1871

by Peter J Spalding

  Outside, Peg Leg Sullivan and Dennis Regan were still prowling about. For a while they just listened to the sounds of the party. Sullivan pulled a bottle from his pocket and took a large swig; then he closed his eyes and immersed himself in the music. He considered joining the celebration, but Regan broke his train of thought by asking for a smoke. Sullivan handed him a cigar and tried to light a match, but the wind quickly blew out the flame. In order to light the match, Sullivan thought, he would have to find some shelter.

  The fiddling stopped, and muffled sounds of applause came drifting out of the house. The wind blew a swirl of brown leaves across the street. Then the applause ended, and a dead silence enveloped the neighborhood. The only sound was a soft flap-flap-flap as a single pigeon flew away.

  Across the street, neighbor William White saw his wife peering out the window. He asked her what she had seen, but she replied that she wasn’t quite sure. Mrs. White could have sworn she’d seen movement; there were no streetlamps nearby, and the moon had not yet risen, but she thought she’d seen a figure heading toward the O’Learys’ backyard.

  The O’Learys kept on sleeping and didn’t notice a thing. The house was still for a minute, until a sudden yell came piercing through the walls. A few moments later, someone pounded on their door.

  Patrick O’Leary swore to himself as he got out of bed. He opened the door, ready to give Sullivan and Regan a piece of his mind. But then he saw something that made his face go pale with horror. He jumped over to his wife.

  “Kate,” he yelled, “the barn is afire!”

  The Great Chicago Fire had begun.

  PART II: THE GREAT FIRE

  Chapter Ten: Fire at the O’Learys

  “The wind blowed every way. You could not tell one way more than the other way… the roar of the fire, you never heard such a thing."

  — Catherine O’Leary

  THE O’LEARY BARN WAS SO SMALL THAT THE SMOKE FILLED IT UP WITHIN SECONDS. Peg Leg Sullivan coughed as he stumbled around. He knew the barn’s layout well, having been inside hundreds of times, but the blaze was so intense that he could barely see where he was. Wood shavings, coal, and hay were burning fiercely, and the flames were already licking their way up the walls.

  The horse was bucking from side to side, but it couldn’t escape with its halter still tied to the wall. Sullivan knew he couldn’t save the animal, so he didn’t even try. But he could release the cows, Sullivan thought, and they might stand a chance. He limped forward and tried to untie their halters. His hands shook so much that he could only free two of the animals. The cattle didn’t know what to do, so they just stayed in place, and the heat forced Sullivan to retreat.

  By that point, thick black clouds were billowing out of the doors and windows. Sullivan felt his way along the northern wall. He nearly made it to safety, but then a cattle trough collapsed, and water splashed in all directions. Sullivan’s peg leg slipped and caught on a crack in the floor. He lost his balance and fell hard against the ground. He grimaced and tried to get up, but then he tripped again, this time because a calf had suddenly emerged from the smoke. Sullivan grabbed the calf’s halter and yanked it from the wall. The calf’s back was on fire, and Sullivan tried to stamp out the flames, but nothing he did had any effect.

  Finally Sullivan grabbed the halter and crawled toward the exit. He dragged the calf along as it screamed and stumbled behind him. Finally he reached the open door, inhaled fresh air, and staggered across the ground.

  Patrick O’Leary was running across the yard, wearing only an undershirt and pants. He had his hands in his hair and a frantic look on his face. The flames were so hot that he had to stand back, and the wind was blowing the fire straight toward his new wagon. Behind him, Catherine was herding the children into the street.

  The fire was threatening to jump to neighbor Anne Murray’s property on the west, and it was already spreading to James Dalton’s shed on the east. Dalton’s shed was full of more kindling, so the O’Learys knew it would ignite quickly.

  “Upon my word,” Catherine said.

  ON THE COURTHOUSE BALCONY, Mathias Schaefer was the night watchman on duty. Below him, the city lights glittered and twinkled; above him was seemingly infinite sky. A couple of tourists had come up to the balcony, and they stargazed and gossiped without a care in the world.

