​

View this fascinating video detailing the history of the Esopus Creek. The history and community of Saugerties, New York, is interpreted through its relationship to the Esopus Creek and Hudson River. Directed by Katie Cokinos and Guy Reed. Original Music: Carl Mateo. Camera and Editorial: Alex Rappoport.

Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article was originally published July 17, 1977.

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

The steamers of the lines north of Newburgh were known as night boats, since they usually departed in the late afternoon or early evening and arrived at their destination in the early morning. All would carry freight on their main decks, and on the deck above were staterooms which offered sleeping accommodations for passengers. 

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

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

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

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

The passengers on the Ulster sure had a tough time trying to sleep. Some were up complaining about all the whistling. Others just stayed in their staterooms and put up with it. Then, a short while later after things got reasonably quiet again, came the landing at Rhinecliff with the organized confusion of unloading freight. There would be the sound of the hand freight trucks going on and off the gangplank, and the mate sounding off to the freight handlers to get the freight off so they could get out on time. 

After leaving Rhinecliff, all was serene for a few moments except for the periodic blowing of the fog signal. However, off Astor’s tunnel they met a canal tow which was crossways in the channel and this caused more whistle blowing. After the tow was cleared came the landing at Barrytown with the noise of the freight trucks and an argument between two freight handlers, which was brought to a stop by the authoritarian voice of the mate. 

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

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

When the lady heard the announcement “Ulster Landing," she may have reasoned that she was on the Ulster, and if the steamer was landing it was time to get off. In any event, she got up, got dressed and when the steamer ghosted through the fog into the dock at Ulster Landing, she was at the gangway. As soon as the gangplank was put out, she walked ashore. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. 72- Air Line

Today we delve into the archives of Mr. Murdock’s steamboat collection to learn of the history of a ferryboat which ceased operating between Saugerties and Tivoli just 23 years ago. Many of our readers will well remember this vessel as she was somewhat of a curiosity as far as her type was concerned.

The “Air Line” was a wooden hull vessel built at Philadelphia in 1857. She was 73 feet long, breadth of beam 20 feet, depth of hold six feet, five inches, gross tonnage 71, net tonnage 52, and she was powered with a vertical engine.

Originally this odd ferryboat was constructed for the Air Line Railroad Company of Pennsylvania and was one of the first of the walking beam type ferryboats ever constructed in this country. Her great bar walking beam coupled with the fact that she had only one bow instead of the customary two which are the rule for ferryboats, labeled the “Air Line” as a distinct curiosity.

The “Air Line” also holds a doubtful record of having made the trip from Philadelphia to Sandy Hook via the Atlantic Ocean; her owner refusing to pay toll charges to the New Jersey canals.

A photograph in the Murdock collection shows the “Air Line” with her one bow, long narrow alleyways separated by the engine house down the center of the vessel. An octagon-shaped pilot house stands atop the engine house with the great bar walking beam directly behind and a high smokestack rising from the middle of the steamboat. Lifeboats were mounted on the roofs of the side cabins.

John N. Snyder operated the “Air Line” when she plied the waters of the Hudson river between Saugerties and Tivoli, and because of her single bow, the vessel had to be turned completely after each crossing. For this reason the fare on the “Air Line” was the largest charged on any ferryboat on the Hudson river - a situation which would make a New Jersey commuter rise up in wrath if he had to pay the of 25 cents each time he crossed the river.

​The “Air Line” served the public between the two upriver towns for almost 58 years, continuing in service until 1915, when she was deemed worn out and sold to John Fisher, who took her to Rondout and dismantled her.

Editor's Note: This account is from the December 1, 1878 St. Louis (Missouri) Globe-Democrat. The tone of the article reflects the time period in which it was written. 

