It has been said that the gate to hell is simply a tragic moment in time,
repeated over and over for all eternity...and so it is. I know, for little
exists for me except this channel, this treacherous stretch of deadly
water known as Hell Gate. My own private hell.
The Hell Gate --1891 (Click to enlarge)
I was never of great importance in life, but since my death my legend
has begun to grow. Many have caught a glimpse of me...some more then a
glimpse, and they often end up as residents in those soulless buildings
on Wards Island. I have no idea why I am stuck in this torturous time
warp where I experience the horrors of Hell Gate over and over again.
I no not why I, once the captain of a fine cutter, now sit in this oarless,
rudderless boat bound for nowhere.
The whirlpools of the Eastern channel taunt me. I slip round the Hen
& Chickens and Gridiron uneventfully. The most dangerous reefs are
yet to come.
In my time, the poor man went to sea in the vessel the richer man owned.
New York was a port where ships and privateers were outfitted for piracy.
Pirates in gaudy colorful clothes with pistols in their waistcoat pockets
walked the streets of New York City. Local merchants bargained for their
goods and lined up to back their larcenous voyages. Shares were bought
and sold over rum punch in the taverns. For a while, New York was the
pirate's port of choice in North America. Then there were the privateers
from each country who were granted the right to capture enemy vessels
and sell their
cargoes as prizes of war. Most crews were hired on the basis of 'no plunder,
no pay'which meant privateers soon became out- and-out pirates. There
was a fine line between the privateer and the pirate, often that line
was drawn simply by military support.
My ghost boat turns at Wards Island. I feel my guts in my throat as
I
approach Hogs Back. I pass uneventfully. In the center of the channel
lies Frying Pan, then the dangerous jaws of Hallet Point Reef, left on
the Astoria Shore. I make it past. I always do. I should know that by
now, but still I am seized by fear.
Where was I? Ah yes, where I always am...Hell Gate. This river abounded
with privateers, pirates and smugglers, and the water, being the fickle
and deadly entity that she is, had her own way of dealing with them. Out
of the bowels of the river sprung Hell Gate, with it¹s razor sharp
reefs and its treacherous tides. The rumors of serpents and sea creatures...it
looks so placid from where you stand now, but looks can be deceiving.
It wasn't so long ago that countless men were crucified here. 1000 ships,
perhaps more, were smashed on the reefs, ripped apart by the powerful
tides, swallowed by the mountainous valleys that lie just beyond the seemingly
harmless surface.
To the left, pull to the left. . . I make it past Holms Rock. Almost
calmly, the boat slides by Pot Rock. I hear the silent screams of those
who weren't so lucky. Ways Reef calls my name. I approach it as one approaches
the inevitable.
The H.M.S. Hussar (Click to enlarge)
Yes, below me are the remains of countless ships. Most will forever remain
nameless, while some have be become legendary. The H.M.S. Hussar was one
such vessel. The Hussar was a British frigate of War, part of a fleet
of privateers. It had left Charles Town carrying soldiers, slaves, rations
and a vast fortune of Gold and Silver -- payroll for the British forces
stationed in the colonies. On her way she attacked two ships, confiscating
their treasure and sinking the. Then she met two sister ships. Both had
been commissioned into battle so unloaded their cargoes onto her. As you
can imagine, the Hussar was now heavily overloaded, and became easy prey
for the the jaws of Hell Gate. Weighed down, she was unable to maneuver
around the currents and smashed her bow into Pot Rock. She went down on
November 23rd 1780 with 150 men and $15 000 000 worth of gold on board.
Some believe the treasure still lies on the river bed today. A treasure,
is now estimated to be worth up to $1,500 billion.
I see your face light up...buried treasure...the promise of it...rest
assured the temperamental tides of Hell Gate will never return what she
now considers hers. That's if the gold does exist. It is as much a myth
as I am. You'd be better off searching for the remaining treasure buried
by the likes of Captain Kid along the Long Island coastline. Or the gold,
hidden during the revolution. Gold that was never claimed due to death...this
land is strewn with buried gold... and bones.
Bones and body parts have littered this shoreline for hundreds of
years....During the revolution The British held American soldiers on prison
ships right here on the East River. human remains washed up for decades,
many where you stand right now.
The bones of countless more people rest on the river bed...although rest
is a deceptive term. Like me, they will never be at rest. Like me they
wander aimlessly, their destiny with Hell Gate a moment in time that is
replayed endlessly within this haunted stretch of river.
There have been countless Hell Gate victims. Some have been identified,
named...others never found...like the rider of a horse discovered swimming
in the river in March 1793. I could tell you what happened to that rider...for
I know...like me he still exists in some disturbing way...but I won¹t
tell you. Some things should never be spoken of.
Then there was the tragedy in 1777, where two children and their servant
were swallowed by Hell Gate's temperamental waters. There are many lost
souls here who were claimed whilst still young. Children who went out
clamming...and never returned. Young lovers in boats, their romantic foolishness
their downfall. And of course, there was the general Slocum...500 hundred
of those who perished were under 20 years of age. But that story is not
mine to tell tonight.
Here we are at Shell Drake Rock....ease her round. Time, like a dog
chasing it's tail, is drawing near.
Eventually explosives were used to clear much of the dangerous reefs
away. Throngs of people lined the shore in 1885 to watch the Corps blast
nine acres of rocks out of Hells Gate. The explosions could be heard in
Newark. However, like an amputated limb, the essence and pain of these
reefs remain. Phantoms though they may be now, there is still no escape.
I have learnt that the hard way. Once a simple pirate, of no great worth,
I have, in death, become the stuff legends are made of. Not for my adventures
at sea...or the gold that I stole...but for this eternal hell I am condemned
to. They call me the Hell Gate Kid. Those who see me fear me...when really
should simply be pitied.
It is time for me to leave...we are reaching Bald Headed Billy, the
razor sharp reef that claimed my life....and continues to do so, over
and over and over and over...
