1871

by Peter J Spalding

  “I have made an error,” Schaefer said. “We must change the alarm. It ought to be 319; that would be nearer to it.”

  There was a rustle on the other end. “Ah, no, I could not alter it now.”

  “Why not?”

  “The box I have struck is in line with the fire. The men should see the blaze for themselves. It would only confuse them if I changed the alarm.”

  “How would it confuse them? They should understand—”

  “I will not change the alarm,” Brown replied, “and that is my decision.”

  And with that, Brown closed off the voice tube. A few minutes later he rang the same erroneous alarm a second time.

  SIMON’S HORSE WAS GALLOPING TOWARD TWELFTH STREET. Simon was giddy with adrenaline, and he was trying to ignore the fire behind him. The sky was glowing orange as the blaze reflected off the clouds. He raced to the nearest alarm box he knew of, the one he had seen at Twelfth and Canal. The box was outside a two-story building whose sign read “Deutsche Apotheke” in Gothic script.

  Bruno Goll was tending to his drugstore when Simon burst through the door. “Was wollen Sie denn da?” Goll yelled.

  “There’s a fire,” Simon told him, “three blocks to the north. On DeKoven Street, between Clinton and Jefferson.”

  “Have not the fi’emen arrived?” Goll asked. “I have heard ’ze bell tolling—”

  Simon tried to catch his breath. “No,” he said, “they are nowhere in sight. Please, sir, turn in an alarm.”

  Goll shrugged. “Ich sehe nicht warum, aber gut.” He ducked below the counter and brought out the key to Box 296. He walked outside unhurriedly, unlocked the alarm box, and pulled down the handle.

  THE LITTLE GIANT ENGINE LOOKED LIKE A METAL CARRIAGE. It had a large cylindrical boiler in the center, a firehose wrapped around its side, and a bell in front. It was outfitted with several pressure gauges and temperature controls designed to monitor the pumps. It weighed more than eight thousand pounds, and it was one of the most powerful engines in the fleet.

  The horses fidgeted as driver Calvin Cole hitched them up, climbed into the seat, and took the harness. Joseph Lagger started stoking the coals, and a cloud of steam puffed out of the boiler. Two Dalmatians ran around in nervous agitation. Musham heaved open the station doors as the weary men took their places. The dogs ran outside, the horses followed, and the engine pulled out onto the quiet city streets.

  SIMON LOOKED UP. “I can hear them,” he said. “They must be on their way.”

  “Bitteschön,” Goll replied as he calmly returned to his business.

  Simon shook his head. The glow was still brightening, and he didn’t appreciate Goll’s nonchalance. He considered saying something but decided against it.

  A neighbor, William Lee, ran up to the store. He was also out of breath. “I need... the key... to the alarm box,” he said.

  Goll barely glanced up. “I have already sent an ala’m,” he replied. “’Ze men are coming.”

  “It’s spreading fast,” Lee said. “My wife and baby are in danger. I beg of you, turn in another alarm.”

  Goll shook his head. He wasn’t supposed to send two alarms in quick succession except in dire emergencies. Otherwise the city could fine him for sending false alarms. “Mein guter Herr, I’ve done all I can,” he replied. “It is no more in my hands.”

  But for some reason, the alarm from Goll’s drugstore did not register on the central board. Neither Bruno Goll nor William Brown was able to catch this fatal error.

  THE MISTAKEN ALARM KEPT SEVERAL MAJOR ENGINES FROM RESPONDING AS THEY SHOULD. The J.B. Rice, for example, could pump nine hundred gallons per minute. The R.A. Williams could pump seven hundred gallons, and the O’Leary barn was well within its district. The Williams’s men had even seen the fire and were preparing to head out; but when the alarm sounded, they abandoned their efforts, since Box 342 was so far away. They assumed that their instincts were wrong and that the alarm was correct. And so they unhitched their horses and put away their equipment, and one of Chicago’s most important engines lay idle.

  Meanwhile, across the city, most people were still unaware of the fire. The last Sunday-night churchgoers had just gotten home, and businessmen were preparing for the upcoming workweek. The usual nightspots were still humming with activity, and carriages were clattering up and down the streets.