A PAIR OF HEROINES. 
The Ladies Who Guard a Hudson River Lighthouse. 
Deeds That Would Honor Grace Darling or Ida Lewis. 
[From the New York Mercury.] 
‘‘If the world knows little of its heroes, it knows less of its heroines.’’ So declared an old Hudson River pilot, who had for thirty years felt his tortuous way, night after night, along that serpentine stream in the pilot-house of one or another steamboat. And when he looked in that far-off-way, with his eyes turned inward, the writer knew he was thinking of something interesting, and the Mercury reporter said to him: "Come, out with it, Uncle John; tell me what you have reference to.’’ "I mean,’’ said he, with an emphatic knock given with his iron knuckles upon the table, ‘‘that while some chance incident, or the presence of a newspaper reporter at an opportune moment, gave the world the benefit of an adventure of Ida Lewis — which turned out to be merely the escapade of a masculine and hoydenish woman after all — the meritorious efforts of 

TWO REAL HEROINES, 
modest, retiring, made without any idea that the reporters were around — and indeed they were not, for a wonder — are never spoken of." "Who are the two heroines?’’ Well, they live in a lighthouse not over 120 miles from New York, on the Hudson River, keep it themselves, and I tell you they’re like the ten wise virgins in Scripture — their lamp is always trimmed and burning, and on a foggy night when the light is not visible you can hear one of them a mile off blowing a fog horn herself; for the Government has been too mercenary to give them one of the automatic new-fangled kind —and as for saving lives I know they’ve done it many a time. But if you want to know more about them, just you go down to the Government Lighthouse Bureau at Tompkinsville, on Staten Island, and they will tell you all about the heroines of Saugerties Light." The writer, with such promise of good things, could not resist the temptation to go to the Lighthouse Department, and when the object of his visit was made known to Maj. Burke, the chief clerk in the Inspector’s office, the latter said he had no doubt that the old pilot’s statements were true. ‘‘In fact,’’ said he, "there is no one connected with the lighthouses of the government whose general characteristics, daring, bravery and invincibility to fear, but withal natural modesty, would be so apt to include heroic action as 

MISS KATE C. CROWLEY,
the mistress and keeper of Saugerties Lighthouse. While we have had no official report of her achievements, I have heard of them through other sources, and can say to you that she is capable of any daring deed involving danger or self-sacrifice; and it is the most natural thing in the world, as she is so modest that we should never receive official reports which could come only through her. As to the manner in which the lighthouse is kept, it is unexcelled by any other man or woman in the department. Accounts are always kept right, the light is always burning, and Miss Crowley is the very best kind of a keeper. Go and see her. She is a model watcher.’’ With such assurances the reporter could no nothing less than follow the advice, and he took the night boat for Catskill, which would reach Saugerties early in the morning. It was a bright, starlight night, and the writer sat in the pilot-house talking to the Steersman, who guided the steamer safely through the shadows of the frowning peak of the Highlands and answered questions or volunteered information between the rotations of the wheel. As we turned a bend in the river a light which looked like a star of the first magnitude twinkled and shown upon us far away in the distance. "That’s fifteen miles away," said the man at the wheel. ‘‘That’s Saugerties light. We'll lose it again a dozen times in the turns of the river. Do I know who keeps it? Well, no; not to speak to ’em, but know its two gals as has got grit enough, for I’ve seen ’em on the river many a time by daylight pulling away a great heavy row boat that no two river men would care to handle in one of them gales that comes sweepin’ down through the mountains like great flues in a big chimney. It ain’t like a tumultuous sea, hey? Well, that just shows how little you know about these North River storms. Why, when we get some of these hurricane blasts, they sweep down through these gaps from the north, and another current comes up from the south, and 

