. Well, he got his wish and, as it turned out, to his great regret. AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. Learn more at the June 8, 2022 lecture by author Edward T. O'Donnell "The 1904 General Slocum Disaster: New York's Deadliest Day before 9/11" 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 May 21, 1972. On Saturday, May 19, 1928, in the early afternoon of a beautiful spring day, a collision occurred off Rondout Lighthouse between the ferryboat “Transport” and the steamer “Benjamin B. Odell” of the Central Hudson Line. At the time, I was deckhand on the steamer “Albany” of the Hudson River Day Line, helping to get her ready for the new season after her winter lay up at the Sunflower Dock at Sleightsburgh. On Saturdays, we knocked off work at 11:30 a.m. As I rowed up the creek in my rowboat to go home, the big “Odell” was still at her dock at the foot of Hasbrouck Avenue at Rondout. At 12:25 p.m. the “Odell” blew the customary three long melodious blasts on her big whistle, high on her stack, as the signal she was ready to depart. At home, eating lunch, I heard her blow one short blast promptly at 12:30 p.m. as the signal to cast off her stern line. From the Porch Following a habit of mine from a young boy, I went out on our front porch to watch her glide down the creek at a very slow pace past the Cornell shops, Donovan’s and Feeney’s boat yards, and the freshly painter [sic] “Albany.” The “Odell” looked to me like a great white bird slowly passing down the creek. At the time, I thought how in less than two weeks we would probably pass her on the “Albany” on the lower Hudson on Decoration Day, both steamers loaded with happy excursionists on the first big holiday of the new season. As the “Odell” passed Gill’s dock at Ponckhockie, I went back in the house to finish lunch. A few minutes later I heard the “Odell” blow one blast on her whistle, which was answered by the “Transport” on her way over to Rhinecliff, indicating a port to port passing. Hearing steam whistles so often in the long ago day along Rondout Creek was something one took for granted, assuming they would be heard forever. Then I heard the danger signal on the whistle of the “Transport” followed by three short blasts from the “Odell’s” whistle, indicating her engine was going full speed astern. Shortly thereafter, I could hear the “Transport” blowing the five whistle signal of the Cornell Steamboat Company of 2 short, 2 short, 1 short, meaning we need help immediately. I ran down to my rowboat tied up at the old Baisden shipyard, and looked down the creek. I could see the “Transport” limping in the creek very slowly, her bow down in the water, and her whistle blowing continuously for help. I also noticed several automobiles on her deck. Looking over the old D. & H. canal boats that were deteriorating on the Sleightsburgh flats, I could see the top of the “Odell” stopped out in the river. After a few minutes, she slowly got underway and proceeded on down the river, her big black stack belching smoke, so I figured she was not hurt. Decision to Beach As the “Transport” approached the Cornell coal pocket, her captain, Rol Saulpaugh, decided to beach her on the Sleightsburgh shore. Nelson Sleight, a member of her crew, asked me to run a line over to the dock a the shipyard in the event she started to slide off the bank. I took the line and ran it from where the “Transport” grounded to the dock. In the meantime, the Cornell tugboat “Rob” came down the creek, from where she had been lying at the rear of the Cornell office at the foot of Broadway, and pushed the ferry a little higher on the bank. After taking the line ashore, I went back and asked if there was anything else I could do. Captain Saulpaugh asked me if I would row up to the ferry slip and get Joseph Butler, the ferry superintendent, and bring him over to the “Transport,” which I did. On the way over, Butler told me he had already called the Poughkeepsie and Highland Ferry Company to see if he could get one of its ferries to run in the “Transport’s” place. The afternoon about 5 p.m., the Poughkeepsie ferryboat “Brinckerhoff” arrived in the creek and began running on the Rhinecliff route. When we got back to the “Transport,” mattresses and blankets had been stuffed in the hole the “Odell” had slicked in the over-hanging guard and part of the hull. When she was patched, the “Transport,” with the “Rob’s” help, backed off the mud and entered the Roundout slip stern first - and the cars on deck were backed off. Then, the “Rob” assisted the ferry to make her way up to the C. Hiltebrandt shipyard at Connelley for repairs. There she was placed in drydock, the damage repaired, and in a week she was back in service on her old run. A Flood Tide The cause of the mishap at the mouth of the creek was a combination of a strong flood tide, a south wind and a large tow. Out in the river, the big tugboat “Osceola” of the Cornell Steamboat Company was headed down river with a large tow. She had just come down the East Kingston channel and at that moment was directly off the Rondout Lighthouse. When there is a strong flood tide, there is a very strong eddy at the mouth of the creek. The tide, helped by a south wind, sets up strong and