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Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM Contributing Scholar Carl Mayer. This article was originally published March 5, 1972. ![]() A SKETCH OF THE “REINDEER” by marine artist Samuel Ward Stanton, of Newburgh. Since early steamboats operated in the age before photography, Stanton’s sketches and paintings, in many cases, are the only known likeness of the vessels. Stanton perished as a passenger on the ill-fated maiden voyage of the liner “Titanic.” He was returning from Europe where he had gathered source material for a series of murals for the Day Liner “Washington Irving,” then being built. 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. AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
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Editor's note: The following text is from an article printed in the Harpers Weekly magazine issue of August 12, 1871. Thank you to Contributing Scholar Carl Mayer for finding, cataloging and transcribing this article. The language, spelling and grammar of the article reflects the time period when it was written. 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. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor's note: The following text is an except from "Terrible Explosion"., reprinted in the Queensland Australia newspaper "Maryborough Chronicle, Wide Bay and Burnett Advertiser." Thank you to Contributing Scholar George A. Thompson for finding, cataloging and transcribing this article. The language, spelling and grammar of the article reflects the time period when it was written. 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 If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. This article was originally published January 23, 1977. Tugboats in some respects are like people. Some have long lives, some short ones. Some during the course of their lifetime change greatly in appearance. And some seem to be more accident prone than others. All tugboats, especially in the old days, had their share of mishaps, which were caused by any number of things. River traffic was greater then, and there were fewer buoys, beacons and other navigational aids. It was a time of no radar, which today permits the pilot to “see” where he is in the fog, blinding snow or rain storm. In addition, of course, there were and are always those mishaps caused by human error or folly. The debacles that befell the tugboat “Hercules” of the old Cornell Steamboat Company are perhaps typical. Some of the incidents were not without a touch of humor. Others have a bit of pathos. The “Hercules” — a good name for a tug — was a member of the Cornell fleet during its heyday. She was built in 1876 and remained in active service until 1931. "Herk," as they often called her, was smaller than the large tugboats that used to pull the big flotillas of barges, but also larger that the helper tugs that regularly assisted every big tow. As a result, she was used for a lot of special tasks: towing dredges, expressing special barges or lighters, pulling steamboats from winter lay up to a shipyard, etc. "Herk" also had a reputation as an ice breaker and was used often for this purpose - particularly in the spring. To help her in the ice, she had extra stout oak planking and steel straps all around her bow. One day in the summer of 1917, the "Hercules" was running light to Rondout. Her pilot was off watch, asleep in his bunk, and the captain was dog tired. Since it was a clear summer’s day, the captain decided to grab a nap and let the deckhand steer. After he went below for his nap, a heavy thunder shower came up off Esopus Meadows lighthouse. The decky altered course, and — thinking he was on the proper heading — kept her hooked up. A few minutes later, "Herk" came to a slow stop and raised partly out of the water. When she listed, the captain woke up and ran to the pilot house. But the heavy rain was coming down in sheets. He couldn’t see a thing. All he knew for sure was that his tug was aground and the tide was falling. When the rain stopped a few hours later, the problem was obvious. The deckhand had turned too much towards the northwest, going aground directly off the old Schleede’s brickyard at Ulster Park. The “Hercules” had plowed right over the Esopus Meadows, coming to rest with her bow on the north bank and her stern on the south bank, straddling the cut channel between the Meadows and the brickyard. The tide was ebbing and, unsupported as she was in the middle, her crew was afraid the Herk would either break her back or roll over on her side. But as the water fell, she listed only a trifle and sat there— just as she had run aground. “Herk" must have been made of good stuff to stand that ordeal. The next high tide, Cornell sent down the tugs “Harry", “G. C. Adams” and “Wm. S. Earl” and pulled her off, none the worse for the experience. The deckhand who put her there lived in Port Ewen. For years afterward, he took a lot of ribbing for trying to put his tug up in his own backyard. Two years later — in 1919 — the “Hercules" had another mishap. For this one, her pilot was fired. At that time, "Herk" was expressing a coal boat from New York to Cornwall. She was off Jones Point at about 1:30 in the morning, when the pilot, who used to so some fishing, said to the deckhand, “Steer her a little while. I’m going down to the galley and knit on my fish nets.” While the pilot knitted, the decky dozed off at the wheel, and the “Hercules” hit a rock near Fort Montgomery. It put a sizable hole in her hull, she sank in 45 