by Ed O'Donnell
Some were already at the Third Street pier—the habitually early, the impatient, and the experienced who knew the benefits of snaring the best seats on the upper hurricane deck. Among them was Mary Abendschein, the organizational genius behind the whole event. True to form, she was there early, just in case there were any last-minute problems. She also had the honor of handing out the Journal for the Seventeenth Annual Excursion of St. Mark’s Evan. Lutheran Church, the program she’d labored so long and hard to produce for the event. In it revelers found, in German and English, everything they needed to know, including the musical program to be provided by Professor George Maurer and his band, the menu and prices (clam chowder 20¢; beer, and ice cream, 5¢), a schedule of services and programs at St. Mark’s, a few jokes, and nearly one hundred sponsoring advertisements purchased by local businesses.
For Mary, thirty-four and as yet unmarried, her work on behalf of the church filled a major void in her life. Unable to prove her worth according to the highest standards of the day—as a wife and mother—she threw herself into volunteer work at St. Mark’s. Today was one of those days when such selfless effort was rewarded, when a single woman considered perilously close to spinsterhood could shine, handing to each family as they boarded the General Slocum the tangible evidence of her great labors and dedication to the parish.
It was also a day to shine for Pastor Haas, who likewise had arrived early to greet personally each family as they boarded the boat. Although others, especially Mary Abendschein, had worked to make the excursion possible, he would be seen as the host and receive the heartiest congratulations and good wishes. It was a moment he’d come to savor, an annual reminder now for seventeen years of why he drew so much satisfaction from his job at St. Mark’s and why he consistently turned down attractive offers from prestigious uptown churches, seminaries, and colleges. Haas was one of those men, rare in any age, with the strength of character and knowledge of his own heart to truly know where he belonged. This insight produced a self-confidence and sense of purpose that allowed him to withstand the temptations born of innate ambition and a society fixated on upward mobility to leave St. Mark’s for some elusive promised land. On this morning, this shepherd, seeing the beaming smiles of his flock and receiving their warm greetings and appreciative words, wouldn’t trade places with anyone.
By now a grand procession was taking form along the avenues and side streets of Little Germany to the pier at East Third Street. On any given Wednesday in the month of June, the streets of Little Germany teemed with activity. Storekeepers threw up their shutters and brought merchandise out onto the sidewalk. Pushcart peddlers hawked their wares and newsboys cried out the headlines. Commuters headed off to their places of work and children to school. But on this day it was evident that something else was happening. Whole families, often several blended together, moved with purpose toward a common destination.
They were easily picked out from the crowds that normally dominated the streets and sidewalks each morning. Dressed in their holiday finery, they evoked images of churchgoing families normally seen on Sundays. To the modern mind, the idea of men donning dark suits and women high- collared dresses and fancy hats for a day by the shore seems absurd. But in early-twentieth century America, it was the order of the day regardless of social class—especially for a church-sponsored outing. Respectability went before comfort and pragmatism. Men might remove their hats and jackets and loosen their ties during a baseball game, and the little ones would inevitably end up cuffing their pants and hiking their dresses to splash in the shallow water. But that was the extent of the concessions made to leisure and recreation. The days of swimsuits, shorts, T-shirts, and bare limbs and feet were another generation off. The group photographs so often taken on these outings always captured the same scene of manner and morals, propriety and sobriety. In 1904, even as seaside recreation boomed in popularity, Americans rich and poor went to the beach and the park as if dressed for a wedding, or perhaps a funeral.
Observers of the growing procession could also tell who was going to the shore that morning by the things they carried. Over their shoulders, under their arms, and in their hands they lugged the items necessary for a day of playing, dancing, sitting, and eating at Locust Grove. Experienced excursionists knew what to bring—blankets for sitting and napping, toys and games to keep the children occupied, extra clothes and towels, and, of course, food and drink. For those concerned about getting too much sun— in 1904 fair skin was still a sign of middle- or upper-class status—they brought parasols and broad-brimmed hats. Children carried dolls, toy boats, fishing poles, kites, and baseball gloves and bats. More than a few of these children of the city brought with them empty jars in the hope that they might be so lucky as to bring home some token of their day in the country—a firefly, robin’s egg, or frog.
