I once wrote about Sir Oliver, The Lambs’ mascot parrot. In 1900, Sir Oliver was a matinée idol who had a habit of going off script and speaking out of line on stage. When he wasn’t performing, he spent his time startling customers with his “fowl” language in a bird shop on Broadway. I have to wonder if Sir Oliver was the parrot who also starred in this drama…
Sir Oliver the parrot on stage with Jerome Sykes (right) and Adolph Zink (holding cage).
“Help! Help! Murder! Police!”
The loud cries for help pierced the early morning stillness in Madison Square Park, nearly startling Policeman Betts out of his shoes as he walked his beat near the Hoffman House Hotel on Broadway and 25th Street.
As a police officer with what was then called the 19th Police Precinct – otherwise known as the notorious Tenderloin District – Betts was exposed to a heavy dose of crime every day.
Madison Square Park in 1893. NYPL digital collections.
This district, which covered roughly 23rd Street to 42nd Street between 5th and 6th Avenues, was the most crime-ridden section of the city — and possibly of the country. Hundreds of brothels, saloons, and gambling parlors lined the streets. Graft and corruption among the police was rampant.
The Tenderloin area reportedly got its nickname when Alexander “Clubber” Williams took command of what was then the 29th Precinct in 1876. He cheerfully noted that he was looking forward to getting some “tenderloin” after working many years for “chuck steak” on the Lower East Side. Captain Williams retired in 1895 a millionaire.
According to newspaper accounts from the early 1900s, Betts had assisted on dangerous door-busting raids of gambling and opium dens, made heroic rescues when the Hoffman House caught fire, and dealt with all kinds of vice on a daily basis. But he’d apparently never heard a screech for help quite like this.
“They’re killing me! Quick, quick!”
Hearing the second cry for help, Policeman Betts rapped his nightstick on the asphalt to signal the three other policemen patrolling the area that their immediate help was needed. From each corner of Madison Square Park, the four police officers made a systematic search toward the center of the park, gripping their nightsticks tightly in preparation for striking a few blows on the assailants.
Unable to find any trace of a crime in progress, Policeman Betts and his fellow officers retreated to their posts.
The station house for the 29th Precinct at 137-139 West 30th Street was designed by NYPD sergeant and official architect Nathaniel D. Bush in 1869. By 1898, the station (now re-numbered the 19th Precinct) was overcrowded and had insufficient dormitory quarters for the patrolmen. In 1903, Commissioner William McAdoo seized upon the city-owned building next door to create more dormitory space. Today this is the site of a Courtyard Marriott.
“Rubbah! Rubbah! Rubbah-neck!” The voice was still loud, but this time there was a mocking cadence.
Betts rapped again to signal to the others that they were needed again. This time they converged to a bench where the voice seemed to be coming from. They look up and saw the culprit on the branches of a maple tree. A parrot.
“Polly wants a cracker!”
It is not known from whose cage the green parrot escaped. But he (or she) remained in the park for a while, where he amused the children and kept the tramps awake at night with his loud outbursts. One homeless man said he heard a man on Fourth Avenue was willing to pay $2 for the parrot, and so began a challenge to catch the parrot.
Policeman Betts’ regular post was at the Hoffman House Hotel on Broadway at 25th Street, which was built in 1864 on land once occupied by the Isaac Varian farm and homestead. In its first year, the hotel served as headquarters for General Winfield Scott and Benjamin F. Butler, who had been sent to New York to help quell the draft riots. The Hoffman House and the adjoining Albermarle Hotel were demolished in 1915 to make way for a 16-story office building.
It was believed that someone eventually caught and sold the parrot, and used the money to buy alcohol.
Centuries ago, Siamese cats lived a life of luxury in their native Siam (now Thailand). Some of these exotic felines lived within palace walls as the regal pets and mouse catchers of Siam royalty. Others served as valued guardians of Buddhist temples.
On February 8, 1904, Japan issued a declaration of war against Russia. Eight days later, Russia declared war on Japan. The 19-month war that followed — the Russo-Japanese War – was called “the first great war of the 20th century.”
King Rama V, aka Chulalongkorn the Great (1853-1910), was the son of King Monkut (whose story is told in “The King and I”) and the fifth monarch of Siam. Crowned at the age of 15 in 1868, King Rama V was largely responsible for modernizing Siam and fending off western colonization.
On May 5, 1904, the New York and Oriental Steamship Company’s Satsuma sailed from Yokohoma to Singapore via Hong Kong with a cargo hold of goods from China and Japan.
The Chinese crew (only the captain and high-ranking officers were British or American) prepared for their dangerous war-time voyage by burning incense and casting paper slips in the water bearing prayers to the sea gods for safe passage.
On this trip, the Satsuma cargo comprised firecrackers, corkwood, matting, Oriental curios, and a large quantity of rattan. It also included railroad ties and engines, which could be classified as contraband if the ship were to be captured by Russian war vessels.
Satsuma, a steel freighter that operated commercially under the British flag, first arrived in New York on June 3, 1901. After a one-year commission with the U.S. Navy (1917-1818), she was returned to the New York & Oriental Steam Ship Company, which ran a commercial shipping line from New York to China, Manila, Japan, and other Far Eastern ports.