feet of water. The salvage company later located her by her hawser, which was still attached to the coal boat, and floated her like a big buoy. “Herk” was raised and repaired, and she ran for another 12 years. After the accident, the president of the Cornell Steamboat Company is said to have called the pilot into his office to ask him how it happened. The pilot was truthful, telling him where he was and what he'd been doing, whereupon Cornell’s president is supposed to have said: “Well,”(calling the pilot by name),"now you can go home for the rest of your life and knit nets to your heart’s content." And he never worked on a Cornell tugboat again. In 1924, the “Hercules" had another near accident— but this one ended on a happier note. The tug was running light in the upper river on her way to Albany. It was the era before three crews manned each boat, and the captain was off for the weekend. Peter Tucker, the pilot, was in charge and standing a double watch. At the time, it was early morning and breakfast was ready. The cook claimed he had a Hudson River pilot’s license and came up to the pilot house saying, "Now Pete, go down and enjoy your bacon and eggs. I'll steer for you.” Pete said, “‘Are you sure you know the channel?", to which the cook replied, "Yes, yes I know all about it." So pilot Tucker went down to the galley to have his oatmeal, bacon and eggs. At that point, "Herk” was off the Stuyvesant upper lighthouse. A little while later, she was at the junction of the Hudson and Schodack Creek. Given a choice, the poor cook thought he was to go up the shallow Schodack, instead of west and up the Hudson. Ned Bishop, the chief engineer, came out of the galley just in time to see where they were heading. Yelling to pilot Tucker, he said, “Pete, where is this guy going?" The pilot looked out of the galley, and there they were, headed up Schodack Creek. Pete started to run up the forward stairway to the pilot house, hollering to Ned Bishop as he ran, "Full speed astern!" The chief reversed the throttle just in time. The "Hercules" slid up on the bank and right off again. If he hadn’t been so quick, "Herk" would probably be there yet. Going into the pilot house, Pete said to the cook, “I thought you knew the river." The cook (rather sheepishly) replied, "Well, that’s the way I always went.” The pilot retorted, "What’s the use? Go down and start dinner. Now!” And so ended another incident of the many in the long life of the "Hercules." AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. This article was originally published December 15, 1971. 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.” AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
The rapid decline of sail freight in the early 20th century was not entirely due to technological advantages of steam and motor propulsion, or to economics, but another outside force: Submarine Warfare. The First World War raged from 1914 to 1918, and was the first truly mechanized war. The submarine made its debut as a weapon in this conflict, and the German U-Boats became notorious for their damage to allied shipping. Since submarines were new, there were few developed techniques for countering them. By the end of the war the Office Of Naval Intelligence had created a small handbook on the subject: The main recommendations were to use a vessel's superior speed first, to reduce time in the war zone, and to maneuver unpredictably if a speed over 16 knots could not be maintained For windjammers, 16 knots is a very high speed in most conditions, and changing course by 20-40 degrees every 10-20 minutes is difficult or impracticable, depending on the winds available. Their relatively small size made arming them with sufficiently powerful naval guns difficult, and there weren't enough small guns to go around even if they could be mounted around the ship's rigging. According to Lloyd's of London Casualty Lists, some 2,000 windjammers of over 100 tons were sunk during the War, over a third more than in the 5 years before the war., and this does not count ships damaged but not sunk. Dozens of others under this threshold were also sunk or damaged by submarines. As a result, the already slowly declining sail fleets suffered a catastrophic loss of vessels and trained crew. Further, due the importance of speed in avoiding or evading U-Boat attacks, steamers and motor vessels became the primary means of replacing ships lost during the war. The larger, faster vessels were more survivable, and could take up the shipping capacity lost faster than building another large fleet of relatively small wind-powered vessels. Those windjammers which survived the First World War carried on, especially in coastal trade, until the 1930s and some areas continue to do so today. However, losses in the First World War reduced the world's transoceanic windjammer fleet to a very low number, while economics favored the new, very large steamers on all but the longest routes. For more reading about the use of U-Boats off the US Coast in the First World War, try out the Navy's publication on the subject from 1920 for many detailed accounts and information. This Memorial Day, keep the windjammer sailors of a century ago in mind. AuthorSteven Woods is the Solaris and Education coordinator at HRMM. He earned his Master's degree in Resilient and Sustainable Communities at Prescott College, and wrote his thesis on the revival of Sail Freight for supplying the New York Metro Area's food needs. Steven has worked in Museums for over 20 years. 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!