  Robert was busy putting his mother to bed. Mary had had a long day, but she was still as keyed-up as ever. Robert insisted that she get some rest. After some discussion, Mary finally complied; she was on the brink of exhaustion, and she didn’t have the energy to argue with her son. Robert helped her get ready, then tucked her in and turned out the lights.

  “Imagine,” Robert said to Lizzie Brown, “I remember as if it were yesterday when Mother would put me and my brothers to bed. I never imagined that I’d do the same for her.”

  “I did,” Lizzie replied. “The poor soul.”

  Robert didn’t know what she meant by that, but he decided not to ask. “Thank you for staying with her today,” he said. “I am sure you rather would have stayed home with your husband.”

  “I would have,” Lizzie said. “But I suppose I ought to be going. I hope she sleeps through the night.”

  “So do I,” Robert said. “Enjoy the rest of your evening. I expect I shall see you later this week.”

  But Robert had no way of knowing that he would see her again within hours, under very different circumstances.

  A MILE FURTHER NORTH, Lillian was reading about Tammany Hall. She kept thinking of Simon, and she regretted having lashed out at him. She knew that Simon was only doing his job. As much as Lillian hated to admit it, she was yearning to see him. She knew she had made a mess of things, and she knew she’d have to clean it all up.

  By and by, Lillian worked up the nerve to confront her father. She didn’t want to alienate him any more than she already had, and she knew he didn’t think much of her principles. All the same, she thought it was high time to stop making excuses for him.

  Archibald Andrist wasn’t in his bedroom, and he wasn’t in the drawing room where he often spent his time. Lillian searched the kitchen and dining room area, and she was about to head for his study when her manservant Sidney appeared.

  “Do you need something, Miss?” Sidney asked.

  “Where is Fathe’?” Lillian asked.

  “I couldn’t tell you,” he said. “I believe he went out again, but exactly where, I haven’t any idea.”

  Lillian clenched her jaw. She was convinced that her father was up to no good. She went out to the stables, but she was so distracted that she didn’t see the faint glow in the distance.

  As she expected, her father’s horse was gone. Lillian let out a sigh; she had spent so much time and energy gathering her courage that she didn’t know when or if she could do it again.

  “Damn,” Lillian said.

  BILLY HOLBROOK LOOKED AT HIS POCKETWATCH AND SIGHED. He was still sitting in Simon’s near-empty house. Tommy had now gone to bed, and Billy was trying all he could to keep himself occupied. He had paged through some books, but he didn’t care to read them in earnest, so he put them back on the shelves. Billy had also made himself dinner, but he had quickly finished his meal. Now he was getting so restless that nothing seemed to interest him.

  A blast of wind hit the house and made it shudder on its frame. Billy got up and walked to the window. The view was very dark, and naked tree branches were creaking in the wind.

  Billy leaned back and stared at his reflection. He was tired and just wanted to go home. He checked his watch again, but only two minutes had passed. He turned and trudged up to Tommy’s room.

  Billy found the boy sleeping quietly. “I’m leavin’,” Billy said.

  Tommy didn’t wake up. He just made a slight motion with his hand.

  “I’ll see ya later,” Billy said. “Simon should be back soon.”

  There was still no response.

  “Bye, little fella,” he
said. Then he went downstairs, put on his coat and hat, and walked out the door.

  Chapter Eleven: She’s Off to Hell and Gone

  “The heat was awful; ’twas like hell, and the firemen’s eyes were red with the dust and fire... they stuck to their machines like bull dogs, and worked them till they couldn’t stand it many longer.”

  — Marshal Williams

  SIMON RETURNED TO THE FIRE AROUND NINE O’CLOCK. His horse was quite frightened, so he tied the animal to a lamppost a good distance away. By then, dozens of men were lined up in bucket brigades that snaked across the streets. Each brigade was moving like clockwork, pouring a steady stream of water on the flames. Everyone was methodical, and everyone was vigilant. Simon strode up and down the lines to make sure the volunteers worked as quickly as possible.