The voyage from Japan to Singapore took just over eight weeks with the stopover in Hong Kong. The Satsuma didn’t dock at Singapore, but only anchored in the harbor to receive additional cargo from other vessels.
During this time, Captain William Chubb and Chief Officer Alexander Hodgson noticed that many Siamese government vessels were scrutinizing the craft in the harbor, especially the small vessels and Chinese junks coming from the direction of Bangkok.
Siam government officials in teak wood barges questioned every vessel in their search for King Chulalongkorn’s Siamese cat.
When the officers inquired about all the harbor activity, they learned that King Chulalongkorn’s Siamese cat had been missing for about six days. The King of Siam was offering a $1,000 reward for her safe return and the capture of her abductors.
As it happened to be, the Satsuma was overrun with rats at this time, and the crew had been on the lookout for a good cat. Their mascot parrot was simply not getting the job done. As the chief officer explained to The New York Times, the men did not care whether the cat belonged to a king or was “an everyday tramp species,” as long as it could kill the rats.
Just before sundown, as the crew was getting ready to sail, a Chinese junk came alongside the Satsuma. The captain of this sailing ship asked if the men wanted a fine cat. When asked the price, the man said he would sell her for 50 cents. The crew agreed to the price and the man climbed on board with the Siamese.
In 1918, USS Satsuma was placed in commission with the U.S. Navy in New York as an animal transport vessel. She made one round-trip voyage under the command of Lt. Commander George A. Saunders, disembarking at St. Nazaire, France, with 315 horses on board. All the horses survived the trip under the care of Transport Veterinarian 2nd Lt. Albert R Mahan. (This photo depicts the SS Samland heading for France in 1918.)
Right away, the crew could see that this was no ordinary cat. When Chief Officer Hodgson asked the sailor where he had gotten her, the man whispered that it was the King of Siam’s cat, and that he wanted to dispose of her because of the relentless search for the sacred feline. (I don’t know why the Chinese sailor didn’t try to get more money for the cat, but perhaps he had abducted the cat and was afraid of getting caught. Or, perhaps he just made up the whole story.)
About this same time, a government craft came alongside and asked where the Satsuma was going. Chief Officer Hodgson said they had just arrived from Hong Kong and were now sailing back to New York. The government official did not press the issue, knowing that the ship would not have had an opportunity to obtain the Siamese anytime within that past week. Free to go, the Satsuma set sail for Brooklyn with the sacred cat on board.
As shown in this 1770 map created by Lieutenant Bernard Ratzer for King George III, Red Hook was once a hilly area nearly surrounded by water and marshes. Large-scale projects began to take place in the 1830s due to its close proximity to the Manhattan waterfront and the opening of the Erie Canal in 1825. Using land from the highlands, the creeks and surrounding marshes were filled in and are today the neighborhoods of Cobble Hill, Carroll Gardens, and Boerum Hill.
During the two-month journey back to New York, the crew of the Satsuma had several adventures. Not only did they have a run-in with giant stowaway centipedes and narrowly escape a floating Russian mine in the Bohai Sea, they also discovered that their new Siamese cat, which they named Siamese Jane, was pregnant.
As Chief Officer Hodgson told the press, “There would be high doings in the Siamese King’s Court if it were known that his precious pet has brought into the world five more sacred cats, all of which are enjoying perfect health and may be seen any day gambolling on the deck of the Satsuma.”
On August 22, 1904, the Satsuma safely arrived at the Atlantic Basin Pier 33 in Red Hook, Brooklyn. The Chinese crew held a service of thanksgiving and then spent their earnings playing keno on the ship’s deck.
Asked why the officers did not tell King Chulalongkorn’s men that his Siamese cat was on board, Hodgson replied, “Well, it was for the very good reason that if we did the whole bunch of us would have been jailed, and it would have taken the British Consul General a week at least to get us out.”
The Atlantic Basin was the brain child of local developer Colonel Daniel Richards, who acquired the large basin site on Red Hook “Island” from the Van Dyke brothers in 1839. He originally proposed building residences on the land, but that project fell through. In 1840 the New York State Legislature authorized him to build a large shipping terminal on Buttermilk Channel. Construction took place from 1839-1848, and included dredging the shallow basin to accommodate ships that drew up to 20 feet.
Asked if they planned on returning Siamese Jane, Hodgson answered, “Yes, we are going to take the cat back, but we will keep her out of sight when we touch at Singapore. Don’t doubt that.” This time, though, he said they would return to Japan via Cape Horn so as to avoid the dangerous Russian cruisers.
As for the five Siamese kittens? Well, no one asked about the kittens, so there is a chance that somewhere in America – maybe even in Brooklyn – someone’s pet cat is a descendant of Siamese Jane, the regal pet of King Chulalongkorn the Great. You never know…
“These old hero-horses, as I think they should be called, deserve a better fate than city pavements until they die of exhaustion. On the city farm in Warwick we have 800 acres of wonderful rolling country. We have a lake over a mile long. We have hills and streams. We are growing more hay than we know how to dispose of.”—Charles Samson, New York Press, September 30, 1913
In an earlier post, I wrote about the final run for the last horse-drawn fire engine of the New York Fire Department (FDNY). According to news reports, the five retiring fire horses of Engine Company No. 205 in Brooklyn — Balgriffin, Danny Beg, Penrose, Waterboy, and Bucknell — were reportedly transferred to light duty on Blackwell’s Island or sent to upstate farms operated by the ASPCA (depending on their health).
