Patches was a hero cat in December 1912 for saving five lives on West 31st Street. Hero Cats Stories
Patches was a hero cat in December 1912 for saving five lives in a four-story building on West 31st Street.

My latest posts celebrated a few helpful horses and heroic dogs of Old New York that came to the rescue during the holiday season. Now, it’s time to celebrate some holiday-time hero cats who saved the lives of their humans and kittens in emergency situations.

Here are just a few stories of hero cats from Brooklyn and New York newspapers published from 1904 to 1932, in chronological order.

Christmas Eve 1904: The Cat Who Saved Her Human Family

This first hero cat tale is not about a cat that lived in New York City, but because she lived just across the Hudson River in Guttenberg, New Jersey, the New York Press published the heroic tale on Christmas Day.

According to the story, the unnamed cat was “a plain, home-loving, child-petted American mouser with no pretentions to pedigree and with an absolute detestation of blue ribbons.” She lived with Joseph Gerlich, his wife, and their three young children on Hudson Avenue.

On December 23, Joseph left a coal fire burning to heat their bedrooms. Toward daylight on Christmas Eve, he was awakened by a frantic scratching and piteous mewing at the door to his room. He rolled out of bed and discovered the room was filled with gas fumes.

Joseph broke open a window and stuck his head out to take in some fresh air. As soon as his brain cleared, he awakened his wife and dragged her to the window. Then he brought their oldest child to the source of fresh air.

When he got to the rooms of his younger children–Henry, age 4, and Annie, age 2, the children were unconscious. When the fresh air did not revive his children, he ran to the nearest physician’s office, carrying them in his arms. It took Joseph and the doctor two hours of “heroic work” to revive the two little ones.

You’ll be happy to know that the cat, who joined the family as a kitten, survived and reportedly lived happily ever after with the Gerlich family. As Joseph told the New York Press, the cat was worth more than all the money in the world, and had earned all the milk and bread she could eat from then until the rest of her natural life.

1912: Patches, The Stray Cat Who Saved 5 Lives

Patches the cat saved five lives at 16 West 31st Street, pictured here in 1940. NYC Department of Records

Patches, a dark grey tabby cat, was not always welcome in the mixed-use building at 16 West 31st Street. In fact, one of his worst enemies was Daniel De Lena, an advertising agent who did not tolerate the cat’s persistency in annoying him on a daily basis.

But a few weeks before Christmas 1912, the cat’s annoying habits saved five lives.

According to the New York Press, one morning Patches jumped on Daniel’s shoulder and then kept running to and from a rear window while excitedly meowing. At first, Daniel kicked at Patches and tried to shoo the cat away.

But finally, the cat’s persistency paid off. When Daniel got up to look out the first-floor window, he saw that the rear of the building was in flames. He ran through the four-story brick building, waking several people who lived and worked there.

Several people, including Joseph Henderson (an art publisher on the top floor), Anton C. Berthon (a ribbon manufacturer on the third floor), and J. Camacho (a student visiting someone on the second floor), had to be rescued by firefighters (Camacho was “dragged out half suffocated.”) Dressmakers Caroline Meyers and Mrs. A. M. Wetsel were carried out unconscious from the third floor.

The fire, which had started in some defective insulation and rapidly spread to the front of the building, caused about $1,000 in damage. Daniel adopted Patches the cat, and told reporters the cat was now valued at $1,000.

1919: Life-Saving Hero Cats of Brooklyn

The Pulmotor, invented in 1907 by Heinrich Draeger, was the first mechanical resuscitator used outside of a hospital. The FDNY began purchasing and distributing Pulmotors to select fire companies in January 1914.
The Pulmotor, invented by Heinrich Draeger in 1907, was the first mechanical resuscitator used outside of a hospital setting. The FDNY began distributing the machines to select fire companies in January 1914 due to a steady increase in gas emergencies.

Two weeks before the first day of Hanukkah 1919, the Evening World reported on a Brooklyn cat that saved nine lives. Not the proverbial feline nine lives, but the nine lives of Jacob Braunstein, his wife, Yetta, and their seven children.

Similar to the Gerlich’s cat, the Braunstein’s cat began crying and sounding the alarm when gas began filling up their home at 433 Flushing Avenue in the South Williamsburg neighborhood. The cries woke up 13-year-old David, who opened several windows with assistance from Policemen Miller and McDermott of the Clymer Street station.

