I recently wrote about a cat that saved 150 lives in a building in Harlem in 1897. In this tale of Old New York, which took place when a gas leak endangered the lives of every resident in a four-story brick tenement building on East 75th Street, we meet two feline heroes and their canine sidekick. For those interested in history, this story also includes a brief history of Con Edison and New York City’s other gas companies.
The New York Sun, February 9, 1889
The building at 241 East 75th Street was owned by William Sartorius, who occupied the entire ground floor with his wife and two sons. Thirty-three other people lived in the building, each family occupying about 800 square feet of space. I’m sharing the following details to provide insight into tenement life, and also because many of my readers have discovered their ancestors in my stories.
*William May, a locksmith, leased three front rooms in the basement. He used one room for his workshop and lived in the other two rooms with his wife, their 17-year-old daughter, Mary, and two teenage sons. The family also had a black foxhound and two cats who slept in the sub-cellar.
*Frederick Souter, the janitor, occupied the three rear rooms in the basement with his wife and four children.
*The large families of John Weisner and Henry Heidler (2 parents and five children each) lived in the two 3-room apartments on the second floor.
*James Rogan, a 28-year-old tinsmith, lived in the rear rooms on the top floor with his wife, Mary, her sister, Alice, and three young children. Ernst Swingman and his wife occupied the front rooms. The third floor was vacant.
When William P. Davenport took in a stray cat that he found outside his second-floor apartment, he did not know that he had just made one of the best decisions of his life. Not only did the cat save his life, but it also saved the lives of about 150 other people living in the Hermione building at 80 East 116th Street in Harlem.
For those who know popular literature, you might say the stray cat of the Hermione building was a very special wizard. In fact, I think I’ll call him Harry.
According to the New York Tribune, William saw the strange cat in the hallway upon returning home from his night job at 3:30 in the morning. The cat purred and rubbed himself against William’s legs as he pet it. William could tell Harry was very friendly, and he didn’t have the heart to toss him outside. He brought the cat into his apartment and went to bed.
William had just started to fall asleep when he heard a loud howling noise coming from his front door. He endured the noise for a short while, and then decided to get up and let the noisy cat back into the hallway.
New York Sun, February 4, 1897
As he opened the door, he saw that the hall and stairwells were filled with smoke. Bright orange flames were running up the elevator shaft in the center of the hallway. With the door open, Harry the cat made a mad dash to escape.
William shouted to alert the tenants in the 27 other apartments, and then ran back inside to get his family. The Davenport family, including his wife, their infant child, a boarder, and a servant, were all able to make it safely down the smoke-filled stairway. Many of the other Hermione residents on the upper floors were forced to escape via the roof or fire escapes.
George Simms and his wife, who lived on the fourth floor, were two of the people forced to make their way to the roof. Mr. Simms and fifth-floor resident Allen D. Moor broke off a large section of slat flooring used to protect the tar roof, and made a bridge to cross the six-foot chasm over to the neighboring building.
The fire took place in the five-story Hermione building, on the southwest corner of Park Avenue and 116th Street in Harlem.
When the fire department arrived, the men had to rescue numerous people in various states of dress (and undress) who had crowded onto the fire escapes. The firemen soon had the fire under control, although not before it had caused about $15,000 in damage. An investigation determined that the fire had originated in a basement storeroom.
Everyone who lived in the building agreed they all would have been smothered or burned in bed had it not been for the stray cat. The day after the fire, William headed up a neighborhood hunt to find Harry. The plan was to adopt the cat as the building’s mascot as soon as it was found.
Residents trapped on the roof of the Hermione building created a bridge from some wood slats to cross over to the adjoining building on East 116th Street.
The Hermione Building on Park Avenue
The Hermione–advertised as the most beautiful apartment in Harlem–was constructed sometime around 1891. This advertisement appeared in the New York World that year.
Here’s another ad from the New York World in 1893. Note that the ad states the Hermione building was fire-proof.
The Hermione (bottom right), 1897 Bromley map. New York Public Library Digital Collection.
The Hermione was constructed near the Old Harlem Road on what had once been a large farm owned by Sampson (Samuel) Adolphus Benson. Benson, who owned the parcel until 1826, was the grandson of Samson Benson, who in turn was the great-grandson of Captain Johannes Benson, who settled in Nieuw Haarlem in 1696. For almost 200 years, the heirs of Johannes Benson were among the largest landowners in Harlem. From the Randal Farm Map, 1820. This illustration shows Park Avenue between 115th and 116th Streets as it appeared in 1864. The Hermione building was constructed right along the rounded curve of the fence — perhaps our hero cat was a descendant of a barn cat on the old Benson farm? Museum of the City of New York Collections
Sergeant John McDermott, better known as Red McDermott, could not wait to sink his teeth into the sirloin steak dinner sitting on his desk. But first, he had to deal with some important police matters that Inspector Cross had brought to his attention. Peter the police cat saw his lucky break…
According to The New York Times, the doorman for the Eldridge Street police station had just delivered the savory steak smothered in onions to the sergeant’s office. He placed the take-out tray on the desk and returned to his other duties.
