Dead Horse Bay marks the site of what once was Barren Island. What is now Floyd Bennett Airfield used to be watery marshland separating a series of small islands from mainland Brooklyn–Barren Island was the largest. Its name comes from a corruption of the Dutch word for bear–only much later did the English meaning of the term come to apply.

From the 1850s until the last residents were evicted in 1936, Barren Island was a community built on trash, home to dozens of factories and rendering plants. At its height during WWI, it took in all of the household trash of Manhattan, Brooklyn and the Bronx, and the daily remains of all five borough’s animal dead. This refuse was sorted and rendered and converted to major profits as glycerin, fertilizer and glue by a community of immigrants–mostly Polish, Italian and Irish, with a small population of blacks–who lived on the island and worked its factories. Tasks were sorted according to social rank, with black families getting the worst job, converting daily tons of dead fish to fertilizer. Second to that was the job of rag-pickers, who used their bare hands to feel for and sort out valuable fabric from the garbage; comparatively less horrifying were the jobs of sorting bone and scavenging metal and paper. The smell from the island was so intense that at one point a group on mainland Brooklyn calling itself the Anti-Barren Island League held considerable sway in city politics, continually proposing legislation to close down the island or somehow curb the stench.

Residents of Barren Island were completely separated from mainstream life in the city, and their daily reality was as distinct as if it were another country: at the turn of the last century, the island had no electricity, no post office, no doctors or nurses, four saloons, five factories boiling vats of garbage day and night, and a one-room schoolhouse. School let out early so children could help their parents sort garbage. After 91 other teachers turned the post down, in 1918, “Lady Jane,” “the Angel of Barren Island,” came to teach. She lived in downtown Brooklyn, and taught children and families in Barren Island piano, dance, etc.

In that same year, the city stopped sending garbage there, and all but one factory, a horse rendering plant, closed. Chemical compounds were replacing natural materials for cleaning and the automobile had cut way down on the number of horses needed, and therefore dying, in the city. In 1926, the waters around Barren Island were filled in with garbage, sand and coal to make what’s now Floyd Bennett Field. In 1936, Robert Moses ordered evacuation of residents to build Marine Park Bridge, the island’s cottages were bulldozed and everyone was scattered. In the 1950s, a cap on one of the landfills burst, littering Dead Horse Bay with eras of waste, which continually washes ashore here.

Urban explorers are drawn to Dead Horse Bay because the trash that litters its shores–toys, shoes, bottles and bones–gives them glimpses into the everyday of New Yorkers of decades past. But, not everything that washes up there is quite so “everyday.” In 1830, the pirate Charles Gibbs ran his (pirated) ship aground on a sandbar near Rockaway point after murdering the captain and first mate, a crime for which he was later sentenced to the death and hung. Before he was captured, though, Gibbs and his cohorts made it to shore on Barren Island, where they are said to have buried $50,000 worth of gold coins. Legends dispute where the treasure was buried and what was its fate. But, in 1986, treasure hunters were tantalized when a gold coin was found along the southern shore.

Please peruse Underwater New York to find work inspired by the many strange objects that have turned up on the shores of Dead Horse Bay!

Sources: 

FYI, New York Times, All The Dead Horses, New York Times, Atlas Obscura

Mr. Loan Lost His Horse. He Lost His Companion Also, but She Was Found Again

The New York Times

Published: February 6, 1886

A man with a nose like an August sunset and cheeks like the roses that bloom in the Spring drove up to Kelly’s Hotel, on the Ocean Parkway Boulevard near the King’s Highway station on the Prospect Park and Coney Island Railroad, at midnight on Thursday and called for a drink. He gave his horse to the care of a stable boy and assisted a bundle of cloaks and scarfs and hoods to alight from the sleigh and walk into the hotel. In the parlor, when part of these numerous articles of wearing apparel had been laid on a chair, the bundle resolved itself into a young woman of prepossessing appearance with an affinity for hot lemonade. The man repeated his call for a drink several times with great success, for he soon got thawed out, and the crimson hue of his face gradually softened to the color of an underdone tenderloin of beef. Every time the wind whistled around the corner of the hotel he called for a drink, and on each occasion he took whiskey. He remarked casually that it was a cold night and that he needed something bracing. Before calling for a drink he invariably commented with a reckless increase of adjectives upon the abnormal condition of the weather. At the sixth drink it was the coldest night on record.

After a time the man took another drink, the woman concealed herself in many swathings of clothes, and the pair went forth into an atmosphere 8 degrees below zero. Relieved of the bustle and confusion incident to the call for drinks, the hotel drowsed back into its normal condition. An hour later the strange man, covered with snow from head to foot, walked into the hotel alone and called for a drink. He seemed stupefied, and to all appearances was under the influence of liquor.