  By then the barn was gone, and its burned timbers were barely visible behind an orange veil. Next door, the Daltons’ house had been leveled, and now a paint factory was burning fiercely. The sounds were almost unnatural; the fire groaned, belched, and howled, as if with a voice of its own. To Simon’s left, another house was beginning to flare up, and several more were in danger.

  The Little Giant was the first engine to arrive, and its men paled when they realized the size of the blaze. Musham ordered his men to unhitch the hose and plug it into a hydrant. The men worked as quickly as they could, but they were no match for the inferno.

  On the opposite side of the fire, the America hose cart came flying down the street. It stopped at the corner of Clinton and Taylor. Foreman John Dorsey ran as fast as his exhaustion would allow. “Bleeding Christ!” Dorsey yelled.

  A tongue of flame reared up above the trees. It arched its neck and bellowed into the night, then moved back downward to feast on the sidewalk. Four civilians recoiled in fear, and a bucket brigade fell apart as the neighbors ran to safety.

  Joseph Lagger shoveled more coal into the Little Giant’s boiler, and he watched the pressure gauge twitch. A thick cloud of smoke and sparks erupted from the funnel as the water boiled and the pumps began moving. Lagger signaled the others, and they unleashed the firehose onto the blaze.

  Simon ran to the other side of DeKoven and fought his natural instinct to flee. He knew that his help was still needed. He could see that the firemen were struggling. He tried to convince himself that they would get things under control, but he knew they needed more engines. Simon knew that an alarm had been sent, and he had heard the Courthouse bell tolling.

  So where, he thought, were the others?

  DOCTOR SMITH WAS ON HIS WAY TO A HOUSE CALL WHEN HE HEARD A COMMOTION NEARBY. He looked around a corner and saw the Illinois fire engine on Twenty-Second Street. He frowned and wondered what the men were doing.

  A woman walked past with a half-dozen children in tow. The boys were all chattering and pointing, and the woman had to struggle to keep them with the group.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Smith said. “Do you know what has happened?”

  “Hardly,” she replied. “They wanted to know if we’d seen a fire, for there has apparently been an alarm. But I’ve seen no fire— have you?”

  Smith shook his head. “No,” he said. “How curious.”

  A moment later, a second engine went past. When Smith saw it, he thought the firemen seemed confused.

  Smith saw his patient and tried to focus on his work, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

  THE STEAMER CHICAGO WAS SPEEDING THROUGH THE STREETS. The streetlamps and pedestrians flew past; the horses were galloping as fast as they could, and their hooves were clattering on the pavement. The firemen’s hearts were pounding despite their fatigue. Driver James McClellan whipped the reins and bit his lip. The company sped onto Jackson Street, expecting to see an inferno, and the men saw....

  Nothing. The street was deserted.

  McClellan guided the horses to the curb. Foreman Chris Schimmels looked around, but he only saw sleepy houses and darkened windows. A solitary man was strolling down the sidewalk, but he seemed alarmed by the sight of the engine. The horses snorted with annoyance.

  “Schimmels!” McClellan said. “Look.”

  Schimmels craned his neck and tried to look over the tops of the houses. He guided the horses around a corner to get a better view. And then he saw it.

  A pulsating glow hung just above the horizon. One by one, the firemen started to gape. “Jesus,” one man said. “It looks like the devil’s own fire.”

  Without another word, McClellan whipped the reins, and the engine sped away.

  FOUR MILES TO THE NORTH, Tommy was still sleeping peacefully. He dreamt of all his favorite bedtime stories, and he kept smiling involuntarily.

  A loud noise suddenly woke him. It sounded like the slamming of a door. Tommy opened his eyes and felt disappointed that his dream had ended.

  A shouting voice could be heard from outside. Tommy got out of bed and wiped the sleep from his eyes. He tiptoed to the window, and at first, he thought everything seemed normal. Then he saw what had woken him up: next door, C.V. Dyer was giddy with excitement. Dyer hitched a horse to his carriage, dumped a pile of camera equipment into the wagon, and rode off.

  Tommy squinted. “Simon?” he said. “What he doing?”

  There was no answer.

  “Simon? You back?”

