Ship Ablaze Read online

  PRAISE FOR SHIP ABLAZE

  “[Edward T.] O’Donnell vividly recounts the fear and crushing panic on the boat that day … fascinating … researched with care and written with sensitivity.”

  —Library Journal

  “With a novelist’s touch, Ed O’Donnell tells the tale of a forgotten tragedy, and offer lessons we can still learn from a single terrible day in New York. The stories and characters in this remarkable book will live with you in years to come.”

  —Terry Golway, author of So Others Might Live: A History of New York’s Bravest—the FDNY from 1700 to the Present

  “The book grips readers like a first-rate novel, giving a detailed feel for the events and its victims and offering a window into a bygone age.”

  —Worcester Telegram & Gazette

  “Riveting … not only a portrait of a time and a tragedy, Ship Ablaze rises to the highest use of narrative history: that in every time there are the innocent and the brave—and there is hope.”

  —Michael Capuzzo, author of Close to Shore

  “Strong material met with solid storytelling.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “In O’Donnell’s deft hands, the disaster becomes more than just a historical event—it’s a fascinating window into an era, a community, and the lives of ordinary people.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Before the World Trade Center disaster, the burning of the General Slocum ranked as the worst tragedy in New York City history. In less than half an hour it snuffed out a thousand lives and transformed the ethnic map of Manhattan. No one has told this extraordinary story of horror and heroism better than Edward O’Donnell.”

  —Kenneth T. Jackson, President of the New-York Historical Society and Jacques Barzun Professor of History and the Social Sciences, Columbia University

  “Ship Ablaze feels like viewing a daguerreotype in color; a rare occasion to identify with the past and not merely be taught by it—bridging the gap, however briefly, between 9/11/2001 and 6/15/1904.”

  —Raleigh News & Observer

  “Complete yet concise, and beautifully documented with photographs … there is no better tribute to one of the largest ethnic cornerstones of our nation.”

  —Boston Irish Reporter

  “O’Donnell has combined keen scholarship with dramatic pacing to create a riveting tale.”

  —Newark Star-Ledger

  “Ship Ablaze is a century-old disaster story brought to life with awful intensity and heartbreaking clarity. Edward T. O’Donnell’s incisive narrative races with the doomed steamer Slocum up New York’s East River, illuminates the thousand obscure lives lost, and picks through the negligence for which no one was held sufficiently accountable.”

  —Gerard Koeppel, author of Water of Gotham

  “O’Donnell finally gives this tragedy the treatment it deserves.”

  —Irish America

  ALSO BY EDWARD T. O’DONNELL

  1001 Things Everyone Should Know

  About Irish American History

  to the innocents lost in

  the catastrophes of

  6/15/04 and 9/11/01

  and the bereaved

  left behind

  and the city

  that always overcomes

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Like any good historian, I have endeavored to tell an engaging story while remaining true to the standards of evidence and documentation. As a work of nonfiction, this book is based on the real-life experiences of real people. Every character and event mentioned is real, and their descriptions are drawn from voluminous newspaper accounts, court testimony, interviews with survivors and their descendants, and other historical sources. The same is true of all the dialogue presented in this book. Every word quoted in this book is based on these sources and none is invented.

  CONTENTS

  Author’s Note

  Diagram of the General Slocum

  Map of the Final Journey of the General Slocum

  The Envy of All

  PART ONE : HOPE

  The Captain

  Empire City

  Stories

  The Shepherd

  The Program

  Escape

  Safely Home

  Perils Real and Imagined

  Perfect Day

  All Aboard

  Under Way

  PART TWO : HORROR

  The Demon

  Alarm

  God Help Us

  Panic

  The Decision

  Murderous Intensity

  A Faint Ray of Hope

  Cruel Waters

  It’s Over with Her

  Extra!