Although such scenes of conspicuous recreation normally took place on Sundays, no one who witnessed the procession through the streets of Little Germany that Wednesday morning thought it the least bit odd. For weeks the St. Mark’s excursion had been the talk of the neighborhood. Even those who had no intention of going knew about it. Mary Abend schein had seen to that, canvassing hundreds of the neighborhood’s businesses seeking sponsoring advertisements for the event program. Gossip and stories of past trips flew about the neighborhood as anticipation mounted. By the morning of June 15 there was scarcely a soul in Little Germany who did not know about the event.
So as the delighted crowd moved methodically to the steamboat, they were greeted by those who would remain in the neighborhood. Shopkeepers shook hands and shouted well-wishes to customers and friends. Older residents, for whom a long day in the sun held no appeal, waved from stoops and windows. Men on their way to work—some of whose wives and children were already on their way to board the Slocum—ribbed the few husbands who did manage to get the day off. Long-faced children heading off to school at P.S. 25 on Fifth Street and First Avenue looked on with envy while teachers smiled at the prospect of a day of half-empty classrooms.
Mothers urged their broods on, mindful of the 8:45 departure time, not to mention the desire to claim some of the choice seats aboard the Slocum. At the same time, they struggled to keep everyone together, especially at street crossings, lest one of the small ones get run down by a charging teamster or automobile. They also wanted everyone to keep as clean as possible—no easy task in the filth-ridden streets of New York in 1904.
Moving through the crowd was bandleader George Maurer. For him the day held a dual purpose. First and foremost it was a workday, and he was on the lookout for his six fellow musicians. Maurer and his band had been hired by the church to provide music on board the Slocum and at Locust Grove. But this was a booking unlike almost any other he could expect to get that year, for he lived in Little Germany and knew many of the people on the trip. So for at least part of the day, the fifty-two-yearold Maurer could count on enjoying himself with friends and family—with him that morning was his wife Margaret and three daughters. August Schneider, one of his musicians, also brought his wife, Dora, and their three daughters. Unlike their usual engagements in crowded, smoky wed ding halls and concert saloons, today promised to be comfortable, lighthearted, and fun.
Two other men there at the pier had similar thoughts. Police officers Albert T. Van Tassel and Charles Kelk of the city’s River and Harbor Squad had been hired by St. Mark’s to accompany the excursion and make sure everyone was kept safe and sound. Compared to their regular days stalking the wharves and alleys of the city’s gang-infested waterfront, or patrolling the waters in leaky rowboats and launches, a sunny day at Locust Grove with a church group was a positively cushy assignment. They might have to fish a child or two out of the water or restrain an inebriated adult, but the odds favored a quiet day sipping lemonade and eating untold amounts of good German fare. And since they were moonlighting, they’d walk away at the end of the day with a nice piece of change in their pockets.
Perhaps the happiest person in th
e crowd of excursionists that morning was eleven-year-old Catherine Gallagher. She’d begun her day much like Wilhelmina Rauch, filled with gloom and despair over the fact that she could not go on the trip. Since the family could afford only three tickets, her mother, Veronica, planned on taking Catherine’s two younger siblings, nine-year-old Walter and nine-month-old Agnes. Catherine was barely out of bed that morning when her mother pressed a few coins in her hand and sent her to the corner store for a few last-minute items.
It was so unfair, she thought, as she headed down three flights of stairs. By the time she reached the store, tears were streaming down her red cheeks.
“What’s the matter, Catherine?” asked the woman who owned the store.
“Everyone’s going on the St. Mark’s trip but me,” she sobbed. “I haven’t got a ticket.”
Nonsense, said the kindly woman, as she reached into a drawer and pulled out a ticket. Like many local businesses, she’d bought a handful of tickets as a gesture of support for the church and handed them out to friends and customers.
