The Abused 1880 Engine Co. 17 - 91 Ludlow Street

 

photograph by Carole Teller

In the first half of the 19th century, New Yorkers were protected by volunteer fire companies.  Among them was Elephant Company, organized prior to Evacuation Day in 1783.  In 1831, according to George William Sheldon in his 1882 The Story of the Volunteer Fire Department of the City of New York, it "moved to the vicinity of Essex Market and stationed at 91 Ludlow Street."

An act by the New York State Assembly in 1865 coupled Brooklyn and New York with a professional fire organization, the Metropolitan Fire Department.  The volunteer companies were disbanded and, in many cases, the new companies took over the old firehouses.  The house at 91 Ludlow Street became home to Engine Company 17.  It would not be long, however, before the city realized that state-of-the-art facilities were necessary.

Napoleon LeBrun was appointed architect for the Metropolitan Fire Department in 1879.  His son, Pierre, joined him in 1880 to form Napoleon LeBrun & Son.  They went to work designing dozens of firehouses--42 of them before the turn of the century.  Among the first would be Engine Company 17.  On August 9, 1879, the Real Estate Record & Builders' Guide reported that the city would erect "two three-story brick engine houses at No. 91 Ludlow street and 604 East Eleventh street."  

The LeBruns created a single design for the structures, which followed the traditional firehouse layout.  The centered bay doors sat within a cast iron base.  The two upper floors were faced in red brick and trimmed in terra cotta and stone.  LeBrun & Son’s Queen Anne design was splashed with neo-Grec elements, most notably the stone lintel that floated above the central second-story opening.

image via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

(Not surprisingly, given the number of firehouses on their drafting tables, LeBrun & Son repurposed the design, only slightly tweaking it in other houses, like Engine Company 27 on Franklin Street, and Engine Company 5 on East 14th Street.)

Construction cost the city $9,024, or just under $300,000 in 2026, and it proceeded with lightning speed.  Seven months after the announcement, on March 21, 1880, the New York Dispatch reported, "The new building for Engine Company No. 17, located at No. 91 Ludlow street, is completed and the company a few days since took formal possession of the same."  The facility was on the cutting edge of firefighting technology.  The article noted, "They have all the new appliances and improvements, such as the patent swinging harness, etc., etc."

The transition from volunteer to professional status did not entirely change the laddies' rough edged reputations.  John Carney was attached to Engine Company 17 in 1881.  He and his brother, Bernard, were drinking in Fay's saloon on East 14th Street on Friday night, November 18, when, according to John, they "had a falling out about a family matter."  As he lay dying at Bellevue Hospital later, he explained, "My brother was abusive, and I shoved him away from me.  He then plunged a knife into my abdomen on the left side."  

The Evening World described the dormitory on the second floor of Engine Company 17 on December 31, 1889:

It is a long room, about twenty feet above the street, the walls on either side being lined with iron cots, whereon the firemen sleep.  Each man turns in wearing his flannel underclothes.  His boots stand at his bedside with the trousers so disposed about them that he can jump from the cot into both without losing a moment.  In order to get quickly to the floor below the men slide down a polished slender brass pole.

Charles H. Morris had been a firefighter with Engine Company 17 for several years at the time of that article.  The other members were acutely aware that he was a sleepwalker.  In the summer of 1887, for instance, "he dreamed there was an alarm and jumped from his cot to the pole, and, still asleep, slid down carelessly and broke four toes on his right foot," reported The Evening World.  "I dreamed there was an alarm," he said upon wakening.

And around December 14, 1889, Assistant Foreman Charles J. Autenreith awoke to see Morris carrying his street clothes from beside his bed to his locker on the third floor, and then return to bed.  Autenreith woke Morris, who thought the other men were playing a trick on him by taking his clothes upstairs and then telling him he had done it.

At 12:40 a.m. on December 30, 1889, Engineer Maguire and Fireman Smith were on duty when they heard a crash.  Thinking that a horse had fallen, they rushed to the rear and found Morris unconscious and bleeding at the base of the brass pole.  Whether he had dreamed of an alarm, of simply sleep-walked accidentally into the hole could not be determined.  "It is certain that he came down head first, for his skull is fractured at the forehead," reported The Evening World.  The article said doctors in Gouverneur Hospital said "he has but one chance in a hundred for recovery," and noted that should he die his widow and four children would receive a pension of $300 a year (about $10,600 today).

A surprising, unofficial member of Engine Company 17 lived and worked briefly with the men in 1894--a female journalist.  In recording the interesting events of the past year, in January 1895 The World Almanac and Encyclopedia recounted:

Meg Merrilies spent a week with Engine Company No. 17, in their quarters at No. 91 Ludlow Street, dressed in boy's clothes, for convenience, with rubber boots and rubber coat.  She lived the life of one of the fire-laddies, attending regularly to her duties, jumping from sleep at the alarm, sliding half-awake down the pole, swinging on the engine as it left the house, dashing into smoke and fire, and in every way sharing the hardships, the dangers, and the glory.

The entry described a woman who was equal to the tasks of any veteran firefighter.  "She drove engine horses back from fires, carried a choking bay through dense smoke to a place of safety at the risk of her own life, and wound up the week of remarkable activity by helping her associates fight the big fire at Broadway and Leonard street."

By the turn of the century, the crowded Lower East Side neighborhood kept Engine Company 17 more than busy.  The New York Herald reported that in 1906, it had responded to 1,062 calls.  "In other words," said the article, "the men...had to answer an alarm before sitting down to breakfast, dinner or supper, and then some."

The following year, the city hired architect Alexander Stevens to update the house with "iron stairs, skylights, walls and windows."  The renovations cost $12,000.  As the work proceeded, on October 23, 1908, The Sun explained the temporary arrangements.  "The horses and engines are camping in the street opposite their quarters in a temporary wooden house...The harness is attached to the ceiling, ready to drop in case of alarm."  The article noted, "The engine company is in the centre of the Ghetto and has to answer more alarms than any other on the lower East Side."

Fire companies were famous for their mascots--dogs that ran to fires along side the engines and provided comfort and company to the members during quiet times.  At the turn of the century, Topsy was Engine Company 17's mascot.  When he was accidentally killed by the horses, Topsy's son, Bunk, who was still a puppy, took his place.  On March 31, 1908, The New York Times called Bunk "the smoke-eating mascot of Engine Company 17" and said he "never lets the men of No. 17 get put out of his sight."

Bunk, of course, was with the company when it responded to a fire on the Joy Line Steamship Company pier on March 30, 1908.  Constructed of heavy logs covered with pitch and soaked in creosote, the pier burned slowly and spewed poisonous smoke.  The firefighters of the several companies on the scene were blinded by the thick smoke and staggered "with pain to the open as fast as they got into it," said The New York Times.  More than 50 firefighters had to be treated and 17 others were hospitalized.  The beloved Bunk did not survive.

