John Otterman driving his horse-drawn cab for the last time, possibly on Broadway at Herald Square, where Jacob Cohen’s coat shop was located at this time. April 24, 1922. Anamar & Corp.
I recently came across this fantastic colorized photograph of John Otterman, one of the last horse-drawn taxi drivers of New York City. Otterman, who was 72 when this photo was taken, had been working as a cab driver for 40 years. He spent 25 of those years with his horse, Janethe. I thought the story of John Otterman and Janethe could be one of the best horse tales I’ve discovered, so I spent several hours doing research.
Sadly, I was not able to find any more information about John Otterman and his horse. Although numerous newspapers across the country published this photo and the one below, only a small caption accompanied the photograph. Looking at the photograph, however, one can tell that both John and his horse took great pride in the service they provided for New Yorkers.
To be sure, heavy draft horses were still hauling freight throughout the city, but by 1922, horse-drawn cab drivers were a dying breed.
John Otterman and his horse, Janethe, on their retirement day, April 1922.
Although I hit a dead end with Otterman, I did discover several other unique horse tales that took place during the the early decades of the 20th century, when motorized vehicles were taking New York City and other cities by storm.
When the going got tough in New York, the tough New Yorkers got going — with horses.
Holiday Horse Shortage in Brooklyn
Talk about an odd supply chain issue. What would life be like today if we depended on horses to help deliver our holiday mail and Amazon packages? (Actually, we could possibly be better off…)
In November 1929, expectations were high for record-breaking mail volume. With the holiday season less than a month away, Brooklyn Postmaster Albert Firmin began putting plans in place to ensure everyone received their mail in time for Christmas. In addition to calling on the public to do its mailing early, he hired 1,500 extra carriers and 3,000 additional clerks, and added 60 motorized vehicles to the existing fleet.
To supplement the motorized mail trucks, Firmin also sought to hire 200 horse-drawn vehicles. The horse-drawn vehicles would be used to deliver the regular parcel post loads in the downtown district, where traffic was slower, and to deliver mail to residential areas.
Daily News, November 3, 1929
Although the Brooklyn Post Office had been supplementing its motorized fleet with horse-drawn vehicles during the holiday season for many years, for some reason there was a shortage of horses in 1929. In fact, Postmaster Firmin could only find horses at laundry facilities. As he told the New York Daily News, it appeared that laundries were the only businesses in Brooklyn still using horses.
Firmin said he hoped to hire as many laundry horses as possible for the holiday season. The Daily News reporter joked, “So if your laundry gets hung up about Christmas time, you’ll know Christmas presents are to blame.”
Emergency Call for Horses to Deliver Expectant Mothers
We all think it’s important to get our holiday mail in time, but I have a feeling expectant mothers would say it’s more important to get to the hospital in time.
In December 1947, a Christmastime snow storm created a dangerous situation for Brooklyn residents who needed to get to the hospital. According to The New York Times, an emergency appeal for horse-drawn sleds and other vehicles was put out on December 26 by radio station WNEW. The sleds were primarily needed to help deliver pregnant women to hospitals.
Horse-drawn sleds, like this one pictured in 1935, came to the rescue for pregnant women and ill patients in December 1947.
Apparently, the Morro Limousine Company on Prospect Park West was in urgent need of sleds and other vehicles that could make it through the deep snow. All 18 of its vehicles, which were used for transporting pregnant women and ill patients to hospitals, had all stalled in the snow. The company was receiving 25 calls an hour for hospital transports but was unable to respond.
Horse-drawn vehicles were made available at no charge to those women and other patients who needed to get to a hospital during the storm. This solution was pure horse sense, if you ask me.
Horse-Drawn Cabs for Saks Shoppers
In 1942 and 1943, the Saks Thirty-Fourth Street store provided a free transportation service to draw up wartime business and encourage summer shoppers on Saturdays.
The department store provided four horse-drawn victoria carriages, each driven by old-time cab drivers, to transport perspective shoppers from Grand Central Station to Saks. One of the drivers hired in 1942 was Frank McCann, who had spent 50 years working as a horse-drawn cabbie.
More than 100 shoppers were transported between the rail station and Saks in one day, “arousing the interest of pedestrians all along the route.”
I have a feeling John Otterman would have welcomed a chance to drive one of these carriages, had he still been alive at this time.
No Gas? How About a Horse?
On May 15, 1942, gasoline rationing began in 17 Eastern states as part of the American war effort during World War II. By the end of the year, under President Franklin D. Roosevelt, mandatory gas rationing was in effect in all 48 states. (Could you imagine a president trying to do this today?)
About a week after the rations first went into effect, Secretary of the Interior Harold L. Ickes and his wife attended a fundraising luncheon at the former Hotel Commodore on 42nd Street between Lexington and Park Avenues. Staging his own gasoline conservation campaign, he arrived at the hotel in a horse-drawn carriage. During the luncheon, he warned guests that they may also be forced to replace their gasoline-powered vehicles with horses.
Secretary of the Interior Harold L. Ickes and his wife took a “non-gasoline trip” from the Defense Recreation Center at 99 Park Avenue to Greater New York-USO war fund luncheon at the Hotel Commodore.
“I’m delighted with the way gasoline rationing has been received, but there may be more of it,” he said. “You can say to yourself that we can thank God because we are keeping those bombers flying. We will go without even one gallon of gasoline to send our flyers over Tokyo, Rome, and Berlin.”
