​On May 23, 1701, my ninth-great-grandfather Captain William Kidd was gruesomely hung at the gallows at Execution Dock in Wapping, East London. The New York sea captain, who knew the Hudson (North) River and New York’s other tidal estuaries like the back of his hand, had been tried two weeks earlier at the Old Bailey on five counts of piracy and one count of premeditated murder. The crimes were allegedly committed during his 1696-1699 Indian Ocean voyage to fight the French and hunt down pirates. Although the piracy charges against the prominent New York sea commander were weak and the death of his fractious chief gunner, William Moore, was accidental when Kidd struck him with an empty wooden bucket while quelling a mutiny, it made no difference in the outcome of the trial.
The courtroom drama proved to be nothing but a sham proceeding to make an example of Kidd and protect England’s trade with the Great Mughal of India, Emperor Aurangzeb Alamgir I, and the East India Company’s profitable monopoly in the region. He was swiftly convicted on all counts based on the perjured testimony of two of his mutinous seamen, both of whom served as the Crown’s star witnesses and received full pardons for their betrayal of their commander. Today, Captain Kidd is known as perhaps the most famous “pirate” of all time, but his notorious legend is built on a bed of lies and he was railroaded by a corrupt English Crown. Thus, instead of indulging in the popular mythology of a villainous cutthroat and treasure-chest burying scoundrel who never existed, we should be celebrating the heroism of this most famous New Yorker with deep Hudson River Valley roots, a man who was called the “trusty and well-beloved Captain Kidd” by the King of England himself.

At the time of his high-profile public execution in 1701, the English-born Captain Kidd was not only a New York war hero in King William’s War against France (1689-1697), successful merchant ship captain, and a licensed private naval commander, or privateer, but a propertied gentleman, widely liked family man, and well-known community leader. He stood as one of the most prosperous citizens of not only he and his wife Sarah’s affluent East Ward neighborhood but all of Manhattan, which at the time had a population of 5,000 souls. His lawfully purchased New York real-estate properties included what are today some of the most expensive real estate holdings in the entire world, worth hundreds of millions of dollars: 90-92 and 119-121 Pearl Street; 52-56 Water Street; 25, 27, and 29 Pine Street; and his Saw Kill farm in Niew Haarlem at today’s 73rd Street and the East River.

For his privateering voyage to the Indian Ocean, Kidd was recruited in 1695 by a group of wealthy London financial backers, who hoped to make a bundle of money for King William III and themselves. Among them was Lord Bellomont, a powerful Whig House of Commons member and soon-to-be royal governor of New York, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire. The plan was for Kidd to not only fight the French but to hunt down the Euro-American pirates of Madagascar, legally seize their ill-gotten riches, and keep them for not only himself and his crew but for the king and other lordly sponsors from the powerful Whig party, who would take a hefty 60% cut of the proceeds. Kidd was to capture these predators of the seas—the “Red Sea Men” as they were known at the time—and seize their freshly plundered riches after they had raided the royal treasure fleets of the Great Mughal and other East Indian shipping between the Malabar Coast of India and Mocha and Jeddah in the Red Sea. Based on the colonial New Yorker’s sterling reputation, the investment group not only issued Kidd two special government licenses but built a 34-gun warship, the Adventure Galley, to his personal specifications.

Unfortunately for Kidd, his nearly three-year-long voyage turned out to be an epic disaster and turned him overnight into a notorious criminal and media sensation. During the hellish voyage that involved biblical storms, a tropical disease outbreak that took the lives of 35 of his crewmen, and constant attacks on his ship by virtually everyone, Kidd lawfully seized two Moorish (Muslim East Indian) ships, the Rouparelle and Quedagh Merchant, that presented authentic French passports and carried gold, silver, silks, opium, and other riches of the East. However, while these wartime seizures were 100% legal and he never once himself committed piracy in the Indian Ocean, he soon thereafter looked the other way during the capture of a Portuguese merchant galliot that presented official papers of a nation friendly to England (at least marginally). His seamen sailing separately from his 34-gun Adventure Galley in the captured Rouparelle seized from the Portuguese vessel two small chests of opium, four small bales of silk, 60 to 70 bags of rice, and some butter, wax, and iron.

It was a measly haul, and if Kidd hadn’t later become such an infamous figure, few would have cared that he had turned a blind eye to his unruly sailors from a separate ship plundering a few foodstuffs from a Catholic merchant vessel crewed by Moors. However, it was technically piracy even though Kidd wasn’t directly involved in the capture. He only allowed the seizure to pacify his unruly and mutinous crew, who had by this time divided into “pirate” and “non-pirate” factions aboard his three separate privateering gunships; and in reprisal for the damage inflicted upon the Adventure Galley and serious injuries sustained by a dozen of his crewmen from two Portuguese men-of-war that had attacked him without provocation months earlier.

Despite the numerous challenges he faced during his grueling voyage and a full-scale mutiny because he refused to go all-in on piracy, Kidd miraculously made it back to the American colonies from Madagascar with around £40,000 ($14,000,000 today) of treasure in his hold and the French passports that proved he had taken the Rouparelle and Quedagh Merchant legally in accordance with his commission. However, when he and his small band of loyalists reached Antigua in the Caribbean on April 2, 1699, they received heartbreaking news. The Crown, at the urging of the East India Company, had sent an alarm to the colonies in late November 1698 declaring them pirates and ordering an all-out manhunt to capture and bring them to justice.