Another remarkable mascot came in the form of Rex, "a black and white bulldog," as described by the New-York Tribune.  Fireman Tom Foley found him on a cold winter day and brought him to the station house "more dead than alive."  Like his predecessors, Rex became a member of the company.  On June 14, 1912, The Evening World described him as "no pretty dog, either.  He was a bull, with heavy jowls and legs which spoke strength and not beauty, but for four years he had guarded the fire house night and day when he was not on duty at some blaze or sniffing about in search of fire."

It was Rex's "sniffing about" that made him stand out among all the fire station mascots throughout the city, however.  He not only ran along with the fire engines to the blazes, he had the ability to detect the odor of fires and alert the crew.

In March 1912, Rex was awarded a firemen's helmet after he smelled a fire on the roof of a Ludlow Street tenement.  The Evening World reported, "He called the firemen and what would have been a bad blaze was averted."  Shortly afterward, reported the newspaper, "Rex discovered a blaze in Essex street and put up such barking and howling that a man who was passing investigated and then sent in the alarm."  The New-York Tribune said that during the time Rex had been with Engine Company 17 he "had been instrumental in saving seven lives."

On the night of June 13, 1912, Engine Company 17 responded to a fire.  On the way, according to the New-York Tribune, Rex was kicked by one of the horses.  The article said he was so badly hurt, "that a patrolman was summoned from the Clinton street station to put him out of misery."  When the firefighters returned that night, they "laid him on a litter of straw and placed his collar, with four medals, about his neck."

On the night of July 26, 1920, firefighters from Engine Company 17 witnessed an automobile swerve and fatally hit a pedestrian.  Almost immediately, a mob formed among the "hundreds of persons" who saw the accident, yelling, "Lynch him!"  The New York Times reported, "the firemen were able to get the driver into the engine house after he had been slightly bruised and cut."  But the ordeal was not over.

The firefighters barricaded the bay doors and called for police backup.  The New York Times said, "When the reserve policemen arrived the mob began to pummel them."  Fire Lieutenant Poggi and some of his men slipped out of one of the smaller doors with axe handles to help the police disperse the mob.  The article said, "Stones and bricks were hurled at the uniformed men, but few were injured."  Finally, after about half an hour, the firefighters and policemen were able to scatter the rabble.  The driver, Charles Gersowitz, said that Frank Bloomberg had walked directly into his path.  He was charged with homicide.

Napoleon LeBrun & Son used identical ironwork for the ground floor bays of several other firehouses.  The layered piers are a handsome touch. photograph by Carole Teller

The passing decades had not lessened the company's relentless schedule.  On November 25, 1925, Municipal Reference Library Notes reported, "According to the New York Times the busiest fire company in New York City is Engine Company No. 17 located at 91 Ludlow Street.  During 1924 Engine No. 17 responded to a total of 1,288 alarms."  The article noted that it sat within "the most congested district in the world, where humanity is so densely packed together that there is scarcely elbow room."  It added, "Members of Engine 17 scarcely know what it means to be idle for they are kept on the run day and night."

After occupying its firehouse for just under six decades, on May 1, 1939 Engine Company 17 was relocated to 185 Broom Street.  The firehouse was briefly used by the city's Sanitation Department.  Then, on March 21, 1941, The New York Times reported, "Last Friday the firehouse at 91 Ludlow Street was sold at public auction to Louis Keehn, a jobber in toys and stationery, for $18,000."  Not only did the city turn over the deed to Keehn, it provided him the mortgage on the property.

In January 1951, Keehn hired the architectural firm of S. Gardstein & Son to renovate the building at a cost of about $60,500 in today's money.  The truck bay was expanded and the southern openings of the second and third floors were bricked up.  The remodeling resulted in a store on the ground floor, an office on the mezzanine, and storage in the upper floors.

photograph by Carole Teller

Louis Keehn & Brother remained in the building at least into the 1960s.  The sorely disfigured structure, designed by one of the period's most influential firehouse architects, gives little hint of its original appearance and its fascinating history.

many thanks to artist Carole Teller for suggesting this post

The 1881 Engine Company 5 - 340 East 14th Street

 

photo by Beyond My Ken

With the establishment of the Metropolitan Fire Department in 1865, New York City's network of volunteer companies was abolished.  Engine Company 5 was established on September 25 that year, and moved into the existing volunteer fire station at 340 East 14th Street, between First and Second Avenues.   It had been built about three years earlier.   The new company had a single engine and tender, build by the Amoskeag Manufacturing Company, and a team of spirited horses to draw them.

The volunteer fire fighters, or laddies, had had a reputation as a boisterous, rowdy group.  Organizing a professional department did immediately change old habits.  On July 20, 1870, The New York Times reported.  "Patrick Farrell, of No. 192 First-avenue, who was shot [on July 18] by Wm. Hamilton, a member of Fire Engine Company No. 5 in Fourteenth-street, died yesterday at his residence of the wounds so received."   Firefighter Hamilton had gotten into an argument with Farrell and a man named William Callaghan "about a picnic," that culminating in the gunfire.  On his deathbed, Farrell said he had been shot "without provocation."  Hamilton insisted it was self-defense.

On October 2, 1879 the Fire Department notified the Board of Estimate and Apportionment of the need for a new house for Engine Company No. 5.  It said the station:

...was originally built for the Volunteer Department about 17 years ago; it has a large school-house on one side, adjoining, and a tenement-house has since been erected on the other, which caused it to settle, cracking rear and front walls and ceilings, and disturbing the floors.

The first item on the Board of Fire Commissioners meeting agenda on July 25, 1880 was "the opening of proposals for doing the work and furnishing the materials for the erection of an engine-house for Engine Company No. 5 at No. 340 East Fourteenth street."  There seems to have been a lack of urgency on the part of the commissioners.  The following day the New York Dispatch noted, "All the bids were laid over for future consideration."

Nevertheless, on September 1 that year, the men of Engine Company 5 were temporarily relocated, their fire station demolished, and construction started on a replacement.  

Napoleon LeBrun had been appointed official architect for the Fire Department in 1879.  A year later his son, Pierre joined him in the business, which became Napoleon Lebrun & Son.  Before the turn of the century they would be responsible for the design of 42 fire houses.  The firm would famously create individual, sometimes lavish, designs for their firehouse.  But in 1881 the Fire Department was renovating or building around a dozen structures.  To save both time and money, Napoleon LeBrun & Son reused one design several times, including for Engine Company 5, with only minor differences.

Engine Company 27, at 173 Franklin Street, was one of the nearly identical structures designed at the time.  photograph by the author

Amazingly, construction took less than six months to complete, and on March 1, 1881 Engine Company 5 moved into its new home.  The design followed the traditional firehouse layout.  The centered bay doors sat within the cast iron base.  The two upper floors were faced in red brick and trimmed in terra cotta and stone.  LeBrun & Son’s Queen Anne design was splashed with Neo-Grec elements, most notably the stone lintel that floated above the second story central opening.

