Le Brun's 1889 Hook & Ladder Co. 14 - 120 East 125th Street

 

image via the Historic Districts Council

In 1865, "suburban" fire companies were established in the mostly rural Harlem district.  Less busy than their urban counterparts, the fire fighters were given less pay and no horse-drawn equipment.  Included in these companies was Suburban Ladder No. 14 at 120 East 125th Street.

As Harlem developed, Suburban Ladder No. 14 was replaced by Hook & Ladder Company 14 on January 1, 1868.  Still using the station house on December 18, 1881, the New York Dispatch described the company as "one of the best truck companies in the upper part of the city.  It has good officers and men, the latter being under excellent discipline."  But in 1888, the company was in serious need of modern accommodations.

A year earlier, on June 18, 1887, The Real Estate Record & Guide commented that fire stations were an exception to the very few "decent-looking" buildings erected by the city.  "The Fire Department...had the good sense to employ architects of repute to design their buildings, and selected Messrs. N. Le Brun & Son for that purpose."  Napoleon Le Brun had been appointed official architect for the department in 1879.  Before the turn of the century he and his son would be responsible for the design of 42 fire houses.  

Napoleon Le Brun & Son filed plans for a "four-story brick building" on April 27, 1888, projecting the cost at $16,500--or about $576,000 in 2026.  Using a variation of its typical Queen Anne design, the firm added touches of Romanesque Revival in the undressed brownstone base, the medieval decoration carved into the second floor lintel, the rounded stone piers at the sides that terminated in carved finials, and the creative wrought-iron jib, or bracket, in the form of a dragon.  (The jib was used to haul hay bales to the attic.)  Le Brun & Son stepped away from both styles in designing the attic as a slate-shingled mansard in the Second Empire style.

Perhaps the first tragedy for Hook & Ladder Company 14 came on June 9, 1895.  Patrick Conlin had been with the company since 1883 when he was 25.  He was headed to work at 2:15 that afternoon when an alarm of fire at 165 East 112th Street came in.  The truck raced down Lexington Avenue "at full speed," as reported by The New York Times.  The article said, "he saw the truck going by and made a run to jump on the long rail which extends along the side of the truck."  Conlin slipped and fell.  The rear wheels "passed over Conlin's body, leaving him mangled and unconscious."  The 37-year-old died later that afternoon.

Rescues from burning buildings in the 19th century sometimes required dangerous, nearly gymnastic, tactics.  On September 29, 1896, Hook & Ladder Company 14 responded to a fire at 2365 Third Avenue.  When they arrived, the fire had engulfed the first floor and spread to the second.  Frederick Thompson, who occupied rooms on the fourth floor, had been asleep and was the only tenant not to escape.  Two firefighters, Thomas Corrigan and John Lutz, "saw his predicament and hastened to the rescue."

They went to the top floor of the the three-story building next door.  The Sun reported,  "Corrigan stood with one foot on the cornice of the house and reached with the other foot to the lintel of the third story of the burning house, at the same time grasping the sill of Thompson's window."  When he was certain of "the firmness of his grasp on the window sill," Corrigan threw his other arm around Thompson's waist and drew him across the void.  

Corrigan straddled the cornice and lintel of two buildings to rescue the victim.  The Sun, September 30, 1896 (copyright expired)

The Sun said, "When Lutz had taken Thompson in his grasp and drew him over on the roof a cheer went up from the crowd below, and the cheer was repeated when Corrigan climbed to the roof from his perilous position, and all three were safe."

The company's truck was pulled by three horses, the oldest of which was Paddy, who was always in the center.  The company acquired him in 1871 when he was six years old.  At the time of Corrigan's and Lutz's remarkable rescue, Paddy was "if not the oldest horse in the department, he was one of the oldest," said the New York Herald two years later.

