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 13, 1974.

​Ever since the rumble of summer thunder in the Catskills was attributed by Washington Irving to a form of bowling by his merry little men, the Hudson Valley has had a certain renown for its thunder and lightning storms.  Many a boatman has been a witness to spectacular lightning displays, primarily because his boat has been in the middle of the river and he had, as a result, a particularly good vantage point. 

There have been a number of instances where river boats have even been struck by lightning, although I don’t know of a single instance where a boat has been seriously damaged as a result.  This has probably been due, I suppose, to the fact the boat has been effectively grounded by the water on which it floated. 

When boats have been struck by lightning, almost always the target for the lightning bolt has been the flag poles.  In some instances, a flag pole has been split right down the middle.  In others, a flag pole has been snapped off like a matchstick.  Events, such as I describe, I know have occurred to the Day Liners “Alexander Hamilton," "Hendrick Hudson" and “Albany.”

Since the beginning of steamboating, steamers have always carried flagpoles and generally, a generous display of flags and bunting.  If nothing else, the flags gaily flapping in the breeze helped attract attention to the steamer. 
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Even at night or in the dreariest weather, one would always find a pennant or a wind sock flying from the forward flag pole, for this would help tell the pilot from which direction the wind was blowing.  

The Day Liners, in particular, always had a lot of flag poles.  The big sidewheelers carried eleven flag poles — one at the bow from which on a good day would fly the union jack, one in back of the pilot house from which would fly the house flag, one at the stern from which would fly the national ensign, and eight side poles from which would fly smaller American flags. 
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During their profit making years, a Day Liner would start the season with a complete set of new flags for sunny days, a complete set of older flags for rainy days, and a set of pennants for windy days.  Prior to World War I, the side poles used to fly the flags of foreign countries, allegedly as a tribute to the diverse population of New York City and its reputation as the nation’s “melting pot," not to mention the possibility of perhaps attracting the people of these diverse backgrounds to ride the steamers.

When lightning would strike a steamer’s flag pole, the jack staff - the one at the bow - seemed to be the greatest attraction.  One one occasion in the 1930's, the “Alexander Hamilton” was in the lower river when she ran into a severe thunderstorm.  The passengers scurried for cover.  Shortly thereafter a bolt of lightning struck the jack staff, snapping it off.  The pilot later related a ball of fire appeared to roll down the edge of the deck from the broken jack staff to about opposite the pilot house and then roll overboard, with no visible damage other than the broken bow flag pole.

​The "Hendrick Hudson” had a similar experience but without the accompanying fire-ball.  The lightning bolt that struck the "Albany” did so in August 1926 while she lay along the Day Line pier at the foot of 42nd Street, New York during a heavy thunder shower.  The lightning in this case struck the stern flag pole and split it down the middle so it lay open like a large palm.  In both cases there was no other damage whatever.

​Perhaps the most spectacular damage from a thunderstorm to a river steamer occurred on June 20, 1899 to the well-known “Mary Powell.”  Here, however, the damage was caused by tornado like winds accompanying the storm and not by lightning.  Captain A. E. Anderson at the time said it was the worst storm he had encountered in his then 25 years of steamboating.

The “Powell” was on her regular up trip from New York to Rondout.  Going through Haverstraw Bay, there appeared to be two thunderstorms, one to the southwest and one to the north, both accompanied by generous displays of lightning.  Near Stony Point the two storms appeared to meet with the “Mary Powell” right at the center.  A cyclonic funnel of dust laden wind seemed to move out from the west shore straight toward the graceful steamboat. 

The wind caught the "Mary Powell” with great force and listed her sharply to starboard. 

The starboard smoke stack came crashing down toward the bow onto the paddle box, the stack’s guys snapped and the supporting rods twisted.  A very short time later, the port smoke stack also toppled over athwart in this instance the aptly named hurricane deck.  The resulting shower of sparks was doused by a deluge of rain that accompanied the storm. 

In about 15 minutes the storm abated and it was all over.  In addition to the toppled smoke stacks, a sliding door had been blown in, the life boats had been lifted from their chocks and the davits bent, and quite a number of folding chairs had been blown overboard. 