The company suffered a grievous loss on February 12, 1895.  In reporting the death of firefighter Peter McKeon, The Press began:

One might suppose that staring death in the face as often as they do, firemen's hearts would become a little hardened.  Such is not the case.  No set of men feel grief more keenly than they, and their sorrow for a mate who dies on duty is touching in its earnestness.  This is why the whole department is grieving over the sudden killing of Peter McKeon, than whom a braver fireman never lived.

Engineer McKeon's death was particularly grisly.  The company was responding to a fire in a tenement building, the Florida Flats, when a wheel came off the truck.  "Before McKeon turned around from his place on the firebox step, the engine tender dashed into him.  The pole of the tender pierced the engineer's back, pinning him to the boiler," explained the article.  The terrified horses reared, tearing the pole from McKeon's back and he fell directly to the street where the horses "trampled him again and again."  He died within a few minutes of being pulled from under the horses' feet.  The 45-year-old left a wife and four children.

As the article said, the dangers of firefighting required the "staring of death in the face," almost constantly.  On December 22, 1897 the company was called to a tenement fire at 436 East 14th Street.  The New York Herald reported, "There was an accumulation of gas in the cellar, and this, combined with the smoke, made it almost impossible to live."   Two firefighters, John McCabe and James E. Davis entered the basement.  When they did not return after a reasonable time, other members followed.  "They were found unconscious and taken out."  

Three other firefighters who took up the battle, were also overcome and had to be rescued.  The last to be pulled out, Martin J. Oakley, was dead.  John McCabe returned to the firehouse, but had to be taken to Bellevue Hospital the following morning, where three of his comrades had been taken the night before.  The New York Herald said he was "in a bad condition."

Despite the change from horse-drawn to motorized fire engines, and the neighborhood from one of tenements to commercial buildings, Engine Company 5 remained in its venerable fire station.  Firefighter Jim Ronayne reflected the changing times in 1974 when he was chosen for a specialized--and surprising--detail.

On February 20, 1974, The New York Times wrote, "Three nights a week, when Manhattan fireman Jim Ronayne is not on duty with Engine Company No. 5 or heading to a fire, he is getting ready for a night at the opera.  Mr. Ronayne puts aside his 'turnouts'--the fireman's uniform of dungarees, denim shirt, rubber boots, canvas coat and helmet--dons a black tuxedo and makes his way to Lincoln Center."

Ronayne was one of nine New York City firefighters who made up the "Tuxedo Squad" for the Metropolitan Opera.  At each performance, three of them were within the crowd of opera-goers "to guard against accidents, fires and thefts."  The men estimated that they needed to summon help from Roosevelt Hospital to deal with accidents and illnesses at least 20 times per season.  Ronayne confided in the reporter that "he likes 'Irish opera' best."

photo by Lars Estrem, firedepartment.net

Perhaps no single group was more devastated by the events of 9/11 than the New York City Fire Department.  After the attack, Engine Company 5 was deployed to pull hose line up 80 floors in the North Tower.  Among the members was Manny Delvalle, Jr. who also carried an oxygen tank.  As his team continued, he paused at the 10th floor to give a woman oxygen.  He was never seen again.  The men of Engine Company 5 had gone up another five floors when the building began to shudder and they were called back.  After the tower collapsed, a search was made for Delvalle, but the 32-year-old could not be found.  A bronze plaque in his honor hangs among those of other lost firefighters affixed to the facade of the fire station.

no permission to reuse the content of this blog has been granted to LaptrinhX.com

Engine Company No. 1 - 165 West 29th Street

Under a century of soot and grim, much of the beige brick and limestone facade survives.

By the second half of the 19th century, the block of 29th Street, between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, had already become commercial.  Around 1856 Frederick William Nitschke opened his piano factory at No. 165.  But within the decade the building would be replaced by the fire house of Fire Patrol No. 3.

The New York Fire Patrol operated much like the volunteer fire companies throughout the city.  It fought fires with similar equipment and its members wore uniforms.  But their purpose was slightly different.  In 1803 a group of volunteers formed the Mutual Assistance and Bag Corporation, the purpose of which was to protect and salvage the contents of structures from water damage.  Thirty-six years later the New York Board of Fire Underwriters was established.  The group added fire fighting to its methods of preventing losses and insuring property.  Funded by the insurance companies, the Fire Patrol was established.

Fire Patrol No. 3 was here as early as 1869.  It responded to blazes in the area, like the one that destroyed four buildings on West 27th Street on January 27, 1870.  Filled mostly with wood-working factories, the structures became an inferno.  The situation was made worse when an exterior wall collapsed, spooking the patrol company's horses.  The New York Herald reported that they "became frightened and started off at a rapid gait, knocking down several persons, who received slight bruises."

The loosely-organized network of volunteer fire companies was disbanded in 1865 when the State Senate established the professional New York City Fire Department.  In 1873 the city took over the firehouse of Fire Patrol No. 3 for use by the newly-reorganized Engine Company No. 1.

The company would face challenges in the industrial neighborhood it served.  Factory workers in the early years after the Civil War endured harsh conditions and long hours.  Shop owners were little concerned with fire safety.

A block away from the fire station was the seven-story brick factory of West, Bradley & Cary, makers of corset and suspenders, at Nos. 227 to 233 West 29th Street.   After a small fire broke out on February 19, 1877 the owners were informed of the danger to its employees.  The New York Times later reported "On the 2d of March, 1878, another slight fire occurred, and the precautions already suggested were again brought to the notice of West, Bradley, & Cary."  Another small fire occurred on October 19, 1878.  The Times said "These fires did not do much damage, but it was a common remark in engine-houses in the neighborhood that if a fire broke out while the hands were at work in the suspender factory, it would be difficult to save them."  The newspaper added the building had "for a long time been looked upon as a death-trap."

And fire did break out again.  At 8:15 on the night of March 21, 1879.   Despite the late hour, there were 110 workers in the building, 95 of whom were women.  The fire broke out below street level, in the boiler room, and rushed upward, trapping many on the upper floors.  When Engine Company No. 1 arrived, firefighters chopped open a locked street door, releasing panicked women inside.   Meanwhile, girls and women on the top floors were jumping from windows onto the roofs of adjoining buildings.

By 10:00 the factory was a smoldering ruins.  One fire fighter, William Birmingham, was killed in a tragic accident when a line of hose became detached and fell four stories, crushing him.  Otherwise, although there were injuries, the quick response and heroic efforts of the men resulted in no other fatalities.

Even after the change to a professional fire department, fire fighters sometimes held on to the rowdy personalities for which the volunteers had been famous.  One was Fireman Henry De Tour.  He was fired from his job with Engine Company No. 1 on January 14, 1880 "on charges of intoxication and absence without leave."

