As the 19th century gave way to the 20th century, the Cornell Steamboat Company of Rondout was the largest and most progressive marine towing organization in the country.  In 1902 they had built what was to be their largest and most powerful tugboat.  When completed, it appropriately bore the name “Cornell.”

By whatever standard of measurement, the “Cornell” was a most impressive tugboat.  At a few inches less than 150 feet in length, she was 25 feet longer than any of Cornell’s other big tugboats.  Her 1,400 h.p. engine exceeded by over 500 the horsepower of other units of the fleet. 

Boatmen used to refer to her as the "Big Cornell" and her two big boilers had a ravenous appetite for coal to make enough steam for her powerful engine.  As a result, she had the reputation of being a very hard boat to fire.  Many boatmen from Hudson River towns one would talk to in the early 1920’s would almost always say how at one time or another they had fired on the “Big Cornell.”  Some would stay only a few hours, some a few days and rarely would she end the season with a fireman who had started out on her in the spring. 

On Lower River
Because of her size and deep draft, she was used almost exclusively on the lower river.  During her service on the Hudson, the channel north of Athens had not been dredged for deep draft vessels like it is today.  During her career, the “Cornell” made only one trip to Albany and this trip was her most notable exploit while carrying the colors of the Cornell Steamboat Company.  It took place in early March, 1910. 

The winter of 1910 had been an old fashioned winter with plenty of ice in the river.  During late February and early March the weather turned unseasonably warm, causing high water at Albany as the result of the melting of the winter’s snow and ice in the Mohawk River.  A huge ice jam formed in the river below Albany which caused the water to back up and flood the waterfront areas of Albany and Rensselaer.  Fears were also expressed that the ice crowding the Albany railroad bridges might move them off their abutments. 

In order to relieve the ice and flood crisis at Albany, the federal government was asked to take action.  The government's plan was to use dynamite on the ice jam to break it up and to charter the most powerful vessel they could find to go up river to break up the river ice so the broken ice could move down river.  The “Big Cornell” was chosen for the job. 
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The “Cornell" left Rondout Creek on March 3, 1910 with the tug “Rob" to follow and assist in any way possible.  I have been told the whole operation was in charge of Captain Ulster Davis, Cornell’s agent at Rensselaer, and the regular crew of the “Cornell” whose captain was Tim Donovan and pilot Irving Hayes.  Although the upper Hudson was at flood stage, the “Cornell” carried minimum amounts of coal and water in order to keep her draft at a minimum so she would have clearance over the shallow spots north of Athens.  

Very Heavy Ice
The “Cornell” encountered very heavy ice from Kingston to Athens, sometimes as much as two feet in thickness. 

The ice was so heavy, the “Cornell’s” steel hull plating was scalloped inward between her frames at the water line forward caused by her smash into the rock-like ice. 
At Athens, the "Cornell” went up the wider Athens channel rather than the deeper Hudson channel along the east shore, since men going ahead on foot had determined the ice in the west channel wasn’t quite as thick.  She passed Athens through 15 inches of ice on March 5.  All along the river, men and boys would come out on the ice to watch the “Cornell” go by. 

The “Cornell” arrived at Rensselaer on March 6, the river opened and the ice jam broken.  Once the ice jam was broken, I have been told one could literally see the water begin to drop at Albany.  Although the crisis to Albany was over, a new problem arose for the “Cornell.”  The Company was afraid the water might drop so fast, they would not be able to get their big tug back down river in time to clear the up river sand bars and ledges. 

An Early Start
The “Cornell” took on coal, fresh water and grub at Rensselaer as fast as she could.  Due to the strong current in the river, when they started to turn the "Cornell” around for her return trip, the tug “Rob” had to push wide open against her stern in order to get the “Cornell” headed down stream.  At first, they were going to wait for daylight all the way, but because of the falling water decided to start down as soon as possible.

When they started back for Rondout, I have been told it was a clear, cold March night.  The water in the river was running down stream so fast, they ran the “Cornell's” engine dead slow — just enough to keep steerage way.  They were reluctant to run her any faster as they did not want to scrape or hit bottom and possibly smash her rudder shoe or break her propeller. 

They had had such good luck so far, they didn't want to tempt fate any more than necessary. 

Everything went fine until the two tugs came to Dover Platte Island off Coxsackie.  Captain Donovan of the ‘'Cornell’’ knew there had always been a sand bar there and figured the freshet in all probability might have built up the bar higher than usual.  When they reached that point, they stopped the “Cornell's” engine and just let her drift.  Sure enough she fetched up on the bar, stopped and rolled over very slightly to port.  To be sure there was only sand, they sounded all around with pike poles.
 
Over the Bar
Once they were certain there were no rocks on the bottom, they decided to have the “Rob” go up ahead and put a hawser on the “Cornell's” bow — and then to open up both tugs full throttle and to try and “bull” the ‘‘Cornell’’ over the bar.  When all was in readiness, the “Cornell” gave the signal for full speed ahead and for the “Rob” to start pulling.  I can readily imagine on that cold March night the load “chow chow” of the “Rob's” high pressure engine. 

