Editor's Note: This booklet from the November 2, 1963 opening of the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge was recently donated to the Hudson River Maritime Museum.

"The Ferry:
The Newburgh-Beacon Ferry, which has been in operation on the Hudson River between the cities of Newburgh and Beacon, is the oldest in the United States, having been given its franchise from Queen Anne of England in 1743.

Alexander Colden, one of the first English trustees of the Palatine Parish of the Quassaick (the original name for Newburgh), petitioned the honorable George Clarke, Lieutenant-Governor of the Province, for letters patent enabling him to establish a ferry between Newburgh and Fishkill, the early name for the City of Beacon. This ferry was in operation until after the American Revolution when Queen Anne's Charger was considered null and void, and a new ferry was established between Newburgh and Fishkill.

At first sail and row boats were used for ferrying, and it is reported that, "The enterprise was conducted with considerable system." It is most interesting to scan the old records and note the following rates for humans and freight for passage on the boat:
A man – one shilling
Man and horse – two shillings
Calf or hogg – Six pence
Two-horse Wagon (empty) – Ten shillings
Two-horse Wagon (loaded) – Twelve shillings
Empty barrel – Four pence
Full barrel – One shilling
Four-horse Wagon (Empty) – Fourteen shillings
Four-horse Wagon (Loaded) – One Pound
Ton of Iron – Eight Shillings
Hogshead of Run – Five shillings

During the Revolutionary War, General George Washington had his headquarters in the Hasbrouck House in Newburgh and used the Continental Ferry for transporting men and supplies across the Hudson. Baron Friedrich von Steuben, the German aide to Washington who was quartered in the VerPlanck House in Fishkill, made regular trips across the Hudson on that ferry. After the defeat of the British at Saratoga in 1777, General Burgoyne led his army down the east bank of the Hudson, crossed the river on the ferry, marched through Newburgh, and headed for New Jersey.

Since the original Queen Anne Charter did not provide exclusive rights, it was not long before competition began to appear. Martin Wiltsie and Daniel Carpenter formed a new company which continued in operation until 1781 or 1782 when Peter Bogardus, John Anderson, and James Denton established a new ferry line. It is believed that the new company acquired the ferry rights of Colden. Sometime after the war, the charter privileges existing prior to that time were confirmed.

In 1802 the original Colden Charter was sold by his heirs to one Leonard Carpenter for the sum of $2500.00. Three years later the two ferry systems were combined. Sail and row boats were used until 1816, when a horse-driven boat, the Moses Rogers was launched. It was capable of carrying a load of "one coach and horses, a wagon and horse, seventeen chaises and horses, one additional horse, and fifty passengers." The Caravan was the first boat to be propelled by a when in the center. It was run in connection with the sail boat Mentor, and the horse-powered boat, The Dutchess. This last named boat was later converted to steam and renamed The Jack Downing.

In 1828 the Post Boy, later called the Phoenix, was put into service. After that came the Gold Hunter, Fulton, Williamsburg, and the Union. As the 20th Century approached, the City of Newburgh and the Fishkill-on-Hudson were plying between the two cities. In 1912 the Dutchess appeared, and in 1914 the Orange was added to the fleet. These two boats were, of course, named for the two counties opposite each other on the Hudson River. A few years later found the Thomas Powell and the Beacon as new arrivals.

From 1804 until 1835, the Newburgh Ferry changed hands many times. In May, 1835, Thomas Powell bought the system for $80,000 and remained the sole owner until 1850. At that time he deeded the property to his daughter, Mrs Frances E.L. Ramsdell. It remained in the Ramsdell family for 100 years. In 1956 the State of New York purchased the Newburgh-Beacon Ferry from Homer Ramsdell and his sister, Mrs. Herbert R. Odell, and the New York Bridge Authority has been operating it until the completion of the bridge which now spans the river.

In its 220-year history, the Newburgh-Beacon Ferry has seen many notable events. The Hudson-Fulton Celebration in 1909 was one of the most memorable. It paid tribute to the English navigator for whom the river was named and the inventor of the steamboat which was first used on the Hudson. Boats of all sizes and shapes were seen on the river, bedecked with flags, pennants, and lovely ladies in colorful gowns and hats. Then later, from the decks of the ferry, spectators watched the world-famous rowers, the Ward Brothers of Cornwall, and the sculls of many colleges en route to the Intercollegiate Boat Races at Poughkeepsie.

The river and the ferry have seen many changes. First ox-carts came to the dock; then horses and wagons. Later came the steam-driven boats and yachts, to be followed by the railroad. Finally, we entered the Twentieth Century with its horseless motor cars. Ferry boats are much too slow now. Our people must speed over modern roads and incomparable steel structures.

The Newburgh-Beacon Ferry has been an institution on the Hudson River. It is indeed a truism that old boats do not die – nor do they fade away. They live on in the hearts and memories of those of use who have "roots". – Irene E. Wegle, Corresponding Secretary, The Historical Society of Newburgh Bay and the Highlands."

Editor's Note: The following is from Historic Bridges of the Hudson Valley:  https://www.hbhv.org/slideshow-c7hc

Fast Facts
Opened to the Public: North Span: November 2, 1963, South Span: November 1, 1980
Connecting Counties: Orange and Dutchess
Overall Length: North Span: 7,855 feet, South Span: 7,789 feet
Bridge Type: Articulated Deck Truss
Initial Cost: North Span: $19,500,000, South Span: $93,600,000

History
The most traveled of the New York State Bridge Authority’s bridges, the  Newburgh-Beacon Bridge carries more than 25 million crossings a year on Interstate 84.

In February 1951, NYS Assembly Majority Leader Lee B. Mailler of Cornwall introduced a bill calling for test borings to be conducted for a bridge between Beacon and Newburgh. The local Chambers of Commerce as well as civic groups helped mobilize public support for the bill, which was passed and signed by Governor Thomas E. Dewey. Test borings and site surveys were completed and by February 1952, the cost of the bridge was estimated at approximately $18 million, not including legal expenses and the cost of rights of way. 
          
In 1953, Assemblyman Mailler introduced further legislation to authorize actual bridge construction. It was approved but contained no appropriation, leaving the Bridge Authority no way to build it. Work was also prohibited by law until after completion of the Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge. In 1954, the Mailler-Hatfield Bill was passed by the Legislature, removing the constraints which prevented construction of the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge until after completion of the Kingston-Rhinecliff project. 
          