In 1879 architect Napoleon Le Brun had been appointed the official architect for the New York City Fire Department.  His job entailed not only designing new station houses, but updating and improving old ones.  In April 1881 his firm, Napoleon Le Brun & Son,  turned its attention to Engine Company No. 1.  The company moved to No. 118 West 33rd Street while renovations were done.

The plans called for an extension to the rear, "new staircases, new floors and rebuilt walls," which included an updated facade.  The renovations cost the city $10,000, or more than a quarter of a million dollars today.

Le Brun's renovations included a vermiculated stone base with handsome Corinthian pilasters on either side of the truck bay. original source unknown

In 1890 the captain of Engine Company No. 1 was Edward F. Croker, nephew of Tammany Hall leader Richard Croker.   He would go on to become one of the FDNY's most memorable chiefs, famous for his eloquent oratory.  He would say, for example, after four men were killed in February 1908, "Firemen are going to get killed.  When they join the department they face that fact.  When a man becomes a fireman his greatest act of bravery has been accomplished.  What he does after that is all in the line or work."

But in June 1890 he was dealing with discipline problems.  He was summoned to the office of Fire Chief Hugh Bronner to explain the multiple charges he had filed against one of his men.  When a reporter from The New York Times tried to get to the bottom of the story, Croker refused to name names.  But he did admit the situation was troubling.   "The trouble he regarded as fairly serious.  It was due to comparatively recent occurrences, but beyond that he would not make any statement," said the newspaper on July 30.

The problematic fire fighter was Fireman 1st Grade James Bohen.  Croker filed several complaints against the seemingly uncontrollable man.   When Croker confronted him for drinking on the job on July 19, Bohen responded "Suppose I was drunk, what is that to you?  You did not see me.  You cannot make a charge against me, as I have every man in the house as a witness."

The next day a fire alarm rang out in the station house.  While the other fire fighters rushed to the apparatus, Bohen remained in his bed upstairs, presumably too drunk or hungover to function.  And just two days later, on July 22, he was "absent from his company without permission from proper authority for 26 minutes, between the hours of 8.34 and 9.00 P.M."

It came to a head on August 2, 1890 when Bohen was tried before the Fire Commissioners for "being so much under the influence of liquor, drug or compound as to be unable to perform his duty in proper manner," was found guilty, and dismissed from the Department.

Bravery, not insubordination, was the hallmark of Engine Company No. 1, however.  When the men responded to a massive factory fire on West 24th Street on December 28, 1894, William Weise emerged a true hero.  Two firemen, including Battalion Chief John J. Bresnan, were killed, 10 were injured, and one owed his life to Weise.

William Hennessy was on an upper floor when he sprained his ankle.  Surrounded by flames and unable to escape, he lost consciousness.  The following day The Evening World reported "Perceiving his plight, William Weise, of Engine Company 1, rushed up a ladder to the third floor and carried the injured fireman down to the street on his back."

Seven months later the men would fight a "fierce blaze," as described by The New York Times, in a most unexpected location.  The newspaper reported on July 16, 1895 that the fire was "in their own quarters at 165 West Twenty-ninth Street."  It started in the cellar around 11:00 that morning and "swept upward through the hose tower, and through the roof.  The firemen were quick to act and worked hard to save their apparatus and horses."  Nevertheless, other fire companies had to come to their assistance to save the fire house.

Heavy fire equipment pulled by galloping steeds were both fast and dangerous.  Newspaper regularly reported on collisions between fire trucks and other vehicles, or of unwary pedestrians being struck.  The men of Engine Company No. 1 narrowly escaped serious injury on August 11, 1903.

The company was responding to a fire at No. 303 Eighth Avenue.  "The tender was following in the wake of the engine and going at a good rate of speed," reported The Times.  "The driver of the tender...made a big turn into Eighth Avenue.  He did not have room to make the swing according to his first calculation, however, and quickly swung his horses to the left when he saw that he would strike the sidewalk."

The six men on the vehicle jumped for their lives an is "careened, and then turned over, sliding along the gutter on its side."   All the men escaped the accident unscathed, and, almost unbelievably, none of the horses was injured.

In 1906 the men of Engine Company No. 1 once again had to temporarily relocate as renovations were done to their station house.  Somewhat ironically, they shared quarters with Fire Patrol No. 3 at No. 104 West 30th Street for a year.

By now Alexander Stevens was the chief architect of the Fire Department.  As Napoleon Le Brun had done in 1881, he made substantial renovations.  The New-York Tribune, on May 15, 1906, reported "The building is to be enlarged, new steel and concrete floors and staircases laid and the interior completely renovated.  A new facade of ornamental brick trimmed with Indiana limestone will be erected.  A bronze tablet over the new entrance will be inscribed with the names of both [Edward F.] Croker and [Hugh] Bonner, the one as department chief and the other as deputy commissioner."

Stevens's $24,000 worth of renovations erased Le Brun's handsome facade; but made the building more functional in light of modern fire fighting equipment and techniques.   The notable ornament of the restrained beige brick front appeared in the tall windows of second floor, framed in limestone and topped with heavy scrolled keystones.  The bronze panel described by the Tribune was flanked by proportionate French-inspired iron guards within the other openings.

Back in their remodeled house, the men of Engine Company No. 1 continued to face death fighting fires nearby.  An especially terrifying incident occured on December 21, 1922 at a fire at No. 450 Sixth Avenue.

Lt. Patrick Wynne and some of his crew were on the sixth floor.  Heavy iron window shutters commonly provided security to factories, but on that night they also caused the hot gases inside to build up.   When one firefighter opened a shutter, a violent back draft resulted.

"The firemen were hurled across the room and down the stairs, many of them rolling and tumbling, with their hair blazing and the flames scorching their bodies and faces, as far as the third floor landing," reported The New York Herald.   Two policemen were on the second floor landing and they grabbed two of the men and carried them to the street, while fire fighters rushed up the stairs.

'They found the firemen lying on the stairs and on the floor of the sixth floor rooms, with the woodwork burning all about them, their clothing and hair on fire, and one, Fireman Peter McCaffrey...with his eyes almost burned out."

On September 10, 1945 the Fire Department announced that Engine Company No. 1 would get a new home.  But this time the 1860s fire house on West 29th Street would not be renovated.  Instead plans were announced for a new building at 142-146 West 31st Street.

The bronze plaque, installed in 1906, survives, as does one of the Beaux Arts window guards.

By now the West 29th Street block sat within Manhattan's Fur District, surrounded by early 20th century loft buildings.  The rest of the century was unkind to the historic structure and today the ground floor of Alexander Stevens's fire house is nearly obliterated.  A layer of dirt has turned the beige brick and white limestone the color of a field mouse; but a certain architecture grace survives.

photographs by the author

Engine Company 16 - 223 East 25th Street

photographs via www.elliman.com

When the loose network of volunteer fire companies was disbanded in 1865 as the professional Metropolitan District fire department was formed, it was a melancholy day for many of the veteran "laddies."   Among the 41 members of the Lexington Engine Company, No. 7 were a barber, two butchers, a ship-joiner, a horse shoer, and a carriage maker.   On September 18, 1865 the fire department announced that their old fire house at No. 223 East 25th Street would become home to the newly-formed Metropolitan Steam Fire Engine Company No. 16.