Neighbors who also heard the boy’s and cat’s cries for help came to the rescue of the other family members, who were all unconscious.

The police officers administered first aid to Saul (12), Lillian (14), Samuel (17), Bessie (9), Joseph (5), and Esther (6 months old). An ambulance surgeon from St. Catherine’s Hospital was able to revive everyone with Pulmotors.

About 10 days after this incident, another of many hero cats involving gas emergencies came to the rescue of Mr. and Mrs. Schults at 240 Stockholm Street in the Bushwick section of Brooklyn.

Reportedly, Mr. Schults had left a light burning in the dining room before he went to bed, and a gust of wind coming through an open window blew out the gas flame. The “illuminating gas” escaped from the jet and began filling the house.

240 Stockholm Street Brooklyn
Bertha saved Mr. and Mrs. Schults in their apartment at 240 Stockholm Street.

Bertha, described as a large black cat, was sleeping on a sofa and began choking on the gas fumes. She struggled into the bedroom, jumped on the bed, and began moaning pitifully. The couple tried to get up, but they were too weak from the escaping gas.

Mrs. Schults was able to call out for a neighbor in the adjoining apartment for assistance. Dr. Cartright of the Wyckoff Heights Hospital arrived and revived Mr. and Mrs. Schults (probably with a Pulmotor).

1923: Starving Woman Saved by Cat

One week before Christmas 1923, the meows of a cat saved the life of Mrs. Ellen Richards, a 74-year-old woman who was found unconscious in the rear of a hallway on Bushwick Avenue near Siegel Street.

According to the Brooklyn Standard Union, Policeman Ready of the Stagg Street station heard the cat’s cries and found the woman cuddled up behind a door leading to the cellar. She had wrapped herself in newspapers in lieu of a blanket.

Policeman Ready summoned Surgeon Mulle from St. Catharine’s Hospital, who rushed Mrs. Richards to the hospital. There, she was revived and given warm food. She said she was homeless and had no friends or family.

As was the case back then, Mrs. Richards was charged with vagrancy and ordered to appear before Magistrate Dale in the Bridge Plaza Police Court. She was remanded to jail pending further investigation. I could not find any more information about Mrs. Richards or the hero cat that found her.

102 Williams Avenue, Brooklyn. NYC Department of Records, 1940
100-102 Williams Avenue, Brooklyn. NYC Department of Records, 1940

1932: Minnie, a Cat Who Saved 36 Lives

Minnie was a tough New York City mouser who worked in the cellar of a three-story building at 102 Williams Avenue in the northern section of New Lots, Brooklyn. A dairy business owned by Samuel Jaspe was on the ground floor.

On Christmas Eve 1932, the “nondescript gray and white” cat gave birth to five gray and white Maltese kittens. As the Brooklyn Times Union noted, “Minnie’s husband, a traveling man” was not around to witness the birth.

Not long after the kittens were born, at 11:30 a.m., some trash and boxes in the cellar caught fire. Samuel called for the fire department.

When firemen arrived a few minutes later, they saw Minnie emerging from the “smoke-belching cellar door.” She had a tiny newborn kitten in her mouth, which she carefully laid under the stoop at 100 Williams Avenue.

Brooklyn Times Union, December 29, 1932

Minnie made two more trips into the smoky cellar, each time saving another nine lives. Sadly, a fourth and fifth trip was too much for the hero mother cat: Seeing that the smoke was getting the better of her, and with flames now reaching up to the store above, the fireman had to stop her from saving her last two kittens.

Minnie reportedly fought to enter the inferno, but when she was finally convinced that her two kittens were lost, she hurriedly returned to the three babies she had saved.

After the fire was extinguished, photographers arrived to take pictures of the heroic mother. But while they were adjusting their cameras, she disappeared. A search was started.

A few minutes later, a small boy appeared with Minnie. In her mouth was one of the last two kittens, sooty and soaking wet but still alive.

Damage from the fire was slight and confined to the basement. Samuel Jaspe found a new home for Minnie and her surviving four kittens with the Levine family, who lived in an apartment above the dairy business.

It was a Happy New Year for all.

Brooklyn Times-Union, December 27, 1926. The Brooklyn Times-Union and New York Daily News reported slightly different numbers of barges and lives saved.