History does tend to repeat itself. Maybe we should all start learning how to drive or ride horses…
When I first set out to write a new animal tale of Old New York this week, I didn’t expect to be telling the story of a Draft Riots heroine.
I originally wanted to tell a story that took place in history during the week of Thanksgiving. After discovering the following story of Elizabeth Gallagher and her animal companions, I thought I had found a short but sweet–albeit sorrowful–tale of a lonely woman and her chickens, cat, and bird.
Vintage photo of a poor woman with a chicken.
But after I did some more research, I found an amazing story that not only took place during two Thanksgiving weeks in two different centuries, but also featured a very relevant tale set during one of New York City’s most historic events. What started out as a sorrowful animal tale turned into a short history lesson and wonderful story of the true meaning of Thanksgiving.
The Eccentric Spinster
Elizabeth Gallagher was a lonely woman who worked as a laundress doing washing and scrubbing. Although she was only about 57 in 1899, the newspapers described her as an old and eccentric spinster.
Elizabeth was born in Farmington, Connecticut. She came to New York as a young girl in 1850.
For 36 years–ever since her first home in New York City burned down in 1863–Eliza lived on the third floor of a four-story brick tenement building with stores at 328 East 22nd Street. She shared her small suite of rooms with two chickens named Snowbird and Pearly Dew, an unnamed cat, and an old bird. These animals were her only companions.
On November 22, 1899, three days before Thanksgiving that year, Policeman Golden of the East Twenty-Second Street police station arrested Miss Gallagher. Her crime was keeping in her rooms two chickens that she had raised since they were three-day-old chicks.
“Don’t be a Shylock, Judge,” Elizabeth told the magistrate. “I thought I had a right to have chickens in my room. Why, I talk to Snowbird and Pearly Dew as I would to children. They are my companions. I have as much a right to have chickens in my room as the Artists’ Club has to have monkeys in its room. I love animals. I don’t want to see any killed. Chickens are not worse than pug dogs.”
Although Magistrate Brann sympathized with her, he said the matter would have to be addressed in the higher courts.
New York World, November 25, 1899
So, two days before Thanksgiving, Miss Gallagher was arraigned before Justice E.A. Jacob in Special Sessions. “Sentence suspended!” he ruled.
It was great that Elizabeth was cleared of the charge, but the courts still took away her animals. As neighbors gathered around to hear her story when she returned home, here’s what she told a reporter from the New York World:
“I had tried to be the friend of every living thing. I hope I’m not doing wrong. I saw the poor little chicks in the market one day last summer and I felt so sorry for them that I bought a pair and took them home with me. I kept them so clean—they were such a comfort to me here in my little home! I gave them air in a coop on the fire escape.
People who have their friends with them don’t know how it is to live always alone. The little chickens and the cat and bird were all I had for comfort. But they’ve taken the chickens and cat away from me and now the bird is dead. But I’ve got my flowers left—oh, do you think they will let me keep them?”
The Heroine of the Draft Riots
I thought the story ended here. But fast-forward to November 1904, when the world–or at least America–learned about a woman named Elizabeth Gallagher who had helped save four policemen during the infamous Draft Riots of 1863, the most violent insurrection in American history.
Elizabeth spent the night at the East Twenty-Second police station at 327 East 22nd Street. New York City Department of Records, 1940.
According to the story, which was published in numerous newspapers across the country, on November 26, 1904–just two days after Thanksgiving–Elizabeth was evicted from her home on East 22nd Street.
She had been faithfully paying $12 a month for her rooms, but after taking ill, she was unable to pay her rent and buy food. It was either starve or miss a rent payment. The building’s janitor, Adam Schopp, had her evicted.
Elizabeth went out into the streets to beg for money. When she came home, all her belongings, including an old rocking chair and a rubber plant, were piled up on the sidewalk. She sat down on her rocker in the gutter and had a good cry.
Just then, Captain Gallagher of the East 22nd Street police station came by (the station was directly across the street from Elizabeth’s apartment building). As Elizabeth began to tell her story, the captain interrupted her and said, “Why, my name’s Gallagher too.” He told Elizabeth that he would make arrangements for her to stay in a hotel that evening.
But all of sudden, Captain Gallagher recalled the woman’s name. “I know you, Liz Gallagher,” he said, “and you’re coming right over to the station house for the night. The furniture will be alright. I’ll send an officer to see that nobody touches it. Now, come on, Lizzie. The police of this precinct owe you a good turn.”
Elizabeth asked the captain if her rubber plant could also spend the night indoors at the police station. She was very worried that it would freeze and die if left outside. And so Elizabeth, the old rocking chair, and the rubber plant had a home for the night.
“Boys, this is Lizzie Gallagher who helped some of the officers of this precinct to escape away back in the 63 draft riots when the mob wanted to kill them,” Captain Gallagher explained to his men. “She’s been dispossessed and we’re going to see her through.”
New York Times, November 27, 1904
That night, Elizabeth woke up a few times to peak out the window to make sure her furniture was still there. When she checked one more time in the morning, the furniture was all gone. She told Captain Gallagher that all her meager belongings must have been stolen.
“No, they haven’t, Liz,” he told her. “It’s all upstairs, where it ought to be. Your rent’s paid, and all you’ve got to do is go up and light the stove and cook your breakfast.”