Kidd decided to try to present his case for his innocence and obtain a pardon from his lead sponsor in the voyage, Lord Bellomont, who had by this time taken office as the royal governor of New York, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire. After burying a portion of his legally obtained treasure on Gardiner’s Island in Long Island Sound and distributing a number of goods to trusted community leaders as a precautionary measure, Kidd sailed into Boston on July 3, 1699, to meet with Bellomont, who had promised him a full pardon. However, the treacherous governor had merely lured him into the Puritan stronghold: upon Kidd’s arrival, Bellomont treated him with suspicion and several days later arrested him and his seamen.

After being stripped of all his lawfully seized plunder and enduring six months of incarceration in Boston, Kidd was shipped to England to stand trial, was found guilty, and hung in public shame before a drunken, jeering mob of Londoners. Days later, his corpse was coated with tar and hoisted in a gibbeted iron cage downriver at Tilbury Point near the mouth of the Thames, where it would remain for the next twenty years to serve as the English State’s grisly warning to other would-be pirates of the fate that awaited them if they dared disrupt England’s valuable trade relations with India by pursuing the short but merry life of a marauding freebooter.

                                                                   ΨΨΨ

Today, my ancestor Captain William Kidd stands as one of the three most famous “pirates” of all time, along with Sir Henry Morgan plastered on rum bottles and Edward Thache, better known as Blackbeard. But the truth is he was no pirate at all and was most certainly not “the sinister personification of piratical wickedness” or “most fiendish pirate that ever ravaged the seven seas,” as he has been called by some melodramatic researchers over the centuries. Like so many tall tales of Captain Kidd — especially stories of barbaric cruelty, piratical villainy, and treasure chests overflowing with gold and silver buried up and down the Hudson River and Atlantic seaboard — the Kidd-as-evil-arch-pirate myth has its roots in the anti-piracy propaganda campaign of the English Crown and the East India Company.

Because England failed to arrest and capture the most dastardly and successful pirate of the day, the Englishman Henry Every, the authorities made the colonial American Kidd out to be a Public Enemy #1, even though William III and his powerful Whig leaders in England had commissioned the privateer commander in the first place. Kidd’s biggest crime was disrupting England’s enormously lucrative East Indian trade. Because he followed in the wake of Henry Every during his 1696-1699 Indian Ocean voyage to hunt down pirates, the English State and its largest corporate monopoly launched a massive public relations smear campaign, spinning countless Treasure Island-like yarns of a brutal and mean-spirited Kidd, because they were unable to capture the real pirate Every and needed a scapegoat.

Over the centuries, Captain Kidd has come to define the “pirate” brand even though he was never actually a pirate. In his own lifetime he was a global sensation, and his fame has endured for more than 320 years and shows no sign of letting up. The wildly inflated estimates of his buried treasure have been a huge part of his allure over the centuries and they continue to fuel treasure hunters all over the globe, but they do not explain his longevity as an American icon and his exalted position as a favorite of Washington Irving, Edgar Allan Poe, James Fenimore Cooper, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Robert Louis Stevenson. His unique and captivating life story, his moral ambiguity, and his unfair trial in London have also played a huge role in this most famous New Yorker’s enduring popularity.

                                                                 ΨΨΨ

What continues to make Captain Kidd important today is not merely his remarkable rags-to-riches-back-to-rags story but how many people were profoundly affected by his actions and how entrenched his myth has become in popular culture. In Kidd’s own day, he was a luminary of the media and popular culture, the hot topic of “the courtrooms and coffee shops of New York, Boston, London, and India.” He rose to fame, and later infamy, while rubbing elbows with an unbelievably vast network of shipmates, friends, family members, colonial officials, and esteemed peers of the realm, ranging from ordinary seamen, to wealthy merchants and royal governors, to the most powerful English lords of the late seventeenth century.

But what many people don’t know is that Captain Kidd made his mark in America along the Hudson River and that he has deep roots in the Hudson River Valley as a result of American folklore. On two separate occasions in mid-March of 1691, the duly commissioned New York privateer sailed his 16-cannon gunship Antigua from New York Harbor westward around the southern tip of Manhattan, anchored a quarter mile up the Hudson River, and threatened to unleash a blistering fire upon Fort William with his 12-pounders. The fort was occupied by Jacob Leisler, the leader of Leisler’s Rebellion, and his provincial militia, who had seized power from the rightful English government and taken over the city. The fifty-year-old merchant, militia captain, and ultraorthodox Calvinist Protestant of German extraction had capitalized on the unsettled state of affairs in New York in response to the 1688-1689 Glorious Revolution, the ongoing political struggle in Europe between Protestants and Catholics over the English throne that had sent several American colonies into disarray.

On March 17, Captain Kidd forced Leisler’s militiamen to abandon the blockhouse by training his heavy guns on the fort in a raging storm from his upriver position on the Hudson. The next day, he personally ferried the incoming English governor, Richard Sloughter, from Sandy Hook into New York City to assume office and replace the “usurper” Leisler; and on March 19, he again threatened Leisler from the Hudson with his big carriage guns, forcing the tyrannical leader and his army in the fort’s garrison to ground arms and march out. Thanks to Kidd, the leader of the two-year rebellion and his top lieutenants were promptly arrested and tossed into the fort’s prison.