Many retired fire horses were transferred to New York’s Street Cleaning Department, where they worked hauling equipment to clean streets, haul garbage, or remove snow. Some of the old horses that were sold or transferred still remembered responding to fires, and would often bolt when they heard the alarms.
Although fire horses had been “retiring” ever since the FDNY completely replaced manpower with horsepower in 1869, there was never much talk about the fate of these retired horses. The discussion picked up in 1911 when Fire Commissioner Rhinelander Waldo proposed motor-driven fire apparatus for the FDNY, and again in 1913, when Fire Commissioner Joseph H. Johnson Jr. announced plans to retire all those fire horses still in service and replace them with motorized vehicles as soon as possible.
Up until the transition to a motorized fire department, the majority of discharged fire horses were either sold at auction on the cheap ($25 to $100) to peddlers who used them to pull their fruit and vegetable carts, or sent to other agencies in the city – like the Street Cleaning Department — that were still using horse-powered vehicles.
A few fortunate horses were placed on farms or the estates of wealthy people through the ASPCA or nonprofits like the Horse Aid Society. Others that were condemned from the auction block because of an injury or frailty were sent to the “pension farm” at Blackwell’s Island (Roosevelt Island) to do light hauling for the Department of Charities and Correction. Sadly, some horses were “humanely” dispatched by the ASPCA if the society’s vets determined they could no longer live a purposeful life.
In the 1800s and early 1900s, many retired fire horses were sent to Blackwell’s Island on the East River to do light hauling for the city’s the Department of Charities and Correction (DOCC). The DOCC operated the Blackwell Penitentiary, which was erected in 1832 and demolished in 1936.
Charles Samson to the Rescue
Charles Samson, Executive Secretary of New York City’s Board of Inebriety, did not like reading all the articles in the newspaper about the passing of the fire horses and how the city “rewarded” them for their gallant service. He especially did not like the fact that hero horses, who had spent their strength and shortened lives in the service of the FDNY, were being auctioned to peddlers, hucksters, or anyone else who offered the highest bid for them.
And so in September 1913, Samson sent a letter to Fire Commissioner Johnson offering a plan that would allow every fire horse in service to live well into his or her old age at the agency’s Hospital and Industrial Colony in Warwick, New York, also known as the “City Farm.”
Fire horses leave the quarters of FDNY Engine 39 and Ladder 16 on East 67th Street for the last time in 1911. Their replacement: the first gasoline-powered pumper, seen in the background. Photo, Library of Congress
A Brief History of the Board of Inebriety
“If the hopes of the board are fulfilled, New York, five years hence, will be a sober city.”—The Chicago Medical Recorder, January-December 1911
In the early 1900s, there was a great social stigma attached to alcoholism. Not only were alcoholics (or “inebriates” or “drunkards” as they were called back then) considered immoral, they were also increasingly associated with homelessness, corruption, and crime.
In 1867, the Commissioners of Charities and Correction erected an Asylum for Inebriates on the southeastern end of Ward’s Island. The facility didn’t last long: With forcible detention losing favor as a means of treating alcoholism, the asylum closed in 1875.
The building temporarily housed the overflow of patients from the Insane Asylum, also located on Ward’s Island, before becoming the Homeopathic Hospital (renamed the Metropolitan Hospital in 1894).
The Inebriate Asylum on Ward’s Island was a short-term experiment that lasted only eight years.
In 1910, it was reported that 25,000 people were arrested annually for drunkenness in Manhattan and the Bronx alone. It was also estimated that habitual drunkenness cost the city, directly and indirectly, $2.4 million a year.
By this time, most inebriates were ending up at the Workhouse on Blackwell’s island, where, according to The New York Times, they simply “drag[ged] through the days of their discipline until such time as they may leave and begin all over again the process of being sent back.”
At this same point in time, medical doctors and criminologists were looking at rehabilitation through therapy and isolation as a viable alternative to the workhouse or severe punishment and imprisonment.
One such rehabilitation solution was to send law-breaking inebriates to remote rural areas like a city farm, where, in an environment of fresh air, physical exercise, education, good food (no intoxicating beverages), and counseling, they could learn new trades, regain their pride, build character, and prepare for productive lives in society. In effect, inebriates would be treated as sick people with a disease rather than as law-breaking prisoners.
At the age of 30, Charles Samson was appointed executive secretary of the Board of Inebriety in 1912. Prior to this appointment, Samson was secretary to Dr. John W. Brannan, president of the Board of Trustees and Bellevue and Allied Hospitals. He and his wife, Mary, had two daughters, Virginia and Margaret, and lived at 371 Manhattan Avenue.
In 1910, the New York State Legislature authorized the City of New York to establish a Board of Inebriety with power to “construct and maintain a hospital and industrial colony within or without the city for the care, treatment, and occupation of inebriates in accordance with methods approved by medical science” (Chapter 551 of the Laws of 1910).
Mayor William Jay Gaynor appointed five members to the board in July 1911 and three months later, the board opened its headquarters at 300 Mulberry Street (the former Police Headquarters building).