Welcome to Sail Freighter Fridays! This article is part of a series linked to our new exhibit: "A New Age Of Sail: The History And Future Of Sail Freight In The Hudson Valley," and tells the stories of sailing cargo ships both modern and historical, on the Hudson River and around the world. Anyone interested in how to support Sail Freight should also check out the Conference in November, and the International Windship Association's Decade of Wind Propulsion. This week we continue our series of Sail Freighters involved with the Great Grain Races, with likely the most famous of them all: The 4 masted Barque Herzogin Cecilie. Built in 1902 at Bremerhaven, Germany, and was named for the German Crown Princess. She was initially employed in the Nitrates trade between Chile and Europe for making fertilizer and explosives, as did the Parma, Passat, and Pamir. After spending the First World War interned in Chile, she was granted to France as war reparations, then quickly purchased by Gustaf Erikson of Finland. Erikson continued to employ Herzogin Cecilie for 16 years, in the Australian Grain Trade. Her speed and unique while paint made her stand out, and she became quite famous worldwide. Alan Villiers, a major figure in the end of the windjammer era and the preservation of sailing skills in the 20th century, was aboard for one of these grain runs, which inspired his book "To Falmouth For Orders." He would later purchase and sail the Parma in the 1933 Grain Race, one of the few Herzogin Cecilie didn't win in her era of competition. Herzogin Cecilie was a fast ship, one of the fastest of the windjammers. At one point in her career she booked over 20 knots. She even beat the record of the Famous tea clipper Cutty Sark, while carrying 5000 tons of grain to the Cutty Sark's empty holds. This turn of speed let the Herzogin Cecilie win 8 of the 11 Great Grain Races she participated in. In 1936, under the command of a less experienced captain (after her previous skipper retired), she won the grain race in a mere 86 days, the second-fastest ever. A few days later, she departed Falmouth for Ipswich to deliver the cargo to its final destination, but she ran aground in a fog on the coast of Devon, UK. Despite a protracted rescue effort which involved hauling her ashore, a storm battered her on the beach and she capsized, then sank, rendering her unrecoverable. Thus ended the career of one of the most famous of the 20th century Windjammers. Most of the vessel's fittings were salvaged, and the Captain's Saloon is now reassembled as part of the Mariehamn Aland Islands Maritime Museum, Finland. She is also remembered in folk songs. The Herzogin Cecilie was a very remarkable sail freighter, and a classic piece of the end of working sail in the Atlantic. While she is gone, her model is one to follow, and even with modern technology and knowledge, might be hard to beat. AuthorSteven Woods is the Solaris and Education coordinator at HRMM. He earned his Master's degree in Resilient and Sustainable Communities at Prescott College, and wrote his thesis on the revival of Sail Freight for supplying the New York Metro Area's food needs. Steven has worked in Museums for over 20 years. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article was originally published May 21, 1972. On Saturday, May 19, 1928, in the early afternoon of a beautiful spring day, a collision occurred off Rondout Lighthouse between the ferryboat “Transport” and the steamer “Benjamin B. Odell” of the Central Hudson Line. At the time, I was deckhand on the steamer “Albany” of the Hudson River Day Line, helping to get her ready for the new season after her winter lay up at the Sunflower Dock at Sleightsburgh. On Saturdays, we knocked off work at 11:30 a.m. As I rowed up the creek in my rowboat to go home, the big “Odell” was still at her dock at the foot of Hasbrouck Avenue at Rondout. At 12:25 p.m. the “Odell” blew the customary three long melodious blasts on her big whistle, high on her stack, as the signal she was ready to depart. At home, eating lunch, I heard her blow one short blast promptly at 12:30 p.m. as the signal to cast off her stern line. From the Porch Following a habit of mine from a young boy, I went out on our front porch to watch her glide down the creek at a very slow pace past the Cornell shops, Donovan’s and Feeney’s boat yards, and the freshly painter [sic] “Albany.” The “Odell” looked to me like a great white bird slowly passing down the creek. At the time, I thought how in less than two weeks we would probably pass her on the “Albany” on the lower Hudson on Decoration Day, both steamers loaded with happy excursionists on the first big holiday of the new season. As the “Odell” passed Gill’s dock at Ponckhockie, I went back in the house to finish lunch. A few minutes later I heard the “Odell” blow one blast on her whistle, which was answered by the “Transport” on her way over to Rhinecliff, indicating a port to port passing. Hearing steam whistles so often in the long ago day along Rondout Creek was something one took for granted, assuming they would be heard forever. Then I heard the danger signal on the whistle of the “Transport” followed by three short blasts from the “Odell’s” whistle, indicating her engine was going full speed astern. Shortly thereafter, I could hear the “Transport” blowing the five whistle signal of the Cornell Steamboat Company of 2 short, 2 short, 1 short, meaning we need help immediately. I ran down to my rowboat tied up at the old Baisden shipyard, and looked down the creek. I could see the “Transport” limping in the creek very