GOD, HELP ANY VESSEL
that gets caught in the maelstrom when they meet. Well, it was on one of those occasions I was comin’ up the river on the old Columbus after she’d got out carryin’ passengers and took to the towin’ business. Let me see — that was about five years ago. We'd got a little north of Rondout, and I was all alone at the wheel; I heard a rumblin’ behind me, and I looked around, and when I saw a big cloud with thunder heads rushing up from the south I knew we were going to catch a ripper. This was nothing, however, to the heavy clouds that came sweeping down from he north, in an opposite direction; and then I saw that the two storms would meet. I hollered down the trumpet to the engineer to slower the engine, and made up my mind to keep headway and stay in the river, as it would be unsafe to try and make a landing or get fastened to a dock. In a few minutes the two storms struck us. The boat cavorted like a frisky horse, and in the foaming water plunged and reared, and shook in every timber, as if it had the ague. We were then pretty nearly abreast of Tivoli, and Saugerties’ Lighthouse was only about two miles ahead. A sloop loaded with blue-stone, which had just emerged from the mouth of Esopus Creek and was standing down the river, went over when the squall struck her as suddenly as if a great machine under the water had upset her; and soon I saw two men struggling in the water. Hardly a minute elapsed before 

TWO FEMALE FORMS
were fluttering around the small boat by the lighthouse. In another minute it was launched and it bobbed up and down in the seething, foaming waters. The two girls, bareheaded, with a pair of oars apiece, began pulling towards the men in the water. The waves ran so high, the gale blew so madly, the thunder roared so incessantly and the lightning flashed in such blinding sheets, that it seemed impossible for the women ever to reach the men, to keep headway, or to keep from being swamped. But they never missed the opportunity of a rising billow to give them leverage, and they managed by steady pulling to get ahead until they reached the men in the water. The great danger was that the tossing boat would strike the sailors and end their career, but one of the gals leaned forward over the bow of the boat, braced her feet beneath the seat on which she had been sitting, stiffened herself out for a great effort, and as her sister kept the bow of the craft crosswise to the waves, caught one of the men beneath the arm as he struck out on top of a billow, lifted and threw him by main force into the middle of the boat, and then 

PREPARED FOR THE OTHER MAN.
He had got hold of the sloop’s rudder, which had got unshipped and was floating on the water. He let go and swam toward the rowboat, and was hauled in also by the woman and his half-drowned comrade. I tell you,’’ said the pilot, ‘‘those gals are bricks, and no mistake. You couldn’t have got any river boatmen to do what they did.’’ It was just 4 o’ clock when the steamboat landed at the little insular dock which is called Saugerties, but which ought to be called Gideonstown, for there is only one house in it, and that is inhabited by a most estimable family by that name. The sight from the lighthouse, however, full a mile away, shone down upon it like the eye of a great ogre, illuminating the surrounding country, and enabling the writer to take observations. These, however, were more certain in the light of dawn which soon followed. From Mr. Gideon it was learned that the village of Saugerties was two miles away, and that there were many old residents in that place, where the parents of Miss Crowley formerly resided, and along the river front, who were familiar with the exploits of the young ladies. "Do I know them?’’ was his interrogative answer to the reporter’s question. "I should like to know who doesn’t know them hereabouts. They are always in their boat, and the people hereabouts have come to think that they 

REALLY BELONG TO THE WATER 
more than they do to the land, for the only time they are visible is when they are rowing to Saugerties or other places to get provisions for their household. They do that every day, rain or shine.’’ "Do they mind rain?’’ "Not at all, they make visits every day Saugerties or thereabouts. As for rowing, no boatman on the river can equal them. They feather their oars and make regular strokes independent of wind or tide." A trip to the village of Saugerties after much inquiry, led the reporter to a person who had been familiar with the lighthouse and its surroundings for many years. He is an old boatman and fisherman. He catches shad at the season of the year that they abound, and goes out duck shooting in the fall and early winter. He is acquainted with the history of all the inhabitants, and knows all about the occupants of the lighthouse since it was first built. 