The “Powell's” engineers started her blowers and the steamer continued on her way, making her regular landings at Cranston’s (later Highland Falls), West Point, Cornwall, Newburgh, New Hamburg, Milton, Poughkeepsie, Hyde Park and Rondout.  At the time of the great storm, the "Mary Powell” had aboard approximately 200 passengers.  Fortunately, none were injured although many were probably shaken by their experience. 
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The “Mary Powell” must have presented a strange appearance as she steamed into Rondout Creek with her fallen smoke stacks.  Repair crews had been alerted and as soon as she docked, the workmen commenced work.  A gang of men worked throughout the night and it is said the steamer left Kingston the following morning for New York on her regular schedule.

In 1865, after four years of service to New York City, the steamboat Mary Powell decided to move to a new pier. Previously docking at the Jay Street pier, the influx of freight vessels loading and offloading from the same pier made it difficult and sometimes dangerous for passengers to get to and from the Mary Powell.
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Nearly every street along the Manhattan waterfront throughout the 19th century used to end in a pier. As an island with no bridges until the completion in 1883 of the Brooklyn Bridge, water was the main method of transportation for people, animals, and freight, so these piers became incredibly important. As trains and automobiles overtook boats and ships as the primary mode of moving people and goods, the piers became less and less important. The map pictured below was created in 1867 and illustrates the importance of piers to the “business portion” of lower Manhattan. 

On April 1, 1865, The World (NYC) published this short article:
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“In consequence of the immense freighting business which has accumulated at the Jay street pier, rendering it almost impassable and certainly unsafe for any one, especially ladies, to pass along the same on their way to or from steamers, Captain A. L. Anderson, of the steamer Mary Powell, has made arrangements to arrive and depart from the fine new pier No. 40 North River, foot of Debrosses street, built for the day line of Albany steamers Daniel Drew and C. Vibbard, where the nuisances and dangers are not tolerated.  Ladies can there step from carriages and passing railroad cars upon a substantial and smooth plank walk, without fear of injury to their persons or damage to their dresses.  A great reform is needed in the construction of our piers, by which passengers can be protected from the risks and annoyances they now encounter.”

The Jay Street pier was named after the street that connected Hudson Street and West Street and continued out toward Pier 32. All that is left of Jay Street today is a stretch of street one block long between Hudson and Greenwich Streets. Where Pier 32 once lay is today partially filled in and open water just to the north of Stuyvesant High School. The park area between West Street and the river as well as the land on which Stuyvesant High School now stands did not exist in the 1860s. It has been completely filled in, likely right on top of the old piers that once lined the Manhattan waterfront.

​Period newspapers lamented the state of the city piers in the 1860s. On April 13, 1865, the New-York Daily Tribune published “Our Piers, Reform Is Needed,” transcribed below:
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“Something ought to be done by our city authorities in the way of affording better arrangements for the accommodation of the thousands of passengers who daily arrive in and leave the city by steam vessels.  Most of the piers and approaches thereto, are in a most filthy condition, while others are so incumbered by freight of every description, carts, wagons, &c., that it is oftentimes, almost unsafe for a man to steer his way among the vehicles, boxes, barrels, &c.; while ladies, in order to avoid being left behind, the ruin of their dresses, or personal injury are left the only alternative of hiring a carriage at exorbitant rates to convey them a few hundred yards.  It is contended by many Captains of steamers which ply to and from tis port, that in consideration of the high rates they pay for dock privileges, they ought to have better accommodations provided them.  This could be done by the construction of piers with flat coverings or roofs, upon which persons could pass to and from the steamers by means of stairs at convenient points.  The subject is at least certainly worthy the consideration of our City Fathers.  The annoyances are [sic; "and"] serious inconveniences to which passengers are subjected, have done much toward driving the People's Line, the Albany day line, and the Norwich and Worcester line of steamers up-town, and now it is understood that Capt. A. L. Anderson of the steamer Mary Powell has resolved to follow suit, and accordingly made arrangements for the season to land at and depart from pier No. 40 N. R., foot of Debrosses st., which has been planked by the leasees, and will be kept free from incumbrances of every kind, so that ladies, while on their way to or from the steamer need not feel any apprehension as regards their personal safety or ruin of their dresses.”

​The Desbrosses Street pier would remain Mary Powell’s Manhattan landing site for the rest of her career. In the 1900s, the Hudson River Day Line company headquarters also operated out of the Debrosses Street Pier for several decades. Today, the Desbrosses Street Pier is no 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 June 23, 1974.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

​If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!​

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 March 19, 1973.