When Engine Company 16 took over the building the Kips Bay area was still relatively undeveloped.  But the flurry of construction in the first years following the Civil War brought tenements, stores and small factory buildings.   In the early 1880s the fire department was scrambling to build new firehouses and update or replace the old ones to keep up with the expanding city.

In 1879 Napoleon Le Brun had become the official architect for the fire department.  The following year his son, Pierre, joined him to create N. Le Brun & Son.  The firm filed plans on August 1, 1882 for a replacement fire house for Engine Company 16.  The three-story structure was projected to cost $18,000, or in the neighborhood of $436,000 today.

The completed structure followed the typical fire house pattern.  The cast iron base was dominated by the central truck bay.  The two upper floors were clad in red brick.  As was often the case with their less opulent fire houses, N. Le Brun & Son relied on terra cotta and creative brickwork for decorative effect.  A knobby quilt of terra cotta tiles filled the spandrels above the second and third floors, and the dog-tooth pattern brick filled the arches of the top floor openings.   Above a frieze of floral terra cotta tiles was an unusually deep bracketed cast metal cornice.

As with all fire companies, No. 16 responded to an array of calls.   The fire on the night of July 10, 1899 was especially memorable.  It broke out in the Infants' Pavilion of Bellevue Hospital, described by The New York Times as "ramshackle."

Around 11:00 Miss Abbe, the head of the four nurses in the ward, entered the darkened room to check on a sick baby.  The hospital's location near the East River and the summer heat necessitated the cribs being covered in mosquito netting.  While Miss Abbe tended to the baby, her candle fell over setting fire to the netting.

The Times reported "With a puff the whole netting burst into flames.  The blaze jumped to either side, ran along from crib to crib, and caught the bed linen.  Miss Abbe stood her ground heroically and pulled at the blazing material until her hands were seriously burned."

By the time Engine Company 16 could respond the fire had spread to the adult wards.   Here, too, the mosquito netting quickly caught fire and a civilian, Albert Stone who was a former fireman, rushed in to help, tearing down the netting as Engine Company 16 attacked the flames.  Unfortunately some of the patients were burned.  The Times reported "The injury to the patients may be serious." 

The work of fire fighters, by nature, put their lives at risk.  On May 3, 1903 Engine Company 16 responded to a fire in the four-story boarding house at First Avenue and 15th Street.   When the truck arrived 50-year old Henry Williams was trapped on the upper floor and flames could be seen in his room from the street.

Twenty-four year old William McNally scaled a ladder to the window.  The New-York Tribune reported "As McNally got to the top a sheet of flame burst out of the window."  The fire fighter paused, then jumped inside.  A few moments later he appeared with McWilliams in his arms.  The crowd watching from the sidewalk broke into cheers.

Their jubilation was soon crushed.  Just as McNally started to climb out of the window, he was overcome and both he and McWilliams fell back into the burning room as "another sheet of flame leaped from the window."

Firefighter James C. McEvoy clambered up the ladder.  He reappeared in the window with McNally, half conscious, whom he managed to get to the ground.  Now Engine Company 16's foreman, McGarrity, and firefighter Lang headed up for the other victim.   They found McWilliams unconscious and dragged him to another window where there was a fire escape.  On the way down, McGarrity's foot got wedged in a triangular space of the fire escape.  Lang continued down with McWilliams while McGarrity struggled to escape as the flames closed in.

By the time firefighters freed his foot by using crowbars and hammers it was too late.  McWilliams died on the way to Bellevue Hospital.  Both McNally and McEvoy suffered severe burns.

McWilliams's widow would receive half his salary as a pension.  But the following year there was a question about whether Mark Kelly's widow would receive the same compensation.

On February 7, 1904 fire broke out in the western part of downtown Baltimore.  It quickly outstripped the abilities of the Baltimore Fire Department and calls for help were sent out to other cities.   New York's Acting Fire Chief Kruger received a telephone call saying "that Baltimore's men were worn out and needed all the help they could get," according to the New-York Tribune.

Before dawn the following morning nine engines and a hook and ladder truck along with 105 firemen, including the men of Engine Company 16 headed south.  The Tribune noted "It was the first time within the memory of old firemen when the department had been called on to send the fire fighters so far outside the city."

Ballation Chief Howe telegraphed Chief Kruger at 5:30 a.m. on February 9 saying "We are now combating the fire on the water front.  All our firemen are in good condition and working hard."

Among those men was Engineer Mark Kelly, of Engine Company 16.  The frigid February winds off the Baltimore harbor made the work even more grueling.  The Evening World later pointed out "He had been on constant duty for twenty-two hours without being relieved at the Baltimore fire."

The inferno was finally extinguished; but not before 1,500 buildings and some 140 acres of Baltimore were destroyed.  The men of Engine Company 16 returned home on the night of February 9.  When they arrived Kelly was so ill he had to be helped home.  He had contracted pneumonia due to exposure.

Kelly was already a hero who had distinguished himself in more than two dozen fires and was credited for saving several lives.  His condition did not improve and on February 26, 1904 The Evening World ran the headline: NOTED FIRE HERO MARTYR TO DUTY.

Kelly received an impressive department funeral.  But then his comrades turned their attention to his pension.  Widows of firefighters who died of natural causes were eligible to $25 a month, as opposed to the one-half salary for line of duty deaths.  Kelly earned $1,600 a year so the difference to his widow and three children would be significant.

The Times reported "Kelly's fellow-firemen believe that the widow will be allowed half his salary as a pension, since the disease he contracted was a direct result o his exposure while performing his duty."   The nation responded as well, The Insurance Times noting "Few public funds created more sympathy or support than did that raised for the widow of the brave New York fireman, Mark Kelly, who lost his life through his hard work in connection with the Baltimore fire."

In July 1906 the department's architect Alexander Stevens filed plans to renovations to the 25th Street station house, including "new reinforced concrete floors and installing iron staircases."  The $15,000 improvements were intended "to increase the floor stability."

The heavy engine of Company 16 was pulled by three strong horses.   The firefighters riding on the front of the vehicle were expected to use what today would be called seat belts.  The importance of the safety feature became tragically obvious on the afternoon of March 28, 1910.

Fireman Joseph White was the driver that afternoon when the company responded to a grocery store fire on First Avenue.   In his haste, White failed to strap himself in.  The engine headed east, but "when the wheels struck a deep rut at First avenue and 23d street White was pitched forward to the pavement between two of the three galloping horses and then crushed under the wheels of the engine."  The horses galloped on until a group of civilians were able to bring them to a halt. 

White never regained consciousness and died within ten minutes.  Ironically, the fire, described by the New-York Tribune as "a trifling affair," caused a mere $25 in damages.