Captain Kidd also played a pivotal role in the building of sacred Trinity Church overlooking the Hudson River. To assist with the construction of the Anglican house of worship in 1696, Kidd lent his runner and tackle from his privateering ship Adventure Galley as a pulley system to help the workers hoist the stones. In return for his community service, Kidd was given Pew Number 4 in the original church, located right up front near the rector and which bore the nameplate inscription “Captain Kidd—Commanded ‘Adventure Galley.’” Unfortunately, the gentlemanly New York privateer would never get the opportunity to pray at the magnificent church he helped build in the New World, but his wife Sarah and daughters Elizabeth and little Sarah would. As one of New York City’s greatest links to its historic past, the latest incarnation of legendary Trinity Church stands today in the exact same spot where Captain Kidd lent his runner and tackle over 330 years ago. Fittingly, Captain Kidd’s wife Sarah is buried today in the churchyard of Trinity Church looking out on the mighty Hudson.

But Captain Kidd’s greatest Hudson River connection comes from his buried treasure mythology. The legend of the colorful outlaw and swaggering pirate, with tens of millions of dollars’ worth of buried treasure still to be found in the northeastern U.S. and throughout the world, began soon after his grisly hanging at Wapping. However, it was the buried-treasure myths in Hudson River Valley lore that by the early nineteenth century secured his place in the pantheon of American folk heroes as our maritime Kit Carson and Jesse James. It is in the Hudson River Valley of authors Washington Irving and James Fenimore Cooper, both of whom were obsessed with Kidd, where his cultural legacy began and where it continues to resonate in unusual ways.

In the 1820s, American newspapers published stories claiming that Captain Kidd had constructed a subterranean hideout in Kiddenhooghten, New York, or “Kidd Heights” along the banks of the Hudson near Dutch Albany, where he stashed away fifty boxes of gold for a rainy day. By mid-century, the myths of his vast hidden caches of gold and jewels had spurred treasure-hunting expeditions from Maryland to Nova Scotia. Fortune hunters claimed to have discovered these long-buried troves of treasure in virtually every state along the Eastern Seaboard, with gold and silver literally washing up on the shores of the Hudson. Others reported to have found sealed bottles containing letters and treasure maps scratched out by Kidd himself. At this time, several companies began scouring the lower Hudson River Valley for Captain Kidd’s lost treasure and his undiscovered fortune became linked with the supernatural.

For the past two hundred years, treasure hunters have claimed an occult connection to the privateer. “Scholars have well established that the prevalent use of folk magic and divining practices in New York and the New England states for the search of buried treasure was motivated by Captain Kidd’s legend.” When one reads the countless tales of Captain Kidd’s unrecovered treasure from the nineteenth-century to the present day—featuring treasure chests guarded by headless men, guardian dogs with red eyes, monster horses, enormous crows, and magical rings that deflect bullets—one cannot help but wonder if all this insanity is my ancestor’s revenge for the miscarriage of justice that brought him to his inglorious demise at Wapping in 1701.

To this day, Captain Kidd stands as one of the most well-known, popular, and controversial figures in world history, with countless books, short stories, articles, ballads, and songs written about him, as well as rock bands, pubs, restaurants, streets, and hotels named after him. There are a large number of websites on the man and the myth, including more than a few with helpful tips on where plucky treasure hunters can find his long-lost fortune. In the U.S. alone, legend still places buried chests of Captain Kidd’s treasure in not only New York’s Hudson River Valley but in Connecticut, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, and New Jersey.

However, Captain Kidd’s contribution to history is not limited to his romantic myth of the flamboyant pirate, or his treasure rumored to be scattered throughout the Hudson River Valley and all over the world. More important is his role in planting the seeds of rebellion against the English Crown that would grow into a full-fledged revolution by 1776. Kidd was not merely a leading New Yorker who helped build Trinity Church, the latest incarnation of which still stands proudly today on Wall Street and Broadway, nor was he just a courageous privateer commander in King William’s War against France and important member of America’s first unofficial Coast Guard. His story—as much as any other between the settling of Jamestown and the American Revolution—symbolized defiance against the English Crown and its Navigation Acts.

The spectacular irony is that Captain Kidd has won a posthumous victory over his English foes who publicly shamed, tried, and hung him for the crimes of Henry Every and the other true Red Sea pirates. The same powerful forces that humiliated and destroyed the American colonial have made him a staple of popular culture and sanctified his historical legacy in a way he never could have imagined. For today, Captain Kidd remains every bit as popular, puzzling, and controversial as he was four centuries ago. The delicious irony of my ninth-great-grandfather, of course, is that, as legendary historian Philip Gosse declared over a century ago, the greatest pirate of all time was “no pirate at all.”
​
Instead, he was the consummate New York “Gent” and war hero of the Hudson.

LORE FROM AWAY BACK.
Steamboat Memories of a Man Who Went on the "Powell's" Final Trip.
           