  Still he heard nothing.

  Tommy chewed his lip. He began to realize he was alone in the house. He tiptoed back to his bed, pulled up the blanket, and crawled under the covers.

  SIMON HADN’T FORGOTTEN ABOUT TOMMY, but he told himself that he didn’t have time to worry. He assumed that Billy was keeping things under control, and in the meantime, Simon had much more immediate concerns. He had gone door-to-door and collected a dozen pails, and now he was running up Jefferson Street.

  Part of him was wondering why he even bothered. Simon didn’t know anyone in that area, so as far as he knew, he had no interests in the matter. But he had a strong sense of duty— and perhaps a thirst for adventure— that prevented him from leaving the scene. And so Simon ran to the firemen and gathered his nerve. He noted how the engines were lined up like troops, and the water was as relentless as artillery fire. Men were tearing up wooden sidewalks and carting off the debris. Almost two blocks were now burning, and hundreds of burning cinders were hurtling through the air.

  Simon watched as the Illinois finally arrived on the scene, and Marshal Williams helped the men get into position. The engine was on Taylor Street, and the fire was getting precariously close. “Now,” Williams said, “hang onto her there!”

  Foreman Bill Mullin shook his head. “Marshal, I don’t believe we can stand it here.”

  “Stand it as long as you can,” Williams said. He didn’t have time to argue; he ran off toward the America, which was having problems of its own.

  The Chicago steamer was taking up a position at the corner of Jefferson and Taylor. But the Chicago’s equipment had been damaged the night before, and now nothing seemed to work properly. There was no fire in the boiler, which meant there was no steam to feed the pump. Schimmels ordered his men to tear up a picket fence to provide extra fuel. At first it seemed to work, and a stream of water poured from the hose. But then something cracked, and engineer Henry Coleman had to shut off the machine.

  “What the devil?” Schimmels yelled. “What does this mean?”

  “There is a spring broke in her pump,” Coleman said.

  “Is it going to do her any hurt to run her?” Schimmels asked.

  “I do not know,” Coleman said. “It is running a big risk. I might smash that pump all to pieces.”

  Schimmels looked up at the blaze. He knew they didn’t have time for debate. “Smash her!” he yelled. “We have got to run the risk of its breaking her. Break her completely and then it is broke!”

  “Yes sir!” Coleman yelled as he re-started the engine. He couldn’t get the pump to respond properly, so he struck it with a hammer. Finally the machinery started working. “It is all ri
ght again,” Coleman said, “but we cannot depend on her.”

  Schimmels looked around and wiped the sweat from his brow. He had lost precious time, and the fire was now crossing Taylor Street. The department’s usual strategy, that of extinguishing fires quickly, had spectacularly failed. Now it was anyone’s guess as to what would happen next.

  BILLY HOLBROOK ARRIVED HOME AT A QUARTER PAST NINE. Billy’s home was on Clark Street in the heart of the North Side. He lived with his parents and siblings because he hadn’t the money to move anywhere else. When he stepped in the door, he found his parents sitting at the table.

  “Evenin’,” Billy said.

  His father George stood up. “You’re home late tonight.”

  “I was watchin’ a child,” Billy said.

  “A child?” his mother asked. “I thought Mamie was still away with her mother.”

  “She is,” Billy said. “It’s a rather long story.”

  George Holbrook shrugged. “You shall do what you must,” he said. “It’s for that we are paid.”

  Billy nodded. His father was a longtime Chicago Club attendant, so he had known Robert for years. In fact, he was the one who had gotten Billy his job. But there was one important difference between father and son. George was satisfied, even proud of his station in life; but Billy was most decidedly not.

  “Humph,” Billy said. “It’s been a hell of a day. I am going to bed.”

  “Good night,” George replied as his son vanished up the stairs.

  SIMON WAS NOW RUNNING HIS BUCKETS ACROSS FORQUER STREET. A fireman was barking orders, but the blaze was so loud that Simon couldn’t hear him. Horses and Dalmatians were running northward. The neighbors had fifteen brigades going, and for blocks in each direction, homeowners were trying to save what they could.