The rules of the Fire Department expressly prohibited drinking alcohol while on duty.  Fireman Walter J. Hicks cleverly devised a way around the rules--for a while, anyway.  His undoing cam when Captain Martin Morrison was talking to Assistant Foreman Slowey outside the fire house on August 10, 1911.  They noticed a small boy with a can "such as is generally used to carry beer from saloons," as explained by The Times, go into the house next door to the station.

The newspaper reported that Morrison's suspicions were raised and he sneaked up to the top floor of the fire house with Slowey as a witness, "but stopped on the stairs when his head was on a level with the floor."  Peeking through the banisters, he saw Hicks staring at the skylight.  Suddenly the skylight opened and the can of beer was lowered down on a cord.  "Hicks grasped it and drank its contents with signs of great satisfaction."

Morrison and Slowey quietly went downstairs, but returned later for the evidence.  They confronted the imbibing firefighter who said he "knew nothing about the can."  Nevertheless, The Times explained "the evidence was so strong against him that he was required to give up five day's pay."

The company's motorized truck can be glimpsed through the open bay doors around 1935.  photographer unknown, from the collection of the Columbia University Libraries, Information Services

Engine Company 16's horses had been replaced by a motorized truck by 1924, when the city was plagued by an arsonist.   When they arrived at a blaze at 23rd Street and Second Avenue at 4:40 on the morning of August 20, it was the latest in more than 100 fires had been purposely set.  The man leaning against the fire alarm box post at that hour of the morning raised the suspicions of Fire Captain Amanuel Goldsmith.  He detained him, then turned him over to Patrolman Murphy.

The young man would not answer the question as to whether he had set the fire.  Instead he rambled on about himself, saying his name was Kenneth Karick and was a horse trainer and former jockey.   While he claimed he had just arrived from Saratoga "with a large sum of money," he had no cash on him "and was unable to tell them what had become of it," according to newspaper accounts.

After much questioning, he finally confessed.  His name was actually George C. Custow, and he told a judge he had "an uncontrollable impulse to set fires" and that he "got a wonderful thrill" watching the firemen and fire apparatus. The 26-year old's father blamed his "aberrations" on "an attack of infantile paralysis which left him a cripple in 1916."

By the 1960s the old fire house was inadequate for modern equipment.  In 1968 Engine Company 16 moved into the newly-built fire house at No. 234 East 29th Street with Hook and Ladder Company 7.

Five years later the city announced the 25th Street fire house would be sold at auction, with an opening bid of $24,000.  The 500 bidders quickly drove the price up, until the Ninth Church of Christ, Scientist won it with a bid of $217,000.   Even the city's Department of Real Estate was surprised, a spokesman saying "we never thought it would go as high as it did."

The second floor was slightly remodeled for worship space, leaving the original pressed tin ceiling intact.  On the top floor one can envision Captain Morrison peeking through the banisters at a beer-drinking fireman.  photographs via www.elliman.com

The church made expected renovations to the building, removing the truck bay doors and remodeling the interiors.  The group remained in the building until 2017 when it offered the property for $7.3 million.

Napoleon Le Brun's Hook & Ladder No. 7 - 217 East 28th Street

photo by Beyond My Ken

The Washington Hook and Ladder 9 operated from its firehouse at No. 217 East 28th Street prior to 1865.  One of many volunteer companies scattered throughout the city, its members were volunteers who lived in the neighborhood.  When a fire broke out, the men called "laddies" would scramble to the firehouse.  Fire companies often vied with one another to arrive at the fire first, or to become more skilled at extinguishing blazes.

The end of the disorganized system came following the devastating fire that destroyed Barnum's Museum in 1865.  The State Assembly passed the Act of 1865 that coupled Brooklyn and New York with a professional "Metropolitan District" fire department.  Washington Hook and Ladder 9 was replaced on October 11, 1865 by Hook and Ladder Company No. 7.  

Fighting fires in the crowded city was made more dangerous and difficult because of the highly flammable materials that were so often involved.  Houses and apartment buildings were lit either by kerosene lamps or gas; carriage houses and stables were filled with hay and grain; and distilleries, pharmacies and printing houses stored explosive components.

An example was the devastating blaze that broke out in Walter Briggs's large livery and boarding stable on February 13, 1879.  The New York Herald's headline read "Insatiate Flames" and the article noted "A large quantity of hay and straw was known to be stored near the very spot from which the flames were issuing."

The firefighters' valiant efforts were split between extinguishing the inferno and to saving the horses.  There were, in addition, dozens of expensive carriages and sleighs stored on the various levels of the structure.  Three firefighters were injured, one of them Washington Ryer who was briefly buried when the roof caved in.

Tragically, while the firefighters managed to save the building from complete destruction, 70 horses, some of them quite valuable, were lost.

The same year of the Brigg's stable fire Napoleon LeBrun was appointed official architect for the New York City Fire Department.  A year later, after his son Pierre joined him, his firm became N. LeBrun & Son.  By 1895 when he stepped down, he and his son would be responsible for designing 42 fire department structures.

Among their last jobs was the refurbishing of Hook and Ladder 7's firehouse in 1893.  The remodeling was so extensive that the Fire Departments 1894 report called it a "new building, rebuilt for Hook and Ladder Company No. 7."

The result was signature LeBrun.  The stone-clad base followed the expected firehouse arrangement--a centered truck bay flanked by a doorway and window.   The sparse decoration at this level relied on two carved shields with flowing ribbons below the dentiled cornice.

The upper two stories were faced in variegated Roman brick trimmed in limestone.   A common feature in LeBrun designs was the central plaque, inscribed with pertinent construction information (the mayor, commissioner, etc.), flanked by decorative rondels that announced the date.  Splayed lintels above the second floor windows and voussoirs above the third were executed in brick and enhanced with scrolled keystones.  The pressed metal cornice featured an intricate frieze and a double row of brackets, the topmost of which terminated in lions' heads.

The members of Hook and Ladder No. 7 had scarcely settled into the refurbished firehouse before a frightening blaze broke out in a tenement house at No. 74 Pearl Street on the night of January 2, 1894.  Fireman John P. Howe jumped from the moving truck and ran ahead to rescue the tenants.

John P. Howe was one of many members of the Company who earned medals for bravery.  The Evening World, May 24, 1895 (copyright expired)

The Evening World reported "While carrying out Bridget Maloney an invalid, his hands and face were burned, but notwithstanding this Howe returned and saved Mrs. Eliza Keenan and her daughter Lillie."

Howe was involved in a nearly unbelievable act of heroism exactly two years later to the day.  Fire erupted in the Geneva Club on Lexington Avenue, an organization of hotel employees.  Several members lived in the upper floors of the three-story building.

John Howe was driving the truck and as he pulled up to the scene, according to the New-York Tribune, "There were faces at the windows of the upper floors where the occupants had been cut off from escape to the street.  The lower rooms were all aflame."