  An unobstructed wind caught Schaefer’s hair and whipped it to the back of his neck. Schaefer looked through his spyglass and peered at the empty streets.

  As he looked to the southwest, he saw a small plume of smoke start to flutter toward the sky. Schaefer squinted and tried to gauge its location, but the darkness made it very hard to see. From Schaefer’s angle, it seemed to be near the previous night’s fire. He assumed it was a pile of debris still smoldering in the ruins.

  Schaefer considered reporting it, but then he decided not to. There were still firefighters left in that area, and he assumed they could quickly extinguish the blaze. Besides, the ruins left very little fuel for the fire to burn.

  Schaefer put down his spyglass and walked away from the railing. He didn’t give the smoke a second thought.

  SIMON WAS APPROACHING TAYLOR STREET when he heard a commotion nearby. He pulled on his reins and brought his horse to a stop. Simon looked to his left. He saw several people run down an alley, and he noticed a flickering light that reflected off the buildings.

  Simon immediately recognized it as a fire. At first he wanted no part of it; he was behind on his work, and he had no interest in playing the hero. But then his conscience stirred, for he knew that something had to be done.

  Simon looked toward the north, where the four burned-out blocks lay half a mile away. Then he looked toward the west, where the new fire was burning. Catherine O’Leary and Dennis Regan were trying to save the new wagon, but the wind had already blown the fire to the other side of the alley. After a moment, the two were forced to leave the wagon and retreat.

  It took Simon a minute to decide what to do. Then he thought of the way Gregory had pledged “never to fill a cowards grave.” Finally Simon took a deep breath, turned his horse to the left, and headed toward the blaze.

  THE MICHIGAN AVENUE SIDEWALKS WERE USUALLY FULL OF PEOPLE. Wealthy couples would stroll in the warm night air, and children would make mischief until their mothers announced their bedtimes. But when Lillian arrived at Terrace Row, she found the area quiet. The Scammons’ lights were on, but Lillian didn’t see anyone at home. The rest of her neighbors seemed to be asleep.

  Lillian took her horse to the livery and locked it in its stall. She walked to the front door, took the brass doorknocker and tapped twice. As she waited for someone to answer, she looked around the neighborhood, and she saw the wind blow ripples in the lake. The trotting of a horse was audible in the distance.

  She knocked on the door again. Finally she sighed, dug through her handbag, picked out her house key, and unlocked the door.

  “Hello?” she said.

  The apartment was silent. The manservant’s door was shut, so Lillian assumed that he had already gone to bed. She crept upstairs toward her room.

  Archibald Andrist was sitting at his desk. He was filling out papers and didn’t bother to look up. “Where have you been?” he asked.

  “I’ve been following my conscience as any human being should,” Lillian said, “not that you would unde’stand such a thing.”

  “Mm.” Andrist dipped his pen in his in, then nudged his spectacles with his thumb. “You come home at a reasonable hour,” he said. “Do you hear me?”

  Lillian’s eyes hardened. “I hear you,” she replied. Then she turned and strode wordlessly to her room.

  AT ROBERT’S HOME, the only sign of trouble was his mother’s restless state. Mary was blathering on about the Saturday fire. Robert was hardly listening; he tried to take things in stride as he untied his shoes, hung up his suit coat, and headed upstairs.

  “Robert,” Mary said, “I beseech you, pray pay attention to me—”

  “M
other, it’s all right,” he replied. “Now calm yourself.”

  Mary paused for a moment, then resumed with her chatter. Robert tried to follow her ramblings, but he eventually gave up. He looked at Lizzie Brown.

  Lizzie tried to speak under her breath. “You haven’t seen the half of it,” she said. “You’ve been absent so much—”

  “You needn’t tell me that,” he replied. “Believe me, I’ve thought about my absence quite a lot.”

  Lizzie opened her mouth to say something, but then she forced herself to be quiet. The family was under enough strain already, she thought, and she didn’t want to add to the tension any more than she had to. “I suppose,” was the only response she could muster.

  Robert didn’t want to quarrel either. “Come now,” he said, “let us put Mother to bed.”