Paddy had an unexpected best buddy, Chief, described by the newspaper as "a splendid greyhound."  In 1891, Chief was brought to the station house as a puppy.  The New York Herald said he "blundered" into Paddy's stall.  The firefighters were alarmed, expecting "to see him kicked or trampled."  Instead, "the big horse only put his head down inquiringly, and Chief licked his nose in token of good fellowship.  From that time the two were fast friends."  Every evening, Chief would bed down on the straw in a corner of Paddy's stall.  When an alarm would ring, Chief would bark, Paddy would whinny "with all the power of his throat" and the greyhound would race through the streets next to the galloping horses.

At 4:00 on the morning of August 19, 1897, Chief began wailing.  Some of the firefighters, said the New York Herald, "yelled at Chief and told him to be quiet, but he only clamored the louder."  Captain Terpeny send a man down to see what was wrong.  "That dog isn't carrying on that way for fun," he said.  And he was right.

The article said, "The big horse was very sick and his friend had been calling for help."  The FDNY's veterinarian diagnosed Paddy with cholic.  The New York Herald reported:

The horse became weaker and weaker, and finally fell down.  Chief stayed with him, licking his face and howling mournfully until the end, which was about 7 o'clock.  Then it was with great difficulty that the men got him out of the stall.

The newspaper concluded the article saying, "There is talk of giving the horse a ceremonial burial, with Chief as principal mourner."

via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services

On February 1, 1907, the New-York Tribune reported that the station house of Hook & Ladder Company 14 would be receiving updates by architect Edward L. Middleton.  The renovations, costing the equivalent of more than $700,000 today, included "new concrete and iron floors...for the apparatus and the sliding pole floor opening enlarged."

The new floors had much to do with modern motorized equipment.  Hook & Ladder Company 14's speedy fire trucks greatly impressed Walter J. Albert in 1922.  On the night of May 1 that year he made "a little wager" with two friends, as described by the New-York Tribune.  He bet them that Engine 14 "could get from its house at 120 East 125th Street to the [alarm] box at 133d Street and Madison Avenue in three minutes."  The friends took the bet and Albert pulled the alarm.

The newspaper said, "When Albert was caught near the box at 133d Street the firemen were in a mood to cripple him.  It was the third time they had been called out on false alarms."  The article said that Patrolman Patrick Cushen, who caught Albert, "had to protect him from the irate fireman."

At the station house, Albert confessed that he was betting on the speed of the fire engine.

"Did you win?" asked one of the detectives.

"Naw, they were two minutes slow."

By the second half of the 20th century, the personality of the congested Harlem neighborhood around the firehouse had greatly changed.  City employees like policemen and firefighters were often viewed with suspicion and derision.  At around 2:00 on the morning of December 27, 1961, Hook & Ladder Company 14's truck was passing a crowd outside a bar at Park Avenue and 123rd Street.  Suddenly a bottle smashed against the side of the fire truck.  The New York Times reported that the truck stopped "and a fight ensued."

The article said, "The street fight was broken up by an unidentified railroad detective.  He drew his pistol and forced back the crowd as it pummeled the firemen."  In the end, four fire fighters and one civilian were injured.  

In 1975, Hook & Ladder Company 14 was relocated to 2282 Third Avenue.  Its former firehouse was officially decommissioned in 2003.  Napoleon Le Brun & Son's striking firehouse sat vacant and neglected for years.  Then, on August 31, 2014, The Real Deal reported, "An abandoned 19th-century firehouse in East Harlem is getting a new lease on life as a cultural center."

Six years earlier, Council Speaker Melissa Mark-Viverito had saved the structure from the auction block by promising that it would be repurposed as a cultural center.  The Real Deal reported, "Now the Caribbean Cultural Center African Diaspora Institute has been selected as the building's developer."  The Daily News reported that the organization would spent $5.5 million on restoration and renovations to the building.

photograph by Steven Bornholtz

Today, the Caribbean Cultural Center African Diaspora Institute's website explained that it "preserves and presents African Diaspora cultures, promoting arts and culture as tools for personal transformation, community-building, and social justice."