“The barking of two dogs, answering each other on the wind and sleet swept East River saved the lives of more than 80 men, women and children asleep in the cabins of a line of 40 coal barges, torn from their moorings, at the foot of East 96th Street.”–New York Daily News, December 27, 1926

The Winter Refugees of New York

During the late 1800s and early 1900s, a city-full of people formed close-knit communities along New York City’s waterfront in wintertime. They did not live in the city proper, but rather in small cabins on coal barges moored at various docks in Manhattan and Brooklyn.

The winter refugees colony at the foot of East 9th Street would have looked similar to this one at Coenties Slip in 1905.
The winter refugees colony at the foot of East 96th Street would have looked similar to this one at Coenties Slip in 1905.

Throughout the spring, summer, and fall, these coal barges dotted the Great Lakes and large rivers. But at the first signs of winter, the boat captains would go in search of a safe haven for their boats and their families who lived on board with them.

The hundreds of men, women, and children who spent the winters on their coal boats in Brooklyn and Manhattan were called the winter refugees of New York.

The Makings of a Disaster on East 96th Street

Fanny, the hero dog of the coal barge R.T. Davies
Fanny, the hero dog of the coal barge R.T. Davies, with Captain Fred Graves, Captain Aldrich, and their wives.

In the winter of 1926-27, a fleet of 30 to 40 coal barges laden with 50,000 tons of coal were moored together and anchored for the season at the foot of East 96th Street. The docks at 96th Street were the landing place for all barges with coal or merchandise destined for upper Manhattan and the Bronx.

Approximately 60 or more men, women, and children made up this small community of winter refugees. They spent the first day in their new home for the winter on Christmas Eve.

That winter the fleet comprised two lead boats: the J.J. Reynolds, led by Captain Jim MacLennon, and the R.T. Davies, with Captain Fred Graves at the helm. Behind them, lashed together three abreast, were the other barges.

On Christmas day, the families dressed in their best and gathered for holiday celebrations. Several dogs, including Fanny of the R.T. Davies, Sandy of the barge J.J. Reynolds, and Peggy of the New York City fireboat George B. McClennan (docked at East 99th Street), shared friendly back-and-forth banter throughout the festive day.

But that night there was a sleet storm accompanied by 50-mile-an-hour gale winds. While the winter refugees were sleeping in their cabins, the moorings that tied the fleet together and held the clump of canal boats to the shore slipped. As on newspaper noted, “So suddenly and without sudden motion did this occur, that not a soul on board of any of the barges was awakened.”

Hell Gate Bridge, 1930
The barges were headed for the Hell Gate Bridge, pictured here in 1930. Notice all the small islands and churning waters, and imagine what dangers were awaiting the winter refugees in the middle of the night.

The tide and cross-currents at this point in the East River are perilously strong and tricky–that’s why sailors have called it Hell Gate. With the detached fleet of barges caught up in the surge, a tragedy was in the making. One ounce of bad luck could have meant sudden death for the sleeping families.

Only a week earlier, the wreck of the motor launch Linseed King, which happened in the icy waters of the East River only moments after the boat left the 96th Street pier, killed 33 men. The tragedy was still on the minds of the canal men wintering on the pier…

Fortunately for the winter refugees on late Christmas night, there were two occupants in the colony who were wide awake: Fanny, a cross-breed Airdale and shepherd, and Sandy, a cross between an Airdale and an Alaskan husky dog.

When the boats broke loose, Sandy sank his teeth into the bedclothes of Captain MacLennon, who was sleeping on his bunk. The large husky showed his fangs and growled. Fanny went onto the boat deck and started barking and growling as the barges began heading east toward the nearby Hogsback Reef and the rocks of Hell Gate.

A Miracle on East 99th Street

Three blocks away, the city fireboat George B. McClellan was tied up at the foot of 99th Street. Fire Lieutenant John Hughes and his crew of 16 men were below deck. All cuddled up on an old coat on a bench in the McClellan’s cabin was Peggy, a fluffy white spitz dog who served as mascot–not watchdog–of the fireboat.

Hearing Fanny’s barks for help, Peggy awoke from her snooze and sprang from her comfy bed. She leaped through a partly open hatch and landed on the boat’s icy deck.

Looking out through the darkness, the little dog began to answer Fanny’s staccato yelps for help on the R.T. Davies. Barking at the top of her lungs, Peggy aroused Lt. Hughes and the other sleeping men. They knew that something must have been very wrong for their mascot to be barking as if she were being murdered.