To the Editor of the Sun  — Sir: I have been reading the letters of the Mary Powell and other boats on the Hudson River.  I was born in Hudson, N. Y. in 1836, the son of Henry Hubbel of Hubbel, Clark & Co., owners of the steamer "Fairfield".  Later they bought a boat by the name of "Columbia".  She ran for a number of years and they bought the "Oregon", which was sunk by the steamboat "City of Boston".  The "Oregon" started out from the foot of Harrison street and the "City of Boston" ran from the foot of Vestry street.  The "City of Boston" ran right through the "Oregon's" hull and she sank immediately.  No lives were lost.
           
I wonder if any of the old timers remember the "Hope", which ran from Hudson to Albany?  It took her most all day to make the run between the cities.  There was another line of boats running from Hudson to New York under the firm of Lovett R. Mellen & Co.  They ran the steamboats "Hudson" and "South America".  There was an old boat named "Westchester" that ran from Hudson, but that was before I was born.  The firm of Hubbel, Clark & Co. ran two barges from Hudson, "Nos. 1 and 2".  The firm of Lovett R. Mellen & Co. also ran two barges, the "Lovett R. Mellen" and the "Samuel Leeds".  These boats carried hay and grain and other products.  At the time I speak of there were boats running from New York to Albany.  They were the "Isaac Newton", "Hendrick Hudson" and "Niagara".  I remember well the night of the wreck of the "Swallow".  It was during an awful heavy thunderstorm and she ran on a rock a little north of Athens.  Some lives were lost, but I don't remember the number.
           
I remember the "Mary Powell" when she was built and was on board when she made her trip down the bay and around New York harbor.  I was in the employ of Haviland, Clark & Co. at the time the "Oregon" sank, and also in the employ of George H. Powers when the steamer "Berkshire" burned near Stormy Point.  I was also in the employ of the same firm when the "Nupha" was rebuilt from the Berkshire's hull.  She was a propeller.  While she was making her first trip down, the ice stove in her hull — broke the sides right in.  Just where it happened I can't remember.  She was later raised and her named changed to "Metropolitan", and she ran on the East River.  I well remember the "Alida", "Armenia" and "Mattamoras".
           
I remember well the burning of the "Henry Clay" and the "Reindeer".  A friend of mine, Charles Carpenter, now living at Hudson, was aboard when the boiler burst on the "Reindeer".  At the time of the Civil War [1861-1865] the "Connecticut" and "Oregon" ran from Hudson, and the "Utica" and "Washington" ran from Catskill.  I think the "Daniel Drew" and the "Chauncey Vibbard" were the day boats to Albany.  The "Niagara" and "Alida" were later made into towboats and towed from Albany to New York.  The "Connecticut" and "Oswego" also were made into towboats.  I also remember the "Francis Skiddy", a four piped, side wheeled boat, which ran on the Day Line.   John H. Hubbel.

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. ​

                                                                No. 14- Charlotte Vanderbilt
The “Charlotte Vanderbilt” was a wooden-hull boat built by B.C. Terry at Keyport, N.J., in 1857. She was 207 feet long and was constructed as an experiment, but proved a failure.

Because the “Charlotte Vanderbilt” could make no better than 12 miles per hour with her experimental engine, she was laid aside, and it was not until 1862 that she came into regular service, and then only after the installation of a new engine.

In 1861 the “Robert L. Stevens,” and old Hudson river night line boat plying between Saugerties and New York, was condemned and her engine was removed and placed in the unused “Vanderbilt.” Thus in 1862, the “Charlotte Vanderbilt” replaced the “Stevens” on the night line between the two river ports, but her name was changed to the “William F. Russel.” Later she was chartered by the War Department and her name changed to the “John Tucker.” After the Civil War she sailed in southern waters in and around Washington and Baltimore under the original name “Charlotte Vanderbilt.”

In 1877 she was purchased by the Catskill line for service between Catskill and New York, and it was in this service that she met her end.

​On Friday evening, July 14, 1882, the “Charlotte Vanderbilt” headed down the Hudson for New York and at the time about two miles below the Rondout light house collided with Belden’s steam yacht “Yosemite,” which was sailing up the river. The “Vanderbilt” was struck at the forward gangway and was cut in two, sinking immediately. Fortunately there were no passengers or freight aboard at the time, and the crew was rescued. The vessel was never raised.

Another Murder. -- Last evening between six and seven o'clock, a colored man supposed to be one of the waiters of the Steamboat Rochester, was knocked overboard by a man named Edward Morris, and drowned  It appears that the colored man had a trunk on his shoulder which he was about taking on board of the Rochester, and when he had got on to the gangway plank, he was partially shoved off by one of the runners named James Lawlor, which caused him to drop the trunk.  He was immediately struck by Morris, with so much violence as to cause him to fall from the plank into the water, and was drowned.  ***
           
These runners and the other hangers on around the steamboats, are perfect pests, both to the proprietors of the boats and to the travelling community. . . Evening Post, June 3, 1845, 
 
Manslaughter if not Murder. -- Yesterday between 6 and 7 o'clock, as a colored man named Best, a waiter on board the steamer Rochester, was getting on board with a trunk, he was roughly jostled by a runner named James Lawler, and putting the trunk down was struck a severe blow by another runner named Edward Morris, which knocked him off the string piece into the river and he was drowned.  Officers Huthwaite and Hallamacker arrested Morris and Lawler. -- Sun.  N-Y Commercial Advertiser, June 3, 1845.
 