The Search for a Farm
The day after the board set up shop on Mulberry Street, newly appointed Police Commissioner Rhinelander Waldo (yes, the former Fire Commissioner) offered the board an 80-acre farm near Flushing, Long Island, that was worth $150,000. The board did not vote to approve the offer, as it was their intention to buy as much land as possible for the amount of money allocated.
The Board of Inebriety considered a farm on the old H. Chatfield Smith estate (lower right side of this 1909 map) in 1912. The property was owned by Edgar T. and Joseph W. Smith, the sons of Henry Chatfield Smith and his wife, Mary Huntting. The farm was near today’s intersection of Lawrence Road and Boxwood Drive in Kings Park.
In February 1912, the board looked at another potential city farm of about 520 acres in Smithtown, Long Island. The farm, part of the old Chatfield Smith Estate at Kings Park, was ideally located next to the Kings Park State Hospital for the Insane (Kings Park Psychiatric Center) between the Long Island Sound and the Long Island Railroad.
The board made an offer of $120,000, but the deal never went through. Not only did the Smithtown residents protest the sale, but Manhattan Borough President George McAneny criticized the purchase, saying it was too much to pay for farmland, especially since only 150 of the 500 acres were cleared and available for cultivation.
Instead, he recommended creating a city farm in Orange County, just 60 miles northwest of Manhattan.
The Hospital and Industrial Colony at Warwick (aka, the “City Farm”)
In 1842, Henry Board Wisner hired New York architect Thomas Austin and master mason John Earle to build a beautiful manor house on his farm, located on the 1766 Wisner Tract. Photo, courtesy Albert Wisner Public Library
In February 1912, members of the Board of Inebriety took a trip to Warwick, New York. There, they toured the old Wisner-Durland Farm — shown in the top center of this 1875 map of Orange County — which contained 640 acres of land and 160 acres of Wickham Lake.
The farm had been previously owned by descendants of Captain John Wisner, who acquired some 2064 acres in 1766. The Wisner family sold the property at the south end of the lake to Thomas E. Durland in 1893.
Thomas and his Yale-educated son Jesse operated a progressive farm known for its high breed of milk cows and quality dairy products sold on the New York City Milk Exchange.
Plans for the City Farm included a reception hospital for 60 patients; four cottages; buildings to furnish light, heat and power; laundry and kitchen buildings; and a recreation building with a reading room and gymnasium. Later plans included a chapel, administrative buildings, and numerous workshops.
The farm was beautifully maintained and well-equipped, and featured the original manor home as well as modern-equipped barns, a creamery, and an ice house. The land was also adjacent to the Lehigh & Hudson River Railway, which was perfect for transporting agricultural products to New York City (including hay for the city’s police and fire horses and produce for the city’s hospitals).
The board members liked what they saw in Warwick. Without further ado, the city purchased the farm from General Thomas Durland Landon, the nephew and only heir of Jesse Durland, for $75,000 (talk about a good deal!). They began making plans for a city farm on the beautiful property.
Thomas Durland Landon (1865-1934) was Commandant of the Bordentown Military Institute (BMI) in New Jersey from 1881 until his death in October 1934. He also served as Major of the 3rd New Jersey Infantry during the Spanish-American War and was commissioned as a Colonel in the Army during World War I. He is buried in Bordentown Cemetery.
There is a great deal of information about the farm (and photos) on the Albert Wisner Library website and on the website for Warwick Valley Living, so let’s get back to the untold story about the FDNY fire horses…
Charles Samson’s Proposal
On September 29, 1913, Fire Commissioner Johnson received a letter from Samson offering an honorable retirement for all the old fire horses – or most of them – on the city farm in Warwick. He explained that there would be ample forage for the horses, and over the stall of each one there would be a plate bearing the horse’s name and record of service.
None of the horses, Samson stressed, would be used for work. Commissioner Johnson accepted the offer eagerly and said he would be sending three or four horses there the following week.
Now, where exactly Samson planned on putting all these horses is a mystery. According to The City Record of 1916, sometime after the contract for the purchase of the farm was made, but before the title was acquired, two barns were destroyed in a fire. Three years later, the board was still using a makeshift stable for the horses when it requested the Board of Aldermen for $10,000 to construct a new barn.
In addition to fire horses, the City Farm also accepted other retired city horses. The first horses to retire in Warwick were two ambulance horses from Bellevue Hospital. Museum of the City of New York Collections
Sadly, it doesn’t appear that the city took much advantage of Samson’s offer: By 1914, only five horses from the FDNY were living a life of ease on the Warwick farm. The city farm itself — which had been expanded to include treatment for those addicted to heroine, opium, and other drugs in a “tent colony” — also didn’t last long: In 1918, only two board members remained and there were only 37 residents on the farm and six staff members to care for them.
The city farm was shut down in 1918, and on July 14, 1919 – the year Congress enacted Prohibition — the board adopted a resolution turning the farm over to the Commissioners of the Sinking Fund “for such disposition as they may desire to make of such land, buildings, and appurtenances.” Activities continued for another year, but on July 24, 1920, the Middletown Daily Herald reported that there were no more patients on the farm.