Lt. Hughes was the first to respond to Peggy’s barks. At the sight of him, Peggy doubled her efforts, changing her barks to deafening howls as she made sure she faced in the direction of the danger.

Lt. Hughes leaned over the gunwale and aimed his light at a ghostlike fleet of barges drifting toward the treacherous rocks and currents of Hell Gate.

The George B. McClellan fireboat
The George B. McClellan fireboat responded to Fanny’s distress barks for help. The McClellan, named for NYC Mayor George Brinton McClellan Jr., operated as a fireboat from 1904 to September 1953, when it was wrecked in an explosion. Marine Engineer John D. McKean was killed in the explosion.

On the canal barge R.T. Davies, Captain Frederick Graves began shouting along with Fanny’s howls for help. Half dressed, the members of the coal barge families ran from their cabins and joined in the barking and shouting. Soon, the winter refugees heard the long shrill blast of the fireboat, followed by many short blasts summoning other ships for help.

Back on the McClellan fireboat, two pilots were posted at the wheel and ready for action. A line was thrown to the foremost barge just as the cluster of boats moved swiftly toward Hogsback Reef and the piers of Hell Gate Bridge.

Map of the dangerous journey of the Barges and Winter Refugees 
December 1926
This map shows the dangerous journey of the barges. New York Daily News, December 27, 1926

Using clever maneuvering and full power, Lt. Hughes attempted to herd the boats and head them off Mill Rock into the center of the stream. But the fireboat was no match for coal-laden barges.

Within minutes, the tugboat Frank A. Furst, under the command of Captain John Jones, responded to the fireboat’s distress signal. The tug and the fireboat put their noses against the J.J. Reynolds and, through combined effort, were able to push the large, heavy mass away from Mill Rock, the whirlpool, and the upper end of Welfare Island (previously called Blackwell’s Island and now known as Roosevelt Island).

Despite the gale winds, Lt. Hughes managed to fasten a line to the Reynolds. The tugboat steamed down river toward the end of the runaway barges and tossed a line onto another barge to secure that end.

Through the western channel between Welfare Island and Man-of-War reef, the fireboat and tug maneuvered the heavy boats in the wind-freshened currents. It was not until the coal barges reached the lower end of Welfare Island that the heavy mass was under control.

Once the caravan reached the Brooklyn shore, a U.S. dredge with a crew of three men was added to the rescue party. At approximately 8 a.m., the barges were finally tied down to the American Export line’s pier at the foot of Kent Street, Greenpoint, as well as along the Newtown Creek.

Map of Hell's Gate
Lt. Hughes was able to head the boats off Mill Rock (circled at top) into the center of the river. They spun safely past Hogsback reef (circled at right), away from the whirlpool and the upper end of Welfare Island (present-day Roosevelt Island). Late 19th-century map of Hell’s Gate.
Man-of-War Reef, aka Belmont Island
One of the large obstacles the barges had to avoid was a man-made island called the Man-of-War (now Belmont Island). The small island was created with excavated rubble from the Steinway Tunnels project for trolleys, which linked Manhattan with piano manufacture William Steinway’s company town, Steinway Village, in Queens (the tunnels are now used by the 7 train). Steinway died before the tunnels’ completion, and financier August Belmont Jr. finished the project in 1907.

Once they were safely tied up, the fireboat and tug were ready to take the women and children ashore. But the families didn’t want to leave the barges. They put on warm clothes and drank coffee in the cabins while offering Peggy “choice dainties from their galley cupboards.”

Peggy, the mascot hero of FDNY Fire Boat George B. McClellan with Clara Pierrepont, December 1926, New York Daily News.
Peggy, the mascot hero of FDNY fireboat George B. McClellan, with Clara Pierrepont, December 1926, New York Daily News.



Many of the barge captains thanked their human rescuers for saving them in the nick of time. Some folk offered a prayer of gratitude for Peggy for responding to Fanny’s howls for help.

Fanny and Sandy were rewarded by their barge families with juicy chunks of steak, but it was Peggy who received the most praise in all of New York. She had proven that a mascot can truly deliver good luck.

Did You Know?

Some of the largest colonies of winter refugees were located in Brooklyn’s Erie Basin and Atlantic Basin, but there were also several communities in Manhattan.