The Bridge Authority lacked the bonding ability to build both spans at once but the 1955 bond issue which covered the costs of the Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge also included a $1.2 million development fund to pay design costs and help speed construction of the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge. 
          
During the Harriman Administration (1954-1958) it was decided by the Bureau of Public Roads that the bridge would need to be at least 4 lanes wide to carry an Interstate Highway. Federal aid for the bridge was then approved because it would be part of what would eventually become the Eisenhower Interstate Highway System. The project was delayed however, when 1959 federal funds were redistributed and less money was available. Finally in 1960, at the urging of Governor Rockefeller, the State opted to build a less expensive, two-lane bridge without federal assistance. 
          
In the meantime, other ferries had also begun to operate in the area, carrying passengers between Garrison and West Point, Poughkeepsie and Highland, Kingston and Rhinecliff, Catskill and Greendale, and Hudson and Athens. However, one by one, they all ceased to exist. When NYSBA took over the Beacon ferry in 1956, it had been in poor shape for years and soon became the last ferry route north of New York City. 

The last ferries, the Dutchess, the Orange, (both built by Newburgh shipyards) and the Beacon maintained ferry service until Sunday, November 3, 1963, one day after the opening of the original Newburgh-Beacon Bridge.  Shortly after 5 P.M. that day, the Dutchess and the Orange met at mid-river, signaled a final salute and formally retired the Newburgh-Beacon ferry into history after 220 years.  For $2 drivers crossed the Hudson on the ferry for the last time and returned via the new bridge. 
          
In 2005, the Newburgh-Beacon ferry was revived and now carries commuters from the west side of the river to the train station on the east side where they can catch the Metro-North Hudson Line to Grand Central Station. 
          
In 1997, the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge was ceremonially renamed the “Hamilton Fish Newburgh-Beacon Bridge” in honor of Hamilton Fish, who served as New York Governor, US Senator and United States Secretary of State, and for the five generations of the Fish family who represented the Hudson Valley in Congress, the State Legislature and the Presidential Cabinet from the Lincoln administration through the 1990’s.

Engineering 
​Actual bridge construction began in March of 1961. The span was built using riveting to hold the massive steel beams and plates together.  Each rivet came from the factory with a cap on one end of the shaft.  The red hot rivets would be slid through two pieces of steel by one man.  On the other side, another worker with a riveting hammer would pound the scorching metal into a mushroom shape while the rivet was held in place, so there were now two caps on the rivet, with the steel between.  As the rivets cooled, they would contract and bring the steel tightly together. 
          
The piers for the bridge were constructed using caissons. They were set into the riverbed and driven down to bedrock using the weight of the caisson while the machines dug out the silt below.  The deepest caisson on the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge was set 163 feet below sea level. On November 2, 1963, Governor Nelson Rockefeller cut the gold ribbon on the bridge, opening it to traffic. 
          
Before its construction, it was estimated that the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge would carry 25,000 cars each day, requiring a four-lane design.  When funding became difficult, Gov. Rockefeller had decided that the bridge would never carry that many vehicles, and a two-lane structure would be sufficient.  Unfortunately by 1964, 25,000 vehicles were using the bridge on a daily basis, and traffic jams were becoming a major problem.  The need for greater carrying capacity was critical. 
          
By 1972, the State was considering ways to expand bridge capacity. Completion of new portions of Interstate 84 in Connecticut further increased traffic flow, leading to more problems on the bridge. It was finally decided that a second span would be built on land already owned by the Bridge Authority, south of the first span and that the original bridge would be widened.
          
The new span and the reconstruction of the first were financed primarily by the federal government as part of the Interstate Highway Fund.  Ninety percent of the cost of the $94 million bridge was funded through federal money, leaving just ten percent for the Bridge Authority to finance.  
          
The foundations for the piers were built using caissons and cofferdams. On Pier 7, digging on one side of the caisson went faster than the other, resulting in the whole block being tipped to one side. It took months to set correctly and was a “breath-taker” in the words of one construction company foreman. The bridge’s superstructure was built using new weathering steel, which forms a protective coating and eliminates the need to paint the metal. When it was completed, the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge was the longest bridge in the world constructed from the new weathering steel. 
          
On August 21, 1980 boaters and hundreds of on-land spectators joined to watch the placement of the final section of the bridge. The 2,000 ton span was hoisted by 4 engines and secured in place by 2.5 ton bolts. 
          
Bridge dedication ceremonies took place on November 1, 1980, almost 17 years to the date the original span was dedicated. To commemorate the occasion, a 5-mile race was held through Newburgh and across the bridge. The bridge was officially opened with a motorcade of local officials and dignitaries riding over the bridge (in the wrong direction) from the Beacon toll plaza to Newburgh and back. In 1981, the bicycle and pedestrian crossing opened, only the second to cross a federal interstate. 
          
The original span of the bridge was closed in December 1980 for widening and strengthening. It was repainted to match the protective rust color of the weathering steel on the new span. 
          
​In 2006, the west approach was repaved and a new truck inspection area was built to allow the State Police to conduct inspections in a safe area that would not interfere with regular traffic flow." 

Of all the steam propelled vessels that have floated upon the waters of Rondout Creek, probably the one that was best known locally in her day was the ungainly little ferry boat that used to cross the creek from the foot of Hasbrouck Avenue to Sleightsburgh. Known throughout the area as the "Skillypot," she made her last trip from Rondout to Sleightsburgh on Oct. 14, 1922 – exactly 50 years ago yesterday.

"Skillypot" – reportedly a corruption of the Dutch word for tortoise – wasn't even her right name. It was the "Riverside", a name  that many would be patrons often changed to where she usually was found – the "Otherside." She may not have been loved as was the "Mary Powell" or admired as were many other steamboats, but she certainly was well known, and almost universally as the "Skillypot."

Her fame on both sides of Rondout Creek rested securely until the opening of the 9-W highway suspension bridge in 1921 – the only way in the latter years to get across the creek, unless of course one owned or rented a rowboat or wanted to walk to Eddyville. She played an important part in the daily lives of many residents, especially when the Rondout section of Kingston was important to the business and social life of the community.

Wherever there has been a natural barrier such as a river or a creek, people it seems have always wanted to get to the other side.

