Including the Harlem, Staten Island, and Elizabethport routes, there are
about twenty-five lines of ferries plying between New York and the
adjacent shores. Ten of these lines are to Brooklyn, two to Hunter's
Point, two to Green Point, one to Mott Haven, and one to Harlem, all in
the East River; and five to Jersey City, one to Weehawken, one to Fort
Lee, two to Staten Island, and one to Elizabethport, all in the North
River. Thus there are sixteen lines in the East River, and ten in the
North River. The boats are large side-wheel vessels, capable of carrying
pedestrians, horses and vehicles. The fare to the Jersey shore is three
cents, to Brooklyn two, and to Harlem and Staten Island ten cents. On
some of the lines the boats ply every five minutes; on others the
intervals are longer. The Staten Island and Harlem boats start every
hour.
The boats are generally handsome, as well as large. Nearly all are
lighted with gas, and at least a score of them are to be seen in the
stream at any time. At night, with their many colored lamps, they give
to the river quite a gala appearance. The Fulton, Barclay, and
Courtlandt street lines run their boats all night. The others run from 4
A.M. until midnight. The travel on the various lines is immense. The
aggregate is said, by reliable authority, to be upwards of 200,000
persons per day, or about 75,000,000 per annum. Many of the boats carry
from 800 to 1000 passengers at a single trip.
During the summer it is pleasant enough to cross either of the rivers
which encircle the island, but in the winter such travelling is very
dangerous. Storms of snow, fogs, and floating ice interfere very greatly
with the running of the boats, and render accidents imminent. Collisions
are frequent during rough or thick weather, and the ice sometimes sweeps
the boats for miles out of their course. The East River is always more
or less crowded with vessels of all kinds, either in motion or at anchor,
and even in fair weather it requires the greatest skill on the part of
the pilot to avoid collisions.
Tens of thousands of people enter and leave the great city daily by means
of the ferries. The country for twenty miles around the city is built up
by persons who earn their bread in New York, and morning and evening they
pass between their places of business and their homes. You may recognize
them as they come into the city in the morning, or as they leave it at
the close of the day. Towards five o'clock vast swarms of working-men
pour over the river, followed at six and seven by the factory and shop
girls, the clerks and salesmen in the retail houses and offices, and from
these the newsboys reap a harvest for the two-penny papers. Every one
has his newspaper, and all who can find the necessary space on the
ferry-boat economize their time by reading the news as they cross the
river. Later still come the clerks in the wholesale houses, and later
still the great merchants themselves. Between nine and ten the Wall
street men put in an appearance, and later yet the great capitalists,
residing out of the city, begin to show themselves. From eight o'clock
the great dailies are in demand, and the newsboys have scarcely a call
for the cheap papers. Towards noon the idlers and ladies bent on
shopping expeditions cross over, and for a few hours the ferries are
comparatively dull. Towards four o'clock in the afternoon, however, the
tide flows back again, but in reverse order. The richest come first, for
their working hours are short, and the poorest extend the crowd into the
hours of darkness. Night brings another flow and ebb of
pleasure-seekers, theatre-goers, etc., so that the midnight boats go
almost as full as those of the early evening. Then a few stragglers
avail themselves of the boats that ply between midnight and morning.
They are mostly journalists, actors, or printers employed in the
newspaper offices.
With the first light of dawn, and frequently long before the darkness has
passed away, the market farmers and gardeners of Long Island and New
Jersey crowd the boats with their huge wagons heavily loaded with
vegetables and fruits for the city markets. They come in throngs, and
the approaches to the ferries in Brooklyn and Jersey City are lined for
blocks with their wagons. They are mostly Germans, but they show a
decidedly American quality in the impatience they manifest at the delays
to which they are subjected. On the lower Jersey ferries, they are often
followed by droves of cattle, many of which have come from the Far West,
all wending their way to the slaughter houses of New York.
The New York approaches to the ferries are always "jammed" with wagons
and trucks. The luckless "foot-passenger" must take the chances of
reaching the boat in time, and often must incur no little risk in making
his way through the crowd of vehicles. The police try hard to keep these
approaches free, but the throng is too great for them, and they have all
they can do in seeing after the safety of the "foot-passengers." A man
on foot has no rights that a New York driver is bound to respect, and
Jehu thinks it no harm to run over any one who gets in his way.
The ferries are good places to study human nature, for all classes use
them. You see here the poor, pale working girl, whom toil and poverty
are making prematurely old, and the blooming lady of fashion; the beggar
and the millionaire; the honest laborer and the thief; the virtuous
mother and her children, and the brazen courtezan and her poodle dog.
You can tell them all by their appearance and aspect, for here they enjoy
a few moments of enforced idleness, and during that time they are natural
in expression and attitude.
At night, the scene to be witnessed from these boats is very striking.
The waters are dark and the current is strong, and the dash of the waves
against the side of the boat is like the noise of the great ocean.
Through the darkness you may dimly discern the stern outline of the
cities on either side, with the forests of masts which line them rising
from the dark hulls at the piers. The shadowy forms of vessels at anchor
in the stream, each with its warning light, rise up and disappear as if
by magic as you dart past them. On the shore the many colored lights
mark the various ferry houses, and similar lights are flashing about the
stream like fire-flies as the boats pass from shore to shore. Back of
the ferry houses the long rows of lights in the cities stretch away into
the distance, and high over all gleams the round white face of the
illuminated clock on the City Hall in New York. The breeze is fresh and
keen, and comes in laden with the sighing of the mighty ocean so near at
hand.
The people standing out on the open deck are silent, impressed by the
fascination of the scene. Hark! there is a splash at the side of the
boat, a white figure gleams one moment on the crest of the waves, and
then sinks under the dark waters. The bell strikes sharply, and the boat
stops suddenly. Life-preservers are thrown overboard, and lights gleam
along the side of the boat. There is no sign of the unfortunate girl who
has so rashly sought peace, and the waters will hold her in their cold
embrace till the sea gives up its dead. All search is hopeless, and the
boat speeds on, a dumb horror holding its occupants mute.
In a fog, the scene is exciting beyond description. The passengers
throng the forward end of the boat, and strive with eager eyes to pierce
the dense mist which enshrouds the stream and hides the shore from view.
From either side the hoarse clangor of the ferry bells, tolling their
number, comes floating through the mist, to guide the pilot to his
destination, and all around, on every hand, steamers are shrieking their
shrill signals to each other. The boat moves slowly and with caution,
and the pilot strains both eye and ear to keep her in the right course.
One single error of judgment on his part, and the boat might go crashing
into a similar steamer, or into one of the vessels lying in the stream.
It is a moment of danger, and those who are used to the river know it.
You could hear a pin drop in the silent crowd on the deck. If men speak
at all, they do so in low, subdued tones. There is a sharp whistle on
the right, and the boat suddenly stops. You hear the splashing of paddle
wheels, and the next moment a huge steamer dashes past you in the mist.
You can hear her, but the fog hides her. Then the boat goes ahead again,
and gradually the fog bells on the shore grow louder and clearer, and in
a little while the dock bursts suddenly upon you, so spectral and
unearthly in its appearance that you hardly recognize it. The boat now
glides swiftly into her "slip," and a sigh of relief breaks from the
throng on board. The danger is over.
The boats carry such crowds that an accident to any of them is a terrible
affair. The collision at the Fulton Ferry in 1868, and the terrible
explosion of the Westfield in 1871, were attended with great loss of
life. The injuries were none of them slight, and the disasters were of
such magnitude as to throw a general gloom over the community.