slowly, her bow down in the water, and her whistle blowing continuously for help. I also noticed several automobiles on her deck. Looking over the old D. & H. canal boats that were deteriorating on the Sleightsburgh flats, I could see the top of the “Odell” stopped out in the river. After a few minutes, she slowly got underway and proceeded on down the river, her big black stack belching smoke, so I figured she was not hurt. Decision to Beach As the “Transport” approached the Cornell coal pocket, her captain, Rol Saulpaugh, decided to beach her on the Sleightsburgh shore. Nelson Sleight, a member of her crew, asked me to run a line over to the dock a the shipyard in the event she started to slide off the bank. I took the line and ran it from where the “Transport” grounded to the dock. In the meantime, the Cornell tugboat “Rob” came down the creek, from where she had been lying at the rear of the Cornell office at the foot of Broadway, and pushed the ferry a little higher on the bank. After taking the line ashore, I went back and asked if there was anything else I could do. Captain Saulpaugh asked me if I would row up to the ferry slip and get Joseph Butler, the ferry superintendent, and bring him over to the “Transport,” which I did. On the way over, Butler told me he had already called the Poughkeepsie and Highland Ferry Company to see if he could get one of its ferries to run in the “Transport’s” place. The afternoon about 5 p.m., the Poughkeepsie ferryboat “Brinckerhoff” arrived in the creek and began running on the Rhinecliff route. When we got back to the “Transport,” mattresses and blankets had been stuffed in the hole the “Odell” had slicked in the over-hanging guard and part of the hull. When she was patched, the “Transport,” with the “Rob’s” help, backed off the mud and entered the Roundout slip stern first - and the cars on deck were backed off. Then, the “Rob” assisted the ferry to make her way up to the C. Hiltebrandt shipyard at Connelley for repairs. There she was placed in drydock, the damage repaired, and in a week she was back in service on her old run. A Flood Tide The cause of the mishap at the mouth of the creek was a combination of a strong flood tide, a south wind and a large tow. Out in the river, the big tugboat “Osceola” of the Cornell Steamboat Company was headed down river with a large tow. She had just come down the East Kingston channel and at that moment was directly off the Rondout Lighthouse. When there is a strong flood tide, there is a very strong eddy at the mouth of the creek. The tide, helped by a south wind, sets up strong and when it hits the south dike, it forms a half moon about 75-100 feet out from the south dike and then starts to set down. As the “Odell” was leaving the creek and entering the river, the “Transport” was passing ahead of the tow, around the bow of the “Osceola.” The “Transport” probably hit the eddy caused by the flood tide. In any event, she didn’t answer her right rudder and took a dive right into the path of the “Odell.” The “Odell” couldn’t stop in time and cut into the forward end of the ferry about 6 or 8 feet. No one was hurt and there was no confusion on either boat. The “transport” bore the brunt of the bout; the only damage to the “Odell” being some scratched paint on her bow. I heard later from the Dan McDonald, pilot on the “Osceola,” that there would be the lawsuit as a result of the collision - and he had been served with a subpoena to appear as a witness. He never had to appear, however, as Captain Greenwood of the “Odell” later told me the case was settled out of court. The next year the Central Hudson Line, because of the inroads made by the automobile, went out of business. The “Benjamin B. Odell”, however, continued to run on the river for another company until February 1937 when she was destroyed by fire in winter lay up at Marlboro. The “Transport” continued running on the Rhinecliff ferry route until September 1938 when she was withdrawn from service. She was later cut down and made into a stake boat for the Cornell Steamship Company for use in New York harbor. AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
The Schooner Wyoming was one of the largest wooden sailing vessels ever constructed. Built in Bath, Maine in 1909 as a collier ship, she was designed as a state-of-the-art sail freighter. Using a donkey generator and automated systems and winches for raising and lowering sails, and a telephone system for onboard communication, she was 450 feet long, but crewed by just 14 men. Like many of the 20th century sail freight vessels, the Wyoming was a support ship for steamboats. Colliers carried coal to coaling stations around the world, allowing steamships to refuel and travel long distances. Because sailing vessels didn't use any of the coal they carried, they were ideal for transporting fuel efficiently around the world. But in order to stay competitive with steam vessels, sailing vessels had to be efficient in crew costs as well, which is why the Wyoming had such a small crew. Sadly, this enormous sail freighter met with a tragic fate. To learn more about her disappearance in 1924, check out the short documentary film below. If you'd like to learn more about the Wyoming, visit the Maine Maritime Museum, which includes the site of the Percy & Small Shipyard, and a memorial to the Wyoming. If you'd like to learn more about sail freight, be sure to visit our upcoming exhibit, "A New Age of Sail: The History and Future of Sail Freight on the Hudson River," opening Sunday, May 29, 2022. 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!