When the Mid-Orange prison closed for good in 2012, dozens of buildings, including the 1842 Wisner-Durland Manor, were left empty and boarded up. Photo, P. Gavan, 2015
Although several agencies inquired about the property (the U.S. Public Health Service wanted it for the care of discharged “insane soldiers and sailors”), the land was under-utilized until 1932, when the State Training School for Boys officially opened on July 1. The school for delinquent boys operated for almost 45 years until, in 1976, it was converted into a medium-security prison called Mid-Orange (the prison was ordered closed in 2011).
Today, much of the old City Farm is dedicated to hemp processing. In fact, the old Wisner-Durland Manor is currently being converted into an incubator space for companies in the burgeoning CBD oil industry.
Some of the land has also been set aside for a town park with a kayak launch (that I use often) and a large sports complex called the Hudson Sports Complex. One of the old buildings on the site was donated to the Warwick Volunteer Fire Department for training purposes (it’s very spooky there at night when we have our monthly drills. I’m convinced the place is haunted…).
Ironically, there is also a new brewery on the property called Drowned Lands Brewery. I haven’t been there yet, but it’s on my list of things to do in my hometown!
Once upon a time, a few lucky FDNY horses retired to the old Wisner-Durland farm in Warwick. I wonder if there are any equine descendants of these horse heroes in my hometown today?
The Last Run “Once more, the picturesque is to yield to the utilitarian. That thrilling sight – three plunging fire horses drawing engine or hook and ladder – one of the few thrilling sights to be seen in our prosaic streets, is soon to become a thing of the past. Within the next five or six years, there will not be a fire horse in Greater New York. The gasoline motor will do the work of these old favorites.”– New York Times, February 19, 1911
The Fire Department of New York began motorizing the department and replacing its fire horses in 1910 with the purchase of a motor-propelled hose wagon and water tower.
Up until 1865, fire engines and hose carts were pulled through the streets of New York by the volunteer firemen. Horse-power replaced manpower with the organization of the paid departments in 1869, and for the next 50 years, horses did the hauling and the heavy work.
By 1911, Chief Croker had already been responding to the big fires in his own motorized vehicle. But 33-year-old Commissioner Rhinelander Waldo, pictured here, was the first to propose motor-driven fire apparatus for the FDNY. On March 17, 1911, Waldo told The New York Times: “The horse is sure gone as far as the fire business is concerned. It’ll do for pleasure, but it’s out of the business.”
In 1910, under the watch of Commissioner Rhinelander Waldo and Chief Edward F. Croker, the Fire Department of New York (FDNY) tested its first motor-driven apparatus. The vehicle, stationed at Engine Company No. 72 on East 12th Street, was a high-pressure hose wagon that carried 40 lengths of 50-foot hose and could go an amazing 30 miles an hour on good roads or 25 in heavy snow (the horse teams could go only about 15 to 18 miles an hour, and this speed decreased with every mile traveled).
That year, the city also introduced its second motorized firefighting apparatus – a motor-propelled water tower. This vehicle, the first of its kind in the world, could go 20 miles an hour and plow through snow and mud with ease to assure speedy arrival at a fire (the heavy horse-driven tower was always the last to arrive on scene because it was a challenge for even the strongest horses.)
Not only could the gas-propelled water tower go faster than a horse-driven tower, it could also be backed into narrow streets or alleys where fire horses could never get.
The first motorized apparatus of the FDNY was a 1909 Knox high-pressure hose wagon, shown here in front of Engine Company No. 72 at 22 East 12th Street (today the Cinema Village theater). This hose wagon was one of the first three firefighting vehicles to simultaneously arrive on the scene of the Triangle Shirtwaist fire on March 25, 1911. Photo, Museum of the City of New York Collections.
On March 16, 1911 – nine days before the Triangle fire – the city tested the very first “automobile fire engine.” Bright red, 20 feet long, with two seats and a 110-horse power motor, the $20,000 Nott fire engine could pump 700 gallons of water a minute at a pressure of 125 pounds. It featured 4 red, solid rubber wheels with chains to keep it from skidding as it “whizzed” 30 to 40 miles an hour through city streets.
In 1911, there were about 1,550 fire horses in service with the FDNY. The day after the new engine was tested, The New York Times declared that the motorized apparatus was “the death knell of the fire department horse.”
The first motor-propelled water tower of the FDNY was tested and put into immediate service at 87 Lafayette Street, which housed both Engine No. 31 and No. 1 Tower Company. This firehouse was built with horses in mind, and featured three doors that opened automatically as the fire bell rang so the 17 horses could charge out. The interior was completely converted for use with motorized equipment in 1912. Photo, Museum of the City of New York Collections
Two years later, on March 12, 1913, Commissioner Joseph H. Johnson Jr. announced that Fire Department of New York City would not purchase any more horses. Those horses still in service were to be retired as fast as possible and replaced with motorized vehicles. Since the average department life of a horse was five years, and there were still about 1,400 fire horses, Johnson estimated the department would be completely motorized within four or five years.
The transition went slower than expected. It was not until 1922 that the last horse-drawn engine responded to a call.
Before I talk about the last call, you may want to check out this fascinating short video produced by the Aurora Regional Fire Museum that shows the fire horse in action.
The Last Call: Engine 205 of Brooklyn Heights
In the 1890s, Engine Company No. 5 had four horses: Tom, Dick, Jerry, and Speed. The horses were under the care of driver Michael O’Neill, pictured here with the reigns. As the only engine company house in Brooklyn Heights and the closest to City Hall, Company No. 205 was always on stage, so to speak. Visitors often stopped by to see the horses or watch the men practice to see how quickly they could respond to a call.