As it turns out, Captain Gallagher had asked his men to contribute to a fund for Elizabeth that would allow her to live her life in comfort. The policemen agreed to set up a fund that would pay her rent for the rest of her life.
The day after Elizabeth’s eviction, a reporter from The New York Times came to visit her at her apartment. She immediately apologized for the mess–she explained that the policemen didn’t know that the washstand which she used for her laundering work didn’t belong in the parlor.
She told the reporter that in 1863 she was living in an apartment at 329 East 22nd Street, which was next door to the East 22nd Street police station. When the draft rioters came down the street “howlin fir the blood av th’ p’lice,” she went to the police station to warn the men of their impending doom.
The mob, she said, had pillaged the gun factory on the northeast corner of 22nd Street and Second Avenue and turned the weapons on the police station. Most of the police officers had been sent downtown, so there were only a few young officers in the station.
“Boys, there’s goin’ to be murther done,” she said. She told the policemen to slip through the side door, where she had left some clothes for them to change into. “Dress yourselves anyway ye like, but fir yer own sakes git rid o’ them brass buttons.”
A violent scene during the Draft Riots, in which members of the military are battling with rioters on First Avenue.
The gun factory Elizabeth was referring to was owned by New York City Mayor George Opdyke, who secretly produced carbines for use during the Civil War. The upper rooms were used as drill rooms by local militia, and thus, the factory was often referred to as an armory.
Much has been written about the Draft Riots, “the largest civil and most racially charged urban disturbance in American history.” In a nutshell, the event was a protest-turned-race riot sparked in part by white working-class men (mostly Irish immigrants) who both feared the freed slaves who would now be competing for their jobs and resented the wealthier men who could afford to dodge the war draft by paying a $300 fee to hire a substitute.
On the first day of the five-day protest, the mob attempted to storm the main entrance of the gun factory. Using an improvised battering ram, they splintered the doors and smashed them open.
The Metropolitan police trying to hold down the fort, so to speak, used their revolvers, shooting several rioters. But the small contingency of policemen was no match for the large mob, and so the police were ordered to abandon the armory. The rioters made off with about 1,000 weapons before setting the building on fire.
As many as 50 buildings, including the gun factory, the East 22nd Street police station, and the apartment of Elizabeth Gallagher burned to the ground during the Draft Riots.
The gun factory reportedly went up like a torch, trapping several rioters on the top floors. Although volunteer firemen from Lafayette Engine Company No. 19 tried to extinguish the flames, the mob threatened to stone them if they tried to put out the fire. Thirteen people died—two were shot, 8 died of burns, and a few were killed when jumping from the upper floors to escape the flames.
As reported in The Armies of the Street: The New York City Draft Riots of 1863 (Adrian Cook, 1974), one young girl described the riots as follows:
“Thousands of infuriated creatures, yelling, screaming and swearing in the most frantic manner…bareheaded men, with red, swollen faces, brandishing sticks and clubs, or carrying heavy poles and beams; and boys, women and children hurrying on and joining them in this mad chase up the avenue like a company of raging fiends.”
After the rioters took down the gun factory, they made their way down East 22nd Street toward the police station of the Eighteenth Precinct. According to the New York City Police Museum, the Command Log entry for July 14, 1863, noted that the fire and destruction of the station house began at 8 p.m., when a mob of rioters demolished the windows and doors with stones, after which they set fire to the building. The only articles saved were the blotter, time book, telegraph book, and nativity book.
The four young policemen still in the building had to pry the iron bars from a cell window to escape. Two boys were killed when the walls of the police station fell on them: Terrence Boyle, age 16, and John Kennedy, age 9.
The flames extended to the adjacent fire bell tower and to the house of Engine Company No. 51. The apartment building on the other side, where Elizabeth Gallagher was living, was also destroyed in the blaze.
The East 22nd Street Police Station, located at was then 163 East 22nd Street, was burned down during the Draft Riots. The fire also consumed Engine Company No. 51 and the fire bell tower, as well as the apartment building at 165 (later renumbered 329) East 22nd Street, where Elizabeth Gallagher was living. William Perris map, 1857-1862, New York Public Library.
According to The Sun, Elizabeth did more than just offer the policemen a change of clothes: she reportedly met the mob with kettles of boiling water. Then she went and stood on the stoop of the police station and addressed the crowd.
She told the crowd that they should leave the police alone. “It wasn’t their fault that they were p’licemen,” she said, “and most likely the boys was mightly sorry they was p’licemen just then.” She was able to talk long enough for the men to change their clothes and escape.
The crowd then set fire to her building, which, she explained to a reporter, is how she came to living across the street at 328 East 22nd Street.
“I’ve known every mother’s son of them in this precinct for forth years, and they never called me anything but Mother Gallagher since I tried to keep the mob from burning the station house in the draft riots,” Elizabeth told the news reporters. “I didn’t succeed then, but I showed the boys that I loved ‘em. Now that they have kept me from going to the poorhouse in my old age, I look on them as the most loving sons a mother could wish for.”
Even forty years after the Draft Riots, the men of the East 22nd Street police station were still thankful for Elizabeth’s good deeds. And Elizabeth could give thanks to the men for saving her home and providing her with a family she never had before.