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.

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The William O. Kent House -- 254 West 23rd Street

In the early 1850's, the William O. Kent family lived in the new brick house at 254 West 23rd Street, just east of Eighth Avenue.  The 25-foot-wide Italianate style house was three stories tall above a high English basement.  It most likely sported a handsome cast iron balcony at the parlor level.  Interesting molded lintels sat above the openings and an especially attractive cast iron cornice overflowed with foliate decorations.

Henry F. Kent worked for the City in 1854.  He was First General Clerk for the Street Department.  While the term "clerk" implies a menial position today, his was a supervisory administrative job.

William O. Kent died in the house on Tuesday, January 15, 1856.  His funeral was held in the parlor three days later.

The following decade the renter of No. 254 was looking for a new place to live.  Signing his advertisement in The New York Herald on February 7, 1864 simply "R.D." he announced, "Wanted to Purchase--A four story high stoop House, between Thirty-fourth and Forty-eighth streets and Madison and Seventh avenues, for which all cash will be paid if wanted."

That he would pay "all cash" attested to his comfortable financial status.  His decision to move farther north may have had to do with the gradual changes in his neighborhood.   Before the decade was up West 23rd Street would be dotted with theaters, including Booth's Theatre and Bryant's Opera House, diagonally opposite one another at Sixth Avenue, and Pike's Opera House just steps away from No. 254, at Eighth Avenue.

The cast metal cornice is an especially pleasing example of the Italianate style.

"R. D." was among the first residents to abandon the block, which was almost fully commercialized by 1887.  That year real estate dealers S. F. Jayne & Co. purchased 254 West 23rd Street and commissioned the architectural firm of Napoleon Le Brun & Son (official architects of the Fire Department) to renovate it.  The plans, filed in August, called for "basement and first story wall to be removed, front wall shored up, &c."  The modifications, costing about $53,000 in today's dollars, included an iron staircase which replaced the stone stoop, and a cast iron storefront for the office in the basement level and the store in the former parlor.

On August 4, 1888, The Real Estate Record & Builders' Guide announced, "The well-known and highly-respected firm of S. F. Jayne & Co. have removed from their old-time office at No. 233 West 23d street to handsome, commodious and well-appointed quarters opposite, at No. 254 West 23d street."

Four months later the journal remarked that business for S. F. Jayne & Co. had recently increased.  "This is due to their now having better facilities than ever for conducting their business in its various ramifications."  The firm was full-service, not only representing buyers and sellers, but managing properties.  It handled the collection of rents, appraised properties, managed estates, and sold fire insurance.  The technologically up-to-date company had a telephone installed when it moved in.  Its phone number was "21st st 432."

By 1901, the second floor store space was occupied by Charles A. Flammer, dealer in "American tiles."  His advertisements noted "art ceramic a specialty."

Around 1911, the upper floors became home to the Phelps School of Design, run by Ernest L. Phelps.  Among his instructors were illustrators Charles B. Falis and Earl Horter.

Ernest L. Phelps was drawn into a nationally-publicized legal case in 1914.  Ten Eyck Conover, a farmer from Browntown, New Jersey, sued Phelps for alienating his wife's affections.  The rather commonplace allegations would not have drawn much attention had it not been for the circumstances surrounding Mrs. Conover's desertion of her husband.

Both she and her daughter, Isabella, testified to Conover's "extreme brutality," as described by The New York Times.  Isabella told the court that "he always called her mother by unspeakable names, and that one night he dragged them both out of bed, and turned them out into the cold, with the flourish of a revolver as they retreated before him."

Mrs. Conover recounted the stories of her apparently masochistic husband torturing "a girl with a monkey wrench, had beaten another, and had hung another to a rafter by her thumbs."  The New York Times reported on February 7 that "There was much of this sort of testimony."