THE TALE OF A LIGHTHOUSE. 
He said: ‘‘It is now twenty years since Mr. Crowley was appointed lighthouse keeper. The old light stood on a piece of masonry which was built midway in the river, upon a morass several feet above the surface of the water at high tide, but in a very unsubstantial way. When the early spring freshets brought down the ice, it was feared several times the lighthouse would be carried away, and the necessity of a new foundation and a new lighthouse soon became apparent. The old place, however, was newly supported, and about fifteen years ago he brought over his family from Saugerties to live in the building. His daughter Kate, a little girl then, from first seemed to be amphibious, and she would go out in a little skiff from the lighthouse alone, seeming to take such risks that every one prophesied that she would surely be drowned. Many a time her little craft upset, but

SHE SWAM LIKE A DUCK,
and always succeeded in reaching the lighthouse in safety. Her sister Ellen during these early years lived at her relatives in Saugerties, and did not join her sister until the new lighthouse was built. That was about nine years ago. Then Kate was fifteen years of age and Ellen about seventeen: In that year, Ellen was leaving Saugerties in a boat with her mother, and she saw a boy in swimming, but who had got beyond his depth, struggling for aid. She endeavored to reach him and her mother attempted to assist her, but, the latter being a woman weighing over 200 pounds, upset the boat, and the girl was thrown into the water in such a way that she came under the boat, which had capsized. Her mother was speedily rescued, but the daughter could not release herself from the peculiar position in which she was placed for several minutes and when rescued was found to have taken a considerable amount of water into her lungs. This seriously affected her health for some time afterwards. She has suffered more or less from that immersion, and malarial fever from that time to the present moment, and though she and her sister are said to take care of the lighthouse, and are always together in an emergency, the latter of late years has taken the responsibility of the place herself and runs the whole affair. Do I know of any case where these girls have saved life? Indeed I do. Three years ago last winter, 

A YOUNG MAN AND A LADY
attempted to cross the ice to Tivoli. They had got about 100 yards from the lighthouse when the ice broke and they were precipitated into the water. Kate had rigged her boat with runners, so that, in her regular trips to main land, she was able in winter weather to make her way over the ice, or the latter gave way, through the water. She appears to be always on the lookout, and saw what had occurred, and in an incredible short space of time jumped upon the ice, pulling her boat after her, while her sister pushed it from the stern. They arrived at the scene of danger speedily and rescued the young man, but his companion bad disappeared. Kate saw a fragment of her dress floating on the water, and knew that she was under a cake of ice. It took but a moment for Kate to rush forward, throw herself into the opening and withdraw the woman from her perilous position. The latter was limp and senseless, and it took several minutes to restore her to consciousness. Meanwhile the ice was breaking up all around the boat, the young man was precipitated into the water, and it required the 

UNITED EFFORTS OF THE TWO SISTERS 
to recover him also and place him in the boat. During this time gorges of ice had broken up above, and had carried all of them far below, and it was by the utmost efforts of the sisters that they succeeded in reaching a point two miles below the lighthouse. It is only about two-years since a steamer ran into a sloop nearly abreast of the lighthouse, cutting the latter in two and throwing all on board into the water. The sisters immediately launched their boat and put off to the assistance of the men in the water. Two of the sailors could swim, and in a few moments succeeded in reaching the bar, but two others were struggling for life. One of them had gone down twice and was rescued as he rose the third time. A fourth one was hanging to a piece of the wreck, when he was 

TAKEN INTO THE HEROINES’ BOAT. 
"These circumstances,’’ declared our informant, "have come under my personal observation, but there are many other cases well substantiated, in which these girls have saved life, but the particulars of which I am not informed.’’ 