The End of the Story
Gramercy Gates
Estimates vary greatly as to how many people were killed in the Draft Riots, but most historians believe around 115 people lost their lives, including about 12 Black men who were lynched after being brutally beaten. Only 67 people were convicted for their role in the riots, however, and none received significant jail sentences. History does indeed repeat itself.
Shortly after the Draft Riots, a new police station was constructed on East 22nd Street. The station closed in 1914, and for some years the building was used by a nonprofit as a group home for LGBTQ youth. In 2014, the building was purchased by Suzuki Capital for $11.5 million; the old police station was replaced with luxury condos called Gramercy Gates.
In 1921, Elizabeth’s tenement building at 328 East 22nd Street was sold for Franklin Burr to the John Clark Malone Realty Company. The property had been in the Burr family since 1860.
The tenement, along with several other neighboring buildings, was torn down and replaced with an automotive garage, pictured below in 1940, at 320-330 East 22nd Street. Today the site is occupied by a large, eight-story apartment building constructed in 1948.
In 1916, New York University purchased the apartment building for $87.5 million for its employees of NYU Langone Health. One pet (under 50 pounds) per apartment is permitted. I don’t think that includes chickens.
The Improved Garage Corporation at 320-330 East 22nd Street. New York Department of Records, 1940.
Unidentified sailor with a cat that very well could have been Joe Fife in the right place and time.
Ten days before the USS President Lincoln troop transport was torpedoed and sunk by a German submarine U-90 while on her way back to the United States, a reporter from the New York Herald paid a visit to the ship at the Hoboken Port of Embarkation. One of the crew members on board the ship during this visit was a ship’s cat named Joe Fife (or Joefife), who had joined the U.S. Navy in August 1917.
Formerly the German steamer President Lincoln of the Hamburg-American Line, the ship was built in Belfast in 1907. Seized in New York Harbor in 1917, it was turned over to the Shipping Board and transferred to the U.S. Navy for operation as a troop transport during World War I.
Prior to being re-commissioned as a Navy troop ship, the USS President Lincoln underwent extensive repairs and conversion at Robins Dry Dock and Repair Company in the Red Hook section of Brooklyn. It was placed under the command of Commander Yates Stirling, Jr., and went into service on July 25, 1917.
According to the Herald reporter, although the ship was stripped of all non-essentials from her days as a passenger vessel, the President Lincoln was “none the less attractive for their absence.”
In place of cabins, smoking rooms, and saloons, there were now large spaces furnished with small tables for cards and games, bright white pine dining tables for each platoon, and enough hammocks to accommodate the 6,000 soldiers on each trans-Atlantic crossing.
The President Lincoln underwent extensive repairs and conversion from passenger liner to transport ship at Robins Dry Dock and Repair Company, pictured here in 1931. These buildings were located on Beard and Richard Streets. New York Public Library Digital Collections
Joe Fife the Mascot Cat
During World War I, all of the transport ships and most of the convoying navy vessels had mascots–especially mascots of the feline kind. The USS President Lincoln was no exception.
Joe Fife (probably named for Commodore Joseph Fife, who began his naval career during the Civil War) was described as “a handsome tabby cat of the smoke variety–one of the most aristocratic of the breeds of cat.” He reportedly joined the ship shortly after the liner was placed into service as a troop transport.
As the story goes, just after the ship went into service, there was some discussion in the officers’ mess about acquiring a mascot. Paymaster J.F. Loba was deputized to to “procure the most unusual specimen possible of any well known animal and bring it on board to supply the aching void.” (Apparently, the only animals the men would not consider were apes.)
Having received his assignment, Paymaster Loba started on his mascot quest. The “cunning paymaster” reportedly had a fondness for cats, so right away he knew which kind of animal he was going to select. He also knew just where to find a great cat–and so up to the Bronx he went.
Apparently, Loba had relatives in Kingsbridge, with whom he would occasionally call on when he was on shore leave. During these visits, he often saw, from a distance, “the very king of cats.” In no time at all, he made his acquaintance with Joe Fife, “a splendid silver tabby of registered stock having a coat of beautiful stripes on a smoke background.”
The USS President Lincoln had thousands of hammocks for the crew. Perhaps Joe Fife had his own hammock, like this mascot of the HMS Repulse.
Now, it was one thing to actually find this perfect mascot in the Bronx. Persuading the cat’s adoring mistress to release him from her arms was another thing all together.
According to the nationally published story, Paymaster Loba somehow convinced the woman that it was her patriotic duty to allow Joe Fife to join the navy (reportedly, he got her to believe that she had raised her cat to be a sailor who would serve his country.)
Joe Fife adjusted to his new life at sea fairly quickly. A day or two after he had been inducted into his cabin, he meticulously investigated every dark corner of the ship, made friends with all on board “irrespective of rank,” and carried out “his reputation as a great jollier.” He was a faithful mascot and never deserted the ship–well, except for that one time…
One night before the ship was set to sail, Joe Fife deserted the navy. In other words, the cat went AWOL.
The USS President Lincoln moored at Brest, France, on May 25, 1918, shortly before her final voyage. Joe Fife is somewhere on this ship.
Some suggested the ship cat could smell the upcoming fall cat show in the air and decided to leave in case the ship did not return to port in time for the event. Whatever the reason, two days after his disappearance, a “disreputable cat with a disheveled tail tried to creep unnoticed into the pretty hallway of a villa in Kingsbridge.” (Mind you, the ship was in Hoboken, NJ, when Joe Fife left, so I have no idea how the cat made it across the river to the Bronx!)