Engine Company No. 205 of Brooklyn Heights was the last fire company in the FDNY to become motorized. Part of the delay was due to World War I, but another was due to nostalgia: Engine 205 was Brooklyn’s oldest, most famous, and most influential fire company. It was organized September 19, 1846, by young, upstanding men from wealthy families of downtown Brooklyn.
Commanded by Foreman Henry B. Williams, its first members included William Wright, Edward Merritt, F. H. Macy, John W. Mason, George C. Baker, H. H. Cox, Clinton Odell, Henry Haviland and George E. Brown.
When Pacific Hose Company No. 14 switched from their hand engine, shown here, to a new steam engine, one of the men wrote an ode to the old engine: “Farewell, old gal, a long farewell; Your days of usefulness are o’er; Who can your future life foretell; When you have left your native shore? Perhaps amid the marshy fields of old New Jersey you may roam; Or some Long Island town will claim your ponderous beauties as her own…”
Back then it was a volunteer company called Pacific Hose No. 14 – the “Dude” Company of the Heights. Pacific Hose was first stationed on Love Lane near Henry Street, but sometime around 1855 it moved into more spacious quarters at 160 Pierrepont Street (then near the corner of Fulton Street).
Assistant Fire Chief Smokey Joe Martin, who once commanded the aforementioned dual-company on Lafayette Street, and who was the inspiration for the naming of Smokey Bear, sounded the last alarm for the last horse-driven engine in the history of the FDNY.
The company became Engine No. 5 when the Brooklyn Fire Department formed in 1869. Then after the Brooklyn Fire Department merged with the FDNY in 1898, the company was renamed Engine Company No. 105 (in 1913 it became No. 205).
On the morning of December 20, 1922, Fire Commissioner Thomas J. Drennan, Brooklyn Borough President Edward Riegelmann, firefighters, Jiggs the firedog, and other city dignitaries gathered in back of Borough Hall to pay their final tribute to the fire horse.
At 10:15, Assistant Fire Chief Joseph B. Martin (Smokey Joe Martin) tapped out the final call at the fire alarm box at Joralemon and Court Street: 5, 93, 205. Translation: An engine is wanted, Station #93, let Company 205 answer.
When the alarm sounded, Balgriffen took his place in the middle spot of the hitch for the engine, with Danny Beg and Penrose on each side. George W. Murray drove the engine this day, although driver Louis Rauchut was also in attendance.
George W. Murray drives Balgriffen, Danny Beg, and Penrose on the final call for the last-horse-drawn engine in FDNY history. On the ash pan behind, Captain Leon Howard was keeping his hand on the whistle rope so that it screamed one long blast; Engineer Tom McEwen pushed coal into the firebox with both feet and one hand (he used his other hand to hold on tight).
Waterboy and Bucknell hooked up to the hose wagon, with veteran John J. Foster (“Old Hickory”) at the reins and driver William T. Daly on the sidelines.
The horses dashed down Fulton Street and along Court Street to Joralemon Street, and then to the rear of the Borough Hall. There, Jiggs, the senior coach dog, ran circles around the engine, obviously anxious and confused why no one was hooking up to the hydrant or dragging the nozzle.
Deputy Fire Commissioner Thompson, Jiggs, and the last fire horses of the FDNY. Brooklyn Times Union, December 21, 1922.
The muster ceremony ended as Riegelmann placed wreaths on each horse and the press photos were taken. Then the five last fire horses of the FDNY were swapped for a new motorized engine and hose wagon. The old horse-drawn equipment would be sent to a small town or village. Balgriffen, Danny Beg, Penrose, Waterboy, and Bucknell were reportedly retired to either light duty on Blackwell’s Island or to upstate farms operated by the ASPCA.
For now, I’ll leave you with a really amazing video of Fire Chief John Kenlon as he drives on the sidewalk to avoid traffic jams and barely misses hitting numerous pedestrians and trolley cars while responding to a fire call in his motorized vehicle in 1926. (Don’t miss the old traffic control platform — what they used before traffic lights — at about 2:13.)
Enjoy!
Here is Chief Edward F. Croker’s horse-drawn fire buggy, which he used every day before the department switched over to motorized vehicles. The buggy is on display at the New York City Fire Museum. Photo by P. Gavan
“Remember when the Norton’s Point Lighthouse was built? Several times I was down there and climbed to the top of the unfinished structure. What a wilderness of sand dunes the point was at that time. With a friend I used to go often to the Coney Island beach in winter and dig clams, which were large ln size but made good chowder.” –P. B. STOUT, You Must Remember This, 1941.
Tommy Mulligan looks out the window of the Norton’s Point Light on Coney Island in 1936. Photo courtesy of the Brooklyn Public Library
In the late 1920s, Tommy Mulligan was a famous U.K. boxer best known for being brutally knocked out by world middleweight champion Mickey Walker of Elizabeth, New Jersey.
Tommy Mulligan was also the name given to a seafaring cat that was washed ashore at Norton’s Point on the western beach of Coney Island in 1933. Although banged up and bruised, this Tommy was a real fighter who didn’t get knocked down.