when it hits the south dike, it forms a half moon about 75-100 feet out from the south dike and then starts to set down. As the “Odell” was leaving the creek and entering the river, the “Transport” was passing ahead of the tow, around the bow of the “Osceola.” The “Transport” probably hit the eddy caused by the flood tide. In any event, she didn’t answer her right rudder and took a dive right into the path of the “Odell.” The “Odell” couldn’t stop in time and cut into the forward end of the ferry about 6 or 8 feet. No one was hurt and there was no confusion on either boat. The “transport” bore the brunt of the bout; the only damage to the “Odell” being some scratched paint on her bow. I heard later from the Dan McDonald, pilot on the “Osceola,” that there would be the lawsuit as a result of the collision - and he had been served with a subpoena to appear as a witness. He never had to appear, however, as Captain Greenwood of the “Odell” later told me the case was settled out of court. The next year the Central Hudson Line, because of the inroads made by the automobile, went out of business. The “Benjamin B. Odell”, however, continued to run on the river for another company until February 1937 when she was destroyed by fire in winter lay up at Marlboro. The “Transport” continued running on the Rhinecliff ferry route until September 1938 when she was withdrawn from service. She was later cut down and made into a stake boat for the Cornell Steamship Company for use in New York harbor. AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article was originally published August 17, 1975. On a tugboat, the one member of the crew that seems to have more than its share of "characters" is the cook. Cooks come in all shapes, sizes and degrees of ability. When they are good, they’re worth their weight in gold. When they are not, about the only thing you can say is they cook food. One time when I was pilot of the tugboat Lion of the Cornell Steamboat Company, we had a cook who was what is known among boatmen as a “sea lawyer.’’ He was the world’s greatest expert on any subject. He was forever holding forth on one topic or another and always in an exceptionally loud voice. My room on the Lion at that time was just ahead of the galley with a very thin partition between. If anyone spoke in a loud voice in the galley it would seem it was right in the same room with you. One morning the cook was arguing with someone about something and, as usual, at the top of his voice. It was about 8 a.m. and I had been in my bunk for less than an hour, as I had been up from midnight until 6 a.m. steering my watch. I told him to pipe down. But the next morning it was the same thing. This time I didn’t say anything, but thought there must be some way to muffle this man’s voice. A morning or two later we had a tow on the upper river and about 2 a.m. I blew to the deckhand to come up in the pilot house to steer while I had a cup of coffee. After I had the coffee, I went to the cook’s room and, disguising my voice, called him. The cook in a sleepy voice said, “O.K. O.K.” Apparently, as I thought would be the case, he never bothered to look at the clock. I went back up to the pilot house and kept the deckhand engaged in conversation there. About 45 minutes later, the deckhand said, "I smell bacon frying." I said, “So do I." When the deckhand went into the galley, there was the cook making oatmeal, french toast, coffee and frying bacon. The deckhand said, ‘‘What in the devil are you doing up? Its only 3 a.m." The cook replied, “You called me didn’t you?” Then, for the first time looking at the clock, he said, "I know, that so and so Benson did that because I woke him up the past couple of mornings.” After that, if anyone talked loud in the galley, the cook would practically whisper, “Talk low. Benson will blame me for waking him up and then he’ll get me up about 2 or 3 a.m. again.” At least, for several weeks afterward, I was able to get my sleep undisturbed. In all honesty, I have to also admit that the pleasant aroma of frying bacon and brewing coffee wafting up through the open windows of the pilot house in the stillness of the early morning wasn’t bad either. AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article was originally published November 4, 1973. Now that the early morning fogs of autumn and the duck hunting season are both with us, I recall an incident in my youth when I went duck hunting and got lost in the fog. One time in my late teens in October 1927, I went down to the flats at Sleightsburgh to hunt ducks. When I got down on the shore to get my duck boat it was about 3:30 a.m., still very dark and with a heavy autumn fog. I could hear ducks quacking out around the old Rondout lighthouse, which still stood along the south dike of Rondout Creek quite a ways in from the present Creek entrance. I started out over the flats planning to follow the shore and then follow the dryed up purple loose leaf weeds to the area near the old lighthouse station. However, on my way out somehow or other I got a little too smart for my own good and lost sight of the shore line. It seemed that no matter in which direction I thought I rowed, I couldn’t find the shore. Even the ducks stopped