Joe Fife loved lounging on the U-Boat rifle.
Welcoming her soldier cat with love and affection, the mistress cleaned and brushed Joe Fife until he was back to being beautiful. A few weeks later, “he held his usual court at the cat show,” where he won a blue ribbon and two special prizes. As the unnamed mistress told Paymaster Loba, she truly believed that Joe Fife ran away for no other reason than to be in the cat show as usual and capture the prizes.
Although Joe Fife seemed at first to have forgotten his brief flirtation with a life at sea, it wasn’t long before he was back in the navy. Somehow, the prize-winning cat made it back to the ship “gayly and as if returning to his favorite quarters.”
During his remaining time on the President Lincoln, Joe Fife thoroughly enjoyed the seaman’s life. He especially loved resting upon the muzzle of the U-boat rifle, which, as the Herald reporter noted, “would indicate his desire to gain the complete technical equipment of a first-class marine.”
Sadly, Joe Fife didn’t have a long life as the ship’s mascot. On May 31, 1918, during its fifth return trip to New York, the USS President Lincoln was struck by three torpedoes and sank in about 20 minutes. Of the 715 humans aboard, 26 men (3 officers, 23 enlisted) were killed during the explosions; LieutenantEdouard Izac was taken aboard U–90 as prisoner.
Late that night, after 18 hours drifting in the choppy seas, survivors were rescued from lifeboats by destroyers Warrington and Smith. They arrived back in France on June 2.
The national news did not report the status of Joe Fife.
The sinking of the USS President Lincoln. Painting, Oil on Canvas; By Fred Dana Marsh; 1920.
Survivors of the President Lincoln on board the USS Warrington (Destroyer #30), June 1918. We can only hope that Joe Fife was among these men. Naval Institute Photo Archive.
Did You Know? Hoboken Port of Embarkation
Pier No. 4, U.S. Army Transport Service, 1917-1919.
During World War I, the command responsible for the movement of troops and supplies from the United States to overseas commands was called the Hoboken Port of Embarkation. Its headquarters were in the seized Hamburg American Line and North German Lloyd Steamship facilities in Hoboken, New Jersey.
The first commander of the Hoboken Port of Embarkation was Major General David Shanks. Operating from the luxurious offices of the Lloyd Steamship lines, he recruited 2,500 officers to manage the twelve piers at Hoboken, eight piers in Brooklyn, and three piers in Manhattan. During WWI, he moved 1.7 million men overseas and was later awarded the Distinguished Service Medal by President Wilson.
It was at the Hoboken Port of Embarkation that a reporter from the New York Herald met Joe Fife the mascot cat only 10 days before the USS President Lincoln sank off the coast of France.
Bronze plaque memorializing the men lost when the President Lincoln was sunk in 1918. I do not see Joe Fife listed on the plaque, so hopefully that’s a good sign. Naval Institute Photo Archive.
This is not a vintage photo of Chappie, a bull terrier, but this pit bull fits his description.
One of my favorite fire-cat stories of Old New York is about Peter and Chops, the beloved firefighter felines of Engine Company No. 14 in New York City’s Flatiron District.
When I wrote the story about Peter and Chops for my book, The Cat Men of Gotham, I didn’t realize that they had a canine predecessor. I recently discovered the wonderful story of Chappie, a pedigree bull terrier* coach dog who also called the Engine 14 firehouse his home.
According to The Sun, (and as Virginia knows, if you see it in The Sun it’s so), Chappie came of the best blue blood in England, having been imported to America by William Waldorf Astor, the son of John Jacob Astor III. Astor, who at one time lived in a mansion on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 33rd Street (which he razed to build the original Waldorf Hotel), reportedly presented the dog to the fire company on East 18th Street in 1889.
Everybody in the Flatiron District–or what was then called the Eighteenth Ward–knew Chappie, described as a 45-pound white bull terrier whose “ferocious looks utterly belied him.”
Chappie was especially attached to anyone wearing a fireman’s uniform, but he was also friendly with civilians. He also loved all the children in the neighborhood, who were his playmates.
Chappie was reportedly a gift from William Waldorf Astor
The only time Chappie lost his temper was when a policeman was in sight. He could not tolerate that uniform and could tell at a glance that it did not belong to a fireman (apparently, a policeman once used his stick on Chappie, so the police were not his friends).
Chappie was very loyal to his firemen friends, though, whether he was with them at fires or guarding the firehouse. While strangers were permitted to make friendly advances outside the door, “a snarl and a gleam of ugly teeth warned against trespassing inside.”
One time, when Chappie was alone in the firehouse, Police Commissioner James J. Martin dared to come inside. Chappie did not allow Commissioner Martin to leave until the firemen returned.
According to The Sun, Chappie was “a faithful attendant” at all fires. As soon as the gongs started ringing, he would cock his ears and wait to see if he was wanted. He reportedly understood the signals and would not stir if the alarm denoted a fire outside the company’s boundaries in the Flatiron District.
Illustration of Chappie, The Evening World, 1892
When the gongs sounded a fire for Engine Company No. 14, Chappie would race around with “an absurd energy” as soon as the doors were thrown open, playfully snapping at everyone, tumbling over himself, and incessantly barking as if he were saying, “Come now, get a move on you; no time to be lost; rush her along.”
