Mike was the fire dog of Engine Company 8 from 1908 to 1914. Twice, he won the blue ribbon in the Dalmatian class at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show at Madison Square Garden.
Mike was no ordinary fire dog. In fact, he was no ordinary Dalmatian. As the son of Oakie and Bess, two of the most famous mascot dogs in the history of the Fire Department of New York, he was destined for greatness as the fire dog of Engine Company 8.
Oakie was raised in Newport, Rhode Island on Oakland Farm, the residence of Alfred Gwynne Vanderbilt. In March 1907, Vanderbilt shipped the dog by crate to Engine Company 39 at Fire Headquarters after he heard that their fire dog, Pinkie, was killed trying to slide down the pole at the firehouse. Oakie was placed in charge of Foreman Edward J. Levy.
Oakie with Foreman Edward J. Levy, March 21, 1907
Bess also came from a litter of aristocratic dogs, but her master is not known. As the story goes, he very much admired the work of the firemen who responded to a fire at his house, so he decided to give them a Dalmatian.
One day he drove up to the firehouse of Engine Company 8 in his touring car and gave them a puppy. He didn’t say who he was, but told them that the dog’s name was Bess and that he wanted her to be a real dog working with firemen.
Alfred Gwynne Vanderbilt, Sr. was the third son of Cornelius Vanderbilt II and Alice Claypoole Gwynne. He was among the 1,198 passengers who died on the RMS Lusitania when it was torpedoed by a German U-boat on May 7, 1915, off the coast of Ireland. He was called a hero for helping others into lifeboats – he even offered his own life jacket to a woman with an infant even though he couldn’t swim. Vanderbilt’s body was never recovered.
Boisterous, beefy Michael Creegman, aka, Mickey the Breeze, clicked with little pup right off the bat, and took her uptown every night for dinner. Perhaps he had connections, or perhaps it was his dominating presence, but somehow Mickey got her a special pass to ride the Third Avenue Railroad trolley cars with him.
In March 1908, Bess gave birth to several noble pups. From the litter, a puppy the firemen named Mike was selected and turned over to driver David M. Lynx of Engine Company 8.
Third Avenue Railroad Pass
Shortly after Mike starting training for the position of fire dog with Engine Company 8, Bess was transferred to a quieter station house in Queens to recover from injuries sustained from running into burning buildings.
Since she would no longer need her surface rail pass, Fireman David Lynx escorted Mike to the office of Receiver Frederick Wallington Whitridge to see if it could be transferred to Bess’ son.
Metropolitan Steam Engine Company 8 was organized on September 11, 1865. The company spent the first four years at 128 E. 50th Street, and then moved to its current location at 165 East 51st Street in 1869. Today the company shares headquarters with Ladder Company 2 and Battalion 8.
Now, Mike was not one for acknowledging anyone not wearing a fireman’s uniform. But according to David Lynx, he jumped right up on Whitridge’s lap “just like a politician asking for a favor.”
Whitridge gave the fireman permission to transfer the pass to Mike, saying, “It’s the only pass of the kind ever issued by the road, and if Mike is willing to take all the risks and not sue the company in case of accident I guess we’ll transfer the pass to him.”
Frederick Whitridge of 16 East 11th Street was appointed Receiver of the Third Avenue Railroad on January 6, 1908, following its foreclosure under the collapse of the Metropolitan Street Railway, which then controlled the rail company. In 1910, the Third Avenue Railway was chartered, acquiring all the properties of the former Third Avenue Railroad. Whitridge was named president of the new company around 1915.
The special pass was engraved on a silver plate attached to his collar, which also held a tiny brass fire helmet. The inscription read: “To conductors: permission is hereby granted to carry a fire dog on the cars of this company. Third Avenue Railway Company. Frederick W. Whitridge, Receiver.”
All the conductors were instructed to honor this pass, which let him ride back and forth on the front platform of all the Third Avenue lines. Mike used the pass often to go home with the firemen for dinner and to visit his fire dog pals in uptown fire houses.
The Third Avenue Railroad Company formed in 1852 and began operating its horse-drawn cars on July 3, 1853. By 1859, using the 125th Street Railroad and tracks along 10th Avenue (Amsterdam Avenue), the line ran from the Astor House (Broadway and Park Row) north along Park Row, the Bowery, and Third Avenue to 130th Street near the Harlem River, a distance of about 8 miles.