AT THE LIGHTHOUSE. 
The writer, returning to the long dock, was conveyed to the lighthouse in a row-boat by Mr. Gideon. The place consists of a frame house and an adjoining lighthouse, erected upon a stone foundation built upon the flats. There are no grounds around the house, and consequently no opportunity for raising anything. Stone steps extend in the south side of the masonry to the water, and up these the writer ascended. Several raps at the front door failed to meet with any response, and the reporter walked around the narrow stonework to a side door. A single knock at this brought to the door a young lady, who was evidently surprised at the presence of the visitor. The latter asked for Miss Kate Crowley. The young lady replied that she was the person asked for, and invited the visitor into the front room, which was used as a parlor, and was plainly but neatly furnished. It hardly seemed possible that the modest appearing, 

FAIR-HAIRED, BLUE-EYED YOUNG LADY 
could be the heroine spoken of, but there seemed to be no question of doubt, and the reporter suggested that as he had ascertained she had been instrumental in saving life, he should pleased to get the particulars from her lips. She seemed exceedingly loth to say anything about herself, especially in the way of exploits, and when the reporter mentioned the instances spoken of above, she turned them off as of no account, or not worth elaboration. Considerable of her history was gleaned independent of her life-saving exertions. She said that when she was a little girl her father took the old lighthouse, and she had such a fondness for the water that she used to be on it all the time in a little skiff. She liked also to take charge of the light, see that the oil was in good condition, and attend to all lighthouse matters, so that her father by the time she was fifteen years of age had come to depend entirely upon for the care of the lighthouse. About nine years ago, when the new lighthouse was built -  work which she had watched at every stage of its progress with a great deal of interest - her

FATHER SUDDENLY BECAME BLIND
from cataract of the eyes. Her mother was unable to take charge of the lighthouse, and since that time she been compelled to assume the whole management herself with some assistance from her sister, who has always been in poor health. They row daily to the neighboring village to get their provisions and receive $560 a year as their remuneration. They have to find everything except oil and necessaries for keeping the lamp in order. They have some very severe storms sometimes, and in the spring the ice comes down and threatens their little house; but she is never afraid, and thinks it a pleasure when any one is in danger to do what she and her sister can to relieve them. During the conversation her sister came into the room. Never were two sisters more unlike. 

ELLEN IS A BRUNETTE,
tall, slim, with dark eyes and dark hair. When Kate is animated she is exceedingly pretty. She displays a row of milk-white teeth and shows dimpled checks, and looks at you with a pair of large eyes full in the face. She introduced her sister to the reporter, explaining his visit. The new-comer was quite as indisposed to seek notoriety as the other, and said: ‘‘We are simply two girls trying to do our duty here in this quiet place, taking care as we best can of our blind father aged mother. We are always on the lookout for vessels that may get out of their course and are sure to have our lamp in good order. We have not the opportunity of making ourselves heroines as we have learned another woman, Ida Lewis, has, but we do what we can in our feeble way.’’ The writer insinuated that their romantic spot would be apt to induce visitors to call upon, them, but they declared that theirs was a most solitary life. The inhabitants of Saugerties had come to regard the lighthouse as an old institution, possessing no interest whatever; there was nothing to attract visitors but their plain house, which was certainly unattractive, and the only time they saw any one was when they made their visits to the mainland for provisions. They had an idea, too, that the locality was unhealthy. Every summer for the past nine years they had 
​
SUFFERED FROM MALARIAL FEVER, 
arising from the surrounding lowlands, and only a few months ago they had buried a beloved brother. The only pleasure they had in life was to row in the river, keep the lighthouse in good trim, and do the best they could for any one in trouble on the river. They introduced the reporter to their aged parents, who understood only dimly and vaguely (after repeated efforts on the part of their children to make them comprehend what the object of his visit was), and at parting, the heroic sisters asked that they might not be given too much publicity. The writer promised that he would not say anything concerning them which they did not merit, and, as he was told still more of their humane efforts after he had left their island home, he feels that he has not violated his promise.

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Captain William O. Benson recalls the plight of a sleepy steamboat passenger who got off at the wrong stop.
 
In the long ago days of Hudson River steam-boating, almost every city and larger village along the river had their own steamboat line to New York. Each line would have at least two boats to maintain daily service— one boat going down, one back the next day.
 