Chappie was always in his glory on his way to a fire. He would bound ahead of the galloping team, furiously barking and springing up between the horses’ legs.
Spectators would close their eyes, expecting to see him get trampled or crushed. But on most occasions, he would come racing out from under the flying hoofs and lead the procession once again, biting and barking and urging the horses on.
Once on the scene of the fire, Chappie would calm down and sit on the driver’s seat, comfortably wagging his stub of a tail as he watched his friends work. Sometimes he would bark a few times to encourage them.
During his three short years with Engine Company No. 14, Chappie sustained several injuries. He lost a piece of his tail while leading the horses, his leg was broken, and he was often bruised. But none of those injuries could stop him from doing what he loved most.
One time when Chappie was sick, the men tied him to the oaken staircase in the firehouse and rushed to the fire, thinking he was secure at home. As they rounded a corner, they heard children shouting. There was Chappie, running alongside the horses with a rope still around his neck. (The other part of the rope was still tied to the staircase.)
But then one fateful night, as the engine was responding to a box alarm at Twenty-third Street and Third Avenue, Chappie broke his paw in two places. The firemen bandaged him up and placed him on the sick list.
Determined to respond to every call even when injured, he joined the engine the following night when it responded to a fire on Broadway between Ninth and Tenth Avenues. Chappie reportedly ran to the scene on three legs.
On that call, Chappie got underneath the horses’ feet and went down. As he tried to right himself, either the pan of the engine or the pumps caught him in the back and crushed him to the pavement. The firemen cried as they carried their maimed Chappie back to the station.
Dr. Thomas D. Sherwood, a veterinary surgeon (who was also the vet for General Daniel E. Sickles’ dog, Bo-Bo), examined Chappie and found a fractured spine, a broken leg, and several internal injuries. At first the firemen wanted to shoot the dog to put him out of his misery, but they later decided to try to save him. They rigged a canvas bandage on two billiard cues above an open dry goods box to suspend their injured fire dog.
An illustration of Chappie suspended over the dry goods box.
Dr. Sherwood took great interest in the case, calling several times that day. There was a bit of hope at first, but then Chappie gave evidence that he was suffering even more in his suspended position. The men tried to make him as comfortable as possible in a pile of the horses’ straw. They also gave him some opiates to help ease the pain.
Chappie died in his firehouse home at 2 a.m. on March 23, 1892. Shortly after his death, Peter and Chops took over as mascots of Engine Company Number 14.
A Brief History of the Flatiron District and Engine Company No. 14
Before there was a Flatiron Building, the wedge-shaped intersection of Fifth Avenue and Broadway was occupied by several narrow, three-story shops and residences. Photo circa 1884.
The Flatiron district, which is roughly bounded by Seventh Avenue and Park Avenue from 14th to 30th streets, is named for the iconic Flatiron Building, constructed in 1902 on the wedge-shaped intersection of Fifth Avenue and Broadway. In the early 19th century, before there was a Flatiron Building (and the narrow buildings that preceded it), the district was mostly open pastures owned by farmers such as Isaac Varian, Casper Samler, and John Horn.
At least two generations lived at the old Isaac Varian homestead until it was demolished in 1850 to make way for new townhomes. At that time, a grandson, Richard Varian, was living in the house with his wife and their children, all of whom were born there. With the old homestead gone, Richard had a new home built at 27 West 26th Street, where he died in 1864.
Isaac Varian was born in New York City on September 8, 1740. He was a butcher for a long period, residing and doing business at 176-180 Bowery from 1806 to 1818. He was married three times and had 16 children. In his spare time, Varian established a farm and homestead on a 25-acre plot he purchased from John Horne sometime during the 1780s.
The homestead stood on 26th Street just west of the Bloomingdale Road (Broadway), and was home to at least two generations of Varians until it was demolished in 1850 to make way for new townhouses. Ten years after Varian’s death on May 29, 1820, the many heirs to his estate began selling off their allotted parcels to individual buyers and speculators. One of those parcels on 18th Street was eventually conveyed to a man named John L. Gross.
This illustration of Engine Company No. 14 in their original firehouse was published in 1887, two years before William Waldorf Astor presented the company with Chappie.
On December 30, 1861, Gross sold his house at 14 East 18th Street to the city for $7,825. Two years later, the Metamora Hose Company No. 29 (organized in 1854) relocated from 21st Street and Broadway to their new firehouse on East 18th Street. Four years later, on October 6, 1865, a new engine company called the Metropolitan Steam-Engine Company No. 14 was created to replace the old volunteer hose company.
In 1894, two years after the passing of Chappie, Napoleon LeBrun & Son was tasked with designing a new firehouse at 14 East 18th Street.
Featuring Corinthian columns on the third floor that support decorative arches over the windows and large terra cotta medallions that pronounce the date of construction, the firehouse is what the AIA Guide to New York City describes as “A delicate Italian Renaissance town house for fire engines.”
The structure is still as beautiful today as it was during the days of Chappie, Chops, and Peter, albeit the still-active firehouse is no longer home to horses, coach dogs, or fire cats.
*The Sun said Chappie was a bull terrier, and The Evening World called him a bulldog, but the illustration looks more like a pit bull.
New York City’s Post Office cats and Gustave Fersenheim were featured in a national news article in 1898. In the center is an image of Tom learning sign language. The clerks lovingly referred to Gustave as the “deaf and dumb cat feeder.” (During this time period, it was acceptable to refer to those hard of hearing as deaf and dumb or deaf-mutes.)