Coroner's Inquests -- Tuesday. On the body of John West, the colored waiter on board the steamer Rochester, who was struck at by Lawler, and knocked into the dock from the wharf foot of Courtlandt street by Edward Morris, and drowned.  The body was recovered yesterday and taken to the dead house.  $5,50 were found in his pockets and given to his family.  N-Y Commercial Advertiser, June 4, 1845.
 
Recovery of the body of the Porter of the Rochester . -- ***  Yesterday afternoon his body was recovered.  His name was John West, and an inquest will be held on his body to-day.
Evening Post, June 4, 1845
 
In the General Sessions, yesterday, Edward Morris, indicted for manslaughter, in having, while engaged in a scuffle with John West on board one of the North River steamboats, thrown overboard the last named person on the 2d of June, 1845, on being placed at the bar, entered a plea of guilty, and was remanded for sentence. Evening Post, July 11, 1845,
 
Edward Morris, indicted for manslaughter, in having, on the 2d of June, 1845, in a scuffle, thrown John West overboard from a steamboat, by which was drowned, pleaded guilty to manslaughter in the first degree, and will be sentenced tomorrow. NY Morning Express, July 11, 1845,
 
Edward Morris, who yesterday plead guilty to an indictment for manslaughter in the 4th degree, was sentenced to be confined in the City Prison for the term of one month.NY Evening Express, July 11, 1845,
 
Editor's Note: "Runners" tried to persuade travellers to take their steamer, which was much the best.  They could be pretty aggressive, perhaps grabbing a trunk and carrying it on board. 

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!​

Back in 1938, the tugboats “Winthrop” and “Brimstone’’ of the Hedger Transportation Company were coming down the Hudson River with a tow of canal boats.  Off Evesport, north of Saugerties, they ran into heavy fog.

Feeling their way along in the fog, the tow started to pull to the eastward towards Tivoli.  But, the tow didn’t get very far before it fetched up on the mud flats on the east side of the channel.  Before long, some of the barges started to leak and two of them sank.

When the barges were pumped out and raised, it was discovered that their bottoms were cut by deep gashes.  The gashes looked as though they had been made by heavy steel obstructions and not by rocks on the river bottom.  At low tide, an inspection, made by divers for the insurance company in the area just north of where the tow had run aground, disclosed the remains of a boiler and engine bed of an old steamboat wreck.  The wreck was about nine feet under water and close to the flats.

Was it the ‘Reindeer’?

Because of the location of the old steamboat wreck, it was generally thought the wreck on the river bottom was that of the old steamboat “Reindeer” which had burned and gone under at that location way back in 1852.

The ‘‘Reindeer” had originally been built in 1846 for service between New York City and New Brunswick, N.J. on the Raritan River.  She later ran between New York and New Haven, Conn. — and on this run her ability to travel at high speed was soon noted.  Because of her speed, in 1851 she was placed in service on the Hudson River in the then highly competitive service between New York and Albany.
On September 4, 1852, the “Reindeer’’ was proceeding up river for Albany with between 300 and 400 passengers aboard.  She had just made her landing at Bristol, now called Malden-On-Hudson, when her boiler blew up.  The smoke stack fell, demolishing the pilot house and upper deck.  Steam from the bursted boiler flooded the lower cabin where many passengers sat eating dinner.  Some 31 persons lost their lives in the accident.  She caught fire as a result, but the flames were apparently extinguished.

Three days after the accident, fire broke out again and got out of control.  The ‘‘Reindeer’’ was cut loose from the Bristol dock where she had been secured, and the remains of the steamboat drifted aflame to the east side of the channel where the fire burned itself out.  What was left of the “Reindeer” sank on Green’s Flats, just north of where the red flashing Beacon No. 38 is now standing.

So in 1938 — 86 years after her fatal accident — the “Reindeer” came back to plague boatmen of another era in another century.  At that time, stories were again told of her feats of speed and races she had engaged in against other steamboats — an age when the first steamboat to reach a landing got the waiting passengers.

About half past one Sunday afternoon, July 30, the Staten Island ferry boat Westfield was lying quietly in her slip at the foot of Whitehall Street, New York. Over four hundred souls were on board, lured by the delightful weather from their crowded homes to breathe the pure sea air and enjoy the grass and shade of the uncontaminated country. Everything was in readiness for the start. The captain was at his post, the engineer was on his way to the engine room, men were standing ready to unhook the chains, when suddenly there came a terrible crash, and in an instant the steamer was a wreck.

Those who witnessed the disaster say that first there was a dull crunching sound, somewhat like that made by the fall of a large building, followed immediately by the sharp hiss of escaping steam. The main deck was forced upward for a considerable distance; the beams and planks were torn into fragments. Many of them were thrown high into the air, and fell back in a confused mass into the hold. The pilot house, which was directly over the boiler, was hurled into the air to a great height, and falling back upon the hurricane deck was shattered to pieces. The pilot was in the house, and yet, strange to say, aside from a few severe scratches and contusions and a severe shock, escaped unhurt. He could scarcely believe that he was not mortally injured, as he crawled from the ruins and saw the havoc and desolation that had been made. The heavy smoke stack was also blown high in the air and fell into the general wreck. The escaping steam filled the boat, and many were scaled who would have otherwise escaped unhurt.