To a boatman, particularly a steamboatman, there was always something special about getting ready to go into commission in the spring of each year.
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In the days of long ago, all steamboats and most tugboats would be layed up for the winter season as the river froze over in December.  In spring, when the days got longer and the ice broke up, the boats would get ready to go back into operation.  Then, it was a new season — you knew spring had really arrived.
 
On a tugboat, the crew would report aboard in the early morning.  All the new lines, supplies for the galley, mattresses, blankets and sheets and other supplies for the new season were brought aboard.  The cook would be rushing around getting the galley ready and cooking the first meal, which usually had to be prepared quickly.  Generally, he would go over to Planthaber’s on the Strand in Rondout and order his supplies for the first few days.  When these came down to the dock, they always looked as if they would last a month.

​Coaling Up
 
Then the tug would go down to the coal pocket and coal up.  The smell of dryed [sic] new paint in the fireroom and on top of the boilers, the soft hiss of the steam, and the pleasant aroma of the soft coal smoke made one so hungry, he could eat almost anything that was put before him.
 
Outside, the freshly painted cabins and coamings, the big shiny black smokestack with its yellow base, the glistening nameboards, and the new pennant on the jackstaff gently waving in the clean spring air suddenly made everything right with the world. 
 
Then when the tug started away from the dock for the first time, to feel and hear her softly throbbing engine, and the gentle wake of the water around her bow and stern were all sounds a boatman never forgets.
 
Down off Port Ewen, the tug would generally blow a series of salutes on the whistle.  It seemed there was always someone in the crew from Port Ewen.  Often you could see someone on shore or from the upper window of a house waving back with a towel or maybe even a bed sheet.  How clear and pleasant the whistle would sound in the early spring evening.  It was great to be back in commission!

That First Meal
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And the first big meal— generally steak.  The table would be set with a fresh red and white checked table cloth and the cook would be wearing a big white apron—probably the cleanest it would be all year! The meal never tasted better.
 
And then to go to sleep on the first night in a comfortable bunk with nice, clean fresh sheets and blankets in a newly painted cabin was indeed pleasant.  Of course, after a hard day of getting lines and equipment all aboard, I am sure one could have slept soundly on a bed of hard rock!
 
It was much the same on the steamboats.  All the clean white paint, the fire and boat drills, old friendships renewed among returning crew members, the freshness of it all.  Somehow on that first day she went into commission — for that one day at least — if you were a deckhand you would completely forget all the white paint you would have to scrub, all the brass you would have to polish, all the decks you would have to wash down, all the lines at all the landings you would have to handle, and the thousands of deck chairs you would have to fold up and stow before the new season would come to its end in the fall.

​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!​

Need a break from the snow and cold? Take a virtual tour of the Hudson River in 1949!

Featuring the historic Hudson River steamboat Robert Fulton, this 1949 film by the The Reorientation Branch Office of the Undersecretary Department of the Army, discusses the reorganization of the Hudson River Day Line Company briefly, before diving into a film version of what a trip up the Hudson would have looked like at that time. Lots of beautiful shots of the boats themselves as well as the Hudson River Day Line Pier in Manhattan. Sights seen include the New York skyline, George Washington Bridge, Palisades, the Ghost Fleet, a visit to Bear Mountain State Park, Sugar Loaf Mountain, West Point, Storm King Mountain, Bannerman's Island, Newburgh, Poughkeepsie, taking the bus to FDR's home in Hyde Park, Sunnyside, and back again.

The Robert Fulton was built in 1909 in Camden, New Jersey by the New York Shipbuilding Co. for Hudson River Day Line. It operated from 1909-1954. In 1956 it was sold for conversion to a community center in the Bahamas.

Many thanks to the Town of Clinton Historical Society for sharing this wonderful film. 

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In this "Featured Artifact" post, we're examining two cloth items in our collection - a pair of hat bands from the Hudson River Day Line.

Much like Naval ships, steamboat crews wore formal uniforms and there was a hierarchy of crew within each department. Of the two hatbands, one is a more general one that simply reads "Day Line," indicating the crew member worked for the Hudson River Day Line steamboat company.

​The other hatband, reading, "2nd Mate," indicates the rank of the bearer. Second Mates are usually third in command of a vessel (behind the Captain or Master and First Mate) and usually act as watchkeeper, ensuring crew rotate through four hour watches and managing vessel safety and security. Sometimes they also serve as navigator. 