The article noted "The spirited horses he was handling scarcely came to a halt before Howe had sprung from the truck."  He banged on the door of the house next door and rushed upstairs to a window.  He stretched his body across the gap between the buildings to reach Max Henshel, "who was at the window of the burning house begging for help."

Fireman Pearl held Howe's legs so he would not tumble down the gap between the buildings.  Henshel was safely pulled through the window.  Next came August Lang.  And then Frederic Schmidt appeared.  Behind him smoke and flames were enveloping the room and the Tribune said "he was desperate."

"Before Fireman Howe could get himself properly balanced to reach for the imperiled waiter, the latter sprang from the window ledge and threw his arms around the fireman's neck.  The man's weight dragged Howe from the window-ledge, and it seemed certain that both men would be dashed to death on the pavement."

But Howe held on, and Pearl, still clutching his legs, "reached out and, by an almost superhuman effort, succeeded in drawing Schmidt through the window.  He then helped Howe in."

In the meantime the other members of Hook and Ladder 7 were busy rescuing other residents.  Steward Bergmann was stuck on the roof of the rear extension with his wife and child.  They were carried down on a ladder by firemen.  Two other occupants, a man and a woman, had jumped to the roof of the porch.  Adelaide Junker suffered a sprained ankle; but both were carried down by fire fighters.

Hook and Ladder 7 responded to one of New York's greatest disasters in the early 20th century--the January 27, 1902 dynamite explosion being used in the construction of the subway on Park Avenue.   Hundreds were injured, several killed and damage to buildings extended for blocks.

Fireman James Francis Kiernan found construction foreman Tubbs in the ruins.  As he carried the man out, a second explosion occurred.  The Evening World reported "The young fireman's arm was broken and he was blown four feet into the air, but he kept his head and got Tubbs safely out of danger."

Amazingly, according to the newspaper, this was just one of "a dozen escapes from death and [he] has saved a great number of lives."  His cat-like defiance of death earned him the nickname "Lucky Jim."

The Evening World deemed Kiernan's luck complete in landing a pretty wife.  September 29, 1902 (copyright expired)

Later that year the same newspaper reported on his upcoming wedding, saying his luck continued in managing to win the hand of Kathryn Rose Tynan.  Kathryn, explained the newspaper, worked in a 23rd Street department store "and has such a reputation for beauty that she has attracted general attention among patrons of the store."

Press coverage routinely lauded Hook and Ladder 7 for its heroism and expertise.  But that was not the case on February 22, 1903.  A storm had covered the city streets in deep snow.  Clearing the roads was, obviously, much more labor intensive than today.  On the 21st when the firefighters were called to a blaze, only the avenues had been cleared.

The company's truck was pulled by three powerful horses, but they labored through the deep snow, becoming stuck several times on East 47th Street.  The New-York Tribune reported that they "were badly used up" when they once again got stuck just before reaching Third Avenue.

The driver's solution was to whip them "furiously."  When the horses still could not pull the truck from the snow, he climbed down "and lashed them from the front."  The newspaper said "The lashing of the horses caused a crowd to gather, and several women and men expostulated with the firemen.  They paid no attention, however, but continued to lash the rearing animals."

By coincidence, the Fire Department's chief veterinarian, Chief Shea, was heading downtown on the Second Avenue streetcar and saw what was going on.  He ordered the men to stop, "and then patted and petted the animals until they recovered their good nature."

He then put the firemen to work.  "They used their utmost strength to start the heavy truck, and succeed[ed] in doing so."

The company's truck was pulled by three powerful and handsome horses.  The elevated train tracks in the background are, possibly, the Third Avenue el.  photo via old-picture.com

It would not be many years, however before the horses were gone and Hook and Ladder 7 received its "Automobile Hook and Ladder Truck."  Then in the spring of 1915 the fire department would have to replace it.

On February 17 that year Fireman Harry Flynn was driving the truck "at full speed" down Second Avenue to a fire on 19th Street.  A streetcar driver, hearing the sirens, panicked and stopped short.  To avoid a collision Flynn swerved and disaster followed.

The Evening World reported "The rear wheel of the big truck struck an elevate railroad pillar.  The wheel was slewed around so that the axle was parallel with the body of the truck.  Flynn was hurled to the ground, but was not hurt."  It was the end of the shiny fire equipment.  "The truck was put out of commission."

The year 1920 exemplified the heroics and the dangers of the job.  On February 3 the men responded to a tenement fire on Fourth Avenue.  Fireman Thomas Costigan found Agnes Butcher unconscious on the fourth floor and carried her to safety; and James Tubridy "forced his way" into the rear of the building to rescue "two hysterical girls," as described by The New York Herald.

A week later the company rushed to a fire in the Oliver Film Company on February 7.  Motion picture film was made of celluloid, a highly flammable material that burned quickly and produced an extremely hot flame.  When burned it produced poisonous gases and toxic smoke.  Fireman James McMahon was overcome and was carried unconscious from the second floor.

And the following month, on March 8, the men faced an especially tricky blaze.  Fire broke out in a middle car of a 10-car train on the Third Avenue Elevated.   An aerial ladder was extended to the fire, but the men could not pour water on it until the electricity to the tracks was turned off.   In the meantime residents, whose homes were mere feet from the tracks, worried that the delay would allow fire to spread.

Like most fire companies, Hook and Ladder 7 had a mascot.  And theirs in 1937 was iconic--a black-spotted Dalmatian named Smoky.   The New York Times noted on April 21 "Smoky, who is 3 years old, rides to fires on his company's truck and recognizes his company's alarm signal, jumping to his station like a veteran, according to his master, Fireman Robert Riley."

But on April 20 that year Smoky embarked on an adventure.  He strolled out of the firehouse and headed east to Madison Avenue.  Apparently the headquarters of the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals looked inviting, so he dropped in.

The Times reported he "made himself at home in the lobby."  He stayed there until officials tracked down his owners through his license tag.  Society agent Tom McQuade then "escorted him home."

Members of the company would continue to receive commendation for their service throughout the decades.  In 1951 Fireman Jacob H. Soffel, for instance, was awarded a medal for bravery.

Rather surprisingly, given the small scale and age of the building, Hook and Ladder Company 7 continued on in the 1893 firehouse until August 6, 1968, when it moved in with Engine Company 16 at No. 234 East 29th Street.

The firehouse was converted to photo studios and offices on the first and second floors, with a single-family duplex above.  Then, in 1995, it was converted as the New York City Center of the Self Realization Fellowship, a religious movement founded by Paramahansa Yogananda, the author of Autobiography of a Yogi.

In renovating the structure, the group preserved LeBrun's stately exterior, so that it appears generally little changed from when Hook and Ladder Company 7 proudly moved back into its updated home in 1893.

many thanks to reader Hubert M. Cunniffe for suggesting this post

Engine Company 27 -- 173 Franklin Street

Among the volunteer fire companies that protected New Yorkers in the first half of the 19^th century was the North River Engine Company.  Like the rest of the city’s volunteer force, the “laddies” of the fire house at 173 Franklin Street were replaced in 1865.