The part of the boiler which gave way was opposite the fire box, and toward the bow of the boat. Such was the force of the explosion that a piece of the upper half of the shell of the boiler, twenty feet in length and weighing two tons, was hurled forward a distance of twenty-five fee, and lodged in the bow. The fracture apparently started at a place where the boiler was patched to cover a defect.

A majority of the passengers were collected on the main deck, directly over the boiler. These were blown into the air to the height of thirty or forty feet, falling back into the wreck, or into the water. Happy were those who died instantly! Scores of men, women, and children who escaped the full force of the explosion were immediately enveloped in a scalding cloud of steam. The scene of the boat was harrowing. Groans and loud screams of agony came from the scalded, wounded, and dying. Parents were eagerly seeking their children, children for parents, friends for friends. Many in their panic leaped overboard, some were rescued by boats that surrounded the wreck, while others sank at once and were drowned.

The Police and Fire departments called upon for assistance, and at once furnished men and means to convey to the hospitals such sufferers who could be moved. A pitiable sight they presented when brought upon the docks. Many had the skin almost entirely scalded from the face, neck, and breasts. Others had lost portions of their hair, from the scalp literally being parboiled and peeled off. Others were covered with ghastly wounds, and all were begrimed with soot and dust. As fast as possible the sufferers were removed to the hospitals, where the utmost that surgical skill could do was done to relieve them. In spite of every attention, many died after their removal. The number of the victims has not been fully ascertained. It is thought that between forty and fifty were killed outright, and that the list of fatalities may be swelled to a hundred by deaths in the hospital.

The cause of the explosion has not been ascertained. Various surmises are afloat in regards to it. Only two months ago, the United States inspector of boilers inspected the Westfield and pronounced it safe. The engineer, a colored man, is said to be capable and trustworthy. He states that just before the explosion took place, he found the water in the boiler all right, and the steam gauge indicating a pressure of twenty-seven pounds. A fragment of the boiler picked upon the dock was pronounced by good judges to be unsound iron. It was taken to police headquarters to be produced before the coroner’s jury, when the questions of cause and responsibility will be fully inquired into.

TERRIBLE EXPLOSION.
(From the Special Correspondent of the "New York Tribune.")
Newburgh, June 3, 1868.

Dwellers along the Hudson River for a distance of 30 miles north and south of
this city were startled at six o'clock this morning by the shaking of their houses, the
rattling of windows, and two distinct, heavy, rumbling reports. Many supposed that two
shocks of an earthquake had taken place, and rushed from their houses in excitement.
The cause of the excitement was the explosion of 10,000 pounds of powder, and the
blowing up of two powder mills, owned by Messrs. Smith and Rand, about four miles
west of this city, on the South Plank Road, leading to Walden, Orange County. A visit to
the spot revealed the following facts: The graining mill, where the first explosion
occurred, was a sort of double building, 20 by 16 feet, built of stone, with wooden sides
and one story high. It stood about one hundred feet from the main road, separated from
the latter by a clump of trees. In it at the time of the explosion was five tons of powder,
the most of it being in the grain. The glazing mill was situated across a dam, about one
hundred feet from the graining mill, and was about fifteen feet in diameter, octagonal in
form, and was in no way connected with the graining mill. In it at the time of the
explosion was about a ton of powder.

At exactly six o'clock this morning the graining mill blew up, the fire shooting with
great violence across the dam to the glazing mill, and in five seconds thereafter that
was also blown to fragments. The scene is described as being fearfully grand. The
foundation of the graining mill was scooped out as though with a shovel. Huge sticks of
timber were thrown through the air for a quarter of a mile, small trees were uprooted,
and hurled a long distance; while larger and older trees were entirely stripped of leaves
and branches; and their trunks blackened and charred. At the foot of trees numbers of
dead birds were found, having been instantly killed by the powerful shock. A large iron
shaft four inches in diameter, led from the graining mill to another building on the south
side of the road. It was seventy-five feet long. The end nearest to the building which
exploded was bent almost double; while a portion of the shaft fifteen feet long was
broken off and hurled over 400 yards from the scene. For more than a quarter of mile
the ground is strewn with the debris. Huge timbers, blackened and splintered with
powder, heavy and long limbs of trees, and in many instances whole trees, ragged and
torn, block the paths and roads leading to spot. A storage building on the south side of
the road, distant all of 150 yards from the graining mill, was badly shattered. It
contained three tons of powder in kegs. The large door at the main entrance was blown
off, the sides of the building crushed in, and the roof greatly damaged. Fortunately, the
powder in the building did not ignite.

Of course, as soon as the danger consequent upon the terrific explosion had
passed away, there was a rush to ascertain if anyone was killed. At the time of the
occurrence there, there was only one man in the graining-mill and none in the others.
His name was Adam Schosser [?], a German. He was employed as Messrs. Smith and 
Rand's service for several years, and was considered perfectly trust-worthy. He had
often asserted that he knew his business too well to be blown up. He was undoubtedly
blown high in air, some suppose 1000 feet. His head and shoulders were found at a
distance of 500-yards from the spot where the explosion occurred, mangled and torn
beyond recognition. An arm was found, lodged in the crutch of a tree, while for a
distance of a quarter of a mile pieces of flesh and parts of his limbs were found strewn
along the ground and hanging to limbs of trees. All the parts found were collected and
placed in a barrel. Coroner Thomas Bingham of Newburgh, who arrived soon after the
occurrence, empannelled a jury, and an inquest was held over about two-thirds of the
body, the jury returning a verdict in accordance with the facts.