Both of these hatbands date to the 1930s, a time when the Hudson River Day Line was at its height. 

In this photograph of Hudson River Day Line senior staff of the steamboat Peter Stuyvesant, from 1947, you can see the uniforms and the clear ranks on their hats. The captain (Frank Briggs) wears a white hat to differentiate him from other officers. His hat band insignia is larger and clearly reads "Captain."

Although difficult to read in this image, the other officers are also wearing hatbands clearly denoting their ranks. To the left of the captain is the Chief Engineer, and to the left of him, the First (1st) Mate. To the far right, seated, is the Purser, the man responsible for ticketing and purchases aboard the ship. Can you tell what the other hat bands say?

Note also that the senior officers wear double-breasted jackets, and the junior officers single-breasted jackets. 

Unfortunately, only Captain Frank Briggs is identified in this image. If you recognize any of these men, please let us know! 

By the 1960s, all crew hats were changed to white, but the uniforms were changed and, depending on the department, became less formal.

​Did you or anyone you know work aboard a Day Line vessel? What was their role? Tell us in the comments!

​For a number of years prior to World War I, the Hudson River Day Line always layed up the “Mary Powell” and the “Albany’’ for the winter at the Sunflower Dock at Sleightsburgh on Rondout Creek.  At that time, Mr. Eben E. Olcott was president of the Day Line.
 
During the winter of 1917, both the ‘Powell’’ and the ‘Albany’ were, as usual, layed up at the Sunflower Dock.  Across the creek on the Rondout side, both Donovan and Feeney had boat yards. 
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Both shipyards had built canal barges and launched them in the ice.  Also, they were loading the new barges with ice to ship to New York when navigation opened again in the spring.  And, where they had taken in the ice, there were various channels cut in a multiplicity of different ways.  Anybody not knowing this and trying to walk over the ice at night would be necessarily taking his life in his own hands.

Snow and Sleet
On the night I am writing about, it started to snow and sleet about 6 p.m.  And, at that time, Phil Maines of Rondout was the ship keeper on the ‘‘Mary Powell.”
 
About 11 p.m. Phil thought he would take a walk around to see if everything was all right before taking a nap.  As he started up the companionway, he thought he heard someone walking on the deck above and trying to open the doors.  He knew he had left one door unlocked, so he went up on deck and stood in the dark behind the unlocked door, waiting for whoever it was to come in.
 
After a while the door slid back and a man walked in.  Phil, standing in the dark, said, “Stick up your hands! Who’s there?”
 
The reply came back swiftly, “It’s Mr. Olcott, Phil, only me.  I thought I’d drop around and see if everything was all right.”
 
He was Lonesome
So, together, they went down to the winter kitchen, which was on the main deck for the keeper’s use in winter, and had a cup of coffee.  Mr. Olcott said he was staying over night in Kingston, had gotten a little lonesome and so thought he would come over and see Phil for awhile.  After he had stayed for about 15 minutes, he said he was tired and thought he’d go back to his hotel and get some rest before morning.  Phil took him back across the creek, this time with a lantern.
 
How Mr. Olcott ever got over to the “Powell” without falling through the ice in the many ice channels was not only a streak of good luck for the president of the Hudson River Day Line, but something of a miracle in itself.

​                                                    A Surreptitious Christening
The centuries-old tradition of christening a ship with champagne or similar liquid was carried on by Thomas S. Marvel at his shipyard in Newburgh - or at least it was until Saturday morning, March 31, 1906, when the magnificent steamer Hendrick Hudson was launched for the Hudson River Day Line. Thomas S. Marvel would not launch a vessel, no matter how small, without this ritual - nor would he willingly launch any hull on a Friday.
 
Eben Erskine Olcott (“E.E.”), the President of the Day Line, was a strict teetotaler, and he decreed that the new steamer would be christened with a bottle of Catskill Mountain spring water. It might have been a fitting ritual for a Hudson River steamboat, but not quite what Captain Marvel had in mind. On the day of the launching, the sponsor, Miss Katherine Olcott, E.E.’s five-year-old daughter, and the invited guests stood upon the sponsor’s platform. There were assembled Miss Olcott, her mother and father, other members of the Olcott family and many dignitaries. Among the latter were S.D. Coykendall, President of the Cornell Steamboat Company and Stevenson Taylor, then Vice President of the W. & A. Fletcher Company (the prime contractor for Hendrick Hudson and builder of her engine and boilers) and later President of the American Bureau of Shipping.
 