At this very moment, Inspector Adam A. Cross walked into the station and immediately began asking questions. A moment later, a patrolman walked in with a disorderly, inebriated prisoner. Sergeant McDermott had no other choice but to delay his supper while he dealt with the inspector and the prisoner.
As the sergeant assisted with the prisoner, Inspector Cross leaned back in his chair to get a better view inside McDermott’s office. He was very surprised to be a first-hand witness to a cat-burglary in progress!
There was Peter, the station’s police cat, pushing off the tin cover from the tray and using his nose to nudge the onions off the steak. And there was Yaller, the station’s police dog, standing on his hind legs at a respectful distance, licking his chops and whining for a share of the stolen meal. Peter growled in response and continued devouring the steak.
The Eldridge Street station house was located in this four-story dark brick building at 105-107 Eldridge Street. Today there is commercial space on the ground floor and 20 apartments on the top floors.
Greatly amused, the inspector decided to allow the crime to continue while he distracted Sergeant McDermott with animated conversation concerning the weather, the depth of the snowfall, and numerous other irrelevant questions. Ravenously hungry and annoyed at the nonsense banter, McDermott again had no other choice but to listen patiently to his superior officer.
Finally, the inspector rose from his chair. Buttoning his coat, he walked over to the door and called back, “Red, when you get Peter thoroughly trained, I’d like to enter him in the next beef-eating contest.”
McDermott dashed into his room, where he found the police cat licking the empty tray and poor Yaller still licking his empty chops. The doorman brought the sergeant another steak dinner, and sent Peter out into the cold for a while to pay for his crime.
Nip*, a veteran fire dog with Engine Company No. 203 at 533 Hicks Street, was 12 years old and a 6-year veteran with the fire company when he made his eighth heroic rescue on February 2, 1935.
Although most of Nip’s rescues had involved humans–including Firemen Schenck and Carlton from his own company–on this particular day he put his disdain for felines aside to do his duty. Using his self-imposed skills to search every building for victims, Nip was able to save two kittens in desperate need of a hero.
According to the Daily News, on Friday evening, Engine Company No. 203 responded to a report of a structure fire at a three-story brick building at 161 Union Street. The building had a stationery store on the ground floor and apartments on the upper floors. (This building was demolished when the Brooklyn Queens Expressway was constructed.)
Upon their arrival, neighbors told the firemen that the building was empty, and everyone had made it out safely. Nip ignored the humans. Trusting his nose, he made a dash for the burning basement.
“Nip” with one of the fireman from Brooklyn’s Engine Company No. 203. The dog was described as “part hound, part Flatbush terrier, but every inch a hero.”
Singed and nearly overcome by smoke, he emerged from the basement four minutes later with a kitten in his mouth. He laid the feline survivor at the feet of Battalion Commander John Pfann.
He then gave a short warning bark and ran back into the basement. Once again, he came back to the street carrying another kitten in his mouth. He reportedly refused medical attention until he had licked the kittens clean. Then he watched as a firefighter placed them inside a large, flannel-lined fireman’s hat.
Knowing the kittens were safe, Nip reported to the department surgeon for treatment. A few applications of burn salve, and Nip was ready to go into action again. When the firemen returned to the firehouse, they rewarded him with a large, marrow-filled meat bone.
Wearing his special fire-dog raincoat, Nip demonstrates how he climbs up ladders at the company’s fire house.
Nip the Legendary Brooklyn Fire Dog
Taken in as a stray one winter night in 1929, Nip served 10 years with Engine Company No. 203. Right from the start, he demonstrated that he was a true fireman at heart, and not just a fire buff. Before answering his first call, he trained with the men and learned how to climb a 75-foot extension ladder. His very first duty was to toll the bell on the fire engine answering alarms.
During his tenure, Nip received numerous injuries from broken glass and falling debris, burns from scalding water, and bruises from falling off the fire engine. He also had some wonderful times, especially during the summer months when he got to live with one of the firemen in his home on Long Island.