The steamers of the lines north of Newburgh were known as night boats because they usually departed in the late afternoon or early evening and arrived at their destination in the early morning. All would carry freight on their main decks, with the deck above reserved for staterooms that offered sleeping accommodations for passengers.
 
Generally, travelling on the night boats was an extremely pleasant way to make a journey for or from New York. The river was always attractive in the evening and travellers could count on a good night's sleep— except when the steamer ran into fog and the pilots would have to blow their boat's whistle or if a passenger had a stateroom right next to the paddle wheels.
 
Saugerties was one of those towns that had its own steamboat service. The name of the company was the Saugerties and New York Steamboat Company, and it was operated mostly by home town men. During its last twenty years or so of service it was promoted and known to the travelling public as The Saugerties Evening Line.' At the time of this particular incident, shortly after World War I, they had two small, smart sidewheelers named "Ulster" and "Ida".
 
The incident took place on the "Ulster," and on this particular trip she left Pier 43, North River, in New York at her regular time. She had freight for all her landings, which in those days were Hyde Park, Rhinecliff, Barrytown, Ulster Landing and Tivoli, before ending her journey at Saugerties.
 
"Ulster" made very good time until she reached Crum Elbow, just south of Hyde Park. Then the fog set in. At the time, she was overtaking the Catskill Line freighter "Storm King". Of course, the fog signals had to be sounded from both steamers.
 
A Cornell tow was also on its way down the river, blowing one long and two short whistle signals indicating they had a tow underway. And as a matter of courtesy, the helper tug back on the tow, was also blowing its whistle because it was a good 500 feet back from the towing tug.
 
A racket of steam whistles reverberated across Hyde Park. If Franklin D. Roosevelt was at home— or the Vanderbilts or the great naturalist John Burroughs, they certainly woke up. For on top of all the other whistles, the big night boats out of Albany and Troy came along, sounding their way through the fog.
 
Some of the passengers on the "Ulster" were up complaining about all the noise. Others just stayed in their staterooms and put up with it. Then, a short while after things got reasonably quiet again, came the landing at Rhinecliff with the organized confusion of unloading freight. The hand freight trucks clattered on and off the gang plank, and the mate shouted at the freight handlers to get the freight off so they could get out on time.
 
After leaving Rhinecliff all was serene for a few moments, except for the periodic blowing of the fog signal. But off Astor's tunnel, they met a canal tow which was siting crossways in the channel and this caused more whistle blowing. Once clear of the tow, the "Ulster " landed at Barrytown. The freight trucks started up again, and an argument between two freight handlers, halted by the authoritarian voice of the mate, added to the din. (More on page 17)
 
The ”Ulster” then headed across the river to Ulster Landing. It was the custom on night boats for a hallman to knock on the door of the stateroom of a passengers getting off at a patircular landing about ten minutes before docking and announce the arrival. Sometimes, a passenger would have to listen pretty closely, for some hallmen were like some of the conductors on the old West Shore Railroad – they had an odd way of pronouncing the names of some of the stations or landings.
 
In any event, a hallman knocked on the door of the stateroom of one Ulster Landing passenger and called out “Ulster Landing, Ulster Landing”. A lady passenger bound for Saugerties and in a stateroom or two away also heard the knocking and the announcement “Ulster Landing”. After all the whistle blowing at Hyde Park, Rhinecliff, and Barrytown, she in all probability had been sleeping fitfully and in her half awake state may have thought “Ulster Landing” meant that the “Ulster” was docking and that it was time to get off. In any case, she got up, got dressed and when the steamer ghosted through the fog into the dock at Ulster Landing, she was at the gangway. As soon as the gang plank was put out, she walked ashore.
 
There was very little freight for Ulster Landing, so the gang plank was taken in and in a few minutes, the “Ulster” was on her way to Tivoli. The lady found herself virtually alone on a river dock before dawn. And it sure wasn’t Saugerties.
 