Tommy Adopts the Lighthouse Keeper
Tommy was a feline sailor’s mascot who apparently fell from the deck of a passing ship sometime around 1993. Herbert Greenwood, the resident lighthouse keeper on the western point of Coney Island, found the cat almost drowned on the beach at Norton’s Point. He dried him out with towels and fed him a saucer of warm milk.
As the old saying goes, the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach — the same applies to cats.
Warm and dry, with a belly full of milk, Tommy knew he had found his forever land-based home. The handsome but sober cat adopted the 50-year-old Herbert and his wife, Agnes, and settled in for good at the lighthouse.
The Coney Island (Norton’s Point) Lighthouse, fog bell tower, and keeper’s house in 1896. Thomas Higginbotham, the first keeper of the lighthouse, lit the beacon for the first time on August 1, 1890. The light was a fourth-order Fresnel lens powered by kerosene that flashed red every 10 seconds. Sailors said they could see the powerful light 17 miles from shore, while they couldn’t see the other lights of Coney Island until they were 11 miles from shore.
A Brief History of Norton’s Point
Before I tell you more about Tommy and the lighthouse, I want to provide some background on Norton’s Point, which is today occupied by the gated community of Sea Gate. Although a lot has been written on the history of Coney Island, I came across some erroneous information about Norton’s Point in numerous books and articles that I want to clarify.
Many history books report that Mr. Eddy and Mr. Hart, two New York speculators, built the first pavilion on the western end of Coney Island in 1844. However, a first-hand report of the grand opening of this pavilion in the Brooklyn Daily Eagle (July 28, 1845) states otherwise.
Until about 1874, Coney Island was mostly described as “a barren and repulsive waste of sand.” Save for the Coney Island House on the eastern end of the island, which was constructed by the Coney Island Road and Bridge Company to generate toll revenue on their Shell Road, the majority of the island was seldom visited other than by fishermen and clam diggers, and its sand and surf were little enjoyed.
Tourist development in the western part of the island began in the summer of 1845 when Alonzo Reed, the proprietor of the Fort Hamilton House, and Captain Thomas Bielby, the proprietor of the Coney Island and Fort Hamilton Ferry Company, opened a dance pavilion on what was then called Coney Island Point.
Alfonzo Reed was the proprietor of the Fort Hamilton House, an elegant summer retreat at the foot of Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn. The establishment burned down in October 1853.
The Coney Island Pavilion was simply a circular wooden dance platform topped with a tent of sails and perched on a tall sand dune. A long platform connected the pavilion to a pier in the Gravesend Bay. When it opened in July 1845, the only other major structures on the entire island were the Coney Island House and Wyckoff’s Hotel, and the Van Sicklen and Voorhies farmhouses (both near today’s Neptune Avenue and W. 3rd Street).
Their intention was to attract families and day-trippers who wanted to get away from the city for a few hours to have a picnic, dance a few waltzes in the sea breeze, chow down on chowder and clams, and enjoy the fresh air. Bath houses were later added for those who wanted to swim, and sportsmen were encouraged to bring their guns if they wanted to hunt for sand-birds.
Reed and Bielby built a small pier that jutted out into Gravesend Bay so that they could operate daily side-wheeler steamboat ferry excursions to the pavilion. The fare was 12 1/2 cents each way for the hour-long ride from New York.
Unfortunately, the ferries mostly attracted the worst classes of people, including gamblers, ruffians, and prostitutes, giving the West End a very bad reputation that lasted for decades.
The Era of Mike “Thunderbolt” Norton
In the mid-1800s, the crowds at “the Point” were greater than any other part of the island. Between 2,000 and 3,000 bathers came daily to the West End beach, which was said to be unsurpassed with its extensive view of the ocean and the Narrows.
Enter Mike “Thunderbolt” Norton.
Before getting in tight with Tammany’s William Marcy “Boss” Tweed, Mike Norton had served as a captain in the 25th Regiment in the Civil War, a New York City alderman in 1864, and, at the age of 28, a state senator in 1867. He was indicted with Tweed in 1872, arrested in 1873, and, after jumping bail, turned state’s evidence in 1874.
This 1879 map shows the location of Norton and Murray’s on the Point and their Point Comfort House on the beach.
The story is more complicated, but in a nutshell, Norton and his partner James Murray used some of the Tammany loot to buy the lease on the Coney Island Point and refurbish the old pavilion and bath houses. They also erected the Point Comfort House and additional bathing pavilions and facilities for dining and drinking.
Norton and Murray’s Pavilion was located about a quarter of a mile southeast of the old steamboat pier, and was reached by a wide plank walk. The pavilion comprised three buildings, the largest containing about 700 bath houses. The center building was the pavilion proper, and contained a bar and restaurant. The third building was a small shanty bearing the sign “Coney Island Stock Exchange,” which contained an office of the Western Union Telegraph Company and tables for picnics.
In 1874, the Atlantic Monthly described Norton & Murray’s Pavilion as “a large, windy frame building that has weathered the storms of the coast for many a year. Every pore in its planks, every joint, every crack, is thoroughly saturated with sand…here, of all places, that the sandwich appears to be most truthfully denoted by its time-honored name.”