At the first movement of the slender, red lead-painted hull, Miss Olcott broke the bottle of spring water over her stern, proclaiming, “I christen thee Hendrick Hudson.” And in that manner the new steamer was well and truly baptized, or so it appeared from the vantage point of the sponsor’s party. However, the bottle of spring water, ornamented with white ribbon and sterling silver, and suspended by a white cord, was not the only christening fluid used that day, nor was Katherine Olcott the only sponsor.
 
Eschewing his rightful position among the dignitaries on the platform, Thomas S. Marvel attended to a much more important task. He dispatched one of the yard workers to a nearby saloon on South William Street for a bottle of champagne. Upon the messenger’s return with the flask of the best French bubbly, the seventy-two year-old shipbuilder took up a position far aft and well out of sight of the devoutly dry Olcotts. When the massive hull began to move, he christened the vessel in a manner more appropriate to shipbuilding-but with no festive ribbons, no formality, simply a shower of champagne and broken glass that would assure good fortune for the new Day Line flagship. Thomas Marvel retreated quickly to safe ground once his task was completed. The Marvel family claimed that his escape from the massive oncoming structure was perilously close.
 
E.E. Olcott apparently never knew of the second christening, but Hendrick Hudson, her good fortune assured, went on to a successful forty-five year life on the river.

In 2004 the Steamship Historical Society of America produced the documentary film, "Steamboats: On the Hudson." Featuring footage from rarely seen private collections and from public archives, including scenes of the famous Robert Fulton, the last Hudson steamboat powered by a walking-beam engine. Historian Roger Mabie of Port Ewen contributes his first-hand knowledge of Hudson River steamboat history, and noted steam expert Conrad Milster offers perspective on the machinery that drove the era. The film also features Hudson River Maritime Museum Curator Emerita, Allynne Lange. 

In April, 2020, the Steamship Historical Society of America shared this documentary film on their YouTube channel, which allows us to share it with you!

For over 150 years steamboats ruled the Hudson River, carrying passengers and freight between Albany and New York, and the many river communities in between. This program looks back at the golden age of steam, when spit and polish, and elegant surroundings marked a style of travel that has now disappeared.

The Hudson is where steam navigation began, and it is where the American river steamer reached its ultimate expression, with enormous paddle-wheeled vessels carrying over 5,000 passengers. 

Featuring still photographs, historic film footage, and interviews, "Steamboats: On the Hudson" documents the evolution of steam vessels on the Hudson, from the early 1800s up to the final trip of the steamer Alexander Hamilton​ in 1971. 

​We hope you enjoy this engaging and informative documentary film. 

​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: Hudson River Maritime Museum is pleased to feature this post by William Stewart Lindsay. He describes his introduction to the museum: "Having listened to your Museum’s interesting podcast interview with the Mariner’s Mirror (https://snr.org.uk/the-mariners-mirror-podcast/) , I am writing to you with details of a journey up the Hudson River, from New York to Albany, in October 1860, by my ancestor William Schaw Lindsay MP." Thank you, Mr. Lindsay, for accepting the museum's invitation to share this article.

Lindsay was on a tour of the Northern States to discuss potential improvements to the Navigation Laws. Born in Ayrshire, Scotland, and brought up in relative poverty, he spent nine years at sea. He became a successful ship’s broker in London, and owned one of the largest shipping companies in the UK at the time. He was elected MP for Sunderland, and advised the government on Maritime matters. He wrote extensively, and twenty or so of his journals are now housed in the National Maritime Museum in London.
​
He was greatly impressed with his trip up the Hudson River. He wrote to his brother-in-law Robert Stewart…
I think that the sail from New York to Albany is one of the finest of its kind in the world; and it is greatly enhanced by the size and beauty of the boats on which you make the trip, and the conveniences, and luxury, of their apartments. The view of the great city on a fine bright morning is in itself, with its domes and spires and busy hum of life, a sight of considerable interest.
 
Then with Jersey City on the opposite shore and Staten Island in the distance, studded with beautiful villas, it forms altogether a most attractive scene. Sailing rapidly past the almost interminable streets, and wherein there lay moored fleets of great ships, towering steamers, and river craft of various kinds, we soon reach the “Palisades”, precipices which rise in some places 500 feet above the river in an almost straight line from their base, richly wooded on their summits, and extending full 20 miles along the Southern shore of the Hudson.
 