“Where’s your horse and sleigh?” the bartender asked.

The man looked at him stupidly for a moment, and replied: “In Coney Island Creek, I guess.”

The bartender did not question him through fear of rousing his anger. After warming himself at the stove for a few minutes the man walked out of the hotel and disappeared. The bartender spoke to John Kelly, the proprietor of the place, about the man’s conduct, and subsequently started down toward Coney Island Creek to find the woman. On the embankment near the bridge which spans the creek he saw cutter tracks leading down to the creek, and in peering about in the faint light he found the horse and cutter in a big hole in the ice in the bed of the creek. He spoke to the horse but the animal did not move. Then walking out on the ice he found that the horse was frozen stiff. A woman’s woolen scarf was in the sleigh, and a small shawl lay on the ice. No trace of the woman could be found.

The accident was reported to the Gravesend police early yesterday morning, and was telephoned from Coney Island to Brooklyn. Several detectives were sent out on the case. A Fourth Precinct officer called at the house of William Loan, at No. 145 Classon-avenue, Brooklyn, late in the afternoon.

“Billy,” said the officer, “did you lose a horse and cutter last night?”

“Yes, I did,” returned Mr. Loan.

“Do you know where they are?”

“Yes. They are in Coney Island Creek!” Mr. Loan then explained that while driving down the Boulevard his horse had become unmanageable, and swerving from the road had fallen off the bridge into the creek. The ice broke and let the horse into the water. Loan tried to get the horse out, but failed. He did not know what became of the woman with him, but not seeing her anywhere about, concluded that she had either been drowned or had sought a place of safety. He refused to give the name of the woman to the officer, but said that he had learned upon reaching home yesterday morning that she had returned home at about 4 oclock in the morning.

It was learned last evening that the woman was Mrs. Jennie Williams of No. 205 Marcy-avenue, Brooklyn. Mrs. Williams is about 30 years of age, and has been separated from her husband for some time. She said that when the sleigh struck the ice she was thrown out and partially stunned. She was confused for a time by the struggles of the horse, and when she regained her presence of mind she was alone. The horse struggled desperately for a while, and then lay still. Mrs. Williams then climbed up to the road and wandered about until she found a man who for the minor consideration of $20 consented to take her to Brooklyn. Upon arriving home, she found that her nose, ears, and toes were frostbitten. She was put to bed for medical treatment. She was called upon during the afternoon by Mr. Loan, who, she said, seemed both surprised and pleased to find that she had returned in safety.

Mr. Loan is a boss stevedore of some means. He does a thriving business on the Wallabout docks, keeping about 25 horses employed most of the time. He is about 40 years old, and has a wife and family. The horse that he drove into Coney Island Creek was Mollie Brannagan, a young trotter which he purchased in Danbury, Conn., a year ago for $1,000. The animal was a good roadster, with a record of 2:30 on a heavy track. She was a vicious beast, and was fond of running away. She had run away with Loan three times, on one occasion injuring him severely.

He Was Her Husband's Friend

New York Times

Published: February 7, 1886

Mrs. Jennie Williams, of No. 205 Marcy-avenue, Brooklyn, who had such an unpleasant experience in Coney Island Creek on Thursday night in company with Mr. William Loan was seen at her home by a Times reporter yesterday. She introduced the reporter to a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman about 30 years of age, whom she said was her husband. He is in the same business as Mr. Loan and the two are friends. Her husband, Mrs. Williams explained, was not able to own a horse and sleigh, so when Mr. Loan asked her to take a drive he was perfectly willing to let her go. The lady felt hurt that some of the accounts of the story represented her as being divorced from her husband, which she denied.

The New York Times

The New York Times

Published: July 29, 1886

Ex-Alderman Nicholas R. O’Connor, of this city, is interested in many enterprises, chief among which is a gaslight company which illuminates the greater part of New Jersey. Besides being a member of the Union Club, Secretary of a lawn tennis society, and the leader of the german in Harlem, he is an amateur photographer, second only in skill to the son of Mr. Arnold, of Arnold, Constable & Co. The ex-Alderman last year had made for him at great expense a gorgeous pair of knickerbockers, or knee breeches. McCarthy, the tailor, told him that with the upper part of his lower limbs incased in these knickerbockers he would create a flutter among the gentler sex at the seaside. The ex-Alderman observed that he was married, and the subject was dropped. He went to Fire Island for a few days’ recreation, and, while promenading on the beach, was attacked by a party of fisherman who afterward declared that they thought they had clubbed the life out of a new kind of sea serpent. When the ex-Alderman recovered from his injuries he swore a mighty oath that he would never again wear the knickerbockers, and he gave them to his wife, telling her to sell them to the old clo’ man.