On April 10, 1912, New York marine artist Samuel Ward Stanton was waiting to board the RMS Titanic. A prolific artist and chronicler of American steamboats, he had spent the previous months traveling in Europe, researching and preparing sketches of the Alhambra and other Spanish scenes associated with author Washington Irving. He had intended to use these in his commission to design and decorate some of the interiors of the new Hudson River Day Line steamboat named Washington Irving, the largest of the Day Line “Flyers” ever built. Stanton was likely thrilled to board the new and sensational RMS Titanic at Cherbourg with muralist Francis Davis Millet for her inaugural voyage to New York. One imagines he may have prepared a drawing or two of her majestic bow and her opulent interiors before packing them in a portfolio crammed full of European scenes. Samuel Ward Stanton was born in Newburgh in 1870 to Samuel Stanton and Margaret Fuller. Samuel Sr. was a principal of the Ward, Stanton & Company shipyard which was created out of the bankrupt Washington Iron Works at the foot of Washington St. in 1872. Before failing, the iron works had produced naval machinery, steam engines, boilers, sawmills and sugar mills. The new company continued to produce machinery but grew to emphasize iron shipbuilding. Samuel Ward Stanton grew up in and around the yard observing the scene and becoming a talent with pencil and pen. He also assembled scrapbooks detailing steamboats and their histories which became important sources for the articles and books he published as a young man. In 1884, the family moved to Florida aboard a small, iron sidewheel steamboat they built for themselves. The steamboat included the machinery for a sawmill, which was assembled upon arrival and put to immediate use in building a house and presumably selling lumber to other newcomers. The yard in Newburgh later became the famous T.S. Marvel Co. shipyard. As an adult, “Ward” Stanton, as he was known to his friends, returned to New York and developed a distinctive pen and ink style that emphasized the details of the ships and boats that he documented. He became acquainted with New York marine artist James Bard (1815-1897) who became a friend and an important source of information for those boats no longer available for direct observation. He later provided financial assistance to Bard’s daughter Ellen out of deep respect for the late pioneering steamboat painter. Stanton earned a bronze medal at the World’s Columbian Exposition in 1893 for his collection of Erie Canal drawings and in 1895 published his seminal American Steam Vessels, the first in a series of illustrated books by Stanton illustrating the history of steam navigation. He wrote and produced illustrations for periodicals including Seaboard Magazine, Marine Journal and the Nautical Gazette and his illustrations appeared in other books on steam navigation and regional history. He began producing murals and promotional art for the Hudson River Day Line, notably a series of car cards advertising the line’s “flyers.” Stanton painted a series of steamboat history scenes for the 1909 Robert Fulton and was active in the 1909 Hudson Fulton Celebration. He also prepared art for the Catskill Evening Line and the Nantasket Beach Steamboat Co. As Stanton boarded the RMS Titanic with Francis David Millet, he could never have imagined the disaster that lay ahead of him. Just four days later, on the evening of April 14, 1912, the Titanic struck an iceberg, and by the early morning of April 15, had sunk. Stanton was not among the survivors. He was just 42 years old. What happened in his last hours remains unknown, and his European work in all likelihood perished with him. One account indicates that a black coat bearing a letter inscribed “W. anton” was recovered in Canada and sent to his wife Cornelia. Sadly, the sinking of the Titanic meant that Samuel Ward Stanton never returned to New York to finish his work for the Washington Irving - it was completed in 1913 with references to Irving’s tales including the Alhambra reading room completed by other artists. Although his tragic death often overshadowed his talents, thousands of drawings and paintings produced and published before his trip to Europe remained, continuing to inspire the marine artists and students of steamboating that followed in his wake. AuthorMark Peckham is a trustee of the Hudson River Maritime Museum and a retiree from the New York State Division for Historic Preservation. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
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