Newspapers as far away as North Dakota published the astonishing verdict.  On February 21, the Bismarck Daily Tribune reported, "Ten Eyck Conover...got a verdict of $7,000 against Ernest L. Phelps."  The New York Times reported the obvious. "The verdict came as a surprise."

Ten Eyck Conover was not surprised.  He grumbled to reporters, "I don't understand why God does not strike them down in court for telling such lies."

In 1916, S. F. Jayne's partner, A. M. Cudner, took over the business, changing the name to the Cudner Real Estate Co.  The firm would remain in the building until around 1922.  When Cudner sold the property in 1917, the Phelps School of Design was gone and the upper floors were converted to apartments.

Among the tenants were Policeman Frank Upton and his family.  When war broke out in Europe, Upton took a leave of absence from the police department to join the Engineer Corps of the U.S. Army.  During the battle of Chateau-Thierry on November 30, 1917 he and five other of the 11th Engineers were gassed and captured by a German machine gun squad.  One American, Private Albert Jensen, received a serious head wound.

Upton, now a corporal, spoke fluent German, a situation that seems to have been an advantage.  On March 22, 1918, Police Lieutenant Frank Rheinish received a letter from Upton with surprising information.  Saying he was temporarily at a "collection camp," he wrote, "We have very few restrictions here, except that we can't go out as often as we would like to.  But, under the circumstances, we are being well treated by our 'friendly enemies.'"

Close inspection of the language, however, suggest that his friendly enemies may have been carefully monitoring the communication.  Upton referred to being taken to "the Fatherland," and called his captors "these good-natured people."  Once the Americans arrived at the permanent prisoner camp, the Germans allowed the captives to keep their dog, Mut.  The canine was trained as a "trench runner," but had been wounded in the leg and demoted to mascot.

Nearly a year later, on January 18, 1919, The Sun ran the headline, "Policeman-Soldier Safe" and reported that Frank Upton had "been released from a German prison, where he was taken following his capture, and is now safe with friends in an American camp in France."  The article mentioned that his wife and children lived in the 23rd Street apartment.

Four months later, back in Europe, a directive was issued that forbade military men to bring mascots home.   That included the 11th Engineers's good pal, Mut.  The New York Times reported, "Farewells were said to goats, cats and dogs and the ship pulled away from their dumb friends." 

Aboard the same ship with Upton was his former camp mate, Private Albert Jensen.  Three days into the crossing Mut "mysteriously" appeared on deck.  The Times reported later, "There was great rejoicing to see again the little dog."  But rejoicing turned to shock when the colonel in charge ordered the dog thrown overboard.  Frank Upton later recalled, "Jensen stepped forward and said that if the dog was thrown over he would go after him."  The colonel considered Jensen's serious head injuries and decided to allow Mut to remain on board as a sort of comfort animal, by today's terminology.

Back home in New York Frank Upton resumed his police duties.  On June 4, 1919, he responded to a commotion outside of 65 Central Park West.  The watchman had summoned Officer Thomas McNamara after he saw a man crawl through a window into the building.  As Upton arrived on the scene, the burglar tossed out loot, including a fur neckpiece and a clock.  Then he exited the window.

The man looked at Frank Upton and said "Hello, Corporal.  How's everything?"  It was his former unit and prison mate, Albert Jensen.  Upton had the unenviable task of arresting Jensen and taking him to the West Side Court.  The New York Times said, "Meanwhile, however, policeman or not, Upton could not help asking his prisoner about 'Mut.'"  (Mut, it turned out, had been allowed to leave the ship with Jenson.)

"While questioned at the court, Jensen appeared to be still suffering from shell shock, or from the effect of the bullet wound he had received in the head," said The Times.  He could not remember burglarizing the apartment, but said he would plead guilty, because "I must have done it if all these people say I did."

Although he was held on $1,000 bond, it was doubtful that he would be imprisoned.  Given his obvious trauma, the court said he would most likely be sent to a hospital.