quacking. I kept on rowing, figuring I had to end up some place. In the distance, I could hear some steamboat blowing its whistle periodically with one long blast. I would stop and listen, thinking I would hear something on shoe. There wasn’t a sound through the murk except that steamboat whistle which kept getting closer and closer. Obviously, I had rowed out into the middle of the river and was either in or near the channel. Shortly, I began to hear the thump, thump, thump – thump, thump, thump of the steamboat’s paddle wheels. I realized it was one of the Albany night boats. I wasn’t sure as to just what I should do for I certainly didn’t relish the thought of getting run down by the Albany night liner in the middle of the fog enshrouded Hudson. So I fired my shotgun into the air so I would have an empty shell to blow like a whistle. When I fired my gun, I could hear the thumping of the paddle wheels slow right down. I suppose the pilots of the steamboat knew they were close to something, but didn’t know what. I kept blowing on my empty shell, and by the sound of the steamer’s whistle. I knew they were going by me. In a few moments I could feel the steamer’s waves going by me, so I knew the danger of getting run down was past. The fog was so thick I didn’t even see the vessel’s lights. I still didn’t know which way to go, so I just sat still and drifted with the tide. After a while I could hear another steamboat blowing her fog signal. By the sound of her whistle, I recognized her as the freight steamer Storm King of the Catskill Evening Line. Her whistle, however, was quite a ways off so I knew there was no danger. About five minutes later, her little swells passed by me and I could hear both boats getting further away as they went on up river. After daylight broke I was still drifting with the ebb tide. Finally I drifted into shore alongside the remains of the old towboat Norwich, which was being broken up at lower Port Ewen. That incident taught me a lesson – never try to go out in a fog without a compass. It can be a very lonely and unnerving experience. Some years later in October of the middle 1930’s, I was pilot on the tugboat Lion of the Cornell Steamboat Company and coming down the upper Hudson with a good sized tow. It set in foggy at New Baltimore and the fog continued heavy all the way to Athens. When opposite Coxsackie at about 8 a.m. the fog was particularly dense. All of a sudden I could hear people talking and a bell ringing out in the middle of the river. So I took the megaphone and asked what it was. The reply came back it was the Queen Mary. Now, lest you think the former giant Cunarder of that name had sailed right by New York and somehow got to the upper Hudson, there was also a small diesel ferryboat – not much bigger than the old Skillypot – that carried the rather improbable name of Queen Mary. At that time, she was running back and forth between Coxsackie and Newton Hook. After the ferryboat identified herself, the voice in the fog said they were anchored on the middle ground off Coxsackie. The voice further said. “Be careful. You are going up inside Coxsackie Island.” Now, if I were to be going up inside Coxsackie Island I would have to be going in the opposite direction I was headed. I certainly knew my compass course was south and my whistle echoes were all in good order. It wasn’t me who was mixed up, it was the ferryboat. Obviously, anchored in the thick fog they had swung around with the tide and didn’t realize in what direction they were heading. I continued on and eventually ran out of the fog off Athens. I often wondered who it could have been on that ferryboat who was so balled up in his directions he was 180 degrees off in the direction he thought he was headed. But, that’s the way one can easily find himself in heavy foggy weather. Intuition is no substitute for a good compass. AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article was originally published December 16, 1973. In today’s jet age of airplane travel, and human nature being what it is, some people seem to take a perverse delight in recounting incidents where their flight — because of adverse weather conditions — was diverted to an airport other than that of their original destination, or now of delays encountered because of the energy crisis. In the simpler age of steamboat travel, there were also on occasion unforeseen delays. In that long ago era before the advent of the automobile and the airplane, virtually every trip of more than a few miles was made either by railroad or, if the destination was adjacent to navigable water, by steamboat. Travel by steamboat was generally leisurely and delightful. However, you always didn’t get to where you were going when you expected to. One such incident was related to me years ago by Captain Ed Van Woert of the Cornell tugboat “G. C. Adams.” In December 1913, Captain Van Woert had to go to New York to testify in a lawsuit being held there pertaining to damage to a schooner that occurred while being landed at Hudson some months before. He thought he would take his wife along for the trip. On this particular day, Captain Ed left the ‘‘Adams” at Athens and went home to get ready. That evening, he and his wife boarded the steamer “Onteora” of the Catskill Evening Line at Athens, expecting to be in New York the following morning. After going aboard the “Onteora” and getting their stateroom, they had a leisurely supper in the steamer’s dining room. After eating, Captain Ed said to his wife, “I guess I'll go up in the pilot house awhile and talk to my friend the pilot.”’ At this point, the “Onty” was approaching the landing at Cheviot and a snow storm had set in. On leaving Cheviot, the "Onteora" headed for County Island to get over in the main channel. The snow storm had increased in intensity and visibility had decreased almost to zero. The pilot held her on the west course a little bit too long and she went hard aground just north of County Island, with her bow in about five feet of water and her stern in deep water. They backed and backed, but she wouldn’t come off. The tide was falling and at daybreak the next morning the "Onteora" was still hard aground. Captain Van Woert and his wife got off in a small boat and after being rowed to shore, walked through two feet of snow to the nearest railroad station to catch a train for New York. The “Onteora” got herself off on the next high tide and was back on her run — although nearly 12 hours late — none the worse for her mishap. Another incident that took place about the same period, although this time during the summer, was related to me by my old friend George W. Murdock, an old time Hudson River steamboat engineer who died at his home in Ponckhockie in 1940, well into his eighties. On a Saturday summer’s afternoon, Mr. Murdock boarded the “William F. Romer” at her New York pier for the run to Kingston. At that time, the “Romer" of the New York to Rondout night line regularly would leave New York on Saturday in the early afternoon and arrive at Rondout in the early evening. Mr. Murdock’s brother-in-law, Joel Rightmyer of Ponckhockie, was the “Romer's" pilot. On this particular trip, the “Romer” was bucking a strong ebb tide from the time she left her New York pier. The wind, like it so often does during the summer, was blowing straight up river out of the south. Worse yet, what breeze there was was blowing at about the same velocity as the “Romer’s" speed through the water, so that while underway the “Romer’s” flags hung limp on their poles. Underway, it was hot, humid, virtually airless and, because of the strong ebb tide, the steamer was running later and later with each passing hour. Past the Palisades and up through Tappan Zee and Haverstraw Bay, the “Romer” plodded her way up river. It wasn’t much of a day for steamboating. Finally, the "Romer" reached the Hudson Highlands and as she approached the landing at West Point, Mr. Murdock noticed a West Shore passenger train chuffing away from Highland Falls. He decided to leave the steamer and catch the train for the rest of his trip to Rondout, As he was leaving the steamboat, Mr. Murdock said to his brother-in-law, “Joel, I don’t think you'll get to Kingston by nightfall." Replied Pilot Rightmyer, “Well, George, if we don’t get there today, we’ll get there tomorrow.” Mr. Murdock boarded the train at West Point, thinking he’d get home well ahead of the steamer. However, as luck would have it, there was a freight train stuck on the West Park hill where the tracks make their incline from the river and head inland. His train, on the same track as the freight, stood on the tracks for what seemed like an eternity in the hot summer air. Finally another locomotive was sent down from Kingston and got the freight train ahead moving. Eventually, Mr. Murdock got to Kingston and took the trolley car for Rondout. As he was walking up Abruyn Street to his home in Ponckhockie, he glanced over his shoulder — just in time to see the top deck of the “William F. Romer” gliding past on her way in Rondout Creek to her berth on Ferry Street! During the 1950’s the Cunard Line had a great slogan — “Getting there is half the fun.” Generally it was. Sometimes, though, as it is in all forms of travel, the fraction was wrong. AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article originally published July 4, 1976. When I was pilot and captain of the tugboat “Callanan No. 1” from 1946 until 1954, we had a steward by the name of Ed Carpenter from Port Ewen. In addition to being the best cook on the river, he was also an excellent story teller. On more than one occasion, he would recall the summer months of 1910 when Halley’s Comet was streaking through the heavens. He would also recall the days of another generation when the natural ice business was a big employer of men along the Hudson. At the time when Halley’s Comet was at its most spectacular, Ed Carpenter was cook on a repair barge of the Knickerbocker Ice Company by the name of “Beverwick.” During the summer of 1910, the “Beverwick” was tied up at the old ice house dock on Rattlesnake Island, just north of Coxsackie. Ed would relate how, night after night, he and other members of the ice house gang would sit on deck and watch with awe as Halley’s Comet would go through the skies. Apparently, the comet had a fiery tail that never failed to amaze the comet watchers. A more earthly sight that also enthralled the comet fans was the passage of the