A Scow Was First

At Rondout, the first recorded vessel to regularly cross the creek was a small scow that was sculled across by hand from Sleightsburgh and could carry one wagon and a team of horses. This means of transportation existed until the spring of 1855 when the small steam ferryboat "J.P. Sleight" made her appearance.

Built by the sons of John P. Sleight and named for their father, the new ferryboat had two slide valve steam engines connected by cog wheels to two large steel drums. The drums were connected to a chain  which was secured to both sides of the creek, a distance of about 440 feet. The drums would rotate and pull the ferry back and forth across the creek on the chain. The chain was of sufficient length to rest on the creek bottom except where it passed around the drums.

In March 1870, a severe freshet caused by melting snow and rain caused the ice in the upper creek to let go. The ice coming down the creek carried the "J.P. Sleight" right along with it. At the mouth of the creek, the "Sleight" smashed into the lighthouse that then stood on the south dike. Mrs. Murdock, the keeper of the light, caught a line from the ferry, but it parted and away went the "J.P. Sleight," drifting with the ice floes down the river.

In a few hours, the Cornell ice breaking towboat "Norwich" got underway and, breaking her way through the heavy ice fields off Esopus Meadows lighthouse, spotted the "J.P. Sleight" in another ice field down off Esopus Island. The "Norwich" brought the "Sleight" back to Port Ewen where it was found her light hull had been damaged beyond repair. Her owners decided to build a new ferryboat which became the "Riverside."

Contract to Washburns

Abraham and Isaac Sleight gave a contract for the new ferryboat to Hiram and John Washburn. When she was launched, the "Riverside" measured 55 feet long and 20 feet wide. Her engines came from the old "J.P. Sleight" and were installed by John Dillon of Rondout.
 
The new "Riverside" was a success from the start. Upon the death of Isaac Sleight, ownership of the ferry passed to Herbert A. Starkey, and then in 1903 to Albert Norris who operated her until 1906 when Josiah Hasbrouck became the owner. It is not known at what point in time the "Riverside" became better known as the latter name by which she was known far and wide in Ulster County.

As time went by and the automobile came along, new highways were being built along the banks of the Hudson. It soon became evident a bridge was badly needed across Rondout Creek. As a matter of fact, it was long overdue. After World War I on summer weekends, automobiles would be lined up on the Sleightsburgh side almost to the middle of Port Ewen and on the Kingston side to the top of Hasbrouck Avenue. Then, the "Riverside," really was a "Skillypot."

On summer weekends when the automobiles were backed up on both sides of the creek, enterprising Sleightsburgh boys would earn money by showing unknowing motorists how to get across the creek by going across the bridge at Eddyville.

Pilots for a Fee

For a fee, they would get in a waiting car and "pilot" the motorist through New Salem and Eddyville to Rondout. There, they would reverse the process by taking a motorist from Hasbrouck Avenue through Eddyville to Port Ewen.

At times in some winters the "Skillypot" would be the only steamboat in operation on the upper Hudson. To keep her operating, men would cut a channel through the ice using ice saws and pike poles to shove the cakes of ice under the solid ice or, if it seemed easier, pull them up on top of the ice. During the summer, when the ferry "Transport" would come over from Rhinecliff, the swells from her paddle wheels would carry up  the creek. Then how the "Skillypot" would rock back and forth sideways and cause concern to some of the passengers.

The "Skillypot" always made her last trip of the day at 10:30 p.m. She would land at her Sleightsburgh slip and blow one blast on her small, clear, shrill whistle, signifying her toils were over for that day. Then if people still wanted to get across the creek, they would have to take a small scow, sculled by a single oar by Lyman Perrine. Finally, the long awaited day came when the new bridge was open to traffic. The "Skillypot" still continued to operate for a period, but foot passengers even took to walking over the new bridge to save the two cents fare. So on Saturday night, October 14, 1922 a Saturday then as it was this year – the "Skillypot" at 10:30 p.m. blew her final one long shrill whistle. As the echo dies, so did the "Riverside."

No More Chains

On Monday, Oct. 16, the two engineers, Charles Van Leuven and Charles Becker, and Peter Shoemaker, the deckhand, started to lay her up. They drained the water out of her boiler, disconnected the chains that connected her to each shore for so many years and stowed ashore other equipment like lanterns and life preservers.

Then on Oct. 18, 1922, at 4 p.m. when the tide was high, they pulled the "Riverside" by hand to the east of the Sleightsburgh slip and beached her high on the shore. Just as they were about to pull her out of the sip. Richard Sleight, one of the brothers who operated J. Sleight's Sons general store next to the ferry slip, ran out and jumped aboard, saying he wanted to have one last trip on the "Skillypot." She stayed on the beach at Sleightsburgh until Oct. 20, 1923 when she was towed to South Rondout after being purchased by former Alderman John Fischer. There, by a quirk of fate, she was put inshore alongside the remains of the famous "Mary Powell," then being dismantled. To this day, at low tide parts of her old bones may be seen on the shore east of the railroad bridge.
​
Many an old riverman and Town of Esopus resident saw duty on the "Skillypot." In addition to her final crew of Charles Van Leuven, Charles Becker and Peter Shoemaker, the roster included Elmer Marsh, David Relyea, William Sleight, James Devoe, Theodore Relyea, Andrew Taylor, James Rodman and Isaac C. Sleight.
 
 

The Hudson River Valley is part of Lenapehoking - or the Lenape homeland. As residents of the southern Hudson Valley and the New Jersey coastline, they were some of the first Indigenous people in the Northeast to make contact with Europeans, and therefore among the first to bear the brunt of disease, violence, and forced removal. In the Hudson Valley, Manhattan, Tappan, Ramapo, Neversink, Wappingers, and Esopus are all place names derived from Lenape tribal names or words. ​

Editor's Note: This video reflects the terminology used when it was produced in 2009. ​https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iWFeMGmJne4&t=10s

Eliza Hamilton was born on the Hudson River, somewhere between Albany and Catskill.  Her mother’s home was the good boat ‘Betsey Jane,’ of Buffalo, New York, whereof Mr. Thomas Hamilton was owner and sailing-master.  Eliza and the ‘Betsey Jane' began life about the same time, for the boat was on her first trip down the Hudson when the little child came to live on board.  So it happened that Eliza had always been upon a canal-boat, and had hardly ever spent a night in a house on shore.
           