Two years later, another tenant was in the newspapers.  May Geraty was a member of the choir of St. John's Evangelical Church on 11th Street at University Place.  Another member, 23-year old Astor Lagerienn, offered to escort her home following choir practice on the night of April 3, 1921.  The New York Times explained, "Taking advantage of the fine night, the two strolled slowly through Madison Square Park, where loungers on benches were enjoying the balmy air."

Suddenly, at around 10:15, what The New York Herald called "a fusillade of shots" rang out.  Lagerienn dropped to the ground, struck in the neck and arm.  Another pedestrian, Arsog Chortrin was also wounded.  May's screams along with sound of five gunshots sent people running into the park from all around, including Patrolman Mortin.

According to The Times report, the policeman found May Geraty "wildly excited and totally mystified by the occurrence."  Neither of the victims had any idea why they were shot and witnesses had not seen where the shots came from or who fired them.  Largerienn was taken to Bellevue Hospital where, according to The New York Times, his wounds were deemed "serious" while, according to the New York Herald, they were "superficial."

The survival of the venerable house looked dim in December 1943.  An investor had purchased No. 254 that fall, and now added the two-story building and the lumber yard at Nos. 250 and 252 to his holdings.  The New York Times suggested on December 8 that the unnamed buyer, "now controls a plot of 7,500 square feet which he will hold for post-war improvement."

The little building and lumberyard next door to No. 254 can be seen in this 1931 photo.  from the collection of the New York Public Library

The combined properties were sold to the Broadway Savings Bank in October 1945.  The bank announced its intentions of constructing a new branch bank building on the site.  As it turned out, the bank used only two thirds of the plot for its monolithic structure, saving the Kent house in the process.

In the mid 1950's, the shop level was home to the Regina Gallery.  Half a century before Chelsea would become known as an art gallery district, the space routinely exhibited group shows.  By the 1960's it was taken over by Wingate Florists.

A renovation of the lower levels in 1987 resulted in a restaurant space.  The Provencal-style Eze opened in 1988, prompting The New York Times culinary reviewer Bryan Miller to remark, "The commercial strip of West 23d Street is hardly a gastronomic hub of midtown Manhattan...When the restaurant Eze appeared there, it was like a fragrant Provencal flower pushing through the craggy concrete."

It was a compliment to the restaurant, if not the neighborhood.

Two years later, on March 15, 1991, he was equally complimentary--to the restaurant.  "The softly lighted room with its well-distanced tables, sound-absorbing carpeting, soothing off-white walls and high ceilings is nothing short of an urban balm."  He called it, "a pioneer of fine dining in this neighborhood."

Despite Miller's glowing reviews, Eze closed in April 1992.  The space would become another restaurant, East of Eighth, a popular Chelsea destination for years.  Writing in New York magazine, Coleen McKinney said "A short saunter from the Chelsea Hotel, Ease of Eighth may fly its rainbow flag high, but it welcomes all kinds."

Then, surprising patrons and neighbors, it closed its doors with no notice in January 2017.  A sign pasted on the glass read simply "Forced to close it's [sic] doors."

UPDATE:  The house was demolished in 2024.

photographs by the author

The 1887 Engine Co. 55 -- No. 185 Lafayette Street

On April 10, 1886 the Board of Commissioners announced it would accept bids for "for furnishing the materials and labor, and doing the work required for construction and erecting" the firehouse for Engine Company No. 55 at No. 173 Elm Street.  The once residential neighborhood of half a century earlier was now filling with factories and warehouses.

Napoleon LeBrun & Son was the official architectural firm of the Fire Department.  The 1880s saw a flurry of firehouse construction as the city planned new stations in developing areas and modernized several existing houses.  Although Napoleon LeBrun & Son would be remembered for their exciting, individual firehouse designs, for several years during this period they recycled one Queen Anne model.