big Albany night boats — the “Adirondack” and the “C.W. Morse,” the largest steamboats on the river. Along the upper reaches of the Hudson, where the river is so narrow, they, too, were a particularly impressive sight. In the narrow channel the huge steamers would dwarf everything else. As they glided past with their hundreds of electric lights, their names spelled out in large electric signs on their hurricane decks, and their search lights probing the darkness of the night, they would appear to be one of mankind's most wondrous achievements. After the Albany night boat would pass from sight, Ed would turn in for a night’s rest, for it was up at 3:30 a.m. to start the hearty breakfast for the men working at the ice house, loading the ice barges for the New York market. In those days, before the invention of the home electric refrigerator, almost everyone used ice. And most of the ice for the New York City area would come from the Hudson River north of Poughkeepsie. A traveller on the upper Hudson would never be out of sight of an ice house — those huge wooden structures with double walls filled with sawdust that housed the winter’s harvest. The ice harvest would follow a fixed and then familiar pattern. In the fall of the year, after pulling ice wagons through the streets of New York all summer, the ice company’s horses would be herded to the New York piers where they would board a steamboat to the upper Hudson ice houses. There they would be stationed until needed on the ice. Once the river froze over, generally in January, the ice harvest would begin. Large numbers of men, usually boatmen layed off for the winter months, would be hired. The horses would then be put to work and used to pull plows to scrape off the snow covering the ice, pull the markers to lay out the ice field, and to help pull the cut ice through the ice channels to the ice house elevators. During a good winter, the same ice field might be harvested several times in order to fill the ice house. In the spring of the year, the horses would go back to New York by steamboat to resume their summer job of pulling the ice wagons through the city streets. The ice itself would all be transported to New York by ice barges and a gang of men would be employed at the ice houses to load the barges. An ice barge was somewhat like a floating box. The ice would be loaded on the inside of the box — the barge's hold — so that as much of the barge as possible, when loaded, would be set low in the water to use the lower river temperatures to keep the ice melting to a minimum. A river watcher could always spot an ice barge for it would invariably have a wind mill atop the barge. The wind mill served the practical purpose of operating the barge’s pumps to pump overboard the water from the melting ice as the barge was towed down river. There would be tows on the river during the summer that would consist solely of dozens of nested ice barges. The electric refrigerator and artificial ice making brought the natural ice industry to an abrupt end. The ice barges soon disappeared from the scene. The huge ice houses gradually passed from the river's banks. Some were torn down, others burned to the ground in rather impressive conflagrations, and a very few survived until the 1940’s for the growing of mushrooms. Like Halley’s Comet, the natural ice industry was a great show while it lasted. AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
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 18, 1974. During the 1920's, every Sunday from late May until early September, the steamer “Homer Ramsdell" of the Central Hudson Line offered an excursion from Kingston to New York. Leaving Rondout at 6:30 a.m., she would make landings at Poughkeepsie and Newburgh and arrive in New York at her pier at the foot of Franklin Street at 1 p.m. Returning, she would leave New York at 4:30 p.m. and get back to Kingston at 11 p.m. In those days of long ago, the Sunday excursions on the “Homer Ramsdell” were very popular with residents of the mid-Hudson valley and many Kingston families made this day long sail on the Hudson an annual event. In July of 1924, as a boy of 15, my father took me on one of these excursions. To a boy who thought the greatest thing in the world was a steamboat, the excursion was a memorable experience. I made a note of every steamer we passed and in retrospect it is difficult to believe there were once so many steamboats in operation on the Hudson. After leaving Rondout on that sunny Sunday morning a half a century ago, the first steamer we met was the “Poughkeepsie” of the Central Hudson Line, off Staatsburgh. She was coming up on her way to Kingston, having left New York the night before. Landing at Poughkeepsie, I saw the ferryboat “Gove Winthrop” going into her Poughkeepsie slip and her running mate “Rinckerhoff" [Brinckerhoff?] landing at Highland. After we left Poughkeepsie, we saw very few boats as it was too early in the morning. At Newburgh, the old ferryboat "City of Newburgh” was just coming over from Beacon and as we passed Cornwall we overtook the "Perseverance” of the Cornell Steamboat Company going down with the down tow of about forty loaded scows and barges. The Cornell tugs “Victoria” and ‘‘Hercules” were helping on the tow. When passing West Point, the ferry “Garrison” was going over the river to her namesake landing. Down off Grassy Point, the graceful “Hendrick Hudson” of the Day Line went by on her way to Albany and looked as if she were almost loaded to her passenger capacity of 5,500. Off Croton Point, the brand new “Alexander Hamilton” went past on her way to Kingston Point — and just below Hook Mountain the “DeWitt Clinton” was going up river bound for Poughkeepsie. Not too far behind her was the “Albany,” probably going to Indian Point. In slightly over an hour we had passed four Day Liners. Then came the Bear Mountain steamer “Clermont.” By that time we were off Tarrytown. Looking down the river on that clear day, one could see all the way down to New York harbor and could see everywhere all kinds of passenger steamboats and yachts coming up the river. I was eagerly peering ahead to see if I could find my favorite, the “Benjamin B. Odell.” Sure enough, there she was coming up river with a big bone in her teeth, flags flying and black smoke pouring out of her big black smokestack. The "Odell" was overtaking the “Rensselaer” of the Albany Night Line — and had just passed the propellor “Ossining” and the sidewheeler ‘‘Sirius" of the Iron Steamboat Company. As she sped by the “Ramsdell", she blew one long blast salute on her whistle. The white steam from her whistle ascending skyward and the big red house flag of the Central Hudson Line with the white letters “C.H.,” briskly flapping in the breeze from the flag staff in back of her pilot house, made a very impressive scene. After we had passed this cluster of steamboats, along came the “Benjamin Franklin” of the Yonkers Line, closely followed by the Day Liner “Robert Fulton" on her way to Newburgh. We then passed the ‘‘Mandalay" headed up river. With her ferry boat-like bow, she was a nice looking steamer. Below Hastings, a tow in charge of the Cornell tugboats “Geo. W. Washburn” and “Senator Rice" was on its way up river. The “Washburn” blew a long salute to the "Ramsdell." Down off Yonkers, the speedy “Monmouth” of the Jersey Central Railroad and the Central Hudson steamer “Newburgh” were coming up, loaded with passengers for a day's outing up the river. When we landed at 129th Street, I couldn't help but wonder how many people had boarded boats at that pier that morning. It must have been several thousand. On the south side of the pier lay the "Cetus" of the Iron Steamboat Company taking on passengers for Coney Island. Going down through the harbor I saw the "Leviathan” of the U.S. Lines, then called the largest liner in the world, lying at her pier. With her three big red, white and blue smokestacks, it was the first time I had ever seen her. Christopher Street, the ‘‘Robert A. Snyder" of the Saugerties Evening Line was lying on the south side. Going up river was the little sidewheeler ‘‘Sea Bird" with her large hog frame and walking beam. The ‘‘Sandy Hook" was just leaving her pier at Houston Street on her way to Atlantic Highlands and the “Mary Patten" was on her way to Gansevoort Street, coming back from Long Branch. By that time it was nearly 1 p.m. and we were landing at the Franklin Street pier. We left New York on our return trip promptly at 4:30 p.m. For the next two and a half hours we passed a steady parade of steamboats, only this time they were all returning to New York. We passed again all of the steamers we had in the morning except the "Hendrick Hudson" which had gone on to Albany. In her stead, we passed the big “Washington Irving" which that day was the down Day Liner from Albany. The down Cornell tow in charge of the "Perserverance" had gotten all the way down to Hook Mountain. As we passed very close I remember how loud her whistle sounded when she blew a passing salute. When we were at Iona Island, I could see the "Onteora,” another favorite of mine, just pulling away from Bear Mountain. That was the first I had seen her in two years as she had gone up river after we had landed at New York. My older brother, Algot, had been the mate of the “Onteora" and in March of the year before he died of pneumonia. When my father saw the “Onteora" ahead, I remember he got up and without saying a word walked to the other side of the "Ramsdell." I suppose he could not bear to see her got [go?] by knowing my brother was no longer aboard. As the "Onteora" went by she was just straightening out on her course down river with a heavy port list after completing her turn around. We passed so close I could make out Ben Hoff, her captain, at the wheel in the pilot house. We again passed the “Geo. W. Washburn” and the "Senator Rice" with the up Cornell tow off Cons Hook. After we left Newburgh we passed the steamer ‘‘Ida" of the Saugerties Evening Line on her way to New York and, off Danskammer Point, the freighter "Storm King" of the Catskill Evening Line also bound south. After that, as far as I know, we didn’t pass anything. I remember dozing off in an easy chair on the saloon deck and getting off at Rondout about 11 p.m, and going home to bed. For a boy, it had been a day to remember. AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
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