From thence to Sing Sing which is 33 miles from New York, there is a succession of charming country residences. Here the river Croton joins the Hudson, and 2 miles further on the aqueduct which carries its clear water to the Metropole, commences. Perhaps no city in the world has a better or longer supply of water than New York, and should it ever reach London in size the Croton River will be far more than sufficient for all its wants.
 
Lindsay then continues, praising the building of the aqueduct. He says that it reminds him of the great work that his bother-in-law Robert carried out, bringing water to the City of Glasgow in Scotland, from Loch Katrine. Robert was Lord Provost of Glasgow at the time, and had to overcome many objections from his colleagues to enable the project to go ahead.
 
Lindsay explains to Robert that the rough weather has prevented him from writing more on this part of the journey. He proceeded up the river on the Persia, one of the Cunard Line ships. He continues…
 
There is no easing in the Cunard line. They have got their works to do in a given time and they go to it full steam ahead right against any gale and clean through the waves so that the green seas in a solid body wash right on the forecastle head when the ship is driving against a gale of wind and are only prevented from washing right aft by the “driving boards” – strait planks stretching across the ship on the fore part of the main deck.
 
As the gale still blows from the Westward and the ocean swell is coming from the Eastward the sea is consequently very confused, and even the Persia is rolling and pitching and at times bobbing up and down with heavy thumps or swaying like a great Yankee rocking chair. I hope we are not going to have a gale from the East for though an old sailor I hate a gale of wind at sea especially when it is right ahead. Everybody in the shape of a passenger is sick and even the sailors look like drenched scarecrows. Then, as the water in sheets of spray flys [sic] over the deck, there is no chance of breathing fresh air unless at the expense of a ducking. So I cannot get out, and here I sit jammed between the sofa and the table with a portfolio before me and an ink stand that every now and again makes a start as if it was determined to fly to the other side of the ship. It is most unpleasant and the only consolation that one gets is the announcement from one of the mates to one of the stewards “that we are going have a regular sneezer* right ahead.” [*A sneezer was an ancient sea term for a gale of wind]. I hate “sneezers right ahead” for they not only disturb one’s equilibrium and stomach and temper but they set everything cracking and jaunting and  splashing, so that I took the liberty of telling the mate that if he’d no better news to give us he would better hold his tongue.

However I shall endeavour to banish all these unpleasant feelings, by going back in imagination to the South waters of the Hudson and endeavour to make more progress with my log of an idle hour than I did yesterday, in spite of the increasing gale.

Conspicuous from the river, and within a mile of Sing Sing, where the waters of Croton commence their artificial course to New York, may be seen the great prison of the State. I was told that the building for the male prisoners was about 500 feet in length with accommodation for 1000 persons, and that for the females three fourths as large. The whole, with outbuildings and yards (for there are no walls round the ground) within the circle of the sentry’s march, occupying about 130 acres.
 
Passing various pretty towns and villages we next reach Caldwell’s landing at the foot of the Dunderberg mountains a very fine and extreme range from which I was informed the view is truly grand and also beautiful. Amidst these mountain ranges the river Hudson forces its course smooth and placid in some parts and at others writhing and rushing in abrupt courses, as if struggling to be released from its iron bound limits.
 
The Hudson here in my opinion far exceeds in grandeur and in beauty any part of the Rhine, Though there are no views of Feudal castles to diversify the scene, there are the modern villas of the merchants of a great and free country – objects to my taste much more interesting that the emblems of a dark and barbaric age which only remind us of the despots who were once their lords and by their reminiscences cast a gloom over earths finest regions.
 
Here Lindsay discusses his impressions of American River Steamboats. He was very impressed with them as he explained…
 
In the midst of this mountain range stands West Point the celebrated military school or college. Here the Daniel Drew stopped to land and embark passengers, the first berthing place since we started from New York from which it is distant 54 miles. We arrived there at 8.20am and had performed the journey in 2 hours and 12 minutes, for I timed it, or at the rate of 25 miles an hour with the wind somewhat ahead of us and a slack tide neither for or against the steamer. I never was in a boat that steamed at anything like her speed and I afterwards learned that the Daniel Drew, American built and engines, was the fastest vessel in the world.
 