Engine Company No. 55 was completed in 1887.  Its facade was textured by diapered brickwork, highlighted with terra cotta ornaments, and trimmed in stone.  Three stories of brick sat upon a cast iron base dominated by the wide, paneled double bay doors.  The firehouse was strikingly similar to several others--like Engine Company No. 54 on West 47th and Engine Company No. 15 on Henry Street.

When completed in 1887, the firehouse was flanked by low, residential structures. The top floor was lopped off around 1898.  from the collection of the New York Public Library

The firefighters of Engine Company 55 dealt not only with blazes in the low frame buildings from the first half of the century; but with hard to fight fires in the taller loft structures.  An example was the fire which broke out in the five-story building at No. 59 Spring Street on May 24, 1888.


Hugh McGinnis hired older Irish women to work in his "rag warehouse."  Ten were sorting rags on the top floor at 11:00 that morning when, as worded by the New-York Tribune, "a fire broke out almost under their noses."  The panicked women ran as the floor filled with smoke,

Seven women made it to the street safely.  Three others were less lucky.  The Tribune reported "Bridget O'Mara of Leonard-st., went down as far as the third-story and then tried to slide down a rope in the hoistway.  She lost her hold about sixteen feet from the ground and fell the rest of the way, breaking a rib and receiving serious internal injuries."

The central panels of the cast iron pilasters were like gently folded fabric; while the capitals were in the form of stylized flames.

By now Engine Company No. 55 was on the scene.  Firefighter Edwin Ford ran up through the flames.  He found Catharine Sullivan, her dress on fire, trying to escape to the roof.  He carried her to the roof of an adjoining building, then down the stairway to the sidewalk.  The newspaper said "She had been burned dangerously about the face and limbs."

Another worker, Mary McCarthy, had jumped from the window to the roof of the building at the rear.  Although she suffered only a sprained wrist and went home; Bridget O'Mara died at St. Vincent's Hospital later that night and a hospital spokesperson said that Catherine Sullivan, too, would probably die.

Only five years after the building's completion, in October 1892 the Board of Estimate and Apportionment budgeted funds for a new site "for Engine Company 55, now at 173 Elm Street near Broome Street."  The move was no doubt in anticipation of the proposed extension of Lafayette Place to Elm Street, and the simultaneous widening of Elm.

That ambitious civic project began in 1897 when the city condemned and demolished the buildings between Jersey Street and Great Jones Street in the way of the Elm Street project.  On July 7, 1898 The New York Times reported "Bids were opened for a new fire house at Broome and Elizabeth Streets, for Engine 55, which must move from Elm Street because of the widening of the street."

Elm Street was now part of the newly-formed Lafayette Street, taking the new address of No. 185 Lafayette Street.  Rather astonishingly, after Engine Company 55 moved out the city moved the facade back to the new property line.  It was no doubt at this time that the top floor was lopped off. The cornice, the band of terra cotta rosettes, and the brick corbelled brackets were all carefully lowered to make the alterations seamless.


The city retained possession of the old firehouse, maintaining it according to Fire Commissioner Adamson in 1914, "solely as sleeping quarters for Deputy Fire Chief Thomas R. Langford."  Three years later the city clumped No. 185 Lafayette Street with several other properties to be traded "for undeveloped land at Inwood Hill owned by private parties," according to The Sun on May 19, 1917.

Converted for business use, the ground floor of No. 185 was an automotive repair shop by 1923; and at mid century was the "surplus store" owned by Elias Ziegler.  By the turn of the 21st century the Soho neighborhood around No. 185 Lafayette Street saw the repurposing of old lofts and warehouses into residential spaces and trendy shops.  In 2004 the old firehouse was converted to a ground floor studio and a single apartment above.

In 2009 fashion and celebrity photographer Terry Richardson paid $3.3 million for the 2,800-square-foot residence.  Through it all the building retained the signature touches which make it immediately identifiable as the work of Napoleon LeBrun.

photographs by the author
many thanks to reader Benjamin George Friedman 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