A librarian recently asked me what makes an old news story worthy of further research and posting on my website. I told her that not only does it need to be a great animal tale, but it must also be a good people story or have ties to interesting historical buildings or events. The following story about a deaf New York Post Office cat and the deaf postal worker who loved him meets all my criteria for a fabulous animal story of Old New York. Sit back and enjoy.
One of my favorite cat-man stories featured on my website and in my book, The Cat Men of Gotham, is about George Cook, the Superintendent of Federal Cats at New York’s General Post Office. George was responsible for feeding the dozens of New York mousers who were “employed” by the U.S. Post Office Department to kill the mice and rats that were attracted to the glue used on envelopes and packages.
The Post Office had a budget to feed the mousers employed to keep the vermin in check.
When I wrote the story about George many years ago, I didn’t know then that he had a partner who helped care for the cats of the feline postal police. How excited I was to discover Gustave Fersenheim (aka Fersenheimer)!
Gustave Fersenheim was a deaf postal clerk who, according to an article in The New York Times, “was way down on the pay roll as a clerk, but whose principal self-imposed duty was to feed and preserve order among the cats in the cellar.”
In 1901, when the article was written, Gustave was 78 years old and had more than 30 years of service in the post office, having become a government employee on July 1, 1870.
At the General Post Office, his duties as a clerk were considered a side job by the numerous clerks who worked there (including, incidentally, my great-granduncle Henry Gavigan, who also worked as a clerk at New York City’s General Post Office in the early 1900s). Gustave’s main job was helping George feed the postal cats.
Gustave was an animal lover, but for some reason he tried to hide his feline feelings from his fellow employees. That meant getting to the post office very early each morning so he could attend to the cats before there were too many other workers in the building.
Now, Gustave lived in the South Bronx, in a third-floor apartment at 633 East 148th Street. So, every morning he would leave his home by 5 AM and make his way to the General Post Office building, which was then located in City Hall Park in lower Manhattan. That gave him enough time to feed the cats their government-rationed milk and liver from the Washington Market before he had to report for duty at 7 AM in the box delivery department.
Gustave, the son of Elias and Fredericka Fersenheim, was born in Prussia (Germany) on January 26, 1823. He arrived in New York City in 1850 and was naturalized as a U.S. citizen in 1864. He married his first wife, Elizabeth, in St. Louis, and the couple lived for a while at 84 Marcy Avenue in Brooklyn. Elizabeth died on February 18, 1895, at the age of 74.
Less than a year after Elizabeth’s passing, Gustave met a woman by chance at Dr. Thomas Gallaudet’s Church for the Deaf and Dumb at 511 West 148th Street (also then known as St. Ann’s Church for the Deaf-Mutes). As it turns out, this woman, Sarah Ann Ryer, had been Gustave’s good friend back home in Prussia.
The childless widow and widower reconnected and married at St. Ann’s Church on January 15, 1896. Gustave was 72 and Sarah was about 60 at the time of their wedding.
New York’s General Post Office and Courthouse, designed by Alfred B. Mullett, was erected between 1869 and 1880. Commonly called “Mullett’s Monstrosity,” it was demolished in 1939 as part of efforts to beautify the city for the 1939 World Fair. The site was used to extend City Hall Park to the south.
Gustave and the Post Office Cats
When Gustave first started working at the post office in 1873, he was about 47 years old. Since he couldn’t speak or hear, he spent much of his leisure time caressing two of the cats on the feline force. The cats grew fond of him—not only because he petted them, but because he gave them food from his lunch basket. As the number of his feline friends increased, he started bringing bigger baskets to work.
As Gustave got older and was no longer capable of doing much postal work, it was decided to move him into the cat department. He still continued to collect a salary for office clerk, but most of his time was spent caring for the postal mousers.
In addition to feeding the cats, Gustave also took measures to ensure as many kittens as possible got good homes. He could not bear to drown them, and something had to be done with the progeny of the cats, so he’d pawn them off on his coworkers. Begging his fellow workers to take kittens was reportedly the one thing the other clerks did not like about Gustave.
Tom, the Deaf Cat of the Post Office
One of the most wonderful cats on the job was Tom, a cat who, like Gustave, could not hear or speak. As one newspaper noted:
Would that all cats be like him! Voiceless he never goes out nights to howl and break the rest of hardworking citizens. He simply eats, drinks, sleeps, kills rats and makes signs.
Gustave first took Tom under his wing when he observed some of the other clerks cursing at the cat (as the newspaper noted, he couldn’t hear them cursing, but he could tell they were yelling by their facial expressions.)
Tom couldn’t hear the trucks and wagons bearing mail, so the postal workers would gently nudge him away. NYPL digital collection.
As it turns out, the men were actually trying to protect Tom. While the other cats would leap and run away from the trucks bearing mail, Tom couldn’t hear the vehicles. When the men realized Tom was deaf, they resorted to tapping him or gently nudging him out of the way.
Delighted to find that Tom was a kindred spirit, Gustave adopted Tom by bringing the cat to his desk and feeding him beef. Soon, Tom followed Gustave everywhere as if he were a pet dog.
Gustave began educating Tom by first teaching him to sit up on his hind legs. Then he taught the cat how to make signs for hunger, thirst, and thanks.