In addition to the colony at 96th Street, there was also a small barge community at the foot of 33rd Street on the Hudson River and at Coenties Slip, an artificially created berth in lower Manhattan for ships and other vessels.

As one newspaper noted in 1905, “A merrier, happier colony is not to be found in New York than the tenants of the cabins of the canal boats.” The cabins were tiny but tidy; most were divided into two rooms: a kitchen with a cooking range and a general living room that served as parlor, sitting room, library, and bedroom.

A colony of winter refugees at the Atlantic Basin in 1873. New York Public Library Digital Collections
A colony of winter refugees at the Atlantic Basin in 1873. New York Public Library Digital Collections

The piers were their Main Street, where the canalers would stroll and catch up on the latest news and gossip with their neighbors. The barge decks served as yards for the children and dogs, and for hanging the clothes out to dry on wash day.

The winter refugees made the most of their unique living conditions, and in fact may have had more of a social life than those living ashore in traditional homes.

The adults enjoyed nightly dances, card parties, live theater, and poetry readings, oftentimes dedicating an empty canal boat for use as a community center for social activities. During the day, the women could go shopping at the department stores and have purchases delivered to their cabin door. The butcher, iceman, and baker called for morning orders, and the children attended public schools.

The Trinity Church Corporation even provided a reading room and library for the winter refugees at Coenties Slip.

Winter Refugees, New York Times, 1905
Winter refugees lived almost normal lives on their canal boats. New York Times, 1905

One big drawback: There was no running water, so the men would have to haul five or six pails of water a day from distant faucets for cooking and washing. (The barge residents only took baths in the summer, when they could bathe in the rivers.) They also had to rely on oil lamps for light and large coal stoves for heat.

In addition to those who lived on coal barges, there were two other distinct groups of winter refugees who sought shelter in the New York Harbor. Those who hauled grain along the Erie Canal were called Westerners. Those who hauled agricultural products from New England and Canada were Northerners.

Mrs. George Leonard hangs the wash in a barge colony at Gowanus Bay, Brooklyn, 1939.
Mrs. George Leonard and her daughter Dorothy hang the wash on their barge in a small colony at Gowanus Bay, Brooklyn, 1939. The large Leonard family could not afford to live on shore, so the parents and four children all shared the tiny two-room cabin.

The Westerners had a raised cabin in the bow of the boat to keep their horses, which were used when the boats were “walked” from Albany to Buffalo (note the horse in the illustration above). In the winter, they would loan their horses to New York State farmers. The Northern men wintered their horses at their headquarter stables in Troy, New York.

The Last of the Winter Refugees

By the 1940s, there were only a few dozen or so winter refugees who hunkered down in the New York Harbor when the New York State Barge Canal shut down for the season. The men were now leaving their wives and children at home during the winter months, returning home themselves on weekends and holidays.

For those families who stayed together in the winter, poverty was often the reason for living in the small floating communities (they could not afford to rent a home on shore). But these families tended to keep to themselves–gone were the glory days of community centers and gatherings and children romping on boat decks with their pet dogs.

Barge colony, foot of Columbus Street, Brooklyn, in 1940.
Barge colony, foot of Columbus Street, Brooklyn, in 1940.

John Otterman driving his horse-drawn cab for the last time. April 24, 1922
Horse Tales of Old New York
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, 1922. 
Horse Tales of Old New York
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.

Even though the last horses of the New York Fire Department made their final run in December 1922, and the few remaining horse-drawn cab drivers were just eking out a living on Fifth Avenue and Central Park South in the late 1930s, horses continued to play a vital role in surprising ways, especially during war time.

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
Horse Tales of Old New York
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 1947. 
Horse tale of Old New York
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

Horse-drawn cabs for Saks Shoppers, 1942
Horse Tale of Old New York

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 take a horse-drawn ride to the Hotel Commodore.
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 woman with chicken
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.

That day, Magistrate Henry A. Brann of the Yorkville Police Court held her on $100 bail for violating the rules of Section 79 of the Sanitary Code.  

“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.

Thanksgiving Tale of Old New York, November 25, 1899
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.
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.
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.
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 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, 327 East 22nd Street
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.

328-330 East 22nd Street, 1940
The Improved Garage Corporation at 320-330 East 22nd Street. New York Department of Records, 1940.

Unidentified sailor with a cat
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.

Robins Dry Dock and Repair Company
New York Public Library Digital Collections
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.
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.
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; Lieutenant Edouard 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.