“You have a good time,” she said, smiling, as she handed a disbelieving Catherine the coveted ticket. Clutching the ticket and groceries in her hands, Catherine bolted home to get ready for the trip, her first ever on a boat. Less than an hour later she was standing at the East Third Street pier waiting to board the Slocum, still astonished at her good fortune.
It was a miracle, she thought. “I must be the luckiest girl in the world.”
ALL ABOARD
Sometime after 8:00 A.M., the Slocum had rounded the Battery and tied up at the East Third Street recreation pier to await the members of St. Mark’s parish. With the scheduled departure time of 8:45 less than thirty minutes off, several hundred people were already waiting. Their collective chattering and laughing filled the air, drowning out the incessant creak and groan of a vessel lashed to a pier. Many families had arranged to rendezvous at the pier, and the scenes of joy attending their meeting gave added emphasis to the morning’s holiday atmosphere.
To them and the families that soon followed, the steamer instantly caught their eyes as they approached. From its tall, majestic smokestacks, thick plumes of black coal smoke wafted up and over the vessel. It was the perfect combination of grace and might, and loomed before them as a white chariot set to take them away from their obligations and worries, if only for a day.
At 8:30 A.M., Captain Van Schaick gave the signal to First Mate Ed Flanagan to begin boarding. First up the gangplank were policemen Van Tassel and Kelk, followed by Reverend Haas and his special guest, Rev. George Schultze from Erie, Pennsylvania. The latter took up positions to the left and right of the gangway to allow them to personally greet and welcome each passenger as they boarded.
Next to them sat deckhand John Coakley gripping a mechanical counter in his hand. By law the Slocum was required to count each passenger as they boarded to ensure that no more than the legal maximum— 2,500 in the case of the Slocum—went aboard. But as with everything regarding the steamboat industry and the law, passenger “counting” in practice left plenty of room for interpretation. Coakley, a green deckhand with only eighteen days’ experience on the job, counted according to the standard operating procedure aboard the Slocum: one click for every adult and one for every two children fourteen years old or younger. As a result, the precise number of passengers aboard the General Slocum on its last voyage will forever remain a mystery. Coakley recorded 982, but a far more accurate estimate compiled by the city many months later put it at 1,331, a number that included 800 females and 531 males, of whom more than 500 were younger than twenty years of age.
Up the gangplank they came, faces beaming and eyes wide in search of the best seats. “There was never a happier party than we were when we boarded the boat,” remembered Annie Weber, whose family came aboard with their relatives the Liebenows. “[W]e went on board laughing and talking, the children romping ahead with my sister.” They greeted Pastor Haas and Pastor Schultze and headed for seats on the forward middle deck. Hundreds more families followed in much the same manner.
The bulk of the passengers filled the Slocum in no time, but families and individuals kept coming right up to the posted departure time of 8:45 A.M. and beyond. Then the pleading began. Passengers still waiting for friends and family to arrive prevailed on Pastor Haas to hold the steamer just a few minutes longer. The good-natured minister inevitably gave in— several times over—delaying the departure by nearly an hour. The last to board was a young girl and her brother who came flying down the pier just before the gangplank was hauled up.
Watching this scene from the main deck was Mrs. Philip Straub. Mo ments earlier she had hustled her family onto the Slocum. Now as deckhands prepared to haul up the gangplank, she questioned her decision. Dark premonitions of some terrible, unknown disaster had haunted her mind all night. Her husband had dismissed her worries and said they were proof she needed a day off.
But she wasn’t so sure. Impulsively she turned to a man next to her, a stranger, and told him of her fear. Without saying a word, he grabbed his wife and five children and raced for the gangplank, shouting to the deckhands to wait. Hard on his heels was Straub with her children in tow. In less than a minute, eight bewildered children and three disbelieving adults stood gasping for breath on the pier. Before any could speak or cry, the gangplank disappeared and the crew began to cast off. Shouts went up to the pilothouse and the twin paddle wheels began to turn.