​The ‘Betsey Jane' was her home, and her little chamber was a state-room.  The boat was a large and fine one, ninety-seven feet long and eighteen feet wide on deck.  It was eight and a half feet deep, and, when empty, stood more than seven feet out of water.  The bows were high and very full, or round, and the stern was nearly square, and there was a great square rudder behind.  Near the bows was a windlass, and a small raised deck which made the roof of the cabin used as a stable for the two horses.  At the stern was another house, or raised deck, about three feet high.  This had two square windows in front, looking towards the bows, and three on each side; and there were green blinds, made to slide before the windows.  Inside the windows were lace curtains fastened back with blue ribbons; but each window was so small that, when Eliza looked out, her round face nearly filled it.  At the back of the house was a door, a very strange door; one half opened on hinges and the other half slid back over the roof.  Before this door was the great wooden tiller for the rudder; and near it a hatch opening down into the hold of the boat.  The top of the house was flat and made a big outdoor table, where, in pleasant weather, the family often had dinner and supper.  In summer, there was also an awning, or big flat tent, covering the after part of the deck, house and all.  The great clear deck, with its two hatches, was Eliza’s playground, while inside the house, below the deck, was the strange little home where she lived a happy life with her father, mother, and baby brother.
           
From the door you went down five steps to the kitchen, parlour, and sitting-room, all in one, — the queerest place that ever was seen.  It was a square room, with windows nearing the ceiling on two sides, and two narrow doors opposite the entrance.  There was a tiny stove tucked away under the deck, and there was just room for one table and four chairs.  Around the walls on three sides were drawers and closets — lockers they were called — so that while the room was too small for much furniture, the lockers were really bookcase, bureau, sideboard, and all.  The two doors opened into the tiny staterooms — one for Eliza, and one for father and mother and the baby.  Her bed was the oddest thing imaginable; only one foot high, and tucked away under the deck like a berth in a ship.  There was a carpet, and pictures, and a clock, nice curtains, and a chair; and it was home, if it was afloat.  You may be sure Eliza thought it was as sweet a home as any in the world.  Although Eliza Hamilton lived on a canalboat, and her home was always afloat, she went to school, in Jersey City, half of every year.  From April to November, she sailed and sailed, backward and forward, hardly stopping more than for a day at a time, between Buffalo, on Lake Erie, and New York, by the sea. From November to April, the ‘Betsey Jane' lay at anchor in the basin of the Morris and Essex Canal, at Jersey City.  Here were scores of other boats just like this one, and each with a family aboard, all closely side by side in the water, thus making a great floating village.  

Eliza could walk from boat to boat all through the fleet; she could visit the other girls at their boats, or cross the planks to the shore and go with them to school in the city.  Thus, for her, every year was divided into two parts; the summer, when the boat sailed and sailed, day and night, always going on and on through daylight and dark; and the winter, when it rested for months in a vast fleet of other boats, snugly anchored out of the way of the storms.  Eliza liked the summer best.  The life on board her moving home was delightful; plenty of fun with the other children on the neighbour’s boats, or those living along the banks of the canal, and much to see every day, — ships, steamboats, the river, the winding canal, town and cities, great mountains, and the sea.  Once she made a long voyage, through as far as New Haven, on Long Island Sound; and twice she went up the canal to Lake Champlain, and then on to Montreal, in Canada.
           
It was in June when it all happened.  ‘It was just before Eliza’s twelfth birthday, and on the second trip of the ‘Betsey Jane' from Buffalo to New York.  They had come for several days and nights through the canal, much in the usual way; the horses walked along the bank, and her father steered the boat.  Sometimes Eliza rode the horse, or held the tiller to steer, while her father went down to dinner or supper.  At other times she sat on the top of the house, played dolls upon the deck, or helped her mother take care of the baby.  The steering was sometimes hard, but she could always manage the boat, and knew how to move the rudder to make the ‘Betsey Jane' keep just the right place in the canal, neither bumping her fat nose into the bank, nor running it into the passing boats.  
           
At Troy, the plank was laid to the bank, the horses walked on board, and went to their state-room at the bows.  Tugboats brought together a number of the canal boats that had come through from the west with the ‘Betsey Jane,' and arranged them on the river in a kind of procession.  An enormous tow-boat took place at the head of the line, and then great cables were run out, binding all the fleet together, and making what was called a ‘ tow'.
           
The tow was a strange affair, a village afloat; men, women, children, horses, dogs, and cats, living in thirty-nine canal-boats, and all dragged along by the tow-boat ahead.  The tow-boat was formerly a passenger steamer, but it had retired from that business, and all its lofty decks and balconies were gone.  There was nothing left but the great frames, the tall smoke-stack, the engine, and the pilot-house.  Behind the engine on the low deck were massive timbers, and about these were coiled four great cables that stretched astern over the water to the four canal-boats at the head of the tow.  The first four boats were loaded with lumber from Lake Champlain.  Behind, these came sixteen boats, four abreast, loaded with lumber, wheat, oats, and grain.  Next came eighteen more, two and two; and then one more, trailing behind them all. The ‘Betsey Jane' was the right-hand one of the last pair; and as the odd one was fastened to the other boat, there was clear water in her wake.
           
As the boats were lashed side by side, with the bows of one close to the stern of the one in front, and as there were planks laid from boat to boat, it was easy to go from one end of the tow to the other.  There were quite a number of children on board, and Eliza had plenty of playmates.  Two hours a day she studied with her mother in the cabin, and part of the time she took care of her baby brother.  The rest of the day she was at liberty to roam at will all over the fleet, leaping lightly from boat to boat.  She visited the two nice girls on the ‘Sunshine,’ of Syracuse; played dolls with the lame girl on the 'Ticonderoga,’ of Whitehall; or joined the boys and girls who played school on the white deck of the 'Polly Stevens,’ of Troy.  Of course, they could not play tag, use roller-skates, or trundle hoops on the deck of a canal-boat; but they often played jump-rope, jackstones, and ‘housekeeping’.  The weather was beautiful; and, while they were playing, the tow moved steadily forward with a smooth and easy motion that was delightful . They had passed the Catskills at sunrise.  

Eliza helped wash the dishes at Saugerties, studied at Rondout, and played with the other girls all the way down to Poughkeepsie.  After supper, it was said, there would be a concert on board the ‘Schoharie,’ of Buffalo.  Everybody was anxious to go, and Eliza got out her blue dress with the white bows, to go with her father.  But she couldn’t go, for mother had been ironing all the afternoon on deck, and needed a change; so Eliza must stay at home and take care of the baby brother.  She was terribly disappointed, and perhaps, when she put away the blue frock in its locker, there was a tear or two on the white ribbons.
​
It was eight o’clock when her parents took a lantern to go over the boats to the concert.  