Mike and Jerry’s Excellent Adventures
One of Mike’s best canine friends was Jerry, an ordinary mongrel attached to what was then the 29th Precinct at 163 E. 51st Street. Jerry was brought to the police station on March 4, 1909, by a woman who had found him outside starving and shivering.
Captain John J. Lantry accepted the dog and the men named him Jerry in honor of the station’s doorman (they were originally going to call him Bill Taft in honor of President William Taft’s inauguration that year but the vote went to Jerry).
One of the dogs’ favorite activity was taking the ferry-boat from East 53rd Street to Blackwell’s Island. If it was a warm day, they’d go swimming to cool off. Sometimes they would stay there for two or three days, but they always returned to their respective stations.
By the mid-1880s, the Third Avenue Railroad Company began operating cable cars on the Tenth Avenue cable line and 125th Street line. The surface railway used cable cars as well as horse-drawn streetcars until 1899 when the company switched over to electric-powered trolleys.
When it came to the job, though, Mike and Jerry were all business. Jerry would accompany the policeman on patrol or ride along with the patrol wagon that picked up the prisoners for night court, and Mike would ride along with the fire engines of Engine Company 8. The two never switched jobs or mixed pleasure with business.
Mike did his job very well, and the firemen say he saved many lives. He’d jump up and down in excitement as the horses, Jerry, Pat, and Miguel got into their harnesses, and would run ahead to bark and snap at pedestrians in cross streets to let them know the horses were coming. On the scene of the fire, Mike would always run into the buildings with the firemen, just like he mother once did. His reward on hot nights was getting hosed down with the horses when their work was done.
Mike’s friend Jerry was attached to the 29th Precinct – originally the 19th – which was established at 163 East 51st Street on September 7, 1877. Today it’s known as the 17th Precinct.
Mike and Tom and Jerry
Mike’s two other good four-legged friends at the Engine Company 8 firehouse were a big grey horse named Jerry who also arrived in 1908 and a large black cat named Tom. The three animals loved being together, and always slept in Jerry’s stall – Mike would put his head on Jerry’s neck and Tom would sleep on Jerry’s back. Jerry fussed over his small friends in the stall, and would always lie down carefully so as not to crush them.
When an alarm came in at night, Tom would jump out of the way and walk to the street to watch the engines pull away. Then he’d go back inside to sleep until his friends came home (who said cats were not as smart as dogs?) Actually, one time Tom tried to ride on Jerry’s back as he raced to a fire. He held on for a few seconds and then jumped, landing on his end and injuring himself (so maybe he wasn’t that smart).
The four-legged buddies of Engine Company 8.
Although Mike usually went inside the buildings with the men, he must have sensed that his friend Jerry was about to lose his job when he noticed the horse was falling asleep on the scene. According to Captain Joseph Donovan, no sooner would Dave Lynx place a blanket over his team, Jerry would drop down in the gutter and take a nap. Dave and the engine men Dennis McNamara and Frank Leonard didn’t know what to do – but Mike had an idea.
For the next few nights, Mike remained outside with the horses and began nipping Jerry on the knees as soon as he started to kneel down. Sometimes he’d nip him 10 times in a half hour, but eventually the trick worked and Jerry stopped falling asleep on the job.
Mike Goes to Doggie Heaven
On December 5, 1914, Jerry stumbled and fell while racing to a fire. The large horse landed on top of Mike, crushing his hind legs. The firemen carried Mike back to the station and placed him in Jerry’s stall to quiet the horse – she seemed to know that the end was near for her dear canine friend.
Although Mike had a short life, it was a very rewarding one. Not only did he help save lives, he also took first place in the Dalmatian class at the 34th annual Westminster Kennel Club show at Madison Square Garden in 1910 and 1911. The class was specifically dedicated to firemen’s dogs. In 1910, second place went to two-year-old Smoke II of Engine Company 68 on Jay Street in Brooklyn.
This story is dedicated to the families and friends of the following firefighters from Engine Company 8, Ladder 2, and Battalion 8 who made the supreme sacrifice on September 11th, 2001.
ENGINE 8 FF. Robert Parro LADDER 2 CPT. Federick Ill, Jr. FF. Denis Germain FF. Daniel Harlin FF. Dennis Mulligan FF. Michael Clarke FF. George Dipasquale FF. Carl Molinaro BATTALION 8 BC. Thomas DeAngelis FF. Thomas McCann
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