They tell me when the “Cornell’’ hooked up, she lay down on her port side, her propeller part out of the water for a few moments.  Some of her crew thought her towering smoke stacks would topple over, the starboard guy lines being incredibly taut and the port ones having about two feet of slack.  However, in but a few minutes the ‘‘Cornell’’ had inched her way over the bar. 

Once she cleared the sand bar, though, the ‘‘Cornell’’ leaped ahead so fast before they could stop her engine she almost ran over the “Rob’’ pulling on her bow. 
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Quick action by a deckhand on the “Rob” saved the day.  By wielding a fast, sharp axe he cut the connecting hawser.  From that point back to Rondout Creek they encountered no more difficulties.  From Athens south, the river ice still held, but by following the channel they had previously made going northward the going was relatively easy.  

Renamed Her
The difficulty in keeping firemen on the “Cornell” continued to plague her and led to the end of her career on the Hudson River.  Shortly before World War I she was sold to the Standard Oil Company of Louisiana.  Her new owners renamed her “Istrouma,” converted her to an oil burner, and operated her on the Mississippi River out of Baton Rouge where she remained in service until the late 1940's. 

I have been told the Cornell Steamboat Company always maintained it was not feasible to convert the “Cornell” to an oil burner, since it wouldn't be possible to install sufficient oil storage capacity aboard her.  It is my understanding before purchasing her, the Standard Oil people, unknown to Cornell, sent some men to Cornell who hired out on her as firemen.  The masquerading firemen thoroughly examined the “Cornell” and apparently concluded she could successfully be converted to oil firing.  In any event, she was — and remained in service for another 30 years. 

Many years later, during World War II, my friend Roger Mabie was the commanding officer of a submarine chaser in the U.S. Navy.  One day his ship was in a shipyard at Algiers, Louisiana, across the river from New Orleans.  There, in an adjacent dry dock was the “Istrouma,” the old “Cornell.”  He went aboard. 

Her shell plating forward was still scalloped between frames from her bout with Hudson River ice in 1910.  Her brass capstan caps were still inscribed “Cornell.”  In her engine room, her steam and vacuum gauge faces still were etched ‘‘Cornell,” Cornell Steamboat Company, Rondout, N.Y. 
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A few days later, Roger told me his ship was leaving New Orleans to go back to sea.  Out in the river, the old ‘‘Cornell” was going upstream.  He blew her a whistle salute, which the former “Cornell” answered with her old deep steam whistle.  I thought it was a nice gesture, both a greeting to an old work horse from the Hudson River and a sort of salute to the maritime greatness that was once Rondout’s.

The tug/fireboat "Istrouma" was scrapped in 1949. If you've seen a large red tugboat named "Cornell" on the Hudson River or New York Harbor, it's not the same as this "Cornell," but nearly as big! She was built the same year the "Istrouma" was scrapped. Learn more.

​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 27, 1972.

During the winter of 1920, both the “Mary Powell” and the “Albany” lay at the Sunflower Dock on Rondout at Sleightsburgh. The “Mary Powell” had been there since her last trip under her own power on Sept. 5, 1917.

On Saturday, shortly before the ice went out of the creek, my brother Algot and I took my father’s lunch over to him on the “Albany” where he was working as a ship’s carpenter. Rumor was that just as soon as the ice broke up, the “Powell” would be towed to South Rondout to be broken up.

​Knowing this, my brother said, “Come on Bill, let’s take a walk over on the ‘Powell.’ It will probably be the last we ever be on her.”

Cold and Dark
We went aboard the gangway right aft of the engine room. All her fine machinery was black from the grease that had been put on the engine when she layed up so it would not rust. All steamboat engineers always coated the bright work with grease in this manner when their boat was laid up at the end of the season. Everything was cold and dark and still.

When we went back to the dining room at the rear of the main deck. Most of the tables and chairs had already been removed. Everything was very dusty.

Up on the saloon deck, most of the carpeting had been taken up, with a few pieces remaining here and there. A few of the big easy chairs in the saloon where still there but most were gone. Some of the plate glass windows were cracked, and others broken - with canvas tacked over the openings.

​When we went up on the hurricane deck, my brother had to use a screwdriver to pry open the door to the pilot house. It was jammed, probably due to the fact that the “Powell's” stern rested on the bottom at low tide. The east end of the dock had been filling in and hadn’t been dredged since the “Powell” stopped running.

An Old Time Table
In the pilot house, there was a long, low locker across the back. The top of the locker could be raised so that things like flags, pennants and pilot house supplies could be put inside. I found an old Catskill Evening Line time table, with a picture of the steamer “Clermont” on the cover, which I took with me. There were no chairs, since these had already been removed.

The old side curtains on the pilot house windows were still in place. They would be pulled down on the side the sun would leaving Rondout on her flying trip to the metropolis to the south, or when the sun was going down behind the western hills on the up trip.