The only light on the lonely dock was a kerosene lantern, and the only other person around was the dockmaster who was an elderly man who was very hard of hearing. The sight of this well dressed lady alone in the freight shed made him so nervous that she had a hard time getting him to understand her plight. But the message finally got through, and the dockmaster got her a chair to sit in until daylight, then found a friend with a horse and wagon to take her on to Saugerties.
 
I often wondered if she ever made the steamboat trip to Saugerties again.
 
I, too, once made an overnight trip on the “Ulster” – by then renamed the “Robert A. Snyder”. It was in August of 1928, and I was a deckhand on the steamer “Albany” of the Hudson River Day Line.
 
I’d been home for a day and thought I’d go back to New York on the “Snyder” with my friends Richard Heffernan, who was her captain, and Harry Grough, her pilot. I got aboard her at Rhinecliff at 8 p.m. It must have been late in the month, for I remember it was already dark when we pulled away from the dock. Quite a few passengers were aboard.
 
I got the key to my stateroom and then went up to the pilot house to visit with my friends, Dick and Harry.
 
We talked for a while as the “Snyder” paddled her way down the Hudson, then, as we passed Poughkeepsie, I went down to my stateroom, which turned out to be on the port side just forward of the paddle wheel. All night long I could hear the old wheels pounding in the water below me. Once I got used to it, it was a very rhythmic and soothing sound. Every once in a while, though, the buckets on the wheels would pick up some sort of debris floating in the river, which would clatter and spin around in the wheel batteries.
 
Down around Clinton Point, I could hear the whistle of the “Snyder” blow one long and two short. On looking out the stateroom window, I could see the steamer “Ida” on her way up the river to Saugerties. Then again off Roseton I heard a whistle, which I recognized right away. It was the “Benjamin B. Odell” of the old Central Hudson Line headed north for Rondout. She sure looked great with all her electric lights shining in the dark and reflecting on the water.
 
After the passing “Odell”, I went to sleep and didn’t wake up until we landed at Pier 43, North River. The I said goodbye to Captain Heffernan and Pilot Grough, and took the old Ninth Avenue El Line up to 42nd Street and back to work again on the “Albany” at the Day Line pier at the foot of the street.

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

                                                No. 59 - “Saugerties”
                                                        ————--
She came from “foreign waters” under the name of the Shenandoah, she served on the Hudson River under the name of the Saugerties, and she went to a watery grave as the result of the ravages of flames; thus reads a brief history of the Saugerties.
 
Her wooden hull, built at Brooklyn in 1882, was 200 feet long with a 33 foot breadth of beam, and she was rated at 424 net tons. A vertical beam engine with a 36-inch diameter cylinder and a 10 foot stroke furnished the power for the Saugerties.
 
The steamboat was originally named the Shenandoah and was built for the old Dominion Steamship Company in whose service she plied the James river and Chesapeake Bay, carrying freight and passengers to and from the company’s steamships in Norfolk, Va.
 
In 1888 the Shenandoah was purchased by the Saugerties Company to run between Saugerties and New York on the night line in line with the steamer Ulster. She was completely overhauled and her name changed to the Saugerties, and she was advertised as “the largest little steamboat on the Hudson river.”
 
On Sunday, November 23, 1906, the Saugerties, under Captain Charles Tiffany, made her last run and ended her career as another steamboat that fell before the flames which wrote finis to the term of service of many of the river steamboats. The fire occurred at the dock at Saugerties village and caused the death of Charles Rosch, a member of the crew from New York city.
 
The Saugerties arrived at her dock at the up-river village on Sunday morning with a cargo of freight and passengers. It being Sunday, no freight was removed from the steamboat which was scheduled to make her return trip to New York on Monday evening. About 5 o’clock on that Sunday afternoon in November, flames were discovered coming from the oil room of the vessel, and a few moments later the entire lower section of the boat was ablaze.
 