Norton and Murray erected the Point Comfort House near today’s West 33rd St., which was later owned by J.B. McPherson, one of the island’s first settlers. In 1879, the house was described as “rustic and cheerful” with “several neatly furnished rooms for sleeping” and 200 bathing houses.
James J. Sangunitto, the Original Light Keeper
There is a lot more to the history and corrupt politics of Norton’s Point — especially around the formation of the exclusive gated community of Sea Gate — but this started out as a story about the Coney Island Lighthouse, so I’ll get back on point, no pun intended, with a story rarely told about this lighthouse.
James J. Sangunitto was born in Genoa, Italy in 1838. He arrived in the United States as an infant, and at the age of 19, moved to Coney Island with his father. He married Sarah Mann and had six children: James, Albert, Mabel, Leon, Robert, and Richard.
For many years, James was the keeper of the makeshift Norton’s Point light. Every night, he would set up two oil lamps on poles to warn the vessels. On a number of occasions, he and his wife helped survivors of vessels that had foundered on the Coney Island shores. During the day, he and Sarah operated a tintype photography studio called Mammoth Photograph Gallery on Surf Avenue opposite the Sea Beach Palace and railroad depot (Sarah was reportedly credited for introducing tintype studios to Coney Island, having purchased the invention from Adolphe-Alexandre Martin of France).
This tintype photograph is one of many that can be attributed to the Sangunittos.
The Street Cleaning Department eventually installed a more permanent light on Norton’s Point to protects its garbage tug boats, but newspaper accounts say James’ actions did help prevent many wrecks. When the new lighthouse was constructed in 1890, James worked there as a watchman.
When James died in 1936 at his home at 2817 West 1st Street (now the site of a JASA retirement community near West Avenue) he was Coney Island’s oldest resident.
Congress Establishes a Lighthouse at Coney Island
In February 1889, J.O., Coleman, Commissioner of Street Cleaning, sent a letter to all New York and Brooklyn representatives in Congress asking them to pass House Bill 11,527 of 1888, “to establish lights on the western end of Coney Island.”
In this bird’s-eye view from 1880, you can see that Norton’s Point (left) was still very much barren. The tall structure mid-island is the 300-foot tall Iron Tower, a structure from the 1876 Philadelphia Expo that had steam elevators that whisked visitors to the top for a high view of the island.
In the letter, Coleman talked about all the boats that navigated the narrow channel around the western point, including the excursion steamers and the garbage tug boats. He said his department had been maintaining a light on the point for some time, but it was just a makeshift light.
In 1889, Congress approved $25,000 to build two range lights at Norton’s Point; however, when the Lighthouse Board tried to buy the necessary land, the property owners asked for twice the estimated value of the land. No problem; the property was condemned and obtained for $3,500.
Plans for the new lighthouse were drawn up in 1889.
Work on the tower, a separate front beacon, the fog bell tower, and the keeper’s dwelling began in March 1890. The tower was designed as a square, skeleton tower with 87 steps to the eight-sided lantern room.
The simple two-story dwelling had a cellar and an attic and an attached shed; a gravel path led to the shoreline. In 1896, the front tower was removed and taken to Staten Island, and the land it stood on was sold at public auction.
Lighthouse Keeper Greenwood
In 1933, when Tommy Mulligan washed ashore at Norton’s Point, Herbert Greenwood had been living at the lighthouse for 15 years. Herbert was the fourth head keeper of the lighthouse, following Thomas Higginbotham (1890 – 1910), Ernest J. Larsson (1910), and Gilbert L. Rulon (1910 – 1918). Born in Rhode Island on May 6, 1882, Herbert grew up in New London, Connecticut and joined the Coast Guard in 1900. He married Agnes Snow in 1910 and the couple took over the Coney Island lighthouse in 1918.
Herbert Greenwood was described as a six-foot tall husky man with a deep voice.
For 27 years, Herbert tended to his lighthouse duties, climbing the 87 steps to fill the oil lamp and clean the giant reflectors every day (and then, when the lamp was replaced by a 500-watt bulb in 1936, cleaning the six revolving lenses and red screen and oiling the mechanism that turned the lenses on a regular basis).
He took his job very seriously, knowing that the lighthouse helped mariners get their bearing on Norton’s Point.
Although Herbert and Agnes led a fairly secluded life, they still got their mail delivered twice a day (back then the postman always rang twice) and had access to three major rapid transit lines. They also had some exciting times, like the night in 1928 when they rowed out in their boat to rescue two naval prisoners that had escaped the army transport U.S.E. Grant.
After retiring in 1941, Herbert and Agnes returned to New Haven, where Herbert died in July 1975.
In this Google Earth screen-grab, you can see how narrow the shoreline is in front of the grassy yard of the lighthouse.
Thirty-seven years later, Hurricane Sandy ripped through the eastern seaboard, doing considerable damage to New York’s coastal communities. Only a few months ago, the Coney Island Lighthouse was still surrounded by rubble from the storm that had been pushed ashore by the sea. Many of the 750 homes that were damaged are still boarded up, and the bulkhead that once safeguarded Sea Gate has been completely destroyed.
Some say that if another hurricane of Sandy’s magnitude were to strike again, the entire island could be totally destroyed by the sea. Even a fighter-cat like Tommy Mulligan wouldn’t be able to survive that.