The devastating fire that destroyed Barnum’s Museum that year along with pressure on the State Assembly by reformers resulted in the Act of 1865 that coupled Brooklyn and New York with a paid, united “Metropolitan District” fire department. 

On Friday, October 20, auctioneers R. R. Rollins & Co. sold everything in the fire house other than the equipment.  The auction announcement listed, “all the Furniture of the above company, consisting of iron Bedsteads, Mattresses, Pillows, Sheets, Blankets, Spreads, Carpets, Oilcloths, Paintings, Engravings, Bookcase, Extension Table, Library, Centre Table, &c., &tc.”

The North River Engine Company was replaced by Engine Company 27.  The blazes battled by the professional firefighters changed as the neighborhood did.  The low houses and shops of the pre-Civil War period were replaced by loft buildings in the last quarter of the century as the Franklin Street neighborhood became the “dry-goods district.”

In 1879, the Fire Department appointed Napoleon LeBrun its official architect.  His firm became N. LeBrun & Son a year later when Pierre LeBrun joined him in business.  Before the turn of the century they would be responsible for 42 fire houses.

By now, the old North River Engine Company fire house was obsolete and on May 7, 1881 the City announced, “Proposals for furnishing the materials and doing the work of erecting Engine House at 173 Franklin street” were being accepted.

Napoleon LeBrun & Son would famously create individual designs for their firehouses.  But when the busy firm was simultaneously tasked with designing at least four new house for Engine Company 27, including one for Engine Company 13 on Wooster Street, it simply created carbon copy structures.

Engine Company 13 at No. 99 Wooster Street is a virtual copy.

Completed in 1882, they followed the traditional firehouse layout.  The centered bay doors sat within the cast iron base.  The two upper floors were faced in red brick and trimmed in terra cotta and stone.  LeBrun & Son’s Queen Anne design was splashed with neo-Grec elements, most notably the stone lintel that floated above the second story central opening.

The men of Engine 27 posed outside the firehouse around 1905.   photographer unknown, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

Engine Company 27 battled a variety of fires in the changing neighborhood.  The new multi-story loft buildings and the old brick-faced frame structures presented two different challenges.

Typical of the latter was the fire that broke out at 209 West Street early on the morning of May 30, 1902.  Bernard McGuinness ran his saloon on the ground floor, while upstairs Mrs. Mary Murphy and her family lived with two boarders, longshoremen Richard O’Meara and Elmer Jones.

The fire seems to have broken out in Jones’s room.  Two firefighters led the Murphy family out, then Captain Doonan sent Fireman John Spencer back to find the missing longshoremen.  He was followed by John Grimes.

The following day, the New-York Tribune reported,

The fireman went into O’Meara’s room first.  He found him burned and unconscious on the bed.  The whole of the top floor was on fire by this time.  Spencer carried O’Meara down one flight of stairs, where he gave the unconscious man to Grimes.  Spencer returned to the top floor and, making his way into Jones’s room, found him, too, burned and unconscious on the bed.  He carried Jones out.

The firefighters were credited for saving the boarders’ lives.

By the time of that fire, the former dry goods district had become the wholesale produce and pharmaceutical district.  The change in the tenants in the loft buildings brought with it a dangerous threat to the firefighters—chemicals that gave off toxic fumes.

It was a condition that brought unspeakable tragedy to Engine Company 27 on March 26, 1904.  The Evening World reported, “Every man in engine company No. 27 was disabled in a fire to-day which sent forth choking fumes of gas and smoke at No. 205 Duane street.  The men fell unconscious in the burning building, and while they lay on the inside twenty other firemen, who attempted to go to their rescue also fell insensible.”

The five-story building was home to Charles Plunkett’s broom factory.  It was the chemicals used to make the brooms that created the lethal fumes.  By the time Engine Company 2 responded, the men of No. 27 were all inside, unconscious or dead.  “As they climbed through the smoke from the windows they were overcome and fell insensible into the arms of their comrades, who waited on the street to catch them as they fell.”

Only 30-year-old firefighter Thomas McGirr was pulled out alive.  It was not the first time that every man of the company was lost in their brave endeavors.  The Evening World reported, “Engine Company No. 27 has been wiped out three times.  McGirr is the only original member of the company, all of his old comrades having met death in the past three years.”  The newspaper added, “McGirr hasn’t much chance now, the doctors say.”

The firefighters of Engine Company 27 would repeatedly have to deal with dangerous fumes.  On July 15, 1910 fire broke out in the six-story warehouse of F. & C. Linde on Jay Street.  When firemen reached the top floor they were met with deadly ammonia fumes.  Three of them were overcome and had to be carried to the street.

Engine 27 fights a loft fire around the turn of the century  photographer unknown, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

Inexplicable fumes emanated from a blaze in the warehouse of the Phoenix Cheese Company at 345 Greenwich Street on July 18, 1921.  The fire burned nearly all day and the “evil smelling fumes” overcame 50 firemen.  The New-York Tribune reported the following day, “One fireman may die, two others are in serious condition in St. Vincent’s Hospital.”  All three were members of Engine Company 27.  Ironically, John Flynn, who was not expected to survive, had been gassed during his service in World War I.

Much less dangerous were the fumes that gushed forth from the blazed that demolished the five-story spice and coffee warehouse at 64-66 North Moore Street a year later on June 17.  While the men of Engine Company 27 battled the blaze, tenants in nearby buildings fled the area, driven away by the sickening odor.  The Evening World reported, “Smoke from burning spices, more than danger, drove about 200 persons to the streets at 5 A. M. to-day.”

In 1952, Mayor Vincent R. Impellitteri sought to cut costs by eliminating unnecessary city-owned properties.  Consultants were appointed to the Mayor’s Committee on Management Survey.  Among the structures “named for abandonment” was Engine Company 27’s Franklin Street firehouse.  Fire Commissioner Jacob Grumet was not prepared to blindly accept the recommendations.  On August 5, he inspected the firehouse, seeking to determine the distances other houses would have to travel to cover the fires now handled by Engine Company 27. 

Grumet declined to tell reporters how he felt about the proposed elimination of companies, simply saying there would be “much discussion” before any final move was made.  The Commissioner obviously swayed the Committee.  Engine Company 27 operated from 173 Franklin Street for another two decades until it was decommissioned in 1975.  Before the last firefighter left the building, one of them had written across the red truck bay door, “Born 1850-Closed 11-22-75.”

For a while the old firehouse was used as a welding shop before sitting vacant and neglected in the last decade of the 20^th century.  But Tribeca by then was experiencing its renaissance.  In 2002, a gallery was operating from the ground floor while the upper stories were converted to a single family home.

photographs by the author