Eliza sat at the side of the deckhouse looking wistfully after them, and as they crossed to the tow-boat she heard her mother say that the tow-line ought to be repaired, as it was nearly worn out.  Her father said that he would mend it in the morning, and then they were gone.  Eliza watched the lantern, dancing over the decks for a few moments, and then, with just a little sigh, she went downstairs to the cabin.  Sarah Tuttle, of the ‘Flying Fish,’ had lent her a book, and she sat down to read it.  The door over her head was open, and once in a while she caught a note in the music as it came floating over the water.  She had been reading for some time when she heard the deep droning whistle of the tow-boat.  Then, after a little pause, came another whistle.  She knew by this that there was a steamer coming up the river.  Presently she heard the beating of the steamer’s paddles, and knew from the sound that it was a large boat.  She heard it pass quite near; and then, as the sound died away, the boat slowly rolled from side to side.  She looked up from her book to see if baby brother had stirred.  Not much danger.  He had slept through many a long voyage, and the waves seemed to make his home all a rocking-cradle.

​Then, for a long time, it was very still; but as the story-book was interesting, she did not notice how the time was passing.  When she finished the book she looked up at the clock.  Half ten.  She must go on deck to see if father and mother were coming.
           
Why, what was this ?  No lights!  Had everybody gone to bed?  No.  That could not be, for there were always lights burning on the deck of the last boat.  No tow in sight anywhere.  Not a boat to be seen.  She ran along the deck to the bow.  She was adrift!  The tow-line was broken, and the ‘Betsey Jane’ had separated from the tow.  The line had probably parted when the boat was rolled by the wake of the passing steamer.  She called her father again and again.  Not a sound in reply.  She was lost on the great river.  She looked all about her, over the grey and silent water.  Far away astern were the twinkling lights of a town. Here and there on each side were lights, and just ahead were gigantic shadows blotting out half the sky.  She knew at once where she was.  The lights astern were in Newburgh; the great shadows were mountains, for she was just entering the highlands, drifting along on the current.  The tow, after the ‘Betsey Jane’ broke adrift, had gone on, and was now out of sight beyond West Point.  
           
What did she do?  Run back to the cabin and hide herself in fright, or fall on the deck and cry for help?  Not at all.  She said, with a brave heart, though her voice was shaking: "Mother will come back for me, and perhaps if I try my best to take care of the boat, and baby, and the horses, God will take care of me.’
           
Eliza Hamilton was the captain’s daughter.  She could handle an oar like a sailor, and she knew just how boats behaved, and what must be done to control them.  The ‘Betsey Jane’ was her father’s boat, her mother’s home. It was worth, with the horses and cargo, thousands of dollars. She must take it safely down the river till help or day-light came.  

There were two dangers.  The boat might go ashore and be wrecked, or it might be run down by some passing steamboat.  She knew she must give the boat headway or it would not steer.  There was a cool, fresh breeze blowing, and as quick as thought she had contrived a plan to take advantage of the wind.
           
'If she drifts this way, she may go ashore!  I must rig up some kind of sail.’  
           
She picked up a boat-hook from the deck and pried open the forward hatch.  She went back to the cabin and pulled out from a locker a large sheet.  She made a knot in one corner, took the sheet on deck, and pushing the point of the boat-hook into the knot, she thrust the handle snugly into one corner of the forward hatch, and then closed the heavy siding of the hatch-cover against it to keep it steady.  She fastened a piece of rope to the opposite corner of the sheet, and tied it to the boathook near the deck.  With a longer piece of rope she made what sailors call a 'sheet,’ or line to control the sail, and by fastening this to the side of the boat, she had a 'leg-o’-mutton’ sail.  It was a small affair but it did the work.  She went to the stern and pushed the tiller over as far as she could, and in a few moments the ‘Betsey Jane’ obeyed her helm, came round, and headed downstream straight for the black portals of the Highlands.  
           
Just then the cat came on deck, and began to howl piteously. ‘Hold your tongue!’ said Eliza, ‘or I’ll throw you over board!’
           
Poor child!  She did not often speak so harshly, but she was excited and perhaps terrified at the. creature’s mournful cries.  She would have caught the cat and locked her up in the cabin, but did not dare to leave the helm.  The cat wandered all over the deck, moaning and crying.  Perhaps a tear or two came into Eliza’s eyes while she clung to the heavy tiller.  
She brushed them away, for she must see plainly in order to steer clear of the rocky shores. 

Ah, there were the lights of the hotel at West Point!  She knew the way pretty well; and she thought it best to keep as close to the east shore as was safe, in order to steer clear of the steamers.  Though the breeze was strong the ‘Betsey Jane’ moved very slowly . Still it did move, for she could see the mountains that towered above her on either side slowly change their shapes against the sky.  There were lights on the shore, as she passed Cold Spring, though she could not see the houses nor the Iron foundries. The town and the mountains behind it seemed one solid wall of blackness.  After a while, the cat seemed to think better of her fright, and came and nestled close to Eliza as she stood leaning against the tiller.  Ah! what’s that?  A bright light was shining directly ahead.  Thinking it was a steamer’s light, Eliza pushed the tiller with all her might, for the purpose of turning the boat shoreward.  Then came a deep roar, making the mountains echo, and she knew that a train was passing on the railroad.  It was the locomotive headlight, which she had mistaken for a steamer, and in a moment the whole train swept past her, close to the water.
           
‘I thought it was a steamer, sure!  If only I had a lantern, I wouldn’t care, for I might wave it as a signal.  If a steamer does come, I’ll hug the shore and keep out of the way.’
           
The train passed on, the roar and rumble died in the distance, and the echoes seemed to go to sleep; for it was very calm and still.
           
‘I do believe the wind’s gone down.’
           
No.  The boat had sailed into a calm corner under the shelter of the mountains.  Eliza ran forward and found the sail quite limp and useless.  She took up an oar to pull the boat off into the stream, and when she put it into the water it struck rock.  In a fright she pushed against the rock with the oar and the boat slowly swung off into deep water.
           
‘That was lucky.  A little more, and I should have been aground.’
           