  MEANWHILE, ON THE WEST SIDE, Simon was trying to rouse the O’Learys’ neighbors. He knew he had to organize a firefighting effort, so he went from door to door with the news that the barn was ablaze. He got several angry responses, but he kept going until a small crowd had assembled. A few neighbors brought blankets and buckets, but most were simply ogling the scene.

  “It’s all right,” a father said as he kissed his little girl. “It’s just another fire.” The girl was visibly frightened, but her father’s touch seemed to soothe her.

  “What’s goin’ on out there?” came a piercing woman’s voice.

  “Fire,” Regan said. “Fire at the O’Learys.”

  “Oh,” the woman said as she went back inside. Her curtains drifted in the wind as a half-dozen sparks danced around.

  A group of immigrant children came running through the street, bickering and chattering in Scandinavian accents. They stopped when they came to the O’Learys. Simon could see the flames reflecting in their eyes. Then one of the children shoved another, and they ended up wrestling on the sidewalk. After a moment a boy caught a splinter, and the band broke up as he went crying for his mommy.

  Simon ran his hands through his hair. His gut was telling him to do some reporting, much as he’d covered the distillery fire months before. But as he watched the fire grow, Simon decided that his work duties would have to wait. The O’Learys were in a panic, and they needed his help. As tired as he was, he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

  And so Simon took a deep breath and headed toward the barn. By then the fire was fierce and voracious. It was like a living beast, writhing and hissing as it consumed the structure, and it periodically sent a gush of sparks through the air. Simon tried to group the neighbors together: some were better-equipped to fight the fire than others, but none of them— including Simon— had any experience in such matters.

  “Sir!” came a voice. Simon looked up to see Patrick O’Leary standing on his roof, along with the McLaughlins and several would-be revelers. Patrick gestured to Simon and offered his hand. Simon climbed to the porch and balanced himself on the railing; then, from there, Patrick pulled him onto the roof.

  Denny Connors handed Simon a bucket, and Simon poured it across the roof. The water splashed against his feet and soaked his shoes and socks. Several sparks hit the water and sizzled away.

  With a crackle, the flames reached a nearby tree and started to climb up the trunk. The branches fell as they ignited, and burning leaves swirled through the air. Simon jumped forward just in time to see two of the leaves blow against the Dalton house.

  “Blimey!” a man yelled as he ran across the alley, leaped onto the burning home’s porch, and disappeared inside the front door. By then the back wall was burning intensely, and the fire was spreading faster than ever.

  “Dalton!” McLaughlin yelled. “This is no time for heroics!” But there was no response, and the flames kept on moving.

  A burning shingle tore away from the barn, and the wind carried it several dozen feet up. It hurtled across the yard and smashed into the back of the O’Leary house. The neighbors drenched it with water, and within seconds, the new fire fizzled out and died. Several water buckets found their way through the crowd, and the neighbors began soaking the walls of the house.

  Something cracked inside the barn, and the fire surged upward. Then, with a heave, the barn’s rear wall collapsed, bringing down the roof and revealing the corpses of the livestock inside.

  “An alarm!” Patrick yelled. “Who has turned in an alarm?”

  The neighbors looked at each other. In all the commotion, no one had thought to notify the authorities. Simon’s heart felt as if it were pounding out of his chest. “I’ll do it,” he said. “I shall sound the alarm.” Without missing a beat, he slid off the rooftop, dropped to the ground, and untied his horse. The animal was getting nervous and was tugging at the reins. Simon whipped the reins and rode off, leaving the chaos behind him.

  AT THE COURTHOUSE DOME, Mathias Schaefer had stepped into the stairwell to get away from the wind. He leaned against the wall, puffed on his pipe, and flirted with a young attractive tourist. Schaefer knew how to handle inquisitive visitors, since he had done it for years. That particular woman wanted to know about a clock that had just been installed on the Courthouse bell tower. Schaefer answered all of her questions, after which they chatted for a minute. Then the young lady thanked him, excused herself, and headed downstairs. Schaefer puffed on his pipe and stepped back outside.