A few weeks ago the ex-Alderman was seized with the amateur photography mania, and purchased an expensive camera and other apparatus. He rushed out to Pike County, Penn., and took views of all the wild scenery in that picturesque country. He photographed farmers, their wives and children, and returned to this city rejoicing. He presented the photographs to his neighbors, and they are asking themselves the question, “What did we ever do to Nick O’Connor?”

On Friday evening, the regular monthly meeting of the Bacon and Cabbage Club was held in its clubroome in Park-place, and Major P.M. Haverty presided. After the pig’s head and bacon and cabbage had disappeared, and the only beverage—hot whiskey—allowed to be served in the clubroome had been liberally passed around, ex-Alderman O’Connor opened a large trunk and produced his camera, saying that he would take views of the members of the club in various groups by electric light. The temperature of the room was about 140°, but no member was allowed to put ice in the hot whiskey, and it is against the rules of the club for any member to use a fan or other cooling machine. The ex-Alderman took several very satisfactory views, and the club members voted that copies should be sent to the various charitable institutions. The members learned with deep regret that the ex-alderman intended to spend the remainder of the season at Fire Island catching instantaneous views of passing steamers. McCarthy, the tailor, persuaded him to again wear knickerbockers, and the ex-Alderman consented. All of Tuesday night a force of tailors were at work making the knickerbockers, and early yesterday morning they were sent to the ex-Alderman.

Last evening the ex-Alderman appeared at his office in Park-place. He walked lame and told a strange story. He said that yesterday morning, upon the invitation of a relative of his old friend, Police Justice Andrew Jackson White, he went to Barren Island. He had heard of Barren Island before, but had never visited it. He had an idea that it was a charming and picturesque spot if its name meant anything. He wore his knickerbockers and carried his photographic apparatus with him; also a special permit from the President of the Bacon and Cabbage Club to carry a fan. When he neared the island he was certain that he was not approaching a bed of roses. He saw some buildings which looked like factories of some kind, and when he landed he wished he was at his home in Harlem. He determined, however, not to lose the opportunity to gather some views and aimed his camera at a building which he was told was Justice White’s Summer residence. He was hard at work when, he says, a shot was fired at him. He shrieked, “Murder!” “Police!” at the top of his voice and aroused the natives. Search was made for the would-be murderer, but he was not discovered. Blood trickled from a spot on the calf of the ex-Alderman’s left leg. The surgeons of the Barren Island Hospital examined the wound and gave it as their opinion that it was the work of a mosquito. They actually laughed over it. Ex-Alderman O’Connor was highly indignant. He said that he not only heard the shot, but saw a man with a gun, and felt the wound in his left leg all at the same time. He was certain that an attempt to murder him had been made. His wound was dressed last night by Tailor McCarthy, who was a surgeon in the army, and the ex-Alderman was conveyed to his home in a carriage. He will go to Fire Island as soon as he recovers from his injuries. He is thankful that he escaped from Barren Island with his camera, and promises to do great work at Fire Island.

This article was presented as a theatrical reading by actor Mark Emerson Smith at the Brooklyn gallery Proteus Gowanus’s show Transport III with Underwater New York on July 8, 2010.

Where east meets west, at Brooklyn’s Dead Horse Bay,

I washed up on the densely littered strand

To finger frets, and soundless ragas play

For bones and trash cast up here on the sand.

Not long ago, when Asia beckoned

Across the seas, and New York beckoned back,

I decorated mantles and was reckoned

Exotic figurine — until a crack

Formed when admirer slip-fingered

And dropped me down to earth with a tiny crash.

Abandoned by my owner, I malingered

In barrels, barges, and a sea of trash.

   Amid the horse bones neighing each to each

   I strum my silent sitar on the beach.

The submission requirements for a publication called Underwater New York directed me to a list of objects found underwater in New York which might inspire me. I didn’t need the list. I saw the name of the publication and when I read the three words, the idea found me. I knew exactly where I was. Wasn’t it odd that some editor in America knew too, where I had been so many years ago.

The story starts as usual in a small mining town in Northern Ontario. My family had arrived at this outpost as refugees from the war in 1948. People didn’t come to Sudbury because of the scenery. They came to find work. My mother parted the green curtains of the Pullman car on the Canadian Pacific Railway and said, “We’ve arrived in Hiroshima.”