I had no idea of her fame when I stepped on board and indeed I had not previously heard of her. She was very much in appearance like the other ordinary passage boats on the Hudson. Her saloon on deck was light, roomy, and elegant – and her form was graceful with a very fine wedge like bow and remarkable clean stern. She moved through the water with great ease and hardly any motion, and her speed, as she passed the various points of land and vessels anchor, more resembled that of an express railway train than a steamer.
 
Her easy and swift motion attracted my attention and, learning that her builder was on board, I soon made the acquaintance of Mr Thomas Collyer of 43rd Street New York. I found Mr Collyer to be a plain sensible man; and the appearance of the Daniel Drew and her performance sufficiently testified to his abilities as a builder of great skill and knowledge. From Mr Collyer I ascertained her dimensions and follows:
Length over all                                             250 feet
Breadth without the usual platform            30½ ditto
Depth from main deck to flat of floor          9½ feet

Lindsay then continues with his description of his journey…
 
I have I fear detained you too long at West Point but the performance of the Daniel Drew induced me to make the remarks I have done in regard to the speed and comfort of our sea going steamers. I must now ask you to accompany me to Albany.

Leaving West Point, which in scenery and in its association is one of the most attractive spots on the Hudson, we pass Crescent, one of the finest of the mountain groups and reach Storm King the last of the range of these Highlands.
 
We then meet scenery if not as grand, quite as beautiful, and from the numerous villages  and well-kept lawns, and magnificent clusters of trees,  interspersed with rocks of sparkling granite, more picturesque. From thence we see the pretty town of Undercliff, pass swiftly on the Island of Pollepel and thereafter the bay of Newburgh around which are the graceful villages of New Windsor, Cornwall, Fishkill and Newburgh.
 
A few miles further on we come to the Town or “City" of Poughkeepsie, entertaining a population of 15000 and situated 75 miles from New York. Five miles further on we reach the village of “Hyde Park” on the Eastside of the river, and in the midst of a country of great fertility studied with handsome villas, and apparently thriving homesteads.
 
From this point to the base of the lofty range of hills known as the Catskills, the scenery is exceedingly beautiful and very interesting. Nor is it much less so from thence to Albany, as we pass a member of thriving towns and pretty villages amongst which may be noted Athens and Stockport,  and various other places the names of which I now forget.
 
Albany is situated 145 miles from New York and the rapidity of the Daniel Drew’s passage gave me close upon five hours to spare before the train started for Niagara. I employed the spare time at my disposal in strolling through the Town or rather “City” as that is the name given to any place in America containing more than 10,000 inhabitants. I think they are all either villages or corporate cities.
 
Albany is an old and somewhat aristocratic city containing 65,000 inhabitants, and it is the capital of the State of New York. It is pleasantly situated on high ground rising from the Hudson and carries on a considerable trade with the West and North by means of the Erie and also the Chaplain canals: and it is besides, the point from which many important lines of railway diverge. The streets are wide and in many cases lined with trees, and the houses are well built, and to all natured appearances very clean. In the vicinity of the State Capital, which is an imposing building, there are many very handsome mansions.
​

​Here, Lindsay ended his description of his journey on the Hudson River. Many years later, in 1876, he published a comprehensive reference entitled ‘The History of Merchant Shipping and Ancient Commerce’ in four volumes. For many years it was a reference that many interested in shipping, turned to. In this work, he praises Robert Fulton, whose early steamer, the Clermont, on the Hudson River, paved the way for passenger steamers. He devoted several pages to Fulton. (see History of Merchant Shipping, Lindsay, Vol 4 pages 48-59). He felt that Fulton’s innovation had been overlooked.
 
His comments were also published in The Pall Mall Gazette, 26 December 1874…
 
Mr. Lindsay is deliberately of opinion that the Marquis of Worcester is the first person who ever constructed a steam engine; and that though Papin, Savery, Jonathan Hulls, the Marquis de Jouffroy, Bramah, and others, helped forward very materially the knowledge of steam as a motive power, to Fulton is due the credit of having put former discoveries and his own improvements to practical use by running a steam-boat regularly for purposes of trade. This pioneer vessel, destined to have myriads of followers, was the Clermont, which as the year 1807, only two years after Nelson had fallen at Trafalgar, plied regularly between New York and Albany, and made an average speed of five miles an hour.
 
