On June 15th, 2021 unable to sleep I
was walking late at night in Astoria Park trying to tire myself out. As I came
down to the water’s edge, I noticed the plaque memorializing the General SLOCUM
ferry disaster of June 15th, 1904. At this point I realized that it
was the 117th anniversary of this tragedy. This disaster was the
largest loss of life in N.Y.C. until September 11th, 2001. Over one
thousand people, mainly women and children from the St. Mark’s Lutheran Church
in Little Germany, Manhattan lost their lives on the ferry General SLOCUM, a side
wheel passenger steamboat built in Brooklyn, New York in 1891. They were on
their way to a parish picnic on Long Island.
At this time in city history proper maritime inspections
of ships and equipment were avoided by payoffs to inspectors .As a result the
minimal number of lifeboats on the SLOCUM were welded to the ship due to many
consecutive coats of paint administered in place and therefore they could not be lowered into the
water for escape when needed.The fire hoses exploded when pressurized; the life
preservers had been filled with inferior caulk and lead weights to make the
weight requirement.The old caulk had turned to powder absorbing water instead of
repelling it.Mothers frantically hustled their children into the vests only to
see them disappear into the abyss pulled down by the additional weight. The
crews had not undergone fire training when employed. As a result, they panicked,
leaving doors open and allowing the fire to spread more rapidly due to their
ignorance.
The waters under the Hell’s Gate included the
most dangerous currents, eddies and whirlpools in New York Harbor and hundreds
of wooden ships had gone down in this vicinity over the centuries.
It was almost midnight when I sat down on one
of the benches along the park’s edge, just south of the Hell’s Gate Bridge and
thought about this tragedy of exactly 117 years ago. A full moon was illuminating
the tidal estuary and the railroad bridge in a luminous glow when I suddenly
heard the chugg-chugg of an old steam engine train coming up the track leading
to the Hell’s Gate Bridge in the distance. A headlight appeared now cutting
through the fog and at midnight the train pulled up and stopped on the railroad
bridge, letting off a loud blast of steam and smoke. The passengers could be
seen exiting the cars and walking to the south side of the bridge and staring
down at the turbulent, treacherous waters churning below. Church bells broke
the silence from the old church tower in St. Mark’s Place and could be heard
clearly in spite of the considerable distance.
As I sat on the park bench, I suddenly felt something
cold inside my hand and realized that it was the small hand of a little girl dressed
in her Sunday best of ghostly white, her hair braided in pigtails sitting next
to me.
“It is about to start you know. This is where
it happened,” she informed me.
"I was so looking forward to the picnic,”
Greta said.
“I’m sorry that you never got there” I answered.
“Yes, it was so sad. Papa cried for the rest of
his life when he found out. He moved up to Yorkville afterwards to be closer to
the wreck. I tried to comfort him through the years, but that is over. He is
with us now,” said my spectral companion.
Momentarily the ghostly figure of The General
SLOCUM along with hundreds of wooden ships of all types, tonnage and periods arose
from the deep, water dripping from the masts and sails draining over the sides while
fish flapped around on the decks and crabs ran every which way annoyed by this disturbance.
Skeleton crews were standing at attention in their ragged uniforms and a marine
perfume of barnacles permeated the air. The estuary was thick with boats and
one could almost walk across the water by stepping from the bow of one ship to
the stern of another. Phantom seagulls flew in the air and swooped down scooping
up crabs and fish. One phantom sailor began to play a dirge on his flute which was
piercing and mournful although beautiful. The silhouettes on the railroad bridge
threw spectral wreaths into the water. Wooden ships were visible now as far as
the eye could see in both directions north and south. It was clear that this
tragedy was impactful to the mourners as the deaths had been almost exclusively
women and children. A funerary Coronach was sung next by a female apparition,
it was beautiful although sad.
“Greta, Greta come Greta,” One of the female silhouettes
called, waving to my companion from the Hell’s Gate Bridge.
“I have to go now, Mama is calling,” the child
said.
“Goodbye Greta!” I waved as she retreated to
the bridge. In seconds she had reunited with her mother as all the passengers
began to board the train while the ships slowly sank into the abyss and the
train disappeared into the night.
Jim
10/21
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