The boat drifted sluggishly along for a few minutes and then the wind seemed to spring up again.  Ah, there was the light-house!  She would steer straight across the point and run the risk of meeting a steamer.  She listened intently to hear the beating of paddles, but the night was still, — not a sound anywhere.  The boat passed close to the friendly light-house, and then went clear across the bend to the opposite side of the river.
           
She now ran forward and altered the sheet of her leg-o’-mutton sail, bringing it back farther, for now the wind would be abeam. She must now, sail side to the wind, and as the boat had no keel, it kept drifting in toward the shore; but she felt she must take the risk, in order to keep out of the way of the steamers.  A steamboat hove in sight around the next bend below, just as she had fixed the sail.  She could see its red and green lights, and she gave it a wide berth, keeping close under the shadow of the mountains.  It passed swiftly and without paying any attention to her.  In the dark, she could not make out what it was.  She guessed it might be a night passenger-boat, and was glad it had gone past in safety.

The concert was a fine one, and as nobody was in any hurry to get home, the audience wished many pieces repeated.  It was late when the company broke up and scattered over the tow to their various boats.  Twice, on the way home, Mrs. Hamilton stopped at cabin doors to speak to friends, and at one place she even waited to have a cup of tea.  Mr. Hamilton said he would go on and look after the boat, and Mrs. Hamilton sat down on the deck of the ‘Flying Fish’ with Mrs. Tuttle and the other women.  While they were quietly sipping their tea, they heard loud shouts from the direction of the boats astern, and in a moment Mr. Hamilton came running back over the boats.

‘The man on the last boat has been asleep.  The “Betsey Jane” is adrift — lost!’
The news spread over the entire tow in an instant.  Where did it happen?  When did she break away?  It might have happened hours and hours ago, and perhaps the boat was then drifting about, miles astern.

Eliza’s mother heard the news calmly, without a word.  She merely picked up a lantern and resolutely started off over the tow as fast as she could walk toward the tow- Where are you going and what are you going to do?’ said the people.

 ‘I’m going to take the steamboat if it is possible, and go back for my children.’
All the men said it could not be done.  The captain would not stop for the lost boat.  The ‘Betsey Jane’ would certainly drift ashore.  No harm would ever come to it, stranded high and dry, and they could take a boat and row back and find it.

`My children are on board.  Some steamer will run them down in the dark.’

This seemed only too likely, and they all ran on toward the head of the tow; and in a moment or two there ware half a hundred men and women gathered on the great piles of lumber on the forward boats. The tow by this time had passed West Point, and was approaching the great bend just above Iona Island.  The men shouted and called to the steamer, but there was no reply.  The noise of the engine drowned their voices and the steamer went steadily on, dragging them all farther and farther away from the lost boat.  The steamer was two hundred feet ahead, and the water was beaten into creamy waves by her great paddles.  They were just then rounding the curve, and every one said the captain would not stop in such a dangerous place; so the poor mother had to stand there in the cold night-wind, while the long, snake-like tow crept round the bend in the black and silent river.

At last a boat was lowered overboard, and Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton and two men started to catch up with the steamer. By holding on to the towing-lines they managed to drag themselves up to her low stern and climb aboard, leaving the boat dancing on the creamy water in the wake of the steamer.

In a moment the poor mother climbed the winding stairs to the lofty pilot-house where the captain stood at the wheel.

'Oh, sir!  The boat is lost.’

 ‘Well, marm, I can’t help it.  The man on board must look out for her.’

‘There’s nobody on board but two little children.

The captain did not say a word for a moment, and then he lowered the window and looked all about the black river as if searching for something.

'We can’t stop here.  I’ll go on to the bay at Peekskill, and ---

‘Oh, sir, can’t you take the steamer back?’

 ‘Just what I was thinking o’ doing, but we must find a place to anchor the tow first.’
'The night-boats will be coming up.  They will run into the children’s boat.’

‘No, marm.  They are not due here yet.’

It took more than an hour to reach the wide place in the river, opposite Peekskill, and to swing the long tow close in shore out of the way of the passing steamers; and half an hour more to make the boats fast to a rock on the shore, to free the steamer from her charge and start her upon the search for the missing boat.

Two men were placed on the bows below.  There were four more on the upper deck, and from the windows of the pilot-house the poor mother looked out with, straining eyes into the vast blackness ahead.

How the firemen piled their roaring fires!  The engineer urged the great machine to full speed, and his men ran to and fro, oiling every joint.  Showers of sparks poured out of the tall smokestack, and the woods and mountains re-echoed with the furious beating of the paddles.  The crazy old boat seemed to awake to some remembrance of her famous speed in the day when she was the fast passenger-boat on the Albany day-line and was the pride of her captain.

 'Ah! what’s that?  See that black thing close under the shore?’

That's not the boat, marm.  She couldn’t get away down here by this time.  We will not find her this side of Cold Spring, for I reckon she broke loose at the time the “Poughkeepsie freighter” passed us.”

On and on they went, rushing round the sharp bend at West Point, and steaming straight ahead through the Highlands. The boat would be drifting about somewhere above Cornwall.  They would soon find it.

Nothing to be seen.  Not a sign of a boat anywhere. They went up even as far as Newburgh, and crossed the river, and crept slowly down-stream close inshore.  The winds would drive her over to that side, and she might be aground somewhere along the bank. Then they saw the lights of a steamer coming up-stream, and they turned out into the middle of the river to meet her.  It was the ‘Saratoga,’ of the Troy night-line.  There were warning whistles, and the two boats stopped and met in the darkness.  Black figures came out on the lofty decks of the passenger steamer, and the captain of the tow-boat shouted through his hands:
'Boat lost.  Two children on board.  Seen her as you came up along anywhere?’

No; they had seen nothing.  The Albany boat was just behind; perhaps she had sighted it.  The great white boat moved on again and left the tow-boat to continue her search.  The Albany boat was stopped, too, and the same report was made and the same question asked.

`No ; they had seen nothing.

‘I’m thankful,' said the mother, as she leaned out of the pilot-house window and saw the monstrous boat move slowly away in the darkness; ‘I’m thankful, — for that danger is past.  I’m glad they didn’t see it.  They might have gone right over it in the darkness.