It wasn’t that bad. The winters were long but we had leggings. The summers were glorious, we had a lake. Rounded rocks were our landscape, moonscape some said, but my horizons were soon to broaden. The story unfolds as my American cousins came to visit. The rich ones in the family. My stern uncle parked his gold Delta 88 in front of our clapboard house. The neighbours came round to inspect the orangey plates. My aunt Mary said the kids were good ’til Buffalo where she spanked them and they behaved the rest of the way to Sudbury.

“You don’t know how good you have it here,” she would say to my mother. Mary would go to the lake and sleep, while her youngest, Eddy, wandered away in the park. My mother protested, “He’ll get lost.”

“He’ll come back,” said Mary, turning her other cheek on the blanket, and he did. My mother went home to wash the windows.

In the early 60′s I was twelve. We had moved to Toronto. There was a one strip airport in Malton, nearby. My father had started a new business, a gift shop. He bought merchandise from his brother, my stern uncle, who lived in New York.

One summer, my father had to go to New York. It was better if he shopped in person for the new store. The question was how to go – by bus or plane. That first trip I was to join him, to see the sights, to visit the cousins. Whether it was because the bus fare was cheaper than flying, or because both my father and I were afraid to fly that first time, we took the famous “open your lunch with the salami sandwich and can of soda at two a.m. on the New York Thruway” bus.

The first thing that was different about New York was the way my cousins spoke. Brooklynese. “Ma, Ma, the gudjoomah man is here.” And running to the curb, again, “Ma, Ma…………” Then I saw the white truck with letters arced: G O O D H U M O R I CE C R E A M. Oh. My cousin would walk me four blocks to 13th Avenue where we visited the shoe store.

“This is my cousin from Canada.”

“Is that where all the Eskimos live?” asked the salesman.

It wasn’t that funny. Thirteenth Avenue was where I got my hair straightened for the first time. Relaxed was the word. Like Diana Ross. Friday morning my aunt Mary and I shopped for fruit. We walked and carried the shopping home in a mesh bag. After we washed the fruit and put in in the fridge, we had lunch. “Don’t dry the dishes,” she said. (Women’s Lib, first time.) “Get the beach stuff from the basement.”

We would walk to the train, climb the stairs and take the El to Coney Island. You could peer into someone’s apartment as the train rolled by. Watch them watching TV. Down the stairs, walk the hot pavement, past the radios blaring in the street, arrive at the beach. Here we would lie on the sand, fall asleep amid the noise, and cool off after in the surf.

That was the summer my aunt took me to the Statue of Liberty, her favourite place in the city she said. She was a Holocaust survivor, but in America, she was free. We would go to Radio City Music Hall. I came again in winter and saw the Rockettes dressed up as Christmas trees. The windows of the apartment buildings on Ocean Parkway had more menorahs than I had ever seen. When we went to the City, we took the train. Each had a letter. Ours was F. If you remembered which letter to take, you were pretty much okay. Sometimes we would go to my uncle’s shop on Canal Street. We would stand in line and eat at the Garden Restaurant. Tuna fish on rye. Coffee. Sometimes we would shop at Macy’s. I loved my aunt’s ease wherever we went. She’d like to try that perfume, pointing. “Oh, my dear,” said the saleslady, “that fragrance is much too sophisticated for you.” I can still hear my aunt laughing. Gales. Under the ground at one subway stop, we are waiting a long time. Maybe the train is stuck. Who knows? There are other things in this city that are broken that no-one cares about. There are men lying on the floor in a subway stop called the Bowery and I look at my aunt wondering, shouldn’t we stop and help, but she takes my hand and we pick our way over the bodies.

I am with my aunt. She’s not upset. Underground. Waiting. In the train. I sit near the window, which is filthy. I am staring at a wall. Sitting for a long time. There is a crack in the wall and water is coming out of it. I point with my finger, questioningly. “We’re under the river,” she says. Whoever heard of such a thing? She repeats: “Under the river.” She is aloof. The river is running quite fast into the subway and no one but me seems to notice or care. Certainly not my aunt. Well, if she doesn’t care, I don’t care either, but this child from the rounded rocks has travelled all this way with the salami stink and soda spray upsetting a lot of people on the bus. She is sitting under a leaking river in New York. Who thought this could be possible and who would ever imagine that fifty years later, some editor in America wants to hear about it.

My aunt is over ninety now. She was sick last year, but is feeling better. Lots of pain. Degenerative disc. She still goes to work at her husband’s shop, which her son now runs. I call her to ask her what was the name of the stop. She goes way back in her mind.

“Why do you want to know”, she asks. I tell her I might write a story.

“Can I read it?”

“Haven’t written it yet.”

“Oh. East Broadway,” she says. “Under the river.”