  When Schaefer turned to his right, he saw a faint glow in the distance. It was in the same southwesterly area where he’d seen smoke before. Now, as he watched, a devilish orange tongue leaped toward the sky.

  Schaefer tossed away his pipe and looked back through his spyglass. He saw that this was not a remnant of the old fire at all. With a shudder, he realized that he had missed a brand-new fire, and now it was growing by the minute.

  He whistled down the voice tube to call in an alarm.

  DOWNSTAIRS, AT THE CENTRAL ALARM TELEGRAPH OFFICE, operator William Brown was chatting with his sister. She had pointed out a weird glow in the window, but Brown didn’t think anything of it. Then he heard a tinny sound echo through the voice tube.

  “... hear me?” Schaefer asked.

  “Yes, I hear you,” Brown said as he pulled up his chair. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Fire,” Schaefer replied, “in the southwest, near Canalport and Halsted. Please strike Box 342.”

  “Understood,” Brown said as he reached for the alarm.

  NOT FAR FROM THE O’LEARY BARN, the men of the Little Giant fire company had just returned to their station. They were exhausted after Saturday’s fire, and they had barely finished putting their equipment away. Most of the men were now asleep in their still-sweaty clothing.

  The foreman, William Henry Musham, stood at the sink and washed the grime off his face. He wished Marshal Williams could allow his men some rest, but with the department so shortstaffed, there was little Williams could do. Musham was lost in thought as he rubbed his face with a towel, looked in the mirror, and twisted his head from side to side. His joints were as sore as everyone else’s, and he wanted nothing more than a good night’s sleep.

  In the station watchtower, Joseph Lagger stood at his post, searching for fire like his Courthouse counterpart. As he turned to the north, he saw a flicker of flame. Lagger squinted and tried to gauge its location; by his reckoning, it seemed to be about six blocks away. He called down and notified the foreman.

  Musham sighed. “Here we go again,” he said.

  It only took a few seconds for the firemen to wake up. Men jumped from their cots and scrambled around. Musham stalked through the chaos and barked out his orders.

  “Ready the engine,” he said. “Find replacements for the equipment that was damaged last night. Now move quickly, men, we haven’t got any time!”

  The firemen grabbed at the clothing rack and put on their uniforms. First came the blue pants, which were always uncomfortably tight. Then came the double-breasted red shirts, with their two parallel rows of buttons. Then the men put on black leather boots that reached almost up to their k
nees. After that, they tied black kerchiefs around their necks, except for Musham, who wore a black bow tie instead. Last came the fireman’s hats. Musham grabbed his brown foreman’s coat and ran into the next room.

  Off in the distance, he could hear the Courthouse bell beginning to toll.

  MARSHAL WILLIAMS’ WIFE HAD JUST JOINED HIM IN BED. As soon as the alarm sounded, she jabbed her husband with her elbow. “Fire!” she said.

  Williams didn’t need to be told twice. He jumped from his bed and grabbed the uniform at his side. He dressed within seconds, then raced outside to the street. His driver was assigned to pick him up at the first sign of an alarm, but when Williams came to the sidewalk, the driver had not yet arrived. The Courthouse was only a block and a half away, and the sound of its bell reverberated through the streets.

  Williams looked at his watch. He suspected he was in for a long night, but he wasn’t about to complain. He just tapped his foot, gazed down the street, and waited.

  ON THE COURTHOUSE BALCONY, the bell’s sound was deafening, to the point where the floor shook with every clang. But Schaefer was not about to complain; he knew that the bell was audible at all of the city’s fire stations and therefore served as the perfect alarm. It rang in a pattern of 3-4-2 to indicate the fire’s location. Box 342 was near Bridgeport, so all of the nearby engines would soon be heading toward the blaze.

  But then Schaefer frowned. Upon closer inspection, the fire didn’t seem to be near Bridgeport at all. It was quite a bit closer, on the Near West Side. Schaefer’s mistake was an easy one to make, but he was not about to let it go unnoticed. He whistled down the voice tube again.