The shock in this city was terrific. Houses were shaken to their foundation and in
many places windows were shattered. Standing in one of the streets and looking
toward the spot where the explosion occurred a huge column of smoke and dust was
seen to shoot upward fully 1000 feet into the heavens, presenting a scene grand
beyond description. A vast ring of smoke whirled far up and gradually widening in area,
was a sight never witnessed before in this vicinity. The concussion started persons who
were thus slumbering, in many cases arose trembling and anxious to know the cause.
For a distance of ten miles back, on the opposite side of the river, the explosion was
distinctly heard, while West Point, Peekskill, Sing Sing and Poughkeepsie the report
was also noticed. Three years ago a similar explosion took place at the same spot;
when one man was killed. Had the explosion of this morning occurred one hour later,
the loss of life would have been fearful, as at 7 a.m. the twenty men employed at the
works commence labor, when, in all probability, every one of them would have been
blown to pieces.-"Maryborough Chronicle, Wide Bay and Burnett Advertiser" (Queensland, Australia.), September 22, 1868

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. This article was originally published January 23, 1977.

Tugboats in some respects are like people. Some have long lives, some short ones. Some during the course of their lifetime change greatly in appearance. And some seem to be more accident prone than others.

All tugboats, especially in the old days, had their share of mishaps, which were caused by any number of things. River traffic was greater then, and there were fewer buoys, beacons and other navigational aids. It was a time of no radar, which today permits the pilot to “see” where he is in the fog, blinding snow or rain storm. In addition, of course, there were and are always those mishaps caused by human error or folly.

The debacles that befell the tugboat “Hercules” of the old Cornell Steamboat Company are perhaps typical. Some of the incidents were not without a touch of humor. Others have a bit of pathos.

The “Hercules” — a good name for a tug — was a member of the Cornell fleet during its heyday. She was built in 1876 and remained in active service until 1931. "Herk," as they often called her, was smaller than the large tugboats that used to pull the big flotillas of barges, but also larger that the helper tugs that regularly assisted every big tow. As a result, she was used for a lot of special tasks: towing dredges, expressing special barges or lighters, pulling steamboats from winter lay up to a shipyard, etc.

"Herk" also had a reputation as an ice breaker and was used often for this purpose - particularly in the spring. To help her in the ice, she had extra stout oak planking and steel straps all around her bow.

One day in the summer of 1917, the "Hercules" was running light to Rondout. Her pilot was off watch, asleep in his bunk, and the captain was dog tired. Since it was a clear summer’s day, the captain decided to grab a nap and let the deckhand steer.

After he went below for his nap, a heavy thunder shower came up off Esopus Meadows lighthouse. The decky altered course, and — thinking he was on the proper heading — kept her hooked up.

A few minutes later, "Herk" came to a slow stop and raised partly out of the water. When she listed, the captain woke up and ran to the pilot house. But the heavy rain was coming down in sheets. He couldn’t see a thing. All he knew for sure was that his tug was aground and the tide was falling.

When the rain stopped a few hours later, the problem was obvious. The deckhand had turned too much towards the northwest, going aground directly off the old Schleede’s brickyard at Ulster Park. The “Hercules” had plowed right over the Esopus Meadows, coming to rest with her bow on the north bank and her stern on the south bank, straddling the cut channel between the Meadows and the brickyard.

The tide was ebbing and, unsupported as she was in the middle, her crew was afraid the Herk would either break her back or roll over on her side. But as the water fell, she listed only a trifle and sat there— just as she had run aground. “Herk" must have been made of good stuff to stand that ordeal.

The next high tide, Cornell sent down the tugs “Harry", “G. C. Adams” and “Wm. S. Earl” and pulled her off, none the worse for the experience. The deckhand who put her there lived in Port Ewen. For years afterward, he took a lot of ribbing for trying to put his tug up in his own backyard.

Two years later — in 1919 — the “Hercules" had another mishap. For this one, her pilot was fired.

At that time, "Herk" was expressing a coal boat from New York to Cornwall. She was off
Jones Point at about 1:30 in the morning, when the pilot, who used to so some fishing, said to the deckhand, “Steer her a little while. I’m going down to the galley and knit on my fish nets.”

While the pilot knitted, the decky dozed off at the wheel, and the “Hercules” hit a rock near Fort Montgomery. It put a sizable hole in her hull, she sank in 45 feet of water.
The salvage company later located her by her hawser, which was still attached to the coal boat, and floated her like a big buoy. “Herk” was raised and repaired, and she ran for another 12 years.

After the accident, the president of the Cornell Steamboat Company is said to have called the pilot into his office to ask him how it happened. The pilot was truthful, telling him where he was and what he'd been doing, whereupon Cornell’s president is supposed to have said: “Well,”(calling the pilot by name),"now you can go home for the rest of your life and knit nets to your heart’s content." And he never worked on a Cornell tugboat again.

In 1924, the “Hercules" had another near accident— but this one ended on a happier note. The tug was running light in the upper river on her way to Albany. It was the era before three crews manned each boat, and the captain was off for the weekend. Peter Tucker, the pilot, was in charge and standing a double watch.