We agree with Mr Lindsay in his strong reprobation of Rennie and other engineers who have not scrupled to call Fulton a charlatan and a quack because he made use of other men’s discoveries.
 
Lord Worcester was the first man to make a steam-engine; Watt was the first man to show how such an engine could be used to propel ships; Fulton was the first man to propel ships with steam-engines. Surely, when we reflect what steam has done for the commerce, the civilization, the happiness of the world, we can do equal homage to that triumvirate of genius without disparagement to either.
 
Poor Fulton was neither so prosperous nor so happy that we need grudge him his fair share of fame. Persecuted by jealous rivals, oppressed by the State which he had benefited, he died poor and broken hearted; but he has left behind him an enduring fame and an everlasting stigma on those who nicknamed his undertaking “Fulton’s Folly”.
 
I can’t end mentioning Fulton without this cutting. It was among Lindsay’s papers:-
 
ADVENTURES, NATIONAL CUSTOMS, AND CURIOUS FACTS.
 
FULTON'S FIRST STEAM VOYAGE,
BY R. W. HASKINS.
Some years since, I formed a travelling acquaintance, upon a steamboat on the Hudson River, with a gentleman, who, on that occasion, related to me some incidents of the first voyage of Fulton, to Albany, in his steamboat, the Clermont, which I never met with elsewhere. The gentleman’s name I have now lost, but I urged him, at the time, to publish what he related; which, however, so far as I knew, he had never done. -
 
"I chanced," said my narrator, "to be at Albany on business, when Fulton arrived there in his unheard-of craft, which everybody felt so much interest in seeing. Being ready to leave, and hearing that this craft was to return to New York, I repaired on board and inquired for Mr. Fulton. I was referred to the cabin, and there found a plain, gentlemanly man, wholly alone, and engaged in writing.
 
'Mr. Fulton, I presume?’
 ‘Yes, Sir?’
 ‘Do you return to New York with this boat?’
 'We shall try to get back, Sir.'
 `Can I have a passage down?’
 ‘You can take your chance with us, Sir.'
 
"I inquired the amount to be paid; and, after a moment's hesitation, a sum, I think six dollars, was named. The amount, in coin, I laid in his open hand; and, with an eye fixed upon it, he remained so long motionless that I supposed there might be a miscount, and said to him, 'Is that right Sir?

This roused him, as from a kind of reverie; and, as he looked up at me, a tear was trembling in his eye and his voice faltered, as he said, 'Excuse me, Sir, but memory was busy, as I contemplated this, the first pecuniary reward I have ever received for all my exertions in adapting steam to navigation. I would gladly commemorate the occasion over a bottle of wine with you, but really I am too poor, even for that, just now; yet I trust we may meet again when this will not be so.’
 
"Some four years after this, when the Clermont had been greatly improved, and two new boats made – making Fulton's fleet three boats regularly plying between New York and Albany - I took passage in one of these, for the latter city. The cabin in that day was below; and as I walked its length to and fro, I saw I was closely observed by one I supposed a stranger. Soon, however, I recalled the features of Mr Fulton; but without disclosing this, I continued my walk, and waited the result. At length, in passing his seat our eyes met, when he sprang to his feet, and eagerly seizing my hand, exclaimed, ‘I knew it must be you, for your features have never escaped me; and although I am still far from rich, yet I may venture that bottle now.’ – It was ordered; and during its discussion Mr Fulton ran rapidly but vividly over his experience of the world’s coldness and sneers, and of the hopes, fears and appointments, and difficulties that were scattered through the whole career of discovery, up to that very point of his final, crowning triumph, at which he so fully felt he had at last arrived.
 
‘And in reviewing these,’ said he, ‘I have again and again recalled the occasion and the incident of our first interview, at Albany; and never have I done so without its renewing in my mind the vivid emotion it originally caused. That seemed, and still does seem, to me, the turning point in my destiny – the dividing line between light and darkness, in my career upon earth; for it was the first actual recognition of my usefulness to my fellow men.’
 
Such, then, were the events coupled with the very dawn of steam navigation – a dawn so recent as to be still recollected by many; and such as Fulton here related them, were causing a revolution in navigation, which has almost literally brought the ends of the earth into contact.
 
Having read this, all I can say is how lucky you are that your Museum is associated with such a fine pioneer. I am sure that you serve him well. He deserves it.