The canvas that had covered her pilot house windows from the strong icy winds and snows, had been removed. The interior of the “Powell’s” pilot house was all varnished and it has turned very dark from the passing years and added coats of varnish.

The big, hand steering wheel was only about half showing, most of the bottom half being concealed in a well in the deck. The top reached almost to the overhead of the pilot house. I noticed how the round turned spokes of the steering wheel were flattened out on both sides near the rim. I asked my brother what caused this.

He said it came from the wear on the spokes caused by the pilot climbing the wheel like a ladder in order to turn the boat in a hurry. The old “Powell” never had a steam steering gear like the more modern steamboats.

He Walked the Wheel
“The pilot of the ‘Powell’ would have to climb the wheel coming into the Rondout Creek from the river on a flood tide,” Algot said. “When it is flood tide, there’s a very strong eddy at the mouth of the creek. The tide sets up strong and when it hits the south dike, it forms a half moon about 75 feet out from the south dike and then starts to set down. To keep steerage way on the ‘Powell’ the had to keep her hooked up until she entered the creek, because a side wheeler running slow or just drifting would have no rudder power. So the pilot in order to get the rudder hard over to port or starboard in a hurry would have to walk right up the steering wheel.”

Algot, who had been quartermaster on the “Mary Powell” in her last years, pointed out that when the pilot got the steering wheel hard over he would then put the becket on the wheel to hold it. When the becket was taken off, the wheel would spin right back to midships. He added with a smile, “At times like that, the fatter and heavier the pilot, the easier the job.”

Algot went on to point out to me the same act of walking up the steering wheel would take place on going around West Point and Anthony’s Nose and rounding up in New York harbor.

​In those long ago days when going down through the harbor on an ebb tide, a pilot had to get around very quick and find a hole in the heavy steamboat, tugboat, ferryboat and steamship traffic. On a steamboat like the “Mary Powell” with a hand steering gear, when going up or down through New York harbor, the pilot house was always fully manned. The captain or first pilot would be at the steering wheel, the second pilot standing with his hands on the bell pulls to the engine room or ready to grab the whistle cord, and the quartermaster as lookout on the forepeak.

Leaving Their Marks
Later in life when I saw the hand steering wheels of the “Jacob H. Tremper” and the steamer “Newburgh” of the Central Hudson Line, the spokes were all worn down and loose the same way. It showed how former pilots and captains left their marks on their steamboats long after they were gone.

We left the old Queen of the Hudson after out farewell visit in the bright sunshine of the late winter afternoon. On April 20, she was towed by the tug “Rob” on her final trip to South Rondout where she was dismantled.

During the early years of the 1900’s, there was a stone quarry at Rockland Lake, a few miles south of Haverstraw.  The Cornell Steamboat Company towed the stone from the quarry on scows to the metropolitan New York market.
 
The winter of 1912 was very severe with heavy ice in the lower river.  Cornell tugs, however, continued their efforts to break the ice so the stone could be towed to New York for use by the construction industry.
 
One one particular day that winter, the Cornell tugboats "S. L. Crosby” and "Hercules" were in the river off the quarry breaking ice — trying to get into the dock to break out the loaded scows that were frozen in.  First, one tug would slam into the ice, which at the time was seven to eight inches thick, until she was stopped cold by the solid ice.  Then that tug would back off and the other tug would slam into the track until she was stopped dead.  Gradually, the two tugs were working their way towards the dock.

Two Good Tries
 On one try the “Crosby” went ahead a short distance and stopped.  On this try, however, she made a good crack in the ice.  Next, the “Hercules" came up astern, hit the crack the “Crosby” had made, and plowed her way right up to the dock.
 
The general manager of the Cornell Steamboat Company was standing on the dock at the time.  And, admiringly, he said, “What a great ice breaker we have in the “Hercules”!”  Quite obviously, he had not noticed the crack in the ice made by the “Crosby.”
 
When spring came, Cornell had the "Hercules" sent to the Cornell repair shops at Rondout and ordered extra stout oak planking and steel straps put all around her bow.  From that point on, the “Hercules" was thought to be the greatest ice breaker of them all.  For years after, whenever ice was to be broken, the “Hercules” was sent out to do the job.
 
At the time of the ice breaking at Rockland Lake, Aaron Relyea of Bloomington was the captain of the "Crosby” and Mel Hamilton of Port Ewen was captain of the "Hercules.”  Nearly 20 years later, I worked for Captain Relyea as a deckhand on the "Crosby" and he was the one who related this incident to me.  Captain Aaron A l w a y s maintained the “Crosby” was the better tug of the two in breaking ice.
 
In later years, I also talked to Captain Hamilton about that day at Rockland Lake.  Captain Mel said, "Aaron was right.  Between the two tugs, the “Crosby” was the best in the ice.  But,” he added with a wink, "never argue with the boss.”

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. 
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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.  
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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.
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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!
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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?”

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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 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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