So there was one of the perils escaped.  The ‘Betsey Jane’ had not been run down, and there would be no more steamers till daylight. Round and round went the towboat, crossing and recrossing the river, poking her slender nose into every nook and corner; stopping here and there, blowing her whistle furiously, and listening for any answering shouts or calls.  The sentinel, high on the bluffs at West Point, paused in his lonely tramp, and leaned on his gun to look down on the river, wondering what the strange steamer was about.  He called the corporal; and the corporal, too, looked down, on the black river.  He even called out the guard, and sent men down to the shore with a lantern. They thought the captain of the steamer must be crazy.  Then there appeared a pale glow in the eastern sky, and the steamer turned down-stream. The soldiers went back again to their posts upon the heights, for there was no solution of the mystery.

It grew lighter, for it was morning.  Now they would be sure to find the lost boat.  The steamer kept the middle of the stream, steaming slowly along, with every one on the lookout.  On and on they went, round the next bend, past Iona Island and into a bay near Peekskill.

'What's that near shore?’  The ‘Betsy Jane’, sailing serenely along close inshore, with her leg-o’-mutton sail spread out on the breeze!  At the stern stood Captain Eliza, bravely steering straight for the anchored tow just ahead.  Swiftly the steamer came up along side, and there was a grand rush on board the ‘Betsy Jane’; but the mother was first, and the father came next, with a tow line in his hand.  

How they did cheer!  All the people on her tow saw them. The steamer rang her bell and blew her whistle, till the woods and mountains echoed again.  The grim old captain, leaning out of his lofty window, wiped his eyes with a big red handkerchief, and told the engineer it was the biggest trip the old steamer had ever made.  Every one said Captain Eliza was a splendid navigator.  She had brought her father’s boat in safety down the river, and her little baby brother never awakened until he was safe in his mother's arms!

‘Hitch on that tow-line,' said the captain to the deck-hands.

Then he rang the bell sharply: ‘Full speed ahead!

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  December 19, 1976.

Capt. William O. Benson recalls the rough autumn run of 1926

Many years ago, before the Hudson River channel to Albany was deepened for ocean vessels and kept open all winter by the Coast Guard, rivermen marked time by the last tow of the season. For boatmen, the last December run was more or less the end of the year, and it was often fraught with problems. Like the last tow out of Albany in 1926:

That autumn of fifty years ago had weather to match this year's. November temperatures had been below normal and banks of fog, sometimes pea soup thick, rolled in every morning. Cold nights brought skim ice along the shores and froze over the coves along the upper Hudson.

In early December a date was announced for the last Cornell tow to leave Albany. In those days almost all the towing on the Hudson River was done by the Cornell Steamboat Company.
​
As usual, some scows and barges in the Albany area were not completely unloaded by the deadline, and others at the brickyards at Coeymans were still being loaded with brick for the New York market.

The owners put up a howl because they didn't want their barges to miss the last tow. When that happened, the barges froze in for the winter and lots of money was lost. So the owners kept yelling until the tow steamed out of Albany – a day later than announced.

About 30 boats were in the tow – a diverse fleet of late canal barges, scrap iron scows, lighters, and dredges that had been working on the upper Hudson. The lead boat in charge was the big tug "Pocahontas", with the "George W. Pratt", "G.C. Adams", Empire" and "Geo. N. Southwick", assisting as helpers. All five had wooden hulls.

Just before the flotilla started down river, the snow began. Before long it was a blizzard, which went on all day and through the night, accompanied by a biting cold north wind. As the tow approached Van Wies Point, the pilots could barely see either bank.

Slush, or 'snow ice' was forming from shore to shore. And, as it did in those days, the slush that passed under the wooden scows and barges clung to their flat bottoms and kept building until it actually dragged on the bottom of the river in the shallow parts.

The next morning the tow was off Castleton, only about eight miles from where it had started, and barely moving. Captain Gus Gulligan of the "Pocahontas" sent Captain Ed Van Woert of the "Adams" into Castleton to telephone Cornell's New York office for help. When Captain Van Woert came back to the tow, he said the big tugs "Geo. W. Washburn" and "Edwin H.. Mead", together with the helper tubs "W.N. Bavier" and "Edwin Terry", were on their way up river to assist the tow to New York. All four of these tugs had steel or iron hulls.
The loaded scows from the brickyards at Coeymans were added to the tow. With the benefit of an ebb tide and the helper tugs to break a track in the snow ice ahead, the flotilla was able to move slowly downstream. But off New Baltimore, it came to a dead stop. The slush under the barges had hit bottom.

The second morning set in clear and cold with the river beginning to freeze solid. All the crews kept looking down river, trying o be the first to spot the heavy smoke over the hills in back of Kinderhook that would signal the approach of the "Washburn" or "Mead".

Towards noon the "Washburn" was spotted coming around Bronck's Island with a bone in her teeth, pushing the ice and the river ahead of her. When she took hold of the tow it began to move again and in a short while the "Mead" showed up. The smaller "Bavier" and "Terry" had to stop then at Rondout for coal and grub.

The tow was off Coxsackie when who walks out on the ice but Mr. Robert Oliver, Cornell's superintendent of operations. It didn't faze him a bit that there were cracks in the ice. Captain Frank McCabe of the "Empire" put his tug's bow against one of the cracks, and Mr. Oliver climbed up over her bow and was put aboard the "Washburn".

As the tow was nearing Hudson the four helpers that started out with the group in Albany were running out of coal. One by one they went into Hudson, where coal trucks came down to the dock to load them up.

Because of the deep drafts of the "Washburn" and "Mead", the tow had to progress from there down the deeper Hudson channel instead of the Athens channel.

By this time, the "Bavier' and the "Terry" were in tow, bringing the number of Cornell boats in the group to nine – more than the company floated during their final years of operation in the late 1950s.

After the tow cleared the Hudson channel, Mr. Oliver ordered the captains of all the wooden-hulled tugs to go to the end of the tow and start in the broken track. He was afraid they might break a hull plank in the ice and sink.

Off Percy's Reach, the steamer "Catskill" of the Catskill Evening Line, was seen lying fast in heavy ice. Mr. Oliver sent the "Bavier" and "Terry" ahead to break her out, which It didn't take them long to do. The "Catskill" headed right into Catskill Point to tie up for the winter.

By now, both the "Washburn" and the "Mead" were pulling on the tow while the "Bavier" and  "Terry" broke the ice ahead. The flotilla was perking along at about four miles an hour.
Down off Smith's Landing, the tug "Joan Flannery" was waiting for the Cornell tow to come down. She had three lighters loaded with cement for New York, and her captain knew he could never make it alone. As the Cornell Tow went by, Captain Jim Malia of the "Flannery" pulled in about 50 feet behind, following right in their track in the ice.