  Dead in the Water

  Beautiful Recklessness

  PART THREE : SEARCHING

  Mama, Wake Up

  Like Wildfire

  The Fix

  I May Yet Find My Darlings

  Harvest of the Dead

  Are There No More?

  The Morning After

  That Makes Number

  Life Killers

  Just One More

  Sacrificed to Greed

  Friday, June 17

  No Stone Left Unturned

  Black Saturday

  Questions and Answers

  The Act of Man

  A Tangle of Contradictions

  Guilty

  PART FOUR : FORGETTING

  Memorial

  Memories

  Scapegoat

  Ghosts of Dreams Passed Away

  Legacy

  Acknowledgments

  About the Sources

  DIAGRAM OF THE GENERALS LOCUM

  Map of the Final Journey of the General Slocum

  THE ENVY OF ALL

  OUT ACROSS the slate gray expanse of swirling water, it was hard to miss. Freshly painted for the new season then just beginning, it fairly glistened in the midmorning sun. Two hundred sixty-four feet from stem to stern, topped with three vast open decks stacked one atop the other, the steamboat drew notice as it plied its way upriver. It was hardly the only boat out that morning, for today, as on every day, the East River was choked with boats of every shape, size, and purpose. Yet as a passenger steamer jammed with people bound on a pleasure excursion, it presented a majestic image as it glided on with apparent effortlessness.

  This veil of grace and beauty, pleasing as it was to the eye, failed to ob scure the boat’s most overwhelming aspect: raw power. The signs were every where, beginning with the flag attached to the boat’s tall staff. From a distance the stiff bit of fabric seemed frozen, pulled taut in the direction of the stern by the force of the vessel’s astonishing fifteen-knot speed. All about the flag a trail of thick but fast-dissipating black smoke billowed from two stacks amidships, revealing the presence of two raging boilers belowdecks. Along the waterline, twin wakes of white, seemingly boiling water flowed alongside the hull, churned by the boat’s two mighty paddle wheels.

  That something weighing nearly thirteen hundred tons could be compelled to move so fast yet so gracefully was still a wonder in 1904. Steam locomotives possessed far more power and attained greater speeds, but graceful was not a word that came to mind among those who rode them. Certainly the same could be said of the newfangled contraptions now in vogue among the restless nouveau riche—horseless carriages—despite the growing numbers of them on the nation’s streets. And air travel? As far as most Americans were concerned, it remained the stuff of science fiction, despite Orville and Wilbur Wright’s successful test of their flying machine six months earlier. In 1904, at the peak of the age of steam, when it came to speed, comfort, and cost, no mode of transportation could rival the passenger steamboat. Every day dozens plied the murky waters in and around New York City, and every day people stood and watched.
This morning was no different. From nearby vessels captains, deckhands, and passengers looked on as the radiant boat passed. Along both shorelines hardened dockworkers paused to appreciate the spectacle, if only for a quick glance. High above the river on the brand-new Williamsburg Bridge, commuters craned their necks to watch. Through the windows of the metropolis’s new soaring skyscrapers, secretaries and executives broke the monotony of the emerging corporate culture to steal a glimpse. All gazed with a conflicting mixture of admiration and jealousy, as a widow might when studying a passing wedding party.

  They were drawn not merely by the boat, but also by the event it clearly represented. Most who noticed the boat were too far away to hear the joyous sounds of the band aboard or to see the festively dressed passengers talking, running, and dancing on the decks. They didn’t need to see it, for the scene was easily imagined.

  A thousand or so people were aboard a chartered steamboat. The specific group (a church? a charity? a club?) and the occasion (an anniversary? a wedding? an annual outing?) mattered little. Nor did the particular destination, though most likely this northbound excursion was headed for one of the many recreation areas along Long Island Sound. If it was like most outings, the day would be one long endless round of food and drink, dancing and games, and for the few who knew how, swimming. Later that evening the steamer would return bearing a load of sunburned, overfed, and exhausted revelers, not a few tipsy from the plentiful drink.