Under Gustave’s tutelage, Tom became “a most scholarly and learned cat.” Eventually, man and cat began having long conversations.
Gustave taught Tom how to sit on his hind legs, just as Mutilator, the legendary Sun office cat, is doing here.
“Do you think we will have war with Spain?” Gustave would ask Tom using his fingers. “Me-yawl-woo!” Tom would reply, spelling out the signs for these cat words on his “educated paw.” As the news reporter noted, you can interpret these words any way you want.
Gustave decided that Tom much preferred polite conversation to killing rats, so he took him home with him, where Tom shared the Fersenheim home with a trained parrot and dog.
The Fersenheim Parrot and Dog
Gustave and his wives were often mentioned in the Deaf-Mutes Journal, which was published in Mexico, New York, from 1874 to 1939. Not only was Gustave a trustee of the Church Mission to Deaf-Mutes and an honorary president of the German Society, he and his wives entertained often, holding parties at their home every year for their anniversaries and birthdays.
Several of the articles published in the journal referred to the Fersenheim’s parrot and dog.
The parrot, Polly, would reportedly greet Gus every night by walking up and down her perch and doing whatever she could to get his attention. The parrot could also lift one leg and twirl its claws in imitation of the deaf whenever the bell rang, which proved to be of great amusement to their guests.
According to The New York Times, one of the couple’s friends taught Polly how to say “Come in” when anyone knocked at the door. She would also fly toward the door to let Gustave and his wife know when a visitor was arriving.
In addition to the parrot, Gustave and his first wife also had a dog described as a black and tan watch dog. The dog, who spent 12 years with the couple, was able to inform his deaf master and mistress when the doorbell rang or when someone was advancing toward their apartment.
On the day of Elizabeth’s death, Gus could not find her when he returned home from the Post Office. The dog led him to the bedroom, where he found his wife lying lifeless on the floor. Her right side was paralyzed, she was blind in her right eye, and she couldn’t speak.
A doctor told Gustave that she had experienced a paralytic stroke and advised him to take her to a hospital. The first hospital refused to admit her—even though Gus offered to pay in cash—but Bellevue accepted her. According to the article, Elizabeth probably had the attack soon after Gus left for work that morning, and had lain on the floor without help all day long.
The dog, who had adored Elizabeth, refused to eat and did nothing but moan and groan in agony. Elizabeth lived for only a few weeks longer before passing away in her sleep at the hospital at the age of 74. At the time of her death, Gustave was 72, but the Deaf-Mutes Journal said he looked 15 years younger.
The Passing of Gustave Fersenheim
“There is sorrow and gloom in the hearts of the forty cats which are employed by Uncle Sam to keep rats out of the post office building.”—Pittsburgh Dispatch, August 1901
On Friday evening, August 16, 1901, Gustave became very ill. He died of gastritis two days later at his “neat and comfortable little house” on East 148th Street. Just before he died, he muttered one of the few phrases he had learned to speak: “I am done.”
Funeral services were held at his home, with Rev. Dr. Chamberlain officiating. He was buried alongside his first wife in Woodlawn Cemetery.
Following Gustave’s death, Sarah tried to give Polly to her sister, who had a pet dog named Fly. Polly and Fly became fast friends. Sadly, Polly only lived two more days after her master’s death.
Sarah’s sister put Polly in a box, which she then placed on a windowsill. When Elizabeth came to take the box, it was empty. The women found Polly in the Fly’s bed, with the dog trying to warm the dead bird.
As for the postal cats, they were also sad to lose their friend. The Pittsburgh Dispatch reported: “There is sorrow and gloom in the hearts of the forty cats which are employed by Uncle Sam to keep rats out of the post office building. Now [Gustave] is gone, and the cats, every one of which loved him, refuse to be comforted.”
Did You Know?
Gustave and Sarah Fersenheim met at St. Ann’s Church for the Deaf-Mutes on West 148th Street at Amsterdam Avenue. This church dates back to September 1850, when Rev. Thomas Gallaudet began a Bible class for deaf people in the vestry room of St. Stephen’s Church, then at the corner of Chrystie and Broome Streets.
Rev. Thomas Gallaudet and his wife Elizabeth
When the congregation outgrew this facility, it was moved to 59 Bond Street. Dr. Gallaudet eventually decided to establish a new church dedicated to the deaf, leasing the chapel of New-York University on Washington Square.
Christ Church and rectory on West 18th Street.
St. Ann’s was incorporated into the Episcopal Church in 1854. In July 1859, the society purchased the former Christ Church and rectory, located on West 18th Street near Fifth Avenue.
In 1897, St. Ann’s Church was consolidated with St. Matthew’s Church; Dr. Gallaudet was made Rector Emeritus of the new congregation. A new chapel was constructed—the first in the country to be erected solely for the use of deaf congregants.
The Romanesque-style structure, designed by Clarence True, had a cream-colored brick exterior and could accommodate 300 people. The interior featured an inclined floor, as in a theater, so the congregation could have an unobstructed view of the altar as the clergymen prayed and preached using sign language. The church’s many windows provided extra light for those who depended on sight alone.
Incidentally, Gallaudet University in Washington, DC, the only college in the world where students live and learn using American Sign Language, was named for the Reverend’s father, Thomas Hopkins Gallaudet. His mother, Sophia Fowler Gallaudet, was a founding matron of the school.