The men who were aboard the steamer were compelled to flee for their lives and were unable to take the time to gather any of their possessions other than the clothes they were wearing. The ill-fated Rosch, a member of the crew, made his way back to the burning steamer after he had safely reached the wharf, in order to rescue a suit of clothing in which he had four dollars. Others on the wharf shouted to him that his efforts were foolhardy but he dashed into the smoke and flame and was suffocated.
 
The flames spread to all parts of the stricken vessel with amazing rapidity, eating their way along the upper deck and completely enveloping the steamer within 15 minutes. The roar of the fire could be heard for some distance and the heat from the flames was terrific.
 
The burned hulk sank at the dock at 2 o’clock Monday morning; the water of the Saugerties inlet squelching the last flames too late to save the fine steamboat. The Saugerties had been practically rebuilt during the years when she was the property of the Saugerties Steamboat Company, and her loss was estimated at $100,000. Of that sum, $80,000 was the estimate placed on the vessel itself and the other $20,000 was the value of the cargo.

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

                                                                  Ida
The steamboat Ida joined the Saugerties Evening Line as a replacement for the Saugerties in 1904. Ida had been built in 1881 at Wilmington, Del., and had been run by the Baltimore, Chesapeake & Atlantic Railway Co. The Ida had burned in Baltimore in Feb. 1894, but was totally rebuilt and returned to service. She ran with the Ulster through the season of 1920. Thereafter the Ida ran with the Ulster extensively rebuilt as the Robert A. Snyder. Capt. Charles A. Tiffany commanded the Ida for many years.

The Ida carried passengers and freight and ran at night. Freight going north was mostly wood pulp for the many paper mills at Saugerties, and perishables like milk for the summer resorts in the Catskills. Going south the freight was mostly finished paper of many types from the mills at Saugerties and hay for the many horses in New York City. Hudson Valley fruit was also carried in season. Passengers were mainly vacationers for the Catskills. The Ida ran through 1931 and was scrapped in 1937.

                                                                No. 72- Air Line
Today [1938] we delve into the archives of Mr. Murdock’s steamboat collection to learn of the history of a ferryboat which ceased operating between Saugerties and Tivoli just 23 years ago. Many of our readers will well remember this vessel as she was somewhat of a curiosity as far as her type was concerned.

The “Air Line” was a wooden hull vessel built at Philadelphia in 1857. She was 73 feet long, breadth of beam 20 feet, depth of hold six feet, five inches, gross tonnage 71, net tonnage 52, and she was powered with a vertical engine.

Originally this odd ferryboat was constructed for the Air Line Railroad Company of Pennsylvania and was one of the first of the walking beam type ferryboats ever constructed in this country. Her great bar walking beam coupled with the fact that she had only one bow instead of the customary two which are the rule for ferryboats, labeled the “Air Line” as a distinct curiosity.

The “Air Line” also holds a doubtful record of having made the trip from Philadelphia to Sandy Hook via the Atlantic Ocean; her owner refusing to pay toll charges to the New Jersey canals.

A photograph in the Murdock collection shows the “Air Line” with her one bow, long narrow alleyways separated by the engine house down the center of the vessel. An octagon-shaped pilot house stands atop the engine house with the great bar walking beam directly behind and a high smokestack rising from the middle of the steamboat. Lifeboats were mounted on the roofs of the side cabins.

John N. Snyder operated the “Air Line” when she plied the waters of the Hudson River between Saugerties and Tivoli, and because of her single bow, the vessel had to be turned completely after each crossing. For this reason the fare on the “Air Line” was the largest charged on any ferryboat on the Hudson River- a situation which would make a New Jersey commuter rise up in wrath if he had to pay the fare of 25 cents each time he crossed the river.

The “Air Line” served the public between the two upriver towns for almost 58 years, continuing in service until 1915, when she was deemed worn out and sold to John Fisher, who took her to Rondout and dismantled her.