Nip could recognize all the bells and signals, and he knew exactly which signal meant his company was responding to a call (he never made a mistake). On the fire scenes, Nip would superintend the firefighters and alert them if he knew something was wrong. If the hoses ever splashed his way, Nip would nestle under a fireman’s coat.
During his years of service with the engine company, Nip had demonstrated many acts of bravery and heroism. He rode with the company to every fire, and was always the first to leap off the fire engine and run into the burning buildings to scout for victims. Whenever he found a human (or cat) in need of help, the brave fire dog would bark until the firemen responded.
About two years after Nip rescued the kittens, he saved a cat from a four-story brick apartment building at 308 Hicks Street. Sadly, he was not able to save the young boy, who had run up to the top floor in attempt to save the cat. The New York Times on November 11, 1936.
In 1936, a year after he rescued the kittens, Nip won four medals of honor for heroism from the following agencies:
New York Women’s League for Animals
Dog’s World International
American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals
New York Anti-Vivisection Society
Nip’s Final Call
Although Nip was a 16-year-old senior citizen in 1939, he probably had a few more good years left as an active fire dog when his life was abruptly ended on November 9, 1939. While playing out in front of the firehouse, Nip was struck by a hit-and-run driver.
People in the street called out for help, and a group of children followed the fire dog into the firehouse and told Lt. Matthew F. Rogers that it had been hit by a car that kept going. Instead of waiting for help to come, Nip dragged himself back inside and tried to jump up on the fire engine seat. Missing the seat, he landed on the running board, where he curled up and died.
In commemoration of Nip’s many acts of bravery and heroism, the members of Engine Company No. 203 hired a taxidermist to mount their treasured fire dog mascot. They kept him in a place of honor at the firehouse until the company disbanded in 1974.
When Nip died in 1939, men had his body stuffed and mounted, and he is forever on display at the New York City Fire Museum. Photo by P. Gavan
*Nip is not his real name. Most news articles refer to the dog as “Nigger” or “Nig” and one article called him “Nipper.” He’s called “Chief” at the New York City Fire Museum.
Today we have another story about a sailor cat-man, but unlike our hero from the telephone pole rescue story, this sailor ended up on the other side of the law. (And sadly, the ending to this tale is not as happy.)
On January 27, 1897, a sailor named John Dolan was fined $3 in the Essex Market Police Court for being drunk in public. During his arraignment, he carried a tiny pet kitten under his coat.
Unable to pay the fine, Dolan was committed to the workhouse on Blackwell’s Island (now Roosevelt Island). As he left for the island, Keeper Eidensheim of the Essex Market Prison took the kitten away from him.
A few days later, Magistrate Herman C. Kudlich received a letter from Mrs. C.L. King of Flat 6, 252 West 22nd Street, who had read about the incident in the newspaper. Here’s what she wrote:
I read in a newspaper a touching account of the sailor, John Dolan, and the little cat he was carrying around with him. Now my father was a sailor, and has gone safe into the port of heaven these many years. I have, therefore, in my heart always a tender spot for these men who go down to the sea in ships, and my purpose in writing you is to ask you if I may keep the little kitten at my home until John Dolan comes back to claim it, as I have no doubt I could give it better care than Mr. Eidensheim, as I have a nice home and no children to annoy it.
If you will kindly answer per enclosed envelope, I will come to the station after the kitten, and guarantee to return it to poor John when he comes back.
The Essex Market Police Court was bounded by Grand, Broome, Essex, and Ludlow Streets (today the site of the New Design High School). The building was designed by John Correja, Sr., and completed in 1857. The street in this photo at left is the old Essex Market Street, a narrow cross street between Essex and Ludlow streets (closed in 1926).
When Magistrate Kudlick read the letter, he remarked that when it came to cases of destitution that were reported in the news, no letters of assistance ever arrived when humans were involved. “But if a cat obtained the distinction of a newspaper notice, some tender-hearted woman could always be depended on to come to its defense.” The judge nonetheless agreed to send the letter to the prison so Mrs. King could rescue the kitten.
In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, it was common to see 50 or more defendants lined up outside when the Essex Market Police Court opened in the morning. This photo is from an October 8, 1905, New York Times article about plans to abandon the building.
Sadly, when Keepers Eidensheim and O’Brien went searching for the cat, they could not find it anywhere. Apparently, some time during the night Dolan’s pet had escaped from the jail and walked out into the cold, cruel world. Keeper Eidensheim traced the tiny kitten paws in the snow to the rear fence, which explained how the poor kitty had escaped.
If you would like to read more about the Essex Market Court and Prison, check out this story about Minnie, the prison’s mascot cat in the early 1900s. Hmmm, I wonder if Minnie was the little kitten from this story? We can only hope!