  On this day, those aboard such a boat were the lucky ones, the ones able to get away even if just for eight or nine hours.

  None were more aware of their good fortune that day than the thirteen hundred souls now cruising up the East River. Most were German immigrants or their children, members of St. Mark’s Lutheran Church on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Some of their number had scrimped, sacrificed, and saved their way into the middle class and a few were undeniably rich. The rest were working-class folk, the kind of people who appreciated every second of leisure time precisely because they had so little of it. They’d spent the previous 364 days anticipating the 17th Annual St. Mark’s outing to Locust Grove on Long Island, and the day had finally arrived.

  As the steamer’s twin paddle wheels clawed at the water and propelled the vessel on its journey, they could be seen dressed in their best outfits moving about the vessel or gathered in clusters chatting excitedly about the fabulous weather. Everywhere little children scurried to and fro while a group of teenagers began to dance to the sounds of the German band. Hundreds more crammed against the steamer’s railings on all three decks to drink in the urban panorama slipping slowly past.

  For many it was a rare, perhaps even first, detached glimpse of the city that overwhelmed them day after day. Even though the unspoken theme of the day was escape, most were unable to take their eyes off the cityscape. No doubt many were struck by how calm and quiet the city seemed from the river. The familiar sounds of everyday life—clip-clopping horses, pounding hammers, grinding machinery, bellowing vendors—were barely audible on the river, especially aboard a boat humming with the drone of its engine at three- quarters throttle.

  Already the excursion was having its desired effect. They were slipping, however fleetingly, from the gravitational pull of their chaotic, stressful urban world. One by one the relentlessly ordered streets passed by—14th Street, 23rd Street, 34th Street, 42nd Street, and so on—as if measuring the progress of their flight. With every passing minute their eyes drew in the enormity and complexity of their city. One moment endless rows of tenements much like their own downtown came into view, the next a cluster of upscale brownstone mansions. In the foreground along the water’s edge they saw familiar collections of seemingly ancient warehouses and countinghouses, vestiges of a fast-disappearing waterfront economy. Beyond them loomed the future—dozens of skyscrapers newly opened or nearing completion.

  Those first fifteen minutes aboard the steamboat put before her passengers their city in all its confusing, contradictory glory. New York was a city of hope and despair, of fabulous wealth and crushing poverty, of limitless possibilities and unimaginable pitfalls, of traditional Old World values and relentless, almost pathological newness. Every day the people of St. Mark’s struggled to survive amid these competing forces. Every day, that is, except today. For one day, at least, they could leave it all behind.

  Those who saw the steamboat that morning knew this, and so they looked on.

  THE CAPTAIN

  He awoke to the same familiar sounds as on every morning—the creak and groan of a wooden vessel at pier, the persistent lap, lap, lap of water against the hull, the squawk of a seagull, the peal of a distant ship whistle. Dawn was breaking over the Hudson River, and another day of furious maritime activity was about to begin.

  It was still dark as the captain rolled off his bunk, dressed, and stepped out on the deck of his boat. The air was cold, but it being June 14, there was a noticeable springlike hint in it. Out across the frigid, seemingly motionless river he could see the sources of the morning’s first sounds. Dark silhouettes of tugs and barges moved in the distance, punctuated here and there by colored lanterns. Seagulls stood on the ship railings and soared overhead looking for the first sign of breakfast. Closer by, the captain saw row upon row of boats at pier, most dark and silent as though sleeping, but a few like his with lantern light streaming from a cabin window.

  Captain William Van Schaick, like a lot of old-time unmarried captains, lived aboard his boat. He did so less because of some romantic love of the sea and more to simply save money. At sixty-seven years of age, retirement was not far off and he needed to save every penny of his $37.50 per week salary if he wanted to avoid living out his last days in poverty. He still paid rent, but less than half the going rate for a Manhattan apartment. Plus you couldn’t beat the commute.