At the time, it was early morning and breakfast was ready. The cook claimed he had a Hudson River pilot’s license and came up to the pilot house saying, "Now Pete, go down and enjoy your bacon and eggs. I'll steer for you.”

Pete said, “‘Are you sure you know the channel?", to which the cook replied, "Yes, yes I know all about it."  So pilot Tucker went down to the galley to have his oatmeal, bacon and eggs.
At that point, "Herk” was off the Stuyvesant upper lighthouse. A little while later, she was at the junction of the Hudson and Schodack Creek. Given a choice, the poor cook thought he was to go up the shallow Schodack, instead of west and up the Hudson.

Ned Bishop, the chief engineer, came out of the galley just in time to see where they were heading. Yelling to pilot Tucker, he said, “Pete, where is this guy going?"

The pilot looked out of the galley, and there they were, headed up Schodack Creek. Pete started to run up the forward stairway to the pilot house, hollering to Ned Bishop as he ran, "Full speed astern!" The chief reversed the throttle just in time. The "Hercules" slid up on the bank and right off again. If he hadn’t been so quick, "Herk" would probably be there yet.

Going into the pilot house, Pete said to the cook, “I thought you knew the river." The cook (rather sheepishly) replied, "Well, that’s the way I always went.”  The pilot retorted, "What’s the use?  Go down and start dinner. Now!”

And so ended another incident of the many in the long life of the "Hercules."

The story I’m about to relate happened 45 years ago almost to the day. The incident dates back to Dec. 4, 1926 - which would make yesterday its anniversary for those who might remember.
           
In any event, when steamboating was at its peak on the Hudson River, every city and almost every village along the majestic river had a steamboat landing and was served by one or more steamboats.
           
The bigger cities and villages had direct service to New York, while the smaller villages were served by smaller connecting steamboats.

Newburgh Albany Line
And the Central Hudson Line, which operated primarily between Rondout, Poughkeepsie and Newburgh - with way landings - to New York, also operated a line between Newburgh and Albany.
           
Originally, there were two steamboats in this service, one each day in each direction, carrying freight and passengers between some 20 different landings. In its latter and declining days, the service was down to one lone steamboat - the “Jacob H. Tremper” - carrying freight only.
           
This, then, was the background for the following incident which was told to me by Jack Dearstyne Sr., the “Tremper’s” last captain.
           
It was Dec. 4, 1926 and a heavy snow storm had already set in when Capt. Dearstyne got orders at Albany to start for Newburgh where he was to lay up for the winter. As the “Tremper” made its way down the river, thick snow pelted its deck, hitting harder and harder with each mile navigated.

Two Passed By
Off Coxsackie, the crew of the “Tremper” could barely discern the outlines of the “Osceola” and the “G.C. Adams” of the Cornell Steamboat Company.  But the men of the “Tremper” knew they were indeed passing both boats as they headed slowly up river with a large tow.
           
As the “Tremper” passed Four Mile Point, four miles above Athens, the chief Engineer and the captain stood together in the pilot house…and both strained to see through the snow just as everybody else aboard was attempting to do. They all figured that if they could make Rondout, they would tie up for the night.
           
Suddenly the chief observed, “That looked like the junction buoy.” And they all agreed that it was. Said Captain Dearstyne to the pilot, “Better pull to the west,” and the maneuver was promptly executed by the pilot.
           
​But it had not been the buoy that had been spotted. Instead, the “buoy” turned out to be a large log floating in the river. And before they could back down, the “Tremper” slid up on west flat, just north of the light. Unfortunately for the boat, the time of the accident was near the end of the flood tide.

None Heard Whistle
They backed and backed and backed again - blowing the whistle - thinking and hoping that one of the tug boats they had recently passed might hear them. But neither did. From Captain Jack came this lament; “I guess this is the end of the old ‘Tremper’.”
           
But, then, just as they were about to give up all hope, they heard the muffled sound of another steamboat whistle through the swirling snow. And out of the whiteness of the storm came William H. Burlingham with the steamer “Catskill,” the freight boat of the old Catskill Evening Line.
           
It seemed that Captain Burlingham had been tied up at Stockport because of the storm. Coming to the rescue, the “Catskill” came up astern, put a hawser on the “Tremper” and pulled again and again.
           
With each pull by the “Catskill,” the “Tremper” also helped by working her engine back hard and, in the process, the “Catskill” parted several hawsers.
           
No amount of pulling seemed to help and, finally, Captain Jack yelled over to Captain Will on the “Catskill,” “I guess it’s no use. The tide is falling and her old deck planks and butts are opening up. It’s the last of the ‘Tremper.’”

A Final Try
 But Captain Will came right back with a “Let’s try once more.” Not willing to admit defeat, he had a further philosophic thought. “Both of us are getting old and so is the ‘Tremper.’ We can’t let her go without one more try.”
           
So try they did - and off she came!
           
The “Tremper” then continued on to Rondout and lay in for the night. The next day she followed the Rondout-New York boat, the “Poughkeepsie,” down the river as far as Milton, where the new ice was not so thick as it had been above. She then continued on to Newburgh where she layed up for the winter of 1926-27, and lived on to run for two more years.
           
​Captain Dearstyne was captain of the tugboat “Lion” in 1931 and I was his deckhand. And I remember him telling me then: “Always treat Will Burlingham as a gentleman as that is what he always was and always will be.”