Passengers on the steamboat hung over the railings and waved to the people still standing on the pier, just as they had seen it done in vaudeville shows and in nickelodeons. As they waved, those on the port side couldn’t help but gaze in wonder at the frightened group still standing on the pier. Who in their right mind would pass up a trip like this?
UNDER WAY
She’s away, sir,” called pilot Ed Weaver through the window as the Slocum separated from the pier. Van Schaick nodded and instructed his pilots to bring the boat downriver a quarter mile to the Williamsburg Bridge. There, with sufficient momentum, they would swing the vessel about 180 degrees and proceed upriver toward Long Island Sound.
A bell clanged above the thunder in the boiler room, calling Chief En gineer Ben Conklin’s attention to a light indicating additional steam. With two turns of a valve the thunder emanating from the W. & A. Fletcher Company engine grew louder, sending a low vibration through the boat’s superstructure and into the wooden deck planks. For a brief moment, as the vessel’s speed reached that of the breeze off its bow, the air seemed perfectly still. A few seconds later a slight wind kicked up, ruffling the whiskers of Van Schaick’s wiry gray mustache.
The seventeenth annual St. Mark’s Church Sunday school outing was under way.
Captain Van Schaick stood on the foredeck just ahead of the pilot house. After more than five decades in the business of moving people and cargo on the water, under every conceivable set of circumstances, this was the sort of day he looked forward to. A gorgeous sun-drenched morning was unfolding beneath a cloudless sky. A soft meandering breeze out of the south luffed the flag atop the pilothouse and promised to take the edge off the above-normal temperature. And on board was a church group of mostly women and children—the easiest of all groups to handle.
In the pilothouse, First Pilot Edward Van Wart stood at the wheel and guided the boat assisted by Second Pilot Edwin Weaver, who kept a close watch on the river already jammed with traffic. Tugs, lighters, barges, tankers, launches, and steamers moved at varied speeds in every conceivable direction. Each presented its own unique hazard—big lighters piloted by captains who thought they owned the water, lumbering ferries that cut across the main traffic lanes, powerless barges towed by tugs that swayed at the end of their cables.
That was on the water’s surface. Hidden from view were countless maritime perils. Jagged outcroppings of Manhattan schist were everywhere, though experienced pilots like Weaver and Van Wart knew them all. Worse were the telephone-pole-sized semiwaterlogged piec
es of wood, remnants of long-abandoned piers. Floating just beneath the waves, they often ripped huge holes in the sides of wooden-hulled steamboats like the Slocum. Up ahead lay Hell Gate. With more than thirty years’ experience guiding steamboats, Van Wart knew that the captain trusted him implicitly. He also knew that he’d be in the pilothouse standing next to him as they passed through it.
Elsewhere aboard the Slocum, the crew and staff concerned themselves with far more mundane tasks. First Mate Ed Flanagan, in charge of the deckhands and kitchen staff and bar, made his rounds. Steward Michael McGrann sat at a table and counted nearly a thousand dollars in change, mostly coins, for use as change at the bar and concessions. Deckhand John J. Coakley gave a tour of the boat to the two policemen hired to accompany the group. Others answered questions, directed passengers, and kept an eye out for wayward children. Down in the boiler room, firemen shoveled coal into the boilers while in the engine room Chief Engineer Ben Conklin and his assistant Everett Brandow monitored the pressure gauges and responded to signals from the pilothouse.
Most members of the Slocum crew took solace in the fact that their long hours and low pay were offset by frequent stretches of downtime and the chance to work in the open air. Coakley was the sort always on the lookout for opportunities to kick back. Feeling a touch parched, as he often did at this time of day, he dropped into the bar. Hired by the Knickerbocker Steamboat Company only eighteen days earlier, he had already learned that it was customary on group outings for bartenders to treat the crew. In fact, earlier that morning Captain Van Schaick had warned the bartender, “Don’t give my men too much to drink today.” But as this was Coakley’s first trip to the bar, the bartender did not hesitate to draw a glass of beer and plunk it down in front of him. It was a ritual Coakley planned to repeat several times that day.