  The onset of warm weather meant his busy season was upon him. From late May to early October he’d work nearly every day as New Yorkers clambered aboard his boat on group outings to the shore and day trips to see the big yacht races. Today was the eighth charter excursion of the young season for him. He’d been at it now for more years than he cared to remember, including the last thirteen on this steamboat, the General Slocum. In fact, he had been the only captain the steamer had ever known.

  Tethered to a long, weatherbeaten pier, the steamboat rolled gently back and forth with the silent rhythms of waves left by passing vessels. In the faint predawn light then beginning to brighten the sky over the Hudson, the steamer General Slocum presented an imposing, dark silhouette. Unlike many of its fellow passenger steamers, many of which began their careers in other port cities like Boston, Providence, or Newport, the General Slocum was a New York boat through and through. It was built by the Devine Burtis shipbuilding firm in the Red Hook section of Brooklyn in 1890–91. Miss May Lewis, niece of the Knickerbocker Steamboat Company’s president, joined a large crowd of spectators on the day of the launch in April 1891. Moments after she broke a bottle across its bow, the steamboat slid down the ways into the chilly waters of New York harbor.

  As befitting a locally built boat destined to ply local waterways, the Knickerbocker Steamboat Co. named it for Maj. Gen. Henry Warner Slocum (1827–94). A graduate of West Point, Slocum had served with distinction in the Union Army, including commands at Gettysburg and with Sherman’s scorched-earth march to the sea across Georgia. Slocum parlayed his military record into a successful law practice and three terms in Congress between 1869 and 1885. Affixing the name of this much- admired elder statesman to the paddle box in large fancy lettering would, the owners hoped, lend the new steamboat an aura of respectability, honor, glory, and history.

  The steamer itself, however, conveyed a very different image. The moment its sharp hull sliced into the chilly waters of New York harbor on that cold spring morning in 1891, there was no question which passenger steamer stood supreme. No steamboat in and around New York could compare with the General Slocum in terms of design and luxurious appointments. At 264
feet in length and weighing 1,281 tons, the Slocum was not the largest boat of its kind in the harbor. Even its sister ship, the Grand Republic, was longer. But its sleek, wooden hull that swept gracefully upward from stern to prow indicated a steamboat designed for both speed and elegance as well as size. As was the custom of the day, the Slocum’s hull was painted a brilliant white. Above it the three stacked decks, cabin walls, rails, doors, and benches were varying shades of brown varnished wood.

  The Slocum’s interior was likewise designed to provide up to twenty- five hundred passengers with a maximum of luxury and comfort. Two large open rooms called “saloons” on the lower and middle decks provided passengers with wicker chairs upholstered in fine red velvet and tables at which they could enjoy good things to eat from the kitchen and bar. Lush carpeting, fine paintings, wood carvings, and ornate light fixtures here and elsewhere in the boat’s several lounges added to its ambience. Abundant windows allowed for a maximum of natural light and fresh air. For those who wanted more of both, there was the vast upper or “hurricane” deck, some ten thousand square feet of open space enclosed only by a three-foothigh railing. Towering above it all stood two large side-by-side smokestacks painted a flat yellow.

  In 1891 no steamboat in New York could equal the Slocum ’s beauty and opulence. Nor could any steamboat match its combination of speed, size, and maneuverability. Deep inside the boat’s hull, beneath the decks devoted to the needs and whims of the passengers, lay the enormous steam-powered engine built by the W. & A. Fletcher Company in Hoboken, New Jersey. Attached to it were two massive paddle wheels mounted on both sides of the boat. Each was nine feet wide, thirty-one feet in diameter, and studded with twenty-six paddles. With the engine running at full throttle, they could claw the water with such ferocity that the steamer reached the astonishing speed of fifteen knots. Even still, speed and size did not compromise maneuverability, for the Slocum was fitted with an ultramodern steam-powered steering system.