"Whoever is on the "Joan Flannery" must have worked in Cornell's at one time," Mr. Oliver told the "Washburn" Captain Jim Dee. And Dee replied: "Yeh, that's Jim Malia who used to be captain of the "Townsend" and the "Cornell."

After all the scows from the brickyards between Malden and Kingston were added to the tow, the flotilla had grown to 55 boats. But off Kingston Point, five of them said goodbye. The wooden hullers in the group made a bee line for the Cornell shops on Rondout Creek to lay up for the winter.

Once past Kingston, the only obstacle was floating ice. The passenger and freight steamers "Newburgh" and "Poughkeepsie" of the Central Hudson Line operated daily between Kingston and New York in those days and kept the ice pretty well broken up.
​
The tugboat men of fifty years ago sure had their trials and tribulations. Captains and pilots were always worried about what the ice might do to their boats – and to the other scows and barges in the tow. But in that year, as in most, good judgement and a certain amount of luck prevailed. The boats brought the tow safely down the old Hudson, and, with it, the close of the season of 1926 on the upper river.

Tom Porter (Mohawk Spiritual Elder) - "The Equinox"
8 minutes
The Nolumbeka Project Presents
NolumbekaProject.org
Tom Porter - (Sakokwenionkwas - “The One Who Wins”), spiritual elder of the Mohawk Community of Kanatsiohareke and member of the Bear Clan of the Mohawk Nation at Akwesasne speaks about the Equinox.
Filmed at the
Pocumtuck Homelands Festival
A Celebration of Native American Art, Music, and Cultures
Turners Falls, MA
August 8, 2021
Photographed and Edited by
Robbie Leppzer
Turning Tide Films
TurningTide.com
Music by
Black Hawk Singers
(Abenaki)
Check out our multi-part series,
INDIGENOUS VOICES: Stories From the Connecticut River Valley
nolumbekaproject.org/indigenous-voices/

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 ​ October 7, 1973.​

Many years ago when the pace of life was less hurried and pleasures more simple in nature, a favorite pastime of residents along the Hudson River was steamboat watching.
 
A Saturday summer's evening in the late 1890's or early 1900's was a particularly good time, for the "Mary Powell" and the "James W. Baldwin" of the Kingston night line would both arrive off Rondout light-house at about the same time. Old time residents of Port Ewen have told me how they would go out on the river bank to watch the sight and how many citizens of Rondout would gather along the water front to observe the hustle and bustle on the docks.
 
The "Mary Powell" would be returning to Rondout from her daily round trip run to New York. The "James W. Baldwin" would be ending her Saturday afternoon run up river with vacationists seeking the cooler air of Catskill Mountain resorts.
 
Both steamboats would try and get to Rondout lighthouse first, for the one which arrived last would have to wait out in the river for the other to enter Rondout Creek, turn around and land. Both used adjacent docks on the creek along Ferry Street between the foot of Broadway and Hasbrouck Avenue. Although the "Mary Powell" would leave New York later, invariably she would be first at Rondout.
 
What a sight it must have been! A lot of older folk around Port Ewen have told me how they would look down river and frequently the two steamers would be coming around Esopus Meadows light, one right behind the other.
 
Off Port Ewen, they would both clean their fires before going in the creek. Both steamboats had their boilers right aft of the paddle wheels out on the wide overhanging guards. The firemen would simply rake the ashes out of the boilers and dump them through a deck scuttle right into the river. As the ashes and hot coals would hit the water, a cloud of steam would momentarily envelop the middle portion of the steamboats.
 
One time several years ago, Miss Hilda Smith, who then resided at West Park, told me an interesting incident of steamboat watching that occurred at the turn of the century when she was a very young girl. At the time, her home was adjacent to that of John Burroughs, the famous naturalist.
 
She told me how she would be sitting with her father and John Burroughs on the lawn of their home high on the river bank. Frequently, it would be one of those summer evenings when the Hudson would be like a piece of glass, with not a ripple on the water and very warm. Mr. Burroughs and Mr. Smith would be talking of flowers,  birds and events of the day.
 
Then, below them, the "Mary Powell" would appear on her up river trip to Kingston. Her walking beam would be going up and down with its rhythmic motion, a white wake from her paddle wheels sending the water away from her like a great inverted letter "Y." Mr. Burroughs then would invariably remark, "There goes Mary rustling her skirts" — like a woman of those days with her ground length dresses.
 
Then he would look down towards Krum Elbow and say, "now here comes Jimmy chasing Mary home" — meaning, of course, the "James W. Baldwin."
 
If the "Mary Powell" made a  landing at Esopus, it would be the "Baldwin's" last chance to overtake the "Powell" and beat her to Rondout.
 
It must have been a wonderful sight to see, those two great paddlers going up river with the setting evening sun making their white paint glisten, with all their flags and pennants flapping in the breeze and passengers all around the decks. And the thump, thump, thump of their paddle wheels beating the water was a pleasant sound that is now stilled forever.
 
The nightly parade of the up river night boats on their journeys to New York was also a sight that enthralled many an old time area steamboat watcher. Shortly before dusk, the night boat from Saugerties would paddle by. Sometime later, the down steamer of the Catskill Evening Line from Coxsackie, Hudson and Catskill would glide past, followed by the night liner from Troy. Then, as sort of a grand climax, the largest steamboat of all, the night boat from Albany, would come out from behind Kingston Point and pass down river.
 
The Albany night boats in particular were huge, the largest steamboats ever built for service on the river. They would be illuminated by hundreds of lights. In the early years of this century, when electricity onshore was still relatively new, the Albany night boats carried their names emblazoned in lights in large signs on their top decks. As they glided into the distance, their myriad number of lights would blend into what appeared like a glittering diadem reflecting on the waters of the Hudson.
 
Back in the 1920's, the old New York Herald Tribune used to run a series of cartoons on the editorial page by T.A. Webster. One series was entitled "The Thrill that comes Once In a Lifetime," and one showed two boys standing on a river bank at night watching a steamboat pass by. The caption read, "The first sight of genuine glory — a steamboat at night."
 
Now, the last night boat has long since passed around the last bend in the river for the last time. Although almost everyone in today's affluent society tells us we are all better off, there is one delightful pleasure of old none of us in all probability will never experience again — steamboat watching.